Books in Luna Series

Final Dance

--1 On Fire’s Wings (08-2004)

--2 In Stone’s Clasp (09-2005)

--3 Under Sea’s Shadow (09-2007)

Final Dance

--1 On Fire’s Wings (08-2004)

ON FIRE’S WINGS

ISBN: 1-55254-563-6

Copyright © 2004 by Christie Golden

First paperback printing: August 2006

First trade printing: July 2004

This book is dedicated to every woman who has feared her own power…and embraced it anyway

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS:

I would like to gratefully acknowledge the help and inspiration provided by the following people:

Robert Amerman and Mark Anthony, for being such terrific “wise readers”
Lucienne Diver and Mary-Theresa Hussey, for their enthusiasm and faith in this project
Michael Georges, my deeply supportive husband
Anastacia Chittenden, Lila Tresemer, Katherine Roske and all the women who have walked the Path of the Ceremonial Arts, for opening so many hearts to the Divine Feminine

…and my wonderful readers, past, present and future.

Prologue

T he wind, cold and scented with death, seized the queen’s hair with cruel fingers and set it to dancing. Two weeks before, despite the queen’s years and the children she had borne, that long, thick hair had been only touched with gray. Now, there was little ebony left in the mane. The white of fear and resignation had swallowed the black, as the Shadow that loomed on the horizon had swallowed everything in the world save this lone castle and the few terrified souls it still housed.

She was tall, and stood tall even now, staring not at the rolling fields and forests and streams that would have met her gaze a fortnight past but at a pulsing blackness that mocked her defiance. She leaned forward, resting her hands on the cool strength of the stones that formed the wall of the parapet’s balcony. This, at least, was real, was solid—for the moment.

“It’s only been two weeks,” came a soft voice. The queen glanced down at the beggar boy who stood beside her, staring as raptly at the Shadow as she. There was puzzlement in the young voice, as if he, like the queen, could not truly believe that so much had happened in so brief a time. She closed her eyes, straightened, and her hands left the reassuring stone to wrap the thick embroidered cloak more closely about her frame.

“Less than that, little Lorekeeper,” she replied.

He did not say anything further, but she knew what he was thinking as if he had shouted it aloud: I didn’t know in time. Etched upon her memory, for the brief while she had left to live, was the look on the boy’s grimy face as he forced his way through crowds and guards with reckless determination. He had clutched desperately at her robe, uttering the words that chilled her to the bone: The Dancer needs help!

But the warning from the suddenly awakened memory of the base-born Lorekeeper had come too late, the queen thought bitterly, though it was no fault of the child’s. The wind stung her face, brought tears to her eyes. She blinked them back. Too late to save the Dancer, too late to salvage their own existence; too late, too late.

Following the boy, the king, accompanied by an elite group of guardsmen and his best healers, had stumbled across the body in an alleyway exactly as it had appeared to the boy in his vision. The Dancer, a youth as well-born as the Lorekeeper was base, had been robbed and murdered. His powers—probably unknown to him yet, he was terribly young—had not been sufficient to protect him. But he had rallied enough to exact revenge upon his slayer, it appeared, for the killer’s body was little more than a charred skeleton. The Dancer’s pouch, still filled with coins, lay a little distance away.

The king returned from his grim mission, seeming to her suddenly old, to tell his wife the story. With him was the boy, still clad in the vermin-riddled clothes of the streets, his thin body shaking and bowed with the weight of the world.

“It is not your fault, my child,” the queen had soothed, fighting back her own rage and despair. “You went for help as soon as you knew. The blame for…for what will come must lie with the man who murdered the Dancer.”

And who had, in that one greedy, violent act, destroyed their only hope to avert oblivion.

Not long after that, the king had ridden off to fight the Shadow, their son, still young, still unbloodied by war, at his side. The queen had kissed the hollow-eyed man who had once been passionate and proud; kissed her round-cheeked son, who was naive enough to think this a real battle, not a suicide.

And as they rode off, the queen thought with a spark of contempt: Cowards!

They did not have to sit and mind a castle full of terrified merchants, farmers, and beggars. They did not have to watch the death of everything creep closer by the hour. They ran to meet their doom, thus cheating it of the terror it doubtless craved.

The queen’s eyes narrowed and she stuck out her sharp chin defiantly.

She was the last queen of the world. It was up to her now, how they would all die. She reached out to the Lorekeeper, slipping her arm around his shoulders. By the hitching and shuddering of those shoulders, she knew he wept.

“You alone will remember,” she said softly.

The Shadow pulsed, coming nearer. It stretched upward, seething. Soon even the sky would be gone.

“I—I don’t want to,” the little Lorekeeper whispered. He dragged an oft-mended sleeve across his wet face.

“But you must,” she continued, her voice still quiet, still calm. “You are a Lorekeeper. You remember all that has gone before—all the other times when the Dancers have come and lost, or won. You would have been drawn to that Dancer had he lived, even as you were drawn to him in his death. You would have been able to help and guide him to the others, but…This time, the Dancers have failed. Yet there were times when they succeeded, and their success has bought us a final chance.”

The wind picked up. For an instant, forgetting herself, the queen reached up to smooth her tousled hair. The knots will take Ahli hours to untangle, came the simple, everyday thought. But Ahli tended the princess now, caring faithfully for the mad girl whose mind would not let her see the Shadow. The queen would not look upon her daughter again. That last time had been enough. She could not bear to watch the gentle, once-intelligent girl sit and babble, rubbing her swollen stomach and chirping happily of the son-to-be. The son who would, now, never be born.

Such simple problems as tangled hair were things of the past. The queen let the wind have its way with her once-raven locks.

“Your Majesty.”

Her seneschal. The queen turned. “Yes?”

He stood in the doorway, clasping and unclasping his hands as he searched for the words. As it turned out, they were simple enough, if brutal. “The well…it’s gone dry.”

The queen closed her eyes, forcing her face to be tranquil. “Then let us open the wine cellars. I would not see my people without something to wet their throats.” And perhaps the drunkenness would take away the sting. Not long, not long now.

“And light all the torches,” she added. “Build fires.” She turned again, her gaze drawn to the encroaching Shadow. “Let us keep the light as long as we may.”

The man bowed, retreated. They were alone again on the parapet, beggar and queen, staring out as if mesmerized at their approaching destruction.

“Twice failed,” whispered the Lorekeeper in a voice that cracked with fear and an ancient grief. “Twice succeeded. Only one more chance.”

“The fifth time the Dancers come,” agreed the queen, “will be our final chance. Eternal salvation…or nothing at all, ever again. It may well fall to you,” she said with a quiet urgency. “Do not forget.”

“I won’t,” the boy promised. “I won’t.”

She folded him close, held him, as she would her own son. He was their hope. He, and the other Lorekeepers, and the Dancers who would not yet be born for another five thousand years.

The Shadow stretched, languidly.

The twin suns went out.

PART I In the House of Four Waters

Chapter One

T he day was hot, and lines at the public well in the marketplace were long. Brown faces shone with sweat, save where the dust had clung, turning bronze skin a shade paler. In the distance, false oases beckoned, their shimmering heat lines tricking the unwary into traveling just a little farther, just a little more.

People talked, among themselves, haggling with merchants, or crying their wares. Horses jangled their tack, blew and stamped impatiently. The reek of horse and dung vied with the rich fragrances of cooking meats, the tangy scents of fresh fruits, and the sweet, heady aroma of a variety of incense and spices.

This marketplace was the most elaborate in the land. Merchants came from all over Arukan to sell their goods. In one booth were fine daggers and swords, with intricately carved hilts and embroidered sheaths. In another, an artisan displayed carefully crafted jewelry to high-caste women. Unable to afford a booth, a man in his middle years had spread out a carpet in front of the jewelry seller. His pots were beautiful, but he did not appear to be selling many. By contrast, the weaver’s booth across from the potter and the jeweler was crowded, and customers exclaimed over her blankets, carpets, saddle tack, and horse regalia.

By far the most popular vendor, today as every day, was the wizened, toothless little man who crafted charms. The jeweled pendant, cleverly fashioned to look like an amber eye with a slit pupil, would make the Great Dragon, guardian of the Arukani, look upon one with favor. And the necklace that was a small mirror would reflect the evil gaze of the demonic kulis. It also, as one woman was proving, was useful for making sure nothing was lodged in one’s teeth.

Other things were for sale, too—roasting meats, fresh and preserved fruits and vegetables, breads, clothing, toys and games, and services of all varieties.

Kevla took a small sip from her waterskin. An unkind soul might have used the word “scrawny” to describe the ten-year-old, but there were muscles beneath the loose rhia that draped her body. Her hair, reddish in the harsh sunlight, was pulled back into a braid that fell the length of her back. Her eyes, almost too large in her small, sharp face, missed nothing. Kevla knew the visitors to the marketplace well, and if Keishla had earned no coins today, the girl knew that it was hardly her fault.

Kevla had been calling since the first vendor opened for business shortly before dawn, and her parched throat was testimony to her hard work. She could, of course, stand in line for water at the well as others did, but that would take her away from her prized spot at the intersection of the two main streets. She might miss a customer. Better the thirst than her mother’s wrath.

Keishla carried herself with a quiet, regal air. She was sometimes unexpectedly gentle, and when she smiled, Kevla thought her beautiful. But more often Keishla would sit silently, her thoughts far distant from the present, and if Kevla interrupted her mother at such moments she knew Keishla would turn upon her, as if Kevla were the cause of all her pain. Kevla didn’t understand, but she was wise enough to recognize these moods and be quiet when they were upon Keishla.

She permitted herself another miserly sip. The bag would have to last her throughout the day, and it was only midmorning. Kevla retied the goatskin bag around her tiny waist, dragged a hand across her sweat-dappled forehead, took a deep, dusty breath, and resumed her task.

“Hey-la, hey-lo,” she cried in a singsong voice. Her feet stamped in the dust, and her little body swayed with the rhythm of the chanting. “Hey-la, hey-lo! Sweeter than wine are the lips of Keishla! Keishla the fair, Keishla the wise, Keishla who knows what a man desires! Soft are the thighs of Keishla, and the dance of pleasure played out between them is known only to the most fortunate of men!”

She was engrossed in her cry now, and spread her arms, lifting the folds of the shabby, oft-mended rhia to reveal the toes of her bare, dirty feet. It was as far as she dared go. If she lifted the rhia to reveal a glimpse of calf or even ankle, she might be accused of practicing the same skills as her mother. That would not do. Those skills could be peddled in the marketplace, yes, but the actual conduct of business needed to be done in private. And Kevla, despite her words and knowing moves, was not skilled in such matters.

So Kevla, her eyes bright and darting about for anyone, male or female, who might be a potential customer, kept the rhia at its proper, yet tantalizing, length.

“You there, uhlal,” she cried, invoking the term of high respect, “you look like a man who would enjoy sampling Keishla’s charms!” She pointed a finger at him, flashing teeth that were remarkably strong and white considering her poor diet.

The man looked about, stammering, “I—I—”

“Come, sir, lay your mighty staff in the sweet honeyed nest of passion!”

The man turned crimson, and too late Kevla realized that behind him, blocked from her short-statured view, walked a woman who was undoubtedly his wife. Quickly, the girl changed her approach.

“Hey-la, uhlala!” she addressed the woman, making a deep obeisance. “The beautiful Keishla will gladly teach what she knows to any woman, for the right fee. Will you come with me, and learn how to keep that man by your side from straying for all time? It is a small price to pay, hey?”

It was a desperate attempt to salvage the situation, and Kevla was not surprised when the woman glared at her and reached to clutch her husband’s arm, steering him away from temptation.

Kevla sighed. But when the man cast a furtive, apologetic glance over his shoulder, her spirits lifted. Perhaps tomorrow, or the day after, he might come back and sample Keishla’s “wares.”

In the meantime, she was not finding her mother customers, and without customers, she would not eat. Kevla cleared her throat and was about to resume her chant when a flurry of movement down the wide, hard-packed dirt road caught her attention. A few stalls down, everyone was falling to their hands and knees, heads touching the ground, heedless of the dust. That could mean only one thing. A very high-ranking uhlal had decided to visit the market today instead of sending his servants. It happened, from time to time, and Kevla rejoiced. Occasionally, the uhlals, especially a khashim, one of the clan leaders, felt generous and scattered coins and jewels to the lower castes. Keishla had once spoken with scorn of the practice, claiming she’d rather keep her pride than scrabble in the dust for a khashim’s amusement.

Kevla, who had been gnawing on a dried piece of three-day-old bread at the time of Keishla’s statement, had said nothing. But she thought that one single gold kha would have bought a week’s worth of food, and a week’s worth of food just might be worth scrabbling in the dust for a khashim’s amusement.

Praying to the Great Dragon that the approaching uhlal was in a generous mood, the girl quickly fell to her knees. She heard the clopping sounds of the horse’s hooves as it approached, and strained her young ears for the tinkling of tossed coins.

That hoped-for sound did not come. Instead, the horse stopped in front of her. She stared at its hooves. Suddenly afraid, Kevla did what tradition and the mercilessly strict caste system practiced in her country absolutely forbade her to do.

She looked up.

And met the gaze of a tall, handsome man who seemed all the taller for being perched atop one of the most splendid horses Kevla had ever seen. The beast’s sand-colored coat gleamed with careful grooming, not yet dulled by the dust of the day. It mouthed its bit impatiently, revealing gold-tipped tusks. Its striped legs and face were a rich loam hue, and its tack and saddle were decorated with beads and jewels. Its rider’s fine clothes and proud pose bespoke his high caste.

He was clad in the man’s short rhia, and the powerful legs that gripped the horse were covered with snug-fitting white silk breeches. Belt and boots were of finely tooled leather, and his dark hair was protected from the harsh rays of the Arukani sun by an embroidered kerchief. His face was clean-shaven, proof of his rank, for only khashims shaved their beards. Gold earrings glinted, catching the sparkle of bright eyes that were now trained intently on Kevla. Fastened to the leather belt were an expensive sword and matching dagger. At a respectful distance, mounted on their own horses, two servants waited and watched.

“You cry the services of a halaan,” said the khashim without preamble. His voice was a rich, deep rumble, quiet and self-assured. When Kevla stared up at him, transfixed, he gentled his tone further and said, “You may answer truly, child. None will punish you for your…impertinence.”

Kevla swallowed hard. If her mouth had been dry earlier, now it seemed as vast a wasteland of drought as the Arukani desert itself. She tried again.

“Most honored uhlal, great khashim, I do indeed.” A thought occurred to her and she ventured in a hopeful voice, “Perhaps my lord is interested in Keishla’s services?”

The khashim smiled at that, a smile that seemed to Kevla to be somewhat sad, which made no sense to her at all.

“Not her services, child, but I am indeed interested in Keishla. Are…are you her daughter, perchance?”

Kevla nodded.

His dark eyes roamed her face. Almost, she could feel his gaze like a physical touch as it glided across her small nose, large, dark eyes, and soft mouth. For an instant, she knew fear. Perhaps the man would want her instead of her mother. Some men, she knew, liked young flesh—very young indeed. Keishla had promised her daughter that she would never be used in such a manner. But if a khashim came asking, with gold and jewels to offer…?

For the first time, Kevla was grateful for her mother’s stubborn sense of pride. If Keishla would not go diving in the dust for coins for a khashim’s amusement, then surely she would never give her daughter over for one’s pleasure.

“I had thought as much,” said the khashim softly, more to himself than to Kevla. He straightened and seemed to shake off his melancholy. “Take me to her. What is your name, child?”

“Kevla, great khashim.”

“Kevla what?”

A blush of shame rose in Kevla’s cheeks. She hesitated for a moment, then replied softly, “Kevla Bai-sha.” She hated the name. It literally meant “female without father,” and was as unkind an epithet as “halaan.” Bai could and sometimes did hold various positions in society, but never high-ranking. They were permitted marriage, but only among themselves. Few Bai knew trades; who wanted to teach them? Most begged for the food that nourished them, counting on the shame of those who had perhaps fathered such misfits.

“But I think, great khashim,” continued Kevla, “that you knew that before ever you asked.”

Again he smiled that sad smile, and nodded. “You are right, Kevla.” He deliberately did not utter her mark of illegitimacy. For that she was grateful. Bad enough she had to suffer the jeers and taunts of others daily. Somehow, she felt very strongly that she did not wish to hear this large, powerful man calling her “Bai-sha.”

He turned in his saddle toward his servants and said, “Leave us.”

“But, most honored lord—” one protested.

“I said, leave us. And no word to your mistress. She need know nothing about this, and as I understand, both of you have families to feed.”

The meaning was clear. The two servants inclined their heads and turned their mounts back toward the marketplace.

Kevla watched them go and smothered a smile.

“Shall we go?” said the khashim.

Kevla nodded, stepping forward into the dusty street to lead the way when suddenly she was seized and hauled upward. She had just tightened her limbs to struggle when she was plopped down in front of the great khashim himself. Startled, she craned her neck to look quizzically at him.

“We will make better time mounted,” he said simply, as if he was not aware that he had just granted her status inappropriate to her caste.

“Great khashim,” breathed Kevla, truly meaning the word now, “might a humble girl inquire as to your name?”

“I am Khashim Tahmu-kha-Rakyn, of the Clan of Four Waters.”

Kevla’s heart skipped a beat. The Four Waters Clan was the most powerful clan in Arukan. Their monopoly on the land in which two of the largest rivers of the country intersected granted them that status, and from all she had heard, Tahmu-kha-Rakyn was a worthy leader. What exactly Tahmu wanted from Keishla was still uncertain, but Kevla permitted herself to hope that it might bode well.

She told him which streets to take, and then indulged herself for a moment, enjoying the feel of the horse between her thighs. Her back was pressed against the firm torso of the greatest khashim in the land. She felt his steady breathing move her slightly forward and then back. From time to time as they rode, Tahmu would raise an arm as if to help the girl make sure of her unfamiliar seat.

There was nothing unchaste about the gesture, only an absent concern for her safety. The horse’s beads and bells clattered and jingled, and his mane under Kevla’s brown fingers was silkier than any she had ever touched.

For a brief, daydreaming instant, Kevla fancied herself the daughter of the great khashim. The servants who attended him would hark to her offhanded commands as well, should she utter them; a horse as fine as this one awaited her in a stable that was more elegant than her home. This was a pleasant outing among the lower castes, nothing more, and soon she would return to the opulence of a great House, to the delights of a bath—a bath—of precious water and richly scented soap….

But all too soon, they had left behind the sounds and smells of the crowded marketplace, and were making their way along a hard-packed earth road. Those who could afford to do so lived near the few natural springs and rivers that prevented Arukan from being a total wasteland. Their clansfolk lived near the house of their khashim, some in brick and stone buildings, many more in elaborate tents that served as a home that could be broken down to travel with their leader on the not-uncommon raids.

The poorest of the poor, those of the lowest castes, lived on the fringes of their clan leader’s lands or near the marketplaces that provided their living. They, too, had tents, but theirs were miserable things. Many times when a sandstorm rose out of the heart of the desert, it would leave behind the wreckage of the inadequate shelters—and of the people who had dwelt in the flimsy tents.

Toward such a grouping of tents rode Kevla and her unusual companions. Her dreamy smile faded, to be replaced by the carefully guarded expression she wore almost constantly. Without waiting for assistance, she slipped off the still-walking horse and approached a small tent. It would hold only two or three people, in contrast to the clanspeople’s tents, which provided room for a family of ten or twelve. Its sides and roof were made of goatskin, and a faded blanket hung over the entrance. Kevla lifted the blanket and scurried into the tent.

“Mama!” she whispered excitedly. “Mama, wake up!” Careless of Keishla’s possible anger, Kevla plopped herself down on the pillows beside the sleeping halaan.

Keishla rolled over, rubbing at her eyes. “Kevla, you had best have someone out there for me,” she warned, yawning.

“Oh, I do. And such a someone!” Kevla rocked back on her heels, hugging herself happily. “I was calling in the market, and I heard a horse, and everyone bowed down, and it was a khashim, and he seemed pleased when I talked about you and he’s here, with his horse and his servants, except he sent them away, and he gave me a ride, and—”

“A khashim? Are you sure?”

Kevla stared, insulted. Could her mother really believe that Kevla wouldn’t know a khashim when one rode right up to her? “Of course I’m—”

Kevla’s mother startled her by reaching out suddenly to embrace her. The girl tensed at first—blows were more frequent within the walls of this tent than embraces—then relaxed into Keishla’s arms. Keishla smelled of sweat, hers and that of her customers, but the perfume she wore managed to cover the worst of it. And her thin body was soft. Hesitantly, Kevla reached her arms up and hugged back, closing her eyes happily.

“We will eat well tonight and for many nights, my daughter,” said Keishla, stroking Kevla’s braid. She pulled back and began fiddling with her own raven locks, plaited with beads. “Where is my clean rhia? Water, girl, quick!”

A grin on her face, Kevla hastened to obey, helping her mother into the flimsy white rhia reserved for special customers and pouring water into a brass bowl. Keishla laved her face quickly, slapping and pinching her cheeks and biting her lips to redden them. She could not afford the small ceramic jars of paint that more expensive halaans used, but Kevla thought her mother prettier than any artificially decorated woman.

Now Keishla turned to her daughter, spreading her arms. “Well? How do I look?”

Tears pricked Kevla’s eyes. There was a happy warmth in Keishla’s voice, an animation in her movements, that Kevla hadn’t seen in a long time.

“Like a goddess of desire, worthy of the highest uhlal in the land,” she replied, using one of the phrases that was part of her repertoire.

Mockingly, Keishla slapped her with a teasing hand. There was no sting, only a brush of palm on face.

“Silly child. Here, wait…” She hastened to the pillows on the carpeted earth and positioned herself. “Now…now you can show him in.”

Kevla composed her face. When she emerged, she again bowed low.

“Most honored khashim, the beautiful and many-talented Keishla awaits you.”

When she glanced up, veiling her gaze with her lashes, she could not decipher the expression on his face. Kevla had led dozens, perhaps hundreds, of men here. None of them had looked the way Tahmu did at this moment. He did not look shy, or frightened, as the young ones did. But neither did he appear to be excited and full of anticipation. He looked wary, strained, yet hopeful.

Very strange were the khashim indeed.

He slipped off his horse, shaking his head when Kevla reached for the reins. “He will not leave, and no one would dare steal him.”

He reached into a small pouch hanging from his belt and produced a coin.

“Most honored khashim, it is Keishla who should receive your payment.”

“I—I will pay her at the appropriate time. This is for you.”

She stared at the silver coin on his brown palm. Fear of the great man, put aside during the pleasant ride here, now resurfaced. Keishla had told her daughter that some men had certain curious desires. Kevla had always before given her mother privacy with her customers, and truth be told Kevla had no desire to see Keishla at work, but she did not know how to refuse Tahmu.

“Great khashim—it is my mother who—”

Comprehension dawned on the handsome face and his dark brows drew together. Kevla shrank from the expression.

“By the Great Dragon!” Tahmu cried. “Don’t tell me your mother has put you to—child, no, this is to thank you for bringing me here and to ask that you leave us for a time. That is all.”

She smiled in relief, taking the coin and bowing. “Then I thank you, and I shall leave you to your pleasure.”

She turned and strode off to amuse herself elsewhere. She did not look back, but her sharp ears caught the rustle of the blanket as it was lifted and fell back into place. As she walked the circumference of the tent village, Kevla’s mouth began to water as she imagined the delightful food she and Keishla would enjoy together.

Keishla reclined on the cushions with her back to the khashim. Languidly, she stretched, revealing slim curves. Tahmu’s eyes roamed over her body, relishing this moment—this moment when he saw her but she did not see him.

She rolled over, and the lascivious smile of welcome on her face vanished. She bolted upright, her eyes grew enormous, and one thin hand went to her throat. Her lips parted slightly, but no words came out.

Tahmu waited. He would let her speak first. She deserved that much. At last, Keishla found her voice.

“After ten years of whoring,” she said slowly, her voice cold as stone and bitter as poison, “Kevla brings me a khashim. And it is you. The Great Dragon does love a jest.”

Tahmu’s throat worked, but he did not answer. He walked slowly toward the halaan and knelt on the cushions beside her. His face was only a few inches from Keishla’s. With a growl like that of a hurt beast, Keishla raised her hand and cracked it across Tahmu’s face.

Tahmu only smiled. “I deserved that,” he said.

Keishla began to cry, softly, and that sound pained him more than the sting of her blow.

“I used to dream of this. That one day, you would come to me. I used to know what I would say, what I would do. But now here you are and I have no words…Why did you do it? I would have crawled across the desert on my hands and knees for you, Tahmu, you know that! And now, look, look at what you have done to me, look how far I have fallen….”

Gently, Tahmu folded her into his strong arms. She clung to him, the soft sobs increasing in force, racking her bony frame. For a long time, they sat thus, then Keishla drew back, wiping at her wet face.

“You should have come to me when you knew,” Tahmu said. His brown hands gripped her upper arms tightly. “I would have taken care of you. I would never have let…” He gestured, at the poor tent, at her indecent clothes. “I would never have let you fall into this.”

Keishla laughed at that, bitterly. “Life as your concubine, living in the shadows, sharing you with…her….” She shook her head. Her beaded locks clattered with the movement. “And you could not have given me what I needed the most—a name for the girl.”

“I had a responsibility to the Clan,” said Tahmu, restating what they both already knew, had argued about so long ago. “Had I been third son, or even second, I might have defied my father, but I couldn’t—not as the only heir. The Clan of Four Waters would have been ripped apart had I left my position for you. But I swear to you, Keishla, I did not know about the girl.”

He hesitated, then claimed his responsibility. “I did not know I had a daughter.”

Chapter Two

T he word hung between them. Tahmu coughed, trying to regain his composure.

“There is much we need to discuss. Perhaps something to wet our throats…?”

Keishla looked down, quickly, then nodded. She rose from the pile of pillows with all the grace he remembered.

Silently, he cursed himself for yielding to impulse. He should not have come. Better to have sent Sahlik, who had put this plan into motion. But he’d wanted to see the girl, to make certain. And that first glimpse of little Kevla, with her features a heartbreaking blend of his own strong visage and the more gentle countenance of Keishla, whom he had once loved with all his heart—who could have resisted that?

You could have, Tahmu reprimanded himself. Which female was it, Tahmu—your daughter or your lover that drew you here?

His eyes had now had time to adjust to the dimness after the dazzling light outside, and he realized his first impression of Keishla as dwelling in squalor had been misleading. The tent was roomy enough, and surprisingly well-furnished. The rugs that covered the earth were old, but finely crafted. He reclined on soft, comfortable cushions. He noticed that there was no equipment for such womanly tasks as making butter or bread. Keishla had only herself and the girl to feed, not a large, extended family. But in the corner, there were expensive-looking ewers, bowls, cups, and all the various pieces of equipment for making the bitter, hot drink eusho. Tahmu raised an eyebrow at that. At one point, Keishla must have been doing quite well.

Anger cut through him like a dagger. How many men had she lain with since him? What unspeakable acts had she performed? Did she look upon them with admiration, call them uhlal, cry out with pleasure as they took her for a handful—nay, perhaps only one or two!—copper coins?

As abruptly as it had crested, the anger ebbed, leaving only the ache of regret in its place. Tahmu had loved—still did love, there was no point in denying it—the woman who now set about preparing a beverage for the two of them, moving with the grace of a liquid-eyed liah. He had loved her as he had never loved his wife Yeshi. The marriage had been arranged by Tahmu’s mother, as was her right, and the union had solidified a clan on the verge of splintering. But oh, to awaken next to Keishla each morning, and to have that pretty little girl-child chirping affectionately at him, playing with Jashemi in a happy, carefree way as two siblings should….

“It will take time to prepare eusho,” said Keishla. “We will have tea instead.”

Tahmu did not need to be a kuli, a demon, to be able to read Keishla’s mind. She did not want him to stay.

“Tea would be welcome,” he replied. She nodded curtly and continued her preparation.

An awkward silence descended. Abruptly, Tahmu had had enough of the forced courtesy, the tense pauses, the sharp words.

“I will say what I have come to say, and then let this be an end to it.”

Keishla paused in her busy movements and turned to face him. He pointed to the cushions. For a moment, Tahmu thought she would say something, then instead, she settled herself quietly on the pillows, her face composed. A dark nipple appeared, then disappeared, brushing against the thin white fabric like something floating to the surface of the river only to submerge again. Tahmu’s breath caught in his throat. Keishla could still make him ache with desire as Yeshi never had.

If only it had been different. He felt a flicker of angry mirth. If only horses could fly.

“There was a great passion between the two of us once, Keishla. But our love was forbidden because of the gulf between our castes. We must pay the price for daring to flaunt the ways of our people. You have already paid. You brought forth a child, unasked for, unwanted. And over the last eleven years you have sold your body to keep food in your daughter’s mouth. Surely, even the Great Dragon must have forgiven you by this time.

“But the child has also suffered, for a sin that she did not commit. Keishla, you ever had a temper, and there is little doubt in my heart that you have raised your hand to her more often than was needed.”

He held up a commanding hand, forestalling Keishla’s denial. “I would not hear you lie, so be silent. I know, once-darling of my heart, that your anger was born of pain and frustration at me, and at what the girl represented. And that is a sin for which I must atone.”

Keishla’s color was high, but she was not contradicting him. That was good. If she knew how tenuous his control was at the moment, how his emotions threatened to boil over and destroy his calm demeanor, he would never be able to say what he needed to.

“One of my servants noticed Kevla in the marketplace two days ago. I wished to come then, but I feared what I might do. Only today have I calmed myself so that I might speak as befits a khashim, and not a lovesick boy.”

He permitted himself a sad smile. Tears sprang to Keishla’s eyes. Her own lips tentatively curved in response. Tahmu’s heart jumped, but he forced himself to remain composed.

“I knew at once that Kevla was ours, conceived in love and born in disgrace, to serve as punishment for our transgression. You have atoned, Keishla. Now, it is my turn. I would take the child back with me, to—”

“No!” Keishla cried. “Kulis take you, son of a skuura! You took my love, you took my life, and now you want the only piece of you I have left to cling to? You did not lie with a docile liah, Tahmu, when you lay with me—you lay with a simmar!” Indeed, Keishla seemed as wild now as one of the dangerous desert cats that were the bane of the goat- and sandcattle-herders.

Tahmu replied calmly. “Think of the child,” he said softly, “not of yourself.”

“A child belongs with her mother!”

“A mother who does not want her? Who beats her? Who would raise her to be a halaan?” Had he struck her, Keishla could not have flinched more.

Tahmu’s stomach twisted, but he continued mercilessly. “Keishla, you are too proud to accept help for yourself. Accept it for her. This I swear to you—she will never want for food or a safe place to sleep. No man will dare lay a hand on her without my permission. Her work will be light, and if she desires, perhaps I will even have her educated.”

For a long moment Keishla was silent. Her breasts heaved with anger, but when she spoke, her voice was frighteningly calm.

“You spoke of a servant. Was it Sahlik?”

Tahmu nodded.

Keishla swore. “She hated me, Tahmu. She did everything she could to keep us apart, and she was the one who convinced you to discard me as if I were a soiled rhia.”

“Sahlik only voiced what we all knew to be the truth—that we could never marry.”

“Was it really the truth? Caste lines have been crossed before. It was Sahlik, right from the start, who decided that I was not good enough for you—she, a lowly five-score!”

“Blame Sahlik if you must, or blame me, who deserves it more. But give me the child.”

Again Keishla was silent, staring at the carpet. Tahmu let her take her time. He would, he knew, get what he had come for. He always did.

“She—you will not make her a five-score, will you, Tahmu?” she said, referring to the traditional five slashes—“scores”—made on a servant’s arm.

He shook his head. Though the law entitled him to make any servant a five-score, Tahmu preferred to keep to the initial purpose of the ritual scarring. The custom originated as a way of establishing dominance over captured prisoners of war. Any man, woman or child captured in battle would be honor-bound to serve the victorious clan leader for five years. The penance could be light or it could be grueling, depending entirely on the whims of the khashim. Each year, the prisoner/servant would receive a slash on the arm. At the end of five years, the final slash would be made and the prisoner returned to his people. He or she would be free, but the scars would remain, telling all who saw of the shame suffered by the bearer.

Finally, Keishla raised her eyes. They were cool, calm, free of tears. Tahmu couldn’t read her expression. She rose and lifted the blanket, calling for Kevla. After a moment, Tahmu heard the girl’s footfalls.

“Kevla, come inside.”

“Of course, Mother.” There was puzzlement in the girl’s voice, a puzzlement that Tahmu shared. What was Keishla doing?

When Kevla had entered the tent and was sitting cross-legged on the floor, casting furtive glances at Tahmu, Keishla spoke.

“You are a smart girl, Kevla. You have no doubt guessed that the khashim knew me before you led him here.”

Uncertainly, Kevla nodded. Tahmu frowned slightly. Where was this leading? Was Keishla going to tell Kevla her parentage? Tahmu desperately hoped not. The fewer who knew, the better, including Kevla herself.

“Because of the pleasure I have given him in years past, Tahmu has asked to take you with him to be a servant at the House of Four Waters.” Kevla gasped, but before she could say anything Keishla had turned to Tahmu and said in that unnaturally calm voice, “We must discuss payment. Kevla performs a valuable duty when she cries my services in the marketplace. I shall have to hire a new girl.”

Tahmu was taken aback. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Kevla cringe. Must you make her suffer even more? Tahmu had thought better of Keishla and did not attempt to keep his displeasure from his voice.

“If you love gold better than the child, you will be amply compensated.” He reached in his pouch and tossed a handful of coins at her, contemptuously watching as she hastened to pick them up.

“That will cover the cost of a new girl,” said Keishla, “but what of my silence?”

“You have kept silent thus far, halaan!” he exclaimed, taken aback by her insult. “Why should I fear your words now?”

Her lips curled in a smile that had no warmth in it. “There is the matter of your khashima. I do not think she would react well to having her husband’s halaan show up at her door.”

Tahmu got to his feet. His face nearly purple with rage, he emptied his pouch. Keishla laughed as the coins showered her upturned face. The khashim felt physically ill, and his memories of the woman turned sour as he watched her.

Enough of the mother. Time to think of the child. “Gather your things, girl, and let us be on our way.”

Unsteadily, Kevla got to her feet. Her face was drained of color and her eyes were enormous. Then, as Tahmu watched, it seemed to him that a mask suddenly covered her face, rendering it impassive.

She shrugged slightly. “I have nothing of my own,” she said simply. She was now composed, revealing none of the hurt she must be feeling. Such would have to be the shield of a Bai-sha, Tahmu reflected. He would say nothing more to Keishla. She had forfeited her right to kind words and gentle looks with her greed. But when she called his name as he was about to leave, he paused.

Kevla was already outside. “Wait for me by my horse,” he told her. She nodded and padded up to the patient beast.

Tahmu let the blanket fall and turned around. A hard word was on his lips, but it faded like a drop of water before the heat of the sun at the look on Keishla’s face.

Gone was the sly calculation. In its place was the expression of one who had lost everything. The coins lay where they had fallen, and tears coursed down her cheeks.

“We play parts, you know, for our customers,” she whispered. “That…that was my best performance yet.” She swallowed hard. “It will be easier on her, to think I wanted her gone. She loves me, Dragon knows why, and would not have gone with you, no matter how hard I would have beaten her or chided her…though she never needed a beating, not really…oh, Tahmu….”

All the love he thought quelled now rushed to flood Tahmu. Silent, shaking, he went to her, tangled strong fingers in her long, beaded hair, pulled her head back and kissed her. For an instant she was stiff in his arms, and then she yielded. Her arms snaked around his neck, and she opened the sweetness of her mouth to him. Her breasts crushed against his chest, and he could feel her heart racing as fast as his own. For a long, dizzying moment, he was not a khashim, but merely Tahmu, a youth hotly in love with the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, who took his passion and returned it a thousandfold.

Reluctantly, he pulled away, ending the kiss. They were both breathing heavily, and trembling, and for the first time since he had arrived he saw the young woman he had loved in Keishla’s face and not the angry countenance of a bitter halaan.

He allowed himself one last caress, running his fingers over the sharp cheekbones and stubborn jaw, brushing them softly over her lips.

“You were ever my great love,” he whispered.

Tears stood in Keishla’s eyes. “And you mine, Tahmu. Will—will she know who she is?”

He shook his head. “No. The fewer who know such a secret, the better. You, Sahlik and I are the only ones.”

She nodded. “It is safer that way, for you and for her, too. At least, while she is little. Promise me…”

“Anything,” he answered, recklessly.

“When you judge the time to be right—when she is older—tell her who she is. Tell her she was conceived in love, the daughter of a khashim, not the fruit of a man who paid to lie with her mother. Tell her, her mother loved her enough to let her go, that it was never her fault when I grew angry and hit her. Will you do that for me?”

Emotion choked him and he could only nod. She smiled, slipped gently from his embrace and turned her back to him. It was harder than he had expected to step back and bring his attention to the present. Somehow he managed, taking a deep breath to steady himself. He pulled back the blanket, letting sun rush into the darkened tent. He glanced back one last time, marking the thick hair, the slim back and thighs, the bared feet, then turned and left.

Kevla stood beside the horse, reaching a cautious hand to pet its soft muzzle. The other hand wiped her face quickly. She did not want him to see her tears.

“Does he have a name?” she asked.

“Of course. His full name is Swift-Over-Sand, but I call him Swift.”

“Hello, Swift,” Kevla said softly. The horse blew against her fingers and she jerked them back, no doubt suddenly recalling Swift’s gold-tipped tusks, then giggled delightedly. Tahmu smiled. For the first time since he had laid eyes upon the precocious child, she truly looked and acted like a ten-year-old girl.

“It is a long trip to the House of Four Waters,” he said, reaching to pick her up and place her astride Swift. “We had best be on our way.”

It was, in truth, not that long of a journey, not by horseback. But Tahmu was used to galloping, and he knew that Kevla was unfamiliar with riding, so for the most part, he held Swift to a walk. Tahmu had expected the child to be full of questions, but the parting with her mother had clearly affected her deeply. She would not, of course, bawl like a proper caste child at the separation and the cruel words with which Keishla had sent the girl on her way. Not a Bai-sha. After the one delighted outburst at the softness of Swift’s muzzle, Kevla was quiet for a long time, saying nothing even when they passed through the heart of the marketplace, when she might have been expected to gloat just a bit.

Tahmu drew rein at a stall not far from where, earlier, Kevla had been crying her mother’s wares and bought her a meat pie, rich with spices and candied fruits. If the shopkeeper recognized Kevla perched atop so magnificent an animal as Swift-Over-Sand, he gave no sign as he handed Tahmu the pastry with much bowing and averting of eyes.

Kevla accepted it with a deep nod and a polite, “Thank you, Khashim Tahmu.” Once again, she confounded him. He had expected her to gobble it down. Instead, she ate daintily, taking small, ladylike bites although she must have been famished.

Whatever else, Keishla had trained the girl well in courtesy. Tahmu was glad. It would make integrating Kevla into his household that much easier.

They left the marketplace behind, passing through wide, flat areas of land where horses, goats, and other domesticated beasts were temporarily corralled. Livestock was for sale at the marketplace, too, at this time of year. Unable to help himself, Tahmu cast a quick glance over the beasts. Sorry, sickly things, most of them. They lay panting in the hot sun, their coats blotchy with sweat. Bones were visible beneath the skin, and even from this distance Tahmu could see their eyes were running with a thick, black ooze. The horses barely had enough energy to swish their tails at the flies that swarmed about them. It was better to trade directly with the Horserider Clan or the Sa’abah Clan than to pick up an animal here at the market.

And, Tahmu mused sourly, it is better to trade with those clans than to fight with them. Unfortunately, the choice was not always his.

They followed the road toward the mountain range that jutted skyward like a mouthful of broken teeth. Tahmu finally decided that this silence from the little sparrow of a girl he had seen dancing on the street corner was not to his liking, Bai-sha or no.

“Do you not have any questions as to your duties, little one?”

She sat in front of him as she had before, and his arm was a strong support about her waist. He felt her shrug against him.

“I am certain that the great khashim has head servants to explain my duties once I have arrived,” she said, quite properly.

Tahmu sighed a little in exasperation. Chuckling, he said, “I do not know how to handle you, little one. If you were—” His voice caught. He coughed, as if dust had tickled his throat, and continued. “If you were my child, I would know. If you were the daughter of a stranger, I would know. If you were a servant, I would know. But you are none of these, and I touch you with my words as I touch a young hawk with my fingers—gingerly, with gloves, ready to jerk my hand back or pet you on the head.”

That roused a giggle from her, as he had intended. Continuing the gentle joke, Tahmu patted the sun-warmed top of her head cautiously. The giggling increased.

“How curious your hair is, Kevla. Your mother’s hair is black, as is—as is nearly everyone’s. Yours seems black, but in the sun, it is red. Did your mother perchance use henna on it?”

“No. It’s always been like that.” She twisted to look at him, her eyes revealing a sudden fear. “Is—is that wrong?”

“No, no,” soothed Tahmu. “Perhaps it is because you were out so often in the sun with no head covering. When we reach the House, you will be given proper clothing, as befits the servant of a khashim.”

She lowered her eyes at that, her face clearly showing the struggle between fear and hope. Poor, lost little girl. He hoped she would be happy living at the House, and voiced that desire to her.

“They say many things about the noble khashim’s great House,” said Kevla, seizing upon the distraction. “Are they true?”

“Well, that depends on who ‘they’ are and what ‘they’ say.”

“Oh, so many things! I have heard there is water, more water than anyone could ever drink. I have heard there is even water for bathing, hidden in a great cavern beneath the House. I have heard the walls are of glass, and many colored, and that you have strange beasts that can cross the desert with only a cupful of water!”

She turned again to face him. Her words came faster as her enthusiasm for the tales—some of them quite fabulous—came pouring out.

“I have heard it is cool in the House in the day and warm at night. I have heard there is feasting every single evening! I have heard that the birds are trained to sing songs on command, that your hunting dogs can outrun a horse, that your wife’s beauty would blind a man if he did not look upon her with proper respect, that—”

Kevla’s eyes were fixed on Tahmu’s face. He knew he ought to discourage such familiar behavior, but he could not. Not today, not after the cruel but ultimately kind words Keishla had said. Time enough for Kevla to learn such things along with her other duties, once they had reached the House. So instead of rebuking her, Tahmu let the girl prattle on with her “I have heard” stories, smiling down as the tales grew more and more outrageous.

So intent was Kevla on recounting the stories, turned around in the saddle with her attention fully upon Tahmu, that she did not notice when the horse passed beneath a rock outcropping and made a sudden turn.

Tahmu waited until Kevla paused for breath. “Well, now, here is your chance to see what is true and what was spun by taleweavers,” he said, laughter warm in his voice. Gently, he turned the girl around.

And watched as Kevla Bai-sha gazed for the first time upon the verdant estate that belonged to the khashim of the Clan of Four Waters.

Chapter Three

K evla swayed forward, tightening her grip on Swift’s mane to keep from tumbling off the horse in her shock. No capering fantasy creature, no nebulous dream of wealth, nothing she had conjured inside her head over many otherwise-empty hours had prepared the girl for the stunning reality that unfolded before her.

Green. It was all so green. The greenness dazzled the eyes, like the sun if one risked a glance at its brilliance. She noticed for the first time on a conscious level a sound she’d been hearing for several minutes; a strange noise, reminiscent of hot soup on the boil, but not quite. Now, she beheld what had been making the sound. Twining like a pair of snakes, two greenish-brown rivers intersected, then went their separate ways. The sun glinted off the surface, making Kevla’s eyes water. She blinked, annoyed at having her view of this amazing sight interrupted even for an instant.

Along those Four Waters traveled what Kevla knew to be boats, although the only ones she had ever seen had been toys. One type of boat was made of reeds tightly bound together. Sometimes this boat was flat, like a blanket spread upon the water, and other times its ends swooped up to mimic the other style of boat that meandered along the curving waterways. Kevla could not tell what this second one was made of, but it had large triangular pieces of fabric that caught the winds and propelled the boat much faster than simple poling would have.

Marvelous, both of the boats. Marvelous, the people that imagined such things, designed and knew how to direct them, to harness the wind and water as others harnessed the broad necks and shoulders of sandcattle.

She dragged her gaze away from the ships, letting it rove over the startling greenness of the crops and trees that grew parallel to the life-giving rivers. Kevla had seen trees before, but they had been withered, stunted things fighting for survival in a land of hard-baked earth, where the only water came from the fitful, unpredictable rains that were a rarer sight than a khashim in the marketplace. But these trees—some of their leaves were, Kevla was certain, big enough for her to lie down upon. They swayed in the wind, and Kevla caught glimpses of many-colored fruits. Moisture flooded her mouth. She could almost smell them, and imagined them sweeter infinitely than such fruits in the marketplace, where their scent competed with those of roasted meats.

At various points along the rivers, boys clad in short, loose rhias pumped long handles. Kevla narrowed her eyes, puzzled for a moment, then realized that the boys were bringing water from the river inland. Long troughs carried the precious fluid well into the cultivated lands. No wonder the crops did so well, hand-fed water as they were, becoming that assaulting, wonderful green.

As she watched, the sound of voices crying out in alarm jerked her attention back to the waters. One of the flat boats had capsized, and the water frothed violently. Kevla’s heart felt squeezed, and breathing became difficult. Surely, these men knew how to swim, didn’t they? What, then, was the panic about?

She opened her mouth to ask Tahmu when the churning water turned from white to red. Kevla saw, for just an instant, the torso of a man surface, his mouth open and screaming, his arms reaching out of the bloody waters imploringly to his fellows on the shores. Then he was gone.

It seemed as if the dreadful incident was over, and Kevla began to breathe again when there came a quick movement.

Something rose up from the depths. It was gray and shiny, and a crest of sharp spines adorned its monstrous head. Between its teeth it held the corpse of the man Kevla had just seen pleading for aid. The men on the shore rallied, and with many curses flung stones, sticks, anything they could upon the creature.

With a sinuousness that mimicked the river in which it dwelt, the beast submerged, taking its prize with it. This time, when the waters quieted, they remained still. Only the rapidly dissipating crimson tinge of the water and the overturned boat were left to bear testimony to the tragedy.

Now Kevla’s breath returned to her, and she sobbed, just once. She clapped her hands to her mouth immediately, for she had no wish to shame herself in front of the mighty khashim with her weakness. To her surprise, she felt his arm go around her, gentle and steadying.

“The waters give life,” said Tahmu. “They make it possible for me and my Clanspeople to live, and to live well indeed. But the waters are full of dangers as well. I would have warned you of them, but I think, now, there is little need.”

Wordlessly, Kevla shook her head. Her trembling was starting to subside, which was good, and her stomach had decided not to rid itself of the meat pastry she had eaten earlier, which was better. She took a deep, steadying breath. She had seen death before, but that had been beggars stiffening on the streets, not this sudden, violent snuffing out of life.

Think of something else! she thought fiercely, trying not to see in her mind’s eye the gray monster and its human victim.

“Where…but where is the great House?” she asked, her voice quivering only a little.

“Just a few more steps along the path, and you will be able to see it,” said Tahmu. He squeezed Swift with his thighs, and the horse obediently moved forward.

Scarcely had Swift taken twelve paces when another set of miracles came into view. The green fields continued upward, climbing gradually up the side of the hill in a series of levels. Buildings appeared, and courtyards with trees and benches and—Kevla gasped—pools of water that seemed to have a life of their own. Streams of water leaped upward and then splashed down. Almost, it seemed the work of a kuli, not something man-made, but Kevla knew better than to think that a khashim would traffic with such evil beings, even for so beautiful a decoration.

Swift continued forward, and then Kevla saw the jewel in this agricultural crown—the House of Four Waters itself.

“Oh,” she said, softly. The word was a sigh, a prayer.

Every other building Kevla had ever seen was made either of stone or mud. The colors were that of the surrounding desert landscape—yellow, red, brown, or gray. Some people occasionally covered their walls with white plaster, the better to keep out the hot sun. But the House of Four Waters was a riot of colors. It was several houses, really. Each one was larger than any other four houses Kevla had ever seen. The background was white, but they had been painted. Geometric shapes of green, red, black, blue, yellow, orange, purple—every color Kevla had ever seen and some she had no names for. Swirls and dots, sharp angles, gentle waves caught the eye of the viewer and lured the gaze along the lines of the houses. Even the walls that penned in the domestic animals were gaily hued. Kevla admired the spirited horses, the healthy-looking goats and sandcattle, the—

“Oh!” It was a gasp this time. “What are they?”

She had, she hoped, managed to contain most of her shock and ignorance. But the sight of the pale brown creatures grazing in the pen had startled her more than anything she had yet beheld.

They were roughly the size of horses, but built like no horse she had ever seen. Their hind legs were massive, while their forelegs were small, with dainty appendages. As Kevla watched, one reached up toward a tree that hung over into the pen, plucked a fruit from it, and, for all the world like a human, held the food in its forepaws and nibbled at it. A huge, fluffy tail served to shade it completely. Large ears swiveled back and forth as the creature fed.

“They are sa’abahs,” said Tahmu. “I am not surprised that you have never seen one. Even I have only four of them. The Sa’abah Clan demands a high price for them, and only then if they are in the mood for conducting a trade. Most often—” and there was a hint of disappointment in the khashim’s rich voice “—they are eager to fight. It seems they value a horde of five-scores more than food for their people.”

“Sa’abahs,” breathed Kevla, her rapt gaze still on the creatures. “I have heard of them. They can cross the desert on a cupful of water. They can eat anything. Their feet are so broad they can walk across sand without sinking. They—”

“Enough,” chuckled Tahmu. “It is true, they need little water to traverse the desert, but they certainly need more than a cupful. Rare and worth their weight in water indeed they are, but they are beasts, nonetheless, not magical creatures.”

“If the great khashim says so, then so it must be,” replied Kevla, doubt creeping into her voice, “but my eyes tell me otherwise.”

Tahmu laughed aloud at that, then sobered. “Kevla, turn and look at me.”

The girl obeyed. Tahmu’s face was serious.

“You are wise for your age, so I think you will understand. No one must know that your mother was a—did what she did. To all who ask, you must reply that you are a poor orphan I found in the streets of the marketplace.”

Kevla frowned. “But great khashim, I have skills that a lady would value. I know how to dress hair, to apply henna. How will I explain knowing these things?”

Tahmu thought for a moment. “A good point. We will—you will say your mother was a dancer. Not a highly regarded profession, but better than a halaan.”

Kevla considered this. “But even a dancer has a name.”

His eyes were compassionate as he spoke the words that dashed her hopes. “Then you must still be Bai-sha. I am sorry for that; I would have spared you shame where I could. But the story of a dancer is closer to the truth, and a lie that has a seed of truth in it is easier to tell.”

He placed his finger under her chin and tilted her face up. “It is better to be Bai-sha in the House of Four Waters than Bai-sha on a dusty corner, is it not?”

Kevla thought of her mother’s last words to her, of the coolness with which she had sold her only daughter. An ache welled up in her heart, threatening to spill out as tears.

She blinked them back. That life was over.

“What you say is true, khashim,” Kevla said.

“Now. The sun is hot, and I am thirsty. I am not a sa’abah, and I need more than a cupful of water a day. And you do, too. Enough gawking. Hang on tightly to Swift’s mane, Kevla, for I am impatient to be home and in the shade!”

Kevla turned around and obeyed the instructions, lacing her fingers in the silky softness. With a sudden thrill of excitement that banished the lingering shame of Bai-sha and mitigated the pain of parting from her mother, she felt the beast gather itself.

“Hua, hua!” cried Tahmu, striking Swift-Over-Sand on the rump with his hand.

Swift-Over-Sand proved to be Swift-Over-Rocky-Path as well. Kevla couldn’t suppress a squeal of delight as the animal surged forward. Swift lowered his head as his body stretched out and found its stride, shaking his head and gnawing the bit, his gold-tipped tusks catching the sunlight.

Down toward the miracle of greenness and water the horse plunged, taking the path at a confident gallop. The path twisted and turned, revealing the valley’s secrets in greater detail. All at once they were on a flat path, galloping past workers in the fields, who made haste to prostrate themselves as their master passed. Then up again, a gradual incline, past many of the beautifully painted buildings, past the stone corrals that housed the magnificent horses and the unbelievable sa’abahs, in through a huge gate that closed behind them—

—and suddenly, there in the courtyard of the main house of the khashim’s estate, exultation and excitement slowed in Kevla’s heart as Swift-Over-Sand’s pace slowed and clattered to a halt.

Tahmu slipped off the beast. He made no move to help her down. Instead, a servant stepped forward and reached hands up to Kevla.

She ignored the friendly hands and smile of the servant, instead finding her own way off the stamping, snorting animal. She landed hard, but gave no sign of pain, rising from her hands and knees to stand straight and silent.

Tahmu nodded approvingly. “Come with me.”

“Sahlik, I have a new servant for you to train.”

Sahlik did not drop to her knees. Tahmu would not expect it, not with her inflamed joints. She turned slowly around from the cookfire she was tending.

“You,” she said, gesturing to a girl who huddled on the floor, “get the khashim and his new servant some water.”

The girl scurried to obey, presenting a dripping, hollowed-out gourd to her master with a deep bow. He drank, and then handed it to the child who stood beside him.

Sahlik looked at the girl as she drained the dipper. Her heart rose. She glanced from child to khashim, and though her lips didn’t move, Sahlik had a smile of approval in her eyes for Tahmu.

He had gone, as she had urged.

Two days ago, Sahlik, on a rare visit to the market with some of the kitchen servants, had heard a long forgotten name and spotted Kevla on the corner. Few servants now remained at the House of Four Waters who had seen the young Tahmu through that heartbreaking time eleven years past. It had been Sahlik who had given the cold, but ultimately wise, advice that he had to leave Keishla. And it had been Sahlik who had held her young lord in her arms as he wept after the deed had been done.

There had been no mistaking the youthful energy of the young Tahmu in the child’s vigorous dance, nor the sloe eyes of Keishla in her face. Sahlik had known the girl for what she was, and had urged her master to take pity upon her.

A good boy, Tahmu. He listened well.

But no one else must know, not even the girl herself. Sahlik turned her attention to Kevla, her eyes narrowing. Far too thin. Walking slowly over to the child, she examined the new servant the way Tahmu might examine a horse he was planning to purchase. Sahlik opened the girl’s mouth and felt around her teeth and gums. Good. No teeth were loose yet, and Dragon willing, they would not come loose later. Her eyes were clear, her thin arms surprisingly strong with muscle.

“She looks well enough,” Sahlik said, stepping back. “Where did you want her, my lord?”

“Put her in as one of Yeshi’s attendants.”

By the Great Dragon, he was courting trouble. “Are you certain, my lord? Such positions are usually given as rewards for years of service.”

She was speaking, of course, what they both knew. She hoped Tahmu would sense the other, unsaid words.

“Kevla’s mother was a dancer, before her untimely death,” said Tahmu in a conversational tone. Only Sahlik, who knew the man better than nearly anyone, could have caught the undercurrent of tension in the everyday words. This, then, was the story Tahmu and Sahlik would spread.

“Kevla knows many useful skills—hair decorating, henna, massage—things that a woman would appreciate. If she does not work out, there is always another position for her, yes?”

“Certainly,” Sahlik agreed. If Tahmu wanted an easy lot for the child of his blood, then it was not her place to disagree. Yeshi was an unobservant woman. It was possible, perhaps even likely, she would not notice the resemblance. Sahlik would leave such matters up to the discretion—or lack thereof—of the khashim.

She wiped at the perspiration gleaming on her forehead. Even though she wore a light rhia that permitted air to circulate and cool her body, Sahlik found she endured the extreme temperatures less well than she once did.

“It is hot on these old bones,” she said. “I will prepare Kevla myself.”

She grasped the girl’s hand. Without waiting for the khashim’s dismissal, Sahlik led Kevla away.

Kevla followed obediently, showing none of the lively, rather coarse enthusiasm she had displayed the other day in the marketplace. Sahlik was pleased. She led the girl through the kitchen storage house, back out into the bright sunlight, and into another low, ornately decorated building. This one, unlike many of the others, had a wooden door. It was only one story, and much smaller than the other buildings. Torches burned in sconces fastened to the outside walls, even though the day was wiltingly hot. Kevla turned, a question on her lips.

“Why—”

“You’ll see soon enough, child. And it’s not too soon to learn to speak when you are spoken to, and not before.”

Kevla bowed her head meekly. Sahlik noticed that the child’s hair had extremely red highlights in the sun.

“Very good,” approved Sahlik. “Now, open that door, and let’s be about it.”

Kevla hastened to obey, pulling the door open and stepping back to allow Sahlik to enter first. The old woman reached for a torch, and stepped into the darkness.

Cool, thought Kevla. It’s cool in here!

She realized that this building was made not of mud or brick, as the others were, but of stone. She followed the old serving woman inside.

“Close the door behind you.”

Kevla obeyed. Now, the only light came from the flickering torch borne by Sahlik. Kevla kept close to the head servant, uncomfortable in this darkness. The tent in which she had spent all her life had not been able to shut out the light as this building did, and even a moonless night outside had a crowded field of bright, twinkling torch lights to keep her company.

Sahlik moved forward, her steps swift for her age, and certain. Kevla realized that there were stairs ahead that wound down even farther into the darkness.

Sahlik continued, moving steadily downward. Other torches hung on the walls, and these she lit as she passed. Wide-eyed and silent, Kevla followed.

The stairs seemed to wind downward forever. At last, a sound reached Kevla’s ears. It seemed familiar, but amid the echoes she couldn’t be certain. Surely, it was not the gurgle of water that it sounded like. That was to be expected from rivers such as those she had seen earlier, but not here, not at the bottom of a house.

At last the descent ended. Sahlik stepped forward, Kevla at her heels, into a large stone cavern.

Kevla gasped, softly.

It was water.

A spring bubbled up into a large pool of gently moving liquid. Kevla could barely see it in the dim illumination provided by Sahlik’s single torch, but it took only a little light to catch the gleam of the water and reflect it back. A second, smaller pool had a large pump, and several buckets sat beside it. Sahlik sat down on a stone bench, groaning and rubbing her knees.

“It is a long walk for me, and the trip back to the surface will be even longer. But it is always worth it. What do you think, Kevla?”

Almost, there was warmth in her voice. Kevla glanced at the old woman, but in the faint light she couldn’t read Sahlik’s expression.

“Is—did the khashim make these?” she asked, turning her attention back to the pools.

Sahlik laughed. “No man can create water, child. But yes, a tunnel was dug many years ago between here and the river. It is one of the House’s greatest strengths. We will never run out of water for drinking or bathing.”

“B-bathing?” Kevla’s voice cracked.

“Of course. Did you think I came all this way simply to give you a drink, girl? Take off that dirty rhia. Can’t have a servant to the khashima running around in that mouse-chewed thing.”

Hesitantly, with a sudden bout of shyness, Kevla drew off the garment. Crossing her arms over her chest, she padded over to the larger pool and glanced at Sahlik for confirmation. At the old servant’s nod, Kevla sat down on the smooth stone. She took a deep breath, suddenly filled with a nameless, unreasoning fear, then swung her legs into the water.

It was cool, soft, like a gentle hand caressing her legs. A bath. She, Kevla Bai-sha, was about to take a bath, in the underground spring of the greatest khashim in the land.

She buried her face in her hands and began to sob. She wasn’t sure why, it just seemed that now, at this moment, it was the only thing she could do.

And when suddenly Sahlik was there, her bony shoulder a curious comfort, her gnarled hands soothing Kevla’s hair, Kevla did not think to ask how Sahlik had understood so readily. She merely leaned into the embrace and sobbed her young heart out, her legs, submerged to the knees, splashing the alien water gently.

Chapter Four

S ahlik was glad the girl wept. She knew it was not good to keep powerful emotions locked inside as if in a sealed jar. She herself was no stranger to tears stolen in rare moments alone, although life had been good to her in these later years. A smile curved her lips as she thought, I am perhaps the only woman I know who is happier as an old servant than a young wife.

The smile faded. She knew the situation in which she had found herself as a young woman was far from unique.

She held the girl as the child sobbed. When Kevla at last drew back, dragging her thin arm across her wet nose and face, Sahlik decided it was a good opportunity to begin the instruction of etiquette.

“Yeshi would have you flogged if you did that in her presence,” Sahlik said gently but firmly.

Kevla’s eyes widened and she froze. “Cry? I would not cry in front of a khashima,” she said.

“I did not think you would,” replied Sahlik, “but I was referring to this.” She imitated Kevla’s gesture, exaggerating it. Through the tears still on her face, Kevla giggled. “If perchance something made you sneeze, or your eyes water, you would beg permission to excuse yourself and bathe your face. Like this.”

Seated next to Kevla beside the pool, she bent, cupped some water in her hands and delicately splashed her face. By the Dragon, it felt good. Kevla followed suit, saying with a faint trace of pride, “I have washed my face before.”

Sahlik smothered her laugh. “That’s good,” she said. “Now, it is time to wash your whole body.” She removed her own clothes and slipped off the edge into the pool. The water came to her waist. Each time, it became harder for her to climb out. She would ask Tahmu about installing some steps inside the pool.

Kevla remained seated as if she had turned to stone, staring at the dark water.

“Are you afraid?” asked Sahlik. Kevla hesitated, then nodded. “Do not be. I know how to swim and I will teach you. I will teach you many things, child. Now, slip into the water. I will be right here.”

Kevla looked up, her eyes searching Sahlik’s. She took a deep breath, and then, displaying what Sahlik knew to be great trust, slipped into the water. True to her word, Sahlik caught her.

“It’s not too deep,” she said as the child began to flail. “You can stand. Hold on to the side. That’s it.”

The water came to midchest on Kevla. She was breathing quickly, but remained admirably calm as she found her footing.

“Many a boy-child has panicked the first time in the pool,” Sahlik said. “Even Tahmu’s son Jashemi did. Yet you are already standing. Very good. Now, let me wash your hair and body. From now on, you will be able to do this by yourself. When we are done, I will teach you how to use the brush and the oils, so that you may be presentable to the mistress of the House of Four Waters.”

Kevla’s body and hair were scrubbed and oiled. Skin and hair, clean and perfumed, gleamed in the torchlight. Sahlik tossed Kevla’s old rhia into a woven basket in which other items of clothing were jumbled. From a second basket, the old woman withdrew a garment that, to Kevla, seemed impossibly white and fresh.

She reached out and touched the fabric, rubbing it between thumb and forefinger. “It is so beautiful,” she breathed. “Surely you cannot mean for me to wear this? Is this not more fitting for the khashima?”

Sahlik chuckled. “Yeshi would be outraged if anyone suggested she wear this. You’ll soon learn the quality of her clothing. This is standard for all of the young women of the household. It’s a working garment. You’ll be getting something better soon, once the seamstress has had a chance to take a fitting.”

Kevla’s lip trembled and her eyes welled with tears. She gulped and forced them back. “Of course,” she said. “A servant to the khashima must reflect her mistress’s style and wealth.” She slipped the rhia on, but despite her attempt to sound worldly, her small brown hands kept touching the fabric.

Sahlik plaited her hair, clucking her tongue at its coarseness and shaggy length. “You will need a few days before you are ready to serve the mistress,” she said. “This hair must be cut and oiled repeatedly. And these hands—you will stop biting your nails at once. Yeshi likes long, painted nails and she likes for her women to have them, too.”

“Certainly,” Kevla replied immediately.

Sahlik sighed. She turned Kevla around to face her. “Listen to me, Kevla. I will tell you the truth of what life here will be like. Tahmu is a great man, a kind master. We are fortunate to serve in his House. But you will not see him much. Your mistress will be his wife Yeshi. She is beautiful, and quite aware of that beauty. Her world centers on herself, and that is not a bad thing for those who serve her as long as they remember that. It pleases her to have her handmaidens be healthy, pretty, and adorned nearly as lavishly as herself. She likes them smiling and happy and enjoys giving them gifts and treats. Serve her well, put her at the center of your world, and your life here will be a very pleasant one.”

“And…those who serve the khashima poorly?”

A tendril of the dark, oiled hair had escaped the braid. Gently, Sahlik tucked it back in place with a gnarled hand.

“Yeshi once had a servant that was almost as close to her as a sister. When Yeshi found her trying on her cosmetics, she ordered the woman beaten and turned out onto the streets. The last I saw of her was her back, as she walked away from the House. Blood was beginning to seep into her white rhia.”

Kevla swallowed hard. “I will seek to please my mistress,” she said firmly.

“I’m sure you’ll succeed. So, this is what you wear when you are serving Yeshi. Tahmu is forward-thinking for a khashim, and does not demand that his women constantly wear the veil, but there are times when tradition demands it. Have you ever worn a veil?”

“No, nor did my mother.”

This did not surprise Sahlik; halaans were hardly known for womanly modesty.

“The veil is to be worn when you venture anywhere outside the House or the healer’s hut. And you must wear it to all formal functions that Yeshi asks you to attend. A simple way to remember the rule is, the men of the household may see your face, but male strangers may not.”

Kevla nodded her understanding. “Veils are pretty,” she said, somewhat wistfully.

“Yes, they are. Now, child. You should have something to eat. Then you will show me exactly what skills you know.”

They returned to the kitchens and Sahlik sat Kevla down beside one of the large tables. The girl sat as if glued to the bench, her thin body as upright as if she had a rake handle for a spine. Her eyes followed Sahlik’s every move. Sahlik assembled some food on a plate, selected a small cutting knife, and poured watered wine into a chipped ceramic goblet.

Kevla’s eyes grew almost as large as the beaten metal plate. She hesitated.

“Go on, you must be hungry,” Sahlik said. She was glad that this was a time when the normally bustling kitchens were quiet, although that was always a relative term.

Delicately, Kevla plucked a few grapes and popped them into her mouth. She chewed and swallowed, then looked at Sahlik for approval.

“Good, good. Keep going.”

She didn’t say anything as Kevla picked up a paraah. Kevla sniffed at it, then bit into it. She made a face, then quickly changed her expression as she tried to chew nonchalantly, as if the fruit were completely to her taste.

Sahlik chuckled. She took the paraah and cut it up as she spoke. “Spit that out, Kevla. No, no, into your linen. The first things you ate were grapes. This is a paraah. You’ll need to either cut it up, like this, or peel it. Now, eat the inside, not the outside. Like this.”

Kevla watched her intently, her small, freshly cleaned fingers holding a paraah segment daintily, then imitated Sahlik. A shy smile lit up her face as she chewed.

Such a pretty thing, Sahlik thought, and wished sadly that Kevla had been born in the right bed.

She took Kevla through holding and cutting meats, eating olives (she warned the girl ahead of time to be careful of the hard pit), sipping wine, and drinking soup. Each time, Kevla closed her eyes briefly, savoring each morsel. She ate much less than Sahlik had expected, and she told Kevla so.

The girl ducked her head, grinning sheepishly. “The great khashim bought me a meat pie at the marketplace,” she said, as if she were imparting a secret.

Sahlik threw back her head and laughed. “And here I thought you had a dainty appetite. You’ve surely had enough. So, now you know how to peel a paraah for Yeshi. Come to my quarters and let me see what else you know.”

Sahlik was pleasantly surprised. The child’s hands, though small yet, were skilled in the art of massage. Although her own locks kept escaping the braid, Kevla was able to work Sahlik’s graying, coarse hair into several different and attractive styles. Kevla could grind and mix henna, sing passably well (although all she knew were bawdy songs), and had a natural talent for dancing. Her little body moved with a lithe freedom and grace that Sahlik envied.

At one point, ready to see what Kevla could do with henna, Sahlik slid back the sleeve of her blue and gold rhia to expose her upper arm. Kevla gasped.

“What—oh. You have never seen a five-score before?”

Kevla shook her head, staring at the four old scars that rose on Sahlik’s lower left arm. Gingerly, she reached to touch them, running a forefinger over their puckered, raised edges.

“There are only four,” she said.

“You can count. Good! How high?”

“As high as need be,” Kevla replied, still distracted by the four scars. “These are old.” She looked up at Sahlik. “Your service should be over. Why are you still here?”

“It is…a long story,” said Sahlik.

Kevla readied her tools and squatted beside Sahlik. As she began to scoop the ground plant paste from a bowl and apply it in a pattern to the older woman’s arm, she said logically, “You must stay here for some time while I apply the henna and let it dry. There is time for quite a long story, I would think.”

Sahlik laughed at that. Kevla couldn’t know how much she reminded Sahlik of Tahmu when he was young.

“You are certain it won’t distract you? I would not like an ugly spot on my arm to compete with my scars.”

Kevla grinned and her eyes sparkled as they met Sahlik’s. In a soft, pleasing voice, she said, “I will give you a beautiful pattern, uhlala, so that all eyes may fasten upon its exquisiteness and none will notice anything else.”

“Yes, I think you will please Yeshi greatly,” said Sahlik dryly. “Very well. Nearly thirty years ago, when I was but a young woman, I was one of many slaves captured in a battle by Tahmu’s father, the great Rakyn.”

“May his name forever be spoken,” murmured Kevla. The polite phrase was always uttered when speaking of the honored dead.

“Yes, may it be so,” Sahlik replied, pleased. “I served him well and loyally, and for four years on the anniversary of my capture, as is the custom, he made a score on my arm. On the fifth year, Rakyn stood to make the fifth cut, but I told him to hold.”

Kevla continued to apply the henna with a steady hand, but Sahlik could almost feel how intently the girl was listening.

“‘Great khashim,’ I said, ‘You have counted the years wrong.’ He stared at me as if I had been kuli-cursed and was gibbering with madness. ‘With this last score, Sahlik, you go free,’ he said. ‘But great Rakyn, I will be free to do what? Free to return to my husband, who loves his wine better than me? You have scored my arm, but you have never broken my bones. So I say again, with all respect: You have counted the years wrong.’”

“And what did he say?”

“He said, as he lowered the dagger, ‘The sun has dazzled my eyes. There are not four cuts on your arm, Sahlik. It seems I have counted the years wrong.’ And neither he nor Tahmu has made a fifth score, and I continue to serve the House of Four Waters.”

“Sahlik is a bold woman,” said Kevla, finishing the design.

“Sahlik had nothing to lose,” Sahlik replied.

Kevla met her eyes, and to Sahlik, they seemed much older than her ten years.

“Neither does Kevla,” she said.

“My master?”

Tahmu looked up from the scroll he was perusing. Sahlik stood in the door. From the expression on her face, Tahmu knew exactly why she had come. He motioned her in. She closed the door behind her.

“How is she doing?” he asked.

“She is a most impressive youngster. There will be jealousies among the women.”

Tahmu made an impatient gesture. “Quarrels among Yeshi’s women are the least of my worries,” he said. “Kevla will hold her own among them, then? That is well. Has anyone…?” He could not find the words. Sahlik knew what he asked.

“The servants think I am growing deaf in my old age, and speak freely when my eyes are not upon them. I have not chosen to enlighten them.” Sahlik smiled fiercely. “Kevla has slept in a corner of the kitchen, seen by many. No one else has noticed the resemblance, although you and I see it strongly.”

Tahmu let out the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. “Perhaps it is because we know the truth that we see the resemblance. Still, I would like to be present.”

Sahlik shook her head firmly. “No. You are not usually present to introduce a servant. You must do nothing out of the ordinary with this girl. Finding her and bringing her here was strange enough. Draw no more attention to her, and she will take care of herself.”

While Sahlik’s words were full of wisdom, Tahmu had a father’s heart. It had been difficult to refrain from stopping by to see Kevla. She was a pretty child, and her brave acceptance of her fate combined with her ability to continue to take delight in the world around her had already charmed him.

“I will be outside, then. If Yeshi sees her and knows…I want to be able to take care of Kevla.”

Sahlik stepped forward and briefly rested a hand on Tahmu’s broad shoulder. No other servant would dare attempt such familiarity, but Sahlik’s bond with this man went deep.

“Your kind heart does you credit. You have given the girl a new life, a better life. Be content with that.”

Tahmu’s strong brown hand closed over the old woman’s and squeezed it. He nodded, but she saw that his eyes were still haunted as he imagined what could have been.

Sahlik waited for the perfect opportunity. It came the day after she had spoken with Tahmu.

She had gone to see Maluuk, the healer for the Clan, in his small stone home near the great House. Maluuk was almost as old as Sahlik, and like her, was plagued with stiffness and pain in the joints. The discomfort was incentive for Maluuk to constantly work on perfecting a salve to ease such pain, and he and Sahlik often commiserated on the perils of growing old.

She sat now on a bench in his cool stone house, which was rich with the fragrance of herbs. They were everywhere—in jars on tables, hanging to dry from the ceiling, growing outside in the garden. Maluuk sorted and labeled jars while his apprentice Asha ground herbs and mixed the ointment.

“I have started adding this,” he said to Sahlik, extending a jar.

She took a cautious sniff, and then began coughing. Maluuk wheezed with laughter.

“I find…nothing amusing,” she managed to say, tears streaming from her burning eyes. She gulped from the waterskin he held out to her.

“I could not resist,” Maluuk said, chuckling. “I add the ground pepper to the salve, and it warms the joints. Trust me, it will feel good.”

Sahlik gave him a skeptical look and was about to make a sharp comment when a shrill cry interrupted her.

“Maluuk!” The voice belonged to Tiah, one of Yeshi’s attendants. “Maluuk, come quickly, Ranna has been bitten!”

Faster than Sahlik would have given the old man credit for, Maluuk had leaped off his stool and raced out the door. Sahlik followed.

Tiah, a curvaceous woman about Yeshi’s age, was gently leading Ranna up the steps toward the healer’s house. The younger girl stumbled from time to time, as her eyes were fixed on her right hand, which swelled almost before Sahlik’s eyes.

Maluuk met them halfway. His touch was always gentle, but Ranna cried out and tried to pull her hand away.

“What bit her?” he asked Tiah.

“I’m not sure,” Tiah replied. “A fly, a wasp….”

“Asha!” Maluuk called to his apprentice, “Insect bite. What do I use?”

“Garlic and then a white clay mud poultice,” the boy replied.

“Good. Come, Ranna, we will take care of you.”

Sahlik said, “I will pick up my ointment later.” Maluuk nodded, barely hearing her as he led the two distraught women into the hut.

Despite a particularly sore knee, Sahlik hastened down the steps toward the House with alacrity. The moment would pass soon, and she was determined to seize it.

Yeshi strolled in the garden alone, her long, well-manicured fingers reaching to touch a fragrant bloom now and then. Because of the House of Four Waters’ claim to that most precious of fluids, she was able to enjoy growing things that would normally never be seen in the desert. There was insufficient water to grow the exotic fruits and vegetables for trade, but enough so that Yeshi’s table always had something intriguing for her to nibble.

Both her women were gone, after Ranna was stupid enough to touch the flower that had the angry-looking insect hovering about it, and Yeshi was bored with no one to talk to. Ranna hadn’t looked well, and she certainly hoped the girl was all right, but her first thought as Ranna’s hand began to swell like a filling water bladder was that it would be some time before Ranna would give her one of her magnificent massages.

Yeshi liked the garden, as she liked all pretty things, but she had no real interest in learning much beyond which flower had which scent. Now she lounged on a long, intricately carved and padded bench in the small pavilion. The thin fabric walls billowed with a fragrant breeze, and she idly wondered what her husband planned for the evening. Her hand dropped to the beaten gold bowl beside her and she snared a lush fruit.

“Great khashima, forgive me for disturbing you,” came Sahlik’s raspy voice.

Yeshi sighed in exasperation. A frown marred her pretty countenance. “Enter. What is it, Sahlik?”

“I saw that Ranna and Tiah were with the healer, great lady,” Sahlik said, stepping just inside the pavilion. “I thought you might be lonely.”

“Not lonely enough to want your company, old woman.”

Sahlik didn’t bat an eye. “Of course not, great lady. I have brought someone more to your taste. Kevla, bow to your mistress.”

A girl stepped into the pavilion. She was about ten years old and very slender. She was dressed in a green and blue rhia with sleeveless arms. A matching belt encircled her tiny waist, and her hair was pulled back in a single braid that fell almost to the floor as she bowed.

“Your husband went to the market on a whim, great lady, and found this pretty bird for your amusement. Her name is Kevla.”

The girl remained bowing. Yeshi couldn’t see her face. Intrigued, for it had been long since Tahmu had bothered to think of her when he traveled, even to the market, she propped herself up on an elbow.

“Come here, child,” she commanded in a kindly voice.

The girl obeyed at once, scurrying over to the bed and dropping to her knees beside it. The deference pleased Yeshi, who reached and tilted the child’s face up to hers.

“Look at me.” The girl did so. Yeshi smiled at her. Somehow, the girl seemed familiar, but that was impossible. Yeshi seldom deigned to visit the marketplace, so it was unlikely she had seen the girl before. All the lower castes looked alike, she supposed.

“A pretty little bird indeed. I am bored, Kevla. What might you do to entertain me?”

“I have many skills and talents, all to be used as my mistress desires,” Kevla replied promptly. Her voice was pleasant. “It is my understanding that the great khashima enjoys massage and adorning her lovely self with henna.”

Yeshi thought of Ranna’s swelling hand. It was a soothing, relaxing day and she had been counting on Ranna’s massage to complete the drowsy pleasure of the afternoon. She rose and sinuously dropped her ornately embroidered rhia on the carpet.

“The oils are there,” she said, pointing to several small jars. She lay back down on the bed on her stomach, resting her head in her arms. “Let us find out if my little market bird can ease her mistress’s aches and pains.”

Moving easily and confidently, the girl poured some scented oil in her hands, rubbed them together, and placed them on Yeshi’s shoulders.

Such small hands to be so strong. Yeshi sighed happily, relaxing under Kevla’s ministrations. She heard a rustling as Sahlik withdrew, then she closed her eyes and concentrated on what she excelled at—enjoying herself.

Tahmu stood behind a large stone statue in the gardens, careful that his shadow not fall upon the pavilion and reveal his presence. He could hear the sounds of voices, but was too far away to catch their words. There was no shout of indignation or the sound of a slap, however, so he dared to hope that all was well.

After a few moments, Sahlik emerged. Their eyes met. Sahlik smiled, almost imperceptibly, and Tahmu sagged against the statue.

Thank the Great Dragon. Yeshi, as they had counted on, was too obtuse to notice how much her new servant girl resembled her husband. He wiped his face with a hand that trembled.

Forgive me, Keishla, my love. But our child is well and safe now. Perhaps, indeed, you and I have been forgiven our transgressions.

As he returned to the duties that awaited him as khashim of the Clan of Four Waters, Tahmu felt that, after so many years, he had reconciled with his past.

He dared to hope the worst was over.

Chapter Five

A fter the massage, Yeshi and her new handmaiden retired to Yeshi’s quarters.

“Here is the room you will share with Ranna, Tiah, and the other women who serve me,” Yeshi pointed out as they passed a large, airy room with a small table, a basin and pitcher of water, and dozens of soft-looking cushions scattered on the floor. Kevla tried not to reveal her shock at the opulence.

“And this is the room I share with my lord,” Yeshi said, as she opened the door onto a room three times as large as the handmaidens’. There were two or three lounging chairs, cushions on the floor, and glorious tapestries adorning the thick walls. Candles, lamps, and a small brazier sat ready to be lit at nightfall. The bed that Yeshi and Tahmu shared seemed to Kevla to be large enough to accommodate three or four quite easily. It was circular in shape, elevated off the floor by short, sturdy stone pillars.

“I am in need of refreshment,” Yeshi said. “Go to the kitchens and ask Sahlik to prepare a plate. Make sure there is something you enjoy on it, too, Kevla.”

Kevla floated down to the kitchens and repeated Yeshi’s request to Sahlik. The head servant nodded, pleased.

“Don’t forget to let her eat first,” she said as she arranged the tray. “And don’t pay any attention when she tells you to have some paraah, it’s her favorite fruit and she’ll want to eat it all herself.”

Kevla nodded obediently. It was perhaps natural that Sahlik should worry, but there was no need. Kevla understood exactly how to handle someone like Yeshi.

After Kevla had lit the lamps, candles and brazier, she and the khashima lounged on embroidered pillows, nibbled the delicacies, and sipped a beverage that was both sweet and tangy and which made Kevla feel a bit light-headed. Yeshi was chatting and Kevla was listening as attentively as possible, giving the potency of the drink, when there came a knock on the door. Yeshi sighed.

“And we were having such a good time, just the two of us,” she said. In a harder voice, she called, “Who knocks?”

“Please, my lady, it is only us,” came a timid reply.

“Enter.” The door opened and two young women stood in the hall. The older one, whom Kevla suspected was in her late twenties, was tall and voluptuous, her dark blue rhia straining across her full breasts. She started when she saw Kevla and her eyes widened, then whatever emotion was in them was quickly hooded.

The younger was only a few years older than Kevla and shorter and slimmer than her companion. The most noticeable thing about her was her hand, which was swathed in bandages. Kevla felt a pang of sympathy and wondered what had happened.

“You are late,” said Yeshi.

Their eyes widened in apprehension. They exchanged glances. “Didn’t Sahlik tell you?” asked the larger woman.

“About Ranna’s hand? Yes, but there was no reason you needed to stay with her so long, Tiah.” Yeshi’s gaze returned to Kevla, and she smiled affectionately. She was quite lovely when she smiled, thought Kevla.

“It was lucky that Kevla is as skilled as you are, Ranna, otherwise my back would have been protesting your absence. It looks as though it will be some time before you will be able to rub my feet.”

Ranna’s dark face flushed. “Yes, my lady.”

Tiah glanced at Ranna and said, “Maluuk said that it was lucky she did not die.”

“Mmm,” said Yeshi. “Well, Ranna, you have one good hand. Go down to the kitchen and get me another skin of wine.”

Kevla knew she was a good observer, but even the greatest dullard would have had no trouble interpreting the looks both handmaidens shot her. She swallowed hard, and despite the strange sensation the wine was causing in her, wished she dared have another cup.

“Ranna,” said Yeshi, “I did not mean tomorrow.”

Ranna jumped slightly. “Of course not. Forgive me.” She reached with her good hand to take the wineskin and darted out the door. Tiah moved to settle behind Yeshi on the cushions and reached to touch her hair when Yeshi ducked her head.

“No. Kevla will brush my hair. Tiah, you will bathe and massage my feet.”

Kevla rose and did as she was commanded. Tiah, safely out of Yeshi’s line of vision, mouthed the word skuura, female dog, and glared as she rose. A knot in her stomach, Kevla knelt behind Yeshi and began unbraiding the thick locks with nimble, gentle fingers.

Yeshi chatted on about nothing. Ranna returned with the wine. All three servants chimed in with appropriate noises from time to time. Tiah bathed Yeshi’s feet in a ceramic bowl of water scented with flower petals, lavishing attention on them. She dried them carefully and massaged oil into them, her gaze darting up now and then to gauge her mistress’s reaction.

Kevla dutifully brushed and oiled Yeshi’s hair, and while pleased to hear such compliments as “Your touch is so gentle, child!” and “That feels good, Kevla,” wished silently that Yeshi would spare a kind word or two for Tiah’s ministrations as well.

At last it was time to ready the bed. She thought, as she gingerly touched it, that the mattress made the pillows she had sat upon feel hard as old rugs. Over it were intricately woven and embroidered blankets and silks. The sheets felt like water in her hands.

“Kevla!” The sharp voice of Tiah startled her and she jumped. “Don’t touch the khashima’s things like that!”

Kevla gulped. She had been certain that she would know how to handle Yeshi, but already, on the first day, she was going to incur the woman’s famous wrath….

To her ineffable relief, Yeshi only laughed. “Poor child, you’ve probably never seen anything as lovely, have you?”

Not daring to speak, Kevla shook her head, keeping her eyes averted. Yeshi’s long, cool fingers brushed her chin, tilting Kevla’s face up.

“My lord is going to be away for a while, visiting another clan. The bed is large enough for about fifty such as you. Stay with me tonight; keep me company while I miss my husband. It will be pleasant to have someone to whisper secrets to.”

Kevla dared not look at Tiah as the other young women bowed and left. Yeshi, now clad in a diaphanous garment that covered her from neck to toe, crawled into the bed and yawned. Kevla went about the room, extinguishing the oil lamps and candles, then, her heart racing, climbed into the bed. The only light came from the red glow of the brazier’s coals.

She almost uttered a cry as she slipped beneath the sheets. So soft, so smooth….surely Tahmu and Yeshi slept deeply and dreamed sweet dreams.

“I imagine you are Bai-sha,” said Yeshi, breaking into her reverie. Kevla went cold. “That is unimportant to me. You are a sweet girl and you handle yourself well. Did you know I have a son?”

“Of course,” Kevla replied. “He is the young master, the khashimu Jashemi-kha-Tahmu.”

“That’s right,” Yeshi said. “He’s been away for almost a year now, learning from his uncle. That’s one of our traditions, Kevla; to send the heir to live with his closest male relative. He’ll leave me again for another year when he’s married. I miss him. I adore my son, but I often think how sweet it would have been had I borne a daughter.”

Tentatively, Kevla said, “My lady is still young and beautiful. Perhaps the Dragon will grant her a daughter soon.”

Yeshi chuckled, but there was an undercurrent of sadness in her voice. “You are still a child, and there are things you don’t yet understand.”

In the darkness, Kevla grinned. There wasn’t much about male and female coupling she didn’t understand, but she wasn’t about to tell Yeshi that.

“My son is a little younger than you,” Yeshi went on. Kevla wondered why the khashima was speaking so freely. Perhaps it was the shield of darkness. Perhaps it was that Kevla was such a nobody. Yeshi turned over, and the silk sheets rustled. “I am glad Tahmu brought you to me. Tomorrow will be very hot. Would you like to spend all day in the caverns?”

“It if please my lady, I would enjoy that very much.”

“It will be so, then. Good night, Kevla.”

“Good night, my lady. Dragon send you sweet dreams.”

But Kevla did not dream at all that night. She was asleep within minutes. In the morning, she awoke before dawn and slid out as silently as possible.

She closed the door carefully, turned, and gasped. Tiah and Ranna stood in the hall. Even the slim, injured Ranna scowled, and Tiah loomed over Kevla like a kuli. Before Kevla could react, Tiah spat in her face.

“Bai-sha,” Tiah snarled in a hoarse whisper. “You’d better watch yourself.”

“I can’t believe you took advantage of my injury,” said Ranna, sounding more hurt than angry.

Kevla wiped the spittle from her face. “I—” she began, keeping her voice soft. But they didn’t let her finish.

“You are just one of many. You may be Yeshi’s favorite today, but that doesn’t mean you’ll stay that way,” said Tiah.

“Tiah, Ranna,” Kevla whispered imploringly, holding out a hand to each one of them, “Yeshi is a great lady and has many needs. Surely, she requires all of us to tend her.”

“Yeshi is a spoiled skuura,” said Ranna in a low voice, “and we were doing fine until you came along.”

Kevla’s eyes filled with tears. “I only—” Footsteps coming down the hall gave her an excellent excuse to duck past the two women and scurry to the kitchen.

It was an inauspicious start to a day which only got worse. Yeshi, as Kevla would soon learn, often changed her mind. By the time she had risen and been bathed and dressed, the great lady had decided not to spend the day in the caverns after all. She was going to visit the market, and Kevla was to prepare a traveling basket of food and wine and accompany her. Kevla nodded and kept her face impassive. But she could not hide her feelings from Sahlik.

As Sahlik helped Kevla prepare a basket, she said in a low voice, “It will not be as hard as you think, child. You will be wearing the veil, so no one will recognize you. Don’t look anyone full in the face and all should be well.”

“I don’t want to go back,” Kevla whispered. “I don’t know why Yeshi wants me to.”

“She wants you to see what change can be wrought in a day’s fortune,” Sahlik said. “Be quiet and grateful and in all likelihood, she will never take you back to the market again. It’s not her favorite pastime.” Sahlik hesitated, then said, “Do not speak to your mother if you see her.”

Kevla shook her head. The lump in her throat forbade speech. Miserable and apprehensive, she covered the basket and went to join the other handmaidens.

She and Tiah dressed in clean rhias. Ranna would not be accompanying them; riding would take two hands and hers was far from healed. Kevla watched closely as Tiah put on her veil and did a fair job of imitating her, drawing the thin yellow fabric over her head, around the lower part of her face and tucking it in. By the contemptuous flash of Tiah’s eyes, Kevla had not quite gotten it right. She hoped Yeshi would not notice.

But she could not hide her inexperience with riding when she and Tiah went into the courtyard and two sand-colored mares were brought out for them. With the help of a stable boy, Tiah climbed easily into the saddle. Kevla stared at her own mare.

“What’s the matter?” Tiah challenged. “Yeshi is already in her litter waiting for us.”

“I cannot ride,” Kevla said, trying hard not to cry.

“Well then, too bad for you,” said Tiah. “Yeshi and I will go alone to the market.” She pulled her horse’s head around and rode out of the courtyard to where Yeshi was waiting.

Kevla lowered her head and trudged back to the House. She was not sorry to avoid going to the market, but feared that her inexperience might count against her. Tiah and Ranna had made it plain this morning that they regarded her as competition for Yeshi’s affections. Now, Tiah would have Yeshi’s ear all day. It would be an excellent opportunity to turn her mistress’s mind against her new handmaiden. Kevla did not think the khashima would make a great attempt to find the truth if malicious gossip started spreading. She had reached the top of the stairs when she heard a male voice calling her by name. Surprised, Kevla turned to see a stable boy running across the courtyard to her.

“The khashima has sent me for you,” he said, gasping for breath. “She says if you cannot ride a horse, you will be taught, and until you learn, you may ride in the litter with her.”

Yeshi’s litter was, not surprisingly, a glorious thing. It was a padded armchair that could seat two people comfortably, carried by twelve powerfully built servants. There was room to stretch one’s legs, and a canopy shaded the two women from the hot sun. Despite the physical comfort, Kevla knew that if Tiah knew how miserable she was, the older girl would be delighted. She would much rather be on a horse, equal to the other handmaiden, than feel the hot jealousy emanating from Tiah.

Her stomach tightened as the outskirts of the marketplace came into view. Nervously, she adjusted the veil, grateful for the anonymity it provided. She hoped Sahlik was right, that no one would recognize her. Particularly, she hoped she would not see her mother.

The khashima’s appearance in the market created quite a stir. Those on foot hastened to get out of the way and bow to the great lady. Kevla noticed they did not prostrate themselves, as they did for the khashim, nor did they avert their eyes from her face after they had shown their respect. Indeed, some of the bolder merchants went so far as to directly approach the litter, so that the great lady could better see their merchandise.

Yeshi was having a grand time. She thrived on the attention, and ordered her servant to purchase all manner of jewelry and trinkets. She generously bought drinks, honeycakes, and meat pies for Kevla and Tiah, and Kevla realized that the delicacies she had so carefully packed would be forgotten and spoil in the hot sun.

Tiah ate her cake quickly, clearly enjoying the sticky sweetness of it. Kevla found it too cloying, but knew that Yeshi wanted her to eat it. She was just about to take another bite when someone cleared his throat.

“Most honored khashima,” said a smooth voice. “What a pleasant surprise to encounter you here.”

The speaker was a high-caste man who stood beside the litter. His clothing was almost as fine as Tahmu’s and his oiled, well-trimmed beard parted to reveal white teeth. Kevla took an instant dislike to him. She thought that Tahmu would not have approved of the way this man’s eyes roamed over Yeshi’s face and dropped briefly to her body.

Yeshi, however, seemed pleased to see the stranger. Leaning over, she purred, “Uhlal Bahrim. You have been absent from our feasts lately.”

“Not by my own will, great lady. My lands need supervision if they are to yield crops satisfactory to the khashim.”

Her smile grew and she asked, “So it is your love for my lord that keeps you from our hall?”

He leaned in closer to the litter and said, “Nothing else would keep me from the radiance of your company.”

Disgusted with the exchange but careful not to show it, Kevla returned to her honeycake. Suddenly, a cry rang out.

“It is you!”

Every head turned in the direction of the shout. A poorly dressed, low-caste man was pushing his way toward the khashima. It was obviously a beggar, but Kevla had never seen any of the beggars who frequented the marketplace be so assertive.

Yeshi’s men set the litter down as quickly and smoothly as possible. Drawing curved swords, four of them stepped protectively in front of their mistress. Others moved toward the increasingly hysterical man. Yeshi’s face was impassive, but Kevla saw her painted fingers tighten on the chair arm. Bahrim took the opportunity to lay his hand on hers.

“It is you!” the man cried again, pointing directly at—

“Me?” Kevla whispered, her hand going to her throat. He must have recognized her from the market. But how? The veil hid everything but her kohl-rimmed eyes. Bahrim gaped at her.

“I’ve been trying to find you!” the man continued. Flecks of spittle flew from his lips and his eyes were enormous. “She and I,” he said, turning to look at Tiah, “we’ve been waiting for you!”

Kevla looked over at Tiah, but the other woman stared back at the man. She seemed turned to stone in place atop her mare.

“You will not address my women so,” said Yeshi coldly.

“They are not your women, great lady, they are ours—they belong to all of Arukan! I have dreamed of you. Had visions of you riding the Great Dragon—”

Visions? The Dragon? Kevla felt horror seep through her. The man was not simply an aggressive beggar. He had visions. He was blaspheming the Great Dragon. That could only mean one thing.

“Kuli-cursed!” screamed a voice from the crowd. The word seemed to jolt everyone into action. Yeshi’s men sprang upon the man. He went down under a pile of muscular, sun-browned bodies, and when they got to their feet the man’s face was bruised and bloody.

“Great lady, what would you have us do with him?” one of Yeshi’s men asked, slightly out of breath.

Yeshi’s eyes were wide and her breathing was quick, but other than that she seemed perfectly in control. “The kulis have seduced him. There is only one punishment for the kuli-cursed.”

Kevla began to tremble and clenched her hands hard in her lap. Everyone in Arukan, including her, knew the punishment for being unfortunate enough to be cursed by demons.

The man cried out. “Great lady, I implore you, I am not kuli-cursed! My visions are true, they are sent from—”

Yeshi’s men again turned on him and this time when they stopped, the man had been beaten unconscious. Kevla kept swallowing, grateful that she had only eaten a few bites of the honeycake, struggling to keep even those few bites from coming back up. Yesterday, she had watched a man being devoured by a river creature. Today, she would see another man burn to death.

Nothing in Arukan was more feared than the kulis, unless one considered the Great Dragon himself. But the Dragon was honored and revered, and his laws protected his people and kept them on the right path. The demons who lurked in the caves at the foot of the mountains and who haunted one’s dreams had no hint of goodness about them. To attract the attention of one, to become then cursed, was a fate that made being burned alive seem like a blessing.

“It will be done, my lady,” continued Yeshi’s man. “Do you wish it now, or shall we wait for the morrow?”

There was only one reason for waiting. When a kuli-cursed was burned, it was important for as many people as possible to witness it, so that they would be reminded of how dreadful it was, and would be on their guard. Yeshi looked around at the sea of people in the marketplace.

“There are many here to witness,” she said. “Do it now.”

Bahrim lingered with Yeshi, offering his consolation for the traumatic encounter.

Precious as wood was in a land where trees grew only by the few nurturing waters, everyone at the marketplace was anxious that the cursed man be destroyed as quickly as possible, lest they, too, become victims of the kulis. The vendors offered their stools and chairs, which were broken into pieces. Dried grasses, used to feed the animals, were offered for quick kindling. Yeshi smoothed the sacrifice by tossing coins for the proffered wood. Before Kevla quite realized what was going on, a pyre had been built outside the market area and the unconscious beggar, bound hand and foot, doused with lamp oil and with a rag stuffed into his mouth, was hurled atop it.

“Death to demons!” someone shouted, and the chant was taken up: “Death to demons! Death to demons!”

Someone grabbed a torch and lit the pyre. Kevla looked away, but Yeshi’s hand closed on her wrist. Kevla gazed into the hard eyes of her mistress.

“He wanted to drag you and Tiah into his madness,” Yeshi said. “He could have tainted both of you, accused you, too, of being demons. Then you and Tiah would be on that pyre with him. It is well that he is punished quickly. Watch, Kevla. Watch and remember this day.”

Kevla couldn’t imagine that she would ever forget it. Reluctantly, she raised her head and watched as the fire consumed the body. Thick, acrid smoke, laced with the stench of burning flesh, scalded her throat and made her eyes water. She heard the shouts and cheers of the crowd as their fear was assuaged, and she was grateful that the guards had beaten the poor, deluded soul senseless before they burned him.

Please, Great Dragon, she prayed silently, please don’t let this happen to anyone in the House of Four Waters.

Chapter Six

Y eshi and her entourage returned to the House of Four Waters subdued by the incident. The handmaidens prepared their mistress for bed, and what little conversation there was, was brief and spoken in low tones. Yeshi did not ask Kevla to stay with her again. Kevla retired to the room she shared with the other girls and prepared for sleep in silence. While she didn’t expect that Tiah and Ranna would ever become her friends, the fire that had fueled enmity between the handmaidens and the newcomer seemed to have been extinguished. It was as if Tiah felt that being included in the madman’s raving with Kevla made problems between them less important.

Days turned into weeks, then months. Kevla adapted to being around so many people and grew used to the unpredictability of serving Yeshi. While each day began the same way, there was no telling what direction it might take. Each morning the girls would arise with the sun, eat some bread, cheese, and fruit and drink a cup of eusho, then descend into the cool caverns to bathe. After that, they would go to Yeshi’s wing, where they would awaken, bathe, and dress their mistress. How the day developed from there depended entirely upon what Yeshi wished to do. As the months passed, Kevla had done everything from spending all day with Yeshi in the caverns, to lounging in the gardens under the pavilion, to even traveling once or twice to another uhlala’s household.

She saw Sahlik often, her benefactor Tahmu infrequently, and concentrated on mastering the art of pleasing Yeshi. It was an easy life, much easier than standing on a corner crying for customers, and Kevla thrived. Now and then, she would think of her mother, and with a pang wondered how she fared. As time passed, however, even that brief thought came with less frequency.

One day, Kevla glanced in the mirror as she was tidying Yeshi’s room and saw that her face had changed. Her cheeks were slightly less round, her eyes longer, her lips fuller. With a shock, she realized that more than a year had passed since she had first arrived at the House of Four Waters. She smiled at her reflection, and thanked the Dragon for her good fortune.

Kevla learned that Tahmu and several of his servants would shortly be leaving for a wonderful reason—the khashim of the Clan of Four Waters was going to fetch his son, the young master, and bring him home.

After Tahmu departed, Yeshi alternated between moping and anticipating her husband and son’s return. A few weeks after Tahmu departed, Kevla was in Yeshi’s quarters opening a window when she spotted a cloud of dust. She stared at it, frowning.

“Kevla,” asked Yeshi, “what do you look at?”

“I am not sure, great lady. There is some dust in the east.”

“Please the Dragon, not a dust storm,” muttered Tiah, as she shouldered Kevla aside to see for herself. She gasped.

“Great lady,” cried Tiah, “I am happy to report that a sa’abah rider comes!”

Yeshi was up from her cushions and at the window in a heartbeat. She squinted, cursing a little as the sun dazzled her eyes, and then laughed. She reached to hug Tiah, saying, “An extra glass of wine for you at the dinner tonight, sharp eyes! It is one of Tahmu’s scouts! My boy is coming home!”

She rushed from the room, crying, “Sahlik! Sahlik, Tahmu’s scout comes! Have wine and food ready for him!”

The three handmaidens hastened after their lady. They found her where Kevla had never seen her before—in the kitchens. Sahlik had prepared a plate of juicy fruits and light grains. There was a skin of wine at the ready, but the thirsty scout clearly preferred simple water. His dark face was white with sand and Kevla wrinkled her nose at his smell. But Yeshi had pulled up a stool right next to him.

“And my brother’s wife? Is she well?” Yeshi asked.

“Yes, great lady. She has many letters for you, which will be coming in the caravan. I would have brought them myself, but the khashim bade me travel lightly, to make good speed.”

“Yes, of course. Do not rush your meal, and when you are through, take all the time you like in the caverns.”

The exhausted man’s eyes lit up. “Thank you, great lady.”

The House exploded into activity. The rider was only three days ahead of the caravan, and much had to be done if the khashim and the heir of the Clan of Four Waters were to be received with all due honor.

The kitchens, which usually were quiet for at least a few hours in the depths of night, were bustling nonstop. Lambs, calves, and goat kids were slaughtered and prepared for the feast. Servants were sent to the marketplace for tempting tidbits to adorn the table. Cakes and pastries were prepared, stuffed with fruits both fresh and dried and drizzled with honey and crushed nuts. Barrels of wine, aging in the caverns where they were cool and protected, were uncorked and decanted.

All the rugs were taken out and beaten, the floors swept and mopped with precious, scented water. Metal plates and decorative objects were polished until one’s reflection could be seen in them. Flowers from the garden were brought into every corner of the great House, so that a pleasant, fresh scent permeated the place.

Yeshi was tended to almost nonstop as well. At first Kevla was worried when Yeshi requested Tiah to do her henna.

“My lady,” stammered Kevla, “are you not pleased with my designs?”

“Quite pleased, my little bird,” Yeshi replied soothingly. She added, with a wink at Tiah, “but there are some parts of my body that you are too young yet to henna.”

Tiah smiled, and the two older women laughed together. While there was not a single spot on her mother’s body that Kevla had not, at one time or another, adorned with the green plant paste, Kevla feigned shyness, and smiled at Yeshi when she patted the girl’s cheek and left arm in arm with Tiah.

“You will help me,” said Sahlik, coming up behind Kevla and taking her arm. “Ranna, I know that Maluuk will need to stock up on supplies. Go see what he needs.”

Sulkily, Ranna said, “He has an apprentice. Let Asha do the work.”

Sahlik straightened and looked the young woman in the eye. “You obey Yeshi,” she said with deceptive softness. “When Yeshi is not around, you obey me. Asha will be busy preparing salves and ointments. He will not have time to run to the market.”

“Why not send Kevla?”

“Because I’m sending you. I have other duties for Kevla.”

Ranna sighed. “Very well, Sahlik.” She slowly moved in the direction of the door.

Kevla watched her go, unable to suppress a smirk of satisfaction. No doubt, Sahlik had something special, something fun, to offer her.

She did not.

Halfway through the task that Sahlik had assigned Kevla—that of opening and freshening the rooms of the khashimu—Kevla wished that she’d been the one to go to market and shop for herbs and oils for the healer.

Jashemi’s rooms had been sealed up for almost two years. With no air to waft through them, they smelled stale and unwelcoming. Kevla, laden with sweet-smelling, just-washed linens, wrinkled her nose despite the opulence of the chambers.

The bed was bare. Fine dust had settled on every piece of furniture, proof that the powdery sand found a way where even fresh air did not. Kevla looked around and put the bedclothes safely down outside, in the corridor. She put her hands on her narrow hips, surveyed the enormity of the task, sighed, and went to work. It took her the better part of the afternoon, and by the time she was done, she smelled worse than the room had. But it was finished.

She had beaten the mattress and pillows to rid them of dust, and covered them with sumptuous blue and green fabrics. The pillows were embroidered with gold thread, which shone among the deeper hues. Jashemi’s clothes had been removed from storage, washed, and now rested in a chest made of a light wood that smelled tangy and sharp-sweet. Kevla wondered if the young master would have outgrown them; he had been gone for a while.

Kevla had polished the table and filled ceramic bowls with fresh fruit. Another bowl and a pitcher of water stood on a small pedestal beside the bed. She had cleaned and refilled the oil lamps, beaten the rugs, swept, and mopped the floor, and now, as Sahlik had instructed her, tucked dried whole fruits studded with cloves among the bedding and here and there.

She ached, but she was proud of her handiwork. The young master’s room was ready.

As she went to the caverns to cleanse herself from the dust and sweat of the day’s labor, she wondered what this boy would be like. He was not much younger than she. Would he be kind and wise, like his father? Would he be petty and spoiled, like his mother? She had strained her ears listening for any gossip that would give a hint, but no one talked about Jashemi-kha-Tahmu very much, except as his father’s heir.

Kevla was putting the finishing touches on Yeshi’s hair, weaving dried flowers and jewels into the glossy black locks, when a strange, wailing sound made her jump.

“Ouch!” Yeshi’s manicured hand went to her head and rubbed to ease the sting that Kevla’s sudden tug had caused.

“Great lady, I am sorry! But the sound—”

Ranna and Tiah laughed, looking slightly superior. “I suppose a market Bai-sha girl would not know the sounds of the shakaal,” said Ranna, in a voice meant for Yeshi to interpret as fondly indulgent but that Kevla recognized as condescending.

Yeshi chuckled, the pain forgotten. “They are long horns. If you blow on one end, the sound you hear comes out the other. Hurry, girl! If the shakaal has been sounded, they are not too far away!”

Yeshi looked happier and more animated than Kevla had ever seen her. Kevla felt a warmth in her heart at Yeshi’s anticipation that was almost maternal.

“You three will attend me at the dinner. Kevla, watch the others and learn. They have been to many such events and I’m sure will be happy to share their knowledge.”

Kevla looked at the other women. Even now, she doubted very much they would be happy to share anything with her. “Lady,” she began, “I have attended you at dinners before.”

“Not like this one!” Yeshi exclaimed delightedly.

If Kevla had thought that the House had been a flurry of activity two days ago, it was nothing compared to what she saw now. Yeshi disappeared, flitting about to check on everything. Ranna and Tiah took off somewhere immediately afterward. Left on her own, Kevla tentatively wandered throughout the House, keeping out of the way but observing everything. She had a fluttering in her stomach. Ever since she had prepared Jashemi’s room, she had wondered what the khashimu would be like. She was anxious to see him, although she knew that he would barely acknowledge her presence. Tahmu was not old, but he would not live forever. One day, the boy whose room she had cleaned would be the khashim of the Clan of Four Waters.

She had never ventured into the Great Hall before; she had had no need. While Yeshi and Tahmu often entertained guests, the room in which they received them hitherto was much less formal. Now, though, she peered inside, and her brown eyes grew large as eggs at what she beheld.

It was so vast, she had utterly no reference to compare it to. It seemed to her to stretch forever. A low table of dark, polished wood ran almost the full length of the hall. Dozens of pillows flanked it, and after a quick count Kevla realized that nearly fifty people would be fed here tonight. Colorful rugs, every hue of the rainbow, further cushioned the stone floor. Twenty fans made of the feathers of some huge bird were propped up against the walls. No doubt, servants would provide a cooling breeze as their master and his guests dined.

“If you’ve nothing better to do than gawk,” came Sahlik’s voice, “then go back to the kitchen and help with the feast.”

Disappointed, Kevla nodded. She was there for the next three hours, basting chickens, carrying bowls, grinding herbs. So it was that at one point she was given a jug of a mint-and-vinegar beverage and thrust into the throng of servers. Unsure as to what to do, she imitated the others, kneeling to the left and pouring the drink into the ceramic cup, not the glass one or the golden one, and wiping the lip free from any drops.

She might as well have not been present, for all the attention she drew. She knelt and poured for fragrant, bejeweled, and veiled women and for bearded, bold-voiced men. She saw clothing in colors she had only seen before in dreams, and weapons of all varieties lying beside men who seemed as large to her as a horse.

Kevla had lost track of how many glasses she had poured when a hand seized her wrist. She gasped, but the fear faded when she saw that it was Tahmu. It returned full fold when she saw the mixture of anger and—was it fear?—in his eyes.

“Kevla!” he hissed. “Why are you not sitting behind Yeshi? Why are you not wearing the veil?”

Her heart sinking, Kevla glanced over at Yeshi. The khashima was seated opposite her husband and talking animatedly to Bahrim, the uhlal who had approached her litter in the marketplace so long ago. Neither Yeshi nor her handmaidens had noticed Kevla yet. While Yeshi’s face was bare—she was, after all, the second highest-ranking person present—Ranna and Tiah wore the traditional veils. Sahlik’s words, uttered on her first day, returned to her: The men of the household may see your face, but male strangers may not.

And there were many, many male strangers present.

“I am sorry—Yeshi dismissed us—Sahlik sent me to the kitchen—” She glanced around wildly. None of the serving women had veils. But she now saw what she had been too busy to observe earlier—that all of the high-caste women and their servants, kneeling obediently behind their mistresses, were veiled at this highly formal, highly public occasion.

“Great khashim, I meant no dishonor—” she began again. A movement caught her attention, and before she could think to avert her gaze she found herself staring at a high-caste boy who could only be Jashemi-kha-Tahmu.

He was slightly younger than she, about eleven, still slim with a child’s build. His face, though, was strong and appealing, as was his father’s, and he had his father’s sharp eyes and curly dark hair. He was staring at her in shock, no doubt outraged at her disrespectful conduct, his mouth, with lips as full as a girl’s, slightly open. Before she could look down, his dark gaze flickered to his father’s face, then back to hers.

“Veil yourself and take up your position behind your mistress,” said Tahmu. “Hurry, Kevla. Go now.”

She nodded, biting her lip to keep the tears from spilling down her cheeks. As she turned and walked as quickly as she dared from the hall, she felt someone staring at her. The feeling was so unnerving that she had to turn around. As she did, she saw Jashemi, her young master, watching her every move.

Shame washed over Kevla, and she was grateful to make her escape before hot tears flowed down her burning cheeks.

Chapter Seven

J ashemi-kha-Tahmu was happy to be home. He was not overly fond of his mother’s brother, with whom he had spent the last two years. Naram was loud and boisterous, the opposite of Tahmu, and Jashemi had had barely any chance to interact with his cousins and his aunt. Jashemi was uncertain as to what he was supposed to be “learning” during the two years. Apparently, the vast majority of what Naram had to teach was how to yell, how to drink, and how to make rude comments about females.

Naram’s fondness for physical activity, though, did translate to his nephew. Jashemi had ridden more in these two years than he ever had in his life. He had also learned how to hunt, though he was always sorry to extinguish the light in the beautiful, soft brown eyes of the liah, and he found that he did enjoy male company, other than that of his uncle. He learned to sleep soundly on hard-packed earth beneath a sky crowded with stars, and to travel on almost as little food and water as a sa’abah needed.

Jashemi quickly learned to enjoy what he found pleasant, steel himself against what he disliked, and get through the time with patience. But when he saw his father’s colors on the horizon, flapping in a rare breeze, Jashemi’s heart was so full of happiness that he almost wept.

He had not rushed to greet his father. Such displays were for children. Instead, he prostrated himself as all did before the khashim of the Clan of Four Waters, but he did so without the obsequiousness that the others displayed. Tahmu bade his son rise first, in acknowledgment of Jashemi’s rank as heir to this vast clan. There was a raucous party to mark Jashemi’s last night, and the boy was relieved to see that despite his polite demeanor, Tahmu appeared to dislike the drunken revelry almost as much as his son did.

He rode alongside his father the entire long way home, telling Tahmu what he had learned and trying to minimize the less savory aspects of two years spent with Naram and Pela.

At one point, Tahmu asked him how Naram treated his family and his servants. Jashemi hesitated, loath to speak badly of his mother’s brother.

“I am the only one who can hear you,” Tahmu said, “the others are riding too far away. And I have raised you to speak the truth to me, Jashemi.”

After a moment, Jashemi spoke. “There is no one like Sahlik in Naram’s household,” he began.

Tahmu smiled. “There is no one like Sahlik anywhere,” he said. “She is unique, one of our household’s true treasures.”

“What I mean is, there is no servant who….” Jashemi struggled for the words. Finally, he resolved to simply speak bluntly. “There is no one there who dares question Naram, even when he is clearly wrong.”

“Many believe that is how a great House should operate,” said Tahmu. He was staring straight ahead, mounted atop Swift-Over-Sand. He spoke mildly, and Jashemi could not determine what answer his father wanted to hear.

“But you don’t,” Jashemi challenged. “You want Sahlik to tell you if you are going to do something wrong, something that would hurt the Clan. I’ve heard you speaking to her sometimes.”

Tahmu’s face was inscrutable. “Go on.”

Jashemi licked his lips and reached for the waterskin fastened to his saddle. He took a drink, wondering what his father was doing. Was this a test of some sort? And if so, was he giving the right answers?

He continued. “And my mother…you do not force her to veil herself if she steps outside her quarters. Nor do you deny her anything.”

“Do you think I should?”

Jashemi recalled his aunt’s behavior—subservient, soft, mild. He never saw his uncle strike her, but by the way she sometimes cringed when he began to yell, he suspected that Naram might reprimand Pela with more than harsh words. The servants all seemed afraid of him. They never spoke against him, of course, but they never seemed to be happy around him, either.

But Jashemi was old enough to realize that sometimes his mother took advantage of his father’s indulgences. He wondered how she would seem to him now, after two years’ separation.

“No,” he said, at last. “I would not want my wife to be afraid of me. I would want her to love me, and respect me because I am worthy of respect, not because I enforce it. I like it that our servants smile and hasten to obey our requests with joyful steps. I would not want anyone scurrying away from me with downcast eyes. Somehow—somehow I think that is wrong.”

He turned and looked at his father. “I would know your thoughts on this, Father.”

Now, at last, Tahmu smiled down at his son. They rode close enough so that the khashim could easily reach over and squeeze Jashemi’s shoulder.

“My boy is becoming a man,” he said, “with a man’s wisdom and perception. I agree with all that you have said, my son. I do not wish to speak ill of my wife’s brother, but I do not approve of how he runs his household. I, too, saw the fear in the servants’ eyes. I saw how Pela watches his every move, not out of love but out of anticipation of a blow. He cannot hold his wine and he has not earned the respect of his equals. I permitted you to go only because it is tradition. I am pleased that you learned anything at all. I thought I might have to spend the next year undoing what Naram has done.”

Jashemi smiled, relieved.

“A leader commands respect because it is deserved and earned. I have spent my life striving for that goal, and I believe I have a household that would die for me if need be.”

“And a wife who is happy,” added Jashemi, thinking of his mother’s flamboyance in comparison with Pela’s mousy reticence. When his father did not answer, Jashemi glanced up at Tahmu sharply. Sorrow sat upon those elegant features.

“I have done what I could to make your mother happy,” Tahmu said softly. “But I do not know that I have succeeded.” He kicked Swift and cantered up to ride alongside his Second, Halid.

After the welcome-home feast, Jashemi went to his old quarters. They smelled fresh and clean, and he idly picked up a bright yellow cloved fruit tucked among the pillows and inhaled its spicy citrus scent. His servants undressed him; they seemed so pleased to do the task that he had not the heart to dismiss them as he was perfectly capable of removing his own clothing.

As he lay in bed, Jashemi’s mind kept returning to that conversation. Even though they had had several more days’ travel ahead of them, Tahmu had not initiated such a personal conversation again.

He thought of the girl he had glimpsed at the feast.

“I think I know why you cannot make Mother happy, Father,” he said softly. With a sigh, he rolled over in the soft sheets, closed his eyes, and slept.

The next morning, the men of the household were to go hunting. Jashemi’s servants woke him well before dawn, presenting him with a hot cup of eusho, hard-boiled eggs, and fruit to break his fast. He sipped the beverage slowly, nibbled on the sweet paraah, and then headed down to visit the caverns. His servants offered to come with him, to wash his hair and scrub his back, but he ordered them to stay behind. He wanted to be alone with his thoughts.

He descended the stone steps quickly, his mind elsewhere, and before he knew it he was standing in the cavern, gazing at the underground pools.

A girl shot to the surface, expelling air with a gasp. Jashemi felt heat rise to his cheeks and he turned away.

“Oh!” cried the girl. “Oh, my lord, forgive me, I shall depart at once.” He heard her emerge from the pool, heard the splattering, slapping sounds of wet feet padding quickly over to the clothes basket.

“There is no need,” he told her, not turning around. “I will come back later.”

“No, my lord, no, you are the khashimu. I beg forgiveness; usually no one comes down here at this time….”

That’s right, Jashemi thought. There are set times for servants and family. The wet feet approached him and then went silent. Curious, he turned around to see the girl huddled at his feet. Her long hair was wet and tangled. Water dripped from it to pool on the stone. Odd, it seemed to him almost red in the torchlight. His heart leaped. It was the girl from the banquet….

“Look at me,” he said, his voice adopting the tone of command.

She did so, lifting her eyes to his. But apparently, she did not see in his face what he saw in hers. He smiled at her.

“What is your name?”

“Kevla, my lord.”

“There is nothing to forgive, Kevla. Servants have as much a right to enjoy the bounty of the House of Four Waters as I do. I’ve been so long away I’ve forgotten who bathes when.”

She gave him a tentative smile. “You are kind to say these words. May I have my lord’s permission to leave?”

“Yes, Kevla. You may go.”

Jashemi turned to watch her as she scurried up the steps, her white rhia turning dark where it clung to her still-wet body, her little feet leaving clear footprints on the stone. He wanted to call her back, to talk to her, but he did not know what to say.

He bathed in silence, his thoughts even heavier now than they had been when he descended.

The morning air was cool on Jashemi’s face as they rode their sa’abahs away from the House and toward the mountains. His heart lifted a little as he saw MountBari far in the distance. Naram lived well south of the House of Four Waters, too far away for Jashemi to see the sacred mountain, and he had missed it. He said a quick prayer to the Dragon who lived in its heart, and asked that it would be in a forgiving mood when he spoke to his father.

There were eight of them riding out to hunt today: Jashemi and Tahmu, Tahmu’s Second, Halid, and five servants. Two would ride with them and assist in the hunt, dressing the animals that their lord and his son were certain to bring down, while the other three would set up a camp and have shade, cool drinks, and meals ready for the hunters during the heat of the day.

With the exception of Sahlik—who was the exception to so many things—Jashemi had never really paid much attention to his servants. He had never been unkind to them—his father would not permit abuse of servants and besides, it was not in Jashemi’s nature to be cruel—but he had never truly thought of them as people, as he and his parents and Halid were people. Now he watched them from under long lashes, trying to remember their names, if they had families.

“You are quiet today, my son,” Tahmu said, bringing his mount alongside Jashemi’s.

“I…do not have much to say, Father,” Jashemi replied. His face burned at the lie. He had quite a bit to say, but he wanted to talk privately. “Perhaps we can speak later…just the two of us?”

Tahmu’s dark, wise eyes roamed his son’s face. He sighed, looking somehow older than he had a moment ago.

“Of course. When the scouts leave to flush the quarry.”

Jashemi looked at Halid, who was riding not far away. Tahmu’s Second was a fixture in Jashemi’s life. He sat straight in the saddle, a mountain of a man, with a thick black beard and long, wavy hair that was presently covered by a white kerchief. If anything happened to Tahmu before Jashemi came of age to inherit, Halid would assume leadership of the Clan. Halid was as familiar a presence in Jashemi’s life as his father, but this was not even for his ears. Jashemi would speak to Tahmu about something much more personal than leadership of the Clan.

Some time later, one of the scouts hurried back. “I have spotted a herd at the base of the mountains.”

“Excellent, Dumah. Send them round.” Tahmu licked a finger and lifted it in the air, testing the wind’s direction. “We will fan out in case they bolt. Halid, circle around to the right. Jashemi, you and I will head south. Hua, hua!”

He kicked the sa’abah and the great beast lurched into action, lowering its head and flattening its ears. Its tail curled over its back, providing shade for both mount and rider. Jashemi followed his father’s lead, kicking his own sa’abah and crouching on its long neck. Tahmu rode well out of hearing range of the others, and then brought his mount to a walk.

“Speak,” said Tahmu. “We have several minutes before the liah are flushed.”

Jashemi opened his mouth. He had been rehearsing this since last night. He would be reasonable, eloquent, calm. He would behave like an adult.

What tumbled from his lips was, “Kevla is your daughter! How could you betray Mother like this?” He clamped his mouth shut, cursing himself.

Strangely, Tahmu did not grow angry. The khashim sighed. “I am sorry you saw her. She ought to have been veiled.”

“That doesn’t matter! Why did you—?”

Tahmu’s head jerked around and he glared at his son. “Did you not notice that Kevla is older than you? I have never betrayed your mother, Jashemi, never!”

“But…she is so little….”

“She is small and thin because she has been raised in poverty as the daughter of a halaan,” said Tahmu, bitterness creeping into the words. “I did not even know of her existence until recently. It was Sahlik who spotted her, dancing on a street corner and crying her mother’s—”

He broke off and looked away, his throat working. “Let me tell you a story. It is the story of a man who was in love with a woman. He wanted nothing more than to spend the rest of his life with her. But he was a khashim, the leader of a great and powerful clan, and she was low-caste. His clan was quarrelsome, and on the verge of tearing itself apart. He needed to marry a high-caste woman, to pacify a powerful section of the clan that was threatening to break away. There was a choice between duty and love, and the man chose duty.”

Jashemi listened intently, barely breathing.

“The man’s heart was broken. He married the woman he was supposed to, and promised himself that she would want for nothing. And she does not. The woman he could not marry disappeared, until one day, the man’s servant spotted a girl-child dancing in the marketplace, a girl-child who looked so much like the khashim that the servant could hardly believe it.

“The khashim realized that his love for the low-caste woman had brought forth a child, an innocent who had done no wrong who should not suffer for what her parents had done. So the khashim convinced the girl’s mother that her daughter would be safe and well cared for all of her days, as a servant in the great House.

“And so it is that Kevla is safe. She has food, a place to sleep, and pleasant, easy duties. I can offer her a good life, and I choose to do so.”

Jashemi was silent, staring at the mountain. He wondered if the Great Dragon could hear this “story.” At last, he said slowly, considering every word, “It would have been wrong of you to have left Kevla to her fate, knowing what you did. But she is your daughter. My sister. Does she—does anyone know this?”

“Sahlik knows. And now, so do you.”

“Kevla should know,” Jashemi said.

“No. It would be too dangerous. She would be used by those who would try to hurt me through her. The fewer who know, the better.”

Jashemi looked up at his father and took a deep breath. “Then you are compounding your sin by lying, Father. She has a right to be acknowledged.”

“To what end, my son? To hurt your mother, whose only real crime is that she is not the woman I loved? To mark Kevla as a target for schemers and plotters? To plant false hope in her little heart? She is and always will be Bai-sha. Even if I acknowledged her, she will have no legal rights. She has a better life now than any she could have expected.”

This was wisdom, and Jashemi knew it. And yet….

“You will understand when you are older, my son. For now, I will ask you to swear that you will reveal what you have discovered to no one.”

“Of course. But others will notice. The resemblance is strong, Father. Especially when you or I are close to her.” He took a sip from his waterskin.

“Then we must take care not to be seen close to her,” Tahmu replied. “People do not notice servants, Jashemi. Yeshi has not, and she has picked Kevla as her new favorite girl.”

Jashemi choked on the liquid. “You placed Kevla with Mother? You rub her nose in this?”

Again, Tahmu sighed. “I cannot love your mother, Jashemi. The Great Dragon knows that I have tried. What I can do is honor her and—”

“Honor her? By giving her your Bai-sha child?”

“Jashemi!” Tahmu’s voice was sharp and hard, and the boy started. “I have been patient with you, but do not presume to judge me. Yeshi is kind to her women, and also, they are not as often seen wandering in the household. It is best for Kevla to be with Yeshi. And she is good at what she does—Yeshi is happy. How then is this wrong?”

Tears stung Jashemi’s eyes and he blinked hard, not wishing to cry in front of his father. He felt a dreadful helplessness wash over him. He loved his mother, and he had assumed Tahmu loved her, too. To learn in the space of one day that he had a Bai-sha half sister and that his father had never loved his mother was almost overwhelming. He wanted to hate Tahmu, but he understood his father’s reasoning. He wanted to hate Kevla, but she was unstained by this. She seemed bright and spirited, the sort of girl he would have been delighted to call “sister.”

Of course, he could not call her anything.

Or could he?

His father had asked him not to reveal his secret. Jashemi would keep that promise. But Tahmu had not forbidden his son to seek out Kevla.

Had circumstances been different, they might have been true brother and sister. Kevla would have been raised with respect and honor. In the past, Tahmu had even spoken in favor of women learning to read, so Jashemi assumed that if Kevla had been legitimate, she would have been educated.

They could have been playmates.

They could still be playmates.

Hope stirred inside him, replacing that awful sense of anguish and helplessness. He could not force his father to love his mother. He could not undo what Tahmu had done years ago. But Jashemi could see to it that Kevla knew more than comfort as Yeshi’s handmaiden.

“Jashemi?” Tahmu regarded his son intently. Jashemi averted his eyes, fearful that his father would be able to read his plan somehow. “What are you—?”

“Father!” Jashemi cried, pointing at a roiling cloud of dust. “They are coming!”

Father and son sprang into action. Jashemi kicked his mount, clinging to the creature as if molded to its furry, pale body. The sa’abah began to run, its hind legs devouring the sand in great long strides, its body stretching out to cut down resistance from the wind. It was trained as a hunting beast, and knew what to do.

Jashemi reached for the bow fastened to the saddle. In one gesture, he raised the bow and fitted an arrow to the string, holding it taut, straining with the pressure, until he had a clear shot. Then he opened his fingers and the bolt flew.

A cry of pain went up, and Jashemi, as always, shrank from the sound momentarily. Liahs sounded like a woman screaming when they were in pain, and although Jashemi had brought down his share of the creatures, he never got used to that cry.

His father, too, had taken aim and shot. A second scream went up. Jashemi shot again, but the arrow missed its target, landing in the sand. Halid was bringing up the rear, also shooting.

Jashemi lost track of how often he aimed and let an arrow fly. His sa’abah easily kept pace with the herd, maneuvering closely enough so that Jashemi could see the golden coats with the pale horizontal stripes, the rolling eyes, the long, black horns. He smelled dust and the musky stench of fear.

Finally, Tahmu cried, “Hold, hold!”

Six liahs, four males and two females, lay dead on the sand. Two more struggled to rise, blood streaming from their flanks. Tahmu quickly turned his mount around. He held out his bow to Halid, who rode alongside him, and exchanged the bow for a long spear. Tahmu kicked the sa’abah and it lunged forward.

As he came up alongside the dying creatures, Tahmu lifted the spear and plunged it deeply into the flailing liahs. It was a mercy killing, and Jashemi knew it. He hated to see the lovely things suffer and was glad his father always made sure they were slain as quickly and as painlessly as possible. Naram liked to leave the wounded ones to die on their own, killing them only when it was time for the hunting party to depart. Such cruelty ruined the meat, but Naram thought it fit to give to the servants. Jashemi had watched the wounded liahs linger for hours, bloody froth at their mouths, their eyes rolling….

My father is not like Naram, Jashemi thought fiercely. No matter what he has done, what mistakes he has made, Tahmu-kha-Rakyn is a good man and a wise leader.

Even so, Jashemi would not tell Tahmu what he planned when they returned to the House of Four Waters.

Chapter Eight

W hen Sahlik summoned her one afternoon while Yeshi napped, shortly after the khashimu had returned, Kevla was curious but not concerned. She stood in the kitchens, waiting for Sahlik to acknowledge her.

Sahlik turned and took her in from head to toe. “I have a new task for you. Since Jashemi has returned, Yeshi has taken much more of an interest in the functioning of the House. She will have less need of her women.”

Kevla gnawed her lower lip. If Yeshi had less need of her women, would not Ranna and Tiah quickly step in to command what time their mistress deigned to give them? And if Kevla was set another task, would not Yeshi forget about her?

But Sahlik had continued speaking and Kevla quickly returned her attention to the older woman.

“…healer,” Sahlik was saying. “You will study with him several times a week. Such skills will be useful.”

A lump welled up in Kevla’s throat. She was going to be sent away. They had decided she was not worthy to serve Yeshi, and had come up with a way to get her out of the great House.

“As Sahlik wishes,” she said thickly, bowing. She felt a gentle hand on her shoulder and looked up.

“You’re not being punished, Kevla,” Sahlik said. “I promise. I’ll keep an eye on Ranna and Tiah for you.” And she winked.

Relieved, Kevla grinned, and ran to the healer’s small house. When she reached the brightly painted red door of Maluuk’s hut, she yanked it open and said breathlessly, “Maluuk, I’m here to—”

The words died in her throat as the occupants of the hut looked up at her. Asha and Maluuk she expected, but not the third person. Seated on a small stool was Jashemi-kha-Tahmu.

She dropped to her knees. “Forgive me, I did not know—”

“Kevla, rise.” Jashemi’s voice was patient. Kevla scrambled to her feet, looking at the healer with a mute inquiry.

“Jashemi is also to be taught knowledge of healing,” Maluuk said mildly. “For this time together, you are equal as my students. There is no master here.” He stood up straighter and his eyes twinkled. “Except for me.”

Kevla wondered if this was a trick of some sort and her gaze darted to that of the young master for confirmation. His kind smile widened into a grin at her expression.

“It is true what Maluuk says. During this time, you and I are equals.” He rose, took her hand, and squeezed it reassuringly. Kevla’s hand remained limp with shock in Jashemi’s strong but gentle grip as he led her to a stool.

“Now,” said Maluuk, clearing his throat, “we will begin with the treatment of minor injuries.”

As the classes went on, Kevla learned to enjoy them. Maluuk was a good teacher and encouraged both students to ask questions. Her quick mind followed everything that Maluuk taught them, and Jashemi proved to be an intelligent young man. She accepted the situation, but what did strike her as odd was the fact that Maluuk would leave them to themselves for the second half of each “lesson,” which lasted three hours in the afternoons. They were told to talk about what they had learned that day, and at first, in formal tones, that was all they discussed.

Then one afternoon, Jashemi said, “Can you play Shamizan?”

“What is Shamizan?” Jashemi’s eyes lit up. For the first time since she had known him, Kevla thought that he looked like a boy her own age, not a small adult.

“Oh, it’s so much fun! Let me go get my set—” He rose and ran out of the hut, returning only a few moments later, flushed and out of breath. Kevla suspected he had run the entire way. Hardly proper behavior for a future khashim, but it was good to see Jashemi so happy.

“It’s easy to learn.” He placed a carved wooden board with black and white interlocking circles painted on it on one of the small tables. The overlapping sections of the circles were gray. He motioned that Kevla should draw up a stool. She hesitated. It was one thing to sit beside the young master during class, or even when they were discussing the lesson. But he had dropped the formality and was treating her as if they were of the same caste. Uneasy, she obeyed.

From a small pouch tucked under his arm, Jashemi withdrew a handful of clear, shiny stones, cupping them in his brown palm.

Forgetting herself, Kevla exclaimed, “They are beautiful!” and added quickly, “my lord. What kind of stone are they?”

“They are only glass,” Jashemi said. “There are five families of colors: reds, blues, greens, yellows, and purples. So up to five people can play. Within each family, there are three shades. You place them like so, on the areas of black, white and gray.”

They might be only glass, but Kevla thought the “stones” exquisite. They caught and held the light, and the colors were so intense. She was drawn to the reds and picked one up. It was the color of flame, and for a brief moment she thought it might feel hot in her hand. But it was cool and smooth. She rubbed it on her cheek, blushing when she caught Jashemi looking at her.

The rules were easy: dark hues were placed on the black areas of the board, light hues on the white, and medium tones on the gray. There was a roll of marked ivory sticks to determine play, and the object was to eliminate the opponent’s pieces.

Easy to learn, hard to stop, Kevla thought. At one point, she looked up from the board and saw Jashemi regarding her with an intent gaze. His face dissolved into delight as she ducked her head and smiled.

“You like the game, then?”

“Oh, yes, very much.”

“I am so glad. I hoped you would.”

Shamizan quickly became a regular feature of their “study sessions.” So, too, did another unexpected development. Jashemi began to teach Kevla how to write and read. He was a patient teacher, and Kevla a quick student, so the task was a pleasant one for both. Still, Kevla felt awkward when he would touch her hand as she held a pen, correcting the placement of her fingers, or casually put a hand on her shoulder as he leaned in to observe her work. He seemed to find it very easy to forget that he was khashimu and she was Bai-sha.

Despite her unease, Kevla looked forward to these sessions, and missed them on the days when they did not occur. Sahlik had told her to stay quiet about the healer’s teaching. It was not truly a secret, Sahlik said, but Kevla would be wise not to draw attention to herself. Kevla agreed. She had no desire for Tiah and Ranna to have something else to resent. And of course, not even Sahlik knew about the furtive sessions of reading and writing instruction and the endless rounds of Shamizan.

One day, after she had sent Tiah and Ranna away for her nap, Yeshi called for Kevla. “You sent for me, great lady?”

Yeshi looked wonderful. She had been much happier since Jashemi had come home, and Kevla had observed that mother and son spent much time together and enjoyed one another’s company. Yeshi, as Sahlik had said, had become more involved in the running of the household, and seemed to have less need of her usual self-indulgent pleasures.

Yeshi smiled as she reclined on the bed—a true, genuine smile that made her look radiant. “Yes, Kevla. Sahlik tells me that you have been studying under Maluuk. Is this so?”

For a moment, Kevla panicked. But Yeshi didn’t look upset, and she knew it would be unwise to lie.

“Yes, great lady.”

“That is good news to me.” She patted the bed beside her, and Kevla, growing more and more confused, obediently climbed up to sit beside her mistress.

Gently, Yeshi took Kevla’s hand and placed it on her belly, below her navel. “I am pleased, because I would like you to assist Maluuk in delivering my baby.”

Kevla’s jaw dropped. “Your baby?”

Yeshi grinned and nodded her head excitedly. “You are my good luck charm, little Kevla. My personal blessing from the Great Dragon. After ten years I have been able to conceive!”

Kevla’s eyes filled with tears. Gently, she spread her fingers on Yeshi’s belly and said, “Blessings on this baby. And blessings on the House of Four Waters!”

It was two days after the festival of Kur, and Kevla and Jashemi were engaged in a particularly delightful game of Shamizan. As they were younger than most of the household, they had not celebrated Kur with as much vigor as the adults had.

Kevla was familiar with the wild nature of the celebratory festival. It was the one time a year when the people believed the Great Dragon turned a blind eye to indulgent pleasures. Keishla had always had more business than she could handle during the three-day celebration. The people of Arukan drank to excess, ate to excess, and did many other things to excess during Kur. There was a great feast and much flowing wine at the House of Four Waters, but compared to what Kevla was used to encountering with Keishla and her customers, it seemed rather staid to her. The next few days were astoundingly quiet, as most of the household seemed averse to noise, light or rich foods.

“Ha!” cried Jashemi triumphantly as he picked up no fewer than eight of Kevla’s red pieces. “You only have six markers left, and I have over a dozen!”

They both started when they heard the unmistakable sound of the shakaal. Their gazes locked.

“What—” Kevla began.

The transformation in Jashemi was startling to her. In a heartbeat, he had gone from a playful, mischievous youth gloating over a board game victory to the stone-faced khashimu of the Clan of Four Waters.

“I’ll find out. Stay here. Say nothing of our being together.”

His robes rustling softly, he rose and hastened out the door. When Jashemi did not return immediately, Kevla occupied herself by finishing the ointment Maluuk had requested she make. Her ears strained for any sound.

The door banged open. Maluuk and his apprentice rushed in. Clinging to them, an arm slung around each of their shoulders, was a rider close to collapse. His face was pale with sand, and there were dark red patches on his white rhia.

“Kevla, water,” snapped Maluuk. He made straight for the long table. With a swift motion he sent the board and the pieces clattering to the floor and lay the stranger down on the table’s cool surface.

Kevla poured a cup of water and brought it to the healer. Maluuk lifted the man’s head up and dribbled some of the precious liquid onto lips so dry they cracked and bled. A swollen tongue crept out and caught a few drops, then the man began to drink eagerly.

“Gently,” said Maluuk, “a sip at a time. Kevla, keep giving him water, slowly. Asha, help me.”

Kevla cradled the man’s head in her arms and did as she was told, watching anxiously as Maluuk and Asha cut away the rider’s torn, bloody rhia. Her eyes widened as she saw the injuries that had been inflicted upon the stranger: cuts as long as her arm, and one festering wound in the shoulder where a small length of broken arrow shaft still protruded.

“Tahmu,” gasped the man. His voice sounded as dry as the desert sands he had crossed. “Messages…we were attacked….”

“Kevla, go find Tahmu.” She nodded, placed the rider’s head down gently on the stone table, and sped out the door.

She raced down the little hill, searching frantically for her lord. If the shakaal had been blown, then it was likely that the household was already alerted. Jashemi, too, would have learned what had transpired. Even as she stumbled and nearly twisted her ankle, she saw two white shapes running out of the house toward her: Jashemi and his father.

She ran toward them, her legs pumping. “Rider!” she screamed as they caught sight of her. “He’s hurt! He says he was attacked! He’s at the healing hut, come quickly!”

In midstride she turned and raced back the way she had come. The men overtook her and by the time she had returned to the small hut, Tahmu was at the rider’s side. He clutched the stranger’s hand and bent his head close to the man’s mouth, straining to catch the faint words. Jashemi stood on the other side, his gaze darting from the injured man to his father.

Kevla was gasping for breath, her heart hammering so loudly that it was hard for her to hear anything over it.

“In the middle…night,” the rider said, “after the…celebration of Kur…no one attacks during Kur…” He coughed, and Kevla saw to her horror that there was bloody foam on his lips. “There were many dead when Father…me to you…message in my pack….”

He hissed as Maluuk bathed his injuries. Kevla could not take her eyes off the sight. She was no expert, but she could tell he was grievously wounded.

“Keep speaking,” Tahmu said.

“Father, he is badly hurt. Surely he needs rest and—”

Even though Tahmu’s look was not directed at her, Kevla shrank from it. Jashemi fell silent at once.

Maluuk and Asha were now slathering on a thick, pungent ointment. Tahmu gripped the man’s hand harder, pressed it to his chest.

“Keep speaking, Sammis,” he urged. “Everything you can tell us is precious.”

Sammis opened his mouth, but the words never came. His eyes suddenly became fixed and staring, and his body went limp. Tahmu sighed. He held the dead hand for a moment longer, then reached and gently shut the wide eyes.

“Sammis was a dead man before he arrived,” Tahmu said to Jashemi. “That is why I did not let him rest. No healer could have saved him, and I had hoped he would live long enough to tell me what had happened.”

“You knew him?” Kevla blurted. Everyone turned to stare and her and she blushed.

“Yes,” Tahmu said. “He was my nephew. Jashemi’s cousin.”

Kevla turned compassionate eyes on the boy. His face was impassive, though his eyes were shiny and his lower lip quivered slightly. Their gazes locked, and an unspoken message passed between them.

“Maluuk, prepare him for the pyre. Jashemi, find his mount and fetch the messages he said he carried.”

“Yes, Father.” Jashemi headed for the door. Impulsively, Kevla followed. They stood outside the door, hands raised to shield their eyes from the sun as they tried to see where Sammis’s mount had gone. Kevla realized she didn’t know if they should be looking for a horse or a sa’abah.

“You should not be seen with me,” hissed Jashemi, barely moving his lips.

The rebuke stung. She had thought…she had been foolish to think it.

“Two sets of eyes are better than one,” she replied stubbornly. “I am a servant assisting the khashimu.”

“Curse you, Kevla, it’s more than that,” Jashemi said, but did not elaborate. “There. It sought out the company of other sa’abahs.”

The exhausted beast, a female, had indeed tried to join the herd of the House of Four Waters. They found her pacing mournfully back and forth outside the stone corral, bleating plaintively as she scented water and others of her own kind on the other side. Tahmu’s sa’abahs had come up to her and were nuzzling her, their muzzles barely clearly the wall.

She started when Jashemi and Kevla hurried up to her, but Jashemi dove for the trailing reins. He spoke softly to the creature, patting her neck and sending a small cloud of dust into the air.

“Down, down,” he urged the sa’abah, tugging on the reins. Obediently, she crouched so that Jashemi could reach the saddle and the small bundle tied securely to it. So tightly was the leather pouch bound to the saddle that Jashemi had to use the small knife he always wore to cut it free. He removed the saddle, opened the gate, and let the exhausted sa’abah inside. She headed straight for the trough, lowered her head, and began to drink. The others crowded around her, reaching to touch her with their small, stubby arms, as if they understood that she had been through a terrible ordeal.

Although she had lived at the House for some time now, Kevla still found the sa’abahs fascinating, and watched them as Jashemi fumbled through the sack. She heard a rustling, then silence, then a deep sigh.

She turned around just in time to catch him wiping his eyes with his sleeve. Her heart ached in sympathy. Without thinking she touched his arm gently.

Jashemi jerked away, and immediately Kevla dropped to her knees. Again, she had assumed too much.

“Forgive me, young lord! I transgressed, I did not mean—”

A gentle hand on her shoulder urged her to rise. “It’s all right,” he assured her. “I just….”

“What does the letter say?”

His face crumpled and he looked down. “My uncle and all of my male cousins are dead. Slaughtered while they slept off the wine they had drunk in celebration of Kur.”

Kevla listened, remaining silent.

Jashemi cleared his throat and continued in a more normal tone of voice. “The women were…were assaulted and then taken. Probably they are five-scores now. My cousin Sammis was sent by my uncle to summon help.” He looked at her now, and she did not like the expression on his face. “The first thing the raiders did was burn the aerie, so that no warning hawks could be sent out to gather reinforcements. The Sa’abah Clan has probably taken what they want and are long gone.”

“The Sa’abah Clan?” Kevla repeated, incredulous. She looked over at the milling creatures. They seemed gentle, intelligent. They had welcomed a stranger.

“It is ironic that the people who breed the most peaceful of animals are the ones most thirsty for blood,” said Jashemi, bitterly. He looked down at the parchment in his hand. Kevla followed his gaze and saw that he had crumpled the missive.

Jashemi composed himself. “We will attack in retaliation. Father will want to see this. Return to the House, Kevla. My mother will be distraught to hear of the death of her brother.”

Without another word he turned and trudged slowly back toward the healer’s hut. Kevla wanted to follow. She had no desire to be in Yeshi’s company when the khashima received such dreadful news.

For the third time in the span of a few months, the House of Four Waters was thrown into a flurry of activity. This time, though, the preparations were not for a welcome-home feast, or the wild celebration of a favorite holiday, but for battle.

Kevla continued her lessons in healing. Maluuk explained that he would be going with the warriors, as his skills would be needed to treat the injured.

“And there will be,” he said, seeming suddenly very old. “There are always injured. Too many, even in a victory.”

Asha would stay behind, to assume his master’s position. Kevla would become his apprentice, assisting him in treating the household and preparing bandages, salves, ointments, and tinctures. Although it was uncommon for a woman to be placed in such an important position as apprentice healer, the usual niceties could not be observed. Asha seemed happy enough to take on the role of a full healer, and apparently didn’t object to Kevla’s gender.

She had always looked upon these sessions as play, an escape from the world of the household, a time to be with Jashemi. But Jashemi no longer attended the lessons, as he would be expected to accompany his father into battle. Her time with Maluuk had a new sense of urgency to it, and there was no more play involved.

Still, it was better than being with Yeshi. Kevla had not been present when Tahmu had told his wife that her brother was murdered and her nieces and nephews dead or captured. But she had heard the scream of anguish as she waited outside the door, and exchanged helpless glances with Tiah and Ranna. For the first time, she had felt a kinship with the other women as they listened to their mistress shriek and sob.

For nearly a day, Yeshi would not speak to them. She permitted them to bring her food, but nothing more, and she never looked at them when they entered quietly. When at last she did rouse herself to let them bathe and dress her, there was a new harshness to her mien. The three women moved quietly around their mistress, frightened for themselves, frightened for their household.

The war party was assembled with astonishing rapidity. The warriors would need to travel well and quickly, as the Sa’abah Clan was nomadic. Every bit of preserved food was brought forth and packed, and dozens of animals were slaughtered to replenish the stores. Weapons were brought out of storage, sharpened, cleaned, repaired, and set aside. Craftsmen worked from sunrise to sunrise making more arrows, more swords, more knives. Falcons flew back and forth from the House, as Tahmu called in his allies and they responded.

They trickled in, clan by clan, and Kevla gaped in amazement at the numbers. Within a few days, over five hundred men from the Sheep Clan, the River Clan, the Horserider Clan, the Star Clan, and the Cattle Clan had arrived to assist the Clan of Four Waters. None of the household’s women had a chance to visit the caverns, as they were constantly teeming with warriors set on enjoying the House of Four Waters’ famous bathing pool before they left for battle.

Kevla would have been glad to see them go had not she feared for Jashemi and Tahmu. What would happen if either one of them was killed? If both were killed? The thought was so dreadful that Kevla always drove it from her mind. But at night, she had dreams, and though she never remembered them, she would awaken with tears on her face.

The night before the warriors were to depart was not marked by revelry. It was too grim an occasion. Yeshi had dismissed her women and Kevla, wanting to do something to help, assisted in distributing freshly-filled waterskins to the men camped out on the grounds.

They were all of a kind: angry-looking or solemn-faced men, clad not in finery but in weather-worn rhias, who barely acknowledged her presence, though they took the waterskins she offered readily enough. They were crowded together, and Kevla heard conversations consisting of low mutterings and angry cries, the jingling of tack, the crackle of small fires. There was a smell of leather, fur, and sweat that after an hour or so made her stomach roil.

She had turned and was headed back to the House for more waterskins when a hand clamped down on her arm. She started to cry out, but turned and saw that it was Jashemi. He held a finger to his lips and she nodded. He tugged on her arm, leading her away from the bustle of the House.

Kevla trotted after him, confused and a little alarmed. Why would the khashimu want to see her alone, at night? Finally, Jashemi stopped.

“We are far enough away, we won’t be overheard. And the moon is new.”

Kevla kept her gaze on the ground. “What does my lord wish?” she asked.

“To apologize.”

She was so startled that her head whipped up and she stared at him. “My lord, a khashimu never apologizes to a servant!”

“But Jashemi can and will apologize to Kevla,” Jashemi countered. She had no response, merely looked at him in confusion. What was going on?

She heard him swallow. “You felt sorry for me the day that Sammis came. You wanted to help. I was rude to you. I wish I could explain why. Maybe someday.”

Kevla lowered her eyes again. “I do not understand.”

“I saw the hurt on your face,” he said gently, stepping closer to her. She felt the soft puff of his breath on her cheek. “When I said you shouldn’t be with me.”

“My lord, you were right to say that. I overstepped.”

He made an annoyed sound. “Kevla, please let me apologize!”

“Of course. As the khashimu wishes.”

There was a pause. Then he said, “I am leaving tomorrow. Will—will you miss me?”

Her heart almost stopped. “Of course. I shall say prayers for the safety of my lord and my lord’s son.”

“Kevla, I—” She would not—could not—look at him. She knew what he wanted to hear, and she couldn’t speak it. Not when she was Bai-sha and he was khashimu.

“Never mind. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have brought you here. I don’t know what I was—” He turned and strode off.

Kevla’s knees buckled and she fell hard to the earth. A quick sob escaped her and she clapped her hand over her mouth. He was already several paces away, but somehow he heard the soft sound. Kevla huddled on the sand, her head on her hands, willing him to go away. Before she realized what he had done, he was on his hands and knees in front of her.

“Kevla, talk to me,” he implored.

She mustn’t say it. She mustn’t say anything. But the words seemed to have a life of their own.

“I’m afraid,” she whispered. “I’m so afraid something will happen to you.”

“Look at me,” he said. She did, and found his face seemed blurry to her. She wiped angrily at the telltale tears. “I know you’re afraid,” he said softly. “I am, too. So is Father, and so are all the men. We all know we could be riding to our deaths.”

He swore suddenly, a harsh curse that startled Kevla. “I hate these stupid raids! Why must people die like this? My uncle was not the most admirable of men, but he did not deserve to have his throat cut while he slept!”

“Perhaps the Sa’abah Clan—” began Kevla.

“It’s not just them,” he snarled. “It’s all of them. We could just as easily be riding against the Star Clan or the Horserider Clan tonight as riding with them. They’re our allies now, but we’ve fought them in the past. And we have allied with the Sa’abah Clan, and look what they’ve done.” He continued to fume in silence, his lips pressed together in a thin line of anger.

“Come back,” said Kevla, softly, shocked by her boldness.

His eyes searched hers, then he startled her by reaching out and taking her hands in his. Their palms pressed together, hot and moist in the darkness. Tears continued to slip down her cheeks. He leaned forward, releasing one hand to wipe the tears from her face with an odd mixture of grace and clumsiness. Starlight caught the glitter of tears in his own eyes.

“I will come back,” he said firmly.

“But only the Great Dragon knows our destinies,” she replied, her voice catching on the words.

Jashemi placed one hand on either side of her face, forcing her to look into his eyes.

“We are not done with each other yet,” he said fiercely. “I don’t know my destiny, but I know this much. I can feel it. Can’t you?”

As she gazed into his eyes, she felt a sudden lightening. Her tense muscles eased, relaxing so that she almost slumped. He was right. Somehow, in a way that surpassed her understanding, she knew that he was right. What she felt swirling inside her now was not something as frail as hope. It was swift, certain knowledge.

Some would die in this retaliatory raid. Perhaps people she knew. Perhaps even Tahmu.

But not Jashemi.

We are not done with each other yet.

Chapter Nine

T he warriors departed the next morning. Kevla had lined up with the other servants to watch the warriors march through the courtyard and down the road that led past the twining Four Waters and beyond.

As the ones who had issued the rallying cry, the members of the Clan of Four Waters were the last ones to depart. Kevla stood properly clad in the veil in front of so many male strangers at such a formal function. Most rode horses, a very few rode sa’abahs—Ranna nudged Tiah and muttered, “They’ll likely come home with more of those”—and many walked. They almost danced as they passed, and the crowd cheered and whistled.

“It’s as if they are going off to a game,” Kevla said softly.

“No game,” Sahlik sighed, “but you would not know it. Here come our people.”

Tahmu, proudly astride Swift-Over-Sand, led the procession. Beside him on a sa’abah rode Jashemi. Neither whooped or danced, although some of the other clansmen did. Tahmu smiled reassuringly at the assembled crowd of wives, children, and servants, and Jashemi emulated his father. He did not meet Kevla’s gaze.

Yeshi stood at the gate. Kevla had helped her with her cosmetics that morning, but it was obvious the khashima had been crying in the intervening time. The kohl that had encircled her dark eyes had run down her face and been wiped away, smearing both the rivulet of black and the red rouge of the great lady’s cheeks so that Yeshi almost appeared to have been assaulted. Her full, red lips trembled and her eyes were bright with tears. She wore no veil; as the highest ranking female present, the only one who outranked her was her husband.

Tahmu dismounted and embraced his wife. She hugged him, but it was for her son that Yeshi reserved her fiercest affections. She dropped to her knees and clung to him, the tears again flooding her face with black streams of grief. Jashemi wiped the tears away, as he had done with Kevla last night, and his expression as he regarded his mother was one of deep compassion. Kevla was too far away to hear what Yeshi said, but as the minutes passed and Yeshi did not rise nor release her son, she could feel the tension in the crowd.

Sahlik moved quickly toward her mistress, stepping behind Yeshi and placing her hands on her shoulders. Jashemi gently disengaged himself. Tahmu whispered something to his wife, who brightened and put a beringed hand on her gently swelling belly. She straightened and stepped away from husband and son.

They rode out, and as the gates closed behind them, Kevla felt a dreadful hollowness in her chest.

Yeshi stepped forward. “In the absence of the khashim, his Second, and the heir,” she said, her voice thick with grief but surprisingly strong, “all orders will come from me. The first order I will issue as present leader of the Clan of Four Waters is that every day we will petition the Great Dragon with offerings, so that he will be moved to bring our men safely home.”

A murmur of approval went up. Yeshi nodded, pleased. “We will begin today.”

The days dragged by. Yeshi did not seem to have a great deal of time for her women during the day, though at night she was more exhausted than Kevla had ever seen her. At that time, she wanted all three of them to massage her swollen feet, rub oil on her growing belly, and speak softly and kindly to her.

Each day, Kevla went to the aerie, to see if there were any messages from the war party. Sometimes there were, but the hawk master would hardly reveal their precious contents to so lowly a servant, although as Kevla’s appearance became a regular occurrence, he grew fond of her. Sometimes Yeshi would share the news, sometimes not.

Kevla’s lessons with Asha continued. He was particularly anxious for her to learn about childbirth, in case Yeshi’s baby came before Maluuk and the others returned. While happy to be trusted with such information, Kevla found the hours spent in the healer’s hut only served to emphasize Jashemi’s absence.

Days stretched into weeks, and then months. Celebration days came and went, and Yeshi presided over the revelry. Although the unctuous Bahrim flirted heavily with the khashima—and he was not alone among the uhlals casting glances at the beautiful great lady—Yeshi’s growing belly seemed to discourage further improper advances. With each moon she tired more easily, and spent more time sleeping. Asha and Kevla examined her every day, and at one point Asha announced with certainty, “The child could come very soon.”

Yeshi shook her head. “The child will not come until his father returns home.”

Asha bit his lip, hesitant to disagree, and finally said diplomatically, “Then let us pray that that day will be soon.”

Not long after that, Kevla was in Yeshi’s chambers, watching the morning processional heading out to the House’s altar. Though she had never visited it, she knew that it was some miles distant. Each clan had an altar at the foot of the nearest mountain. The entire chain was sacred to the Great Dragon, and never to be crossed, although of course MountBari was the mighty creature’s home. Some clan altars were only for show, but Tahmu-kha-Rakyn had always been particularly devout and eager to placate the Dragon. Household gossip held that this was why the House of Four Waters was so prosperous. His wife continued the tradition in her husband’s absence, and each morning the party left, laden with gold, food, sweet herbs, jugs of water, and wine, all to please the Dragon. As her eye followed them, watching the group growing smaller as they headed down the road, Kevla noticed movement in the sky. She squinted against the sunlight, already harsh though it was still early, and saw that it was a bird.

It was a hawk.

Her heart leaped, as it always did whenever one of the winged messengers arrived. She raced out the doors, down the spiral stone stairs, out of the House and across the courtyard to the aerie. By the time she had ascended the stairs, breathless and sweaty, the bird had arrived and the hawk master was unfastening the small message.

He read it quickly, and a grin spread over his face. He turned to Kevla, thrust the message at her and said, “Give this to your mistress! Hurry!”

Kevla took the message and hurried down the stairs. The small, tightly rolled piece of parchment seemed to burn in her hand. As she reentered the coolness of the House, she ducked into a corner and unrolled the message with shaking hands.

Yeshi: We are victorious. The clan has scattered with only a few of their precious sa’abahs. The rest, we have captured and will divide among the clans. We will also have many five-scores. Jashemi conducted himself with skill and honor. Halid, too, did the Clan and his khashim proud. Our allies worked well together and all are pleased with the results. We have lost men, but that was to be expected. If only it was not necessary to trade lives for pride and livestock. With sa’abahs enough so that all high-caste warriors may ride them, we will make good time returning home. I hope the baby and you are well.

Kevla’s knees suddenly went weak and she almost slid down the wall to the floor. Jashemi and Tahmu had survived. That was all she needed to know. Five-scores, sa’abahs, Clan honor—no doubt these things were important to others, but as far as she was concerned, they would have been bought at too dear a cost if it had meant having to ceremonially burn the corpses of the khashim and his heir.

She heard footsteps and the sound of voices. Quickly, Kevla rerolled the scrap of parchment and hastened along the corridor to the stairs. Yeshi was in her room, standing and bathing her face when Kevla burst the door open.

Yeshi turned to frown at the noisy interruption, but Kevla thrust the message at her. “The hawkmaster smiled when he read it,” she said. “So it must be good news.”

Yeshi snatched the parchment out of Kevla’s hands. Her eyes flickered back and forth much more rapidly than Kevla’s had when she had read the missive. Yeshi brought a hand to her lips, and although she began to weep she smiled broadly.

“Good news indeed,” she said to Kevla. “They are victorious and they are coming home. My son and my husband are safe.” She pressed the small letter to her chest. “Thank the Great Dragon. Kevla, run and fetch Sahlik. We must be about preparing for a celebration!”

Kevla wondered if Yeshi had read the part about we have lost men. Was it possible to celebrate and grieve at the same time? Would there be pyres blazing under the starlit skies the same night as celebratory torches flickered in the great hall?

As she hastened to the kitchens, she could not help but think about Jashemi. She had tried not to dwell overmuch on thoughts of the khashimu and the odd parting they had made. Now, with his arrival imminent, the memory of that night flooded back to her. He had wanted her to admit that she would miss him, would fear for him.

We are not done with each other yet. His prediction that he would return had come true, and her heart was glad of it. Yet now that he would soon be back, what would he want from her? They had crossed a line that night, when he knelt in front of a servant and wiped the tears from her face, and she feared what lay on the other side of it.

It was only three days later that Tahmu’s colors of red and gold were spotted against the blue sky. The deep, resonant sound of the shakaal issued, and the weary but exultant scout announced that the khashim was only a few hours behind him.

Yeshi was sitting at her window, watching the horizon intently, while Kevla dusted her mistress’s face with powder and Ranna and Tiah worked on her feet and hair respectively. “I want to be the first to see him,” Yeshi had said.

As Kevla applied the kohl, Yeshi started. A black line went straight from her eye to her ear.

“They are coming!” Yeshi cried, leaping up. She knocked over the basin of water at her feet, which splashed all over Ranna’s lap. Oblivious to the chaos she was creating for her handmaidens, she pointed out the window. “They are—”

Suddenly, Yeshi doubled over, her hands clutching her belly. Kevla caught her as she stumbled and would have fallen. There was a puddle of liquid at Yeshi’s feet. At first glance, Kevla thought it was the spilled water from the basin…but that had gone all over Ranna, not the floor….

“Help me,” Kevla snapped. “The baby is coming!”

“What…what should we do?” Ranna stammered.

“Fetch Asha. He’ll bring the birthing stool and herbs,” said Kevla, reciting the steps Asha had drummed into her head. “And hot water—we need hot water and towels.”

Yeshi’s fingers dug into Kevla’s shoulders and she moaned softly. Kevla looked up at her mistress and tried to smile reassuringly.

“The great lady said the baby would wait for his father,” she reminded Yeshi. “Well, the one is coming, and now so is the other.”

Ranna was dismissed after she became ill. Tiah seemed made of sterner stuff and stayed on. Sahlik arrived quickly, and was a deeply comforting presence. Asha, too, was calm and soothing, his long fingers gently probing the mother-to-be’s body.

“It has turned,” he said reassuringly. “This should be an easy birth.”

The look Yeshi gave him at this comment made him cringe. Yeshi was sweating, her hair was a tangled mess, and she seemed beyond words. All Kevla heard from her were shrieks, moans and growls.

She steeled herself to the sounds of Yeshi’s pain. Neither Sahlik nor Asha seemed disturbed by the noises, so Kevla assumed that this was simply part of a normal birth. Every few minutes, Kevla glanced anxiously out the window, to see how much closer the returning warriors had come.

After a few hours had passed, Kevla went to the window and saw a milling throng of people down in the courtyard. She could not see Tahmu, but he had to be there. Hastening back to Asha, she said, “The warriors are here!”

“Good,” he said. “Great lady, get on the stool.”

Whimpering, Yeshi straddled the wooden birthing stool, supported by the strong arms of Tiah and Sahlik. Kevla had prepared the tepid pool of water with scented herbs to catch the baby. She placed it between Yeshi’s parted legs, risking a glimpse at Asha. His fingers were just inside Yeshi’s body, and they were coated with dark fluids. Kevla gulped, and for a moment envied the absent Ranna.

Suddenly, Yeshi cried, “No! Tahmu must be here!”

“Great lady,” stammered Asha, “the baby will come as it chooses. To try to halt—”

“Tahmu!” screamed Yeshi. “Tahmu!”

“Dragon’s teeth,” muttered Asha. “Kevla, go find Tahmu.”

Kevla nodded and raced down the stairs, once slipping and almost falling in her haste. There was a huge commotion in the courtyard, and although she had grown considerably in her time at the House, she was still so short she could not see over the tall figures of the returning warriors.

“Tahmu!” she screamed, heedless of proper etiquette, pushing past large, rhia-clad torsos and the long legs of the sa’abahs. “Tahmu, where are you?”

“Great khashim,” cried one of the men, “your little servant wants you!” Several men turned to regard Kevla and joined in their friend’s laughter. She ignored them.

“I must find Tahmu! The baby is—”

“Here I am, Kevla,” said a calm, familiar voice. “Take me to her.”

Kevla turned to start fighting her way back through the crowd, but the warriors parted for their khashim as they had not done for her.

“Is she—all right?”

“Well enough,” Kevla responded, “but the baby is almost here, and she wants you—”

“She wants me to catch the baby, for luck,” Tahmu said. He pushed past her and raced up the stairs to Yeshi’s chamber.

Kevla followed, only a few steps behind. Tahmu entered, grasped and kissed his wife’s hand, and then took up a position beside Asha. The baby’s head was already showing.

“Tahmu, you are here!” gasped Yeshi.

“I am here, my wife, and ready to catch our child,” he said, his voice deep with emotion. He held the basin of herbs and flowers. Kevla stood by with clean cloths, ready to hand them to Tahmu once the baby had come. As Yeshi screamed and strained, more and more of the baby’s head appeared.

She frowned at it, her heart speeding up. No, please let this not be so….

“The baby’s face is red,” she said, her voice trembling.

“All babies are red when they are born,” snapped Asha. Sweat dappled his forehead. “Push again, Yeshi!”

With a cry that hurt Kevla’s ears, Yeshi panted and did as she was told. More of the baby slipped out into the waiting world.

The redness was still there. On the baby’s face, smeared with fluid but obviously there.

“Its face is red!” Kevla cried again, filled with horror.

“That is just the after birth,” Asha said. “Once more, Yeshi, push and bring forth the baby!”

Yeshi tensed, then growled low in her throat and bore down. The baby surged forward to splash into the bowl that Tahmu held. At that moment, Maluuk rushed in and took over from Asha, who seemed relieved to relinquish his position. The baby took a deep breath and squalled.

“A girl-child,” Maluuk said. “Whole and sound.”

“A daughter,” cried Yeshi as Tiah and Sahlik helped her to the bed and began to clean her. “I have a little girl…”

Kevla stared as if transfixed. The baby kicked and squirmed as Tahmu began to clean her. His smile started to fade as he washed her face, and the red marks that Asha had claimed were afterbirth did not come off on the towel.

“Maluuk—” he said, looking imploringly at the healer. Kevla’s arms folded about herself. She was suddenly very cold.

“The blood mark,” Maluuk whispered. Yeshi was still crying softly, but both Tiah and Sahlik had heard. Their eyes widened and they exchanged glances. Exhausted as she was, Yeshi caught the change of mood in the room. She propped herself up on her elbows.

“Tahmu? Give me our daughter!”

The baby was still shrieking. The blood mark covered fully half its face, an angry red blotch that spoke louder than any words of the displeasure of the Great Dragon.

“Tahmu…” Yeshi’s voice was pleading. She was begging for her husband to give her their child, for him to say that it was all right, that their baby was beautiful, perfect….

Tahmu did not answer. He snatched a cloth from Kevla’s stiff fingers and wrapped the baby in it, his eyes glued to the red blotch on his daughter’s face, and said in a cold voice, “Leave us.”

They hurried out, not wanting to see what had to happen next. Tahmu himself wished with every fiber of his being that he did not have to do this, but the traditions were clear. The baby was imperfect.

He rose unsteadily, clutching the crying, wriggling bundle to his heart. Tahmu met Yeshi’s eyes, and he saw her dawning comprehension.

“The blood mark,” he said heavily. He did not need to explain further. It was rare, but not unfamiliar to the people of Arukan, this bitter stain that sometimes singled out the unfortunate children of wretched parents.

He knew why this child was so marked. It was a sign that the Great Dragon was still angry with him. It had given him back a daughter he did not know he had, but it had cruelly taken away this precious little girl now clasped in his arms.

For a moment, Yeshi did not react. Then she said, “No.”

“I am sorry, my wife. Perhaps this is the Dragon’s price for bringing so many of our brave warriors safely home.” The lie burned him, but he could not let Yeshi know the truth. There was no need to inflict more pain on her. She would know suffering aplenty in the next few moments, and for years to come.

“No,” said Yeshi, again. She held out her arms imperiously. “Give me my daughter.”

“It is best if I take her—it—now,” Tahmu said, aware that he was pleading. “If you hold her, it will only hurt you more when I—”

“Give her to me!” With a strength that startled him she leaped up from the birthbed and lunged at him. He barely managed to turn in time to keep her from seizing the infant. Even so, he was not quick enough to prevent Yeshi from scoring his face with her long, sharp nails. One came perilously close to his eye and he jerked his head away.

Her small fists rained down upon his back, her hands scrabbled for the baby, her screams echoed in his ears. She ducked underneath him and seized the infant, clasping it close to breasts that were swollen and full of milk.

“She’s mine! I won’t let you take her!”

But she was a delicate woman, and weak from her ordeal, and Tahmu was a war-hardened man. Implacably, hating himself, hating her for making this so much more painful than it had to be for both of them, he wrested the baby from her and pushed her backward.

She fell onto the bed. He stood, clutching the bundled, crying baby, waiting for her to come at him again, but all the strength seemed to bleed out of her. She lay where she had fallen, sprawled on the lavish bed where this tragic child had been conceived, and mewled pitifully.

“My baby,” she moaned, “my little girl…give her to me, Tahmu, please, I beg you, give her to me….”

His heart ached as he watched her, filled with his own grief at what he must do. “I’m sorry,” he said uselessly, and left her, racing down the stairs into the courtyard and grabbing the reins of the nearest sa’abah from a startled Clansman.

For much of his trip, the baby continued to scream. It wanted sustenance, love, its parents, soft bedding. All the things a baby has a right to expect when it is brought into the world, all the things Tahmu had not given Kevla and could not give this little girl. Eventually, its cries subsided. It whimpered now and then, enough for Tahmu to know that his daughter was still alive.

By the time he reached the Clan’s altar at the foot of the mountains, the girl made barely any sounds at all. He drew the sa’abah to a halt and slipped to the ground. Tahmu felt ill when he saw the remnants of all the offerings Yeshi had made to the Dragon in his absence. Dried leaves from fruit long since devoured, wilted flowers, empty water jugs—all pleas from the House of Four Waters to bring the warriors home safely.

Most of those pleas had been answered; they had lost few men. But the Great Dragon had a terrible price for his protection, and Tahmu’s feet felt as heavy as if they were carved of stone as he approached the offering area.

He looked down at the baby. Her eyes were closed, but she was breathing.

“I’m so sorry,” he said, illogically trying to explain what he was doing to her. “But this is the way of our people. The Great Dragon marks those it would have us give to him. He robs them of their sight, or the use of their legs, or their minds. He cleaves their mouths, or gives them only nine fingers, or,” he paused, the lump in his throat preventing speech, “or stains their faces with the blood mark, as he has done with you.”

Gently, he reached to touch the blotch on his child’s otherwise perfect face. She opened her eyes and regarded him. Tahmu held the doomed infant close.

“Dragon!” he cried at last, his voice raw, “Dragon, you have tormented me for so long. I beg you, let this be your last judgment upon me and my House. You marked this child. She is yours. I have torn her from the arms of her mother to bring her to you, as our traditions demand. Now leave me and mine be!”

Gently, he placed her on the offering stone. She roused at the movement, and somehow summoned the strength to cry. He turned, willing himself not to hear the heart-breaking noise, although it seemed to echo in his head long after his mount had placed many miles of desert sand between them.

Chapter Ten

K evla thought it would have been better if the household had been permitted to show its grief. Had the child been born clean, not so clearly marked by the Great Dragon’s disfavor, and died during birth, it would have been deeply mourned. As it was, no one spoke of it. Things moved on as if all was normal, but there was a sickly, frightened, sorrowful pall that hung over the House as if storm clouds sat atop it.

Yeshi locked herself in her room and would see no one. Several times a day, Tahmu knocked on her door and asked permission to enter. All he received was silence. On the third day, he muttered something under his breath and burst open the door with his shoulder.

Kevla did not know in what condition he found Yeshi, but an hour later she, Tiah and Ranna were summoned to the room. Yeshi lay on the bed, still in the filthy, blood- and afterbirth-stained clothing she had worn on the day she had borne her ill-fated child. She stared, unseeing, at the ceiling, but as the day wore on the three women managed to coax her into eating a few bites of food, shedding her soiled clothing, and permitting herself to be bathed from a basin.

While Yeshi slowly and unwillingly returned to her women, the rest of the House was kept busy with the flood of new five-scores. Kevla did not interact with them, but she passed them in the kitchens now and then and pitied them. Most were not much older than she, and female. They seemed terrified and spoke with a thick accent. Some of them bore old scars. She wanted to let them know that it was all right, that Tahmu was a good master, but when she did try to speak to them, they shrank from her like frightened liahs. Kevla hoped that Sahlik’s mixture of practicality and kindness would reach them.

She saw little of Jashemi, and there was no talk from Maluuk about resuming their lessons. She feared that going to war had changed the young lord. Was that strange connection she had felt real? Or was she fooling herself into thinking she meant anything to him other than as a servant? He passed her in the halls with no acknowledgment, and at such times she was buffeted with both relief and regret. She told herself it was for the best; any closeness between a Bai-sha and a khashimu, even a friendship, courted trouble.

But she did not believe it.

Several days after Tahmu had given the child to the Great Dragon, Kevla was filling up Yeshi’s tray with tidbits to tempt her to eat when Sahlik came up behind her.

“No, no!” she scolded, pointing to a small cup of boiled balan. “Yeshi hates this cooked. Give her the fresh root, child. Like this.”

She plopped a long yellow tuber onto the tray. Kevla was startled at the rebuke, and then she noticed a small corner of parchment peeking out from underneath the root. She sucked in her breath. Sahlik turned away.

“You! Come here, child. You seem to like cooking. Do you know how to make bread?”

Kevla’s heart pounded so hard she thought it would burst through her chest. There was only one person who would send her a written message.

She shook so badly that she feared she would drop the tray, but managed to make it into a small room off the great hall which saw little activity. She unfolded the letter and read:

Sahlik has arranged for me to have time alone in the cavern. Go to the kitchen first, then come find me there when it is time for someone’s afternoon nap.

Kevla felt weak as joy and apprehension flooded her. Was this not what she had hoped for? To see him again, alone? She wished he had said more, but the letter could be dangerous if it fell into the wrong hands. She read it again, trying to decipher his intentions. He had seemed so aloof when she saw him in the halls, and the letter was brusque. Perhaps she should not go, but did she dare refuse? Then, as if he were present, she seemed to feel again his hands on her face, see his eyes glinting with starlit tears.

She would go, as he had asked.

Kevla returned to the kitchen, and put another piece of fruit on Yeshi’s tray. It was far too much for the khashima to eat; she barely tasted anything Kevla brought her, but Kevla needed an excuse. While she was there, she looked around. Everyone was busy doing something. She picked up a few crumbs from the floor and tossed them and the small piece of parchment into the fire. She watched it twist and curl up on itself, and then it was ash.

It was only midmorning. She had many hours to wait. Finally, Yeshi decided it was time to take a nap. The girls scattered, each anxious to seize time alone, and Kevla headed straight for the kitchen.

Sahlik was there, overseeing dinner preparations. Several loaves of bread were stacked high on platters. Roast meats turned on spits, supervised by dull-eyed five-scores. Other five-scores chopped vegetables for the huge pots of stew that bubbled on the fires.

Sahlik saw her and gave her a wineskin. “Take this,” she said quietly. “If anyone notices you coming or going, say you are bringing wine to the young master.”

Kevla couldn’t help herself. The head servant of the House of Four Waters was actually encouraging the khashimu to meet secretly with a lowly servant.

“Sahlik,” she whispered, “why are you—”

“I have my reasons,” the old woman said curtly. “Go.”

Kevla hurried toward the small building, opened the door, took the torch and descended the cool stone steps, both aching for and dreading this illicit encounter.

He was there. He was dressed in the men’s rhia, which clung to his still-damp body. He sat on the pool’s edge, his legs in the water. Droplets on his dark skin and hair glistened in the torchlight. He turned to see who had arrived and their eyes met.

“Did anyone see you?” She shook her head. “Good. Come, Kevla. Sit beside me.”

Nervously, she did as she was told, dangling her own legs into the cool water. She waited for him to speak.

“I have seen…so much,” he said at last. He didn’t look at her. He stared down into the water, as if speaking to his own wavering reflection. “Kevla…I have killed a man. It was only a few moments into the raid. He charged at me, a dagger in each hand, screaming something—I can’t remember what—and before I realized what I was doing the deed was done. I had drawn my sword and cut deeply into his neck.”

Her heart ached for him, even as her mind filled with images of gore and death. He was born to this, she told herself. And yet, she wished he had not had to experience it.

“It didn’t cut his head off, not quite. But the blood—by the Great Dragon, it was everywhere, on me, on my sa’abah, on the sand—so much blood. And he was just the first. I cannot tell you how many ran at me, how often I swung my sword, how many I struck. My hand ached, my arm grew tired, and still I swung. It was so fast to be so…so thorough. It took much longer to round up the scattered women and children, tie them up like sandcattle—”

He paused, swallowed hard. “Then when it was over, some of them men dipped their fingers in the blood and marked their faces. They laughed. They danced. I went behind a stone and was sick.”

He looked at her then, his eyes haunted, expecting ridicule. Kevla bit her lip and her eyes filled with tears.

Suddenly, violently, he tugged off his rhia, exposing his thin boy’s chest. An ugly scar snaked from his left nipple to his navel. Kevla gasped.

“My lord—are you—”

He smiled bitterly. “I’ll be all right. It was a shallow, clean wound and Maluuk is a skilled healer. He said I should be proud of it. Proud.” He almost spat the word. “Father made me sit through the celebrations. But when I went to sleep that night all I could see was the face of the man I had killed…his head spoke to me, called me murderer….”

He buried his face in his hands. “And then to come back and discover I was about to have a brother or sister…I thought it was a blessing, a sign that life went on even after what we did. But Kevla, we—I—I lost a sister! My father left her to die on the mountain, and I can’t even talk about her to anyone. My father walks as if his steps are dogged by ghosts. My mother will not see me, it’s as if I’m dead to her now, too….”

He shuddered as a deep sob racked his thin frame. “My little sister….”

Kevla could keep the barrier between them no longer. Jashemi’s torment called more loudly to her than her fear or her sense of propriety. He was in pain, and she had to do what she could to ease it. Deliberately, knowing full well she might regret it later, she put her arms around him.

Jashemi clung to her, burying his face in her neck. She felt the cool wetness of the water and the warm wetness of his tears. She ran her fingers through the thick softness of his hair, closing her eyes and opening to him, taking all the hurt and shock and angry grief into her own soft, compassionate body. She murmured nonsense words as if he were a baby, and rocked him until the violence of his grief was spent.

“My sister,” he whispered, over and over, “My sister….”

The time passed. Each day that unfurled was a step away from the terrible tragedy that no one was permitted to mention. The servants stopped speaking in whispers. Tahmu started to laugh and carry himself with confidence again. Even Yeshi seemed to revive, though there was a hardness about her that Kevla had not seen before. Her tongue was sharp, her words cold, and her laughter, when she did laugh, had an edge to it that made Kevla’s skin prickle. Yeshi had recovered, but she had not healed.

Nor did she ever call for her son.

Kevla suspected that she was the only one who knew how deeply Yeshi’s avoidance of Jashemi cut the youth. He did not show it in word, expression, or deed, but she knew how badly the rejection pained him. They stole time where they could, with Sahlik acting as their touchstone, but it was difficult. He never referred to their embrace in the caverns, nor did she; but there was a new ease in their mannerisms with one another, as if some barrier had been lifted.

One day, as Kevla was gathering up Tahmu and Yeshi’s bedclothes, she noticed certain stains on them. She stared, disbelieving. She knew exactly what sort of stains they were, having cleaned her mother’s linens, and if Tahmu had not been gone for several days visiting the Star Clan’s khashim, she would have thought nothing of it.

But Tahmu was gone. Had been gone since before these linens were put on the bed….

This could not be. Yeshi would not jeopardize her position. Infidelity to the khashim was treason. Tahmu could have her put to death for it. And why would Yeshi do such a thing? From all that Kevla could tell, Tahmu was a kind husband and probably a gentle lover.

Kevla felt a rush of anger at the betrayal which abated a moment later. It was not her place to either defend her lord or condemn her lady. She was a servant here, nothing more.

And perhaps these stains were something else. Perhaps she was making assumptions that weren’t true. Quickly, she bundled them up and was about to take them downstairs when she paused. A half-filled glass of wine sat on a small table. She took the wine, opened the sheets to expose the telltale stain, and poured the wine over it. Better the women who washed Yeshi’s sheets think her clumsy than adulterous.

Yeshi took to retiring early and dismissing her women. Tiah and Ranna were only too happy to be relieved of their duties, and immediately rushed to meet with their stableboy lovers. But Kevla worried that Yeshi and her unknown lover—or lovers—would grow careless. She made it a point to be the first to attend Yeshi in the mornings, and sometimes she noticed something that would have given Yeshi away, such as finding two glasses of wine where there should be one.

To Kevla’s great relief, the liaisons ceased when Tahmu was in residence. Yeshi might be indiscreet, but she was no fool. Sometimes she wondered who Yeshi was taking into her bed, but she had no real interest in learning the man’s identity.

Yeshi moved as if she were a dead person trapped inside a living body.

The last thing she had felt, really felt, was overwhelming grief as Tahmu snatched their child from her arms. She had raged, sobbed, railed against the Dragon, screamed curses at her husband, beaten her still-swollen and sensitive belly with her fists for not housing a clean child.

Then the darkness descended. Later, she would find it difficult to believe that she had even been able to continue to draw breath, that her heart had not simply stopped beating. Despite her desperate wish to die, Yeshi lived.

She had vague recollections of soft skin, of concerned eyes, and gentle hands that pressed tidbits into her unwilling mouth, that bathed a soiled physical shell. Her body ate, used the food, excreted what it did not need, and demanded more. How strange, that it continued when her soul felt so dead.

The emotions that came afterward were pale in comparison to her grief, but she clung to them anyway. She hated Tahmu for what he had done. And she could not bear to lay eyes on her beautiful, healthy son. Why should he live, if his sister was born only to die of exposure on a mountainside? Why should Tahmu laugh and move forward with his duties, when he had been the one to execute the dreadful deed?

No matter that the traditions were clear on this point. No matter that it would have been impossible to disguise her daughter’s disfigurement. No matter that there was no other course for anyone to have taken. There was no sense in anything Yeshi felt now.

She took her lover not out of passion and desire, but of an urgent need to feel something. She would not let Tahmu touch her, but she wanted arms around her in the night, wanted to taste the salt of sweat and remember that she wasn’t dead yet, even though she yearned for death’s graces.

The one place where she felt even the faintest brush of peace was when she was alone in the caverns. Before the tragedy, she had not often liked to be alone. Now, she craved the solitude. She did not need women to scrub her back and dry her body. She needed a place to be embraced by cool water, where all was silent save her own racking sobs.

So when she descended the steps, padding softly on bare feet, she felt a lightening of the grief that clung to her like a burning shroud. She was just about to enter the cavern when she heard voices. She stopped, straining to listen.

“Why do you always pick red?” It was Jashemi’s voice.

“I like it. It’s pretty.”

Kevla! She shouldn’t be talking with Jashemi, she was just a servant. Yeshi straightened and turned the corner, her mouth open to rebuke both son and servant, when she went still as stone.

Her steps had been light, and they were too engrossed in their game of Shamizan to notice her approach. They sat with their dark heads bent over the board, foreheads nearly touching. Jashemi wore a cloth around his loins, and Kevla wore a damp, sleeveless rhia. Yeshi noted distractedly that her son had a scar across his chest, but Jashemi’s war injuries were of no concern to her, not now.

The two children were of the same height and build. Both had their gazes on the board, but simultaneously they looked up and grinned. Two mouths of the same shape pulled back from even, white teeth; two pairs of eyes the same color tilted up at the corners in an identical fashion. Jashemi said something, but Yeshi heard no words. Blood pounded in her veins.

How could she not have seen this? She knew every inch of her son’s face since she had held him in her arms a few seconds after his birth. Kevla had attended her for almost two full years. She had thought the girl looked familiar when she had first laid eyes on her, but it had never occurred to Yeshi that Tahmu had…that he would….

Yeshi was so shocked that she had to lean against the stone steps for support. She was cold, so cold, and her stomach churned.

Betrayers. All of them. How they must have laughed at her ignorance, her stupidity, her inability to see what was right before her eyes. Did the whole household know? The whole Clan? Was she the only one who labored under the misapprehension that her husband had been faithful?

Shaking with anger and pain, Yeshi turned and made her way up the stairs as silently as she had come.

Tahmu had begun coming to bed late. It was easier on them both if he lay beside Yeshi while she was asleep rather than awake. He disrobed quietly in the bedroom, not lighting the lamp, when suddenly one flamed to life.

He turned, surprised. “Yeshi, I hope I did not….”

The words died on his lips at the expression on his wife’s face. He had thought that he had seen the worst she could offer him when he had taken their daughter, but now he almost physically quailed. There was stone in that gaze, and a hatred that went much deeper than mere rage and grief.

“I saw them today,” she said, her voice calm, almost conversational. “In the caverns, playing Shamizan. Talking. Laughing. Just like brother and sister.”

He should have known this day would come, but he had hoped…“I never wanted you to know,” he said.

“Of course not!” Yeshi’s voice cracked like a whip. “Of course you wanted me kept ignorant, wanted me to be laughed at by my son, my women, your Bai-sha daughter—”

“I did not want to hurt you,” Tahmu said. “Jashemi and Sahlik are the only ones who know, and Sahlik tells me none of the other servants suspect. Not even Kevla knows.”

“Well, then, that makes it all right, doesn’t it, that you broke our vows, slept with—”

“Kevla is older than Jashemi, or haven’t you noticed?” replied Tahmu defensively. “I never broke my vows to you.”

“Then it’s the halaan’s child?”

Tahmu flinched at the crude word, sick that the epithet was truer than Yeshi knew.

“By the Dragon, Tahmu, that makes it worse….how could you do this? How could you take our daughter, born legitimate, and leave her to die, and yet bring your Bai-sha into our home?”

For a moment, she looked down at her hands, balled into small fists atop the silky sheets. She looked less angry and more hurt, and Tahmu felt pity stir in him. As he had said to Jashemi, Yeshi’s only real crime was that she was not the woman he loved. He went to her and sat beside her on the bed, but as he reached to put his hand over one of hers, she jerked to life and struck him. He tasted blood.

“I want her out,” she hissed between clenched teeth. “I want her beaten until the blood runs down her skinny little back, I want to scratch her face and—”

“No.”

His conviction halted her flood of vitriol. She seemed startled. “What?”

“No. Kevla will not be beaten. She will not be sent away. She has done nothing wrong.”

“She is your Bai-sha!”

He met her gaze levelly. “That is my wrongdoing, not hers. The only thing Kevla has done is to be a good servant to you. Until today you doted on her.”

“She should not have been with Jashemi!”

“I suspect the boy is at fault, not Kevla. But I am responsible for the girl. I swore to keep her safe. That she would always have food, a place to sleep, protection. I will not break that vow, not even for you.”

Yeshi’s eyes flashed, then the light in them seemed to die. “I cannot order her from this house without your permission, khashim. But I will not have her attend me another moment. I will put her to work in the kitchens. I will find a place where she cannot have the comfort of other women to laugh and talk with. And I will forbid my son to ever, ever see her again.”

Tahmu felt as if he had swallowed a heavy weight. This was not what he had envisioned, that day two years ago when he had set Kevla before him on Swift’s back, when he had taken her away from everything she had known.

Now, he would have to do that to her again, except this time, she was not trading a difficult life for an easier one. This time, she was trading a life she had come to enjoy for one that would be harsh and trying. He had taught her to believe that she was worthy of a good life. Now, he would rip that away from her.

His voice breaking, he said to Yeshi, “You told me she was almost a daughter to you, Yeshi.”

“‘Almost,’” said Yeshi, “is a very big word.”

Kevla was asleep when the door to the women’s room burst open. There were startled shrieks as the women groggily realized that their sanctuary was being intruded upon by three men, all with torches.

“Which one is the Bai-sha?” their leader demanded.

Tiah and Ranna pointed to Kevla, who shrank back before the accusation. Gulping, she tried to appear calm.

“I am Kevla Bai-sha. Who asks for me?”

They did not reply. Instead, the leader jerked his head in Kevla’s direction and the other two grabbed her and hauled her to her feet. She was wearing nothing but a light sleeping rhia.

“Stop!” she cried, “put me down! I am handmaiden to the khashima, you must—”

“It is by the khashima’s orders that we are here, Bai-sha,” one of the men snarled.

Kevla’s heart sank at the words. She looked over her shoulder, and saw that Ranna looked stricken at what was happening to her. Even Tiah seemed upset.

“Where are you taking me?” she demanded as they dragged her down the stairs. A foot caught on a step and she winced.

“You are no longer to serve the great lady,” one of the men said. “You are to stay in the kitchen. You will sleep in a small room, alone.” They half carried, half dragged her up another increasingly narrow set of stairs.

“There must be a mistake!” she stammered. “I have not displeased the great lady. Please, let me speak to her and—”

The man clutching her right arm shook her so violently that her head snapped back. “You are never to directly address the khashima again! Do you understand?”

Terrified now, Kevla only nodded. The stairs came to an abrupt end and the guard in front hauled open a heavy wooden door. They flung her inside. She stumbled and fell, hitting hard stone and cutting her hands and legs on sharp edges. She eased herself up to a sitting position and when the blow came it almost knocked her unconscious.

“That,” said one of the men, leaning so close to her that she could smell his stale breath, “is from the khashima. She told me to tell you that it is but a taste of what you will experience if you speak to her son again.”

He slammed the door shut, and Kevla was plunged into darkness.

For a moment, she huddled on the stone floor, trying to understand. She hurt all over, but her face hurt the worst. She reached to touch her mouth gingerly and winced as her fingers touched and probed. Then the import of the man’s last words fully descended upon her.

There was only one conclusion. Yeshi had seen her with Jashemi. She had been so offended at the thought of her son with a lowly Bai-sha that she had ordered Kevla banished. Suddenly, Kevla couldn’t breathe and her body went cold.

This was what she had dreaded; that she would lose her enviable position and be turned away in shame and disgrace. This was the fear that had tempered the pleasure of her time with the young lord, the shadow to the bright light of their moments together. Their secret meetings were forbidden, and she had known it. Now, she would have to pay.

Even so, somehow, the thought of never being with him again made her heart hurt worse than her battered body. She began to sob, loudly, violently, each paroxysm of grief and loss racking her body painfully. She pounded fists into the stone floor, welcoming the ache. She kicked and screamed and begged with the unseen, unfeeling khashima. And when at last she drifted into an exhausted slumber, her dreams were haunted by the image of Jashemi on one of the river rafts, drifting farther and farther away from her even as he extended his arms to her, crying out for rescue.

Chapter Eleven

T he sound of the door swinging open woke Kevla early the next morning. She blinked sleepily, wondering why she was gazing directly at an old harvesting rake, and then memory came flooding back. She bolted upright, then sagged in relief when she saw Sahlik standing in the door.

Harshly, Sahlik said, “Get up, girl. You’re to come work in the kitchens now.”

Kevla felt the smile bleed from her face. There was no reprieve in Sahlik’s grim mien. But Sahlik had always been kind to her, had been the one who arranged for her and Jashemi to meet….

Kevla got to her feet. Her rhia was wet in places, and even as she looked down at it and realized with shame what the wetness was, Sahlik said, “You’ve soiled yourself, girl.”

“I’m sorry,” Kevla whispered. She felt her face grow hot. “There was no pot, and the door was locked…May I be permitted to bathe and change?”

Sahlik laughed without humor. “You are forbidden the use of the caverns. I’ll send up a clean rag and some water. When you are done, come immediately to the kitchens. There’s a beating in it for you if you are late.”

She closed the door, but Kevla didn’t hear the latch falling into place. Her stomach roiled. She choked the vomit down, knowing it would go badly for her if she added that to the mess she had already made. She gritted her teeth against the nausea and grief that welled up inside her.

A few moments later, one of the new five-scores brought up a basin of water and a clean rhia. Kevla remembered the girl. What was her name…Shara? Sharu, that was it. Kevla had attempted to make pleasant overtures to her, but the five-score had regarded her with terror. Now, though, Sharu gazed curiously at Kevla, with no sign of awe as she placed the items down the floor. Stories of Kevla’s fall from grace had already begun their inevitable spread.

“Thank you,” Kevla managed to say. Sharu stared, and then closed the door.

The water was clean at least, although the rhia was little more than the rag Sahlik had described. It had been repeatedly torn and remended, and there were deep stains in it that would never come out. Shaking, Kevla washed her groin and legs, willing herself not to think of the cool water of the caverns and how good it felt against her skin. She slipped into the stained garment with grim resignation.

It was still better. Whatever working in the kitchen entailed, it was still better to be here, at the House of Four Waters, with a remote possibility of seeing Jashemi, than to be anywhere else.

By nightfall, Kevla thought with longing of dancing on the street corner and crying her mother’s skills.

There was no softening of Sahlik’s demeanor. She put Kevla to work immediately, and it proved grueling. Kevla was forced to stand for hours in the hot sun, collecting the droppings of the sandcattle, horses, and sa’abahs. She spread them out to dry, and gathered the dried droppings to use as fuel for the cook fires. She was permitted to go into the caverns only to haul buckets full of water. She stirred, scrubbed, chopped, ground and carried until her arms burned with pain. Twice, she was permitted to stop and eat, and the meals were meager: dried bread, heels of cheeses, fruits that were overripe and unfit to serve the higher-caste servants or the lord and lady.

Through it all, Kevla caught Sharu watching her intently. She was too exhausted and broken-hearted to try to be friendly.

Every time she tried to steal a few moments to sit and rest or rub her aching limbs, Sahlik was there, barking orders and dragging her to her feet. By the time she ate what passed for an evening meal and was brusquely dismissed by Sahlik, it was all she could do to stumble out of the kitchen and crawl up the stairs to her room. She almost fell to the floor. Curled up on the hard stone, she fell asleep within minutes.

Such was her life for the next several weeks. She moved dazedly, doing what was asked of her, moving to the next thing, then collapsing, exhausted, in her tiny room. Sahlik continued to behave as if Kevla had never been anything other than the lowest-ranking of the House’s servants. The girl saw nothing of Yeshi, Tahmu, or Jashemi, and turned away whenever Tiah or Ranna came to the kitchen to select treats for their mistress. She thought she could feel no worse, but when Tiah and Ranna came accompanied by Sharu, the five-score Kevla had thought to befriend, she had to bite her lip to keep scalding tears of disappointment from flowing down her dirty cheeks. The little five-score, who had once been so timid, was now elevated to Kevla’s former status.

One day, while she was tending the fire, Sahlik did something completely incomprehensible. The elderly servant positioned herself so that no one could see what she was doing, then deliberately poured a cup of hot eusho on Kevla’s hand.

Kevla cried out, staring in shock at Sahlik. Before she could say anything, Sahlik said sharply, “You clumsy girl! Look what you’ve done! Go see Maluuk right away. If that blisters you’ll be of no use here at all.”

Wide-eyed, Kevla clutched her burned hand and backed away from Sahlik, who continued to glower at her. Then she started running, pushing her way though the crowded kitchen and racing over the courtyard to the healer’s small hut.

The scald was minor. What hurt more than the injury was the knowledge that Sahlik had intentionally inflicted it. Was the head servant trying to kill her? Kevla began to cry as she ran. She tried to stifle the sobs, but she might just as well have tried to dam the Four Waters with a walking stick.

She slowed as she approached the healing hut. She dragged her arm across her wet face and sniffed hard. Swallowing, Kevla straightened, composed herself, and opened the door.

“Maluuk, I—”

The words died in her throat. Standing there waiting for her was Jashemi. She stared at him, and then her legs refused to hold her. It was as if the last few weeks of pain, shame, and exhaustion caught up with her in the span of an instant. He caught her before she fell and carried her over to the table. Still weak, she did not protest.

“Kevla, I am so very sorry. I take full responsibility. Let me see the burn. Good, she didn’t hurt you too badly. I will put something on it.”

Kevla felt as though his words were coming from leagues away. Their meaning registered only slowly. She watched him as he removed the stopper from a jar and scooped out a fingerful of gray, pleasant-smelling ointment. He applied the salve with a delicate touch, and the pain subsided at once.

“Sahlik…she did this to me so I could meet you?”

Jashemi gave her a quick glance. “Of course. Did you think she simply wanted to hurt you?”

“I—I didn’t know what to think,” Kevla said, her voice thick. “I had thought that Yeshi liked me, and when she…then Sahlik was so mean to me….”

He paused in his treatment to look at her gravely. “My mother discovered us together,” he said. “It is my fault. I was careless. I should have made sure that never happened.” He finished applying salve and began to bind the wound with a clean cloth. Suddenly, his mouth twisted in a smile. “It seems as though I am always apologizing to you.”

Despite the seriousness of the situation, Kevla couldn’t help smiling in return. “You are a most unusual khashimu.”

“And you are an unusual….” He paused. “Girl,” he said. Kevla felt her cheeks flush. “Now, you need to finish tying this. Your story will be that you came to the hut and neither Maluuk nor Asha was here, so you treated yourself.”

She complied, holding her arm against her body to better secure the bandage.

“Where are they?”

“Someone has been injured by the river. I saw them go and told Sahlik that we had a chance to meet.”

“Why has Sahlik been so cruel? It seems as though she has been particularly hard on me.”

Jashemi’s face hardened. “My mother has a little spy. One of the five-scores we brought home from the raid. Shari, I think her name is.”

“Sharu,” Kevla corrected. “I tried to be kind to her.”

“Of course you did. For several weeks, Sharu was in the kitchens, watching to make sure you were treated as badly as possible. Mother was satisfied and rewarded Sharu by making her a handmaiden. Now that she is no longer in the kitchen, Sahlik does not have to be so harsh with you.”

“Thank the Dragon for that, at least,” Kevla said softly.

She had not intended her words to be interpreted as criticism, but she saw Jashemi wince. When he spoke again, his voice was serious.

“Because of my carelessness, you lost your position,” he said. “I don’t want anything else to happen to you, but I can’t lie to you. If we continue to meet, someone could find out.”

Their eyes met, and she realized what he was saying. He was asking if she wanted to keep seeing him. He was not ordering, as was his birthright. Kevla realized that every moment of true happiness she had experienced at the House of Four Waters had occurred when the two of them were alone together. It had been good to be Yeshi’s handmaiden, yes, but she had to be constantly on her guard. Over time and repeated encounters with Jashemi, she had learned to let the line between master and servant blur. There was a warmth in her heart for this boy that she had never felt with anyone else: a sense of safety despite the danger, an oasis of peace in a desert of apprehension.

He was letting her decide. She could choose safety, or she could choose him.

“Then we must make certain that doesn’t happen,” she said.

Knowing that Sahlik’s abuse was a sham helped Kevla to accept it more easily. She cringed when berated, and Sahlik spared no opportunity to harass the girl. But there was no physical violence after the “accidental burn,” and Kevla’s duties suddenly became much less demanding. She ate better, and was able to rest for longer periods of time.

Yet it was still hard work. Her body grew strong from the physical demands, her slender build becoming more defined with muscles and her blossoming womanhood. Some of the young men she encountered on her errands stared at her growing chest, straining against the confines of her rhia. Sahlik made a point of complaining loudly when Kevla asked for a different garment, but the next morning Kevla was handed several fresh rhias, none of which clung quite so revealingly as her older ones.

She saw Jashemi infrequently, and it was always an unexpected delight. Their moments together were tense and exciting, the thought of discovery adding a sharp tang of adventure to an experience the two found both necessary and painfully happy. At the same time, she had never felt more comfortable in his presence.

One night, after a particularly grueling day, Kevla’s body ached more than usual. She had quarreled with some of the five-scores over the preparation of a dish, and although she knew she was correct, Sahlik had sided with the other girls. Kevla understood the necessity of the pretense, but somehow, today she was sick of the act.

Her newly large breasts were tender and her belly hurt as well. Perhaps she had eaten something that disagreed with her. Her head ached. For no reason, she sat down on the stone floor of her small room and wept angrily.

It was all so awful, so unfair! She had tended Yeshi well. She had kept Yeshi’s secrets, and this was how the khashima repaid her. It had been so long since she and Jashemi had played Shamizan that she was certain she’d forget the few rules.

Has there ever been anyone more wretched than I? she thought, misery overwhelming her. She stretched out onto the stone, felt its coolness against her hot, tearstained cheeks, and fell into an unhappy slumber.

Kevla opened her eyes to discover that she was surrounded by flames. They leaped up, walls of fire, forming an enclosure that trapped her inside their circle more firmly than if they had been made of stone. Smoke swirled around her, but it did not sting her eyes, nor make her gasp for breath. She turned, slowly, seeking a break in the enormous sheets of flame, and then screamed as she saw something more frightening than fire.

It seemed made of fire itself, all hues of red and yellow and orange. It moved with the same sinuous grace as the flames that surrounded it, but it seemed unaffected by their licking tongues. Slowly, it lifted its serpentine neck, reared up on its massive, scaly hind legs. Two membranous wings unfolded and beat the air, setting the flames to dancing wildly. It opened its mouth. For an instant, Kevla caught sight of teeth as long as her arm, and a flickering, forked tongue. Then fire spewed forth. Its massive tail raised and then came crashing down on the burned earth. The ground trembled and Kevla fell.

The Dragon lowered its horned, wedge-shaped head until it was mere inches from Kevla’s face. She wanted to scream, close her eyes, turn away, but she remained transfixed, as the bird before the snake. She stared into its glowing yellow eyes.

It opened its mouth, and Kevla braced herself for the exquisite agony of its fiery breath. Instead, the monster spoke, and Kevla understood the words. Understood, but could not comprehend their meaning. The noise of the Dragon’s voice shattered her ears, reverberated along her bones, dropped her to the ground in agony.

“DO YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE?”

Kevla was brought awake by the sound of her own scream. She bolted upright, gasping for breath. Her heart threatened to burst out of her chest. Her rhia clung to her, and she realized that she was soaked with sweat.

The light of the full moon spilled in through the small window, silvering and softening the harsh angles of the stacked-up tools. Kevla wiped at her wet face, shivering with fear and mortification.

Even her dreams, it seemed, mirrored her fall from favor and the shame inherent in her very existence. The dragon in her dream had to be the Great Dragon, who lived in the heart of MountBari. According to legend, the Dragon sent his flames in the form of molten stone coursing down the steep sides of MountBari when the people of Arukan forgot their traditions and laws.

Forget who they were.

DO YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE?

Kevla could hear the bellowing voice in her head even now and she put her hands to her ears, as if the voice were real and could be shut out by something as paltry as human flesh and bone.

Perhaps the dream meant that the Great Dragon was as displeased with Kevla as Yeshi. Perhaps the Dragon felt that Kevla had no right to presume to a friendship with a khashimu, heir to the most powerful Clan in Arukan. She was born of a halaan. She was Bai-sha, her father unknown to her, one of her mother’s clients. She recalled the Dragon’s ferocity in the dream and shuddered.

And then, as she moved to sit up, she saw more evidence of the Dragon’s displeasure.

Blood was all over her thighs.

Kevla went through the motions of her day, but she almost felt as though she was standing outside her body. The only thing that brought her back to living in her own skin was the sensation of torn rags stuffed inside her, to absorb the telltale bleeding. Twice, she had to change them, and fought back tears of misery as she looked at the sodden, scarlet fabric.

Until the moment that the blood had begun flowing from her sulim, she had been cloaked in the safety of childhood. Kevla had dreaded being sent away from the House of Four Waters for disobedience, but now that fate was almost certain. She was now a viable female, able to conceive and bear children, and would no doubt be part of some negotiation with another clan; of the same value as a cart of vegetables or a brace of sandcattle. Or, she mused darkly, perhaps less, as she was Bai-sha.

Kevla shrank from the image. Her mother had never painted the joining of male and female as anything pleasant, and until this moment, Kevla had never given much thought to the subject. Now, it loomed over her like a grim shadow.

She thought she could bear even that, even lying in the darkness while a stranger roughly violated her body, if she could stay in the House of Four Waters. If she could play Shamizan with Jashemi now and then, who never made her feel worthless, and whose delight in her company was genuine.

She felt Sahlik’s eyes on her and once even heard the head servant whisper, “Child, are you unwell?”

Telling Sahlik would only hasten the inevitable. The onset of womanhood varied from girl to girl, she knew. Perhaps, if she kept her bleeding secret, she could stay longer. So she looked up into the concerned face of the maternal woman with eyes that she knew looked dazed and haunted and murmured that nothing was wrong.

The seemingly interminable day finally crawled to a close. For the first time since Yeshi’s commandment, Kevla hastened to return to the privacy of her room. Once there, she removed the soiled rag, replaced it with a clean one, and stared at the mute condemnation of the bloody cloth. What should she do with it? While she was working in the kitchens, Kevla had managed to excuse herself and change the cloths in private. When she returned, she bided her time until she could toss the rags into the fire. But here, there was no such option.

She would not start crying again. She bit her lip hard and willed her eyes to stop stinging, willed the lump in her throat to dissolve. She would have to hide the rags until such time as she could dispose of them.

She would also have to hide the water with which she scrubbed her thighs and sulim in a futile effort to clean herself. As she stretched out to try to get some sleep, Kevla thought that if Yeshi ever wanted to see her wretched and miserable, all she needed to do was poke her head in at this moment, and the great lady would be mightily pleased.

She slept, and again the Great Dragon appeared in her dreams, with its accusatory cry, “DO YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE?”

The next day, the flow was still strong, but Kevla felt less pain. But she could not forget what was going on, nor the dreadful dreams that seemed so real. She had dreamed before; everyone dreamed. But never anything like this.

This time, when she retreated to her room, she staved off sleep as long as she could, frightened of the Dragon and his censure, but eventually her eyes closed of their own accord.

Again, Kevla stood in the center of a wall of fire. She was as terrified as she had been previously, familiarity with the scene making it no less horrific. Again, the Dragon reared up and spouted flame; again, it pressed its face close to hers. But this time, it reached out with a huge, scaly foreleg. Claws clamped on her shoulder and it shook her.

“Kevla!” it cried. “Kevla, wake up, you’re dreaming—”

She bolted awake with a vengeance, squirming and clawing against the foreleg that grabbed her shoulder, that clamped down on her mouth to stifle her screams—

“Kevla, hush, it’s me, Jashemi!”

She sagged in relief, and his hand left her mouth and he moved away slightly. It was then she remembered the Dragon’s accusation. Remembered the blood still flowing from her body.

With a soft cry, she buried her face in her hands.

“Kevla, what is it? I can’t bear to see you so unhappy. What can I do?”

Her heart swelled with affection and gratitude. Whatever had happened to her, she knew she had been blessed in having his friendship for as long as she had.

“I have to go,” she said, her voice muffled by her hands.

She heard a swift intake of breath. “You…you are going to leave?”

“She will send me away. The blood and the Dragon have ordained it so.” She risked a look at him.

His face was lit by moonlight, and he looked utterly confused. “I don’t understand.”

“It cannot be coincidence,” she said thickly. “The Dragon has come to me in dreams and—”

“Dreams?” The word exploded from him. “Tell me.”

So she did. He listened silently, attentively. The image of the beggar who had burned in the market came back to her. He had had dreams of the Dragon, too; he had been cursed by the kulis. And he had died horribly because of it.

Finally, when she was done, Jashemi said gently, “Your so-called fall from grace was not due to anything you did. It was because my mother is an angry, unhappy, and jealous woman. When you fully believe that, I think the dreams will stop.”

She gazed deeply into his eyes, black pools of compassion in the dim light. I love him, she thought. I could not love him more if he were my brother, my own blood.

Blood.

She stared down at their clasped hands. “There is more. I am bleeding,” she whispered. “I am an adult woman now, and Yeshi will send me away to be married. The Dragon wants us all to remember our place, and I have forgotten. Even now, with you here, I am forgetting my place. He wants me to leave.”

“I refuse to believe that,” Jashemi said, his voice low and intense. “I refuse to believe that the Dragon would be so cruel. You have always performed your duties well, Kevla. And I know that Father will not permit you to be sent away. If you were going to be forced to leave, it would have happened before now. It was just a dream.”

“It…Jashemi, the dream could have been sent by the kulis!” she whispered fearfully. “I could be—”

He reached and placed a finger over her mouth, silencing her as he had done before, but very gently. “That you are a woman is no shame. That you have bad dreams is no surprise. Do not fear, Kevla. All will be well.”

As he lay in his bed after his midnight visit to Kevla, Jashemi felt no desire for sleep.

He blushed to think of Kevla speaking so freely of her bleeding. It was a deep mystery, one not discussed between men and women. Nonetheless, he was glad she had trusted him enough to tell him, so that he could assuage her fears of being sent away. Of much more concern to him were Kevla’s dreams. He had dismissed them lightly enough when they were talking; Kevla did not need to worry about such things when her waking life was sufficiently trying. But privately, they troubled him deeply.

Troubled him, because on the night when he first spilled his seed in his sleep, he too had begun having disturbing dreams.

Moonlight slanted in through the window. He stared at it, hoping that its brightness would keep him awake.

The brightness of the sun was not dimmed by the rolling, pulsating darkness that loomed on the horizon.

Not dimmed yet, at least.

Jashemi huddled in the cold, his filthy, ragged clothes offering little protection against the cutting knife-edge of the wind. Part of him questioned why he was wearing such poor clothing; another part felt very much at home in the vermin-ridden scraps.

He drew strength from the woman beside him. She was tall, and dressed as finely as he was poorly. Atop her head she wore a circlet of gold. Her hair was long and flew in the wind. When he had first met her it had been black as night; now, there were streaks of gray.

“It’s only been two weeks,” Jashemi said.

The dream unfurled as it always did. It never varied. The great lady whispered the words that always frightened and puzzled Jashemi when he awoke:

“You alone will remember…It may well fall to you…do not forget.”

And as always, Jashemi whispered as she held him tightly, “I won’t.”

And when he awoke at dawn, the brightness of sunlight replacing the subtler illumination of the moon, Jashemi-kha-Tahmu of the Clan of Four Waters asked himself:

“Do not forget what?”

Chapter Twelve

T he knife was inches away from Jashemi’s face. He clutched the arm of his attacker, his muscles trembling from the effort. Slowly, the blade came closer to his cheek.

With a grunt, Jashemi closed his legs around the other man’s thigh and yanked. The knife disappeared from his vision as the man lost his balance. Smaller and lighter than his attacker, Jashemi twisted until he was atop the man. He still had the knife. Jashemi shoved his knee into the man’s stomach and was rewarded with a grunt. The thick fingers relaxed on the dagger’s hilt ever so slightly.

Jashemi clutched the hand that held the weapon. He squeezed, applying pressure exactly where Halid had taught him. The man beneath him yelped and his fingers flew open. The knife dropped to the earth.

Jashemi dove for it, rolling off his adversary as he felt the man move to seize him. He leaped lightly to his feet, knife at the ready, panting with exertion.

“Excellent!” cried Halid, pleasure on his sweaty face. “That’s the first time you’ve gotten the knife away from me. You’ve been paying attention.”

“You’re…a good teacher,” Jashemi gasped, grinning in return. He reached for his waterskin and took a long drink. Since he was eight years old, Jashemi had been training with Halid. Tahmu’s Second had taught the khashimu how to fight with dagger, scimitar, club, rock, and bare hands. Jashemi was a natural with the scimitar; it had been that weapon with which he had taken a life on his first raid. Dagger work was trickier, and he had been having difficulty with it for some time now. He was pleased that he had wrested the knife from Halid, for he knew the man did not coddle him. If he had gotten the knife, it was because, at least this time, he had bested Halid.

“The khashimu is gracious to say so,” said Halid. Then, with no warning, he kicked out and the knife went flying from Jashemi’s grasp. Jashemi made a face and rubbed his stinging hand.

“But the khashimu also needs to be more alert,” teased Halid, his eyes twinkling. He picked up the blade and in mock surprise said, “Why look! It seems I have the dagger again.”

Jashemi grinned, readying himself for the next round. “And I’ll take it from you again.”

They had been practicing for sometime, though, and Jashemi was growing tired. He did not get the knife, and instead wound up facedown in the sand, one arm yanked behind his back.

“I yield,” he said, and immediately the pressure relaxed. Halid extended a hand to help his young master to his feet.

Tahmu had been gone for a few days now. He was visiting another clan and had taken with him servants and higher-ranking caste men. He was on a diplomatic mission, not on a raid, and Halid had remained behind as he always did at such times. As Second, he went with his master into battle, but in peacetime, he made sure Tahmu did not slip behind in his duties at the House. He disliked this intensely and Jashemi did not blame him. Most of what Tahmu had to do seemed very boring to him, and those aspects of being khashim held little appeal.

Halid sniffed at his rhia and whistled. “I’m for the caverns. Cold water, sweet soap, and clean clothes are what I need.”

Jashemi wrinkled his nose as his own odor assaulted him. He, too, could use a bath. He wondered how the poorer clans, with no access to water, managed not to suffocate from the stench. As they walked back to the House, Halid briefly rested his hand on the boy’s slim shoulder.

“You did well today,” he said. “When you are a man full grown, you will be a warrior to be reckoned with.”

Jashemi’s smile faded a little. He hoped that by the time he was a man full grown, there would be less need for warriors and more need for good leaders.

He fought back a yawn. He had not been sleeping well; the dreams came every night. Most often it was the dream of the sad, beautiful woman looking out onto the roiling darkness and telling him not to forget. But there were other dreams, too. Other people, unlike any he had ever seen.

His thoughts were interrupted by a nudge from Halid. He looked where the Second pointed, and saw a hawk approaching the aerie.

The caverns would have to wait.

Tahmu returned home two days later, and his face was grim. He called for his son and Second even before he went in to bathe and refresh himself. Despite hours of hard riding, Tahmu insisted they all mount their sa’abahs. When they were well away from the House, Tahmu spoke.

“This morning, I received a falcon. The Star Clan and the Cattle Clan were supposed to ride together to raid the Horserider Clan. But the Star Clan and the Horserider Clan had made their own agreement. When the men of the Cattle Clan rode to battle alongside the Star Clan, they were shocked when their ally turned on them. They were downed by the joined forces of the Star Clan and the Horserider Clan. While they fought, another group of raiders from the Star Clan attacked their defenseless House.”

He looked first at Halid, then Jashemi. It was the first time Jashemi had been brought in on so important a decision, and he sat straight in his saddle.

“We will ride against the Star Clan and the Horserider Clan. I have sent falcons to the Sheep Clan and the Sa’abah Clan, who—”

“But we just raided the Sa’abah Clan!” blurted Jashemi before he could censor himself. Halid and Tahmu exchanged amused glances.

“My son does not yet appreciate the pervasive power of gray, even though he is a master of Shamizan,” Tahmu said, chuckling. “It is precisely because we so decimated the Sa’abah Clan that they will want to ally with us in this raid. They will at least be able to take many fine horses, and I have offered to return a few Sa’abahs to sweeten the drink.”

“Do not look chagrined, young lord,” Halid rumbled in his deep voice. “Politics is a delicate game, and there is never an absolute. Your father took many years to master it himself. I am lucky, I need only to follow his orders.”

“Dragon willing,” continued Tahmu, “you will have plenty of time to learn the subtler details. On this raid, stay close to me and Halid. We will include you in all the planning from this point onward.”

As before, the clans assembled. The Clan of Four Waters was so formidable that Jashemi knew it was likely safe from any raid. There had never been one in his lifetime, and unless the House suddenly and unexpectedly weakened, he knew there never would be. The Clan of Four Waters was the one every other clan wanted on their side, not the one anyone wanted to attack.

He felt his mother’s eyes upon him during this time, although she still barely spoke to him. When his blood-marked sister had left the House in her father’s arms, to be abandoned to the Great Dragon, she had taken with her Yeshi’s affection for her son. It still pained him, but at least he had Kevla.

His affection for his half sister deepened with each encounter. Jashemi wished desperately their father could acknowledge her, but that was impossible. A public revelation such as that would shake the Clan to its foundations, perhaps rendering it weak enough so that others would feel sufficiently emboldened to prey upon it.

He felt linked to her in a way he could not articulate. They would have been inseparable had they been true brother and sister. As it was, he craved her company like he craved water after a ride in the desert. Jashemi had known other families with many siblings. Some of them were close, but he had never seen anyone need a sister or brother the way he needed Kevla. Despite her sometimes stiff formality, she made him feel that she wanted his company for who he was, not what he was born to; she wanted to be with Jashemi, not “the young lord.” Had they shared a womb together, been born at the same moment, he could not possibly care for her more.

That he was unable to say goodbye to her because of Yeshi’s scrutiny was agony. But he dared not jeopardize her further. Kevla had already suffered because of his carelessness; better not to see her than to arouse Yeshi’s wrath a second time.

This time, the ride across the desert to the Horserider Clan’s House was much less exciting to Jashemi. He was only going to greet death again; to deal it out, to watch it claim friends and perhaps family. Without anticipation, the long procession seemed endless.

The first night out, weary with the long ride, Jashemi fell asleep quickly.

The man was tall. His face was the color of goat’s milk and his eyes the color of the sky. His hair was as yellow as the sands. Jashemi had never seen a man that looked like him. He was obviously of high rank, as he was clean-shaven. Strange clothing adorned him, heavy and furred, as if he were somehow cold. When he breathed out, a white smoke encircled his head. He looked terribly sad, as if all the tragedies of the world had fallen on those broad shoulders. But there were laugh lines around his strange-hued eyes, and Jashemi liked him at once.

Jashemi heard a soft, low growl. His heart almost jumped into his throat as he beheld a simmar curled like a tame beast at the man’s feet. But such a strange simmar…its coat was not brown, but blue, and there were black and white stripes that ran along its body. The man leaned on a staff, and reached to pet the magnificent cat, then turned and looked straight at Jashemi.

“You should remember,” the man said, in a rich, pleasant voice. “You are a—”

Jashemi came awake with a spasm. He wiped his sweat-sheened face with a hand that trembled.

Even here, out in the desert, the dreams would not leave him be.

Tahmu wondered what was wrong with his son.

He was not sleeping well, that much was apparent, but Tahmu wanted to know why. Jashemi had not displayed sleeplessness on the previous raid, a time when he well might have been expected to. What, then, was troubling his heir?

On the third day of the journey, Tahmu took the opportunity to ride close to his son. As they talked about ordinary things, he glanced around to make sure they were far enough away so as not to be overheard. Halid was riding behind them, talking to some of the men, but he was out of earshot.

Satisfied that their conversation would be private, Tahmu gently inquired, “I notice that you have not been sleeping well, Jashemi. Can you tell me what keeps you awake?”

Jashemi colored slightly and did not meet his father’s eyes. “It is nothing, Father. Merely the toll of the ride.”

Tahmu shook his head. “Do not lie to me, my son. It is not that.”

Jashemi was silent for a time. Finally, hesitantly, he said, “I have…been having troubling dreams.”

Tahmu nodded. Of course. The child was having nightmares. He was young yet, and this was only his second raid.

“That is nothing to be ashamed of,” he reassured his son. “You have not yet seen enough battle so that it does not intrude upon your dreams.”

To his surprise, Jashemi shook his kerchiefed head. “It is not dreams of battle that trouble me, Father.”

For no reason, fear began to creep through the khashim’s veins. Keeping his voice steady, he inquired, “Then what is the nature of these dreams?”

Again, Jashemi hesitated before replying. Then he spoke quickly, as if now that the decision to speak of the dreams had been made the words must be uttered all at once.

“I dreamed that I was a young beggar boy, standing beside a khashima whose finery outstrips even my mother’s. We stood watching a darkness hovering on the horizon, a darkness that was about to completely swallow us. She told me that it might all fall to me, that I must not forget. But I don’t know what it was I was to remember! And there is sometimes a man as pale as milk with hair the color of sand, and a blue striped simmar crouches at his feet. Sometimes there is a sad-looking young woman, and a man who loves to laugh, and a horse that is not a horse, and someone all in shadows—”

“Enough!” Tahmu spoke in a whisper, but the fierceness of his voice silenced Jashemi at once. The fear that had been threatening now descended full force. He felt cold, although the day was hot. “You will not speak of this again. These are no ordinary dreams.”

“That much I know. But—”

“They are sent by the kulis. The demons want to confuse you, to tempt you to stray from the ways of our people. Why else would you have visions of people so unlike us? And if you are having dreams sent by the kulis, and you speak of them as you have to me, you have marked yourself. You know what the punishment is for the kuli-cursed.”

He looked at his son, searching the boy’s eyes. “If this comes out, I can only do so much to protect you. I am bound to the ways of the Arukani.”

Jashemi’s face was unreadable. “You would be bound to condemn me,” he said levelly, “just as you were bound to abandon my sister on the mountain.”

Tahmu sighed. “Yes. Just like that.”

“But what if the dreams aren’t being sent by kulis?” Jashemi demanded. “What if they are good, are somehow warnings?”

“I will not listen to this,” said Tahmu. He felt his entire being shutting down, closing up, withdrawing from even considering his son’s words. “Our family has suffered enough as it is. I will bring no more torment upon it.”

He kicked Swift, who snorted and bolted forward. Tahmu’s heart was pounding and his eyes filled with tears as he left his son in the dust.

The sun had not yet cleared the horizon when Kevla went to the corrals, a basket hanging on her arm. This was the least pleasant task of the day, and it was growing more unpleasant as time passed. With so many horses and sa’abahs gone from the House of Four Waters, there was not a great deal of dried droppings to be had for the fires. Kevla scowled as she gathered up what she could find. A sandcattle calf nuzzled her and she petted its soft nose absently.

“Who would have thought I would ever wish for more dung,” she told it, laughing a little.

Sahlik jokingly called the dried dung used for fuel “cakes.” Right now, there were more piles of steaming droppings than cakes, and what cakes there were weren’t terribly dry. Kevla wrinkled her nose as she brought them into the kitchens and began to set the fire.

It was early yet, and few people were in the kitchens. Most would not arrive until the fire was going well, their particular tasks requiring a steadily burning flame. Kevla began to strike sparks.

Nothing.

It was never an easy task, getting the cakes to burn at all, but today it seemed impossible. Again and again Kevla tried, striking spark after spark and blowing on it gently. But the cakes were simply too fresh and would not catch.

She heard the sounds of more people coming in behind her, talking in soft morning voices. Soon, they would need to begin baking and cooking.

She kept trying. Each time the spark would land on the cakes, flare for an instant, and then fizzle.

Suddenly, anger rushed through Kevla. Sahlik would chastise her for being tardy in getting the fires lit, and it wasn’t really her fault at all.

“Burn, curse you!” she whispered, glowering at the pile of dried droppings.

With a sharp crack, a flame licked upward. A heartbeat later, the fire burned as if it had been lit an hour ago.

Kevla gasped, staring at the fire. How could this be? One moment it was stubborn, moist cattle cakes and now—

She felt sick as the realization broke over her, and sat down hard on the stone. There was only one answer. She was kuli-cursed, despite Jashemi’s calm words. First the dreams, now this. No ordinary person could light a fire with a word.

The hand on her shoulder startled her. She looked up to see Sahlik smiling down at her.

“The cakes are not usually dry when the men go on raids,” Sahlik said approvingly. “You must have a way with fire.”

Swallowing, Kevla managed, “Yes. I must.”

She went through the chores of her day in a state of near-panic, glancing repeatedly at the merrily burning fire. When her day was done, she lay awake in her room all night, dreading sleep, fearing that the Great Dragon would come for her and bear her away to his lake of fire in the heart of MountBari. She was surely an abomination, and the Dragon dealt swiftly with such monstrosities.

And yet she did sleep, and the dream was exactly the same: the leaping flames, the bellowed question, “DO YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE?” It was terrifying—it was always terrifying—but there was no new frightening twist. Nor did the Dragon give any sign of leaving its home in MountBari to snatch up her waking self.

The next day, Kevla gathered the cakes with hands that trembled. She laid the fire and struck the spark. Again, the stubborn cakes refused to catch.

Kevla licked dry lips. Softly, she stared at the cakes and whispered, “Burn.”

As before, where there had only been a sullen smoldering, now there was a steadily burning fire.

Despite her fear, Kevla smiled.

As the days passed, Kevla gradually began to believe that the Dragon wasn’t going to punish her. Her skills seemed to be useful, not harmful. Each morning, she now lit the fire with ease, no matter how moist the cattle cakes were. Her room, which had previously grown chilly with the desert night, now became comfortably warm with a single word. She certainly didn’t feel like she was kuli-cursed.

One morning, Kevla lingered a little bit longer than usual gazing at the fire she had lit by merely saying, “Burn.” Its flickering flames always called to her, but this time, she seemed to see figures in the fire.

She blinked and rubbed her eyes. No, she was not imagining it. There was Jashemi! She smiled, happy just to see him. He seemed unaware of her presence, his expression troubled. He leaned forward, and the flames trembled. As he moved back, she saw that he held a stick. He had stirred his own fire with the stick, and Kevla had seen it at her fire.

From that moment on, Kevla seized every opportunity that came her way to gaze into the fire. Sometimes, she saw only flames. Other times she saw Sahlik, or Tahmu, or Yeshi. Sometimes she saw the faces of people she did not know at all; strangers somewhere, gazing into a fire, not knowing that the fire was gazing back at them.

The dreams intensified with each passing moon. The colors of the fire seemed brighter to her, the Dragon larger, more frightening. Senses other than sight and sound came into play; she could feel the heat of the flames, could smell the smoke, taste its acridness on her tongue. During the day, when she could think rationally about it, she wondered why the dreams never lost their terror. Surely, familiarity with what would unfold ought to lessen its impact.

But such was not the case. The dreams remained as alarming as ever, and each morning she awoke with her heart pounding as if she had been running all night.

The question the Dragon asked was always the same. Kevla never knew how to reply, but somehow she knew that, could she but manage the correct response, all the mysteries would have answers, and everything would fall into place.

She anxiously awaited Jashemi’s safe return. The Clan came home three moons later, victorious as usual, and the House was once again thrown into a flurry of activity. As a kitchen worker, Kevla was now on her feet almost all day long, sweating profusely in the heat, collapsing late at night only to rise and do the same thing the next day.

Kevla was forbidden to attend the family or guests; her low status demanded that she remain in the kitchens. Now and then, though, unable to resist, she peeked out hoping to catch Jashemi’s eye. They were halfway through the eight courses, having consumed dates and nuts, greens in oil and vinegar, fruit and cheese, and fowl in a glaze of fruit juice and garlic, when Sahlik bustled into the kitchen.

“The young master has taken ill,” she told Kevla. “The servers are all busy. Bring him up a platter in case he awakens hungry in the night.”

Kevla nodded as if this request was nothing special, but felt joy swell inside her. Moving casually, she arranged some light tidbits on a tray—fruit, nuts, cheese—and tried to disguise her eagerness as she ascended the stairs. A perfect plan—Yeshi would not leave the banquet hall for several more hours. They would have time to talk.

Trembling with anticipation, she knocked on the door. “Come,” said Jashemi in a weak voice. Suddenly fearful that he might really be ill and not feigning in order to see her, Kevla burst through the door.

“Jashemi, are you—”

He lounged on the made bed, fully clothed, grinning wickedly at her. Slightly annoyed, she stamped on the floor, and he laughed aloud. Kevla couldn’t stay angry with him. She set the tray on a small table, fighting a grin herself.

“You enjoyed scaring me like that,” she accused.

“I had to sound convincing, in case Sahlik wasn’t able to send you,” he replied. “But I confess, the look on your face was most entertaining.”

They smiled at one another for a moment, then Jashemi’s grin faded.

“Was it bad?” Kevla whispered.

He shrugged, looking down at his hands. “Not as bad as the first time,” he said. “Father says you get used to it.”

Kevla winced at the hollow tone of his voice. She didn’t want Jashemi to grow into a man who had “become used” to taking lives. She didn’t think Jashemi did, either. But he had no choice.

“It’s not the—the killing that troubles me, not this time,” he continued, still looking at his fingers. He took a deep breath and raised his eyes. They seemed to bore into Kevla’s soul.

“Before I left, you spoke of dreams. Are you still having them?”

She nodded. “Yes. The same dream. Every night.”

“You have told no one?” At her look, he smiled a little. “That was a foolish question. Of course not.” The smile faded. “I was not so wise.”

She cocked her head. “You have been having dreams, too?”

He nodded. “Dreams in which I am a beggar boy, standing beside a great khashima. There is something I am supposed to remember, to prevent something dreadful from happening, but I don’t know what it is. And other dreams. I see strange people, Kevla, people who look nothing like you and I. Their hair is yellow, and their faces are pale as milk. They have mighty creatures at their command—blue striped simmars, strange horses, dogs with wings. I can make sense of none of it. I confided in Father, who fears that I am kuli-cursed. As you feared you were.”

Kevla felt cold. He did not know, yet, about her newly discovered ability with fire. She licked her lips and waited for him to continue.

“I don’t know what they mean, but somehow I know they’re not from the kulis. Nor, I think, are your dreams. Father told me to never mention them again. He fears he would have to denounce me.”

Kevla gasped. “He wouldn’t!”

“He would. He would have to, if it became general knowledge.”

“Then you must never speak of it,” she said promptly.

“Except to you. I can tell you anything.”

Her heart swelled at the words, and she realized that it was time for her to confide her own secret.

“I have something to tell you, too,” she said. “Or rather show you.” She rose and went to the small brazier. A small bundle of dried grasses lay inside, more for decoration than for any real light or heat. She stood in front of it, her heart racing. She desperately hoped she was right, that the power of their bond would stretch to accommodate even this.

“I’ve been having more than dreams,” she said, meeting his eyes evenly. “I have been able to…to do things.” She pointed at the bundle.

“Burn,” she said.

At once, the grasses burst into flame, burning quickly, writhing and turning to black soot within seconds. Jashemi stared, open-mouthed, and did not speak. Kevla’s heart sank. She had misjudged him. He would scream and they would come for her and—

“When did this start?” His voice was astoundingly calm, although his still-wide eyes betrayed his shock.

“A few days after you left,” she whispered. “I was having trouble getting a fire started, and I said, ‘Burn, curse you,’ and this happened.” She gestured at the dying fire. “I can make the room warmer, too. Jashemi, I’m scared! I don’t know what’s happening to me!”

He looked at her searchingly and then held out his arms. For a moment, she could not move. They had crossed one barrier when she had embraced him in the caverns. Now, if she permitted him to hold and comfort her, they would cross another. Slowly, she went to him, and his arms closed gently around her. She could smell the sweet oils mixed with sweat on his skin, feel the warmth emanating from his slim boy’s body as she rested her head on his chest. Kevla closed her eyes and accepted.

“I don’t know what’s happening to either of us, Kevla. But at least, we have each other.” He folded her even closer. “We will always have each other.”

Chapter Thirteen

S trange, Sahlik thought as she bent to stir the pot that hung over the fire, how fast the years fly when one is old.

It did not seem so long ago that Kevla had arrived at the House of Four Waters as a skinny, big-eyed girl of ten. Now, Sahlik rose and regarded the woman that girl had become.

Kevla had blossomed like a desert flower when given proper food and shelter. The long, lustrous black hair was still kept in a braid, but that was the only resemblance between girl and woman.

The once-scrawny child was now almost as tall as her father and brother. Despite the best efforts of the seamstress to create clothing that disguised Kevla’s figure, it was apparent to anyone with eyes that beneath the shapeless rhia was a body that was slender yet ripe with womanly curves at hip and breast. Her face was exquisite, almost as perfect in its proportions as a carved statue’s. But no statue could match the beauty of Kevla’s face when it lit up in a smile.

Had Kevla been the khashim’s legitimate daughter, she would have had suitors clamoring for her hand from sunrise to sunrise. Had she even been permitted to continue in Yeshi’s service as a handmaiden, it was likely she would have been well-matched despite the stigma of Bai-sha. As it was, the men looked, the men lusted, but there was no talk of marriage.

Nor did Kevla express interest in such things. She appeared content in her role as low-caste servant, moving with grace from chore to chore. It seemed enough for her to have Sahlik and her work.

And, of course, Jashemi.

The youth had matured into a younger version of his father, with Tahmu’s wise, dark eyes. He was, if such a thing was possible, even handsomer than his father had been at that age, his features softened by Yeshi’s blood in him. Sahlik thought it odd that he had not yet been betrothed, but soon enough he would come of age, and then such matters would have to be addressed. Sahlik wondered how Kevla would react when she had to share Jashemi’s attention.

There were moments when Sahlik wondered if conspiring with the two siblings was the right thing to do. They thrived on one another’s company as if the moments together were meat and drink to them both. They were intelligent enough to be discreet in their clandestine meetings, but the keenness of their desire for one another was almost overwhelming to behold. Sahlik was confident that nothing improper was happening between the two young people; although Kevla did not know her parentage, Jashemi did, and Sahlik trusted him to respect such a profound taboo.

Still, sometimes it troubled her. But then she thought of how miserable the two would be if she did not assist them, and all thoughts of abandoning them evaporated like water under the sun. Things were hard enough on the poor creatures. Let them enjoy what they had while they could.

Holding that thought, Sahlik said, “Kevla, we are out of fresh mint and parsley for the stew. Go and gather some from Maluu—from Asha’s garden.” Maluuk had died in his sleep a few months ago, and it was still hard for Sahlik to think of young Asha as the Clan’s healer.

Kevla kept her face neutral, but could not hide a brief flash of delight in her beautiful brown eyes.

“Yes, Sahlik.” With a rustle of cloth, she was gone.

Sahlik watched her go, and as she did every time she sent Kevla off to meet Jashemi, said a brief prayer for both children’s safety.

Asha had left several hours ago, when a falcon had come with a note requesting his aid. The Clan of Four Waters was spread over much territory, and Asha served all the Clanspeople. Jashemi didn’t know and didn’t care who Asha was assisting. He only cared that he and Kevla now had a time and place to meet.

He paced inside the little hut. Its familiar scents and decorations sang to him of the time when Kevla had first come through that door and he had taught her how to play Shamizan. He had the board and pieces now, just in case they had time for a game. He held it with hands that were sweaty, and he was aware that his heart was racing.

Was this how it was with other brothers and sisters? This sharp, almost painful pleasure? This anticipation that made one nervous and elated, made one’s throat dry and one’s palms moist? He could only guess. Perhaps the fact that he was forbidden Kevla’s company made their time together sweeter, but he could not imagine a moment when he would not be delighted to see her.

For the hundredth time, he peered out the window. This time he saw her, and his heart surged. She was coming up the little hill at a quick pace, not daring to run lest she draw undue attention. She carried a small scythe in one hand and a basket in the other.

Gathering herbs was the excuse today, then. They must make sure she did not forget.

She pushed open the door and then closed it. Her eyes sparkled with pleasure. “I encountered no one,” she said in answer to his unasked question.

“We should still keep away from the windows,” Jashemi said, placing a hand on her back and leading her to the center of the room. He gazed fondly down at her. She was wearing an older rhia today, one that did not fit her well, and as he stood close to her, still touching her back, his eyes traveled down her throat to her breasts. He was suddenly, sharply aware of the headiness of her scent, of the curve of her body beneath his hand, of his instinctive masculine response.

His fingers tightened against her back as heat flooded him, a fierce combination of desire and shame. Quickly, he stepped away, hoping she was unaware of what had just happened. Her own face was flushed and her eyes bright. She too seemed uncomfortable suddenly, and looked away quickly. She didn’t know what Jashemi knew, of course. She only knew that she was a servant, and he the heir to a mighty Clan.

To end the awkwardness, Jashemi rumpled her hair as he had done when she was younger. She giggled, and when she looked up at him, it was with the old affection.

Good. Very good.

“You are to harvest herbs,” Jashemi said, indicating her tools. “It should not take long. Do you have time for a game of Shamizan?”

“I always have time to win against you,” she replied with an engaging smirk.

He grinned back. All was well between them, again.

As always, time with Kevla, however brief, buoyed Jashemi. But when he ran lightly up the stairs to his room, he overheard something that bled delight out of him. His parents, their voices raised in argument.

He had known for many years that his parents were bound by law and clan tradition, but not by love. He had accepted that, and the older he grew, the more he saw that such was the norm. But ever since Yeshi’s second child had been born so ominously marked, there had been a gulf between the khashima and her family. There were few arguments between her and Jashemi for the simple reason that they barely spoke. But khashim and khashima could not indulge in such an easy solution, and over the years, the strife had escalated.

Unaware that he did so, Jashemi ducked his head, as if trying to pull his ears into his body so that he could not hear. His shoulders hunched and he quickened his pace. He could not understand the words, but he did not need to. The tone, especially his mother’s, was sufficient.

The sick discomfort turned to anger. His time with Kevla was so rare and so precious, and all the joy it had brought him had been chased away by those sharp, raised voices. He could think of nothing worse they could have done to him.

Kevla, too, was not unaware of the growing tensions between the great lord and the great lady. Although she was no longer one of Yeshi’s handmaidens, servants gossiped, and sometimes her duties took her within hearing of Yeshi’s once-melodious, now-harsh voice. At such times, she made haste to finish whatever duty she had been charged with; to cross Yeshi’s path when she was speaking so would be to invite disaster. She thought back to her suspicions that Yeshi was taking lovers, and wondered if it were still so.

It was a searingly hot morning as Kevla prepared a basket to take to Asha. The young healer preferred to have his meals delivered to him at daybreak and midday, joining the other servants only for the evening meal. She was heading out to his hut when she heard raised voices. Or rather, a raised voice—Yeshi’s. She ducked back into a corridor as the mistress of the household stormed past.

“Foolish girl!” Kevla jumped at the sharp crack of palm striking flesh. “This stain will never come out!”

“Yes, it will, great lady, if I have to scrub it until my fingers bleed.” Sharu, the little five-score, fear and pleading in her voice. Kevla felt a stab of pity for the girl.

“As if blood on the cloth will make it better. You are clumsy and lazy. Your five years of service are over, why are you still here troubling me so! Go to Tahmu and get your last score and leave this house by nightfall.”

A sharp intake of breath and a little sob. “Great lady, I beg you, give me a chance to—”

“Another word from that ugly little mouth and I will have you beaten as well.”

Silence. Quick, angry footsteps. A soft cry, a sniffle, and then slow, bare footsteps in the opposite direction.

Although Sharu had been Yeshi’s spy and taken Kevla’s place, Kevla could not find it in her to resent the girl. She was just trying to survive. Kevla, who had danced on a street corner extolling the sexual skills of her own mother, could understand that. She had no idea what Sharu had done to so offend Yeshi, but expected that it was no great crime.

Deep in thought, she made her way to Asha’s hut. She placed the basket of roasted fowl, bread and dates on a small stone, rapped on the door, and walked slowly back to the House. An idea was taking shape.

That night, she sat alone in her small room. She had gathered some sandcattle cakes and even a few sticks, so that the fire would burn longer. She was nervous at what she was about to do, but resolute.

She laid the fire in the small fireplace, and said quietly, “Burn.”

Kevla was no longer startled or amazed by the fire that leaped into being at her verbal command. She stared into the fire, letting her vision soften around the edges. Faces and images started to form in the flame.

“Show me Yeshi,” she whispered.

At first, there was nothing. Then the flames shimmered and twisted, reforming into a familiar face.

She had done it. She had ordered the flames to show her a specific person, and they had obeyed. She grinned a little, flushed with her achievement, then concentrated.

There was another figure. Kevla blinked and rubbed at her eyes, striving to distinguish features. But the flame was not as exact as the eye, and as the two lovers embraced the image became blurred. She wondered if her little fire was too small. Perhaps if she had a larger fire, she could see more detail.

But how would she do so? It was hard enough to have a fire in her room at all. She could try to see in the larger fires in the kitchen, but Yeshi would not be with her lover during those times.

Kevla sighed and poured water on the small fire to extinguish it. She would simply have to keep trying.

And so she did, every night for the next several nights. She was embarrassed at doing so, but she felt certain that it was important. The fire was limiting in that it only showed Kevla images that were directly in front of it. If Yeshi were in her bed, the fire would not show her. Only when Yeshi and her lover passed directly before the fireplace in the bedroom she shared with Tahmu did the flames reveal the two to Kevla, and that did not happen every time Kevla scried. And never did Yeshi’s lover obligingly turn to look fully into the fire. Kevla couldn’t even tell if she saw one man or many, only that she was certain none of them was Tahmu.

About two weeks after she had begun her nightly observation, as she blushingly watched Yeshi and her lover entwined before their fireplace, Kevla realized she could understand words. That was something new—up until this point she could only see people in the fire, not hear them. She bent forward, her ears straining for anything of import. Her blushing increased as she realized that the two lovers were not speaking of anything Kevla needed to hear, only murmuring endearments and crude words. If only Yeshi would speak her lover’s name!

Some nights, Yeshi slept alone. Sometimes, she accepted Tahmu’s caresses. On such nights, Kevla quickly ended her spying.

More time passed. Still Kevla learned nothing useful, and she grew to find the activity extremely distasteful. But then, something happened while Tahmu was away that vindicated her gut instinct that Yeshi needed to be watched.

The great lady and her lover were finished by the time Kevla sat down to observe. Kevla was grateful for that, even with the indistinct images the flame showed her. The man sat behind Yeshi and brushed her hair. Again, his face was too indistinct for Kevla to make out his features. He was bearded, of course; all the men wore beards save Tahmu and Jashemi. He was large and muscular, and Yeshi sometimes winced as he attended her. Kevla couldn’t help but think that if any of her handmaidens had pulled her hair so often, Yeshi would have had them beaten.

“I like it when he is gone to a far corner of the land,” said Yeshi. “We can take our time.”

The man planted a kiss on Yeshi’s naked shoulder. “It is still too short a time to lie with you, my beloved. A lifetime would be too short.”

Kevla inhaled swiftly. She had heard that voice before, but where? She felt certain that she knew this man.

Yeshi did not reply, only continued gazing into the fire. Her lover moved on to rubbing her neck. She sighed and leaned against him.

“I can offer you no more than a lifetime,” she said, “but we will have at least that. Have you thought more on it?”

Kevla was lost. There was no way to legally sever a marriage in Arukan. How, then, could Yeshi offer this man a lifetime with her?

“I have,” the man replied. “It will be difficult but I think we can manage it.”

“It would be best if you were nowhere near,” Yeshi said.

“It would be best if neither of us was near,” he replied. “That narrows our options.”

“Time is growing short, too,” Yeshi added. She looked younger, softer in the firelight, but there was nothing soft about her next words.

“We must kill Tahmu soon.”

Kevla barely slept. The dreams came as they always did, but frightening as they were, her memories of what she had overheard terrified Kevla even more.

What to do? She could not accuse Yeshi, not without proof. Nor, she admitted, even with proof, not as low-caste as she was. She supposed she could tell Sahlik. But how would she explain how she came by the knowledge? She could not tell anyone about her abilities, even though she had learned something urgent and important through them.

There was only one person in whom she could confide, and she desperately hoped they would have time together soon.

She spent every waking moment in a state of heightened awareness, wondering if today would be the day when Yeshi and her unknown lover would strike. It did not matter to her if Tahmu were in the House or not, because until she knew who Yeshi’s lover was, she had no idea how close he was to Tahmu.

The Great Dragon seemed to have no interest in Kevla’s waking torments. Each night, it demanded, “DO YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE?” And she continued to have no answer for it.

She stood again in the ring of fire, quaking in terror before the Dragon’s overwhelming presence, when suddenly she bolted awake to find Jashemi sitting beside her on the floor.

“I am sorry to come in the night like this,” he said, “but it has been so long since I saw you, and there seemed no other way.”

They both took up a great deal more space on the floor of the tiny room than they had when they were children, and were forced to sit close together. Kevla sat up and clasped her hands about her knees.

“I’m glad you came,” she said. “I have learned something awful, and I don’t know what to do about it.”

“What?”

“I have told you that I can see in the flame. See into other fires, and into the faces of those who sit around those fires.” Her tongue would not cooperate and her mouth clamped shut of its own accord. How to tell this to Yeshi’s son?

Gently, Jashemi urged, “Go on.”

“I think I should have told you this earlier, but I thought no good would come of it if I did.” She took a deep breath. “When I was still a handmaiden, I suspected Yeshi was taking lovers. Now, I am certain. I have seen them. Together.”

Jashemi went very still. The moon was still close to new and there was little light. She was glad of that. She did not want to see the pain on his face.

Finally, he said, “I have suspected the same myself. I had hoped I was wrong. It could mean her life if Father learns of it. Do you know who it is?”

Kevla shook her head. “Scrying by the fire is difficult. It’s unclear at best, and the man never looks directly into the flames so I can see his face. But the voice seems familiar, though I can’t identify it. Jashemi, there’s more,” she blurted. “The other night, I saw them sitting together and they were talking—talking about killing Tahmu.”

“What?”

She shushed him frantically, fearing that his outburst would draw attention. For the first time she was grateful that her small room was so far away from the other living areas. Quickly, in a hushed voice, she recounted the conversation.

“You’re sure of this?”

She nodded miserably. “The words are branded in my head,” she said. “I’ve been sick with worry. You’re the only one I could tell.”

He was silent. Gently, tentatively, she touched his arm. “I’m so sorry, Jashemi. I wish this weren’t so.”

“Kevla…” he said slowly, “you don’t think…you are certain…You are certain your power is true? Perhaps you are seeing something that doesn’t really exist.”

“Do you think I’m a demon, then?” She hadn’t meant the statement to sound so challenging, but his words hurt her deeply. He softened at once, and impulsively stroked her cheek.

“Of course not. I shouldn’t have said that.” A soft moan escaped his lips and he buried his face in his hands. “If only you knew who it was,” he said, his voice thick with pain.

“Maybe we can find out. I have an idea….”

Chapter Fourteen

T ahmu lazed in the cool water, letting it caress his body and wash away the dirt and aches of a hard day of riding. Sa’abahs were more comfortable than horses, but he had been riding since daybreak and it was nearly dusk. He was growing older and his body preferred beds to hard-packed desert soil.

He heard footsteps coming down the stairs and turned to see who it was. He smiled when he saw Jashemi.

“Have you come to join me in the waters, my son?”

“Indeed I have, Father, unless you wish to be alone.”

“I always have time for you.” The words were sincere. There had been a distance between them since Jashemi had spoken to Tahmu of his dreams. Jashemi had said nothing more about them since then and Tahmu desperately hoped the troubling dreams had ceased.

Jashemi stripped off his rhia and stepped into the cool water. He sank beneath the surface, then sat beside his father on the stone steps. The silence that fell between them was awkward, but Tahmu waited for Jashemi to break it.

“My birth festival is approaching,” Jashemi said at last. Tahmu nodded. Jashemi would be turning twenty, the age at which an Arukani youth became a man. The Waiting would then begin, and within six months the Acknowledgment would occur. At that time, Jashemi would come into his own as heir. He would not receive all of his father’s land, wealth or prestige, but much of it would be granted to him at that time.

“I have a request,” Jashemi continued. “I would like to make the ceremony open to all members of the Clan and their servants. Even five-scores.”

“We will be gathering everyone together for the Acknowledgment in six more months. They will not like having to make the trek twice.”

“I know,” his son said. “But I would like to do this.”

“Why?”

“Perhaps we can change things around,” Jashemi said, which was not an answer to the question. “Perhaps we can have everyone come for the birthday celebration instead.”

Tahmu regarded his offspring with a mixture of affection and exasperation. Where had this streak of defiance come from? Why was Jashemi so bent on changing things, on defying—

And then he thought of a youth much like Jashemi, who had been hotheaded and passionate and set on much greater acts of defiance. Jashemi-kha-Tahmu had had bad dreams a few years ago, and now he wanted to change the order in which the Clan came to honor him. Tahmu-kha-Rakyn had wanted to marry a low-caste woman and had brought their Bai-sha child into the House of Four Waters. Who was he to judge his son?

Sighing, he said, “It can be done, but we will need to send falcons out tomorrow. Such a journey requires time to prepare, and we must make it as simple as possible for our people to obey. You are certain you must have it this way?”

Jashemi turned to face him. He smiled, but there was something sad in his eyes. “I have never been more certain of anything in my life,” he said.

As he regarded his son and thought about the upcoming celebration, Tahmu realized that there were things he and Jashemi had never discussed; things that a father needed to tell his son.

“You are about to become a man according to the laws of our people,” he said. “Soon after that, you will take a wife.”

Jashemi’s expression was unreadable. “I am not unaware of my duties to the Clan.”

“It is not always a duty,” Tahmu said. “With the right woman, it can be joyful.”

“Forgive me for saying this, Father, but it seems to me from what you have told me that you know of both joy and duty, but not with the same woman.”

Tahmu could not deny the truth of the statement. Instead he replied, “Let us hope that your mother finds you a wife with whom you can share both. Have you…lain with a woman?”

“No.” The answer was short and harsh. Tahmu thought this just as well. He had fallen in love with the first woman he had lain with, and her face had haunted him ever since. “But don’t worry. I know what needs to be done to get a child, Father.”

“Producing an heir is important,” said Tahmu, “but there is more to it than that. There is…tenderness, and pleasure.”

Jashemi sighed and then laughed. “I sense you will not let me leave until you have told me what you think I need to know.”

Tahmu, too, laughed, and the tension between them eased. “I would feel better if I sent you to your wife’s bed with a little knowledge, that much is true.”

Still chuckling, Jashemi replied, “Speak then, and I will listen like a dutiful son.”

So Tahmu shared what he knew about pleasuring a woman; where they liked to be touched, when to be gentle and when to be forceful. As he spoke, he thought of Keishla and the tender, too-brief time they had shared.

True to his word, Jashemi listened patiently. Emotions flickered over his face, but Tahmu could not interpret them. He asked no questions. When he had finished, Jashemi searched his father’s face, as if trying to memorize it.

“Thank you, Father,” he said formally, ducked underneath the water once more, then got out. “Enjoy your bath. I will see you at dinner.”

As Tahmu watched his son ascend the stairs with a quick step, he wondered, half-ruefully, if all fathers felt as puzzled by their son’s behavior as he.

Tahmu made the announcement at dinner that night. He did not inform Yeshi beforehand; he was in no mood for an argument before dinner, and he knew he would get one. He seemed to get an argument from Yeshi if he suggested that the sun might rise in the morning and set in the evening.

She was wise enough not to publicly contradict her husband, but the look she gave both Jashemi and Tahmu was openly hostile. She did venture, as she reached languidly for a piece of fruit, “Husband, do you truly believe there is time to notify all so they may come prepared?”

“The hawks will fly tomorrow,” he said.

“And, Mother,” Jashemi interjected, “my birthday comes at a quiet time. The Acknowledgment will be in the midst of Second Harvest season. Our people will appreciate not having to let the fruits of their hard labor feed animals instead of their families.”

Tahmu gave his son an admiring look. “Well spoken, Jashemi,” he said. This had not occurred to him, but it was true. It would indeed be better to hold the ceremony sooner rather than later. Jashemi wasn’t thinking like a hotheaded youth. He was thinking of his people’s ease and comfort—thinking like a future khashim. Proud of his son, Tahmu clapped a hand on the boy’s shoulder.

Yeshi glowered.

Yet again, the House of Four Waters began preparing for the descent of hundreds of people. This time, though, the gathering would be a purely celebratory occasion. No one would be riding off to a raid, perhaps never to return. Still, the event brought with it its own unique set of challenges. They would need places for the elderly, women, children, and servants to sleep, not merely healthy men of a certain age. Tahmu rode into the river valleys, asking higher-caste men if they would open their homes to other Clanspeople from far away. They would do as their khashim ordered, of course, but a personal request and thanks from their lord would ease the burden somewhat.

Kevla, as usual at times like this, was worked hard. But she went through her chores with composure and a sense of achievement. This was exactly what she and Jashemi wanted, and it could result in saving Tahmu’s life.

They started trickling in several days before the actual date of the ceremony. Kevla knew that the Clan was large, but as the days passed and more and more throngs of people descended, she began to wonder how many people actually called themselves members of the Clan of Four Waters. She asked Sahlik, who chuckled and replied, “Soon as count the hairs on your head, child. I can think of at least two hundred who are high-caste enough to be known to me. And they have families and servants of their own.”

Kevla doubted that Clan members were as numerous as the hairs on one’s head, but she understood Sahlik’s reference. The numbers were constantly shifting, and whatever their eventual total, it was large.

Finally, the day arrived. Kevla and Jashemi had not had a chance to speak since they had come up with their plan, but at that time, they had worked most of it out. Kevla felt certain that if anything had happened to disrupt what they had planned, the resourceful Jashemi would have found a way to contact her. She was wide-awake long before the first summoning blast of the shakaal sounded, already in the kitchens tending the fire with the other servants.

Most of the food would not need to be cooked, because there would be no one to cook it as everyone, including the lowest servants, was required to appear before the khashimu today. While it would satisfy hunger, the feast would be light: breads baked yesterday, fruits, raw vegetables, and stews that could be left to slowly simmer all day long.

For the first time in her life, Kevla was grateful for the fact that she was Bai-sha. She would be among the last to come before Jashemi and pledge loyalty and devotion—which meant that she could remain alone in the kitchen, gaze into the fire and see and hear nearly everyone else who came before her.

She and Jashemi had decided that Yeshi would never take anyone low-caste as a lover. So that meant that the unknown man who shared Yeshi’s bed whenever her husband was away was most likely of high rank, perhaps among the highest in the Clan. Kevla recalled Yeshi’s repeated flirtation with Bahrim, and Jashemi sourly put forth several other likely candidates. Even the fact that the voice seemed familiar did not narrow the list much; Kevla had attended Yeshi at many important functions and had heard nearly every high-ranking uhlal address her lady at one time or another. Kevla desperately hoped that she would recognize him when she saw him. If this plan failed…It did not bear thinking about.

Jashemi had woken several hours ago, and per custom had descended into the caverns alone to bathe. He ducked under the water twenty times, once for each year he had been alive, and rubbed specially consecrated oils into his smooth brown skin until the sweet, spicy fragrance filled his nostrils and his body gleamed in the torchlight. Normally, he would be attended as he prepared for important gatherings, but today he was strictly left alone. The ceremony was centered around Jashemi entering adulthood; no one made such a passage in the company of others.

He was glad of this custom, as his thoughts were racing and time to himself was welcome. He let the oils dry on his skin, going over every step of the ceremony and looking for places where something might go wrong. The only problem would be if Kevla did not recognize the man, or if somehow the fire was extinguished. He took a deep breath and calmed his mind. Fortunately, everyone would expect him to be slightly nervous on this day.

He touched his arms, and found them sufficiently dry. It was time to don the ritual clothing. The garments were waiting for him in a basket, so white that they almost seemed to glow of their own accord.

For a moment, he panicked. What was the order? What were the words? Ah, yes, he remembered.

First the sandals. He slipped them on, taking a moment to feel the softness of the tanned leather against his skin. Closing his eyes, he intoned softly: “I am a man. If the Dragon wills, my feet will walk leagues for the Clan of Four Waters.”

Next, the breeches. They were soft as a whisper against his thighs as he donned them. What in the world had the weavers done, to create fabric as strong but seemingly delicate as this? He spoke the ritual words: “I am a man. If the Dragon wills, my kurja will sire many sons for the Clan of Four Waters.”

Now, the rhia, embroidered with golden thread that seemed to twist like a snake in the flickering torchlight. He slipped it over his head, feeling the fabric caress his skin.

“I am a man. If the Dragon wills, my shoulders will carry great burdens for the Clan of Four Waters.”

Finally, the head covering, light as a falcon’s feather. He wound its length around his head, tucking it in here, letting it trail there.

“I am a man. If the Dragon wills, my thoughts will be always with the Clan of Four Waters.”

The ritual calmed him and redirected his mind. This was more than a ruse to discover the identity of Yeshi’s lover. This was the day he became a man, with all the joys, burdens, privileges and sorrows it entailed.

He had come down the stairs as a youth. He eyed them now as they stretched upward toward the surface. Jashemi straightened. He recalled all the times he had come here as a boy, most poignantly when he had wept in Kevla’s arms for both of the sisters whom he could never acknowledge. He looked down at his body, clad in gleaming white fabric. He beheld muscular thighs, a flat belly, powerful chest and arms. He touched a face that needed shaving to be smooth with hands that had dealt lethal blows.

Not the body of a boy, not anymore.

Again, Jashemi looked at the steps. Deliberately, he strode toward them, feeling the muscles work as he moved, taking each step with the full inner knowledge that at the top of the stairs, where a boy had descended, a man would emerge.

The blast of the shakaal startled Kevla so much that she nicked her hand. She jumped and brought the injured finger to her mouth.

“It is time to assemble,” Sahlik said to her servants. “Kevla, are you all right? Let me see the cut.”

“It is nothing,” Kevla said, extending her finger so that Sahlik could examine the thin slice. It was already closing. “Sahlik, I will stay and watch the stews and keep preparing for the feast.”

Sahlik searched her brown eyes. “You are a member of the Clan of Four Waters just as much as any of us, child. You will need to honor the future khashim.”

Kevla wished she could tell Sahlik the truth, but both she and Jashemi had felt it was risky. Even Sahlik might quail at the thought of a serving girl who could scry in the fire.

“I am Bai-sha,” she said bluntly. “I will be among the last to honor the young master.”

Sahlik’s face softened. “You will be among the last, that is true.” She glanced over at the bubbling pot and pursed her lips. “It will be many hours before I can return,” she said thoughtfully. “If you would stay for a while and then come out, that would be a great help.”

“I am happy to serve,” Kevla murmured. Sahlik eyed her curiously for a moment, then left to join the others.

When she was certain she was alone, Kevla went to one of the fireplaces. Quickly laying a few sandcattle cakes in it, she said, “Burn.” The fire appeared at once, blazing brightly.

Kevla swallowed. She had never tried this before. Her voice quavering slightly, she said, “Burn a little brighter.”

The fire did so, and she breathed a sigh of relief. She had half feared she would burn the kitchen down, but while this size was far too large to cook on, it served Kevla’s purpose well.

She seated herself in front of the fire, and watched it intently.

The raised dais had been built only a few days ago, but was as sturdy as if it were a permanent structure. Jashemi sat alone at the top; his father stood at the bottom of the wooden stairs. Tomorrow, they would resume their traditional roles, but today, Jashemi was the center of attention and honor, and even Tahmu deferred to him as the “future” khashim.

Jashemi looked out at the sea of faces, all turned expectantly toward him, and gripped the arms of his chair tightly to calm himself. He knew his father was a good leader. He had seen Tahmu hold his own in both battle and debate, but now his throat was dry and he wondered how Tahmu projected calm and confidence when faced with a crowd of this size. Thank the Great Dragon, Jashemi would not have to say anything, but simply sitting in the chair was intimidating enough.

He waited for the signal, one long blast from the shakaal followed by three shorter blasts. He swallowed hard, and then lifted his hand. The rite had begun.

Tahmu, as the highest-ranking member of the Clan, was the first to acknowledge Jashemi’s passage to adulthood. He stood at the bottom of the steps and bowed deeply, then ascended. Before he could greet the future khashim, Tahmu, like all the Clan, would have to greet the Elements.

Each step had a symbol of the element. There were five in all, Earth, Air, Fire, Water, and Spirit. The last step would put the Clansman directly at the feet of his future lord.

Tahmu took the first step. He leaned down and lifted the sizable rock that represented the element of Earth. He said nothing, but closed his eyes as if turning his attention inward, then replaced the rock. Others, Jashemi knew, would not be strong enough to lift the rock and would merely touch its rough surface with reverence.

The wing of a falcon lay on the next step. Tahmu picked it up, and swung it through the air, creating a brief, gentle breeze. Air was thus honored.

The third step had a brazier of coals next to a large pile of quick-burning twigs. Tahmu gathered a handful and dropped them into the brazier. The flames leaped up, and he gazed steadily into their light, not shrinking from the sudden heat, until the flames had burned themselves down to coals once again. Jashemi’s heart sped up a little as he watched his father stare into the flames. It would be at this moment, when he gazed into the fire, that Yeshi’s lover would reveal himself to Kevla.

Or so Jashemi desperately hoped.

His honoring of Fire complete, Tahmu took the next step. He dipped his fingers into a large ceramic bowl and sprinkled the precious Water on his face.

Spirit had no representation, because it was nothing solid. There was only a white circle painted on the next to last step, indicating where the supplicant would stand. Tahmu stepped into the white circle, and closed his eyes in concentration as he had done with the previous four Elements.

Now, he took the last step, and knelt before his son on a red and blue embroidered cushion. He spoke in soft tones, so that no one would overhear.

“You are a man today, my son. No father could be prouder of his child than I of you.” He smiled gently, and Jashemi felt a lump well in his throat. Then, Tahmu’s smile widened mischievously.

“Endure the heat as best you may—both from the sun and from those who approach you.”

Jashemi felt his lips twitch as he suppressed a grin.

“I will step in if you need me. If you feel uncomfortable, look at me and nod imperiously.” He winked, then bowed again and descended the second set of steps on Jashemi’s left. He resumed his position at the foot of the steps and looked at the next supplicant who came forward.

Yeshi gazed steadily back at him, then she centered herself and greeted the representations of the Elements. She moved fluidly, observing all the proper etiquette, and yet Jashemi sensed that she was observing the form but not the substance.

When she knelt before him and he took her soft hands in his, she looked up at him. For a moment, their old connection was there.

Anxious to hold on to that instant, he squeezed her hands and opened his mouth to speak. But before words could escape his lips, Yeshi said in a flat voice, “Today my son is a man, with a man’s responsibilities. Today his mother is but another woman in his life.”

She rose and went down the stairs, back straight. He watched her go, feeling hollowness in his heart, the deep ache of regret. Then he faced forward again. Yeshi had made it plain how she wished things to be between them. He would not shame himself by begging.

The next person to ascend was Halid, Tahmu’s Second. Halid honored all the elements as Tahmu had, then knelt before Jashemi and clasped the khashimu’s hands.

“I hope to someday serve you as well as I have served your father. You are worthy to succeed him.”

He knew he shouldn’t extend the moment by speaking—it was going to be an achingly long day—but Jashemi said, “The Clan has been honored by your service. I will sleep better knowing you will be at my side, as you have been by my father’s.”

Nodding, Halid descended the stairs.

Jashemi felt the sun begin to beat down as the morning drew on, and was grateful for the coolness the white clothing provided. Three had pledged. At least two hundred more remained.

Jashemi sighed inwardly, and forced a smile as the next uhlal made his ascent. The day was going to be very, very long.

The sun grew higher, baking those gathered beneath its harsh glare. Jashemi drank at least a dozen full waterskins and ate only fruit, for the moisture. Some took only a few minutes; others, overcome with the opportunity to speak to the khashimu, took several. Every now and then, Jashemi would glance at his father, looking as imperious as possible, and Tahmu would encourage the supplicant to hasten his speech.

So many! The full import of what his father did settled on Jashemi in a way he had never experienced. All these lives, relying on their khashim, trusting Tahmu to guide them wisely and well. A grave responsibility.

Finally, the higher-ranking castes and their families gave way to lower. As the sun settled down toward sleep and blessed coolness began to tinge the air, the servants came forward. Jashemi had begun the day nervous and excited. Now he was weary, hungry, and thirsty, and wanted nothing more than to bathe in the caverns and then crawl into bed. It was difficult to even summon courteous interest as the servants bent over his feet, but then he saw something that brought him fully alert.

In the back, at the very end of the line, stood Kevla.

She was veiled, of course, and had her hair properly covered. But he knew it was her. He would know her slender, full form, her carriage, anywhere.

Had she learned what they hoped she would? Now Jashemi was even more impatient to be done with the ceremony, but he knew that each person who came up the stairs had value to him and to the Clan. He tried to return his attention to his duty, but he kept glancing back as the line grew shorter and Kevla, scorned servant and Bai-sha, his half sister and dearest person in the world to him, drew closer.

She trembled as she greeted the Elements, and once she nearly stumbled as the fire seemed to burn more brightly at her approach. Jashemi had to grip the arms of his chair to keep from going to her assistance. Finally, she made it and fell to a huddled heap at his feet. It was more difficult even than he had imagined to keep his face impassive as he leaned forward to take Kevla’s outstretched hands.

“I honor my gracious young lord,” she said, “who deigns to acknowledge the Bai-sha girl.”

She said more, but he didn’t hear it. His eyes were glued to her face, waiting for the signal.

Slowly, continuing to speak meaningless, proper-sounding words, Kevla blinked her eyes twice. He swallowed hard and felt sweat break out all over his body.

She had seen Yeshi’s lover.

Chapter Fifteen

K evla waited until the waning moon had made most of her path across the sky before leaving her small room. Barefoot, she padded down the cool stone steps, pausing now and then and straining to listen. Nothing. While the feasting and revelry had lasted long into the night, even the heartiest carousers had surrendered to too much drink and food by now.

The House was oddly silent. Kevla knew she had little time. Within an hour, the first servants would awaken and begin preparing the day’s meals.

Like a small, secret animal, she scampered through the house, pausing in the shadows to make certain she was alone before darting into the open. She was panting by the time she reached the door to the caverns and had to stifle her urge to hurry.

Slowly, she opened the door, so it would not give her away with a telltale sound, and made her silent way down the stairs. She did not take a lantern, but trailed her fingers lightly along the stone walls for guidance in the absolute darkness.

Gradually, she became aware of light at the bottom of the steps. Even now, she did not run; she could not be certain it was safe. She flattened her back against the cool stone and peeked around a curve in the stairway.

He was there, pacing like a caged simmar. She exhaled the breath she had been holding, and raced down the last few steps.

“You saw him?” Jashemi asked, his voice low and urgent. She nodded. As if steadying himself against the onslaught of a desert storm, Jashemi asked quietly, “Who is it?”

Oh, she did not want to tell him. Better it was some stranger, someone he did not know….

“Halid.”

He stared, his mouth open, not wanting to believe her. “No, you must be mistaken, Kevla. Halid is devoted to my father. I see it every time—”

There was no time to indulge his doubt. “Jashemi, I am so sorry, I wish it were not so, but it is. He stared full into the fire and spoke clearly. I didn’t want to believe it either, so I waited, and I watched…but his voice and features were the only ones that even came close to those of the man I saw with Yeshi. It is Halid. It can be none other.”

Jashemi shut his eyes and breathed deeply through his nostrils. Kevla wanted to comfort him, as she had done in this same place so long ago, but a deeper instinct told her to step back. Jashemi needed to come to a point of acceptance on his own.

He sat at the pool’s edge, gently kicking the water as he stared into its depths. Quietly, Kevla sat beside him.

At last, Jashemi spoke in a ragged voice. “It makes sense. You told me that my…that Yeshi said something like time was running out. That they had to—had to kill Tahmu soon.”

“Yes,” Kevla whispered.

“Halid is Tahmu’s Second. He will become khashim if anything happens to Tahmu before I have reached Acknowledgment. That gives them only six months from today. No wonder Yeshi was so upset that I wanted to push the ceremony up.”

He shook his bare head in sorrow and disbelief. “My mother has betrayed my father with the one man he truly trusts, and the two of them are planning murder. This sounds like a fireside tale, not my life.”

Kevla watched as the pain gave way to anger. It was subtle; his nostrils flared and his eyes narrowed, but she knew every expression that flitted across his face.

“They will not succeed,” he said through clenched teeth.

“How do we stop them? Are you going to tell your father?”

Jashemi shook his head. “No. How would I explain knowing this? I cannot mention your…abilities. I have to have my own proof. I must somehow catch her with him.” A blistering oath escaped his lips and he pounded the stone floor with a fist. “Halid! How could they do this?”

Gently guiding his thoughts back to action rather than anger, Kevla asked, “How do you plan to accomplish this? You cannot lurk at Yeshi’s door every night.”

He turned to her, and Kevla shrank from the coldness of his smile.

“No,” he said, “but you can.”

“Yes,” she said thoughtfully, “I can.”

For the next several nights, Kevla got very little sleep. Every night, she would light a fire in her room, gaze into the flames, and say quietly, “Show me Yeshi.”

If Yeshi was near a fire, be it in her bedroom or elsewhere in the House, Kevla would see her. Sometimes she was too far away, other times her face was as clear to Kevla as if the woman were standing right in front of her. She found that the more she practiced, the clearer even the vague impressions became.

She was not overly concerned on nights when Tahmu was in the House. Not even Yeshi would dare invite a lover in when her husband might enter at any moment. Those nights, Kevla slept gratefully, her dreams troubled only by the appearance of the Great Dragon and his unceasing question.

Inevitably, Tahmu would have to leave. He did so a few weeks after Jashemi’s birthday celebration, and Kevla knew that Yeshi would not let the bed grow cold.

It took several hours after nightfall, and Kevla was beginning to nod off when a voice came from the fire.

“I thought you would never come,” breathed Yeshi. Kevla snapped awake and stared into the fire. Sure enough, there was Halid, crushing Yeshi to him in a tight embrace.

Kevla swallowed hard, hoping the plan would work. She closed her eyes, calmed her racing thoughts, and said softly, “Show me Jashemi.”

The flames shimmered and crackled. The forms of Yeshi and Halid gave way to the image of a bed with only one occupant. Jashemi’s face was turned away from the fire that had burned in his room every night since they had learned that Halid was the man they sought.

“Jashemi,” whispered Kevla. There was no response. He was deeply asleep. Kevla didn’t know what to do. She didn’t want to speak so loudly that she might be overheard, but saw no other course.

“Jashemi!” she said, more loudly. “Wake up!”

He started, and looked around. His eyes widened when they looked at the fire.

“Kevla! I can see you!”

That was alarming. Up until this point, Kevla had not realized that she could be seen by those she watched. She had been very lucky to escape detection until now.

“He’s with her,” she said.

Jashemi nodded and rose from the bed. Kevla looked away, her cheeks burning. She had not realized Jashemi slept unclothed. She did not extinguish the fire, however, and after a moment, asked of it, “Show me Yeshi.”

Jashemi threw on a rhia and went silently through the House to his parents’ sleeping chamber. As he stood outside, he wondered what would be the best course of action. To knock and feign surprise at seeing Halid there? No, that might give Yeshi a chance to hide him, or he might climb out through the window.

As he hesitated, he heard voices. Soft, lustful murmurings. Laughter.

A red haze fell down over his vision. He heard blood thundering in his ears, and before he realized what he had done he had placed his shoulder to the door and broken it open.

They rushed to pull the sheets up, to cover themselves. Furious, Jashemi grabbed the sheets and yanked them back. He stared, anger mixing with contempt, as hands went to cover groins and breasts.

He reached for Halid, seizing the bigger man’s wrists. Halid’s knee slammed into Jashemi’s stomach, knocking the breath out of him. Jashemi’s hands opened and he staggered back. Halid came after him. He clutched a wicked-looking dagger. It glinted in the firelight. Of course. Halid would not be so foolish as to sleep with his master’s wife without a weapon immediately to hand.

The blade arced down. Gasping, Jashemi darted to the side and felt the breeze as Halid struck only air. He whirled and angled his body, ramming Halid with his shoulder with all his strength. Halid’s bare feet slipped on one of the rugs and he went down, still gripping the knife. He managed to roll over before Jashemi bore down on him, and Jashemi felt the tip of the blade slice through his rhia and graze his ribs. He slammed his elbow into Halid’s throat, then gripped the hand that held the knife. He squeezed and Halid’s hands opened. Jashemi seized the knife. Halid grabbed his arm, but Jashemi easily twisted out of it. In a smooth motion, the blade was at Halid’s throat.

For a long moment, they lay there, Jashemi atop Halid, gasping for breath. Jashemi stared into the eyes of his father’s most trusted friend, and saw there none of the affectionate warmth he had seen for the last twenty years. He saw only hatred and treachery.

He pressed down with the dagger. A thin trickle of red seeped out from beneath the bright blade. Halid had committed treason against his khashim. The punishment was death.

Halid’s eyes grew wider as the pressure on his throat increased, but uttered no word. With a low oath, Jashemi leaped to his feet. He still held the dagger.

He could not do it. He could not murder in cold blood, not even when it was deserved. The crime was committed against Tahmu, and Tahmu must be the one to order punishment. Jashemi would abide by the laws of his people, despite the rage that surged along his veins.

Halid’s hand went to his throat and found it whole. Slowly, he grinned.

“I knew you wouldn’t have the stomach for it,” he said.

Jashemi felt his face flush but ignored the taunt. “I will send a falcon to my father describing in detail what I saw here tonight. Your lives will be in his hands, not mine. May the Dragon have mercy on you, for you’ll get none from Tahmu or me.”

He turned and was about to make good his threat when Yeshi’s voice stopped him cold.

“What notice will Tahmu take of lies told by a son who is possessed by demons?”

“What do you mean?”

Halid grinned, his teeth white in the firelight. “A few years ago, it seems you were having some very bad dreams. Dreams of people with yellow hair and pale skin, of blue simmars with stripes. Dreams that your father knew were sent by kulis.”

Hotly, Jashemi retorted, “My father will believe me, no matter what dreams I—” The words died in his throat as the true import of Yeshi’s and Halid’s words registered.

They knew Tahmu would believe him. That was not the issue. Their words were a threat that they would reveal to others what Jashemi had confided to his father when he thought they were alone. If word got out about Jashemi’s strange dreams, the best he could hope for from his father was disinheritance. At worst, he would be executed.

“My bright boy,” purred Yeshi. “One breath of scandal, and you are immediately disowned, like that little slut you keep company with.” Her eyes narrowed. “Go to Tahmu with tales, sweet son of mine, and they will be the last words you speak as a member of the Clan of Four Waters—perhaps the last words you speak as a living man!”

Jashemi made his decision. Kevla had lived as a Bai-sha. So could he, if it meant his father’s life would be saved.

“For my father’s safety, I will risk it!” he cried.

“Ah, but what about the safety of your little friend? Accidents happen in the kitchen, Jashemi. Burns. Cuts. It would be a shame if Kevla hurt herself—or worse.”

Jashemi felt as if he had been struck in the stomach. He trembled, but not from fear. Outrage at the wild miscarriage of justice made him shake.

“Believe this, Mother, if you believe nothing else. If Kevla comes to any harm, I will kill you myself.”

“You’ll have to get past Halid first, and Kevla will still be dead,” Yeshi said, shrugging.

The two lovers looked at one another and grinned in satisfaction as Jashemi struggled to make sense of it all. If he told his father, Halid and Yeshi would make public Jashemi’s dreams. Tahmu’s hands would be tied. Jashemi would be either disowned or executed. Tahmu could not even act on the news his son had given him, or else the stigma of kuli-cursed would be attached to him as well. And then, one day, when Tahmu’s guard was down, they would kill him. With he, Jashemi, so conveniently out of the way, it would be easy for Halid to become khashim and wed the widowed khashima.

And Kevla…He could not permit anything to happen to her. As he stared at Yeshi’s face, gloating, twisted in a smirk, he realized Yeshi would have no qualms about murdering Kevla.

A low growl escaped him. He rushed the bed on his mother’s side, hands raised to strike her, and had the brief satisfaction of watching her quail. Then, he clenched his fist and brought it to his side with an effort.

He turned and marched out of the room, the scornful laughter of the lovers and would-be murderers following him.

The next few days that followed were the most anguished of Jashemi’s young life. He could not tell his own father that his life was in danger. He could not see Kevla, or even try to contact her through the fire, to confide in her and seek comfort; to do so would put her at risk. Worst of all, he saw his powerlessness reflected in Yeshi’s dark, knowing eyes every time he saw her. He lay awake at night, trying desperately to think of a way out.

It was at the evening meal when she made the announcement that would change his life forever.

They were halfway through a simple meal, just the khashim and his family, Halid and Asha, when Yeshi set down her goblet and straightened. She seemed calmer and happier than Jashemi had seen her in years.

“A few days ago, my little boy became a man,” she said. Her voice was warm and affectionate, but Jashemi knew how false such sentiments were. He was on the alert at once.

“And a man needs a wife,” Yeshi continued, addressing Tahmu and ignoring Jashemi. “I have found an excellent candidate, my husband. For too long we have been the enemies of the Sa’abah Clan, when we should have been their friends. Sa’abahs mean wealth, and the Clan of Four Waters deserves as much wealth as it can obtain. It is my understanding that the clan leader has a daughter who is of age. I have sent falcons to her mother, and she has agreed to the match.”

Sickly, Jashemi realized he ought to have expected this. Now that Yeshi knew Jashemi knew about her and Halid, she would want him out as quickly as possible. Out, and as far away as she could contrive to send him. As khashima, she had the sole and undisputed right to arrange marriages for every male in the household. Tahmu had the same rights with regard to the women. Her choice could not be debated; it was absolute. And when the heir was wed, custom demanded that he live for one year with his wife’s clan. He felt sweat start under his arms, felt it gathering at his hairline and on his shaved upper lip.

“This is sudden, wife,” Tahmu said uncertainly, looking from Yeshi to Jashemi.

“Not at all,” Yeshi replied, reaching for a date and taking a small, dainty bite. “Jashemi has come of age, he is able to take a wife.”

“But he is still Waiting. He has not had the Acknowledgment ceremony yet, nor spent sufficient time in battle to—”

Yeshi paused, the date halfway to her mouth. Her dark eyes flashed. “You gainsay my decision, husband?”

“I have no right to. But I would ask you to reconsider.”

“I have spent a great deal of time thinking on this, believe me,” she said, her gaze flickering to Jashemi. He met her stare for stare. He had no doubt that she spoke the truth. “Jashemi will leave in two days’ time. His bride is eager for him.” Yeshi smiled. “She will no doubt count herself among the most fortunate of women.”

Jashemi had known that one day this moment would come. He would have no say in who his bride would be, any more than Tahmu had had a say in his own marriage. He knew that it was unlikely he would even have had a chance to meet the woman in question before the wedding. He knew this, and had accepted it.

But to be sent away so that his mother could more conveniently murder his father—to be sent away from Kevla—this could not be. She watched him with her clever eyes, searching for any hint that he would explode in anger and bring his own doom upon himself. Doubtless, she considered marrying the daughter of the Sa’abah Clan khashim too easy a fate for him.

He would not give her the satisfaction. He rose and bowed. “Excuse me, Father, Mother. I think my meat was spoiled.”

In the privacy of his room, he forced his anger into a corner of his soul, and began to think furiously about what, if any, alternative there might be.

Yeshi watched him go, then said calmly to Sahlik who waited on them, “My son’s food was spoiled. Beat the one who prepared it.”

Kevla ached.

Not from the beating that Sahlik had been forced to give her, for the old woman had gone gently on her back so that it barely stung. No, she ached from something else Sahlik had given her—news that Jashemi was to be married and live far from the House of Four Waters for a full year.

Far from Kevla Bai-Sha.

Sahlik had whispered the awful words in her ear before she began the beating, so that Kevla’s sobs and wails would be heartfelt and convincing. Kevla was strangely grateful for the opportunity to grieve aloud. She did not know if she could have feigned indifference in front of others.

She screamed and wept and sobbed, feeling her heart break in her chest. All these years, she had denied her feelings for the young lord, and her emotions would be silent no longer. Jashemi! Jashemi! She wanted to cry his name over and over, as if uttering it might make it possible for him to stay, but instead bit her lip till it bled to hold back the telltale word.

Now she sobbed into the cold stone floor and beat on it with her hands, for she, too, knew why Yeshi had chosen to do what she did. She had continued to watch in the fire, that night when Jashemi had confronted Yeshi and Halid. And she also knew Jashemi would not be able to steal away to meet her before he was forced to leave, for Yeshi would be watching them both.

The pain inside her was so extreme that she thought she would never sleep again. Yet sleep she did, exhausting herself with weeping. And when as always she stood before the Great Dragon, for the first time she felt more grief than fear.

When it reared up and demanded, “DO YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE?” she had an answer ready for it.

“I am nothing without Jashemi,” she cried, collapsing in front of the mammoth creature and weeping tears that were as hot as the flames.

And strangely, the Great Dragon seemed placated by her words.

PART II In the Shadow of MountBari

Chapter Sixteen

T he advisor hastened along the stone corridors. He was late, and his lord would not like that. But he hoped that the news he bore, extracted from the latest prisoner by various means of persuasion, would placate the Emperor.

Though it was daylight, the castle was dark, as it ever was. A thunderstorm outside rendered the skies a dull pewter shade. Portraits glowered from the stone walls. Torches burned a dull orange red in sconces, illuminating little. The cold from the stone floor seemed to seep through the advisor’s thick boots and into his feet.

The corridor wound deeper into the bowels of the castle. Windows disappeared; even the cheerless light of the stormy sky was now gone. The advisor quickened his pace, almost running.

At the end of the corridor stood two huge wooden doors. They were mammoth things, carved with a variety of designs and inlaid with precious stones. They seemed as though they would be impossible to move. Such was their craftsmanship, however, that a single finger’s pressure would open them. But the advisor was not fool enough to apply that pressure uninvited.

“Your Excellency,” he called in a voice that quavered slightly. “I have come as you asked.”

“Enter.” He could read nothing in the voice; it was cold, flat. Dead. Settling himself and putting a pleasing expression on his face, the advisor did as he was bid.

In this room, the Emperor’s private refuge, the only light came from a crackling fire whose friendly glow was disconcertingly cheery in the dark place. The Emperor sat in shadow, in a wine-colored, overstuffed chair. Statuary crowded the room, images from mythology and history, and the paintings that adorned the walls were barely visible in the dim light.

The fire cast shadows which danced grotesquely, like capering demons, against the walls. But there was enough light to see the Emperor’s creature that cowered against his legs.

The advisor eyed it briefly. The beast was ancient, and powerful enough to destroy anyone in a heartbeat. Yet it was timid and often frightened. A thin golden chain wrapped around its slender, graceful neck. The end of that chain disappeared into shadow. The advisor knew it was clutched in the Emperor’s left hand, as always. He never inquired as to why the Emperor felt such a shy creature must be constantly chained. One didn’t ask the Emperor such questions.

The beast, about the size and shape of a small deer, looked up at the advisor with limpid brown eyes. Its single horn and the scales on back and face caught the glow of the firelight, and its brown coat looked chestnut. It lowered its head, the golden chain jingling with the movement, and closed its eyes.

The advisor was relieved. Despite—or perhaps because of—its docility, the creature always unnerved him.

“I hope,” said the Emperor in his flat voice, “that you bring good news this time.”

“News, Your Excellency, but whether it is good or bad remains to be seen.”

The Emperor waved a slender, beringed hand. “Speak.”

The advisor did. When he had finished, the Emperor remained silent, and then he, too, spoke at great length, of armies, and conquest, and crushing all who opposed him.

And at his feet, enduring her master’s petting, the beast sighed heavily, as if it understood every word.

Jashemi was so wrapped in misery that he later recalled very little of his arrival and wedding ceremony. He spoke, moved, laughed as if someone else were commanding and directing his gestures. No doubt the food was good, but he did not taste it; no doubt the wine was strong, but it did not intoxicate. When the time came to stand before the veiled woman he was to take as his bride he found the words came without much effort. He was too far lost in his wretchedness to even will them away.

He lifted the veil, seeing Shali’s face for the first time, and had no reaction. She was not pretty, but neither was she plain; not fat, but not slim. She was in every way ordinary, but Jashemi knew that even had his bride possessed the sort of beauty that inspired ballads, he would not have desired her.

The men of the Clan, and his father as well, followed him to the prepared bedchamber. For the first time, Jashemi felt real emotion penetrate his dulled senses.

Of course. This was part of the tradition, that the high-ranking men of both clans would demand to see this union consummated. There were many solid reasons for this: proof that the woman was a virgin, proof that the man had claimed his rights and could not later deny it.

Jashemi had never felt less like lying with a woman than at this moment. He stared at Shali, feeling the mask of pleasantness melt from his face, and her own face fell.

She put her arms around his neck and whispered, “I have a small wineskin prepared for this, my husband. I am a true virgin, but my handmaidens tell me that sometimes women do not bleed sufficiently to impress the onlookers.”

Overcome with gratitude, he buried his face in her neck and whispered, “Thank you.”

They stood while servants stripped them, and Jashemi’s face burned as the men saw his limpness. There was much joking, but the girl’s father, Terku, who had drunk too much wine, was insulted.

“He does not find my precious jewel of a daughter attractive!” the khashim of the Sa’abah Clan bellowed.

“You plied him with much wine, my friend,” Tahmu said smoothly. “Give the boy a moment. Touch often rouses what sight does not.”

As quickly as possible, Jashemi and his naked bride went to the bed and pulled the covers around them. Again, Shali spoke into his ear, “The skin is under the pillows.”

“Get it ready,” Jashemi whispered back, hoarse from embarrassment. He maneuvered so that he was on top of Shali and pretended to thrust. She cried out in seeming pain and her arms reached under the pillow. Jashemi remained unaroused, even as his kurjah brushed against her sulim and thigh, but continued his movements. Around him, he heard laughter and cries of approval. He felt the rough leather of the wineskin press into his hand, maneuvered its stopper, and was rewarded by dampness. He smeared the fluid on himself and between her thighs, then uttered a long, low groan and collapsed on Shali. He barely had time to hide the evidence before Shali’s father had whipped off the bedclothes to reveal a small amount of blood on the sheets and on the loins of the new husband and wife.

“Well done!” exclaimed Terku, and Jashemi was unsure if he was referring to his daughter or Jashemi. “Let us leave them alone to recover…and beget a child tonight, Dragon willing!”

They left in a wave of raucous laughter, and the door slammed shut after them.

Jashemi rolled away from his new wife. Shame, anger, and regret flooded him. They lay for a while, neither speaking. At last, Jashemi said, “I’m sorry, Shali. You did not deserve this.”

“Deserve what?” she said, rising and walking to the small basin of water on the table. She wet a cloth and began to wash.

“A man who could not truly make you a wife on your wedding night.”

“I would rather have that than be taken by force, as many brides are,” she said, rinsing the bloody cloth, wringing it out, and resuming her task. “There is time enough for consummation.” She turned to look at him. “Unless you prefer men to women?”

He laughed bitterly. “This would be easier to understand if that were so,” he replied. The blood drying on his thighs and kurjah was sticky and uncomfortable. When Shali had finished, he rose and cleaned himself, not enjoying being the object of her scrutiny but seeing no other option. She propped herself up on one elbow on the bed and regarded him.

“You are a beautiful man, Jashemi-kha-Tahmu,” she said softly. “And they say you are kind. I am happy that you are my husband.”

He finished his ablutions and went to her, sitting beside her on the bed. “Shali,” he said earnestly, “I must tell you that I did not wish this marriage.”

Her not-pretty, not-ugly face smiled. “The resting warrior between your thighs tells me that, my husband.”

Husband. Jashemi forced himself not to cringe from the word. “I will do what I can to make this…bearable for you. Know that I will never raise my hand to you, nor take you against your will. I will treat you with honor and respect.”

Her muddy brown eyes shone. “Husband,” she whispered, “what you have said moves me greatly. In return, I will never deny you your right to my body, I will never speak against you, and I will tell my handmaidens that you are the most virile man in the world.”

Coyly, she glanced down at his groin. “Perhaps you did have a bit too much wine,” she said. “And perhaps some loving attention will rouse this warrior.”

Shyly, gently, with hands that were clearly inexperienced, she reached to touch his flaccid kurjah. He wanted to pull away; every fiber of his being screamed that this was wrong, was a betrayal—

A betrayal? Of whom?

And of course, he knew. Kevla’s face flashed into his mind. Desire welled inside him like liquid fire, and for an instant, before he could redirect his thoughts, he imagined that it was her work-callused hand caressing him, her full breasts he now reached to fondle, her lips he tasted. And even as he knew this flood of passion was wrong, he surrendered to it, permitted himself to be carried along like a reed in a swollen river. He moved to lie atop the willing Shali, parted her legs and thrust into her moist warmth, moving as gently as he could as she cried out first with pain and then pleasure. It was the first joining for both of them.

The tide crested, engulfed him. Fire, he was on fire, his skin prickled from the scalding heat. His eyes were squeezed shut, his mind filled with images of Kevla, and he climaxed with an intensity he had never before experienced.

Sweating, gasping for breath, he rolled over and wiped his face. Shali muttered something about not having to lie to her women after all, and he almost wept.

Jashemi had known the truth for years now, but he had denied it. Denied it to protect and honor Kevla, to keep the sacred order of things, to not violate the worst taboo the Dragon had laid upon his people.

He not only desired Kevla Bai-sha, his half sister.

He was helplessly, thoroughly, eternally in love with her.

That night he dreamed. He saw again the yellow-haired, milky-skinned warrior with a clean-shaven face. His strange simmar walked beside him, and the world around him was white. But this time, Kevla, too, walked beside the man. She seemed to know him, and was pleasant to him and smiled. But Jashemi knew her better than anyone in the world, and he saw that a shadow lay across her beautiful features. She looked older, as if she bore a burden she did not bear now.

The man wore heavy furs, but Kevla wore only a red rhia. She did not seem cold in the slightest. The warrior, the beast and Kevla walked across the strange white stuff—like sand, but cold and wet—their feet sinking deep and leaving footprints. They were just cresting the rise of a hill.

Then Jashemi’s heart spasmed. Rising behind the three, unseen by any of them, was an enormous red dragon.

He screamed and bolted awake, wondering for a moment where he was, surprised to see a shape in the bed beside him. He recoiled from Shali’s touch at first, thoroughly disoriented, and then memory crashed upon him like an avalanche.

“Husband, what is it?” Her hands were calm, soothing. She rose and wet a cloth to wipe his sweaty face.

“It is nothing,” he said, “merely a dream.”

She dabbed his face gently with the cloth. “I am troubled that your dreams are so disturbing, my lord.”

He lay back down, opening his arms so she could lie on his chest. With an intensity so powerful it made him weak, he wished that it were Kevla in his arms.

“I am troubled, too,” he said.

He walked alone with his father while Tahmu’s sa’abah was being readied for the journey home. They chatted about small, inconsequential things for a time, and then Jashemi said, “I suspect I will greatly miss my home and you, Father.”

“Perhaps,” Tahmu acquiesced, “but this is the way of things. And it is only a year. Before you know it, you will be home again, with your bride.”

Jashemi grit his teeth, looking down to hide his expression until he could get it under control. If only I could warn him, tell him!

“Father,” he began, feeling his way carefully, “There are some who might think you growing old and feeble, with a son already of age. There might be…plots against you.”

“There have always been plots against me,” Tahmu laughed. “But I have Halid to watch my back. That’s what a Second is for, after all.”

“Yes,” said Jashemi, dully, “That is what a Second is for.”

“I leave two hawks with you,” Tahmu continued. “If you have need of me, send a message.”

“I will. Father…please take care of Kevla.”

Tahmu stopped in midstride and regarded his son. “So,” he said, “you have been seeing her, haven’t you?”

Jashemi smiled slightly. “Come, Father. I can’t believe you didn’t know.”

“Of course I knew,” Tahmu said, smiling himself now. The smile faded as he added, “I only wish there had been no need for secrecy. You are brother and sister. You should have been raised as such.”

I wish we were not, Jashemi thought, a heady yet painful mixture of desire and guilt sweeping through him. I wish she were anyone in the world but my sister.

“It is time,” said Tahmu, and Jashemi realized their walk together had brought them to the corral. Tahmu’s sa’abah had been saddled, and as it turned bright eyes to them its tack jingled.

They stood looking at one another, father and son, yet two men grown. Tahmu held open his arms and they embraced tightly.

“You have a great opportunity here, my son,” Tahmu whispered. “Relations with the Sa’abah Clan have never been good, but I can think of no better ambassador than you.”

They parted, hands still on one another’s shoulders. “You share my vision,” Tahmu continued. “You desire peace more than war. Let us see if we can bring this about.”

With a final clap on Jashemi’s shoulder, Tahmu mounted. His entourage was waiting for this signal, and they mounted as well. Tahmu did not give a last wave or shout a farewell; he had said all he meant to say. Jashemi watched as his father rode into the desert, and his throat closed up.

Be careful, Father.

Life among the Sa’abah Clan was very different from what Jashemi was accustomed to. They were nomadic, so there was no Great House. The tents of the khashim and the higher-caste members of the clan were as ornate as could be managed, but even they were nowhere as fine as even the poorest room in the House of Four Waters. Because there was little opportunity to grow crops and store meats, the clan subsisted mostly on the meat they could hunt and the fruits they happened upon. Jashemi found he missed fresh vegetables terribly. The entire atmosphere was much more rough-and-tumble, and Jashemi was reminded more of his uncle’s household than his father’s. The greatest single privation, though, was a lack of water. He was used to bathing every day, sometimes even twice a day if he had been out hunting or in the sun for a long time. Now, he realized that the basin of water he and Shali had used to cleanse themselves on the night of their wedding was as much of a bath as he would ever have here. The resource was finite; it was whatever the clan stumbled upon in their travels and whatever they could carry.

But more than the comforts of a proper bed or water to bathe in, Jashemi missed Kevla. All the other things could have been borne had she been present. Their time together had been infrequent and laced with fear of discovery, but now, denied even this, Jashemi realized how much he had grown to count on his sister. She understood him, accepted him…loved him, he was sure of it, though they had not spoken of such things.

He did not dare even to be close to a fire, and was thankful none had been kindled in his tent during his wedding night. He did not want Kevla to risk giving herself away, nor did he want her to see him with his new wife. On even the coldest of nights, Jashemi made certain to be well away from the crackling flames.

He was a stranger here, even though he was now kin to the clan leader, and the clansmen never let him forget it. They laughed at him when he asked for a spoon to eat the thick, meaty stew, stared aghast the first time he inquired about water. It was no wonder the clans were always at each others’ throats. They were so different, and made so little effort to try to understand each other.

To ease the ache of Kevla’s absence, Jashemi strove to fill the void with information. His wife was the one person he felt he could comfortably ask potentially embarrassing questions of, and when they were alone he bent her ear. This served several purposes. First, he learned about his new family and their customs; second, he forged a closer relationship with the stranger who was now his wife, and third, he filled their time together with this new sort of bonding instead of the more common union between man and wife.

He was racked with guilt over what had transpired on their wedding night; the only reason he had been able to satisfy her as a man should was that he pretended she was Kevla. That was an insult to both her and the beloved woman who was his sister. Since then, he ruthlessly drove all images of Kevla that were not innocent from his mind, and did not touch his wife in a sexual manner. Better to abstain from both than to sully either.

At first, Shali seemed perplexed by his lack of desire. But she warmed to him when she saw his genuine interest in learning about her people, and seemed willing to make this intimacy an acceptable substitute.

“Do your people not grow weary of traveling?” Jashemi inquired one night as he sipped a goblet of wine with Shali. The wine was excellent; Tahmu had brought it from the House of Four Waters. It tasted of home.

“Oh, no,” Shali replied, taking a drink from her own goblet. “It is in our blood, this wandering. We would feel trapped if we were to stay in one place too long.” She leaned forward. “Tell me again of your House,” she said.

So Jashemi spoke of the House and its never-ending supply of water, its strong stone foundations and brightly painted hues, its enormous kitchens and gardens. Shali’s eyes shone as she listened. They had been speaking like this for weeks now, and Jashemi thought it was safe to move on to other topics.

“My father has long wanted to be counted a friend of the Sa’abah Clan,” he ventured.

“Then giving us his son was a good thing to do,” she said, smiling sweetly.

“It seems to me your people are very skilled at warfare.”

“We have to be,” she replied. “Everyone wants our sa’abahs. But they do not breed well when kept in a corral.”

Jashemi wondered if the so-called “wanderlust” Shali had attributed to her tribe was dictated not from within but from the sa’abahs. They were as valuable as water, and if they only bred readily when on the move, well then, it made sense to become a traveling clan.

“Of course everyone wants them,” he said, “but some would prefer not to fight to obtain them. Why does your father oppose trade?” He kept his voice light, as if the conversation meant little to him personally, but he hung on her answer.

“What is to stop another clan from trading and then descending at night to reclaim what they had given?”

“Trust,” Jashemi said simply.

She looked sharply at him then. “Trust,” she said, “is a luxury that perhaps those in your Clan can afford.” He marveled at the bluntness of her words; the wine was having an effect. “It is easy to trust when you are in no danger. When was the last time the House of Four Waters came under attack?”

“Not in my lifetime or in my father’s,” he admitted.

She shrugged, the gesture conveying more than words could. She drained her cup and poured more wine. “Besides,” she said, “it keeps our warriors ready for battle from all sides.”

“You mean, from all clans.”

She shook her head, the looseness of the gesture revealing that she had indeed drunk too much tonight.

“No,” Shali said, “from all sides. Our scouts have returned with rumors of war from other lands. Lands on the other side of the mountains.”

Jashemi was completely alert. He had never even given any thought as to what lay beyond the mountain range. Arukan was all he knew, was all he thought there was. There were other people, other lands? The mountains and of course the Great Dragon had kept them safe until now.

Casually, he inquired, “What lands? I have not heard of this.”

She smiled proudly. “When you have to fight as often as we do, you learn where your enemies will come from. I don’t know the names of the places, but people have been coming from the mountains and killing some of those who live too close to the Northern range.”

Shali yawned and stretched, then got up and went on her hands and knees to him. She settled her head in his lap.

“My husband,” she murmured, the words beginning to slur, “will you not make love to me tonight?”

Jashemi closed his eyes and stroked her hair softly. “No, my wife,” he said, very gently. “But I will take you to bed and tuck the covers around you and sing you to sleep, if you like.”

She smiled sleepily. “That sounds pleasant,” she said.

He picked her up in his strong arms and did as he promised her, singing children’s songs in a soft voice. He watched her sleep for a few long moments. He wished he could love her, or at least make love to her, but to do so would be to court thoughts that he knew were forbidden.

Sighing, he rolled over and soon went to sleep himself.

Again, he dreamed of the sad, elegant woman with whom he regarded the Shadow that lurked on the edge of the world. If only he knew what it meant. An image flashed into his mind, like a memory; an image of a boy just into manhood, lying dead on a stone street.

Jashemi had never met this youth, but he knew him. Knew of him. Why? Who was he?

He saw the laughing horse creature, the elegant hound with claws and wings, and another being unlike any he had ever seen. He could not even properly describe it. A horn and cloven feet like a liah, scales like a snake, beard like a goat—it ought to be ugly, hideous, a monstrous thing. Instead it struck him as exquisite, and his heart ached to behold it.

There was a thin golden chain around its slim neck, a chain that trailed off into shadow. And despite the creature’s apparent delicacy and great beauty, he knew that it was a harbinger of terrible danger.

He awoke covered in sweat, his throat so tight that he knew he could not possibly have cried out. Anger replaced fear as he wished desperately he could make sense of these dreams. He was suddenly unable to bear sleeping next to Shali, a woman he could not love, could not confide in. It was not her fault; she was a good person and tried so hard to comply with his desires. He took the pillow and stretched out on the cold stone floor.

Kevla. Oh, Kevla, I wish I could talk to you about this.

He had no more dreams that night.

Unto the Great Khashim,

I am sorry to hear that you were not able to come to better terms with the Shining Clan. It is unfortunate that we seem to be the only ones who prefer peace to war.

I have heard news that might interest you. It seems that not only must my wife’s clan defend themselves against attack from other clans, but there is a new enemy to be wary of as well. I am now in a position to command informants, and they have corroborated the rumors.

Arukan is no longer alone. It appears that there are lands on the other side of the mountains that have thus far protected Arukan so well. I have not seen this with my own eyes, but the stories keep coming of attacks on those who live too close to the Northern range.

Have you heard of such things? I am certain that you keep at least as informed as I. We have long desired to unite the clans, in order to bring about prosperity and peace for all. Now I wonder if we ought to try to unite them so that we present a strong force to this mysterious enemy. He will easily be able to pick us off one by one, like the simmars do the liahs, if we continue to be fragmented and conduct these petty raids.

Please take care of the One we both know. I understand you can tell her nothing, but keep a kind eye upon her.

My deepest regards to you and wishes for your continued good health.

Tahmu read and reread the note. Jashemi had not written names or any identifying terms, as they had agreed, and had used a code they had contrived when Jashemi was young. For a long moment he thought that some of the comments were in another sort of code, so strange did they seem to him.

Other lands beyond the mountains? No one had ever heard of such a thing. Of course, most clan leaders had very specific priorities that did not go beyond which other clan they would raid this season. But even he, who prided himself on being more farseeing than others, had never entertained such a thought.

For a moment, he wondered if Terku wasn’t playing a cruel trick on Jashemi. It would not be out of character for the wily old man. But Jashemi would not be taken in so easily. He would have tried to verify something on his own, as he had said in the letter he had done.

But Tahmu had heard nothing of this! He had spies far and wide, in every clan. He had scouts who had ranged to every corner of the country and returned. He had….

Despite the heat, Tahmu suddenly felt a chill. Such people were his, of course, as he was Clan Leader, but Halid commanded them.

One of four things was true, and none of them was pleasant.

Jashemi had been the victim of a cruel joke, one that Terku had gone to great lengths to execute.

Tahmu’s scouts and spies were idiots, failing to listen and report properly.

Halid was controlling the information he received from the spies and not reporting it to Tahmu.

And worst of all: Jashemi could be hearing the kulis again.

A knot formed in Tahmu’s belly. Of the four, the best option was the first, that somehow an elaborate prank was being played on his son. He hoped that was the case, but Jashemi was no fool.

The other three were unthinkable. He passed a hand over his face, wiping away sweat that felt cold to him, and began to compose a reply to his son.

Chapter Seventeen

T he weeks crawled by, and not an hour passed that Jashemi did not think of Kevla. He missed her more than he thought possible.

His discussions with Shali had proven enlightening, and having gotten what information he could from her, Jashemi began to befriend some of the men who were close to his station, Shali’s brothers and Terku’s Second, a man named Melaan. Melaan seemed to Jashemi at first to be a peculiar choice for a Second. Halid was an enormous bull of a man, heavily muscled, tall, and powerful, if treacherous. Melaan was tall but slender, and seemed perpetually lost in thought.

But if Terku trusts him with so important a position, then there must be something there that I am not seeing, Jashemi thought as he sat under the stars, sated from the evening meal.

He, Melaan, and Terku’s youngest sons Raka and Kelem were all enjoying the slightly inebriated feeling that a full belly often produced. They stared up at the stars, and for a moment Jashemi permitted himself to become lost in their beauty and the old tales: of the First Clan Leader kneeling before the Great Dragon, who dictated how the clans should live; of the eight spirits who guarded the rain and river waters; of the Sand Maiden who tempted the First Clan Leader into lying with her, resulting in, logically enough, the First Clan.

He closed his eyes, wishing he had not thought of the last myth. For it was no Sand Maiden he saw, but Kevla, her face alight, reaching for him. Jashemi took a deep breath and deliberately turned his thoughts away from that dangerous path.

“It is a peaceful night,” he said, “to think that somewhere men are fighting.”

“The stars are above us all,” said Melaan. “They care nothing for our petty joys and quarrels. They shine on death and birth all the same.”

Jashemi turned and regarded him in the dim light. Melaan met his gaze evenly.

“You are quite the philosopher, Melaan,” Jashemi observed.

“I have seen much, my lord,” said Melaan.

Deciding to be daring, Jashemi pressed, “Have you seen armies from another land?”

The uncomfortable silence told him more than any words. Propping himself up on his elbows, Jashemi continued, “I’ve heard rumors. I know some of what your scouts are reporting. I am the son of a khashim, as are all here save you, and you are Terku’s Second. I have a right to know what you know.”

Melaan did not reply at once. Raka, the youngest, quipped, “Be careful with Melaan, Jashemi! His bad dreams sour his temper some days.”

A shiver ran through Jashemi. Bad dreams?

“If I have bad dreams,” drawled Melaan, “it is only when I think of either of you leading the Sa’abah Clan.”

The two brothers laughed. They were indeed young; their eldest brother had been killed in the same raid that was Jashemi’s first, so long ago. There were times when he wondered if his was the hand that had dealt the deadly blow to his future brother-in-law; times when Jashemi wondered if they wondered that, too.

“We have done battle with men who do not call themselves members of any clan,” Melaan admitted. “We have never been able to take prisoners. They seem somehow to be able to imbibe poison once they realize they have lost.”

“Sometimes,” said Kelem, the more sober of the two youths, “they have not lost.”

Again a silence fell, so profound Jashemi could hear the sa’abahs snuffling on their leads in the distance.

“I know,” he said slowly, “that you think of me as an outsider. Perhaps even as an enemy. My clan has ridden against yours more than once, and there have been deaths on both sides.” He could sense them listening, and wondered if he dared utter what was in his heart—that he wished that there could be an end to all the fighting, between all the clans. He decided that now was not the time.

“But our clans are now allies through marriage. I am a warrior and the son of a warrior. What concerns my wife’s clan concerns me. I would have you confide in me, so that I might be able offer what help I could.”

No one spoke. Jashemi suddenly felt embarrassed and was grateful for the caress of the night air that cooled his cheeks.

“It is difficult for us to trust,” said Melaan at last. “Too much is at stake. You could tell your father what we tell you, and lead a raid against us.”

“I would not slay the father of my wife!” Jashemi was indignant, and the words were the truth. Not even in self-defense would he do such a thing.

“She’s just a woman,” Raka said casually.

The anger that shot through Jashemi turned his vision red, and before he realized what he was doing he had seized Raka and was shaking him as a hound worries a hare.

“She is your sister!” he cried. “Think you so little of her?”

Melaan and Kelem pulled Jashemi off the startled Raka, and shoved him hard into the baked earth. The air went out of him with a whoosh and he braced for the beating.

It did not come. Melaan towered above him, a dark figure against the starlit sky, and Jashemi saw that he had extended an arm to hold Kelem back.

“Either you are more cunning than you appear, or you speak truly,” Melaan said. “Terku adores his daughter, woman though she be. That you come so quickly to her defense, even against her blood brother, speaks well of you. I will talk with my khashim. Perhaps it is indeed time for you to be permitted into the inner circle of advisors.”

The next day, Jashemi was summoned to Terku’s tent. He was the last to arrive, and as he entered, several men looked at him with varying degrees of mistrust etched plain on their faces.

One of them spoke. “Great khashim, I say again, the boy from the House of Four Waters may be no friend to us.”

Terku raised his hand. “I have heard your words, Baram, and given them the attention they deserve. Cease repeating yourself. I have made my decision. Jashemi-kha-Tahmu, will you swear to be my man?” The eyes that peered out of the wrinkled face were bright.

Jashemi sensed a trap. He stood up straighter. “I am the son of a khashim, one day to lead the Clan of Four Waters. I am no one’s ‘man.’ I would, however, come to this circle to listen, to speak truly, and to honor you and your clan.”

Terku’s lined face creased into a smile. “A good and true answer, Jashemi. I can ask for no more. Had you agreed, I would never have trusted you.”

He had passed some sort of test. He thanked the Great Dragon, for he sensed that what he would learn would affect everyone in Arukan…and perhaps beyond. Unbidden, the milk-skinned, sand-haired man came into his thoughts. He forced the face away. The circle made room for him, and he sat on the rug that covered the sand. Terku turned to Melaan, who began to speak.

“We have always thought that we were alone,” said Melaan. Clearly, he was restating what the others already knew for Jashemi’s benefit. “We were wrong. Some of the more northerly clans, such as the Clan of the Mountain and the Warcry Clan, have reportedly been attacked by men unlike any they have ever seen. They are pale, with light skin and eyes. Sometimes their hair is pale as well.”

Jashemi’s breath caught in his throat, but he was careful that his expression reflect the surprise he was no doubt expected to show, not the horror of certainty he felt.

“They crash upon us like an avalanche from the mountains, and the clans they have attacked have been all but destroyed. They do not take water or goods, but slaughter merely for the purpose of killing. They take prisoners, and force them to fight in their army. The few Arukani who have escaped capture or death have fled their own lands, fearing recapture by this dreadful enemy. This is painful to these clans; unlike us, they have a bond with their land.”

Jashemi nodded his comprehension. The Sa’abah Clan was nomadic, but he had spent all his life in the same place, as had his father before him. As would his son, should he have one. He was already pining for home after a short time away; he could not conceive of being frightened enough to flee the land which had succored him.

“They have weapons such as we have never seen. Though they have taken many clansmen, we have never been able to take one of them prisoner, to interrogate him; they ingest poison before they can be captured. But we managed to take this.”

He gestured, and a servant approached bearing a wooden box. Melaan opened the box to reveal a piece of folded fabric. The other men leaned in; clearly, they had not seen this yet either. Jashemi licked lips suddenly gone dry.

“It is their standard,” Melaan said, “the symbol of their Emperor.” Grimly, the Second unfolded the fabric, and Jashemi’s heart spasmed.

Prancing on a field of white, stained by the blood of the fallen, was a graceful creature that appeared to be a combination of many other beings. It was the general shape of a liah, with cloven feet and a single, curved horn in its forehead. It was covered in light brown fur, save where scales encrusted its back and neck. The tail of a simmar curved around it, and a long mane streamed in the wind. The slight, tufted beard of a goat adorned its chin, and its eyes were large and brown. A gold chain encircled its neck.

For a moment, Jashemi couldn’t even see, so overcome with horror was he. He blinked hard, swallowing to force down the bitter fluid that suddenly rose in his throat.

While the craftsmanship of the flag was admirable, it didn’t even come close to capturing the beauty of the creature as it had appeared to him while he slept. But there it was, complete with a golden chain, which in his dreams had trailed off into shadow.

Now he knew why he had felt such a dreadful sense of impending danger when he had seen the beast. It was the symbol of the unknown Emperor, who seemed poised to descend upon Arukan with all the merciless force of a desert storm.

A name came to him. Ki-lyn. Somehow, he understood that this was the name of the creature. Where had he learned that? Had he heard it in his dream?

Jashemi stared at the ki-lyn, as did all the other men gathered. No, not quite all the other men. Jashemi felt a prickling at the back of his neck that told him he was being watched. Slowly, he lifted his head to see Melaan, Terku’s Second, regarding him with knowing eyes.

Akana, fourth son of the khashim of the Hawk Clan, crouched low over his laboring horse. He gasped for air as the beast did, his heartbeat thudding in his ears, his mind almost numbed with horror at what he had witnessed.

They had come with unbelievable swiftness in the night, pouring down the mountains in staggering numbers. They would not have been seen at all if it were not for a full, revealing moon that exposed them. Still, even with that much of a warning, the outcome was inevitable.

That they were even men was uncertain. The warriors wore metal covering their bodies, metal that clung to them and moved like the flow of a river. They had long, sharp swords that seemed almost too big for a man to wield. Some wore head coverings of metal that completely encased their heads; others let their strange, milky faces and pale hair be seen, causing still more fear. The beasts they rode had no proper tusks, but came in a staggering variety of hues. They, too, wore the flowing metal, and they were completely unafraid of battle.

Arrows did little damage, and the army moved so quickly that soon the Hawk Clan was frantically engaged in hand-to-hand combat. The weapons of scimitar and spear, wielded by men who had not even time to mount their own horses, were of little avail.

The khashim had found his youngest son in the furor and had practically thrown the boy onto a horse.

“Ride!” he had screamed to his son. “Ride and get help, or at least warn the nearest clan!”

“No, Father! I want to fight!”

His father then did something he had never done before; he struck his beloved youngest child across the face. Akana fell at the force of the blow.

“You are the only chance we have!” he bellowed. “Ride, kulis take you!”

And, sobbing, Akana obeyed what he knew was his father’s last wish. There was no time to saddle the beast, only time to leap onto the horse’s back and cling to its increasingly sweat-soaked hide and ride into the desert, ride as if the earth had cracked open and all the kulis in the world were clamoring at his heels.

Akana had no sense of time, no idea how long the horse had been running at a full gallop, but it was slowing now. He screamed at it, he who had never raised his voice above a murmur when talking to animals, and kicked its ribs until he was certain he had left bruises.

He felt a wet warmth on his cheek as the horse blew, and wiped the foam away. The horse’s sides heaved between his legs, and part of him ached for what he was demanding of the creature.

But he saw his brother fall again in his mind’s eye, slashed nearly in two by the impossibly enormous swords. He saw the flood of enemies descending, heard the cries of the women. He didn’t know how he knew, but he was certain that no member of the Hawk Clan would be spared.

Only he would survive. If he survived.

He suddenly, sickly realized that he didn’t even know where the horse was going. He hoped that the mute creature was wiser than he, heading for another settlement instead of out into the open, and deadly, desert.

The horse stumbled. Swearing, Akana kicked it again, but it did not lurch forward. Instead, it let out a low groan and collapsed. Akana was barely able to leap clear as it fell heavily on its side. For a moment, he kicked the horse repeatedly, shrieking incoherently. It cringed from the blows, but did not rise.

Shaking, Akana passed a hand over his face. What was he doing? The beast was exhausted, if not dying. It could go no farther. Gently, he placed a hand on its wet neck, whispered, “I am sorry,” and began to run.

He was slim and strong, and the terror of what he had witnessed gave him extra speed. He settled into a rhythm, arms and legs pumping, sandaled feet flying over the hard, bare rock. Sweat poured forth, cooling him, but his mouth was parched.

He ran until he could run no farther, and then he walked, swaying like a drunken man. Just when he was about to give up and surrender to the earth as the horse had done, he saw it.

A gray tendril of smoke curled up into the moonlit sky. He stumbled into the encampment, of which clan, he did not know. He summoned enough breath to croak a single word, “Warriors!”

They tumbled out of bed with lit torches and weapons, seemingly confused at the sight of an exhausted boy in their midst. A well-dressed man in his middle years approached. No doubt he was this clan’s khashim. Akana stumbled to a stop in front of him, and then to his surprise fell into the man’s arms. He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. His lips and tongue felt thick and leathery.

“Water, quickly,” ordered the khashim. Blessed wetness splashed over Akana’s mouth and he gulped greedily.

“Warriors,” he repeated, “from another land.” He gasped for breath. “They—came in the night and—slew us all.”

“Another land?” the khashim repeated, puzzled.

“He is ill,” came another voice. “Having visions. Dreams.”

“No,” Akana managed to say, struggling in the khashim’s arms. “They have metal on their bodies, and mighty weapons. No clan has such things. They are—”

He fell silent, staring out into the desert. A dark cloud headed straight for the clan’s encampment.

Akana had not warned this clan. He had led the strange warriors directly to them.

The khashim dropped Akana at once, whirling to face the enemy. They descended swiftly, efficiently, but Akana did not see it. He had seen too much this night, and he huddled on the earth in a tight ball, covering his ears and whimpering as horse’s hooves thudded dangerously close. Despite his efforts to block the sounds, he heard the screams and the sickening noise of blades impaling flesh. The stench of blood, urine, and feces assaulted his nose and he uncurled enough to vomit.

It lasted forever. It lasted a heartbeat. Finally, there was a lull in the noise. Akana uncurled, daring to hope that the strange army had departed and he had survived.

He looked up to find one of them standing directly above him, holding a sword a hand’s breadth from Akana’s throat. The warrior said something, but Akana shook his head. Then the warrior grabbed him by the front of his rhia and hauled him to his feet. This, Akana understood, and he shuffled forward, the sword at his back. He was past terror and now felt more curiosity than fear. He expected to be dead. They had left him alive. To what end?

Following the prod of the sword at his back, he was directed toward the corral in which the clan had until now kept their horses. The beasts had been taken by the warriors, and now the corral contained men. Only men; Akana saw no women or children, and shuddered as he realized what must have happened to them. A sharp prick at his back urged him forward into the corral.

The men stared at him with empty eyes. He did not recognize any of them. He had been right; apparently no one else from his clan had survived. Some had blood on their clothing, but all were relatively unharmed. There were three men with swords guarding the others; they wore a mismatched combination of traditional Arukani garb and the metal clothing of the conquerors.

Akana said nothing. More men came into the corral. There was a shout in a language Akana did not understand, and the houses and outbuildings of the clan began to burn. Beside Akana, a man let out a low, guttural sound and covered his face.

A tall man clad in metal stepped forward. He removed his head covering. His hair was close-cropped and pale, as was his face; pale as the moon. But even in that light Akana could see the scar that twisted down the man’s face like a snake. The blow had claimed an eye.

The man spoke. He had a thick accent, but the words were clear enough.

“My name is Captain Kayle,” he cried over the crackling of the fire. “I serve the Emperor. You are now his prisoners. You have a choice. If you join the ranks of the Emperor and fight in his name, under his flag, you will be spared. If you refuse, you will be executed immediately. Those who wish to die, step forward, and I will grant that wish.”

At first, no one moved. Then, sobbing, the man standing next to Akana cried, “You murdered my wife and children! I will never fight for you!”

With no weapon save his bare hands, he charged. Kayle, moving easily, readied his massive sword and cut off the man’s head in a single, almost lazy-looking blow.

A horrified murmur rippled through the crowd. A few more sobs broke out.

“Anyone else?” Kayle invited, grinning a little. When no one else stepped forward, he said, “Good. It is not so hard a decision, after all. Now, warriors of the Empire, turn and honor your new standard!”

Numbly, Akana turned with the others and watched as a flag on a pole was brought forward. He stared with listless eyes as the white fabric, easy to see in the moonlight, fluttered in the wind. It looked as though the strange beast, part liah and part dragon, was capering with delight.

Chapter Eighteen

A fter the meeting, Jashemi wanted nothing more than to return to his tent. He longed to bathe; he knew well the calming properties of cool water lapping at his body. But that was no option here. All he could do was seize some time to himself, and try to reason out the strange, elusive dreams.

He heard a rustle of clothing. Turning, he saw Melaan, and tensed.

“Walk with me,” said Melaan without preamble. They walked together for a while, the sun beating down on their covered heads. Jashemi held his tongue. Melaan had initiated the encounter; Melaan would speak first.

At last, the Second broke the silence. “I watched your face when you saw the creature,” he said.

“We all watched one another’s faces,” Jashemi replied.

“You have seen the standard before.”

“No!” Jashemi whirled on his companion. “I have never seen it—” And then he realized how Melaan had tricked him.

“No,” Melaan said softly. “But you recognized it.”

Jashemi said nothing, then something Raka had said floated back to him. On the defensive with the other man, Jashemi quoted the boy’s words. “‘Be careful with Melaan, Jashemi! His bad dreams sour his temper some days.’”

“My young master has a loose tongue,” Melaan said. “I am fortunate that only you understood what it meant.”

“You have been having strange dreams.”

Melaan nodded. “As, I think, have you.”

Jashemi searched Melaan’s eyes, and then nodded. “Since you were about twelve.” It was a statement, not a question, and again Jashemi nodded. “That’s when they begin. Let me guess what you have been dreaming: of being on a vast expanse of water, with no end in sight, and of a strange Shadow closing in on you. Wiping you out, as easily as this.”

Melaan knelt on the sand and traced a circle with his finger, then with one quick movement erased the image as if it had never been.

“Yes…and no,” Jashemi said. “I do indeed dream of the Shadow approaching. But I am not on a boat; I am on an open area in a great House. Standing next to me is a khashima, who tells me that I must not forget. But I don’t know what it is I’m supposed to remember!”

He slammed a fist into his hand in impotent anger, and yet was keenly aware of relief that he was not the only person who had dreams of the devastating Shadow.

“There are others like us,” said Melaan.

“How do you know? To speak of such things is to condemn yourself as kuli-cursed.”

“But there are hints,” said Melaan. “Hints, like the one you noticed. This is no kuli-curse, Jashemi. This is a warning. Those of us who have these dreams are being given them as a warning to stop the Shadow.”

“I have seen no such Shadow.”

“Not yet,” Melaan admitted. “But we are only now learning of people who live beyond the mountains.”

“You think our dreams and this Emperor are connected?”

“I have seen the ki-lyn in my dreams.”

Jashemi lowered his gaze. “I, too, have seen it. And know its name.”

“I know of other dreamers,” said Melaan. “We must seek them out.”

“We must do more than that,” said Jashemi. He regarded Melaan intently. “We must find a way to unite the clans.”

Melaan snorted. “Compared to that, holding back the Shadow seems like child’s play.”

Holding back the Shadow…there was a way to do that…there were people who could do that….

“We must,” he repeated firmly. “They have a massive army, one that swells with each clan they defeat. Together, we might be able to stand against them. Alone, we will be easy prey, and the clans will be trampled one by one beneath the cloven hooves of the Emperor’s ki-lyn.”

Melaan sighed heavily. “I will speak to Terku,” he said, “and I will do what I can.”

He held out his hand, and Jashemi grasped it. Despite the direness of the situation, he was filled with elation.

He was no longer alone.

Kevla’s misery changed, but did not disappear. It went from an almost unbearable, stabbing agony to a dull, aching throb in her chest. Jashemi’s absence left a gaping hole that nothing could fill, certainly not her mundane and thankless duties in the kitchen.

She still dreamed of the Dragon every night, but there were other dreams: dreams of playing with Jashemi when they were children, dreams of touching him before he left for his first battle, dreams of looking into his deep brown eyes and knowing that she was truly seen.

How did anyone live when a loved one was gone? she wondered. How did her own body continue to function, when all that gave it light and life was so terribly far away?

She refused to think of him lying with another woman. While in her heart she knew she yearned for his physical embrace as much as his presence and voice, that was a longing she had never dared utter. She was Bai-sha, he was a khashim’s son, and he would never be able to take her as wife. She had known of this reality since childhood.

But she was fiercely jealous that this unknown Shali, daughter of a khashim, had Jashemi’s presence. She could talk to him as she wished, without hiding and deception, without fear of repercussions. She could wrap her arms around him, fall into the warm, strong comfort of him. This, Kevla had known, had tasted, and as with honey on the tongue, she wanted more.

The single thing that kept her sane was knowing that now, she was the only person who could protect Tahmu. She and Jashemi knew of Yeshi’s betrayal and Halid’s treason, and Jashemi was many leagues away. He could do nothing. Kevla knew that there was very little even she could do, but at least she was here, at the House. When Tahmu rode to a raid, she begged the Great Dragon every day to send him home safely. She knew, as the other household members could not, that Tahmu was a target not just for rival clans, but for his own Second. It would be easy for Halid to slip into Tahmu’s tent at night, a sharp knife between his teeth….

Pain blossomed in her hand and she bit back a cry. She had become so lost in her thoughts that she had not paid attention while she was chopping vegetables, and had nicked her finger. She stuck it in her mouth and sucked on it, her eyes darting about to make sure no one had noticed her slip, but the kitchen was busy and noisy.

He came home safely, Kevla, she chastised herself as she rinsed her bloody hand until it stopped bleeding. You should be thanking the Dragon, not imagining frightening scenes.

Indeed, that was the reason the kitchen was bustling so. Tahmu had returned, without losing a single man, in the raid against the Sandcattle Clan. Such an event warranted a special feast, and the household was eager to give him one.

Kevla returned to her task and was chopping vegetables with renewed concentration when the kitchen suddenly fell silent. Along with everyone else, she looked up, and her eyes went wide with shock.

Standing in the entrance to the kitchens, her clothing and person both spotless and elegant, was Yeshi. She smiled at Sahlik. The elderly servant hastened to her mistress and bowed.

“Great lady,” said Sahlik, “what do you desire? Some paraah, perhaps?”

All the other servants had stopped what they were doing, but did not dare look directly at the khashima. Kevla, too, bowed her head, but watched Yeshi out of the corner of her eye. She knew her mistress well enough to know that Yeshi rarely visited the kitchens, and in fact had not done so in several years. That was what she had servants for. Why had she not sent them today to fetch her favorite tidbits?

“No, thank you, Sahlik. I just wanted to see and taste for myself how well the feast is progressing.”

Kevla’s eyes widened and her breathing quickened. Something was definitely afoot.

Sahlik clapped her hands. “Return to your duties,” she called, and the servants obeyed. No one dared look at Yeshi except for Sahlik. Kevla continued to chop vegetables, but unlike the others, did not let Yeshi out of her sight.

“What have you prepared?” Yeshi inquired. As Sahlik told her, she nodded, listening. She stepped over to where a girl was carving a decorative bird out of a gourd, removing the fleshy, deliciously sweet fruit with a spoon.

“That looks lovely, child,” Yeshi said, causing the girl to blush and smile. “Tahmu will be pleased. Oh, and is this balaan stew?” She bent over the cauldron and smelled. “Delicious!” she pronounced. “Worthy of such a celebration.”

Kevla clenched her teeth, willing Yeshi not to come to her. She had not looked the woman in the face for years and did not want to do so now. Fortunately, Yeshi seemed to share her sentiment, and brushed past Kevla as if the girl was not there. Kevla caught a faint whiff of scented oils, and for a moment was transported back to when she was eleven years old and massaging the khashima. It seemed like a lifetime ago.

She continued to watch Yeshi as one of the aerie’s hawks might. Looking as out of place as a silver goblet in a sandcattle pen, Yeshi made her way through the kitchen, stopping in front of the plate that would be the khashim’s that evening.

“Will the gourd-bird sit here, on my husband’s plate?” Yeshi inquired.

The girl looked alarmed at being directly addressed and glanced at Sahlik, who nodded. “Yes, great lady. On the khashim’s plate, if it pleases you.”

“It does indeed,” Yeshi said, smiling warmly. “I see you are almost done. Finish it quickly, and I will fill it with delicious treats myself.”

The girl whirled around and began to carve rapidly. Kevla hoped she did not cut herself. She averted her eyes momentarily as she heard the rustle of Yeshi’s clothing and knew that the woman was regarding her. Then Yeshi turned, and began to fill the gourd from a bowl full of delicacies placed next to it.

Again, Kevla lifted her gaze just slightly and watched as Yeshi worked. Sahlik was tasting the stew, and the other servants had their eyes on their tasks. Into the hollow went dates, nuts, cleverly fashioned pastries—

—and something else, a green powder that poured from Yeshi’s sleeve and dissolved when it hit the juicy fruit—

A gray mist swirled before Kevla’s eyes as she realized what was happening. The scream welled up and ripped free from her throat.

“No!”

Righteous fury and a terrible fear for Tahmu shuddered through Kevla as she lifted her hand and pointed at the tray, pointed at the poison-soaked fruit that a supposedly devoted wife was going to feed to her unsuspecting husband, pointed at the evidence that would save Tahmu’s life and expose Yeshi’s crime for all to see—

The thin ribbon of fire began at the tip of her finger and sped across the room like a lightning strike.

It struck the gourd and the small table exploded. A curtain of flame leaped upward. Sparks scattered across the room to ignite hair and clothing. Kevla heard the screams of terrified servants and saw Yeshi leap backward, staring first at her burned hands and then at Kevla. Smoke filled the room. Others coughed and shrieked, but Kevla felt no sting from the smoke. The only thing she felt was a sickening horror as Yeshi pointed a red, oozing finger at her and cried, “Kuli!”

“No,” Kevla said again, her voice a hoarse whisper. She knew she should run, should flee before they could catch her, but she remained rooted to the spot, her eyes locked with Yeshi’s, and she saw in those dark orbs a hot blaze of triumph.

Kevla suddenly snapped out of her paralysis. The kitchen was chaos. Servants were screaming, fighting to escape. The walls were of stone, but everything that could catch fire had, and the smoke was thick and acrid. She turned and tried to run with the others, but felt strong hands close on her arms and shoulders.

“Sahlik!” she screamed as she twisted in the implacable grasp of two of Yeshi’s servants. “Sahlik, help me, she tried to poison Tahmu…please! Help me!”

She screamed the last two words over and over, craning her neck to try to find the elderly servant. Hard hands clamped over her mouth. Kevla squirmed, fighting to escape, fighting to warn someone, fighting to breathe. Her eyes rolled back in her head and she knew no more.

Tahmu was pleased with the new irrigation system his men had devised. It would be a good year for the crops. He smiled as he turned Swift from the Four Waters and headed home.

The smile faded as he saw black smoke curling up from the house. He clapped heels to Swift and the horse sprang into a gallop. As he drew closer, he realized that the fire was coming from the kitchens. His heart contracted.

Kevla….

A small figure was running toward him. He recognized the youth as one of the kitchen servants. The boy was now waving frantically, and Tahmu slowed as he approached.

“Fire!” the boy gasped.

“I can see that,” Tahmu snapped. “Was anyone hurt?”

The boy nodded, leaning forward with his hands on his knees as he gulped air. “Your wife, great khashim. Her hands were burned. Asha is with her now.”

Tahmu saw that his rhia had been singed. “Is it bad?”

“Yes, khashim.”

Tahmu felt sick. “Will she have the use of her hands? What does Asha say?”

“I have not spoken with him, great lord.”

When he was done talking to the boy, he would ride to Asha’s hut. The youth was skilled and had been well taught. He would do all he could. It would have to be enough. Pleas to the Great Dragon would be in order.

“How did it start?”

The boy’s eyes were enormous as he replied, “Kevla.”

Tahmu’s heart sank. Yeshi would surely insist on a terrible punishment. Curse the girl’s carelessness! “What happened? Did she get too close to the fire?”

The boy shook his head solemnly. “Great lord…she made the fire. It flew from her hand like an arrow of flame.” Tears of fear filled his eyes. “The khashima named her…kuli.”

This could not be. Tahmu refused to believe it. Kevla was just a girl, a Bai-sha, not a demon. His mind raced back to that day so many years ago, when he had held her in front of him as they rode, just as he would a pure-blooded daughter. He thought of watching her dance in the square, of standing demurely by Yeshi, of her uncomplaining adaptation to life in the kitchens.

This was not a kuli. This was just a young woman.

“Yeshi said this?” he asked. “You are certain?” He knew he was grasping at straws, but perhaps, just perhaps, Yeshi was trying to turn a common kitchen accident into a way to destroy the young woman she hated.

The boy nodded. “Yes, great lord. But we all saw it. Yeshi just said it first.”

Tahmu began to tremble. Was it possible? Had he truly unleashed a kuli upon his household?

“There is one more thing, great lord,” said the boy. He looked even more frightened now than he had earlier, if such a thing was possible.

“Speak,” Tahmu said, in a hoarse voice.

“Kevla said that the khashima was trying to poison you.”

“Poison me?” The words were yet another blow. Yeshi disliked him, he knew that much, but poison him? Surely not. If Kevla had done what this boy said she had done—and he would speak to Sahlik, she would not participate in any slanderous campaign Yeshi had contrived to start against Kevla—then she was indeed a kuli, and her words were lies.

Asha was waiting outside the House for him. Anticipating his lord’s question, he said, “Great lord, Yeshi will recover. The burns are bad, and will leave their mark, but if Yeshi will let me tend her properly and obey me when I ask her to move her hands in certain ways, she will not lose the use of them.”

“Good,” Tahmu said. “May I see her?”

“Yes, but only briefly, my lord. Rest will help her heal.”

Tahmu nodded his understanding. A crowd was starting to gather. It was to be expected. He was the head of the Clan; when something like this happened, they would look to him to make things right.

He turned and regarded them. It seemed that everyone had stopped what they were doing to come to him; he could not blame them. He regarded the sea of upturned, frightened faces. They were expecting him to pronounce swift judgment. But he could not bear to do so, not yet.

He followed Asha up the stairs to Yeshi’s quarters. His wife lay on the silken sheets. Her hair was loose on the pillow, her face pale, her hands swathed with bandages. Despite the fact that there was little affection between them, Tahmu felt a stab of sympathy. He sat down beside her and her eyelids fluttered open.

“Leave us,” he told the healer. When the door had closed, Tahmu said gently, “Asha tells me you will recover.” She tried to smile, but it turned into a grimace. “Tell me what happened.”

Tears filled her eyes. “I was in the kitchens, thinking to make you a special treat with my own hands, my husband,” she said. “Then Kevla screamed out and—fire came from her hands! She was trying to kill me! I am lucky I am alive.”

He didn’t look at her. “You think she is a kuli?”

“What else could she be? We have burned men for less than this, my husband. Everyone saw it! I know you are fond of her because she is your Bai-sha, but you must not let that cloud your mind against what you know you must do. You must protect your people.”

Now Tahmu did look at her. He wanted to see her reaction to his next words. “She accused you of trying to poison me.”

Yeshi smiled sadly. “And does that not make it even more obvious what she is? You and I are not in love, Tahmu, but that does not make me a murderer. Even if I hated you with all my heart, why would I try to kill you? I could not be khashima without a khashim.”

Tahmu had to admit that she spoke the truth. While he could stretch his imagination to accommodate Yeshi as hate-filled enough to kill, he could not see her jeopardizing her luxurious life as khashima.

He bent to kiss her forehead with a heart that grew heavier by the moment. “Rest, now,” he said.

“Where is she?” he demanded as he strode into the courtyard. “Bring her before me.”

Everyone knew who he meant, and a ripple of surprise ran through the crowd. They were curious as to why he would even bother seeing the kuli-cursed girl.

He spotted Sahlik and waved her forward. The old woman forced her way through the crowd. He extended a hand and helped her up the steps. Placing his lips close to her ear, he whispered, “Tell me that this was a simple kitchen accident.”

Sahlik had begun looking old to him when he was twelve. Since then, it seemed to him that she had not aged. Now, though, all the years seemed to have descended upon her at once. Her eyes were red, and not, he suspected, just from the smoke.

“Great lord,” she said, “I would that I could. But I saw it with my own eyes. Kevla extended a hand, and fire came from it.”

Tahmu let out a low groan. “I had hoped this was nothing more than Yeshi’s jealousies,” he whispered.

Sahlik clutched his hand. “Perhaps it was a divine blessing from the Dragon,” she said. “Kevla said that Yeshi had put poison in your dish. Perhaps the Dragon gave her his fire to protect you.”

“The Dragon is a distant god,” Tahmu said, his face impassive. “He doesn’t come when he is needed.” He squeezed her hand, and gently touched her arm to indicate that she rejoin the crowd. Tears filled the old woman’s eyes, but she obeyed.

It was then that Tahmu saw his daughter.

Halid had taken charge of the kuli masquerading as a beautiful, illegitimate young woman. She had been beaten, he saw, and his heart ached. But he was not surprised. A rough cloth had been tied around her mouth, and her hands were tightly bound. Halid clutched another rope that snaked around her waist. She limped as she moved forward, and the crowd parted to give her a wide berth. Tahmu heard muttered curses and watched as someone spat upon her. Step by slow, unsteady step, Kevla Bai-Sha made her way toward the House. Halid led her as he might a cow or goat, but with far less gentleness.

Finally, she stood before him, and before he could say anything she had collapsed at his feet. Her bound hands, the hands that had supposedly shot fire across the room, reached to touch his sandals. Reacting instinctively, he jerked back, and heard the murmur of the crowd.

He swallowed hard. “Speak,” he ordered his daughter.

She was crying so hard that she could not. Her hair had come undone from its customary braid and fell like a black river down her back and face. Her body shook with each sob.

Tahmu could not help himself. Knowing full well that he should not, he stepped forward and raised her, shaking her gently to get her attention.

Her head came up and she looked him full in the face. He had not looked at her so for many years, and with a pang realized that she had blossomed into a true beauty. There was much of him in her face still, but more of the radiant, exquisite Keishla.

His words to her came back to haunt him as he stared at their child: This I swear to you—she will never want for food or a safe place to sleep. No man will dare lay a hand on her without my permission.

He had lied to his true love, had betrayed her trust in him. Now, he feared he would have to do something every bone in his body screamed at him not to do.

“Kevla,” he said, for her ears alone, “give me something, anything, to defend you with. Tell me you didn’t do this thing and I will believe you.”

Her eyes filled with fresh tears. They spilled down her cheeks as she replied, “I wasn’t trying to hurt her, great lord. I was trying to save you. Yeshi and Halid have been conspiring against—”

Her voice continued speaking, but Tahmu didn’t hear another word. Even she had confessed to her evil.

My daughter has become a demon.

He let her go and with a sudden rush of pain and anger shoved her. She fell backward hard; no one rushed to break the kuli’s fall.

“Take her,” he ordered, fighting to keep his composure. “Take her and build the fire. Lock her in her room and bring her out when it is time. No food, no water. The Great Dragon is clear about what to do with kulis and those whom they have cursed.”

He looked her in the eye. He owed her that much.

“The kuli will burn.”

The color left her face, but she made no sound. She stared at him. Her lips parted as if to speak, but if she said anything, he did not hear it; it was drowned out by the cries of the crowd. They were jubilant, angry, ready to see justice done. Tahmu stood rigid, his knees locked lest they tremble and betray him, and watched as Halid dragged the lost girl away. The crowd dispersed, returning to their duties. They would be in the courtyard on the morrow, ready to watch the demon die, knowing that their khashim was keeping them safe.

Tahmu went inside and closed the door. Moving quickly, he ducked down a corridor and into a little-used room. There, where no one could see him, Tahmu-kha-Rakyn, the most powerful khashim in Arukan, slid slowly down the cool stone wall to the floor. He wept silently, as he had not done since he had abandoned Keishla for the good of the Clan. Now he had pronounced a death sentence on the living symbol of their passionate, forbidden love.

Alone in her bedroom, hearing the cheers of the crowd as she drifted in and out of consciousness, Yeshi smiled through her pain.

Jashemi enjoyed riding alone. The last few weeks, he had hardly been able to seize any time for himself. Not that he regretted his decision. He and Melaan had shared everything they remembered about their dreams, and the Second had supported him in his desire to unite the clans. A year ago, this vision that both he and his father shared had seemed like a child’s tale. Now, faced with the threat of the strange armies from over the mountains, the clans seemed much more inclined to talk. Several of them had already come for a meeting, and things sounded promising.

It caught him in midgallop.

Suddenly his chest constricted and his vision swam. Fear with no name washed through him, causing him to gasp and his sa’abah to slow, sensing a change in its rider. One hand crept up to clutch his chest.

An image of Kevla rose in front of him that was so real he almost believed she was present. He saw her bound, sobbing, beaten. He cried her name, reached out for her. Then she was gone, and he saw only the desert sand.

He was chilled despite the heat, covered with cold sweat. The sa’abah had come to a complete halt, and craned its neck to look back at its rider inquiringly.

Something dreadful had happened to Kevla. He knew it in his bones. He loved her. He had to go to her.

His new family would worry when he did not return, and he had no food and little water for a very long ride. None of that mattered. Time enough to send a hawk back once he had arrived at the House of Four Waters. Once he had saved Kevla from whatever was happening to her.

“Come on,” he said gently to his mount, turned its head, and set off as fast as the beast could go.

Chapter Nineteen

K evla had not resisted when Halid and the others had hauled her away from Tahmu; she had been too stunned by his words to resist. They literally threw her into her room and slammed the door. She looked around her tiny room, and for the first time was glad that she struggled for space on a floor that was crowded with tools. Most of them were dulled with use, but she sat down next to an old scythe, maneuvered it into position, and began to cut her bonds.

It took time, and the sun moved across the sky. Kevla continued; time was nothing to her now. At last the ropes fell free. She rubbed her hands to bring life back into them and assessed her situation.

Kevla knew she was no kuli. What she had always known was that others would fear her abilities if they knew of them. If only she’d been thinking! She could have dropped a pot to create a distraction and then “accidentally” knocked over the poisoned food. But she had not thought, she had reacted on instinct, and tomorrow, she would pay the price.

She studied the door. It was made of wood. If she could send a bolt of flame leaping from her fingers that could ignite a table, the wooden door to her room should be no challenge. Then again, she would probably simply trap herself in the room and burn to death, or choke on the smoke. She knew she could start a fire, and could see through it; she feared fire was not friend enough to leave her flesh unscathed.

Besides, where could she run to? Tales would spread of the kuli in woman-shape. How would she live? She could not go to Jashemi; he had a family now, and if he took her in, they would call him kuli-cursed.

As she thought about him, tears welled in her eyes. She had never gotten to say goodbye to him. She wiped the tears away angrily. Crying served nothing. Kevla got unsteadily to her feet and looked out the window. In the dying light of the day, she could see the pyre being built, and watched with detached interest as piles of wood began to appear. There was a platform and a long pole in the center.

It didn’t seem real. She simply seemed unable to fully comprehend that tomorrow she would be tied to that pole, smoke filling her lungs, heat assaulting her, flames licking her body—

Unbidden, her mind went back to the time when she had just arrived at the House, when she, Yeshi and Tiah had gone to the market and the kuli-cursed man had approached them. She remembered the rush to gather wood for the fire, how Yeshi had been willing to pay for it in order that the man burn quickly. Then, Yeshi had been acting to protect her; now, the great lady of the House of Four Waters was doing all she could to condemn Kevla. They were taking their time, in order that a huge crowd would have time to assemble. Kevla thought of the man, rushing at her. Had that beggar truly been cursed by demons, or was he as innocent of taint as she? She smelled again the stench of burning flesh and suddenly her stomach heaved.

Kevla turned away from the window and covered her mouth, willing herself not to be sick. She crawled to a corner of the room and sat there, drifting into an uneasy slumber as night came. For the first time since she began to bleed from her sulim, she did not dream.

She was startled awake by the sound of the door opening. Halid stood in the doorway, his massive frame almost filling it completely. He sneered, and for a moment she felt hatred blaze inside her. He entered, followed by three other men. Kevla extended her hands for them to tie. Halid’s gaze flickered from her chafed wrists to the bits of rope to the old scythe. The other men seemed surprised at her calmness, but Halid just looked irritated.

“Come, kuli, your death awaits you.”

“I do not fear death,” Kevla lied. Don’t show your fear, Kevla. Don’t give this dog anything to hold over you.

“You’ll be begging for it by the time the fire has burned away your feet,” Halid said. Kevla’s stomach clenched, but she forced her face to reveal nothing.

The sun was bright and Kevla squinted against the glare. Halid prodded her with the tip of his sword and she stumbled on the steps, catching her balance awkwardly.

A huge crowd had assembled to watch her execution. She guessed there were well over a hundred, perhaps double that. There had been time for the news to spread, and clearly as many as could had come to watch the kuli burn. Such executions served as warnings to the people, to prompt them to honor the ways of their traditions, to never stray from the path.

Again, Halid prodded her, and she walked slowly toward the pyre. She climbed up the short ladder to the platform. It was tricky, as it was difficult to use her hands. She stumbled more than once and would have fallen had not one of the guards caught her. He seemed startled at his instinctive reaction; no doubt he suddenly remembered that she was a kuli and merely touching her could be dangerous. She gave him a quick smile, and saw emotions warring on his face.

At last, she stood atop the platform. Halid had come up behind her and was now tying her to the pole. He cinched the ropes unnecessarily tight, and as he bent over her to check the knots, she whispered, “I know about you and Yeshi. You won’t get away with it.”

He looked at her and laughed. “Brave words, but empty,” he said. “Jashemi is gone and you will be dead soon.”

“If I’m a kuli,” she challenged, “how do you know I won’t destroy all of you? How do you know I won’t escape?”

He grinned, showing white teeth. “You’re not a kuli,” he said. “I don’t know what you are, but you’re not that. A kuli would never have let itself get caught in such a foolish manner.” He pulled the last rope so tight that the air went out of her in a whoosh, knotted it, and left without another word.

Kevla searched the crowd for Tahmu, thinking even now that somehow she could warn him and that he might believe her. Finally she saw him. He was dressed in white, his arms folded across his chest, regarding her. He was too far away for her to make out the expression on his face, but she didn’t need to. The position of his body told her enough. Any pleas she might have made died in her throat. Tahmu-kha-Rakyn had made his decision, and in ordering her death, had sealed his own.

Tears stung her eyes and she blinked them back, realizing that it only made those about to witness her murder more excited. She swallowed hard and tried to stand as erect as possible. She had had so little dignity in her life; she would at least meet death with it.

Tahmu’s voice drifted to her. “It is our law, that all kulis and anyone who has been influenced by them shall be put to death by the cleansing fire. Kevla Bai-sha was witnessed creating fire from her own hand, and attacking the khashima with the demonic flame. Kevla has been kuli-cursed at the very least, if she is not an actual demon herself. We honor the traditions of our people, and the laws of our Dragon, as today we witness her execution. Let this serve as a reminder to all to obey the Dragon.”

Did she detect a tremor in that powerful voice? No, it must have been her imagination. Her gaze traveled to Yeshi, standing beside her husband, and she felt a faint petty pleasure stir as she noticed that Yeshi’s hands were bandaged.

Yeshi was trying hard to look fragile and worthy of sympathy, but Kevla was not fooled. This was her day, her victory, and Kevla knew she and Halid would be celebrating.

Kevla looked out into the crowd, desperate to find a kind face, and her eyes met those of Sahlik. The older woman looked ancient, and her eyes were red. Kevla smiled sadly. At least someone would mourn her passing.

Four men approached with lit torches, and the fear she had thought dulled sprang to life. Futilely, she squirmed against her bonds, found them far too tight, and sagged against them.

This is my fate. This is my destiny. Great Dragon, I still don’t know who I am.

The wood was dry, and the fire well-prepared. It lit almost at once. Tongues of flame licked upward, and Kevla felt their heat. Smoke began to rise, engulfing her in a black and gray cloud. Through the smoke she could see orange and red flames beneath her. The wooden platform beneath her bare feet began to grow hot, then it, too, erupted into flames.

The sa’abah was exhausted. It had been running for a full day and night with only infrequent, brief breaks, but Jashemi was merciless. Something was happening to Kevla, and every heartbeat was precious. He too was exhausted, but fear flooded his veins and kept him going.

They were almost there. The riverside and the road to the House were oddly deserted, adding to Jashemi’s apprehension. The beast grunted in protest, but Jashemi would not ease up on it. It surged up the hill, through the open gates, and into the packed courtyard of the House of Four Waters.

Jashemi cried aloud at what he beheld.

Kevla was tied to a stake in the center of the courtyard. Flames leaped around her, so high and so smoky that he could barely see her body.

“Douse the fires!” he shrieked, sliding off his mount. “I order you, douse the fires!”

But no one obeyed his orders. His own father’s guards seized him and shouted into his ear, “The kuli must burn!”

Jashemi was not a weak man, and his terror for his sister gave him added strength. He wrested his arm free from the guard and started pushing his way through the crowd. Two more guards slammed into him, knocking him down. He surged up, startling them, but their grip on him was firm. He used every fighting technique that Halid had taught him, but could not break free from three guards.

There was a mighty crackle from the deadly fire, and a new sheet of flame leaped skyward. The cheers of the crowd swelled gleefully, and Jashemi finally realized with a slow, sickening horror that he had arrived too late.

“No!” he screamed, coughing from the smoke, “No! Kevla!” Tears filled his eyes and streamed down his cheeks. He sagged forward in the guards’ grip and fell to his knees, sobbing. Whether from pity or contempt, he did not know or care which, they released him.

While the crowd around him celebrated and the deadly fire crackled as if shouting a victory, the khashim’s son knelt in the dust, lost in his rage and grief.

Kevla…Kevla, I should have kept you safe….

Suddenly, the crowd’s shrieks of delight fell silent. Shaking and wiping his wet face, Jashemi looked up.

The flames were beginning to die down. He could see through their red-orange curtain, expecting the agonizing sight of a charred skeleton. Instead, impossibly, Kevla stood untouched atop the blackened branches and logs. Even as he watched, her clothing twisted and burned, turning black and dropping off her unharmed body. She seemed as surprised as the crowd to find herself alive.

For an instant, Jashemi was so dizzy with relief that he could not move. Kevla lifted her head, stared at the crowd—and their eyes met.

“Jashemi!”

It was the sweetest sound in the world. Jashemi leaped forward like an arrow shot from a bow, rushing toward his sister. He struck and pushed his way through the press of people. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw two women carrying full earthenware water jugs, staring slack-jawed as Kevla strained against her bonds. As he raced past the oblivious pair, Jashemi grabbed the jugs and hurled them onto what was left of the pyre. The water splashed the hot wood and hissed. Everyone seemed too startled by what they had just witnessed to try to stop him.

Kevla struggled with the burned remains of the rope, and just as he reached her she pulled the last blackened coil free. He stumbled on the burned branches that cracked and gave beneath his weight and she caught him before he fell. For an instant they clung fiercely to one another. Then Jashemi whirled, grasping Kevla by the hand. He felt the remaining heat start to scorch his sandals and breeches, and held his breath against the choking smoke. He looked frantically for a mount, knowing his was too exhausted to continue. If he did not find one—

He spied a sa’abah on the edge of the crowd. It wore the livery of the House of Four Waters and probably belonged to one of the guards. Jashemi and Kevla sprinted for the beast.

The crowd was starting to recover from its shock. Tahmu’s voice rang out and Jashemi faltered for just an instant.

“Stop, Jashemi! Return the kuli for punishment! It is the law!”

He clenched his jaw and kept running. The law and everyone who would enforce it be cursed. He would die before he let anyone hurt Kevla. At the same time, he felt a stab of pain as he realized that his father had authorized this, had likely ordered it; had spoken the words that would send his own daughter to the flames.

Father, how could you?

They barely made it to the sa’abah before strong hands clapped down on Jashemi’s shoulders. He let go of Kevla, who quickly scrambled atop the animal.

Other guards were coming. “Go!” Jashemi cried.

“Not without you!” Kevla screamed, reaching a hand down to him. Her once-carefully guarded expression was as naked as her body now, and in it he saw love and fear commingled. His heart surged. With renewed strength, Jashemi twisted in the guard’s grip, turned sharply, and yanked the man’s arm behind his back. The guard cried out and dropped like a stone. In an instant, Jashemi had leaped onto the sa’abah, pulled its head around, and sped down the road, Kevla behind him holding on for dear life.

Tahmu watched them go. Emotions warred within him: relief that Kevla was alive, pride in his son for rescuing his sister, worry that he had permitted a demon to live.

“What are you doing?” snarled Yeshi in his ear. She was furious, her color high, her teeth bared. “Go after them!”

“Yeshi, I—”

She swore, then composed herself. Very loudly, she said, “Yes, my husband, you are right!”

Tahmu stared at her, not comprehending.

“You and your Second must indeed make haste and ride after the kuli. She has turned the flames to be her allies; you must kill her yourselves.”

Tahmu couldn’t believe what he was hearing, but what she said next took the breath out of him.

“And what is truly tragic is that she has obviously cursed our beautiful son Jashemi as well,” Yeshi said theatrically. “Now, he, too, must die.”

He could only stare. Had be truly been so blind as to not see what hatred of her former rival had done to her? Could she really have sunk so deeply into her jealousy and pain that she would condemn not only Kevla, but the son she had once loved above all things?

“They are no longer children,” she continued, “but things of evil. If they are permitted to go free, think of the harm they will do! My husband, painful as it is, you must slay both of them. Otherwise, anything they do will be your responsibility. The other clans will blame the Clan of Four Waters, and they will unite against you and bring you down.”

She smiled then, a satisfied, hateful smile, and he wished he could strike her down where she stood.

How could he hunt his own children, murder them in cold blood? No ordinary person could command fire, or have survived such a conflagration unscathed, this much was true. Also true was that in freeing his condemned sister, Jashemi had gone against the law and his life was forfeit. Yet the girl who admitted her own guilt seemed so unlike a demon that he wondered if perhaps Sahlik was right—that this had nothing to do with kulis and everything to do with a warning.

The Dragon was angry with Tahmu, that much was certain, but for what? Conceiving Kevla out of wedlock? Bringing her to the House? Marrying Yeshi and not Keishla? He had done so many things he thought right, but that felt wrong. The opposite was true, as well. How could he atone when he did not know which was the true sin?

Confusion whirled in his brain, but there was one thing that stood out above all else: he loved his children. Kevla had given him reason enough to condemn her, according to their laws. And yet, fire was the Dragon’s symbol. Was the Dragon protecting the girl, or issuing a challenge to Tahmu? Surely, the Dragon would not want Tahmu to slay his own progeny—or would it?

If he did not pursue them, his people would turn on him. They were frightened; he needed to allay the fears that his wife had stirred up in them. He would hunt his children. But that did not mean he needed to find them.

“Yeshi,” he whispered, bending in as if to kiss her, “you are dead to me with these words.”

Straightening, he said aloud, “My wife is right. Jashemi and Kevla must be found…and killed.” His voice broke on the last word and he dared say no more.

He moved forward, heading for the corral to find a sa’abah. His way was blocked by the figure of a small, old woman. She was the last person Tahmu wanted to see right now.

“Sahlik, out of my way,” he warned.

She stood her ground and looked up at him. “I will not move,” she said, “until you refute what you have just said.”

“The Clan—”

“You know in your heart that Kevla is not a demon! And Jashemi is only being a good brother to his sister. His mind is his own, as are his actions. Do not go after them, Tahmu, or you will regret it for the rest of your life!”

“I must,” he said, trying to push past her.

Then Sahlik did something she had never done to him before. Slowly, with difficulty, she lowered herself to her hands and knees and bent her gray head into the dirt. One gnarled hand reached to touch his sandal imploringly.

“Great Tahmu,” she said, her voice trembling, “I beg of you. I beg of you. Let the children go.”

“It is not my wish,” he said, kneeling and lifting her up gently. “You of all people know that, Sahlik. But they are my responsibility, both of them. I sired them, and they have been cursed by kulis. If I skirt this, if I let them go because they are my children, any who are not content in the Clan will turn on me. The Clan will be ripped apart.”

Sahlik’s old body shook with one violent sob. Then she lifted her head, and her eyes blazed. Before he realized what she was doing, she had reached for the ceremonial knife he always carried. For a wild instant he thought she would try to attack him, but instead she shoved up the sleeve of her rhia, baring her forearm, exposing the four old scars that marked her place in the household. Looking defiantly into the eyes of her lord, she sliced into her own arm with his blade, cutting a fifth score and emphatically ending over fifty years of service to the House of Four Waters.

Sahlik spat on the ground, looked at Tahmu with contempt, and tossed the knife to the earth. Her head high, blood dripping from the cut that marked her as a free woman, Sahlik turned and strode out the gates.

Tahmu watched her go, raising a commanding hand when one of the guards would have stopped her. He was beyond anger, rage, grief. He knew only a deep, profound sorrow that made him feel older than Sahlik.

I would I were a lesser man, he thought.

“Bring sa’abahs and weapons,” he said to the guard who had appeared at his elbow. “We ride after the kulis.”

Chapter Twenty

K evla clung to Jashemi, her skin, protected only by the shade of the sa’abah’s tail, exposed to the sun and wind, and tightened her lips against the increasing thirst. How long they rode without stopping, she did not know. Neither of them spoke; the brutal pace of their flight did not lend itself to conversation. She had experienced a rush of joy at his unexpected appearance and her salvation, but the euphoria had faded and fearful thoughts were taking its place.

Jashemi had left the main road early, as if he had a specific destination in mind. He was riding toward the mountains, and at one point Kevla caught a bright gleam in the distance. She knew what it was: the sun flashing off the large golden disk that marked the site of the Clan of Four Water’s altar to the Great Dragon.

She thought about her dreams, and trembled, tightening her grip around Jashemi’s waist. They had transgressed, both of them. The Great Dragon, the strict keeper of the laws and traditions of their people, would exact punishment.

After they had passed the altar, Jashemi guided the sa’abah westward. The creature climbed the small hills at the foot of the mountain. But the beast was tiring, and the hills grew increasingly steep.

Jashemi brought the sa’abah to a halt and slipped off. Not looking at Kevla, he held up a hand to indicate that she should stay mounted. He tugged off his rhia and stood clad only in breeches. He handed the garment up to her.

“Put this on, and then dismount,” he said. “It will be easier if we walk.”

Surprised by the blunt tone of his voice, she did as he instructed. He reached to help her down and as her bare feet touched the warmed earth, their bodies were but a hand’s width apart. She risked a look up at him and saw an expression in his eyes she could not comprehend. He touched her cheek with his forefinger, gently, then turned and grasped the sa’abah’s lead.

“Come. This way.”

She followed him down a tricky patch of stones and was glad that she was no longer riding. The sa’abah’s long, powerful toes found secure grips, but it would have been thrown off balance with two riders atop its back.

Suddenly, Jashemi stopped so abruptly she almost walked into him. He looked back, puzzled, then smiled. Her heart lifted to see that expression on his face.

“I walked right past it,” he said. “Good. No one who doesn’t know what to look for will find it.”

He retraced his steps and Kevla now saw, hidden by an apparently random group of stones, a narrow entrance into the mountain.

“The sa’abah won’t want to go in,” Jashemi said. “Hold him, Kevla.” She did so and he slipped inside, reappearing a moment later with hands that were cupped to hold—

“Water!” she cried.

“Yes,” he said. “There’s a natural spring in here. I found this place when I was a boy.” He held out his dripping hands to the creature. Its long purple tongue crept out and lapped the precious liquid, and when Jashemi coaxed it with soft words, it sniffed, scented the water, and hesitantly entered the cave.

Kevla followed, stepping into a cool darkness that was startling after the glare of the sun. It took her several blinks before her eyes adjusted. The cave wasn’t large, and the little spring was nothing compared to the luxurious pool at the House of Four Waters. But the cave was big enough for the three of them, and it had water.

Kevla rushed toward the pool and began to drink. Jashemi and the sa’abah joined her. Kevla splashed some on her face and closed her eyes at how good it felt.

“I’m sorry I have no food,” Jashemi said as he leaned back against the stone wall. “But at least there is water.”

Kevla looked down at her wet hands. She did not know where to begin. The sa’abah, its thirst slaked for the moment, loped back toward the entrance of the cave, settled its bulk down, and closed its eyes.

“You may bathe if you like,” he said. When she hesitated, he said, “I’ll turn around.”

“It’s not that,” she began, “but Jashemi, you—”

The odd look on his face stopped her. “Wash, Kevla,” he said gently. “We’ll talk afterward.”

He turned around as he had promised. Kevla felt utterly miserable. Everything had changed so suddenly, and so completely. She was alive because of Jashemi, but she had never wanted him to be put at risk.

She did not immerse herself, but stood and sluiced down her sun-heated skin with the cool fluid as best she could. She felt a little better, a little cleaner, and shrugged into the rhia. “I am done, my lord,” she said softly. He whirled as if stung, and this time she had no trouble reading his expression. He was angry.

“Don’t call me that!”

Startled and hurt by the outburst, Kevla went to sit with the sa’abah while Jashemi took his turn in the pool. She heard him splash in the water. Finally, he said, “You can turn around now.”

She turned and looked at him. The fine fabric of his breeches clung to his damp legs. His torso glistened in the faint light and his dark, wet hair curled.

Seldom had she beheld him so, out of his well-made clothing, without a kerchief or wrap around his head. She remembered when he had been a boy, come home from his first battle, the first time he had taken a life. She had seen the healing scar that snaked across his chest and had held him while he wept. That scar had faded now, but new ones had joined it, marring the otherwise smooth, brown skin. His body was beautifully fashioned, his chest broad, his hips narrow. A thin trail of dark hair traveled from his belly and disappeared into his breeches, and she averted her eyes.

Kevla understood how men were made. Her mother had seen to it that Kevla knew just about all there was to know about how men and women came together. But knowing something and seeing it, or even imagining it—that was something different.

He padded over to her and sat. “Kevla,” he said gently, “tell me what happened.”

“I didn’t mean to hurt the khashima,” she said.

His eyes widened slightly. “I am sure you didn’t, but…she was hurt? Was it bad?”

Kevla took a deep breath, and as calmly as she could she explained what had happened. He listened without interrupting, his eyes fastened on her face, nodding from time to time. When she had finished, she pulled her knees into her chest and clasped them. He put a strong hand on her shoulder and squeezed reassuringly, then let it fall.

“I, too, have had something happen to me,” he said. “I have learned that I am not alone in my dreaming. We all stayed quiet for fear we would be condemned. There is an army of an Emperor gathering force on the other side of the mountains. His standard has a strange creature on it called a ki-lyn. I have seen this beast in my dreams. Many have died. I am doing what I can to unite the clans and stand against this, and I know that somehow my dreams and your abilities have manifested at this time for this reason—to protect our people.”

She buried her face in her arms. “I wish I could believe you. I wish I did not have these powers.”

“Kevla, look at me.” She did and found him smiling. His gaze seemed to bore right through her. Why was it so hard to breathe?

“I know,” he said, slowly and deliberately, “that your powers are not from the kulis, any more than my dreams are. I know you only wanted to save our—our Clan leader. There is nothing evil about you.” He reached to brush a strand of damp hair from her face. “Nothing.”

Tears filled her eyes and blurred her vision. “Oh, Jashemi,” she said thickly, “I am so sorry. Your father will be angry with you for helping me.”

A shadow fell over his face and he looked away. A terrible suspicion filled her. “Jashemi,” she said slowly. “Jashemi, what will happen to you?”

He sighed heavily. “He will disown me. I will be Jashemi Bai-kha, who has no father or mother. And he will track us down until he finds us and puts us both to death.”

Kevla’s hand went to her mouth, and for a moment she couldn’t speak. Then a cry burst from her.

“No!” she screamed. “No! I will not be the one to bring this on you!” She leaped to her feet and reached for the sa’abah.

“What are you doing?” Jashemi’s hand closed on her arm.

“I’m going to ride back to the House,” she said. “Persuade him to take you back. If they have me they won’t need to kill you, too.”

“But you’ll die!”

“Better that than live with having done this to you!”

He had both her wrists now. She struggled against him. Why had he come for her? Why?

“Kevla, listen to me!” He shook her roughly. “Listen! I knew exactly what would happen! I chose this! I saw that you were in trouble and I came. I had to because—” His voice broke and then softly he said, “Because I love you.”

She stared at him, stunned. He released her and went to the other side of the cave, not looking at her. Sighing, he sat down and put his head in his hands.

“I should not have said that,” he said. “For many reasons. Kevla, there is something I have to tell you. Something I should have told you long ago.”

The tone of his voice filled her with dread. “I don’t want to hear it,” she said.

“Kevla—”

“No.” She rushed to his side and dropped down beside him. “You have a wife, Jashemi.”

“Not any more. Not now. I am dead to her.” He didn’t look at her. “And I did not love her. On our wedding night, when we—when I—all I could think of was how much I wished it was you instead. She deserves better.”

“Oh,” said Kevla, weakly.

“And when they came for you—I saw you, as if you were right there. You were in trouble.” He shrugged. “I came. I could have done nothing else.”

He knew he spoke the truth. He could no more have refused to ride to her than he could have grasped the sun in his fist. The bond that he had sensed between them the moment they had first locked gazes at the feast had only strengthened with time. It was stronger than a blood tie; stronger even than a love bond. He was a part of her, and she of him.

He had intended to tell her of their common parentage. Instead, what had come out was a confession of a love that should never have been.

Jashemi tried again. “Kevla, we—”

“Are bound to each other,” she whispered. At the tone of her voice, he looked up at her.

“But how could that be? I tried to resist it. You were the khashim’s son, and I a lowly Bai-sha. There was no way in the world that we could be together, and so I did not even dare dream of it. Yet you kept pushing, kept creating ways for us to be together. So I saw you in secret, touched your hand, embraced you when you wept.” She smiled slightly. “Played Shamizan with you. And I convinced myself to be content with that.”

A terrible, wonderful hope rose in him, a hope that made him feel weak and powerful at the same time. It was possible, now….

“But you are no longer a khashim’s son,” she continued. She moved toward him, sat down beside him. His throat was dry and he could not speak. “The world has changed. There is no life for us here, only death. You speak of a land over the mountains—we could go there, Jashemi. We could go there and start again.”

Kevla’s gaze held him. “We have nothing left but each other. Am…am I being a fool to think that we have that?”

He shook his head, still unable to find words. Licking dry lips, he said hoarsely, “No.”

She held out her hand to him and he took it. Palm to palm, fingers slowly entwining, Jashemi trembled from even this simple touch. He had held her before, but everything was different now.

As they gazed into one another’s eyes, Jashemi made his decision. He would not tell her. He couldn’t, not now that he knew she loved him in return. There was no need for her to know that she was his half sister. All who cared about such things considered them already dead. Jashemi would not let this stand in the way of their happiness. Surely, even the Great Dragon would feel they had suffered enough.

Slowly, she brought his hand between her breasts as she leaned forward and placed her hand over his heart. He felt her heartbeat, strong and fast, against his fingers, and knew she could feel his own heart racing. He covered her hand with his, pressing her fingers into his smooth skin.

Kevla moved closer, kissing his hand with soft lips and then releasing it. Her fingers traveled over his chest, caressing the old and new scars, brushing his unshaven cheeks, slowly discovering him. When she ran a finger over his lips he jumped, nerves on fire. A smile touched her face, and he knew that for the first time she was experiencing the power a woman had over the man who loved her. It was impossible for him to resist touching her in return. He ran his fingers through her thick hair, savoring its softness even as he gently undid the snarls the wind had wrought.

She closed her eyes and leaned toward him. Their lips brushed lightly, and the pleasure was torment, taut and lingering. He breathed her in through his open mouth; scents and tastes of smoke and honey. Unable to bear it any longer, Jashemi permitted himself to do what he had dreamed of for almost half his life; he tangled his fingers in her hair, pulled her to him and kissed her deeply.

Her response excited him even more. She opened her sweetness to him and pressed into him so they sat heart to heart. Kevla still wore his rhia, and he felt her breasts through the fabric that scratched his bare chest.

Kevla was lost in pleasure, lost in love for this man. He had always been such a profound presence in her life, and always, she had buried any feelings that were not acceptable. Now, she finally gave free rein to her passion.

We are one. We always have been. Why did it take this for us to dare to claim that?

Jashemi broke the kiss and she made a soft sound of protest. She fell silent in delight as he kissed her throat where the vein pulsed, flicking his tongue lightly over the vulnerable hollow at the base of her neck. She pulled him tighter, gripping his thick hair. She felt a tentative brush of his hands on her breasts through the rhia and suddenly ached for him to touch her.

The garment was a barrier to the contact she so urgently needed, and she moved away and struggled out of it. Kevla heard a gasp of breath and found Jashemi staring at her, full of awe at beholding what the rhia had hidden from him. She had been naked earlier, when he had ridden to her and helped her escape. She remembered the strength of his body as he clutched her briefly, saw the love in his eyes when she reached down from the sa’abah, refusing to abandon him as he had refused to abandon her. But then, survival had been the pressing need. Now, she offered herself to him, her nakedness her gift, her choice.

He lifted her eyes to hers and for a long moment neither moved, not touching, only their gazes locked together. Then Jashemi’s face flushed and he reached for her again. Kevla went joyfully into his arms, shuddering with pleasure as her nipples brushed his chest. She was dizzy as her senses were flooded and surrendered to the sensations. His kiss this time was fierce, but she responded with an intensity that matched his.

Jashemi had never imagined it could be like this; this pleasure so intense it was pain; this joy making his heart swell until he thought surely it must burst. The gentleness was gone and he knew he was being rough with her, but she seemed to want this as much as he.

Her hands moved down his chest, over his flat stomach. He tensed in anticipation. When her fingers lightly stroked him through the thin fabric of his breeches, he cried aloud in surprised delight.

She drew her hand back and asked, “Have I hurt you? I thought men enjoyed—”

“We do,” he gasped. “I do. You heard my pleasure, beloved, not my pain.”

Kevla looked unconvinced. By the Dragon, he could take her right now; could have taken her easily before she had even laid one of those exquisite fingers on him. He swallowed hard and asked gently, “Please…touch me again.”

She did, at first hesitantly and then with growing confidence, and he shuddered. His kurjah strained against the breeches and impatiently he sat up to remove them. He heard a slight intake of breath.

“There is nothing to fear, my love,” he said hoarsely. “But I will stop at a word.”

She looked at him then, with eyes that smoldered. “I want this,” she whispered. Tears filled her eyes. “Oh, Jashemi, I want you…I have wanted you for so long….”

Growling in the back of his throat he pulled her down on top of him. His freed kurjah pressed hard against the softness of her belly as their mouths met and the sensation was so intense he almost climaxed. He tensed, holding himself back, wanting to make this first joining exquisite and bring her as much pleasure as she was giving him.

He sat up, taking her with him, and kissed her between her breasts. She folded him close and laid her cheek on his hair. For a moment, they clung to one another, eager to continue exploring and discovering, loath to relinquish the sweetness of this moment.

Holding Kevla securely with one strong arm, Jashemi reached for the rhia she had discarded. He spread it on the cold stone. She smiled at the gesture.

“I would it were the softest bed in the land for you, my love,” he said, easing her onto her back and moving away from her slightly. “I would feed you dates and honey from my lips, like so,” he said, kissing her repeatedly, “and cover you with rare and precious oils, thus,” and his hands moved over her perfect body, worshipping her as she lay naked and opening to him.

Kevla closed her eyes and drank in the sensations of his hands on her. She gasped as he touched her breasts gently, then more firmly, and quivered in anticipation as he bent to take the hard peaks into his mouth. Already flooded with pleasure, she jumped when she felt his strong, sensitive fingers reach between her thighs to touch her with the lightest of strokes. She pulled his face to hers, closing her lips on his in a kiss that was as much a devouring as a caress.

She felt him trembling as though he stood in a strong wind, he, Jashemi, son of a khashim, was trembling in her embrace. He pulled back and she reached to stroke the beloved face that was, after so many years of desiring and denial, finally hers to touch.

Tears stung Jashemi’s eyes as her fingers brushed his cheek, and all playfulness fled before the power of his adoration of her.

Oh, Kevla. I love you so much. I will never let any harm come to you.

Jashemi’s skin prickled with a sudden, swift knowing. He grasped her face between his hands, locking his gaze with hers, and when he spoke, his words were laced with a passionate urgency.

“There is destiny here. I feel it…I know it. We were meant to be together. I belong to you completely, Kevla. I always have, and I always will. No matter what happens—no matter who or what we are—know that I am yours.”

His knees parted her thighs and she opened willingly to him. He could hold back no longer.

“You are my soul,” he whispered.

His mind, heart and senses ablaze with love for this woman, he pressed gently at her entrance. He wanted to go slowly, to cause her as little pain as possible, but he was not sure he—

Kevla uttered a deep, primal sound, and then moved her own hips fiercely, deliberately impaling herself on him.

Jashemi cried out in ecstasy as he entered her. She was so wet, so hot, he felt as if he was being engulfed by the molten fire that sometimes streamed from MountBari. She hissed in pain and he kissed her, sorry to have hurt her, regretting nothing else about this joining.

Slowly, Jashemi moved his hips, building a rhythm, bracing himself on his arms to watch her face. She opened her eyes and their gazes locked as he moved inside her.

“I love you,” she whispered, caressing his face with one hand as the other gripped his arm, her fingers digging into the flesh.

I love you, he thought wildly. But he was beyond words now, though he ached to say them. He let his body speak for him, communicated his desire and need for her with each increasingly urgent thrust. She was breathing quickly now, her breasts rising and falling, the sight of her passion heightening his own.

Jashemi wanted this moment to last forever, and he tried to hold back the cresting tide. But then Kevla made a soft sound and bit her lower lip, and the powerful surge of love he felt for her swept him over the precipice.

Heat, and wetness, and tightness—

He cried aloud as his climax overtook him. His eyes squeezed shut and he surrendered to the exquisite pleasure.

Merging. Union. One. Heat and—

His eyes flew open, but he did not see Kevla or the cave. He saw only darkness at first, but then realized that this darkness was pulsating. A word came to him: Shadow.

The queen stood next to him, her presence a comfort, although not even a woman as magnificent as she could hold back the Shadow’s onslaught. The boy thought about the dead youth he had found, whom he had seen in a vision. He felt drawn to the young man, bonded with him, even though he had died—been murdered—before they had even met. Hard to believe it had been only two weeks since he had seen the youth; harder to believe that in a short hour or less, he, the queen, this solid stone parapet, their entire world would be gone—

“—wiping you out, as easily as this.” Melaan knelt on the sand and traced a circle with his finger, then with one quick movement erased the image as if it had never been. He understood, he was one of them, was a—

The ship was tossed by the storm, but it was no cloud that was rushing toward the elderly captain’s vessel now. The Shadow was nothing natural, and he knew when he saw it that his son had failed, and the pain of that knowledge stabbed his heart and he fell to the deck—

The woman whooped with glee, and ran to embrace her friend as she stood with her other four companions. The Shadow was fading, evaporating like mist on a hot day. But it could not be gone soon enough for her. She shook her fist as it retreated—

The girl gasped as she clutched her chest. Blood spurted out through the hole the man had made with his knife. Vainly, she tried to stop the flood, but it dribbled between her fingers. As she fell to the wet cobblestones, her blond hair pooling beneath her head as the blood pooled beneath her body, she held fast to one thought and smiled through her agony: The bastard had attacked the wrong woman. She was not one of the five, only a—

Jashemi arched above Kevla, staring into the lives he had lived, swift, sure knowledge flowing into his being even as his seed flowed into his beloved. He remembered everything now. He had to tell Kevla, had to let her know….

Her legs locked around him and as he blinked and again saw her face, he realized that she was lost in her own cresting passion. Brokenly, he cried, “Kevla, my love, you are fire!”

The words Jashemi uttered floated to Kevla’s ears, but she did not acknowledge them. Her eyes were shut and she was so deep in sensation that she could not tell where she ended and he began. She had not expected that physical union would be so painfully, powerfully sweet.

Her heart slammed against her chest and suddenly a wave of ecstasy washed over her. She clenched hard against him, wrapping her arms about him and pulling him into her even more as her body exploded with delight. Heat burned through her, she could feel it emanating from her, and for a long, taut moment everything went away except this molten sensation of bliss.

Suddenly Jashemi’s weight disappeared and her arms were empty. Still gasping and trembling from release, Kevla opened her eyes.

Jashemi was gone.

For a mercifully long, uncomprehending moment, she simply stared at the fine gray powder that coated her body. Then the devastating reality crashed upon her.

Covered in the ashes of her beloved, Kevla Bai-sha began to scream.

Chapter Twenty-One

H ow long she laid on the floor of the cave, sobbing and shrieking her agony, Kevla did not know. At some point, she drifted into a restless slumber, and as always when she slept, she saw the Great Dragon. This time, for only the second time she could recall, it did not bellow its challenge at her. Instead, it lowered its head and crooned softly.

She awoke sometime later, sick and dizzy from grief and lack of food, to find the sa’abah tapping her with one stubby forepaw. It smelled of warm, musky fur. Kevla did not move. She willed the creature away, for if she sat up and acknowledged it, she would have to also acknowledge that life went on after…and she could not bring herself to do that. Better far to lie here in a stupor, surrendering to the mourning until at last death claimed her as well as Jashemi.

She curled up in a tight ball at the mere thought of his name. Part of her was aware that she was still covered in his ashes, but another part could not admit that or else she knew she would go mad.

So Kevla lay unresponsive, and the sa’abah grew annoyed. After a few moments, it shoved her hard with its snout, blew mucous on her neck, and uttered a loud bleating sound right in her ear.

She bolted upright, wiping at the offending fluid and covering her ringing ears. “You stupid creature!” she yelled at it. It seemed unperturbed by her outburst, rocking back on its hind legs and surveying her with what looked like satisfaction.

Kevla sagged. The beast had foiled her plan to lie here on the cave floor and die. She gazed at it and tears filled her eyes. It swiveled its ears expectantly. She tried to stand and couldn’t, so she crawled to the spring and washed herself with hands that trembled. For a long time, she sat in the cool waters, wondering if she would ever feel clean again.

Oh, my love. I killed you. I killed you.

The tears came again, flooding down her face, the hot moisture a contrast to the cool water, and she sobbed until she could cry no more.

On unsteady feet, she reached for Jashemi’s discarded clothes. She swallowed hard as she picked up the rhia. Bringing it to her face, she inhaled the musky, spicy scent. Kevla sank to the ground, the garment still pressed to her face. I’ll just lie down again and pretend he is here, I can smell him, he’s right here….

Another irritated bleat from the sa’abah roused her, and, surrendering to the torment that continuing to live brought her, she donned Jashemi’s clothes.

I should have known better. I should have known, somehow, that this would hurt you. Oh, Jashemi….

How had it happened, that she had destroyed her love? It was not through her kiss, or her touch; he had entered her fully, spilled his seed inside her. When was the deadly moment, and why?

The memory was agony, and she pushed it away. A thought came to her mind, and her heart lifted slightly. Yes. Yes, this was the right thing to do. The sa’abah was hungry and wanted food. She was in pain, and wanted release.

She would make a pilgrimage to MountBari, and finally come face-to-face with the Great Dragon.

She would offer herself as a sacrifice. And then, perhaps, she would have atoned sufficiently for what she had done….

Kevla gave the sa’abah its head, trusting the creature to scent out food and society, for sa’abahs were herd animals and felt most comfortable with those of their kind. Where there were sa’abahs, there would likely be people, and where there were people, there would be a chance to steal food and clothing.

Tahmu would have sent out hawks by now, warning other clans of the dreaded kulis in human form they might encounter. She did not want to be caught by Tahmu; she did not want to cheat the Great Dragon out of his sacrifice. So she decided to make her way carefully, walking in the shadows.

Kevla looked to the North. There it was, MountBari, the most sacred place in the world to her people. There, the Great Dragon made his home. There, she would end her brief, pain-filled life.

The thought brought some small shred of comfort.

She approached the outskirts of a small town at dusk, and was surprised to find her stomach growling as she smelled roasting meat. Kevla heard the tinkling of bells and caught snatches of song, and for a moment ached to join the singers.

Stop it, she told herself sharply. You never belonged. You were born Bai-sha, and any chance you had at earning a place among ordinary people was destroyed when you—

Kevla gulped hard. The pain, horror and racking guilt almost made her start crying again, but she fought the grief back.

The sa’abah sniffed the air and bleated. It had caught the scent of other sa’abahs. Kevla had never ridden one of the creatures before her escape, and the fact that she had been able to stay on its back at all was testimony to how easy the creatures were to ride. Now, though, it set off at a brisk pace and she found herself bouncing, clutching its long neck. The reins slipped from her grasp and she swore. Any hope of controlling the beast was now gone.

She debated whether to slide off and take her chances in a fall, but the ground looked very far away. And without the sa’abah, she’d never make it to MountBari. So she hung on grimly, hoping desperately they would not run across any people.

A girl’s shout quashed that hope. Kevla couldn’t make out the words. The creature slowed, making a chattering noise, and within a heartbeat Kevla was surrounded by at least a dozen other sa’abahs.

“Here, sweet one,” came the female voice. “What is it that you—oh!”

Kevla looked down and right into the startled brown eyes of a woman about five years younger than she. They stared at each other for a moment, and an observer would have been hard-pressed to say who was the most fearful.

Kevla put a finger to her lips and slid off the sa’abah. Her legs were stiff and numb from the long ride and they buckled beneath her. She went down hard on the earth and the girl watching her giggled.

Kevla got to her feet. The girl was much shorter than she as well as younger, and in the fading light Kevla could just glimpse the two scores on her arm.

“Who are you?” the girl said in a whisper, mindful of Kevla’s gesture. “Why are you wearing a man’s rhia?” Before Kevla could answer, her eyes widened and she added, “Are you an escaping five-score?”

Kevla shook her head, rubbing her sore behind. “No,” she whispered. “But…I need your help. I’m in trouble and I need some food and some proper women’s clothing.”

The girl glanced back at the town. Small fires were being lit and their lights were orange and cheery.

Fire. Kevla closed her eyes in remembered pain, then opened them when she felt a gentle touch on her arm.

“I see that something lies heavy on your heart, uhlala,” she said, her gaze searching Kevla’s face. Kevla blinked. No one had ever addressed her as uhlala before. “You have the look of one who has suffered.” One hand reached to touch the scars on her own arm, then she forced it down.

“Only one who has known suffering can see it in another,” said Kevla, and it was true. The girl’s master had not been as kind to his five-scores as Tahmu was to his, and the child’s haunted eyes reflected that.

Kevla made a decision. “I have no wish to get you into trouble. Let me water my mount and I will go.”

“No,” the girl said. “Wait here until it is full dark. Then I can help you. I tend the sa’abahs, I am not generally permitted in the town.”

Kevla’s eyes brimmed with tears. She was moved to encounter so much kindness from a stranger. “Thank you,” she said.

The sa’abah-tender was as good as her word. Once darkness had fallen, she sneaked into the village and returned with a sack and a waterskin.

“They are all drunk,” she said. “Our khashim is celebrating a great victory against the Star Clan. Tomorrow when things are missing, everyone will be accusing the other. Here. I got you some bread, some dried meat, some fruit and water. The best I could do is give you some of my clothing. It is not befitting your station, but it will cover you properly.”

Kevla accepted the offering. “I don’t know how to thank you,” she said.

The girl inclined her head. “It is little enough. Uhlala—I do not know you, nor your errand. But somehow I feel as if I needed to do this for you. Perhaps one day, we will both understand why.”

Impulsively, Kevla reached and hugged the girl. The child felt stiff in her embrace at first, then relaxed, and after a moment’s hesitation, hugged Kevla back.

Kevla mounted and turned her beast to the North. She would live a few more days at least; with luck, long enough to complete her fatal mission. She wondered if the girl would have been so forthcoming with gifts and aid if she had known Kevla’s true intentions.

She rode until the moon was high in the sky, then stopped to rest for the night. As she slipped off her mount, she realized that she had no way of restraining him. Kevla looked at the sa’abah, and he returned her gaze with interest.

“Are you going to stay with me, or are you going to run back and join your friends?”

It cocked its head and grunted.

“Which does that mean?” She wondered if she was going mad, talking to an animal. But it was better than being alone with her silent thoughts. Jashemi’s face appeared in her mind’s eye and she squeezed her eyes shut as pain constricted her heart.

I am coming, Jashemi. I will be with you soon.

She sat and the beast settled down beside her amiably. As she unwrapped the food the girl had stolen for her, the smell of it hit her nostrils and moisture flooded her mouth. She ate ravenously, chewing and swallowing great chunks of the bread. The animal had drunk his fill with the other sa’abahs, and she knew that it could now go without water for several days. She took a small sip and tried not to think of the water in the cave where Jashemi had taken her, tried not to think of his hands on her body, tried not to think of—

And then she understood. Jashemi had not died from anything he had done, from taking her virginity. He had died when she had fully surrendered to her feelings, allowed herself to be caught up in the passion they shared. Her release, her moment of supreme pleasure, of lack of control over these unsought powers was what had claimed him.

Suddenly, she was on her knees, vomiting up the half-masticated bread and crying. It was too much to be borne. Surely, the Dragon would come and take her right now. But no, the night sky did not suddenly fill with the sound of beating wings; no shadow blotted out the moon to descend upon her. The Great Dragon was not going to make it easy.

Gulping salty tears, she sat up straighter. Slowly, deliberately, she took another bite of bread and forced it down. She wiped her eyes. She would eat, and drink, and sleep, and meet the Dragon in his own lair.

And then he would end this torment.

Kevla woke in the predawn to find that the sa’abah, far from attempting to leave in the night, had snuggled up to her. Its fur was so soft. She stroked it absently, wondering why it had felt the need to be so close to her. Surely it could not be cold—

Frowning, Kevla touched the fur again, paying attention to it this time. It felt cold to the touch. Another “gift,” she thought bitterly; she no longer felt the cold, even when a furred creature did. Her head and her heart ached, but she forced herself to eat some dried fruit and drink water. She wondered dully if Tahmu had gone riding out after her, or if he had merely sent out falcons warning other clans against the “kulis.” That thought sluggishly led to another; that Tahmu’s life was still in danger. How could she have forgotten this?

If Yeshi and Halid wanted to take over the clan, they would rejoice that Jashemi was—

Dead, dead….

—discredited and could not lay claim to leading the Clan of Four Waters. There would be no one else to challenge Halid; Jashemi’s cousins, who would have been next in line, had been killed long ago in a raid. Tradition would side with a seemingly loyal Second who knew how to lead the Clan, rather than a distant, perhaps common, relative. But Tahmu was still very much alive.

The first emotion other than raw, ragged grief crept into Kevla’s heart. Despite what he had done, she still knew Tahmu to be a good man. He was only obeying the laws of his people, doing his best to protect them. He did not deserve to be murdered by a faithless wife and her deceitful lover.

She hesitated before she did what she knew had to be done. She hated her fire abilities now. They had cost her the single most precious thing in her life, and she was loath to make use of them. But she was already doing so without being able to control it; she was warm and comfortable in an environment that made a sa’abah shiver. She might as well deliberately use her abilities to help save a man’s life.

Kevla scouted for a scrap of dried grass, found a few sorry blades, and placed them down in front of her. She took a deep breath, then said quietly, “Burn.”

As it had always done since she began to bleed, the fire obeyed her command. A small flame crackled to life.

“Show me Tahmu.”

It revealed nothing. Kevla tried not to be too worried. The fire-scrying only worked if the person she was trying to locate was near a fire himself. It was morning. She should have tried last night; the odds that Tahmu would be close to a fire would have increased. She would try again tonight.

After getting some food and water in her stomach, Kevla stretched, trying to ease the soreness of riding all day, then mounted. She set her eyes on the sacred mountain, and rode.

She stopped only briefly to eat and stretch. She talked to the sa’abah a great deal in an effort to push down the pain. It was starting to abate, only, she suspected, because she was focused so intently on her own impending death. It made her feel better to think that it would all be over soon.

When she made camp that night, the first thing she did was create a fire and ask to see Tahmu. She watched it intently for some time, eating and drinking with her eyes glued to the flickering flames.

Suddenly, she saw a blur and sat up straighter, leaning forward and straining to listen.

“I wonder if there was anything I could have done,” she heard the khashim of the Clan of Four Waters say in a heavy voice. Tears sprung to Kevla’s eyes. She had not fully appreciated how much son resembled father; Tahmu’s voice and face were so like Jashemi’s. She swallowed the lump in her throat. Tahmu tossed something into the fire moodily.

“Done how?” The voice was Halid’s, and Kevla tensed. “Prevented someone from being taken by kulis? Great khashim, if you knew how to do that, you would be more honored among our people than even the Great Dragon.”

Tahmu’s lips thinned. “I…suspected. But I did not act. I was blinded by love.”

Jashemi’s dreams, thought Kevla. Jashemi had tried to tell Tahmu of his dreams, but his father had refused to listen. Fear now warred with anger. If only Tahmu had trusted his son! She thought about what Jashemi had said, that her powers and his dreams—the dreams of others like him—were manifesting now to save their people. She wondered if he was right, and if Tahmu was hastening the destruction of all of Arukan.

But now Tahmu was speaking again and she turned her attention back to him.

“…have been warned,” he was saying. “Yet I have heard nothing.”

“Perhaps they have not been spotted,” Halid said. “Or perhaps the other clans think you have made this up, to hide your shame at a son who has run away with a Bai-sha.”

Tahmu’s gaze went stone cold and his head whipped up to look at Halid, who was out of Kevla’s view.

“You speak freely for a Second, Halid,” he said in a low voice. “Don’t forget your position, or I shall name another in your place.”

Kevla’s hand flew to her mouth. Don’t get him angry with you, my lord! You don’t know what he’s capable of!

There was a strained silence, then Halid’s gruff voice. “I humbly apologize, my lord. This has been a trying time for everyone in the Clan.”

“That it has been,” said Tahmu. “It is forgotten, Halid.”

She watched the fire for a long time. The two men and a few others cooked a meal over its flames, convincing Kevla that they were indeed on the hunt for her and Jashemi and not staying at the House. She learned nothing more of import, but was not comforted by the idle chatter of men around a fire.

She had no way of knowing how many men Tahmu had brought with him, but it didn’t matter. All that concerned her was that one of those men was Halid. It would be easy now for the Second to get his lord alone, away from the other men, and cause an accident or—

She was surprised at how much she cared. This was the man who had decreed her death, but she knew he hadn’t wanted to. Knew he certainly hadn’t wanted to hunt down his son like a liah. Kevla felt an odd sort of compassion for him. She did not want to see him dead, regardless of what he had done.

Besides, perhaps Tahmu was right. Maybe she was a kuli. The only one who thought she was not was Jashemi, and he had been a victim of her deadly powers. She fell into an uneasy sleep, and when she awoke in the morning was suddenly aware that she had not had any dreams of the Great Dragon since Jashemi’s—since Jashemi. She wondered why. Perhaps he knew that she was coming to see him, and soon she would be face-to-face with him. Then he could torment her to his dragon heart’s content. But she had to admit, she was relieved that she did not have to stand before the Great Dragon every night. Sleep was now her escape; living was her nightmare.

Her little five-score friend had done well by her; Kevla had plenty to eat and drink. Each day, she traveled closer to the sacred mountain, and each night, she sat and called fire, to see where Tahmu was. Kevla started to look forward to it; why, she did not know. She supposed it was that this was her last connection to this world, and she wanted to make sure Tahmu was safe before she gave herself to the Dragon.

Tahmu had taken to sitting and staring into the fire, as if he could see the same things Kevla could. She knew he simply wanted some time to think. One night as he did so, she locked gazes with him. She and Jashemi had been able to speak through the fire; she wondered if, should she will it, she and Tahmu could.

Just as she was thinking this, she saw something move behind Tahmu.

Someone was approaching him, raising an arm—

“Behind you!” Kevla shrieked.

Startled, Tahmu leaped to his feet and whirled around. The shape behind him was now revealed to Kevla. Firelight glinted off the blade Halid carried, the blade that now slashed down—

Kevla moved forward, as if she was there with Tahmu, leaning into the fire. Suddenly, his face took on more natural tones. She saw stars and sand and realized that somehow she had stepped into her own fire many leagues away and was now standing in the center of Tahmu’s. The fire had transported her.

She gasped, shocked. The two men struggling in deathly silence were startled by her abrupt manifestation as well. Halid gaped openly at her, and Tahmu took that precious second of inattention and twisted Halid’s wrist. As his Second arched in pain, Tahmu seized the blade from Halid’s nerveless hands, flipped it so he grasped the leather-wrapped hilt, and shoved it deep into his adversary’s midsection.

Halid grunted. Gritting his teeth, Tahmu jerked the knife upward, piercing Halid’s heart. Blood fountained onto the khashim’s hand. Halid’s face displayed an expression of shock, and when Tahmu pulled out the knife, he fell to the earth.

For a long moment, neither Kevla nor Tahmu moved or spoke. She stood, still in the center of a burning fire, her hands to her mouth. She wondered how long it would take for Tahmu’s men to rush out and seize her, but apparently, the confrontation had awakened no one. The men had fought in silence, and she had to assume that no one but Tahmu had heard her warning cry.

Tahmu stared at his trusted Second, lying dead by the fire, then slowly looked up at the woman whose warning had saved his life.

Kevla stepped out of the flames. This was not how she had willed it, but the moment had arrived. She stood tall and straight, then bent her long, slender neck back, exposing her throat. Her hair fell like a dark cloud almost to her knees.

“Kill me,” she said.

Chapter Twenty-Two

T ahmu stared at his daughter standing before him, her long neck stretched back to receive the blade.

He was still panting from the deadly fight. The knife that Halid would have used to kill him was red with the traitor’s own blood, and the night was so still and his senses so heightened he could hear the scarlet fluid dripping into the sand.

Tahmu had been the one to take the watch; he would have stood, stretched, and awakened the next man in a few moments, had Halid not come. None of his men had yet roused. His thoughts were jumbled and confused. There was only one thing that was clear to him: Kevla had been right. Halid had indeed planned to kill him.

When no blow was immediately forthcoming, Kevla lowered her head and looked at him questioningly. He motioned to her and they walked away from the encampment, where their voices would not be heard.

“You saved my life,” he said.

Uncertainly, she nodded.

“Did you also speak the truth about Yeshi? That she was trying to poison me when you…attacked her?”

“Yes,” Kevla said. “I would not lie to you now. Not when I have come to you to be killed.”

Tahmu looked at her. The moon’s light permitted him to see her face clearly, even though they were away from the fire’s light.

The fire….

“No,” he said. He flung the bloody knife onto the ground. “You have saved my life. I will not take yours.”

They were silent for a moment. “You do not think I am a kuli?” Kevla asked.

Suddenly feeling very old, Tahmu sat on the sand. “I don’t know what to think anymore. I thought my wife faithful, if not happy; I thought my Second worthy to be trusted with my Clan. Now I learn they have conspired against me, and tonight I killed Halid. I thought my son obedient to the law, but he has dreamed strange dreams and defied my orders. I thought you a demon, and even now you walk through fire as easily as through a door. Yet you saved my life. My world is not what it once was. But your life is spared.”

“No it isn’t,” Kevla said softly, sitting beside him. “There is something you must know, great khashim. I was on a pilgrimage tonight. I was going to go to the Great Dragon and offer myself as a sacrifice. I have committed a terrible crime, and I can think of no better way to atone.”

Tahmu softened. “You attacked Yeshi to try to save me, and these powers of yours—”

She cut him off. He was surprised at her boldness in doing so. “No,” she said. “I did not intend to hurt her, but I stopped her from putting poison in your food, and I don’t regret that. What I have done…oh, great lord, you will have no wish to spare me once I have finished speaking.”

A sudden fear clenched his heart. She had not left the House of Four Waters alone, and he suddenly realized that Jashemi was not here….

Quietly, in a somber voice, Kevla told her father of her awakening abilities. She spoke of the strange dreams that began coming to Jashemi at the same age. She told him of their stolen moments, of the bond that grew between them. There was something final in her words, and Tahmu’s apprehension grew.

Dragon, no…not him…curse me, but do not harm him….

“We found a cave, where we rested and drank,” Kevla continued. “He told me that he had met others like him—others who had the strange dreams, which he believed were not dreams at all but visions. Jashemi felt that my powers and these visions were connected, that they were growing in strength now as part of a way to defeat this Emperor who has been decimating the clans. He wanted to gather these Seers, gather the clans, and stand united against this new threat.”

Her usage of the past tense did not go unnoticed. A wave of unspeakable sorrow washed over Tahmu. He had agreed to Yeshi’s demands to hunt down his children, but what he had not told anyone, not even Halid, was that he never intended to find them. He would let them go, and return having appeared to have made the attempt. Kevla and Jashemi would live—

The sharpness of the pain would come later, he supposed; right now, the ache was dull and heavy and wrapped with regrets, with bitter knowledge of opportunities missed.

“How did he die, Kevla?” he said, his voice deep and sad.

She didn’t answer for a long time. When he turned to look at her, he saw she had buried her face in her hands.

“Tell me,” he said.

Kevla took a deep breath. “There was a bond between us,” she said, “and we knew it to be both wrong and powerful. He was a khashim’s son and I a Bai-sha. And yet, we loved one another. We knew we could never be together, so neither of us spoke of our feelings. But in the cave, when we thought we had nothing to lose, that there were no more obstacles between us, we—he loved me as a man loves a woman, and in those moments I have never been happier.”

He stared at her in dawning horror. The girl was innocent of the wrongdoing, ignorant as she was of her identity, but Jashemi….

Kevla’s voice was hollow as she continued. “He brought me great pleasure, and as that joy washed over me, the Dragon exacted his revenge for our transgression. I opened my eyes, and he was gone.”

“He died…in your arms,” Tahmu said. Such things happened, but usually not to one so young.

Kevla shook her head. “I killed him,” she said. “All that was left was ash.” She turned to look at him with eyes that glinted in the moonlight. “He burned as if with the heat of a thousand pyres, great lord. Fire came through me and took your son in the space of a heartbeat.”

Tahmu’s mind reeled. His stomach churned. Incest and death in the same single, passionate act—He trembled and put his sweat-slick, chilled face in his hands, trying to grasp it all. Kevla sat beside him, making no effort to flee.

“I am cursed,” he whispered. “The Dragon has taken everyone that I ever loved. There is none in this world more wretched than I.”

“Yes, there is,” Kevla whispered.

He did not roar his anger. He did not scream his grief. Swiftly, and in terrible silence, he reached for the knife he had dropped, seized Kevla, forced her to the ground and pressed the blade against her throat.

And yet still he hesitated.

“Do it, great lord,” Kevla whispered. “End my misery and avenge your son.”

He straddled her, as his son had before him, trembling not with passion but with agony. Her face remained calm and she closed her eyes. With a bitter oath, he hurled the dagger into the night and rose.

“I cannot kill you,” he said, “My life is yours this night. But oh, Kevla, you do not know what you have done!”

She sat up. Her hand went to her throat and he saw a thin trickle of blood that looked black in the moonlight. Rising, she said, “You mistake me. I know full well what I have done.”

He turned away, shaking his head. “You know only part of it. The rest—by the Great Dragon, it seems I have made mistakes at every turn of my life. Your mother was right.”

The mention of Keishla seemed to jolt Kevla out of her stony grief. “My mother? What does she have to do with this?”

He made his decision and faced her then, looking her in the eye. He observed with dull surprise that she was almost as tall as he was, and he was no short man.

“Your name is not Kevla Bai-sha,” he said. “In a better world, it would have been Kevla-sha-Tahmu.”

Her eyes widened. “You—you are my father?” At his nod, her hand flew to her mouth and she whispered, “Then Jashemi…did he…?”

“He knew,” Tahmu said heavily.

“By the Dragon…that was what he tried to tell me, and I would not let him speak….” She began to cry, sinking slowly to the earth. “That was the bond between us. That was what we felt, not….”

Tahmu had thought he would enjoy seeing her suffer, but the sight gave him no pleasure. The fury in him was spent. Kevla had not known, and Jashemi had obviously made a deliberate choice to rebel against the laws. The boy’s desire for Kevla—his love, Tahmu mentally amended, for he knew that Jashemi would not be tempted by any lesser emotion to violate so primal a taboo—had driven him to it. To his surprise, Tahmu found himself kneeling beside his daughter and putting a tentative hand on her bowed shoulder.

“Your mother wanted me to tell you, when you came of age,” he said. “Tell you that you were conceived in love, not out of a base desire. Sahlik wanted you and…and your brother to be together, to know one another. I should not have tried to hide you—hide my own shame, bury my mistakes. And now, I have paid for that, with betrayal in my family and the death of my son.”

Her slim shoulders shook. He rose, looking at her sadly. He had no comfort to offer her.

“You’re not a kuli,” he said at last. “Nor was Jashemi. Kulis have no hearts with which to feel love—or to break. Get up, Kevla. Return to your own fireside, and leave me to my men and my wife.”

She sat up, wiping at her wet face. “Please kill me,” she said. “I can’t—I cannot bear this!”

“Your life or death belongs to the Great Dragon now.”

He watched her stumble to her feet, and then slowly walk back toward the encampment. Tahmu’s breath caught as she stepped into the heart of the fire, and disappeared.

He sat for a while, alone in the dark, thinking about his life and the choices he had made. What if he had married Keishla? Would the Clan really have been damaged past repair? What if he had brought Kevla openly into the House, not caring what Yeshi thought? Or if, after his wife had discovered Kevla’s identity, he had acknowledged his daughter then?

He knew Jashemi’s heart, and knew that at the beginning the boy had only wanted to know his sister. If he had been openly encouraged to do so, perhaps this sibling bond would have stayed innocent.

Jashemi…what if Tahmu had listened to his son’s hesitant confession about his dreams instead of threatening? The boy had had no one to turn to who would listen. His traditions offered no acceptance. There was no one for Jashemi, except Kevla.

Decisions made. Opportunities missed. Roads not taken.

And then an image of his son’s face swam into his head, and emotions came crashing down on Tahmu. His knees gave way and he fell to the sand and wept, wept for all the poor choices, the lack of faith, the turning away instead of opening. Wept for his son’s misplaced passion; wept for his daughter, the unknowing instrument of her brother’s death.

Oh my boy, you were the best of us. I am sorry I was not there for you. I’m sorry at my lack of faith, in myself and in you. And now it’s too late.

Sounds reached his ears and he realized that someone had awakened. Halid’s corpse had no doubt been discovered. It was time to return and explain.

His body felt heavy, stiff. But as he walked slowly back to the now-awakened encampment, something resembling clarity formed in his mind.

Perhaps there was, after all, something he could do to honor his dead son.

The advisor stood and surveyed the troops. It would be fanciful to say their solid, well-trained ranks advanced as far as the eye could see, but it was almost accurate. There were thousands of them, at any rate. Their number swelled daily as they conscripted their prisoners from various lands. Fear might not be the best motivator that had ever been conceived, but it served for now. He nodded to the general, indicating his approval.

Horns blew and the troops cheered as their Emperor advanced. It was strange, thought the advisor as he regarded his young lord. The Emperor always looked out of place when he was not indoors. He seemed to gather strength from the shadowed, musty rooms, seeming larger and more intimidating.

But he was the Emperor, and he commanded this magnificent army, and that army had already conquered two lands. If he looked slighter in the sunlight, it was no one’s concern. Certainly not his advisor’s.

The Emperor rode a magnificent white stallion. It blew and snorted, pink nostrils flaring, and champed at its golden bit. The Emperor sat straight on his steed, the jeweled crown he wore catching the light and almost blinding the advisor.

The Emperor waited patiently for the cheers to die down. When he spoke, his voice carried much farther than it had any right to, and the advisor felt a chill run down his spine. Just when he was ready to dismiss the Emperor, he did something like this to remind all gathered of his tremendous power.

“We stand poised on the precipice of yet another victory,” he intoned. “Two countries have already fallen before our standard. Arukan must follow. Its people are scattered, and our raids over the mountains have been fruitful indeed. Though a barrier, the mountains are not impossible for our army to cross. We will find these isolated clans and sweep across their desert landscape like a sandstorm. Their pathetic weapons are no match for ours; their warriors pale in comparison to you, my army. We will take their women and goods, settle their lands, and continue to move until this world knows no place that does not fly my standard. I, your Emperor, will ride with you on this glorious moment in our land’s history. Arukan will fall!”

“Arukan will fall!” came the cry, uttered with fervor from several thousand male voices. Another chorus of cheers welled up, and the Emperor, looking down at the sea of men in armor from his perch higher on the mountains they were all about to cross, smiled slightly and waved.

The advisor’s gray eyes flickered from the Emperor to the animal huddled at the stallion’s feet. The ki-lyn’s golden chain, so thin and yet apparently so unbreakable, went around its slender neck and arced upward to the Emperor’s waist, where it was securely fastened.

As he regarded it, it craned its neck to look up at its master. Its blue eyes welled with tears and it sighed, deeply.

And as the tears rolled down the soft, golden-brown fur of its face, they turned to diamonds in the sand.

Chapter Twenty-Three

K evla did not sleep after her encounter with Tahmu. The violence of Halid’s killing, justified as it was, combined with the revelations that the khashim was her father and that Jashemi had been her half brother, kept her awake. The sa’abah curled up next to her, seeking her warmth and wheezing softly, and she tried to take what comfort she could from another living being.

She did not weep. She wondered if she would ever do so again. She felt desiccated and empty, only her mind alive, gnawing like a starving dog on a dry bone.

She made a decision. Both the heat and the cold were hard on her mount, but it seemed most affected by the chilly desert nights. Sa’abahs were herd animals, and no doubt at night they curled up together to keep one another warm. She would ride at night and sleep during the day; the exertion would keep her mount more comfortable. Clucking her tongue, she roused the sleepy sa’abah, mounted, and rode.

The days and nights blended into one another until Kevla lost count of how long she had been on this, her final journey. The hard ride and lack of food and water were starting to take their toll on the sa’abah. The path would not get easier, either. Few made the pilgrimage to MountBari itself, preferring instead to erect local shrines and altars to the Great Dragon as the Clan of Four Waters had done.

Compassion for the mute creature flooded her. The next settlement she came to, she traded the beast for a sack of dried fruit and meat and as many filled waterskins as she could carry. She was not challenged; either the greedy clansmen did not recognize her or else, more likely, Tahmu had called off the hunt for her. The khashim had gotten a bargain, for a young, healthy sa’abah was usually an expensive acquisition.

Kevla patted its long neck, kissed its soft nose, and continued on.

Her bare feet hardened to the task, and with each day the pack on her back grew lighter. She walked and slept as the desire took her, regardless of the time of day, and slowly the massive shape of MountBari, jagged and forbidding, drew closer.

From time to time, she rested and conjured fire. She had no need of it for warmth or cooking purposes, nor did she have any desire to see her father.

“Show me the Great Dragon,” she asked, but the fire never complied. She felt certain, though, when the time was right, she would see in the flames the enormous, terrifying creature that until so recently had haunted her dreams.

She also was aware that she was falling into a pattern that offered its own sort of comfort. She ate much less now than she had when she was at the House. A thin strip of dried meat and a handful of dried fruit seemed to be enough to get her through an entire day. Even though she was walking out in the desert, under an unforgiving sun, she seemed to need very little water as well.

She realized she was slowly detaching herself from the world of the living. She was not walking toward anything of this life; she was walking toward death. Bit by bit, she was deliberately pulling back, shedding things that kept her in this existence. To her shock, she sometimes felt a stab of happiness as she strode steadily along and the wind tousled her hair. The pain and the guilt were still there, but there was a lightness to her being that increased with each day that brought her closer to MountBari.

Gradually, Kevla worked her way through her supplies. She felt a brief stab of worry as she squeezed the last few drops of water into her mouth, washing down the last bite of dried fruit, then calmed herself. She knew she was on the right path. Whatever the Dragon decreed to be her end, she would accept.

She fell into an exhausted, dreamless slumber and awoke to a smell teasing her nostrils; a crisp, citrus scent that made her mouth water. She slowly opened her eyes, then started upright when she saw a plate of paraah spread before her. Four of her waterskins had been refilled.

Kevla’s heart raced. She glanced around, trying to see who had done this for her. She saw no one, only the vast expanse of sand to the south and the ring of mountains on all other sides. No clan lived here, not even the nomadic ones. Who, then had—

She smiled, softly. “Thank you, Dragon,” she said as she reached for the fruit. He had provided, as she had trusted he would.

Her steps that day were sure and strong. The food and water strengthened and sustained her, and her purpose guided her. Food continued to appear each morning. Every time she stopped now, she tried to see the Dragon in the flames. Just as dusk was approaching one night, she realized that her steps were gradually going uphill. She was now at the foothills of MountBari.

Her mouth went dry. Dropping her pack, she quickly conjured fire. Her heart was beating wildly. She stared into the flames for a long moment, dreading and craving what she knew she was about to see.

Licking dry lips, she whispered, “Show me the Great Dragon.”

And he was there, his massive, reptilian face no larger than her palm, but every bit as frightening as it had been in her dreams. Kevla gasped. As she looked into his eyes, she knew he was looking back at her.

For you, Jashemi. My brother. My love.

She shook so badly that she almost fell as she stumbled to her feet. She wanted to stride boldly into the fire, but for a moment, she couldn’t move.

Coward! she thought. This is your fate, Kevla. Accept it!

Closing her eyes and taking a deep breath, Kevla stepped forward into the circle of flame.

She emerged on a rock ledge. Kevla was confused. Before, when she had stepped from her fire into Tahmu’s encampment, it had been from her fire to his fire pit. Where, then, were the flames?

It was only then that she realized that she was surrounded by flickering sheets of orange and red. She took a step forward. Her foot stepped onto nothing. Kevla flailed to regain her balance, leaning back and clutching the sheer rock behind her. The ledge upon which she stood was only about as wide as her extended arm. It dropped off several feet into a liquid pool of fire.

Fascinated and terrified at the same time, Kevla gazed into the bubbling orange pool. Heat blasted her, and though she did not feel it on her skin, she felt the fabric of her clothing begin to burn and catch fire, as it had done when she stood on the pyre in the courtyard of the Great House. Feeling no shame, she plucked off what clothing remained and stood naked in the heart of MountBari.

As the moments passed, Kevla’s fear abated somewhat. The narrow ledge, the pool of molten rock, the dancing flames that formed a circle and cast grotesque shadows—all were frightening. But the one thing she had most hoped and feared to find here had not appeared.

Where was the Great Dragon?

She shifted position on the ledge. A small pebble tumbled into the orange-yellow pool.

“Dragon!” she called. She tried to sound brave, but her voice quivered and she could barely hear it in her own ears. “Dragon, I have come! Where are you?”

There was no response.

Then, the pool beneath Kevla began to churn. Slowly, something forced its way through, swimming upward like the monsters of the river. The Great Dragon’s head broke the surface of the viscous, liquid rock. Orange rolled down its long, scaly neck as it rose upward. Mammoth shoulders appeared next, and Kevla instinctively cried out and shielded her face as leathery wings beat and scattered molten droplets.

Kevla fell hard to her knees, lowering her arms from her head and wrapping them around her body. She shook so badly she feared she would topple forward into the pool of fire. It kept coming, a gargantuan creature birthed from flame. Its head towered over her. Kevla could not tear her gaze from it. All was unfolding as it had a thousand times and more, in dream after dream after dream….

Its sinuous neck twisted and the Dragon lowered its head down to her. She stared into the glowing depths of eyes that were as broad as her hand, mesmerized, the bird before the snake.

Its mouth opened, exposing sharp, white teeth the size and sharpness of daggers. Kevla stared into its maw. A forked tongue flickered in and out. She waited, breathless, terrified, for the question.

“DO YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE?”

She opened her mouth, and found it dry. No words came forth. Her gut clenched in horror. She had expected that at this moment, she would know the answer to this question, but she was as ignorant and frightened now as when she first dreamed this.

She shook her head mutely. The Great Dragon shook its own scaly head, opened its mouth again and then suddenly Kevla was engulfed in fire. She screamed in agony and curled in on herself. Surely this was its judgment, its punishment for lying with Jashemi, her own blood—

The fire was gone. Shaking, she opened her eyes to see the Dragon still staring at her with its horrible, yellow, implacable gaze.

“DO YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE?”

Kevla had thought she would never again weep, but felt her eyes burn with tears as she answered, tentatively, “I—I am Kevla Bai-sha.”

And she screamed as the wave of fire from the Dragon’s mouth washed over her again, causing no injury but terrible pain. She clapped her hands over her ears, sobbing, trying not to hear the question; perhaps if she didn’t hear it she wouldn’t have to respond to it—

“DO YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE?”

She couldn’t look at the Dragon. Curled on the ledge, she whispered, “I am the daughter of Tahmu-kha-Rakyn.”

A third time the fire enveloped her, and she almost lost consciousness. But the merciful blackness only teased her, and again came the question.

And again, and again. Each time, she tried to say something, anything, that might satisfy the fearful creature. Each time, she failed.

Sister of Jashemi. Daughter of Keishla. Servant of the House of Four Waters. Nothing was right, nothing appeased the horrible monster, and Kevla wished that her father had cut her throat when he had the chance.

“DO YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE?”

Kevla was not even looking at it now. She was lost in agony and fear, her mind dancing on the brink of madness. She was nothing without her name, her beloved brother, her work, her identity in this world. She wondered if the pain she was enduring each time the Dragon breathed a sheet of flame upon her naked skin was anything like what Jashemi had felt when she had unwittingly killed him, unleashing the full force of her passion upon the one person in the world she cherished most.

She heard his voice again, the last words Jashemi-kha-Tahmu had uttered before she had reduced his beautiful body to a handful of ash, as he arched above and inside her—

My love, you are fire!

Kevla’s breath caught. She blinked and wiped her hair, salty and stiff with dried sweat, from her face. The words echoed again, almost as if he were here with her, speaking them to her.

Oh, Jashemi….

My love, you are Fire!

“DO YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE?”

Her lips barely moving, terrified of giving the wrong answer yet again, Kevla whispered, “I am Fire.”

The silence was absolute. Kevla could hear her ragged breathing, her own heart thundering in her ears.

Slowly, fearfully, she lifted her head, and gazed into the face of the Great Dragon. She sensed that he waited, that she needed to say this again, to claim it, to believe it.

Slightly louder, she said, “I am Fire!”

And then the Dragon opened its jaws and she cringed, bracing herself for the inevitable assault of flame. Instead, the Dragon roared, its tail splashing the liquid fire, its wings beating and sending a powerful wind that lifted Kevla’s hair. The sound assaulted her ears, penetrated to her bones, and Kevla opened her mouth in a soundless cry.

The ledge beneath her crumbled and she fell. Her body limp, she plunged into the liquid fire without struggling. She had expected the scalding heat of the Dragon’s flame, but instead the thick fluid wrapped her like a blanket. She floated in its depths, eyes closed, feeling the liquid slowly flow into her mouth and ears, muffling sound, silencing speech. She was drowning in fire, but there was no fear, no struggle. She felt like she had come home.

Then something solid and hotter than the lava of the volcano’s heart positioned itself beneath her, and she felt herself lifted out of the molten fire and pressed tightly to a scaly surface.

The Dragon held her in his forepaws as if it cradled an infant. Somehow, in her dazed state, she felt it probing at her mind. It nuzzled her thoughts like the sa’abah had nuzzled her face, tentatively asking admittance.

Euphoric, almost unconscious, Kevla permitted it inside.

The darkness was physical, calming, and soothing. Out of the blackness appeared a small light. It flickered, a tiny flame, then it grew until the light filled her field of vision. When it dimmed slightly, Kevla found herself standing on a mountainside. The sun blazed and the sky was a brilliant blue. A breeze blew, ruffling her clothes.

Her clothes? She looked down at herself and for a moment it looked as though she was wrapped in a sheet of fire. Then she realized that the rhia that draped her was made of a red material that felt soft as water to the touch.

She looked up and gasped as she saw a wide expanse of still water. It reflected the blue of the sky, and she wished she could wade forward and immerse her body in its cool depths. Somehow she knew this water was not for bathing.

As she continued to gaze at the blue depths, seeing herself reflected in its surface, she saw something else.

It was the Dragon, on all fours, sitting quietly at her side. Their reflected gazes met, and suddenly Kevla laughed with delight. She turned to the creature beside her, remembering everything they had shared in times before. This was no monster, no stern, implacable “guardian” of a frightened people’s controlling beliefs. This was her old friend, a part of her, given flesh as she was given flesh. Four times before, they had been together. Four times before, they had laughed and cried with delight, or faced destruction with a brave face, taking comfort from one another. Images flashed before her, reflected in the water.

“I’m so sorry,” she said, holding out her arms to her friend, companion, ally, comforter, other Self. “How could I have forgotten you?”

It lowered its head so she could throw her arms around his sinuous neck. She felt a huge, warm tear splash on her shoulder, soaking her new garment.

“It has been hard, waiting for you,” he said, his voice booming in her ear even as he tried to whisper. “I could not come to you. You had to find me, to remember who you are.”

“I am Fire,” she replied, knowing now it was true. But what it meant….

“Open your mind and heart, dear friend,” the Dragon urged. “Gaze into the water, and remember.”

She obeyed. She saw herself, but the image in the water looked nothing like Kevla Bai-sha. She was a woman about the age of her mother, with long yellow hair; a man with a powerful build; a youth with his first downy growth of beard; a little boy who had never lived past five summers. The Dragon was with her at every turn.

“I understand that…that I have lived before,” she said to her friend, one hand reaching out to caress his smooth red scales. But the fire….

“Watch,” the Dragon remonstrated. Kevla watched as the yellow-haired woman’s image shifted and reformed into a leaping flame. It rippled again, and the flame stretched out four streams that formed into legs and arms, solidifying into the second figure Kevla had seen, the strong young man. His shape in turn became fire, then reformed into the youth, then the child. Comprehension dawned.

“I am Fire,” she breathed, understanding now. “I truly am Fire, Fire made into human form.” Almost unaware that she did so, she brought one hand to her arm, touching the soft skin, half expecting to find the liquid fire that had almost drowned her.

“As am I,” the Dragon said. “You are the element of Fire given flesh, and I am your Companion. Four times we have been given shape and form; this is the last time it will be so.”

The number was important, Kevla knew. She also knew something else, and that knowledge descended with a swiftness that almost brought her to her knees:

“We’re not alone,” she said, steadying herself against the Dragon. “There are others, aren’t there?”

“It is coming back to you now,” the Dragon said, nodding his head approvingly. “Yes. There are four more. Name them to me.”

“Earth, Air, Water…and Spirit,” she said. As she spoke the words, images of each element began to appear in the water. They whirled about the flame, twisting, leaping, chasing each other in a wild—

“Dance,” she whispered. “We are the Dancers. We’re the Guardians.” She sat down hard on the ground, unable to stand any longer even in this fantastical place that she knew existed only in her mind. “Twice won, twice lost…this is our last chance.”

“It is the last chance for everyone,” came a voice that she knew beside her, a voice she had thought she would never hear again. Uttering a soft cry, she turned to behold Jashemi sitting in the Dragon’s place. His eyes shone and his full lips were parted in a smile.

A wave of joy and gratitude washed over her. “You’ve been with me, too,” she said thickly. “Haven’t you?”

He nodded. “Every time. The last time…I was too late.” Sorrow furrowed his brow, and Kevla had a dim, fear-laced memory of a man attacking from the shadows. “I am your Lorekeeper. My task, and that of the others—and Kevla, there are many of us—is to seek you out and give you back your memories.”

“Your dreams,” Kevla said. “They weren’t dreams, or even visions—they were memories!”

He nodded. “Memories of all the times before. Memories only the Lorekeepers had. We find the Dancers, help them discover—”

“Who they are,” Kevla said, her voice breaking. My love, you are Fire! “You died so that I could know who I was…what I was born to do.”

He reached to touch her cheek and she closed her eyes, trembling at the contact.

“I gladly died, this time and before this time, for you. For this world. Do you remember what is at stake, Kevla, my lover, my sister, my friend, my soul?”

She reached for the knowledge, and it appeared:

“Everything,” she whispered.

“Everything,” he confirmed. “I do not understand it all yet myself, but I know this: Our world, and the other four that have come before, are not real. They were created, crafted, as a potter crafts a pitcher. Civilizations appear, whole and complete. Some know about the Dancers and their task; others, like Arukan, are utterly ignorant. After each world has existed for five thousand years, the Dancers are born, and each world faces a crisis. If the Dancers can unite and use their powers to defeat this evil, their world is permitted to continue. If not, then it is—”

“Gone,” Kevla finished softly, tearing her gaze away from her Lorekeeper’s face to look upon the water again. Its surface was now cloudy and gray, and fear closed her throat.

She knew she beheld the Shadow, the dreadful agent of destruction that would slowly cover every facet of her world and simply erase it as if it had never been.

“I have seen the Shadow,” the Lorekeeper said. He now looked to her like a little boy in poor clothes, his eyes preternaturally wise, his face smudged and dirty. “You have seen it too. If you fail, all will be lost—not just this world, but all the others that have won a temporary victory against obliteration.”

Kevla’s gaze was still locked on the Shadow in the water. She sagged. The responsibility was too much. All those worlds, all those people, and everything she knew in this world were in jeopardy.

“I can’t do it,” she whispered.

“Yes, you can,” the Lorekeeper insisted. His voice sounded different, and when she looked at him, the being who had been born as Jashemi looked like a woman her own age, with short brown hair and green eyes.

“You know who you are. You are more powerful even than you can understand right now. You have remembered your Companion, and soon you will join with the other Dancers. You were never meant to be alone, Flame Dancer. You were always meant to have allies. Find them.”

Kevla was confused and suddenly angry. She stared at the Lorekeeper, not wanting to see what this entity had been to her in the past, wanting to see Jashemi, whom she loved desperately. The Lorekeeper’s face changed yet again, into the visage of an old man with a grizzled beard.

“I want you back, Jashemi!” she cried. “I can’t do this without you!”

The Lorekeeper cocked his head, and the old man’s face bled into that of another woman.

“I am no longer Jashemi. I am all these people you once loved, and none….”

“Please,” she begged. “Please come back. Let me say goodbye to you.”

With a visible effort, the Lorekeeper resumed the form of her brother and lover. She sobbed as she beheld the dear face.

“Our love is beyond the physical, Flame Dancer,” Jashemi whispered. “Death cannot stop it. It hasn’t before and it won’t now. But if you wish to have the Lorekeeper with you, you must learn to let go of the form I took when I was flesh. The form that loved Kevla Bai-sha is dead. Only I exist now.”

“Do you even remember?” she cried. “Do you even….” She couldn’t speak anymore.

His hands shot out to seize her wrists and when she looked into the Lorekeeper’s eyes, she saw, truly saw, Jashemi.

“Of course I remember!” he said, his voice hoarse with intensity. “But our love was not meant to be that of a man and woman. Not this time. I was born to be your brother and friend, to be close to you and love and support you in that fashion. We became lovers because we had to. Because our people stamped out anything else that we could have used to discover the truth. Think of a tree planted among stones, Kevla. Think how its roots twist and turn, seeking sustenance any way it can. You needed to learn your true nature, and I needed to help you do that. In a country where my dreams and your powers condemned us to death, we connected with each other the only way we could.”

He touched her cheek, and it was Jashemi’s touch. “Our love was right, Kevla. How it expressed itself was not. Do you understand?”

“No. Yes. I don’t know.” Even as she held his hand, he began to fade. “No…! Jashemi, don’t leave me, don’t go—”

“I must,” he said regretfully. “I ever existed to love and serve you, Flame Dancer. And even though I am no longer flesh…I still do.”

Kevla opened her eyes and air filled her lungs. Jashemi and the scrying pool were gone. She was awake and still held in the arms of the Dragon. He bent his head and regarded her, concern plain on his reptilian face.

She found the strength to meet his gaze and nod. He cradled her closer, and her head fell back against his strong, protective forepaws as the Flame Dancer fell into sweet unconsciousness.

Chapter Twenty-Four

K evla awoke feeling rested and famished. For a moment, she kept her eyes closed, unwilling to open them and see what was reality and what was surely a dream. Beneath her, she felt hard stone, yet she knew she had slept as well as if she had been in a khashim’s bed. A scent wafted to her nostrils…cooking meat?

She opened her eyes and sat up, realizing with a strange mixture of joy and dismay that her “dreams” had not been dreams at all. She was still inside MountBari, the only light coming from the leaping flames and the lava pool. The Dragon had moved her to a safer place away from the pool. As she moved, she observed that the rhia she had worn in her vision was real as well. She touched the soft, scarlet fabric.

She sniffed again. She was not imagining it; somewhere close by someone was roasting meat. She rose, stiff and sore, and stretched, following the scent around a corner where a small fire burned quietly. On a spit, the proper distance from the flame, was a whole roasting fowl. On plates around it were bread, fruits, nuts, and wine and water skins.

Kevla’s stomach growled and she fell ravenously upon the food. She ate and drank with an intensity that surprised her, reaching into the fire and pulling off chunks of meat with her bare hands. There was no pain from the heat. Finally, sighing with contentment, she rubbed her full belly and leaned back against the stone walls.

Her hunger sated, she turned her attention to all that she had so recently discovered. There was so much in her mind that she felt overwhelmed. Her own identity and purpose, Jashemi’s true Self, the Dragon—it was hard to sort it all out.

“Flame Dancer?” The deep voice rumbled and echoed. Kevla wondered how she could ever have found that voice frightening. Now, it caressed her ears and warmed her heart.

“Yes, Dragon,” she called. “I am here.”

He rounded the corner, enormous and red, his long tail snaking behind him. His wings were folded against his sloping mountain of a back, and his eyes were bright.

“I thought you were going to sleep the century away, but I did not want to wake you.”

“How long have I been asleep?”

“Two days and two nights.”

“No wonder I was so hungry.”

“Mmmm,” said the Dragon, surveying what little remained of the meal. “Perhaps you would like an entire sandcow for dinner?”

Kevla’s tentative smile broadened into a grin, and impulsively she ran and threw her arms around his long neck.

“How did I ever get along without you?” she asked, squeezing him one final time and then letting go.

He cocked his head and raised an eyebrow. “I was wondering,” he said mildly, with a twinkle of humor in his golden eyes.

Kevla’s smile faded. The trio was not complete, would never again be complete. Jashemi, the Lorekeeper, had passed from flesh. Still, she could have sworn she felt his presence, gentle as a kiss, in her mind before she awoke.

Her somberness did not escape her friend’s notice. He knew what she was thinking.

“I regret,” rumbled the Dragon, “that things unfolded as they did. I wish the people of Arukan had been wiser.”

His words reminded Kevla of something Jashemi had said, something he had thought was important.

“Jashemi believed that our powers were manifesting now for a reason,” she said. “He thinks—thought—that it had something to do with the Emperor who is attacking our people.”

The Dragon nodded. “Jashemi was correct. Your destiny and that of all the worlds are entwined with the Emperor.”

She rubbed her temples. “I’m not ready to face that yet. I am still so…Dragon, tell me of our past. I remember much, but so much more is lost to me.”

The Dragon brightened. “I love a good tale,” he mused, “and this is a marvelous one, for it is all true.”

He settled back on his haunches, exposing his lighter-hued orange-yellow belly. Like a child seeking comfort from a loved parent, Kevla crawled over and nestled against him. His scales were smooth, like glazed pots, and so warm. She felt the tentative pat of a mammoth claw and relaxed even further. Safe, she felt so safe with this new, old friend.

“You found me first when I was still in the egg,” the Dragon began.

Each day, he told her of a different life they had lived. She listened attentively, hoping to glean information that would be of use in this life, this final Dance that she and the others, as of yet unknown to her, would perform. Some things she remembered, others felt more like stories than memories.

Food mysteriously continued to appear when she slept, and she ate and drank without questioning. Finally, on the fifth day, she knew it was time to turn her attention to the present.

“Jashemi spoke of other Lorekeepers, here in Arukan,” she told the Dragon. Her chest ached as she spoke. It still hurt so much to speak of him, to think of him, but she continued. “Like him, they probably are afraid to speak of their dreams. It could condemn them to death.”

The Dragon nodded and made a sour face. To one who did not know him, it would be terrifying to behold. Kevla recalled the expression from a life before, and to her it was amusing and endearing.

“It would indeed. Foolish Arukani,” he muttered.

“So how do I find them? How do I let them know what Jashemi knew—what we know?”

He looked at her intently. “How do you find out anything, Flame Dancer?”

Of course. She should have thought of it sooner. Easily, without even thinking, she conjured fire and asked it, “Show me the Lorekeepers of Arukan.”

The fire suddenly flamed up, almost as tall as the Dragon. Several faces were in its heart, flickering and shifting. Jashemi had been right; there were indeed many others.

“Well,” said the Dragon. “It seems you have an embarrassment of riches. And these are only the ones who happen to be near fires right now. Perhaps you’d best narrow it down.”

“I agree,” said Kevla. “Show me…show me the Lorekeepers in the Clan of Four Waters.”

The fire subsided, and two faces appeared. One was unknown to Kevla, but the second was familiar indeed. It was her old adversary, Tiah.

“If we had only known,” Kevla said softly, thinking of the time they had both wasted in their confrontations. Who cared about petty household politics when their entire world was at stake? Tiah was carrying a candle. She looked older than Kevla remembered her, and unhappy, and Kevla found it in her to pity the woman.

One by one, Kevla went through every one of the Arukani clans. The Dragon explained that not all of the Lorekeepers would be as close to her as Jashemi had been, but each carried a piece of the puzzle. She thought with a stab of anguish that no one could have been closer than Jashemi, but said nothing. Her grief was hers alone; it belonged to Kevla Bai-sha, not the Flame Dancer. She would not strain the Dragon’s sympathy by continuing to focus on her personal loss.

As she sat and gazed into the fire, memorizing faces and listening to conversations, Kevla was startled to realize that the young sa’abah-tender who had stolen food and water for her was among them. Then she recalled the girl’s words: I do not know you, or your errand. But somehow I feel as if I needed to do this for you. Perhaps one day, we will both understand why.

It made perfect sense. The Lorekeepers were born to help the Dancers. Even when neither she nor Kevla understood their link, both had sensed their connection.

She observed and listened. Most of the Lorekeepers were of the lower or middle castes, but there were two Seconds, one in the Sa’abah Clan and one in the Horserider Clan, and the khashim of the Star Clan was a Lorekeeper as well.

Some of them did not speak of their dreams; others did. No one understood them, and all were frightened by them. They felt alone, isolated. Kevla was moved. If only they knew that there were many others like them, that they were special and to be honored, not feared.

For the first time since she had made love with Jashemi, she felt hope rise in her. Jashemi’s dream had been to unite the clans so that they could stand against this Emperor from over the mountains. It had seemed like a fool’s errand when he spoke of it, but now Kevla thought it possible. Every clan had at least one Lorekeeper. Every Lorekeeper would have been having strange dreams. Once they were made to understand the truth about their dreams, to realize that they could no longer stand separately and continue their petty quarrels, perhaps they would see the wisdom in union.

She spoke of this to the Great Dragon. “I hope you are right,” he said. “It will be difficult for them to listen to a Bai-sha, though. You understand that.”

She grinned at him. “It will be easier for them if the Bai-sha is riding the Great Dragon of Mount Bari.”

“Hmph,” was all the Dragon had to say, but he looked pleased.

She looked down at the handful of dates she was munching. “Dragon,” she said, “I was wondering…how did you get this food?”

“I?” He seemed surprised. “I have not been bringing you food.”

“Then who has?”

“The kulis,” the Dragon replied.

Kevla almost choked. “What?” She stared in horror at the innocent-looking dates. She had been eating the food that demons had brought her for days!

Repulsed, she threw the handful of uneaten dates as far from her as she could, wiping her hands on her red rhia. Her stomach roiled.

“Now you’re just being stupid,” the Dragon said mildly.

“Stupid?” she spat. “Stupid, to not eat the food demons have been bringing me?”

He sighed and shook his head sadly, as if she were nothing more than a petulant child having a tantrum. “The kulis saved your life. It is they who have been bringing you food and water, when you would have died alone in the desert on your pilgrimage. Your contempt is poor thanks. They’re not demons, Kevla. They’re not evil. I thought you were intelligent enough to learn that on your own, but apparently twenty-one years of living in this country has addled your Fire-given wits.” He perused her thoughtfully, then said, “Perhaps it is time you met them.”

Her anger at him shifted into fear. He was going to give her to the kulis….

“Dragon,” she said, her voice shaking. “Dragon, no, don’t do this….”

“You’re afraid,” he said gently. “You’re afraid of something you don’t understand. You are the element of Fire, Kevla. If you are to succeed, there is much you will need to face…and learn not to fear.”

His head was close to her level, as it always was when they conversed. Now he lifted it and extended his neck. Closing his great eyes, he opened his mouth and let out a long, crooning noise.

Kevla leaped to her feet and pressed back against the solid comfort of the stone walls. Her mouth was dry. She had learned so much, seen so much, but this—

She bit back a cry as long, distorted shadows moved along the walls.

And the kulis came.

Kayle, Captain of the Emperor’s Guardsmen and overseer of the conscription of the Arukani prisoners, had literally been born into this life.

The son of a camp follower and a soldier, he had been left outside the nearest fort on the day of his birth. The soldiers had brought the infant in and given him to one of their wives to raise along with her own offspring. Kayle’s earliest memory was that of wanting to play with the gleaming weapons lining the walls of the room he shared with four other children.

As soon as he could lift a sword, the woman who had raised him gave him back to the guards. He slept with other boys who did nothing but eat, sleep, train, and assist the older men. He had killed his first man when he was eleven, and had lost count of how many had fallen beneath his blade since then.

Kayle knew nothing of love, or politics, or literature, or art. He knew war, and tactics, and how to kill efficiently both on the field and by stealth in the depths of night. He was strong, tall and powerful, and the scars that crisscrossed his body and face were myriad, but old. No enemy’s sword had touched Kayle’s body for the last ten years.

Kayle had no particular love for his Emperor, but did know that the young ruler was the one who had provided the best weapons, horses, and men for his army, and permission to kill when Kayle felt like it.

Kayle liked to kill. When he was younger, killing had excited him. Now, after familiarity with the act, his pleasure had abated somewhat, but he always enjoyed it. Although he knew his task was to get more warriors for his Emperor’s army, Kayle was secretly pleased when some of the captured Arukani men resisted and he was therefore able to make an example of one of them. The women and children were not as much fun to slaughter.

He had listened attentively as the Emperor spoke, inspiring the troops with assurances of victory. He had not seen his ruler since then, but did not much care. He supervised his own unit, rode where and when the general ordered him, and moved steadily forward. Now, after a hard day of riding, Kayle sat by the crackling fire. He extended his powerful hands to the warmth, and looked up at the mountains they had yet to cross. It was night, so he couldn’t actually see them; but he knew they were there by the way they blotted out the starfield. It would be difficult, moving so many men, beasts and pieces of equipment over those looming barriers, but it could be done.

He smiled, and the gesture twisted his scarred mouth into a grimace that made most men quail.

On the other side of the mountains, he was certain, good slaughtering would be had. Good slaughtering indeed. Kayle was looking forward to killing in the name of the Emperor.

Chapter Twenty-Five

B y the time Tahmu reached the encampment, men were shouting and reaching for weapons. When he appeared out of the darkness, a cry of relief went up. Some of his men even rushed to touch him, to convince themselves that their khashim was truly unharmed.

“My lord!” cried Dumah. “When we found poor Halid slain, we thought there were bandits about! Did you see anything?”

“Put away your weapons,” Tahmu ordered. He gazed at the body of his former friend. “You need not fear a bandit attack. I myself killed Halid.”

The men fell silent as they stared first at their leader, then at his slain Second.

“He attacked me when I sat by the fire, unarmed,” Tahmu continued. “He has been sleeping with the khashima and plotting my downfall.” He lifted his eyes from the body and searched the faces of his men. “Just as Kevla said.”

They gasped. “My lord,” ventured Dumah, “surely this attack has distressed you…perhaps you….”

“I know what I know,” Tahmu said, raising his voice slightly. “Whatever…abilities…Kevla has, she has only ever used them to protect me. She saved me when my own wife tried to poison me, and she saved me again when she appeared here last night in time to warn me.”

The men looked at each other uneasily. Tahmu understood their conflict. They honored and trusted him, but he was asking a great deal.

“I don’t ask you to believe it,” he said. “But you will obey my orders, as is your duty. We return home. I will not hunt Kevla, and Jashemi….” He suddenly could not speak. They waited for him, and finally he managed to say, “Jashemi is dead. Dumah, prepare a message for the hawk. I want to make sure that no one tries to harm Kevla if she encounters anyone.”

The men did not protest, but he saw their grief for their young master and their unhappiness with his pronouncement. He hoped that he had earned enough admiration and respect so that he could keep his clan together when he refused to kill a kuli in his own household.

They would need something from him in order to do that, some sign that he was still their leader, still unafraid to do the unpleasant things that a khashim must do.

He felt certain he could oblige them.

Yeshi was waiting for him as he and his men entered the courtyard a few days later. She was clad in her best finery. Her long hair was braided and bound atop her head, woven with jewelry throughout. Her lips, eyes, and cheeks were decorated. Her rhia was of blue and gold material, heavily embroidered. She stood atop the steps to the House, beautiful and furious, her eyes snapping with anger.

Tahmu had been wary about the encounter, but now he smiled to himself. She was going to make this easy. He looked her full in the eye as he marched toward her and climbed the steps.

Breaking protocol, certain in her power, Yeshi spoke first.

“My husband, you disappoint me,” she announced. There were many assembled in the courtyard, and all heard the words.

He kept the small smile on his lips, tacitly encouraging her to continue her rant.

“You left to slay kulis. Then you send me a message saying that you have chosen to shirk your duty. How could you leave your people so defenseless? How could you betray them so?” As she spoke, her eyes flickered over the men and he saw her face tighten slightly when she did not see Halid.

She had given him his opening. “It is interesting, wife, that you should speak of slaying and betrayal,” Tahmu said, his voice carrying. “I think you did not expect me to come home with the slain bodies of my child and the Bai-sha. I think you did not expect me to come home at all.”

Yeshi stiffened. It would be imperceptible to anyone who did not know her well, but Tahmu didn’t miss it.

Rallying, she cried, “Yes! I would think that if you failed to catch the demons, you would be ashamed to come home to me, to your Clan, empty-handed!”

“Ah,” he said conversationally, “but I have not returned empty-handed. I have flushed my quarry, but it is not a kuli. Here is what I bring home to my khashima!”

Knowing all eyes were riveted on him, he gestured to Dumah. Pale and large-eyed, Dumah handed his lord a small sack. Tahmu opened it, reached in, grasped his prize, and brandished it in his wife’s face.

It was the rotting head of Halid.

Yeshi screamed and shrank back, her hand to her mouth. Her shock was echoed around the courtyard as everyone else stared at the grisly trophy. Tahmu turned, holding the head by the hair so that all gathered could see it.

“Behold the head of a traitor!” he cried. “This man attacked me at my own fire, by stealth, when I was alone and unarmed. He has conspired with my khashima to take over the Clan. Many of you were here in this courtyard several days ago. Forfeiting everything, Jashemi prevented what he perceived to be a murder. Do you recall how Yeshi urged me to kill our own son for that one act of compassion? She knew what I now know, that Jashemi was not kuli-cursed. With the rightful heir discredited and hunted, and her husband apparently murdered by bandits in the night, she and my Second would be free to take over the Clan of Four Waters! You, my people, would have been lead by a traitor and a murderer!”

Disgusted, Tahmu hurled the head down. It bounced down the steps with a hollow sound, coming to rest on the hard-backed earth of the courtyard. Sightless eyes stared up at the crowd, who drew back.

“That is how I deal with treacherous Seconds,” Tahmu said. He turned, slowly, to look at Yeshi. “The question before me now is, how do I deal with treacherous khashimas?”

He knew what he intended to do. What he did not know was how Yeshi would react. He hoped that she would compose herself, hold her head high, and accept whatever fate he decreed. In her face, he could still see the features that she had bestowed on her son; and for the powerful love he bore his child, he wanted her to behave with dignity.

Her nostrils flared. “I condemn Halid for his treachery, but I had no part in it. Jashemi will defend me. He will know that I have acted only for the Clan’s best interest.”

He laughed harshly, pain and fury battling inside him. “Then you will be distressed to learn that your son is dead, my lady. You have no defenders now.”

Show me that this hurts you, he thought fiercely. Show our son, that wise and beautiful boy, that you loved him.

Yeshi went pale. She fell to her knees, and Tahmu dared to hope that perhaps true grief was at last penetrating the wall of bitterness and hate she had built around herself for so long.

She prostrated herself in front of him. But instead of the hoped-for words of pain and mourning for her dead child, Yeshi cried, “My lord, forgive a weak and foolish woman! It was Halid’s idea. He frightened me, he threatened me—”

Any shred of fondness he had left for his wife evaporated like water in the sun. She clutched at his rhia, and to his disgust was actually kissing his sandals and feet.

He stepped backward and gestured to his guards. Their faces showing no emotion, they stepped in, seized Yeshi, and hauled her to her feet. Her pretty face was twisted with her sobs, the kohl running down her artificially reddened cheeks. As he stared at her, Tahmu wondered how in the world he had ever been persuaded to give up his beloved Keishla for this cunning, vengeful woman. One had turned to prostitution to keep herself and her daughter alive. The other had bartered her body for vengeance and power. Who was the real halaan?

She had not ceased babbling. Tahmu twined his fingers in her hair and pulled her head back sharply. She yelped, then fell silent, her eyes staring. He could see the vein beating in her neck.

“How is it possible that someone like Jashemi could spring from your body?” he hissed, tears standing in his eyes. “I won’t ask why you did what you did. I know part of it had to do with our blood-marked child, and I cannot blame you for hating me for that. But Jashemi—your own son—”

Repulsed, he let her go. “It is within my rights and the laws of this land to have you burned, as you would have had Kevla burned, or cut off your head, as I have done to your lover. But that’s not enough. I want you to taste suffering, Yeshi. The sort of suffering you’ve brought on so many others during your wasted life.”

He stepped back and spoke more loudly, so that all could hear. “I decree this woman to no longer be Yeshi-sha-Rusan. She is no longer khashima of the Clan of Four Waters. I strip her of her name, her title, of all that she was born into or married into. Henceforth, this woman shall be known as Yeshi Bai-sha. Get from my sight before I change my mind.”

She stared at him, as if she couldn’t comprehend what he had just said. His eyes narrowed.

“Go!” he cried. When she did not move, the two guards again stepped in and grasped her arms. Tahmu watched, unmoved, as the mother of his son was dragged, screaming, from the courtyard. Without power, she was as toothless as an old simmar. Tahmu felt certain her malice had no more ability to harm anyone he loved.

When at last her cries had faded, Tahmu regarded the upturned faces in the courtyard. They displayed a variety of emotions, but most were turning to him eagerly, wanting a sign as to how best to proceed after this upheaval.

He nodded. Yeshi had brought everything on herself, and was indirectly responsible for Jashemi’s death. As am I. There was much for him to think about. But for now, he dismissed his household and stepped into the comforting coolness of the House of Four Waters.

As Second of the Sa’abah Clan, Melaan had earned the right to a tent of his own. It was comfortable and well-appointed, but he tossed restlessly. Sleep eluded him, and he was not sure that was a bad thing as the dreams had been particularly intense as of late. Also, he was worried about Jashemi.

Terku, of course, had received the hawk with the dreadful message from Tahmu-kha-Rakyn. The khashim had read it aloud at council: If Jashemi-kha-Tahmu or a woman who answers to the name of Kevla Bai-sha should approach your Clan, capture them and notify me immediately. They are under kuli influence. The woman is particularly dangerous and should be gagged, bound, and watched at all times.

Melaan had said nothing unusual, only muttered the appropriate surprised and regretful words that all spoke. But he felt a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach, and was more careful than usual that he said nothing of his strange dreams to anyone.

Jashemi was not under kuli influence, nor, Melaan suspected, was the Bai-sha woman he was traveling with. Jashemi was wanted, and feared, for his dreams. Poor Shali had wept uncontrollably after the news was broken to her. She had begun to fall in love with her gentle husband. To learn that she was, perhaps, carrying the child of a kuli was devastating.

Melaan hoped that Jashemi and this Kevla had the sense to avoid the clans. On a personal level, he was sorry for the boy, but on another level, he feared for his Clan’s existence. Men like he and Jashemi were needed now, desperately.

He heard a sound outside his tent. He kept his breathing steady, and slowly his fingers crept toward the knife he always kept under his pillow.

The sound came closer, a soft step, a tentative rustling as the tent was opened. He sensed a presence. He waited, feigning sleep, as it approached. Then in silence Melaan sprang, clutching the knife, and leaped upon the intruder. She, for it was a woman, fell beneath him and did not resist. He pressed the knife to her throat.

“Who are you?” he demanded.

She didn’t answer, but suddenly the knife grew unbearably hot and he dropped it with a cry.

The woman sat up and extended a hand. Before Melaan could think to do anything else, a small flicker of flame appeared in her palm.

Frightened, he scuttled backward. She lifted her other hand in a pleading gesture and said, “Please don’t call for anyone. I’m here to speak with you. I am Kevla Bai-Sha, a friend of Jashemi’s.”

He regarded her cautiously, his eyes flickering from her shadowed features to the fire dancing in her hand. She brought the flame closer to her face, so he could see her better. He found her beautiful, but her face was drawn in sorrow.

“I know about your dreams,” she continued, speaking quickly in a low voice. “I know they’re not sent by demons. You’re a Lorekeeper, Melaan. So was Jashemi, and so are the others. What you are dreaming are memories of the past and visions of the future.”

“How do you know about this?” he rasped. The name she had called him resonated. Lorekeeper. Somehow it was familiar.

She extended a hand to him. “Because I am one of the Dancers,” she said. “I am the Flame Dancer.” She looked at him intently. “It means nothing to you, I see. Here. Take my hand, Melaan.”

Slowly, he reached to do so, then hesitated. “You mentioned Jashemi,” he said. “You said, ‘Jashemi was a Lorekeeper.’”

By the firelight dancing in her palm, he saw her eyes glisten with tears. “Jashemi is dead,” she said, “But I misspoke. He remains a Lorekeeper. I know this is all confusing, but—Please, Melaan. If you want to save your people, you must trust me—trust yourself.”

He had recognized her name. This, then, was the woman Tahmu-kha-Rakyn had warned them about. Reason screamed to Melaan to spring on her, tie her up and bring her to his lord, as the khashim of the Clan of Four Waters had requested. But the words she said resonated beyond reason. Tentatively, he reached and took her hand.

As if in a waking dream, he relived the memories of the people he had been; watched the Shadow come and destroy; saw it defeated and dissolve into nothingness. He saw this woman dressed in different flesh as she might dress in different clothing. And he knew her.

The remembering took but a moment, then she squeezed his hand and let it go. Drifting back to the present, he stared at her, then bowed in homage.

“Flame Dancer,” he whispered. “I live to serve you. What do you ask of me?”

She gave him the names of three other Lorekeepers in his clan. “Find these people. I will go to them tonight also. Do what you can to persuade your khashim to meet me in three weeks’ time at the foot of MountBari. Your task is to convince him to come. Once you have brought him—” and she smiled a little “—I will convince him of other things. Arukan must have an army to fight the Emperor from over the mountain, or all of Arukan will fall.”

He nodded, and watched her in awe as she rose and gracefully walked out of the tent.

Lorekeeper. At last, he had a name to put to that part of himself. Knowing this gave him a comfort, a sense of peace, he had never tasted in his adult life. He returned to his sleeping mat, fell asleep quickly, and had no dreams.

Tiah made no haste to return to her sleeping quarters. It was late, she knew the guard who stood watch at the entrance to the House, and she and her lover had been meeting unchallenged for some time. What had worried Tiah the most was the thought of Yeshi discovering her illicit encounters, and Yeshi was now gone. Tiah’s nose wrinkled in contempt. Yeshi had been so intent that all of her handmaidens be “pure,” and yet she was the one who had been taking a lover and plotting to kill her husband.

Tiah didn’t miss her much at all.

Her feet padded along the road up to the House, and she breathed the still night air deeply. She swung the lit lantern she carried to light her way in the dark night, and hummed as she walked.

“Tiah,” came a voice.

Tiah stopped dead in her tracks and whirled, trying to see who had called her.

“Who’s there?”

“An old friend, or perhaps an old enemy.” The voice belonged to a woman. Her thoughts scattered and clouded with guilt, Tiah took several heartbeats before she recognized the voice. When she did, she dropped the lantern with a soft cry. The little flame inside it ought to have been snuffed out, but instead blazed to a greater height.

Impossibly, a woman stepped out of the flames. She smiled gently.

“Hello, Tiah,” said Kevla Bai-sha.

A few days after his arrival, Tahmu was approached by one of Yeshi’s former handmaidens. Tiah, he thought she was called. Like all the other servants, she had said nothing when he had banished her mistress. He had put her and the other girl, the smaller, shyer one, to work keeping the house clean. They would also attend to any visiting khashimas, although he had entertained no one since his return. The House was in mourning for the fallen khashimu, and it would be some time before the Great Hall would ring again with music and laughter.

So he was surprised when Tiah approached him as he was preparing to ride down to the rivers. She hurried to him and prostrated herself in the dirt.

One hand on Swift’s neck, Tahmu asked, “What is it?”

“My lord, I must speak with you. It is dire!”

The tone of her voice alerted him. “Rise and speak, then,” he ordered.

She did so, not looking up at him. “My lord, last night….” She twisted her hands together, clearly at a loss as to how to proceed.

Handing the reins to an attendant, Tahmu told her, “Walk with me.” She followed him dutifully, sniffing and gulping as if fighting back tears.

“No one will hear,” he said, not unkindly. “Speak…Tiah, is it not?”

“Yes, lord. Lord…last night…last night Kevla came to me!”

His eyes widened. “Kevla? You are certain this was not a dream?”

Now she did look up at him and shook her head vigorously. “No, my lord. I was returning from—” Her cheeks reddened.

He almost laughed at her consternation. Such things were so unimportant to him now. “Yeshi might have cared if you took a lover, Tiah,” he said, thinking that Yeshi was a consummate hypocrite. “I don’t. Tell me the truth.”

“Yes, lord. I was coming back from—from a meeting, as you say.” She continued to blush, but thankfully also continued to speak. “I have been having dreams, my lord. Strange dreams of an approaching Shadow, that covers and destroys everything.”

Gooseflesh prickled Tahmu’s arms as a chill shivered over him. The words Jashemi had spoken so long ago came back to him: We stood watching a darkness hovering on the horizon, a darkness that was about to completely swallow us. She told me that it might all fall to me, that I must not forget.

If only he had listened! If only…but it was too late for Jashemi. It might not be too late for this girl, for Kevla. “I have heard of these dreams,” he said quietly. “My son had them. I did not listen to him. I will listen to you.”

Relieved, she rewarded him with a smile and continued. “Kevla told me that these dreams are actually visions and memories. She said I am something called a Lorekeeper, and that the young lord had been one, too. She wants all the clans to meet in three weeks at the base of MountBari, so that we can work together to stand against the Emperor from over the mountain. She also said—”

The frightened look descended on Tiah’s round face again. He had bent to her with an attentiveness that clearly alarmed her, and gentled his expression.

“Don’t fear, child. Speak what Kevla told you to say.”

“She said to say thank-you for sparing her life.”

Tahmu smiled sadly. “That might have been the wisest decision I ever made,” he told her. “Thank you for coming to me, Tiah. If Kevla comes to you again, tell her that she may count on the support of the Clan of Four Waters.”

She bowed low and scurried off. He watched her go and for the first time since he had ordered Kevla’s death by fire, he felt a lightening in his heart.

As he had told his daughter, that bitter night when she had saved his life for the second time, it seemed to him that he had made the wrong choice at every turn. He married Yeshi instead of Keishla, and that had ended with treachery. He did not acknowledge Kevla openly as his child and permit her and Jashemi to play together as siblings ought, and that had perhaps forced them into a relationship that was as forbidden as it was powerful. He had exposed the innocent child that was his blood-marked daughter, fueling Yeshi’s hatred and condemning a baby. He decreed a terrible punishment on his illegitimate daughter and discredited his legitimate son.

But despite these mistakes, Kevla yet lived, with powers that Jashemi was convinced were sent to heal. She wanted the same thing Tahmu and his son had: a union of the clans.

There were decisions ahead. He hoped he would be able, this time, to make the right ones.

He would not ride to the rivers today. If Kevla wanted the Clan at the foot of MountBari in so short a time, he would have to prepare right away.

Chapter Twenty-Six

T wo weeks and four days later, as the sky turned orange and purple and the sun sank beneath the horizon, Tahmu and every able-bodied man in his Clan reached the foot of MountBari.

They were not the first clan to arrive, and Dumah, Tahmu’s new Second, looked uneasily around at the dozens of campfires that were just starting to be kindled at the approach of night.

“So many,” he said. “My lord, what if this is a trap? What if Kevla is not the woman she pretended to be? Her powers—”

“Are frightening,” Tahmu agreed. He was pleased that the reticent Dumah was learning to speak openly with him. “But think, Dumah. With all those powers, she could have killed me or anyone else by simply pointing a finger. Even when she wounded Yeshi, it was an accident.”

“So she told you, lord,” Dumah said.

“So she told me,” he agreed mildly, “and so I believe. I should have believed my son when he first came to me speaking of powers; I won’t make that mistake again. Besides, there is sense in what she is trying to do.”

“Who knows what she told the others,” Dumah said nervously, still looking at the vast number of clanspeople who had at one time or another been the enemies of the Clan of Four Waters.

“Perhaps you had best send someone to find out,” Tahmu said, and grinned at Dumah’s expression.

Dumah did as he was told. While the rest of the Clan began setting up tents and lighting their own campfires, Dumah rounded up several men to act as representatives to each of the other clans assembled. Tiah and the other Lorekeeper from the Clan of Four Waters, an old beggar, accompanied the representatives. They met with the other Lorekeepers, and when Tiah returned to report to Tahmu well into the night, her eyes shone and she stood straighter than he had ever seen her.

He brought her and Dumah into his tent and bade them be seated. He called for eusho, and when the servant left to prepare it, he asked quietly, “Tell me what you have learned.”

“The stories are exactly the same,” Melaan said to Terku as they drank eusho together in the khashim’s tent. “We have had the same visions and memories. Each of us knows something a little different, and I believe it would be wise for us to have a meeting of all the Lorekeepers and write down as complete a history as we can manage.”

Terku raised a bushy white eyebrow. “A history,” he repeated, “of four other lives you have lived. Four other worlds that were created. Two of which were destroyed, two of which survived. Do I have it right?”

Melaan felt the blood come to his face. “I know how it sounds, but…Yes, my lord.”

Terku sighed and put the cup down. “Melaan,” he said, “You have been my trusted Second for almost twenty years. If you told me that I would fly if I leaped off the peak of Mount Bari, I would jump.”

Melaan’s lips curved at the image. “I would not ask you to do such a thing, my lord.”

“And yet you have me come to this place, with my finest warriors, to hear what someone who claims to be the embodiment of fire has to tell you. A woman, no less. You stretch the limits of my patience, my old friend.”

Melaan regarded him intently. “I know what I know,” he said. “Jashemi knew it. Fully twenty-and-two others scattered throughout all the clans know it. The stories are the same. The woman Kevla has demonstrated powerful magic, magic that seems to be limited to controlling fire and heat. I can’t believe this is all a trick. Who could do such a thing?”

“A dreadful enemy,” replied his khashim.

“We are already facing a dreadful enemy,” Melaan replied somewhat shortly. “He flies the flag of the ki-lyn, another image with which all the Lorekeepers are familiar. I would rather face a foe I know to be my enemy than turn a possible friend into one.”

Terku did not reply at once. Finally, he sighed in resignation. “I hope you are right,” Terku said, “for all our sakes.”

“Do you think he’s right?” asked Jalik, Second of the Star Clan.

“He’s always been a good leader,” said Yumar as they walked together under the stars for which their clan had been named.

“That’s not an answer.”

“I know.” Yumar shot his friend a quick grin, then grew sober. “There are some who say that this is a trick. That this fire-woman has gulled us here with tales of a foe who threatens us all, when really she wants us to fight each other. Maybe this so-called great battle will be between all the clans.”

Jalik snorted. “To what end?”

“I don’t know. She’s a fire-woman, who knows what she’s thinking?”

“But if our own khashim has had the same visions as twenty others, how can we deny the power in that?”

Yumar frowned. “I just don’t trust this woman.”

“You don’t trust any woman, Yumar.”

“True. But I don’t have any reason to.”

An uncomfortable silence fell between them. Yumar had had his heart broken many times. Jalik sometimes felt guilty, for he had a faithful and loving wife and two healthy children. He thought of his mate, and knew that he would trust her with anything. Even his life. If a woman told Yumar the sky was blue, he would feel compelled to look up just to make sure.

Finally, Jalik said, “Our khashim has ordered us here. We obey him.”

“Let us hope that we will not need a new khashim by the time all is done,” muttered Yumar darkly.

Melaan walked somewhat nervously up to the tent of Tahmu-kha-Rakyn. Following behind him were the Lorekeepers of the Horserider Clan and the Sandcattle Clan. Melaan had not seen Tahmu since Jashemi’s wedding. The man was intimidating and powerful, and Melaan had no idea how his son’s death might have affected him. The fact that the khashim had brought his clan to this meeting, several dozen warriors strong, boded well, but Melaan still worried.

He identified himself to the stone-faced man who guarded the khashim’s tent, and a moment later was permitted to enter.

Sorrow washed over Melaan as Tahmu looked up from reading a scroll. The khashim of the Clan of Four Waters was fit and handsome, and had always looked much younger than his true years. Now, he looked old. His eyes were haunted.

Melaan bowed. “Great lord,” he said, “as one who is what your son was, let me offer my deepest condolences on your loss. Jashemi was well-loved and respected by the Sa’abah Clan.”

Tahmu nodded curtly and his lips tightened. “Thank you, Melaan. What is your purpose here?”

“Many of us—the Lorekeepers—” by the Dragon, the title still seemed strange “—desire to meet with one another. We each have a little knowledge of what has gone before, and we feel it would be valuable to set as much as we can down plainly.”

Tahmu again nodded. “Has anyone resisted this?”

“A few, my lord. They fear what will happen when a khashim sits next to a sa’abah herder and listens to her words.”

Tahmu laughed shortly. “If we are lucky, then perhaps the same thing as when a stubborn khashim listened to a Bai-sha.”

“My lord?”

Tahmu waved the question away. “Do not mind me, Melaan. There are two Lorekeepers in my Clan, a beggar and a serving girl. They have my permission to attend this…council. But you must promise to share what you know.”

“We will, lord. We will share everything with everyone.”

Somewhat to Tahmu’s surprise, he learned that every clan had agreed to send their Lorekeepers to the meeting. Much was written down, but according to Tiah, there would need to be more meetings in order to complete the sharing of knowledge, and there were many other clans who had not yet arrived. Even so, the document would read as a tale with more left out than set down. While the Lorekeepers seemed to have bonded, the rest of the clans remained deeply suspicious of one another. Tahmu said a quick prayer to the Dragon that no accident or incident that might spark violence would occur. Tensions were tight as a bowstring, and it would not take much for this “meeting of the clans” to become a bloodbath.

The night passed without incident, as did the next day. More clans arrived; more opportunities for disaster. They kept coming, until at last Tahmu thought he saw nearly every clan represented. Some had come with men, ready to fight; others were smaller delegations, sent by their leaders to gather information and assess the situation before the clan would commit to anything.

The appointed day Kevla had given them came and went. That night, no one slept. Dumah begged Tahmu to leave, but Tiah, growing more and more confident in her Lorekeeper knowledge, insisted that they remain.

Then it happened.

The following day, shortly before sunset, four members of the Horserider Clan encountered six members of the Sandcattle Clan at the only available fresh spring. The Horseriders insisted that they needed to fill their water containers before the Sandcattle Clan. One of the Sandcattle Clansmen reasonably replied that there was room for several to fill their jugs and waterskins at a time. The biggest, most aggressive of the Horseriders replied that if the Sandcattle dogs wanted water, they could wait downstream while the Horseriders relieved themselves in it, because that was all Sandcattle Clansmen were fit to drink.

Later, witnesses said they weren’t sure who had first struck whom, but a fight ensued in which two Horseriders were severely beaten and one Sandcattle Clansmen stabbed. The noise drew the attention of others, and what had begun as a brawl born of tension escalated into a multi-clan battle.

Tahmu bolted from his tent at the sound of the cries and cursed. “Dumah, saddle Swift, then alert all the other khashims. We have to stop this before—”

But Dumah was paying no attention to his lord. He stood as if carved of rock, staring up at the sky, awe and horror commingled on his face. Others, too, had stopped in midstride and were gazing upward. Tahmu followed their gaze, and his heart leaped.

It came from inside MountBari, seemingly made of the dark, twisting smoke which arose from that most sacred of places. But this was no smoky illusion. Enormous, graceful wings beat the sky steadily, keeping aloft a dark shape that seemed to be a blending of lizard and snake. Tahmu’s heart began to race as the creature drew nearer.

There was no mistaking it now. Morning sun glinted off red scales, and even as he watched it opened its mouth and spouted flame.

The Great Dragon was descending from the mountain.

He heard screams of fear and joy commingled, and all around him members of every clan fell to their hands and knees. His own legs seemed to be locked into place, but when the Dragon drew nearer, he, Tahmu-kha-Rakyn, dropped to the dust beside the lowliest of his Clan.

Closer it drew, and he found he could not tear his gaze away. Now he could see that there was something on its back. A heartbeat later, he realized with a fresh shock whom he beheld: his daughter, Kevla, clad in a rhia the same hue as the mighty Dragon, sitting erect and calm on the Great Dragon’s back, her black hair flying in the wind the creature’s wings created.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

T he Great Dragon had no trouble finding a place to come to earth. The clanspeople had fled from his descent, creating a clearing. It landed gracefully for so mammoth a creature, and folded its wings with the delicacy and fastidiousness of a sparrow. It raised its mighty head and surveyed them with yellow eyes.

Moving as surely and as gracefully as the Dragon, Kevla Bai-sha dismounted easily. She stood straight and tall, no sign of fear or arrogance in her gaze. Instead, Tahmu noticed a confidence he had never before seen in her.

She stood patiently, waiting for the cries of fear and wonder to fade. When at last there was silence, she spoke.

“We all know the stories,” she said in a clear voice that carried on the still desert air. “It is said that when the Great Dragon leaves his home in MountBari, the end of the world is near. But I am here to tell you that this is only partially true. The world will indeed end, if something is not done to prevent it. And we can do something to prevent it.”

She began to walk the circumference of the crowd, her eyes singling out those Tahmu knew to be Lorekeepers. “You were born to prevent it,” she said to a young five-score girl. The girl smiled tremulously. “And you,” she said to the khashim of the Star Clan, “and you,” to Melaan. “All of you who have had the dreams that have made you afraid to speak your truth. You have dreamed the fate of worlds before, and the possible fate of this one. I honor you, Lorekeepers.”

She brought her hands to her heart and bowed deeply. “The creature before you is indeed the Great Dragon of our legends, but he is also part of me. He is Fire, and I am Fire, sent to heal.

“I am the Flame Dancer, the element of fire clothed in flesh. I have kindred—the Stone Dancer, the Sea Dancer, the Wind Dancer, and the Soul Dancer. We five and our Companions, beings like the Dragon, will stand to save this world from the coming of the Shadow. But we cannot do it without our Lorekeepers. Melaan, take up this tale.”

Melaan rose to her challenge and began to speak. “Four times before, a world has been created and the Dancers have tried to earn it permanence. Twice they have succeeded. Twice, they have failed. This time is the final Dance. If the Dancers succeed, then this world and the two others who have been spared will be allowed to continue. If they fail, all will be obliterated.”

“Mirya, take up the tale,” Kevla said, turning to the little five-score girl.

She swallowed hard, and spoke in a nervous voice. “The Lorekeepers have the knowledge of what has gone before. We were born to help the Dancers succeed by keeping that lore from being forgotten and lost forever.”

Kevla smiled approvingly at the girl. “It’s my understanding from the Dragon, and from what the Lorekeepers have told me, that other civilizations were wiser than we,” she said. “They respected what their Lorekeepers said, they sought out and protected their Dancers. But we here in Arukan have been foolish. We suppressed our Lorekeepers. Called them mad.”

Her eyes met those of her father’s, and it was with difficulty that Tahmu did not avert his gaze.

“Called them kulis,” Kevla said. “When I came into my powers, I was afraid and ashamed of them. It is only thanks to Jashemi-kha-Tahmu, the man who began this uniting of the clans, that I can now stand before you.” She paused, and Tahmu saw her swallow hard, saw the pain in her eyes; pain he knew matched his own. Perhaps even exceeded it.

“It is with deep grief that I tell you that Jashemi is dead. He gave his life in order that I might finally understand who and what I am—who and what the Lorekeepers are. He believed that our powers had surfaced at this time because Arukan is in great danger. Our enemies have long been one another, but that cannot be allowed to continue. We must stand together, stand strong, against the enemy that approaches from over the mountains.

“Some of you may have noticed that there are a few clans who are not represented here today. It’s not because they were afraid to come. It is because the armies of the Emperor have destroyed them. Those who did not die were taken and forced to serve beneath the standard of the ki-lyn. You know the flag I speak of, and yes, that strange creature has a name. There is a saying that we all know.”

She paused and turned to the Dragon, who was watching her attentively. Kevla smiled at him and stroked him affectionately. “‘When the Great Dragon rouses,’” she quoted, “‘None shall stand against his flame.’”

Tahmu could have sworn the creature winked. Kevla turned to face the crowd again.

“That saying is true. The Dragon has roused, and the armies of the Emperor shall not stand against his flame.”

“How do we know this is true?” came a frightened voice from the crowd. All heads turned to see who had spoken. It was a high-caste youth from the Sa’abah Clan. He was a little younger than Kevla and looked both defiant and frightened.

“Raka,” Melaan began.

“No! How do we know this isn’t all a lie? How do we know that she isn’t a kuli, casting some sort of spell on us to dream the dreams she wants?”

“You see before you the Great Dragon,” Kevla answered calmly. “Do you doubt the evidence of your own eyes?”

The boy lifted his chin defiantly, but Tahmu could see that he trembled.

“No one can subdue the Great Dragon. Maybe this is a spell, too. Maybe this isn’t the Great Dragon at all, but an illusion that—”

The Dragon’s serpentine head whipped around and he snorted, smoke erupting from his nostrils. Faster than Tahmu would have thought possible for so huge a creature, the Dragon moved toward the boy. It reached out a clawed foreleg, closed it around the terrified Raka, and lifted him high off the ground as it sat on its haunches. Raka was too frightened even to resist, and stared slack-jawed into the Great Dragon’s golden eyes.

“Do I look like an illusion, boy?”

Raka started crying. The Dragon rolled his eyes. He gently put the boy back down on the sand and gave him an absentminded pat. Raka’s legs gave way and he sat down hard on the sand. He was completely unharmed; the Dragon had obviously intended only to intimidate. Which, Tahmu mused as he looked at the faces around him, it had done very effectively.

“I can prove to you that what I say is true,” said Kevla quickly, hastening to the Dragon and laying a tempering hand on his foreleg. “Tonight, the khashim of each clan will select someone he trusts. We will fly over the mountain and I will show you the army that is coming.”

The Dragon turned to look at Kevla. He seemed displeased. “None but the Flame Dancer has ever sat upon my back,” he said in a warning voice.

“Dragon,” she said pleadingly, “you know as well as I what awaits these people. We cannot waste precious time convincing them that what we say is true. Please. As a favor to me.”

If Tahmu had not seen it, he would not have believed it. The Great Dragon’s harsh expression, for it had expressions as versatile as any human’s, softened with affection.

“I can deny you nothing, Flame Dancer,” he said. Turning back to the crowd, the Dragon bellowed, “Those of you who will sit upon my back tonight are honored beyond any men before. Burn this voyage into your memory, for your children’s children will tell the tale of this night and the battle that awaits.”

While they waited for nightfall, Kevla permitted herself to be amused by the homage the people paid their Great Dragon. Once they had gotten over the initial shock of seeing a creature out of legend in the flesh, many felt compelled to prostrate themselves at his feet. With a glint of laughter in his golden eyes, he respectfully listened to them, absolved them of any wrongdoings, real or imagined, and told them to listen to Kevla, for she was in charge now. They came with offerings of beautiful carvings and pots, water, and food, all of which the Dragon graciously refused.

“Your people need this more than I,” he said. “Your sacrifice is noted, but take it back now that I have witnessed it. Feed your people.”

When the last supplicant had reluctantly gathered his food and returned to his clan, the Dragon looked at Kevla ruefully.

“Is it hard, being a god?” she said with mock sympathy.

He sighed, blowing a gust of fiery breath over her. “You have no idea.”

She also approached and welcomed her Lorekeepers. Some of them still seemed reticent, others eagerly went to her, even embraced her. She found she gravitated to Melaan. This was the man Jashemi had trusted, and as Second of a powerful clan, he had no small amount of influence. At one point, their eyes met and he nodded. Even without words, she knew what he was communicating: he would be there for her, at her right hand, no matter what came.

At last, Kevla judged that it was sufficiently dark. She was pleased that the moon was well on the wane. The last thing she wanted was to alert the Emperor or his armies that the foolish, scattered clans of Arukan knew about their approach—and had a dragon at their disposal.

She created several pillars of free-standing flame to illuminate the clearing in which the Dragon sat. She did so with an extra flamboyance, so that those gathered could see her powers.

Oh, Jashemi. Once, we were so afraid of our abilities; we hid them, we lied about them. Now, look at what I am doing. Look at how proud these people are to be Lorekeepers. I wish I could share this sweet moment with you.

Kevla stepped forward and surveyed the crowd. “The time has come,” she said. “Who among you is brave enough to ride the Dragon?”

One person strode forward boldly. “I will ride the Dragon, with the Flame Dancer,” said Tahmu-kha-Rakyn.

She gave him a grateful smile. Now others too came forward, until there were over a dozen. Still more came.

The Dragon arched an eyebrow. “My, you people have a lot of clans, don’t you?”

“Dragon, can you bear so many?” Kevla asked solicitously.

He looked indignant. “I am not a mere sa’abah. I am the Great Dragon, a creature of magic. I will bear what I need to bear, as, my dear, will you. Well, let’s be about it then.”

With a grunt, he lowered himself to the earth, crouching on his haunches with his forelegs extended straight out in front of him. Even so, it was no easy feat for the men to clamber aboard his back. Kevla waited until they had all mounted, watching with satisfaction as fear turned into awed delight. Then she stepped astride the Dragon’s lowered neck. Her father—ai, it was still so strange to think of the powerful Tahmu-kha-Rakyn that way—sat behind her.

Turning to look at the men, she called, “You must hold tightly to one another. You have been enemies before, but now your life depends on the man in front of and behind you. Grasp the Dragon’s spine ridges as well, you won’t hurt him.”

When her father made no move to secure himself to her, she looked over her shoulder at him.

“It’s all right,” she said softly, for his ears alone. “You once put your arm around me like this to keep me from falling from Swift. Let me return the favor now.”

An odd look passed over his face, then he nodded impassively. His strong arms went around her waist, and for an instant, she became that little girl again, spinning a marvelous fantasy about being the khashim’s daughter. She wondered if he, too, was reliving that moment.

But that was long ago, and the success of her journey now would affect more lives than those of herself and her father. She faced forward. When she was convinced they were ready, she nodded to the Dragon. She felt him gather himself, trying to adjust to the extra weight of so many riders. His big sides swelled, then subsided as he drew and expelled a breath. He lowered his head, and she sensed—there was no other word for it—the Dragon willing himself to carry this strange new weight. Then, as gently and smoothly as he could, the mighty creature leaped skyward.

Kevla smothered a grin as she heard gasps and oaths behind her. Her father tightened his grip around her waist reflexively, then she felt him force himself to relax.

She permitted herself to close her eyes and enjoy the feeling of the night wind on her face. How she loved this! The moment she had first tentatively mounted the Dragon, she felt an immediate sense of familiarity. She knew exactly how to balance herself and had a complete trust in her friend. The men behind her quieted, but she knew they were still anxious.

It was so peaceful, so quiet up here, away from the noises of the earth. The only sound was the steady, powerful rhythm of the Dragon’s wings, and her own breath. Upward he went, until the campfires of the clans were nothing but tiny specks.

Now the Dragon gently turned toward the mountain range. It was strange to behold them, seemingly so tiny, when for so many centuries their fearsome, jagged peaks had effectively protected Arukan from the rest of the world. MountBari loomed over the rest as the Dragon approached the place that had been his home for so long.

Kevla craned her neck. “Look down,” she cried to the men behind her. They all did so, and Kevla smiled. Through the haze of black smoke, she could see directly into the heart of the molten pool of liquid rock. Where she had submerged only to be reborn. Where the Dragon had slept for centuries, awaiting her.

But now the Dragon’s deceptively easy wingbeats carried them smoothly over the SacredMountain, and Kevla felt her heart speed up as for the first time she, indeed any Arukani, beheld what lay on the other side of the mountain chain.

At first, this far side looked much like its twin in Arukan. Then, she caught sight of something in the distance.

They might not have believed words, she thought with a combination of exhilaration and apprehension, but surely they will believe this.

They would likely have no clear sight of the armies tonight, no soldiers or tents or engines of war. It was too dark for that; too dark, as well, for the Emperor’s forces to see a mighty Dragon wheeling above them in the sky.

But the men perched atop that Dragon could see the army’s fires.

Tiny little sparks they were, and at first, the eye could not be certain as to their identity. Gradually, the Dragon dove closer, and the small orange sparks became campfires.

There were hundreds on the other side of the mountain, several in each encampment.

The army of the Emperor from over the mountain had thousands.

Again, Kevla heard gasps and murmurings. The Dragon went lower still, sailing silently above a vast army that was almost invisible save for their campfires. Now they could glimpse movement, see the faint outlines of tents.

When at last the men behind her fell silent, Kevla patted the Dragon’s neck. Obediently the great beast wheeled smoothly and returned the way he had come.

No one spoke on that journey back to the encampments. Tahmu kept his arms around his daughter, and at one point she could have sworn he pulled her closer to him. She did not think it was because he feared for his own safety.

Finally, the Dragon headed for the clearing, easily recognizable because of the circle of fires Kevla had left burning, and settled down gently. The men were in no hurry to dismount. Slowly, they did so, not speaking. Kevla remained atop the Dragon, waiting for their decision. Would they join her and fight for their own lives? Or would they scatter, seeing in their isolation an ability to escape from so terrible a foe?

Her mouth was dry and she was aware that she trembled. If they fled, there was no hope.

“Well?” she said finally. “You have seen the campfires with your own eyes. You know what is coming. The army will be here very soon. Will you stand and fight together, or will you scatter like frightened liahs?”

The first to step forward was Tahmu. “The Clan of Four Waters will fight with the Great Dragon and the Flame Dancer,” he cried.

“As will the Star Clan!”

“And the Sa’abah Clan!”

“The Horseriders will prepare for war!”

“As will the Sandcattle Clan!”

One after another, the cries went up and the pledges were made. Not a single clan chose to abandon the others. Kevla felt her heart fill to almost bursting. They believed her. They trusted her.

Jashemi, this is your moment. This is your dream. I wish you could see them.

“We will have a council of war,” announced Tahmu. He turned to his daughter. “Kevla Flame Dancer—will you join us?”

Kevla’s eyes widened. This would be a council unlike any ever seen in Arukan before. All of the khashims, their Seconds, and their most trusted advisors would be present.

A female had never been permitted to participate.

Slowly, she nodded. “Of course,” she said, and slipped off the Dragon. Tahmu extended a hand to help her down. They stood face-to-face for a long minute, each searching the other’s eyes.

In Tahmu’s face, Kevla saw Jashemi. The two men, father and son, had been so alike, she now realized. They had shared the dream that was coming true at this moment, and she would be a part of that.

She squeezed her father’s hand, and went to the council of war.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

K ayle’s attendant Parneth stuck his head inside the captain’s tent, grinning fiercely. “Captain? The scouts have returned.”

“Excellent,” said Kayle. “A moment more and I will meet with them.” He took another bite of bread and honey. If Kayle had anything resembling a weakness, it was his fondness for sweet things. The golden liquid dripped off the bread onto his fingers and he sucked it off. He had gone ahead of the army with seven of his most trusted scouts, to find the best path through the mountains and, perhaps, to see if there were any unsuspecting Arukani clans within easy attack distance. Even though the army had many men, they could always use a few more.

“Captain.” Parneth hesitated. “I think you had best meet with them now. They come with an extra prize for the Emperor.”

Kayle sighed and rose, still licking his fingers. Parneth knew his master well, and would not push so if it were not important. However, when he stepped outside into the moonlight and saw the “extra prize,” Kayle thought he might enjoy seeing Parneth beaten.

He whirled on the younger man. “You interrupt my meal for a camp follower?” Other men might rush eagerly into the arms of such a lovely woman, but Kayle cared little for the pleasures offered by either sex. His passion was slaughter, and he preferred to save his energies for that.

Admittedly, they’d found a good one. Not a maiden, but a woman, still in the prime of her beauty. She looked tired and hungry, but bore herself erectly.

“She is not what you think, my lord,” said one of his scouts, exchanging grins with his companions. “We will let her speak for herself.”

The woman stepped forward, and for an instant Kayle felt a strong urge to kneel in front of her, so commanding was her presence. The desire passed quickly.

“I have come to you with news for your Emperor, which he will wish to hear. You will take me to him.”

“No, lady, I will not. You will speak your news to me, or I will cut out your tongue and you will speak it to no one.”

She looked at him, a half smile on her lips. “Do you know, I believe you.”

“You should,” said Kayle. He had been in deadly earnest. “I have many things that demand my attention, lady. Speak quickly.”

“I know you recognize what I once was,” she said. “I hear it in your voice. You know nobility when you see it, whatever tattered rags it comes dressed in. I was once the khashima of a great House in Arukan—the greatest House. Now, I am nothing but a camp follower. How I fell to this is not important. What is important is that you believe that my desire to have revenge upon my husband and his people is real.”

Kayle’s single eye searched her, taking her in, from her long hair to her elegant features to her body. The clothing she wore had indeed been fine once, but was now filthy and stank of sweat. While she was thin, she did not have the aged, emaciated look of one who had lived a step away from starvation all her life. This was a woman who had once lived in luxury.

“Go on.”

“You have been preying on the clans one by one,” she said, “but they have seen your numbers and know what you have planned. In turn, they have abandoned their differences and will greet your army united.”

Kayle scowled and looked to his scouts for confirmation.

“It is true, sir,” said the head scout. “We were shocked when we cleared the range and saw so many campfires. Somehow, they know. I saw hundreds.”

“We have thousands,” retorted Kayle, but still he felt a quiver of doubt. It was one thing to descend upon small groups and conquer them one by one. To face all the Arukani clans together would necessitate different tactics. The Emperor needed to know as soon as possible.

But apparently, the woman was not yet done. “I have followed my former Clan to this meeting place. I have watched what has transpired there. I have listened in the shadows and I know their numbers, their plans, their weapons, and I know of an enemy that would make even your Emperor quail where he stands.”

“Then tell me, lady. My meal is not getting any warmer.”

“In exchange for safe passage in your country,” she replied. “Food, water, clothing, money. I will not return to the land of my shame.”

He had thought to kill her; it was just easier that way. But the honey had sweetened more than his tongue tonight, and he was in a good mood. While the news she bore was not good, her coming was welcomed in that the Emperor would have time to change his approach. Kayle decided that if what she had to say pleased him, he would give her what she wanted. If not, he’d carry out his original plan.

Kayle turned to his scouts and again raised an eyebrow in question. “We have been able to verify some of what she told us, sir,” their leader replied. “And the information is valuable indeed.”

“Very well,” he said. “Come into my tent and eat and drink your fill. And then, traitor, tell me all you know, and how best I can use this information to slaughter your people.”

For a moment, he thought he saw hesitation flicker across her lovely features. Then her face hardened and her eyes looked bright with an emotion he recognized as pure hatred.

“Do you have eusho?” she asked.

The council had gone well. Not only was Kevla present, but she had insisted that all the Lorekeepers—men and women—and the Great Dragon be in attendance as well. Some of the khashims looked as if they would have seizures when she spoke her conditions, but they gave in.

First, Melaan spoke briefly as to the history of the situation. Two others who had managed to elude the Emperor on a previous occasion told of what they saw. Each clan leader told how many men, weapons and provisions he had brought to contribute to the cause.

Preparations for war began in earnest. While many, such as the Clan of Four Waters, had listened to Kevla’s plea and arrived ready for battle, others had simply come to hear what she had to say. Now, these clans sent out dozens of hawks, calling for reinforcements. Some would arrive in time, others would not.

Each night, Kevla and the Dragon soared over MountBari to spy on the approaching troops. The army was massive, and because of its size it moved slowly. Also, the mountain chain was not forgiving, and it was difficult to move so many men, beasts and pieces of equipment up its forbidding slopes.

On the third night, Kevla and the Dragon were returning to the clan encampments when the Dragon said, “Kevla. Look down. Do you see them?”

“What am I looking for?” asked Kevla. There was an odd note in the Dragon’s voice and she did not think he was trying to draw her attention to a herd of liahs.

“Men,” the Dragon said simply.

She looked harder and then she saw them: eight or so, clad in the strange metal clothing of the Emperor’s army. They had only two horses and moved with purpose. At first, Kevla thought they were coming to attack the clans, but then she realized that they were moving up the mountain, not down it.

“They’re a scouting party,” she said. “They’ve seen us.”

The Dragon craned his neck to look at her, his golden eyes glowing in the darkness. “Until now, the Emperor has assumed that the clans could be picked off one by one,” he said. “If these scouts report what they have seen—”

“They’ll know we’re waiting for them,” she finished.

“They can’t be allowed to report back.”

“I know, but….”

“I understand this is difficult for you,” said the Dragon, “but you have done this before.”

Suddenly Kevla had had her fill of these reminders of lives past. Of people she had been, who Jashemi had been, who had lived and died and still lived and—

“No, I haven’t!” she cried. “I, Kevla Bai-sha, have killed no one! I haven’t even deliberately hurt anyone! I don’t want to kill these people, Dragon. I just want—”

“I know what you want,” the Dragon said harshly, “who you want. But you can’t have him, Kevla. Jashemi is dead. Your old life is dead. And your new life and the lives of almost everyone else down there are going to be lost if you don’t accept the responsibility that comes with being who you are! You’re the leader, Flame Dancer, and you’ve got to be bigger now than Kevla has ever been. The boy died so you could become the Flame Dancer. Don’t let his death be in vain!”

Kevla was as startled as if he had splashed cold water on her face. She was terribly hurt, and very angry. How dare he speak to her like this!

“A few more moments, Flame Dancer,” said the Dragon in a soft, angry voice, “and you will lose the chance. They will be far enough up the mountain so that the enemy will see our fire.”

Kevla’s lower lip quivered. “I can’t murder them.”

“Then they will reach the Emperor, and he will learn the truth about the force that faces him, and more of your people will die.”

Kevla swallowed hard. “What do I do? How do I fight them?”

“Like this,” said the Dragon, and dove.

Kayle had been more than pleased at what the Arukani woman had told him. She had a good eye for what mattered; she said she had been married to a clan leader and was familiar with such things. His luck. He was so delighted with the information that he kept his word and sent her walking off with food and gold. Privately, he thought she would die in the mountains before she reached the other side, but he didn’t care.

He wished he’d thought to bring a hawk, so the news would reach his Emperor even more swiftly. As it was, it would take most of the night for the men to rejoin the main army.

Parneth’s high-pitched shriek was the first warning he had of death from the sky.

Kayle whirled, sword at the ready, to behold a sight that froze him in place. The female traitor had warned him of this, but he had only half believed her. In the sky flew an enormous beast, its huge wings bringing it closer more rapidly than he had thought possible for something so big. He put a name to it, that of a creature out of legend: Dragon. A heartbeat later the monster opened its mouth and a sheet of flame spewed forth.

The blast of heat knocked Kayle off his feet. He could smell burning flesh and realized that some of his men had not escaped the blast. He dove for cover, frantically trying to wedge his large, muscular body in among the rocks.

The dragon’s mouth closed and it turned, wheeling around for a second dive. Thinking he had a few moments before the next attack, Kayle got to his feet and scrambled for a more protected area.

But more fire came. How was that possible? The dragon was facing away, it couldn’t—

Glanced up wildly, Kayle now saw that the dragon had an ally. This, then, was the Flame Dancer the woman had warned him about. The traitor had not been exaggerating. How could the Emperor stand against this? Even as Kayle watched, motionless with fear and knowing he needed to find shelter, the figure lifted its arms. Fire came from its hands—her hands—and rushed toward him in an orange-red ball.

In the instant before his death, Kayle did not think of his Emperor, or the warning he needed to bring him, or anything else remotely related to war or death.

He thought about the look on his adopted mother’s face as she left him with the captain of the guards, and realized that she had loved him.

Atop the Great Dragon out of legend, the Flame Dancer continued to hurl fireballs at the scouts of the Emperor from over the mountain. She kept up the attack until the Dragon banked sharply to the right and rose even higher.

“It’s done now,” he said gently. “They’re all dead.”

They’re all dead.

“You did what you had to do to protect your people.”

She realized that she had been holding every muscle in her body taut as a bow string. Suddenly she shivered and leaned down on the Dragon’s neck, wrapping both arms and legs about it. Kevla began to shudder and sob, hearing and feeling the Dragon utter soothing words.

They’re all dead.

Father says you get used to it.

Slowly, she sat up and dried her tears. This was but a taste of what would come later. She had to be strong. She couldn’t let herself feel the enormity of what she had just done.

“Take me back, Dragon,” she said.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

T he advisor pulled aside the tent flap cautiously. “Your Excellency,” he said, “you do not sleep?”

The Emperor scowled at the brazier that still glowed brightly and kept the chill of the desert night at bay. That was one thing they had not counted on: how very cold it got here at night. The contrasts were startling, to say the least. The ki-lyn, too, was wide-awake, huddled and shivering, but from cold or fear, the advisor could not say. He did not care to speculate.

“Do I look as though I am asleep?” the Emperor snapped. He glanced up, and the advisor was startled at the hollows underneath the Emperor’s eyes. “One of them is there. I know it.”

Fear flooded the advisor. “Surely, not, Your Excellency. You are weary. Perhaps your…intuition is playing tricks on you.”

The Emperor shook his head. “It’s faint. It shouldn’t be. I should know which one it is, who it is. I ought to be able to sense—”

He slammed his fist down on the small table next to him and his cup of wine went flying. The ki-lyn started and tried to avoid the object. It pulled away it but was caught up short, gasping as the collar around its neck halted its movement and the ever-present chain that connected it to the Emperor pulled taut. The ceramic cup struck its head. Red wine splashed and trickled down its long neck, looking for all the world like blood. The creature folded its delicate, graceful legs beneath it again and simply sat, shivering.

“It’s stopping me, somehow,” said the Emperor, glaring at the ki-lyn. “It hates me. It wants me to fail.” The creature shrank back from the loathing in that gaze.

“Why must you keep it?” asked the advisor. “If you just had it killed—”

The look the Emperor gave him made his legs quiver. “If you suggest that again,” the Emperor said with deceptive calm, “I’ll cut off your head myself and stick it on a pike.”

“Yes, Your Excellency,” stammered the advisor.

The Emperor sighed and rubbed his eyes. “I imagine you had a reason for coming here?”

“Yes, of course. We have had several desertions.”

“That’s to be expected, this close to their homes.”

“It’s not helping morale, Your Excellency. Should I make an example of the ones who remain?”

“Did they try to desert?”

The advisor was flustered. “Well, no, but they are Arukani and—”

“And we need every one of them right now. We don’t know what’s going to greet us on the other side of the mountains.”

The advisor swallowed hard. “Speaking of that, Your Excellency….the scouts have not yet returned.”

The Emperor stared at him. “No, of course they haven’t,” he said softly. “He’s gotten to them. That’s how I knew he was here—he attacked.” Harshly, he jerked the golden chain and the ki-lyn made a strangled sound. “Why won’t you let me see him?”

The advisor eyed the creature with distaste. “Your powers will grow with time, Your Excellency. Surely, even that creature will not be able to hold you back much longer.”

“That is true,” said the Emperor thoughtfully. “Go to bed. We will march in the morning. I still have the advantage of numbers, even if my magic is stifled. We will hurt the Arukani badly and take their country. If one of them is there, I will deal with him when I see him, this pathetic thing be damned.”

Kevla kept her face as calm as possible when she told the khashims about the attack on the scouts. They were alarmed that the enemy had gotten this far, but praised her and the Dragon for their quick thinking in destroying the threat.

“There is more,” she said, trying not to curl protectively in on herself. On the way back, something had brushed her thoughts that still made her quail. Something that was angry, and dark, and powerful.

“I do not think we are dealing with an ordinary army. I sense…I sense that there is magic here as well. Abilities that haven’t shown themselves yet.”

“We cannot fight magic,” protested young Raka.

Kevla turned to him. “Yes, we can,” she insisted. “There are many toiling up the sides of these mountains now who eat, sleep, sweat, and bleed just like you do.” Just like the scouts did. “If you deal them a lethal blow, they will most certainly die.”

The words came easily out of her mouth, but inwardly she grieved their utterance. It was so strange, to be talking so comfortably about killing. Only a few weeks ago, she was merely a servant in a great house, her only concern when she would next see Jashemi. Now, she rode the Great Dragon of story and song as comfortably as she had ridden a sa’abah, and had used her fire skills to take lives. The love and light of her life was dead by the same magic that now needed to be turned against the advancing army, and all the leaders of all the clans were looking to her to save them.

Her power was great. Startling, wondrous, amazing, and she knew she had not begun to probe its limits. But she would have traded it all for one more conversation with Jashemi, alone in the cavern at the House of Four Waters, ignorant of the blood bond between them and feeling only a deep and profound connection.

She blinked and came out of her reverie as one of the khashims was speaking and, blushing, had to ask him to repeat his question.

“When will they arrive?”

She and the Dragon had discussed this. “Judging by the progress they have made so far, we have until the day after tomorrow.”

“Then we must make haste,” said Tahmu, “to get everything in place. We must be ready for them.”

That night, Kevla curled up close to the Dragon, and away from the prying eyes of the clansmen of Arukan grieved for all that she had lost.

The day of the battle dawned clear and bright, one of the loveliest mornings Kevla had ever seen. She had been awake for some time, addressing each of the separate forces in turn, sending them off to fight with inspirational words that she wasn’t sure she believed. Her exchange with her father, who was leading one group, had been stiff and formal. She was not sure that was how she wanted it, but any conversation with him would be highly emotional, and instinctively she knew she needed to guard against that right now. She needed to keep everything tightly in check, or else, like MountBari, she would erupt.

Melaan accompanied her as she walked to where the Dragon waited. At one point, he said, “It was supposed to be Jashemi, wasn’t it?”

Color rushed to her cheeks. “What do you mean?”

“Over these last few days, I have become the closest Lorekeeper to you. I’m the one you turn to when you need information, when you need to have word spread among the Lorekeepers. You have trusted me, and you honor me beyond words with that trust. But it wasn’t supposed to be me. It was supposed to be Jashemi.”

“Yes. It was.”

“Kevla—how did he die?”

She didn’t want to answer, but she looked at him with such a stricken expression that she felt sure he guessed at some of the truth. His face softened and he reached to squeeze her arm. “Be careful, Flame Dancer. Any of us is expendable. Even Jashemi was. But you aren’t.”

His words were obviously meant to comfort, but they had the opposite effect. Kevla didn’t want any of this. She didn’t want to be the leader of a force of armed men more than three thousand strong. She didn’t want to be perched atop a dragon, knowing that she had almost unimaginable power at her fingertips, getting ready to use that magic to kill.

But she had to be here. She had to do what she didn’t want to do, so that her people would survive. This strange Emperor had little mercy, and she harbored no illusions that he would accept anything other than complete victory.

She was shaking and her stomach roiled as she mounted the Dragon. Her mouth was dry as the sand, and no amount of liquid from a waterskin eased it.

The Dragon crouched, then leaped into the sky. The earth fell away from them. Kevla looked down, watching as the tents grew smaller, and the warriors looked like small white dots on the sand. As they went higher, Kevla was able to see all four of the separate fronts the gathered clans had formed standing ready to meet the enemy. The Dragon’s wings beat the air steadily and they flew even higher. The faint sunlight touched the white stuff on the top of the mountains, turning it a delicate shade of rose-gold. Kevla laughed aloud at the thought of such a pretty color heralding a morning that would end with blood spilled on the sands. She clapped her hand to her mouth, stifling the hysteria.

It was at that moment that the first wave of soldiers crested the mountain ridge.

The Dragon said nothing; he must have felt her subtly tighten her legs as she sat astride him. For a long moment, Kevla looked at the men as she and the khashims had discussed. She was trying to guess their numbers, but the sheer mass of them was so great it overwhelmed her senses. It was like a flood, a river, a—

“At least five thousand in this first wave,” came the Dragon’s calm, deep voice, cutting through her shock. “They are the vanguard, making preparations for the second, third and fourth waves.”

Twenty thousand men to the Arukani’s three thousand, then. Kevla took a deep breath and tried not to give in to despair and panic.

As she and the khashims had discussed in their strategy sessions, the Emperor’s army was using the only pass between the mountains. It curved around the peak of Mount Bari, creating a flat saddle for a few leagues, and then wound down through the jutting, raw-looking areas of the mountain and into the softer, swelling foothills.

The first line of Arukan’s defense was waiting along that pass. Kevla could not see them now, but she knew they were there. They had taken position well before dawn, and would stay in hiding until the moment was right to attack. The enemy was approaching slowly, about ten abreast through the narrow passage. The ones in front had long, sharp spears. The ones who followed managed horses which pulled wagons covered with blankets to conceal their cargo. Other machines of war came into sight now, cresting the mountain and moving along the flat part of the pass. Many of them she could not put names to. One looked like a giant bow, lying flat across the wagon instead of being held properly upright, the arrows which were lashed to it twice the length of ordinary ones. For an instant, Kevla let herself wonder how such a thing could be aimed and released.

Suddenly the Arukani archers leaped from hiding. Arrows rained upon the approaching army so thickly that for a moment Kevla’s vision was obscured. The strange metal the men wore protected them from some of the arrows, but not all; many fell, as did their unprotected horses, amid shrieks and screams of pain.

“First line, fire!” cried Melaan. Two dozen archers leaped up from where they had been hiding. Their clothing had been carefully chosen to blend in with the natural hues of the stone, and Melaan felt hope rekindle in him as every one of the Arukani archers took down an enemy. He stood behind a large boulder, which protected him and allowed him to see in almost every direction.

“Drop! Second line, fire!” The first line fell back into hiding, to refit arrows to their string, and the second line erupted. More of the Emperor’s men fell.

“Drop! Third line, fire!”

But this time, as the third line of defense leaped up, the Emperor’s men were ready for them. Some fired their own arrows almost as quickly as the Arukani. Others headed to where they knew the archers lay in concealment. Leaping over the stony ground, they jumped headlong into the Arukani hiding places. An arrow was no match for a sword at close range, and Melaan heard the grunts and screams as his men began to die.

He had expected this. It was why he had volunteered to lead this front, insisting that his khashim fight elsewhere. Melaan had no wife or family, unlike Terku. The men who had agreed to hold this first line of defense had done so in the full knowledge that they would be the first to die.

“Drop! Fourth line, fi—”

He never saw the arrow, nor heard it sing as it flew with deadly accuracy. Suddenly, he found himself facedown on the stone, unable to move. Breathing was agony and his legs felt cold.

From where he had fallen, he could see boots running toward him. They stopped in front of him and then he heard a sound he knew; the sound of a sword slicing through the air.

Be careful, Kevla.

Kevla watched in horror as the balance shifted abruptly and the Emperor’s men began firing on the Arukani. Some ducked back to safety; others clutched their chests and toppled from Kevla’s sight among the boulders.

The attack continued, and while the advance was slowed, it was not stopped. Fewer arrows came from the Arukani side; fewer men rose to fire them.

Kevla swallowed hard and tried not to count up the dead. The rest of the clans’ warriors waited in plain sight, at the base of the mountain, armed and silent. Their numbers were a handful compared to what was spilling over the mountainside. Her people were waiting to be slaughtered.

Suddenly, a fierce protectiveness welled inside Kevla. It snuffed out her panic, her fear, her sense of inadequacy, as easily as she might snuff out a candle. She felt as if there was something deep inside her, growing larger, pushing her to extend and open. She was bigger than Kevla Bai-sha. She was bigger than any of the other lives she had ever lived. Her people needed her to be there for them, to fight for them, to embrace every bit of what it meant to be the Flame Dancer, both the light and the dark. She didn’t have the luxury of being small anymore, of being afraid of her powers, of being unwilling to use everything she could to defend and protect. And with that surrender, she felt power and knowledge flow into her.

She had been clutching the Dragon’s spine ridge so tightly that her hands ached, but now she released her grip. She did not need to worry about balance. She was the Dragon, and it was her. There was no risk of falling.

Kevla lifted her hands, feeling the movement as sensuous and graceful, and for the first time understood on a primal level why the guardians of the worlds were called Dancers.

It is like a dance, she marveled. I know each step, but I don’t know that I know it—

Suddenly her mind was filled with images of Jashemi holding her, kissing her, making love to her. That fire that had burned in her, roused by his touch, smoldered inside her still. She could call on it, control it. Use it to protect her people.

Her eyes flew open. Her vision took on a clarity it had never had before. Her skin sensed the wind caressing it with vibrant intensity. Everything was heightened, sensitive—ready to accept Fire.

Attuned to her as he was, the Dragon sensed her readiness and swooped down toward the SacredMountain. Kevla stared at it, at the smoke that drifted upward. In her mind’s eye, she saw again the pool of red-orange liquid. She reached out toward it with her mind and her hands as if to embrace it.

“Not yet,” cautioned the Dragon. Kevla blinked as if emerging from a trance and saw the wisdom in his words. The army had only begun to come down the mountain. She looked over her shoulder at the tiny figures of the clans of Arukan.

“Dragon, they’re dying down there!”

“I know,” he said, gently. “But you must wait.”

Kevla kept the simmering energy bottled inside her. Wait. Wait.

The sun rose higher and more soldiers flooded down the mountainside. Tahmu, atop Swift-Over-Sand, tensed, but did not charge.

“Hold your ground!” he cried. His men, many from his own Clan but a greater number from the Star Clan and the Horserider Clan, shifted uneasily. He shared their feelings. He had sent his best archers up to the pass, and had watched them kill and be killed with pain and resignation. This was the first place where the Arukani army—strange, to think of it that way—had tried to dam the flood of warriors. They had slowed it, but not stopped it.

Now, it was Tahmu’s turn to try to hold them before they reached the open plains. His heart pounded in his chest and every sense was alert as he watched them come, some on foot, some on horses. Wait. Wait. Let them come to us, waste their energy in running.

“Now!” he cried, and kicked Swift. The warhorse charged, snorting. A hundred other mounted warriors did likewise. Scimitars glinted in the bright morning light as Tahmu’s men surged forward, greeting the enemy with naked steel and the resolve that can only come from defending one’s homeland.

Tahmu grunted as he swung his scimitar. The men were armed and armed well, and some of the men he led had already fallen beneath their blades, but they were not invincible. Their metal was vulnerable at the joints of neck and shoulder, and once he had spotted the weakness he did not hesitate to exploit it.

Suddenly, Swift screamed and collapsed beneath him. Tahmu barely leaped clear in time. Landing on his feet, he whirled to look at his mount. Swift had been eviscerated by a single long stroke. The blow had missed Tahmu’s leg by a hair’s breadth. Now the mighty beast churned up sand with its frantic kicking, his entrails spilling forth in a glistening red pool.

Pain sliced through Tahmu’s heart. He had ridden Swift for over two decades. Even as he mourned his fallen friend, his heightened senses alerted him to danger and he whirled, bringing up the scimitar just in time to block a sword stroke.

For the briefest span of time, he thought about allowing the enemy to take him. He would make a good end that way, dying in battle. The way he died would be more honorable, more respected, than the way he had lived. It would be sweet, to put down the burden of guilt he bore for all the wrong choices, the lives lost.

But no. That was a coward’s way out. Whatever his flaws, Tahmu knew he was a strong and cunning warrior, and Kevla needed every one of her warriors now if she was to succeed. Her success, the protection of their people, was more important to Tahmu than any false peace he could achieve by bowing his neck to the enemy’s blade.

He parried his foe’s next stroke, calmly eyed the gap in the enemy’s armor, and with powerful arms that were strong and sure he struck.

It was then that the sheets of flame erupted.

Kevla watched as the Arukani battled the flank that charged forward, but her attention was caught by the second flank. They busied themselves digging ditches and pouring barrels of fluid into the channels. One of them touched a torch to the shiny pools and leaped back.

Fire sped along the pool and Kevla realized what they were doing. The warriors in the first wave were a sacrifice, a distraction. Now the army had made what they perceived to be a successful defense against the gathered Arukani—a wall of flame with a heavily guarded break.

They’re protecting themselves from attack until the rest of them get here, Kevla thought. She felt her lips twist in a harsh smile.

“Take me closer,” she called to the Dragon.

“Kevla, I don’t—”

“Take me closer!” she cried, anger flooding her. The Dragon obeyed, tucking his wings and diving down at a staggering speed. Kevla extended her arms out to her sides, her movements fluid and in control. She fastened her eyes on the leaping flames, concentrating on them.

As if they were living things, the sheets of flame dove for their tenders. Men staggered and fell, uselessly beating their bodies in an attempt to douse the fire. Others, seeing what was happening, turned to behold the Great Dragon swooping down. He opened his mouth and breathed a long sheet of flame, further adding to the conflagration.

Kevla heard a strange noise. It was a sharp pinging sound. It took her a moment to realize what it was as an arrow whizzed past her ear. The sound was that of arrows striking the Dragon’s heavily scaled frame.

Suddenly, she felt giddy, indestructible. The fire blazed through her and she had never felt more alive in her life. She began singling out men, taking aim and reaching out to them, the fire forming at her fingertips to rush in a glowing orange ball toward their chests.

Abruptly the Dragon began climbing upward again. The pinging diminished.

“Why did you—” Kevla began, but the Dragon interrupted her.

“Look at the pass,” he cried. She did as he asked. Many more had come over in the time she had spent battling the front line. It was at least double, perhaps triple the numbers. She could see that the Arukani line of defense was falling back; could see fallen bodies in rhias being trampled upon in the melee.

Now.

Rage boiled inside her, and she turned again to face MountBari, to summon in her mind’s eye the image of the boiling pits of liquid fire.

Come forth!

She heard the rumbling even from this distance, and knew that those with their feet on the earth could feel it. Perspiration dewed her forehead and she began to breathe raggedly. It was harder to control than she had expected, but she called it, and it came.

Lava erupted from the depths of the earth with a terrible roar. Bright orange flowed down the mountainside.

“Take me down,” she called to the Dragon. “I need to be closer!”

He obliged. She could see the individual rocks in the tide of liquid fire now, darker spots being swept along in the glowing yellow-orange flow. With a flick of her fingers, she summoned more lava. It spilled over another side of MountBari, this flow streaming over the pass. Anyone who had not yet crossed into Arukani lands now was completely cut off. A good quarter of the army would now never make it down the mountain.

The first stream twisted and snaked downward. It chased the men, who screamed and ran before it, into the waiting arms of the Arukani clans. Those who were not swift enough were engulfed in its lethal wave. Men, horses, wagons, casks of oil that exploded on contact, weapons—all fell beneath the merciless lava flow.

She heard the cries of the armies as they met in battle, heard the clash of steel on steel, but suddenly her attention was directed to a handful of men. Some of them clustered around the enormous bow and were pointing up at the dragon. Straining, they tilted the weapon skyward and fitted an arrow. One of them leaned forward, using his weight to pull back the string and—

Numbed with horror, it seemed forever until Kevla regained the use of her tongue.

“Dragon, watch—”

She felt the impact of the enormous arrow as it plunged into the Dragon’s body. He let out a dreadful cry and bucked. Kevla clung to his neck, and looking down she could see the awful thing impaled in his left side, between his mighty forepaw and his wing. It had gone deep, and for a long, terrible moment, the Dragon’s wings stopped beating.

He bellowed in pain and began to stroke the air once again, desperately trying to keep them both aloft and alive, turning away from the dreadful bow.

Fear for her friend erased everything else. She hugged him, leaning on his neck to cry to him, “Get down, get down! You’re hurt!”

Kevla heard a stinging sound and felt a hard blow to her back that almost knocked her off the Dragon. Searing pain ripped through her and she couldn’t breathe. Something wet was tricking down her right breast. She looked down and for a moment didn’t see the blood, the same color as her flame-created clothing. There was a lump where there shouldn’t be and—

A wave of dizziness and white-hot agony swept over her as she reached with her left hand and her questing fingers found the sharp metal tip of an arrow protruding through her shoulder.

“Kevla!” roared the Dragon. “Fight it, Kevla….”

But she couldn’t. The world began to turn gray. Kevla swayed forward and tumbled from the Dragon’s back.

Chapter Thirty

T ahmu had watched in awe along with everyone else as Kevla turned the army’s own fire against them and caused MountBari to erupt.

The sight had rejuvenated the forces he commanded. They now shrieked their battle cries and fell upon their foes with fresh passion. The Emperor’s men, by contrast, seemed stunned by the unexpected and shocking turn of events. Some dropped their weapons. Others surrendered eagerly, and Tahmu realized that several of the men they were fighting were actually Arukani.

One boy fell to his feet in front of Tahmu and begged, “Please, lord, they forced us to fight, spare me, spare me!”

“Get up!” cried Tahmu. “Drop your weapons. Keep your hands in front of you so no one will think you armed and head for the tents!”

Others, overhearing, imitated the boy, dropping their weapons and rushing gratefully to safety. Tahmu wondered if this was a battle or a rescue mission.

There came a brief lull in the battle and as Tahmu wiped sweat and blood from his face, his gaze traveled skyward. He saw the Dragon wheeling, saw Kevla as a tiny shape atop it.

Tahmu frowned. Something was wrong.

The Dragon was flying erratically, and as Tahmu watched in horror, a small shape toppled forward from the safety of the Dragon’s broad back.

“Kevla!” he cried in impotent horror as his daughter hurtled toward the earth. There was nothing he could do for her, nothing to stop her downward plummet.

The Dragon dove, extending his enormous forepaws and catching the falling woman just in time. Relief washed over Tahmu.

She was safe. His daughter was safe.

“My lord!” The voice was Dumah’s. Recovering himself, Tahmu whirled just in time to parry a stroke and begin a counterattack.

Kevla awoke from dreams of pain to the reality of agony. She was lying on her side, and as she tried to draw breath the pain increased a thousandfold.

“Gently,” came a familiar voice. “Don’t move. Asha is working on your injury now.”

Kevla blinked, trying to keep still. “My lord?”

Tahmu was there, kneeling in front of her, tenderly holding one of her hands in his. “Don’t speak, Kevla.”

But she had to. “The Dragon…he’s hurt, too….”

“Do not fear for me, I am all right.” Despite the reassuring words, the Dragon’s voice was laced with pain. He moved so she could see him. “They were able to remove the arrow. I will heal.”

Tears trickled down her face. “I’m glad,” she whispered, then arched in torment as behind her, someone touched her back.

“Careful, Asha!” cried Tahmu.

“My lord, I am sorry, but—may I speak with you?”

Tahmu squeezed Kevla’s hand and then rose. He and his healer walked off a few steps and conversed in whispers. Kevla locked eyes with the Dragon.

“Make them tell me,” she whispered. “I need to know.”

He nodded his understanding, lifted his head and bellowed, “Tell her what is wrong, Asha!”

The healer knelt in front of her, looking more sorrowful and frightened than she had ever seen him.

“It’s bad, Kevla,” he said. “An arrow entered your back at an angle. The shaft runs all through your body. The tip comes out in your shoulder. I fear that I will be unable to remove it without causing fatal damage.”

Kevla blinked, not comprehending. To have come this far, to have endured so much, and now one arrow would take her life? Doom the whole world?

She started to shake her head, then hissed as the movement exacerbated the pain. She licked her lips and spoke.

“No. There has to be a way.”

“Truly, there is not. Nothing has been pierced yet, but the arrow’s shaft….” Aware that he was repeating himself, Asha fell silent. Tahmu shoved him aside and again gripped his daughter’s hand, his gaze roaming over her face.

“Dragon,” Kevla whispered, looking into her father’s eyes. “Dragon, you know more about me than I know about myself. Is there nothing that can be done?”

“Yes, there is. But it will be difficult.”

Hope swelled inside her, dimming the pain ever so slightly. Tahmu looked up at the Dragon.

“Save her.”

“She must save herself.”

“How is she to do that?” Tahmu demanded. “She lies near death, an arrow running the length of her body!”

Kevla closed her eyes, drifting. The Dragon continued to speak, but she barely heard him.

“The arrow is made of wood. You are the Flame Dancer. You must burn it, Kevla. Burn it to ashes inside of you. Burn it away to nothing. You know how to do this.”

Because I did it to Jashemi. Tears leaked past her closed lids.

“Fire destroys,” said the Dragon, as if she had spoken aloud, “but it also cleanses and purifies. Burn the arrow shaft, and cauterize your wounds.”

It sounded so easy and so difficult at the same time. She was holding on to consciousness by a thread, only faintly aware of the pressure of her father’s hand on hers.

“Kevla, you must do as the Dragon says,” Tahmu said softly. “I have forsaken Keishla and lost Jashemi. Don’t let the Emperor take my daughter, too.”

Slowly, she opened her eyes. She had never seen him look like this; not when she told him about Jashemi, not when he had taken his blood-marked daughter to give to the Dragon. On his strong, handsome face were mingled hope and fear and…love?

Quickly, before she lost her courage, she squeezed her eyes shut and visualized the arrow that had pierced her body. It sprang to her mind’s eye immediately. She could see its harsh wooden shaft embedded in her flesh. She understood now the reason for Asha’s concern; it would indeed have been impossible to remove.

But not to immolate.

Kevla, my love, you are fire!

She gasped and arched her body as the heat began to burn from deep inside her. It spread rapidly through her body, and she felt her father drop her hand; no doubt it was too hot for him to continue to hold. She willed her body to consume the wooden arrow shaft, and she screamed aloud as the internal heat increased. She felt the shaft catch fire and burn to ashes in the space of one heartbeat to the next.

More. She needed to do more.

The ashes inside her continued to be consumed. Burned away until they had completely dissolved. Now she turned her attention to the entry wound in her lower back, willing her body to concentrate the heat there. She heard gasps and low talking as her father, Asha and the Dragon, and whoever else had clustered around to witness, saw what they could only call a miracle. One final, excruciatingly hot burst, and then it was over.

She had been sweating profusely, but her skin was dry. It was so hot that her sweat had evaporated instantly. Kevla gasped in short, harsh breaths, willing the fire to fade, to leave, to return to wherever it dwelt deep inside of her until she called it again. Slowly, the nearly unbearable heat subsided.

Kevla opened her eyes. “Asha,” she whispered, her hands fluttering to her shoulder. “You can cut out the arrow head now.”

She closed her eyes and knew no more.

The man resembled those who had attacked her people, but Kevla knew he was not one of them. Tall, with yellow hair, he waited for her on a hill covered with white. She walked toward him, and the strange whiteness melted at her footsteps.

His face had laugh lines around the bright blue eyes, but now those eyes were hardened with pain and anger. This was a man who understood suffering, and who also understood the desire for vengeance.

And sitting at his feet, blue stripes running along its body, was a creature that resembled a simmar.

Jashemi’s dream, she thought; I am dreaming Jashemi’s dream. Floating toward her as she slowly swam toward the waking world came a voice she knew and loved. Jashemi’s.

“You must hurry, Flame Dancer. Hurry, or you will be too late.”

When she awoke, it was to find the Dragon gazing down at her. “You’d sleep through an avalanche, wouldn’t you?”

She grinned up at him. The grin faded as memories flooded back: the memory of fireballs leaving her hands to destroy an enemy, the memory of a flow of molten stone that obeyed her commands to engulf hundreds, perhaps thousands, in its flood.

The memory of turning an arrow shaft to ashes inside her own body.

He helped her sit up. “How are you feeling?”

“Better,” she said. Her garment had been cut away so that Asha could tend to her injured shoulder. It was bandaged securely. She winced. “It hurts.”

“I imagine it would,” said the Dragon. “You melted the arrowhead itself. When Asha removed it, it was but a molten lump of metal.” He eyed her. “You can heal the wound, too, if you choose to do so.”

She shrank from invoking that power again so soon. It was still so strange and frightening to her. But her dream had been laced with urgency, and she would not serve her great duty if she were injured and taking time to heal.

“I don’t want to leave so soon,” she said softly.

“I know,” said the Dragon. “But the other Dancers are ready, and you have made an enemy here.”

“The Emperor,” she said, and he nodded. “I felt him. He is full of hatred. He—he wants the Dancers dead, doesn’t he?”

Slowly, the Dragon nodded. “I am not certain, but thus far, I think he is only aware of you. You need to find the other four, Kevla. Trust me, they are ready. Fire has always been the leader, the most passionate of the four Dancers. They will follow you.”

She let out a shaky laugh. “Follow me, Kevla Bai-sha. It seems absurd.”

“But you know it is not undeserved,” he said. “You know how well you fought today.”

Bile rose in her throat as she heard again the cries of the dying. She would probably never know exactly how many lives she had taken today, and she did not want to.

“I did what I had to do.”

“As the Dancers and Lorekeepers ever have,” he said gently. “Call on the power again, Kevla. Heal yourself.”

Slowly, she put her left hand to her right shoulder and, wincing, undid the bandages. The wound was clean, but deep where Asha had dug out the arrowhead. The heat came so quickly it was startling. She confined it to her hand, felt it penetrate deeply. Her skin began to crackle and smoke, then suddenly, the heat abated. The wound was seared closed. After a moment, even that redness faded, leaving her skin unscarred.

“Behold the healing power of Fire,” the Dragon said softly.

“Fire, then,” said the Emperor. “He was the Flame Dancer.”

The advisor nodded, then said hesitantly, “Our men said they saw a woman riding the Dragon, Your Excellency.”

“Man, woman, it matters not. What matters is that it was one of them. It is no wonder we were defeated so abysmally. I did not appreciate how powerful she was. We will not fail again.”

The advisor blanched. “Lord, she decimated our troops. Nearly half of them are dead, and all of the Arukani captives fled back to their Clans. The pass is blocked with stone that yet smokes. We cannot try again!”

“Not a full assault, no,” the Emperor agreed. He glanced down at the imprisoned ki-lyn. “But there are other ways to attack the Dancers. Aren’t there, my little friend, hmmm?”

The ki-lyn lowered its head and wept diamond tears.

Chapter Thirty-One

W hen she met with the khashims two days later, who were almost drunk with their victory, Kevla learned that the casualties on the Emperor’s side had been high, as high as perhaps ten or twelve thousand. Many of the dead, and some of the living from the Emperor’s army, had been Arukani who had been captured in raids and forced to fight. Their return to their families had been moving to behold, they told Kevla.

“I have no doubt,” she said. She hesitated, then told them, “The Dragon and I must leave you.”

“When?” demanded Terku.

“Tomorrow.”

“But we need you!” cried another khashim. She looked at her father and saw that his face was impassive, but his eyes sad. “We could not stand against the army without you. If the Emperor attacks again—”

“He won’t,” Kevla said with certainty. “He knows that I am here now, and I’m the one he’s after. You have learned how to work together. You stood side by side, clan by clan, to defeat a common foe. If you continue to rely on one another, there is nothing you will be unable to do.”

She smiled, sadly. “That was Jashemi’s dream, and that of at least one khashim here. You will be all right without us.” Before they could protest further, she stood. “Gather the clans. I would speak to them before I leave.”

It took a while, but at last everyone who had come to MountBari to stand against the Emperor was present. Kevla had insisted that everyone come, women and children as well as men of all castes. Standing beside her friend the Dragon, she looked out over the sea of upturned faces and was moved by what she saw.

“You have dared so much,” Kevla told them. “You have not shirked your duty, and you have paid a painful price for your continued freedom. You have accepted that there are things you did not know before, and have grown to look upon the Lorekeepers as true bearers of wisdom, not as madmen and women. You listened to me, a woman, and followed my counsel. You have learned that the Dragon is very real, and has a kinder heart than some of the laws you attribute to him would indicate.

“All of these things speak to the quality of the people you are. Arukani are passionate and proud. We will not be dominated by the will of outsiders. We will tend to our own, and when we see injuries and injustices, we will heal them. The Great Dragon helped us see the path, and now you have chosen to walk it. You don’t need us anymore.

“But there is one thing you need,” she continued. “One thing you must reconcile.”

She nodded to the Dragon. He raised his head, closed his eyes, and uttered a long, crooning call. Even though Kevla knew what to expect, the hairs on her arms lifted at the sound.

“It is time for you all to understand the beings that you have called…the kulis.”

A cry went up. Exhausted and injured as they were, they were not beyond fear. Kevla hoped they would give their eyes time to see, to comprehend, before they acted. She knew she was taking a great risk, but after all she had witnessed over the last several days, she believed her people could be trusted to do the right thing.

They came forth from their hiding places in the mountain. Some of them limped, their legs twisted or missing altogether. Some held withered arms close to their chests. Some had faces that were beautiful and whole; some had faces that were twisted and deformed. Some had eyes that stared vacantly into nothingness. They carried their smaller brethren; their clothing was nothing but scraps of cloth left behind on altars scattered throughout Arukan. They winced in the daylight, denizens of darkness that they were, but they came when their friend the Dragon called. The Dragon, who had taken care of the very first kulis, who had fed them and taught them to speak and care for one another.

The murmurings fell silent as the Arukani, after centuries, finally beheld the kulis who had so frightened them. The kulis in return stared back, their eyes round with terror. Some of them looked as though they were about to flee, to return to the safety of the mountain caves.

“Do you see?” Kevla cried. “Look not with the eyes of fear, but the eyes of understanding…of compassion!”

On the stones of the foothills of MountBari, wrapped in pathetic clothing, lean and pale and haggard looking, stood the abandoned children of Arukan.

Kevla went to one of them and took her hand. The girl, about eight years old, looked up trustingly at the Flame Dancer as their fingers entwined. Kevla stroked her hair.

“For thousands of years, we thought the Dragon wanted us to expose any child born with a withered arm, or without sight or speech, or…”

She gently touched a large red patch on the child’s sweet face.

“Or the so-called blood mark. We left them on the altars, and the older ones, the ones abandoned a generation before, and a generation before that, came to take care of them. They ate the food we left for the Dragon, made clothing from the fabric used to wrap that food. And they huddled in the darkness, afraid. As afraid of the Arukani as we were of our created demons.”

Still holding the girl’s hand, she walked to where Tahmu-kha-Rakyn stood. His eyes were wide and shone with unshed tears.

“For five thousand years,” Kevla said, her voice trembling, “the Arukani people have been afraid of their own children.”

Tahmu stared at the girl, who looked back shyly at him. Slowly, the khashim of the Clan of Four Waters knelt and opened his arms to the daughter he had left lying on the Clan’s altar eight years ago.

The girl hesitated, looking up at Kevla.

“Go on, my sister,” said Kevla. She looked at Tahmu and smiled. “It’s all right. He will take good care of you.”

The girl moved forward into her father’s embrace, wrapping her arms around him as he folded her close and buried his face in her small, slim neck.

Kevla put her hand to her mouth, fearful of sobbing out loud with joy. She turned to see what the others were doing, and despite her efforts, the tears slipped freely down her face.

One by one, the men and women of Arukan were stepping forward hesitantly, trying to seek out their own lost children, looking first for the distinguishing mark or deformity and then holding on to the whole child. She watched as some continued to search in vain, and pity welled up inside her. For these parents, reconciliation had come too late. Not all the kulis survived.

Some of the children hung back, clinging to the older ones and to the Dragon, but Kevla knew in her heart that with time, there would be no more kulis. No mother had willingly surrendered the infant suckling at her breast; no father had wanted to place a baby at the foot of a mountain to die. This was a second chance, for all of them.

She did not know how long she stood, watching the reunions and feeling deeply content. A touch on her arm roused her from her reverie, and she turned to see Sahlik.

With a cry of delight, Kevla flung her arms around the old woman. “Sahlik…I am so happy to see you!”

“And I you, child. And I you.”

They drew apart and regarded one another with moist eyes. A cough behind them caused them to look up. Tahmu stood there, holding his daughter’s hand.

“There is much I would say to you both,” he said. “Sahlik…I should have listened to you. You spoke wisdom, and I was too caught up in my own pride to hear it. Much has happened since you took your fifth score.”

“I know, my lord,” Sahlik said, softening. “I have heard what happened to the khashimu…and the khashima.”

Tahmu reached to stroke his daughter’s hair as he continued. “Jashemi and Kevla benefited greatly from your presence in their lives. I…I would that this little one know you, too. Would you consider returning to the House of Four Waters?”

Sahlik’s answer was quick and heartfelt. “Of course, my lord.” She smiled slightly. “I have missed the caverns.” She looked from Kevla to Tahmu and pursed her lips shrewdly. “Let me take—do you have a name, child?”

The girl shook her head shyly.

“I will name her Meli,” Tahmu said, “if she likes it.” Kevla’s throat closed up. The word meant “gift.” “Does that please you?” he asked the girl.

“Yes,” Meli said in a whisper. She spoke with a strange accent; while the Dragon had taught the kulis to speak Arukani, all of them had their own way of uttering the words that made them unique.

“Come then, Meli,” said Sahlik, “and I will tell you all about life at the House of Four Waters.”

Kevla watched them go, smiling. Her father touched her arm. “Walk with me,” he said.

Kevla knew she needed to go, but she couldn’t tear herself away just yet. She walked and talked with her father for a long time. He told her stories of Jashemi she had never heard, some moving, some amusing, and when he had finished Kevla felt more connected to the man who had been her brother.

He spoke also of her mother, and Kevla listened hungrily as he described a woman of passion, beauty, and intelligence. He explained his reasons for marrying Yeshi in Keishla’s stead, and even as he spoke them she realized he thought them foolish.

Hesitantly Kevla asked, “Where is she? Yeshi?”

“I banished her,” Tahmu said. “I couldn’t bring myself to order her death. And now, I am glad I didn’t. That is one less thing to blame myself for.” He frowned. “Though there are so many others.”

Kevla chewed on her lip, weighing her words. “Have you seen my mother since the day you took me with you to the House?”

Sorrow settled over his fine features. “No,” he said. “I thought it best not to. I tried to be a good husband to Yeshi.”

She slipped an arm through his as they sat next to each other and laid her head on his shoulder. As they regarded the stars just beginning to appear in the sky, she said, “The world has changed, Father. You have changed with it. Would you want to see Keishla again?”

He closed his eyes. “Yes, I would.”

“Then find her.”

He looked at her with unspeakable sadness. “It’s too late for that,” he said heavily. “Far too late. Too late for so many things.”

His eyes fell upon Meli. Sahlik was teaching her how to play Shamizan. Kevla’s own heart ached at the sight.

You like the game, then?

Oh, yes, very much.

I am so glad. I hoped you would.

Her mind returned to the present as Tahmu continued. “I did not have the courage to claim you before, though now I do so with a pride you cannot imagine. I hid you in my house, and I let Yeshi dictate your future. I let you be abused and beaten. When you used your powers to save my life, I ordained your death. I have no excuse but that I thought I was obeying the laws of my people.”

“Great lord, there is no need—”

But Tahmu continued. “A caste system that elevates some and condemns more, that exiles its own children, that walks with hushed step and head bowed in shame does not serve Arukan. It serves Arukan’s enemies. I have seen the future in the eyes of my three children. One of them, I will never see again, and the pain of that—”

His flowing speech came to an abrupt halt as he bit his lip. In a rough voice, he continued.

“The pain of that can only be equaled by the joy I take in having my two daughters returned to me. If you will, if I have not made you ashamed to own me as your father, Kevla Bai-sha will henceforth be known as Kevla-sha-Tahmu, the beautiful daughter of a very proud father.”

Kevla was shocked. Mixed emotions flooded her. Evading the question, she replied, “I cannot stay. I want to. I want to get to know you, to know my little sister. But I have to leave. Arukan may have been able to stand against the Emperor, but the world is still in jeopardy. I must leave and find the other Dancers.”

He sighed, and she knew he had understood her unspoken refusal. “I feared you would say that.” He continued watching Meli play with Sahlik. “There’s my chance for redemption, Kevla. Sweet and innocent and perfect. I sacrificed her to the Great Dragon, and beyond all hope, he has given her back to me. I used to believe that the Dragon had cursed me, but now I know it was only my own folly.” His voice trembled slightly. “I no longer believe in curses, but by all that is good in this world, I believe in blessings.”

Kevla was deeply moved. She regarded her father steadily, taking in the strong features that so reminded her of Jashemi.

She squeezed his arm and he turned to look at her. “Tahmu-kha-Rakyn,” she said evenly, “I will take your name.”

Slowly, his lips curved in a smile. “It was Jashemi’s name,” he said.

“May his name forever be spoken,” Kevla said, as she leaned over and kissed her father’s cheek.

The dawn was crisp and bright, a good omen. The clans were preparing for departure, breaking down the encampments. She had assisted them in a solemn duty before she had slept that night; lighting the funeral pyres for the honored dead. There had not been as many as she had feared, but enough so that the task was heartbreaking.

She was walking toward the Dragon, carrying a small bundle of provisions Sahlik had packed for her, when a woman approached her and said, “Kevla-sha-Tahmu?”

The name still sounded so strange, but also very sweet. Kevla turned to see who had addressed her and saw tears in the woman’s eyes.

“My name is Shali-sha-Terku.” Kevla hoped her face did not register the sudden shock she felt. This was Jashemi’s wife, the one he said he did not love, who deserved better.

She found her voice. “I know your name,” Kevla said. “You are…you are my brother’s widow.”

Shali nodded and placed one hand on her belly. She seemed to be a naturally thin woman, yet her stomach was starting to grow round—

“Can you tell me how he died?”

Guilt weighed Kevla down. To confess to this woman that she had lain with her husband, Kevla’s own kin, would heal nothing and harm much. And though she had once burned with jealousy for Shali, now that she saw the woman and her pain, the only feeling Kevla had for her sister-in-law was compassion. Yet she could not lie. Gently, Kevla took Shali’s hand in her own.

“Jashemi was my Lorekeeper, though neither of us knew it for too long,” she said. “He helped me to discover who I truly am. In so doing, I lost control of my powers and…I killed him.”

It still hurt her so badly she had difficulty breathing. Shali’s hands tightened painfully on hers, squeezing so hard that Kevla wondered if the bones would break.

“You…?”

Kevla nodded. She kept her eyes glued to Shali’s. “I have known no greater pain in this life than having to live with this. I didn’t want to live with it. But I have to, because Arukan needed me. Other people elsewhere need me, need the Dancers, or else we are all doomed.”

“I should hate you,” Shali whispered. “You killed my husband, the father of my baby. But I don’t. I see your suffering. To have bought your power at such a cost—I do not envy you, Kevla-sha-Tahmu, no matter that you ride the Great Dragon.”

Kevla smiled sadly. “Then you are wise indeed, Shali-sha-Terku. The basest beggar on the streets is happier than I.”

“Did…did Jashemi speak of me?”

“He did,” Kevla said. “He said you deserved better than him.”

Shali laughed, though she was starting to cry. “Then Jashemi-kha-Tahmu was a liar. I could have had no better man for my husband in this world.”

Shali began to weep in earnest. Her heart breaking for the girl, for both of them, Kevla took her in her arms and hugged her gently. Shali was smaller than she, and Kevla felt the wetness of tears on her shoulder.

“Be easy, sister,” Kevla said. “I will tell you this and you may know that it is true: His body is gone, but his soul is free. He would want you to be happy, to raise your child in love and peace.”

Your child. Any chance that Kevla had conceived during their single union had been shattered that same night. The fire that had claimed Jashemi had surely also destroyed any seed he might have planted in her womb. If there were to be any heritage from Jashemi, it would come from this woman.

“That is a comfort,” said Shali, pulling back and wiping her wet face. “To know that his soul is free.”

I’m glad you find it so, Kevla thought. If only I could take comfort in it.

“Will you return? To see your niece or nephew?”

“I hope to, but I cannot tell,” Kevla said. She bent and kissed Shali on the forehead. “Stay well, my sister. Blessings on the child you carry.”

Slowly Kevla walked to where the Dragon waited for her. He looked at her with compassionate eyes and lowered himself to facilitate her climbing atop his back.

Kevla looked around and despite her pain smiled at what she saw. Everywhere, the former kulis had found parents or siblings or even strangers to welcome them. Women mixed freely with the men. On the hard-packed, yellow earth were colorful veils some of the women had discarded. Others kept their veils.

Good, Kevla thought. A woman should be the one who gets to choose to reveal her face or not. At least there is no Great Dragon dictating to her.

Time would tell if this would last. Old habits were hard to break, and it might take a while before some of the older clansmen learned to accept former demons as children, wives as true partners, and the lower-born among them as equals.

But it was a good start.

“Are you ready, my dear?” said the Dragon, craning his neck to look at her with infinite affection.

She nodded. “I am ready,” she said.

Her people cheered her as she rose into the sky, waving goodbye. Kevla saw her father holding Meli’s hand in his own large, strong one. He placed his other hand on his heart as their eyes met. And she saw Sahlik, and Shali, rubbing the round belly that was filled with Jashemi’s son or daughter.

They would be all right without her. Life would go on here. It was up to her and the other Dancers she was setting out to find to ensure that life went on everywhere in this and other worlds.

She lifted her gaze from the rapidly dwindling images of her people and fixed her eyes on the horizon, her heart lifting with every beat of the Dragon’s powerful wings.

--2 In Stone’s Clasp (09-2005)

By Christie Golden

Synopsis

Flame Dancer Kevla of Arukan seeks the missing elements -- Stone and Sea, Wind and Soul -- that must join to preserve their world from destruction. Sensing that the Stone Dancer, the master of Earth magic, would be found in the icy north, she and her dragon companion fly to a country mired in an unnaturally long winter. When at last they find Jareth, the Stone Dancer's own anger and pain make him reluctant to accept his destiny. His need for vengeance against the old gods who betrayed his people is powerful -- powerful enough to lead the group farther into the snows, searching for the legendary Ice Maiden, who may be responsible for the forced winter. But betrayal doesn't come only from the gods -- and the forces against them are vast. Before their quest is over, Kevla must realize that while Flame can break through the chill of the winter, Stone can withstand anything . . .

First edition September 2005

IN STONE’S CLASP

ISBN 1-55254-360-9

Copyright © 2005 by Christie Golden

This one’s for the men—

May it serve to honor the Fisher Kings and wounded heroes who have survived their own seemingly endless winters and emerged, whole, into spring.

Cast of Characters

In Arukan

Jashemi-kha-Tahmu: Tahmu’s son, Kevla’s half-brother and the Flame Dancer’s Lorekeeper, deceased

Kevla-sha-Tahmu, formerly Kevla Bai-Sha: the Flame Dancer

Dragon, the: Kevla’s Companion animal

Meli-sha-Tahmu: Kevla’s half sister

Sahlik: head servant of the Clan of the Four Waters, five-score

Tahmu-kha-Rakyn: Kevla’s father, khashim of the Clan of the Four Waters

Yeshi Bai-Sha, formerly Yeshi-sha-Rusan: wife of Thamu, mother of Jashemi and Meli

In Lamal

Hanru: Taaskali guide

Ice Maiden, the: legendary coldhearted woman

Ivo: headman of SkalkaValley

Lukkari, Altan: Lamali bard, twin brother to stillborn Ilta

Lukkari, Ilta: stillborn twin to Altan

Lukkari, Ritva: Altan’s mother

Lukkari, Veli: Altan’s father

Ovaak, Larr: Jareth’s boyhood friend

Paiva: wise-woman/healer

Ranin: friend to Olar Tulari

Relaanan, Kivi: wife to Orvo, mother to Taya and Vikka

Relaanan, Orvo: headman of TwoLakes, father to Taya and Vikka

Relaanan, Vikka: youngest daughter of Orvo and Kivi

Tulari, Gelsan: head woman of Arrun Woods

Tulari, Mylikki: daughter of Gelsan

Tulari, Olar: son of Gelsan

Vasalen, Annu: Jareth’s daughter

Vasalen, Jareth: the Stone Dancer

Vasalen, Parvan: Jareth’s son

Vasalen, Taya: Jareth’s wife

Other Players

Advisors to the Emperor

Emperor, the: enemy of the Dancers, very powerful

Ki-lyn, the: magical creature imprisoned by the Emperor

Prologue

“We have failed,” the Stone Dancer whispered.

She and her Lorekeeper, her soul, her beloved in this life and others, stood hand in hand on the shore and watched the Shadow come.

“We didn’t even have a chance to fight!” Her voice was raw with pain and disbelief. She turned large brown eyes to him, as if he could somehow change what was about to unfold. “We didn’t even….”

Her gaze drifted back to the obliteration that was slowly, inexorably approaching. The Lorekeeper folded her into his arms, equally unable to tear his gaze away from the pulsing gray Shadow as it closed in upon them, this island, this world.

Although she was the one with the ability to harness the power of the earth, of stone and soil and growing things, he had been her guide, her protector, her comforter. He had been blessed with the knowledge of all that had gone before. Older than she by more than a few years, he had known her from birth. He had been the one to train her. Since he remembered what she was capable of in past existences, he comprehended the scope of her powers better than she herself did. And during the years of training, he had fallen in love despite himself with this steady, tender, graceful girl who would one day help save their world.

He tasted bitterness in his throat. Save their world. No, not save it. Watch helplessly, unable to do anything, as nothingness marched steadily onward, prepared to engulf and erase them as if they had never been. How futile now seemed the discussions they had had, late at night by the fire. They had worried about how she would leave the island, where they would go, how they would find the other Dancers. What a waste of finite time those conversations had been. He wanted those lost hours back. He would spend them making love to this girl, telling her how precious she was to him.

They both knew what had happened. Somewhere, far away from this tranquil, white sand beach, this calm place of sea and sun, a Dancer had died.

The Lorekeeper found himself wondering with a macabre sense of curiosity which one it had been. Sea? Wind? Soul? Flame? How he—or she—had died. How old that ill-fated Dancer had been.

In the sheltering circle of the Lorekeeper’s arms, the Stone Dancer shivered, though the sun was yet warm on their bronze skins.

“It’s so unfair!” she cried, and despite himself, the Lorekeeper smiled at her outburst. She had barely known eighteen summers, and while she was possessed of an ancient power, sometimes she seemed to him very young indeed. “I never met the others…we never stood together, as we were born to do….”

She began to sob, and he held her even tighter, feeling tears sting his own eyes as he pressed her head to his breast.

“Things aren’t always fair,” he whispered, realizing how inane the words sounded even as he uttered them. “There will be another chance.”

She nodded and pulled away a little, wiping at her wet face. “Yes,” she stammered. “So you have said. One final chance.” She looked up at him and the love that washed though him almost tore him apart. He would do anything to spare her further pain; anything.

“We will be together again,” she whispered.

He reached and pulled her to him, kissing her urgently. He had loved her in all their incarnations; sometimes chastely, as a friend or parent; sometimes passionately, as he did now. He would love her again, whatever shape or age or form they would take. He would always love her. In the face of uncertainty and approaching destruction, he knew that, at least, would never change.

She returned his kiss and for a long moment, they clung to one another. The Lorekeeper hoped that this was how the Shadow would take them—locked in an embrace, heedless of the obliteration about to descend.

But the Dancer turned again to look out over the sea. The Shadow was beginning to hide the sun, and the ocean was no longer tranquil and blue, but gray, as if a storm was approaching. Gray and still. Whatever it was that created the ceaseless motion of the waves, the Shadow had taken it.

They faced the ocean together, she pressed into him, he clasping her about the waist.

“What will it feel like?”

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “I cannot remember. The Lorekeepers recall much, but not that; not even what form the Shadow has taken each time.”

“Will it hurt?” she said. “To be…erased…or will we feel nothing?”

He, who knew her better than any living person, realized she was terrified. And he could say nothing to reassure her. This woman he adored more than life itself was about to die, perhaps painfully, certainly in the grasp of fear.

He could not permit that.

He pressed a kiss on her shoulder. “It won’t hurt,” he said, knowing he spoke the truth, at least for her. “You won’t feel a thing.” For the last time in this life, he whispered with infinite tenderness, “I love you.”

And then he placed his powerful hands on either side of her face and snapped her neck.

The Lorekeeper held the Dancer as she fell, taking her down to the sand with him. Cradling her limp body tenderly, he closed the slightly slanted brown eyes, placed her head against his shoulder, and waited for the Shadow to descend.

Part I: Spring-Bringer

1

“Are you sure it was this tree?” Jareth Vasalen called to his friend.

“Yes, I’m positive,” Larr Ovaak called up.

Jareth sighed, blowing a stray strand of yellow hair out of blue eyes. Thirteen-year-old muscles quivering with the effort, he kept climbing.

Larr had spotted the blessing cloth—or, at least, what had certainly looked like a blessing cloth; no one had ever actually seen such a thing—dancing in the wind. It had led the two boys a merry chase, away from chores and family and other mundane things, and now Larr was convinced that it had gotten lodged in the topmost branches of this ancient oak tree.

“Think about it, Jareth!” Larr had exclaimed. “I’ll let you share it, since we both saw it. Everyone’ll be jealous!”

But of course, it was Larr who would keep the cloth, and Jareth who was expected to make the tricky climb on branches bare and slick with ice. Jareth didn’t really mind; he loved this old oak. Often he would sit for hours, cradled in its large branches, looking out over the farmland and watching it turn from green to gold to brown and finally, as now, swathed in winter’s cold blanket of white. He sometimes felt as if this ancient forest was more his home than the house he shared with his elderly parents, both of whom seemed exasperated by his frequent need to climb to the topmost limbs and look out over the world.

But though he had climbed the tree more times than he could count, Jareth had never ventured quite this high before. Up here, the branches were thinner, and seemed reluctant to bear his weight. Once he slipped, and his breath caught in his throat as he grabbed on to another limb. After a moment he regained his footing and continued to climb. If the prize was what they thought it was, it would be well worth it.

The people of Lamal believed the blessing cloths were woven by the mysterious, seldom-glimpsed people called the taaskali. Dark of skin, hair and eye—or so the songs said—the taaskali had unusual skills, even perhaps magic, and were believed to have a special connection to the gods who lived on top of the mountains. The taaskali were nomads, their entire reason for being to follow and protect the herds of the equally mysterious and seldom-glimpsed animals called selvas, whose milk bestowed health and long life.

The songs weren’t exactly clear on what the selvas looked like. Jareth imagined them as white deer with golden horns and hooves. Cloaks woven from their thick white wool were believed to turn arrows. All taaskali clothing was made from selva wool, including, and especially, the blessing cloths. Jareth remembered the huskaa of TwoLakes telling the tale beside the fire when he visited not so long ago.

“And each season,” he had said to his rapt audience, “the selva settle in their grazing fields. That’s when taaskali take that season’s magic and weave it into the cloths. They sing and play as the fabric is woven, infusing it with their hopes, and dreams, and blessings for the selva, themselves, and indeed all the people of Lamal. Then they release them, and the blessings fly all over the land.”

Jareth was more than half-certain that the cloth tangled in the tree was no more magical than the fabric that comprised his own clothing, but he was almost there now, and he was not about to descend without it.

“Can you see it?”

Jareth turned his head carefully, making sure he had a good grip on the branches. “No, I don’t think—wait.”

It looked just like any other scrap of cloth, but then his hand closed on it and he gasped. Slim, strong fingers, rough from working in the fields and forest since childhood, had never before touched something this soft. It was…he couldn’t think of any words to describe it.

Gently he untangled it with one hand. It came loose easily, and now he saw that it was more than simply white—it seemed to have the soft glow of the moon about it. Slowly, his heart racing, Jareth brought it to his face and inhaled its scent deeply.

Summer. This one had been woven in summer. He smelled the fragrance of soft breezes, flowers, good clean earth, all manner of fresh and growing things. It was unbelievable—this overwhelming scent of summer in the middle of winter.

They were real. The blessing cloths were real. That meant that the selva were real, and the taaskali, and—

“Did you find it?”

Jareth started from his reverie. He stared at the cloth. He couldn’t possibly bring this down and give it to Larr, who would shove it in his pouch along with his knife, interesting bits of bone and dried meats and whatever else his friend felt like carrying. He couldn’t have this brought out and showed around, an object to elevate himself and Larr in the eyes of their friends. This cloth was more important than that. It had a task—to bring blessings everywhere across Lamal. It was never made to be crumpled into a boy’s pouch like a skipping stone.

Jareth made his decision. He shifted his grip slightly for better purchase. When a breeze stirred his long blond hair, Jareth threw the piece of cloth as far up as he could. The zephyr gladly took it, and Jareth could have sworn he heard the cloth…singing. He watched as it danced away and vanished from sight.

“I’m coming down,” he called to his friend, not answering the question. Jareth was not looking forward to the inevitable confrontation but was secure in the knowledge that he had made the right decision. The thought of that beautiful blessing cloth crumpled and dirty made him feel slightly sick.

He had made it to the last branch and was about to jump down to the ground when he heard a loud crack. The limb broke beneath him and Jareth landed hard.

Larr helped him to his feet, laughing as Jareth gasped for air like a fish out of water. “You’ll be all right,” Larr chuckled, slapping his friend on the back. “But so much for all your bragging about climbing trees. So, where is it?”

Jareth got to his feet, wincing a little. “I let it go.”

“What?”

“That’s what you’re supposed to do,” Jareth said firmly.

“You didn’t even show it to me?”

Jareth hesitated, then said, “You said you wanted to keep it. I took you at your word. And it…Larr, it just wasn’t meant for keeping. I can’t explain it any better than that. I had to let it go.”

While Larr fumed silently, Jareth turned to look at the betraying limb. It was a bit taller than he, slightly thinner than his arm. A thought occurred to him as he picked it up.

“I could make a staff out of this,” he told Larr.

Larr frowned. “I want a staff too,” he said. Jareth looked at him searchingly. Larr had already begun to forget about the blessing cloth and all that it meant. Now he wanted a staff. Jareth smiled.

“Then let’s go find you one,” he said.

When Jareth finally returned home, the shadows were lengthening. He winced as he remembered all the chores he was supposed to do. Opening the door of his parents’ small house, he stepped inside. His father, recovering from the second illness he’d had this winter, lay on a pallet beside the fire. Jareth knelt beside him.

“I’m sorry,” he said, reaching to hold his father’s hand. “I was playing with Larr, and the day ran away from us. I’ll work twice as hard tomorrow, I promise.”

His father looked up at him with red-rimmed eyes and squeezed Jareth’s hand. “It’s all right, son,” he said, and then began to cough. Jareth cast a worried glance at the smoky fire. He couldn’t help but think the smoke was aggravating his father’s condition, but there was nothing anyone could do. Fire was life here in the winter, and the smoke would have to find its way out as best it could.

His mother called. He hurried to where she was preparing the evening meal of fish and root vegetables.

“With your father so ill, we rely on you more than ever, Jareth,” she said quietly.

“I know,” he said. “I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”

She turned from cutting the vegetables to regard him with pale blue eyes. He noticed for the first time that her once-golden hair was now almost silver.

“Winter is hard,” she said. “We can’t have you running off when there’s so much to be done. You were supposed to bring more wood. Now we barely have enough to get through the night, and your father needs the warmth.”

“I’ll do it right now.” He turned, determined to do something, anything, to remove the disappointed look on his mother’s face.

“Jareth, is something the matter?”

He froze. Had he—

“No. Nothing’s wrong. Light’s fading, I’d best get out there.” He almost ran out of the house before his mother could ask any more questions.

Jareth brought piles of wood from the village’s small central hut, carrying more in a single load than he had ever before. He was warm even as a light snow began to fall, but he threw himself into the task. Maybe if he exhausted himself, he would not have the dreams tonight.

The taaskal was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Tall, voluptuous, lithe, the scrap of fabric that served her for clothing revealed more than it concealed. Her skin was brown as bark, her hair black as the night sky, and her eyes warm and rich as loam. Were they all this beautiful? They must be, these weavers of the blessing cloths. If so, he wondered why more Lamali did not bring home taaskali wives and husbands. She smiled at him and turned away, walking slowly across the snow, seemingly unaffected by the cold.

Before his eyes, she shifted her shape and became a god. Even more lithe than she was in her human form, the great blue tiger strode boldly across the snow. Jareth felt tears sting his eyes as he saw the snow melt beneath each padded footfall. And when the god-tiger raised her paw, Jareth could see that just as the legends said, flowers bloomed.

“Spring-Bringer!”

The voices were loud and happy as the people of his village emerged from their houses and began to follow the god as she brought the welcome season. Jareth fell in with them, laughing and dancing as they all followed the great blue tiger. He heard other voices, too, and knew that they issued from no human throat. The thought ought to have frightened him, but it only comforted him. Soft hands slipped into his, easing him to the muddy, snowy earth that felt warm and welcoming. He was suddenly unclothed. Breasts trailed across his chest, lips closed on his mouth, hands caressed him between his legs and he surrendered to the pleasure.

Hands were on his face now, strong hands belonging to someone who was standing behind him. Jareth didn’t know who it was, but he felt safe even as great sorrow washed over him. He stared out over a vast expanse of water, felt the hands move on his jaw, and there was an explosion of light—

Jareth bolted upright, his sleeping cloths wet with sweat, his groin covered in sticky fluid. His throat was raw and he knew he had been screaming, and when hands closed around his arms he struggled.

“Jareth, wake up!” His mother’s voice penetrated the haze of fear and confusion and his heart began to slow.

His mother held him, much as she had when he was a child, but her arms no longer went around a body that was growing stronger and larger with each day. Still, Jareth surrendered to the embrace and slowly calm descended on him.

“Tomorrow,” his mother murmured in his ear, “you will go see Paiva.”

After completing his chores, Jareth trudged through the snow down to the lake and the stonesteaming hut. The hut was the heart of every village, and SkalkaValley was no different. It looked like a small version of traditional houses, made of wood with a bark and sod roof. But every hole and crack was tightly sealed—there were no windows—and once inside, it was understood that one was in a different space.

Here babies were born, and the dead prepared for burial. Here wheat was dried, malt was fermented, meats were smoked. Here deep ritual was conducted, and here was where the people of the valley gathered to sit and let the heat and steam penetrate to their bones for restful, healing sleep.

Jareth knew the etiquette for ritual preparation. He stepped into the little room attached to the stonesteaming hut and stripped, shivering. He reached for a scrap of cloth from the pile that sat on the bench and wrapped it around his loins. It was all he would be permitted to wear; all the wise-woman would be wearing as well. Ritual was the only time men and women stonesteamed together.

He opened the little door. Steam, smoke, and the sweet scent of burning herbs greeted him when he stepped inside, closing the door behind him.

“Jareth Vasalen.” Paiva’s voice always surprised him. It was musical and strong, better suited to a much younger woman. “Come forward. Sit on the bench with me.”

His eyes, adapting to the darkness, could make out the glowing stones, heated slowly for hours until they were the right temperature. The faint light illuminated Paiva’s slender form, upright and strong despite her years. Her unbound gray hair and slightly sagging breasts swayed as she reached and poured a ladleful of water onto the stones. More steam swirled and Jareth watched it raptly. This was the hamantu, the spirit of the stonesteaming. Jareth began to feel moisture on his skin as he obeyed the old woman’s command.

Paiva threw more herbs on the hot stones. Jareth breathed deeply of the pungent, sweet aroma. He was starting to feel both relaxed and a little dizzy.

“Your parents say you are having strange dreams,” she said. “Tell them to me.”

Jareth swallowed. Then, slowly, he began to speak. She listened attentively, then laughed.

“These do not worry me at all. It is natural and healthy for a young man your age to begin to dream of mating. And to have…appropriate physical reactions. Have no fears about these, Jareth. But I find it hard to believe your parents would be concerned about these dreams. They are not unfamiliar with such things. Is there more you wish to tell me?”

In a low voice, he spoke of the other parts of his recurring dream: of the taaskali woman, of the gods bringing spring, of the stranger sitting behind him whom he trusted but whom at the end, he always feared.

“And I dream that everything around me—even the rocks, even the grass—has a voice,” he continued, trying to put the images and sounds and sensations into something as confining as words. “Sometimes, I think the trees are trying to talk to me.”

Sweat gathered on his skin, trickled down in slow rivulets. Here in the smoky darkness, the only light provided by the glowing stones, his thoughts didn’t seem quite so foolish. “And when I walk with bare feet in summer…it’s almost as if I’m walking on something that’s—that’s alive,” he finished in a whisper.

“There is something else you haven’t told me,” Paiva said. Jareth swallowed. Did the woman see into his very thoughts?

“Yesterday—yesterday I found a blessing cloth.”

Paiva’s eyes widened. “Are you sure?”

He nodded. “There was no mistaking it. It smelled like summer, and it glowed, just like the stories said.”

“What did you do with it?”

“I let it go. Larr wanted to keep it, and so did I at first, but—when I touched it, I couldn’t. I just…couldn’t.”

Paiva reached into a pouch and threw marked bones for a while, perusing the symbols in silence. Then she took Jareth’s hand in hers and held it for a moment. Her hand was gnarled, the palm sweaty and moist. She closed her eyes and concentrated. At last, she sighed and released him.

“Whatever these dreams are,” she said, “I sense nothing evil in them, or in you. You are as sweet as the day I brought you into this world, Jareth.”

He blushed, and thought that “sweet” was hardly a compliment for a growing young man like himself.

“That you dream of the gods is a sign that you are protected by them,” she said, “and perhaps you are simply more aware of the spirits than the rest of us. The dream of the taaskali is clearly associated with the blessing cloth. As for the man standing behind you, he may represent your fear of the dreams. No one likes to be different, child, and these dreams are telling you that you are different in some way. Blessing cloths don’t come to just anyone. And it is at this point in the dream that you awaken, wanting to trust the dreams and yet afraid of them.”

She pursed her lips, considering. “Prepare something nice for the tree spirits to eat, since you seem so close to the forest, and leave it out at sunrise.”

He nodded his understanding. And for the rest of the time, they sat in silence, letting the heat penetrate them and cleanse both skin and spirit.

The next morning Jareth went out at first light to leave the offerings. He had gone to his old friend the oak, who had given him the branch that was going to be a wonderful staff. At the oak’s feet, he offered his week’s share of honey, dried fruit and milk, pouring it all so it formed a puddle. Then, unable to resist its inviting branches, he climbed the oak.

The wind shifted and Jareth gently swayed in his perch. The breeze stirred up the heady fragrance of the pine trees that were neighbors to this ancient oak, and he closed his eyes and inhaled deeply.

He was tired of winter. It seemed to him as if it had lasted forever, that he had been waking to falling snow and crusted ice in the water basin for years. He had to remind himself that while this winter was harsher than most, it, too, would eventually yield to spring.

He was glad he had gone to see Paiva yesterday. He had slept well last night, and all his dreams had been pleasant. Smiling, he settled back into the crook and let his thoughts drift. He closed his eyes.

The Change must come.

Jareth jerked awake, wondering who had spoken. The words had been very clear and had probably saved his life; it was hardly wise to drift off to sleep in a tree.

“Hello?” he called down. He peered through the oak’s skeletal branches, but saw no one.

A chill ran up his spine. Maybe it was the tree talking to him. There were spirits in the woods and waters, everyone knew that. It was just that nobody had really ever seen one. Just like no one had ever seen a blessing cloth, he thought.

He waited, his breathing shallow, rising from his reddened lips in soft little puffs. The voice did not come again, but he had heard it: The Change must come.

Like one in a dream, Jareth climbed down the tree, landing softly beside the damp spot where he had placed his offering. The liquids had soaked into the ground, and the fruit had been taken—by spirits or squirrels, he didn’t know or care.

He felt drawn as he threaded his way through the closely growing trunks to a clear space in the woods. Even here, the light was dim; it was winter still, after all. Slowly, Jareth knelt on the soft blanket of snow, his knees getting wet almost immediately. He unwound the wrappings from both his hands.

The Change must come.

He didn’t know what he was doing, or why, only that he must. Jareth leaned forward, stretched out his pale, pink hands, extended his fingers, and plunged them through the snow, past the carpet of fallen leaves and pine needles, into the cold, nearly frozen soil.

And the Change came.

2

Jareth’s hand closed around the berries. They were small and warm, kissed by the sun, and slightly dusty. They nestled in his work-roughened palm like small animals. He felt them, their life, their essence; different now from when they had been on the vine, but bearing no pain at the separation. This is what berries do, he thought. They began as small white flowers, transitioned to fruit, and fell from the mother plant to begin the cycle again. Whether it was human hands that plucked them or animal teeth, it mattered not to them.

He couldn’t resist tossing a handful into his mouth right then, bursting the skins and feeling the sweet yet tangy juice and pulp against his tongue. He took the nourishment into himself with gratitude.

Everything was different since that long-ago winter day, when the earth itself had summoned him.

Everything.

Savoring the berries, Jareth glanced at the other harvesters. Like him, they were barefoot, their feet coated in pale dust. But they didn’t feel the earth beneath their feet as he did. They grabbed handfuls of berries without a second thought, distracted only by the occasional tasty bite of the luscious fruit, not, as he was, by the marvel that the berries inherently were. The sun beat down on Jareth’s golden hair, cut now to shoulder-length as befitted a man.

Twenty summers he had known, and for nearly half of them he had been the Kevat-aanta—the Spring-Bringer. Rumors of what he could do had traveled, and he was embarrassed by the adulation he received. More huskaas had come to SkalkaValley in the last nine years than in the last fifty before, he had been told; huskaas eager to meet the nearly legendary figure and to compose their own songs about his ability.

The seasons had changed before, of course; but now, they changed when Jareth asked it of the earth, the way he asked it. He took nothing for granted anymore—not the stones and grass and soil beneath his feet, not the rustling of the leaves and the heady smell of pine, not the taste of berries in summer.

He loved this land. He belonged here. He was well aware that his ability to connect with the earth and all the wondrous living things that took sustenance from it was a precious gift to be cherished, not a right to be demanded. He’d talked about this with Paiva, who nodded her approval and said that he was quite wise for one so young. Not for the first time, Jareth had chafed at the “compliment” Paiva bestowed. He wondered if Paiva, who seemed as ancient to him as his beloved oak tree, would ever consider him an adult.

A few rows away, his boyhood friend Larr placed his basket down and straightened. Their eyes met. Larr frowned, stretched and rubbed the small of his back, then continued with his task. Jareth felt a stab of sorrow. The huskaas might sing his praises as highly as they did that of the gods, but Jareth knew he was no better a man than Larr or any other. A distance had grown between them since that day that Jareth had been unable to bridge. Jareth was the Spring-Bringer, who could touch the earth and make things grow, but the gift had come with a high price. It had forever set him apart from everyone else.

What Paiva did not know—what no one knew—was how fearful Jareth was that the gift would one day disappear as mysteriously as it had come. Each time Jareth held a handful of seeds, sensing the adult plant dormant within—all that life within one small space—he wondered if it would be the last. Each time he knelt in the snow and asked summer to slip into autumn, or winter to turn to spring, his heart raced with worry that this time, the earth would not listen. He cherished his bond with the earth, and was glad that through it he could take good care of his village, but he wondered sometimes if Larr were happier than he. Jareth’s parents had passed a few years ago, and he had no siblings or other kin. The most popular man in the village lived alone.

Jareth picked up his pace and grabbed more handfuls of the little miracles. A high voice calling his name caught his attention. It was six-year-old Altan Lukkari, dust flying from his bare feet, short legs pumping as he ran. Jareth smiled. He had assisted Paiva in bringing this bright little boy into the world. But in Jareth’s eyes, Altan would always have a shadow—the stillborn twin sister their mother had named Ilta, who would never get to run barefoot on dirt paths on a warm summer day. Ilta had died in the womb, the birth-cord meant to give life wrapped tightly around her little neck, bestowing death instead. The sight of the tiny, grayish-green corpse had horrified Jareth, and he wondered if he would ever be able to look upon Altan without thinking of the tragic Ilta.

“I thought you were supposed to be practicing your kyndela,” Jareth chided halfheartedly. The last huskaa who had come to the valley had been impressed by Altan’s sweet voice and ability to remember songs and had given the child an old kyndela. Altan had taken to it and now spent most of his time teaching himself to play. His parents had promised him that he could be apprenticed to the huskaa of TwoLakes when he was thirteen if he continued to show such dedication to the craft.

“I was, but Mama sent me to find you,” Altan gasped. “Oooh…” He squatted and reached for a handful of berries, popping them into his mouth. Juice dribbled down his face and he wiped it off with the back of his hand. “Those are good.”

“Yes, they are,” Jareth agreed, “but I doubt your mother sent you to find me so you could eat berries. What’s going on?”

“The headman from TwoLakes is here. He needs your help. His youngest daughter has gone missing.”

By early afternoon, Jareth and Orvo Relaanan, the headman, arrived in TwoLakes. It looked like everyone in the village had turned out to meet them, but two women stood in the forefront of the gathered crowd. One was Kivi, the headman’s wife. In the prime of life, she remained a handsome woman, with a full figure and only a few wrinkles around her blue eyes.

And her eldest daughter…

Jareth tried not to stare, but it was difficult. Taya Relaanan, his own age or slightly younger, was the most beautiful girl he had ever seen. She was petite, like her mother, with large eyes the color of the sky in autumn and a soft, pink mouth. It struck him that if he were to hold her, her head would barely reach his heart, and then blushed at the thought. Her breasts nicely filled out the front of her dress, but the sash about her waist accentuated her trimness. Right now, her eyes and mouth were swollen with crying. When she looked up at him, lip quivering and hope in her eyes, Jareth was lost.

He had been determined to find the little girl from the moment he had heard her worried father speak, the man’s big, rough hands clasping and unclasping. But now Jareth’s resolve was doubled. He couldn’t bear to see this lovely young woman cry anymore. He found himself longing to hear what her laughter sounded like.

Jareth jumped from the wagon seat. “Where was Vikka last seen?” he asked, trying to regain his composure.

“Right outside the house,” Taya said. Her voice was soft and husky from crying. “I was inside spinning and she was carding the wool for me. When I came out she was gone.”

“We’ve searched the areas where we know the children play,” her mother said. “No one has seen her.”

Jareth nodded absently, his mind already working. His eyes fell on the stool and the abandoned pile of wool Taya had mentioned, and he knelt on the ground. He had never tried anything like this before and he hoped it would work. If it didn’t…

Taking a deep breath, he placed his big hands on the soil, feeling the yellowing blades of grass, the small stones, the earth itself. He had touched it so before, coaxing the seasons to change. But this time was different.

“Tell me,” he whispered, his eyes closed. “Tell me about the little girl, who sat on a stool here earlier today.”

He heard voices murmuring at him, but he ignored them. He strained to listen for the voice of the earth, praying to the gods who had given him this gift that it would answer.

Earth am I, soil and sand, ever-changing and ever the same. I am the flesh that was once living beings, and the anchor to the roots of the trees and grass and all growing things. Earth am I, and I shall speak.

The child scorned the stool, and pressed herself to me as she worked, singing songs of harvest and coming snow. Passed the hours so, golden sun streaming over and warming us both. Up she leaped, with a shout of joy, and away she ran. The long-eared one surprised her and she gave a merry chase. More, I know not.

Relief and awe commingled swept through him. The earth had deigned to respond to his question.

Jareth opened his eyes. “She ran after a rabbit,” he said. He moved farther along the ground, searching with eyes and fingers for tracks. He found them, and again knelt and asked the grass for aid.

Grass am I, green in my youth, dry and yellow as the winter comes. I cover the earth and grasp it safely in my roots, holding it here instead of letting it rush away with the wind and rain and snow. Grass am I, and I shall speak.

The long-eared one was not afraid, for the child could not hope to catch one as fleet as he. Across me they came, both laughing and free. Their path took them to the forest, where the trees and the moss and the stone stand guardians over things more ancient than the season’s grass. More, I know not.

Hope surged in Jareth. Despite his initial uncertainty, every time he asked, he received an answer. Once at the forest’s edge, Jareth placed his hands on the gnarled roots of a tree and again asked for its wisdom.

Farther he went into the forest, listening to the trees and the stones and the soil tell him of the carefree flight of the little girl. Hushed and reverent, the small crowd followed him. Vikka had been gone only a few hours, but her sense of adventure was great and it took some time before he found her, curled up sleeping in a hollow area beneath an overhanging pine bough. If he had not known where to look, he would have walked right past her.

Thank you, he thought, tears of gratitude stinging his eyes. Thank you for keeping her safe.

He moved aside the sheltering bough and she blinked sleepily. She was clad in a white underdress with a red over-tunic, stained now from grass and dirt. Her eyes were large and trusting and her hair was such a pale shade of yellow it was almost white.

“Hello,” she said, smiling and unafraid.

Charmed, Jareth smiled back at her. She was the cutest little girl he’d ever seen. If I am ever a father, I want a daughter just like her.

“Looks like the warm day lulled you to sleep,” he said gently, kneeling and extending his arms. Vikka crawled into them, her smooth brow furrowing as she realized the import of what had happened from the faces of her family and village standing behind Jareth.

“Oh,” she said as he picked her up. “They will be angry with me—the rabbit was so funny I had to follow him….”

“Shh, shh, sweetheart,” soothed her father, taking the precious burden from Jareth’s arms. “We’re not angry. We were worried about you, that’s all. You’re lucky the Spring-Bringer found you or you might have slept away the night in the woods.”

Still drowsy, Vikka looked at Jareth. “Thank you, Spring-Bringer,” she said, yawned, and slipped her hands around her father’s neck.

“Yes,” said Taya, her eyes shining. “Thank you, Spring-Bringer.”

He knew that everyone thought he had magic, but he could have sworn that it was Taya who was magical. His heart sped up and his tongue cleaved to his throat. Unable to speak, he offered her what to others might seem a paltry gift.

At his feet, blooming in a patch of sunlight, was a single flower. He bent, his fingers closing on the green stem, and whispered softly, “I would give you to this lady, as a token of my feelings for her.”

Wildflower am I, petals red as blood, heart blue as sky, I follow the sun on its path from dawn to dusk. Wildflower am I, and I shall speak.

I sense what you feel for this woman, and know this, that I offer myself freely, gladly, as a token of your love.

He winced as he plucked it, hearing the stem break with a snap, feeling it die between his fingers. Almost overcome with the sensation, he turned and handed it to Taya.

“This is for you,” he said, his voice trembling. She took it between her own slender fingers and trailed it over her cheek. And at that gesture, Jareth envied the flower.

3

Jareth gazed at the autumn sky reflected in the lake, at the trees who now wore garments of gold and russet and brown instead of green. The breeze, not yet the biting wind of winter, tousled his golden hair. Autumn was a melancholy season, but still sweet and tender; the last haunting note sounded before winter, like the final chord of a kyndela’s song.

The sun ducked briefly behind one of the puffy white clouds that ambled across the sky and Jareth felt the chill. The harvests were fast approaching: grain, fruit and vegetable, and then the slaughtering of the animals for winter food storage. Jareth found he felt better if he walked among the fields, orchards and stables before the time of reaping came. There was a soft brush of sorrow and then acceptance, from the wheat or the apples or the sheep. They grasped even better than he their roles. He knew, as they knew, that next spring the wheat would sprout again, the orchards would be redolent with the scent of apple blossoms, and lambs would dot the green hills like little white clouds come to earth. But there could not be rebirth without death, and that always made Jareth sorrowful.

He walked through the wheat, his golden hair akin to their golden heads, saying his own farewell, then joined the others in bringing sickle to stalk.

Others talked animatedly, eager for the festival that would be coming in a few days. Truth be told, Jareth was no less eager than they. For the closest villages to SkalkaValley would be coming for the festival, to barter their own harvests and to participate in a lavish feast, followed by dancing and an enormous bonfire.

He had not seen nor heard from the lovely Taya Relaanan since that day several months ago when he had asked the earth and trees to find her little sister Vikka. He was taken with the girl, and had thought the interest was at least somewhat mutual, but perhaps it had been only gratitude that shone in her eyes when she accepted the flower.

The thought of the young woman, whose hair put the glory of the sun to shame and whose face haunted his dreams, made Jareth’s loins ache. He shifted position and tried to concentrate on his task. But once she had floated into his mind, Taya had taken up residence. Jareth desperately hoped he would see her at the festival.

And then what? He was no stranger to the delights of the flesh. Tall, handsome, well-formed, he would have drawn women to him like bees to honey even had he not been the Spring-Bringer. More than one village girl—and some from other villages as well—had come to him in the night, climbing quietly into his bed. They had given him great pleasure, and Jareth ensured that they, too, left satisfied. He suspected that some of them had not wanted him for himself, but had coupled with him in hopes of conceiving a child blessed with his so-called “magical” talents. To bear such a child would bring her honor. And more than one girl had desired a more formal union and had offered a gift made by her own hands as a bride price, for in Lamal, women did the asking. Jareth had accepted none of these hopeful young women. No, the Kevat-aanta did not have to go without a willing woman in his bed unless he so chose.

Surprising everyone, including himself, he often did so choose. At first, when he was younger, the coupling was exciting. But as time passed, Jareth realized he wanted a deeper connection than attraction and mutual desire. His feelings toward the women who shared his bed were like that of most people toward the forest and earth—pleasant, but nothing very deep. The earth itself had taught him what it was like to have a powerful bond, and he wanted one with a woman—one woman, to share a lifetime with.

Taya was more than just beautiful. He’d seen beauty before and while he was not unmoved by it, he wanted more. Taya carried herself as if she was proud of who she was. He suspected she would push him and challenge him if she were his wife—and she would be a mate who would be a partner and friend, not just a bedfellow.

You’ve only met her once, Jareth. You’re assuming a great deal. Anyone who chooses you will have to share your burden, and that is no small thing.

Cursing himself, he returned to his task. In thinking of Taya, he had closed down the connection between himself and the grain. Now, he deliberately opened it again, concentrating on accepting the wheat’s pain as he brought the scythe down again and again, sending the tall stalks falling gently to the brown soil.

When Taya and her family disembarked from the wagon and her eyes fell on Jareth, he felt himself blush and ducked behind a nearby tree. What kind of hold did this girl have over him? He was behaving like an infatuated boy, and he was a man grown at twenty! He forced himself to step out from the shelter of the tree, but Taya had moved on. Jareth contented himself with greeting her parents, accepting their thanks yet again for his rescue of Vikka, and calmed his nervousness by picking up the giggling child and carrying her around on his shoulders for the next little while.

His anxiety did not diminish as the day slipped past, the golden sunlight waning to twilight as the three villages bartered and haggled over various goods. He noticed that there was a beautiful woolen blanket, in shades of blue and gold and green, that Taya had brought which never left the wagon. Idly he wondered why she had bothered to bring it if she hadn’t planned to barter it, then turned his attention to the feast that was being brought out.

With three villages providing food, it was a lavish spread indeed: bread of all varieties, soups, roasted fish, fowl and meats, mustards and jellies and nuts, and bowl and after bowl of raw, roasted, and stewed vegetables every color of the rainbow. SkalkaValley’s most famous contribution was also the most popular. The valley was known for the quality and quantity of the honeywine it produced. Jareth was able to calm the bees that made the golden fluid that was the heart of the drink, rendering the honey itself uncommonly delicious and enabling the beekeepers to painlessly extract more combs, though Jareth insisted that the bees must always have plenty for themselves. “It’s their food,” he maintained. “They share it with us, not the other way around.”

At twilight, old Paiva stepped in front of the huge bonfire, a burning branch in her hand. Ivo, the headman, had presided over most of the events thus far, but now they were headed into ritual space, and that was Paiva’s realm.

“We have been blessed by the gods,” she said in a voice that carried. Not for the first time, Jareth marveled at the strength that still dwelt in the increasingly feeble body. He felt a surge of affection for her. Of all the residents of SkalkaValley, she alone had continued to treat him as she always had.

“We have plenty of food for the winter. We have good friends in nearby villages. And tonight, we have the warmth of the sun contained in the fire. Burn!”

She thrust the brand forward. The bonfire had been well-made and doused liberally with oil, and all gasped and clapped as the yellow licking flames chased away the darkness. Paiva was now a black figure outlined by the crackling glow.

“Come forward and free yourselves from the burdens you have carried this year. Let the fire take and transform your suffering.”

This was an old, old tradition, and everyone knew how to proceed. They formed an orderly line, accepting small bundles of dried wheat stalks from which the precious grain had been extracted, and stepped forward. One by one, some weaving a little thanks to the drink they had imbibed earlier, they whispered what they wished to be free of, and tossed the sheaf onto the flame. When Jareth reached the fire and felt the heat bathe his face, he realized he knew exactly what his longing was. He was honored and envied, but no one knew the pain he suffered.

Speaking aloud, but softly so that this private moment would not be overheard, he said firmly, “I wish to be free of my doubt.”

He hurled the sheaf forward, watched as it twisted and blackened in the fire, and took a deep breath. No calm certainty rushed to bathe him yet, but Paiva often reminded those who participated in this ancient rite that sometimes it took a while for the wish to be answered. But the gods always heard their petitioners.

He stepped aside, his heart speeding up when Taya moved toward the fire a few moments later. Jareth couldn’t hear what she said, but he noticed that she was smiling when she walked away.

It took time for the ceremony to be completed, but at last everyone had participated and the mood shifted from sacred to celebratory. There was much laughter and passing of honeywine sacks as everyone gathered around the fire. A chill was in the air at night now, and the warmth was welcome.

He looked about for Taya, but didn’t see her. Then the crowd parted slightly and she stood alone for a brief moment. Fire bathed her in yellow and orange, and to Jareth, she looked like the sun come to life. Perhaps feeling his gaze, Taya turned slowly. Their eyes met and her lips curved in a slight smile. Summoning his courage, Jareth stepped forward and—

A small hand curled trustingly around his. He looked down to see little Altan beaming up at him.

“Guess what, Jareth? The huskaa of TwoLakes heard me singing and playing this afternoon and he has agreed to take me on as a huskaa-lal!”

This was a high honor and at any other time, Jareth would have been thrilled for Altan. But tonight…He glanced up.

Taya was gone. The stab of disappointment was surprising in its keenness.

“Jareth?” Altan tugged on his hand. Jareth forced a smile.

“That’s wonderful, Altan. I’m very proud of you. You have a lot of talent and you’ve worked very hard. You’re going to make a fine huskaa.” The words were true and he tried to sound like he meant them. He must have succeeded, for Altan’s brow unfurrowed and he beamed up at his friend.

“Come and sit!” Altan urged. “He’s starting to play. I want to be just like him when I grow up. And just like you, too.”

Jareth’s heart melted. It was always hard to resist Altan. Somehow, he always felt he owed the Lukkari family a debt for their lost daughter, although Paiva had assured him that his presence at Altan’s birth had not been responsible for Ilta Lukkari’s death. Indeed, Altan’s mother claimed loudly and repeatedly that it was “the Spring-Bringer’s presence” that had graced Altan with life and talent.

What did it matter if he sat and listened to songs all evening? Taya was nowhere to be seen. Jareth sighed, found a spot on one of the logs provided as seats, pulled Altan into his lap, and decided to make the best of it.

The huskaa was worth listening to. He went through a repertoire of standard songs, some merry, some sad. Jareth thought he had never heard the Ice Maiden song cycle, “Circle of Ice,” performed so powerfully. As the evening wore down, Altan did too. He was asleep in Jareth’s arms by the time the performer turned to more adult themes. As he listened to one of the singer’s original compositions, written specifically for this night, Jareth grew wistful.

The golden turns to purple;
The purple fades to gray.
Come leave the darkling fields behind
To the dying of the day.
Come rest thy weary body
Beside the fire’s light,
For the harvest has been gathered in
And we celebrate tonight.

Behold our table laden
With fruit of tree and vine.
Partake of golden wheaten bread
And taste the sweet red wine.
Our larder’s filled with winter stores,
A fair and welcome sight,
For the harvest has been gathered in
And we celebrate tonight.

I’ll rub thy weary shoulders,
And lie with thee till dawn.
Perhaps tonight we’ll sow the seed
For a harvest later on;
A child born in nine month’s time
To be raised in love and light—
For the harvest has been gathered in
And we celebrate tonight.

Jareth’s thoughts turned to Taya. Others were pairing off, leaving the ring of firelight or sitting holding hands. The harvest was about bounty and family, about facing the coming darkness and deprivation of winter together. And once again, he would be alone.

The winds blow crisp and cold now,
The mighty trees are bare.
Aye, Summer sweet has breathed her last,
But we shall not despair.
Though winter looms before us,
Our love burns ever bright,
For the harvest has been gathered in
And we celebrate tonight.

For the harvest has been gathered in,
And we celebrate tonight.

There was a soft smattering of applause. The huskaa nodded his thanks and went into another equally soft, sweet song. Jareth rose, carrying Altan. The little boy shifted and his arms went around Jareth’s neck.

Jareth went to Altan’s house and lay the boy down on his pallet. Altan woke up briefly. Sleepily he said, “I love you, Jareth.”

“I love you too,” Jareth said, stroking the child’s soft golden hair and pulling the blanket around him. “Now sleep, little one.”

The cool, crisp air tingled through his body when he stepped outside. Jareth gazed up at the stars, tiny dots in the enormous black sky, and when his feet took him down the path toward the recently harvested fields, he was not surprised. If he could not be with Taya, he wanted to be with the land, to sit on the cold soil, and help it prepare for winter. And, he had to admit, to glean what comfort he could from it.

His sure strides faltered. Someone was here before him, sitting quietly on a blanket, a cloak wrapped around her. The moon was bright, and he recognized the face that turned toward him.

“I thought you’d eventually come here tonight,” Taya said.

Jareth opened his mouth, but nothing came out. Taya patted the space beside her on the blanket and Jareth sat. He felt the warmth of her body where his knee touched hers. His mind raced, but he couldn’t think of anything to say.

“How is Vikka doing?” he finally managed.

“She’s fine,” Taya replied, chuckling a little. “Brags to all her little friends about how the Spring-Bringer rescued her.”

“I’m just glad I could help. The woods can be dangerous after nightfall.” He mentally kicked himself. What a foolish thing to say. Everyone knew that.

An awkward silence fell. He wanted to pull her into his arms and kiss her, breathe in her scent of flowers and sunlight, see what her body looked like when it was clad only in the moon’s pale glow. But he couldn’t move.

Finally, she said, “I had hoped you would have occasion to return to TwoLakes before now.”

He turned to look at her, his heart beating even faster. “I had hoped so too,” he said. “Or that you might have cause to come to the valley.”

She turned toward him. Her face was a white oval in the moonlight. “I’m here now.”

Jareth was having trouble breathing. “Taya…”

“Do you like the blanket?”

He blinked. “What?”

“The blanket. I made it myself.” She hesitated, then said, “I made it for you. If you will accept it.”

She was offering a bride price. He suddenly recalled standing in front of the blazing bonfire a few hours ago, and tossing in his sheaf with the silent prayer of being free from doubt. Like a weight physically lifted from his shoulders, he felt all uncertainty vanish. He knew what he wanted…who he wanted.

“It’s lovely,” he said, with the words accepting her offer of marriage. “You honor me. Thank you.”

He reached for her hand and closed his fingers over it. Impulsively, he pressed it gently down into the earth, over the cool soil, the bits and pieces of harvested wheat.

“Do you feel anything?” he asked. He hoped…

She smiled. “Only your hand on mine,” she said. Then, intensely, she asked, “Jareth…what do you feel when you do this?”

Haltingly, he said, “I feel the earth. The living things it sustains. All of it, all at once. Like some great giant heartbeat.” The words sounded foolish in his ears, and yet at the same time they failed to capture even the smallest fragment of the sensations that coursed through him when he permitted himself to open to them.

Her hand was still beneath his, on the ground. Slowly, she lifted it and curled her fingers around his. She raised their entwined hands and placed them between her breasts.

“Now what do you feel?” she whispered.

“A heartbeat,” he said, his voice also dropping into a hushed tone. His lips were dry and he spread his fingers, trying to press his palm to her heart, feeling it fluttering in her tiny rib cage like a small bird. As he did so, he suddenly became aware of how dirty his hand was. Ashamed, he tried to pull back.

“I’m sorry, my hands—”

“No,” she whispered. “Your hands are beautiful. And mine are dirty, too.”

He wanted to look into her amazing eyes again, but the moon’s light only seemed to cast shadows on her face.

“I can’t feel what you feel,” she said, “but I know your ability means more to you than just controlling when the spring and autumn come. More than providing good crops. Do you know what’s in this pouch around my neck, Jareth?”

Blood hammered in his ears, raced through his body, made him ache for her. He shook his head.

“The flower you gave me this summer,” Taya said. “I saw you wince when you plucked it. I know you felt it die, yet you were willing to do that in order to give it to me. Of course I cherished it.”

She knew. She understood. She couldn’t share it with him—he now reluctantly realized that no one could—but she understood what this power meant to him.

“I fell in love with you at that moment,” she whispered, leaning in to him. Slowly, as if drawn, he bent forward. His hand still on her heart, their lips met.

He kissed her gently, tenderly, exploring, savoring. Her lips were as soft as the petals of the flower that had given up its life for her, as sweet as honey from the comb. He moved his hand from her heart to run his fingers through her hair, trail them along the back of her neck. Wrapping his arms around her, he pulled her into his lap.

“You’re so little,” he whispered, marveling. “I can hold all of you just like this.”

“Keep holding me,” Taya whispered, and reached up to touch his face. He pressed a kiss against her questing hand, then tangled his fingers in her long, soft blond hair and pulled her mouth to his. How long they stayed together, locked in that kiss, Jareth neither knew nor cared. When they broke apart, he was trembling and breathing heavily.

He could see her eyes now; they caught and held the moonlight, like twin lakes. She gazed up at him rapturously, one little hand reaching to stroke his cheek, his lips.

“You’re so beautiful,” Taya said, amazement in her voice.

Jareth chuckled. “I’m supposed to say that.”

“Then say it.”

Her finger ran across his lower lip. He opened his mouth and caught the finger, biting very gently. She gasped softly. He let it go.

“You are beautiful, Taya. Since the day we met, I’ve done nothing but think about you. Dream about you. I don’t want to be without you ever again.”

“You don’t have to.”

He reached for her and she closed her eyes, anticipating another kiss, but instead he removed the little pouch from around her neck. She had spoken truly; the flower, carefully preserved, was contained within. With gentle fingers he withdrew it. As he touched it, the brown, dried leaves uncurled and became green again, the petals swelling with new life.

“What are you—”

“Shhh,” he said, easing her down onto the blanket she had woven for him. Gently, he began to stroke her with the blossom, following each delicate brush of petal or leaf with a soft kiss. Taya closed her eyes and whimpered softly.

Taking his time, Jareth stroked and kissed her face, her ears, the hollow of her throat; her hands, the sensitive insides of her wrists and elbows; trailed flower and lips along ankle, calf and thigh, over covered belly and breasts. Gods, how he wanted this woman. Wanted her here, under the moon, on the good earth covered with the last of the wheat’s harvest. Wanted her in his bed, wrapped in the blanket she had made, their bodies warm and supple and heedless of the winter’s chill. Wanted her in the shadowed, scented forest, in the sunlit meadows.

Wanted her forever.

Abruptly she sat up, shocking him by removing her over-tunic, leaving only the soft, translucent underdress between them. He could see the dark circles of her nipples beneath the white fabric as she moved.

Before he could react, Taya surprised him again by leaning forward to tug off his shirt. Delighted by her boldness, Jareth assisted her. The autumnal night air ought to have been chill on his naked torso, but he burned with a heat that banished any cold. He gasped as she explored him. He let her take the lead, though his hands and lips ached to caress her. She put both hands on his chest and pushed lightly.

“Move off the blanket. Lie on the earth,” she said, her voice a husky growl. “Feel it. Take it into you, my love.”

The request moved him deeply. But before he obeyed, he leaned forward and pulled off Taya’s underdress. She sat proudly in front of him, her skin gleaming like a swan in the moonlight. She made no attempt to cover herself and his hands moved as if of their own will to cup her breasts, white and soft as down, the tips hard as pebbles against the palms of his hands. Her head fell back and she moaned, softly, sweetly, the sound inflaming him further.

Slowly, he lay on the cool soil, pulling her with him, crushing her small, perfect breasts to his chest and forcing her mouth open with his tongue. He felt the cold earth, the sharp pricks of dried and broken stalks stabbing into his back, the hardness of small stones, and the discomfort was exquisite pleasure. He let the essence of the earth fill him. His skin tingled and he felt more open, more exposed, more receptive and aroused than he had ever felt before.

Taya undulated against him, her movement delightful torment. Unable to wait any longer, Jareth slid a hand between their bodies and freed himself from the confinement of his breeches. Taya gasped as she felt him press against her and she pulled back for a brief moment. Cool air rushed to fill the space between them.

Jareth gritted his teeth. He had never wanted a woman as badly as he wanted this tiny slip of a girl, never felt as dizzy with desire as he did now, with the deep, endless support of the earth at his back and this woman in his arms. He forced himself to stay still, wanting Taya to make the ever so slight movement that would bring him fully inside her, fighting the urge to thrust upward into her wet warmth. She leaned down and her hair fell in a soft curtain on his chest. Shaking, he brushed it back with hands that seemed huge against her tiny face.

“Don’t leave me!” The words were raw, almost physically ripped from him, and he knew he was speaking to both Taya and the earth upon which he lay.

“Never,” Taya whispered against his mouth, and the earth echoed: Never. And Jareth believed them both.

“Do you feel it?”

Struck dumb again at her insight, he nodded. The power of his profound union with the earth was coursing through him and the sensations were almost overwhelming.

“Good,” Taya whispered. “Now,” she said, lifting her hips slightly and then slowly, sweetly, taking his hardness into her, “make love to me.”

They were married before the first snowfall.

4

Taya held her newborn son to her breast while Annu spun in the corner. The fire crackled, Altan sat beside it strumming his kyndela and humming, and Jareth stood looking out the window at the cool blue and white hues of snow. He didn’t think he had ever been quite so content.

Twenty springs had passed since he had felt the call that lured him down from his favorite tree to dig his fingers into icy soil and call forth the rebirth of life. And thirteen summers had blossomed and faded since he and his wife had first coupled passionately in the autumn field, the harvest moon shining upon them and the good earth blessing them. She had conceived, either that night or shortly thereafter, and had been with child by the time Paiva had formally wed them. Nine months later, as the song performed by the huskaa of TwoLakes had suggested might happen, lovely Annu had come into the world.

No father could have doted on a daughter more, and it was entirely due to her own innate good sense that Annu was not thoroughly spoiled. She had her mother’s beauty, level head, and sense of humor, and her father’s height and love for the natural world. Another blessing had come their way a few weeks ago, when Parvan had been born. Paiva was no longer with them to bring the little boy into the world; she had passed five years ago and now her former apprentice had that solemn yet joyful duty.

When Altan’s parents, too, had passed, he had all but become a part of Jareth’s family, coming for visits as short as half a day and sometimes as long as two or three days. Jareth already looked upon the huskaa as a baby brother. And who would not wish to have a huskaa on hand, willing and able to provide music soothing or merry as the occasion demanded? Besides, Annu was a young woman now, having celebrated her first blood moon. Taya thought that the two youngsters would be a natural and wonderful match, and encouraged the eighteen-year-old Altan to spend time with the girl. And most of the time Jareth agreed, although Altan was subject to occasional dark moods that rendered the normally pleasant youth sullen and brooding.

“He’s eighteen and he’s blessed with talent,” Taya said once. “Of course he’s moody.”

Jareth had burst into startled laughter, and even now the memory of the exchange made him smile. Jareth thought about his good life as the snow continued to fall. It’s almost time.

“I will tell Ivo that it will be soon,” he said, turning to look over his shoulder at his family. “Five, perhaps six days. The land is ready to be awakened from its slumber.”

In truth the land was more than ready, but the headman always wanted a few days’ notice so he could send messengers to nearby villages. Jareth had long since resigned himself to the fact that when the Kevat-aanta brought spring, it was an occasion. Ivo noticed that when people came for the event, they tended to bring items to trade and make a celebration out of it, and who was Jareth to begrudge his fellow villagers some laughter and a chance to trade for baubles or foodstuffs?

He turned his attention back to the snow as it fell, and suddenly, for no reason he could discern, felt a shiver run down his spine. For the first time since the feel of Taya’s warm body pressing against his had banished his fear, he tasted the old, bitter tang of worry.

Five days later, dressed in a beautifully embroidered dark green cloak, leather boots and brown and gold breeches and shirt, Jareth stood ready to perform his most well-known seasonal transformation.

Taya’s eyes roamed over him approvingly. “The years have blessed you, my husband,” she said, stepping close to him and stroking his freshly shaven cheek. She had to reach up quite a bit, for as Jareth had predicted that long-ago summer, Taya’s head barely came to the center of his chest. He pressed the little hand to his lips.

“They have indeed, by seeing to it that you have only grown more beautiful.”

“I am still swollen from childbirth,” she laughed, “from foot to face!”

Jareth bent. “I love what I see,” he whispered, and captured her lips with his. He pulled back in time to see Annu rolling her eyes and Altan grinning.

“I don’t think there’s time for that, you two,” Altan said wryly. “Your people await you, Jareth. And I am longing to perform my new song!”

Jareth turned to his daughter. Annu was taller than her mother and her head came to his chin, making it convenient for him to plant a kiss on the top of the golden hair.

“The cloak is beautiful,” he said. “My favorite color, too. You have quite a talent for one so young.”

Again, Annu rolled her eyes. “I’m twelve, Father. I’m not a child anymore.”

He sighed, tousled her hair, and then turned toward the door, reaching for the staff he had made when he was thirteen. He opened the door to see the beaming headman, and forced himself to adopt a regal pose, smiling and nodding at the upturned, expectant faces in the crowd.

The parade of onlookers followed Jareth as he strode through the center of the village. Altan had contrived a way to carry his instrument and play it at the same time by attaching it to a sturdy leather strap hung over his shoulder—a first for a kyndela player as far as Jareth knew. But that was Altan, always breaking the traditions even as he personified the best the huskaa tradition had to offer. Grumpy or charming, sarcastic or pleasant, the boy was brilliant, no question about it, and Jareth was proud to be his friend.

The day had dawned clear, but now snow was starting to fall. That was all right with Jareth; it would turn to rain soon enough. The path he had trod for the past twenty years led through the forests that embraced the village and into a small clearing. The snow continued to fall, becoming heavier. Over the bright sound of Altan’s instrument, Jareth heard some concerned mutterings.

He reached and touched his old friend the oak, which had held him so supportively through many summers as a youth and even as an adult. A frown touched his lips. Usually he could feel at least something when he touched this mighty tree, no matter what the season. He forced his apprehension down. It had been a hard winter this year, despite his efforts to gentle the harshness; perhaps the tree was simply slumbering more deeply than usual.

Leaning his staff against the oak’s trunk, Jareth stepped into the clearing. He closed his eyes and slowed his breathing.

“I have been blessed by the gods, and I have heard the call,” he said, his voice resonant. “I am the protector and guardian of the earth’s seasons, summoning them and continuing the cycle of what was, and is, and ever shall be.”

He knelt. The snow seeped through his breeches almost immediately, but the woolen cloak on his back blocked most of the wind that now started to pick up. His fair hair was growing wet with the falling flakes. He flexed his fingers, readied himself, and plunged them into the snow.

It was so cold it felt almost hot to him, tingling and biting his unprotected flesh. His fingertips brushed frozen sod. He took another deep breath and forced his fingers down into the earth.

Nothing happened.

The wind increased, toying with his damp locks. Again he reached, trying to sense the earth, rouse it, melt the snow, summon spring. He heard confused voices, wondering what was going on.

He dug deeper, his hands aching with the cold. Come, spring. It is time. For many months has the winter held sway over these lands, but now it is your turn.

There was no response. It was as if the earth was as dead to him now as it was to everyone else. Jareth felt sweat gather at his hairline, trickle down his face. The earth always heard him before when he tried to reach it. The stones spoke to him, the animals came when he called them, the trees bloomed and grew strong and tall….

He felt a gentle hand on his shoulder. He looked up to see Taya gazing at him with love and concern. Her eyes widened as she read the fear in her husband’s face, understanding him as if he had spoken aloud.

His worst fears had materialized. His powers were gone.

The winter had lasted for six months now.

Three months had been natural; harsh, but part of the cycle that Jareth had learned to understand and which had become as much a part of him as breathing.

Three more months had been the unnatural winter, with snow that muffled sounds, blocked trade, and was slowly killing both plant and animal.

Unless the weather was so bad that the storm threatened to sweep in should the door be opened, Jareth had slogged every day through the ever-deepening snow toward the clearing. Sometimes grim-faced, sometimes ranting, he dug down until he reached the earth and tried desperately to waken it.

It was like touching a corpse. It felt familiar, but there was no hint of life within. Where there had once been voices, even songs, now there was only this ominous silence. Stones were cold to him, the trees quiet. From time to time, he wasn’t sure why or how, he could still summon animals. This pained him; it was as if the only power he had left was to bring death, even though the death of the beasts meant life for the people of SkalkaValley.

There had been near panic right after his first attempt, but Ivo had managed to calm the crowd. And even then, the assumption was that even if the Spring-Bringer brought spring no longer, the thaw would simply come on its own time, as it had before Jareth had begun to call it. But when that did not happen, and the winter continued, there were some that called for Jareth’s exile. Many, Jareth’s boyhood friend Larr chief among them, said loudly that the gods were angry with Jareth for usurping their powers, and were punishing Lamal.

A sort of sullen, simmering truce had evolved between the villagers and Jareth Vasalen, one that tormented him more than an outright attack. That, at least, he could defend himself against.

The only one who routinely made the trek from the cluster of houses to Jareth’s, set much closer to the forests and the hills, was Altan. Jareth welcomed the youth’s arrival, not for himself but for his family. As the wife and children of the Kevat-aanta, they were as shunned as he was.

“Jareth?” Taya’s voice held a note of fear and worry, as it always did now. “You haven’t eaten all day.”

“I’m not hungry.” He didn’t move from the window where he watched the snow continue to fall. He was growing to hate the fat flakes that wafted down to form more drifts, more winter.

A touch on his arm. He jerked away, shame flooding him as he saw Annu cringe as if he might strike her. Jareth had never laid a hand on any member of his family save in a caress, but he sickly admitted to himself that his demeanor over the past few months might make them think he would lash out at any moment.

“I’m sorry, Annu,” he said, softening his voice. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

She smiled bravely. “You didn’t scare me, Father,” she lied, blinking away the tears in her eyes. “Come eat. Please, come eat something.”

So he permitted her to lead him to the center of the small house. He sat on a stool and spooned thin, tasteless soup into his mouth, and forced a smile for his wife, son, and daughter. And as he had every night for the last hundred nights, ever since his connection to the land had forsaken him, he turned his back to his wife and ignored her soft pleas for lovemaking, or even simply to be held.

He couldn’t do it. It was all he could do to be civil to her during the day. At night, to hold her, run his hands over her familiar, beloved hills and valleys—no. He wasn’t worthy of that, not anymore. Jareth had been the Spring-Bringer, the Kevat-aanta, who took care of his people. He had let them all down, and they were suffering badly now.

“Jareth?”

He did not answer. Perhaps if she thought him asleep…

“I know you’re awake.” Her hand reached out, ran tentatively along his shoulder and down his side. He shrank from her touch. “It’s going to be all right.”

He laughed harshly. “My powers have vanished. The gods are angry with me. Winter has lasted twice as long as it ever has before. I don’t think it’s going to be all right, not unless I can somehow stop this.”

Silence. “You know that none of us thinks any less of you—not Annu or Altan or I. We love you, and it doesn’t matter to us if you never get these powers back.”

He couldn’t take it anymore. “You didn’t fall in love with Jareth,” he spat angrily, trying and failing to keep his voice low so as not to disturb the others. “You fell in love with the Kevat-aanta. With the man who found your lost baby sister.”

He heard the rustle as she sat up. “You think I fell in love with you for what you could do?”

Jareth turned, furious. “Didn’t you? What if I hadn’t found Vikka? What if she’d died, lost in the forest?”

“Of course I was happy you found her, but—”

“And who rolled me off the blanket so I could feel the earth at my back as you rode me like a—”

He bit back the worst of the words, but it was already too late. He knew he had gone too far. She froze, then slowly sank back down on the bed. His impotent anger bled away as he turned to touch her, and this time it was Taya who refused her mate’s caress. Even in the dim light, he could see the sparkle of tears on her face.

“I loved you because you cared, Jareth,” Taya said thickly. “Not for what you did. I saw how much you wanted to find Vikka. I saw how you felt the pain of the dying flower. Don’t you realize how others would perceive this ability? Other men would set themselves up as all-powerful rulers, withholding spring or harvest to punish those who didn’t follow them. That never even entered your thoughts. You loved the earth and stones and flowers, and you felt their joy and their pain. You protected them even as you guided them through the seasons. You asked for them to yield their bounty, you never demanded it. That’s the man I fell in love with.”

She fell silent. Then: “I wonder where that man has gone.”

5

After a cloudless night in which the gods danced in the sky, their blue and white coats sending sparks of colors to paint the night in vibrant hues, the dawn that followed was cold and clear. As Jareth fastened his cloak, he stated, “I am going hunting with the men. The sky is clear, for the moment, and we must not waste this opportunity.”

His wife and daughter nodded, their eyes downcast. Jareth remembered when he used to love looking into both sets of blue eyes. One woman held love and a deep passion; the other adoration and unconditional devotion. Neither wanted to look at him now, and he supposed he couldn’t blame them.

It will be better tonight, he thought. When the men and I return with food for the tables, it will be better. At least I will have been able to provide something for my family.

He thought about speaking the words aloud, but decided against it. He would let his actions speak for him. He rose and went for the door. As he placed his hand on it, he heard Taya say softly, “Be careful.”

He nodded, his back to her, unable, unwilling to look at her, to kiss her goodbye. Annu stood beside the door, holding Parvan. She focused her attention on the baby to avoid looking at her father. The infant’s soft gurgle melted something inside Jareth, and he reached to stroke the soft curve of his son’s cheek. Parvan reached up a tiny hand and clutched Jareth’s finger, and the trusting gesture broke Jareth’s heart. Tears stung his eyes, and abruptly he tugged open the door.

It will be better tonight.

The men had gathered in the center of the village, carrying bows and arrows, large hunting knives and small axes. The blades were sharp, the arrows straight and well-fletched. During the long, dark days while the storms raged, there was nothing else to do but stay inside and hone weapons. Jareth knew the cycle. Weapons meant a kill, a kill meant food, and food meant life.

The land should have been well into late spring. The beasts of field and forests had already dropped their young. Jareth and the others had often come across small, frozen bodies that ought to have grown strong and sturdy from mother’s milk and warm sunshine. And even as he mourned the deaths that should not have been, Jareth assisted the hunters as they gathered up the corpses and brought them home. Food was food.

He wondered how the bees fared. Were they all dead in their hives by now? The trees had not blossomed; there would be no flowers for them now, no fruit for humans later. Soon the villagers’ stores would run out, careful as they all were with their dwindling supplies, and they would be forced to eat the seeds they had set aside to plant this year.

Rumors had reached them, from the occasional huskaa mad enough to wander into the valley claiming the Huskaa Law of hospitality. Rumors of men who had left their villages on rampages, taking others’ food and leaving their bodies behind. Such things had never been heard of before. Raids on other villages? Before, Jareth would have dismissed this news as a fantastic tale, but now he could read the truth in the performer’s eyes when he spoke of it.

Always in winter, someone would mention the legendary Ice Maiden. It was well and good to sing the familiar, haunting songs by a warm fire, secure in the knowledge—as they always had been before—of spring to come. But now, some were beginning to think the legends real. The seemingly eternal winter was, indeed, nothing natural. Some muttered that perhaps the Ice Maiden was behind it all.

The men were talking among themselves in quiet voices, falling silent as Jareth walked up to them. He stood tall and straight, forcing his expression to remain calm. He would not let these people know how painful their rejection was. He knew that the only reason they permitted him to accompany them was because sometimes, utterly randomly, he was able to help them. Larr gazed at him with barely disguised hatred, and Jareth wondered if he had tried to talk the others into forbidding Jareth from accompanying them entirely.

If only he knew what had happened—why he had fallen so out of favor with the gods! He had tried everything to beseech them to have mercy on his beleaguered people. He had taken to not eating his share of what little his family ate these days, secretly hoarding it to place as an offering at the foot of the oak tree that had once been his friend. Like all the villagers, weight was dropping off his powerful frame. And still, the gods’ hearts were not moved.

Every time the men went forth to hunt, the task took longer and was less fruitful. Several days ago, when they had previously had a clear day, they had stumbled upon a fox gnawing the frozen carcass of a fawn. The fox’s winter coat of white was long gone, and its orange and red fur was easy to spot on the white drifts. The fawn was all long legs, white spots on its brown coat marking its young age. The hunting party shot the fox, betrayed by his own red coat, and carried the fawn home. Both were eaten that night.

The animals were perhaps even harder hit than the humans by this extended winter, for they were creatures of instinct, totally dependant on the natural rhythms and cycles. Humans could choose to wear warm furs and heavy woolen cloaks, but the fox’s coat had changed all on its own, contributing to its death.

This time, hours passed, yet Jareth was able to sense nothing. At last, he felt a brush of something, some faint stirring of life in this frozen realm. Rabbits, holed up in their warren. Reaching further with his mind, he realized he sensed a doe with a litter of kits. To call her would be to doom her offspring, which would mean six fewer adult rabbits in a few months.

He agonized over what to do. He could call forth the mother and point the party to the warren, and the entire litter would be eaten tonight. He could ignore the presence of the animals, and let them continue to deal with the brutal winter as best they could, which could mean long, slow starvation. Or he could alert his companions to the rabbits and suggest they bring back the mother and her kits and raise them to eat later.

Even as the last option crossed his mind, he knew it would never happen. There was nothing for them to eat. Every scrap of food was necessary to maintain the lives of the villagers. Eleven had already died, a large number in such a small community.

Jareth made his decision. In the end, it was perhaps the most merciful one, both for the long-eared creatures as well as the humans.

Come to me, he thought, keeping his eyes closed. We will thank you for your sacrifice. Your young will not suffer from cold, nor from terror as the teeth of a predator crunch down upon them. Come to me, and we will honor you.

Slowly he opened his eyes and pointed to the warren’s entrance, well hidden by an overhanging branch. They would never have seen it, had not Jareth known exactly where to look. The rabbit, ribs clearly visible in its mangy brown fur, emerged, trembling in the cold.

Thank you. I’m sorry.

There was the brief whine of an arrow and the rabbit spasmed. It fell over, dead at once, its scarlet lifeblood steaming on the snow.

“There are kits in the warren,” Jareth said. His voice sounded harsh and raw in his ears. “We should get them, too.”

It made Jareth both angry and sorrowful as the men leaped into action. Men who would have, in a regular spring, let the doe and her kits be. Men who had children who were now growing painfully thin with each passing day.

Larr brushed past Jareth. “At least you’re good for something,” he muttered.

The urge to strike his childhood friend was so powerful Jareth actually surged forward a step, fist raised. A hand on his arm stopped him before he leaped upon Larr and vented his own fear, frustration and helplessness upon the other man.

“Larr is frightened,” Ivo said, for Jareth’s ears only. “It’s why he speaks so—to hide it.”

Jareth nodded as if he believed the older man. The wind picked up and he shivered, and then the snow started falling again. He looked up at the sky, so blue and clear earlier and now a dull pewter color. His heart sank.

“Storm,” he said.

It was becoming alarmingly easy now to recognize the signs. The storms came so frequently they were almost a daily occurrence. The other men, shoving the squealing kits into a sack, paused and looked up. There was no time to try to make it back to the village; they’d have to shelter where they were as best they could.

Jareth looked about. They were in an open area, and the wind whistled as it buffeted him. He pointed to a small cluster of trees and a few large stones, which would provide at least some protection. Working as quickly as increasingly numb fingers would permit, they tied a length of rope about their waists. As fast as this storm was coming on, they might lose someone in the time it took to reach their paltry shelter.

The line of men struggled forward. Finally they reached the area and clung together for warmth, silent and grim, and waited. The storm seemed to go on for an eternity. Jareth completely lost track of time. All he could focus on was drawing frigid air into his lungs, filtered through a scarf; staying close to the others as the wind and snow battered against their huddled bodies. At last, well into the night, the storm died down. The sky started to clear, revealing a black sky and a sliver of moon.

Cautiously, the men got to their feet, brushing mounds of snow from their backs, heads, and shoulders. They had no more energy for words, but they all knew that it was too late to try to make it back. They would have to spend what was left of the night here. Exhausted, shivering, soaked, they lit a pathetic fire after many failed attempts and agreed to take turns feeding it. By twos, they went out to scrounge for dry kindling deep in the forest and large branches that would somewhat block wind and snow if another storm manifested during the night. Jareth didn’t think it would come. He looked up at the stars, seeing them cold pinpoints of light against a soft blackness.

Toward dawn, the gods began to play in the sky. Red, blue, green, purple, the lights chased each other, turning the night sky into a riot of dancing, shimmering colors. The headman grunted.

“A good sign,” he said. “If the gods are so happy they are playing for two nights in a row, perhaps they are beginning to look kindly upon us again.”

Jareth thought about a group of blue tigers, chasing one another back and forth like kittens, and hoped the headman was right. Perhaps this was a sign that things would improve. Perhaps the winter would begin to retreat.

Let me know what you want me to do, he thought silently. I have always striven to honor this gift. Why have you taken it from me?

Well before full light, aching and exhausted, the hunting party trudged back in silence. Their tracks had been obliterated by the storm, but they knew in which direction home lay.

It was heading toward dawn when they saw the torches that marked the path toward the village, warm and golden against the purple-blue of the retreating night. Jareth’s heart gladdened slightly at the sight. The rabbits they had caught were not much, but even a little meat would help to thicken a stew. He need not feel quite so helpless when he returned to his family this morning.

A figure moved in the dim light, moving quickly toward them on snow walkers.

“Jareth!”

Words of greeting died in Jareth’s throat at the stricken look on Altan’s face.

“Taya—” Jareth’s hand shot out and seized the boy’s arm, fingers digging in tightly. He pleaded silently with Altan to say she’s fine, they’re all fine, don’t worry.

Altan’s mouth trembled and his eyes filled with tears. “The storm—it was so violent, I went to check on them this morning—oh, gods, Jareth, I’m so sorry—”

A moment before, Jareth had been quivering with exhaustion, cold, and lack of food. Now raw, panicked energy surged through him and he began to move as quickly as the snow walkers would let him, dropping his weapons, the food sack, anything that might hinder his speed as he raced out of town and up the twining path toward his house.

He bargained with the gods as he went. Let them be all right, and I will give you everything I have. Let them be all right, and you can take my powers away forever, all of them. Let them be all right, and I will cut open my own wrists and feed my blood to the forest.

Let them be all right—please let them be—

The door was open. Snow had poured into the house. Someone had dug through the drift, had left tracks all around—Altan, seeing what Jareth saw, forcing his way inside—

“Taya!” screamed Jareth, his arms digging wildly at the entrance Altan had made, tunneling through the snow that had come in so quickly and so deeply—

Altan had uncovered her face.

Jareth stared as if mesmerized by the pale features that floated up through the coating of snow as if Taya were surfacing from the lake. She was almost as pale as the snow that had been her death, save for her lips which were a dark blue. He reached and touched her, found her cheek hard and cold as if she had been sculpted from stone.

Or from ice.

Her expression was oddly peaceful. How had she not woken as the storm screamed around her? Had it covered her like a lethal blanket, chilling her so slowly she never realized what had happened? How could she not have heard the wind slamming the door open, the howl as the snow rushed inside?

And then, bizarrely, all Jareth could think about for several stunned, long moments was the trembling doe rabbit and her squealing kits.

He had to see if somehow the offspring had been heartier than the mother; if perhaps Parvan had been so well swaddled in his crib he still breathed, if Annu might be coaxed back into the realm of the living. So he dug through the snow yet again, and again the reality that someone he loved was dead slammed his spirit so hard he sank down into the white stuff himself and begged the snow to take him too.

Soon Jareth lay next to his wife, holding the tiny, frozen body of his infant son to his breast. On the other side of the room, Annu lay, as still and white as if she had been carved from stone. He watched his breath curl upward as his lungs continued to function, aware he was dancing on the edge of madness and praying to the blue tiger gods who supposedly took care of his people that he would slip over that edge. He didn’t want to see his breath anymore, didn’t want to be reminded of the enormous gulf that separated him from his family. So he closed his eyes and drifted.

When Altan shook him some time later, frantically rubbing his icy hands and calling his name, Jareth exploded with rage. He had been about to join them, he sensed; had been about to bridge the chasm that kept the dead from the living. But he was so cold he could not move quickly, and his fingers were too numb to choke Altan as he wanted to. He let Altan wrap him in a thick blanket, let the boy he had brought into this world walk him away from the frozen bodies of two women and a baby, sipped the hot drink Altan pressed into his hand.

And began to think.

Jareth paid little heed as the men from the village came in to take the bodies away. He knew where Taya and Annu and Parvan would rest until spring came…if it ever did. The ground was too hard for the earth to take the bodies of his wife and children; they would join the others who had died this winter in a specially built building until such time as they could be buried. And from their corpses would spring new life, he knew; flowers and trees and grasses would transform dead bodies into living things. It was sacred, it was holy, it was the natural, inevitable way of things.

He frowned and started to shiver, knowing that with that uncontrollable movement life was starting to return to his body.

But was it the natural way of things? Jareth had been the Spring-Bringer for several years now. No one knew the power of the earth and living things better than he; no one respected those powers more. But something was…wrong about how his family had died. The winter was unnatural to begin with; it was impossible for it to have lasted so long, yet it had. No natural storm could have swept so thoroughly through the cabin to overcome two strong women so quickly, and yet it had.

And if the way they had died was not natural, perhaps Jareth need not obey the natural laws.

He thought of blue tigers, and their powers, and that the one thing he knew for certain was that life always came after death.

Jareth heard the crunching of snow and looked up. The men were bringing out Taya now. They had tried to cover her, but the body was clearly that of a woman, and too short to be Annu’s.

“Wait,” he said, getting clumsily to his feet. The blanket and cup of hot tea fell to the snow.

“Jareth,” said Altan in a worried voice.

Jareth ignored him, moving toward the body of his wife. He touched her cold face, and reached around her slender neck to remove the pouch she always wore. He slipped it around his own neck, tucking it carefully inside his many layers of clothing with hands that did not tremble.

Don’t leave me, he had cried the night they had first loved.

Never, she had answered with a kiss.

“Now you may take her,” he said. The men looked surprised at how steady his voice was. Jareth turned and went back into his house. He pawed through the piled white matter like a fox, searching single-mindedly for what he wanted.

“Jareth, please, come away from there. Come stay with me, let me take care of you.”

Altan’s voice was like the buzzing of a fly to Jareth; noisy, irritating, and ignorable. He grunted with satisfaction when he found it: a handful of frozen dirt, which he dropped into another, larger pouch tied to his belt. Now, he turned to Altan.

“I will come,” he said. Let the boy think him agreeable, accepting, ready to mourn and then begin the tortuous process of recovering.

For a moment, he regarded Altan, blazing the image into his brain. He remembered when the boy had been born, slipping into life next to his stillborn sister Ilta, whom his parents had buried, had mourned. He had watched Altan grow from an appealing little boy to a gawky youth to a handsome young man with an extraordinary talent. Altan had a good heart, if on occasion a sharp tongue, and Jareth loved him.

To Altan’s surprise and his own, Jareth stepped forward and embraced him with a warmth and ease he had not been able to express to his own family. Slender and delicate, a willow to Jareth’s oak, Altan tentatively returned the embrace. His head against Jareth’s shoulder, he murmured, “You are always welcome in my home, Jareth. There will always be a place for you.”

Jareth let Altan take him to his house, ate the food the boy prepared for him, and in general permitted the huskaa to think Jareth stunned, but resigned to the inevitable. It was well past the middle of the night when, reassured by the sound of regular breathing on the pallet next to him, Jareth woke and stepped quietly out of the house.

Don’t leave me.

Never.

Both Taya and the earth itself had promised this; both had broken their promises.

He was not going to grieve for his dead family. He was going to make the gods bring them—and Jareth’s other great love, his connection with the earth—back to him.

And if the gods would not oblige, he would kill them.

6

Kevla-sha-Tahmu sat easily atop the back of the great red Dragon who had once been a god to her people. The beat of his mighty wings created a wind that caressed her body and tousled her long black hair. She stroked his scales as they sailed over the jagged peaks of the northern mountains, savoring the smoothness against her hand, content to be exactly where she was.

She glanced down at her hands, long-fingered but strong and callused. Here and there were the lighter-hued scars from countless nicks and cuts. She smiled a little as she regarded them and thought of how profoundly her life had changed.

Not so very long ago, Kevla would have been more comfortable chopping vegetables, carrying water and tending to the kitchen fires than perched atop a beast out of legend. But after hardship, fear, and the agony of devastating loss, Kevla had accepted her destiny. For perhaps the first time in her brief life, she felt calm and tranquil. At peace. Free.

Idly, she glanced down, and realized where they were heading. She frowned.

“Dragon, why do we go this way?”

“You must find the others,” came the Dragon’s rumbling reply. He craned his head on his long neck to look at her. “We have sensed only one thus far, and his land lies to the north.”

Kevla closed her eyes, recalling her visionary dream. Again she saw the man who awaited their arrival, though perhaps he knew it not. Tall, fair-haired, clean-shaven. So different from Kevla’s people, with their black hair, dark eyes and brown skin. This man’s eyes were blue, and he stood on a hill covered by a white substance that seemed to resemble sand but, the Dragon had told her, was called snow. The thought of meeting this man, who seemed so strong and calm, who understood what they were both working toward, was thrilling. Kevla had borne her burdens alone for so long. She would be grateful to surrender them into his capable hands. Surely he would know what to do next.

But still…

“Is there not another route?” she asked. “We are flying directly over the Emperor’s land!”

“I am not unaware of that,” the Dragon said. A wisp of smoky annoyance rose from his nostrils. “But this is the swiftest way, and time is precious.”

So are our lives, Kevla thought. Her joy in sharing this flight with her companion ebbed, replaced by apprehension. In her heart, she knew the Dragon was right. Her dream had been tinged with urgency. Time was indeed precious. And yet…

In her two decades of life, Kevla had learned to fear many things: poverty, ridicule, the seemingly senseless laws of her people and her own potentially lethal abilities. She had learned to fear death, and killing, and the excruciating pain of losing someone she loved more than anything in the world.

And she had learned to fear the man known to her only as the Emperor.

The Emperor commanded a mighty army that would have destroyed her land, had not Kevla and the Dragon stood to help defend her people. That the Emperor possessed some kind of magic, Kevla knew; that he was bent on seeing that Kevla failed in her mission to gather the other four like her, Kevla also knew.

And that was quite enough for her to not want to fly over his country.

“Dragon,” she began again, glancing down as the mountains that had once presented an impassible barrier for her land gave way to hills and then rolling plains, “perhaps under cover of night, it is less likely that we would be seen.”

He chuckled. It sounded like the rumble of a volcano.

“Night or day, it matters not to those who have magic, as the Emperor does. We have a long way to go yet. You received the best education Arukan had to offer, but Arukan knows nothing of what lies beyond its borders.”

“And you do?” Kevla was skeptical; the Dragon had dwelt at the bottom of a volcano for five thousand years.

“This world? No. But I have known four other worlds, and the creatures in them, and I remember how long it takes to fly from north to south. The Stone Dancer is always as far from the Flame Dancer as each world allows. Think you we can find him in a single day?”

“You’re a dragon,” Kevla replied. “Can’t you?”

“A creature of magic I am, but even I can go no faster or farther than my wings can take me. Although I do not need rest or food, you do. I will go as swiftly as I may.”

Kevla sagged a little on the Dragon’s back. Somehow, she had assumed the difficult part of her journey was behind her. She had endured so much; lost so much.

As always, the Dragon sensed her mood and thoughts. “I know what you have suffered,” he said softly. “I wish I could simply carry you while you rested and recovered. I wish I could fulfill your destiny for you, but I cannot. I am a part of you, but I am not you, and this duty is yours alone.”

“I understand,” Kevla said. The burden, it would seem, was not yet to be surrendered.

Her tongue had no yearning for speech. The Dragon respected her silence, and they said nothing more until the sun began to sink slowly to their left and the sky turned deeper shades of blue and then purple.

“We will rest for the night,” the Dragon said. “I will make for as safe a place as I can, in a remote area far from the cities of this land. Before I do, I must warn you, the fact that we are in his land could well strengthen the Emperor’s powers, and it is certain he will be looking for us.”

Kevla tensed. “Then is it wise for us to land at all?”

“We must,” he replied. “You need to rest and eat and move. I will keep watch while you sleep, never fear. But you must not use any of your Dancer abilities. Magic calls to magic. If you would protect yourself while we are in his realm, quiet your mind. He’s trying to sense you, right now. I can feel it. We know he knows about you. But he may not know about the others yet. You must not be the one to inform him.”

Kevla’s heart sped up; the exact opposite of what the Dragon needed her to do. A strange bubble of mirth welled inside her. She bit it back, but she wondered if the Dragon appreciated how difficult it was to do as he had requested.

She was not to think about the man they were seeking. So instead, as the Dragon tucked his mammoth body with startling grace and headed for the earth, she deliberately thought about something else.

Kevla summoned an image that would do no harm to her or anyone if somehow the Emperor were to read her thoughts. She thought about her time as a servant in the House of Four Waters. Her mind was filled with the tasks that had occupied her days: massaging the feet of Yeshi, the great lord’s wife, cutting vegetables, carrying water from the vast caverns that never ran dry. Everyday, ordinary things.

The earth approached quickly. They left a sky crowded with stars to descend on a grassy plain. Kevla slipped off her friend’s back and her knees buckled as she hit the earth.

Her laughter surprised her. “I guess I did need to move,” she admitted, rubbing life back into her numb limbs. Her bladder was full and her belly empty, and she had to acknowledge the wisdom of her friend. She might be a powerful woman, but her body was no more and no less than human, and it had its own needs.

The Dragon had set them down near a small stream. Kevla stood for a moment, marveling at the casual ease with which this land bestowed water. In Arukan, water was more precious than gold. Her clan, the Clan of Four Waters, held much of its power because it controlled a key position at the juncture of the country’s two largest rivers. But here, the grass was green and the water flowed freely, unaware of how rare and special it seemed to her.

She knelt and splashed her face. It revived her, and made her think of her daily baths in the caverns at the House of Four Waters. She had left an Arukan where the clans had united against the Emperor’s army instead of fighting one another, where many of the old, crippling ways were being discarded. She hoped this progress would continue.

Kevla drank deeply, and refilled the waterskins her old friend Sahlik had packed for her. Her throat closed up tightly as memories washed over her, memories of the elderly head servant who had done what she could to make Kevla’s existence at the House of Four Waters bearable. Sahlik had even seen to it that Kevla and—

No. I mustn’t think of him. I don’t know the extent of the Emperor’s powers and he might sense it.

Quickly, she got to her feet and headed back to where the Dragon lay. He had stretched out to his full length, and not for the first time, Kevla marveled at him. She had feared him once. He had haunted her dreams and terrorized her, but only because she didn’t understand who and what she was. Now she did, and the Dragon seemed to her the most devoted of creatures despite his enormous bulk and powerful teeth and claws. Not to mention the sheets of flame he could breathe at a thought.

That did not frighten her, for she, too, could summon fire at will.

Kevla plopped down beside her friend and opened her pack. She reached in and pulled out a loaf of bread wrapped in cloth and inhaled the scent deeply. Her mouth watered.

“You were right,” she said, “I’m famished. It was so good of Sahlik to pack some food for me. I didn’t even think about it, and I’d—”

The words died in her throat. Curious, the Dragon inclined his massive head to see what had silenced her so abruptly.

“What is it, Kevla?” he asked.

Kevla held a wooden board. It had been painted with interlocking circles of white and black, with the overlapping areas painted gray. There was a large pouch still sitting in the pack. Her heart raced and she had difficulty breathing.

Shamizan. Sahlik had packed a Shamizan set. She had known how much Kevla and the young lord of the House of Four Waters had enjoyed playing it when they were children, and no doubt, the old woman had likely thought that a set would comfort Kevla. She was suddenly plunged back in time as she stared at the board, remembering her first encounter with the game.

“Can you play Shamizan?” he had asked.

“What is Shamizan?” His eyes lit up. For the first time since she had known him, Kevla thought that he looked like a boy her own age, not a small adult. “Oh, it’s so much fun! Let me go get my set—”

He rose and ran out of the hut, returning only a few moments later, flushed and out of breath. Kevla suspected he had run the entire way. Hardly proper behavior for a future khashim, but it was good to see him so happy.

“It’s easy to learn.”

Easy to learn, hard to stop, Kevla thought. At one point, she looked up from the board and saw the khashimu regarding her with an intent gaze. His face dissolved into delight as she ducked her head and smiled.

“You like the game, then?”

“Oh, yes, very much.”

“I am so glad. I hoped you would.”

Kevla could no longer hold the memories at bay: the memories of what they had been to one another, how they had loved…how he had died.

Even then, even when we were too young to understand it, we loved each other.

Kevla clutched the board to her breasts for a long moment. She wanted to scream, to rage, but somehow held on to sufficient sense to deny the almost overwhelming urge. They were in danger every moment they were in this land, and shrieking and shouting her grief could attract unwanted attention.

Kevla got to her feet. She hurled the wooden board as far away from her as she could, grunting with the effort. Fumbling with the drawstring, she reached into the pouch. Her shaking fingers closed on dozens of small, round, polished pieces of glass. She threw them into the distance as well, tears pouring in stony silence down her face. Then she collapsed against the strong side of the Dragon, burying her face in her hands as her shoulders shook.

He said nothing to try to comfort her; he knew well enough that nothing would. Time stretched endlessly, the pain not subsiding, the memories raw and fresh. She did not have many of them; the time a Bai-sha servant girl and the heir of the Clan could steal together was limited. Each memory was precious. Each touch, each word, from her first startled encounter with him as their eyes locked at a feast to those ecstatic yet horrifying last moments together, from their whispered conversations and dreams of dragons and shadowed other lives—

Something soft and dark as a shadow brushed her mind. Yes, that’s right. Think of your Lorekeeper. What did he tell you?

Kevla gasped. The bittersweet memories shattered like a glass goblet falling upon stone. The Emperor was in her thoughts, crawling and scratching like a mouse in the granaries, digging busily for what he wanted to know—

“Don’t let him in, Kevla!” cried the Dragon, startling her out of her stunned horror. “Think of something useless to him! Quickly, tell me how you would treat an insect sting!”

“Rub it with garlic, and then apply a white clay poultice.” The mundane information calmed her, and she felt the mental probing lessen slightly.

“Good, good. How would you prepare eusho?”

Kevla dutifully recited the elaborate steps that went into preparing the hot, bitter drink.

No! I have you. You’re in my land now.

The attack changed. The Emperor was no longer burrowing into her mind, but her heart. She clawed between her own breasts, as if she could get to her heart and keep it safe before—

“Fire!” cried the Dragon.

Still pressing her hands on her chest, Kevla envisioned her heart surrounded by walls of flame. Warmth flooded back into her being. There was a harsh, searing pain in her temples. Then suddenly, unexpectedly, she was free, and she sucked air into her lungs in a great gasp.

She sighed deeply and slumped forward. She felt the sides of the Dragon heave with relief as well.

“That was close,” he said. “We are lucky he did not expect to encounter you again so soon. He would have been better prepared.”

Kevla’s voice shook as she spoke. “I should not have thought of him.” She could not bring herself to speak the name, but knew the Dragon would know whom she meant. “I could have revealed everything he had told me. He would be so disappointed in me if he—if he were still alive.”

“I think not,” said the Dragon, in as gentle a voice as so powerful a being could manage. “I think he would be very proud of you.”

Kevla’s stomach growled. She laughed shakily, wiping at her wet face. Clearly, her body didn’t care about Emperors or Lorekeepers or love or duty, it just wanted food. Almost everything Sahlik had packed was dried and would travel well. Kevla would not need a fire to cook, and after what had happened, she wasn’t about to light one. She thought it would be like setting up a beacon.

She chewed on a strip of dried meat and washed it down with water. It tasted like sand in her mouth, but she forced herself to choke it down. The bread was a little easier, still soft and fresh. After she had eaten, she felt better; calmer, more in control. She sighed, then stood.

“Where are you going?” asked the Dragon.

“To collect the Shamizan pieces,” she replied.

“It’s dark.”

“I don’t care. It’s all I have left of him.”

“In the morning. When there is light.”

She could not argue the logic of that, although she ached to have all the pieces once again safely in their bag. It had been foolish of her to hurl them away in a fit of anger; foolish, too, to want to keep them so badly. She leaned against the Dragon’s warm, gently moving side. As the waning moon began its path across a sky crowded with stars, Kevla realized this was the first night she had spent away from her homeland. The thought was at once exciting, sorrowful, and frightening.

She had put both them and their quest in jeopardy by surrendering to her emotions. She would not make that mistake again.

She looked at the stars, her eyelids growing heavy. She would be like the stars, she thought; doing what they needed to do, shining above the world, above its cares and sorrows and trials. Kevla-sha-Tahmu flew on the back of the great red Dragon. She would do what she needed to do from that lofty perch. The earth and its pains would have no hold on her. She and the Dragon were flying north, to join with another like her, one with more experience, who could lead from now on. She knew what he looked like, had seen the blend of strength and kindness in his strong, milk-pale face.

She slept at last, and had no dreams.

7

Kevla winced as she moved stiff limbs and sat upright. Her hand came down on something wet and she jerked it back.

“What…” She looked at her hand, covered with small droplets, and realized her rhia was damp as well. “Dragon, there is water on the grass.”

As Kevla got to her feet, the Dragon too, rose and stretched, extending one leg and then the other like a gigantic cat. He chuckled slightly and Kevla blushed, embarrassed.

“I do not laugh at your ignorance, dear one, only your endearing inexperience. That is called dew. At night, water collects on the ground, and in the morning, with the heat of the day, it disappears.”

Kevla rubbed the little miracle between her fingers. Water, just manifesting on the ground like that. “Is this part of the Emperor’s magic?”

“No, it is simply how the world works here. You have just begun to experience how different things will seem to you. Arukan was cut off from others by the mountains, and unlike some lands, there was no trade with those from foreign places. Arukan doesn’t even have tales of anywhere else.”

Kevla gingerly touched her tongue to her finger. The Dragon was right—it was water. She felt her lips curve in a smile of delight.

The Dragon looked around, his golden eyes scanning the horizon. “I’m not sensing him, are you?”

Kevla’s delight vanished, much as the Dragon predicted the dew would vanish with the arrival of the sun. Her childlike enjoyment of the water that seemed to bead on every single blade of grass was forgotten as she, too, became alert. Nervously, she opened her thoughts, trying to sense the enemy in whose realm they were trespassing.

“No,” she said, aware that her voice sounded tense and heavy. “But I’m not sure what I should be trying to sense.”

His mighty head turned this way and that. His nostrils flared and a thin stream of smoke issued forth. “There is no mistaking it if you had sensed him. Nonetheless, we had best not linger.”

Kevla swallowed hard. “I suppose there isn’t time for me to gather the pieces, then.” I deserve it for being so foolish, she thought.

“Of course there is time,” he said. “And I will help you.”

Kevla reached up and hugged his neck.

Fortunately, the small glass pieces caught the early morning light and were not as difficult to find as she had feared. Still, it took time. The Dragon’s eyes were sharper than hers by far, but there was no way his mammoth claws could close over so tiny an item. He told her where to look and she picked up the pieces. Each time her fingers closed about the cool, smooth glass, she felt a pang of loss and remembered joy. It would have been sweet to abandon the pain associated with this game, but that would be to abandon the memory of the one she had loved with all her heart. And it was simply not possible for her to do that.

The sun rose higher in the sky, but at last, all of the pieces, nearly a hundred of them, were safely in the leather sack. Kevla looked longingly at the stream, wanting to step into its depths for a quick bath, but she knew they had tarried here too long as it was. Tearing off a hunk of bread to eat on the way, she climbed atop the Dragon’s back.

The two companions of Fire fell into a rhythm. During the day, the Dragon would make great progress, flying with only occasional stops so Kevla could stretch and grab a quick bite of food, and at night, they would come to earth so that she might seize a few hours of sleep. With each day that passed, Kevla wrestled with a new tumult of emotions. She was happy to be embarking on a journey; she missed the life she had known. She was calm and free, soaring above it all; she grieved for the man who had called her his soul. She looked forward to surrendering the burden of the quest to this stranger from the North; she shrank from meeting someone so alien to her.

The land changed as they traveled. Though Kevla never truly felt cold, it was easy to tell that the climate of the Emperor’s land was not that of the desert. The yellowed, grassy plains of the first night gave way to rich green meadows starred with flowers that looked to Kevla’s eyes like scattered jewels. Two nights after that, the Dragon landed in the only clearing in the midst of an uncountable number of trees.

Kevla dismounted, noticing that her feet landed on a soft carpet of discarded leaves. “I have never seen so many trees in a single place before, not even the groves.”

“The term used to describe such a large amount of trees is forest,” the Dragon explained.

Slightly dazed by the size and health of the trees—in Arukan, only fruit trees were cultivated and therefore flourished; all others were stunted, twisted things—she walked among them and touched their trunks. There were many different varieties, and their leaves were a riot of colors. Gold, red, orange, yellow—

“And I suppose you will tell me that this wonder, too, is not part of the Emperor’s magic?” she challenged the Dragon.

“No magic. Arukan is a desert country. The changes are infrequent—a rainstorm now and then, or times when it is hotter or cooler than others. Here, and in places like this, change is much more vigorous. Most places have four seasons—spring, when growth is new, summer, when growth flourishes, autumn, when there is a harvest of summer’s bounty, and winter, a time when everything lies dormant and still.”

Kevla shook her head in wonderment as she plucked a golden leaf and twirled it between her fingers. “It is hard for my head to hold all this, but my eyes do not lie.” She frowned as she mulled over something the Dragon had said.

“I can see how people would flourish in a place that has so much growth,” she said. “But this last season—this winter. It is not good, is it?”

“It’s not necessarily bad, but it is not a fruitful time. Everything goes to sleep. No crops grow, nor does fruit ripen on the tree. The animals have a difficult time finding food, as do people. Some animals fatten themselves up and sleep away the winter in a cave rather than face its harshness.”

“How does anyone survive this winter?”

“They know it is coming, and they plan for it. They harvest and store food.”

“Like we do when the men go on raids,” said Kevla.

“Exactly. Then, when the spring comes, they plant new crops, and the cycle begins again.”

Kevla smiled a little. There was something about this cycle, this sense of rhythm and steadiness, that she found comforting. Her land knew only the desert. As the Dragon had said, there were periods of flooding, cooler and warmer times, and the occasional sandstorm, but overall there was a sameness about the days and months that she only now realized was…dull.

She walked among the trees, touching the thick, soft green growth that the Dragon told her was moss, trying to reach her arms around a tree only to find that it was too big and therefore very old indeed. Some of the trees did not have leaves that turned color; instead their leaves took the form of needles and their scent was intoxicating, almost overwhelming.

“If the Arukani oilcrafters could capture this scent,” Kevla told the Dragon, bringing a branch to her nose and inhaling deeply, “their fortunes would be assured.”

That night, she dreamed. She was at a feast, in the hall of the Clan of Four Waters. Kevla had witnessed many such feasts in her life, but always before, she had sat behind the khashima she served, veiled and silent, eating only after her mistress had eaten, lifting bites of food under the veil for delicate nibbles no matter how hungry she might be.

This time, she sat in the center of the low table of dark, polished wood in a place of honor. She had no veil, and realized that this meant she was the highest-ranking female present. She reclined upon embroidered silk cushions, and knew without looking that she had her own servants sitting silently behind her. The fare was lavish—roasted meat and fowl rubbed with aromatic herbs and glazed with honey, fresh bread to sop up the juices, succulent fruits with flesh that was ripe and red, dates and olives and all manner of other delicacies.

Kevla ate and ate, laughing and talking with ease and grace, as if this was the life she had been born to live, not that of a Bai-sha child, illegitimate and unwanted. In the background she heard music, as noisy and vibrant as the feasters.

On her right was the khashim of the Clan, Tahmu-kha-Rakyn. Tall and strong, with aquiline features and curly black hair that still bore no touch of gray, he looked upon her with affection, and now and then reached to touch her face in a paternal gesture. There was an ease between them that had never existed in the waking world, and somehow Kevla knew that she was living the life she would have if Tahmu, her father, had claimed her as his daughter when she was a child.

She kept her eyes on Tahmu, because she sensed who was sitting to her left, and even in this dream state Kevla could not bear to look upon him. She felt his hand, tender and gentle, brush her hair back, felt sweet warm breath on her neck, and closed her eyes. It was a dream, but it was so precious. She never wanted to awaken.

I have forgotten much, Flame Dancer, her beloved whispered. His lips nuzzled the tender spot where earlobe joined neck. She trembled, but would not open her eyes. Tell me. Tell me—

She could deny him nothing. She never had been able to, and in this lovely dream that she yet knew was a dream, she parted her lips to tell him what he wanted to know.

Her eyes flew open in the dream as the table burst into flames. The heat and brightness caused her to cry out, to throw up her hands—

And Kevla awoke fully to feel the Dragon breathing a sheet of flame upon her. It did not hurt her, for she was flame herself. But she realized with a jolt of terror as she lowered her hands from her face what had happened.

The Emperor had violated her dreams. He had pretended to be Jashemi, her Lorekeeper, her love, and was trying to get her to reveal everything she knew.

The Dragon crouched. Kevla seized the pack and scrambled atop her friend’s back, clinging to him as he sprang into the air with more speed than she had ever experienced. Her stomach lurched and she almost lost her grip.

“We will not stop again until we are clear of the Emperor’s land,” the Dragon cried. “This attack was stronger than the ones before. One more night and he might have you.”

Kevla was furious. How dare the Emperor use her precious memories of the man she loved like that! She trembled as she clutched the Dragon, but not with fear, not this time. Instead of trying to shield her thoughts, she gathered them together and hurled them like a weapon against the faceless, nameless enemy.

You will not break me! You will not get what you want from me! And you will never, never again use my love for him against me!

She summoned fire in her mind; called it into roiling flames and aimed it directly at her attacker. To her own surprise, she felt him recoil, stumble back, withdraw overhastily from her mind.

Another tried to touch her mind now; another whose mental touch was loving and welcome. Well done, Flame Dancer, came the Dragon’s thoughts. Well done indeed. He will think twice before bothering us again.

Yet I would still rather not set foot in his lands again, Kevla thought, finding this method of communication easier with the wind whipping her hair and howling around her ears. The Emperor’s realm had seemed so pleasant, so peaceful, yet now she shuddered at the thought of her bare feet on the soil, of searching for the colored stones that represented Jashemi.

As you wish, the Dragon replied in her mind. But if you decide otherwise, I will set down.

No, and her own vehemence shocked her. Not if I were dying.

Wisely, the Dragon did not reply. Kevla settled down on his back, stretching her whole body down on the space between the spinal ridges, and clasped him.

While she did not sleep, the rest of the trip took on a dreamy, timeless air. The winds died down and eventually only a gentle breeze caressed her body and played with her hair. The Dragon flew steadily, his wings beating a soothing rhythm, and Kevla permitted her mind to drift.

“Kevla,” said the Dragon. “Look down.”

Kevla blinked and yawned, aware that the sun was starting to clear the horizon. She obeyed the Dragon’s request, glanced sleepily down—and gasped. The world beneath her was white. The white expanse stretched as far as she could see. The only relief came in the form of dark patches of forest.

“Snow!” she cried, recalling the Dragon telling her about this water that had turned so cold it had become a new substance entirely. “It must be snow!” Kevla gazed in delight as the rosy colors of dawn transformed the world beneath her.

“It’s so beautiful,” she breathed. “I’ve never seen anything like it. No, wait,” she corrected herself. “This reminds me of some stones I saw once in the market. They were white and solid, but caught the light as this does when held just so. Oh, Dragon, what is that?”

She pointed at something that looked like a silver snake twining through the vast expanse of white.

“I would say it is a river, but—”

“It is,” the Dragon said, “but it is frozen solid. It is now almost as hard as the stone you mentioned.”

“This is a marvel,” breathed Kevla. “And look, there are so many trees! But—their leaves are all gone. They look like skeletons,” she said, her voice dropping on the last word.

She was silent for a minute, drinking it all in. The more she saw of the landscape unfolding beneath her, the more uneasy she became. She thought again of the man she had come here to find. What would he be like? How would she find common ground with someone so inherently different from all she had known?

“I wonder what kind of people live in such a place?” she murmured. “People who are aware of these seasons, and plan for them. People who know heat and cold and rain and snow, and not the sand and heat and sameness of the desert.”

The Dragon chuckled, and folded his wings slightly. “You’re about to find out,” he said, and dove.

The harsh crimson glow that bathed the Emperor’s face was fading, replaced by the gentle orange light from the crackling fire. The advisor to the Emperor glanced from his lord to the black-clad figure who stood behind the Emperor. Gloved hands dug into the Emperor’s shoulders for a moment, then released their grasp.

The advisor shrank back as his lord emerged from his trance. After two such definitive and humiliating setbacks, he was convinced that the Emperor would be in a black mood.

Instead, he sighed heavily and reached for a goblet of wine with a hand that trembled. With the other, he grasped the hovering object that had enabled him to have such access to the Flame Dancer. At once, the scarlet object, round at its base and tapered at the tip like the drop of blood it so resembled, settled into his hand, all its magic now quiescent. At the Emperor’s feet, as ever, crouched the ki-lyn. Was it the advisor’s imagination, or did the beautiful, captive beast look pleased?

“That,” said the Emperor heavily, running his thumb absently over the smooth red surface of the object, “was not the success I had envisioned.” Carefully, he replaced the goblet on the table next to him.

“Regretful, my lord,” the advisor said, his gaze flickering from the Emperor’s face to where that of the Mage should have been…if he’d had one.

“I thought I had the chance, when she was here, but…” His voice trailed off and he dangled the fingers of his free hand to stroke the ki-lyn. It tried to duck from his touch, but when the chain about its elegant neck prevented the movement, it endured the caressing.

“You are not yet as familiar with the tool you are using as you might be, Your Excellency,” said the Mage in the cold voice that made the advisor’s skin crawl. “Give it time.”

“I am certain that my lord has other plans,” lied the advisor.

“You would be correct, my old friend,” said the Emperor calmly. “She has gone beyond my direct influence now, that much is true. But I am not without my servants in other lands. Servants who crave what I have to offer, whose minds are molded to my way of thinking.” He looked at his advisor beneath lowered lashes and suddenly laughed. “Come, you expect me to have revealed everything?”

“If I may speak frankly—yes, my liege,” replied the advisor somewhat testily. “I am after all your advisor. How may I advise you properly if you do not tell me everything?”

The look was no longer surreptitious. The Emperor stared at him boldly, and inwardly, the advisor quailed. But he stood firm. He did not dare show signs of weakness, not to this ultimate predator. The Emperor respected only strength and power.

“Those who know too much could pose a threat,” the Emperor said, his voice deceptively mild. “But trust me, old friend.” He dropped his gaze to the object the Mage called the Tenacru, staring at his reflection in the glossy surface as if entranced by it.

“I have allies you cannot imagine. Allies that are bound to me by the most primal of emotions—love and grief. Some allies that don’t even know they are allies.”

His lips curved in a smile that chilled the advisor. For a moment, the advisor’s gaze flickered to the large, sensitive eyes of the imprisoned ki-lyn, and he read in those limpid depths a reflection of his own fear.

8

The white surface seemed to surge to meet them. Despite her trust in the mighty creature, Kevla found her fingers clutching a spiny ridge on the Dragon’s back. She need not have worried; the Dragon came to earth as softly as a feather falling, his landing muffled by this white stuff called snow.

The Dragon had warned her that the snow was cold to the touch, but Kevla knew that it would not chill her, as it would others. She was always warm, no matter where she was or what she was wearing. It was something that had been granted to her with the onset of her power. Still, she was not prepared for the sensation of the snow on her skin as she slid off the Dragon’s back.

It was indeed cold, and—“It’s wet!” she yelped accusingly at the Dragon. He threw back his enormous head and laughed. “You did that deliberately!” She was thigh-deep in the white wetness, and the more she tried to brush it off, the wetter it—and she—became.

“No, I did not do it deliberately,” the Dragon chuckled. “But I confess, it’s amusing to watch you.”

She eyed him, not pacified by his comment. “It’s fine for you, it barely covers your toes. How am I to walk in this? I thought it was like sand, but instead it turns to water.”

Water. “I know the people here suffer under this winter you speak of, but to me they seem rich. To have this much water simply lying on the fields and hillside….” Her voice trailed off as she took in the stark beauty. “A khashim would lead many a raid for this treasure.”

“What is valuable depends on the time and place,” the Dragon said. “Ten thousand gold coins mean nothing to a man starving alone in the wilderness. And water covering every surface does not mean much when everything it covers is dead. The people of this land may never thirst, Kevla, but it is likely that they are cold and hungry.”

Kevla was becoming used to the heavy wetness of the snow, and now she noticed something else: the profound silence. She had been slogging through the white stuff, her rhia becoming increasingly soaked and heavy, but now she paused, listening. There were no bird calls. The wind did not stir the branches.

“It’s so quiet,” she said, her voice dropping to a whisper, reluctant to thrust the sound of speech upon this silence. She gasped. “My breath—I can see it!”

“So now you can breathe smoke, too,” the Dragon joked. She smiled at him, grateful for the little jest.

The snow bowed down the still-green, needled trees and limned every branch of the skeleton trees. As she stood observing, her breath coming in small white puffs, she felt small, cool pricks on her skin. She looked up, and as the snow kissed her face, she realized that it came from the sky, like the rare rain in Arukan. Kevla bent and scooped up a handful, tasting it, feeling it dissolve on her tongue. She stood in the falling snow, taking in the bowed trees, the dim light and the shadows of the deep forest. The silence seemed to swallow her voice when she spoke.

“I don’t like it here, Dragon, plentiful water or no. I want to find the other Dancer quickly and move on.”

“That may be harder than you think,” the Dragon said. “You were able to sense that he was in the North, but thus far, that is all we know. We are in the North, Kevla, and we are discovering that it is a large place indeed.”

Her spirits sank even lower. “How are we to find him, then?”

“Try to remember, Kevla.” He looked at her intently. “You’ve done this before. The strongest bonds are between a Dancer, her Lorekeeper, and her Companion animal, because they form a complete whole. But all the Dancers have a connection with one another. Jashemi would have been able to sense the Stone Dancer, to feel him more strongly because he was a Lorekeeper. Such was his duty. But you can do some of that yourself, as can I. You were quite good at it once. Keep trusting in your ability to sense him. Practice reaching out to him. Listen when a little voice says, go this way. The Dancers are unique in this world. Their abilities would be known. Someone will be able to point us in the right direction.”

The Dragon’s reassurance heartened her somewhat, but even so, the enormity of the task was intimidating. She leaned against a tree trunk. Absently she ran her hands over its white bark with curly, rough patches of a darker hue.

“This is not Arukan, with its open stretches of desert,” she said. “This is a land with dark forests and hidden places. We will not be able to learn much from the air, Dragon, and if this forest is any indication, you are too large to walk between the trees.”

He narrowed his golden eyes. “Let us fly, and see what we can see, and feel what we can feel, before you give up.”

Her eyes flashed. “I’m not giving up!”

“Good. Because for a moment there, it certainly sounded as if you had.”

“You know me better than that.”

His scrutinizing gaze softened. “Indeed I do,” he said. “Come. Climb aboard my back, and let us find the people who dwell in such a harsh place.”

She was relieved to leave the ground, to be safely in the air once again, away from the wet snow and the dim forest and the eerie silence. Seated atop the Dragon, Kevla wrung out the sodden rhia and with a thought, dried it. They continued on, no longer flying directly north this time. The Dragon flew in a search pattern, lower to the ground, so that they had every opportunity of finding places where people might dwell. Kevla tried to extend her thoughts, to sense the Stone Dancer as the Dragon had told her she could, but all she could feel was an oncoming headache from concentrating so hard.

She abandoned the attempt and concentrated on scouring the landscape that unfurled beneath her. She realized that she didn’t even know what they were looking for.

“What kind of dwellings should we be watching for?”

“What is the greatest resource here?” replied the Dragon, answering one question with another.

“Snow,” she joked, then added more seriously, “trees. They probably build their shelter out of trees.” Now that she thought about it, she supposed that wood would make an adequate building material, though no one in Arukan had ever done so. No one was rich enough to do so. Not even the Clan of Four Waters could afford to throw away gold on wooden housing when stone was more plentiful and easy to quarry.

“And if they make their homes out of trees,” she continued, working it out in her mind, “we should look for clearings where it appears that trees have been harvested.”

The Dragon lowered his right wing and swerved. “I think I saw such a clearing a few leagues to the east.”

They were flying over open land now, away from the forests and rivers. Within a few moments, Kevla saw small dwellings. As she had surmised, they appeared to be made of wood.

“There,” she cried, pointing. “Over there. To your left.”

“I see them,” the Dragon replied. “Let us hope they are in a mood to welcome visitors.”

The houses were clustered together at the edge of the forest, but the Dragon had been right—there was a large clearing where several small lumps bulged beneath the snow. Probably the trunks of the mighty trees, felled to create the shelters, thought Kevla. She was both nervous and excited as she slid from the Dragon’s back into the snow. But as soon as she approached the first house, she felt hope die inside her.

The houses were constructed of logs from the white, slender, straight trees Kevla had observed earlier. The timbers had been cut and arranged atop one another so that they interlocked well, and what chinks remained had been stuffed with some kind of daubing material. But now that she was closer, she could see what she hadn’t been able to see from the air—that the roofs, covered with the bark of the slender white trees and what appeared to be chunks of sod, were in great need of repair. In some areas, they had collapsed.

No one had dwelt in these houses for a long time. Apprehension building inside her, Kevla drew nearer. The doors, heavy wooden things that bore intricate carvings, had either been left open or had come off completely. Some still had metal locks attached to them. Over time, the snow had intruded inside, an unwelcome guest, to almost completely fill the space.

Kevla stepped inside and looked around. The snow had drifted deep and high, covering everything. The only light came from the open door and through the slats of the shutters that covered a single, small window. Here and there, shapes swelled, enveloped by snow. Kevla brushed snow from one such lump, her hands finding the hard curve of a small wooden stool. The walls were bare, and the entire place spoke of abandonment and desertion.

“Well?” the Dragon asked as she emerged.

“The houses are filled with snow. Perhaps people tired of the harshness of…of winter and traveled south, where it is not so bitter.”

“A possibility,” agreed the Dragon. “Did you find anything inside?”

Kevla inhaled swiftly. “Yes. Furniture,” she said softly as the full impact of the realization swept through her. “They left their furniture.”

She and the Dragon regarded each other. The unspoken question hung between them: If these people had left of their own accord, wouldn’t they have taken their furnishings with them?

Kevla knew what she had to do. Dreading what she now suspected she’d find, she reentered the house.

She concentrated on the snow piled so thickly and gave a mental command. Like water slowly receding from the bank of the NurRiver, the snow obeyed her, melting and running in warmed rivulets over her feet and out the door. And slowly, inexorably, the horror was revealed to Kevla’s gaze.

Some of the lumps were indeed furniture, like the stool she had touched. But the others…

“Kevla, what do you see?” asked the Dragon.

“They…they didn’t leave,” she said in a trembling voice. “They’re still here.”

Six of them sprawled on the bedding and floor. Two men, three women, and one child, bodies emerging from the blanket of snow that had mercifully hidden them. Kevla’s first thought was that somehow they had frozen to death, but as the snow melted, it began to turn red. Blood once frozen began to thaw and drip from wounds that gaped like open mouths. As Kevla stared, unable to tear her gaze away, she saw that the corpse of one of the women had been hacked nearly in two.

She backed out the door quickly, almost running into the Dragon. She looked up at him, knowing her face told him more than her words would.

“Marauders found them,” Kevla rasped. “They were—they were killed.”

“When the land does not provide enough to eat,” the Dragon said in a low voice, “some take what they need from others. By any means they can.” He craned his neck and looked around. “There are other lumps in the snow out here as well. More victims, I would think.”

Kevla looked where he had indicated and shuddered. “Are the men who did this still in the area?” Kevla asked. She was torn between apprehension and a furious desire to exact revenge for the brutality she had witnessed.

The Dragon sniffed the air. “No living flesh is nearby.” He frowned. “I have seen no tracks, either. Not so much as a squirrel’s.”

Kevla was too agitated to ask what a squirrel might be. She tried to calm herself, pressing her hands to her temples and breathing slowly and deeply.

“If the Stone Dancer was ever here, he is not now. I think—I think I would know if any of the other Dancers were dead.”

“You and I would not be here if any of the others were dead,” said the Dragon. “The Shadow comes with haste, once a champion of the world has fallen.”

Kevla looked at her friend. “The bodies are thawing,” she said, surprised at how calm she sounded. “We need to burn them.”

The Dragon shook his head. “We don’t have time,” he said. “We must press on.”

“No,” Kevla said quietly. “They deserve to have their remains respected. I would imagine there are predators in these woods, similar to the desert dogs or simmars. I won’t have these people gnawed on like—” A wave of nausea washed over her, but she forced it back. “Will you help me or must I do this by myself?”

The Dragon sighed. “Let us be about it quickly, then.”

The Dragon had been right. When Kevla melted the snow in the clearing, several more victims were revealed. She went into each house, melting the snow she found within. Every dwelling had its share of corpses. Her heart breaking for them, she gathered pieces of furniture and piled them in the center of the clearing. The Dragon removed the roofs from the little houses, gently brought forth the butchered bodies and placed them on the pyre. As she worked, Kevla realized that there was at least some comfort to be taken. She was in the right place to find the Stone Dancer, for each body that was piled atop the pyre had milky pale skin and tresses as yellow as the desert sand of Arukan.

“So many,” Kevla murmured. “They must have killed everyone in the village.”

She walked toward the pyre and gazed at the broken bodies with compassion. “This is probably not your rite for the dead,” she said aloud, as if they could somehow hear her. “But I won’t leave you for carrion. May the winds carry you to whatever gods you believe in.”

She closed her eyes, extended her hands, and thought: Burn.

With a whumph, the pyre exploded into flames. For a moment, Kevla watched the crackling, curling fire, recalling how she had lit a similar pyre not so long ago for her own people, after the battle with the Emperor.

“You have done what you needed to do here. We must go.”

She nodded, knowing the Dragon was right, but for a moment unable to stop staring at the conflagration. The often-pleasant scent of burning wood was becoming tainted with the stench of flesh as the bodies began to be consumed. Kevla deliberately turned away, and once again climbed atop the Dragon’s back.

They found nothing else the rest of the day, and the night seemed to come on more quickly than usual. When Kevla commented on this, the Dragon said, “We are continuing to travel north, and it is winter. The sun does not shine strongly now, and night lasts many hours. In some places it lasts for months.”

As he came to earth, the sun slipped below the horizon. Kevla slid off into the snow and realized that there was no place that was not piled high with the stuff.

“I cannot sleep on wet snow,” she said, hearing how petulant her voice sounded in her own ears.

“The trees keep the snow from falling on the earth in the forests,” the Dragon said. “You can pile up some branches and make yourself quite a comfortable bed.”

Her rhia was again soaked. The slender straps of leather that served her for sandals were utterly insufficient to the task of walking through the drifts. She stared at him, her arms folded tightly across her breasts, knowing that she looked like a lost child. It was not altogether inappropriate; after what she had experienced, she felt like one. It was a strange feeling. She had hardly had a sheltered childhood, calling for men to come and pay to visit her mother’s bed, and she had negotiated the tricky intricacies of Clan politics successfully for many years. But this—the combination of being away from everything she knew, the strange, sinister aspect of this snow-draped land, and the corpses she had seen had unnerved her, and for the first time in a long time, she felt vulnerable. The strength of will that had enabled her to build a pyre and burn the bodies had long since ebbed. She was physically exhausted, emotionally drained, and hungry. Again she wished they would find the Stone Dancer quickly, so that she could step back into the supportive role she was more comfortable with.

The Dragon trundled over to some trees, snapped off huge branches as if they were twigs, and shook them free of their blankets of snow. He then cleared an area and arranged the branches. Curling himself around the pile, he said, “Come then, little one. Sleep next to me.”

The branches were hard and their needles jabbed her, but Kevla uttered no word of complaint. She would rather sleep next to her companion on a pile of stones than in a soft down bed in the ominous forest.

Now that they were out of the Emperor’s demesne, Kevla felt it safe to light a fire. It sprang to cheerful life, burning brightly despite the wetness of the wood, and Kevla found comfort in its yellow-orange flames.

She could do more than summon flame; she could scry in it, or use it to transport her from her fire to that of another’s. A thought occurred to her.

“I’m going to see if I can locate the Dancer.” If she could see him, she could speak to him—and find him.

“Excellent idea,” rumbled the Dragon, leaning his head in for a better view.

Kevla gazed into the fire, letting her gaze soften. “Show me the Stone Dancer,” she said.

Nothing. The fire did not change. Disappointment knifed through Kevla. Somehow, she had simply assumed she would be able to locate him.

“He may not have built a fire yet,” the Dragon pointed out.

“It’s getting dark,” Kevla retorted, frustration making her words sharper than she had intended. “Surely there is a fire in his home by now.”

“And he may simply not be beside it,” the Dragon continued reasonably. “Your powers are great, Flame Dancer, and they will only increase as you perfect them. But even they have limits.”

Kevla sighed and rubbed at eyes that had seen too much today. “You speak sense, Dragon. But still, I had hoped…”

He bent down and brushed his chin against the top of her head in as gentle a nuzzle as he could manage. “Keep hoping.”

The next day, they saw more clearings. Kevla and the Dragon both tried to extend their senses, and listen for the “little voice” of which the Dragon had spoken. At first, she sensed nothing, only the stillness and emptiness of winter. But when they flew over a clearing which boasted a small cluster of houses, something inside Kevla jumped. Her heart sped up as she remembered what she had beheld the last time they had seen such a falsely pleasant image. She was not happy about the prospect of descending and investigating this village, but somehow she knew that they needed to try.

“I think we should go down.”

“Do you sense the Stone Dancer?” the Dragon asked.

“I’m not sure what I’m sensing. This is all still so new to me. But something is telling me we need to land here.”

“That’s enough for me,” the Dragon said. As the Dragon searched for a place to land, Kevla noticed there was something else in one of the smaller clearings, on the top of a hill. Several somethings, in fact; dark and unrecognizable from this height, standing in a row and moving slightly in the wind. A faint sound reached her ears as the Dragon glided over the hill to land in another open area not far from the ones that contained the houses.

“You will have to approach on your own, Kevla,” the Dragon said as he landed on the cushioning snow. “I cannot make it easily through the forest.”

She nodded her understanding. “Perhaps it’s just as well. You would probably terrify them. Wait until I call for you.”

Kevla slid off him into knee-deep snow. At once, her rhia was soaked. Not for the first time, she wondered how people managed to travel at all in the substance. Resignedly she slogged through the white stuff, thinking that if she had to do this often her legs would become powerful with muscle.

The strange, but not unpleasant, noise increased as she ascended. It sounded like music, but if it was, then it was made by no instrument she had ever heard and the notes seemed to her ear completely random. She stumbled more than once, going down in the fluffy whiteness and clambering to her feet again. By the time she crested the hill, she was panting, her eyes down at her feet to make sure she didn’t slip.

When she reached the top, Kevla glanced up. She uttered a startled cry and almost fell again. She was staring at corpses suspended from pikes stuck in the ground, twisting slowly in the wind.

The relief that washed through her as she realized that the “corpses” were only slaughtered animals made her legs feel weak. The blood that had dripped when the meat was still fresh had frozen into small, scarlet droplets. The flesh was gray and likely quite hard to the touch now.

Kevla was not unfamiliar with such a practice. She realized that the people here needed to rely on the wind to dry the meat, not the heat of the sun. She now also saw what had made the bright, singing sound—strips of metal hung together. When the wind blew, the metal pieces were jostled against one another, and the pleasant sound was produced. It was probably to keep animals away.

She stared a moment longer at the swinging, musical metal and frowned. Helpful to keep animals away, yes, but surely a people as hungry as these snow-people must be would not trust to that alone. They probably had someone watching—

Kevla whirled around.

9

There were at least two dozen of them, and they looked like no other people Kevla had ever seen. Tall and swaddled so thoroughly in fur that they first seemed to be part animal, every one of them carried something that was clearly intended to be used as a weapon. They wore head coverings and strange footgear—poles and wide shoes that seemed to be strapped to their feet. Like the corpses, these people all had pale faces and yellow hair. Those white faces now wore expressions of open hostility. Even as Kevla stood wondering what to do next, they closed in and formed a circle around her. Her eyes searched the crowd, hoping to find the familiar face of the Stone Dancer.

Kevla was not alarmed, although she was outnumbered several to one. An array of torches and wood-and-metal farm tools would be no match for her powers. There were a few archers among them, arrows nocked and ready to fly, and a handful of swords. Even those were no true threat, not to her.

I could destroy them with a thought. But she was not here to fight them.

Kevla drew herself upright and looked at them calmly. “I am Kevla-sha-Tahmu,” she said. “I have come from the land of Arukan in search of the man known as the Stone Dancer.”

The wall of strangers continued to clutch their weapons. It was as though she had not spoken. She tried again. “I am no threat to you,” she said. “But I must find this man.”

Again, there was no reaction, other than a shuffling of feet and a few exchanged glances. Kevla looked around, trying to find the group’s khashim.

“Take her,” came a woman’s voice. “But don’t harm her.”

The circle began to close in on Kevla. She tensed. She had no desire to hurt these people, but she could not permit them to take her captive. Perhaps a demonstration of what she was capable of—

“Burn!” she cried, and immediately the trees closest to her burst into flame.

The pale-skinned people recoiled and cried out. Some fell to their knees. Others turned and fled, the peculiar things on their feet enabling them to speed over the top of the snow instead of trudging through it. But one woman did not flee. Instead, she called after the others, “Would you abandon weeks of food so easily, you cowards?”

A woman stands her ground in front of such a display of power, Kevla thought. The words of the Dragon floated back to her: The people of this land may never thirst, Kevla, but it is likely that they are cold and hungry.

Apparently the woman’s argument was a compelling one, for those who had started to run halted and turned, obeying the implied order of this fair-haired woman who clutched a scythe and trembled visibly and who yet did not flee.

Kevla thought the woman’s courage deserved acknowledgement. She bowed, waved her hand, and at once, the fires scorching the trees were extinguished.

“You are very brave,” Kevla said impulsively to the woman. The stranger’s blue eyes narrowed.

“You make the trees burn to frighten us, taaskal. Are you now attempting to enchant me as well?”

Kevla stared. The woman’s response made no sense at all, unless—A troubling thought struck her. Keeping her eyes on the woman with the scythe, Kevla sent a thought to the Dragon.

Dragon, what is going on?

They do not understand you, he replied.

Kevla’s eyes widened. Somehow, this had not occurred to her. But we must speak with them!

I can speak their tongue. Although if they are frightened of you, they will be utterly terrified of me.

Still, you had better join me. How do you know their language? Kevla asked, her eyes never leaving the woman.

She felt the Dragon gather himself to fly the short distance as he answered her. The Dancers and their Companions would have a hard time of it indeed if they were not able to communicate. You already comprehend this language. Soon, you will understand how to speak it.

Kevla heard the familiar sound of the beating of powerful wings. Her would-be captors looked up and, if such a thing were possible, went even paler. Some of them moaned, soft and low, and fell to their knees in the snow. But they did not flee this time. Either they were terrified past action or the woman’s courage inspired—or shamed—them into staying. The Dragon flattened several trees as he landed, and the earth trembled from the impact. Quickly, Kevla went to him and stroked him, letting the villagers know that he answered to her.

“So, what would you have me say to them?” The Dragon turned his piercing golden gaze on the crowd. “They do look rather distressed.”

Kevla chose the words carefully. “Give them honorable greetings. Tell them I am the Flame Dancer and that you and I come as friends, seeking one who will know us.”

The Dragon relayed the information, and again Kevla frowned. She understood everything the Dragon had said, yet somehow she knew he had not spoken in her native tongue.

This time, it was clear to Kevla that the villagers understood. The Dragon’s greeting, however, did not seem to put them at ease.

“Monster of the sky,” the woman with the scythe said in a deep voice, “we do not fear you or the taaskal who commands you. Leave our land and our food, or we will fight.”

Kevla wondered what a taaskal was and continued to admire their courage.

“Monster of the sky, indeed,” the Dragon muttered to Kevla. “These Northern folk are quite rude.”

“They’re afraid,” Kevla said compassionately. “Tell them, their bravery brings them honor, and we are no threat to them. We don’t want their food. We have come to this land in search of a man who might be known to them as the Stone Dancer.”

Again, the Dragon spoke for both of them. The woman listened, but shook her head. “That name means nothing to us.” She jerked her yellow head in Kevla’s direction. “Why does she not speak to us?”

“Tell them I cannot, though I understand the conversation.” Kevla hoped that the Dragon was right, that soon she would be able to speak this strange language as easily as he seemed to. This method of communication would grow tiresome quickly. “Tell them I will learn their language. They will find us helpful,” she added. “As they have noticed, you are able to take to the skies. You can assist their men in the hunt.”

The Dragon repeated everything she had said. For some reason, it was the wrong thing to say. The woman gripped her scythe more tightly. “We need no assistance.”

It was then that Kevla realized just how few men there actually were in the crowd. Most of the adults were women, all as grim-faced as this one who apparently led them. There were two or three old men, whose weapons appeared to be as much for support as defense, and a few boys with their first growth of beard.

“The men are gone,” Kevla murmured to the Dragon. “Otherwise they would be here, to fight the threat they think we pose.”

“Perhaps the men from this village were the ones who attacked the other homes we saw earlier,” said the Dragon.

It was an awful thing to contemplate, but Kevla knew it needed to be considered.

“It is possible,” she agreed, “but it is equally possible that their men are victims of marauders as well.”

Kevla hesitated. Her instinct was to aid them, but if they were responsible for the massacre she had seen earlier…

I will not condemn them without being certain of their guilt, she thought fiercely. “Can you find something for them to eat?”

“I can try,” the Dragon answered. “Although I have not noticed an overabundance of animal life in this land.”

“I’ll stay here. I want to show them what I can do—how I can help them. Maybe if we demonstrate that we have good intentions, they will believe us.”

“As you wish.” The Dragon gathered himself and sprang into the sky. The villagers watched him, mouths hanging open. When he had disappeared from view, they again turned their attention to her. She shifted uncomfortably under their scrutiny, and for several long moments, no one spoke.

Suddenly a cry of fury shattered the air. Out of the corner of her eye Kevla saw a blur of movement. A boy charged at her, screaming and brandishing a torch.

“Olar, no!” cried the head woman.

Reacting instinctively, Kevla gestured. The orange-red flame at the top of the torch blazed higher and the youth, shocked, dropped it. He clutched his hands, checking to see that they were undamaged. The fire sizzled and died in the snow.

Kevla was frustrated. She didn’t want to frighten these people further, she wanted to win their trust. She stepped forward and picked up the torch the youth had dropped.

“Burn,” she said.

The sodden torch flickered to life and an instant later blazed as strongly as if it were good, dry wood. Slowly, smiling, Kevla stepped toward the boy who had attacked her and extended the torch.

She locked gazes with the youth. He was so very young, and his blue eyes were wide with terror. Even though she knew he couldn’t understand her, she said softly, “It’s all right. Take the fire.”

Cautiously, the boy reached out a trembling hand and took the torch from her. Their fingers brushed and he hissed, startled. She kept the smile on her face, and as she hoped, he relaxed ever so slightly.

Kevla looked up from the boy’s face to discover the head woman watching her intently, blue eyes shrewd.

They think the fire’s a threat, even though I gave it to the boy, Kevla realized. What else could she do to win their trust? How could she use her skills in a positive way that would not frighten them? If only the Stone Dancer were here! He knew these people, he could…

Stone.

Kevla squatted and began to paw through the snow. The villagers murmured to themselves but made no move to stop her.

They probably think I’m mad, thought Kevla. There are moments when I wonder that myself.

At last, she found what she was searching for—a large stone, bigger than her head and partially buried in the frozen earth. Kevla cleared the snow away from it, so that the villagers could see it easily. She pointed at the rock and motioned them forward. Not surprisingly, no one moved.

Kevla placed her hands on the rough surface, hoping that after such an obvious display that she would be able to execute her idea. She had only recently come into her powers and she did not know their limits. With luck, this would work.

Heat, she thought.

Immediately the large rock began to grow hot. Within five heartbeats Kevla could see the waves of heat distorting the air around it. She made a sound of pleasure and held her hands out to the rock as she might to a fire. To make sure they understood and did not hurt themselves, she tossed some snow on the rock. It hissed and melted at once.

Kevla stepped away from the stone and waved them to approach. The woman was the first to do so, stepping forward hesitantly on her strange footgear and reaching her hands out to the rock. Her lips curved in a slow smile. It did something remarkable to her face, which suddenly softened and seemed to lose many hard years. She waved another, younger woman forward who repeated her gestures. They spoke in voices so soft that Kevla couldn’t hear them.

The woman turned to regard Kevla. Kevla returned the gaze, although she wanted to duck her head. She had spent most of her life as a servant who had not dared to be so impertinent as to look an uhlala straight in the eye, but Kevla sensed that to break the gaze now would be unwise, possibly even dangerous. Kevla had never felt as seen as she did now.

“The sky-monster said you could understand us. Is this so, fire-woman?”

Kevla nodded.

“You have shown us you can make warmth that does not harm. Are you offering to aid us?”

Again, Kevla nodded.

“Taaskali are a dangerous lot, but you have skills that we need.” She glanced up at the gray sky. “When winter lasts forever, we must take aid where we may. Even from a taaskal. I do not know where your monster has gone, but if you wish to come to our village, you would be welcomed.”

Kevla was pleased, but she pointed up at the sky.

“He is returning?”

Kevla nodded.

“Then we will wait.”

And wait they did, all of them. One by one, at first, then in small groups, the villagers came forward to warm themselves by the heated stone. Their fear seemed to dissipate as they extended wrapped hands to the welcome heat Kevla had provided. Kevla regarded them, wondering if they were victims or perpetrators.

At length she heard the familiar sound of the Dragon’s wings as he approached. In his forepaws, the Dragon clutched two large animals. They were covered in brown fur, dotted now with blood, and faintly resembled liahs, save that their horns branched into several smaller ones and their fur was thick and shaggy. More murmurings, but this time there was a definite note of appreciation in the sound. The Dragon landed and dropped the limp bodies to the earth.

“Dragon, you are wonderful!” Kevla exclaimed. He inclined his head modestly. “Tell them that these are gifts.”

The Dragon obliged. The woman turned again to regard Kevla, smiling. “We will take a Fire Maiden over an Ice Maiden gladly,” she said, “and rejoice to have a taaskal with us and not against us.”

Kevla smiled in return, relieved. At least now, she had begun to win their trust. She wondered at the term “ice maiden” and had opened her mouth to have the Dragon inquire about that term and taaskal when the older woman spoke.

“I am Gelsan Tulari, and I am head woman of Arrun Woods. You may stay with me until you can speak our tongue.”

“Thank you,” Kevla said.

“The Flame Dancer is grateful for your hospitality,” the Dragon translated.

The young woman Gelsan had spoken with a moment ago now stepped forward. She was an attractive girl, with wide blue eyes, ruddy cheeks, and a soft flower-bud mouth. Thick ringlets of golden hair peeped beneath her fur hat.

“I am Mylikki, Gelsan’s daughter,” she said. “It would be my honor to show you our village. Come with us.”

The group headed back down the hill. Kevla again noticed the strange items strapped to their feet. Some of them had long, flat poles tied to their boots. Others had wide circles that looked to be made out of curved branches interlaced with animal sinew. She made her way downward carefully, stepping sideways to avoid slipping as much as possible. Mylikki slid quickly down the hill on the poles, making a wide, graceful turn to wait for Kevla.

“I hope you will forgive us, especially Olar,” Mylikki said. As Mylikki spoke, Kevla realized that she was starting to grasp some of the stranger words. It was as if the learning was taking place inside her, somehow. “We were not always so unwelcoming to strangers. The killer winter has been hard on us. But ever since the bayinba started—”

Raids, Kevla thought, translating the word in her mind. The word bayinba means “raids.”

“—we have, unfortunately, had good cause to fear strangers.”

The people of Arrun Woods were victims, then, not attackers. Though sorry for their losses, Kevla was pleased to confirm that she was not aiding murderers. Mylikki had said something else, though, that confused Kevla, and she didn’t think it was her not understanding the word. She tapped Mylikki’s shoulder and the other girl looked at her questioningly.

Kevla repeated a word Mylikki had said, cautiously wrapping her mouth around the unfamiliar term. She had apparently gotten it right, for Mylikki said, “Killer? The killer winter? Oh…you don’t know. You must be from a far land indeed.”

Mylikki looked up at the gray sky. “Winter usually only lasts for a few months, even in the most northerly parts of Lamal. Then of course spring comes. But this year, something happened. Something went wrong. Winter never went away.”

She looked at Kevla gravely. “We have had nothing but winter for over a year.”

10

Kevla stared at Mylikki. No wonder there were so few animals left, and some of the people had begun behaving like animals themselves. If only she could talk to them! Kevla had so many questions. She put a sympathetic hand on Mylikki’s shoulder as they made their way toward the houses in the clearing.

The Dragon had made room for himself, Kevla saw, by uprooting several trees and placing them in a pile. The villagers were chattering happily and pointing to the pile; clearly they appreciated not having to cut the wood. Looking rather pleased with himself, the Dragon had settled down, folding his forepaws like a granary cat, and was lowering his head to talk to the villagers.

Kevla made a small, amused noise. “The people of Lamal are great of heart,” Mylikki said. “We do not fear something for long. Here is our house.”

Kevla turned where Mylikki indicated. In her mind’s eye she saw the ruined house she and the Dragon had happened upon earlier. She blinked, banishing the image. Mylikki opened the door and Kevla was immediately struck by the smell of smoke.

It was dark inside, as the other house had been. Kevla stepped cautiously into a single large, long room and looked around. Hard-packed earth served as a floor. As her eyes became accustomed to the dimness, she saw the source of the smoke. In a pit in the center of the room, a fire burned. A cauldron hung on a tripod hovered over it. Smoke curled upward, escaping through a small hole in the ceiling. Oil lamps also provided some illumination, adding their smoke to that produced by the fire. Kevla’s first thought was to extinguish the fire and simply heat the room with her thoughts, but she realized the flame was needed for cooking. She herself was unaffected by smoke, but Mylikki began to cough almost as soon as they entered. This cannot be good for them, Kevla thought. But it is so cold, they need the fire burning all the time if they are to even survive.

Gelsan looked up as they entered and emptied a bowl filled with chunks of meat into the water boiling in the pot. “It will not take long for the meal to cook, since the sky-monster brought us fresh meat,” she told them.

“Dragon,” Kevla said. She pointed outside.

Gelsan looked out the door where she pointed, smiled, and nodded. “Dragon, then. Whatever he be, we will eat well tonight.” Gelsan had divested herself of her heavy outer garments and now wore a stained, oft-mended overdress in a shade of bright blue. Beneath it, she wore a long-sleeved linen underdress. Her hair, once clearly as golden as that of her daughter’s but now shot through with silver, was braided and pinned to her head. In place of the long poles that had been strapped to her feet, she wore leather shoes.

Mylikki hurried over to her mother and whispered something in her ear. Gelsan’s eyes brightened as her daughter spoke, but then she frowned.

“We should not ask her for such a trivial thing,” Gelsan chided.

“It is not trivial,” Mylikki retorted. “It is cleansing and healing. We know it is no great thing for her to do it.”

Gelsan sighed. “Very well, Mylikki. Show the Flame Dancer the hut, and let her decide if she wants to misuse her powers for our entertainment.”

Mylikki grinned and turned to Kevla. “Let me take these off first and I’ll show you.”

Kevla leaned against the carved wooden door as Mylikki sat on one of the raised platforms that lined the rear walls of the house. Quickly, she removed the poles from her feet and hung them on a hook, then hurried back to Kevla.

Kevla smiled at the young woman. Curious, how she thought of Mylikki as “young.” The other woman was no more than a year or two younger than she, but Kevla no longer felt a mere two decades old. She felt ancient; she had seen too much. Done too much. Her innocence had died with her lover.

“Come, Kevla!” Mylikki darted out the door, her short legs churning through the snow. Kevla followed, wondering why Mylikki had removed the poles that had helped her glide so easily over the snow. Then she understood—they were heading into the forest.

Kevla had not ventured deep into any of the woods that she and the Dragon had encountered. They were too dark, too dense, to feel comfortable to a woman used to living in a spacious, bright house in a land in which trees were as rare as rain. She reluctantly followed her guide through a well-worn path that suddenly opened up to the banks of a frozen lake.

Kevla stared at the flat expanse of solid water. Most of it was covered with snow, and that part was indistinguishable from the land. But there were some places where the wind had cleared the surface, and there Kevla saw a deep, rich green.

So beautiful, she thought. If only he could be seeing these marvels with me.

“Here we are,” Mylikki said. Kevla dragged her gaze away from the green ice and saw what seemed to her to be a smaller version of one of the houses in the clearing. Mylikki tugged open the door and Kevla peered inside. There were no windows, indeed, the little building seemed to be well sealed. The interior was entirely black, and for a moment, Kevla thought that the place had been burned.

She looked back at Mylikki and shook her head, trying to communicate her lack of understanding.

“This is the stonesteaming hut,” Mylikki said, as if that explained everything.

Kevla shook her head, still not understanding. “Hmm,” Mylikki said, chewing on her lower lip. “I thought when you heated the stone, you knew about it. How to explain…long ago, our ancestors designed the stonesteaming huts. They’re made of wood and we seal them up well. We light a fire to heat up several stones, just like you did earlier. When they’re hot, we bring them inside and pour water on them to create steam. It feels good—very warming, very cleansing, and very relaxing.”

She pointed. Kevla could now see a cluster of rocks sitting in the fire pit.

“It takes a long time, almost all day, to get the stones hot. And with so few people left, we don’t stonesteam as often as we would like. But this place means more than just comfort to us.”

Mylikki spoke of a sacred place of birth and death, a place of community, where the seasonal changes were celebrated by ritual both practical and meaningful. Kevla nodded as the other girl spoke. She felt the power of the place as she stepped gingerly inside.

“Careful,” said Mylikki. “The benches are safe to sit on, but don’t touch the walls or ceilings, or you’ll get all sooty.”

Kevla, who had been just about to do precisely that, nodded and kept her hands in close. To her surprise, the wooden benches, as Mylikki had promised, yielded no soot to the touch. Their surface was a rich, shiny black, as if somehow the soot had been sealed and baked into the wood.

She looked at the stones in the center of the hut. Gathering up her rhia so she didn’t accidentally brush any soot with it, Kevla squatted beside the stones and extended a hand. Pleasure was warm inside her. In her effort to connect with these people without speech, she had inadvertently stumbled upon something they cherished: the ability to heat stone.

Heat, she mentally instructed.

The stone obeyed. Kevla touched another, and another, until all the stones were putting out a great deal of heat.

Mylikki stood in the doorway, her hands to her mouth. Her blue eyes were wide with shock. “It is hard to believe,” she whispered. “Even when I see you do this with my own eyes.” She suddenly grinned. “Maybe we should have tried to befriend your people long ago.”

Kevla again wondered just what they thought she was. She got to her feet, dusted off her hands, and smiled.

“Thank you, Kevla. You don’t know what this means to us. It’s been so long….” She blinked hard, and Kevla saw tears in the blue eyes. Quick tears of sympathy sprang to Kevla’s own brown ones. Well did she know how it was to live a harsh existence with few luxuries. She recalled a girl who loved to swim in the cool caverns of the House of Four Waters, and how that simple indulgence restored her. If the stonesteaming made Mylikki and the others happy, then it was as good a use of her Dancer’s abilities as any she could think of. And despite Gelsan’s dismissal of Mylikki’s request, the place clearly represented far more than simply a place to relax.

Mylikki cleared her throat. “Let’s go get the others.”

Within the next few minutes, several of the women who had not so long ago been eyeing Kevla with suspicion now clustered around the stonesteaming hut. Mylikki filled a bucket with snow, which she placed inside near the hot stones. Kevla’s eyes went wide with shock as the women quickly divested themselves and stepped, quite naked, into the building. They handed their clothes to one of the younger girls, who carefully wrapped them into small bundles and put them into a large sack.

Mylikki, whose pale skin and rosy breasts looked to Kevla like something out of a storyteller’s tale, noticed her discomfiture.

“If you don’t want to participate, it’s all right, but I think you’ll enjoy it. It’s thanks to you that we have this at all. It would mean much to us if you shared this with us.”

Kevla looked at the dozen or so women, all fair-haired, all pale-fleshed, sitting on the benches and talking quietly. They were thin…so very thin. She could clearly see the outlines of ribs underneath their pale breasts.

Kevla swallowed, knowing that it would be a good gesture to join them, her own cheeks hot at the thought of being naked in front of so many strangers.

When she had been a handmaiden to the khashima, she had slept in a room with the other women. And she had often enjoyed a bath in the caverns that made the Clan of Four Waters the envy of all other clans. But she had worn a sleeping rhia at night, and timed her visits to the caverns when she could be alone. To disrobe in front of so many—

She forced a smile and tugged off the rhia. The women fell silent and Kevla’s blush deepened as she realized they were scrutinizing her body, with its bronze skin and dark-tipped breasts, as she had earlier scrutinized theirs.

I suppose I ought to be grateful there isn’t mixed stonesteaming, she thought. I could be sitting naked with everyone in the village.

Mylikki moved over so Kevla had a place to sit. Gingerly, Kevla perched on the bench. Gelsan pulled the door closed, and suddenly the only light came from the glowing stones.

Kevla relaxed as the dry heat began to penetrate her body. She was comfortable in the heat, around flames or embers, and in the darkness, she could not see the other women. But she could hear them, moving softly, speaking in quiet tones. It was a soothing sound, and Kevla closed her eyes and sank deeper into the warm, anonymous darkness.

She was walking on the snow, her feet sinking into the white stuff, and she was not alone. Beside her walked the Stone Dancer. Though she was comfortable clad only in her red rhia, this man was wrapped warmly in layers of thick woolen clothing and a green cape. He was speaking, and she turned her head to listen to him and smile at something he said. He was tall, taller than she, and she was no small woman. He was as she remembered him: handsome, yet sad, with golden hair and eyes as blue as the sky.

Beside them both, regarded not with fear but acceptance, even affection, walked the blue, black-and-white-striped simmar. It was an enormous beast with thick, shaggy fur and golden, knowing eyes. It walked over the snow with fluid grace, its shoulders and hips rolling in that smooth movement granted to all cats, large or small.

The three crested a hill. Behind her, Kevla heard the beating of powerful wings, and knew her friend the Dragon was flying behind and above them. The thought gave her comfort.

Her skin prickled. They were being watched. The thought ought to alarm her, but instead she felt warm and taken care of…loved. She reached out her thoughts and tried to—

A sudden hissing sound chased away the vision. Kevla gasped and started up. Mylikki laid a gentle hand on her arm.

“It’s the hamantu,” she said. “Gelsan has just put some water on the stones to make steam. You’ll notice that it’s getting hotter now.”

Indeed it was, though it would have to get much hotter than this for Kevla, who had acknowledged her true identity in the depths of a boiling pit of molten earth, to feel any discomfort. The moist heat felt strange to the desert dweller; it clung to her skin like her own sweat. She closed her eyes again, hearing another splash of water on hot stone, feeling the heat rise in a moist wave to caress her. A wonderful lassitude stole over her. She had never felt this relaxed, not even when bathing in the caverns at the House of Four Waters. Now she understood why. She was Fire. Water felt good on her human skin, and she enjoyed the cleansing coolness. But sitting in this place of darkness and deep heat, of smoke and steam—this called to her soul more than the baths did. Perhaps these people were not as alien as they seemed.

She drifted, and for a while time stood still. She hoped she would sink back into the vision, but it did not come a second time. There was only the heat and darkness, and the soft sounds of women moving, and for now, Kevla thought, that was enough.

11

The sun was setting by the time the women emerged from the stonesteaming hut. Before she left, Kevla placed her hands on the stones and heated them again. The men would be coming, to take their turn in the stonesteaming hut, and she wanted to make sure their experience was as pleasant as hers had been.

Kevla felt marvelous after several sessions of sitting in the hot steam, and then plunging into the refreshing coldness of the snowbanks. She had not realized how much tension she had been carrying in her body until she had been able to release it with the blessing of the vision, which comforted even as it confused and intrigued her, and the hamantu. Once the women began to trickle back toward the village, Kevla heard a whistle. Not long after that, a trail of men began coming up the forest path. There were so few of them it pained Kevla to see it.

When they reached the village, Mylikki said, “My mother enjoyed the stonesteaming as much as any of us, but she won’t want to delay the meal. I must go help her.”

She hurried into the house, closing the door behind her. Kevla watched her go.

“You look relaxed,” the Dragon said.

“I am,” she replied, happy to be able to talk to someone. “It was lovely. I do not look forward to traveling across the snow after that.”

“Let us hope our travels will be brief.”

“I do hope that.” She sighed. “I suppose I will have to learn how to walk on those poles they strap to their feet.”

“They are called skeltha, in case you’re wondering. It means, long sticks.”

“Ah,” said Kevla. “A simple term for a simple thing.”

“These people respect words. They know they hold power. Things are named simply, and I doubt there was much idle chatter among the women in the hut.”

“Now that you mention it, no, there wasn’t.” She looked up at the darkening sky. “Twilight. When people start fires, if they haven’t already.” It was time, again, to attempt to locate the Stone Dancer. Kevla gathered a few sticks and piled them together.

“Burn.”

They leaped into flame, and Kevla found herself smiling as the cheery red and orange warmth chased away the blue and lavender tints of the snow and twilight. She leaned toward the dancing flames and made her vision soft. “Show me the Stone Dancer.”

The fire flickered. In its depths, Kevla thought she could glimpse the outline of a face. Her heart beating faster, she leaned closer, willing the image to focus.

With shocking speed, the unclear face disappeared and Kevla found herself looking at the sole of a boot. She jerked back, feeling for an instant as if that boot was about to come crashing down on her face. Then, nothing.

A deep rumbling sound drew her attention away from the fire. The Dragon was laughing!

“Clever, clever fellow!” he gasped between peals of bone-chilling Dragon laughter. “He saw you, Kevla. He saw you trying to find him and he stamped out the fire! It seems our Stone Dancer dislikes being spied upon.”

Kevla was embarrassed, but after a moment, she also began to laugh. She supposed if she didn’t know what was going on, a strange face appearing in the fire would alarm her, too.

“I doubt I’ll get another chance, if he’s wary of my face in the fire. We’ll have to try to find him some other way,” she said. “I will see if I can help Gelsan. It has not been so long since I worked in the kitchens. Perhaps I can assist her.”

“You must be careful, Kevla,” the Dragon said, surprising her. “You want them to like you and trust you, but they must not regard you as an underling.”

She smiled sadly. “A woman who calls flame with a thought is more to be feared than despised. A night chopping vegetables or seasoning a stew will not cost me respect.”

“Perhaps not,” said the Dragon. “But there are those who might not understand.”

“These people are better than that,” Kevla said with certainty. She entered Gelsan’s house, easing the door open and stepping to a small table where the headwoman and her daughter were chopping what Kevla realized were dried vegetables. She pointed at the vegetables and pretended to cut them.

Gelsan seemed pleased at the offer. “Certainly. Cut them into small bits and then put them in the cauldron.”

The time passed quickly, but in silence. The Dragon had been right; the people of Lamal wasted no breath in words that served only to fill the air. After a while, Gelsan tasted the stew and pronounced it ready.

“Go round up the household,” she told Mylikki, who threw on a cloak and hat and hastened to obey. A few moments later, there were ten people seated cross-legged on the cold earthen floor of Gelsan’s hut.

Gelsan ladled the stew into bowls and passed them around. Kevla took a spoonful with a bite of meat. Her eyes widened. It was all she could do not to spit it out. Gamey, stringy, tough, it was the most unpleasant thing she had ever eaten. She chewed determinedly and got the bite down. Sipping the broth, she found it weak and flavorless. She glanced around surreptitiously and saw that everyone else seemed to be enjoying themselves. They ate in silence, but they ate happily. If winter had indeed lasted for an entire year, then this must be a feast to them. She recalled how painfully thin the women seemed to her in the stonesteaming hut, and wondered how much longer they cold survive with no end to winter in sight.

Willing her stomach not to reject the food, Kevla took another bite. It would not do to insult her host, and she was sure she needed the nourishment regardless of how bad it tasted. Others went back for seconds, even thirds. Gelsan had prepared a generous amount, but even so, there was nothing left in the cauldron by the time the meal was over.

“Now it is time for some entertainment, to honor our guest,” Gelsan said. She nodded to Mylikki, who leaped to her feet and went to a corner of the room. Gelsan indicated that Kevla should sit with the others on the benches that lined the room. Mylikki returned, carrying something that Kevla presumed was an instrument.

It appeared to be made out of the same black and white wood that the houses were constructed of. Small pegs were inserted along its length, and though it was too dark to see, she assumed there were strings of some sort running down it. Mylikki sat on a small stool and put the instrument in her lap.

With the first few brushes of Mylikki’s fingers along the strings, Kevla felt a chill inside her. It was the most beautiful sound she had ever heard. Clear and sweet and haunting, bright and metallic-sounding somehow, it seemed the perfect instrument to have been created in this place.

It sounds like snow, she thought.

Mylikki played for a time, weaving a web of sound about them all. Kevla barely breathed, hanging on every note produced by the strange instrument. After a while, Mylikki began to sing. Her voice was pure and clear, like the stars Kevla had seen in the night sky, but the song was not a sweet one.

Men-at-arms turn pale,
And their hearts within them quail
As the Dark bleeds the Light from the sky.
Who of woman born
will survive to see the morn?
Will you be among them? Will I?

And still, we few stand
Upon the blasted land—
Fighting back the Shadow.

Kevla gasped, and more than one fair head turned to stare at her.

Shadow. The Shadow that was destined to come and challenge the Dancers. The Shadow that twice before had been defeated, but twice before had won. The Shadow that had erased whole worlds as if they had never been.

She dreaded what words would come from Mylikki’s lips next.

Like his father before,
My son rode off to war,
With a smile and a song in his heart.
The cold Dark unnamed
Another life has claimed—
And upon my lost soul left its mark.

Again, Mylikki sang the chilling chorus. For the first time since she had been given her powers of fire, Kevla felt cold.

My daughter’s grown wild,
Her belly big with child
And she sings soft and low of the dawn.
They tell me she’s mad,
And perhaps I should be glad,
For her husband’s dead, and still the Night goes on.

And still we few stand,
Upon the blasted land—
Fighting back the Shadow.

Something about this song was familiar to Kevla, something more than just the mention of the Shadow. Had not Jashemi mentioned a previous lifetime when he was a beggar boy, standing next to a khashima whose pregnant daughter had gone mad?

I once ruled as Queen,
Long ago, when all was green,
And this castle kept watch o’er the realm.
But now, nothing grows
In the icy wind that blows,
And the Darkness will soon overwhelm.

This last verse proved it. Her mind was beginning to translate for her; she somehow knew that queen meant khashima, that castle indicated a Great House. This could not be a coincidence.

The song unfolded, chilling in its depiction of utter despair: the food had run out, the well had gone dry. Torches were lit in a defiant, futile effort to keep the Shadow at bay.

And still, we few stand
Upon the blasted land—
Fighting back the Shadow.

Tears filled Kevla’s eyes. She knew that all the characters in this song had once lived, once breathed, once loved.

Including Jashemi.

’Tis now merely hours
Till we fall to Shadow powers,
For how much can mere mortals endure?
And when we few fall—
Why then, that will be all;
The silence is the one thing that’s sure.

The sound of the instrument, snowlike and bright, faded into silence itself. Kevla applauded politely with the rest, but as Mylikki launched into a lively song about a hunter and a farmer’s wife, her thoughts were not on the bawdy lyrics.

One thought pounded in her head.

Someone in this land was a Lorekeeper, and she had to find out who.

12

Kevla did not pay much attention to the rest of the stories or songs that were performed. Others drifted in during the night, and Gelsan had passed around a sweet, powerful wine made from fermented honey. After the final song, Gelsan rose and offered Kevla the hospitality of her house. Kevla realized that the ten who had joined her for dinner all planned to sleep here, on the raised areas that extended from the walls. At the House of Four Waters she had slept in a single room in the company of many women, but never with men. She knew her eyes widened.

She pointed outside. “Dragon,” she said, and hoped that Gelsan would understand.

The headwoman nodded her fair head. “You want to be with your friend,” she said. “Do you need a fur or blanket?”

Kevla was about to refuse, but then thought that a fur between her and the wet ground would be pleasant. She nodded, and selected one. It was thick and brown, but she could not identify what kind of animal it had once belonged to.

As she left, she caught Mylikki’s eye and waved her to follow. Mylikki looked puzzled, but grabbed her cloak and accompanied Kevla. They trudged out into the snow to stand before the Great Dragon. He had curled up into a ball and was breathing steadily, little puffs of smoke curling from his nostrils into the frosty air. At their approach, he uncurled and stretched like a mammoth cat.

“Dragon, Mylikki sang a song this evening about a queen standing alone, watching the Shadow come,” Kevla said. Mylikki’s head whipped around. “There were lines of the song that sounded familiar—like what he told me. I think there are Lorekeepers here.”

“I understood you!” Mylikki exclaimed. “Some of what you said, anyway.”

“You are beginning to open to this language,” said the Dragon. “Good.”

“If we can find the Lorekeepers, they might be able to help us,” Kevla continued.

“Help? Help you with what?” Mylikki asked. She seemed excited that Kevla was learning to speak her language.

“Mylikki, who wrote that song that you performed? Did you compose it?”

Mylikki’s pretty face furrowed in a frown. “What about the song?”

“Kevla wants to know if the song was an original composition,” the Dragon said. Kevla sighed; apparently her grasp of this new language was still spotty.

“Fighting Back the Shadow? That’s a very old song indeed,” Mylikki said, dashing Kevla’s hopes. “Several hundred years old, at least. I don’t know who wrote it. It’s rare because it’s a song sung by a woman; most of the compositions told by a narrator are male. And a woman of great power, too.”

“Gelsan has power,” Kevla said.

This was apparently a simple enough sentence, for Mylikki replied, “Only because the men are gone.” She fell abruptly silent, gathering her thick cloak more tightly about her frame and glancing up at the overcast sky. She turned to Kevla, her face a dim white smudge in the darkness. “Let us not speak of this at night,” she said, almost pleading. “In the morning. We will tell you everything in the morning.”

Impulsively Kevla reached to squeeze Mylikki’s arm through the cloak. “We have much to tell you in the morning as well,” she told her new friend. She watched as Mylikki trudged through the snow back to the smoky warmth of Gelsan’s small house.

“Something haunts them,” Kevla said.

The Dragon nodded. “Something is very wrong with their world. Of course they are haunted.”

Kevla shivered, but not from cold. She spread the fur next to the Dragon, and when she sat on it, it sank into the snow, making a little hollow. Kevla leaned against the warm strength of her friend, her hand reaching to caress the smooth scales.

Kevla awoke to the smell of cooked grains. She opened her eyes to see a bowl beside her, along with a steaming mug. She sat up carefully and reached for the morning meal, knowing what a gift it was to these people who were a few meals away from starvation. She sniffed gingerly at the mug. It smelled like tea of some kind. She took a cautious sip. It was strong and slightly bitter, but there was a generous dollop of something sweet in it. The cooked grains were also palatable.

As she lifted the mug to her lips, she turned her head slightly and almost spilled the hot liquid. Not ten feet away, every child in the village sat on the snow, staring at her and the Dragon. She smiled and waved a little at them. Uncertainly they waved back. When Kevla looked around, she saw that others were staring at the pair as well, although the adults were slightly more discreet in their ogling.

“How long have they been watching us?”

“For the last few hours, since dawn,” the Dragon replied, clearly unperturbed. “I pretended I was asleep.”

“I feel like I’m on display,” Kevla murmured, turning her attention to the meal. She ate steadily, the unknown grains hot and filling and the tea easy to drink. When she had finished, a small boy rose from where he had been unabashedly watching her to take the utensils.

“Thank you,” she said, smiling at him.

He ducked his head. “You’re welcome,” he said in a voice so soft she could barely hear him.

Kevla was not surprised to find everyone else in Gelsan’s house awake. The sleeping materials had been put away and everyone was silently finishing their bowls of grains. Kevla was greeted with smiles when she entered, but no words.

“Thank you for the meal,” Kevla said.

Gelsan stared. “You can speak our language!”

“It seems as though I can,” Kevla said, understanding the words that rolled off her tongue although she knew it was not her native language. Perhaps this, too, was part of the gift of being a Dancer. “Gelsan, I must speak with you. In private.”

Gelsan nodded, her eyes searching Kevla’s. “Help us clean up and we will talk.”

Kevla obliged, gathering up the bowls and taking them outside to be scrubbed with snow. The young man who had rashly attacked her when she had first arrived—Olar, she believed his name was—lugged out the heavy cauldron. His long yellow hair was tied back in a ponytail and fell to the middle of his back. His young body strained with the effort of hauling the iron pot. Kevla now saw a resemblance between the three she hadn’t noticed before. When Olar went back inside, she said to Gelsan, “He’s your son.”

“Yes. And grateful I am that you burned only his torch, not his flesh.”

“You must forgive him,” Mylikki said, whispering lest her brother overhear. “He tries so hard to act like a man, but sometimes he doesn’t understand how. Ever since the men—”

“Mylikki!”

Mylikki drew herself up to her full diminutive height and gave her imposing mother stare for stare. “I told Kevla we would tell her,” she said. “She deserves to know.”

“And I have much to share with you,” Kevla said. “You don’t yet know what is at stake. Why my task is so important.”

“Few things are more important to me than the well-being of my village,” Gelsan said.

“I understand. And I hope to help you.”

Gelsan sighed. “Bring in the bowls.” They returned inside. Olar knelt on the floor, trying to get the wood to catch.

“Olar, we need to be alone for a time,” Gelsan said.

He nodded his head. “Yes, Mother. I will go with Ranin and get more wood from the forest.” He looked shyly at Kevla. “Will…will the Flame Dancer heat up the stones for the hut again today?”

“Of course,” Kevla said. Olar’s young face brightened. She watched him go. “How old is he?” she asked.

“Thirteen sum—” Mylikki caught herself and smiled without humor. “We count ages by summers, but as we have not had a summer for so long it seems silly to phrase it thus. Will you help with the fire, Kevla? Olar was not able to get it going.”

“I’ll do better than that,” Kevla said. She thought about the room being warm, and it became so. “No need for the smoke.”

Gelsan shook her head. “You taaskali are remarkable,” she said as she pulled up a stool. She reached for a large sack and withdrew two garments and a small box. Handing one dress to Mylikki, she said, “Mylikki and I’ve mending to do. We do not have the luxury to simply sit and talk.”

Kevla nodded her understanding. The other two women fished out what looked like bone needles and sinew. For a moment Kevla watched the bone needles darting through the brightly colored fabric, and when at last she spoke, it was in a hushed voice.

“Tell me about the men,” she asked.

Gelsan inhaled swiftly. A bright spot of blood appeared on the garment. She sucked her finger for a moment. “Your words first, Fire Woman.”

“I have told you who I am. I am Kevla-sha-Tahmu, and I am the Flame Dancer. The Dragon is my Companion. You have seen the sort of power I possess. I do not know the term taaskali, nor what it means, but I do know that while I am unique in my particular abilities, there are others who have similar ones.”

Mylikki’s hands had stilled and she regarded Kevla with wide eyes. Gelsan kept her eyes on her work and her needle never slowed, but Kevla knew the headwoman was listening intently.

“One such is the man I seek,” continued Kevla. “He is the Stone Dancer.”

“What abilities does he have?” Mylikki’s expression had changed slightly.

“I’m not sure. But his element is earth, as mine is fire. Whatever his abilities are, they would center around that.”

Mylikki opened her flower-bud mouth to speak again, but Gelsan interrupted her. “Why do you seek him?”

Kevla suddenly realized what the older woman was thinking—that perhaps Kevla and the Dragon had come to harm this man.

“The Dragon and I need his help,” she replied.

“For what?”

Instead of replying directly, Kevla seemingly changed the subject. “Your song last night,” she said to Mylikki. “You said it is an old song. It’s a story about standing against a Shadow, a Shadow that will wipe out everything in the world as if it had never been.”

Mylikki nodded. “Yes, that’s right.”

“Were there any other verses? About a beggar boy, about a Dancer lying dead in the streets?”

Mylikki’s blue eyes grew enormous. “Yes, there are,” she whispered. “The song has many verses and is almost always shortened for performing. Where did you hear them?”

“I never heard that song until last night,” Kevla told her. “But I know the story behind it. I know because—because someone I knew lived that story in a life before this one. He was the beggar boy on the parapet, and I was the Dancer lying murdered in the streets.”

She had their full attention now. They stared silently at her, mouths slightly open.

“That man was called a Lorekeeper,” Kevla continued. “The Lorekeepers are the only ones who remember what has happened in the past. They find the Dancers and help them remember.”

“Dancers?” Gelsan’s voice was sharp with disbelief, but Kevla noticed that she had stopped mending the garment.

“That’s what we’re called,” Kevla said. “I’m not sure exactly why.” She took a deep breath and decided to reveal everything she knew.

“I am the element of fire incarnate. The man I seek is earth. There are three others—water, air, and spirit. We five have lived four times before, fighting to protect the worlds into which we are born. We stand against the Shadow and somehow—I don’t yet know how—we try to hold it back. If we win, that world survives. If we fail, it is engulfed by the Shadow, erased as if it had never been. Twice we have won, twice lost. This is the final time—the final Dance. The fate of more than one world rests upon what we do here.”

Gelsan made a dismissive noise, but when she spoke, her voice trembled. “Kevla, forgive my disrespect, but—this sounds more like a fantastical song that a huskaa would perform than anything close to fact.”

“I didn’t believe it either, at first.” Kevla swallowed hard. “Someone I loved had to die before I fully understood what was happening.” It was the first time she had mentioned it to anyone since beginning her journey, and she felt the pain and guilt wash over her yet again. She fought it back.

“So that is why I need to find this man. And also any in your village who might be Lorekeepers.”

“How would we know such a thing?”

“My people didn’t know about the Lorekeepers and the Dancers, either,” Kevla said. Her mind went back to the dreams she had had, of the Dragon repeatedly breathing sheets of flame upon her in an effort to force her to acknowledge her identity. To the dreams Jashemi had had, that he had been afraid to utter. “The truth kept trying to come through in dreams the Lorekeepers had. I think whoever wrote that song was a Lorekeeper. Has anyone here mentioned troubling dreams, or visions?”

Gelsan, who had returned to her mending, grunted. “I don’t think anyone would openly speak of such things,” she said. Then, more gently, “But if it is important to you, I will ask.”

“I have told you how important it is,” Kevla replied. “And now you know whom I seek and why.”

Gelsan cleared her throat. “I do not know if this has anything to do with your—your quest. But I will tell you what has happened here. Mylikki is right—you should know.”

Kevla waited, barely breathing.

“I understand that Mylikki told you that winter has been visited upon us for over a year. We had stored enough supplies to take us through a normal winter, but quickly went through most of that. We have turned to relying almost exclusively on what we can hunt. And now even the animals are starving. The meat we thought you had come to steal—that and a few sacks of grain and dried vegetables are all we have left.

“Our hunters ranged farther and farther afield in search of food, and just…didn’t come back. Others seemed to go mad, leaving to terrorize other villages, to kill and take what they wanted. Strange storms come out of nowhere, do terrible damage, and then disappear. Women in Lamal are not men’s servants, but there are clear divisions of duties. We have had to take on the responsibilities of the men in addition to our own. We have learned to hunt, to butcher meat, to cure hides for protection against this cold that will not depart.”

Her eyes locked with Kevla’s. “This can be no natural winter. The spirits that live in the forests are silent. Dead or simply too afraid to show themselves, I do not know. We do not know if this is punishment for something we have done, or an evil spell by some powerful taaskal, or—” and she smiled, as if embarrassed to say so “—or if the Ice Maiden of the huskaa’s songs is real and is locking us in her winter. And into the midst of this you come, with your strange but welcome powers, and speaking of others like you and dreams and the end of worlds. We need your help, Kevla Flame Dancer. We need you to somehow bring back spring.”

“I do not know if I can,” Kevla said, “but I will try.”

She noted that Mylikki had grown quiet. The girl sat back in the chair, her arms folded, her eyes distant. “Mylikki? What is wrong?”

“Tell me again all that you know of this Stone Dancer,” the girl replied, her voice thoughtful.

“Not a great deal. I do not even know his name. He is…” Kevla closed her eyes and reached for the dream she had had. “He is tall, with yellow hair. Strong. His eyes are blue. There are laugh lines around his eyes, but now those eyes are hard with pain and anger. He…he has suffered much. At his feet is a huge cat with blue stripes. In my mind, they wait for me on a hill covered with snow.”

She opened her eyes to find both Mylikki and Gelsan staring at her. Hope surged in Kevla.

“Do you know him?” she cried.

Dashing Kevla’s hopes, Mylikki shook her braided head. “No, I don’t,” she said. Suddenly she grinned. “But I think I know someone who does.”

13

“A few weeks ago, a huskaa came to our village,” Mylikki continued. “They wander from town to town singing songs and bringing news. They are greatly honored. He taught me that song you heard, as well as many others. His name is Altan Lukkari.”

Mylikki turned bright red. She cleared her throat and continued. “He comes from a village far to the north. He described a man in his village that did not look like the taaskali, but who had powerful magic. He changed the seasons. They called him the Kevat-aanta—the Spring-Bringer.”

“But…I thought the seasons changed on their own.”

“They did, but according to Altan,” and again Mylikki’s color rose as she said the name, “this man made them change at will. He enhanced them, somehow. The trees bore more fruit, the harvests were more bountiful because of him. But then his powers deserted him.”

Kevla was horrified. How could a Dancer lose his power? He was the element, how could the abilities simply vanish? “How did this happen?”

“Our gods are as you described them,” Gelsan said quietly.

Kevla turned her attention to the other woman. The comment seemed to have nothing to do with the conversation. “I don’t understand.”

“You mentioned this man standing with one of our gods,” Gelsan continued. “That means your vision must be true. You are obviously a stranger to this land, and yet you described them perfectly. Giant cats, with blue and white stripes. We call them tigers. They live high in the mountains. They made the world and determined the cycles. In the old days, they would descend and walk through the world, and flowers would spring beneath their feet.”

“When the Spring-Bringer began to change the seasons, everyone thought that the gift of the gods had been passed to him,” Mylikki continued. “But when his powers deserted him, people said the gods were angry with him, and took his powers as punishment.”

“But my vision,” Kevla said. “I saw him with the simmar—the tiger. So he must be still blessed by the gods.”

“Then why is there still winter?” Gelsan’s voice was harsh. She was angry, and understandably so. If what Mylikki had said was true, and the Stone Dancer had lost his powers, everyone in this land was suffering.

Kevla passed a hand over her forehead. Jashemi would have been able to help her make sense of this information. But he was gone, and could not offer advice, or comfort, or love anymore.

She took a deep breath. “I don’t know. But it does sound as if this man is the one I seek. Where is Altan now?”

“Long gone,” said Gelsan before Mylikki could speak. “And a good thing, too. Planting ideas in my daughter’s head.”

“I have talent,” Mylikki retorted. “He said I could play almost as well as someone who had been formally apprenticed.”

“Women don’t become huskaas,” Gelsan said.

“Women don’t become head of their village either,” Mylikki snapped, then gasped at Gelsan’s expression. Clearly, Mylikki had spoken before she had thought.

Attempting to forestall the argument, Kevla said, “I fly on the back of the Dragon. I will be able to find the Stone Dancer if you tell me where to look.”

Mother and daughter regarded each other intently. Mylikki swallowed hard. “I won’t tell you,” she said, and dragged her gaze to Kevla’s. “I’ll show you.”

“Mylikki,” Gelsan said in a warning voice.

Abruptly Mylikki leaped to her feet, her stool toppling backward. “This is the first hint of hope we have had, Mother! If Kevla is like the Spring-Bringer, then maybe she can help him get his powers back. Maybe she can bring an end to this horrible winter!” Her voice grew thick but no less angry. “We are dying slowly, one by one, and if this goes on much longer everyone and everything in this land will be dead. You know how little food is left. You did what you had to do. Let me do what I must!”

“You want to follow the boy because he had a pretty face and spoke kindly to you!” Gelsan, too, was on her feet now, clutching her mending so tightly her knuckles were white.

“And if I did?” Mylikki was trembling with anger. “He is still the only chance we have—that Kevla has. I am weary of this winter, Mother. I am weary of the cold, and the poor food, and the fear and sorrow that hangs over our land like a snow-cloud. I want a little bit of hope. I want to think that I’m doing something, not sitting in this house mending old clothes and dying a little bit more each minute!”

Gelsan opened her mouth, then closed it again at once. When she did speak, her voice was low and soft. “Shame is on our household, to speak this in front of a stranger, daughter.”

Kevla could stay silent no longer. “I intend no disrespect,” she said, “but if Mylikki is willing to lead me to Altan, then I will accept her offer. I must warn you both that the Dancers have an enemy—a powerful man I know only as the Emperor. I appear to be eluding his gaze in this land, and I am grateful for it. But if Mylikki comes with me, she might very well be in danger.”

Gelsan gazed at Kevla and her eyes blazed. Then, suddenly, the older woman seemed to sag a little.

“Mylikki is right,” she said, her voice hollow. “We are dying a little bit more each day. I would keep her safe, but perhaps she will be safer with a Dragon and a fire-woman than here in this village, where madmen lurk in the woods and food grows ever scarcer.”

Mylikki stood still, hardly breathing.

“Let us pack your things,” Gelsan said. Both mother and daughter looked as if they wanted desperately to reach out to one another, but something held them back.

Kevla, who had gotten to her feet moments before, said quickly, “I will let the Dragon know,” and slipped out the door.

His eyes narrowed when he saw her. “You have learned something. I see it in your face.” Kevla told him. “Another clue on our journey, then,” he said. “Another piece of this puzzle.”

Kevla sighed. “I am tired of journeys and puzzles, Dragon. I would find this man quickly and be done with it.”

“Of course, but that is not how things usually work,” the Dragon replied, maddeningly philosophical. He rose and shook himself. “I will see if I can find them any more food as a parting gift,” he said, suiting action to word.

Alone in the center of the circle of houses, Kevla looked around, again taking in the extreme poverty of the place. Though they were far apart in distance and circumstance, the little village of Arrun Woods had much in common with the place where Kevla had spent the first ten years of her life. Death lurked here, as Gelsan had said, in the form of madmen in the woods and in the slow pinch of starvation. It stank of fear, and yet the people had not given up. Kevla thought of the harsh mien of her mother, forced to sleep with men for money to feed herself and her child. She thought of the beggars on the street, already half out of this life. She found herself smiling at one of the children who shyly waved at her as he zipped past on skelthas, and realized she was growing fond of Gelsan and her family.

Don’t do it, Kevla, she told herself. This is not your land; these people are not your concern. They must take care of themselves. Perhaps Mylikki is right, perhaps you can bring back spring to this place; but your real task is to find the Stone Dancer. It’s his land and his charge.

Nonetheless, Kevla used the time waiting for the Dragon and Mylikki to walk up to the stonesteaming hut and heat the stones as strongly as she could.

Some time later, Mylikki and Gelsan emerged from the little house. Mylikki carried an awkwardly wrapped bundle and Gelsan had two large sacks.

Concerned, Kevla said, “I have plenty of provisions, and we have the Dragon. We will not lack for food.”

Gelsan replied, “You are on your way to try to bring back spring to the land. I would not have you fail because of lack of supplies. And there is more to surviving in this land than food. Mylikki’s not a fire-woman.” She let the sacks drop and straightened, her hands on her lower back.

“There’s a shelter, dry clothing, and cooking tools as well as dried meat, grains, and fruit,” Mylikki explained. Kevla nodded. “Also snow walkers and skelthas.”

Sahlik had been the only one with forethought enough to send Kevla off with food and, Kevla thought with a pang, the Shamizan set. But Mylikki did not have Kevla’s ability to stay warm no matter hold cold it was, and Kevla had to admit that she would need to learn how to walk over the snow as these people did.

“The cold poses its own dangers,” Gelsan continued. “If anyone in your group falls into a river or is caught in a storm, they must be warmed, but carefully. Remove the wet clothes and lie skin to skin. Too much heat too quickly can kill as surely as the cold.”

Kevla listened carefully as Gelsan described other dangers of exposure to the cold and how such ills might be treated. As she finished, everyone heard the sound of the Dragon’s wings. No longer afraid, the villagers gathered to watch him come to ground. In his forepaws he clutched three large animals with thick, shaggy fur. Kevla never had learned what they were called. As she watched Gelsan’s eyes grow bright with unshed tears of gratitude, her own eyes stung.

“Food for some time. We are grateful to you both. Luck go with you. Kevla…I asked, as you requested. There is no one here who has been having the sort of dreams you described.”

Disappointment knifed through Kevla. There were no Lorekeepers in Arrun Woods. Where were they? If there was any time she needed the wisdom and memories of a Lorekeeper, it was here and now, in this strange country where she was searching for her fellow Dancer.

“I will carry the packs,” the Dragon said to Mylikki. “You can hold on to Kevla.” Mylikki nodded. The three packs disappeared into the vastness of the Dragon’s palm and he closed his claws gently. Mylikki turned and went to her brother.

“I want to go with you!” said Olar. He stood straight and firm, but his color was high and his lips trembled.

“Mother needs you here,” Mylikki said as she went to him and hugged him. “You have to protect her and the others.”

He nodded and stepped back, wiping quickly at his eyes. Mylikki turned to Gelsan. The older woman folded her in her arms and held her tightly. It was the first time Kevla had seen any of them embrace.

“Make us proud, daughter,” Gelsan said.

“I will, Mother,” Mylikki replied. “We will bring back spring. You’ll see.”

Gelsan nodded and smiled, but Kevla saw her eyes cloud with doubt. Mylikki quickly said her goodbyes to the rest of the village; to the people she had known all her life. Kevla thought her perhaps a bit overeager to depart. She, who had only recently discovered that she had family and a place among them, had been loath to leave, even though her life in Arukan had been far from the family-centered environment she saw here. She thought about how Mylikki had colored when she spoke Altan’s name, of Gelsan’s comment that the huskaa had spoken kindly to the girl, and thought she understood why Mylikki was so anxious to leave.

Reading her thoughts as he often did, the Dragon sent, I wonder if this Altan of Mylikki’s will be able to help at all, or if we are about to embark on a journey that will do nothing but squander precious time.

We have no choice, Kevla thought back. This is the closest we’ve come to the Dancer so far, and we must follow where this path leads.

Mylikki finished her farewells and approached the Dragon. He lowered himself as much as he could, extending a forepaw to help his traveling companions clamber atop his massive back. Mylikki looked unsure of herself as she settled in.

“I once was wounded and fell from the Dragon’s back,” Kevla told her as Mylikki’s arms went tightly around her waist. “He dove and caught me.”

“That’s supposed to reassure me?”

Kevla laughed. Unexpectedly, she felt warm and happy inside. She liked Mylikki, and she had never had a female friend before. She was suddenly glad that she did not have to make the rest of the journey alone.

The Dragon craned his neck to look back at them. “Where to, Mylikki?” he asked.

“He said he was going to the nearest village, Galak-by-the-Lake. Head southeast, and we should see it soon.”

Part II: The Ice Maiden

14

Mylikki’s arms around Kevla’s waist were so tight that Kevla had trouble drawing breath. “He won’t let you fall,” she told Mylikki. The girl did not loosen her grip. Trying to distract her new friend, Kevla asked, “What do you think of this?” She indicated the land that unfurled below them.

“It’s so high up,” Mylikki said. “But it is so very beautiful. The ice and snow look lovely from here.”

As the wind whipped her hair, Kevla wondered if the other girl was cold. She wore heavy clothing and a cloak, which was, Kevla supposed, the best she could do. Travel by Dragon had advantages and disadvantages.

“You know what we are looking for, Mylikki,” Kevla said. “Stay alert and keep looking down. Let us know when we come across this village.”

“It’s called Galak-by-the-Lake,” Mylikki said. “It’s one of the largest lakes in the region. In summer, everyone…” Her voice trailed off, and Kevla did not press for summertime anecdotes.

It had been late morning when they left. Time passed, and the sun made its low, dim pass across the sky. Finally, Kevla saw something shimmering below them, catching the dying light.

“There!” she cried, pointing. “Is that the lake?”

“Yes,” Mylikki replied. “The village should be right…there.”

And there it was, Galak-by-the-Lake, looking even smaller than Mylikki’s village. The Dragon dove, coming to earth between the large, oval lake and the collection of homes. Smoke issued from holes in the roofs of some; others seemed empty.

“No one is coming to greet us,” Kevla said.

“They’re afraid,” Mylikki answered. “We only came out because we feared you would take our only source of food. And the Dragon isn’t exactly helping matters.”

“Ungrateful girl,” muttered the Dragon.

Mylikki looked both chagrined and horrified. “I meant no insult,” she said, “only—”

“He knows what you mean, Mylikki. Dragon, you must admit, you are quite powerful and intimidating.”

The compliment placated him. Kevla slid down to the Dragon’s upper arm, then dropped to the snow. She held up her arms to help Mylikki dismount.

“Are you sure this is the right place?” Kevla asked.

Mylikki nodded. The cloak hood had slipped, revealing her golden hair. She looked about with intense blue eyes; breath rose from her lips in little puffs. Kevla let her lead; in this frightened land, Mylikki would be more readily welcomed than she.

Many of the houses were roofless ruins. If it were not for the telltale smoke curling up into the sky, Kevla would have thought this village abandoned.

Mylikki strode forward. “Mylikki of the village of Arrun Woods gives greetings to the people of Galak-by-the-Lake,” she called in a voice that trembled only a little. She was greeted by silence. “I come with my friends Kevla and the Great Dragon. We seek a huskaa by the name of Altan.”

No one emerged. Kevla reached to touch the Dragon, wanting to feel his warm smooth scales beneath her fingers.

Abruptly Mylikki turned around and headed back. “The packs,” she said. “I need my kyndela.”

Kevla was confused, but she helped Mylikki unwrap the instrument. Shrugging it over her shoulder by the leather strap, Mylikki again strode forward in the snow.

“I too am a huskaa and I invoke the Law!” she cried, swinging the instrument so that it hung in front of her.

For a few long moments, Kevla thought whatever ploy the girl was trying had failed. Then, one by one, the doors opened a crack.

“We give greetings to Huskaa Mylikki, and we honor the Law,” said a thin, reedy voice. An old man, so gaunt as to be almost skeletal, stepped out of one of the houses. “Strange times are upon us when a woman is a huskaa, but nothing is ordinary now. You and your…” He cleared his throat and stared wide-eyed at the smoke-puffing, silent Dragon. “You and your companions are welcome.”

Relief washed over Mylikki’s pretty face. “I thank you, and we will not tarry long. We must find Altan. He was about so tall, curly fair hair, blue eyes. Is he here?”

“He has come and gone,” the old man answered. Disappointment flooded Kevla. She couldn’t help but notice that the headman still did not step out of his house, even though he had offered hospitality in the name of the Law. “Two days since. We had a bad snowstorm,” he glanced up at the darkening sky, “and it looks as though another is hard on its heels. He was heading toward Riversong. A nice young man, and a beautiful voice. I hope the snow has not silenced it.”

Mylikki swallowed. “Thank you,” she said. “We will try to find him.” She hesitated, then said, “Forgive me, but it seems to me that your village is suffering. Go to Arrun Woods. Tell them Mylikki sent you. They have food to share with friends, but not with those who would take it by force,” she added, no doubt suddenly recalling the madmen in the woods.

The man chuckled, a sad, raspy sound. “We could take nothing by force if we wanted to, child,” he said. “We are simply waiting for death. But I think perhaps now, Death may have to wait a bit for us. Luck go with you.”

And the door closed again, softly, but firmly. Mylikki stood in the snow for a moment longer, then sighed and walked back to where Kevla and the Dragon waited for her.

“You heard,” she said tiredly. “We have to head for Riversong.”

“I heard,” said the Dragon, lifting his huge head to the sky and sniffing. “And I think the man you spoke with is right. A storm is not too far distant.”

“Neither are Altan and Riversong,” Mylikki said. “We at least have shelter, food, and the Dragon, Kevla. If he hasn’t made it to Riversong, he’ll be out in the wilds alone. We have to go after him!”

Mylikki was right. They might not find Altan, but they needed to try. “Come, then, let us make haste,” Kevla said.

But they had only been mounted and in the air for a few moments when something cold and wet dotted her cheek. A snowflake. Soon, there was another, and another. The sun had disappeared completely and the earth was barely visible.

“Dragon, can you continue in this?” Kevla asked.

He craned his great head to look back at her. “I can,” he replied, “but the question is, can you?”

Kevla glanced back at Mylikki, who had pulled the hood down over her face. Kevla couldn’t see her eyes, but she could feel the girl’s body shivering.

“I’m f-fine,” Mylikki stammered, clearly lying. “We must keep looking for Altan! He could b-be out in this!”

But Kevla knew, and surely Mylikki did as well, that if Altan were indeed out in the storm instead of taking shelter, they would likely fly right over him and never see him. Even as she hesitated, the snow began to fall more quickly. She felt the cold although it did not chill her, and the flakes clung to her lashes.

She made her decision. “Dragon—we must go to ground and wait this out,” she cried.

The Dragon obediently changed course and headed for what Kevla assumed was an open space. The snow was coming down fiercely now, and she could barely see. She wiped at her face and blinked rapidly. When he landed, he told them, “Stay there for a moment. I will make a shelter for you.”

Snow slid down Kevla’s bare shoulders as she looked back at her companion. Mylikki’s back and head were almost solid white, and the cruel wind buffeted them so hard that her cloak whipped about her. It tore the hood off and Kevla gasped to see that the girl’s eyebrows were coated in ice and her lips were turning blue.

The Dragon undulated, doing something that Kevla couldn’t see, and even she had to hang on tightly in order to avoid sliding off his wet, slippery back. She remembered what it was like to be cold, but this—there was no time, no place in Arukan where one would encounter something like this.

“I have hollowed out a place in the snow,” the Dragon said, his rumbling voice coming to them through the falling sheets of snow. “I will stand over you until it stops. Come, hurry!”

Kevla extricated herself from Mylikki. She slid off the Dragon to a soft, albeit wet, landing in the thick snow. She could now clearly see what the Dragon had done—he had made them a safe place beneath his enormous red body.

“Come on,” she cried, turning her face up to the snow’s assault. The wind tore at her hair and snatched the words from her lips. A particularly harsh gust almost made her stumble and she reached for the Dragon’s leg.

Normally, the Dragon crouched as low as possible so that it was fairly easy to dismount. But now he stood over their shelter, protecting it for them, so the distance from his back to the earth was much greater than usual. Kevla turned her face back up to the now-white sky. The only color she could see was the vivid red of the Dragon an arm’s length away. She held up her arms as Mylikki started to climb down. At one point, though, the wind blew particularly hard and Mylikki lost her grip. She yelped, startled, as she fell hard onto Kevla and they both went down into the snow.

“I’m s-sorry!” Mylikki said, her teeth chattering.

“It’s all right,” Kevla reassured her, helping the girl to her feet and physically turning her in the right direction. “Let’s get beneath the Dragon’s belly.” Together they slogged through the thigh-deep snow.

The sensation of coming into even this little shelter after the ordeal of the snowstorm was one of pure relief. Mylikki fell to her knees, wiping the crusted snow from her eyebrows and hair. As soon as Kevla stumbled in, the Dragon settled his great bulk down slightly. They had formed a tunnel in the snow as they entered, and light and air still came in.

Kevla concentrated and the “room” she had made for them became warmer. She did not want it to get too warm; wetness would be worse than the snow.

Dragon, I need branches. She began to dig downward, packing the snow into the “walls” around her, until her questing fingers brushed dried grass. She tugged up a few wet, yellow blades and brought them into the center of the area.

“Burn,” she said, and the pathetic blades obeyed. So did the Dragon; he moved above them, lifting one huge forepaw. They heard a ripping, cracking noise and then Kevla saw a large branch at the entrance to their makeshift shelter. Mylikki stumbled to her feet and together they hauled it inside. Kevla looked closely at the girl; the exertion seemed to be bringing color back into her face.

“This is too big,” Kevla said. “We’ll need to break this into smaller pieces.”

“There’s an axe in the pack,” Mylikki said. She looked none too cheerful at the thought of going back into the snow.

“Come on,” said Kevla. They didn’t have to go far; the two large packs and the smaller one were waiting for them a few feet outside. The two women brought them inside and Mylikki proceeded to rummage through one.

“Won’t a fire hurt the dragon?” asked Mylikki, glancing up at the living roof of yellow scales.

Kevla laughed. “The Dragon’s home is a pit of rock so hot that it is liquid. This will be a little warm tickle.”

Mylikki produced two tools with a flourish. One was the promised axe and the other was a small shovel. Working together, the women shoveled the snow from the center, packing it into the walls, until they uncovered a small circular spot on the earth. Then, while Kevla steadied the huge branch, Mylikki hacked it into manageable pieces and arranged them in the makeshift, snow-encircled fire pit.

“Burn,” Kevla said, and at once a cheery light filled the area. Mylikki sighed with pleasure and extended her hands toward the fire, drinking in the welcome warmth.

“The Dragon is a better shelter than anything we brought,” Mylikki announced.

“There will be times and places where he won’t be able to accompany us,” Kevla warned. “It is well you brought them. Get out of those wet things and give them to me.”

Shivering, Mylikki rose and unfastened her cloak. Kevla took it and concentrated, using her Fire-gift to warm the frozen garment. The cloak was stiff with ice. As the ice melted, the cloak began to steam. Understanding now, Mylikki began to shed the rest of her clothes more quickly, removing her outer dress and stockings. Kevla handed her the now-warm and dry cloak, which she used to wrap herself in while she removed her underdress. Soon, she was comfortably clad in clothes that a few moments ago had been sodden and cold.

Kevla dried her own rhia on her body with a thought. She had made the clothing from fire itself, drawing forth flame in the Dragon’s lair and dressing herself in it. If ever need arose, she knew she could do so again.

“Thank you,” Mylikki said humbly. “I thought I was well on the way to becoming an Ice Maiden myself.”

“It is a gift,” Kevla said. She did not tell the other woman that the gift was like a sword that could cut both ways. It might have kept Mylikki warm today; but it had also claimed the life of the person Kevla loved more than anyone in the world.

To distract herself, she said, “Something hot to eat will help you stay warm.” One of the things Gelsan had packed was a small pot. Kevla filled it with snow and put it on the fire while Mylikki added dried meat and spices, stirring the soup with a wooden spoon. Kevla knew she could have ordered Mylikki to prepare her meal for her, and that the other girl would have jumped to the task. But Kevla was no great lady, no khashima, no queen. She had been born illegitimate, raised on the streets, and her highest rank had been as a handmaiden. She was more comfortable tending others than being tended.

“We would have missed Altan if we had kept going,” Kevla said. “You know that, don’t you?”

Mylikki sighed. “Yes. We will try again tomorrow. He’s not stupid, he would have found shelter somewhere.” She stared at the flame, her eyes distant, her mouth curved in a frown of concern.

“What was that you said to the headman? Something about the Law?”

“What? Oh.” Mylikki laughed. “I told a little lie, I fear. I passed myself off as a huskaa. Huskaas are always welcome, even in times such as these. It’s an ancient code of hospitality, the Huskaa Law. If a huskaa requests food or shelter, it must be given to him. In return, he will play and tell stories and share what news he has. They might not have talked to Mylikki of Arrun Woods, but they would have to open their doors to Mylikki the huskaa. Women aren’t supposed to become formal huskaas, though we are allowed to play. The headman commented on that, as you recall.”

“Then we were lucky,” said Kevla. She recalled something else Mylikki had said. “Who is the Ice Maiden? I’ve heard that name before. Is she the one who brings the snow in the winter?”

Stirring the pot, Mylikki shook her head. “No, the term ‘ice’ was never meant to be taken literally. At least, not originally. It’s an old song cycle called ‘Circle of Ice,’ about a girl whose heart was broken and who decides to wreak vengeance on all men because of it. It has nothing to do with winter. But when the winter started to last so long,” Mylikki continued, “people grew fearful. We knew this could not be the gods’ doing—they bring spring and rebirth, not winter. Something must be preventing them from tending to us. The only story we had was the Ice Maiden, and she took on this new aspect of eternal winter.”

She smiled, wistfully. “That always used to upset Altan,” she said, her voice tender. “He felt this new interpretation ruined the story by trying to make it literal. ‘The Ice Maiden has a heart of ice, not a body of ice,’ he said.”

Kevla looked at the wall of snow surrounding them. “It is all a story, isn’t it?”

Mylikki looked up from the kyndela. “Something’s gone wrong. It could just as likely be the Ice Maiden as anything else.”

“Will you sing one of the songs for me?”

“Most of them are meant to be sung by a man. Each song tells a story, and each story is part of the whole. Let’s wait until Altan is with us, and we can both perform for you.”

“What about the taaskali? Tell me about them.”

“Well, I only know what I’ve been told. They’re supposed to look more like you than like us,” said Mylikki. She reached for a ladle and spooned up some hot stew for herself and Kevla. “They have dark skin, eyes, and hair, and are believed to have all kinds of magical talents. They are believed to be closer to the gods than we are. They follow and tend the herds of the white selva, whose milk can bestow long life. A cloak woven from their fur can turn arrows.” She ate a bite of stew. “I’ve never met anyone who’s actually met a taaskal, or even seen a selva. But when we saw you standing on the hill, with your dark skin and hair and wearing only this light little garment—well, you can understand why we thought you a taaskal.”

Kevla nodded and ate hungrily. She listened to the howling wind outside, and for the thousandth time, it seemed, was grateful for the Dragon’s presence. She hoped that Altan had found shelter and that they would locate him soon. They finished the meal in silence, washed the bowls, utensils, and cauldrons in the snow and packed them back in the sacks. Mylikki pulled out several blankets and prepared to make a bed. Kevla rose and went to help her.

“That should be big enough for both of us,” Mylikki declared, lying down.

Kevla was taken aback. She knew nothing of Lamali customs. She had thought Mylikki was pining for Altan, but then again, there were some who appreciated the beauty of both sexes.

“I am fond of you, Mylikki,” Kevla began, “and it’s not that I don’t think you are attractive, but…”

Mylikki stared at her for a moment, then threw her head back and laughed. “And you are attractive as well, Kevla, but I have no desire for your body. I am used to sleeping close beside others, and I will be honest—though you do not need the warmth, I do. If that is all right with you.”

Kevla felt her cheeks grow hot. “Of course.”

As Kevla crawled into the blankets beside her and took the other girl into her arms, snuggling so that Mylikki’s thin body curved into hers, Mylikki said, “Thank you, Kevla. I’m sorry if I made you feel uncomfortable.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t volunteer my warmth,” Kevla said. Impulsively, she squeezed Mylikki gently and the other girl nestled closer.

“You should be happy we’re clothed,” Mylikki said, and Kevla could hear the mirth in her voice. “When someone has gotten too cold, the best way to warm him is skin to skin.”

“I’ll be sure to remember that,” Kevla said wryly.

They lay in comfortable silence for a time, then Mylikki said into the darkness, “Kevla…do you know much about men?”

Kevla tensed. “Why do you ask?”

“I was wondering…well, I think it’s pretty obvious that I care about Altan.”

“There’s nothing wrong with that.”

“Sometimes…sometimes he makes me think there is.”

“What do you mean?”

Mylikki was silent for a moment, then said, “When he came to Arrun Woods…I’d never felt anything like that before, not with other boys. He made me feel like I was a queen.”

Kevla thought about how Jashemi made her feel. I belong to you completely, Kevla. I always have, and I always will. She tried not to remember anything more.

“But then, one evening he performed the Ice Maiden cycle, and on the second song—one in which a young man seduces a woman he doesn’t love because his heart is bound to the Ice Maiden—he stared right at me and he looked…disgusted with me.”

Kevla felt her draw breath, and softly sing a verse.

Don’t fall in love with me, my girl;
Don’t fall in love with me.
For I shall take thy body
And then I’ll let thee be;
By afternoon tomorrow,
I’ll have forgotten thee.

She was trying to keep the pain out of her voice, but failing. Kevla hugged her tighter, feeling her move to wipe her face. “Why would he do such a thing?” Kevla asked.

“I don’t know. But the next day he was as sweet as ever, as if nothing had happened. It’s very confusing. Have you ever been in love, Kevla?”

Quietly, Kevla answered, “Yes.”

“What happened? Did he—did he abandon you?”

If only that had happened. I would have a broken heart, but he would be alive. “No. He died.”

“Oh, Kevla, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to pry.”

Kevla shushed her with a gentle pat. “It’s all right. It’s just—I don’t know much about how men treat women here, so I can’t really advise you.”

“When we find him, will you tell me what you think of him?”

“Yes, of course.”

“I love him, Kevla.” The words were a hushed whisper, issuing forth in the anonymous darkness. “I love him with all my heart, even though I’ve only known him a short time. I’d do anything for him. Anything. But I don’t know if he wants me. I don’t—I don’t want to end up like the Ice Maiden, alone and angry and hurt….”

“You’re a wonderful girl, Mylikki. Let’s see what the future holds before we fear it. Now, go to sleep. And no dreams of Ice Maidens and snow.”

15

Kevla poked her head out to a dim morning. Despite her admonition to Mylikki, she herself had slept fitfully, haunted by dreams of a beautiful woman made of ice. She stretched and crawled outside. The Dragon’s head hung above her, his nostrils flaring. He exhaled two small puffs of smoke.

“It is overcast, but not snowing,” the Dragon said, lowering his head for her caress. “We can fly for some time.”

“That is well,” said Kevla. “Perhaps it is just that this land seems so alien to me, but I am anxious to find Altan and the Stone Dancer and leave this place.”

“It is not your unfamiliarity with this place that makes you feel so,” the Dragon assured her. “We need to be on our guard.” He eyed her. “We are not alone.”

She looked in the direction he had indicated. The air was thick and gray and it was hard to see, but she could have sworn she saw a movement in the forests. On the soft, powdery surface of the fresh snow, Kevla noticed a cold glitter that caught what little light there was. It was a thin ribbon of ice that curled in on itself in a sort of ring.

“What is it?” Her voice had dropped to a whisper.

“Men,” the Dragon said. “They’ve been here all night.”

“The wild men?”

The Dragon cocked his head in a gesture that Kevla knew meant he was puzzled by something. “Perhaps. There’s something awry with them, Kevla. They smell…wrong.”

“Why didn’t they attack?”

Slowly, the Dragon looked down at her with a faintly amused expression and she burst out laughing. Even if the men in the forest had seen her and Mylikki last night, two apparently defenseless women, they had been completely sheltered by a huge dragon. An army would think twice about attacking.

Mylikki crawled out from underneath the Dragon and smiled. “Hearing you laugh, Kevla, makes me think the day is off to a wonderful start.”

Kevla’s mirth faded, but she kept the smile in place for Mylikki’s sake. She did not want to alarm the girl. Besides, soon they would be many leagues from here.

“The day seems clear,” Mylikki said, gazing up at the blue sky. “I am sure we will find Altan today!”

Kevla and the Dragon exchanged glances. Kevla desperately hoped so, too; hoped they would find the youth alive. The storm last night had been severe. If he had not been able to find shelter…

Kevla and Mylikki ate a quick meal of tea and dried fruit, then gathered their belongings and climbed aboard the Dragon. The day was bright and clear and they could see for leagues. Mylikki had sketched a simple map in the snow, showing them where they would be headed. Riversong was not too far away.

There were no tracks to follow from Galak-by-the-Lake, of course; the storm had seen to that. Kevla had hoped to see telltale skeltha trails leading to the village of Riversong, but there was nothing.

A small cluster of houses appeared below them, dotted along the gentle curve of a bright, frozen river.

“Riversong,” Mylikki said dully.

“He could have weathered the storm in the village,” Kevla said.

Mylikki shook her head. “He couldn’t get there in just two days.” Her voice was thick and laced with fear. “And not with another storm earlier.”

At once, the Dragon lowered a wing and made a smooth circle, turning back to retrace their path. “We will find him,” he assured the two women. “I will fly closer to the ground, to see if I can catch his scent.”

Even as he spoke, Kevla felt her friend’s thoughts brush hers. See if you can sense him, Kevla. He might not be the Stone Dancer, but he is important in our quest.

I’ll try, Kevla thought back. She closed her eyes and calmed her mind, extending her thoughts. She felt Mylikki’s arms around her tremble, felt the Dragon fly lower and lower until he was almost skimming the snow.

She was able to communicate with the Dragon by thinking words. Perhaps reaching Altan would be similar to that.

Altan. Singer of songs. Friend to the Stone Dancer. Let me know where you are….

Nothing. She opened her eyes, disappointment and apprehension surging through her. If only there were someone who could explain how this worked. How was she supposed to—

And then the knowledge came. Swift, sure, precise—as if she’d known it all along. She was so surprised by the revelation that it took her a moment to tell the others.

“The woods on the left,” she said. “He’s down there. I—I feel it.”

The Dragon headed for the forest she had indicated. He came to ground in a clear area at the edge of the woods and the two women dismounted.

“You sensed him?” Mylikki asked.

“I think so,” Kevla said.

“How?”

“I have no idea. My powers—even I don’t know their full extent. But I think he’s in here somewhere.”

She had been pleased, excited, but now realized that the forest was enormous. Mylikki was starting to breathe too quickly, fear for Altan consuming her.

Kevla grabbed her hands. “Mylikki, I know you’re worried, but I need you to be calm.” Mylikki turned her blue eyes to Kevla and nodded. Kevla entwined her fingers with those of her friend. “I want you to think of Altan. See him in your mind. Try to capture what it is about him that makes him special.”

Her eyes were bright with unshed tears, but her mouth curved in a smile. “That will be easy.”

Kevla closed her eyes and concentrated. She had thought that perhaps she might see Altan in her own mind, but no image came. But one thing did come: a very clear sense of direction.

Squeezing Mylikki’s hands, she dropped them. “Dragon, wait here. I will call you when we’ve found him. Come on, Mylikki!”

They turned as one and stepped into the dark shade of the forest, leaving the Dragon behind. The trees grew thick and dark. Humans had not come here, and any small animal trails they might have followed were lost beneath the snow. The going was difficult, and more than once Kevla lost her footing in her thin sandals. She was grateful beyond words for the little sensations and thoughts that came to her; turn left here, go a little farther there. Mylikki was hard on her heels as they stumbled through the woods.

Without warning the forest opened into a small clearing. Large, snow-covered boulders jutted upward. Kevla knew they were close now. Her heart was racing.

“Call him,” she told Mylikki.

Mylikki cupped her hands around her mouth and cried Altan’s name. Her clear voice carried on the crisp air, but there was no answering call.

He’s hurt, Kevla thought, not knowing how she knew. She closed her eyes and willed herself to find the boy. He was nearby, she was sure of it. She turned, her body being pulled by something she couldn’t control.

She opened her eyes and found herself staring directly at a small entrance into the jumble of boulders—a sliver of darkness she had missed before. The entrance had been almost completely covered by last night’s snowfall.

“There,” she said. “He’s in there.” She hurried to the boulder. Mylikki quickly joined her and both women pulled armloads of snow away from the entrance.

“Altan?” Mylikki called as they dug. “Altan, we’re coming, hang on!”

Finally, they had dug out enough snow so that Kevla could edge forward. Before she entered the darkness, she cupped her hand and called a small flame. She wriggled into the narrow opening, feeling her body heat melt the ice, and extended the hand that cupped the little fire.

The faint light illuminated a small cavern. She saw something in the darkness, a motionless shape lying beyond the reach of the small fire’s light.

Please be all right, she thought, digging in with her left elbow and stretching out her right hand as far as she could. Suddenly she gasped and her body strained. There was a sudden, sharp drop-off and she almost tumbled forward.

As Altan had before her.

She could see him now, a huddled lump on the floor of the cavern. His cloak covered most of him, but she saw a white hand clutching a pack and a hint of golden curls.

She pulled back, closing her hand over the flame in her palm and extinguishing its insufficient light. “He’s here,” she told Mylikki, “but he’s hurt. Get me some branches, I need more light.”

Mylikki went pale, but did as she was told, returning a moment later with two sturdy branches. Kevla gave one to her and lit them both.

“Follow me,” she said. “Be careful. There’s a drop-off that comes up quite suddenly.”

The two women crawled forward. Kevla held the burning branch in her right hand and felt for the ledge with the other. Once she could see it, it was not tricky to negotiate. But Altan, crawling in blindly, half-frozen from the storm, had been at its mercy.

She turned over, swung her legs underneath her and lowered herself carefully. Her feet touched sturdy stone. She reached up to help Mylikki descend. Once Mylikki’s legs hit the earth she hastened to Altan, pulling the cloak from his pale face and grasping his hand in hers.

“Altan?” she said, her voice cracking.

He was so still…. Kevla reached in between them, feeling for a pulse on his throat. It was there—thready and faint, but there. Wedging the branch in a crack between the rocks so the light would stay steady, she saw that the boy—for he was in truth little more than a boy, perhaps even younger than Mylikki—was unnaturally pale and his lips were a dark color.

Kevla had been trained as a healer, but she had never before had cause to treat anyone who lay nearly frozen to death. Sickness from the heat, burns from the sun, yes, but not this. So instead of relying on training, she reached for instinct. She found both of Altan’s hands and clasped them to her heart. At the same time she leaned forward and slipped her hand down Altan’s throat, past the collar of his cloak and shirt, and onto his bare skin.

“What are you doing?” Mylikki asked.

Kevla ignored her. She closed her eyes and called the power that dwelt inside her.

No rushing surge of heat, not this time; she needed the gentle, steady warmth of the ember, not the licking, consuming conflagration of flame. She felt her body grow warmer, felt that warmth penetrate into Altan’s body from his hands on her heart and her hand on his. She tried to see the heat in her mind’s eye, as it moved along his body, into his skin, his blood, his bones.

“He needs more,” she told Mylikki, thinking even as she spoke: Dragon! We need your help!

“His clothes are soaked,” Mylikki said, quickly divesting the young huskaa of his outer garments.

Something flashed through Kevla’s mind. He was in a fragile state, like a wounded man…. “Cut the clothing off,” she cried. “Don’t move him too much.”

“I don’t have a knife,” Mylikki began, but she was cut off by a crashing sound that made the earth tremble. Dirt and small rocks showered them. Scarcely had they recovered from this than they heard the horrifying, grinding sound of the boulders above them moving. Mylikki screamed and ducked, covering Altan’s body with hers to protect him from the huge rocks that were sure to come crashing down on all three of them.

Instead, the boulder moved upward, and sunlight streamed in. Kevla looked up and saw the dear face of the Dragon. He had come when she needed him. Her heart surged with love for her friend.

“Altan’s almost frozen to death,” Kevla said to him. “We need the packs!”

The Dragon dropped them down and Mylikki dove on them, finding the knife and cutting at Altan’s clothing. The fabric was almost frozen stiff.

While Mylikki removed Altan’s garments, Kevla fumbled for the blankets. She looked again at the youth. He was moving now, and a soft groan escaped his lips. Kevla rolled him gently to one side and then the other so she could tuck the blankets around him. His skin was almost icy to the touch.

He was bare to the waist now. Where his flesh was exposed, Kevla covered it with the blanket as best she could. Mylikki was at the boy’s feet, trying to tug off his boots. Kevla went to help her. Once the boots were off Mylikki started to fold the blanket up around Altan’s lower body, but Kevla stayed her hand.

“The breeches,” she said. “They are soaked through as well.”

Mylikki nodded. She and Kevla cut away the breeches and Altan lay naked before them. Slender, almost ice-white, with golden hair catching the light at groin and crown, he looked as beautiful and as fragile as a dying liah to Kevla.

She thought about how Mylikki had described Altan’s voice; strong, beautiful, pure. A voice that Kevla now realized she might never hear. The thought infuriated and grieved her. No! Kevla thought. That voice will not be silenced!

What was it Gelsan had said? Skin to skin contact, and a gentle steady warming was what was called for when someone was in Altan’s state. Mylikki had confirmed it last night: You should be happy we’re clothed…. When someone has gotten too cold, the best way to warm him is skin to skin. Heedless now of her own modesty or his, knowing only that she needed to warm him with the fire that burned deep inside her heart, Kevla tore off her rhia and lay beside him. She stretched the entire length of her body against his, twining long legs and arms about him. His chest pressed against her breasts, his limp kurjah brushed against her sulim. At another time, it might have been an intimate embrace, but for Kevla, it was devoid of eroticism. Altan hung suspended between life and death.

“Wrap us tightly!” she cried. Mylikki did so, tucking the blanket snugly around them. Kevla looked up to see the Dragon sitting on his haunches, golden eyes full of concern.

“Dragon, hold us!”

Kevla felt herself and the barely conscious Altan being lifted and pressed to the Dragon’s breast. His scales were very warm, almost but not quite hot, and Kevla felt her own body heat up again. Heart to heart they lay in the Dragon’s paws, Kevla-sha-Tahmu and a boy she had never before seen, bodies entangled in life-giving warmth.

Cling to me, she thought, wrapping her arms more tightly about him. Cling to life, Altan.

How long she held him, she did not know. At last, she felt his chilled flesh warm, his heartbeat become steadier. Kevla felt him move, felt his arms tighten around her. She did not stop him; he was past knowing what he did and the fact that he was moving at all gladdened her.

“Put us down, please,” Kevla asked the Dragon. He obeyed, gently lowering them to the earth. Mylikki had not been idle. She had set up a tent, spread blankets on the ground and had started a small fire. She stirred the cauldron and Kevla smelled tea.

Good, she thought. A hot beverage will warm him once he is able to drink.

She moved away a little and found herself staring into a pair of large, blue-green eyes. He had a face that was at once both sweet and masculine, heartbreakingly beautiful. No wonder Mylikki had been so charmed. But to her surprise, that face shifted from puzzlement to anger. He craned his neck and peered down, uttering an exclamation of annoyance when he saw Mylikki. She smiled in relief as their eyes met, but his words stilled her expression of pleasure.

“You again! Curse it, will I never be rid of you?” he snarled.

His voice was slightly slurred but still musical and entrancing, but the ugly words chilled Kevla. He continued speaking and Kevla was relieved when she realized he was spouting nonsense: “Big hands…too crowded….”

His eyes closed and he fell unconscious again. Kevla pulled him to her as the Dragon lowered them both, not wanting to see the pain in Mylikki’s blue eyes.

16

For the next few hours, Altan was almost like a drunken man. His speech was slurred and full of nonsense and he drifted in and out of sleep. When he was awake, they gave him tea and hot broth; when he slept, Mylikki held him with a fierce possessiveness.

Kevla knew her actions had saved Altan’s life. She was fire incarnate; the warmth that burned within her could be directed and channeled in a way that the natural heat of Mylikki’s simple human skin could not. Mylikki knew this as well, but there was a wistfulness that told Kevla more strongly than any words that she wished she had been the one to hold Altan. Kevla hoped that the cruel words Altan had spoken to Mylikki were as mad as the rest of his cold-induced ravings, but wondered; after all, he had been cruel to Mylikki before.

You were the right one to hold Altan, the Dragon thought to her. Mylikki might have wanted to, but you couldn’t risk Altan’s life.

I wish she had been the one to do it, Kevla thought. She folded her arms across her knees and gazed at the fire. Altan’s touch was pleasant, but his is not the touch I long for.

Her eyes suddenly blurred with tears and she placed her head on her arms. Her heart contracted with remembered pain and guilt. The touch she longed for, she knew, she ought never have experienced…and would never experience again.

I miss you so much, Jashemi. And it’s all my fault. If I had been stronger, better able to resist; if everything had unfolded as it was meant to, you would be here with me now. I would give anything to have you here with me, to see your face, hear your laugh…but you are gone from me forever and I have no one but myself to blame.

Altan still slept and Mylikki held him, her face pressed to his. Her pretty blue eyes were closed and she was singing softly to the unconscious huskaa. It was a poignant image, a private one, and suddenly Kevla wanted to be alone.

She rose and stalked off. The Dragon said nothing, but let her go. Kevla slogged through the snow, its impersonal resistance to her passage making her angrier and more frustrated and at last she stumbled and fell into the soft white blanket.

She wept then, realizing how she had taken her feelings and placed them in a little corner because they were inconvenient. Not conducive to learning about Lamal, or finding the Stone Dancer. But the innocent press of Altan’s body against hers had reminded her skin that it had once been caressed by a man she had adored; that her body had once joined in passionate lovemaking with one who knew her better than she knew herself.

She wept for him, for herself, for the life she had left behind, for everything she had lost, and when she was done pouring her grief into the snow, she felt a little better. This wave of anguish had come and gone. But she knew an endless river of agony lurked, ready for the next time she was distracted from the task at hand; ready to bite like a sand-snake and pump its venom of shame and guilt into her soul.

She washed her face with a handful of snow, feeling no stinging bite from its coldness, and took a deep, shuddering breath. There was something she had wanted to do for some time now, and finally, she gave herself permission.

Kevla gathered a few fallen branches. “Burn,” she said. When the fire was crackling cheerfully, she swallowed hard. In a voice that trembled, she said, “Show me Tahmu.”

Immediately, the face of her father, the khashim of the Clan of Four Waters, appeared in the flame. He jerked back, no doubt startled at the apparition, then smiled in recognition.

“Kevla!”

She smiled back, tremulously. “Hello, Father.” The term felt so strange in her mouth still.

“It is so good to see you, my daughter.” There was an awkward pause. “Are you well?”

Kevla nodded. “Well enough. How are you? And Sahlik, and Meli?”

“We are all very well. We were very busy after you left, though.”

“What’s happening? Tell me.” She leaned forward, knowing that all she needed to do to physically be with him was step into the fire, too afraid that if she did so she would not have the strength of will to return. Though she had once been treated badly there, Arukan was and always would be her home.

“Most of the Clans agreed to form a council. We are trying to arrange when to meet and determine how much control it should have.” He smiled again, somewhat wistfully. “I wish you were here to share your wisdom. We still do not agree on everything, and it is much easier to obey the Great Dragon when he is present to make his wishes known.”

The lump in her throat made it hard to speak. “I am glad to hear that you are making progress, however slow it might be. How are the kulis?”

“It is a sweet thing, my daughter. You would be moved to see how welcomed they have been,” he said. “It was as if we as a people were waiting for this for years.”

You were, Kevla thought. So much was waiting to be changed. She wiped at her face.

“We speak of you often. Have you found what you sought?”

“Not yet. This is such a strange land, Father. There are wonders and beauty and darkness here. I cannot even begin to speak of it.”

“I hope one day your travels bring you home,” her father said softly, his dark eyes sad and yet hopeful. “We—we miss you.”

“I miss you too,” she said, and found to her surprise that it was true. Here in this alien land, she longed for the familiar—the smell and bustle of the kitchens, Sahlik’s brusque kindness….

Her eyes filled with tears. “Perhaps one day I will return,” she said. “Give my love to Meli.”

“I will. I once would have said, ‘Dragon go with you,’ but in your case, he did.”

The comment made Kevla laugh a little. She wiped again at her wet eyes. She still did not truly regard Tahmu-kha-Rakyn as her father; she wondered if she ever would, even though she had taken his name. In a way, she fiercely envied Meli, her little sister. Meli’s first ten years had been difficult beyond Kevla’s imagining, but now the child was in a home where she was welcomed and honored; where their father was free to express his love for her. There was so much Kevla yearned for that could never be hers.

Kevla wondered how things would have been different had Meli been permitted to spend her first years safely in the House of Four Waters, not only for the girl’s sake, but for her mother’s. Yeshi had been devastated when Meli was taken from her. Would Yeshi have become such a bitter, murderous woman if she had been able to keep her daughter? Somehow, Kevla didn’t think so. Before that awful incident, Yeshi had been vain and shallow, but not evil. Not then.

“I need to go,” she said thickly.

“Will we hear from you again?” Tahmu asked.

“I don’t know. I’ll try to stay in contact. Goodbye, Father.”

“Goodbye, Kevla. I am so very proud of you.”

With a wave of her hand, Kevla extinguished the little fire. She sat and stared at the black, burned wood for a long time.

When at last she returned, Mylikki was alone with Altan. The Dragon was gone. As Kevla slogged up to their campsite, Mylikki regarded her with relief. “I wasn’t sure where you’d gone,” she said.

There was a rustling in the blankets and Altan Lukkari sat up. He looked nothing like the still, cold figure they had found a few hours ago. His color had returned, and he was alert and smiling. He pulled the blankets around his still-naked frame self-consciously.

“You must be Kevla,” he said in that lovely voice. “Mylikki has told me all about you. I understand I owe you my life. ‘Thank you’ seems inadequate.”

“You’re welcome,” Kevla said. “I am glad to see you looking well.” This polite, earnest youth was a world away from the cruel boy who had snarled such unkind words. Kevla set about preparing something hot for them to eat. “How are you feeling now?”

“Exhausted,” Altan admitted. “And weak.”

“Sounds like the Ice Maiden nearly got you,” said Kevla, somewhat mischievously.

As she had hoped, Altan looked annoyed. “I see Mylikki has been talking to you about the legend,” he said. “I keep trying to explain to her that the Ice Maiden got the term because she was unfeeling, not because she—”

Kevla caught Mylikki’s eye and saw an impish smile spread on the other girl’s face. Both of them started laughing. Altan looked confused, then he joined in.

“All right, all right,” he said, his voice warm with mirth. “You two have saved my life. I suppose I should let you tease me all you like.”

“I’d rather ask you some questions, if you feel up to it.”

Altan shifted in his blanket. “I know why you needed to cut off my wet clothes, and I don’t want you to think me ungrateful,” he said, “but could I trouble you to give me my pack so I can find something to wear?”

Mylikki sprang to hand him his pack. Both women politely turned their backs while he dressed.

“Much better,” he said. A sudden, worried expression crossed his face and he clutched at the pack. “My kyndela!” he cried, sounding like he had lost a child.

“I’ve been keeping it out of the weather for you,” Mylikki said. “Here.” She drew it out of her own pack, where she had wrapped it carefully.

“Thank you,” he said fervently, reaching for it eagerly. He frowned a little as he examined it. “I could trust you to understand how important it is.” He gave her a radiant smile, and Mylikki seemed to blossom in front of Kevla’s eyes. Mindful of her promise to Mylikki, Kevla watched Altan closely, but the words and the warmth behind them struck her as genuine. Flexing his fingers, Altan plucked at the strings and winced at the sound. “You can hear it protesting,” he joked.

Kevla stirred the thin soup. Gelsan had been generous in giving them supplies. Still, it was only their second night of traveling, and who knew how long this would last them. She glanced up at the darkening sky. “I assume the Dragon went hunting?”

“Yes,” Mylikki said. “I’m surprised he hasn’t returned yet.”

Kevla was, too, but she said nothing. Neither she nor the Dragon had told Mylikki about the strange men that had been lurking in the woods last night, and Kevla was slightly worried for her friends. She told herself that they had flown many leagues and that the Dragon would not have left if he did not feel it was safe to do so.

Altan shook his golden head. “Dragon,” he said, in a voice of awe. “Never had I thought to see such a marvel. He was gone when I awoke. I am anxious to meet him.” His lips curved in a smile. “What a song I shall make for him.”

Altan cocked his head and leaned down to hear every note as he continued to tune the instrument. Even these sounds, one note at a time, made Kevla’s skin prickle. She had heard tales of magical instruments; if any instrument was enchanted, then surely it had to be a kyndela.

“You have seen marvels, though,” Kevla said. “Mylikki tells me you have told her about a man from your village who could do amazing things.”

He looked up from tuning the instrument. “She told you about Jareth Vasalen?”

Jareth. Kevla was inordinately pleased. At last, she had a name to put to the Stone Dancer. She nodded.

“I know him better than any man, I think,” Altan continued. “He helped bring me into this world. He was like a big brother to me.”

His voice was warm with affection, and Kevla’s own heart warmed hearing it. This, indeed, was a worthy Dancer.

“He was quite famous, of course, because of his gifts. He called the seasons. He also called animals for food during lean times. He refused to do it during the softer months. He said that wasn’t fair, that we should work for what we needed. But he would never let anyone go hungry.”

Kevla felt her mouth curling in a smile. She liked Jareth better and better the more she learned about him. He sounded kind and compassionate.

“Once, when a little girl from another village got lost, he asked the trees and the stones to tell him where she had passed. Her family found her before nightfall.”

He saves life with his powers—with Earth magic, Kevla thought. Her pleasure abated somewhat, as she recalled what she had done in Arukan with her powers. He saves lives…I take them.

“But then the winter came, and would not leave,” said Kevla.

“Yes,” said Altan heavily. “I am ashamed to say how SkalkaValley treated him after that. Many whispered that he was cursed.” Anger flared in those blue-green eyes. He was silent for a time, his hands softly caressing the kyndela as he stared into the flames. “When his family died, I’m sure he did believe he was cursed.”

Kevla felt a rush of sympathy for a man she had never met. “What happened?”

“The snow,” Altan said, simply. “He was off with a group of hunters, trying to call some animals for food. The storm came so quickly, so unexpectedly…. It looked as though the wind had broken down the door and the snow had come in too fast for them to get out. It seems impossible—but then again, once I would have said a winter that lasted a year was impossible, too.”

He swallowed hard. “I was the one who found them,” he said. “I was worried about them…they lived too near the mountains for safety, I always told him that….”

Mylikki squeezed his arm. Altan gave her a sweet smile, but his eyes were still sad. “I wanted him to come live with me, but he left that night,” he said. “Not a word to anyone, not even to me.” He shrugged. “So I decided to try to find him myself. I’m worried about him.”

So am I, thought Kevla. “He’s not dead,” she said aloud to reassure Altan. “I’d know it if he was. We…we all would.” She told him about the Dancers, about their task, and again asked hopefully if he knew any Lorekeepers. He shook his head.

“This is all new to me,” he said. “Wonderful and fascinating, but new. I have never heard of anyone having the dreams you speak of, Kevla, or any visions. There must not be many Lorekeepers in Lamal. But as you know, we are a scattered people. We used to trade with other villages, but since the snow and the madmen came…well. I have been to some villages where they did not even honor the Huskaa Law. I was shocked.”

So, apparently, was Mylikki. “Really? They would not open their doors to you?”

“No. Some just kept their doors closed until I went away. At one village I even sat on the snow and played for them, to prove I was a huskaa.”

Mylikki seemed stunned. She sat back, pulling her cloak around her, confusion on her face. Even more than an endless winter and killers in the forest, this seemed to shock her to the very core.

Kevla felt a prickling. “The Dragon comes.” She could see him now, a small but growing speck against the darkening sky.

Altan looked up and his eyes widened. His mouth opened slightly. He, too, got to his feet, still holding his kyndela in one hand. Kevla watched for the look of fear, but saw only wonder. As the Dragon grew closer and finally landed, folding his massive wings against his side, Altan’s lips curved in a faint smile.

“I begin to think I have died after all,” he said quietly, “to behold such things.”

The Dragon cocked his head. “Rather not dead, I think—you are looking much better than the last time I saw you,” he rumbled. “You are a fortunate man, Altan. I hope you are properly grateful to Kevla.”

Still gazing rapturously at the mighty creature, Altan said, “Indeed I am, Great Dragon. Indeed I am.”

The Dragon sighed and opened his forepaws. “Poor hunting today, I fear. A few birds I snatched out of the air. I saw nothing on the ground.”

“This will be a wonderful meal,” Kevla reassured him, her mouth watering at the sight of the three large birds with gray-white plumage and long, slender necks.

The Dragon again dug a shelter into the snow while the meal was prepared. Mylikki and Kevla plucked the birds, then cut the flesh into small chunks and added them to the soup. Altan, still not fully recovered from his ordeal, drowsed again, reviving some time later. He sniffed appreciatively.

“Since I have begun traveling,” he said, “the only meals I have had when I was not in a village have been cold dried meat and water. This is a feast!”

Sheltered beneath the protective covering of the Dragon’s huge, warm body, they ate their fill of the scrawny birds that Mylikki called gahalgeese. It truly was a feast. Kevla hoped they would continue to be lucky enough to obtain fresh meat. Both Altan and Mylikki still seemed so thin to her. When they were done, Mylikki cleaned out the pot and Altan reached for his kyndela.

“I assume you have heard Mylikki play and sing?” he asked Kevla. “She is quite accomplished.”

Mylikki blushed, her eyes glowing with pleasure from the compliment. “I had a good teacher,” she said.

He grinned at her affectionately. “If you were a man, I’d have taken you as a huskaa-lal, you know.”

Mylikki’s delight seemed to abate. “I know,” she said, softly, returning her attention to scrubbing the cauldron.

“Mylikki performed the song that made me think there might be Lorekeepers here,” Kevla said, “the one called Fighting Back the Shadow.”

“Ah. No one sings that better than Mylikki. We spoke earlier of the Ice Maiden. Have you heard any of the songs?”

“She asked me about them,” Mylikki said, “but I told her to wait until we had found you.” She did not mention she had sung one of the crueler verses to Kevla last night.

His face softened. “If you had not come for me, Mylikki, no one would have ever found me,” he said. “Thank you.” Turning his attention back to his instrument, he added, “Even my fingers are still whole, so that I can play. Truly a miracle.”

Kevla scooped up some snow into the freshly cleaned cauldron and increased the fire’s heat. She dropped some dried herbs into the pot for tea.

Altan began to play.

A stranger came a-riding,
And thus he me did greet:
“I seek the cold Ice Maiden,
A challenge for to meet.
I’ve sought the maid no man can move
For ten months and a year,
And now my search has reached an end—
They tell me she dwells here.”

I gazed upon the rider,
A noble lad in truth;
But overbold and reckless,
As I was in my youth.
Though strong, he’d not be strong enough,
I knew he must not stay,
And so for tender pity’s sake,
This I to him did say:

“She is called the Ice Maiden,
And she’s perilous fair;
There are stars in her eyes,
And the sun’s in her hair.
Though her lips be wine-red,
You may take it from me—
There is ice in her breast where
A warm heart should be.

Kevla was captivated by the silvery sound of the instrument and the clear purity of Altan’s youthful male voice. He was a wonderful performer; it was no surprise he was a full huskaa even at his tender age. The song, though, was disturbing to her in a way she could not articulate, and the melody haunting.

“You see me as I stand here,
An old man now I be.
But not so long ago, lad,
I was as young as thee.
’Twas then the Maiden claimed my soul,
And sod beneath the snow
Is warmer than her icy touch.
Believe me, lad, I know.

“There’s some that call her spirit,
Claim deep woods are her home.
Some say she’s but a lassie
Whose lad left her to roam.
But me, I say, she’s nightmare born,
And others think so, too—
All those of us who’ve felt her gaze,
And know what it can do.”

As he repeated the chilling chorus, Kevla felt her skin prickle, but not from the beauty of the melody, not this time. There was something very real about this song, folktale though it was. Perhaps it was just how the human heart could turn so dark and cold after a bitter disappointment. She herself had never wandered down that particular path of revenge and hatred. For who could she blame for her pain but herself? No, her pain had been and was still hot and fiery, not icy.

The song continued to a conclusion that Kevla dreaded.

“For twenty years and longer,
No village girl has wed.
Marry some sweet maiden,
Take her to your bed.
Raise you a family, love them well,
And lay this quest aside.
Seek not to woo this Maiden.
She’ll never be your bride.”

He laughed then, long and hearty:
“Old man, you’ve made me smile.”
He tossed a coin and left me,
The Maiden to beguile.
And I have not seen that poor lad since,
And this was long ago;
But of his fate, I’m certain,
What happened, ah! I know!

He has seen the Ice Maiden,
And she’s perilous fair;
He has seen her eyes shine,
He has seen her gold hair.
Now he thirsts for wine lips—
He’s become just like me,
And there’s dust in his breast where
A heart used to be.

The last silvery note floated into the icy night air and hung there for a moment. No one spoke.

Finally, Kevla broke the silence. “That was beautiful, Altan. But now I am very sad.”

“I think I have had enough of ice maidens and snow songs,” the Dragon said. Mylikki and Altan jumped, startled to hear his deep voice, and Kevla chuckled good-naturedly. Apparently the two Lamali natives had forgotten that their “shelter” was the Dragon, and he had heard everything, including the song.

“Perhaps something more cheerful, to send us to sleep with peaceful dreams,” Kevla suggested as she served the tea. Both Altan and Mylikki closed grateful fingers around the warm ceramic mugs. As she sipped the hot beverage, Kevla tried to put a name to what she felt. It was with some surprise that she realized she was cold. Not physically; but her heart was cold. The song had chilled her emotionally, and no amount of hot tea could take away the sensation.

Where are you, Jareth? she implored silently, as if somehow he could sense her thoughts over the unknown distance that separated them. I don’t know this land. I don’t know these people, these songs. This is your place, not mine. I need you. This world needs you.

Altan and Mylikki sang a sprightly, silly little duet, their voices blending perfectly, their faces smiling and happy as they gazed into one another’s eyes. Kevla relaxed against the wall of hard-packed snow, but she couldn’t shake the image of the Ice Maiden and what she did to young men’s hearts. Was the song literal, as Mylikki seemed to think? Did the Maiden replace warm, beating, human hearts with a chunk of ice? Or was it figurative, as Altan maintained—rendered them incapable of loving anyone ever again?

Either way, she thought, it is a terrible fate.

17

While they waited another day so that Altan could continue to recover, Kevla revealed more to her companions about the Dancers and the Lorekeepers. They were both enthralled, and as she spoke, Altan actually reached for his kyndela and began to accompany her. Kevla was embarrassed at first and asked him to stop, but both he and Mylikki encouraged her to continue.

“This is how we honor the great stories,” Altan said. “This is why the Huskaa Law was established, so that we can learn the songs and stories, and they can continue to be told.”

Kevla shyly relaxed into the camaraderie, speaking of Arukan’s desert landscape and harsh environment. She told them about the splintered Clans, about growing up haunted by dreams of the Dragon, about how her Lorekeeper—she did not name him—and others like him had also had dreams. She felt again a pang of disappointment that she had not yet encountered any Lorekeepers here in Lamal.

“Memories,” breathed Mylikki. “Memories disguised as dreams. Memories that could cost you your life.”

Kevla nodded. “Our people feared two things—the Great Dragon, the keeper of our laws, and the demon kulis.” She was lying against the Dragon’s side as she spoke, her hands clasped behind her head, and turned to smile at him. “Neither was what we thought they were,” she said.

“Still, I would not want to be your enemy, Dragon,” Altan said, inclining his head respectfully.

The Dragon harrumphed, sending twin spirals of smoke from his nostrils to the sky. “You are wise as well as talented, Altan. I am a part of Kevla, and she of me. You would be unhappy indeed to be the enemy of either of us.”

“I’ll do my best to be a good traveling companion,” Altan said lightly.

The words reminded Kevla of the reason they were here. It was pleasant to sit and talk, but she hoped Altan would be sufficiently recovered to move on tomorrow. She knew that while she was not physically in the lands the Emperor commanded, there was a possibility they were all still at risk.

“The Dancers do have an enemy,” she said. “I warned Mylikki about him and I must tell you as well, Altan. He is called the Emperor, and he rules the land that lies between Arukan and Lamal. He is bent on destroying the Dancers, making sure we cannot complete our task of saving this world. It was he who sent the army over the mountains to attack the Clans, and while I was traveling here, he tried to…to get inside my head, to command my thoughts.”

Altan had stopped playing and Mylikki said, “But you said he hasn’t been able to find you since you entered our land.”

“True. Nor has he interfered with my powers. I think we are safe from him, or else I would not have involved you in this journey. But I cannot guarantee it. If you wish the Dragon to return you to your homes, he will.”

Altan returned to playing, a soft, subtle tune he improvised as he went. He shook his fair head.

“You and I share a quest, Kevla,” Altan said. “I set out to find Jareth, too. If he has indeed lost his abilities, he will be as vulnerable as anyone in the wilds. I have been searching for him for many months. We’ll find him together.”

“I will stay, too,” Mylikki said. “You said that the Emperor sent his troops over the mountains to fight the Clans?”

“Yes,” Kevla said. “He attacked the Clans one by one, conscripting them to serve in his army.”

“Then it sounds like if he decides to attack, we wouldn’t be safe anywhere,” Mylikki said bluntly, surprising Kevla with her logic. “I’d rather be with you and the Dragon than in Arrun Woods. Although,” she said, “I am worried about my family.”

Altan looked at her with compassion. “We have been worrying about our families and homes for almost a year now, Mylikki,” he said. “Our villages are enduring an endless winter and attacks from marauders already. Possibly we can help Kevla put a stop to all of that.”

The night was cold and clear, and they huddled around the fire looking at the stars for a time instead of immediately moving to the shelter the Dragon so obligingly provided. The two huskaas huddled close to the fire, eating the boiled gahalgoose with their fingers. Kevla leaned back and looked at the stars, permitting herself to relax and notice the night sky for the first time since she had embarked on her travels. It took her a few minutes to find what she was looking for; apparently being so far north changed the night skies.

She pointed. “In my land,” she told her friends, “that collection of stars is the First Clan Leader, and he is bowing before the Great Dragon, right there.”

The Dragon craned his neck. “I don’t see the resemblance myself.”

“I see it,” Altan said. “We know that collection of stars too, and to us it is the Huskaa and his kyndela. See the strings right there? That chain of stars?”

Kevla laughed in surprised delight as her vision shifted. What had seemed to her firmly to be a kneeling khashim and the Dragon become a player holding an instrument.

“Yes,” she said, “I can see it now. Over there, we have the Sand Maiden, who—”

Suddenly she gasped and rubbed at her eyes. Did she really see that strange wave of color that washed over the night sky? A heartbeat later, she had no doubt. The sky was on fire! Brilliant hues of red, green and blue chased one another around the night sky. They shimmered and pulsed.

“It’s the lights of the gods,” Mylikki explained. “They are playing with one another, and this light sparks off their fur. It is an omen.”

Kevla gazed at the shimmering, magical lights, drinking it in. She had seen the occasional shooting star, while she wandered the deserts of Arukan searching for the Dragon, but had never beheld anything like this.

Altan said nothing, transfixed by the celestial display. He was a singer, a teller of tales. He, more than most others, could appreciate the startling beauty of the god-lights, Kevla thought. The colors danced across his pale, upturned features, making him look magical too.

“They are beautiful,” Mylikki said. “But somehow they frighten me now.” She shivered and leaned more closely in to Altan for warmth. “They’re different. The colors are different—there’s so much red now—and we’re seeing them much more often now. I wonder if it has to do with the winter.”

Altan gave her a glance, and contempt curled his lip. “Stop being such a coward,” he said, and shifted so that she was no longer touching him. He said nothing further, gazing in rapt silence at the shifting colors.

Mylikki pulled her cloak more closely around her and lowered her head, pretending not to be stung by the rebuke. Kevla said nothing more, but wondered why at some times Altan seemed so sweet and amiable, and at others, a callous churl.

He was gliding smoothly on a pair of skeltha. She had a name for him now—Jareth. As he sped away, Kevla tried to follow, but her bare feet slipped in the snow and she fell. When she struggled to her feet, he was nowhere to be seen.

“Jareth!” she cried, hearing the name echo in the stillness of the dark trees and white snow. There was no response. Suddenly the light dimmed and bright colors began to dance in the sky. Kevla watched for a moment, and then she realized that Altan was right: the heavenly display of color was the gods dancing and playing with one another.

Except there weren’t several blue tigers, chasing one another around like cubs. There was only one, but it moved so quickly that it seemed it must be more. She screamed as it suddenly gathered itself and leaped from its place in the firmament to land in the snow before her.

Her hands were at her mouth, and she realized she was alone. No Altan, no Mylikki, not even the Dragon. It was just her and the blue tiger god of Lamal, standing silently regarding one another in the snow.

Its tail flicked and it gazed at her with deep, knowing golden eyes. Then it turned and bounded off in the same direction Jareth had gone, but left no mark in the snow.

Kevla awoke with a gasp. Sweat dotted her forehead, made her rhia cling to her in dark, wet patches. She could see light outside, but Altan and Mylikki were asleep. They had begun the night sleeping apart, but had ended up huddled in one another’s arms. Briefly Kevla wondered if it was by accident or design. But she had no time to waste pondering the relationship between the two. She hurried over to Altan and shook him.

Sleepily he rolled over and peered at her with tired eyes. “What is it, Kevla? Is something wrong?” Beside him, Mylikki blinked drowsily.

“Do you know why Jareth left your village?”

“No, I told you, he left without a word to anyone.”

“I had a dream,” Kevla said. “I think I know why he left.”

His hand shot out and closed on her wrist. “Tell me.”

“You said, everyone, including Jareth, thought his ability to bring spring was a gift from the gods—the blue tigers,” Kevla said. “Then suddenly the gift went away. I think Jareth has gone to find the gods, to bring back spring to the land.”

Olar knew his mother was torn. On the one hand, she expressed pleasure that her daughter displayed both wit and compassion by pretending to be a huskaa and telling the people from Galak-by-the-Lake to go to Arrun Woods. On the other hand, Olar was aware that even the few people who had made the trip to his village made a difference in the amount of food stockpiled. The Dragon’s hunting had helped, but could not stave off the inevitable. Gelsan could not find it in her heart to turn anyone away. Still, the food would not last for weeks, as they had anticipated, but now merely days.

It was time to go hunting, and Olar was excited.

“I’m old enough now,” he wheedled. “Any other winter I’d be with the hunting party already.”

His mother regarded him. “Any other winter,” she said harshly, “and you would have your father with you to teach you.”

Olar bit his lower lip, uncertain how to reply. His father, Veslar, had been among the first to disappear in a violent snowstorm back when everyone thought this a normal season. He missed his father still, and knew that his mother did too. With Mylikki gone, Olar knew he was all Gelsan had.

“I want to help, Mother.” Gelsan’s shoulders sagged and she sighed. She finished putting on her boots and opened the door. She peered at the sky.

“It seems clear,” she said. She turned and looked at him almost hungrily. Olar stood up a little straighter, accepting her scrutiny, praying to the gods that she would not find him wanting. “Very well. But you stay with me. You do not go farther than my eyes can see you. And if a storm descends, we turn around and come back home immediately. I don’t care if a kirvi is prancing right in front of you, do you understand?”

Olar fought to keep the delight from his face, but he couldn’t suppress a smile. “Yes, Mother,” he said. He hurried to dress properly, finding his snow walkers and strapping them on. The group assembled in the center of the small village. There were eight of them. Most were women, who were the only ones of the right age and physically fit enough to spend the day trudging in the wilds, but there were two old men from Galak-by-the-Lake as well as Olar. He regarded them with compassionate, slightly contemptuous eyes. They wanted to help, but they were too old. They would need to turn around soon. He only hoped it wouldn’t ruin the party’s chances of finding fresh meat.

Increasingly, Arrun Woods and, he supposed, other villages like it, had had to rely on other means of obtaining food—fishing through holes in the ice, constructing traps of various sorts. It helped, but only a little. For the bigger prey, one had to go to them. He was thrilled that finally he was permitted to embark on his first true hunt.

Much later, chilled to the bone and so exhausted his legs were trembling, Olar wished he was home by the smoky fire. They had seen nothing; had not even come across tracks in the snow. Once or twice Olar had thought he had seen a small hare, but it was just his eyes playing tricks on him. Worse, the sky was starting to cloud over. He was grateful when Gelsan called a halt and sank down on a fallen tree. He scooped some snow into his mouth, thankful for the moisture, and listened with half an ear as his mother and the others discussed their options.

One of the old men sat next to him and offered him a piece of dried meat. Olar gnawed on it gratefully. The old man, most of his teeth gone, sucked on his.

“There is still plenty of time before the storm comes,” one woman from Galak-by-the-Lake was saying. “We could at least check all the traps before turning back.”

Cold as he was, heat filled Olar’s cheeks as his mother glanced over her shoulder at him. She was turning back because of him! As if he was a child still. He wanted to tell her that he was fine, that they should keep going if the others wanted to, she should do anything but return home empty-handed because of him….

He looked up at the sky. It was almost completely gray now. When had that happened? They came so swiftly, the storms. Some said the Ice Maiden sent them, to weaken the hunting parties. It did seem as though a party would leave on a cloudless morning to stumble back in the afternoon in an unexpected storm…often missing a few of its number.

There was a soft noise behind him. Idly, Olar turned—and gazed right into the large, soft eyes of a kirvi doe. They stared at one another for a moment, predator and prey, and then the doe turned and bounded into the shadows of the forest.

Wondering if his eyes were playing tricks on him again, Olar glanced over at his companion. The old man had seen it too, and his eyes gleamed with excitement. Unspoken words passed between them as the snow began to drift lazily down.

The old man, skinny and white-haired and nearly toothless, had been told time and again that he was past his prime. Olar knew this to be true, although he had never witnessed such words being exchanged; he could see it in how the man held himself. He was thought largely worthless, but now, he and Olar had a chance to prove something to the others.

The snow began to fall more heavily, and the wind picked up. Olar didn’t care. They would be in the forest in a few heartbeats, he and the old man whose name he didn’t even know; killing and bringing home a kirvi while the women and the other old man stood and quarreled about whether they should turn around now or detour to check yesterday’s traps.

No one noticed them slip silently into the shadows of the forest. The scent of the trees wafted to their nostrils as they moved carefully over a carpet of leaves and needles and moss, the ancient trees providing a canopy that caught the snow. Olar knelt, and pointed silently to a fresh hoof print. The old man nodded excitedly, and they continued.

At one point, Olar did feel a pang of worry at how long they had been gone. He glanced behind him, reassuring himself that he could easily find their way back; back with food for two hungry villages.

He turned around, stepping over a curious streak of ice, and cried out.

The old man had already fallen to his knees, trembling arms lifted as if in supplication. Olar felt awe and wonder sweep over him and he too dropped heavily to his knees in front of the vision that had somehow appeared before him.

She was tall and slender and clad in white. She seemed to glow, and in the light that emanated from her it seemed to Olar that her skin was as white as the snow. Golden tresses tumbled down her back, and lips that were red as wine pulled back from teeth that were as white, as perfect, as the rest of her.

Perilous fair she was indeed, but it was already too late. Olar forgot about his mother and sister; forgot about his father, lost in these same woods months ago; forgot about his friends and his village and everything he had never known in this life except for the exquisite beauty who stood smiling before him. Even as he knew her smile was cruel, he yearned to kiss those lips; even as she laughed with triumph and hatred, he thought it the most beautiful sound in the world.

“Now, you will serve me,” said the Ice Maiden in a voice that sounded as clean and as musical as the snow-songs of a kyndela. “Now, you are mine.”

And they were.

18

“That sounds exactly like the sort of thing Jareth would do,” Altan admitted, frowning and shaking his head. “I knew I was right to worry about him. The fool will likely die trying to find the gods, and if he actually does manage to do so…I fear they will kill him for his impudence.”

Kevla closed her eyes and summoned the image of the Stone Dancer in her head. Every time she had seen him with the beast…the tiger, she amended…they had seemed to be comfortable with one another. One thing seemed certain to her—if Jareth did find the tigers, they would not harm him.

“Where do they live? Your gods?” Kevla asked.

“Go north as far as one can go,” Altan said. “Where the world ends, there live the gods. They dwell close to the sky so that they can leap off the mountains into the stars. That’s why we can see them playing sometimes.”

Light flooded in as the Dragon sat up, removing the “roof” from their shelter. Kevla looked up at her friend. “I have never been to the end of the world,” the Dragon said, “but I will take you as far as my wings can bear you.”

“Jareth is the Stone Dancer, but he is also only human,” said Kevla. “Wherever he can go, we can go. At least we have a direction now. And I don’t think you need to worry, Altan. In my dream, while Jareth was trying to find the tiger…it was also trying to find him.”

Altan gave her a wry look. “That does not altogether comfort me, Kevla. Our gods are not always beneficent.”

Altan needed a little help to climb atop the Dragon, as he was not yet up to full strength. He seemed pleased to have an excuse to hold on to Mylikki as they flew that day, though, continuing to puzzle Kevla. She couldn’t figure out what Altan’s feelings toward Mylikki really were. And judging by the cautious, surprised pleasure on Mylikki’s face, the girl wasn’t sure either.

That evening, Kevla again attempted to scry into the fire, but she had no success. Jareth had been alerted to her presence, and if her assumption was correct, was not overeager to be found.

She tried to open herself to his presence. The next day, she kept getting little tugs: Bear left here. Go right there. Keep heading north; to the end of the world, where the gods play on their mountains and leap into the skies.

Her eyes closed, she silently implored, Where are you, Jareth? We need you. This world needs you.

Two nights later, the Dragon landed in a clearing. They slid off his back, stretching tight muscles.

“I wish I could say that we were about to find him,” Kevla said. “I do sense that we’re closer.”

“Closer than what?” said Mylikki, grimacing as she arched her back. “What do we do if we don’t find him?”

“Don’t talk like that, Mylikki!” Altan chided. Kevla glanced at him sharply, wondering if this was another one of his cutting remarks to Mylikki that seemed to come out of nowhere. But he only seemed to want to hearten the girl.

“We’ll find him. We’ve got to. I have faith in Kevla and the Dragon.” He gifted Kevla with one of his openhearted smiles, and Kevla felt her spirits sink. She felt more like Mylikki. This was a big land, and a man was a small thing compared to the vastness of the wastelands and forests. But she did know they were on the right track. If only she could talk to him through the fire! Or even find his fire; she could then step into the flames and appear at his camp.

While Altan and Mylikki set up the camp for the night and the Dragon left to find them something to eat, Kevla went to the edge of the forest to gather firewood. She did not want to admit it to the others, but she was as weary as they. The constant traveling was taking its toll, and she had been forced to start rationing their food.

She frowned, scuffing the snow with her feet and searching for fallen branches. There did not seem to be much to be had, and she did not want to break limbs off of living trees. For living they still were, Altan and Mylikki had assured her, though to Kevla they seemed fragile and dead.

Her dislike of the forests, the dark, enclosed, shadowy spaces, rose in her again. Fiercely, she told herself to stop being foolish. “They’re just trees, Kevla,” she said aloud. “There’s nothing to be worried about.”

She stepped past where the snow lapped up against the trees’ roots and into the shaded forest. She stepped gently here, and the deeper she went, the more tinder she found. At last, her arms full, she turned and headed back.

The arm went around her waist so hard her breath was forced from her lungs. She dropped the branches in shock. The cold edge of a knife blade pressed to her throat.

Kevla had been in this position before; at the mercy of a man who was larger and stronger than she, with a knife at her throat. She knew what to do.

Heat, she thought, knowing the knife would in an instant become unbearably hot to the touch. The man would have to drop it and then she could—

“Stop that,” the man behind her hissed, “or I’ll cut your throat.”

She could smell burning cloth, and smoke began to float from her throat into her field of vision. How could he continue to hold the knife? Sheer will? Insanity? Something had happened to the men of these small villages. Something that turned hardworking farmers, fathers and sons and husbands, into madmen to be feared as much as the winter itself. Kevla’s stomach clenched as she realized she must have stumbled upon one of them. At least she hoped it was only one….

He pressed the knife closer and she closed her eyes as a quick, startling pain told her the blade had broken the skin. At once, she ceased her attack.

Dragon!

“That’s better.” He moved the knife slightly away from her soft flesh, but did not drop it. His arm around her waist remained strong, holding her like an iron band. He pressed her into his body, the better to control any movement she might make. She had yet to see his face, but already she knew he was tall, powerfully made and shockingly strong. He was breathing quickly, from exertion or excitement, she could not tell.

“Who are you?” he demanded. He spoke without whispering this time, and his voice was both cold and rough.

“My friends and I are merely passing through. We have no quarrel with—with the men of the forests.”

“Men of the forests?” He sounded startled. In his surprise, his voice went from hard and angry to almost pleasant sounding. “You think I—”

Two things happened simultaneously. A clear, youthful voice cried out a single word, and next to Kevla, half a dozen trees were ripped from the ground. The man’s grip disappeared and Kevla, abruptly unsupported, fell forward. It took her an instant to make sense of what had happened.

The Dragon had come, tearing up the trees to find her, and Altan had cried out the name of—

“Jareth!”

“And now, all the players have appeared on the stage,” the Emperor said gleefully to his advisor, the Mage and the creature who crouched at his feet. “The Dancers, their allies, their enemies, the one who will ultimately betray them. I had thought to take them out of play one by one, but if I can eliminate two Dancers by the same treacherous hand, then I shall be well content.”

The advisor drew back pale lips from white teeth in a rictus that only the Emperor would interpret as a smile. He knew this was but one game of many the Emperor was playing, and he also knew that he was being fed bits and pieces of information as the Emperor deemed fit.

In front of them, the bloodred, tapered Tenacru hovered.

He thought of the north, and a never-ending winter, and suddenly shivered.

19

Kneeling in the snow where she had fallen, Kevla looked back to see the man who had held the knife to her throat running as fast as he could for the safety of the forest, fleeing from the huge shape of the Dragon which must seem like the embodiment of a nightmare to him.

But he would not make his escape so easily. The Dragon slammed a forepaw down in front of him. The earth trembled and the man fell backward. But instead of cowering or crying out for mercy, he bared his teeth like an animal and bellowed wordlessly, brandishing his knife against a creature ten times his size. His other hand fumbled for and hurled a rock, which bounced harmlessly off the Dragon’s scales.

Shocked almost beyond comprehension, Kevla stared at the bloodshot, wild blue eyes darting about for escape, the scraggly beard, the dirt that seemed permanently embedded in hard wrinkles around his eyes. Another rock sang through the air and the Dragon actually rolled his eyes.

This was the Stone Dancer?

“Jareth?” she said in a quavering voice, hoping desperately that Altan had confused his friend with one of the crazy men lurking in the forest’s shadows.

The man’s fair head whipped around for an instant to stare at her, then he turned back to the Dragon. The Dragon sat back on his haunches, trees cracking beneath his bulk. Cautiously, Jareth got to his feet, staggering like a drunken man. When the Dragon did not move to attack again, he turned to Kevla.

“I saw your face in the fire,” he accused.

Kevla’s heart contracted with despair. This was indeed the man she had seen in her vision. This was the man who had seemed to her so proud and strong and capable, the man to whom she had hoped to surrender all her burdens. Instead, he was running wild in the woods, bedraggled and looking both lost and angry. How could he possibly help to save their world?

Jareth’s eyes narrowed as he regarded her. He opened his mouth and was about to speak again when Altan flung himself at him.

“You’re safe! Thank the gods!” Altan cried. Clinging to his friend, Altan looked even more slender and delicate.

Looking both furious and, strangely, almost frightened, Jareth made an angry noise and shoved Altan off of him. They stared at one another for a long moment.

“Altan?” Jareth’s voice was soft, confused. He reached out a trembling hand and placed it on Altan’s shoulders. The boy swiftly covered the hand with his own.

“Yes, it’s me, Jareth,” Altan said, his voice thick. He squeezed Jareth’s hand. “It’s really me.”

Abruptly, Jareth’s demeanor changed. “You idiot!” he bellowed, releasing his grip on Altan’s shoulder. “What are you doing? Why are you here? With her and this…this…” He glared defiantly up at the Dragon, who regarded him calmly.

“It’s called a dragon,” Mylikki said helpfully. She was making her way toward them, no doubt drawn by the commotion. Kevla got unsteadily to her feet and looked up at the Dragon. Their eyes met.

Not quite what we expected, is he? came the Dragon’s dry voice in her mind. The comment was so understated that Kevla almost laughed out loud. She didn’t dare, though; she felt hysteria bubbling up inside her and knew that if she gave in to the dark humor and the bitter stab of disappointment, she would end up sobbing. She brushed snow and dirt off her rhia and tried to collect herself.

“Who are you?” demanded Jareth of Mylikki.

Something inside Kevla snapped. Jareth had every right to wonder about her—she looked completely different from anyone he had ever known, she could scry in the fire and she came on the back of a dragon—and he could be angry with Altan if he liked; Altan could take care of himself. But to yell at Mylikki—

“You will not speak so to her!” Kevla cried. Jareth turned the full force of his gaze upon her and she stood arrow-straight, full now not of fear but of righteous indignation. “You seize me from behind, you put a knife to my throat—” Her fingers went to her neck and came away red.

“You gave as good as you got.” Jareth held up his hand and she saw that the wrappings had been completely burned off.

“Jareth, what did you do to her?” asked Altan. “Oh, my friend, what’s happened to you?”

Again he reached for Jareth, and again the other man shied from any kind of touch. He turned his face away and Kevla saw a terrible grief etched on those features. She suddenly felt she was intruding upon something deeply private.

We should leave them, Kevla thought to the Dragon.

Agreed. The Dragon leaped into the sky. Broken limbs and leaves fell to the earth in his wake.

Kevla suddenly felt weak and sick. To have come so far, to have endured what she had, only to find that the eagerly sought Stone Dancer was in such straits was too much.

“Kevla?” It was Mylikki, slipping gently beside her. “How badly did he hurt you?”

“It’s nothing, just a little nick,” Kevla said. “Come. I feel the need for some hot food.” She headed back toward the clearing, leaning in to Mylikki and whispering, “The only one he’ll listen to is Altan—if he’ll listen to anyone in the state he’s in now. Let’s leave them to it.”

The Dragon awaited them, curled up in his favorite position like a granary cat, while the two women busied themselves preparing food from the rapidly dwindling stores and something hot to drink. The Dragon’s head was turned toward the woods, his ears pricked forward and his gold eyes missing nothing. Even if Jareth somehow tried to flee, he would not get far.

Altan wanted to weep.

Jareth had sunk to the ground. Whatever had fueled him sufficiently to attack Kevla, to brandish a knife at the Dragon, and to shove Altan away with so much strength that the younger man feared his chest would sport bruises had been burned up. Jareth now sat with his arms on his knees and his head in his hands, taking great, gulping breaths.

Miserably, Altan squatted beside him. “Jareth,” he said for perhaps the dozenth time. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Tentatively, he reached again to touch Jareth, sickly realizing as he did so that most of the bulk on what had once been powerful shoulders was now merely layers of clothing. “Please talk to me,” Altan begged. “Tell me what has happened to you.”

For a long moment, he feared Jareth wouldn’t—or couldn’t—speak. At last, he lifted his head. His face was hollow, haggard…old.

“I went to find the gods,” Jareth muttered, still not looking at Altan. “Something wasn’t…wasn’t right about the storm that night…” His voice broke and for a moment he was silent. He continued in a flat voice. “I went to the mountains, but they weren’t there.”

He dragged his reddened gaze to Altan’s and said almost petulantly, “They weren’t there!”

Altan stroked Jareth’s shoulders like he might a cat, soothingly, rhythmically. His mind raced and he felt a chill. Had Jareth believed the gods could bring his family back? Did he still think that? What could he say to get Jareth to join them, to abandon this disturbing quest, to sit at their circle and listen to the information Kevla had for him? He couldn’t think of anything, just kept staring at the emaciated figure who seemed to have only his mission to keep him alive.

“So I’m going to find the taaskali,” Jareth said, nodding to himself. “The taaskali would know.” His gaze darted to Altan’s face, lit there like a butterfly, then flitted away again. “She a taaskali?”

“No,” said Altan, grateful for the excuse to talk about Kevla. “But she does have magic. She is from a land called Arukan. She’s called the Flame Dancer.”

Jareth’s grimy brow furrowed. “Arukan,” he said, slowly, as if dredging up a distant memory. “It’s warm there.”

“You know it?” Altan felt a surge of hope. If Jareth knew about Arukan, perhaps he knew about the Dancers and their task as well. It would make everything easier.

“The earth whispers to me of other places, sometimes,” Jareth said. “At least, it used to. Now, it is silent.” He looked up, his eyes roaming the tall skeletons of trees that surrounded them. “Everything is silent.”

Altan sighed. “You need food and warmth, my friend. Come sit by the fire and eat something.”

“You didn’t scare me, Father,” said Jareth in a whisper, his gaze unfocused. “Come eat. Please, come eat something.”

Chills ran down Altan’s spine, and not from the cold. “What?” he said, praying he hadn’t heard what he thought he had.

Jareth shook himself, blinking suddenly as if waking up. “Nothing.” He looked at Altan with eyes that really seemed to see him for the first time.

Altan fought back tears. He reached his hands to Jareth’s face and took it in his hands, one on each hollow, bearded cheek. Jareth sighed, a long, quavering sound, pressed the hands that cupped his face, then gently removed them.

“Please come to the fire with me, Jareth. Will you come?”

The bigger man nodded, slowly. Altan slipped his right arm around Jareth’s waist, pulling the other man’s left arm across the back of his neck. Gently, he helped his friend to his feet. Jareth had once been powerfully built. Now, he barely outweighed the little huskaa who guided his unsteady steps toward the fire that crackled, warm orange-yellow life against the blue-purple cold of the beautiful, deadly snow.

20

When the two men approached the fire, the bigger one leaning heavily on the smaller, Kevla felt again a jolt of shock. Jareth kept his eyes on the ground as Altan gently directed him to a blanket next to the fire. Altan placed a hand on Jareth’s back, touching his friend with a tenderness similar to what Kevla had seen him display toward Mylikki. She wondered if the reason for Altan’s ambivalent attitude toward Mylikki was because Altan preferred men to women.

The Stone Dancer gazed at the fire for a long moment. He reached his hands out to the blaze at first tentatively, then eagerly. Kevla again noted that the fingers on his right hand, which had held the knife to her throat, were bare; the rags with which he had wrapped them had been burned off. His hand seemed to be unharmed. His fingers were filthy. Dirt was caked under the nails, embedded in the creases. Kevla thought of how meticulously groomed the people of the House of Four Waters were, down to the lowest servant—herself. Jareth looked—and smelled—worse than the basest beggar on the streets of Arukan.

She tried to soften her initial revulsion by rationalization. He had left his village to wander in the woods for months—she didn’t know how long, exactly. There were no stonesteaming huts in the forests to sweat out the dirt, and to try to bathe with the snow or water from the icy lakes would be to court death. Of course he was dirty.

But she sensed it was more than that. If such things had mattered to Jareth, he would have found a way to stay at least somewhat clean. She was looking at him out of the corner of her eye, and at that moment, he sensed her gaze and gave her stare for stare.

Kevla could not hold that blue gaze and quickly turned her attention to ladling out stew. It was a meal she had grown weary of days ago, but it was easy to prepare, nourishing, hot, and made good use of their rations. She handed a bowl to Jareth, who took it wordlessly with his grimy fingers.

He sniffed it and something in him seemed to come to life. He ate ravenously, spilling on his beard and the front of his shirt. Kevla felt her lip curl in involuntary disgust. She and the others were only halfway through when he stuck out the bowl and demanded, “More.”

Silently she refilled the bowl and once again Jareth swiftly downed the stew. Kevla wondered how long it had been since he had eaten. When he extended the bowl for a third helping, she said, “No.”

Jareth’s eyes widened in anger. Altan said quickly, “Kevla, he probably hasn’t eaten for days.”

“We don’t have that much food left, Altan. Besides, if he eats too much too quickly it will come back up again, doing none of us any good. If everyone else has had their fill, you may have some more in a while, Jareth.”

“You speak to me like I’m a child,” he growled.

You’re behaving like one, Kevla thought, but did not say it. She wondered how she would begin the conversation she needed to have with him; how she would manage to convey to this dirty, half-mad man that he had a destiny that would demand more of him than she suspected he was willing to give.

One thing was certain—it would not happen tonight. A few minutes after he had eaten the second bowl of soup, Jareth’s eyes started to close. He struggled against sleep, but after a while Altan urged him to lie down. The mighty Stone Dancer, the Spring-Bringer, nodded in agreement, sighed deeply, and stretched out on the blanket. Gently, as if he were tucking a child in for a nap, Altan wrapped Jareth in the furs. Within a few moments, Jareth’s breathing became deep and regular.

“He’s asleep,” Altan said quietly. “Thank the gods.” He rested his hand on his friend’s shoulder for a moment.

“I can’t believe this,” said Mylikki. “I thought…” She seemed unable to even complete the sentence. Her kyndela rested on her lap, but she didn’t touch the strings.

“He wasn’t always like this,” Altan said softly. He reached for his own kyndela and began to play quietly. “He was powerful…amazing…strong. I can’t imagine what he’s been through.” He looked at Kevla. “You were right. He did leave to find the gods. He was trying to get them to bring his family back to life.”

Kevla looked at the Dragon, knowing he sensed her feelings. I am disappointed too, Flame Dancer. But at least he is alive. At least he has not become one of the raving madmen in the woods.

That’s a matter of opinion, if he really did try to do what Altan said. You told me he was ready, she accused.

The Dragon shrugged. You sensed him as well as I. As did Jashemi. He was the one we were supposed to find first. Perhaps it was not because he was ready, but because he needs our help to become ready.

I am not a nursemaid!

Nor is he an infant. He is a man grown, Kevla, who has had terrible things happen to him.

“I’ve had terrible things happen to me too, and I am here!” Kevla cried aloud. Altan and Mylikki stared at her, startled at her outburst, and she felt heat rise in her cheeks. Jareth, however, continued to sleep, for which Kevla was grateful.

After a long, awkward moment, Altan said haltingly, “Kevla…he’s been wandering alone for many months. He’s climbed the mountain range by himself, in the depths of this awful winter. He’s lost so much weight, who knows what he’s been eating or even if he’s been eating. Give him a little time to recover before you judge him.”

Kevla’s embarrassment was suddenly replaced by a wave of grief and rage.

“You have no idea what I have been through,” she said, her voice thick. “You have no idea what my life was like. I feel for Jareth, but from everything you told me he has led a charmed life until the last year. I was born the lowest of the low among my people. I have been beaten, locked up, and had my death ordered by my own father who thought me a demon. I was tied to a stake and fire was lit at my feet. If I hadn’t been the Flame Dancer I’d have been burned alive. I have been loved by and loved only one person in my life—one person, Altan!—and I killed him when I tried to express that love. And here I am, ready to do what I must do, and I have no time to coddle this Spring-Bringer. You know what is at stake here. He doesn’t have the luxury of indulging his grief right now. None of us does.”

Tears welled in her eyes, threatening to give the lie to her angry words. Kevla did not want them to see her cry. She rose and stalked off, sitting at the edge of the clearing. The Dragon followed, lowering his head all the way to the snow as he spoke, so that the words would be for her alone.

“Dear heart, I grieve with you,” he said, his deep voice gentle. “I am part of this trinity as well, and I too long for Jashemi. But not as keenly as you do.”

Kevla buried her face in her hands, her slim shoulders shaking with violent paroxysms of grief. She couldn’t speak.

I miss him so much, Dragon! It rips at my heart every single day. I try to force this awful sense of loss down, but it comes back up, sometimes at the worst possible moment. Like tonight. I feel as though my insides have been torn out. He was my Lorekeeper, he was my great love. There was no one who knew me better than he. And I killed him! He would be alive today if not for me and my selfish desires!

You don’t know that for certain, Flame Dancer. We all have our destinies. Perhaps this was Jashemi’s.

That’s not true and you know it, Dragon. Jashemi said as much to me in the vision. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. He was not born to be my lover, he was born to be something else entirely. And we corrupted that.

Your culture rendered that relationship impossible, if you were to truly fulfill your destiny, Kevla. Try to be more compassionate with yourself and with Jareth.

I don’t know that I have any compassion left, Dragon. I don’t know that I have anything left at all.

After a long time, Kevla returned to the fire. She sat back down in silence. Above them, the sky was clear and crowded with stars.

“I apologize,” Kevla said formally. “My outburst was inappropriate and served no purpose.”

Altan glared at her, his arm around the sleeping Jareth. “You’re right about that. You almost woke him up and he needs sleep.” Altan turned to his friend and stroked his shoulder.

“Yes it did,” Mylikki said quickly, to take the sting out of Altan’s harsh words. “It let us know a little bit more about you, Kevla. It made you seem a lot more human to us. I’m sure Jareth will be better by tomorrow. He just needs some food and rest. You’ll see.”

Kevla did not answer. Altan’s outburst had surprised her, though it shouldn’t have. Jareth was important to him—perhaps as more than a friend. And certainly they were all exhausted and hungry.

She looked up at the stars. A faint pulse of color told her that once again, the gods would be playing in the skies tonight.

The Lorekeeper gazed upward, her eyes transfixed on the dancing lights. He spoke to her through them, and she wondered what she would learn tonight.

“You have done well, Lorekeeper,” the Emperor said, his language a pulsing pattern in the sky. “I am very pleased. Soon, he will be yours. You do not need to fear losing him to this Flame Dancer.”

The Lorekeeper dragged her eyes from the dancing lights to look at Kevla. She lay on the blanket, looking at the sky, seeing nothing more than pretty lights. The Lorekeeper struggled between liking Kevla and hating what the Flame Dancer symbolized. The Lorekeeper permitted herself to look at the man she loved, and her heart swelled. He couldn’t truly see her yet, couldn’t appreciate the depth of her love for him. But soon. The Emperor promised, soon.

“They trust you. They can’t see who you really are. Listen, and I will tell you what you must do next.”

The Lorekeeper listened, her face turned up to the sky, her fingers absently caressing her kyndela and her eyes wide with rapture.

21

Kevla awoke feeling as if she hadn’t slept at all. For a moment she wondered why she was so tired, then recalled her outburst. The horrible emptiness of loss stabbed her again, and she rubbed her face and sighed as she sat up. Jareth would—

He was gone.

“Jareth!” she cried, waking the others. They had all fallen asleep beside the fire, and the Dragon had settled over them to provide shelter, as he had most nights during this arduous journey. Now there was an empty hollow in the snow where Jareth had lain.

“Do not distress yourself,” came the Dragon’s familiar rumbling voice. “The Stone Dancer and I are having an interesting conversation.” He sat back, rearing above them, and Kevla saw Jareth securely held in one massive forepaw. He didn’t look at all afraid of being clutched by a giant monster; he looked angry. The Dragon lowered him to the ground and released him.

Kevla didn’t need to be told what had happened; Jareth had tried to slip away in the night, and the ever-watchful Dragon, who enjoyed sleep but did not require it, had prevented him from doing so. Smothering a smile, Kevla quickly lit the fire while Mylikki rummaged in a sack to prepare something hot to eat. Altan scrambled to his feet and went to his friend.

“Jareth, Kevla has lit a fire for us and Mylikki is making us some hot tea,” he said, reaching for Jareth’s elbow to guide him back to the fireside.

Jareth glared up at the Dragon. The Dragon glared down at Jareth. Kevla wondered what they had been discussing. When Altan touched him, Jareth jerked away.

“You should not have followed me,” Jareth said in a low voice as he walked back to the fire.

“So you have said,” Altan said, still stubbornly cheerful. “But if I had not, we would not be together at the fire.”

Mylikki threw some herbs into the heating pot of water. Kevla felt for the girl. She was brave, cheerful, and clever, but Jareth’s appearance on the scene had utterly distracted Altan from whatever Mylikki might have hoped would happen.

“Last night,” Kevla said to Jareth, “you held a knife to my throat and demanded to know who we are.”

Jareth frowned and wouldn’t look at her. She thought he seemed slightly more in control than he had last night, but wanted to be certain.

“We do owe you an explanation. But you owe us the same, Spring-Bringer.”

She used the term only as a way to convey to Jareth that she knew about his abilities, but he reacted as if she had struck him. What she could see of his face above the beard went first white, then flushed red. His nostrils flared and Kevla actually quailed from the expression in his eyes.

“Do not call me that,” he said in a low, warning voice.

Mylikki flinched as she ladled tea into ceramic mugs and passed them around.

Kevla continued. “We have had a difficult time with three of us and the Dragon, trying to stay alive in this winter. How is it you have managed to survive alone?”

Jareth sipped at the hot tea, taking his time before replying. “The gods don’t want me dead yet, I suppose,” he said. He turned to Altan and asked quietly, “SkalkaValley?”

“I have no news. I left right after you did,” Altan said. “I tried to follow you. But I had no idea where you had gone.”

Jareth made a face and poked at the fire with a stick.

Kevla had had enough of the man’s surliness. “You wanted to know who we are, Jareth,” she said, turning squarely to face him. He didn’t look at her. “You saw my face in the fire, and you stamped it out. I’ve been looking for you for some time now.”

“What do you want? In case you haven’t heard, my legendary ability to bring spring appears to have deserted me,” Jareth said, his voice bitter and angry.

“I have abilities with fire,” Kevla said. “You’ve seen them. I can create fire from anything, I can extinguish it at will. I can scry in the flames and step through them to any other fire I wish. I am the Flame Dancer, and I’m not alone. There are four others like me, scattered throughout this world. Jareth—you are one of them. You are the very element of earth made into human flesh. You, I, and the three others I’ve yet to find were born with a very important purpose. We have to save this world from being wiped out by the coming Shadow.”

Jareth listened in silence, and then a corner of his mouth curled up. He took another sip of tea.

“Well told,” he said mockingly. “Altan, what’s the song version of this story? Surely you’ve made something up about it by now. Five Dancers, the elements incarnate, born to save the world. Much more interesting than an Ice Maiden or—”

“Stop it!” Mylikki’s sweet voice was dark with fury. “We’ve risked our lives to find you, all of us! We’ve slogged through snow, and storms, and Altan nearly died and I don’t know what Kevla’s been through, but I have a feeling it was horrible, and…and…”

Altan’s eyes were downcast, but he reached out an arm and pulled Mylikki into a half embrace, letting her weep angrily on his chest.

“Altan, is this true?” Jareth asked quietly. “Were you almost killed?”

Altan didn’t look at him. “I fell into a hidden cave beneath some boulders while seeking shelter from one of the storms,” he said as quietly as Jareth. “Somehow Kevla and the Dragon knew where to look. They saved my life, Jareth. And I think we’ve probably saved yours.”

Jareth sighed and leaned forward, running dirty fingers through dirty hair. The hood of his forest-green cloak fell back at the gesture.

“Altan, you know I never meant—”

“It’s all right. I just think you owe it to Kevla and the Dragon to hear them out. I’ve seen so much in the last few weeks, Jareth. I believe them, and I think you should too.”

Jareth lifted his head and turned a surprisingly calm, steady gaze to Kevla. “I have seen a great deal myself. For the love I bear this boy, Kevla-sha-Tahmu, I will listen to what you have to say.”

Altan had spoken glowingly of his friend Jareth, who had helped the huskaa come into the world and had been like a brother to him ever since. And Kevla had sensed the power and deep feeling of responsibility that Jareth had once possessed. She desperately hoped she would reach him.

So she spoke quietly, the Dragon chiming in from time to time, of the destiny of the Dancers. How they had twice won, twice failed, and how the fate of this world and others hinged upon what they did here and now. She told him about the Lorekeepers and their animal Companions, how these three aspects formed one harmonious whole, though the Dancer could and did sometimes have to move forward without one or the other of the precious trio.

“I lost my own Lorekeeper,” she said, blushing to remember how she had revealed this at the fire last night. At least Jareth had been asleep. “It has been—” Agonizing. Unbearable, unthinkable, excruciating…

“—difficult to go on without him.” She swallowed hard, trying to keep her expression neutral, seeing by Mylikki’s and Altan’s sympathetic expressions that she failed. “But I have found my dear Companion the Dragon, and having him with me has enabled me to find you. You must come with us, Jareth. You are the Stone Dancer. We need you, or all will be lost.”

Jareth didn’t answer. Finally, he said, “I said I would listen to you. Listen I have. I can do nothing to help you.”

His flat refusal surprised Kevla. She had thought when she finally explained it—he was a Dancer, he had to know this was the truth, had to come with her—

“You would so carelessly doom a world?” The Dragon’s voice was deceptively calm.

Jareth looked at the great creature. “What Kevla has said means nothing to me. I’ve never heard of Lorekeepers, nor have I found some magical animal to cleave to me. I’ve had no strange, troubling dreams of lives I’ve lived in the past. I have no reason to believe that what she says is true.”

“So the Flame Dancer is a liar?” Smooth as polished glass was his deep voice, but Kevla tensed. The Dragon was one step away from outrage.

Jareth sighed. “I don’t know any of you, except for Altan. And forgive me, my friend, but one thing I do know is how well you love a good tale. I know what I’m here for, and it’s not to fight some Shadow. It’s to take care of my people by changing the seasons in a way they can count on. To make sure that the trees give fruit. To make sure the harvest is good, the animals are fat and healthy, and the winter is as mild as it can be.”

He laughed harshly, and Kevla winced at the sound. “And you can see how well I am doing on that task. I can’t help you with yours.”

“Can’t, or won’t?” challenged Kevla.

Jareth threw up his hands in exasperation. “It doesn’t matter! I left to find the gods and force them to bring spring again. Nothing you can say will dissuade me from that quest.”

Altan began talking, his voice tense and earnest. Jareth continued to argue with him. But Kevla suddenly paid no attention to their words.

In her mind’s eye, she saw again Jareth standing with the blue tiger. It was so simple, so obvious…how could she not have realized it before?

Dragon—you are not a Lorekeeper, but you have knowledge of what has gone before. These gods Jareth seeks—you know Jashemi and I had visions of one of them standing with Jareth. They’re not gods at all, are they? No more than you were to my people. There’s only one tiger, and it’s Jareth’s Companion. Isn’t it?

I knew you’d figure that out sooner or later, came the Dragon’s pleased reply in her mind.

Suddenly angry, Kevla thought, Why didn’t you tell me?

The Dragon shrugged his massive shoulders in a very human gesture. It would have served no purpose. And lest you be too angry with me, know this—I will not keep anything from you that might put you in danger, but it is always, always best if you learn things in their own time. Like the seasons, there is a rhythm and ripeness to such things. Trust that, and trust me.

Her anger abated quickly. I do trust you, Dragon. I know you would never put me in harm’s way.

“Kevla?” Jareth, sounding irritated.

“I’m sorry, what did you say?”

“I said, I am not going with you to find the other Dancers. I am going to find the gods.”

Kevla caught the Dragon’s eye, and he nodded subtly. “I understand. And we will come with you.”

22

Jareth stared at the beautiful fire-woman. “What?”

“I said, we will come with you.”

“Yes!” cried Altan delightedly. “Yes, of course we will. And when you have brought spring to the land again, then you will be free to accompany Kevla!”

Guilt sat heavily in Jareth’s chest. It was an old companion, and he had grown used to its weight. He knew what he was supposed to do, and he wanted to do it alone. For one thing, to drag Altan and these two women into what he was now beginning to think was a death quest was unthinkable, and for another, he had a feeling they would slow him down. His gaze flickered over to the enormous red creature that was the fire-woman’s Companion. And I’m sure the gods or the taaskali will see him coming leagues away.

“No,” he said, firmly. “Altan, you and this young woman will return to safety. It will be a hard enough journey without me having to worry about you. Kevla, you and your friend will have to be about saving the world without my help.”

The Dragon, a beast unlike anything Jareth had seen or even heard tales of, stiffened. It lifted its head and regarded him balefully.

“I don’t think you quite understand,” it said in a deep, ominous rumble. “Kevla was not asking your permission to accompany you. She was telling you.”

Jareth felt his face flush and his breathing quicken. He wanted to yell. He wanted to hurt something, someone. The Dragon continued to regard him, narrowing its golden eyes.

“I hope you remember our little chat this morning.”

“Little chat” indeed. Jareth made a sound of contempt. He had woken before dawn and attempted to steal quietly away when the monster’s gigantic claws had closed about him, lifting him high off the earth. The Dragon had said in no uncertain terms that wherever Jareth attempted to go, the Dragon would follow. I’ve got your scent, Dancer, it had rumbled. There is nowhere you can go now that I cannot find you.

Jareth remained silent, analyzing each of them in turn. The Dragon, a creature that had shocked him to his very core when it manifested above him, yanking trees from the earth with casual ease. Kevla, her dark skin and hair making her look more like a taaskali than a proper Lamali woman…but of course she wasn’t Lamali at all, was she? She hailed from a land far south. For a moment, Jareth thought the word Arukan, and a hint of heat, of dry sand and parched earth and the footfalls of animals completely alien to him brushed his mind. He almost fancied he could feel a warm wind stir his hair, smell spicy, exotic scents. Then it was gone.

She was beautiful, of course. Anyone with eyes could see that. She reminded him strongly of the woman in his dreams, who had seemed as unmoved by the cold as Kevla and who had transformed into the blue tiger god. He would have admired her capable, calm demeanor at any other time, any other place. Here, now, she was a problem. He had been quite awake when she had broken down at the fire last night; he had thought he would learn more from this odd group if he feigned sleep, and he had been right. She had clearly suffered, though he did not quite understand everything she had said. But Jareth Vasalen had no pity to spare for anyone, not even himself.

He dragged his gaze from the exotic Kevla to the familiar, eager face of Altan. The boy was so very excited to have found Jareth safe; no less pleased was Jareth to learn that Altan had been found whole and alive after hearing about his brush with death. But still, what was the boy thinking? He was no expert in forest craft; he was a musician, a singer of songs, teller of tales. Those slender fingers could coax forth a melody to make the hardest heart ache or the most sullen lips curve in a smile. That was Altan’s gift—an honored and important one, but one not conducive to the brutal necessities of survival. It was a wonder he had survived long enough to be found and rescued by the Flame Dancer and her Companion.

And this other girl—for girl she still was—what was her story? He could read part of it in her face. She was enamored of Altan, as most young women and more than a few young men were at one time or another once they’d heard him sing. Even Annu, who had grown up with Altan, had once confided—

No!

He jerked his head, as if he could shake the thought from his mind. His body tensed, twitched. “Jareth?” said Kevla, tentatively.

Pale and cold, like the Ice Maiden was believed to be, they lay where they had somehow fallen asleep. Waiting for him to soften the hearts of the gods, to talk the great blue cats into bringing life to the land, life to those he loved so much—

Hands on either side of his face, trusted hands that yet caused a shiver of fear—

Kevla, it was Kevla, walking in the snow in that revealing red garment that showed every curve, smiling, transforming into the god, flowers blooming beneath her feet—

He found and held her gaze. He saw her swallow, but he did not look away. Maybe she was part of this. Maybe he had seen her in these dreams because she had been supposed to lead him to the gods. To bringing spring again.

To bringing back those he loved.

“All right,” he said, surprising them all. He took a deep breath. He realized he was shaking and had spilled some of his tea. It was as if all the energy had rushed from him. “I could use some food,” he said.

“Of course,” Altan said quickly. He fished in one of the packs and gave Jareth a hunk of dried meat. The smell made Jareth’s mouth water and he gnawed at the chewy, tough flesh.

“We will have some hot grains here in a moment,” Kevla said. “Jareth, you must tell us what has happened to you over the last few months.”

“To what end?”

“We need to know how much strength you have left,” Kevla said quietly. “And what kind of challenges await us if we return to the mountain ranges.”

Images flashed through his mind. Snow. Ice that cut the hands until they bled. Storms. Attacks from madmen lurking, spying upon him. Kevla’s face in the fire and his subsequent determination not to light fires again. The coppery smell of bloody, raw animal flesh that had been his only source of food since then. The dreams that he banished from his waking moments but that always made him awaken screaming.

“I’d rather not talk about it,” he said.

A look passed between Kevla and Altan. Jareth caught another look, one that no one else saw, from Mylikki. The girl’s heart was on her face as she regarded Altan. He felt a faint twinge of sympathy, and the lyrics of one of the Ice Maiden songs returned to him: Remember what drove me to be what I am; all that I wanted was love from one man.

The grains were soon ready and Jareth ate hungrily. It had been weeks since his body had ingested anything hot, liquid or solid, and even as the nourishment hit his stomach he felt warmth start to creep through his body. Perhaps it was not all bad, traveling with this little group; there would be warmth, shelter and food, three things he had been able to find only sparingly. Still, he knew that if he had the chance to elude them, he’d take it.

“Our purpose until now has been to find you,” Kevla told him as she gave him another ladleful of the hot, filling grains. “Now, we will go where you dictate. Altan and Mylikki say the gods live on a mountain range at the end of the world, as far north as one can go. But Altan tells me you couldn’t find them. How shall we proceed?”

His respect for her went up another notch. She had accepted the situation and was asking logical questions about what to do next. He realized with some embarrassment that his own thoughts were not nearly as well formed.

Swallowing, Jareth said, “I climbed the mountains and they were not there.” That had been some time ago, and the rage and bitterness still made him feel sick. Why did they deliberately elude him so? “I think the next thing to do is to find the taaskali. Our myths and tales have always linked them with magical powers and the ability to go between the worlds; to visit the realm of both gods and mortals.”

“But the taaskali follow the selva,” said Mylikki. “You never find one without the other. And the selva do not stay in any place for very long. How do you think you’ll find them?”

For answer, Jareth reached into one of the sacks and withdrew a handful of grain. Cupping the food gently, he closed his eyes and reached out with his mind. The sky was clear today; he always seemed to have better luck when it wasn’t snowing. This was something he had thought about doing for some time, but had never before had any food with which to tempt them.

Little brothers and sisters, he thought, I will share this with you in exchange for your aid.

For a long moment, nothing happened. Then, he heard a soft gasp and opened his eyes.

Perched on his knee was a small songbird barely the size of his palm, so tiny he had not even felt it land. Its feathers, normally bright gold in hue, were dingy. It had fluffed them against the cold and peered at him with bright black eyes. Jareth extended his hand and the bird hopped on his fingers and began to peck eagerly at the proffered grain.

“That’s our—” began Mylikki, but both Altan and Kevla hushed her. Jareth watched the little bird feed and felt a smile start to curve his lips. It was good, to give life instead of take it. Usually when the animals he summoned came, they came to die.

Others came, too; little sparrows, more songbirds in jeweled tones of blue and purple and green, and one brown, tufted-ear squirrel. Jareth let them all have some of the precious grain. When they had finished, he quietly asked:

I search for the people of dark skin, hair, and eyes. They wander the land, following the four-legged ones with white fur and golden horns. Be my eyes and ears, and let me know where they might be.

The yellow bird cocked its head. Many wingbeats to the place where the mountains brush the sky.

Moving steadily in this direction, so it seems, another one thought.

Isn’t there anything else to eat? The squirrel looked at him hopefully, brown eyes pleading, and Jareth’s smile grew.

I will travel in the direction you have suggested. Return with more news tomorrow, and I will have more food.

As quickly as they had come, the creatures scattered, fluttering into the cloudless sky or the shelter of piney green boughs. He felt an absurd surge of hope. At least not all of his abilities had deserted him.

“The birds say that the taaskali are currently in the north, but that they are heading our way,” he informed his traveling companions.

“How do you know that’s true? Wouldn’t they just say what you wanted to hear in exchange for food?” Mylikki asked.

He felt a rush of anger, but tamped it down. In a heartbeat, the offense had subsided to a sort of sorrow.

“Nothing of the earth can lie,” he said, “except us.”

They packed camp and the tentative harmony that had been established was quickly shattered when Jareth stated, “I am not getting on the back of the Dragon.”

“What?” cried Kevla.

“You heard me. And he’s not to fly overhead as we go, either. Or scout out in advance.” He threw the Dragon a look. Kevla expected the Dragon to reprimand the Stone Dancer, but the great beast remained silent.

“The taaskali are shy at best,” Jareth continued. He closed the straps on his pack and shouldered it. “I’m not going to frighten them or the selva by having that hovering over them.”

“The Dragon can cover many leagues in a short time,” Mylikki said. “It is foolish to refuse such a gift.”

“I didn’t ask for the gift,” Jareth retorted. “You want to travel with me? Then these are my terms. I think the Dragon understands.” He shot the giant beast a look. “Don’t you.”

The Dragon had cocked his head and regarded Jareth intently. “Actually, I do,” he said, surprising Kevla. She whirled on her friend.

“What?”

“I am not for him, Kevla,” the Dragon said, and Kevla suddenly took his meaning. “And he is right. I do tend to frighten people who don’t know me.” A thin stream of smoke trickled from his nostrils as he added, “And I even frighten those who do know me. When they need it. If what the birds said was right, and I have no reason to believe the information incorrect, then our paths will cross soon enough. In the meantime,” and he grinned wickedly, “you will have to learn how to use snow walkers and skelthas after all.”

Altan laughed.

23

Olar wondered how it could be that the Maiden looked as beautiful on her throne, cold and white, as she did when she moved among the men. Then, her hair was gold as the sun, her lips as red as wine, and now, there was no color to her at all.

She had chosen him to sleep at her feet while she dreamed. Two others had protested. She had ordered them to fight one another as punishment for their audacity—how dare they question, even out of love for her! Olar, thrilled with her choice, had watched as the men went at one another with spears until they both lay bleeding on the floor of her palace. He did not give them another thought.

He looked up at her, felt an unspeakable wave of love rush through him, and longed to share her dreams.

The fire’s light flickered and danced, casting leaping shadows. Smoke curled upward, filling the air with its unmistakable rich scent. The only sound was the pure, sweet voice of the huskaa and his instrument, as he sang heartbreaking songs of love found, then lost.

The girl was in love. With the song, with the performer’s looks, with the night that seemed to her made for opening hearts and whispered intimacies. His long fingers caressed the kyndela’s strings; she shuddered as he imagined them touching her. His lips curved around the words, kissing them; she touched her lips and pretended it was his kiss. His body was slender and well made, his locks fair and curling, his face like that of a hero out of legend.

The fire’s crackle and glow kept darkness at bay, and served as a gathering place in the evening. The red-gold flames had drawn the stranger here, to sing in exchange for a place to sleep and some food. He would bring them news from other villages, make them laugh and weep, and then move on.

But he would not leave alone.

His eyes opened and fastened on hers, and her mouth went dry even as moisture blossomed in other, more intimate parts of her body. At last he finished. It seemed an age. She thrilled to the melodious sound of his voice, but now she wanted him all to herself. He bowed, graciously accepting the applause, slung his kyndela over his back, and yielded his place to a local youth who launched into a bawdy drinking song.

He came directly to her and clasped her hands. He kissed them, one at a time, then turned them over and pressed kisses into her palms. She trembled at his touch, his lips like a brand on her skin. She curled her fingers closed over the kiss, claiming it, keeping it.

“Your songs are so sad,” she said. “Do you not have any happy songs? Any songs of true love?”

“Perhaps you could teach me some new songs, sweet lady,” he murmured.

“Songs of true love,” she whispered. It wasn’t proper, to be alone with a man she had only known a few days. But he had claimed her heart the moment he strode into the village. He was drawn to her as well, she knew it. And why not? She was one of the prettiest maidens in the village, with her long blond hair, large blue eyes, full breasts, and trim waist. Youths had come from leagues distant to court her, but she had wanted none of their callow attentions.

She wanted to be loved by a man, not a boy; a man who would claim her and take her away to a grand and glorious destiny. And now, he had come; no warrior with a spear or arrows to pierce her body, but songs aplenty to pierce her heart.

He released her only to shrug off the kyndela across his back, then his arms slipped around her once more and pulled her to him. She felt the strength of his chest and the bulge in his breeches. When he bent his head to kiss her, she was lost.

She clung to him, willingly opening her mouth to his. She’d never had such a kiss from the local youths, a kiss that made her feel weak and dizzy. His hand crept to the back of her head, taking control. She gave it to him gladly.

“Come with me,” he said, his voice deep and his breathing rapid. She went, her hand clutched in his, almost running to keep up with his long-legged, swift strides. He led her into the forest, well away from the fire and the sound of laughter and music.

Again he took her in his arms, bringing her to the soft, mossy soil which he had covered with his cloak. She reached up to him, helping his long, clever fingers undo the few ties on her dress. She felt as if she were on fire, consumed with passion, with a need to feel this man’s fingers and tongue and body on her, in her—

The pain was sharp, sharper than she had anticipated, and she gasped. He paused.

“I know it hurts. But it will pass, sweetness.” He kissed her lips, her throat, her breasts, until she again began to crave him. He moved, slowly and then more quickly, thrusting inside her. The sting between her legs had passed, as he had promised, and now there was only pleasure, hot and wild and liberating. She clutched at him, her fingernails drawing blood as she raked them across his broad back. His breath was hot and ragged in her ear. And then, before she could claim the burst of pleasure that she sensed she was building toward, he stiffened and cried out.

She held him through his moment of ecstasy, smiling against his cheek, and then he sighed and collapsed on her.

She kissed his ear, putting away her disappointment. No doubt that pinnacle of delight would be achieved next time. She looked forward to the striving.

Startled, the girl felt a sudden brush of cold across her naked body as he rolled off her and reached for his clothes. Of course; he would want to return before she was missed. She smiled at his thoughtfulness but said, “There is no need to worry, love.”

He paused. “What do you mean?”

“We will tell them tomorrow. They will have to know that I am leaving with you.”

He laughed, reaching and patting her cheek. “Oh, sweeting, that’s rich. I’m leaving, that much is certain, but only with my instrument.”

Her stomach clenched. “Wh-what?”

“Naught’s wrong with your ears. What, did you think I would marry you? That you were the first I’ve ever cast a lusty eye on? You were good for one thing, sweeting, and I’ve had it. Here, something to remember this night by.”

Fully dressed now, he tossed down his scarf. By the light of the moon filtering in through the trees, she could see that there were dark, wet marks upon it.

Her virgin’s blood.

The world swirled about her as she stared at the blood, black in the moonlight. She heard the crunch of his boots as he strode back toward the village.

She tried to stand, and couldn’t. She tried to cover her nudity, and couldn’t. All she could do was stare at the bloody scarf and slowly, numbly, begin to comprehend what he had done.

The blessed numbness shattered before the agony. She buried her face in the scarf and sobbed wildly. How could he have done this to her? She curled up into a tight ball, weeping as the pain swept over her. She loved him! She loved him!

So slowly she did not know when it happened, the pain turned to fury. It swept her along as an avalanche would anything unfortunate enough to be caught in its path. It made her blue eyes gleam, it stiffened her spine, it filled the ashy, empty place in her with purpose and resolve and hatred.

She would have her revenge. There were powers, dark and brooding, that could help her. She would grow strong in her hatred, and her vengeance would be terrible.

The heat and fury inside her turned to ice.

The travelers had eaten heartily at breakfast despite the dwindling supply of food because they had known they would need the energy. It was less difficult physically to travel on the broad back of the Dragon than it would be to move through the heavy snow step by step. Not for the first time, Kevla marveled at Jareth’s determination and physical endurance. He had been doing this alone for months.

Altan suggested that she try the snow walkers first. “It’s a more natural movement than the skeltha,” he explained as he and Mylikki tightened the sinew straps, securing the apparatus to her feet. “It’s still going to feel strange, but it’s much more like walking. You’ll get used to it quickly.”

It was indeed like walking—if one normally walked with enormous flat circles strapped to one’s feet, and took large, careful steps. But it was far better than sinking thigh-deep into the huge drifts.

She was surprised at how keenly she missed the Dragon. Since the day she had rediscovered him and learned her own identity, she had not been separated from him for more than a brief time. He had agreed to wait the day out where he was and rejoin them at night. Jareth had started to protest, but then apparently thought better of it at the look on the Dragon’s scaly face. He nodded his blond head once, and then strode off toward the north.

The day quickly assumed a pattern that Kevla felt certain would be repeated in the days to come. Jareth would move swiftly ahead of them, leaving a clear path in the curving drifts of snow, and they would follow, Kevla trundling awkwardly on the snow-feet. She bit back her resentment, her urge to scream out, We could have traveled ten times this far on the Dragon’s back!, her desire to beg, Wait, don’t go so far ahead.

She knew that she was slowing all of them down. If it had not been for her—

If it were not for you, Mylikki would still be in her village, Altan would be dead, and Jareth would be an angry madman blundering about in the snow.

She smothered a smile at the Dragon’s voice in her mind, and felt a little bit better.

By the end of the day, Kevla wondered if she would be able to smile about anything again. Her legs ached, burning from toe to thigh. She rubbed them as they sat by the fire, too exhausted from the day’s efforts to prepare dinner as she usually did. Mylikki and Altan stepped in; the geese the Dragon brought them were not difficult to cook. Jareth ate twice as much as any of them, but she did not begrudge him a bite, now that she fully understood the level of his exertion over the past several months. He was a big man and once had clearly been wreathed in muscle, though now he was gaunt.

Kevla forced herself to eat, although she was so tired she had no appetite. She leaned against the Dragon while Altan sang and played something that almost lulled her to sleep. She jerked back awake, though, when Mylikki said, “I don’t think Kevla has heard the last song in the Ice Maiden cycle.”

Uneasily, she glanced over at Jareth. She was not in the mood for songs about snow and ice, and she didn’t think he was either. He was sharpening his knife; the same knife he had pressed to her throat. He seemed completely unconcerned about songs, huskaas, or Ice Maidens.

“You remember the first two, Kevla?” Mylikki asked, her fingers moving gently over the instrument as she tuned it.

“Yes,” said Kevla. “One was a warning from an old man to a younger, the second was sung by that young man who did find the Ice Maiden.”

Mylikki nodded. The sky was clear and had been all day, for which Kevla was grateful. Soon enough, they would have to deal with more storms, but she was happy for the calm times when they came.

“That’s right. The third one is sung by the Ice Maiden.” Her blue eyes met Kevla’s. “It’s a very sad song, even though it’s sung by the Maiden herself.”

She began, in a soft, urgent voice.

On nights by the fire, when shadows grow long,
A huskaa may sing you a slow, haunting song;
He’ll sing of a Maiden with ice in her breast
Whose beauty kills some men, enslaves all the rest.

The Maiden is evil, the Maiden is cold.
The Maiden is heartless—or so you’ve been told.
The Maiden’s a spirit—but oh, ’tis a lie;
The Maiden was mortal; the Maiden is I.

Hark all ye lads who know nothing of pain!
Desire and longing shall be your refrain.
Take care ere ye love me—can you pay the price?
Come forfeit your soul to the Maiden of Ice.

Altan studiously looked at his own instrument, his long fingers still on the strings. Jareth seemed engrossed in sharpening his knife, but Kevla sensed he was listening. She herself was barely breathing, hoping this song would not unfold the way she feared it would.

My story’s an old one; a poor country maid,
I loved a young man, and that love was betrayed.
“Ah, sweetheart,” he told me, “I took ye to bed,
But you’re far too simple and plain to be wed.

“For I’ve loved a Maiden with eyes like the stars,
With pale, creamy skin that no blemish mars;
With lips that are wine-red, and hair like the sun.
That’s who I love, lass, and you’re not that one.”

Again, Mylikki launched into the bitter, harsh words of the chorus. Her pretty face was flushed with the passion of the words, her eyes closed. It was as if it was her own pain she was pouring out, not that of some mythical woman. And Kevla wondered, as she looked from one singer to the other, if that was not indeed the case.

Love, then, means nothing, for beauty is all.
In anguish and rage, on dark things I did call—
I called on the spirits, I called on the Dead,
Too full of hatred to feel any dread.

My softness, for vengeance I bargained away.
My laughter, for beauty as cold as the clay;
My soul, for the power to catch men like flies,
And watch as their manly pride withers and dies.

Kevla knew that by law, all formal huskaas were men. But clearly the Law did not forbid women from learning how to play and sing, merely denied them the title. She wondered, listening to the angry, heartbreaking song, if it had been a woman who had penned these words, long ago. She couldn’t imagine a man, even someone as sensitive as Jashemi, fully grasping the ache of a woman’s heart.

Even as the thought of her beloved came, she wished it away. His face rose up in her mind and, as always, guilt and pain raked her with merciless claws. Suddenly the song seemed slightly less tragic. Both this Ice Maiden and the pretty young maiden who was currently performing the song knew the shame and pain of rejection. She’d seen Altan by turns flirt with and scorn Mylikki, and knew how badly it had hurt. But the Lamali girl knew nothing of the agony of forever losing her beloved by her own actions—someone who had loved her with all his heart.

Kevla wiped at her eyes, grateful for the pain in the song, hoping that it might hide her own deeply personal grief.

Instead of one lover, I’ve legions of slaves.
My name’s on their lips as they go to their graves.
Some of them die for me, some linger on,
Bereft of emotion, wills utterly gone.

So when you hear ballads of Ice Maiden cold,
With lips that are wine-red and hair sunshine-gold,
Remember what drove me to be what I am—
All that I wanted was love from one man.

Softly, Mylikki repeated the chorus. The crystalline sound of the kyndela faded into the clear iciness of the snowy night.

Altan was the first to speak. “That was beautiful, Mylikki,” he said quietly. “The student has surpassed the teacher.”

Their gazes locked. Suddenly Kevla couldn’t bear it anymore. She was physically weary, mentally and emotionally wrung out from the song and the feelings it had roused.

“I have been spoiled by flying on the Dragon’s back,” she said. “Perhaps tomorrow my legs will be cleverer with the snow walkers. Sleep well, I will see you in the morning.”

Kevla awoke fully alert. She must have heard something.

It is all right, came the Dragon’s voice in her thoughts.

Jareth?

Do not worry. I can see him from here. He’s not attempting to leave.

Curious, Kevla emerged from the shelter of the Dragon’s body as quietly as she could. Her legs were stiff and sore, but they obeyed. The moon was bright and she had no trouble seeing the huddled shape of the Stone Dancer at the edge of the clearing. He was bent over something, but she could not tell what.

What is he doing?

Listening, and the Dragon’s mental voice was very tender.

Kevla could hear it now; a soft, odd-toned voice, but she could not distinguish words.

Why does this not wake the others?

They are not Dancers, Kevla. Jareth thinks no one but he can understand the voices of the things that speak to him. But every Dancer can hear what he hears, though only he can speak to them.

Kevla nodded her understanding and slipped back into the shelter. As long as the Dragon kept an eye on Jareth and the Stone Dancer made no attempt to flee, he could listen to whatever he wanted.

She feigned sleep when he crept back a short time later. She heard the soft crunch of snow and felt him standing over her. Kevla kept her breathing soft and steady, and he moved away. She heard a deep, long sigh as he lay back down on the blankets, then silence.

As they walked the next day, her legs shrieking in protest, Kevla thought about the strange incident that had happened last night. What was Jareth listening to? And why? She sensed that the Dragon understood, but respected Jareth’s privacy sufficiently not to share his secret, not even with the Flame Dancer.

Kevla did not want to pry either, but she was not sure she trusted Jareth fully. He had not committed to his duty as a Dancer, not yet. She couldn’t help but wonder if he ever truly would. He was linked to the land in a way that not even she could fully appreciate. Her skill, her affinity, her nature was fire. His was earth. And unlike Kevla, Jareth’s powers had been honored and celebrated—even craved—by his community since he was thirteen years old. Fire was transitory. Any fire, anywhere, was as good as another to her. It was, she suspected, why she could scry and even transport herself via their crackling flames.

But earth…land was a deeply personal thing. She saw this even in Arukan, a place where many clans were nomadic and had no real roots. But they shared the same sun, the same sand, the same heat. They were bound together despite their many differences by this shared experience. How much more intimate a union might there be between the people of Lamal, deeply and powerfully connected to the earth through its seasons and its bounty, and the ground upon which they trod? Jareth probably knew each tree, each river in his little village. Even if his people weren’t suffering, might he not be reluctant to join Kevla and leave them—leave the land in which he was born, of which he had been caretaker for most of his life—possibly forever?

It worried her. And because it worried her, she overcame her reluctance to invade his privacy and waited for when he slipped quietly into the night, after he thought everyone else was asleep.

The second night, she realized with a shock that she was able to comprehend words. She moved closer to the entrance and strained her ears. Sure enough, just as she had experienced when she first arrived in Lamal, she was starting to understand a language with which she had initially been utterly unfamiliar. She tried to slow her racing heart and quiet her breathing, so she could hear better. The “voice,” if voice it could truly be called, sounded like nothing she had ever heard. It was deep, and rich, and as she listened, Kevla could almost smell the moist, earthy scent of soil.

Earth am I, soil and sand, ever-changing and ever the same. I am the flesh that was once living things, and the anchor to the roots of the trees and grass and all growing things. Earth am I, and I shall speak.

He trod with gentle feet, the boy, and sensed the stirring within. Kneeling, he placed his hands on me, young hands, wise hands, digging deep into the rich loam hidden beneath its white blanket of snow. I knew him to be kin to me, though I understood not how, and when he asked, “Let the spring come forth,” we all answered.

The snow melted at his word, surrendering its icy grip. Roots, huddled and dormant, awoke and their tender green grasses emerged. Soft blew the winds, bright shone the sun. And all who beheld this marveled at the youth, barely past thirteen summers, who had summoned spring by asking in a gentle voice, and who seemed more stunned than all the others at what he had wrought.

And when spring had waxed to its burgeoning fullness, came the youth to me again. Again he sank his human fingers into me, merging with soil and sand, and called summer. And summer came, obedient to his asking, bright and warm and welcome. Autumn and winter followed, and spring, and summer again.

So passed the years, and the seasons always came when he called.

There was more; flowing words and images that thrilled Kevla to her very core to hear.

The earth itself was speaking.

Kevla inhaled swiftly. She couldn’t see what was happening, but she could guess. Jareth had gathered a handful of dirt from the site where he had first called spring. And now that his powers were gone, he was reliving that moment.

How often had he done this, over the months that he had spent wandering alone? Remembering, listening to what he had once been and now was no longer. Two emotions washed over her: pity and a sense of horror that he was so obsessed with this that he listened every night to a reminder of his past glory.

She heard the crunching of snow and hurried back to her blanket, hoping he didn’t come and listen to her breathing, because she was certain it was rapid and shallow with the revelation she had just experienced.

24

Night after night, Kevla stayed awake until Jareth quietly moved from his blanket out into the crisp, open air. Night after night, she listened to his memories, captured forever by a stone, a leaf, a clump of dirt. During the day, Jareth was taciturn, saying little about anything and nothing at all about himself, although Altan always tried to draw him out while they sat beside the fire in the evening.

Jareth was the first person Kevla had ever met who was truly like her. While Jashemi, her Lorekeeper, and the Dragon, her Companion, were an intrinsic part of her, Jareth was complete unto himself. And yet, he was a Dancer. He was an element made flesh. She burned to ask him questions, to share her own experiences, but he kept them all at arm’s length.

These illicit moments, deep in the quiet of an icy night, were the only times Jareth revealed any part of himself to her. And though she was ashamed of herself, Kevla was willing to live with that shame in order to glean knowledge about this withdrawn, bitter man.

She heard him rise, heard the squeak of snow as he walked away from the Dragon and the clearing. She crawled to the entrance and listened.

The voice this time was sweet and lyrical; exactly the way the voice of such a speaker ought to be, she thought as she strained her ears to catch the soft sound.

Wildflower am I, stem and petal and leaf still here though torn from my roots, brief lived but beautiful. Petals red as blood, center blue as sky, I follow the sun on its path from dawn to dusk. Wildflower am I, and I shall speak.

With fingers soft as water he tore me from my roots; he felt me bleeding and sorrowed for me, but nonetheless took my long green stem and pressed it between the fingers of a woman. She brought me to her face and inhaled my scent, and for the tenderness the man showed me I blessed her with my fragrance. Held in her tender grasp I was then, and later I adorned her hair, and my petals were trailed over lips and breasts and body.

Cherished I was, my death an offering of love.

Kevla made a small sound and then clapped her hand over her mouth. The song of the wildflower, dying so that Jareth might give it to his wife, clearly used in their loveplay, nearly broke her heart. Fearing she had given herself away, she hurried back to her blankets, closed her eyes, and tried to steady her breathing.

Sure enough, she heard the quick sound of Jareth’s footsteps, then silence as, she assumed, he peered beneath the Dragon’s belly to see if anyone had heard him. After a long, tense moment, she heard him moving off again and relaxed.

Does he weep, Dragon?

I do not watch him closely, Flame Dancer, but no, I believe he does not weep.

And yet he forces himself to listen to…this…every night.

Sometimes, our pain is our comfort. It is the only thing that makes us feel alive.

Too tired to stay awake, Kevla drifted into an uneasy slumber wondering if the Dragon’s words were not entirely about the Stone Dancer.

Kevla was determined to learn to use the skeltha. Altan and Mylikki strapped the long, awkward poles onto her feet and did their best not to laugh at Kevla as she flailed, fell and struggled. If she had thought herself sore after a few days with the snow walkers, she had not understood the proper definition of the word. By the end of her first day, she could barely hobble to the fireside. Mylikki started to prepare supper, but Kevla saw her pause as she went through the packs.

“We’re down to the last of the provisions,” Mylikki said in a somber voice.

“What’s left?” Kevla asked. She eased herself down on a blanket beside the fire, arranging her rhia so Altan could massage her legs.

“A few more days’ worth of grains, about a handful of dried vegetables, eight strips of dried meat and another potful or two of tea,” Mylikki replied.

“We’ll need to start rationing,” Kevla said. “Make the soup with half the usual ingredients.”

Mylikki nodded and started the meal. Kevla hissed as Altan massaged her legs, but gritted her teeth and accepted the pain, knowing from experience that her muscles would be the looser for the attention the next day.

“What I wouldn’t give for one of your stonesteaming huts right now,” Kevla said as Altan worked on her calf.

Altan sighed. “What I wouldn’t give,” he said. “Don’t suppose we could construct a makeshift version?”

Jareth had been sitting silently by the fire, but now he spoke. “Kevla might be able to heat the stones sufficiently, but building even a basic one would be a waste of energy and time. We can’t afford to do that. We need to save all our strength for the journey.”

Altan sighed. “I suppose you’re right. Though it would be awfully pleasant. How about you, Mylikki? You and Kevla had one only a few weeks ago. Missing it yet?”

Mylikki muttered something, but clearly was in no mood for conversation. Kevla caught Altan’s eye, and in that fleeting instant saw confusion in their blue-green depths. Was it possible that Altan didn’t realize how his cutting comments hurt Mylikki? The youth quickly looked away and intensified his efforts on Kevla’s calf.

“Forgive my inexperience, I’m not skilled in such things,” Altan said as he watched her wince.

“Too bad it’s not one of you who’s sore,” Kevla said, forcing a smile. “I am skilled in such things.”

“How convenient of you not to have mentioned before,” Altan said in arch voice, the corners of his mouth lifting a little to make sure Kevla knew he was teasing. “Now that I know, I’ll make sure to remember that. Jareth, Mylikki, you heard her.”

He patted her thigh to indicate he was finished and she extended the other leg. “We know so little about you, Flame Dancer,” Altan continued. “Yet it seems you know all about us.”

Kevla glanced at Jareth. She knew more about him, at least, than he fully realized. Jareth had put up all sorts of barriers between himself and his traveling companions. Spying on him—for she was spying, no amount of calling it anything else would change the fact—had brought her closer to him than she would have been otherwise. She thought about the flower, and her heart ached as if the experience had been her own.

She felt it was time to balance things out. “I will tell you, then,” she said quietly. Something in her voice made Jareth look up and regard her with narrowed eyes.

While Mylikki quietly stirred the watery soup, Jareth worked on repairing a damaged leather boot, and Altan massaged her legs, Kevla spoke of her life. She spoke of how, as a child, she used to solicit customers for her mother. Of the day when Tahmi-kha-Rakyn, khashim of the Clan of Four Waters, had whisked her away to what appeared to be a comparatively glamorous life in the great House.

“He was my father,” Kevla said, “but I did not know that until much later.” She lay on her back now, protected from the wetness of the snow only by a thin blanket, not in the least bit cold. The night was again clear, and she wondered if they would see the dancing lights that indicated frolicking tiger-gods. Altan rubbed her feet with hands that were both strong and gentle if not experienced.

Kevla continued, speaking with only a slight hitch in her voice of her half brother Jashemi, who had befriended her and stood fast beside all that followed. She told of her powers, and how terrified she had been.

“But I was most frightened of all of the Great Dragon, who was the Lawgiver and protector of our people. He came in dreams every night, breathing fire on me, demanding if I knew who I was. You utterly terrified me!”

The Dragon shrugged his massive shoulders. “It was what was required,” he said matter-of-factly.

Kevla’s smile faded. It was one thing to speak of playing Shamizan with a half brother, and bad dreams, and taking care of the khashima. But what followed took a much darker, much more tragic path.

She gently placed a hand on Altan’s shoulder, stilling the movements of his strong fingers on her legs. “Thank you, Altan. That was lovely.” Kevla sat up. “I think that is enough for tonight.” Altan nodded, knowing that she referred both to her story and to the massage.

He sat up. “Where’s Mylikki?” he asked. Indeed, the girl was nowhere to be seen.

Jareth shrugged. The Dragon said, “She went to be by herself for a while.”

Altan tried and failed to hide a smile. “Looks like we’re almost ready to eat. I’ll go find her.”

It was easy enough to tell in which direction Mylikki had gone. The tracks betrayed her, and Altan followed them quickly, seemingly eager to have a moment alone with the girl.

Now, it was only Kevla, the Dragon, and Jareth. She went and stirred the soup, surprised despite Mylikki’s warning to see how thin it was. “Dragon, I hope you’ll be able to catch us something for tomorrow,” she said.

“I will do my best, but I cannot call the animals as Jareth can. I must hunt as the hawk and the bear do and I am not always successful.”

Kevla eyed Jareth. “Why is it you do not summon something for our meals, Jareth?”

He frowned. “I have lived on nothing but snow and animal flesh for almost a year,” he said. “The last few weeks, I’ve eaten it raw. We have some provisions left. It was…good not to have them come to me only to die.” Then, as if remembering something, he added, “I won’t let any of you starve, Kevla, if that’s what you’re implying.”

“Of course I wasn’t implying that!” She stared at him, exasperated. In his own way, he was just as moody as Altan, and she wondered if all Lamali men were so contradictory. It was as if he were two people—the sullen, moody, angry man who seemed perpetually irritated by everything and everyone, and the man who roused each night to listen to inanimate objects sing in haunting voices of past joys and sorrows. Her annoyance fled as she recalled the voice of the earth, singing of the Spring-Bringer, and the flower, singing of Jareth’s beloved, and all the other voices who had spoken of the births of children, of the terror of losing one’s powers, of the agony of finding one’s beloved cold and lifeless, and all the other pieces of a shattered life.

Impulsively, she went and sat down beside him. He shied away, almost imperceptibly, but she didn’t miss the gesture.

“You said for the last few weeks, you’ve been eating raw flesh. Jareth, did you never light a fire?”

He looked down at his hands. “After I saw your face in the flame, I couldn’t risk it.”

She was silent for a moment, wondering if she would have had the strength to endure what he had.

“I know this wasn’t how you imagined things turning out,” she said at last, very gently. “My life certainly hasn’t turned out the way I thought it would, either. I know you wanted—”

He whirled on her so suddenly she gasped out loud. His lips were drawn back from his white teeth in a feral snarl, and his blue eyes were like chips of ice. For an instant, she thought he would strike her.

“I don’t want you here!” he growled. “I don’t want you, or Mylikki, or the Dragon, and certainly not Altan here. I don’t want you coming from your house of—of olives and dates and scented oils and soft pillows into my land, my life, and telling me what you ‘know’ I think or feel or want or imagine. The only reason I’m even here right now is because your big red bully of a Dragon physically won’t let me leave. Do you understand that? You’re not my friend, you’re not my ally, you’re nothing to me. What you want me to do is nothing to me. You don’t know anything about me, Kevla. You don’t know one cursed thing!”

But I do, she wanted to tell him. I know everything that matters. Kevla tried to imagine this big, gruff, broken man making love to a petite woman on a harvested wheat field; tried to see him holding a baby daughter and kissing her forehead as he wept tears of joy. It was almost impossible, and yet she had heard such things with her own ears.

Jareth’s nostrils flared with each angry breath. He was daring her to respond as he would, daring her to grow angry and hurl cold words at him. Instead, she reached and squeezed his arm, and returned to the fire.

“Leave me alone.”

Altan stopped, surprised. “I thought when you left, you wanted me to follow. So we could have a few moments together, away from the others.”

Mylikki made a contemptuous sound. She faced away from him, huddled in her cloak.

“Mylikki, sweeting, what’s wrong?” he asked. “Are you angry with me? Have I done something wrong?”

She laughed shortly, a harsh bark. “You know.”

“Truly, I don’t. Is there anything I could do to make you feel better?”

“No.” The anger had faded, leaving only a deep sorrow in her voice. “There isn’t, so please, just go away.”

Altan sighed. “Look at me.” He reached for her hands. She tried to pull away, but not very forcefully. Reluctantly, she turned to face him. He held her hands between his, caressing them, noting their coldness and the delicacy of the fingers.

“You’ve got calluses on your fingertips,” he said. Not knowing how she would react, he brought her fingers to his lips and gently kissed the rough flesh. She trembled.

“That tells me you’ve spent hours and hours practicing. You have done an amazing job of learning to play, especially with no one to really teach you. I’ve been instructed by a huskaa since I was thirteen, and I think you’ll surpass me soon if you keep this up. You certainly surpassed me the other evening. I’ve never heard such a passionate rendition of that song in my life.” He squeezed her hands. “Was it just talent I was hearing, or was it something else?”

She looked at him fully then. Her cheeks and lips were flushed and her eyes swollen from crying.

“What do you think?”

“Mylikki, my lovely, dear girl, what have I done wrong?”

“Do you not hear yourself speak sometimes?”

Now it was Altan’s turn to look away. Not Mylikki. Please let me not have said anything to hurt Mylikki.

He wondered, worried, what he had said to upset her so. Carefully, he felt his way.

“If I…said anything to you that hurt you, I didn’t mean it. There’s so much happening. This strange winter, Jareth losing his powers, meeting Kevla….”

“Yes, Kevla and Jareth,” she said, a hint of heat in her words. “They’re so very important.”

“They are important and you know it,” he said a touch more harshly than he intended. Maybe this was what she was talking about. Maybe if he explained it to her so that she understood—“You know what’s going on here. And I’ve known Jareth all my life—literally. He was at my birth, Mylikki—saw me and my sister coming into the world, helped my mother accept my sister’s death. What he went through—he needs me right now. He needs me and I want to be there for him. Can you understand that?”

“I understood that song,” she said quietly.

“You’re not being fair. I never did that to you!” Altan said indignantly. “I’ve never even kissed you, not that I haven’t wanted—”

Before he quite knew what was happening, her lips were on his, cold but full, soft and moist. Altan’s eyes closed as if of their own accord and relief surged through him as he kissed her back, his arms going around her to pull her tightly to him, his body responding to her softness by becoming hard and firm.

Cold, her flesh was so cold where his hands, warm and limber from the massage, touched her. But the inside of her mouth was hot and sweet. Her fingers reached to tangle themselves in his curly blond hair as she opened to him. Altan’s lips traveled to her cold ear, her cold throat where the vein beat, wanting to take away this chill he found in her, wanting to give her his heat. His arms moved under her cloak, around her waist, along her thigh, snaking upward beneath the fabric to press with a trembling hand flesh that was round and apple-firm yet so, so soft, and at last, warm to his touch—

What are you doing?

It was as if the voice had come from somewhere else, as if it was not part of his own hazy, desire-clotted thoughts at all. It seared through him and jolted him backward almost as if he had been struck.

Mylikki gazed at him through half-closed lids, still tasting his kiss on lips that curved in a smile. Then, slowly, her eyes widened and the smile faded.

“Altan?”

“You should pay better attention to the songs you sing,” Altan said, his voice dripping contempt. “Your heart wouldn’t get broken if you didn’t keep throwing yourself at men like this.”

He rose, dusted off his pants, and strode back to the circle. Mylikki felt as though he’d kicked her in the stomach. What was wrong with him? Why was he doing this to her? Was this a test? Was he pretending to scorn her so she would prove her love?

“I don’t understand,” she whispered, though he was gone. Tears again filled her eyes, spilled down her cheeks. “I love you, Altan. I’d do anything to make you love me. Anything.”

25

It was a grim and silent group that set forth the next day, and the weather mirrored their mood. They pressed onward, heading due north, following the advice of the birds that came to Jareth’s summons. Despite Altan’s best efforts at massage, Kevla ached all day as she tried to negotiate the skelthas with a body that was tight and stiff. She bit her lip when she wanted to hiss in pain, and said not a word of complaint.

Mylikki and Altan studiously avoided one another. Altan was hunched and miserable as they went, and Mylikki looked raw and broken. Jareth, of course, was as unreachable as ever. Kevla would not try again to engage him in intimate conversation. She knew what he had undergone, but she could not tell him that she knew. She wondered if he would ever be able to lower the walls he had built around himself like a fortress.

Around midmorning, the snow that had been threatening finally started to fall. They kept going. It did not lessen until after sunset, and it did nothing to brighten anyone’s mood.

Dinner—three small hares cut up and boiled in the pot—was eaten quickly and in silence. Neither player seemed to want to perform, and the kyndelas stayed carefully wrapped in their packs. At one point, the night cleared and the gods appeared in the skies. Everyone watched them without speaking. Kevla suspected they all found it so entertaining merely because it was something to do that did not emphasize the tension and unhappiness running rampant in the group.

Days passed in such a fashion. After a few days of heading steadily north, to where Jareth predicted they would find the taaskali, they finally ran out of supplies. From this point on, they would be forced to rely upon what the Dragon could provide and any creatures Jareth could summon. There was more than one day that passed with nothing to eat and only weak tea to warm bodies that grew increasingly vulnerable to the bite of the ceaseless cold. Mylikki frightened Kevla badly one morning when it took several minutes for the Flame Dancer to rouse her. Kevla could no longer bear to continue to listen to Jareth’s pain, spoken through the things of the earth. She wondered how he could. Neither did she have any patience left for the two younger ones and their might-be, might-not-be romance.

At one point, they had removed their skelthas and were moving single file through a tight tangle of trees. A sharp wind was blowing, and Kevla was glad for what little shelter the trees provided. Jareth had taken the lead and Kevla was behind him. She was looking down at her feet, negotiating the tricky roots, and ran right into him.

A retort was on her lips but it died there as she saw his face. For the first time since she had met him, there was a pleasure on his features. Beneath the bushy beard, his mouth curved in a smile. In his fabric-wrapped hands he held a piece of cloth and as she watched, he brought it to his face and inhaled deeply.

“I thought it was just a myth,” breathed Mylikki as she and Altan stepped forward.

“What is it?” Kevla asked.

In the gentlest voice Kevla had ever heard him use, Jareth said, “It is a taaskali blessing cloth. It’s woven from the fur of the selva.”

He held it out to its full length, and Kevla saw that it was about the size of a kerchief. The fabric seemed to glow as if lit from within, and she was unable to resist caressing it.

She murmured in pleasure. It was the softest thing she had ever touched. Not even the khashima’s bedsheets were this soft, this smooth between her fingers. And this was woven from the fur of a beast? It seemed almost impossible to contemplate.

“Smell it,” Jareth said. She looked at him sharply. He gestured. “Go on.”

She lifted the soft cloth to her nose and obeyed, thinking to smell a typical animal scent like wool or fur. Instead, her eyes widened. She inhaled no musky scent, but something sweet and clean and fresh, like grass, or fruit, or blossoms, or…

“It smells…it smells like spring,” she managed in a faint voice.

He nodded, then took the scrap of cloth and handed it to Mylikki and Altan. Kevla was shocked into silence, wondering how such a thing could be.

When Mylikki handed the cloth back to Jareth, he held it up so that the wind caught it. It snapped and danced.

“Listen.”

Silently they strained their ears, and then as a particularly brisk gust made the white, nearly radiant cloth flutter, she heard the sound. Like a kyndela, but not quite; like a sweet human voice, but more profound. Like nothing Kevla had ever heard, the song of the cloth filled her ears and made her skin prickle. Then, to her shock, Jareth let the cloth go. The wind caught it and bore it aloft to the blue sky.

“No!” she cried, startled by how painful the thought of never again touching this marvel was to her.

“It is not meant for keeping,” Jareth said. “The taaskali weave the blessing cloths during each season of the year, when the selva decide to stop moving for a time. They weave into its strands their songs and prayers and hopes, for themselves, the selva they protect, and all the peoples of Lamal. Then they release these cloths to the wind, to carry the blessings throughout the land.”

“I’ve never seen one before,” Mylikki whispered. Kevla looked at her, and for the first time in many days, Mylikki looked like the sweet, bright girl who had first chosen to accompany Kevla.

“Nor have I,” Altan said, his voice hushed with awe.

“I have,” Jareth said. “When I first discovered my abilities. I wanted so badly to keep it, but I knew what I was supposed to do. I had to let it go, so that it could continue to sing its blessings.”

“What happens to them?” Kevla asked.

Jareth shrugged, and at the gesture Kevla realized all over again just how broad his shoulders were. “It may get caught in a tree branch, and a bird might make a nest of it. Or it may fly until the wind rips it to tatters and the final song is sung. Whatever betide, it’s not for humans to keep.”

“You are wise indeed,” came a voice. “Had you kept it, you would never have found us.”

Kevla whirled.

They had materialized from nowhere, it seemed; now every tree she beheld seemed to have an archer behind it.

It was the taaskali; it could be no one else. They were smaller than the Lamali people, and Kevla now saw why everyone had first mistaken her for one of them. Their skin was as dark as hers, their hair, worn in various lengths and styles, a blue-black hue. Some of the men had long beards; others were clean-shaven. More than a few of those pointing the weapons at the little band were women. All of them looked deadly serious.

They wore garments that seemed to her to be made of the same shiny material as the cloth. Kevla wondered how they withstood the cold in such seemingly flimsy garb.

“I am Hanru. You are looking for us.” The voice, which sounded more like the wind in the trees than that of a human, belonged to a slender man who stepped forward, lowering his bow. “Which is a good thing, because we have been looking for you.”

They offered no further explanation. Hanru pointed wordlessly in the direction in which they had been traveling. Kevla and her companions exchanged glances. Jareth was the first to move; this was, after all, what he had been seeking. In stunned and slightly anxious silence, Kevla and her companions followed the taaskali out of the forest.

The taaskali’s feet never seemed to stumble as they touched lightly, then lifted off roots or earth. Kevla noted the boots on those clever feet, supple and smooth, apparently seamless; the clothing, the cloaks, all in that incredible shade of white that seemed to glow. Against their dark skins, the material seemed almost blindingly white. At one point, she stumbled and one of them was there to catch her before she fell.

The hand on her arm, warm and strong, was almost the same color as her own flesh, and she looked up into the first pair of brown eyes she had seen since arriving in this land. Even as this was familiar, it was strange; the taaskali’s face was rounder than the aquiline features of the Arukani, and her eyes were larger and seemed more deep-set. The woman who had caught her smiled slightly, in acknowledgment of their similarity, then moved on in lithe silence.

Finally, they emerged from the woods onto a flat plain that seemed to stretch as far as the eye could see. The snow, which Kevla had always thought so white, seemed dull and gray compared to the clothing of the taaskali. Kevla looked around, puffs of steam rising from her lips.

She had thought to be greeted by the sight of the taaskali camp, perhaps even catch a glimpse of the selva. But nothing met her gaze other than the wide expanse.

Kevla glanced at the others, who seemed as puzzled as she. She looked at the woman who had kept her from stumbling earlier and asked quietly, “Are we…here?”

The woman’s face slowly stretched into a grin. In a tongue that Kevla did not understand but that made her long to hear it spoken again, she called out to her companions. They all chuckled.

“Look again,” Hanru said, his strange accent caressing the words. “Look with soft eyes.”

Kevla understood what he meant. She looked out again at the white stretch of snow before her with the same slightly out of focus gaze she adopted when she scried into the fire.

She gasped at what she now beheld. What had at first seemed like snow clear to the horizon now resolved itself into various forms. She could make out tents and cloak-clad figures and—

“The selva,” she breathed.

How could she not have seen them earlier? They were enormous, striding calmly across the snow, pausing to dig at the white stuff with long, slender legs. They resembled kirvi deer, but only in the way a child’s sketch resembles the object he is attempting to capture.

They were much bigger than deer, and their coats were pure white and looked incredibly soft to the touch. Strong yet slender necks supported delicate heads crowned with branching golden antlers that gleamed as they caught the sunlight. Long, slim tails with tufts at the end swished lazily. She could not see what color their eyes were, but she knew they watched her carefully. The hooves with which the graceful creatures dug in the snow were as golden as their horns. Kevla felt a soft sigh escape her as she regarded them. She felt she could stand so and watch them until the end of time. No wonder these people were content to do nothing but tend to the creatures.

Beside her, Jareth stood as still as if he had turned to stone. His eyes were wide and he gazed at the selva as if stunned. Mylikki let out a soft, “Oh.”

“For nearly a thousand years, our people have tended them,” said Hanru. “They grace us with their milk and their soft wool, from which we weave our clothing and the blessing cloths. We follow them as they graze, keeping them safe from predators—of all kinds.”

“May…may we approach them?” Jareth’s voice, soft, awe-filled.

“If they permit you,” Hanru replied. “If they will not, leave them be.”

“Of course,” Kevla breathed. She walked slowly toward one of the beasts. She could not tell at once if it was male or female. While they resembled kirvi deer, the selva seemed to have at least one thing in common with the liahs of Kevla’s homeland in that both sexes had horns.

Step by step, feeling ungainly and graceless in the presence of such wondrous creatures, Kevla continued to approach. It lifted its great head from where it had been nibbling beneath the snow and regarded her calmly.

She almost forgot to breathe. Only a few steps away from the being, Kevla now saw that its eyes were gray, almost silver. Her heart was racing as she and the selva locked gazes.

Kevla felt—there was no other word to describe it—its willingness to let her approach and touch it. There was nothing so complex as words or even thought in the exchange, but Kevla understood it in her bones. Licking dry lips, she closed the short distance between them until she stood beside it. With a hand that trembled, Kevla reached out and touched thick, smooth fur.

And when the selva lowered its great head and nuzzled her cheek with its soft muzzle, Kevla felt something inside her shatter. She felt understood, accepted, welcomed…loved. She threw her arms around the slender neck and wept fiercely, her hot tears taken and absorbed by the soft, warm fur that smelled of spring blossoms and sunlight.

26

How long Kevla stood clasping the selva’s neck, she did not know; nor did she understand why she wept. She only knew that when she finally drew back, dragging an arm across her wet face, she felt better.

“Thank you,” she whispered to the creature, and it flicked its large, creamy white ears as if it understood her.

A hand touched her shoulder and she turned to see the woman who had helped her before. The woman gestured, and Kevla saw that someone had started a fire, large and crackling. She followed the woman and sat on a blanket as she was bade.

Hanru was waiting for her. “There are always a few among my people who keep the knowledge of your people’s language. We do not often have dealings with you, but when we must, we wish to be able to communicate. I know you have been looking for us, and as I told you, we have been looking for you as well.”

“Took you long enough to find us,” Jareth muttered. Kevla shot him an angry look, but fortunately, Hanru appeared to be unperturbed.

“We go as fast as the selva and no faster,” the taaskal said mildly.

“I need to find the gods,” Jareth said bluntly. “I need—”

“We know what you need,” Hanru said, his voice sharp. “Do you not think we have watched you try and fail?”

Jareth gaped. “You—you watched me climb the mountains? You did nothing?”

“We did a great deal,” Hanru replied. “We protected the herd. That is what we always do. We have not moved from here for several weeks—this seems to be where the selva wish to stay, and we always obey the selva.”

Jareth rubbed at his eyes. “How is it I didn’t see you?”

“How is it you didn’t see us when you first emerged from the woods?” was Hanru’s answer. “We can shield ourselves if we have need.”

“You know that the land has not had spring for too long,” Jareth said. Kevla, who was starting to get to know Jareth better than he knew, realized that he was keeping his anger in check with difficulty. “Surely even you, even the selva, suffer when the land is dead. If you can help me find the gods, I can bring the spring back to the land.”

“How do you know this?” challenged Hanru.

“I have done so many times before.”

“Then why do you not do so now?”

Color flowed and ebbed in Jareth’s face. Altan looked down. Mylikki seemed to be watching everything, focused and alert.

“I have…lost my powers. But I know that the gods can return them to me, if they so choose.”

Hanru regarded him impassively. “You want more than spring.”

“That does not concern you,” Jareth answered harshly.

“You did not come with love in your heart,” Hanru said. “You came to demand, to force.”

Jareth didn’t back down. “I did, and do,” he replied. Inwardly, Kevla winced. She knew that this was not what the taaskal wanted to hear, but she also knew that it was not in Jareth’s nature to lie. “So many have died, humans and animals alike. I cannot understand why the gods withhold this from me, when no one benefits and the land and its creatures are suffering!”

“She has her reasons,” Hanru replied. “She did not wish to see you before. Hence, you were not able to find her. Now, she is willing to appear before you. And here we are, to take you to her.”

“Her?” Now Jareth did notice it. “Is there only one god willing to meet with me? But what about the others, why are they—?”

Hanru held up a hand. “You will understand everything soon. In the meantime, you are in our care.”

Kevla heard a familiar sound and looked up. The Dragon seemed like a small dot in the sky at first, growing larger and larger as he descended. Kevla glanced at Hanru, ready to speak, to let him know that the Dragon was a friend, something not to be feared, but welcomed, as they had welcomed Kevla and her traveling companions.

She need not have worried. Hanru looked up with an expression of mild curiosity. No one among the taaskali, and indeed not even the selva, seemed distressed as a giant red reptilian creature circled and landed. Kevla felt another wave of astonishment wash over her. Did nothing rattle these people and their herd?

Kevla rose and ran toward her friend, pleased to see that he clutched two kirvi deer, skinny and sad-looking things, in his foreclaws.

“We accept your hospitality,” she cried over her shoulder to Hanru, “and we would be honored to contribute to tonight’s meal.”

The two deer the Dragon had brought to share were tough and stringy, but the meat was complemented by selva milk and cheese, creamy and as white as the beasts themselves. Perhaps it was because she was so hungry and had eaten so little over the last few days, but Kevla thought she had never tasted anything as delicious as the tangy, soft cheese and the rich milk. As night fell and everyone ate before the fire, slicing meat from the spit as he or she chose, Kevla could hear the beautiful creatures moving quietly just beyond the ring of firelight.

The Dragon had been welcomed in such a casual fashion that Kevla wondered if the taaskali had been told of his coming. She knew that the huge blue Tiger who awaited Jareth in the morning was no god, but Jareth’s Companion. Perhaps the tiger had told the taaskali that the Dragon was a being like herself. Kevla pressed the Dragon with mental questions, all of which he declined to answer.

“At sunrise, I will take you to the tiger, Jareth,” said Hanru.

Something about how the words were spoken alerted Kevla. Clearly, Altan had perceived it as well, for he said immediately, “I’m going with him.”

“He goes before the tiger alone,” Hanru stated.

“Perhaps,” said Kevla. “But he will not make that journey without his companions.”

Jareth looked at her. She couldn’t quite decipher his expression. Surprise, certainly; she herself hadn’t planned to speak. Pleasure? Annoyance?

“I’m coming too,” said Mylikki.

“I am staying,” said the Dragon.

Kevla turned to him, shocked. Why?

I have…a task to complete. You know who awaits Jareth, Kevla. It will be an ordeal for him, but a necessary one. No one, no thing, in this world loves the Stone Dancer as much as the tiger does, although Jareth doesn’t understand that yet.

You could save us much time and trouble.

That’s not what I’m here for. I have something else to do.

There was no swaying him, and Kevla wondered what sort of task was so important to the Dragon that he would let them climb the mountain on their own.

“There is no need for anyone else to come,” Jareth said.

“I am Fire, Jareth,” Kevla said. “You cannot argue that I can be of use if you run into trouble.”

She had him there and he glared. Altan said, “And unless you want Mylikki and I to go to our deaths following you, you had best agree to let us come.”

Jareth swore under his breath. “You are fools, to leave the comfort of the camp when you don’t need to,” he said. “But it appears I cannot escape any of you. Hanru, it seems as though you will take Kevla, Altan, Mylikki and me to the god.”

“And you will go before her alone,” Hanru repeated.

“I agree,” Jareth replied, and Kevla thought that this would be how he would have wanted it to unfold anyway. She could not know, of course, what he would face when he encountered the tiger. But she did know that once he had undergone this meeting, he would emerge the better for it.

After night had fallen and the meal was eaten, Kevla snuggled against her friend and regarded the lights in the sky. What were they, then, if not the gods playing? She supposed she would never know.

“Will you be our shelter again, Dragon?” she asked.

“Not tonight. The taaskali have prepared a place for each of you to sleep. Pay attention to your dreams.”

The Lorekeeper stared up at the sky. He was speaking to her again.

Time is growing short, the Emperor urged her. The interference of the taaskali has complicated things. You must act quickly. Tomorrow. If you do not act, then it will be too late, and he will never be yours. And you know what will happen if he chooses to leave Lamal, to stay a part of this group.

Licking dry lips, her eyes open and unblinking, the Lorekeeper nodded ever so slightly. She didn’t want anyone to notice the gesture and ask about it.

It will be difficult, but I know you can do it. I have faith in you. Will you do it? Tomorrow?

And again, she nodded. For love of one man, she would betray all the others who trusted her.

Kevla felt odd about not sleeping next to the Dragon. This entire part of the journey felt odd to her. She knew things were transpiring that she was not privy to, and the taaskali, despite their hospitality and apparent willingness to help, still unsettled her. Hanru beckoned them forward to stand in the center of the gathering. Kevla found herself wanting to clasp hands with the other three, but knew that Jareth would reject the gesture. So she stood, straight and tall, trying not to be nervous as the taaskali regarded her with dark, expressionless faces.

After a moment, she saw movement just beyond the ring of firelight. A graceful head rose; golden antlers gleamed, catching the fire’s orange light. Three selvas stepped forward.

One moved to stand beside Altan. It lowered its head, and the boy reached to pet its soft neck. Altan followed the creature as it moved gracefully into the darkness. Another claimed Jareth, who, after glancing at Kevla and Mylikki, accompanied it. The third moved to Kevla, and she was fairly certain it was the same one who had let her weep on its soft white coat earlier.

As she stepped out into the snow, her hand on the creature’s neck, she looked back. Her heart sank as she saw Mylikki standing alone by the fire. She had never seen a more stricken, unhappy look on anyone’s face, and she knew that the rejection of the selva must feel like a physical blow to the girl. Why hadn’t they come for her? Only they, and perhaps the taaskali, knew. They must have their reasons, but she couldn’t imagine what they would be. She wondered if it were a bad omen and suddenly, irrationally, feared for Mylikki.

She forced herself to look away. She felt a quick pang of comfort as she heard the Dragon say, “Kevla is not sleeping with me tonight, and I need some company. I have some wonderful tales to tell, if you would like to listen, Mylikki.”

She did not hear Mylikki’s reply, but hoped the girl would accept the offer. Better to sleep next to a Dragon than alone, rejected by the selva.

Kevla walked with the creature for a ways, until she came to an area that had been cleared of snow. Someone had gathered pine boughs and had draped several blankets over them, creating what was a fairly comfortable space. As she settled down, the selva gracefully folded its long legs and lay beside her. She snuggled up to its furry warmth and inhaled the fresh, clean scent. Within moments, she was fast asleep.

For the second time, Kevla found herself standing on a mountainside that was now familiar to her. This was where her visions originated; this was where she had learned what it meant to be a Dancer, where so much had been revealed before.

Once again, the wide expanse of still water spread before her. The wind blew gently, running invisible fingers through long, thick black hair and making her red rhia cling to her body. She stepped forward, bare feet on soft green grass, and gazed at her reflection in the mirrorlike surface, both wondering and fearing what she would see this time.

An image seemed to float up from the dark depths, and as it came into focus, Kevla gasped. Her knees buckled and she fell to the grass.

“Jashemi,” she whispered, her heart aching.

Something else floated up through the water, and she realized, confused, that it, too, was Jashemi.

“We are here,” came two voices in perfect unison. “And you must choose between us.”

What? How—

Suddenly, the images in the water disappeared. Kevla felt a presence on either side of her and she looked to her right and left, seeing Jashemi standing on each side of her. As one, they reached down to her and helped her to her feet. She drew her hands back quickly.

“What’s happening?” she cried, wanting to embrace each of them and terrified of what would happen if she did.

“It is time to make a decision, Kevla,” said the Jashemi on her left.

“It is slowly killing you, to hold us both in your heart,” put in the Jashemi on her right.

“I don’t understand,” Kevla said. She put a hand to her temple as dizziness began to descend.

“I am Jashemi, the khashimu, the secret friend of your youth and the man who loved you with every beat of his heart and every drop of blood in his veins,” said the Jashemi on her left. His voice trembled and his brown eyes fairly glowed with desire. He wore only a damp pair of breeches, his hair wet and curly; he looked exactly as she remembered him when they had made love for the first and only time.

Her eyes roamed over him and she felt desire rise inside her, felt her physical body respond, as it had that moment that seemed so long ago to her now. Heat flowed through her. Every place on her body ached to be touched. Trembling, she took his hands and placed them on either side of her face. Jashemi’s long fingers slid across her cheeks, her throat, to gently cup her breasts and caress the hardening peaks. She closed her eyes at the emotions that rushed through her at the contact, the loving touch she had thought never to feel again. Moving closer, he lowered his lips to hers. His arms pulled her tight against his strong, lean warrior’s body, and she tangled her fingers in his hair. She loved him so very much; had loved him almost since they had first met as children.

“At its heart, we knew this love was true and good,” he whispered in her ear, and she shivered as he flicked the lobe with his tongue. She inhaled deeply, savoring his familiar, beloved scent of spicy oils and warm skin. “Born of a need to be close, of turning to one another because we were all we had. I do not regret anything that happened.”

Then the memory, the scalding, brutal, devastating memory returned. Kevla pulled back and stared at Jashemi, agony stabbing her. “I regret it!” she sobbed. “I killed you!”

“I died in your arms, yes.” He ran a finger over her cheek, then her lips, and she tasted the saltiness of her tears. “And we violated a great taboo. But the memory—you will always have this.” She trembled as his hands trailed lightly down over her suddenly naked back and buttocks. “Stay on this path, make this your only truth, and the memory of our coupling will never fade. It will always fill your heart with love and desire.”

How could she not cherish the memory? Eyes closed, Kevla savored the touch of the only man she had ever loved. Even now, when she did not have the excuse of ignorance of their blood bond, she wanted him. To abandon that feeling would mean Jashemi had been nothing to her; that he had died to no purpose.

“That’s not quite true,” he replied, reading her thoughts.

Her eyes snapped open. She was again sitting on the earth, fully clothed, her passion quelled.

“I am Jashemi, your brother and Lorekeeper,” said the Jashemi on her right. He was dressed in the traditional men’s rhia, a kerchief on his head. As Kevla looked upon him, she remembered the games of Shamizan, the stolen moments of laughter in the caverns, of holding him when he wept and the moment when he came to her in her room after the dreams had come and she had realized that she loved him; could not love him more if he were her own blood.

He grinned, and there was an ease and comfort between them that Kevla remembered from years past, before they became adults and the confusions of repressed memories of long-ago lives and physical desires had swept over them like a storm from the desert’s heart.

She gazed deeply into the brown eyes that had always seen her, seen who and what she was, even when the rest of the world spat upon the Bai-sha girl. And in those eyes, she saw the other Lorekeepers Jashemi had once been: a boy in tattered clothes; a woman with golden hair; an old man with a grizzled beard, a woman with short brown hair and green eyes.

“Take my hand,” he said. “Come walk with me, Flame Dancer.”

Slowly, Kevla closed her hand around Jashemi’s, feeling the strong, reassuring warmth. He helped her to her feet and with dizzying speed, the world around her changed.

Memories that were not real suddenly flooded her. Her first meeting with Yeshi, Tahmu’s wife, Jashemi’s mother, who welcomed her coolly as Tahmu’s blood daughter, but whose affection gradually blossomed. Her growing friendship with Jashemi, arguing with him at the table, studying with him, riding sa’abahs together. Bonding in the way sisters and brothers did, with teasing, spats, and a deep, abiding devotion. The dreams of the Great Dragon and strange other lives that she and her brother felt comfortable sharing with their father.

Knowledge flooded her. “This is what our lives could have been like had all unfolded as it should,” she whispered to the Jashemi who still held her hand.

He nodded. “Raised as true sister and brother. Our visions respected. Listened to.” He squeezed her hand. “Our love stronger than ever, my sister, all the richer for the knowing that we shared a bond that extended over five lifetimes.”

She turned to face him, puzzled as to why she felt no desire for him when a few moments before she had been shaking with passion. He caressed her face, and the touch was infinitely dear, but no more.

“This is how we felt toward one another,” he said gently, pulling her into an embrace. She closed her eyes and breathed in his scent, clasped his strong, straight body to her, and felt completely and utterly safe.

Tears stung her eyes. He folded her closer. “No weeping, Kevla. There is no need for tears.”

“You would be with me even now, had we walked this path,” she said, her voice thick. “I killed you. I killed this.”

Suddenly, she was atop the Dragon. She was again in the battle against the Emperor’s forces, except this time Jashemi was alive, was down there fighting with her. And when the arrow pierced his throat, she felt the agony of it in her own heart.

“No!” she screamed. No…

“Had we walked this path,” Jashemi said gently, as if he had never left her side in this strange, confusing vision, “I would not have died in the cave, that much is true. We would never have been in that cave; would never have become lovers. But who can say if I would have lived? Many died in that battle, Kevla. I could very well have been among them, and this is one path.” He smiled mischievously. “I could have taken a tumble from a sa’abah, or choked on an olive pit, or met some other entirely ordinary end. Or I could have lived to old age surrounded by grandchildren. There’s no way for us to know.”

Her legs buckled and he eased her to the ground.

“But this is the path that unfolded,” she cried, “the path that led to your death. Whether I hold you in my heart as a lover or a brother, you are still lost to me!”

“But the Lorekeeper won’t be,” Jashemi said. “Do you remember what I said to you, when I first left for battle?”

The memory of this boy holding her hands, palms moist, gazing into her eyes and whispering fiercely, “We are not done with each other yet,” returned to Kevla. They had been alone in the night, with no one to witness this urgent pledge but the stars. It had been a rare, poignant, precious moment in her life, one that she cherished. One in which she and Jashemi connected as children, not as adults.

“Of course I remember,” she said.

“Then know this—those words are as true as when I first spoke them,” he told her, holding her face between his hands. “We are not done with each other yet. But you must choose, Kevla. You must choose how you will hold me. Keep me in your heart as Jashemi, the man you love, whose touch you crave and for whose arms you hunger, and I will stay there. The memory of the bliss we shared will not fade. This, I swear to you. But you will have lost Jashemi the brother, the Lorekeeper, and you will keep your own sense of guilt as close to your heart as my memory.”

He stepped back, and split into two images. “Choose,” they said as one.

Kevla collapsed in a heap. How could she possibly choose between the lover she had adored with every fiber of her being and the man who was brother and Lorekeeper? How could they ask such a thing of her? Either way, she would lose something precious. If she chose to remember her lover, she would lose a life she ought to have lived, but never had. She would lose a source of wisdom, comfort, and strength.

But if she chose to remember her Lorekeeper, she would be turning her back on the single experience in her short life that had brought her the most joy and pain she had ever known.

“I can’t,” she cried, her voice raw. “Do not make me do this, if ever you loved me. Do not make me choose!”

“It is because we love you that we are asking this of you,” said the Lorekeeper.

“We cannot bear to see you in such torment,” her lover replied. “Choose, and there will be peace.”

For a long time, Kevla huddled on the earth, wishing that she would awaken from this vision that she knew to be a vision, longing for a way to escape the impossible choice they had foisted upon her. But there was no merciful awakening to be had, only a pain that grew more and more unbearable.

Finally, Kevla stumbled to her feet, looking at each version of Jashemi-kha-Tahmu in turn. Tears poured unheeded down her face.

She made her choice.

Stepping forward, she placed her head on the bare chest of the man she had loved more than life itself. She listened to his heartbeat, strong and fast against her ear, then kissed him there, feeling the skin smooth and supple against her lips, tasting the saltiness of his sweat. He cupped her face in his hands, tilted back his head, and kissed her. Kevla opened fully to the joy rushing through her, and when Jashemi broke the kiss, she gazed into his eyes and said, “I love you with all my heart, Jashemi-kha-Tahmu. Please forgive me.”

She stepped back. It was the hardest thing she had ever done in her life.

He forced a smile. “I did and do, beloved.”

And then he was gone.

The pain was devastating. Dizziness washed over her and she would have fallen had not a pair of strong arms caught her. She looked up into the face of her brother—a perfect replica of the man she had loved, but so different-seeming to her now.

“He said I was his soul,” Kevla said brokenly to this man who was both strange and profoundly familiar to her.

Her brother smiled through his own tears of sympathy. Pressing a comforting kiss on her forehead, he said, “He was almost right. I am your soul, Flame Dancer. And by embracing this aspect of me, you will have me with you always.”

She stared at him, uncomprehending, shaking, heartsick, overwhelmed by what she had just done. Gently he lowered her to the earth and pulled her close to him. She snuggled into his embrace, and then the wonder happened.

Kevla felt the guilt and shame detach themselves from her and float away, as if they were something physical. The arms that held her were strong and comforting, even though she knew none of this could be real. Her heart was suddenly full of love for Jashemi again, but this time, it was a love that she knew to be pure and sacred; a love that she could fully embrace. The terrible, ripping ache inside her was gone. Only warmth and acceptance lingered there now. She let out her breath in a long, quavering sigh, and surrendered to this sensation.

“Do you remember what I said to you, the first time we met in this world that is not the world?” he whispered in her ear.

“You told me that I needed to let go of the form you took when you were flesh,” Kevla said. “I understand that now. I didn’t—I couldn’t—then.”

“Our love is beyond the physical, Flame Dancer,” Jashemi whispered, as he had done before. “Death cannot stop it. It hasn’t before and it won’t now. I ever existed to love and serve you. And even though I am no longer flesh…I still do.”

The Flame Dancer held her Lorekeeper, her soul, and wept with joy.

27

“Kevla?”

The voice was familiar, but Kevla somehow didn’t want to hear it. She frowned and snuggled back down against the warm, soft blanket that cradled her body.

“Kevla, wake up. We need to get going soon.”

She blinked sleepily and looked up. Standing against the sky and sun was the shape of a man. His position prevented her from seeing his features, but she saw that he was tall, with broad shoulders. The sun caught his hair and made it glow in a circlet of gold about his shadowed face.

“Come, now, you’ll sleep the day away. Perhaps I should have gone on without you.”

Kevla became fully awake. The mysterious man wreathed in shadow ceased to be a mystery; it was only Jareth, come to waken her so that they could climb a mountain and he could confront his god. She sighed, missing the comfort of her Lorekeeper, who would now come only to her in dreams and visions.

Jareth extended a hand to help her up. She was a little unsteady; she had slept quite deeply and one foot was slightly numb from lack of blood. Quickly, Jareth caught her, slipping a hand around her waist.

“Thank you,” she said, gently disengaging herself.

He smothered a smile as his eyes took in her face. “Looks like you had a very restful night.” He tapped his right cheek, and for a moment Kevla didn’t understand what he meant. Then her hand went to her face and she found the deep creases there. She had slept so soundly, a blanket fold had left its mark on her face. She laughed, surprised and amused and embarrassed all at once. Jareth let his own face ease into a smile.

Kevla didn’t miss it. He looked well rested also, as if some of the burden that had been laid upon him had lifted, ever so slightly.

“How about you?” asked Kevla. “The Dragon told me to pay attention to my dreams. Did you dream anything interesting?”

She couldn’t decipher his look. “Let’s get going.”

He strode off, his body tall and straight and defiant, daring the world to take a swing at him. Kevla sighed and followed him back to the encampment.

The taaskali, the Dragon, Mylikki and Altan were all sitting around a crackling fire. A pleasant aroma rose from the cauldron. She watched with amusement as Altan ran a finger around the bowl, making sure he got every last bite.

The cauldron contained cooked, sweetened milk, and there was something else in it as well. Kevla took a taste and could not suppress a soft sound of delight. Rich with spices that teased the nostrils, it slipped down the throat easily. Best of all, there appeared to be plenty of it.

“It’s some sort of concoction of eggs and milk and dried fruit,” Mylikki said.

“It’s certainly better than grains,” said Altan.

Kevla ate every bite, and handed out her bowl for more when Jareth went to get seconds.

I haven’t seen you eat like that since I held you in the heart of the mountain, came the Dragon’s affectionate thoughts.

Kevla smiled as she spooned up another mouthful of the creamy concoction. I remember. You wanted to know if I wanted an entire sandcow for dinner.

Eat your fill of anything the taaskali give you. It is wholesome and nourishing.

Magical? She turned to look at him.

He hesitated. Say rather…blessed. Kevla nodded her understanding. Kevla…

Yes?

I know what you dreamed last night. I am proud of you.

Even though the food still tasted wonderful, Kevla suddenly found it hard to swallow. It was the most difficult decision I have ever had to make. I know I made the right choice. I can sense him in my being now, somehow. And that is a sweet thing. But to lose one aspect of him in order to keep another…Oh, Dragon, I don’t even remember what his touch felt like. And I will never know that kind of touch from anyone ever again.

A very definitive statement from one so young, thought the Dragon.

She looked at him, angry and hurt. You know what happened when we—I can’t be with anyone like that, ever. My pleasure is lethal to others. I am condemned to a life without that, and now even my memory of what that felt like has been changed so that it seems like it happened to someone else.

The world is wide and you are young, dear heart.

Has…has the Flame Dancer ever before taken a lover without…

She sensed his sorrow as he sent, You were the first incarnation of the Flame Dancer who was intimate with another.

Kevla resisted the urge to surrender to self-pity. She had a task ahead of her. What did it matter if she never felt the tender touch of a lover again? At least she had reached peace with Jashemi, whom she would hold forever as a brother, Lorekeeper, and friend. In the end, she knew she had gained more than she had lost.

“Are you all right?” It was Jareth, looking at her with concern in his blue eyes. She nodded quickly and finished eating her meal.

The selva seemed to ignore them today, ambling about like ordinary creatures and digging in the snow with their large hooves.

“What are they finding to eat?” Kevla asked Hanru as she watched them. He was busy assembling sacks for them to take on their journey.

“A type of plant grows on the stones,” Hanru told her. “The selva feed on this during the winter, even this strange winter. They are very determined to locate it on their own. If you were to scrape some into your hand and offer it to them, they would not eat it.” He looked up from his now-completed task. “Is everyone finished?”

Jareth looked down at his fourth bowl of food. “Almost,” he said, devouring what was left. When he was done, he, Mylikki, Altan and Kevla went over to Hanru’s side.

He looked at them keenly. “You have the least experience with snow and ice,” he said to Kevla. She nodded. “This will not be an easy undertaking. I again say to you, Jareth will confront the tiger alone. If any of you wish to stay behind, we will make you welcome.”

No one moved. Altan folded his arms across his chest, and Mylikki looked down at her feet. Hanru sighed.

“Very well. Let me give you a few lessons in how to use these tools. They could save your life.”

Kevla paid close attention as Hanru described how to strap small metal hooks to their boots, to get a better grip on the ice. She hefted the small pick, and practiced with it to get a feel for how to use it. Thus far, the day was clear, but if bad weather were to strike, they would tie themselves together with rope and huddle close. The more she learned, the more apprehensive she grew. At one point, she stole a glance at Jareth. He had already climbed this path once before, alone, with no tools such as these. She wasn’t sure if she should admire him or think him a fool. Probably a bit of both.

At last they were ready to depart. Hanru assured them it would not be far, at least not as the selva traveled. Even as he spoke, two selva, pulling a strange cart behind them, approached.

“It has skeltha on it!” Kevla said, then wondered why she should be so surprised. It made perfect sense. With two animals to pull the cart, it should speed along the snow.

The five of them got in. Kevla looked back at the Dragon, who sat up on his haunches and inclined his head in farewell.

The sun made its feeble ascent into the sky, hugging the horizon. The skeltha-cart moved with amazing speed, almost flying over the snow, and the world moved past swiftly. Part of Jareth wanted to be amazed at the selva, at the taaskali, at the dream which had come to him last night like a healing draft. But already the dream’s soft tendrils had disengaged themselves from his thoughts. He was close to the goal now, and he would focus on this and this alone.

He had made this trek before, alone, struggling through storms that seemed calculated to thwart his progress. But now the sun was shining, such as it was, and by the time it set, he would have confronted the god.

He wondered why only one had consented to see him, but reasoned that one was sufficient. Unobtrusively, he slid his hand beneath his cloak to touch the large, freshly sharpened knife secure in its hilt. If the god refused him, he would attack. Jareth knew that if it came to this, it would be a foolish gesture; he would die in the attempt.

But at least he would have made that attempt. He had clung fast to the hope the remembrances of his family, whispered to him at night by flower and soil and stone, had kept alive. Something was very wrong with this world, something so out of harmony with the natural order of things that his land would soon die if things were not put right. And if he could not restore the natural cycles to the land—could not undo what the strange storm had done and bring back the people he loved most in the world—what point was there in living? Without that…

He shuddered involuntarily. Altan was seated next to him and looked at his friend with concern. “Cold?” he asked.

Jareth shook his head, but made no further reply. Altan sighed and sank back further into the seat, his face troubled. In front of him sat Kevla and Mylikki. Jareth had not gotten to know the female kyndela player well at all; he had no interest in getting to know anyone. But even he noticed how she huddled in the seat, silent and miserable. And he’d noticed too that the selva had not chosen her last night to offer their warmth and, apparently, dreams. He’d known Altan all the boy’s life, and was used to the strange, sudden mood shifts that came upon him. Apparently, Mylikki wasn’t, and was hurting from them.

Kevla often wore her hair long and loose, but today, she had braided it and it fell in a long rope down the back of the seat. It looked soft and silky, and gleamed with red highlights. For some reason, the shiny black-red length fascinated Jareth and he wanted to touch it. He reached forward, grasped the thick braid, and tossed it back over Kevla’s shoulder. He didn’t want the distraction. She glanced back and smiled, and suddenly heat surged through him. By the gods, she is beautiful. He nodded briefly, then turned his attention again to the mountains and away from the unexpected brush of physical desire.

Sooner than even Jareth had dared hope, they arrived at the foot of the mountains. He looked up at the chain as it stretched as far he could see, and realized that there was a trail that he had not noticed before. It made sense. The taaskali were closer to the gods than mere humans. They would know the hidden paths to reach the divine beings that played among the stars.

Jareth helped Hanru unload the equipment. The taaskal unfastened the two gleaming selva, stroked their necks affectionately, and whispered in their ears. Snorting, they trotted away and began to forage for the moss.

“They will not stray, and will come when I ask them to,” Hanru assured them. “Now. Let us be about this.” He turned around and pointed upward. “That is where we need to be.”

Everyone craned their necks to see a tall peak, far in the distance, jagged and white against the sky. It seemed to be a thousand leagues distant, and Jareth felt a pang of panic.

“If we move at a good pace,” Hanru continued, “we should be able to reach the peak and descend before nightfall. I am certain none of you wishes to be climbing in the dark.”

“Couldn’t we make camp if we don’t get back in time?” It was Kevla, looking with concern at Mylikki. “I can create sufficient heat to keep us warm through the night.”

“Perhaps. But even the brightest blaze cannot protect us from wind and snow and lack of food.”

“We’ll get there and back in time,” Altan said firmly. Mylikki looked nervous. Jareth gazed at the peak a moment longer, envisioning a blue Tiger standing atop it.

Hanru handed them their equipment, showed them how to strap the packs to their backs, and demonstrated how to maneuver themselves in the boots, kicking them firmly into the snow and ice for better purchase. Jareth gave the lesson his full attention. He did not want to be slowed or stopped for a lack of education in how to maneuver up the icy path. He had to curb his impatience with the others, especially Kevla, to whom all this was completely alien, as they practiced and Hanru pronounced them ready to ascend. He wished again that he had gone only with Hanru. But Kevla was somehow part of this; more and more, he was convinced she was the woman in his dreams, who had changed into a tiger. Altan was stubborn enough to make good his promise of following by himself, and Mylikki went where Altan went. It was unfortunate, but he could see no way around it.

“I will lead,” Hanru announced. “Mylikki, you follow me, then Altan and Kevla. Jareth, you bring up the rear. Is everyone ready?”

Jareth knew why Hanru wanted him last—so that he could not move ahead faster than the group. He looked up at the top of the peak. Even as he regarded it, he saw the wind catch and lazily swirl snow.

You had better be waiting for me, he thought.

Gelsan sat silently by the fire. These days she ate little, said less, and when another had quietly assumed the duties of headwoman, she had been glad.

Her husband had been lost to the winter months ago. Then Mylikki had departed atop a dragon’s back, in the company of a Fire Woman. Gelsan didn’t know if she’d ever return. Olar had been all she had left, and now he, too, was gone. Gelsan was not overfond of this life anymore, and if she moved closer to escaping it by the day, well, that was not altogether a bad thing.

A cry went up, and despite her sunken misery, something in Gelsan roused. Her hair, more silver than gold now, came up and she listened.

More screams. Now she could smell smoke. Slowly, her body remembering how it used to leap into action when needed, she put on a cloak and reached for a scythe.

She opened the door to chaos.

Gelsan saw and heard as well as smelled the fire now, crackling as it consumed a house across the clearing, orange red flame leaping into the sky. Not twenty feet away, a cluster of women were fighting for their lives against adversaries much larger than they. She heard the howls of madmen and something inside her sparked to life.

You will not take them.

Gelsan let out her own loud cry and charged into the melee. She swung the scythe, feeling it move like an old friend, cutting deep into the bodies of men who didn’t even look like people to her anymore. They were the men of the woods, lost during hunts, screaming insanely “For the Maiden! For the Maiden!”, driven mad by the winter as she was about to be driven mad, as all of them would eventually be—

She whirled, swinging the scythe, and nearly wrenched her arms out of their sockets as she tried to deflect the blow.

Standing in front of her was Olar. He was covered with blood, his hair thick and stringy and matted with filth. He bared his teeth at her like a fox, and she lifted the scythe with aching arms to parry her son’s attack. Grunting, he strained against her, the scythe’s shaft grating against a wooden staff, and leaned in so she could smell his stale breath and the reek of old and new blood.

“The Maiden will have it so,” he snarled. Tears blurred her vision and suddenly Gelsan stopped fighting. She would rather die by her son’s hand than keep living, knowing that this was what had happened to him.

The sudden lack of resistance made him stumble as she went down. He lifted the staff over his head, about to bring it crashing down on his mother’s skull.

Do it, she pleaded.

But he stood as if suddenly frozen, cocking his head like a dog trying to listen to a distant sound.

“I hear and obey, my lady,” Olar said, his voice trembling with love. Gelsan heard the words repeated all around her, a rippling sound of tenderness incongruous amid the slaughter. Abruptly, every man turned and ran into the woods. It was over—for the moment.

For a long time Gelsan lay in the snow, trying to comprehend what had just happened. She got to her feet clumsily and went to aid the wounded. She went through the motions of cleaning and stitching wounds efficiently, but her mind was not on the task. Hammering in her head were the words her son had spoken: For the Maiden! I hear and obey, my lady.

Dear gods, Gelsan half thought, half prayed, is it true?

Is the Ice Maiden real?

28

It was a gradual ascent at first. The iron spikes on their boots made the going safer but slower, as they had to stamp firmly with each step so that the spikes dug in well. From time to time they used their ice axes. True to his word, Hanru set a good pace. Because Mylikki was immediately behind him, the taaskali guide was able to assist her directly.

The sun kept traveling along the horizon. They took brief, frequent breaks for quick bites of food and handfuls of snow. The only one among them who was not panting and sweating was Hanru, who would stand and gaze from peak to sun, no doubt estimating how much time they had.

The two musicians had the hardest time. Mylikki had been in trouble practically since the outset, and Altan was clearly tiring as well. Slender as she was, Kevla had endurance, and although Jareth’s body had been punished for months, he had a sinewy strength and a stubborn purpose that kept him going. The selva-fur cloak was becoming hot and Jareth’s clothes were damp with sweat. He knew he would be exhausted and wrung out by the end of the day. If, he mused grimly, he was still alive.

After a few hours, the route’s difficulty increased dramatically. They edged past a cliff wall to discover what seemed like a vertical white surface.

“We’re climbing up that?” Mylikki bit her lip, but the words were said. Even Jareth had his doubts.

“It’s easier than it looks,” said Hanru, “but you must be careful and give it your full concentration. We’ll tie ourselves together. I’ll go up first and set footholds.”

They tied the rope around them, leaving some room for slack, and Hanru began to climb. He moved like a squirrel, Jareth thought. Quickly, with the experience of who-knew-how-many years—the taaskali seemed ageless to him—he pounded in metal stakes and scrambled up them until he reached the top. As he watched, Jareth saw that it probably would be easier than it looked; it was not quite as vertical as it first appeared, and the snow seemed hard-packed.

Mylikki was next. She looked terrified, but swallowed hard and began to climb. One small hand here, one small foot there. Jareth relaxed as she neared the top and Hanru pulled her the rest of the way. Next was Altan, and then Kevla. Instinctively, Jareth held out his hands, ready to catch her should she slip. In a distant part of his brain, he appreciated the workings of her legs and buttocks, clearly visible beneath the red garment she wore, as she climbed. Kevlasha-Tahmu might have been the worst thorn in Jareth’s side, but she was also an exquisitely beautiful woman.

Once she had made it to the top, Jareth followed, forcing himself to ignore the slight trembling in his arms, shoulders, thighs, and calves that signaled weariness. He hit the snow hard and lay where he fell, breathing heavily. Everyone else except for Hanru was doing the same.

Hanru waited a few moments, untying them and coiling the rope, but the look on his face told Jareth there was no time to waste. Fortunately, the next segment looked comparatively easy—a slope of hard-packed white snow at an incline that was challenging but not as steep as the previous one.

It was broad enough so that they were able to climb simultaneously. Jareth and the others used the ice ax and the iron spikes on their boots to good advantage. Hanru reached the top first, and turned to watch as the others made their way up. He hauled Jareth the last few steps as if the much larger man weighed nothing at all. Jareth sat, catching his breath, and watched the others. Unencumbered by a heavy cloak Kevla made good time. Altan was about halfway up, and Mylikki—

Even as he watched, her feet slipped out from underneath her and with a startled little cry she began to slide quickly toward the edge of the cliff they had just clambered over.

“Use the ax!” Altan shouted.

Mylikki was clearly trying to do exactly that, but the ax was not light and Jareth knew she probably had very little strength left in her arms. She struggled to swing the ax, to secure a hold and stop herself from hurtling to her death. With relief, Jareth watched as the ax found purchase and Mylikki slowed, stopped.

Hanru was already halfway there, but it was Altan who was closest. The huskaa was backing quickly down. With a grunt, he swung his own ax and embedded it solidly into the ice below the hard-packed snow.

“I can’t—” Mylikki’s voice was shrill. Jareth watched, wanting to move to her, knowing that Hanru and Altan were closer and he would merely add to the danger. His eyes were fixed on Mylikki’s little hand, and he saw the fingers slide slowly, slowly down the handle.

She screamed as her fingers, numb from hours in the cold, lost their grip. A strap around her wrist halted her fall for an instant, but also dislodged the ax from its purchase. She slipped toward the edge.

Altan’s hand shot out and closed on her wrist. Mylikki jerked to a halt. Both were now being supported solely by the weight of Altan’s ice ax. Mylikki’s legs dangled off the cliff into the air. Below her was a lethal drop.

Let the ax hold, Jareth thought, his heart slamming against his chest.

Then Hanru was there. He grasped Mylikki by the other arm and began hauling her upward. Now finally able to do something to help, Jareth reached to assist him. Altan now clung to the ax with both hands. Once Mylikki had been brought to safety, Jareth went back for his friend. Altan gave him a grateful smile as Jareth’s arm went around his waist and he assisted the younger man in climbing. When Altan flopped down beside Mylikki, she threw her arms around him.

“You saved my life,” she sobbed.

Obviously close to crying himself, Altan hugged her fiercely and buried his face in her shoulder. “You’re safe now,” he murmured, his voice muffled. “Thank the gods. You’re safe.”

“This has gone far enough,” said Kevla. There was a hardness to her voice that Jareth had never heard before. When he looked at her, surprised by the tone, he saw her lovely face drawn in anger. “Altan, I know you love Jareth, and you want to be there for him. And you have. Mylikki, you are beyond exhaustion. If you keep pushing yourself you will end up dead.”

She looked up at Jareth. “Go on,” she said quietly. “We’re slowing you down. I can keep them warm while we wait for you. Hanru will take care of us.”

“Are you sure?” It was exactly what he had wanted from the first, of course; not to have to worry about the safety of the others. But to hear it from Kevla’s lips—

“Yes. This is your experience and yours alone. None of us needs to be there while…we will be there afterward, I promise.”

“Hanru?”

The taaskali guide nodded. “They are not called as you are. And the day is passing. It will be dark sooner than I would like. The path is easy enough to follow and you know what you are doing. She wants to see you. She will not let anything happen to you until she has done so. Go.”

Jareth looked back at Altan, who nodded resignedly. Mylikki still clutched him and shook with sobs. For the first time since Altan had found Jareth, he looked more interested in being with Mylikki rather than with his old friend. Finally, Jareth looked again at Kevla.

“Thank you,” he said, but he wasn’t sure why. She nodded. He turned and again set out on the path, moving forward, alone, to meet his god.

Jareth settled into a rhythm. He was aware of what he was doing, where he put his hands and feet and ice ax, but this was not his primary focus. He kept imagining himself in front of the great beast, standing straight and tall, commanding respect from his god.

She must listen to me. She can bring them back. She can bring spring back to the land. Everything will die if she doesn’t give me my powers back. I must convince her.

Jareth lost track of how long he had been climbing. He felt his muscles quivering with the strain as the time passed, felt his body growing more and more weary, but he denied it rest. He was so close to his goal. He couldn’t stop now for mere physical needs.

The weather remained clear, but the wind was not his friend at this altitude. It seemed to grow in strength with each step, whipping the protective hood from his head, catching the cloak and making it billow, and swirling snow so that he soon lost sensation in his face and ears. He felt ice coating his beard and eyebrows and eyelashes. He blinked rapidly to clear his vision, and that was when he saw it.

An opening in the cliff face, barely visible from this distance. A dark blue smudge against the myriad shades of blue and green and white of the ice. Hope surged through Jareth, lending him fresh strength. He pressed onward, and before he fully realized what was happening, he had pulled himself up onto a ledge and stood at the entrance to the lair of the gods.

He swayed in the wind, trying to collect his thoughts. This was the moment he had struggled toward for the better part of a year. Now he stood on the threshold as if rooted to the spot, and Jareth realized that he was terrified.

There could be no turning back now. There could be no more rage or self-pity beyond this point. He would either accomplish what he had set out to do or he would die. The certainty of either outcome was almost overwhelming, and he stumbled.

This is the moment, Jareth, he told himself. This moment is your destiny. Go forward and embrace it.

With the wind whipping his long, golden hair and tugging on his cloak, shaking in his very boots, his heart bursting with emotions he couldn’t even name, Jareth Vasalen, Spring-Bringer, Kevat-aanta, Stone Dancer, slowly stumbled toward his fate.

Part III:  Stone Dancer

29

The cave of the god was formed entirely of ice. Only the stone beneath Jareth’s feet was of earth, and even that was slick with a clear, shiny coat of frozen water. Above and to each side, thick, green-blue ice enclosed the area. The ceiling arched high over his head, and the cave stretched on for some distance. It was surprisingly bright inside, but there was no source of illumination. Jareth wasn’t sure what to expect, but it was certainly not entering the cave and finding himself alone.

“I am Jareth Vasalen,” he cried, his voice strong and clear. It echoed in the icy chamber. “I have come to speak with you.”

When the sound of his voice died away, Jareth was met with a profound silence. He could hear his own breathing, raspy in his ears; the pounding of his heart was almost deafening. Slowly, carefully, he stepped forward, moving deeper and deeper into the ice cave.

The shadow came and went so quickly he wasn’t certain he had seen it. His fair head whipped around, but even as he moved, he saw another shadow, a reflection perhaps, out of the corner of his eye. Again, when he turned, it had disappeared. Blue, black, white, gray, green—colors appeared and vanished like flickering flames.

Suddenly Jareth was furious. He had come all this way, endured so much, and now the god was toying with him?

“Show yourself!” he demanded.

He heard the low, rumbling growl before he saw the creature. The sound made his skin prickle. The shadows stilled, solidified, and all at once, Jareth saw it at the far end. It lay on a block of ice that looked like a crystal pedestal. It was bigger than Jareth had imagined, the size of a small horse, its head easily as broad as Jareth’s shoulders. Its sinuous curves were indeed that of a large cat, but no purring rat-catcher Jareth had ever petted had fixed him with such a piercing gaze. Its coat was as blue as the heart of the ice, chased by black stripes on its body and limbs and creamy white on the underbelly. The unnerving eyes were large and golden, and the mighty tiger lay as still as if she had been carved out of stone save for the lashing blue-and-black striped tail.

Jareth’s mouth was suddenly dry. In order to reach this moment, he had focused on his outrage and loss, his sense of injustice, the pain of the dying land, the starving people and emaciated animals. But now as he stood before his god, all of that scattered like wheat chaff in a gust of wind.

The tiger made no sound. One blue ear flicked.

He had planned to make his petition from a place of strength, of logic, of selfless need for the land. Instead the words that escaped his lips were, “Give me my family back.”

Slowly, the huge cat got to its feet. Its golden eyes narrowed.

“Do you know why you are here?” it asked. The voice was a soft, feminine, dangerous rumble.

Jareth blinked. His old friend anger came back in a hot rush. “I’m here to demand that you stop this land from dying!” he cried.

The tiger leaped from its perch so quickly that it was a blue blur. Pain blossomed across Jareth’s chest and he fell back hard onto the cold, ice-slicked rock.

He looked down at himself in shock. Four lines oozed red blood.

“Wh—why did you—”

“Do you know why you are here?”

Jareth didn’t answer immediately. He touched the wounds and hissed in pain. “Because you can give it all back to me,” he said through gritted teeth. “Give them back…”

Again the massive creature sprang. Jareth raised his arms, trying to block the attack, and the tiger’s claws raked his forearms. Blood dripped onto his face and oozed onto the stone.

“DO YOU KNOW WHY YOU ARE HERE?”

Still angry, still defiant, Jareth struggled to his feet. The hot blood on the ice was slippery. He snarled, “I am the Spring-Bringer!”

This time the tiger snarled its displeasure before the blue paw shot out and laid open Jareth’s cheek. The strike narrowly missed his eye. He fell hard, and fear skittered through him. He refused to yield to it. It was not in him to beg or plead. If this being wanted his life, it could have it.

“I am here to help my people,” Jareth rasped, trying to get to his feet and only managing to kneel. Blood dripped into his eye and stung. He waited for another attack, but it didn’t come. He looked up and beheld the tiger standing directly in front of him. Blue eyes locked with gold.

“Do you know why you are here?”

It was the same query, but something was different. Jareth knew it. Something he had said before had been part of what the beast wanted to hear, otherwise, he knew, it would have attacked him again. His breath came in ragged gasps. He wanted to tear his gaze away from the tiger, to stand like a man in front of it, but he was too weak to move.

“I am here to…to help my people by persuading you to release your grip on the land. To give me back my powers.”

Faster than Jareth’s brain could register, the creature struck a fourth time. Jareth’s belly was ripped open and he collapsed. The cold of the icy stone against the wounds was almost too much to bear and for a moment he thought he might lose consciousness. He couldn’t rise, couldn’t even sit, and he lay on his lacerated belly sucking in air as he watched the padded blue feet pace back and forth in front of him.

“Do you know why you are here?”

And then he did know.

Jareth closed his eyes against the onslaught of comprehension, willing it away, but it had the bitter taste of truth.

When he was thirteen years old, he had felt drawn to the land. He had summoned spring simply by asking for it to come. He was the Spring-Bringer, the Kevat-aanta, whose touch on the land ensured the rhythmic cycles of the seasons. And he had let himself become the Kevat-aanta. He had enjoyed the honors his position brought him and his family, even though he never exploited his gifts and lived with the secret fear that one day, everything would fall apart. This was who he was, and it was why, when his powers had suddenly failed him, he had been so devastated. Part of it, the greatest part, was indeed that he did not desire his people to suffer.

But part of it had also been arrogance and, to an even greater extent, that constant fear. What was he supposed to do if not be the Spring-Bringer?

Who was he?

He had come thinking to reclaim this title he had held for all his adult life. He had come thinking to cow and bully his gods into bringing the dead back to life—both his family and the dead land. And he had come thinking that somehow, in this pilgrimage, he would atone for not being able to do these things himself, for not being able to feed his people, not being able to save his family—

But that was not why he was here. He was here, standing before the blue Tiger, existing in this world, to be not the Spring-Bringer, but the Stone Dancer. He was, as Kevla had tried to tell him, the element of Earth made into human flesh. She had been part of his dreams since his youth, the dark-skinned woman who changed into a god, and now he understood. She wasn’t taking him to the gods—she was leading him to his Companion.

And suddenly, as if making this connection had opened a door, memories flooded him.

The Tiger, the secret friend, found as a cub by a little boy who bonded with her and placed her on his standard. The Legion of the blue Tiger fought well for their king and country, even stood…and fell…against the Shadow when it came for them….

A scholarly girl, terrified of the mighty beast until her father, her Lorekeeper, explained the powerful connection of these three separate beings….

The only time he had preferred to feel a horse between his thighs rather than the warm, supple strength of the Tiger, when he had been part of a tribe that worshipped the animals….

A slender woman of eighteen, with dark skin and hair, gazing out at an ocean that was suddenly, unnaturally still, feeling the trusted hands of her Lorekeeper on her face before they tightened….

Before him stood not a god, but his Companion, also an aspect of Earth. Jareth was much more than an instigator for the changing of the seasons; more than a friend to the trees and grasses and animals and stones. Jareth’s allegiance was to things greater than Lamal, for he was greater than Lamal.

And if the Tiger is my Companion, and not a god…she can’t give Taya and Annu and Parvan back to me.

Jareth closed his eyes as blood seeped from his warm body onto the cold ice, this knowledge more painful than the blows he had endured from the Tiger. He understood now that he was here to set aside his personal wants and needs, however deep and raw they might be. He was to help his people by leaving them, possibly forever; to save them by saving the world they lived in. By accepting that his destiny lay not with the mountains and fields and deep, green forests of the place where he was born, but in places so alien to him that he knew it would make him weep.

By walking with Kevla and the Great Dragon, and searching for the rest of the Dancers.

He did not want this. But it was why he was here.

Taya, my love, you are gone, and I can’t even stay in the land where you lie….

His voice cracked when he spoke.

“I am here to be the Stone Dancer—to save my people by saving all the people,” he whispered. He squeezed his eyes shut, expecting another blow. But what happened next startled him more than anything he could have imagined.

With the gentleness of a mother with her cub, the Tiger stretched out a paw and pulled Jareth to her breast. A deep rumble sounded and Jareth felt the rasp of a warm tongue across his face, his chest, his belly. Fur softer even than that of the selva brushed his skin. The Tiger bathed him, and beneath the caress of that slightly rough but loving tongue Jareth felt his wounds close and heal, felt strength slowly seep into a body that had been abused and punished for almost too long.

How long the moment lasted, Jareth could not tell. He surrendered to the tender ministrations of the Tiger, and simply accepted. At last, he sighed deeply and opened his eyes, and when he gazed up at the Tiger, it was with true recognition.

“You,” he whispered. “It’s you!”

Healed by the powers of this being that he suddenly remembered was a part of him, Jareth reached up and threw his arms around the creature’s powerful neck and buried his face in the warm fur. He felt one paw—the paw that had moments before been slicing his flesh with apparent mercilessness—go around him to pull him even closer.

Jareth closed his eyes. His fingers gripped the striped blue fur tightly, as if he clung to a lifeline. In a very real sense, he did.

“Where were you? The last time, where were you?”

“You had not found me before the Shadow came,” was the loving reply. “You had found your Lorekeeper, but not me. I was a continent away.”

Yes, he had found his Lorekeeper…and his Lorekeeper had murdered him.

Jareth shuddered at the memory, then let it go. He heaved a deep sigh, feeling the last strains of fear and resentment escape with the cleansing breath, and sat up. He did not pull away from this being that he now knew was a part of him, but leaned, still weary, against his newly discovered old friend and drew strength from the furry warmth.

“Where is the last of our three?” he asked. “Kevla spoke of the Lorekeepers, but I have not met anyone like them. I have certainly not met mine.”

“And I have not been able to sense him or her,” said the Tiger. She rolled over onto her back, lazily pulling Jareth, no small man, with her. “It is unlikely that your Lorekeeper would be in another land, but such a thing is not impossible. We might have difficulty finding this part of ourselves, considering what happened last time. To murder one’s Dancer, even out of a misplaced sense of love—such a thing cannot help but do harm.”

The Tiger knew what had happened, even though she had not been there. Such was the power of their bond. Jareth sat back, taking a hold of one of the forepaws and examining it absently. It was large and soft, the claws retracted so that the Tiger could hold Jareth gently. Jareth squeezed the paw, and the Tiger obligingly extended her claws. They were as long as his fingers; the paw itself, bigger than his head. The Tiger made a deep sound of amused affection, sheathed her claws, and patted Jareth’s face. Jareth felt only comfort and trust. Never again would those claws be turned against him.

“So we find my Lorekeeper, and Kevla and I must travel to far distant realms to gather the other three Dancers.” And my family stays here, their bodies hard and cold…. Jareth refused to follow that train of thought. He could not bear to let them go, not yet.

“Tiger…you have not told me…why did you remove my powers? How is it that I could even lose them, if I am truly the element of Earth?”

“Your powers were never gone,” the Tiger said quietly. “Were you not able to speak to the birds and animals?”

“Yes,” Jareth said. “But I couldn’t call spring. I couldn’t sense the stones, or the trees, or the soil anymore. I couldn’t influence them, make things grow.” The pain of that stabbed him anew and he swallowed.

“Your powers were not taken,” the Tiger said. “They were blocked.”

“How? Who could have done this?”

“The snow that has fallen since the first day you tried to call Spring is nothing natural,” the Tiger said. “It has awareness. Consciousness. And it has a mistress.”

“Who?”

Looking deeply into Jareth’s eyes, the Tiger replied, “The Ice Maiden.”

Jareth laughed. “Now you’re teasing me.”

The Tiger shook her head. “I would not toy with you about such a thing.”

Sobering, Jareth said, “But she’s just a story, a character in a collection of songs.”

“That might have been true once, but no longer. She is very real, and very powerful. She controls the snow and she is able to block your powers when it is present.”

“And it’s ever-present,” Jareth finished, thinking. “This makes sense. I could only call the beasts when the sky was clear—when there was no snow falling between me and them.”

She controls the snow. The snow that had somehow come in so quickly and so deeply that it had killed his family. He had known all along that they had not died natural deaths, and what the Tiger had just said proved it. He might not be able to bring them back, but at least he could avenge them.

Another thought came to him. “The men who got lost when they left to go hunting. The men who sometimes returned insane…they saw her, didn’t they?”

The Tiger nodded her massive head. “They did.”

It was so much to take in all at once. Jareth rubbed his temples, thinking. “We have to stop her. We have to find her and stop her.” He was suddenly cold and he shivered, rubbing his arms as the chill shuddered through him. “‘He has seen the Ice Maiden, and she’s perilous fair….’ The lyrics…can we trust what the song tells us about her?”

“I do not know, but it stands to reason,” the Tiger said. “At least it is a starting point.”

For the first time, Jareth was glad that Altan had decided to accompany him. They would need the input of a huskaa if they were to learn how to defeat a creature born of legend.

Suddenly he laughed. “Altan has always maintained that she was just an abandoned girl with a broken heart, that the term Ice Maiden was never literal. He’ll be quite annoyed to hear this.”

He got to his feet. Inside, he was warm. He felt strong and capable, no longer beaten and despairing. He had discovered his true purpose, had remembered who he had been, and had found, again, his dearest friend.

“Let’s find them. Let’s find them and tell them everything.”

30

Altan had been terrified when it appeared as though Mylikki had been about to plunge to her death over the cliff face. He had moved faster than he had thought himself capable, heedless of the danger, to come to her aid. When they were finally pulled to safety and he felt her body pressed against his, shaking with sobs, the relief that she was safe, was safe, was overwhelming.

He had lingered in Arrun Woods for over a week, claiming the poor weather as an excuse. But the real reason he had stayed, despite his desire to find Jareth, was to spend time with Mylikki, to instruct her on the intricacies of the kyndela and watch with glee as her sharp mind picked them up at once. If she had been a man, he’d have claimed her as his huskaa-lal after hearing her perform a single song. But she was female, and the Law did not permit such a thing.

When they sat and performed together, he would look at her, and feel a stirring in his heart and loins. Her golden head bent over the instrument, catching the gleam of the firelight; her smile that broadened whenever she looked at him; the soft swell beneath many layers of clothing of breasts that he now knew were even softer and fuller than he had imagined.

When Mylikki had taken that tumble today, for a moment, he thought her gone forever. He was surprised at how much he cared. So when she clung to him, he held her tightly, and made no move to disengage himself.

I love her, he realized, and said a short, heartfelt prayer to the gods that they would guard his tongue and keep the darkness that sometimes consumed him at bay, so that he would never, ever say anything hurtful to her again.

There were no branches to use as fuel for a fire, so Kevla merely heated some stones. The effect was the same—welcome warmth pouring out to the shivering travelers. She herself sat back, having no need of the heat, and took pleasure in seeing the taut, exhausted faces of Altan and Mylikki relax as the warmth began to penetrate.

Since Mylikki’s accident, she had literally not let go of Altan, and the young huskaa seemed more than happy to hold her. Kevla hoped that Altan’s days of alternately casting affectionate glances at the girl and making cutting remarks were over.

Hanru had shared cheese made from selva milk. Mindful of the Dragon’s words, Kevla ate everything she was offered. Sharp and yet mellow on the tongue, the cheese quieted hunger and provided energy. Kevla was grateful that they had happened upon the taaskali and their herds. Not for the first time, she wondered at these people who had appeared so conveniently and had to be more than what they seemed. And she wondered just how safe she, Altan, and Mylikki really were with them, but decided that if the Dragon trusted them, that was enough for her.

At one point, Hanru looked at the sky and shook his head. “Night will be coming soon,” he said.

“We’re not leaving without Jareth,” Altan said.

“Do not worry about Jareth,” Kevla said. “He is safer than we are, I assure you.”

Mylikki, one bare pink hand still clutching Altan’s, was munching a bite of cheese. Swallowing, she said, “You know something we don’t, Kevla. What is it?”

Kevla was surprised. She had not expected Mylikki, focused on Altan and exhausted as she was, to be quite so astute. “I will tell you when he returns,” she said. “But yes, I do know something. And what I know tells me that Jareth could not be in better hands.”

Or paws, she thought with a slight smile.

She was looking forward to seeing him with his Companion, and wondered how changed he would be. She had been profoundly affected by her own meeting with this aspect of herself. Would it be the same for him? She hoped that at least by the time he and the Tiger descended the mountain, Jareth would be ready to join her and embark for…where? Who was the next Dancer they needed to find?

No doubt you’ll determine that once Jareth joins you, came a familiar, beloved voice in her head.

“The Dragon is coming,” she said to her companions. She saw relief wash over their faces. If the Dragon came for them, they would not have to make the long, cold, dangerous descent in the growing shadows of nightfall.

A few moments later, her rhia was stirred by the powerful wind of his wing beats. He hovered in front of them. He was too large to land anywhere near them, and Kevla realized he would have to carry them down in his foreclaws.

“Is your task complete, Dragon?” she called to him.

“My part of it, yes,” he replied. Then, turning his head on his long serpentine neck, he looked up toward the peak. As one, they all turned to follow his gaze. In the gathering darkness, it was hard to see at first, but soon they realized that they were seeing movement. Kevla squinted, and then inhaled swiftly as she understood what she beheld.

The moving blur against the snow and stone of the mountainside was Jareth, and he sat proudly astride the blue Tiger.

The big cat leaped from precipice to precipice, stone to stone, with a power and an abandon that made Kevla’s heart leap into her throat. At any moment she expected her to slip, to hurtle off the face of the cliff with Jareth clinging to her.

Hardly, thought the Dragon. This is her place. I would as soon fall out of the sky as the Tiger find false purchase.

And Jareth must have known it, for he rode the Tiger like a burr on a horse, moving as if he were a part of the mighty beast. The speed of the great cat as it came toward them was such that the hood of Jareth’s cloak was ripped back and the white garment flowed behind him.

At last, the Tiger leaped onto a nearby boulder, landing squarely and settling itself as Jareth jumped off its back. Altan and Mylikki stared in shock. They looked at one another, then both knelt in the presence of the being they thought was their god.

Jareth went to them. “She’s not a god,” Jareth said gently, helping the huskaa get to his feet. “She’s my Companion, as the Dragon is to Kevla.”

For the first time since his arrival, Jareth looked directly at Kevla. “I am, as you tried to tell me, the Stone Dancer.”

She felt a smile spread across her face, and Jareth went to her and clasped her hands. It was the first time he had willingly touched her, save for the night so many weeks ago when he had pressed a knife to her throat. His hands were warm and strong.

“I am glad that you finally believe me. And that you have found your Companion.”

“She is…” Jareth turned to look back at the blue Tiger, who half-closed her eyes in what Kevla knew to be a gesture of affection.

“I know,” she said. “I know.”

He squeezed her hands and let her go. “There is much that I have to tell all of you. But I would prefer the telling be done over a hot meal by a warm fire.”

“Such can be arranged,” said the Dragon. “But Jareth—we must make haste. Time grows short, and a task awaits you when you return to the encampment.”

“Our chance is gone!” cried the advisor. He stood next to the Emperor, staring into the glowing Tenacru. “She did not do as you instructed. Now he’s found the Tiger and knows about the Ice Maiden. It’s all unraveling!”

The Emperor chuckled and the hairs on the back of the advisor’s neck stood on end. He hated hearing the Emperor rage; but he disliked his lord’s laughter even more. The ki-lyn too was on its cloven feet, staring into the images on the orb with fear and hope mixed on its lovely face. Behind the Emperor, silent and seemingly obedient, stood the Mage. The advisor glared at the black-clad figure. This had been his idea.

“The Lorekeeper girl did not have a chance to execute the plan,” the Emperor said amiably. “Everyone was watching her. I will speak to her tonight, and we will make fresh plans. It is indeed a pity that the Dancer and the Companion have come together, though. They are stronger now, and they have a target in the Ice Maiden.”

“What do you plan to do?”

“My little Lorekeeper traitor will be more than able to do what I tell her. An opportunity will come again. And do not forget—the Ice Maiden has power over men. None can stand against her. Not even the Stone Dancer.”

The advisor relaxed. “That is true,” he said. “But Kevla is not a man.”

The Emperor drew back thin lips in a smile. The ki-lyn lowered its head, jingling the ever-present golden chain with the movement.

“Ah, and neither,” said the Emperor in a cool voice, “is the Lorekeeper.”

They returned to the encampment, Jareth on the Tiger and Kevla, Hanru, Altan and Mylikki aboard the Dragon. Kevla had not realized how very much she had missed this—her legs astraddle his smooth scales, her hands loosely grasping his spine ridges more for something to do than from any true fear of falling.

I think travel by Dragon is preferable to all other ways, she thought to him, reaching down to hug him.

I think you are a very discerning individual, the Dragon replied. Kevla looked down. The night was again clear and crisp, and the moon was almost full. She could see almost as well as she could in the daylight, and could easily make out the form of the running Tiger and Jareth. She smiled at the sight. Any ordinary beast such as a horse or a sa’abah would have fallen far behind by now.

Her smile faded as she saw the enormous black shadow dragon keeping pace with them on the snow.

Shadow.

She had been so focused on first finding Jareth, then convincing him to join her, that she had almost forgotten what they were truly facing. She shuddered, and turned her eyes forward.

They were coming up on the taaskali encampment now. Kevla could see at least six fire rings, dancing yellow and orange against the cool hues of the snow, and wondered why they had lit so many. The taaskali numbered only two dozen or so. The selva were all clustered together in one place, which struck her as unusual. Usually the taaskali let them roam as they would. Why had they gathered them together like this?

The Dragon and the Tiger reached the encampment about the same time. The Dragon landed gently and his riders dismounted into the snow. Hanru hurried up to another taaskali and they whispered in their musical language.

“Dragon, what’s going on?” Kevla inquired. All of the selva were regarding Jareth intently. They seemed completely unaware of the presence of the Tiger in their midst. It was a strange sight, and Jareth looked completely confused.

“I stayed behind to perform a task,” the Dragon said. “Now, Jareth must complete it.”

“What task?” Jareth sounded exasperated. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Look again at the selva,” the Tiger said, speaking up for the first time since her arrival. “Behold them, and know that you look upon the Lorekeepers of Lamal.”

31

“How can this be?” Kevla cried.

“A thousand years ago,” said Hanru, “there was among the Lorekeepers a man of unprecedented vision and wisdom named Caldan. He was able to see into the future. He saw many things, and one thing he beheld was that the Lorekeepers of Lamal would be in danger at the time when their memories would be needed most—when the Dancers were born, and the final fight against the Shadow took place. Caldan had in his possession an object of great power, and this was how he turned all the Lorekeepers into the selva. Disguised as beasts, they would be safe from any who would exploit their knowledge.”

He smiled slightly.

“Caldan knew the selva would need to be taken care of. And the spirits of the forest answered the call. We agreed to take on human form and make sure these precious beings came to no harm. Thus were born the taaskali.”

Kevla gasped, but she realized she was not altogether surprised. She had known that the taaskali were something other than human, just as the selva were more than simple beasts.

She recalled her confusion when she first came to Lamal and found not a single Lorekeeper. No one, indeed, had ever heard of such a thing. Yet the evidence that they had once been in this land lay in the song, “Fighting Back the Shadow.”

“Paiva told me that the forest spirits were gone,” Jareth said. “You weren’t gone…you were just in a different form.”

“Exactly,” Hanru said. “For a thousand years, we have been waiting for you, Stone Dancer.”

“Dragon, you knew this!” cried Kevla.

“Not until I saw them,” the Dragon answered. “In Kevla’s land, there were beings that the Arukani called kulis. They were thought to be demons, and shunned. I knew better.”

“But—but the kulis really weren’t demons,” Mylikki said, frowning as she tried to wrap her mind around what had happened. “They were just children, abandoned by their families.”

“Perception and reality are tricky things, and are often one and the same,” the Tiger chimed in. “It is but a degree of difference. The Dragon could see them as they truly were, and he made them remember—”

“Who they were,” breathed Kevla, tears stinging her eyes as she regarded her old friend with new appreciation. Her mind went back to when she stood before him for the first time, on a ledge overhanging a pit of fire and molten stone, and the question he asked over and over again: DO YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE? He had seen at once what the selva were, and stayed behind when Kevla and the others went with Jareth to find the Tiger so that he could remind them of their true natures.

“I had the right question to ask them, that is all,” the Dragon said.

Kevla looked at the Tiger, who gazed back at her steadily. She wondered what the Tiger’s question was, and how Jareth had learned the answer.

“They now have their minds and memories restored,” the Dragon continued. “But only the Dancer of this land can give them back their true forms.”

Jareth stared at the selva. They gazed back at him, their silver eyes catching the glow of the fire, and he saw the human intelligence in those eyes.

“How do I…what do I…” He looked beseechingly at the Tiger for aid.

She half closed her eyes and rumbled, “You know what to do. Lorekeepers exist to serve the Dancers. Call them, and they will come to you.”

He licked dry lips. The Tiger, the Dragon, Hanru—they were all crediting him with more ability than he suspected he possessed. He stood where he was for a long moment, unable to move. What if he tried and failed? They would be people locked in animal form for the rest of their lives. What if he—

You have lived so long in fear, Stone Dancer. The words were not spoken aloud, but inside his head. He recognized the voice as that of the Tiger. Aren’t you tired of it?

Yes, he thought, admitting it for the first time. He remembered a night long ago, when he had cast his doubt into the harvest-fire flames and let them take it. I don’t want to be afraid of failing anymore.

He walked steadily toward the first selva and placed his hands on either side of its large, white head. Gazing into its eyes, he searched for and found the human within.

I see you, he thought, and closed his eyes. I see you as you are. Be as you were, Lorekeeper of Lamal. Find your true nature.

He felt the fur caressing his palms shorten, become warm skin. The head grew smaller between his hands, moved closer to the ground, and when he opened his eyes he found himself staring at an older, wise-looking woman. He heard a rustle as Kevla wrapped her gently in a blanket that might have been woven from the fur of the beast the old woman once was.

“Stone Dancer,” the woman said in a voice that sounded as if it had not been used for some time, “Caldan promised you’d come.”

One by one, the great beasts came to him to be liberated from their assumed shapes. One by one, Jareth touched them, found the man or woman or child within, and shifted their shape from beast to human. By the time the last calf had trotted up to him, to be turned into a beautiful little boy, Jareth was almost overwhelmed by emotion.

He turned and looked at the Tiger. It’s…humbling, Tiger. And empowering at the same time.

That, thought the Tiger, and Jareth felt bathed in the warmth of her pride, is what it is to be a Dancer.

This is why you wouldn’t let me find you the first time I tried. You knew this task was waiting for me, and that I would need the aid of Kevla’s Companion to complete it.

Abruptly Jareth’s strength fled. His knees buckled and he dropped to the snow. Immediately Kevla and Altan were there, wrapping him in blankets and pressing hot tea and food into his hands.

“Thank you, Stone Dancer,” Hanru said. “You have released us from our charge.”

Chewing on dried meat, Jareth said, “But you haven’t changed,” said Jareth. “You’re still taaskali. Do you need me to help you change back to your true form as well?”

Hanru chuckled. “You can help the Lorekeepers because in a way all of them are linked to you. We are linked to the earth, and until you have defeated she who holds this land in thrall, we cannot again become what we once were.”

“The Ice Maiden,” Jareth said. He looked at his companions. “That’s what I was going to tell you. The Ice Maiden is no myth. She’s very real.”

“What?” gasped Altan.

“She’s real,” Jareth repeated. “It’s she who holds the land in this unnatural winter. My powers aren’t gone—she’s blocking them, preventing me from using them.” He opened his mouth to continue, looked at their stunned expressions, and said, “Perhaps we should start from the beginning.”

“A tale is usually told best that way,” Altan said. To Jareth’s amusement, he had found his kyndela and was already setting about tuning it.

In a steady voice that carried in the clear, still night, Jareth spoke of how he had first learned of his own abilities. He was surprised at how easy it was to speak of something that had always been so fraught with fear and pain to him. He told them how he had thought he was the Spring-Bringer, and how devastated he had been when the powers seemed to have vanished.

“But I have learned today that I am something…someone…quite different from who I always thought I was,” he said, still feeling pain and sorrow as well as joy in the discovery. “I have a greater responsibility, and I will not shirk it. Every day, people are dying because of the Ice Maiden’s winter. We have to stop her. Now.”

“How do we do that?” asked Mylikki.

“You and Altan may know more about that than Kevla and I,” Jareth said. “For years, huskaas have been performing a set of three songs called the Circle of Ice. It’s the only information we have about the Ice Maiden. What do the songs tell us?”

“Well, she starts off as just a young woman whose heart was broken by a man careless of her love,” said Mylikki. “She called on dark powers so that she might capture men’s souls and bend them to her will, in order to have vengeance upon all men for the wrongs one had done.

“She turns men’s hearts to ice, so they can love only her,” Altan continued. “The first song is about a young man going in search of the maiden, thinking he can make her fall in love with him. An old man warns him about the folly of such a venture and tells his own story. The second song in the Circle is sung by the young man in the first song, who’s now been enchanted. He’s doing the same thing to another girl that the Ice Maiden’s lover did to her—seducing her and breaking her heart.”

“And the third song is sung by the Maiden herself, explaining how she came to be,” finished Mylikki.

“That’s not a lot of solid information,” said Kevla. “Is there anything about a weakness she might have? Where she lives?”

Mylikki and Altan exchanged glances. “There are a few verses that get left out,” Mylikki said. “We can analyze them. See if there’s anything useful there.”

“Good,” said Kevla. “Examine the songs and tell us anything you can think of. Jareth and I will listen to the Lorekeepers. They may have something to say that will help us.”

The hours passed well into the night. Jareth and Kevla sat side by side on a selva-wool blanket in front of the fire, and one by one, the Lorekeepers of Lamal came to them. The stories they told were beautiful, humorous, heartbreaking, tragic, and inspiring. Some remembered only personal anecdotes, such as when a young woman looked shyly at Kevla and said, “You gave me some coins from your purse, that day when you went to the market.”

“That was the day that I was…was murdered,” Kevla said softly. While the memories came back to her, they were always strangely distant, as if they had happened to someone else. Kevla looked into the girlish face and saw the old woman to whom she, as a wealthy youth, had given a handful of coppers to. “I remember,” Kevla said, softly.

Other stories, other lives. Kevla was sorry that Mylikki and Altan were not here to hear these stories. There was a song in every one of them, she was certain. But the two musicians had a more important task than gathering songs for future generations. If the Ice Maiden was not stopped and Jareth’s powers regained, if this world was not saved by the Dancers standing together against the Shadow, then there would be no future generations to sing songs or tell tales.

The Dragon returned from his hunt with two kirvi deer clutched in his forepaws. Kevla’s mouth watered as she anticipated the meal, and she glanced at Jareth. For a moment, she wondered how it was that Jareth was able to eat animal flesh at all, if he could mentally speak with the creatures that he summoned. Then she realized that the Stone Dancer had the same connection with everything that was of the earth—grass, trees, even rocks. Everything was sentient to him; therefore he would need to feed on the death of something, regardless if it were animal or plant.

The thought was unbearably sad. Without thinking, she placed a hand on his arm. Jareth gazed into her eyes, frowning a little, not understanding what she meant by the gesture. She shook her head and smiled, and let him go.

At last, all the Lorekeepers had had a chance to meet with the Dancers. Jareth sighed heavily and said to the Tiger, “He is not here.”

“No,” the Tiger said.

Kevla knew who they were talking about. The Stone Dancer had found his Companion, but not his Lorekeeper. Not the fellow human who would be closer to him than anyone in the world. Clearly, Jareth had hoped to find this one unique Lorekeeper in the company of the others.

“Hanru, you are certain these are all the Lorekeepers of Lamal?” Jareth asked.

“I am,” Hanru replied. “We have tended them for generations. They are all here.”

“Remember,” put in the Tiger, “the Dancer’s Lorekeeper is different from the others. He or she is the Dancer’s soul.”

Kevla’s eyes widened. She remembered Jashemi speaking to her as they had made love: There is destiny here. I feel it…I know it. We were meant to be together. I belong to you completely, Kevla. I always have, and I always will. No matter what happens—no matter who or what we are—know that I am yours. You are my soul. And then again, in the dream the selva had granted Kevla, Jashemi the Lorekeeper had said of those words—“He was almost right. I am your soul, Flame Dancer.”

She felt him again, warm in her heart. He was her soul. Kevla knew she could have had no brighter or better one, and barely aware that she did so, she pressed her hand over her heart, sealing Jashemi in.

“He could have died,” Kevla said softly. Jareth jerked his head to stare at her, and she wished she hadn’t spoken.

“That is possible,” agreed the Tiger. “But if he were alive here, among this group, we would know it.”

Jareth sat quietly for a moment, absorbing the information. Kevla thought he was adjusting remarkably well. She remembered how much of a shock this had all been to her.

“What happened to Caldan?” Jareth asked.

Hanru replied, “He was planning to leave Lamal, after he changed the other Lorekeepers and us. That much I know. Where he went, I know not.”

Jareth shook his head, as if chasing away thoughts. “It doesn’t matter right now. What does matter is finding the Ice Maiden. Altan! Did you and Mylikki figure anything out?”

They looked at each other, rose, and approached. Kevla thought she had never seen them look so dejected.

“We went over the lyrics,” Mylikki said, rubbing at her tired eyes.

“And over, and over,” said Altan.

“We even went through the various regional modifications Altan had learned in his travels,” Mylikki said. “Nothing. The closest clue we found is in the first song, in which the young rider says, ‘They tell me she dwells here.’ But of course the song never tells you where ‘here’ is.”

“Although apparently the Ice Maiden is real,” said Altan, “I think she doesn’t really dwell anywhere, at least in the songs. She…she lives where there is cruelty and meanness.”

“Not through the forest and up the hill,” sighed Jareth. “I understand your meaning.”

“What’s the first song called again?” Kevla asked. Perhaps she and Jareth could discover something the two performers hadn’t.

“Logically enough, just ‘The Ice Maiden,’” Altan replied.

“All right. The second?”

“‘Circle of Ice,’ and the last, ‘Circle Completed.’ The idea is, it’s like a circle. Someone gets hurt, she hurts someone else, and that person hurts a third person because he’s been hurt, and we’re back to the beginning.”

“A circle of heartbreak,” said Kevla. “A circle of ice. What a sad thing.”

Hanru had been listening. “What did you say, Kevla?”

“We were discussing a song cycle about the Ice Maiden,” Kevla said. “It’s called ‘Circle of Ice.’ We were hoping to find clues to—”

A memory raced back to Kevla. She recalled awakening the morning after the storm she and Mylikki had weathered together, looking out to where the Dragon had indicated the men of the woods were lurking. She had seen such a circle, a ring of ice glittering atop the snow.

Hope surged within her. “I think I’ve seen one,” she said. “A circle of ice. A real one.”

Hanru said, “We have seen many of them. They began appearing on the ground about nine, ten moons ago. The selva won’t—wouldn’t—go near them, and neither will we. There is…something bad there. Something evil.”

“Has anyone ever stepped inside the circles?” Jareth asked.

Hanru shook his head. “Not that I know of. I have not even seen them disturbed by animal tracks.”

The four companions who had undergone so much on their journey together looked at one another.

“This has to mean something,” Jareth said. “There’s got to be a connection. They started manifesting at the same time as her snow began to fall.”

“We won’t know anything until we can see them ourselves,” said Kevla.

“When do we go?” asked Altan.

“You and Mylikki are not going anywhere,” said Jareth. “Kevla and I and our Companions will handle this.”

Altan shook his head. “We’ve come this far, we’re not going to sit and—”

“I think,” said the Tiger, her rumbling voice carrying, “that these things would be best decided in the morning. You all need to rest and recover from today, even the Dancers.”

“But we might be able to stop her!” cried Jareth, whirling on his new friend. “Don’t you understand what that means? People are dying, Tiger. This land can’t take much more of this. If we don’t act now, even if spring does come, it will come too late to do any good!”

The Tiger sat up. She had been lying stretched out on the snow, apparently oblivious to the cold, and had resembled a cat beside a fire. Now, Kevla was reminded of how large she really was, and, if she was anything like the Dragon, profoundly powerful in ways Jareth was only beginning to grasp.

“You can’t stop her if you are weak and exhausted,” the Tiger said in a voice that brooked no disagreement. “I cannot think that she will be an easy foe to defeat. You will need all your strength and wits about you, Stone Dancer, and at the moment, you appear to be lacking in both.”

Jareth’s eyes narrowed at the barb. Gently, Kevla said, “We may be stronger than ordinary humans, Jareth, but even we have our limits. The Tiger speaks wisdom. It will serve nothing to find the Ice Maiden and be too weary to fight her.”

His nostrils flared and for a moment she feared he would lash out at her. But then he took a deep breath.

“Very well. In the morning, then. Hanru, you said you can take us to one of these circles?”

“Indeed I can,” the taaskal said, “though I will do so with great reluctance.”

Jareth nodded, but Kevla could tell he burned to see the mysterious circles. He would have to wait, but not for much longer.

She rose, stretched, and went to the Dragon to curl up beside him. She stayed awake only long enough to notice through heavy-lidded eyes that Altan and Mylikki lay down close to the fire, wrapped in one another’s arms, and that Jareth stretched out next to the mighty blue Tiger. The Tiger butted her head against Jareth’s, then curled in around the Dancer.

Things seem right, she thought driftingly as sleep claimed her. Things are finally starting to seem right.

32

Kevla awoke and went to the cooking fire more lighthearted than she could remember being in a long time. The Lorekeepers had been returned to the land. Altan no longer made cutting remarks and was finally making his affection for Mylikki clear, and the girl was blossoming under the new attention like a flower under the sun. Jareth had accepted his destiny and found his Companion, if not his own Lorekeeper yet, and they now understood why his powers were blocked and who had plunged this land into a devastating winter. And today, they would investigate this clue they had discovered last night.

“I’ve been thinking,” Kevla said as she sipped hot tea. “One thing that stands clear in my mind is that in the last song, the Maiden speaks directly to the audience. She seems to want us to know that she was once human. And the last line—it’s almost as if she’s trying to ask forgiveness.”

“‘Remember what drove me to be what I am, all that I wanted was love from one man,’” quoted Mylikki, looking upon Altan with adoration in her eyes.

“It doesn’t excuse what she did,” said Jareth.

“Of course not,” Kevla says. “But it’s interesting that she seems to want us to understand why she did it.”

“That’s supposing that the songs really offer any clues at all,” Jareth said.

Altan glared at him. “It’s the only information we have.”

“No it’s not. We have this,” and Jareth gestured at the white expanse of snow. “The Tiger told me she controls the snow. We know that the madmen are real. And there have been strange circles of ice appearing at the same time that winter refused to leave. I’d rather stick to what I know to be true than look for hints in songs huskaas made up centuries ago.”

“There’s nothing that says we can’t do both,” Kevla countered.

“Kevla’s right,” said Mylikki around a mouthful of cheese. “We should look at everything we have.”

“We don’t know how to fight her,” Jareth said. “We don’t even know if we can. How do you fight a Maiden of Ice?”

“If it’s literal—if she really is ice, then I can destroy her,” Kevla said. Her powers were very good at destruction. “If she is human, then she can be killed. One thing is certain—she can block your powers. Let’s hope she can’t block mine.”

Jareth drew his knife and examined the blade in the weak morning light. “She might be able to block my ability to speak with the earth,” he said, regarding the weapon. “But I will still be able to plunge this into her heart if I have to.”

Altan and Mylikki exchanged uneasy glances. Kevla had noticed that, aside from the madmen of the woods, Lamal was a very peaceful culture. All the weapons she had seen had been designed for hunting animals, not people. The horror with which the Lamali regarded the bayinba told her that it was rare, almost unprecedented. To see Jareth speak so calmly of murdering someone, even an enemy, disturbed her.

“We had best go see these circles of ice,” said Kevla. “Perhaps we can glean more information from them.”

Jareth nodded and sheathed his knife. “Let’s go.”

Mylikki and Altan rose as well. When Jareth scowled at them, they looked at one another and smiled a little. Then Altan said, “We talked to the Tiger and the Dragon earlier this morning, before you awoke. They said we could come.”

Jareth transferred the glare to his new Companion. The Tiger flicked a blue ear.

“They promised to behave and do exactly as you said,” the Dragon said. “We thought it a reasonable request. Besides, they have the knowledge of the songs, even the seldom-sung verses. They may see something that might be of help.”

Jareth threw his hands up in the air. “It appears I will never shake you, Altan.”

Altan’s grin lit up his face. The adoration he felt for his friend was obvious even as he held Mylikki’s hand. “And I hope you never do.”

According to Hanru, the circle was not far by foot. By Dragon and Tiger, it was mere moments’ distant. Kevla could see it from the air—a ring of ice, jutting up from the snow. It looked exactly the same as the one she had seen before.

“No matter how much snow falls,” Hanru said, “the ice always pushes through it somehow, so that it is never covered.”

“Well, nothing unnatural about that,” Altan said.

Gently, the Dragon came to earth. Even as he touched the ground, the Tiger, with Jareth on her back, arrived and Jareth leaped off lightly.

Slowly, they walked toward the circle. It seemed harmless enough, though strange. A perfect circle, it enclosed an area about three feet in circumference. While there were animal tracks nearby, as Hanru had said, the snow inside the glittering ring was undisturbed by so much as a bird print or fallen leaf. They walked around it for a while, examining it in silence.

Finally Mylikki spoke. “So here’s a circle of ice,” Mylikki said. “A magical circle of ice. What now?”

“A circle encloses a space,” Kevla said aloud, working through the puzzle. “For what purpose?”

“To keep it safe, or sacred,” Jareth offered. “To prevent anything from entering.”

Kevla nodded. “That’s one reason. Hanru, you said there are many such circles?”

The taaskal nodded. “We have traveled hundreds of leagues in our journeys, following the selva. And we have seen dozens of circles like this. All of them feel the same—bad.”

Jareth frowned. “Why so many? What would the Ice Maiden need so many for?”

Kevla continued to regard the circle. It was so small. Only about the size of a fire ring—

And then it came to her. “I can transport myself from one fire to another by stepping inside it.” She looked at Jareth. “Stepping inside the fire’s ring.”

“A portal,” said Jareth, excitement rising in his voice. Before they could stop him, he had found a stone in the snow and tossed it into the ring.

It landed with a soft sound and disappeared into the drifts of snow. They craned their necks and saw that it was still there.

“So much for that,” Jareth said.

“It’s for people,” said Altan, suddenly. “The madmen of the woods—maybe that’s how she catches them. They step into a circle by accident, stumbling around in a storm, and end up wherever she wants them.”

Kevla felt suddenly cold—an unusual sensation for her. There had been a circle of ice that one morning, when the Dragon had told her men were hiding in the woods. She knew Altan was right. She rubbed her arms, knowing the chill came from the dark thoughts, not the freezing weather.

“Kevla?”

She tore her gaze away from the circle of gleaming ice to meet Jareth’s blue gaze.

“I think Altan’s right. I think this is how the men come to and from the Maiden. I think it’s a portal, just like fire is for you.” Jareth held out his hand. “There’s really only one way to find out.”

She stared at him. Everything in her protested. They still knew so little. They had no plan to fight her, they didn’t even know if they could fight her. But if not them, who? Who in Lamal had greater abilities than the Stone Dancer and the Flame Dancer? Unprepared as they were, they had to act now. The land and the people in it were dying.

Kevla rose and took Jareth’s hand, twining her fingers about his.

“We’re going to step into the circle,” Jareth told the others. “It’s too small for the Dragon or the Tiger. Mylikki, Altan—promise that you will stay here with the Companions. Whatever happens, we need to know that you two will be safe. Do you understand?”

Mylikki said quickly, “Yes, Jareth. We can’t do anything more to help you and we might get in your way.”

Altan sighed and nodded. “She’s right. But be careful, and remember the song lyrics!”

Kevla was glad. She was fond of the pair and they were wiser than she had thought—they had been helpful earlier, but now, she suspected they would be a hindrance.

She looked back at the Dragon and forced a smile, then turned back to Jareth. His blue eyes seemed to bore into hers and she knew that he, too, was utterly ignorant of what lay before them. But his hand was warm and strong.

She nodded. They each took a deep breath, then stepped into the circle.

The cold sliced Kevla to the bone and the snow almost blinded her.

She dropped Jareth’s hand so she could wrap her arms around her shivering body clad only in the thin red rhia. What—how was this possible? She felt Jareth grasp her by the waist and turn her around. She blinked to clear her vision and then gasped.

Directly in front of them was a forest, but it was unlike any forest she had ever seen. The trees were dark, dead, and shiny with ice. They were completely encased in the frozen water, and their limbs all had sharpened, deadly points. They grew tightly together, their dead boughs entwining, to present a barrier that seemed impassable. Everything was coated with a dull red tinge. She looked up at the sky, and saw that it was a dark crimson.

Towering in front of them, past the encircling, icy forest, was something both beautiful and terrifying. Barely visible through the swirling snow, it was a great House—the word “castle” from the song Mylikki had performed sprang to mind. But it was not made of stone, or wood. This castle appeared to be made entirely of ice. It glittered and gleamed, even though the snow was falling thickly.

“‘They tell me she dwells here,’” Jareth quoted. He looked over at Kevla. “You’re shaking—I thought you never got cold?”

“Th-this isn’t ordinary c-cold,” Kevla said through chattering teeth. “I don’t think we’re s-still in our world.” Kevla took a deep breath and settled herself, reaching for the fire that was always banked inside her. With an effort, she found it, and gradually stopped shivering.

“You think we’re someplace else?”

“She’s some kind of magical being,” Kevla said. “And that’s the first time in ages since I’ve been cold, Jareth, and it was hard for me to find my powers and make it go away. And look at the color of the sky. So yes, I do think we’re in someplace different. Someplace magical.”

They heard the singing sound of arrows at the same moment and turned to meet the threat.

Dozens of men raced toward them, shouting something Kevla couldn’t quite make out. Several others who had taken positions let loose a rain of arrows. Without even thinking Kevla extended a hand. The arrows suddenly burst into flame. Nothing but ash and stone arrowheads now, they fell harmlessly to the snow.

“Your cloak!” Kevla cried. “It turns arrows!”

“That’s a folktale!” Jareth yelled back, but she noticed he heeded her advice. She heard the sound of the arrows striking the magical selva-fur cloak and falling harmlessly. She concentrated. Small fireballs hurtled from her outstretched hands and attacked the oncoming men. They fell, screaming in pain, and as always when she was forced to harm others in her own defense, Kevla felt a stab of regret.

More were coming. Kevla’s fear turned to grief and horror when she recognized one of them as Olar, Mylikki’s younger brother. These, then, were the servants of the Ice Maiden. Crazily, the lyrics of the third song floated into Kevla’s mind: Instead of one lover, I’ve legions of slaves; my name’s on their lips as they go to their graves.

And now she could make out what the madmen were shouting as they kept coming: “For the Maiden! For the Maiden!”

The Ice Maiden was still blocking Jareth’s powers, and Kevla noticed that it was more difficult than usual for her to summon her own. Jareth had no weapon other than his dagger, and while the folktales were true about the cloaks stopping arrows, she doubted the white cloak would block a spear thrust. There was only one escape route—forward, into the black, jagged forest.

“Follow me!” Kevla cried. She turned and placed her hands on the first ice-slicked tree in front of her, called the Fire that blazed deep within her, and willed the ice to melt.

She felt herself grow warm. Heat radiated off of her with the heat of a fire, and then with the powerful heat of the molten stone that had been the Dragon’s natural habitat. At first, the ice resisted her. Then, reluctantly, it melted and she was able to move forward. The branches of the trees were still sharp, and she needed to step carefully, but she could get through and she thought there was even room enough for Jareth.

She felt Jareth right behind her, ducking his big frame and cursing under his breath.

“Keep close to me,” she warned.

“Don’t worry. I’m so close my clothes are smoking.”

“I don’t know how long the branches will stay thawed.” Kevla heard a movement behind them, a strange, crackling sound.

“Apparently, not very long.”

Kevla didn’t dare look herself; she needed every ounce of her strength and focus to keep moving forward.

Step by agonizing step, they made their way through the forest. Kevla was panting with the effort and she could smell the acrid odor of Jareth’s burning clothes.

She wondered if she would have any strength left at all by the time they actually encountered the Maiden herself.

Mylikki was happy to be sitting and doing nothing.

The journey yesterday had exhausted her. But she was glad of it, even glad for her too-close brush with death. It was because of that harrowing moment that Altan sat beside her now, his arm around her, and while she feared for her friends, her apprehension could not erase her joy.

He had come to Arrun Woods with his crystalline songs, star-bright voice and beautiful face framed with curling golden hair, and she had fallen for him almost from the moment she saw him. There were times when she thought her feelings returned, others when she thought it spurned, and there seemed to be no logic in what prompted Altan to treat her the way he did. When she had summoned her courage and kissed him, she had expected him to thrust her away at once.

But he had kissed her back, had seemed to want more from her than a kiss—and then, abruptly, he had stopped, looked at her with contempt, and stabbed her with cruel words. And Mylikki was again baffled and hurt.

Yesterday, though, she had seen his heart in his eyes as he reached to stop her downward slide to death. She had thought it perhaps the last thing she would ever see, but had been wrong. He had held her tightly last night, though they had done nothing but sleep, and today, he seemed to want what she wanted—merely to be together.

It had been some time since Jareth and Kevla had stepped through the ice circle that had proven to be a portal. At first, everyone was tense, but as the sun rose higher in the sky, the Dragon and the Tiger had started to talk quietly to one another, tactfully avoiding staring at the young couple.

Altan leaned over and for a wild, wonderful moment, she thought he was going to kiss her. Instead, he said, “Let’s go through.”

“What?” she whispered back. “We promised we wouldn’t!”

“I think they may be in trouble,” he said, his breath soft and sweet on her face. Mylikki trembled from his nearness, but saw that, again, he was distant from her. She recognized that expression, had hoped never to see it again.

“I’m going,” he said flatly. “You can stay here if you want to, but I’m going.”’

Mylikki felt a deep ache in her chest, and knew the answer before the words left her chilled lips.

“All right. Let’s go.”

He turned his attention from her to the Companions. Still deep in conversation, they continued to ignore the two humans. Altan’s hand tightened on Mylikki’s, and her heart sped up suddenly.

“Now,” he growled, and they dove forward.

Mylikki landed face-first in snow that had been trampled by dozens of feet. Coughing, she looked up and her eyes widened. Before her was a dark, dead forest, gleaming from its coating of frozen water, and up ahead loomed a castle that looked to be made entirely of ice.

Kevla and Jareth were nowhere to be seen.

Suddenly Mylikki realized just what an enormous mistake they had made. She got unsteadily to her feet and brushed off the snow, quivering with anger and fear.

“Altan, this was an incredibly stupid thing to do!”

She looked up and a small cry escaped her.

Where Altan had stood was now a slender young woman his same age. Long, golden curls tumbled down her back. She wore Altan’s tunic, Altan’s cloak, though now the tunic strained against a pair of firm young breasts and the breeches were too short.

“Yes,” said the girl who had Altan’s eyes, smiling coldly at Mylikki’s expression, “it was.”

33

Mylikki awoke to agony.

Her head throbbed with each heartbeat, and her vision was blurry. She blinked several times and with an effort lifted her aching head, hissing with pain.

She tried to move and realized that she was tied to a tree. Her wrists and ankles were also bound, and in her numb hands she clutched a waterskin of some kind. She heard someone moving behind her and memory flooded back in a sickening rush—the shock at entering this strange place, and turning to behold the girl who had looked so much like Altan. Probably it had been she who had struck Mylikki with something hard.

“There, that should hold you,” came a voice. Mylikki felt bile rise in her throat. The girl stepped around to where Mylikki could see her and gazed down at her captive.

Mylikki stared back, trying to comprehend what had just happened. “Who—who are you? Where is Altan?”

“My name is Ilta,” said the woman. “And Altan’s here.” She tapped her chest.

Tears filled Mylikki’s eyes. She tried to close the lids against them but they escaped. They felt hot against her chilled face. She was so tired, in so much pain—

“I don’t understand,” she whispered.

The girl squatted beside her. “Look at me,” she demanded. “Can you see it?”

Mylikki obeyed the order, blinking the tears back. She swallowed. “You look like Altan. Where is he?”

“I should. I’m his sister. For almost twenty years I’ve been trapped inside his body, but now, here in this place, it’s my turn. Mylikki. Mylikki, curse it, listen to me!”

Mylikki’s eyes had closed again. She forced them open, forced herself to pay attention to the ravings of the madwoman, terror slowly filling her.

“He loved you, you know,” Ilta said, conversationally. “He kept trying to be with you. But I just couldn’t let that happen. If he had something—someone—to live for, he’d fight me harder for possession of his body, and I have to have it. But I am sorry. This wasn’t about you. You just had the bad luck to get in my way.”

Mylikki’s skin prickled. This was insanity—or was it? The girl looked so very much like Altan…and she was wearing his clothing. Sickly, Mylikki recalled how suddenly Altan’s mood could shift from sweet to hostile. She thought of the words Altan had uttered when Kevla had warmed him, words that now made a horrible kind of sense—Big hands, too crowded. She thought of their kiss, how he had seemed to almost…become…another person right in front of her eyes….

Become Ilta.

Ilta gestured to the waterskin. “If you want to make it quick, drink that. It’s not poison, but it will put you to sleep almost at once. You won’t feel the cold that way.”

Mylikki stared at the waterskin. “I’m not drinking this.”

“Look, I told you, this isn’t about you. But Altan is inside my body here, not the other way around. And he’s not coming to rescue you. The Dragon and the Tiger can’t get into the circle, and Jareth and Kevla are—otherwise occupied. You’re going to die here, Mylikki. How you die is your choice. You can sit and freeze to death fully conscious, or you can go to sleep. I don’t care which you choose.”

She rose, sighed, and placed her hands on her hips. “Too bad he liked you so much,” she said, and strode off into the snow, her slender body moving with Altan’s gait. Mylikki stared until the slim figure disappeared into the snow, then turned her gaze again to the waterskin. She had no cloak, nothing to protect her from the aching cold and stinging snow.

“I’m not drinking this,” she repeated.

Ilta Lukkari walked with a joyful step. She reveled in her woman’s body, the body that ought to have been hers, the body that would have been hers had the birth cord not twined itself insidiously around her infant neck. She still remembered that moment, sentient in the womb, with full and complete knowledge of who she was and who she had been, sensing death coming closer by the moment. Back to back with her twin she lay, feeling his warmth, his life, secure and unthreatened.

This could not—would not—happen. She was the Stone Dancer’s Lorekeeper, and she refused to let something as trivial as death keep her from physically being with the Dancer in this fifth and final incarnation.

So the Lorekeeper had foisted the essence of herself, the Dancer’s very soul, into the body of the healthy twin. The one who would cry with a lusty wail that would proclaim him to be a future huskaa.

The one who got to live.

Altan Lukkari did not walk through life alone, though he was blissfully ignorant of that fact. Ilta watched and waited, hidden in a distant corner of Altan’s being, seeing everything he did.

And sometimes, she forced her way out.

When she did so, Altan was completely unaware of it. He told no one of these strange “blackouts,” these moments where time had passed and he had been utterly ignorant of what his body had been doing. Ilta was careful not to do anything too drastic to the body while she was in control of it. Altan was not stupid, and he would sense something wrong if she was not careful. If she pushed too hard, he would confide in someone, and that could ruin everything.

She felt him stir within her, felt his dawning understanding of the situation. She felt the shock, and finally, a demand that she return his body to him.

Sorry, Altan, she said. It’s my turn now.

And even as she had the thought, Ilta paused. She did feel bad for Mylikki. The girl hadn’t done anything except fall in love with Altan. And Altan wanted to be with her.

I’ll tell you what, she thought to the second soul that shared one body. We can make a deal. This is his place. I’ll bet he can separate us. Give you your own body back. Then you can be with Mylikki, and I can be with Jareth. We’ll both be happy. It can all be as it was supposed to have been, before—

Her hand went to her throat and found no tightening cord about it, but her breathing was suddenly difficult.

Mylikki? Ilta let him see what she had done with the girl, and Altan’s outrage made her stumble.

She’s just an innocent girl! How could you do this to her?

Because you loved her, and if you had her, I would never have gotten your body, Ilta thought. But you can have her if you like, Altan. She doesn’t need to die. You can be with her and—

And stay here? Altan shot back. Stay in this unreal world, this place of fantasy and illusion? What about the Shadow, Ilta? It’s coming, and Jareth needs to stand against it. You’re his Lorekeeper! You’re supposed to help him, share your knowledge, be his support. And instead you’re tricking him with lies and deceptions!

Ilta’s fury was so powerful she stumbled. It’s not a lie! I love him! I’ve loved him before and I love him now! Do you think your affection for him was your own, you fool?

Shocked silence.

Ilta was angry now. She was in the position of power. She’d tried to bargain with Altan out of affection for the boy who should have been her twin brother, but now she was tired of it.

It’s over. This body belongs to me now, and it will appear the way I want it to here. And I want to be female.

Ilta, I’m sorry you died, I’m sorry you can’t get to be with Jareth, but stealing my body is not the answer! You’ve got to let him fulfill his destiny!

Stupid, stupid to think she could reason with him. Altan had been corrupted by Kevla, was going to let Jareth go with the fire-woman to his death, to the death of everything.

No. Jareth was going nowhere. Ilta would keep him here, with her. Forever.

She felt him probing deeper, seeing things that she did not want him to see, and for an instant felt her control over him slipping.

Ilta…oh, gods, what have you done…you’re insane. You’ve gone mad. Ilta, you have to—

She roared in fury and dropped to all fours in the snow, forcing Altan back down into the darkest corner of her being. Locking him away. She had tried this before; tried to take over his body, claim it for her own. Before, in that other world, she had failed. But here, in his realm, she had greater strength. She felt Altan struggle, heard him cry out inside her in a soundless voice, and finally locked him away and slammed the door closed on him.

She was suddenly, violently sick.

Shaking, Ilta wiped her mouth with snow and got to her feet, weaving drunkenly. She mentally searched for Altan inside her. She found nothing, and a smile touched her lips. She’d either destroyed him or completely subdued him. It didn’t matter which. Either way, Altan was no longer a problem.

Ilta had always been jealous of her twin’s ability to be with the Stone Dancer when she couldn’t; be with the handsome, fair-haired man named Jareth Vasalen in this lifetime. To speak to him, to touch him.

Jareth!

Ilta couldn’t wait until this was all over. The Ice Maiden would deal with the troublesome Kevla, she was certain. Jareth thought he had to leave with Kevla, to stand against the Shadow. But he was wrong. There was a way around it. She knew it, and her ally the Emperor knew it. And then, after too many years, Jareth would finally see his Lorekeeper in her true form.

And he would love her.

He had to.

He always had before.

Kevla had never felt so weak, so drained, in her entire life. But she did not dare stop moving forward, stop forcing the trees to yield their thick coating of ice. The moment she did, she knew the coating with its sharp, icicle points would return. She also needed to watch where she stepped. The trees had roots that were also slick with ice. One slip, and she would stumble, impaling herself on the branches that were as sharp as huge thorns.

Step forward. Put feet between slick roots. Touch overhanging branches, preparing for them to spring back once the ice has gone. Hold the heat, hold it, send it out, take another step….

Jareth was never more than a handsbreadth behind her, and more than once she heard him hiss as he was not fast enough to evade an unnaturally sharp tree branch freezing behind him. The strain was getting to him as well.

“Are you all right?” she asked at one point, craning her neck for a quick backward glance.

“Just keep going, don’t worry about me,” he said. His eyes were on his feet, making sure his steps were secure. His hands and arms were bleeding from numerous cuts, and she could see wisps of smoke curling up from his clothes where they had gotten singed. Even the cloak was not immune to the kind of magical heat Kevla was emitting.

Step by slow, careful, tortuous step they went. At one point, Kevla’s foot landed on one of the icy roots. Her feet shot out from under her and she tumbled forward. She cried out, seeing a dagger-sharp broken branch rushing toward her unprotected face. An instant before it jabbed itself into her eye, she was halted by powerful arms around her. Her breath was forced out with a whoosh.

Her mind went back to the last time Jareth had seized her around the waist. Then, she had been terrified at the strength of the arm that had come out of nowhere. Now, she was deeply thankful as she stared, not moving, hardly daring to blink, at the icicle jutting a bare finger’s width from her right eye.

Jareth understood why she remained so still. Slowly, carefully, he pulled her upright and held her briefly against him. She squeezed his arm and then quickly stepped forward, seeing that the ice was already starting to return as punishment for her brief lapse in attention.

The Dancers were not all-powerful, despite their gifts. They were mortal flesh, and could be hurt. Could be killed. Kevla was keenly aware that, in her previous incarnation, she had been stabbed to death in an alleyway. Just a few months ago, she herself had lain at the brink of death because of a single arrow. And arrows of ice were all around them.

She spared a quick thought for the Dragon, wondering if their link would continue here. But for the first time since she had rediscovered her old friend, she could not sense him. She and Jareth were truly on their own here.

At last, after what seemed an eternity, she thought she saw an opening ahead.

“I think we’re coming to the end,” she called to Jareth.

“Not a moment too soon.”

“Something could be waiting for us. We should be ready for an attack or ambush.”

Jareth made a noise she couldn’t interpret. She kept going forward, gritting her teeth against the necessity that made her move so slowly when she longed to race toward the light that kept drawing closer and closer.

She wanted to stop, to assess what might be waiting for them when they stepped out of the dead forest and into the snow up ahead, but she did not dare.

“I can’t stop and listen,” she said, trying to keep her voice as low as possible. It was a shame she could not mentally communicate with Jareth as she could the Dragon, she thought.

“I understand,” he said back, also speaking quietly into her ear. “When you get close to the entrance, just rush out. Not the best strategy, but the only one we have. I’ll be right behind you.”

She nodded. It was growing lighter now. She was sure Jareth, who was slightly taller than she, could see it as well.

“A few more steps,” he said. His voice was a soft breeze in her ear. She took a deep breath, took two more steps, and then leaped forward into the snow, tense and alert.

The two rows of men who flanked the exit of the forest were still as stone. Quivering with exhaustion, tasting fear that her power might not come anymore when she asked, Kevla raised a hand to blast them.

Jareth’s hand shot out to close on her wrist. Wildly she stared at him. Why was he stopping her?

“They’re not attacking us,” Jareth said in a low voice. “Remember, they’re just men who are under her control. I don’t want to kill any of them if we can help it.”

Kevla blinked and nodded her understanding. He released her arm. As she lowered it, she saw that he was right. None of the men was moving to stop them. Now that she had a moment to look at them, she felt sorry for them. They were clad in poor clothes, certainly not enough to properly protect them from this bitter cold. Some had fingers and faces that were turning black from something Kevla knew was called “ice-poison.” They had no scimitars, or swords, or shields like any proper clansman in Arukan would have with which to fight, only farmer’s tools and arrows. They stood, vacant-eyed, one across from the other, forming a corridor that led directly into the castle.

“She knows we’re here,” Jareth said.

“Yes, she does,” came a loud, arrogant voice that Kevla knew and shrank from. “And so do I.”

“The Emperor,” Kevla whispered.

34

Jareth glanced at Kevla. The color was draining from her face as she spoke and her eyes were wide. He’d never seen her display this kind of fear before and his own heart sank. She had mentioned the Emperor to him as someone they needed to regard as an enemy, of course, but he’d gotten the impression that this man, if man he was, was a distant threat. Clearly Kevla had not been expecting him here.

“Come forward,” came the arrogant voice again. Jareth looked around, but could find no speaker. “She has willingly granted an audience with you today.”

Jareth looked back at Kevla. She had regained some of her composure and had straightened, standing tall and doing her best not to reveal her fear. Admiration swept through him. When they had done what they had come to do, he would tell her so.

If they survived.

“I would suggest you make haste, Dancers. The Maiden does not like to be kept waiting. It makes her…testy.”

A low, rumbling chuckle rolled like distant thunder, and abruptly Jareth’s trepidation was replaced by irritation. He decided he did not like this Emperor. The shift in feeling heartened him.

He and Kevla moved forward, doing their best to stride boldly in the snow. The castle towered before them, and Jareth thought with a burst of grim humor that at the very least, they’d be out of the apparently ceaseless fall of snow.

The castle itself was a work of art, he thought as he and Kevla drew closer. He had never seen anything like it. There were spires and turrets, walkways and arches, all gleaming and sparkling. The windows were as clear as if they had been made of glass, although he suspected that, like everything, it was merely transparent ice. They carefully negotiated slippery ice steps and stood in the entrance. Mammoth white doors swung open as if of their own accord and a hall yawned before them.

Suddenly everything changed.

He was standing in his own home, back in Skalka Valley, and he heard the cheerful sound of a crackling fire. And he was not alone.

“Welcome home, Father,” said Annu, reaching to take his cloak.

“I’ve kept your supper warm, love.” Taya smiled at him from where she sat beside the fire, nursing their son.

A feeling of commingled horror and joy washed over Jareth and he stumbled, suddenly dizzy. Annu was there to steady him, tall and strong and slim, concern on her pretty face.

“Father? Are you well? Come sit beside the fire.”

She was alive. They were all alive.

The Tiger had been wrong. They could be brought back…they had been brought back….

He stared down at his daughter, then abruptly reached to fold her into his arms.

The sounds of merrymaking seemed to assault Kevla’s ears after the silence of the wintry land. Colors and sounds converged on her. She closed her eyes for a moment and covered her ears, dazed and shocked, trying to determine where she was, what was going on.

She opened her eyes to stare at the low, carved table all but groaning with the weight of the glorious feast that seemed to stretch as far as the eye could see. All her favorite foods were here—olives, dates, roasted fowls and meats, pitchers of water with sliced fruit floating in them. She was suddenly ravenous. She had gone for so long eating nothing but grains and stews that she could not even imagine where to begin.

“Welcome home, daughter,” said her father, seated on her right. He looked relaxed and smiling.

“My beloved, I have missed you so,” came a voice on her left.

He was clad in his most formal attire, and the lavishly embroidered rhia molded attractively to his slim but strong frame. The kerchief that wrapped his head did not hide one or two tendrils of soft, curling black hair. His full lips were parted in a smile of delight, and while his deportment was perfect, his brown eyes glowed with love. He reached and touched her face.

“It can all be all right, now,” Jashemi said tenderly. “You don’t have to choose this time. Tell me you love me. Tell me you have not forgotten what we were to one another. We can have everything here.”

Annu’s slim frame was warm and strong as Jareth clasped her. He buried his face in her neck, kissing her soft skin as he had done when she was a baby.

But there was another he needed to see, to hold, to kiss, and with a final squeeze he released his daughter. Turning, he stumbled the few feet forward and fell to his knees in front of his wife. He buried his head in her lap.

“You’re alive,” he said, his voice muffled.

Taya ran her fingers through his long, tangled hair and laughed softly. “Of course I am.”

He lifted his head and gazed into her blue eyes, the color of sky in summer. “I thought…But no. It must have been a dream.”

She stroked his cheek, and suddenly he was clean-shaven, his skin tingling from her familiar, beloved touch. “No more bad dreams,” Taya whispered, handing the infant to Annu and reaching for her husband. “Not here. Not anymore.”

Kevla was confused. She had faced this before. She had made her choice, how she would hold him in her heart. He reached and snared an olive, and without thinking she opened her mouth to receive the offering. Moisture flooded her mouth as she anticipated the briny tang.

He placed it on her tongue. Kevla felt a stab of shock. Nothing. The olive tasted like…nothing. There wasn’t even a pit.

Instinctively, she spat out the tasteless morsel. Something was wrong. Something was very wrong.

“You’re not him,” she told Jashemi flatly.

His beautiful face furrowed in puzzlement. “But I am. Let me kiss you, my love. It will come back to you.”

He leaned forward as if to kiss her, but as he moved toward her, she drew back with a gasp.

She couldn’t scent him.

All of her memories of Jashemi were tactile, sensual. The feel of his smooth skin; the taste of his lips; the musical sound of his voice and, most powerfully, his own unique scent. He rubbed fragrant oils into his skin every day to keep it moist and supple in the dry heat, as was the practice among the leaders of a great House. She had come to associate the warm, spicy smell with the man she had loved on so many different levels. A moment before, the olive had had no taste; and now, Jashemi had no scent.

But oh, it looked like him.

She pulled away, furious. She recognized this scenario. The Emperor had tried to deceive her with it once before, in a dream-state, and if it had not been for the Dragon awakening her with fire, she would have succumbed. But he would not succeed this time. Kevla realized that even if she had been fooled by the illusion, it would not—could not—have lasted. She had made her peace with Jashemi-kha-Tahmu, her brother and Lorekeeper and soul and dearest friend. She had chosen to love him in this way, not in a physical, erotic way, and she knew the passion that the master of this illusion wanted to draw from her would not have blossomed. He could have succeeded in tricking her a few weeks ago, when she was lonely and broken and vulnerable.

But not anymore.

She bit back her rage, for it was not directed at the subject of the illusion. She touched Jashemi one last time, indulging herself in a final, bittersweet brush of the lie. He looked puzzled and hurt. She couldn’t bear to see him like that, even if he wasn’t real, so she rose to her feet, planted her hands on her hips and cried loudly, “I see through this, Emperor! You do not fool me!”

I see through this, Emperor. You do not fool me.

Jareth blinked. The words, spoken by a voice he somehow knew, seemed to float toward him.

His wife’s face was only inches away. Her lips parted, inviting him to kiss her again.

“Taya,” he whispered. “Oh, gods. Taya, it wasn’t a dream. You’re dead. I saw you…I touched you. You were cold and hard under my fingers. You can’t possibly be here.”

“Of course I can,” his wife insisted, and he wanted so much to believe her. But there was something wrong, something…off balance. He couldn’t smell her, couldn’t taste her when he kissed her. He would have given anything to ignore the awareness that now flooded him, but Kevla’s words pulled him back from the pleasant illusion into his reality of winter, ice, lost powers and lost love.

Her hands reached for him, and now they seemed too eager, too cloying, and he recoiled.

“She’s dead,” Jareth cried, getting to his feet and looking wildly around for the callous being that had perpetrated the awful deception. “She’s not here. She’s dead!”

Kevla heard Jareth’s voice, raw with grief, and her own heart ached in sympathy. She, at least, knew that Jashemi would be with her forever; he was her soul. But Jareth had yet to acknowledge his loss fully, and she was furious at the Emperor for toying with him so.

Ignoring the pleas from the illusory Jashemi who was still trying to coax her back into a realm of falsehood, Kevla cried, “I warned you once before, you will never use my love for him against me. You can’t give him back to me because he’s never really left me and he never will. Stop this foolishness and show yourself!”

The illusion faded. Kevla found herself standing next to Jareth in an enormous formal hall of ice. There was, of course, no fire to light it, but light was coming in from some source. Kevla suspected that the hall alone was half as large as the entire House of Four Waters. It cried out for decoration, for feasting, for huskaas and songs and a crowd of people, but it was completely empty save for a raised area at the far end.

On the dais was a throne, carved from ice. And upon the throne was a woman as white as that throne. White hair, white skin, white lips, closed white eyes. She didn’t look real; she looked like one of the stone statues Kevla had seen in her father’s gardens. Was this the Ice Maiden of song and story? A carved image made of ice, nothing more?

“Approach,” the Emperor ordered.

Kevla looked over at Jareth. His eyes were bloodshot, his skin was pale, and he was shaking. He looked again like the wild man who had accosted her in the woods, not like the man she was coming to trust and respect. Impulsively, Kevla reached for his hand. He started to jerk it back, but then he met her gaze and squeezed her hand.

Her mind went back to the discussion they had had earlier. If she really is ice, then I can destroy her.

“Now,” she whispered, hoping he understood her. Slowly, he nodded.

And Kevla attacked.

35

Kevla summoned every ounce of strength she possessed, and fire exploded from her fingers to hurtle toward the Ice Maiden.

The Maiden never moved. Instead, a wall of ice suddenly materialized in front of her. The two balls of fire Kevla had hurled struck the walls and while the ice was vaporized instantly, the Maiden remained unharmed.

Beside Kevla, Jareth cried out. She spared him a quick glance and saw that the ice around his feet was churning as if it was water. Before she could do anything, it had splashed over Jareth’s feet, chaining him to the floor, and was beginning to climb slowly up his legs. He bent and chipped at it with his dagger, and Kevla saw the blade snap. The ice remained solid.

She started to dive toward him, to put her hands on his ice-encased boots and free him. With no warning, she slammed into a sudden wall of ice that erupted between her and Jareth. Clear as glass, the ice was as hard as stone, and Kevla grunted in pain as she cracked her cheek against it. She staggered back, bumping into a second wall of ice…and a third, and a fourth, all as thick as her hand. She realized she was now completely enclosed. Kevla reached out a hand, summoned her waning strength. The ice melted slightly. As she attempted to free herself, Jareth roared in anger, and she saw the ice had crept upward to midcalf.

“Jareth!” she screamed. He glanced wildly at her. Again she pressed a hand to the ice, and again it melted somewhat. But this time, she saw the ice jump upward along Jareth’s legs to his knees. Every time she tried to free herself from her cage, the ice moved farther up Jareth’s legs. She could liberate herself—but she would doom Jareth.

“You could have made this pleasant for yourselves,” the voice of the Emperor declared. “I tried to give you a place you would enjoy. People you loved. But you rejected that.”

“It was all a lie!” Jareth cried, his voice breaking with his rage.

“Would it not have been a more pleasant way to pass your days than standing here, enclosed by the Maiden’s ice?” the Emperor countered.

“What do you want from us?” Kevla screamed, pounding impotently against the wall of ice.

“I would think it would be obvious—to stop you, in any way I can. However you spend the rest of your lives, it matters not to me. My earlier offering would have been much easier on you.”

Kevla blinked back tears of rage. Weeping, even with anger, would not serve her now. She looked at Jareth, still struggling to free himself; at the Ice Maiden, seated as if carved of ice herself, upon her throne.

Was the Maiden even real, or was this just the Emperor playing with them again? And if she was real, was she his ally, or his puppet? Was there a way to reach her? Again she recalled the last lines of the third song in the cycle: Remember what drove me to be what I am, all that I wanted was love from one man.

“Maiden!” Kevla called. “Maiden, I would speak with you!”

The Emperor laughed, and Kevla’s skin erupted in gooseflesh as the sound echoed in the vast chamber.

“She can’t hear you,” he said in that chilling, disembodied voice that came from everywhere and nowhere. “She is lost in her dreaming, reliving the pain of her tragic life.”

The words should have been spoken with compassion, but they were mocking. He felt no sympathy for the Ice Maiden’s story of heartbreak and vengeance. Kevla ignored him.

“Maiden!” Kevla cried again. “Sister, you suffer. I know this. I know the stories. Tell me of your pain!”

Nothing. Then, Kevla saw it: the Maiden blinked. She was alive…at least, as alive as she could be, made of ice as she was….

“Maiden!” Kevla called again, heartened by the movement. “Speak to me. I would hear your story from your own lips.”

“You waste breath, Flame Dancer,” said the Emperor, but Kevla thought she detected a faint note of worry in the arrogant voice. She waited, barely breathing. She was stalling for time, time in which to think of something, anything, to save herself and Jareth.

The Maiden’s lips turned a deep wine-red. She began to speak.

“My story’s an old one—a poor country maid, I loved a young man, and that love was betrayed—”

Her voice was like bells, like a kyndela, silvery and pure, but frighteningly devoid of emotion.

Out of the corner of her eye, Kevla saw Jareth stop struggling. He stood, swaying a little because he could not move his feet to adjust his balance, and stared at the awakening Maiden as she began to speak. Kevla’s heart sank. Of course; Jareth was a man. And men were “caught like flies” by the Ice Maiden’s charms. Kevla could count on no more aid from that quarter.

“Stop!” Kevla cried, and the Ice Maiden halted in midrecitation. Her eyes narrowed, and Kevla saw them taking on hue, becoming blue. And was her hair more golden now than white?

“That’s a song made up by the huskaas,” Kevla continued, speaking urgently. “I’ve heard it. That’s not what I want to hear. I want to hear your story from you. Speak to me, my sister. Tell me your pain.”

Slowly, the beautiful, white hands twitched, and the Maiden got stiffly to her feet. Yes, her hair was definitely yellow now, starting to take on a sunlight-gold color.

“Sister,” the Maiden said, as if tasting the word in her mouth. “Sister. Yes. You are a woman, as I am a woman. And we suffer. Yes, we suffer.”

Hope surged in Kevla’s heart. “Tell me,” she urged. “Tell me everything.”

The Maiden slowly stepped down from her throne as she spoke. With each step she took toward Kevla, she seemed to become more alive. Color began to fill her cheeks, her face, her hands, and her movements became more fluid.

“He was a huskaa, from another village,” the Maiden said. “He played so beautifully, and he was so beautiful himself. I fell in love with him, and we stole away together on that warm midsummer’s evening. He lay with me; he took my maidenhead, and then he laughed. He laughed!”

Her expression changed. The red mouth twisted, and tears filled the blue eyes. Rage and pain warred on a face that was suddenly a battleground of emotions. Kevla noticed that the Emperor, so talkative before, was now conspicuously silent. Why?

Kevla returned her attention to the image of the beautiful young woman approaching them. She was lovely, Kevla had to admit. Tall, slender, pale, except for those red, red lips and golden hair. Tears slipped down her face. They froze as they traveled, dropping off the edges of her cheeks to fall to the floor as perfect little crystals.

“I am sorry,” Kevla said sincerely. Whatever the Maiden had done, she had been wronged first. She had been seduced and abandoned. “What was his name?”

The Maiden stopped dead in her tracks. Puzzlement filled her blue eyes. “His name?”

“Yes, of course,” Kevla continued. “His name.”

“I—I don’t—”

“Do not answer her!”

The Emperor’s voice was both commanding and alarmed, and Kevla froze, barely breathing.

“Who dares speak so to me?” cried the Maiden. She raised an imperious hand and the men who had stood so rigidly at attention outside her fortress now rushed inside. “There is someone in the castle,” she told them. “Find him. Kill him.” They scattered to obey, ducking into doors that opened at the end of the hall.

Kevla couldn’t believe her luck. She had thought the Ice Maiden an ally of the Emperor, or perhaps a tool. Perhaps she still was, but if so, she was ignorant of the alliance. She seemed genuinely offended that anyone would trespass in her hall.

“I am not here in flesh, but in spirit only,” the Emperor said. He was still a disembodied voice. And this time, the voice was soothing. “The fire-woman is your enemy. She tried to attack you! I am a friend, Maiden, who—”

“A friend?” She laughed harshly. “No man is my friend.”

“But I am not a man.” The voice had shifted, had become soft, feminine. But the Ice Maiden, as animated and passionate now as she had been immobile when they had first entered her hall, was not so easily fooled.

“You are a man indeed,” she snapped, “for you fall into deception at once. I will hear you no more, spirit. And I will answer the fire-maiden’s question!” The Maiden again turned her attention on Kevla, and again, looked confused.

“I don’t remember his name,” she said, stunned by the admission.

“But you must,” said Kevla. “Every woman remembers her first love. And since he devastated you with his abandonment, his name must be forever written in your heart.”

“You have no heart,” said the Emperor, his voice again masculine. “You have only ice in your breast.”

“I have only ice in my…” repeated the Maiden, then shook her head angrily. “No! I will not listen to you!”

“You will listen to me! I made you and you will do what I say!”

And suddenly Kevla realized what was going on. The Emperor had magics the like of which she had never heard of. He had the skill to create realistic images of Jashemi and her father, images so accurate that if he hadn’t slipped up on the subtle details of scents and tastes, Kevla would have believed them utterly. Judging from Jareth’s stricken cries and haggard expression, he, too, had been deceived by the illusions the Emperor had wrought.

Now Kevla was certain that the Ice Maiden was something similar, except the Emperor had gone even farther with her. He had created her based on the old legends and songs, right down to the details of wine-red lips and hair like the sun. The Maiden knew the songs, but she couldn’t remember the name of the man who had so devastated her. And apparently, she had no memory of the Emperor, either. Before the Emperor could again attempt to stop the conversation, Kevla hurled more questions at the Maiden.

“What was your name?” Kevla demanded, leaning up against the clear ice wall that separated her from the Maiden. “What town were you from? Who were your parents? What did your beloved look like? Smell like, taste like? If you loved him so much that he broke your heart, you would know these things!”

The Maiden’s eyes were enormous. “Remember what drove me to be what I am—all that I wanted was love from one man….”

“What man?” Kevla insisted.

“Silence!” roared the Emperor. “You will not listen to this woman any—”

But it was the Emperor no one was listening to now. Jareth continued with his fixed stare fastened upon the Maiden. The Maiden had eyes only for Kevla, and Kevla did not dare look away from that hurt, puzzled gaze. She felt sorry for the Maiden, not because of her sad story, but because of how she had been created and used by the Emperor.

“All the songs about you come from a land called Lamal. There, it is women who ask for a man’s hand in marriage,” Kevla said, her voice soft, intense. “And in Lamal a woman who is not a maiden does not lose worth in the eyes of her people. Indeed, coming to the marriage bed already great with child but proves her fertility.”

“But…but he…”

Kevla pressed her advantage. “The song says you called on dark powers. What powers, Maiden? Who did you bargain with?”

Tears filled her eyes and froze before they were halfway down her completely human-looking face. “I don’t know,” she whispered, her voice raw.

“You will not—” And suddenly the Emperor’s voice fell silent.

“Take down this wall, Maiden,” Kevla urged. “Let me come to you. You are not what you think you are. You have been cruelly deceived, my sister.”

The Maiden was now on the other side of the ice. She placed her hand on her side of the wall. Kevla placed hers on the other side, so that if the wall had not been between them, their hands would be touching.

“Why can’t I remember his name?” the Maiden whispered.

“Because,” Kevla whispered back, very gently, “I believe this memory you have never happened. The Emperor—the man whose voice tried to tell you not to talk to me, who invaded your hall—made you to serve his own ends, and gave you these memories. You heard him say so yourself. Because of him, you have done things I don’t think you fully understand. You have taken the minds of dozens, perhaps hundreds of men, left them to die in the woods—”

It was the wrong thing to say. The Maiden’s blue eyes narrowed and she snatched her hand back.

“Men!” she spat. “Nothing is too cruel to do to them! You know that, sister. I can see the pain in your own heart. You have been hurt by loving someone.”

“Not the way you think,” Kevla said. “These men did nothing to you. They were not the ones who wronged you.”

“How is it you can be a woman and not understand this?” the Maiden raged. “They are all the same! If he had not died, this man you loved would have left you one day. He would have broken your heart, devastated you.”

Kevla felt Jashemi again in her heart, and answered with absolute certainty, “Never.”

“I am a friend to women, do you not see that?” Her eyes were wide, her voice impassioned. “I am a friend to you! When I take the men away, I am giving women a gift, a life without the pain of heartbreak now or ever to come.”

Kevla stared at her. “Do you really not see?” she asked aloud, hardly able to believe it. “When you came with your winter, you made it all but impossible for people to find food. For animals to survive. The men left their homes to get their families something to eat so they would not starve to death. When they stumbled into your circles of ice, they were protecting their wives and children, not abandoning them!”

The Maiden blinked. Doubt crept into her face.

Kevla continued, speaking quickly. “When you took them as slaves—when you sent them back to their villages as madmen—they turned on people they loved. For every man that you hold here as a slave, there are women who are slowly dying of cold and hunger directly because of your actions. You are an enslaver of men and a killer of women and children!”

The Maiden recoiled as though Kevla had struck her. Even her hands went up in a protective posture. “No,” she whispered. “This cannot be. I protect women and children. I would never harm them!”

“You lie!”

Jareth’s voice cracked in the hall like a tree bough snapping under the weight of ice and snow. Kevla was startled. She had thought him enraptured by the Maiden, as all men were, but now she realized that his stare had not been hopeless desire, but hatred.

“You murdered my family!” he cried.

The Maiden turned, her eyes flashing. “I did not!” Her voice was deeper now, filled with outrage. Nothing Jareth could have said could have offended her more. “You are a man, and as a man, your words are lies!”

“Not these words,” Jareth hissed. “Think back, Maiden, if you’re even capable of doing so. Think back to a snowstorm that swept through a little town called Skalka Valley nine months ago. Think of a storm so violent that it filled a house with snow and ice in a matter of a few heartbeats, smothering a woman, an infant, and a twelve-year-old girl.”

Kevla held her breath as silence fell. The Maiden turned from Kevla and walked slowly toward Jareth. Kevla saw that the ice was now up to Jareth’s waist. But the cold that was wrapped around his lower body had done nothing to cool his fury. Standing in front of him, just out of his reach, the Maiden searched his eyes with her own.

“You speak truly,” the Maiden said, her voice hushed with sympathy and wonder. “You did behold this. And you have not fallen under my spell. I am…sorry for you. For your family. But I swear to you, I did not do this thing. I would never send my snow and ice to kill a woman and children.”

Jareth’s eyes held hers. Finally, his voice hoarse, he said, “I believe you.”

The Maiden looked at Jareth for a moment longer, a variety of emotions flittering across her beautiful face. Then, turning to Kevla, she said, “Do you, too, speak truly, Fire-Woman? For your power is my deadliest enemy. Why should I believe you?”

“I am your enemy,” admitted Kevla, “for you are killing this land and the people—men, women and children—who live here. But I don’t think that’s what you intended to do.”

The Maiden shook her head. “No,” she whispered. “Women suffer enough. To think I have added to that….”

She wiped at a tear, sending the frozen droplet falling to the floor. For a long, long moment, she stared vacantly. Kevla didn’t dare avert her gaze. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Jareth start to shiver. She couldn’t imagine what he was feeling, encased in ice to his waist.

Finally, the Maiden looked up at Kevla. Resolution was in her gaze.

“I do not wish to cause harm anymore,” she said, her voice quivering. “But I do not know how to stop.”

She stepped forward and placed her hand on the ice cage that surrounded Kevla, and it shattered into dozens of pieces.

The Maiden extended her hands to Kevla.

“Help me.”

36

Slowly, Kevla stepped forward and took the outstretched hands in hers. The Maiden gasped in pain and snatched them back, staring at them in horror. Kevla saw that from her mere touch, the hands made of ice had begun to melt and the fingers had fused together.

Kevla looked at Jareth. “Let him go,” she asked the Maiden. With a wave of her hand, the ice that had encased Jareth turned to water and he stepped free, shivering. “What do you need us to do, Maiden?” Kevla asked quietly.

She wondered where the Emperor was, why he was not doing everything he could to intervene. Perhaps he couldn’t. Perhaps when the Ice Maiden realized that she was her own person, he could no longer control her. Whatever the reason, Kevla was grateful.

The Maiden stared at her disfigured hands. “I do not know,” she said.

“You command the snow,” Jareth said, anger and hardness still in his voice.

She looked at him. “I do,” she said, “but I can only tell it when to snow and when not to. I can tell it where to fall. I cannot make it disappear or even stop falling for very long.”

Kevla and Jareth looked at each other, and she thought she saw a hint of regret in his face when he said, “It could be that you are the snow. And as long as you…live…it will never go away.”

The Maiden gasped, catching his meaning. “I do not wish to die!” she cried.

Kevla’s heart was heavy. She understood now that the Maiden was as much a victim of the Emperor’s whim as any of the men she had enslaved or any of the women who had suffered under her unnatural winter. And now that the Maiden knew what she was, what she had done, she wanted to stop it. But like any sentient being, she cherished her life.

The Maiden buried her head in her hands. Kevla stepped toward her, careful not to touch her.

“I believe you were made for a single purpose,” Kevla said gently. “To stop this man,” and she indicated Jareth, “from bringing spring to the land. To block his powers so that the man who created you would defeat us. Not only Lamal, but the entire world is in danger. We are the only ones who might be able to save it. The Emperor knows this. To try to stop us, he filled your mind with a story cobbled from fireside songs, and that was your only reality. All you knew was pain. No one could have expected you to behave any differently.”

The Maiden shook her head in fierce denial. “Why should I believe you?”

“Because you have no memories other than what the songs say. Because you can’t tell me the name of your lover. Because,” Kevla said gently, “when you search your heart, you will find nothing there except for what I have said. I think you know my words are true.”

“It hurts,” the Maiden said softly, her voice muffled by her deformed hands. “The memory of my betrayal…of that night…still hurts so badly. Even though you tell me that it was all false.”

“I’m sorry for your pain,” Kevla said sincerely. “I understand that for you, it’s as real as anything I’ve experienced. But because of that pain, you have made innocent people suffer. You have even killed. Maiden, I’ve seen the bodies.” She swallowed hard, remembering the frozen corpse she had uncovered when she melted the snow—the woman hacked nearly in half.

The Maiden gasped. “I—I can see what you see. But a man did this—”

“A man directly under your control. A man who would never have done such a thing had you not claimed his mind.”

“No!”

“You have to atone for that,” Kevla continued ruthlessly. “You have to do what is necessary. Even if you believe that everything else I’ve said is a lie, you can’t run away from the fact that if this winter continues, everyone in this land will die.”

“Perhaps if I do not make it snow so much,” the Maiden said. She was clutching at anything to save her life, and Kevla couldn’t blame her. “Perhaps if I send the men back. Although they do not deserve it….”

“Talk to them,” Jareth said suddenly.

The Maiden removed her hands from her face and looked at him. “What?”

“Talk to them. You still don’t truly believe that we’re anything but monsters. Call them in and ask them. Ask them what they think about the women in their lives.”

“They will doom themselves,” the Maiden said. “With their own words, they will doom themselves, for they cannot lie to me while under my spell.”

Kevla felt a brief stab of worry. She had never suffered as the Maiden had, from rejected love; but she knew that such a thing was not uncommon. Mylikki and Altan had played out a version of that story in front of her eyes. But Jareth looked completely confident.

“Then they doom themselves,” he said. “But ask them. You owe them that much. I think you will find that there is not a one among them that does not cherish the love of a woman in some way.”

She rose shakily. “Very well,” the Maiden said. The doors swung open and the Maiden’s slaves entered to stand before her. She looked them up and down and walked down the line, contempt in her gaze.

“This man here,” she said, stabbing a partially melted finger at Jareth, “would have me believe that you care for the women in your lives. You…tell me of the women you have violated.”

The man, short and stocky, said in a dull voice, “I have a wife of seventeen years and two daughters.”

“Have you lain with another? Broken your vows?”

“Never.”

The Maiden frowned, slightly. Kevla saw that Olar stood next to the first man, and the Maiden now turned to him.

“You…you’re a pretty boy. How many hearts have you broken?”

“None that I know of, for I have never even kissed a girl,” Olar intoned. “But I love my mother and my sister. I think they are very brave.”

The Maiden turned to a third man, and asked him similar questions. He had similar answers. She kept going, kept hearing stories of affection and love, until she reached one man.

“Have you lain with a woman and felt no love for her?”

“Yes,” the man answered.

The Maiden shot Jareth a triumphant look. “Did she feel love for you?”

“Yes.”

“And does she suffer from your cruelty?”

“I do not believe so. She is married to my cousin, and is suckling her second child,” the man replied. “No man could love a woman more.”

The Maiden’s face fell. Even here, even when she had found a man who admitted to intimacy with no love, the woman in question had not suffered forever.

Still she persisted. “Tell me,” she said to one man with a handsome face and cold eyes. “Tell me of the women you have seduced and abandoned.”

“There are many,” the man replied.

“So then, there is no woman you love?”

“My sister and her daughters are precious to me. I would protect them with my life.”

Down the line she went. Nowhere did she find a man who did not have a wife, a mother, a sister, a daughter he loved.

“Enough of this, Maiden,” said Jareth, but his voice was gentler than the words he spoke. “You see what you have done. There is no one here who deserves your vengeance. Each man has a woman who needs and loves him. Let them go home to their families. Give them fruit, and crops, and a good harvest.”

“My life depends upon the ice and the snow,” she said dully. “And you tell me that the life of everyone else in this land depends on that going away. Tell me then, what kind of choice do I have?”

Again, Kevla and Jareth exchanged glances. She was prepared to destroy the Maiden, if such a thing was even possible, if she decided to choose life instead of sacrificing herself.

“You weren’t ever meant to be,” Kevla said. “Your life was bought at the cost of so many others. We have come to do whatever is necessary, but I hope you will choose what is right of your own will.”

“I have nothing,” the Maiden said. “No reality. You are right, Fire-Woman. I have no memories that are my own. My desire to have vengeance upon men has resulted in harming innocent women. The only things that I have truly done have been to enslave and cause suffering.” She looked up at Kevla. “I don’t think I can continue to live with that.”

Kevla smiled sadly. “You are brave,” she said. She stepped closer and opened her arms. “I am the Flame Dancer. Come into my arms, my sister, and I will hold you. It will be quick, I promise.”

“I’m afraid,” said the Maiden, and then, “I wish…I wish I had something good to remember.”

“You’re about to do something very courageous,” Kevla assured her. “Something that very few people are willing to do. To die for the good of others. When people speak of you, I will make sure they know that. There will be new songs of the Ice Maiden—songs about her courage and sacrifice.”

The Maiden wiped her face, looked Kevla in the eye, and stepped forward.

“No,” said Jareth, startling both women.

Fearing that he wanted to exact his own revenge on the Maiden, to make her suffer before she died, Kevla said quickly, “Jareth, it’s all right.”

“You don’t understand.” He turned and faced the Maiden squarely. “You’ve done nothing but hurt people your entire existence. You were led to believe that this was justified, that men deserved everything and anything you did to them. But you don’t know anything about love, or heartbreak, or even men at all. You heard the truth from their own lips. Most of us aren’t at all like the memories that the Emperor gave you. We want to find someone to spend our lives with. We want to fall in love. Have children. Go to sleep at night in the arms of the woman who means the world to us.”

His voice broke. The Ice Maiden gazed at him raptly.

“You’ve never known love, or even kindness. Not from a man, not from anybody. You said you wanted to have something good to remember. I will try to give you that, if you’ll let me. I will do what I can to dispel this lie that is the only truth you’ve ever known.”

“What are you offering?” asked the Maiden, quietly.

“I will hold you,” Jareth said simply. “It will not be as quick a…a passing as it would be with Kevla. But I am warm flesh and blood, and you are ice. The result would be the same.”

Kevla looked at Jareth. He was soaked through, and was shivering. The Ice Maiden in her true form, as they had first beheld her, was solid ice, and colder than anything Kevla had ever encountered. Still, Kevla knew that she could melt her in an instant, if she summoned her powers. Against simple human flesh—and she had no reason to believe Jareth was anything other for this purpose—it would take hours and would chill him to the bone. She had learned enough about the dangers of the cold to know that prolonged exposure could permanently damage his skin, or even cause his death.

“Jareth—” Kevla began.

“I want to offer her this, Kevla.” His voice was calm, quiet. “She needs to know that we’re not monsters.”

Kevla bit her lip. But she knew it was not her decision to make. Jareth had made the offer; to accept or decline was a choice that belonged only to the Ice Maiden.

“Will this…harm you?” the Maiden asked.

“I don’t know,” Jareth said, and Kevla knew he spoke the truth. Not even he knew how his Dancer’s body would react. “But I want to do it.”

She rose and went to him. “Then…I would like you to hold me…until I am gone.”

Jareth unfastened his white cloak and placed it on the floor. It would be the only thing between him and the solid ice. He sat on the cloak and held out his hand.

Slowly, the Ice Maiden’s partially melted hand closed over Jareth’s. Both of them inhaled swiftly from the shock—he of her cold, she of his warmth. Gently, Jareth eased her down into his lap. Kevla saw him swallow and stiffen slightly as the Maiden settled into his arms. She draped her arms around his neck and rested her head on his chest. Jareth took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and folded her close.

Hushed and reverent, Kevla sank down beside the two, pressing her hands to her own warm heart, aware that she was bearing witness to something almost sacred. The Maiden’s color began to fade almost at once, and a smile curved her white lips.

“I feel…safe,” she whispered.

Jareth laid his cheek upon her white hair. “You are safe,” he murmured. “You are your own self now. No puppet of the Emperor. And I will hold you.”

Tears filled Kevla’s eyes, spilled hotly down her cheeks. For so long, Jareth had battled the winter. He had raged at it, had cursed it, had challenged it. Had stalked the gods of his land and even threatened them so they might destroy it. Now he sat still and oddly serene, holding the being at least nominally responsible for the dreadful winter as close as he might a child or lover. An awesome humility in the face of this compassion flooded her.

How long it took for the Ice Maiden to pass, Kevla would never be able to tell. Jareth told the Maiden stories of his family; happy, funny stories, the sort a husband and father would enjoy relating. Sometimes he sang to her, his voice not as perfect and pure as Altan’s or Mylikki’s, but sweet and clear nonetheless. It seemed to Kevla, silently watching, that the Maiden melted from the inside. She became more and more translucent as the time passed, growing hollow and terribly delicate.

Jareth never expressed discomfort or pain the entire time. And the Maiden did so only once, when she shifted and cried out.

“It…hurts,” she whispered. By now, she was almost transparent. There was no hint of white about her, only glistening, fragile ice.

“I’m sorry,” Jareth murmured.

“Is this how it is with men and women?” the Maiden whispered. Despite the tragedy and pain the Maiden had caused, Kevla wept as she beheld her. “This…tenderness, this care?”

“It can be,” said Jareth, and then more fiercely, “it should be.”

She took a deep breath, and Kevla feared the mere gesture would shatter her, but somehow the Maiden remained whole.

“This is sweet,” the Maiden said. “I wish I had been a mortal girl, and tasted this.” Then, “Now.”

Jareth closed his eyes and pulled her to him, pressing her hard against his torso.

The Ice Maiden shattered into a dozen thin pieces, each of which itself crumbled as Jareth moved.

She was gone.

Jareth’s blue eyes flew opened and he gasped. His clothing was soaked, and Kevla, startled from her place of deep reflection and reverence, realized that there were areas on his tunic and breeches that were coated with ice. Jareth’s eyes rolled back into his head and he began to slump forward.

Kevla was galvanized into action. She called on the fire within her and it flared so quickly and so powerfully she was startled by the intensity. It seemed as though the Maiden’s presence in this land had been dampening her powers, although they were not as completely blocked as Jareth’s had been. Kevla banked the deep heat and hastened to Jareth, catching him as he fell. He felt nearly as cold to her touch as the Ice Maiden herself, and had stopped shivering—something she recognized as a bad sign.

Kevla tore off his shirt, so thick with ice that it was stiff in her hands, then tugged off her rhia so there was no barrier between his nearly frozen flesh and her inner fire. She pressed herself into him, her breasts on his chest, her arms entwining him. His hair was thick with ice and she placed one hand at the back of his head. His skin, white and cold, pressed against her, and she closed her eyes and directed heat into his body.

He’s a Dancer. This would have killed an ordinary man. He can handle more heat than Altan could, she thought, and with that thought, she increased her body’s warmth.

With a gasp and a deep shudder, Jareth moved. His arms closed about her slowly, awkwardly, and he pressed his face into her neck. Kevla’s eyes closed in relief. He was alive.

“M-Maiden?” he stammered.

“She’s gone,” Kevla whispered softly. She wondered if she would be able to enlist his aid in his recovery. “But she almost took you with her. Open to my warmth, Jareth. Take it inside you.”

She felt him nod against her, and Kevla again increased the heat. Slowly, she felt life coming back into his limbs and powerful torso. The cheek pressed against hers grew warm, and the trembling first increased, then subsided.

He was all right. She had brought him back. She should disentangle herself from him, put on her rhia, have him don his cloak. But she found she didn’t want to move.

Safe, the Maiden had said, while clasped in Jareth’s arms. I feel…safe. Kevla understood what she had meant. She, too, felt almost unspeakably safe in Jareth’s strong, warm embrace. It had been a long, long time since Kevla had last felt safe. Not even with the Dragon had she been able to stop, to really rest, to put down her burdens even for a moment.

His arms slid slowly up her bare back, pressing her more securely into him, and she felt his body heave with an enormous sigh. While that trusting gesture made her want to stay within the circle of his arms even more, it also broke Kevla’s reverie.

They were far from done with their tasks. Gently, Kevla moved away from Jareth. He kept his eyes averted while she slipped quickly into her rhia. There was a warmth in Kevla’s cheeks that was not due to the inner fire which had burned so brightly a moment ago.

“Thank you,” Jareth said quietly.

Unable to help herself, she reached and touched his cheek, turning his face to look at her. “You did a great and kind thing, Jareth Vasalen. It was an honor to bear witness to it.”

He nodded, looking uncomfortable. A sudden wetness splashed on Kevla’s head and she looked up.

“It’s melting,” she said. “The castle is melting. We’ve got to get out of here—fast.”

37

Jareth stumbled to his feet and almost immediately fell hard on the ice. Kevla, too, fell, and he heard a crack and a grunt of pain as her elbow struck hard. There was about a finger’s breadth of water over the floor now, and the droplets were falling like rain. He heard a deep groan, and realized it was the blocks of ice that comprised the castle.

The sounds were joined by the exclamations of the men, who appeared to have been freed from the Ice Maiden’s spell by her death. They jabbered frantically and looked panicked.

“Come on!” cried Jareth. “This way! You’ve got to get out before the whole place comes down”

The men turned and one cried out, “Kevla!”

“Olar, follow us!” Kevla cried, and the men did so. They were all forced to move forward on their hands and knees; the ice coated with water was simply too slippery for anyone to stand. Kevla looked up nervously.

“The ceiling’s buckling,” she said.

“Keep going!”

The groaning noises increased and Jareth began to wonder if they’d get out before the ceiling and walls collapsed in on them.

He was not sorry for what he had done. The Maiden had at first represented everything that was evil to him about the winter that had strangled his land and killed his family. But he believed her when she said she would not deliberately kill women and children, and had actually felt a stab of pity as he saw her begin to comprehend the depth of the wrongs she had unknowingly perpetrated. When the impulse to make his offer had struck, he had honored it. He had not anticipated how risky the task would be, however; he doubted he would have survived had not Kevla immediately folded herself into his arms to take the cold into herself.

He shook away that memory; it was a distraction now. Scrambling and sliding, crawling as fast as they could in the rapidly melting ice palace, they were almost to the doors. Jareth looked up and saw that they were closed and had started to melt together. It would be almost impossible to force them open.

Kevla reached them before he did, and placed a hand on the doors. She closed her eyes to aid her concentration. Heat radiated from her, and Jareth saw that she was melting an opening just large enough for them to slide through. Anything larger, and the doors might have collapsed on top of them.

“Hurry!” Kevla cried over her shoulder. Jareth needed no urging. He followed her through the oval she had made, slipping on the wet surface, and then they were both outside. The other men followed, sliding down what was left of the stairs until they were on good, solid ground. All of them were soaked and shivering.

Behind them, the palace that had housed a maiden made of ice had fallen in on itself and was melting before their eyes. A pool of water started to seep outward. Kevla watched, unable to tear her gaze away.

“Kevla, turn around,” Jareth said.

She did. “The forest,” Kevla said, puzzled. “It’s gone.”

Jareth nodded. The landscape now looked nothing like the somber, black, icy realm they had fought their way through to reach the castle. It was gentle and rolling. The sky was clear and its normal shade of blue, no longer the strange red color. The trees, growing in clumps here and there rather than close together, looked completely different. Kevla glanced back to where the palace had been and saw only a stretch of white snow.

“Where’s the circle?” Jareth asked.

“The circle of ice we stepped through?” Kevla looked around. “I don’t see it anywhere.”

Their eyes met. “I think we’re back in Lamal,” Jareth said. “Look at the sky. And doesn’t it…feel different to you now?”

Kevla narrowed her brown eyes, thinking, and then nodded slowly. “You’re right. The ice circles take people into the Maiden’s realm. Or the Emperor’s realm I suppose I should say, since he created her. And now that she’s gone, we’re out of that place. Wherever, whatever it was.”

The young man who had called Kevla’s name now rushed up to her. She hugged him.

“Olar! I’m glad you’re all right.”

“What happened? Where are we? How is my sister?” the boy asked.

“Mylikki’s fine,” she reassured him. Jareth raised an eyebrow, realizing the connection. “She’s waiting for us.”

“Where?”

Kevla looked up at Jareth. “An excellent question,” she said. “Shouldn’t we be back with the Dragon and the others?” Kevla asked.

Jareth shook his head. “I have no idea how this all works, Kevla,” he said tiredly. “I just know that I’m glad we’re alive and the Maiden is gone.”

He started. How could he have forgotten…?

“And if she’s gone, then her grasp on the land is gone,” he said. Kevla looked deeply into his eyes and a slow smile spread across her beautiful face.

“Then call spring, Jareth,” she said softly.

He swallowed hard. To try this again, after so many failed attempts—but everything was different now. Everything was right. Still, he hesitated.

Kevla looked at him searchingly, then said something quietly to the boy, who nodded. Olar strode off through the snow to where the others were and they began to talk amongst themselves.

“Come on,” Kevla said. Jareth followed her until they had walked away from the group of men and the rolling hills and trees hid them from their eyes. He felt a wave of appreciation toward Kevla; she did not want him to feel as if he were on display.

Alone with the Flame Dancer, Jareth knelt on the snow and scraped it away until he could reach the frozen soil.

I’m afraid, he thought. I’m afraid it won’t work.

But there was no time to indulge his fear. Far too many people had suffered from this winter. It was time to end it.

He took a deep breath, feeling Kevla’s eyes upon him, and dug his fingers deeply into the soil.

The pent-up needs of the wounded, weary earth surged through his fingers, sang along his veins. He gasped with the sensation that rushed to flood him. While this moment, calling the season, had always been exhilarating, it had never felt like this. This time, the feelings were tenfold more powerful, more pleasurable, with a sharp delight that was almost pain. He felt the life stirring deep within the earth, felt the roots of countless flowers and trees and grasses stir to wakefulness and begin to take succor from the fertile soil. Whereas a few heartbeats before he had been kneeling in snow, now he knelt in mud that grew warmer by the moment. Grasses shot through the soil, tender and green and waving. Trees exploded into flower.

As if from a great distance away, he heard Kevla gasp. “Flooding!” he heard her say, and although he knew the word, it meant nothing to him.

Suddenly a warm hand clamped down on his. His eyes opened and he stared into Kevla’s wide, brown orbs. Her lips were parted slightly in a small circle of amazement.

Jareth’s concentration was utter, and Kevla was loath to disturb it. She watched in delight as the snow melted rapidly away and grasses began to cover the muddy expanse. Almost immediately, though, she realized something they should have thought about—probably would have thought about, had they not been exhausted and at the end of their strength.

Winter usually lasted three months. The Ice Maiden’s winter had lasted for a year. The beleaguered earth had received four times as much snow as usual, and now it was all melting at once. There would be massive flooding, and the damage the out of control waters would cause would be as disastrous as the winter itself had been.

Kevla recalled the Dragon telling her about dew, how it turned from water into mist with the warmth of the sun, and realized that she had to at least attempt to aid Jareth, to add her Fire powers to his Earth powers. So she reached and placed her hand over his.

She was completely unprepared for the wave of sensations that crashed over her.

She had never felt so…alive. The life force of the returning spring, delayed for so long and now being released by the Stone Dancer, was overwhelming. Her body tingled. Every sense was heightened. The sight of the blossoming growth was so clear to her it was almost sharp. Scents, rich and beautiful, combined into a heady elixir of fragrance so potent that she swayed as she filled her lungs in wild gasps. She could have sworn she heard the stretching, crackling sound of the buds opening, the grasses shooting forth their roots. And where her hand closed over Jareth’s, she sensed the tiny, down-soft hairs that finely coated the back, the very texture of his skin folds.

Her heart raced, slamming against her chest so hard that her body shook with each beat. How did he bear this exquisite joy? How did he bear to not experience it every moment?

Her gaze locked with his. She saw the very earth invigorate the Stone Dancer right before her eyes. His bare torso, thin, almost skeletal with nearly a year of malnourishment, was filling out. Wasted muscles grew strong again, the skin that covered them becoming supple and smooth. His face lost its familiar haggard appearance, becoming chiseled instead of angular and sharp.

His eyes seemed to see deeper into her than they ever had before; here, in this moment, caught up in the powerful bond with his element, Jareth was unguarded and completely open. He turned his hand in hers, so that they were palm to palm. Kevla entwined her fingers with his, gripping tightly. And when he suddenly pulled her to him with that strong hand and wrapped his other arm about her, she had already swayed toward him.

She turned her face up for his kiss, craving him as the growing things bursting through the soil craved sunlight and water. His lips on hers were warm and strong, almost bruising her, but she responded with an equal intensity. Kevla pressed into his body as she had earlier, but this time, the need was entirely her own. His arm tightened around her waist and her arms snaked around his neck.

It had caught him off guard. Weakened as he was, heartsore, emotions running rampant, Jareth was unprepared to handle the onslaught the awakening land thrust upon him. And when Kevla had touched him and he saw her eyes widen, he knew that she was feeling the same overpowering sensations as he.

He had been so empty, but now he felt like a chalice filled to overflowing. He saw the rush of need, of life, in Kevla’s soft brown eyes, and in a moment beyond thought he had pulled her to him.

She smelled of smoke and tasted of honey, and Jareth kissed her with a hunger that was knife-sharp. She was hot and supple in his arms, and he wanted to feel that long, lithe body against his. She tangled her fingers in his hair and tugged, and the slight twinge of pain only aroused him further.

The world had gone away for Kevla. Her senses were filled with this man, his taste, his touch, his scent of pine and loam, and all she wanted was to bring him closer, closer. At this moment she was so filled with desire that she knew it would not take much to—

She started and broke the kiss, pulling away slightly as memory and knowledge penetrated the red haze of passion roused by the life-filled earth.

She could not permit him to touch her like this, to give her body such pleasure. Could not permit any man to do so, for it would mean his death—

“I’m sorry,” he said.

She blinked at him, breathing heavily, still dazed from the kiss. “I—” she began.

“I’m so sorry, Kevla. That should never have happened.” The strong arms that had clasped her so close were now firmly pushing her away. Jareth swallowed hard. He didn’t meet her eyes. She saw that he was shaking and a thin sheen of sweat covered his chest. “I didn’t expect—I’ve done this before—felt something similar to this before—but it’s never been like this.”

“It’s all right,” said Kevla, quickly moving to sit away from him and compose herself. “I felt it too, when I put my hand on yours.”

“What I did was completely inappropriate and I hope you’ll forgive me.” He still did not look at her, and his face was pink.

“Of course. It was just the power of the earth coming through you, and then me, when I touched you.”

“Exactly.” He seemed relieved. “It won’t happen again.”

To her surprise, Kevla felt regret at the words. She knew that the feeling she had experienced was powerful, but she also knew that it had exposed a truth she had not seen before—that she cared for Jareth beyond what might be expected from their shared nature as Dancers. But of course, he didn’t. She had never met a man who exuded less desire for companionship than Jareth. He was still grieving for his wife, and besides, it would probably be a very bad idea for them to form any deeper attachment.

“It’s over and forgotten,” she said.

Jareth was mortified by what had happened. Kevla had only tried to help him by joining their powers, which had been an excellent idea. The snow that would have meant flooding all over the land was now evaporating around them as harmless mist, thanks to the union of Earth and Fire magics. He had taken advantage of her, pulling her to him like that.

And why in the world had he done it? He was quick to blame the flood of feeling that had swept over him for his actions, and truthfully, it had been staggering. But Jareth knew in his heart that he would not have felt compelled to pull another woman, say, Mylikki, into his arms in such a crude, lustful fashion. No, he was attracted to Kevla, and had been from the moment they had met. He had grown to admire her courage, her compassion and steadfastness; her soft strength that was steel—or blazing fire—when needed. And of course, the fact that she had an exquisite face and a supple, strong body didn’t help his restraint.

He cleared his throat, and looked around. His embarrassment shifted into a deep contentment as he beheld what he—no, he amended, what they—had wrought.

As if reading his thoughts, Kevla said softly, “Spring. It’s finally spring.”

They were both silent for a moment, taking in the change. Where before there had been an unrelieved blanket of white, now there was a riot of color. Green grasses, trees dotted with whispering leaves or bright white, pink or yellow blossoms, flowers of every color dancing in the newly formed meadows. He closed his eyes and inhaled as a soft, balmy breeze, redolent with scent, stirred his hair. In the distance, they heard the joyful whoops of delight from the Ice Maiden’s former slaves.

His pleasure faded somewhat. “Oh, Kevla,” he sighed. “It is spring, and that’s a blessing to this poor land. But there’s so much more I need to do. There’s no grain for seeding the crops this year—people ate what stores they had just to survive. A whole generation of animals has died. Many, many trees simply couldn’t hang on long enough to reach this moment. I can feel their deaths, throughout the entire land.”

She didn’t answer, and he got up the courage to turn to look at her. Her expression was guarded, wary. She had heard his words: There’s so much more I need to do.

He had no doubt but that if he stayed, he could do a great deal to help the battered land recover. He could make sure that what trees still survived were strong. That the creatures made it through this madness of the Ice Maiden—no, put the blame where it truly lay, of the Emperor—grew healthy and bore many young. That come autumn, there would be a harvest almost as bountiful as there was in years before.

But he could do none of these things, because he had made his choice.

“Do not worry, Kevla,” he said softly. “Though my heart breaks to say this, I will not stay in Lamal. I will come with you. We will find the other Dancers, somehow defeat this Emperor, and stand together against the Shadow.”

It was like watching the sun come out from behind a cloud, he thought, as the apprehension vanished from her face. She rewarded him with a radiant smile that he suddenly realized he wanted to see much more often.

“We have much to do,” Kevla said, getting to her feet. “We need to explain what has happened to the men, find the Dragon and the Tiger, and say goodbye to Mylikki and Altan.” Jareth smothered a smile. She was absolutely filthy, as, he supposed, was he. Her rhia was torn and caked with mud, and there was a large brown patch on her back.

Where I clasped her to me, he thought, his mirth fading. He would have given a great deal to recover that moment, to have not yielded to desire. Now the memory would hang between them, no matter what she said about understanding the reason.

“There’s something you should try,” Kevla said. “Close your eyes and reach out to the Tiger. I can talk to the Dragon in my mind, and you can probably do the same with your Companion.”

“We have already done so, but not at a distance,” Jareth said. Obediently, he closed his eyes.

Tiger?

The Dragon and I are here.

Where is here?

Where is there? replied the Tiger. Jareth laughed aloud. Do not worry, the Tiger continued, we will find you. Stay where you are and the Dragon and I will be there soon.

The taaskali…Did they…

They have returned to their true forms. They once again bless and hold the land as the earth’s spirits.

Jareth was relieved and almost giddily happy. Perhaps too, that was why his calling spring had been so powerful. Never before had he worked with the aid of the forest and waters spirits, for not for a thousand years had they been part of the land.

Are Mylikki and Altan with you? asked the Tiger.

Jareth felt a spark of worry. No. Did they enter the circle after all?

Indeed they did. But you have defeated the Maiden, for we see that spring has returned to the land. We will find them, I am certain.

Jareth opened his eyes. “Altan and Mylikki—”

“Entered the circle, even though they promised they wouldn’t,” Kevla finished. “The Dragon told me. He seems to think they reappeared back in Lamal, as we did. They will be safe enough, I think.” She hesitated. “Would you like to ask them to come with us? It might be pleasant for you to travel with such a good friend.”

“I’m not sure. Let me think about it. It’s a dangerous quest we’re undertaking. But you’re right—I would miss them, were they not with us.”

He hesitated. “The Tiger told me to wait for them, and frankly, that’s just fine with me. I am in no hurry to rush anywhere.”

“Nor am I. A good meal and some sleep would suit me well.” She brushed at the drying mud on her rhia. “Nor would a bath go amiss, I think.”

For some reason, Jareth was reluctant to let the moment go. Soon, they would have to explain what had happened to strangers, to assess what they needed to do to complete their journey. He was comfortable here with Kevla, just the two of them on the living earth.

And there was something else the Ice Maiden had said that he needed to investigate. He did not wish to venture into that dark place alone. He wiped his muddy hands on his breeches, cleaning them as best he could, reached into his pouch, and took a deep breath. It was time to reveal his secrets to her.

“In this pouch, I have several items that have special significance to me. I can—I can talk to things of the earth, Kevla. And they can talk to me. They can tell me what has happened to and around them.”

Kevla looked down, and he saw she was blushing. “I know,” she said, quietly. “I have heard you, at night.”

Commingled anger and embarrassment rushed through him. “You spied on me?”

“I didn’t mean to,” she said. “I just—at first, I couldn’t understand them. But after a few nights, I was able to comprehend their…language, I suppose. I guess it’s because I’m a Dancer. I can’t make them talk to me, but when they talk to you, I understand it. Like when I first arrived in Lamal. I understood the language right away, but it was some time before I could speak it.”

His face was hot. “So you know…?”

She took a breath and faced him. “Everything, I’m afraid.”

“I see. So, when were you planning on telling me this?”

A smile tugged at her full lips. “When you decided to tell me about them. Like right now.”

Jareth sighed. First the unintended kiss, and now this. He felt exposed and vulnerable to this woman. “This was not how I would have had you learn these things about me.”

“I know, and I’m sorry. But I’m glad I knew.”

And suddenly, oddly, he was glad she knew, too. “One of the items is some earth from the floor of…of my house.” He withdrew the precious soil and cupped it in his hands. “The Ice Maiden swore that she had no hand in the deaths of my family. The earth will be able to tell me what really happened that night.”

She looked at him, worried. “You have never asked it this before?”

He shook his head. “I thought I knew what had happened. I saw no need to ask. And when I spoke with the earth…I wanted to recall happier moments in my home.”

“Are you sure you would not rather wait for the Tiger?”

“No. I want to know now.”

Kevla nodded, but she still looked apprehensive. Jareth dropped his gaze to the cupped soil in his palm, running his thumb over it.

Aware that his voice trembled, he voiced the request. “Tell me what happened to my wife and children, on the night of their deaths.”

And the earth responded.

Earth am I, soil and sand, ever-changing and ever the same. I am the flesh that was once living things, and the anchor to the roots of the trees and grass and all growing things. Earth am I, and I shall speak.

It was a bitter night, with winds and snow swirling about the timbers and stones that arched over me. But inside, it was warm and the steps that trod upon me were at peace. The door opened on that cold night, and the musical one entered, bearing sweet drink to warm the bodies and chase away the fears of the frozen night outside.

He was welcomed and the honey drink was sipped. Quickly, quickly asleep they fell, the woman and the girl, more quickly than the honey drink could have acted. Opened the door and window then did the singing one, fair of hair and smile, and quickly came the wind and snow inside. The sleepers never woke, but dreamed dreams of soft snow and warm darkness. Peaceful was their passing. He found them thus, Spring-Bringer, Stone Dancer, their skins as hard and white as if carved of ice, and he—

Blood thundered in Jareth’s ears. He fell forward to his hands and knees, gasping, trying not to vomit the bile that threatened to choke him.

Altan had done this? Altan, whom he had brought into this world, had drugged his wife and daughter, and then opened the doors so they would freeze to death?

Why?

“Jareth, I am so sorry.” Kevla’s voice, warm and concerned, floated to him. But he did not hear it, did not want to hear it. He slammed his hands hard into the earth, digging deep with fingers that were stiff with a burning need for vengeance.

“I demand of the earth beneath Altan’s feet—tell me where he is!”

He felt the earth recoil from the violence of his onslaught upon it. He knew he was not meant to use his powers so, but he did not care. He gritted his teeth and forced his fingers deeper, assaulting the land, ripping from it the information he wanted, needed to know.

He runs upon me now, came the distant, floating voice of the earth a few miles away. His feet fall in terror.

Show me. Again, the earth quailed from his attack.

“Jareth, what are you doing?”

He ignored her. Show me! Jareth demanded. He was hurting the earth now. Finally, it gave him an image. His eyes opened and his head whipped around.

There. Altan was there.

Earth, trip him. Open beneath his feet. Trees, hold him in your branches. Hold him until I come.

Jareth leaped up. Again, Kevla cried for him to stop. He heard her get to her feet, start to run after him. But he would outpace her. With each footfall, he called more power, more speed, from the earth, twisting it to serve him.

If the words had come from human lips, he would have given them no credence. But as he had told Mylikki, nothing of the earth can lie.

Altan, not the Ice Maiden or the Emperor, had murdered Jareth’s family.

38

Ilta ran.

It was all going so well. She had taken care of the troublesome Mylikki, the one person in the world that Altan would fight for. She had manifested in the realm of the Emperor, nominally that of the Ice Maiden, in the body of the woman she had been born to be. The Maiden was going to hold Fire forever captive in her icy realm. And then something had gone horribly wrong.

Warm inside despite the falling snow, Ilta had walked to within sight of the Ice Maiden’s castle. Here, the Emperor had told her via the twinkling, dancing lights in the sky, Ilta would find Jareth. He would be hers, as he had been before. And then, with that goal in sight, Ilta had felt the very earth tremble beneath her. The snow had begun to melt with a shocking suddenness, and she felt her body start to change.

“No!” she screamed, struggling to hang on to this exciting new, lush female form, with its graceful curves, its softness, its fullness.

“No!” To her horror, her voice had dropped and was once again the pleasant tenor of her twin. She looked at her hands, the slim fingers growing larger, watched with sick helplessness as her chest broadened and grew flat and hard.

But Altan was still trapped somewhere inside her, and Ilta retained her sense of self.

It had all been ruined. She could guess at what had happened. Jareth and the Flame Dancer had managed to destroy the Ice Maiden and with her, her realm. Now Ilta, trapped in her twin’s masculine body, was back in Lamal.

She breathed shallow, rapid breaths as the panic set in. Ilta knew she couldn’t continue masquerading as Altan. She had endured it for years, but now having tasted what it was like to finally walk in a woman’s body, she could no longer live in this stolen one. She had to escape Lamal, had to contact the Emperor. He would take care of her, change her back somehow. And then they could try again to find Jareth.

In the meantime, she needed to flee.

She didn’t know where to go. She just set off running.

She hadn’t gone far at all before the trees reached out and grabbed her.

Dragon!

Kevla didn’t have time to form words about what had just transpired. She simply squeezed her eyes shut and the Dragon heard her thoughts.

The Tiger sensed it at once, the Dragon reassured her. She is trying to intercept Jareth. I am coming to you as quickly as my wings will take me, and you know that is swift indeed.

Kevla nodded, although the Dragon could not see the gesture. She was shivering, although the weather was now warm and she had never felt cold to begin with. She was shivering because of what she had just learned, and the terrifying manner in which Jareth had reacted to it. She still couldn’t believe that Altan was a murderer. He seemed so sweet, so gentle. Not the sort of person one could easily visualize walking into a house, offering drugged alcohol to people who were all but family, and then callously opening the doors onto a deadly winter’s night.

But she knew that the earth had not lied. It had been an awful revelation, and the violence of Jareth’s response had alarmed her. She did not know the intricacies of his talents as the Stone Dancer, but she did know that what he had done had caused pain to the earth. He had forced it to do something that hurt it, and she knew that was wrong.

What troubles me the most is the hatred that is in Jareth’s heart, came the Dragon’s thoughts, echoing Kevla’s own. He has captured Altan and plans to exact revenge upon him. He will kill the boy if we do not stop him, and that will destroy everything. It will render Jareth incapable of carrying out his duties as the Stone Dancer, and he will fall to the Shadow.

I don’t understand, thought Kevla. I have certainly taken lives.

It is what is in the heart that matters, said the Dragon. You fought only to protect your country, to save the lives of innocent people. And never did you feel any joy in doing so.

No, Kevla agreed. I hated having to use my powers to kill.

But Jareth won’t. He is filled with rage and grief, and he will exult in torturing and killing Altan. It will be as sweet as honey to him, and that delight in murder will change him forever. Jareth will be lost if he takes Altan’s life. Dancers must face the Shadow with a good and open heart, or the Shadow will triumph. Once before, a world fell because of a Dancer’s darkness. We cannot let that happen again, not this time.

Kevla buried her face in her hands. She had tried chasing after Jareth for a few steps, but it became obvious that he was running with more than human speed and he outdistanced her quickly. Their only hope was if the Tiger reached Jareth in time to prevent him from becoming as ruthless a murderer as the man he longed to kill.

Jareth knew his feet ought to be sliding on the wet grass, or getting sucked down in the mud. But the earth did not hamper his flight, and his heart and lungs pumped more steadily than ever before in his life.

Images filled his mind: Altan sitting and playing beside the fire. Annu looking up at the boy with shy admiration. Parvan gurgling happily at the silvery sounds of the kyndela. Taya humming as she mended clothes or wove new ones. Jareth had given Altan a place in his home, in his heart, and his family had died because of that terribly misplaced affection.

He realized with a sinking sense of helpless horror that there had been signs: Altan’s cutting remarks that seemingly came out of nowhere, his strange, black moods. But Jareth had loved the boy, and had paid no attention to Altan’s odd behavior, and the people he loved most in the world had paid the price for it.

The trees had captured Altan. He sensed it. They had obeyed his commands like faithful dogs, and were now holding the deceiver, the betrayer, the murderer with a strength no human could hope to defeat.

The miles fell beneath his running feet, each step bringing him closer to his revenge. He knew exactly where he was headed. At last, he slowed, catching his breath, and walked the last few steps into a clearing.

The trees had not been kind in their capture. Their branches looked like deformed hands and they grasped Altan’s arms tightly. One of the boy’s arms was jerked backward at a painful-looking angle and he wept quietly. He had lost his footing and hung suspended by his arms, his knees bent and toes scrabbling for purchase. Hatred washed over Jareth, hot and vital and pure.

“You killed my family,” Jareth spat, stepping into Altan’s view.

Altan gasped and started up, crying out as the movement made him twist his arm.

“Jareth!”

Jareth raised a hand, curled it into a fist, and slammed it into Altan’s face. With visceral satisfaction, he felt the boy’s nose crunch beneath the blow.

Altan shrieked. Blood and mucous flowed down his face as he sobbed.

“I brought you into the world,” Jareth snarled, pacing up and down in front of the bound youth. “I wish I’d drowned you in the lake instead, you son of a—”

He turned and was about to strike Altan again when something strange happened. Altan’s face…shimmered. His features blurred and reformed for just an instant. The mouth coated in blood was smaller, fuller; the eyes, larger and more widely spaced.

Slowly, Jareth drew his fist back.

“Stone Dancer, can you see me?” Jareth stared. The voice was female! “Stone Dancer, I’ve waited so long for this moment—”

“Altan, what are you—”

“Don’t call me that!” It was an anguished shriek, and it was definitely feminine. “I’m not Altan, I’m Ilta, Jareth—Ilta! I’m your Lorekeeper!”

Jareth staggered back, hardly able to breathe. Ilta? Altan’s stillborn twin sister? The boy was going mad. And how dare he claim to be Jareth’s—

But the face kept shifting back and forth from male to female, and now it seemed as though the body was trying to follow suit. Altan’s slim boy’s build filled out for just a brief instant, with a tiny waist and full breasts—

“Don’t you remember, my love?” Altan’s—Ilta’s—voice was raw and pleading. She—he—writhed in the implacable grip of the tree branches. “Through four lifetimes we were together. We were everything to each other. Not always in love, no, but loving, devoted to one another. Try to remember, please, please try!”

Was this his Lorekeeper? The missing third of the trinity? It couldn’t be!

Even as he rejected the idea Jareth realized he had to know. Had to know if this mad babbling was the truth. He took a deep breath and turned his thoughts inward.

There was no breeze; the water’s surface was as smooth as glass. Somehow, Jareth knew that it shouldn’t be; that there should always be waves coming to the shore. The Shadow. The Shadow was coming. Somewhere, a Dancer had died, and with his or her death would come the death of everything.

“What will it feel like?” she whispered. For in this life, Jareth was a woman; a girl in her late teens, with long black hair and dark skin.

“I don’t know,” her Lorekeeper admitted. A man, older than the Stone Dancer, with graying hair and somber eyes. “I do not remember. The Lorekeepers remember much, but not that; not even what form the Shadow has taken each time.”

“Will it hurt?” the Stone Dancer continued. “To be…erased…or will we feel nothing?”

She felt the kiss on her shoulder. “It won’t hurt. You won’t feel a thing.” A pause, then, “I love you.”

The Stone Dancer felt his hands on either side of her face and just before the Lorekeeper did the deed, the Stone Dancer felt those fingers tighten. Her eyes flew wide, she opened her mouth to scream no, no, don’t kill me, and then—

Jareth had ceased breathing and now pulled air into his lungs in a choking gasp. This was the recurring dream he had started having in his youth, and now he knew it was no dream, but a memory. A memory of his past life—and death—as a young woman whose lover, whose trusted Lorekeeper—

“You…you killed me,” he whispered.

Altan’s face was now again that of a young man. It shone with joy. “You remember!” he cried, in Altan’s voice.

“You killed me!” Jareth repeated, more strongly. “You killed me, you killed my family—how many deaths are on your head?”

Tears filled Altan’s eyes. “You don’t understand! We were supposed to be together! Taya, Annu, Parvan—they were keeping you from me. Keeping you from your destiny. I died—the cord was around my neck—but I refused to give up. So I merged with Altan. Two souls in one body. But I’ve won. Altan’s gone and this body is now mine, and I’m not giving it up. All we need to do is get to the Emperor and I’m sure he can—”

“The Emperor? Does your treachery know no bounds?” A sudden thought struck him. “Where’s Mylikki?”

Altan made a dismissive face. “I tied her to a tree in the Ice Maiden’s realm. I don’t know where she is or if she’s alive and don’t you see, none of that matters!”

The face and body shifted again, back to those of a female. “I love you, Stone Dancer! I am your Lorekeeper. Whatever I’ve done has been because of you, to keep you safe, to keep you with me. Surely you can see that. There’s nothing now that stands in our way!”

“You broke your Dancer’s neck,” Jareth grated. There was no sanity in the Lorekeeper’s words. The memory of that deed, combined with the horror of having to live trapped inside a body that was not her own, had clearly driven Ilta mad.

“You drugged and murdered three innocent people. More, if Mylikki isn’t still alive. I could never love you, Lorekeeper or no. The Ice Maiden, false construct that she was, had a warmer heart than you. At least she acted out of ignorance.”

He stepped forward and placed his hands on either side of Altan/Ilta’s face. A wave of pain swept over him.

“Altan? Are you—can you hear me?” The Altan Jareth had loved as a brother was the greatest victim of Ilta’s madness. It had been Altan’s body that had done the deed, but Ilta was the murderer. If he could still be reached somehow—

“Stop calling me that!” shrieked the Lorekeeper. “He’s gone, he’s gone forever. I’ve taken care of that. There’s only us now, Jareth. You and I, Lorekeeper and Dancer. We can finally be together as we were meant to be!”

“You’re insane,” he whispered. “It drove you mad, didn’t it? Killing me?”

“That’s what the selva told me, too,” cried Ilta, “last night. When they took us away to give us the dreams, she said I wasn’t well, that guilt had stolen my mind. That I needed to turn from my path before it was too late, or something like that. But she was wrong. I’m not crazy. I don’t feel guilty. It was what I had to do, you should understand, you should understand everything—”

His Lorekeeper, his soul, looked up at Jareth, pleading. It was time. He didn’t need to learn anything more from this demented monster masquerading as a boy.

Goodbye, Altan. I’m sorry. I know you’d want me to stop her before she harms anyone else. And she will. She will.

“No, my love, don’t, please don’t—”

Jareth leaned close and whispered in his Lorekeeper’s ear. “You thought I didn’t feel anything when you snapped my neck,” he whispered, almost as if imparting endearments. “You were wrong.”

His fingers tightened.

STONE DANCER!

The unheard voice shuddered along Jareth’s bones and hurled him backward. He landed hard, the wind knocked out of him for an instant. Seemingly out of nowhere, a giant blue form sprang upon him.

Jareth growled and buried his hands in the ruff of blue and white fur, muscles quivering with the effort to force the blue Tiger off of him.

She killed my family! She has perverted everything about being a Lorekeeper! She’s betrayed us both, Tiger!

You will not harm her!

Jareth began to scream incoherently. He fought against the Tiger, but he was mentally and physically exhausted and the enormous beast was far too strong for him. Jareth’s back was flat against the earth. He felt it, almost like a heart beating against his skin. He tried to send a command to the trees who held Altan prisoner, to tell them to rip him apart, but the Tiger’s blows distracted him and he was unable to concentrate.

Suddenly there was an eruption of fire. The trees holding Altan prisoner shuddered in pain, and Jareth felt it. He cried out, first with the pain of the fire, and then with the anguish of knowing that Ilta had escaped, that she would not have to pay for the evils she had done.

Suddenly the pressure that held him down was gone. Jareth struggled to get to hands and knees and tried to dig his fingers into the soil. A mighty cuff from the Tiger’s paw sent him reeling. Again he tried, and again the Tiger slapped him down.

Jareth lay in the mud, gasping for breath, the rage bleeding out of him leaving only ashy emptiness in its stead. He could feel Ilta’s footfalls growing fainter. She was making good her escape.

A shadow fell over him. “Jareth?” Kevla’s voice was filled with concern.

Blinking the mud out of his eyes, Jareth looked up. “Mylikki,” he muttered. “Altan…Ilta…took Mylikki.”

“I will find her,” the Dragon said quickly. “Stay with him, Kevla.”

Jareth let his head fall back into the mud and closed his eyes.

Kevla and the Tiger regarded Jareth. He was filthy. His body, now strong and healthy thanks to the rejuvenating power of the earth surging into him, was covered with mud. Seeing him sprawled in the mud, broken and gasping for air, was like seeing a mighty simmar brought low.

The Tiger spoke in a soft voice. “I blame myself. I did not know—I could not sense it….”

“Sense what?”

The Tiger sighed. “The body of Altan housed two souls—Altan’s, and that of the sister who died in the womb. The sister, Ilta, was Jareth’s Lorekeeper. His soul. It was she who killed Jareth’s family, using Altan’s body.”

The words horrified Kevla. “His own Lorekeeper did this?” she whispered.

The Tiger nodded her blue head. “She was in league with the Emperor, who had promised her Jareth. Poor Altan knew nothing of any of this.”

“It all makes sense now,” Kevla said quietly. “Altan’s dark moods and unkind words to Mylikki…It wasn’t Altan doing or saying those things at all, was it? It was Ilta.”

“His Lorekeeper. His soul. I should have known something was wrong when neither Jareth nor I could sense her. In the same way the Emperor was able to use the Maiden to block Jareth’s powers, he hid Ilta from our sensing. The selva knew, when they were in their animal form.”

“Why didn’t they tell us when Jareth restored them?”

“When the Lorekeepers were selva, they were under an enchantment. When Jareth freed them from that enchantment, they remembered nothing of what transpired while they were under the spell. The Emperor is a very clever and dangerous enemy.”

Kevla’s shock at beholding Jareth brought so low was fading, replaced by a deep compassion. She had been the death of her own Lorekeeper, and while the pain had been mitigated, it would never go away entirely. She would bear that scar forever. But Jashemi had never, would never, have betrayed her in this manner. And she had to wonder—if Jareth’s soul was so dark, so twisted…what would that eventually mean for the Stone Dancer?

Slowly, Jareth tried to sit up. The Tiger, who had been sitting quietly beside him, got to her feet expectantly. Jareth shot her a hostile look, and the Tiger flicked an ear.

“Kevla, stay with him if you would.” The Tiger’s voice was tinged with sorrow. “I doubt if he would appreciate my company now.”

I doubt he’ll appreciate mine, Kevla thought, but she nodded. The Tiger walked away, moving with the graceful, undulating gait common to all cats, small, large, or Companions.

Jareth buried his face in his hands. Kevla sat quietly beside him.

Finally, Jareth spoke. “You heard,” he said dully.

Kevla nodded, gnawing her lower lip. “Yes. I heard.”

He fell silent again. “All this time, I thought it was my fault,” he said after a long pause. “That if I had been able to bring spring, they would be alive. Taya, my Taya, my beautiful girl Annu. And my little boy, just a few weeks old.”

His eyes started to glisten as they stared into the distance, seeing something that wasn’t there. Kevla tensed.

“I adored that woman,” he said in a thick voice. “She was…great-hearted. And wise. Taya knew exactly how to handle me. And the last time I saw her, I—gods!”

The word was ripped from him, raw and broken and bleeding with pain. “I said things to her that I never—I didn’t mean them, I didn’t mean them at all, I was just hurt and frustrated and angry and so helpless…but that was the last thing I said to her. I never got to tell her I was sorry. I never got to hold her one last time, to tell her how very much I—”

The tears welled up in his eyes, spilled forth. To Kevla’s horror, she saw that they did not trickle steadily down his cheeks, but got lost in the wrinkles around his eyes. He has never wept for his family…and it has been so long, the tears don’t even know where to go—

For the third time, Kevla folded Jareth into her arms. His physical survival was not at stake, nor was she carried away by the passion a wildly awakening earth had sent racing through her. She was filled with soft, quiet, deep compassion, and a strong need to do what she could to ease the hurt.

She had a brief flash of memory—she and Jashemi stealing precious time alone in the caverns at the House of Four Waters. He was home from his first battle, sick with the poison of the horrors of war and the painful loss of his own innocence. She had gone to him then, despite her fear of impropriety, taking all the hurt and shock and angry grief into her soft, healing flesh, and now she went to Jareth with the same wide-open heart.

She eased his head down against her breast and enfolded his large frame as best she could. He clutched her desperately, and he shook with sobs.

“Taya, Taya, my sweet Annu, Parvan, Altan…Forgive me. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Jareth’s hot, healing tears were wet against her skin. Kevla ran her fingers gently through his muddy, tangled hair and murmured soft words that had no meaning, yet meant everything.

Weep, she urged him in her mind, her own eyes filling with empathetic tears. Weep, and be healed.

And when at last Jareth’s grief had run its course, Kevla held him to her as they eased onto the soft, welcoming earth, and he fell asleep in the warm circle of her arms.

39

Kevla awoke to the sound of a bird’s song. It was sweet, musical, merry, and she felt a smile stretch her face. It is almost as sweet as Altan’s and Mylikki’s voices, she thought sleepily. The smile faded as memory came back to her.

She sat up and discovered she was leaning against the warm strength of the slumbering Dragon. The trees rustled in a soft breeze. Spring had come again to the land, but the pleasure she felt in its coming had been tempered by the revelations about Altan and Ilta.

Kevla got to her feet, wincing. She had slipped on the ice many times yesterday and her body had not forgotten. She stepped around the Dragon’s large, red side, to where his head rested. There, she smiled, relieved. Snuggled tightly against the Dragon’s cheek, sound asleep, was Mylikki.

Kevla moved carefully so as not to awaken the slumbering girl. There was plenty of time to ask her what had happened later, and to give her some good, solid food.

But where was Jareth? Sudden panic flowed through her. She had held him while he wept for the deaths of his family, something he had not done since the tragedy, and she had a dim memory of falling asleep, their limbs tangled together. But now he was nowhere to be found, nor was the Tiger.

She wanted to call for him, but dreaded waking Mylikki. Even awakening the Dragon might disturb the girl, nestled against his cheek as she was.

Kevla decided she would scout around. The earth was still soft from the melting snows, and it was not difficult for her to pick up tracks of both man and giant cat. She followed them as they led her out of the meadow and into the fringes of the forest. She heard a strange sound, a sort of soft roaring, and quickened her pace as she moved toward the noise.

She came upon the little spring so suddenly she almost fell into it. This, then, was the sound—water rushing from a higher point over stones and into a small pool. Quickly, Kevla stepped back into the shadows of the tree.

Jareth was bathing in the icy coldness of the spring. He had rinsed his clothes, stiff with the mud and blood and sweat from months of wear, and they were drying on a broad, flat rock. His back was to her, and she saw that he was using his knife to trim his long, wild hair.

She was intruding on a private moment. She knew she should draw back, and yet she lingered, watching the play of muscle in his back and arms, his skin so pale in the dappled sunlight. Kevla had always admired the many statues that decorated the lavish garden of the House of Four Waters. Jareth could have posed for such statues, and Kevla simply found herself unable to look away from such a combination of beauty and strength.

A low rumble greeted her ears and she dragged her eyes away from Jareth to see the Tiger regarding her steadily. She was lounging on a rock, a cat enjoying the sun, and she looked at Kevla with a knowing gaze. Kevla blushed, and as she turned to hasten away, she thought she saw the great Tiger wink.

Jareth completed his ablutions and climbed atop a sun-warmed rock. The water’s iciness was cleansing and refreshing, but he welcomed the warmth of the stone against his skin. He turned his face up to the sun, letting its rays caress him, and thought about Ilta. Somehow he knew it wasn’t over between them. One day, they would meet again, and he had no idea how he would react upon seeing the Lorekeeper who had done such evil things. But at least that day was not today.

He reached for the pouch that lay atop his drying clothes and opened it. One by one he removed the items, laying them out in a row.

He picked up the small packet of precious soil, emptying it into his palm, and let it speak to him one last time.

Earth am I, soil and sand, ever-changing and ever the same….

He listened to it narrate how he had first become the Spring-Bringer, then, taking a deep breath, turned over his hand, opened his fingers, and let the dirt fall into the water.

Other items followed; a stone, a leaf, the handful of dirt from the floor of his home that had so recently imparted such dreadful tidings. At last, there was only one item left. As he held it gently, its withered leaves and petals undulated and danced, reviving and brimming again with life.

Wildflower am I, stem and petal and leaf still here though torn from my roots, brief lived but beautiful….

Tears spilled down his cheeks as the flower spoke to him of love. He heaved no racking sobs, not this time; the tears came as naturally as summer rain or melting snow, and the pain, though deep, was also tinged with sweetness. He suspected this was not the last time he would weep for his lost family, and realized that it was all right.

He trailed the flower across his wet face as his wife had done years before. “Taya,” Jareth said, aloud, as if the flower could carry the words to the one who needed to hear them, “I don’t need this flower to remember you. I didn’t want to believe you were gone, but you are. I have to face that. You and Annu and Parvan….”

A sudden memory came to him of a boy holding on to a white piece of fabric that glowed like the moon and smelled of summer. He had wanted to keep the blessing cloth for himself, but even then at the young age of thirteen, he had understood.

It just wasn’t meant for keeping, he had told Larr. I can’t explain it any better than that.

Nor could he explain it now. But he knew what he had to do. Ilta, the Ice Maiden—they had clung on to something long after it was time to let go. And they had caused so much damage, not least to themselves, in that struggle to hang on.

I had to let it go.

Jareth pressed the flower to his lips, then opened his fingers and watched it fall into the swiftly moving water. He followed it with his gaze as the current took it, swirling it around the jutting tops of stones and bearing it farther and farther away until his tear-filled eyes could no longer see it.

“Goodbye, my love,” he whispered softly.

Mylikki and the Dragon were awake when Kevla returned. The girl had already finished skinning the hares that either the Tiger or the Dragon had caught to break their fasts, and looked up.

“There are wild herbs growing everywhere,” Mylikki said. “We will have a feast.”

She smiled, but Kevla saw past the brave expression to the hurt and almost unspeakable weariness in Mylikki’s blue eyes. The girl had seemed so very young to Kevla when they first set out; now, she seemed to have aged years.

Kevla went to her and hugged her. Mylikki was stiff in her embrace at first, then returned the embrace. When Kevla drew back, both women had tears in their eyes.

“You are so brave, Mylikki,” Kevla said.

Mylikki shook her head. “No, I don’t think so.”

The hares were fresh and cooked quickly, and both women were famished. They put some aside for Jareth, and ate hungrily.

A thought occurred to Kevla. “Dragon, what of the men? And the Lorekeepers?”

“We have been busy while you and Jareth…recovered,” the Dragon said, phrasing things tactfully. “The men have no memories of their months with the Ice Maiden, and they all want to go home. The Lorekeepers, of course, have no homes. All the men of the various villages have offered their own to the Lorekeepers. Soon families will be reunited, and Lamal will finally have part of its history returned to it.”

Kevla thought back to the surprise the Ice Maiden had expressed at the inherent decency of the human heart, male or female. But she was not at all surprised.

When they had finished eating, Kevla said to Mylikki, “Can you tell me what happened?”

Mylikki sighed. Then she nodded. “You should know,” she said quietly. She spoke in a low voice of manifesting in the Ice Maiden’s realm, of how Altan appeared to her as female. How he—she—had struck Mylikki, tied her to a tree, and left her there.

“She gave me something to drink that would drug me, so I wouldn’t feel the cold,” Mylikki said. Meeting Kevla’s eyes, she said with pride, “I didn’t drink it.”

Kevla thought of what the earth had said to Jareth. Ilta had drugged Taya and Annu before opening the windows and doors so they would freeze to death. A shiver ran down her spine as she realized how narrowly Mylikki had escaped.

“I’m so sorry for what you’ve been through,” she said.

Mylikki shrugged. “There’s one thing that I hold on to, through all of this madness,” she said. “And that’s the fact that Altan loved me. Ilta said so. That’s why she had to kill me. Because Altan would have fought her to stay with me—”

Tears started in her eyes but she angrily wiped them away. “What happened to Altan? Do you know?”

Kevla shook her head. “No. We only know that Ilta is in control of his body. Whether he’s dead or just…trapped somewhere inside, I do not know.” She hesitated, then said, “Mylikki, would you like to come with us?”

Mylikki shook her head. “No,” she said. “There’s much for me to do here. I’d like to help the Lorekeepers find their new homes, help the men find their families.”

Kevla now realized why the Lorekeepers in their selva forms had not chosen Mylikki that night that seemed so long ago now. The selva had selected Kevla and Jareth because they were Dancers, and Altan because his body housed Ilta, Jareth’s Lorekeeper. Beautiful and special as she was, Mylikki was merely a human, and they did not need to speak with her. She wondered what they had told Ilta.

“I don’t think I’m cut out for adventures, Kevla. I think I’ll be happiest in my own little village, singing about adventures by a fireside instead of living them.”

“I will miss you,” Kevla said honestly, “but I understand. I do not think I would be on this…adventure…if I did not need to be.”

“The Lorekeepers and the Maiden’s former captives will appreciate your presence, Mylikki,” the Dragon said. “You are kind to think of them. It will not be a long journey, as a Dragon flies. Whenever you are ready, I will bear you to them.”

“Now, I think,” said Mylikki, startling Kevla. Both women got to their feet.

“Do you not want to say farewell to Jareth?” Kevla asked. She realized she was not ready for Mylikki to go.

“No,” Mylikki said. “All I’d do is remind him of Altan. Goodbye, Kevla. There were…there were parts of all of this that were good.”

Kevla hugged her tightly. “Goodbye, Mylikki. Please give my best to your family.”

“I will.” Mylikki climbed aboard the Dragon with ease and familiarity. Kevla was vividly reminded of the first time Mylikki had scrambled atop that broad, red back; how fearful she had been, and how much courage it had taken to conquer that fear.

As the Dragon gathered himself, Mylikki called down with a hint of a smile, “Good luck on your journey, Kevla. Rest assured that there will be songs sung about you here in Lamal!”

Kevla waved as the Dragon rose into the air, her hair and rhia blowing in the wind created by the beating of his enormous, leathery wings. She watched as the Dragon hovered for a moment, then elongated his neck and tail, banked to the right, and flew off into the distance.

For a moment, Kevla simply stood, thinking about all that had happened. So much, in so short a time. It was hard to believe it was all over, and the next “adventure,” as Mylikki and Altan would have put it, would soon begin. Finally, sighing, she began to pack.

A soft brush of warm fur along her legs alerted her to the Tiger’s presence. Smiling, she reached to scratch the ears of the big cat. She turned to greet Jareth, for she knew he would be with his Companion, but startlement stilled the friendly words.

Jareth was almost unrecognizable. His hair, cut now to shoulder length, and body had been scrubbed clean. His face was shaven, and for the first time Kevla saw the high cheekbones and strong jaw that had been hidden by his scraggly beard. His clothes were clean, if still damp and wrinkled, but most important, his eyes were clear and focused.

“There you are,” she said, and he smiled a little. He could not know what she was really saying. For here he was indeed—the Stone Dancer with the blue Tiger at his feet, as she had seen him in her visions. As Jashemi had seen him. A man with a good face, a kind face with laugh lines around the eyes and mouth, but who had clearly been through a great deal. This was the man she had imagined meeting, when she first entered this northerly realm. This was the man to whom she had thought to hand over her burdens.

Now she realized that while Jareth had accepted his destiny, there were some burdens he wasn’t supposed to carry, that were still hers and always would be. But for the first time, the thought didn’t distress her. Kevla knew that both she and Jareth Vasalen would be able to endure whatever they needed to. Fire and Earth, Flame and Stone. Strong and powerful; battered, both of them, but not broken.

As she gazed at him, she realized how dirty she herself was. “I think I need to clean up a bit, too,” she said.

“There’s a spring right over there,” Jareth said, reaching for the cooling haunch of rabbit they had saved for him. “Where’s Mylikki?”

“The Dragon is taking her to help the men and the Lorekeepers,” Kevla said. “She didn’t want to come with us.”

A shadow passed over Jareth’s features. “I don’t suppose she would,” he said. “She’s been through a great deal. If I could stay, I would.”

“As would I,” Kevla said. “The Dragon will not be long. I am aching for a bath.”

Kevla relished the feel of the water against her skin as she bathed. She had not realized she was quite so dirty. Little half-moons of grime were caked under her finger- and toenails, and she scrubbed at them diligently until her skin finally felt clean, if rubbed slightly raw in the process. She spied a cut piece of some kind of root lying on a rock, and when she picked it up, it lathered in her hand. Jareth had obviously used this for soap, and she eagerly did the same. She washed her long, thick hair, until it gleamed in the sunlight, and braided it while it was still wet. Emerging from the spring, she conjured fire in her palm, and from it wove a fresh red rhia.

When she returned, Jareth had finished packing for them. The Tiger was curled up, nose to tail, sleeping. Jareth’s eyebrows rose in appreciation as he regarded Kevla. She smiled, suddenly a bit shy.

“Well,” he said, jokingly, “you clean up nicely.”

“Thank you. I could say the same.”

His smile faded. “Kevla,” he said, looking away, “I want to thank you. For everything. You’ve been…well. I can only hope you haven’t been too disappointed in your Stone Dancer.”

She went to him, and moved so she was looking him right in his blue eyes. “I’m not disappointed at all.”

“I wanted to tell you,” said Jareth, “that I don’t have the…the items any more. The ones I would listen to at night. I gave them back to the earth.”

Admiration flooded Kevla. “That must have been difficult,” she said.

“Yes…and no. I need to make my own peace with what happened. Reliving everything every single night…it didn’t help. I have the memories here,” and he put his hand to his heart. “That needs to be enough.”

“I’m very proud of you. That took courage, Jareth.”

For a long moment, they gazed at one another. Jareth took a step closer to her, his eyes never leaving her face.

“Kevla,” Jareth said, softly, “I—”

The familiar sound of the Dragon’s wings interrupted him. The Tiger lifted her massive head, yawned, revealing a pink tongue and sharp white teeth, and stretched.

“How is Mylikki?” Jareth asked of the Dragon.

“She was welcomed and is in good company,” the Dragon said. “Her brother was there of course—and their father as well. He, too, had fallen under the Ice Maiden’s spell. Gelsan will be delighted to have her family whole again.”

“That is wonderful news!” said Kevla. “If only Altan…” Her voice trailed off.

“Yes,” said Jareth heavily. “If only.”

“There was one thing I was curious about,” Kevla said, trying to change the subject. “You were in the Ice Maiden’s very hall, and yet you never succumbed to her supposedly irresistible powers. Why not?”

Jareth shrugged. “I’m not sure. Maybe because I’m a Dancer, and we have the ability to resist her. Or maybe…maybe because at that moment, there was nothing she could turn cold, because I’d already done it myself.”

Kevla was surprised at the brutal honesty of Jareth’s self-assessment. And she supposed it was true. The man before her was nothing like the man who had stood, coldly raging, in the Ice Maiden’s hall. And she was so glad of the change.

“Where to now?” she asked the Dragon and the Tiger.

“Why don’t you two find out?” the Tiger replied.

Kevla looked at Jareth, and extended her hands. Slowly, awkwardly, he took them. Kevla braced herself for the rush of sensation that she had experienced before when they had deliberately joined their powers, but now she only felt a calm clarity. She closed her eyes, and they experienced the vision together.

A girl, standing beside a body of water so vast that Kevla could not even see where it ended. It stretched toward a sun that was sinking slowly down as if to submerge itself in its depths. The girl had long red hair and a pale face with large, green eyes. There was both a sorrow and a wildness about her, and beside her pranced a horse whose mercurial features were as changeable as any human’s.

“West,” breathed Jareth. Kevla opened her eyes. “She’s in the West. She’s the element of water. She’s the—the Sea Dancer.”

“What is ‘sea’?” Kevla asked.

“I don’t know, but we’ll find out,” Jareth stated firmly.

“You are not as prepared as you should have been,” the Dragon stated, uncharacteristically solemn. “You have found us, but neither of you has your Lorekeepers. Kevla’s lives inside her, but he is no longer flesh; Jareth’s is mad and an ally of the Emperor. You must proceed with care, Dancers.”

“I’m ready,” said Jareth. “Kevla?”

She looked at the three of them—her dearest Companion, the great blue Tiger, and the Stone Dancer who now was as steady and solid as the earth that was his element. Despite the Dragon’s words of caution, Kevla felt hope stir within her.

“Yes,” she said, firmly. “I’m ready.”

Epilogue

The exquisite creature, powerful beyond the advisor’s imagining and yet so delicate and beautiful, cowered in a corner. It had managed to yank the ever-present golden chain from the Emperor’s grip, spring forward and with its single horn knock the Tenacru to the floor where it shattered into glittering crimson pieces. But the mammoth doors had been closed, and there had been nowhere for the beast to flee.

Now the Emperor rose and stared at it. It shivered, blinking its large, soft eyes. Slowly, the Emperor advanced, and even the ad visor cringed, just a little. The Emperor’s wrath could be terrible.

“What have you done?” the Emperor said in a cold, flat voice. “I had them, right inside the Tenacru. The Maiden would have obeyed me if I’d just had a little more time. But you…you…”

Swift as a snake he struck, his boot landing with a sickening thud in the ki-lyn’s side. It made a soft, sad sound and trembled. The advisor winced, even though he knew that nothing the Emperor could do would truly injure the creature. The Emperor lunged for the chain, gripping it with long, strong fingers.

The simple movement exhausted him and he staggered. Quickly, the advisor was there, a supportive hand under his lord’s arm. Recent events had taken their toll on the Emperor, who had neither slept nor eaten for far too long.

“I built the Maiden too well,” the Emperor murmured as the advisor helped him into his luxuriously upholstered chair. The ki-lyn followed, pulled inexorably by the chain the Emperor had retrieved. “I couldn’t watch her every minute, not with all the things I have to manage elsewhere. So I built her to be autonomous. She wouldn’t even know about me. And that was my undoing.”

He glared at the ki-lyn. “That, and this imprisoned wretch of a creature,” he added. “You keep trying to stop me. Eventually I will cease showing you mercy.”

The Mage had moved slowly to where the shattered fragments of the Tenacru lay on the floor. He knelt and began to pick up the pieces with his gloved hands. “Do not despair, Your Excellency. The Tenacru has been broken and remade ere now. It will take a little time, but I can do it.”

The Emperor closed his eyes in relief. To the ki-lyn, he said, “That’s awfully lucky for you, my little friend.”

“My lord,” said the advisor, feeling his way carefully, “There are easier ways to destroy the Dancers.”

The Emperor, eyes still closed, rubbed his temples with beringed hands. “Of course there are, if I wanted them dead. But if one of them dies too soon, everything is lost, you idiot.”

The advisor gaped. Then what did—

There came a knock on the door, and the Emperor seemed to perk up slightly. The advisor frowned. He and the unsettling Mage were the only ones admitted into this part of the Emperor’s castle. Who dared approach?

Strangely, the Emperor did not seem offended or concerned. “Ah, good. There’s someone you need to meet. You’ll be working with her in the future. I’ll need as much advice from all quarters as I can get to stop the Dancers.”

The advisor tried not to show his shock. The Emperor had appointed another advisor? But…he was the chief advisor, choosing his own council. Who was the Emperor going to foist upon him, and why?

“Enter,” the Emperor called. The massive, dark doors slowly opened to reveal the slender form of a woman. She was in her middle years but still quite the beauty. Her proper, demure robes could not hide her exotic appearance, though, with her dark skin and black hair. She bowed to the Emperor, to the Mage, still picking up red pieces of the shattered orb, and nodded at the advisor, who stared at her with thinly veiled hostility.

“This is your new colleague, my old friend. She knows a great deal about the Flame Dancer and is eager to work with us.”

The woman now bowed to the advisor, but he could tell the gesture was an empty one.

“Greetings,” she said in a cool voice. “My name is Yeshi.”

--3 Under Sea’s Shadow (09-2007)

Under Sea’s Shadow

Copyright © 2007 by Christie Golden

Prologue

Alone in its dark ocean, the Sea Dancer’s Lorekeeper drifted and despaired.

Here in this sacred place, floating outside the confines of linear, structured, finite time, the Lorekeeper remembered everything that had happened before and knew with a terrible certainty what was to come. Knew, and would have wept if it could, adding its salty tears to the warm ocean that enveloped it.

A few more months, and it could have insisted on entering this incarnation. For even though the Shadow would subsequently have erased it and everything in this world, all then would have been well. A few more cycles of the moon, and the Lorekeeper would have been turned by the powerful force of muscles contracting and squeezing, have traveled down the canal and emerged covered in blood and screaming its presence in this world. What matter if it was to be erased then? At least then, it would have been. But it was still too young, too unformed, to exist in the world of searing light and shocking cold that it knew awaited it.

With eyes that did not see, it beheld; with a brain not fully formed, it understood. The being that was to have been its mother in this lifetime, the lovely, intelligent daughter of royalty too fragile to bear the burden of watching everything disappear, was quite mad. Her mother, the last queen of the world, spoke quietly to her, and the Lorekeeper that was yet an unborn fetus still connected to its parent by a cord that would not be broken, would never be broken, only erased, understood what was happening.

The Shadow had come, and before it had a chance to be born, the Lorekeeper would be obliterated.

Anguish filled it. Love shuddered through its still-pliable bones, grief raced along the forming pathways of blood and nerves. It would never now have the chance to behold that one person, closer than any other, of whom it was a part. Never have a chance to look her—for in this place before its birth the Lorekeeper knew that the Sea Dancer would be a woman—in the eyes and tell her what she needed to know. Never have the chance to love her, to support her, to be all that the Lorekeeper was meant to be to the Dancer.

For if it could not be born, it could not be reborn.

When the Dancers entered this cycle for the fifth and final time, to defeat the Shadow or be defeated by it forever, one of them would not have her Lorekeeper.

And thus the Sea Dancer, mistress of the magics of rain and river, spring and sea and snowflake, would have no soul.

The baby inside the womb of the princess kicked violently, needing to give vent to its impotent rage as it sensed the end of all things. Its mother laughed and put a comforting hand upon her swollen belly, and began to hum a sweet song with words that made no sense.

It was coming. The Lorekeeper, who had seen its approach three times before, sensed it even in the womb. Soon, now. Soon. Another Lorekeeper was nearby, it could tell; the Lorekeeper of the Flame Dancer. His grief and fear cried out to the unborn Lorekeeper, who floated in the dark sea and despaired. The song sung by the mad princess filled the Lorekeeper’s mind.

I’m so sorry. You will have to do the best you can without me.

And then the Shadow came.

Chapter One

Horsemistress Liadan was on a scouting mission. Normally, the tall, freckled leader of the equestrian women warriors known as the Aofaban would give such a humble duty as this one to an akha, a woman early in her training. But the day was warm, clear and mild, rare in Reshan, a land of clouds and frequent rain; things were quiet, and Liadan relished the time alone.

She crouched low over her mare as the horse surged forward, all smooth movement and gathered muscle. The wind coming off the ocean was comfortably cool even on such a fair day, and Tali’s cream-colored mane brushed her rider’s face. Tali’s body was a striking gold color, as were all the horses in the Aofaban. “The Golden Tide” was what their enemies called them, as the expertly trained horses and their skilled riders swept across a battlefield.

Liadan was looking for signs that the FinFolk had trespassed on the land. Well, that was the excuse, anyway. And she was not one to shirk her duty even on such a beautiful day. As Tali galloped easily along the beach, Liadan’s gaze swept the shoreline, thinking about the two races that shared the ocean. The Fialaban could pass for human, and attractive humans at that, if the one Liadan had once known was any example. Queen Riona’s husband, Farron, once prince of his own realm beneath the waves, could have been mistaken for an exceptionally beautiful human man-if it had not for the blue tinge to his skin, large, slightly slanted eyes, and the blue-black hue of his hair. Such could never be said of the FinFolk.

They were utterly hideous-fish with legs and arms, fish that reeked from the thick ooze that covered their scaly bodies, fish who had made it more than one’s life was worth to venture too far out into the ocean even in a boat. Small vessels were at the most risk of being capsized by a webbed hand reaching up from the depths. Recently, even larger vessels were apparently coming under attack; scouts reported broken timbers washing up on the beach.

Sometimes, the things did venture on land, near the smaller fishermen’s homes. They left a telltale trail of their vile-smelling ooze behind. Liadan hoped she would not happen upon an eerily empty stone house, the floors covered with reeking slime. But she saw nothing except for driftwood, seaweed and the gleam of white shells as Tali’s hooves covered the soft sand.

Her mind went back to the handsomer of the two races. It was more than a decade ago that Riona’s husband had left her to return to the ocean, and with him went his daughters-two living, one stillborn. Gold, Silver and Copper he had named them, for the hues of their fine, infant’s hair. Riona had never fully recovered from the loss of both husband and children in a single night. Liadan was a practical, grounded woman, and did not think overmuch about the eventual fates of the two girls who had lived, Silver and Copper. But she knew Riona did. And sometimes, as now, Liadan too gazed out over the ocean, which hid so much and revealed so very little, and wondered if the two children lived, or if, half human as they were, they had drowned when the salty waves closed over their silver and copper-colored heads.

As if the very sea and sky sensed her change in mood, the wind shifted. With startling speed clouds started moving in, and the warm sun was obscured. Liadan drew Tali to a walk and looked out over the ocean, once blue, now a cold gray.

“The rain should start….”

There was bright flash of lightning, followed by the booming roll of thunder, and hard drops stung her skin.

“…right about now,” Liadan sighed. The waves of the ocean, which had been gentle just a few moments ago, were now high and white-capped. Dangerous. Almost…angry. And the wind as it rushed over the water seemed to be making a strange sound-“howl” was too harsh a word for it. It was almost like…singing…

The first time she saw it, Liadan thought it was just her imagination, sparked by her melancholy thoughts. But then she glimpsed it again and swore underneath her breath.

Someone was out there.

No one swam of their own volition any more. The waters were too cold for most of the year, and now, thanks to the FinFolk, to swim in these waters would be to invite attack.

Liadan swung from Tali’s back and ran to where she’d glimpsed the pale shape in the dark water. She was dressed in standard riding gear, sodden now from the sudden storm—a cloak, linen tunic and breeches, boots, a tabard bearing the insignia of the Aofaban—and peeled off what she could before plunging in.

The fierce waves buffeted her, as if mocking any rescue attempt. Bone-numbing cold assaulted her and the salt stung her eyes, but she struck out toward where she had last seen the small shape, swimming strongly. Liadan came up gasping for air, coughing salty water and struggling to stay afloat in the surging tide, and looked around. She saw nothing. Kicking vigorously, she dove back down into the dark, churning water.

There….

The child was naked, her long red hair drifting behind her like a cloud, and she was heading for shore with a strength and speed that belied her size. By the time a chilled Liadan slogged out of the water, so cold she could barely feel her limbs, the girl stood on the wet sand, hair plastered to her skull and halfway down her back. She turned to Liadan. The Horsemistress gaped at the preternaturally wise sea-green eyes, the long, red hair, the dusting of freckles over an upturned, unnaturally solemn oval face. A shiver went through Liadan that had nothing to do with cold.

“My father bids me return,” said the girl who only be the lost princess Copper, in a soft, musical voice, “though I am sad to leave my home.”

Ilta Lukkari was exhausted.

She had been on the run for weeks now, traveling by night and sleeping by day. Not even sleeping, really; it couldn’t truly be called “sleep” when she woke a dozen times a night, heart hammering, fearful that the earth itself would be turned against her.

Ilta was a Lorekeeper, a holder of the knowledge of what had happened in times before. But not just any Lorekeeper—she was the Stone Dancer’s Lorekeeper, a part of a sacred trinity that comprised Lorekeeper, Companion and Dancer, three parts of a whole.

But Ilta was not with her Dancer. She was severed from him, set apart, and the agony of that had not diminished with the passing of the days. Spring rain beat down upon her body, tapping in a steady rhythm that made her want to scream with each tiny droplet.

How could he not understand? They had loved one another in every incarnation. Even the last one, in which, out of love and a desire not to see the Stone Dancer suffer, Ilta had murdered the young woman Jareth had been. Even in this one, where Ilta had slain Jareth’s wife, daughter and son in order to keep the Dancer’s attention fully on his Lorekeeper, where it belonged. But Jareth did not see that.

Ilta stumbled to a stop, too heartsick to continue, put her young man’s face in her large hands. Warm tears mixed with warm raindrops as she sobbed.

The world would look upon her and not see her. They would see the body she had wrested from her twin brother, Altan. For Ilta had died in the womb she shared with Altan, and there, in the place out of time, fully sentient, she had forced her soul into the body of her twin brother. Altan had come into the world with two souls in his body, though he had not known it until it was too late; until Ilta, with aid from the Emperor, had been strong enough to commandeer his form and either destroy Altan or force him into hiding so deep she could not detect him.

She hated this male body. She was a woman, deeply feminine, and for a brief time, the Emperor had made it so that Ilta had seen what her body would have been like.

Then everything had fallen apart. The Emperor’s plan to permanently detain Kevla, the Flame Dancer, and give Jareth to Ilta forever had crumbled to icy pieces. Now Ilta was trapped in Altan’s body, unable to contact the Emperor, unable to be with Jareth, who despised her, unable to even look in the reflection of a calm pond and see her true self looking back at her.

She got control of herself and forced herself to move onward, wiping her face in an instinctive and yet futile gesture as the rain continued. The sodden earth seemed to suck at her feet, her footprints filling with water as she strode toward a grouping of boulders that might offer some shelter for the day.

Why hadn’t the Emperor contacted her? Ilta was not naïve enough to imagine that the Emperor had any regard or affection for her as herself, but she knew she had been useful to him. She still could be, and she could not conceive that he would leave any tool to stop the Dancers unused.

At first, she had been skeptical, when he began speaking with her by means of the flickering lights in the night sky. He knew, as she knew, that the Dancers had a vital task—to fight the Shadow that would one day descend upon their world. If they won that epic battle, then this world and two others would be allowed to continue. If the Dancers failed in that fight, three worlds would be erased as if they had never been. One day, Ilta knew with a bitterness that she could almost taste, Jareth would be approached by other Dancers, and he would leave to join that battle. He would leave to face death, and there was no guarantee that he would emerge the victor in that battle. Ilta couldn’t bear the thought. And when the Emperor spoke to her, saying that he had discovered a way to stop the Dancers from fighting the Shadow without risking harm to the world, she had listened with deep mistrust.

But what he said made sense. And more important, it presented an opportunity that she had never dreamed of.

She could keep Jareth Vasalen, the Stone Dancer, with her for the rest of their lives.

And that had been worth murdering three people, worth deceiving her beloved, worth subduing her twin. Worth anything Ilta could think of. She had expected Jareth to be furious when he learned the truth, of course, at least until he understood why it had to be done.. But he hadn’t even tried to listen to her. Instead, Jareth had called her insane when he learned she had been responsible for the deaths of his family. He had accused her of going mad with guilt at the murder she had committed as the fourth cycle ended.

But she was not mad. No, not she. She was sane and she knew it.

Ilta frowned as the thought flitted across her mind. Would she know it? What if Jareth was right?

How would a madwoman know she was mad?

The rain slowed, ceased. She had almost reached the boulders, and it did indeed look as though there were crevices in them in which she might safely rest. So engrossed was she at pushing toward shelter that she almost missed the lights dancing in the clearing sky. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw them. Looking up, her heart swelled with joy. She lifted her arms and, carried away by relief, cried aloud, “I’m here, I’m here!”

Ilta, my dear girl, came the suave voice in her mind.

Fresh tears sprung to her blue eyes and this time she let them course freely down her face.

I feared you had deserted me.

Oh no, I would not leave you. Do not think that for a moment. I was…delayed in contacting you. A vital tool was damaged, but has since been repaired. Now, I am able to again speak with my favorite ally.

Help me, Emperor. I’m afraid Jareth is still looking for me. And if he finds me, I think he will kill me, even if Kevla and their Companions try to stop him.

He won’t find you, the Emperor soothed.

And…our bargain? You will hold to that?

I keep my promises to my good allies. I will give you the Stone Dancer, and that female body you so desire to enjoy him with.

A warm weakness flooded Ilta. These two things and she would be happy for the rest of her life.

Now?

Not yet. You will be safer traveling alone as a man. You are stronger and will appear less vulnerable to anyone who might try to harm you. I want you to head west,. The land will stop at a vast body of water, so large that you cannot see where it ends. There are towns along the coast. At the first such town, you will be met by another of my servants. He will see to it that you are safe and prepared for the next assignment I will give you.

And then you’ll change me? Ilta queried excitedly. I won’t have to stay in Altan’s body any more?

Of course, Ilta. I will change your body if you will do what I require of you.

Kevla leaned against the warm bulk of her companion, the Dragon, and smiled softly as she watched Jareth Vasalen. A short distance away, still visible by the warm light cast by the fire, he knelt beside a tree that was stunted and all but dead. Gently placing his hands on it, he closed his eyes. Kevla’s smile widened as the living thing responded, straightening, its branches stretching and producing tiny green buds that grew before her eyes, unfurling into bright green leaves. For so long, Jareth’s abilities as the Stone Dancer had been denied him. Now every time he placed his hand gently upon a damaged tree and helped it grow strong, as he did now, or knelt on a patch of farmland and brought forth green shoots, or stroked a bird’s feathered back as it brought him news, she felt a surge of joy for him.

He did not censor the delight each of these small tasks brought him. He seemed to thaw, as the world around them thawed, from the unnatural winter that had all but smothered both the Stone Dancer and the earth he so loved.

Things had been awkward at first, and there were still a few uncomfortable moments between them. But with each day that passed, Jareth seemed to heal more from the wounds of the tragedy that had befallen him.

While Kevla understood what it was like to lose a loved one, and she had had her share of lies and deceptions perpetrated upon her, she had never been a victim of betrayal to the extent that Jareth had been. She gave him room to be alone and be quiet when he needed solitude, and tried to be a good traveling companion when she sensed he needed company and conversation.

Jareth rose and nodded, pleased with the tree’s response to his ministrations, and returned to sit beside the fire. He leaned forward and tested the goose roasting on a spit, then turned to her with an expectant look on his face.

Kevla tensed. This was the moment each night that she both dreaded and anticipated-where she and the Stone Dancer would join hands, and see if they could sense anything about the young woman they so urgently sought. Kevla enjoyed the feeling of his strong hands closing on hers…and that was why she dreaded this moment. It was also why she looked forward to it.

It was a vision of this girl, obtained in such a manner, which had set them on their current path southwestward in search of her. They had had only the one glimpse of the Sea Dancer: A girl with long red hair and pale skin, standing beside a body of water so vast they could not see where it ended. This Dancer was a girl of both sorrow and wildness, and her Companion animal was a horse with a strangely changeable face.

Now Jareth sat beside Kevla and they raised their hands to one another, palm to palm, fingers entwining. Kevla closed her eyes and forced herself to concentrate.

At first, nothing. Then…

A strange bright light. White, intense, pure, almost painful. Jareth’s fingers tightened on hers and she knew he felt it as well. The light subsided and she relaxed slightly. Faces she did not know; faces that seemed first kind, then cruel, male, then female. At one point it seemed that one head bore two faces—

A sword stroke, swift and sure, clove the double-faced head in two. The image turned into a string of letters in an unknown language, soaring upward like sparks from a fire.

The vision faded to darkness. Kevla opened her eyes and stared at Jareth. He looked completely confused.

“That made…no sense whatsoever.”

Kevla had a theory, but was hesitant to speak it immediately. She disentangled her hands from his and leaned back against the dragon, looking down.

“Did you have any luck earlier?” Jareth asked. “Scrying in the fire to see her?”

“No luck there, either.”

“Well, we’ll keep trying. At least we know we’re heading in the right direction. We know we’ll find her in the west.”

“We would make better time if you’d agree to accept the Dragon’s offer.” It was an old argument, and Kevla didn’t expect Jareth to change his mind. But she had to ask. While he was becoming a better traveling companion with each passing day, Jareth had refused to budge on one topic: He would not ride the Dragon. Nor would the blue Tiger, the Companion of the element of earth, deign to be carried in the Dragon’s huge talons.

As she expected, Jareth folded his arms across his chest and glared at her. The Tiger, while she did not emulate the gesture, bore a similar expression.

“I won’t leave the ground,” Jareth stated flatly.

“Neither will I,” the Tiger replied in a rumbling voice. “It is not natural for me or the Stone Dancer to leave solid soil. We dislike it.”

Kevla and the Dragon explained glances. Kevla sighed in resignation. “Was she always this stubborn?” Kevla asked her Companion.

The Dragon glanced at the Tiger. “Yes,” he said. “Earth can dig its heels in sometimes.”

Kevla took a deep breath. “I do have a theory. About the vision. There was a moment where there were two faces on the same head-one male, one female. I…wondered if it might refer to Ilta.”

Jareth stiffened. “To what end? We already know to be wary of her. And if she’s smart, she’ll stay well out of my way.”

“What would you do if you found her?”

He sighed. “I don’t know, Kevla. I honestly don’t. But I don’t like the idea that Ilta is still out there. She’s dangerous. She’s…she’s sick. And she can still do great damage if she chooses.”

That much at least was true. Ilta was a dangerous…woman? Man? “I still find it difficult to think of her as a woman, after knowing Altan for so long.”

“She’s not Altan,” Jareth snapped, his eyes flashing. That was a sore spot, Kevla knew; Jareth had loved Altan like a little brother, and the fact that the boy was now gone and his body inhabited by Ilta still caused Jareth great pain.

Kevla did not rise to the bait. “I know that, Jareth,” she said quietly.

She felt the Dragon against whom she was leaning heave a sigh. At the edge of the firelight, Jareth’s companion, the great blue Tiger, paused in her grooming to regard her Dancer.

Jareth glowered at the fire for a moment, then his features softened. When he lifted his head to look at Kevla, his face was open and unguarded.

“I’m sorry, Kevla. I shouldn’t take it out on you. You had nothing to do with any of this.”

The flame made his blond hair look like a crown of fire, and the expression in his eyes caused Kevla’s heart to jump a little.

“Wounds like that don’t heal overnight, Jareth,” she reassured him, hoping her voice didn’t tremble.

“A fact I know you know,” he said softly. “I wonder if being a Dancer means you have to suffer. It certainly seems like it.”

Kevla wondered that too. Were they like swords, the Dancers, pounded by hammers of fate and fires of tragedy into the shining metal that could defeat the Shadow? Her own pain, while it had been mitigated and altered since it had first lacerated her heart, had been so deep it went to the bone. She had wanted to die then; had indeed embarked upon a mission with death as its goal. Instead, she had been reborn into who she was truly meant to be. And if she was forced to continue without her Lorekeeper, her beloved brother, in the flesh, she knew he would always be with her in spirit. Jareth had no such comfort.

Silence stretched between them for a while, broken only by the sound of the wind rustling the trees and the occasional sizzle as melting goose fat dripped into the fire.

“Jareth,” Kevla asked at last, “you don’t have to speak of this if you don’t want to, but…I am curious. What do your people believe happens when you die?”

He went still for a moment, and then she saw him deliberately force his shoulders to relax. Poking at the goose, he replied, “There is a place called the Summer Realm. The Lamali believe that this is where we go when we die. Summer is always at its height in this place, and there are plenty of good things to eat and drink. And of course, all those whom we love who have passed on are there as well.” He paused, staring into the fire. “I do not know if I still believe this any more. But it is a comforting thought.”

He looked at her. “How about you? What do the Arukani believe happens?”

“My people are taught to believe that once you are dead, you are gone. But I know this to not be true.”

Jareth held her gaze and smiled softly, sweetly. “Your Lorekeeper. Even though he’s dead, he’s with you.”

She nodded. “I feel him inside me,” she said, her hand going to her heart. “I know his spirit is still with me, guiding me, protecting me. I don’t know if this is because he was my Lorekeeper, and therefore my soul, but…I would like to think that there is more that awaits us than turning to dust by fire when we die.”

“And your brother, Jashemi—you lost him too, didn’t you?”

Kevla tensed. She had never intended to lie to Jareth about the fact that her half-brother and her Lorekeeper were both the same man. He knew a little bit about how her Lorekeeper had died; knew that somehow it was because Kevla had expressed her love for him. But he did not know the details, and she knew for certain that he was ignorant of the fact that Kevla had-unknowingly-made love to her own half-brother.

She was aware that she had led Jareth to believe that she had a brother named Jashemi, and that her Lorekeeper had been her lover. And once the deception, begun perhaps without conscious decision, had taken root, Kevla found it difficult to correct the misunderstanding. In fact, she did not want to. Jareth was a compassionate and understanding man, but he was righteous in his own way, and somehow Kevla did not think he would forgive her transgression.

Besides, she thought with a sinking feeling, why does he need to know? I will never take another man as a lover again. There is no need for anyone to know what I have done. Enough that he knows that my Lorekeeper was my lover; enough that he knows I had a brother I loved. Only I need to know the truth.

She realized he was awaiting a response and stammered, “Yes, I lost Jashemi too.”

Even as the words left her lips, she felt the Dragon’s disapproval. It is easier to keep one’s story straight if one tells the truth each time, he sent to her mentally.

I know, Kevla said, but I do not wish to expose this part of my life, not to him, not to anyone. How does it affect our quest to find the other Dancers and defeat the Shadow?

It doesn’t, not directly, the Dragon agreed. But all the Dancers must trust one another with their lives. If he discovers you have been misleading him, he could lose that trust in you.

Suddenly irritated, Kevla thought back, Who I have shared my body with and why is surely only the business of myself and my lover. And as I will never take another lover, I have only myself to be honest with.

The Dragon said nothing in words, but she felt the wave of his displeasure wash over her.

“Tell me about him, if it doesn’t pain you,” Jareth said.

“Which one?” asked Kevla, knowing that she was now guilty of knowingly perpetrating the deception and not liking how it made her feel.

“Jashemi. Or your Lorekeeper. Whichever one you like.”

“It is easier to talk about my brother,” Kevla said. Which was true; it was easier to think of him as her brother. For that was how he lingered in her thoughts now. She loved him deeply and with her whole heart, but as a beloved brother, not as a man who had once aroused her passion.

So she spoke of her introduction to the House of Four Waters, and seeing an intelligent-looking boy at dinner one night while she served. She did not mention that he had recognized the relationship between them at once, though she did not know until after he had died.

“He wanted to be a brother in truth, although acknowledging our relationship was forbidden to him. I was Bai-sha, illegitimate, though my father has told me he loved my mother and would have married her, had he had the choice.”

Jareth shook his head. “I’ve no wish to show your culture disrespect, Kevla, but there is no such stigma attached to children here in Lamal who are born out of wedlock. Women pick their own mates, and the men can refuse legal bonds. I did until I met Taya.”

A smile curved his lips. For the first time since she had known him, Kevla realized that Jareth was thinking of his wife without pain. The thought gladdened her.

“Did you have any children with anyone other than her?”

“It’s possible,” he said off-handedly, not realizing how shocking such an attitude seemed to her. “The women who came to me might well have been thinking that a child fathered by the Spring-bringer could be a special one. But if I do have any other children, I do not know about them.” And now his face did grow sad as he added, “That would be a comfort, if I did.”

The sorrow transferred itself to Kevla. She knew that she would never be able to have a child. Whenever the power of fire rushed through her, she felt it in every part of her body. Even if she were able to conceive, something she doubted, she would slay the little life in her womb when next she summoned the power of the Flame Dancer.

“Ah, now, see, I have made you sad,” Jareth said, concern in his voice. “I’m sorry. You’ve helped me through enough of my problems already, Kevla. I shouldn’t foist any more upon those slender shoulders.”

She forced a smile. “These shoulders will bear what they have to,” she assured him, “and they have already borne much. It is not your sorrows that upset me, Jareth.”

He looked at her for a moment longer, then did something quite unexpected. Jareth rose from the fire and went to sit beside her as she leaned against the Dragon’s side. She looked at him with surprise, then her eyes widened as he took her hand in his.

Kevla was no delicate flower of a woman. Strong and tall, her hands were thick with calluses from years of servitude. And yet, as Jareth placed her palm on his and covered it with his other hand, she thought it seemed small and very feminine.

“You are a strong woman, Kevla-sha-Tahmu,” he said quietly, gazing into her eyes. She wanted badly to avert her gaze, but couldn’t. “And I seem to keep taking advantage of that strength. When you found me…how I behaved, what I said…I am ashamed to think that I could ever have been so broken. But I am healing. I follow you, Flame Dancer, where you will lead, because you understand better than I how this is to all unfold. But perhaps, from time to time, you will permit me to ease some of your burdens as you have eased mine.”

And then, to her shock, he lifted her rough hand to his lips and kissed it. She stared at him, dumbfounded, as he smiled, squeezed her hand one last time, and let it go. Her brown eyes followed him as he rose and strode back to the fire. She couldn’t speak, wouldn’t know what to say if she could find her voice.

“Excellent!” he exclaimed, all his attention on their dinner. “I believe we are ready to eat.”

The back of her hand burned from the kiss, as if he were the Dancer of Fire and not she. She got to her feet on unsteady legs and went to cut herself some roasted meat.

She felt Jareth’s eyes on her all evening, his unsettling gaze broken only when the great blue Tiger yawned, stretched and ambled up to them to butt her head against his shoulder. Then he turned his attention to his Companion, and Kevla saw fully the extent of warmth and gentleness of which Jareth was capable.

And it alarmed her.

Suddenly the delicious flesh of the goose sat heavy in her stomach. She had no appetite and stared at the meat in her hands.

“Kevla? What’s wrong? Did I overcook it again?”

She shook her head. Her hair, long and black and unbraided, fell over her face like a curtain, and she was glad of it. She did not want him to see her.

“No,” she said. “It’s fine. I’m just not hungry. Here, you finish it.” She rose and handed him the meat, rinsed her hands and dried them on her rhia, and without another word went to lie down beside the Dragon. She squeezed her eyes shut, but she was not at all sleepy. Her heart raced within her chest. She heard the Tiger and Jareth speaking quietly, heard the sound of insects in the spring night, the crackling of the fire.

You can’t have him, Kevla, she told herself sternly. You can’t ever have anyone. Be a Dancer. That is surely enough for this lifetime.

“She knows,” Jareth said quietly, keeping his voice too soft to be heard by the woman lying next to the great Dragon. “She knows and she doesn’t want me.”

The Tiger sighed. “You make a great assumption,” she said, her voice also surprisingly soft for such a huge creature. “Perhaps the meat was bad.”

“It tasted fine.”

“I love you like my own cub, Stone Dancer, but you do not have the most discriminating palate.”

Jareth laughed, amusement startling him. It was true; over the last year he had had eaten things in order to survive that would have turned a dog’s stomach. He took another bite of the goose, considered, and concluded that even the most fastidious eater would have enjoyed the meal. No, it wasn’t the goose. It was him.

Why had he gone to her like that, kissing her hand? It was not appropriate behavior. But the desire had struck him, and he had obeyed it. Sometimes, he could have sworn she shared the attraction he was beginning to feel toward her. Other times, like tonight, she pulled back from him so violently it was like a slap from the Tiger’s heavy paw.

“It could be nothing,” he said. “I could be fooling myself. And there’s still Taya.”

Jareth had loved his wife with all his heart, and exotic and beautiful as Kevla was, if Taya still lived, he would not have given the Arukani Dancer a second glance.

Liar, sent the Tiger, but affectionately, and again Jareth smiled.

Well, he was a man. He would have looked twice at Kevla. Any man who appreciated women would. But Kevla would not have tempted him from Taya’s side, and all Taya would have needed to do to redirect Jareth’s attention back to her was run her little fingers along his arm.

I miss her, he thought to the Tiger. I miss her, and Annu and Parvan and…and Altan.

I know, dear one, replied the Tiger. And the mighty cat said no more. She simply curled in on her Dancer and offered her soft, furry side as his pillow.

Jareth did miss Taya, but he knew now—knew in his heart as well as his head—that she was lost to him forever. Only in the Summer Realm, if there truly was such a place, would he see his family again. And Kevla had touched his heart with her kindness, and aroused his admiration with her courage and intelligence. Aroused more than that, if he was being honest with himself. His mind went back to the one time he had held her in his arms and kissed her. It was when, after winter had tormented the land for over a year, he had finally been able to call spring. The power of the awakening land had rushed through both him and Kevla, who had joined her Fire abilities to his Earth skills. Before he realized what was happening, he had pulled Kevla to him and kissed her passionately.

And she had responded. But after only a brief moment of the nearly overwhelming pleasure of the embrace, she had pulled away. Embarrassed, Jareth had blamed his behavior on the power of the awakening land, and she had hastened to agree.

But it wasn’t just that, and he knew it. He had been flooded with the sensations emitted by the return of spring, true, but he had also wanted to hold Kevla, to kiss her. To do more than kiss her. But she did not want him. Her behavior tonight made that abundantly clear. The problem was, they were stuck with one another. They would be together from now until they had defeated-or been defeated by-the Shadow. And above and beyond any physical and emotional desires Jareth harbored for his fellow Dancer, he liked her.

Jareth cursed himself and shifted to a more comfortable position, but it was of little use. It would be some while before sleep found him, as long as the Flame Dancer’s. face kept appearing behind his closed lids

Chapter Two

As the days of travel turned into weeks, Kevla enjoyed witnessing the ripening of the land. She had never seen such bounty in the desert country of Arukan, where she had been born and had until recently spent her entire life. Jareth seemed pleased with the verdency around them, but not surprised.

A rhythm soon became established. Sometimes, Kevla and the Dragon flew ahead to scout an area; sometimes the four traveled together overland. Either way, all shared the evening meal and prepared for the next day ahead.

They stopped at villages they encountered along the way, which made for a pleasant change in the routine. Jareth would make sure that what crops and fruit trees were being cultivated were healthy, and Kevla would heat up the stones in the stonesteaming huts so the villagers could enjoy them. It was a skill that had been very useful to her when she had first come to Lamal, when the land had been in the grip of a seemingly endless winter. Now, while her efforts were still appreciated, it was not quite the gift it had been then.

Most Lamali they encountered knew who they were, for nearly all the villages had men whom Kevla and Jareth had freed from the Ice Maiden’s clutch. Kevla was often overwhelmed by the respect and gratitude the villagers and townsfolk lavished upon them. For a woman who had been raised as an invisible servant, the adulation was difficult to handle. Jareth, who had been used to such honors since his youth, was more comfortable with it than she.

Mindful of the vision they had had, they would ask after Ilta, in Altan’s form, every time. Kevla was not sure what she wanted the answer to be. Jareth was right-Ilta was dangerous and unpredictable-but Kevla did not want the Stone Dancer to find his Lorekeeper again just yet. She was not convinced he would be able to refrain from attacking Ilta.

They also made other inquiries. Were there any Lorekeepers in the village? These people, who each held a memory of the times that had gone before, of other incarnations of the Dancers, were always a joy to connect with. Although only one Lorekeeper was the Dancer’s soul-as Jashemi was Kevlas, and Ilta was Jareths-these other Lorekeepers also held vital pieces of the puzzle. Had anyone seen signs of encroaching marauders from the south, where the Emperor’s land was? Occasionally, they did find a Lorekeeper, who always regarded Jareth as a liberator…which, for them, he had indeed been. And Kevla always let out a sigh of relief when the answer to her inquiry was no, there seemed to be no trouble to the south.

“My people throw marked bones when they want to understand something,” Jareth said one night as they feasted on bread, cheese, fruit and honeywine foisted upon them by the headman of the last village they visited. He passed her a winesack and she took a sip of the sweet liquid. “I wonder if we should ask for such a reading at the next village.”

He was growing more anxious at the unclear nature of their quest, and Kevla had to admit, so was she. Soon they would be leaving Jareth’s homeland of Lamal behind and venturing into territory about which they knew nothing. The visions were more frustrating than helpful.

“I do not mean to show disrespect to your tradition,” rumbled the Dragon, “but surely the Dancers, the Lorekeepers and the Companions would be more informed than anyone else.”

Jareth regarded the Dragon. For so long, these two had been in conflict, but now they got along well enough. Most of the time, anyway.

“I would agree with you, except for the fact that we’ve been able to learn absolutely nothing of any use each time we join our powers,” Jareth replied. “It seems foolish not to get help where we can.”

The Dragon blinked his enormous golden eyes. “Be aware that any wisewoman you consult is going to want to please you, Stone Dancer. If she has no true message from her marked bones, she may be inclined to deliver a false one.”

The rebuke obviously stung. “My people are not liars,” Jareth said in a cool, dangerous voice.

“I am not suggesting they are,” replied the Dragon, completely unrattled by Jareth’s simmering anger.

“But—“

“Jareth,” said Kevla, her tongue made bold by the power of the honeywine, “you are baiting him and you know it. Your seers might not lie, but they might present nothing as something. Our own powers are the surest ones we have. My visions and those of-of my Lorekeeper led the Dragon and me to you. We must trust that the guidance will continue. No doubt the images we are getting, while they seem mysterious now, will soon be made clear.”

Jareth looked annoyed, but he said nothing more. He stabbed at the fire with a stick for a while in brooding silence, then said, “You are probably right. I just-I just don’t want to make a mistake. This is too important.”

“I know. At least we’re heading in the right direction. Let me try again to see her. You should try, too.”

Jareth nodded, but he did not look particularly happy. Kevla took a deep breath and gazed into the crackling fire, calming her thoughts and letting her vision go soft.

“Show me the Sea Dancer,” she murmured.

The fire did not change. There was no vision of a large-eyed, sharp-featured girl with long hair. Kevla shook her head. Distance was not a factor with the visions; she had been able to speak with her father from time to time, and Tahmu-kha-Rakyn was in Arukan, far to the south.

“She is the element of water. Maybe she doesn’t like to sit beside a fire,” Kevla joked feebly. “Did you have any luck?”

Jareth shook his head. “According to the earth, she’s not on the soil at all. Anywhere.” He looked vaguely troubled; Kevla suspected that he was wondering if, once again, his abilities were failing him. Suddenly his eyes widened.

“Of course…I should have figured it out right away!” He looked both pleased and annoyed with himself.

“What?” Kevla asked.

“The Sea Dancer might be on an island!”

“What’s an island?”

Jareth stared at her for an instant, then said, “Oh, of course, I’m sorry…your people have no large bodies of water. An island is a small piece of land completely surrounded by water. I…the last time, I lived on an island.”

It was always hard for him to talk about his previous incarnation as a Dancer. In that lifetime, Jareth had been a woman, little more than a girl, and his Lorekeeper, an older man, had slain him out of a misguided sense of love. Kevla nodded her understanding. He didn’t need to go into any more detail.

“And if she’s on an island,” Jareth continued, “her own element separates her from us. It’s no wonder I can’t sense her.”

The Dragon nodded. “That makes sense. Very good reasoning, Stone Dancer.”

Jareth tried and failed not to look pleased with himself. He turned and regarded Kevla. The moment she both wanted and dreaded had again arrived. As she did every night, she calmed her thoughts and tried to force back the memory of those strong hands pulling her to him, sliding up her back in a passionate caress.

She extended her hands and hoped he would not notice how they trembled. He took them, his large fingers closing gently over hers, and for a moment her control wavered.

Then the vision slammed down on them with such force she almost forgot whose hands she held.

A long, rolling stretch of sand, spiked here and there with tall, hardy grasses. A sound-a distant roaring noise that grew loud, then abated, with a rhythm as regular as breath. Water, cresting into white waves that crashed upon the shore, then withdrew.

Along the shore were small houses…villagers, taking their boats out to fish-

Another image, a great vessel, bigger than any Kevla had ever seen. Huge sails caught the wind and swelled like a woman about to give birth. With shocking speed, the ship sailed out into the ocean.

She could not see who was aboard the vessel, but she could sense their thoughts; sense whom they served-

“The Emperor,” said Jareth. His hands had tightened painfully on hers and she winced.

“Jareth…you’re hurting me….”

He immediately released her. “I’m sorry.”

Kevla struggled for breath. “Dragon, the Emperor controls the shoreline.”

“I know,” the Dragon said. “I shared your vision.”

His lands seem to be everywhere! Kevla thought.

That’s why they call it an empire, the Dragon thought back dryly.

“What do we do?” Jareth asked.

Despite the direness of the situation, Kevla felt a bubble of mirth. She and the Dragon exchanged glances.

“Why,” she said, smiling, “we fly.”

Jareth swore, and Kevla’s smile grew. He threw up his arms in exasperation. “Very well. It seems we must. At least I will enjoy one more night on safe, solid ground.”

They broke camp at dawn the next morning. Jareth seemed resigned but put-upon, as if riding on Dragon-back was a great sacrifice for him. Kevla loved the sensation, but she knew that it was more than a little alarming to those who had never experienced it before. So she resisted the urge to tease him when he climbed rather ungracefully aboard the mighty creature, settling himself in the space between the huge ridges that ran the length of the Dragon’s scaly spine. Kevla waited until he seemed secure, then easily climbed to sit in front of him.

“Your turn, old friend,” the Dragon said, his voice a deep rumble of amusement and affection as he extended a huge clawed forepaw and closed it about the blue form of the Tiger. She settled into his grip with as much dignity as she could muster, her tail switching.

The Dragon craned his head on his sinuous neck. “I will fly as high as I may, so as to avoid detection. But we are moving from a land of friends into that of the enemy. We must be careful.” With no further word or warning, he leaped into the air.

Jareth’s arms suddenly shot out to close around Kevla’s waist. She turned to look at him over her shoulder.

“The Dragon will not let you fall,” she assured him.

Color rose in his cheeks. Not for the first time, she realized how easily his fair skin betrayed his feelings. He looked down and removed his arms.

“I was just…helping you make sure of your seat,” he said.

Kevla forced herself not to smile. She was all but one with the Dragon, and had spent many months now aboard his back. Her seat was as secure as if she had been glued to the Dragon. But she said nothing. Jareth’s reaction was completely what she would expect from anyone who had never flown before, and she was sorry that he had withdrawn his grasp.

They climbed higher, and it grew colder and windy. Kevla, of course, did not sense the cold, but she felt movement behind her as Jareth drew his cloak more closely about his frame. The Dragon’s wingbeats were loud, but even above that sound and that of the wind Kevla could hear the Tiger growling. Kevla leaned over and glanced down at where the Tiger was clasped in the Dragon’s claws. She looked quite unhappy.

“Oh, stop complaining,” said the Dragon. “We’ve done this before.”

“We have,” agreed the Tiger, her voice all but lost on the wind, “and it wasn’t pleasant then, either.”

“It is what is necessary,” said the Dragon, and as the Tiger could not disagree with that, she was silent.

The Dragon stretched out and the ride became more horizontal and less vertical. Kevla again looked over her shoulder to regard Jareth.

There was no fear on that handsome face. His blue eyes were wide, but with wonder and delight; his lips curved in a smile. Kevla had braided her hair, for she well knew how the wind would tangle it. But the breeze had its way with Jareth’s golden hair, and it streamed back from his face and gleamed in the sunlight.

Kevla’s heart surged. Not for the first time, Jareth reminded her of the statues in the garden of her childhood home, the House of Four Waters. She had always thought Jashemi a beautiful man, and so he had been; but she had never seen anyone as striking as Jareth. She wondered if it was the pale skin that so captivated her, turning pink and then browner as the sun touched it, or the golden hair. He was exotic and strange to her.

He had been looking ahead and down as the land unfolded beneath them, but sensing her gaze upon him, he met her eyes. His smile grew. They did not speak; they did not have to. His joy in dragon flight was akin to her own, and they were silent in their sharing.

Kevla realized that she was holding his gaze longer than was seemly. She gave him a quick smile and turned away. What was she doing? To think, even momentarily, of him as anything other than a friend and a fellow Dancer would serve only to increase her own sorrow and perhaps mislead him.

She had been enjoying the moment; sharing the delight of dragon flight with him, savoring the feel of him behind her. Now, she found herself wishing that the flight would end quickly.

She distracted herself by looking down. While it would certainly be more than a brief flight, it seemed to her that they were closer than they had thought. At least, the land below her was changing. The northern, forested landscape of Lamal was giving way to the rolling hills she presumed were the Emperor’s lands. They were pretty to her eyes; it was a shame they were under the control of so malicious a man. She closed her eyes, banishing thoughts of Jareth’s pale skin and yellow hair, and extended her mind to sense the Emperor’s presence.

Nothing. He was not here, he was not even active here. Yet there was a faint sensation, like a lingering sour taste in the mouth, that he exerted his control over the people of this place.

She opened her eyes and sighed inwardly. It was going to be a long flight.

Not so long as all that, dear heart, the Dragon sent. We are indeed closer than we expected to be. And Jareth’s willingness to be borne upon my back has saved us yet more time.

Kevla thought about her first such journey to find a Dancer-to find Jareth Vasalen. She and the Dragon had gone a long distance indeed, from Kevla’s country of Arukan at the southernmost end of their world to Jareth’s land of Lamal at the northernmost. And between the Flame Dancer and the Stone Dancer lay the Emperor’s homeland.

Kevla shivered slightly, recalling that long flight and how the Emperor had found her mind with his own. Tried to pry into it, trick her into thinking of Jashemi, her Lorekeeper; how she had fought him with her own element of mental fire.

We do not travel where he is now, only where he has influence.

Of course, Kevla sent. From the north, we have traveled southwest. We have bypassed the Emperor’s homeland.

Yet we should still be cautious.

Kevla craned her neck and turned to face Jareth. The wind caused by the Dragon’s winds was loud, and as she tried to speak, he shook his head. She leaned back and he leaned forward, her lips almost brushing his ear.

“We are not directly over the Emperor’s homeland, but it is best to be cautious,” she said. “Think about things other than our task and your Lorekeeper. Everyday things.”

He nodded and she drew back, facing resolutely forward. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and as she had done before, thought of her life in the House of Four Waters, chopping vegetables, cleaning, preparing ointments to soothe aching joints or speed the healing of a wound. There were times when that life had been difficult, even physically painful. But now, with all that had happened since, Kevla looked back on them almost fondly.

Kevla, open your eyes.

Kevla realized she had been lost in her thoughts for some time. She obeyed the Dragon’s request-and gasped in delight. Before her unfolded a blue-green tapestry that moved and changed even as she watched. It hugged the coastline, crashing upon the shores, then extended as far as the eye could see.

She had never seen such a thing before, but instantly knew what it was.

“It is the sea!” Kevla cried.

Jareth could not seem to avert his gaze from Kevla’s left shoulder. Her red rhia had slipped slightly, sliding down her arm as they flew. Her skin was dark brown, the hue of the earth he so loved, and he knew how smooth that skin would feel against his lips. He wanted to kiss her there, where neck joined shoulder, wanted to breathe in her unique, smoky scent. He had been happily watching the world unfold below him until she had turned to look at him, and then quite abruptly, no wonder he could see from the air could hold his attention as much as Kevla’s shoulder. Some time later, Kevla had told him not to think about being a Dancer, or their quest to find the third member of their company, or of Ilta. So instead he concentrated on Kevla’s shoulder and what he would like to do to it. It was a pleasant thing to concentrate on.

When she cried, “It is the sea!” and pointed down to the seemingly endless body of water below them, he literally started, so transfixed had he been by that loam-hued curve of flesh.

Jareth was accustomed to seeing water in large areas such as lakes, but even he had never imagined something like this.

Does it end? He thought to the Tiger, staring in wonder at the vast expanse of water, the movement of the waves almost hypnotic.

All things end, she sent back to him. The ocean ends where it begins.

Jareth grimaced. He was learning that sometimes the Companions liked to talk in riddles. He found it an annoying trait.

“It will be good to finally get there,” Jareth said to Kevla, leaning forward and speaking in her ear.

“This part of the journey will be over,” Kevla agreed, “but there are still many challenges ahead. We have to find her first. That could take some time. Then we have to convince her to come with us.”

“It took years for Kevla to understand who she was,” the Dragon said, craning his neck to look at them both, his rumbling voice more than loud enough to be heard over the wind of his wingbeats. “And you, Stone Dancer, did not wish to pack your bags immediately upon learning your destiny either, as I recall.”

Jareth felt himself blush. “True,” he admitted. “Still, I’ll feel better when we’re on dry land-the same dry land the Sea Dancer’s on. It’s an island after all. She can’t go too far.”

Steadily the Dragon flew, and the shore was left behind. Below them now was only water, undulating and rippling, catching the color of the sky and the gleam of the sun. As the time passed, Jareth grew somewhat apprehensive. Surely they would have happened upon it by now….

Kevla gasped. “There!” she cried, pointing toward the horizon. “There it is!”

It was a small dark smudge at first, but the island grew larger and more distinct as they drew closer. Kevla was suddenly nervous. How would these people react? When she had first tried to make contact with the Lamali, she had instructed the Dragon to stay away at first, lest he terrify them. But there was no way they could arrive by stealth this time. Two Dancers, a Dragon and a great blue Tiger would be impossible to hide as they descended from the air on an island that, while not small, was nowhere as large as Lamal had been.

All she had known about Jareth before she had arrived in his land was that he was to be found in the north. And try as she and Jareth had, they’d learned very little more about the Sea Dancer. Perhaps now that they were closer to her physically, Kevla could sense more about this girl. It was at least worth a try.

Kevla closed her eyes and extended her senses. Almost at once, an image of the girl they were flying to meet rose in her mind as clearly as if she were standing before Kevla. She was lovely, with her long red hair and pale, freckled skin, but there was a wildness and…an emptiness about her that disturbed Kevla.

I can sense her very strongly!

As can I, said the Dragon, and Kevla picked up on his puzzlement. Usually the bond between Dancers is not quite as powerful this early…but then, this is the final Dance. Things might be different.

Do you know where she is on the island?

Yes, replied the Dragon. Which shall it be, my dear? Land as unobtrusively as possible, or make a grand entrance?

Kevla gnawed her lower lip. Which would be best? As the Dragon approached, Kevla could see some of the details of the land below. She saw small forests, coastlines both sandy and rocky, cultivated lands and small huts. Here and there were larger buildings….

Castle….

The word from the song her friend Mylikki had sung to her rushed into her mind. This was a castle, indeed. Gray stone, turrets, walkways, a courtyard-it was similar to a great House such as the House of Four Waters, but profoundly different, in more ways than how it was constructed. Somehow, Kevla knew this.

Closer the Dragon flew, and now Kevla saw that there was a cluster of people gathered outside the Castle. They seemed to her so tiny from the Dragon’s back, but they numbered in the dozens, perhaps hundreds. Banners fluttered in the breeze, too tiny for Kevla to make out any images on them, but bright and alive with color.

“It looks like a festival,” Jareth said.

Kevla could sense what the Dragon was sensing—that somewhere down in that crowd of people, the Sea Dancer awaited them. Her heart began to race. Yes, she could pick up on it now herself. The Sea Dancer was definitely there. And judging by the fact that those who had gathered below them were now looking up and pointing at them without showing any desire to flee, Kevla was certain that somehow, they were expected.

“Yes,” she said to Jareth, “And I think this festival is for us.” She took a deep breath and tried to steady a voice she realized was shaking. “Let us land, Dragon.”

At once the Dragon obeyed, executing a smooth dive and heading for the center of the circle. The people awaiting them hurried to vacate a space, but even now did not seem unduly alarmed.

Cheers and applause greeted the Dragon’s descent. Kevla looked from face to face. Yes, these people were definitely welcoming them! Perhaps the Sea Dancer had told her people who they were. Kevla knew from past experience that it would take her and Jareth a day or two to learn the language of these people. She was grateful that their Companions, at least, were under no restraint.

The Dragon hovered and gently placed the blue Tiger on the ground. The mighty cat shook herself and stretched, then leisurely ambled some distance away so the Dragon could land. Kevla felt Jareth about to slide off the Dragon’s back. She turned and laid a restraining hand on his arm. “Let them approach us first,” she said.

He nodded at the wisdom of this. Sure enough, once it was clear the Dragon had settled himself, a small group of people moved forward. Many of them were mounted atop creatures Kevla quickly recognized as horses, though the beasts looked very different from the tusked creatures Kevla had grown up with. Her eyes roamed over the group, presumably a welcoming party, and her eyes widened in recognition.

“There she is,” Jareth said, his gaze falling on the same figure.

Indeed, here she was at last, the beautiful girl with long red hair, the girl she and Jareth had seen in their visions. Kevla smiled as her eyes met those of the Sea Dancer, then the smile faded.

There was no answering smile, no sense of pleasurable recognition such as she herself felt. Neither was there any resentment or suspicion, such as Kevla had first encountered with Jareth. Rather, the Sea Dancer merely looked up with a vague, bored curiosity on her angular face. Forcing back her disappointment-what had she been expecting, after all?-Kevla turned her attention to the Sea Dancer’s Companion.

It was the ugliest horse Kevla had ever seen. Black, gangly, its bones so sharp Kevla feared they would pierce its dull pelt, it bore about its too-thin and too-long neck a beautiful golden chain. Each link was inlaid with a tiny gem that glittered as it caught the light. The beautiful adornment seemed to Kevla only to point out the creature’s unattractiveness. The horse caught her eye, tossed its spiky mane and…grinned.

“The poor thing,” she said under her breath. She felt a brush of the Dragon’s thoughts as it indulged itself in a moment of pride.

Yes, he is not the most handsome of the Companions. But don’t misjudge the Kelpie, he thought to her. Ugly as he is, he’s still as powerful as the Tiger or I.

Kevla’s gaze wandered to the others in the company. The most splendidly dressed was a woman in her middle years. She was clad in a red tunic embroidered with gold that reached to about mid-thigh. The tunic was split partway down, and beneath it the woman wore equally elaborate breeches. The tailoring of the outfit enabled her to conveniently sit astride a beautiful horse with a gold pelt and a cream-hued mane and tail. Atop the woman’s brown curls was a golden crown. Her face displayed a regal bearing, and sharply-etched lines on her face despite her comparative youth told Kevla that she had undergone both joy and suffering.

Beside her, on another glorious golden horse, was a woman dressed in plainer garb with leather armor. She sat tall in the saddle, her face freckled from the sun and her lean body sleek with muscle, and her sharp eyes gazed at Kevla intently.

The two men in the group were both on foot. One, a warrior if the armor he wore and the sword strapped to his waist was any indication, was dressed almost identically to the second horsewoman. He had curly black hair and blue eyes, and he regarded Kevla and Jareth with the same sort of wariness the woman in men’s clothing displayed. Finally, Kevla’s gaze settled on the fourth member of this group. Shorter than the other man, his soft physique contrasted sharply with the lean, muscular builds of his companions. He wore flowing blue robes rather than breeches and a tunic, and Kevla saw that his hands were as uncallused as the rest of him. Not a warrior then-a powerful lord, or a scholar, perhaps? His pleasant, upturned face showed no fear, and indeed, he was smiling broadly as he extended his hands to her, Jareth and their Companions.

“Welcome, Flame Dancer and Stone Dancer!” he cried. “Welcome indeed! We have been expecting you.”

Kevla thought she might fall off the Dragon’s back in shock. Not from the fact that she understood the speaker-the Dragon had told her that the Dancers could always comprehend a different language, though it took a little while to learn to speak it-but because these people knew who she and Jareth were. She sagged a little in relief, trying to collect her thoughts. She had thought finding the Sea Dancer immediately a good enough stroke of luck. But to learn that they did not have to convince a skeptical people with a tale that no doubt sounded fantastic, that they were known and welcomed-it was almost too much. She collected herself and told the Dragon, “Thank him for me. Tell him that if he knows who we are, then it is likely he knows that it will take time for us to speak his language.”

The man who addressed them smiled even more widely. “Less time than you think, perhaps,” he said.

Another surprise on this day full of them. This man could understand her words! For a moment she simply stared at him, mouth hanging open. It took her several long seconds to realize that he had spoken in her native tongue, not his own. The man chuckled and repeated his words to Jareth. Again, Kevla understood them, even though he was speaking in Lamali.

“The Namaraban who serve the people of Reshan have many skills,” he said, and this time Kevla knew he was speaking in his own language. “As I said, we were expecting you, and we know more than a little about both of you. Therefore, I was able to learn your tongue, to some small extent. What I do not understand, the Dragon or the Tiger will translate for me. And of course, as you know, soon enough you will be able to speak to us in Reshanic.”

Kevla exchanged a glance with Jareth. He looked as startled as she, and as pleased.

“Permit me to introduce myself and my colleagues,”

the man continued. “I am Bram, the leader of the Namaraban. This is my noble queen, Riona.”

He gestured to the woman with the brown hair and the circlet of gold upon her brow. Queen Riona bowed stiffly, her expression still wary, still evaluating. Bram might welcome them with open arms, but Kevla was not sure the queen of Reshan did.

“This is Horsemistress Liadan,” Bram continued, indicating the strong-looking woman in men’s clothes, “And this is Swordmaster Eion.” The handsome warrior bowed.

Bram then turned to the Sea Dancer with an affectionate, almost paternal smile. The red-haired girl had not taken her gaze from Kevla, nor had she stopped petting her Companion’s neck. “And of course, you probably already know who these two are-the Sea Dancer, Riona’s daughter Copper and her Companion, the Kelpie.”

“We have come far to find you, Sea Dancer,” Jareth said. It was the first time he had spoken since they had arrived. Copper turned to look at Bram, who translated quickly. Copper, then, had not learned Lamali or Arukani.

“Indeed we have,” Kevla said, and introduced herself, Jareth and their Companions. The Dragon had been watching everything with an intent gaze, his golden eyes shrewd, and now he inclined his head with a combination of grace and power. The Blue Tiger twitched an ear.

Kevla slipped easily off the Dragon’s back, hearing Jareth land smoothly beside her. Now that she was on equal footing with these people, she saw that they were taller than she had at first thought. For a moment, Kevla stood awkwardly. What to do now? She was so pleased to have discovered the Sea Dancer she felt like embracing the girl, but Copper’s expression did not invite such familiarity.

Bram broke the silence. “As I said, you were expected, and we have gifts to offer.” He motioned and two blue-robed women stepped forward. Each carried a small wooden chest. At Bram’s gesture, the women eased back the lids. Nestled on a silken pillow inside each chest was a beautiful chain of gold links, identical to that worn by the Kelpie.

“These chains were labors of love, crafted by Namaraban artisans to honor the Companions of the Dancers,” Bram sad. “You see that the Kelpie already wears one.”

The Kelpie, who had been watching them with sharp eyes that missed nothing, grinned even more deeply. He mockingly extended a foreleg and gave an exaggerated “bow”, then shook his head and pranced so that the chain clinked. Copper patted his neck.

The Dragon and the Tiger exchanged glances. “I like not the thought of a noose around my neck,” rumbled the Dragon. It was the first time he had spoken, and the deep resonance of his voice made the crowd murmur.

“And I am no housecat, to wear a jeweled collar,” said the Tiger. Her voice, while not quite as bone-strikingly deep as the Dragon’s, had its own inhuman power and grace.

Bram did not seem at all offended by their responses. “The Kelpie seems to enjoy his,” he said. “Ask him.”

Again, the Dragon and the Tiger regarded one another. Jareth had remained quiet, but Kevla could see his powerful muscles tensing.

“We shall,” said the Tiger. She turned to the Kelpie. “Old friend, you have ever been the most recalcitrant among us. How is it you permit yourself to be so tamed?”

The Kelpie laughed, prancing and bucking in its amusement. The Sea Dancer kept her seat easily, as if the two had done this many times before. Her expression softened at the movement and Kevla saw the beginnings of a smile on her face.

“Tamed? I? You must be exhausted from your travels, Tiger. Do I seem tamed to you? It amuses my Dancer, that is why I permit it.”

It does not seem to do any harm, the Dragon thought to Kevla. The Kelpie seems as wild…and as annoying…as ever. Shall I accept the gift?

Kevla bit back a smile at the terms in which the Dragon described the Kelpie. It seemed to fit the Companion of water admirably.

It is your choice, she responded, but I do think it would look quite handsome on you.

The Dragon had a touch of vanity about him, and at her words, he looked pleased. Kevla saw the Tiger flick her ear and sit up a bit, and assumed that she and Jareth had just had a similar mental conversation.

“Very well,” said the Dragon loftily. “I will permit it.”

The woman bearing the larger chain stepped forward, handing it to Kevla with a bow. Kevla smiled at her as she accepted the gift, but the woman did not return the gesture. Kevla’s smile faded and she felt oddly embarrassed. She covered the emotion by turning to the Dragon and admiring how his rich, red scales set off the gold to perfection as he lowered his head to assist her.

Jareth arranged the chain around the Tiger’s neck as Kevla fastened the clasp of the Dragon’s collar. She turned to look at the Tiger. The gold looked particularly striking against the big cat’s deep blue and black stripes.

“Ah,” said Bram, looking very happy, “The collars were pretty before. But now, adorning the necks of those for whom they were created, they are truly beautiful. I thank you for accepting our gift.”

He bowed deeply and stepped back, indicating that his queen should speak with them. Riona regarded them shrewdly. She opened her mouth to speak, but before she could utter a word her daughter interrupted her with words that shocked Kevla to the core.

“Who is the young man inside you? He has your eyes.”

Chapter Three

Kevla froze, her eyes wide like a liah’s who sees the simmar’s deadly claws about to descend, yet cannot flee. Her tongue cleaved to her mouth and she searched desperately for words. Somehow, this odd little Dancer, this strange girl, could see her soul.

Could see Jashemi.

“I-I don’t know what you mean.”

Copper didn’t need a translation; Kevla’s shake of the head and expression was more than enough. “Of course you know what I’m talking about.” Copper challenged the lie almost casually. “He’s dead, but he’s not dead. He’s inside you. He looks back out at me and smiles. He loves you very much.” Copper smiled fleetingly, but it did not reach her green eyes, and then it was gone. While Kevla struggled desperately to recover, Copper turned her inquisition upon Jareth.

“And the girl with golden hair-she is not inside you, she lives her own life yet. She is very angry. I think she is insane. Who is she?” Copper shook her head in surprise. “I have never been able to do this before, but I can see these people quite clearly. How fun!”

Jareth’s blue eyes had gone wide. Kevla felt a chill brush over her that had nothing to do with the warm springtime day. Copper was seeing Ilta…was seeing Jareth’s soul as surely as she had seen Kevla’s.

Now Copper turned back to Kevla. “Such a strong resemblance,” she said, her eyes searching Kevla’s but still seeing Jashemi. “He is your brother?”

Kevla’s heart ached with a searing pain she had known only once before. She could see Jareth out of the corner of her eye, saw his expression change as he, too, understood what was happening.

Understood that the strange girl standing before them could see their souls…and understood what that meant. Disbelief showed on his expression for an instant, then horror.

Jareth knew that Kevla had lain with her Lorekeeper. He knew that this man had died, and after a fashion lived inside Kevla as her soul. But now he realized that Jashemi, Kevla’s brother, and her Lorekeeper had been the same man.

Kevla closed her eyes, not wanting to see him any more. Not able to bear the look on his face.

I am so sorry, dear heart, the Dragon sent tenderly.

Say it, Kevla thought, a scorching, sickening shame and regret stabbing her. I should have told him myself. But the Dragon did not. He did not have to.

Kevla felt all eyes staring at her, and although she wanted nothing more than to flee, she knew she could not. Her face burned, her eyes dewed with tears of shame. Drawing upon some hidden reservoir of deep strength inside her, she opened her eyes, straightened, and forced a smile.

Kevla nodded firmly, claiming the truth at last. “Yes. He is my brother.”

“My daughter sometimes speaks out of turn, and it is plain that her…forthrightness…has caused you some distress,” Riona said. “I am sure she is sorry.”

Copper did not look at all apologetic. She continued to look detachedly curious.

“You’re from the mainland,” Copper said. “I have to say, I didn’t believe it really existed. Even though Bram assured me it did.”

Kevla welcomed the distraction. She looked at Copper, puzzled. The Dragon had not flown terribly far once they had reached the beginning of the ocean. Surely the people of Reshan could see the mainland from this island. Kevla looked over her shoulder and her eyes widened. She saw only the stretch of ocean.

“You have traveled far, on an errand that Bram tells me is very urgent…although he has neglected as of yet to explain it to me in much detail,” Riona said. “But I am sure we will have plenty of time in which to discuss it. For now, though, it offends courtesy to have you simply standing about. I hope you will accept our hospitality and stay with us in the castle. Rooms have been prepared for you, and hot water and clean clothes await your pleasure. When you have sufficiently revived yourselves, you will be honored guests in our hall for dinner.”

The plan sounded wonderful to Kevla. She wanted desperately to be alone, to gather her thoughts and see if she could summon the courage to ever look Jareth Vasalen in the face again. She inclined her head.

“Your Majesty’s hospitality is gratefully accepted. Some rest and a bath will be most welcome. May I ask what our Companions will do?”

The queen did not understand, and looked to Bram for aid. Instead, it was Copper’s Companion who responded.

“You will come with me to the Grove,” the Kelpie said. “You will find it pleasant there, and we can tell tales on our Dancers.” He snorted and pranced.

Kevla was about to say that the Dragon would wish to be with her when the Dragon himself replied, “That does sound pleasant, Kelpie.”

“Yes,” said the Tiger. “Let the humans have their conversations. We will have our own, for now.”

For the first time since Copper had revealed Kevla’s dark truth, Jareth turned his gaze from the Flame Dancer to his Companion.

“Are you sure, Tiger?” he asked.

Kevla wanted to ask the same question. She had assumed that the Companions would want to be present during the dinner-at least as much as they could of course; the Dragon was too large to fit into any human habitation. At the very least, she had expected the Tiger to accompany Jareth. But apparently, all three of them were disinclined to do so. The unexpected rebuff stung. How could the Dragon not wish to stay with her, especially now that Jareth had so obviously turned away? But perhaps she was undeserving of any kind of comfort or sympathy—the Dragon had, after all, warned her against taking the path of a lie.

“We thank you for your hospitality, and we are pleased to accept it,” Kevla said, and was surprised at how strong her voice was. Lying, it would appear, fed on itself.

The Dragon gave her a brief, affectionate glance, then gathered himself and leaped into the sky. People spontaneously cheered and applauded at the sight, but Kevla only felt her heart sink still more as she watched him fly away slowly, the Tiger and the Kelpie racing along on the earth.

“I will show you to your rooms,” Copper said, startling her.

“Nay, daughter, you will come with me,” Riona said quickly. “You need to prepare as well. Eion and Liadan will take our guests to their quarters.”

Copper sighed, but nodded. She looked at Kevla searchingly for a moment, said, “I want to find out more about this boy who lives inside you,” then turned and followed her mother.

Eion stepped quickly beside Kevla and graced her with a radiant smile. He bowed politely. “It is an honor to escort such a beautiful and obviously powerful woman,” he said in a voice that was deep and pleasant. She turned to him and forced a smile, noticing that though his curly hair was black as her own, his eyes were as blue as Jareth’s.

Jareth….

She almost physically cringed at the thought of him, and knew by Eion’s solicitous expression that she was not completely able to hide her pain.

“Forgive me, but you do indeed look weary from your travels, Flame Dancer,” he said in that kind voice. He offered an arm, but she shook her head.

“Thank you, sir, but I can walk,” she said, hearing it sound more clipped in her ears than she had intended. She softened the comment with a smile. Those blue eyes looked searchingly into hers, but he made no further comment.

“Then let us walk,” he said, and smiled. Suddenly his black eyebrows shot up in pleased surprise. “Ha! I can understand you now! I guess Bram was right when he said it wouldn’t take long.”

Kevla smiled, wishing she could be as pleased as he was, as she should be, at the swift erosion of the language barrier. She could hear Jareth a few paces behind her, heard the voice of the Horsemistress speaking similar pleasantries, and almost stumbled. Eion’s hand was there, and despite her words, she was grateful for his sudden support.

“Perhaps an arm would be welcome,” Kevla admitted, hating her weakness, hating the mistake that she made. The only light at the end of this dreadfully dark tunnel would be the chance to be alone in her rooms where she could sort out her feelings.

Eion said nothing as she slipped her arm through his. The bicep upon which Kevla’s right hand rested was powerful, the simple white linen sleeve that covered it fine and soft to the touch. A man in his late thirties or early forties, Eion was still handsome, powerful and graceful. If he was an example of the kind of man who fought to defend Reshan, Kevla thought Queen Riona well served.

The crowd of people parted for them, smiling and gawking. Kevla tried to manage pleasant smiles in return, but feared they fell short. Eion led her along the well-worn path to an arched gateway that led into the castle’s courtyard, and Kevla concentrated on the massive building that loomed before them.

“There are walkways all along the outer walls,” Eion told her. “My men patrol there. They’re fine archers as well as excellent swordsmen. We’re going under something called a portcullis. It’s an iron gate that can be raised and lowered. The courtyard is where the Aofaban train.”

“Aofaban?”

“Liadan’s warriors. The mounted unit. My men are called the Eltaban. We’re footsoldiers.”

Kevla nodded politely. “Is this a land torn by war, then?”

“It used to be, but that ended when Riona got the throne. Won it by her own hand. Well, hers and mine and Li’s and those of our soldiers, of course.” He shot her a charming grin. “This was oh, over twenty years ago. Back before she had children.”

“Copper is not her only child?”

Eion frowned a little. “It’s a long story, and one perhaps someone other than I should tell. But yes. There were three daughters, once. The other two are…gone now.”

Gone? What did that mean? Kevla felt a faint prickle of unease as she walked. They made their way across the courtyard toward a corner tower. Eion opened a heavy wooden door and waved Kevla ahead of him. She stared at the cramped, circular stairway.

“We’ll be going up three levels. The view is spectacular.”

Kevla nodded and began to climb the tightly winding stairs.

“So, there is no more need for-for Aofaban and Eltaban, if you are a land at peace?”

“Well, we’re a land at peace, but the sea is another issue altogether.”

“The sea?” She paused in her climbing to stare at him, confused. He threw back his dark head and laughed, the sound echoing.

“Aye, the sea is where the danger comes from. Like I said, it’s a long story. I assume that you have no hostile sea-folk to contend with in your land, Flame Dancer.”

“We have no sea-folk, nor indeed sea, at all.” And now it was Eion’s turn to look stunned.

They had reached the third level, and Kevla gingerly stepped forward into a narrow stone hallway. It was cool in here, but Kevla felt no chill. Her Fire abilities saw to that. But the heavy, encircling stone was oppressive. She had grown up in a large House, also made of stone, but it was airy and simple compared to this building. The door before her was of heavy wood with iron bands running across it horizontally. Kevla looked at it and thought that it, like everything in this castle, was too heavy, too dark.

Eion fished out a skeleton key from a pouch in at his belt and unlocked the door. Kevla heard it groan in protest as he pushed it open.

Inside, it was only slightly more welcoming. There was a bed covered with hangings elevated on a platform. Kevla thought she could see some other material draped on the bed as well. On a heavy wooden sideboard was a ceramic plate of fruit, roasted fowl of some sort, a goblet, two pitchers and a basin. A tiny window that presumably opened onto the promised spectacular view was shuttered and there was a small seat beside it. A copper tub filled with steaming water completed the picture. Beside the tub was a small bowl filled with herbs. A rather nervous and blatantly curious young woman stood quietly beside the tub.

“This is Liura. She will bathe and attend to you.”

“Thank you, but—I have no need of servants, and truly, I would rather have some time to myself.”

A smile tugged at Eion’s lips. “Bram said the strangers who would be coming would be nothing like we had known. He was right.”

Kevla tried to smile warmly at the girl, but despite the gesture the servant looked disappointed. Eion jerked his head in the direction of the door and the girl quietly left.

Eion looked at Kevla with that searching blue gaze again. “As the Flame Dancer wishes.”

“I am Kevla. Please call me that.”

He smiled. “As Kevla wishes, then. I will return in three hours to escort you to dinner. There is a bell by the bed if you require anything else at all.” Eion placed his hand on his heart, bowed and left quietly.

Kevla heaved a deep sigh and removed her rhia. She felt hungry, she felt tired, but more than anything else, she felt soiled. She didn’t have the energy or the will to puzzle over the strange things Eion had said, nor did she have the heart to be glad at how quickly they had found the one they sought. She emptied the small dish of fragrant herbs into the hot tub, stepped into it, and scrubbed her dark skin raw with a rough cloth as the tears slid silently down her face to merge with the scalding, steaming water.

Jareth was certain that Horsemistress Liadan was telling him all sorts of important things about this island, these people and maybe even about the Sea Dancer, but he heard nothing as she spoke in her warm, rich voice.

Her brother. Kevla had lain with her own brother.

In hindsight, it was obvious. How had he not put the pieces together? Kevla never had given a name to her mysterious, beloved Lorekeeper whose life she had taken by an accident she had never described. She had known what conclusion he would draw from her words, and let him continue in ignorance of….

“You look exhausted. Travel by dragon not suit you?”

Jareth dragged his thoughts back to the present, away from the shock of what Kevla had done. He smiled at Liadan, feeling his lips stretch in a grimace, knowing that it probably did nothing but reinforce her concern.

“That’s putting it mildly,” he said. “I prefer riding my Companion, the Tiger. The Dragon is—is Kevla’s.”

Her name stuck in his throat. And to think that only a short while ago, he had been transfixed by the smooth curve of her brown shoulder and long, slender neck. Gods help him…he still was.

He forced his gaze back to Liadan, forced himself to really look at the Horsemistress for the first time. He discovered he liked what he saw. She was older than he, he guessed, but not by much. Her face was freckled from the sun, her hair bleached lighter by the same method. He could not name the color; it was not the coppery hue that had obviously given the Sea Dancer her name, nor the warm light brown of the queen’s tresses. Reddish-brown, he decided. Her masculine breeches outlined the muscles in her buttocks and legs as she led the way up the circular stairs of the tower. Liadan was tall, strong and sinewy, and she walked with a stride that told him she considered herself the equal of any man. And in truth, she seemed to even outrank the Swordmaster who had taken Kevla to her quarters.

Kevla…how could you do such a thing?

Liadan had stopped in front of a large wooden door. Quickly, she unlocked it and pushed it open, revealing a room far more opulent than anything Jareth had ever seen. All this space just for one person? It would easily house a family of ten. He glanced from the large, curtained bed to the sideboard laden with food to the large tub of hot water.

“There are servants to assist you if you’d like. Although somehow I think you’re used to putting on your own clothes.” She turned to look over her shoulder at him and grinned with a boldness that startled him. “Unless there’s female help involved?”

He gaped, then suddenly grinned, enjoying her forwardness. It was a good distraction.

“Not for some time,” he admitted.

Liadan’s smile grew. Her eyes sparkled. Jareth had not initially considered her to be particularly beautiful-not like Kevla was-but the appealing liveliness of her personality shone through when she smiled.

“That’s a waste,” she said, and winked.

To his surprise, Jareth felt himself blush. He had never met a woman like Liadan. Even his beloved Taya had not been quite so forward…until that one magical night when they had first made love, beneath the harvest moon on the good, clean earth. If his wife had lived, she would still be his love; he would not have let his heart open to Kevla, and this ripping, sickening pain would not be gnawing at his soul….

Liadan saw the smile fade from Jareth’s blue eyes, and her own grin ebbed slightly. She spoke again.

“There’s water for bathing, and clean clothing if you’d like to change afterward. You’ll also find something to eat and drink if you’re hungry. There’s plenty of time before the festivities if you want to go to bed for a while.”

The words hung in the air. Jareth wasn’t certain if he understood her correctly. Was she suggesting he get some sleep because he was tired or…was she offering something else? Her eyes, he realized, were a pleasant shade of hazel, and they were fastened on his right now. He felt his body respond to her implication, but almost immediately any desire for this outspoken, attractive woman was quelled as Kevla’s face swam into his mind.

He took a deep breath. He was probably misinterpreting Liadan anyway.

“Thank you,” he said. “I am a bit weary. Some sleep would do me good.”

He thought he saw regret in those hazel eyes, but she nodded as if his answer was exactly what she had expected.

“There’s a bell by the bed—ring it if you need anything. I’ll come fetch you to take you to the feast when it’s time. Is there anything…else…you require?”

Now Jareth was certain of it. Liadan found him attractive, and she apparently seemed to think nothing of taking a man she had just met into her bed…or more to the point, joining him in his. He was surprised and flattered, but was in no mood for company.

“Thank you, no,” he said, then added, “but I look forward to seeing you this evening.”

She grinned. “As do I. Rest well, Jareth Vasalen.” Liadan bowed and strode off. He watched her go, wondering if he had just made a wise decision or a huge mistake. Jareth was no stranger to coupling when there was no love between the participants. As long as both parties understood the nature of the joining, it was pleasant and a good release of tension. He had enjoyed and respected his partners in such a situation and to the best of his knowledge, had done no harm to any of the women. Liadan certainly seemed to know her own mind, and he doubted that a tumble in the comfortable-looking bed would have turned her into a dewy-eyed maiden dreaming of endless love.

But he didn’t want just a tumble in bed. He wanted what he had once had with Taya…what he had let himself daydream about with Kevla. Only now, Kevla had destroyed any chance of that. Jareth had been raised to believe that to be intimate with one’s close kin was wrong. And judging by the fact that she’d lied to him, so had Kevla. And yet-she’d done it. Done it and pretended she hadn’t. He’d thought Kevla better than him in many ways. Admirable. Even tragic, with what had happened to her. He didn’t think so any longer. He wasn’t sure which was worse-that she’d committed the heinous act, or that she’d kept it from him. And to think he’d once thought he was falling in love with her—

Angrily, Jareth tore off his clothes and stepped into the hot tub, his heart aching with longing and pain as he cursed Kevla-sha-Tahmu for coming into his life.

Eion waited for Liadan at the bottom of the turret, lounging against the cold stone wall. He didn’t expect her, but thought he’d give her a few moments just to make sure. Somewhat to his surprise, he heard her light footsteps, and saw the annoyed expression on her face as she descended the stairs.

“Don’t tell me he said no?” Eion had known Liadan for years and recognized the signs that the Horsemistress was attracted to the Stone Dancer.

Liadan frowned. “First one ever,” she said grumpily.

“He doesn’t know what he’s missing.”

“I must be getting old.”

“You? Never.” He smiled down at her as they strode out into the courtyard. They had been off-and-on lovers in their youths, and Eion thought that the passing years had only made Liadan more beautiful. The gray threads in her hair and the slight lines on her face made her more herself, somehow, instead of the unformed, unmarked girl she had been. And her skills—in all areas—had only grown, not lessened. Liadan was known for her powerful appetite. Twenty years ago, grinning Eltaban had all but crawled from her war tent; if her quarters were more comfortable now, it was truer than ever that Liadan rode her men harder than her horses.

“We have several hours before the feast, and I do not think we will be needed,” he said. “Perhaps I can…distract you?”

She looked up at him and gave him that old familiar grin. “Why not?” she replied.

Eion smiled in return and offered his arm. As she took it, he was forced to glance away for a moment, fearing that she might accurately read the sudden softening on his face.

Chapter Four

By the time Eion came for her as he had promised, Kevla had had time to compose herself. The stabbing pain in her heart had subsided to a dull ache. She had examined the clothing her hostess had left for her. Someone had a very good eye; the clothing fitted quite well. But as she stood before the full-length mirror examining herself, Kevla shook her head. This tall, elegant woman, dressed in silk and heavy jewelry, was not her. She would have required the assistance of a servant to complete dressing-the bodice laced in the back-and she did not wish to call upon one. So she slipped out of the garment that made her feel so false, went to the brazier that burned in the corner, and wove a fresh, clean red rhia from the flame she summoned.

The lines of her native garment were simple. It did reveal a fair amount of smooth brown skin at neck and arm, but Kevla did not care. This was the clothing of her homeland; this would be the image of the Flame Dancer she would present to the court of this queen.

She had just finished brushing her hair and was debating whether or not to braid it when there came a soft knock on the door.

“Enter,” Kevla called.

Eion poked his dark head in. He was no longer clad in the leather armor he had worn earlier, but had changed to fine silk breeches, a tunic, a beautifully-tooled leather belt and a long, flowing cape that was heavily embroidered and shot through with gold thread. He looked very handsome, she thought. Eion seemed a little disappointed when he asked, “You choose not to wear the garments provided you, then?”

Kevla turned to him and rose, laying the brush down. “No, but it was not that they were not beautiful. They were too much so for a simple woman like myself.”

A smile curved his lips. “Simple women rarely ride the backs of dragons,” he pointed out.

Despite her misery, Kevla could not help but return the smile. “Well,” she said, “this one does.”

“I hope you are hungry,” Eion said, offering his arm. “The royal cook has outdone himself tonight.”

Although she had grown up in the most opulent House in her land, Kevla was not prepared for the pageantry of the castle’s great hall. The cold gray face of the stone walls had been softened by hanging tapestries of all colors. There were so many she found it difficult to concentrate on any single one, but she got the impression that they depicted scenes of hunting, or fighting, or various other activities that the people of Reshan enjoyed. At least, the wealthy people of Reshan. Kevla had not had an innocent childhood; she knew enough to understand that the other side of this coin of luxury was likely poverty and hardship.

Four huge tables stretched the length of the hall. Benches flanked them on either side. At the far end of the room was an alcove with a raised dais. While the large tables were bare, this smaller table was covered with a beautiful white cloth. The benches here were much finer, and there was a single large chair at the head of that table with gold and jewels inlaid in its finely-carved surface.

But what Kevla noticed more than the lovely furnishings and vast size of the room was the sheer volume of people. Servants carrying platters of food brushed past her, their clothes whispering with the movement and the scent of roasted meat teasing her nostrils, but no one was yet seated. They were milling about in a cacophony of voices and a riot of colors. The only color that Kevla did not see was the blue that Bram and his two assistants had worn. Every other hue she had conceived of, and many she had not, was on garish display here. The feast-goers were so heavily laden with bulky jewelry she thought it a marvel that they did not fall over. She was about to move into the hall, but Eion gently halted the movement.

“You must be announced,” he said.

Kevla did not want to draw more attention to herself than was necessary. She still found that she preferred the role of the quiet observer. She wanted to be alone atop the Dragon’s back again, reveling in her connection with the great creature, feeling the wind in her hair.

Ignoring her personal preference, she nodded. As the Dragon had told her before, Flame was the leader. She owed it to the other Dancers and what they were striving for to accept the accolades that were perforce being thrust upon her. The room fell quiet before the booming voice of the herald and all eyes turned upon her.

“Kevla-sha-Tahmu, the Flame Dancer, is welcome in this hall!” the herald cried. The greeting was taken up by the crowd, who applauded. But Kevla felt that they had looked upon her simple garb, assessed her and found her wanting.

It doesn’t matter, she thought. Soon we will be away from here, and all this land’s customs will mean nothing to us.

She smiled and inclined her head, realizing that she was imitating Yeshi, her father’s wife and mistress of the House of Four Waters. While the behavior was necessary, the thought did not comfort her.

“You did well,” Eion said in her ear. She gave him a surprised and grateful glance. He grinned at her, and it was at that moment that Kevla decided she liked the Swordmaster. He looked completely at ease in this environment and navigated the swirl of milling bodies with grace, maneuvering her into the thick of the crowded hall. She followed his lead, and found herself relaxing.

Then the booming voice of the squat, gray-haired herald rang out again.

“Jareth Vasalen, the Stone Dancer, is welcome in these halls!”

Kevla did not want to look at him, for she did not want to meet his gaze, but she knew she had to. She took a deep breath and turned toward the front of the hall.

And her breath caught in her throat.

Unlike her, Jareth had opted to don the clothes of the Reshanaban. He looked like a god. Tall, his shoulder-length fair hair gleaming in the torchlight, his fine features composed, he smiled at the crowd. The clothes that draped his powerful build looked as if they had been tailored for him. He wore his favored colors of green and brown, but these fine silks and linens bore no resemblance to the functional but rough clothing she had seen in Lamal. The green cloak, long and lavish and like Eion’s shot through with gold thread, emphasized the breadth of his shoulders, while the jewel-encrusted belt made his trim waist seem even smaller. The leather boots reached up past his knees and looked soft and supple to the touch.

Kevla realized she was staring and dragged her eyes from Jareth to the woman who stood beside him. The Horsemistress looked nothing like the rough and tumble woman Kevla had met earlier. Her hair was braided in many long ropes which were looped and caught up with jewels. While she had worn masculine garb previously, now a full-length gown of orange-yellow emphasized her slight but still womanly curves. A gold torque gleamed at her throat, and bracelets adorned her wrists.

She had her arm looped through Jareth’s, as Kevla was holding Eion’s, and as Kevla watched her, she whispered something to the Stone Dancer. He listened intently, then grinned and whispered back. As he straightened and looked out over the crowd, his eyes met Kevla’s. The grin ebbed.

Kevla felt as though she had been stabbed in the heart. She looked away quickly. Eion didn’t miss the gesture.

“Something wrong?” he asked.

“No,” Kevla lied. “I am simply not used to a crowd such as this, that is all.”

Eion looked at her shrewdly and she sensed he didn’t believe her. Fortunately, he did not press the point. Instead, he began introducing her to various people. Kevla tried to keep track of all the names, but they were all so alien-sounding to her and there were so many that they soon ran together in her head. Rescue came in the form of the loud, booming voice of the herald.

“Bram, Anam of the Namaraban!”

There was silence, and then everyone bowed. Kevla hastened to do likewise. At first, Bram appeared exactly as she had seen him earlier. But then Kevla realized that the blue robe he wore was made from a richer material, and more finely tailored. Gems winked from a belt fastened around his waist. As he had earlier, he commanded attention. He stood for a moment, accepting the adulation, then stepped aside as the herald announced Her Highness, Princess Copper.

By now, of course, Kevla was well aware that people from other lands looked quite different from Arukani. She had almost grown accustomed to the pale skin and yellow hair that was so predominant among Jareth’s people. But this girl was different even from that. There was something…otherworldly about her, mysterious and exotic, that seemed to hold her apart. Kevla had never felt particularly different from other people; she was most definitely human, despite her powers and the knowledge that she was fire made flesh. Jareth, too, struck her as quite human.

But Copper…

Kevla could not help but wonder if the other two would be like this strange girl or like her and Jareth. Copper seemed more like her element of water than an ordinary human woman.

Copper surveyed the crowed disinterestedly, and inclined her head only slightly. The hair that had so obviously given her her name had been brushed so that it gleamed and fell in a waterfall of silk down her back. A simple gold circlet sat atop her brow, and heavy golden earrings fell almost to her shoulders. She did not come escorted, as Kevla and Jareth had; she needed no consort. Again, Kevla thought of the bony, strange horse called the Kelpie that was this Dancer’s Companion animal. Everything was odd about this girl, even her elemental companion.

Following Copper was her mother, Queen Riona. Kevla thought about what Eion had told her about Riona-that she was queen by her own hand and had brought peace to the realm. She did not look like a woman at peace. Kevla recalled Eion’s allusion to the “hostile sea-folk” and that Copper’s sisters were “gone.” She wondered if these burdens were made the queen look so wary and worn, or if there was something else entirely troubling Riona.

“The queen will make her way to the high table,” Eion whispered in her ear. “When she is seated, we may sit as well. I will take you to your place and be beside you during the meal.”

Kevla was grateful for his presence and, emboldened by his kindness, whispered back, “I wish I had changed now, the rhia simply does not do.”

Eion raised an eyebrow. “My lady Kevla,” he said, “you would outshine anyone in this hall even if you wore a pauper’s rags.”

Kevla felt herself blushing. She was even more glad to have Eion as her escort when he led her to a seat on the bench next to Jareth. The Swordmaster sat on Kevla’s right. Jareth was on her left. They were so close on the bench that her hips brushed those of both Jareth and Eion, and she thought she felt Jareth stiffen at the touch. Kevla thought that a stone wall would be warmer.

Queen Riona sat at the throne. Bram was on her right, and Copper on her left. Copper stared at her fellow Dancers, her green eyes flickering from Kevla to Jareth and back again. The queen looked anxious and tired, but put on a charming smile.

“It has been a long time since this table was so honored with guests,” she said graciously. “Kevla, Jareth-I am so pleased you could join us this evening.”

Kevla smiled and said, “You are a gracious hostess, Your Majesty.”

“Indeed,” Jareth said, his deep voice startling Kevla. “It is a beautiful hall.”

It was impossible to speak for the next few minutes as the servers descended in a flurry of activity. While she recognized the fish easily enough, though she was unfamiliar with the variety, most of the food placed on the table was alien to Kevla. The quantity and the ornateness of the preparation, however, were very similar to what she had experienced at feasts in the House of Four Waters. A whole animal of some kind was placed in the center of the table, complete with hooves and tusks. Cheeses, fruits and vegetables, sauces, bowls of various soups…she was almost sated from merely looking at the bounty.

Eion explained that the several pitchers of beaten gold on the table contained a variety of different beverages-a drink made from barley, one made from honey, and the third water to cut the first two with if she chose. Kevla found she liked the tangy barley drink called “beer.”

Eion offered to serve her and she accepted, trusting that he would select wisely. She watched the others eat first, noticing that they used spoons for some food items and simply speared others with their knives. In Arukan, there were few utensils, and they were used only for serving. One ate with one’s hands only.

She found the food heavy and rich, but edible. A few tastes were familiar-salt, vinegar, certain herbs-but most were strange. She preferred the lighter fish to the heavier meats and ate only enough to satisfy courtesy.

“Bram tells me,” Riona said, spooning up soup made with roots and broth, “that my daughter and the two of you share a destiny. Something about saving Reshan from disaster. Is there war coming? Something we must prepare for?”

Kevla was confused. The first words out of Bram’s mouth had proven to her that not only had he known about the Dancers, he had known which two Dancers they were. Which one Copper was. Was Riona testing them?

“Her royal highness, Kevla and Jareth are of a kind indeed,” said Bram. “Their coming was known to the Namaraban. These three and two others are the champions of this world, Your Majesty. We remember them from times before.”

Momentarily forgetting the new distance between them, the two Dancers exchanged pleased glances. Many things suddenly fell into place as Kevla and Jareth simultaneously realized that the Namaraban were Reshan’s Lorekeepers! Bram smiled as he saw the comprehension spread across both pale and dark faces and nodded, confirming it.

“We are the keepers of the lore, of memories and knowledge, and we use that knowledge to guide our land and its ruler in the right directions.”

Lorekeepers. And yet it was obvious that Bram had decided to keep Riona, and perhaps even Copper, ignorant of a great deal. Why had he done so? He must have his reasons. Or perhaps these Lorekeepers simply did not yet know the full story. Kevla had had no hesitation in relying upon the Lorekeepers of Arukan, once they had overcome their fears sufficiently to seek her out and tell her what they knew. If Jashemi still breathed, he would be the one above all others to whom Kevla would listen.

“Kevla’s land and mine both had Lorekeepers,” said Jareth. “In her land, they were persecuted as demons, and so did not dare speak. In mine, they were…enchanted until very recently, and so my people did not have the benefit of their experiences.”

“Enchanted? How?”

Jareth laughed slightly. “That’s a long story. I’ll happily tell it at one point, but I’m more interested to hear about your Lorekeepers right now.”

“Fortunately, we had no such difficulty,” Bram said. “The Namaraban are an honored people. We find those who are so gifted at birth, and rear them ourselves. We…how to put it…recognize them somehow. It’s difficult to explain.”

Kevla recalled how, even before any of them understood the connection, the Lorekeepers of her land always knew their Dancer. She thought of the man in the market when she had first come to the House of Four Waters. He had called out to her, saying he had had visions of her-and had died, burned on a pyre erected right there in the market, for that recognition. She thought of Tiah, of Melaan, of Jashemi, and she gave Bram a sad smile.

“I have seen firsthand how the Lorekeepers know the Dancers,” she said. “It does not surprise me that they might know one another.”

Bram graced her with a warm smile. “There is an entire community of Lorekeepers here, Kevla. We teach exercises to hone the memory and we write down every scrap of information so gleaned, whether or not it seems important to us. We have a vast library that houses information that is centuries old. When Copper was born, as you indicated, I immediately realized who she was. We knew we had to take good care of her.”

Kevla turned to Copper, happy for the girl but not a little envious of the easy journey the Sea Dancer had had to this point. “You are very fortunate, Copper. To have been born into a culture that knew who you were and how to treat you. I knew nothing of either my powers or the Dancers and their task for many long years. Jareth’s powers were respected, but even he did not know his true destiny until we met. I imagine the Namaraban raised you with all kinds of stories of past Dancers.”

It was, for some unfathomable reason, the wrong thing to say. The high table went very still. Riona’s lips thinned and she clutched her spoon. Bram flushed slightly. Liadan muttered something under her breath and even cheerful Eion kept his eyes on his plate. Kevla suddenly recalled Eion’s comment about two sisters of Copper being “gone” and wondered if that had anything to do with the abrupt pall that had settled over the hitherto pleasant evening.

The silence stretched on. Kevla frantically tried to think of something to say.

“Liadan tells me that you led the battle to win the kingdom yourself, Your Majesty.” It was Jareth, and Kevla silently thanked him for changing the topic.

Apparently Riona was glad of it as well, for she replied promptly, looking almost relieved. “Indeed I was the head, but my two strong hands were the Aofaban and the Eltaban. Liadan and Eion know how vital a part in my victory they were. How vital to keeping the peace they still are.”

“Horsemistress and Swordmaster,” Jareth said. “Both useful. But why two units?”

“The Aofaban are all women,” Liadan answered. “We ride the golden horses you saw today. The Eltaban, whom Eion commands, are all men. They go on foot.”

“I do not understand. Why the need to separate?” Kevla asked. In Arukan, of course, women did not fight at all. But there was clearly a division here, though apparently not an inharmonious one.

“It’s practical more than anything,” Eion said. “While Liadan could easily best an untrained man in a fight, she could not defeat me on the ground in hand to hand or even armed combat. Men are simply physically stronger than women. It is a fact; there is no dishonor in it. But on a horse, many of a woman’s physical disadvantages in combat disappear. Therefore, the women ride, the men fight on foot. All needs are met, all who wish to fight for the kingdom of Reshan have an opportunity, and our foes tremble at our approach.”

He grinned at Liadan. “But I confess, I envy you the Golden Tide.” Kevla didn’t miss the brightness in his eyes.

Liadan returned the grin. “Too bad you were born male, then,” she quipped.

“I have never had cause to regret it myself,” Eion said.

“Her Majesty is indeed well and loyally served,” Bram said. “The Aofaban and the Eltaban handle the fighting. The Namaraban handle the spirit, and advise Her Majesty accordingly. All needs are met.”

“Eion mentioned…hostile sea-folk,” Kevla said hesitantly. Her words were directed at the queen, but it was Bram who replied, looking somber.

“We are surrounded by the ocean, and this dictates much of who we are. Our enemies now are the FinFolk and the Fialaban,” Bram said before Riona could answer. “The people of the oceans. They are jealous of us, and attack us.”

“Why?” Kevla asked. “It would seem to me that if they live on the sea and you live on the land, each has what they require. Life in the ocean must be so different from what we know that there can be little competition.”

Liadan looked at her with surprised admiration. “You’re an astute woman,” she said, and for some reason, Kevla felt inordinately pleased. Jareth did not look at her, but attacked his chunk of boar with renewed vigor.

“And innocent,” said Bram, smiling at Kevla. “If you knew these creatures, you would not say such things.”

“Don’t call them creatures,” Copper said in a low voice. “I hate it when people do that. After all, their king is my father.”

Kevla almost dropped her spoon. Copper was only half human? That would explain a great deal. She tried not to stare at the girl.

“We have a truce now,” Riona said quickly. “When King Farron of the Fialaban became my consort and husband, hostilities ceased. Since that time, peace has largely reigned.”

“Largely, but not entirely,” Bram said smoothly. “Copper, you are right and I apologize. I meant to cast no aspersions on your heritage. My comment was directed at the Finfolk, not your father’s people. The Fialaban have indeed stopped attacking the land, but the FinFolk have not.”

“Wait—you are moving too quickly for a simple farmer like me,” Jareth said. “Who are these people? How are they different?”

Eion turned to him. “The Fialaban are much like us, although they live in the ocean, not on the land,” he said. “They are a handsome people, although they are paler, with a blue tint to their skins.”

“And webs,” said Copper, grinning incongruously. She held up her hands and spread her fingers. Kevla could see what she had failed to notice earlier-that Copper had translucent webbing between all four fingers and thumbs. Copper laughed at the expression on Jareth’s and Kevla’s faces, but as before, there was no real humor in the sound.

“And webs,” agreed Eion smoothly. “Over twenty years ago Her Majesty married Prince Farron, who is now King of the realm beneath the waves.”

Kevla glanced at the queen, who gazed back at her with a calm expression. The unasked question hung in the air…if Farron still lived, why was he not here? Could the Fialaban come on land?

“I have a sister, too. Her name is Silver. She’s beautiful-all covered with shiny scales and-“

“Copper!” the queen snapped.

“What?” Copper looked genuinely confused. “She is beautiful. If you would only agree to meet her you’d see for yourself. Why do you not want me to talk about that? Bram said he was sorry a long time ago and he’s more than made up for it.” Copper frowned and sullenly stabbed at the meat on her plate with a fork.

Riona forced a laugh and turned to Kevla and Jareth. “My daughter is…an unusual child. I find it difficult to believe that she and that…horse creature…will defend Reshan one day.”

“More than Reshan, Your Majesty,” Kevla reminded her gently. “As Bram has said, the Dancers-we three here and two more we have yet to find-were born to save the world, not just your land.”

Riona’s eyes widened slightly. She glanced at Bram, then back at Kevla. “How will this be done?”

Kevla opened her mouth to speak, but Bram was quicker. “Each time, it has been different, Majesty. And no one remembers exactly how events unfolded. That is why we must be prepared. Why the Lorekeepers must study, and remember.” He paused and added, “Why we took Copper to live with us at the Grove when she returned from the sea.”

Riona looked suddenly weary. “I was not born to such things, Bram. I was a simple girl and even now am a simple woman, still more comfortable with a sword in my hand than a crown on my head. I have seen some of the things my daughter can do—I know she was born to a great destiny. But it is hard to fathom the end of all things. Even on a day when I have seen a flying lizard and a great cat and the strange people they bear.”

Her eyes searched Kevla’s, then Jareth’s. “You have many questions, I see, and I think tonight’s conversation has done little to answer them-and perhaps raised more. Rest assured I have equally as many questions for you. I hope we can learn from each other. But for tonight, I think sleep will help more than more conversation.”

She rose gracefully, and everyone in the table-indeed in the hall-rose with her. Riona nodded and left, two women who had been standing by so quietly Kevla had not even noticed them gliding like twin shadows behind her.

“You should come to the Grove tomorrow,” said Copper as if awkward subjects had not been left hanging in the air without any explanation or resolution. Her bright green eyes flitted to Kevla and then Jareth. “It’s quite beautiful. I think you especially will like it.” She pointed at Jareth.

“An excellent idea!” Bram smiled fondly at the Dancer. “It would be an honor to have you visit. The Namaraban, as you can imagine, are thrilled at the idea that you have finally come. I hope you will stay here in Reshan for a time? We have waited so very, very long for this day.”

“Our mission is an urgent one,” Jareth said. “You of all people know that. We are three, now, but there are two more we need to find. Time grows short for us and we cannot afford to waste it.”

For a wonderful, glorious moment, Kevla forgot the guilt and shame she felt regarding her feelings for Jareth. All she could think about was that they would be much farther along in their journey if he had just agreed to come with her once she had found him. If anyone had delayed them, it was he. “We cannot afford to waste time” indeed! She felt a very petty and yet very satisfying urge to kick him under the table.

As swiftly as it had come, the feeling fled. Jareth had needed to do what he had done-what they had done together. He had needed to find his Companion, to disenchant the Lorekeepers, to bring spring back to an ensorcelled land. Much good had been done. The time had not been wasted. She sighed, suddenly very tired.

“That is too great a decision to make right now,” she said. “I should like to follow the queen’s wise advice and sleep myself.”

“Of course, you have traveled a great distance and you must be weary,” Eion said immediately, rising. Kevla turned to Copper and smiled. Copper did not smile back, but simply regarded Kevla with that unnerving stare. “Good night, Copper. It-truly, it is wonderful to have found you.”

Copper nodded slightly. “Good night, Kevla. Do not shutter your windows tonight and you will hear the sea sing to you.”

“It-sings?” Kevla was startled.

“Just a figure of speech,” Liadan said.

“No it’s not,” Copper said, quite seriously. Kevla shivered a little, and did not know why. She took Eion’s extended hand and turned to go.

“Kevla, I need to speak with you.”

Jareth’s voice held a note she could not decipher, and right now, she did not want to. She stood with her back toward the table, so did not know if he was looking at her as he spoke. She swallowed hard and managed to say, “Not tonight.”

“All right. But soon. It’s…important.”

She left without replying, moving quickly through the great hallway. Eion stayed silent, uncertain as to the nature of what was causing the division between Stone and Flame Dancers but obviously aware of it. He broke his silence when they reached her room, saying only, very quietly, “Is there anything else I can do for you, Kevla?”

She smiled sadly. “Only if you can turn back time.”

“Alas,” he said, “I can turn back a tide of Finfolk storming our lands, but time is a greater enemy than any I can conquer. Is there some other task you could set me to?”

“No,” Kevla said gently. “You have been more than kind, Eion. Good night.”

He bowed low and left. She closed the door and leaned on it for a long moment. She did not want to talk to Jareth tonight, tomorrow, or ever. She did not want to be alone with him, to heard the cold condemnation in his voice. But sooner or later, she supposed she had to. Kevla went to the small window and opened the shutters as Copper had suggested. As Eion had promised, the view was breathtaking. She looked out onto the dark ocean, silvered by moonlight, and watched waves crest and then break on the rocky shoreline. Fresh, cool air came in and swirled softly about her, stirring her rhia. She heard the soft sound of the ocean, rhythmic and lulling. A figure of speech only, Liadan had reassured her; but Kevla was not so certain.

She did not remove her rhia, nor turn back the thick bedclothes and drift to sleep on a comfortable mattress. Instead, she lay down on the hard stone floor before the hearth, and stared into the dancing firelight until, many hours later, sleep finally claimed her.

Chapter Five

Kevla awoke to a wonderful smell and a soft clinking sound. She blinked slowly for a moment, her mind still foggy with sleep, then recalled her surroundings. She sat up quickly, turning to see the young servant Liura setting the sideboard with plates and bowls. Kevla was a bit uncomfortable with the idea that the serving girl could come and go as she pleased; she would have to speak with Eion to see if there were a way to bolt the door.

“Good morning, Liura.”

The girl jumped as if stung and a spoon went clattering to the floor. “Oh! My lady! I am sorry if I disturbed you. I meant simply to have this prepared and ready for you when you awoke!” The girl’s large brown eyes were wide with apprehension and Kevla hastened to reassure her.

“You were very quiet, Liura. But that delicious smell would have awoken anyone.” She smiled and got to her feet. The girl moved quickly to the side. “What do you have for me?”

“Hard cheese, toasted bread with butter and preserved fruit to spread on it,” Liura said in her soft voice, pointing to each item. “Baked apples are in this bowl, fried eggs are on this tray.” She lifted a cloth from a tray and Kevla saw several eggs, their yolks dark orange. “And herbs have been steeping in this pot. It makes a delicious tea. Her Highness hopes you enjoy it. It’s her favorite herbal blend.”

“Copper had this sent up to me?”

“Yes, my lady. She said that she would come fetch you a bit later, and bring you to the Grove. I trust it is all to your liking?”

Kevla laughed. “Indeed it is, although it is enough for me, Copper, Jareth and you to partake in.”

“Oh! I could never possibly eat with my lady,” Liura replied, flustered. Kevla turned to her and took her hands. Liura was too startled to pull away.

“Liura, listen to me. I do not wish you to violate the customs of your land. But I am not of your land, and I am not a lady. I am merely Kevla. And I think you very much for this-rather lavish meal, but from now on, I will break my fast in my own way when I arise.” At the girl’s crestfallen face, Kevla added, “It pleases me to do so. I find no fault with your care of me.”

Liura nodded. “The bath is drawn already,” she said. “I hope that is acceptable.”

“It is.” Luira had had her world disrupted enough for one day. Later, Kevla would request that the servants did not need to climb so very many steps carrying water just for her bath. “I feel very well tended to, Liura. Thank you.”

“You do not require assistance bathing and dressing?”

Kevla shook her head. “Not at all. You may find this hard to believe, but when I was younger, I was a servant who was not even well regarded enough to attend to my House’s guests.”

The brown eyes went even wider. Kevla had not known such a thing was possible. “My l-you are teasing me,” she said.

“Not at all. So you see, I know how to take care of my own needs.”

Liura curtseyed deeply. “As you wish,” she said, and left. Before she closed the door, she gave Kevla a charming smile. Kevla returned it. Luira was a very sweet girl, eager to please. Kevla understood her better than the girl knew.

She ate a small fraction of the enormous amount of food that had been brought up to her and found it all, like the food as last night’s feast, delicious but heavy. She ended up nibbling on the toast and sipping the tea, which was fragrant and hot. The bath had cooled by the time she shed her rhia and stepped into it, but that was not a problem. With a thought, the water heated up until steam rose gently from its surface.

She washed herself with the cake of soap that was provided, deep in thought. Last night’s conversations had utterly baffled her. She had not known what to expect, of course. Jareth and his land were as far from anything she had known as could be imagined. But Copper was not even truly human. Her Companion was as strange as his Dancer, and the Lorekeepers here seemed to know-well, everything. She thought about Bram’s invitation to linger in Reshan. She thought about the other things she had seen in the vision she and Jareth had shared-the two faces on the same head, the too-bright light, swords and letters and riddles.

And she thought about Jareth Vasalen, and the look on his face when he had learned the truth about her.

The water had grown cold. She did not bother to reheat it, but climbed out and dressed quickly. She had just woven a fresh rhia from the fire and slipped it over her head when there came a soft knock on the door. She remembered that Liura had said Copper would come to take her to the Grove and turned with a pleasant smile.

“Come in,” she called.

The door opened. “Good morning, Kevla,” said Jareth.

“Jareth!” She stared for a moment. “I-wasn’t expecting you.”

He frowned. “That’s obvious,” he said, and she didn’t need to ask to know what he meant. She’d felt the smile bleed from her face, felt her body tense, as soon as she had seen him. “We-need to talk. About a lot of things.”

He was right. But she couldn’t, not yet-

“Have you eaten?” she said, turning to the sideboard. “Copper sent me enough food to feed the Aofaban and their horses.”

“Yes, she sent up food for me too. I didn’t come for breakfast.”

“About Bram’s invitation,” she said, “I think we should accept it.”

Clearly that wasn’t the topic foremost in his thoughts, for he looked confused for a moment. It wasn’t the first in her heart either, but she seized it like a lifeline in order to avoid the real discussion.

“Um…why?”

“Jareth, we came prepared for a long search. My journey to understanding what it meant to be a Dancer took years. Yours took several months. Copper already knows who she is, what her purpose is. She’s found her Companion and her Lorekeepers.”

“Your point?”

“Well…Bram said they had a library. That there is much history written down.”

He frowned. “That’s all very nice, but that’s the past. No one knows what form the Shadow will take each time. Anecdotes of past battles won’t tell us a thing about what you and I and Copper and the other two will face.”

“We don’t know that,” Kevla said. “We won’t know anything until we take some time and explore these records. Also, you know the vision we received the last time we tried to find the Sea Dancer was different from anything we’d seen before.”

She had him there, and he looked wary and curious. “That’s true. So?”

“So,” she continued, “This time, we don’t have to look for the Dancers or the Lorekeepers. We can use that time to our advantage. Maybe this time, we don’t have to spend the time here looking for the Dancer. Maybe there’s something else we need to learn, or to discover while we’re here. We could study, and train-maybe learn what those images in the vision meant. It would be foolish not to take this opportunity to learn things.”

He folded his arms and glared at her. “Like what?”

“Like-whatever is in the records.” She thought about Liadan and Eion. “We could learn to handle weapons. There was a sword in the vision. Do you remember?”

“Yes,” he said, slowly, reluctantly. “But the Shadow is not a man with a sword. It’s magic…which is why the Dancers must stand against it and not ordinary men.”

Kevla thought of the Emperor. She thought of the stream of well-trained warriors pouring over the mountains in Arukan. She and the Dragon had helped turn the tide, but they could not have succeeded alone.

“I’ve stood against the Emperor’s warriors before. This time the Shadow seems to come with a very human army.”

He had no answer to that. “And riding,” Kevla continued. “I know how to ride a horse, but do you?”

Jareth’s frown deepened. “I have no need of letters, and I can ride the Blue Tiger. She’s mount enough for me.”

“She is your Companion. You were born knowing how to ride her. But you may have need of a less ordinary mount from time to time. And letters—“Kevla gasped slightly. “Letters…those were in the vision too. The Namaraban and I could teach you to read and write. We might need to send messages-our powers have been blocked before.”

Her arguments were sound and she knew it, and yet Jareth stubbornly refused to budge. “I don’t like that he wanted to delay us for some reason.”

“Jareth, Bram is a Lorekeeper. He wants only to help us. Lorekeepers exist solely to help the Dancers, why do you-oh.”

Now she understood.

This wasn’t about Bram. Kevla and Jareth had met a treacherous Lorekeeper before, one who had done everything he…she…could to stop him. One who had allied with the Emperor. Ilta had murdered Jareth in the life before this one; and now, she was quite mad. Her presence screamed a warning against blindly trusting Lorekeepers.

But Kevla thought of Jashemi, who had been as true as Ilta was false. She thought of Melaan, who had died for her cause; of the little sa’abah tender, who had aided her without knowing why; even of Tiah, who had feared their connection but ultimately joined Kevla.

She wanted to touch Jareth, to reassure him with the warmth of human flesh on human flesh, but did not dare. Not anymore. Instead, Kevla said, “I know who you are thinking of. But think instead of the selva, Jareth. Think of their loyalty and support. That is what a Lorekeeper is. Ilta…is an aberration.”

Jareth sighed. “Perhaps you are right. I know there’s something called the Grove that Bram and Copper want us to visit. Let’s see what they have to show us. We saw Copper when she was ready for us to come find her. We should try to see if the next Dancer is ready before we commit to staying.”

She knew what he was suggesting, and it was wisdom. But the last thing she thought they both wanted was contact. “You…wish to learn if we can see him or her in a vision.”

He nodded. “If the next Dancer isn’t waiting for us, I see no harm in staying.” He sat down on the stone floor and extended his hands to her. Kevla hesitated, then placed her hands in his. Their fingers automatically entwined, as they had done so often before. Kevla squeezed her eyes shut, trying to open herself to any vision that might come, trying to be impervious to the warm but ultimately false comfort of his hands on hers. Nothing happened. If the next Dancer was awaiting them, he or she gave no sign.

“It looks like we stay, then,” Jareth said. He did not pull his hands back. “But-that’s not the real reason I came to see you. And you know it.”

Kevla took a deep breath and opened her eyes. “Yes. I know. But if you have come here to berate and chastise me, then I would ask that you leave now. There is nothing you can say to me that I have not already told myself.”

Jareth blinked. Obviously, this wasn’t the way he expected the conversation to go.

“Honestly? I don’t know what I’m going to say to you. But before I say anything, I need to listen.”

Now it was Kevla’s turn to be taken by surprise. “There is much to be done now,” she said. “Perhaps we should speak of this later.”

“If we don’t do this now, we’re not going to,” Jareth said urgently.

Her brown eyes searched his blue ones and finally, she nodded. She knew, as obviously Jareth knew, that eventually, the conversation had to happen. But that did not mean she did not quail from it.

“Very well. I will tell you of my brother, my Lorekeeper, my soul. And when I am done, then you may judge me.”

He seemed calmer than she had imagined he would be, and for that she was grateful. Would he understand, once she had told him the truth of what had transpired between her and Jashemi? Or would it mean nothing to him-would he see her as someone to be reviled and rejected? And why, why did it matter so much to her? Even if they were both head over heels in love, they could not consummate it.

Get this over with, she thought fiercely. Get it over with and move forward.

“You know some of the tale already,” she said quietly, looking at their still-clasped hands. “You know that I was the daughter of a halaan; that I solicited customers for her so that we could eat. When I was ten, Tahmu-kha-Rakyn, the khashim of the House of Four Waters, came to take me away. I didn’t know he was my father. I didn’t know that for a long time.”

The telling was both difficult and yet easier than she had expected. The words came effortlessly, as if they had been sitting, waiting to be spoken, for a great while.

“There, I met the young lord-Jashemi-kha-Tahmu. He was the heir to the Clan. It seems impossible that no one else noticed the resemblance between the father and both his children, but it would appear that servants are invisible in Arukan.”

She glanced briefly at Jareth, and saw that his face was open and unguarded. No judgment from him…not yet.

“Jashemi, though, saw at once that we were brother and sister. He wanted to get to know me, and contrived ways for us to be together. At one point, his mother, Yeshi, also realized the truth when she saw us playing in secret. Her anger was dreadful. I was beaten and sent to work in the kitchens, I no longer slept in the house or—“

Even now, her fall from esteemed handmaiden to being treated worse than a five-score still hurt Kevla when she recalled it. Worst had been the interminable days of incomprehension, of not understanding why she had so fallen out of favor. Now that she knew, she felt a sort of sympathy for Yeshi.

“Jashemi and I continued to see each other in secret. We were…drawn to one another. I didn’t understand, but I was not about to question the only good thing in my life. He thought it was the natural desire for siblings to be together. Neither of us knew about the Dancers, or the Lorekeepers, though we both had troubling dreams. I dreamed of the Great Dragon of my people, the lawgiver and judge, breathing fire upon me as my powers began to manifest. Jashemi dreamed of other lives, other people, and of a great and terrible Shadow that erased everything as if it had never been. Neither of us said anything to anyone else. We would be burned as demons if we did.”

Jareth was gazing at her intently, seemingly hanging on every word. She let her eyes settle for a moment on his beautiful face, then glanced back at their joined hands.

“That pull we felt toward one another-I realize now that of course it was the natural drawing of the Lorekeeper to his Dancer. But we misunderstood-we interpreted it as love. When my powers were discovered and I was sentenced to be burned to death, he rescued me-forever cutting himself off from his family, his Clan, his culture. He gave up everything to save me. I had thought he was unattainable because he was the young lord of the Clan. Now, with his name gone from him, he was only Jashemi…only the man I had fallen in love with years ago, sensing the bond between us and thinking it was something other than what it truly was.”

Kevla’s face grew hot and she felt tears well in her eyes and close up her throat. This, she had not expected; she had come to terms with Jashemi’s death and his peculiar new role in her life as her soul and guide. But she had not spoken of this in some time. Tahmu was the only one who knew what had happened between his two children; knew the unspeakable horror that keeping Kevla ignorant of her heritage had caused.

“I did not know he was my blood…but he knew. He knew, and was unable to resist the call of Lorekeeper to Dancer, although it was only at the end-only at the moment when he surrendered utterly to the pleasure of our lovemaking—when it all came clear to him.”

She blinked hard. Jareth said nothing and she did not dare look at him.

“We lay together as man and woman. I do not deny it. And even now, I don’t know if I could have resisted him even if I had known he was my brother. The pull to be together-it was overwhelming. But I wish with all my being I had not done so. For it was I who killed my Lorekeeper. He….”

She turned tear-filled eyes up to Jareth, hoping against hope he would understand what she was feeling. She could not read his expression. Gulping, she continued.

“I killed him, Jareth. I am the Flame Dancer. To lie with him was to bring about his death. There was a moment of pleasure such as I have never known before or since…and when I came back to myself, I was covered in ashes. Covered in his ashes.”

She waited for him to recoil, as he had done when he first learned about her transgression. Instead, his face softened and he squeezed her hands, the pale fingers gently grasping the dark. Say something. Say anything, only speak….

“I was married to a woman I adored with my whole heart,” Jareth said quietly. She looked up at him. His blue eyes met hers evenly. “I know a little something about love, Kevla. To have lived the life you lived, to have only one person reach out to with kindness…you would have been inhuman had you not fallen in love with Jashemi.”

He did not stumble over the name. It came easily to his lips. Kevla felt the faintest spark of hope inside her.

“You were ignorant of your connection-both as brother and sister and as Lorekeeper and Dancer. You needed to connect to one another, as all Dancers and their Lorekeepers must.”

Now his voice had a deep sorrow to it. Kevla knew that he was mourning what could have been between Ilta and himself. It had not had to go the way it did; but Ilta was mad beyond saving, and she had turned Jareth against her forever by her treachery.

“I’m sorry, Jareth,” Kevla said impulsively. “In a way I am the lucky one, to have found and loved my Lorekeeper. Even if I…even if I killed him. He is still with me, still in my heart. He is still my soul. Copper has seen him and I know it to be true.”

His face was very still as he regarded her. Here it comes, Kevla thought, bracing herself. Now he will tell me what he thinks of me.

“Do you love him still, Kevla?

It was not the response she had expected. Caught off-guard, she blurted out the truth. “Of course. He was my Lorekeeper. How can I help but love him?”

She watched the hardness spread across his face and knew that she had said the wrong thing.

“I see.”

She opened her mouth to correct his misunderstanding, then froze. Jareth did not despise her for lying with her brother. He’d listened, and he’d understood. She should have known he would. Now he was asking something else entirely. Something she wanted with her whole heart, but that she could never have. To save him, she would have to hurt him. And herself. So she did not say the words that were in her heart. It was best this way. She thought he would leave then, but he did not. He sat silently, staring at their still-clasped hands.

“There will be no other for you, then? You are certain of this?”

It was not what she wanted to do. But it was what she knew she had to. She had revealed too much to Jareth. If he knew how much she cared…how much she loved him…he would try to convince her that somehow, it would be different between them. Convince her that he would not be reduced to ashes covering her body. And because she did love him so much, she could not permit that.

Too, she had a duty. If a Dancer died, so would the world. She couldn’t afford to take the risk. Far, far too much was at stake.

“There will be no other,” she said, trying to keep her voice cool. She failed.

“Kevla, look at me.”

She clenched her teeth. He will die if you do not do this! she told herself. Better you hurt him now and he lives. Better he think your heart cold than burn like Jashemi did in your fire of passion.

Summoning every ounce of will she possessed, she lifted her eyes to the piercing blue of his gaze.

“What you did wasn’t your fault. You didn’t know Jashemi was your brother, and you didn’t mean to-to harm him. I am coming to care for you, Kevla. Maybe even love you. Tell me there’s a chance. If there is-if you could love me-I swear to you, we will find a way to make this work.”

His hands, resting on hers, squeezed gently. Kevla’s heart slammed against her chest, but she did not move.

“Jareth, please,” she said. “You’re only making this harder.”

“Tell me you don’t love me,” he said. “Tell me I’m a fool, that what I believe is between us is just wishful thinking. I don’t think you can.”

And for a long, awful moment, she couldn’t. She couldn’t look into those eyes and utter the greatest lie she could imagine. Her lips moved, but nothing came out. His face softened, and a tender smile began to curve his lips. Seeing the love on his face jolted Kevla into doing the cruel thing that needed to be done to save him.

“You force me to it. Very well, if you need it said—I don’t love you, Jareth.”

He froze, the smile melting. “I don’t believe you.”

“You should,” Kevla said, removing her hands from his warm grasp. “It’s the truth. Please, Jareth. Don’t make this worse than it has to be. Anything you thought was between us was just my need for a friend. Two Dancers, seeking comfort from each other. Nothing more than that. I’m sorry.”

For the briefest instant, she saw the agony in his gaze, but then a mask settled over his features. The pain that washed over Kevla was almost overwhelming. Somehow, she had not truly expected him to believe her…but he had.

He opened his mouth to speak.

“Oh good, now I don’t have to go track you down too, Jareth,” came a voice. Both Dancers started and turned to the door. Copper stood there, regarding them both. “Are you ready to visit the Grove?”

Chapter Six

Kevla all but leaped to her feet, seizing the opportunity. Her resolve was true, but her feelings for Jareth were intense. She feared that he would manage somehow to convince her to try, to take a chance on what they felt for one another. The less time she spent with him alone, the safer he would be.

“Yes indeed,” Kevla said. “Jareth and I were discussing Bram’s offer to stay for a bit.”

Copper’s normally neutral expression brightened slightly. “That would be fun! I would love to show you my father’s realm. Well…mine, too. Maybe. I’m not sure yet.”

Kevla was again utterly confused by the strange young woman. Jareth had gotten to his feet and they all moved toward the door. She wanted to follow up on this, but Copper had already moved on to another topic.

“What do you think of Anam Bram?”

“I-have only just met him,” Kevla said, following the Sea Dancer down the hall and descending the tightly-twining staircase. “As I said last night, I think you are lucky that the Lorekeepers-the Namaraban-have been available as a resource and support for you. And Bram, I assume, is your Lorekeeper.”

She felt Jareth behind her, heard his booted feet. She wished he’d say something.

“Oh, no. I don’t have a Lorekeeper. Not the way you mean.”

Kevla frown a little as they stepped out into the courtyard and walked its length. “You have not met him or her yet, then.”

“Anam Bram is very confused about that. I don’t think he’s here.”

“Dead then?” Jareth’s voice was blunt.

Copper shrugged her thin shoulders. “Maybe. I don’t know.” She seemed quite unconcerned about it. Suddenly she threw them one of her strange grins. “It confounds Bram no end. It’s one of the main things he’s been researching since I came back to the land.”

“Back?”

“From the sea. My father took us. Silver-my sister-is still in the ocean with him. I was sent back when I was ten. My time here is almost up.”

Despite the strain between them, Kevla could not help but turn to Jareth with a look of utter confusion on her face. The more Copper “explained” the more perplexing and muddled everything became.

They stepped out of the courtyard into the large clearing, where only a day earlier Kevla, Jareth, the Tiger and the Dragon had landed to an enthusiastic welcome. Only a day, and so much had changed.

Bram was awaiting them, sitting astride a calm-looking brown horse. He was again clad in a blue robe, but this one looked more workaday than anything she had yet seen him in. His eyes brightened as he saw them approach.

“Good morning, good morning! I trust you slept well?”

“Very, thank you,” Kevla said. Jareth just nodded. “I am looking forward to seeing where the Lorekeepers live. But there are so many things I am curious about,” Kevla continued.

“Of course. Ask away. But before you begin—your Companions are already in the Grove, but perhaps you would be more comfortable entering in their company. Summon them if you like.”

“I do not ‘summon’ the Tiger,” Jareth said. His voice was cold.

Bram shrugged and smiled good-naturedly. “Ask, or invite, however you choose to phrase it.”

Kevla needed no second urging. She had missed the Dragon’s hulking, comforting presence. It would be good to see him.

Dragon? Kevla sent. Anam Bram wishes to take us to the Grove. Will you come and bear me there?

Of course. It is a pleasant place, but a bit far as humans walk. I am coming.

Jareth turned to Bram. Kevla could see him sizing the Namaraban up, perusing him. “Copper said she’d been back studying with you for ten years. That her father took her. Queen Riona seemed a bit strained last night. Are Kevla and I walking into something we need to know about?”

That was Jareth, Kevla thought. Straight and to the point. Bram winced slightly.

“Copper…has always been torn between the sea and the land. Her father took her the day she was born, and returned her to us ten years later.”

Copper snorted, reminding Kevla uncannily of the Kelpie that was the girl’s Companion. “He only took me because you told him you were going to throw my sisters in the sea and take me away from Mother.”

Bram flushed. “I…” He sighed. “It is true, and I’m not proud of it. But my hands were tied. We have auguers among the Namaraban, and this was what they told us had to be done. I only wanted what was best for the kingdom. For you, Copper, and the destiny you held.”

“I know you’re sorry, and I know that’s what you thought. But I wonder if your auguers would have decided that if Gold and Silver had looked like me.” Copper turned to Kevla and Jareth. “Fialaban and human don’t exactly mix well when it comes to children. Gold was born dead. And Silver-well, she’s beautiful, but she certainly doesn’t look like a human girl. Or a Fialaban for that matter.”

So that was the reason the king dwelt in the sea, and the queen on the land. A rift two decades old, caused by a “seer’s” determination. “Gold and Silver were-malformed?”

Bram nodded. “I delivered all three of them. Gold-could never have survived outside the womb. Her hair and face were beautiful, but the rest of her-the heart breaks to relate it. Silver is more-“he glanced sidelong at Copper, who stared at him as if challenging him to say anything against her sister. “More…piscine than human. Their father named them for the precious metals they reminded him of. I…I turned to the auguers for advice. And I intended to do what they said was necessary.”

Kevla thought sadly of her own people’s folly. “The people of Arukan were told something similar by their seers,” she said. “For millennia, the Great Dragon was unseen by my people, but revered as a god. All sorts of faulty beliefs were attributed to him. We thought he wanted us to expose any child born deformed, or blind or deaf-imperfect in any way. It is only because of his great compassion that they survived. Such words must have hurt your mother greatly, Copper.”

“Mother was going to agree. She believed in the auguers too,” Copper said almost idly. “And after all, she was the one who tricked Father into living on land for so long. It seems fair that I went with him into the sea that night.”

“Tricked him? What do you mean?” Jareth frowned.

“Fialaban have a magical necklace,” Copper said. “If you steal their necklace, they can’t go back to the sea. Mother stole Father’s necklace and hid it, to force him to stay on the land with her. He must have found it at some point, because as I said—on the night I was born, he went back to the ocean with me and Silver.”

Kevla was stunned. No wonder there was tension in the court of Queen Riona. A queen who had forced her lover out of his oceanic realm so that she might have him constantly by her side. An advisor who had insisted on tossing one daughter back to the sea and taking the other away. There was a sort of tug-of-war over Copper that had been going on apparently for the girl’s entire lifetime. She had thought Copper lucky, to escape the pain and suffering that she and Jareth had undergone. Now, Kevla was not at all certain she would have traded places with the strange little Sea Dancer, despite the torments of her own past.

Even as Kevla spoke, she heard the familiar sound of great wings, and smiled slightly as the Dragon landed gracefully. She went to her Companion and stroked his scales, grateful for the distraction. She climbed atop him and hugged him.

Your heart is heavy, the Dragon sent tenderly.

I had to tell him I didn’t love him. He is hurting and angry, and I am sick at the lie. But I know what happened to Jashemi. I cannot permit that to happen to Jareth.

The Dragon said nothing further, and Kevla was uncertain whether he approved or not. It did not matter. It was the only thing she could do.

Copper walked boldly up and patted the Dragon. “Ha! He is warm-almost hot. Kelpie is cool to the touch. He is always cool.”

“How did you meet him?” Jareth asked.

“I heard him calling me. In my head. I was practicing survival training with Liadan. She said that the first thing you need to do is find shelter. I said, I would find water. And so I went to where he was calling me, and up he came.” She turned, smiling. “Just like now.”

Sure enough, both the Tiger and the Kelpie were running swiftly toward their Dancers. The contrast between the graceful, undulating movements of the Blue Tiger and the jerky, capering stride of the Kelpie was striking.

“Yes, my little Dancer, I found you, and I took you away,” laughed the Kelpie, prancing around Copper. She giggled and leaped onto his back. Kevla did not miss the sight of Jareth turning to embrace his Companion, nor of the massive cat rubbing her head against him reassuringly.

“Liadan was horrified,” Bram said wryly. “The Kelpie is a folk tale among our people-or used to be. We believed it to be an evil water spirit, who takes people aboard its back and then returns to the watery pools that are its homes-drowning the rider in the process.”

Kelpie and Copper exchanged glances and both burst out laughing. “As if the Sea Dancer could drown,” Copper said, almost scornfully. The Kelpie suddenly sprang forward. “Come on!” Copper cried. “We’ll race you!”

The Tiger sighed and shook her head. “Kelpie, Kelpie,” she muttered under her breath, and with Jareth atop her she moved in a more sedate but still swift manner after the Kelpie. The Dragon chuckled, a deep rumbling that sounded like the earth shaking, and moved languidly.

Bram, on his more ordinary mount, fell behind. “Wait for me at the gate!” he cried.

The path to the Grove was a clear one and not too dotted with trees, so the Dragon lifted himself up into the air, flying slowly so as not to arrive too far ahead of the others. The Grove was not far as the Dragon flew, and he set down gently in the rolling, flower-starred meadow outside it.

Slowly Kevla slid off the Dragon’s back, staring. Before was a huge ring of ancient trees, growing in a perfect circle. They towered above her, seemingly stretching as if to touch the white clouds that floated past in the blue sky. The path ended at what Bram had so off-handedly referred to as a “gate”, but which was unlike anything she had ever seen. Made of branches that had grown together, it reminded Kevla briefly of the wall of thorny trees through which she and Jareth had had to battle in order to reach the Ice Maiden. She shivered at the recollection. But there was nothing here that felt dangerous or threatening. The branches that were as entwined as joined hands were healthy and whole, and she could even see foliage decorating them. Kevla could tell by the soft orange glow that there were fires and torches on the other side of this natural gate.

“How very beautiful,” came Jareth’s voice.

Kevla started. The Tiger moved as silently as one might expect from a cat, even one as large as she, and Kevla had not heard the beast’s approach. Jareth stepped forward and respectfully placed a hand on the entwined branches. He smiled softly; clearly he sensed the life within.

“Can you open it?” Kevla asked.

“I could,” he replied, “But I don’t think that would be courteous.”

Kevla heard hoofbeats coming along the earthen path and turned to see first Copper, and then Bram. Copper slipped off the Kelpie like the Dancer she was named for while the beast was still in mid-stride. Bram reined in his horse beside the Kelpie, who shied and side-stepped away from the ordinary animal. The Anam dismounted with much less grace than Copper.

“From now on, the Grove is yours to visit as you will,” Bram said, walking up to the gate and placing his hand on it.

There was a straining, whip-like sound and before Kevla’s eyes, the branches that formed the gate disentangled themselves from one another. They snapped back vigorously, swaying from the movement, then finally stilled as if waiting for them to enter. Kevla and Jareth hesitated, but Copper strode forward. This was all familiar to her.

Jareth glanced at Kevla, then they too went inside. Kevla expected their Companions to accompany them, but they remained outside.

“I am too large,” the Dragon said. “I will stay out here. Perhaps you will keep me company, Tiger?”

The Tiger yawned and stretched, revealing sharp white teeth and a pink tongue. “Gladly.”

“I’ll stay too,” said the Kelpie. “It’s boring in there.”

Kevla had always known that in the end, it all fell to the Dancers. Not their Lorekeepers, who could advise and direct them; not their Companions, who could assist with strength and devotion. Still, she felt a pang as she realized how easily the Dragon was stepping back from their profound connection now that three of the Dancers had gathered. She supposed it was to be expected, perhaps even necessary, but she didn’t like it. Especially now that she and Jareth were on such strained terms. She waved a little to the Dragon, then turned to see what the beautiful Grove enclosed.

Kevla felt herself start to smile as she looked around. She wasn’t certain what she had expected-perhaps an austere enclave of intellectuals looking down their noses at the primal, primitive Dancers. Instead, she saw a village much like the one that surrounded the castle. If it weren’t for the fact that everyone she saw was clad in the Namaraban blue-a color forbidden to anyone else-she might have thought she was in any small village. She heard the sound of the smith’s hammer, the gentle whicker of horses, and she smelled baking bread. They had made their own little community here; their numbers were large enough to support it.

But what made this place stand out-what was clearly delighting Jareth, from the expression on his face-was the fact that these people did not seem to have imposed their will upon the land on which they dwelt, but had integrated themselves with it. There were no huts, no stone houses-the dwellings here were worked into a landscape of standing stones and the giant roots of the mammoth trees whose protective trunks and branches encircled it. She heard the liquid song of a bird and the rustle of the wind in the trees.

Kevla decided she liked the Namaraban.

“The trees were first planted a thousand years ago,” said Bram. He stood quietly beside her, exuding pride. “We have nurtured them ever since.”

“The earth is happy here,” Jareth said. “I can feel it. You have been kind to it, and it has responded by blessing those who dwell here.”

“It pleases me that you feel that way, Stone Dancer,” Bram said. “The Grove is, as you now see, a circle of mighty trees that encloses our little Namaraban community. The trees were planted when the first Namaraban arrived a thousand years ago, and we have nurtured the Grove ever since.” He looked about, a smile of fondness and pride curving his full lips. “Other lands have cathedrals or temples. We have the Grove.”

Kevla saw that the area enclosed by the Grove contained many smaller ones. There were clearings, perhaps for rituals, a spring, flat stones and circles of stones, and several of the buildings created by working with the trees and their root systems.

From these buildings now emerged the Namaraban. They stood, keeping a respectful distance, but regarding Jareth and Kevla with a kind of hunger in their eyes. Kevla realized that she was seeing the ultimate development of the Lorekeepers. Honored, cultivated, respected, listened to, the Lorekeepers of Reshan represented the pinnacle which all Lorekeepers could potentially achieve. She realized that she, at least, had made up her mind to stay for a while: simply speaking with these Lorekeepers and reading their documentation would yield important information, she was certain.

“At another time, I will introduce you to the rest of the Namaraban,” said Bram. “But for now, there is a specific place I wish to take you. Please follow me.”

Copper scurried up to him, her face shining. “The cave? Are you finally going to let me see the cave?”

Bram smiled and touched the upturned face gently. “Yes, my dear girl,” he said. “Now that two of your fellows have joined you, I think it’s time.”

Kevla and Jareth glanced at one another. Bram turned to them and explained, “You will be welcome in the Grove and surrounding areas at any time. But the cave is deeply sacred to us. I would ask that you not venture there unescorted.”

Bram led them on a small, winding path that took them out of the settlement, past a circle of standing stones and the spring Kevla had heard earlier, across a flat meadow and over a gently rolling hill. Kevla shook her head as she realized that everything she beheld was protectively enclosed by the ancient ring of sacred trees.

As the path sloped downwards, Kevla saw they were heading toward the base of another hill. Nestled in shadows, the entrance to the cave of which Bram had spoken was hidden from her eyes at first. He paused by a rock, murmured something, and suddenly Kevla could see it: a black smudge against the slightly lighter blackness of the shadowy hill.

“Here is the heart of what it means to be Namaraban,” Bram said in a hushed voice. “Follow me closely. Do not stray.”

Kevla conjured a small ball of fire. Bram glanced at her and smiled. “There is light in the caves at all times, Kevla. You may extinguish your flame.”

For some reason, Kevla felt embarrassed. She closed her palm and the little fire disappeared. She followed Bram and Copper inside the cave. Jareth brought up the rear.

The entrance was narrow and both Kevla and Jareth, who were taller than either Bram or Copper, had to watch their heads. Kevla could see that Bram had spoken the truth and there was light in the chamber up ahead. When they emerged in the chamber, Kevla gasped.

Chapter Seven

The paintings on the cave walls were so realistic that for an instant she had mistaken them for living people. There were five of them; five individuals who looked oddly familiar yet whom she knew she had never seen before.

“This,” said Bram softly, “is the work of the man who founded the Namaraban. He had the gift of seeing into the future. He saw you…all of you…as you were and as you would be, each time.”

Kevla’s hand went to her mouth even as she heard Jareth swear under his breath. Even Copper seemed surprised.

“This is the First World,” Bram continued in that same reverent tone. “This is how the five Dancers appeared the first time they manifested.”

Kevla looked from face to face, searching for herself and not finding it. “Which…which one…I’m sorry, I can’t remember….”

Bram smiled and pointed to the woman with long fair hair in the center of the group of five. “She was the Flame Dancer,” he said, “and this, Jareth, is who you were.”

Kevla could not believe it. The woman whom she had once been was as fair as Jareth, with large blue eyes and a pink, soft mouth. She was older, perhaps in her forties. Kevla looked for something familiar, but could find nothing.

Jareth stared at the short, squat man atop a beautiful black horse. The man had feathers braided into his hair and beard and looked quite fierce. Jareth raised his eyebrows; clearly, he was having the same difficulty identifying with this aspect of himself as Kevla was.

“Ugh…I look old!” Copper stated, and indeed, the woman who had been the first manifestation of the Sea Dancer was elderly, with long, wispy white hair. “I don’t think I like her.”

“You should,” Bram said. “She, and the other four Dancers, saved their world.”

Kevla was too stunned to pay much attention to the other two Dancers. She was reeling from having come face to face, albeit only through a painting on a wall, with who she had once been. Bram let them look their fill in silence, and when he sensed they were ready, he indicated a chamber to their right.

“This is the Second World,” said Bram as they entered the next chamber. “These Dancers were not as successful as the first. This was the first time the Shadow triumphed.”

As she regarded the five images, Kevla again could not tell which one she was. Bram pointed to a man, square of jaw, powerful of build. He was young, in his early twenties, and in those eyes Kevla saw the raw energy of youth. How had that long-ago artist managed to capture them all so vividly?

Jareth’s former incarnation was easier to identify-a tall man with black hair and bristling with weapons, clad in a tabard that sported a stylized Blue Tiger on a white background.

“The Legion,” Jareth said quietly. “I remember the Legion of the Blue Tiger. All of my men perished in that battle…hundreds of them….”

He fell silent. Kevla looked at the others; the thirty-year old, composed woman who was the Wind Dancer, the little slip of a golden-haired girl who was the Sea Dancer. She was young, so young—thirteen, fourteen? And the old man, leaning on a staff—the wisdom and strength of Soul made flesh.

In the third Chamber, they saw again the Dancers who had triumphed. Kevla stared at the little boy she had been—five, six years old…how had he been strong enough to defeat the Shadow?—and felt a hint of amusement at the skinny, scholarly girl that had been Jareth. A tender smile curved Jareth’s lips; was he remembering being that girl, or was he thinking of his own beloved daughter at about that same age?

The fourth chamber was the most difficult for Kevla to view so far. The memory of being stabbed to death in an alleyway was still with her. She gazed at herself, thinking again how odd a thing the spirit was, how strange that she, who felt herself quite definitely female, had more than once been equally at home in a man’s body. Pale skin, almost like Jareth’s, brown hair, hazel eyes, a soft mouth, a thin body that would never have a chance to fill out. Fine clothes, a jeweled dagger, and the pouch full of coins that had led to his-her—murder.

Kevla shuddered, then turned her eyes to the painting of the Stone Dancer. This was almost more shocking than beholding her own image. Jareth in his previous incarnation looked much like she, Kevla, did now. Long, straight black hair, dark skin, dark eyes. The Stone Dancer of the Fourth World was dressed in clothing made from animal hides, adorned with beads and feathers. She wore nothing on her feet. She looked achingly young, Kevla thought. Kevla could not forget how this Dancer had died…murdered as well, but not by a stranger. No…it was Jareth’s own Lorekeeper, the Dancer’s own soul, who had taken the life of this beautiful young woman.

Jareth stared raptly at the girl he had been. He reached up as if to touch the painted face, then paused. The image was a thousand years old; who knew what a touch might do to the paint.

Bram let them look for a time, then said quietly, “Are you ready for the Fifth World?”

Kevla and Jareth exchanged glances. Thus far, despite their connections to these people, they were strangers. Kevla was not certain she was ready to confront what this Lorekeeper of so long ago envisioned her as, but there was little choice.

“I am,” said Copper. “I want to see what I look like.”

She actually pushed past Bram and went into the chamber first. Kevla and Jareth followed.

The moment they stepped into this earthen room, Kevla gasped. She was gazing into her own eyes. The painting had captured her as perfectly as if the artist had painted her from life, his eyes darting from his model to the work of art he was creating.

Her hand went to her throat. And there was Jareth, as proud and yet kind as she knew him to be; Copper, her gaze aloof and cool…and the two they had not yet met.

She stepped forward, hungry to learn more about the Wind Dancer and the Soul Dancer. She knew which was which immediately though she could not explain the knowing. This one…almost as tall as Jareth, but a bit slighter of build, his skin as brown as hers, his hair black as night. He was the Wind Dancer. He wore a beautifully embroidered vest over his bare torso, and billowy breeches adorned his legs. He sported jewelry on each powerful wrist and at his throat was a locket containing…what? Kevla somehow felt certain that the painter had known. He wore a short, neatly trimmed beard and his teeth showed white against the black hair, and his eyes danced. Kevla liked him at once, but at the same time, sensed a certain…arrogance.

Her gaze traveled to the Soul Dancer. The Dragon had told her that while Fire was the leader, the Soul Dancer, the master of Spirit, was the most powerful of all. And yet, this was no strong man, but a boy, barely out of his teens if that. He seemed small compared to the other Dancers, save for Copper. He wore beautiful robes in shades of purple and silver, but he looked somehow lost in them. He seemed…sad and a little bit afraid.

Her heart went out to the boy. It seemed that this Dance was the most difficult of all, and clearly, the sensitive Soul Dancer had suffered more than any of them.

She wanted to take him into her arms and comfort him, tell him that they were coming, that soon, all five would stand together against the shadow. She sensed that somehow, this boy felt terribly alone.

Copper had advanced so that she was only a few inches away from the painting on the wall and was studying the representation of her face with intense scrutiny.

“Is this really how I look?” she asked Bram.

“It is,” Bram told her.

“Huh,” Copper said, and wrinkled her pert little nose. “I’m not sure I like it. Do I really look like that?”

Kevla glanced at the girl, confused by her comments. “Surely you have seen your face in a mirror or lake surface,” she said.

“No, I haven’t,” Copper replied distractedly. “Do I really have that many freckles?”

“Copper cannot see her reflection,” Bram explained. “Instead, she can see…other things.”

Kevla glanced and Jareth. They were both thinking the same thing: that Kevla could see other people in fire’s dancing flames.

“Other people?” Jareth asked.

“Other people,” Copper replied, stepping back. “Other places, things that might happen…surely I am not so scrawny.”

Kevla sighed. Copper was more interested in the painting’s accuracy than in the fact that it had been painted a thousand years ago by a man who had never seen her.

“Tell me more about the artist,” she asked Bram.

The Anam nodded. “He came here from a place far distant and created the Grove for us to live in. He had visions—visions that have proven, over the centuries, to be accurate. As you can see in the fact that he captured your images so precisely. His name was Caldan.’

Jareth inhaled swiftly. “Caldan,” he repeated. Kevla’s eyes had widened at the name for she, too, recognized it.

“The Lorekeeper of Lamal!” she said. “The one who enchanted the selva. Hanru said he had left Lamal, but no one knew his destination. He came here.”

“What?” Bram regarded them insistently and Kelva couldn’t help but smile. For a change, they were the ones imparting information to him.

“Caldan was a Lorekeeper who lived in my native land of Lamal a thousand years ago,” Jareth said. Bram listened raptly. “He foresaw that the Lorekeepers of Lamal would be at risk, and he disguised them from the man who would harm them by turning them into animals. According to Hanru, he had some sort of powerful object, some kind of magic at his disposal. He then left Lamal, but no one there knew his destination. Apparently he came to Reshan.”

“What happened to the magical object he had?” Kevla asked. “Is it still in the Namaraban’s possession?”

Bram looked more than a little bit shaken by the information Jareth had just imparted. “No, we know nothing about such an item. I wish we did…we would have put it to good use. Perhaps this was what helped shield Reshan from the mainland for so long.”

Copper was barely aware of the conversation going on around her. She listened with half an ear, but there was something else calling to her. Something much more intriguing than listening to Bram and the newcomers babble about Lorekeepers and things that had happened a thousand years ago.

Sea Dancer…

The voice was inside her head, but she was not distressed. She sensed that it held no malice toward her. While the others spoke in excited tones, she turned as if pulled and beheld a small opening in the stone. Another chamber? It had to be.

Copper glanced casually over her shoulder. They were still deep in discussion. She moved slowly toward the crack, her heart racing, the back of her neck tingling with apprehension. At any moment she expected to hear Bram cry out, “Where are you going, Copper?”

But he did not. The only thing she heard now was the soft voice, calling her by her title, but not her name.

She had reached it now. She smirked a bit. Jareth, large and muscular as he was, would have had a tough time negotiating it. Even Kevla and Bram would have difficulty, but her smaller size enabled her to slip through easily. She edged along sideways, her back pressed against the cold, wet stone, her hands slightly out in front of her. With each step she extended a foot carefully; she did not want to twist an ankle or become wedged in here. How embarrassing it would be to have to call for help!

She made good progress. The passageway suddenly and quite unexpectedly opened up into a large chamber. There was light here, and Copper felt a sudden stab of disappointment. So much for discovering a new secret chamber; the Namaraban had obviously been here before. The light was blue-green and soft, coming from strange globes set up in the cavern, and hid almost more than it revealed. She blinked, letting her eyes get accustomed to the dim glow. There was something reflecting the light back, and as she stepped forward cautiously Copper saw that there was a pool in the center of the earthen chamber.

A shiver ran down the length of her spine.

Sea Dancer…come forward….

Whoever…whatever…was calling her lay in the depths of this little lake. Copper continued to move forward, ready to bolt should such action be warranted, but she was more curious than apprehensive. She knelt on the hard rock beside the water, noting how still the surface seemed. It would be an excellent scrying pool, she thought, and peered down.

Copper had always been able to see things in mirrors or pools of still water that no one else could. She smiled softly as the images paraded themselves in front of her. This time, she beheld a vast stretch of sand. It reminded her of the beach she was so familiar with, except there was no ocean to be seen. People with dark skin rode strange-looking creatures with large hindquarters, tiny forepaws and fluffy tails. Copper thought it was a market of some sort. It looked colorful and lively and she would have liked to be there.

Then the image changed. The bright colors faded, coalesced, into a single image.

Copper gasped.

For the first time in her young life, Copper gazed at her reflection.

Thanks to the portrait, she knew it to be her own image. She gazed at sharp features, freckles, large green eyes and red hair bound up in a thick braid that now slipped from her shoulders and threatened to disrupt the still surface of the water. She caught the braid before it could do so.

So, this is what it is like to look in a mirror, Copper thought with a brush of awe. This is what everyone else sees every day.

An amusing thought struck her and, giggling, she obeyed it. She made a hideous face, fully expecting to see her reflection imitate her as everyone said it did.

The face did not move, and Copper tasted a hint of fear.

This was her face…her reflection…she knew it. And yet….

“Hello, Sea Dancer,” said Copper’s reflection.

Copper gasped. “Hello,” she said cautiously. “Who are you?”

“My identity is not important. All you need to know is that I am a true friend to you and the other Dancers. My time here is brief. I have come to warn you.”

Copper wished the Kelpie was here with her. He always had a good sense about people. He would be able to tell her if this person who wore her face was a friend, as she claimed, or an enemy.

“Warn me about what?”

“You know you were born to stand against the Shadow.”

“Of course. That’s not much of a warning.”

“That battle, you know you must fight. But there are other enemies that you do not yet know of. Enemies who would see you fail in that goal, or turn your power to their benefit,” her reflection continued. It looks worried…really worried, Copper thought. “The first is a man known as the Emperor. He has already sent an army against Kevla’s people, and he has corrupted Jareth’s own Lorekeeper. His intent is to see to it that the Dancers will never stand against the Shadow.”

A chill swept through Copper. Her reflection was telling her things that she could verify, if she so chose. It seemed confident that Copper would believe it.

“And the second enemy?”

The reflection hesitated. “The revelation will cause you pain. Someone you love and trust is planning to betray you.”

Copper’s green eyes went wide. “Go on,” she said quietly.

Bram was fascinated by Jareth’s recounting of what had happened with the selva. Kevla listened with half an ear as she continued to regard the images of the two Dancers they had yet to meet, searching their painted eyes as if she could somehow glean something about the actual men whose faces they bore.

“Jareth, you must spend some time with the Namaraban and let them set down this story,” Bram said. “Kevla, you as well. This is such a precious opportunity for us. I hope you understand.”

Kevla turned and smiled at Bram. “I would like very much to stay. We had visions that—“

Her eyes widened slightly. The images that had filled her mind when she and Jareth had joined hands such a short time ago now returned. Swirling letters in a language she did not understand, a sword-a sword that clove in two a head that bore two faces. Male and female. She now realized that those two faces were those of Riona and Bram.

Bram frowned slightly. “Yes? Perhaps one of the Namaraban could help you decipher those visions.”

Jareth gazed at her, his eyes narrowing. Kevla composed herself. “Yes, perhaps so. Jareth and I have learned mostly by trial and error. It would be good to learn instead from teachers.”

Bram grinned happily. “This is very exciting. The Namaraban will be thrilled at the chance to spend time with the Dancers. Copper can-where is she, anyway?”

“I’m right here,” Copper said. Kevla turned. She was certain that the girl hadn’t been there a moment ago. “I was curious about that passageway.”

Bram made a tsk-ing sound. “Copper, you must not always go where your curiosity leads you. It could be dangerous.”

Copper turned her oddly composed face on Bram. “Dangerous? How?”

“That’s a narrow passageway. Even the Namaraban don’t go there often. You could have hurt yourself.”

“Well, I didn’t.”

“And you are very lucky. Come. The Namaraban are so anxious to meet you, and I think they’ve been very patient so far.”

Anam Bram smiled as he ushered them all before him. Copper dutifully followed, but she was not thinking of the Namaraban, or even the two strange Dancers who had dropped from the sky into her life just yesterday.

The words of her reflection haunted her. She kept her face composed, but she had been shaken to her core. In them midst of her fear and uncertainty, one thing stood out blazingly clear.

Somehow, she would have to find a way back to the cave and speak again with her reflection.

Chapter Eight

“Intriguing,” said the Emperor, but the Advisor knew he meant other words: frustrating, infuriating, irritating. About a foot in front of the Emperor’s face, the Tenacru hovered. It bathed his sharp features in a scarlet radiance.

“I know she is in the West,” the Emperor went on, his fingers dropping beside him to caress the imprisoned ki-lyn. As always, she shrank, quivering, from his touch; as always, he forced his caress upon her.

“She is the Sea Dancer. She is always in the West. But I cannot sense her as I can the others. She is…invisible to me.”

His eyes were distant, unfocused. “Intriguing,” he repeated.

“Your Excellency,” said the Mage in his deep, hollow voice, “give it time. The magic necessary to control the Tenacru has only just begun to flower. Give your powers the chance to blossom, to ripen to fullness.”

The Advisor glared at the Mage, wondering what this mysterious, sinister being knew about flowers and blossoming and ripeness. Things had not been the same since his arrival; his, and that of the Arukani woman Yeshi. The Advisor neither liked nor trusted these two new people with whom he was supposed to be working. He thought longingly of the time when it was just him and the Emperor, when his voice was the one the young leader harkened to.

Yeshi was off doing…something. She had not seen fit to tell the Advisor of her plans. But the Emperor was apparently satisfied, and so the Advisor supposed he must needs be as well. The Mage had repaired the damage done to the shining, crimson object that he referred to as the Tenacru. Now it hovered in the air, bobbing slightly, radiating its blood-hued glow as steadily as if it had never been shattered into dozens of pieces by the charging ki-lyn.

The Advisor was beginning to taste the first bitter tang of worry. Thus far, the Emperor had faced two setbacks from the Dancers. First the troublesome Kevla, the Flame Dancer, had somehow managed to unite a superstitious, tribal people and gotten them to stand against the Emperor’s well-trained army-an army which, incidentally, had greatly outnumbered the Arukani. True, Kevla was possessed of remarkable powers, being a Dancer; and equally true, she had her Dragon Companion with her. But still, the Emperor had smarted from what he perceived as an insult. The Advisor recalled that the woman Yeshi had told the Emperor that she had a personal grudge against Kevla and would do anything she could to destroy the girl. So she was off somewhere, presumably doing precisely that.

Even more frustrating to both the Emperor and his Advisor had been the defeat of the Emperor’s own creation, the Ice Maiden. The Emperor had learned his lesson with Kevla, and when he turned his frightening attentions to the Stone Dancer, he had seen to it that he had not one but two allies-the Maiden and Jareth Vasalen’s own Lorekeeper. Ilta, who was the soul of a woman trapped inside the body of her twin brother Altan, had gone quite mad. The Advisor had watched as the Emperor easily tempted the girl with promises of a body that matched her soul and assurances of Jareth’s love. Yet somehow that masterful plan, too, had been thwarted by the two Dancers.

And now here was this third, this Sea Dancer who for some reason no one understood, the Emperor could not sense. He was now attempting to utilize the magic of the Tenacru to solve the puzzle the Sea Dancer’s elusiveness posed-magic no one save this cryptic Mage fully understood; magic that seemed to the Advisor uncertain and untrustworthy.

Rather like the Mage himself, the Advisor thought.

He glanced over at the ki-lyn. Ever since the Emperor had imprisoned the lovely creature, she had opposed them at every turn. But the Emperor was powerful, and she was largely toothless in her defiance. Sometimes, if they let their guard down, she would act, as she had done earlier with the Tenacru. But most often she crouched trembling at the Emperor’s feet, bound by a seemingly fragile chain, all her ancient, deep, primal power leashed. As she was doing now.

And yet…the Advisor saw how the ki-lyn looked upon the Mage, and he knew that somehow, he and the beast shared the same opinion of this interloper.

The thought disturbed him. Was he going soft? Even as the thought occurred to him he felt the Mage’s eyes upon him. He broke out in a cold sweat as he wondered: Can this being read minds?

The Emperor strode down the labyrinthine twists and turns of the hidden rooms beneath his keep. Few ventured here-not the Advisor, though he kept insisting that he should accompany his lord; not the Mage, who was wise enough not to make such a request but whose yearning to do so was palpable. Yeshi, of course, had not cared about what-who-was imprisoned here. She was consumed by her own motivations, and that was exactly how the Emperor wanted it.

He took the ki-lyn with him everywhere, save this one place. There was danger if he brought the pretty beast here. So when he decided to pay a visit to the most important inhabitant of the dungeon, he had the creature securely bound by both physical and magical means. It always looked at him sadly when he did that, for it knew whom he was about to visit…and why.

The Emperor cursed under his breath. Even now, even though he had set his course in the certain knowledge that it was the right one, the ki-lyn’s silent reproach cut him to the core. He wished he could simply kill her and be done with it, as the Advisor had suggested. But things were always more complex than one might wish.

There were many imprisoned here. He had added to his collection over the years. Some were young, children still; some were in the twilight of their lives. He yet scoured his Empire for more of them, but they were not stupid.

The Lorekeepers of the Empire were now in hiding.

He passed row after row of heavy wooden doors with small windows through which food, drink and the resulting filled chamber pots could be passed. Sometimes, when a Lorekeeper had been…sufficiently convinced to speak, those doors would be opened and the wretch brought forth, blinking, into the light of day. Well, into the light of the Emperor’s quarters. The Emperor enjoyed these times, when the dispirited Lorekeeper, hands and feet manacled, would speak in a monotone some tidbit of importance. The Emperor would listen, and if the news was good or was useful in some fashion-he was wise enough to understand that not all important information was pleasant-he would reward the Lorekeeper who had betrayed the Dancers with good food and drink and a bath. Then they would be returned to their cells, in hopes that they would soon remember something else that would serve the Emperor.

Sometimes, of course, the words were lies. Until the coming of the Mage-who had arrived one night in the snow with the magnificent Tenacru and its staggering powers-the Emperor had been forced to rely upon his own judgment and that of his Advisor in order to determine which Lorekeeper had truly broken faith with the Dancers and which were inventing tales in exchange for an evening’s comforts. Now, though, the glowing red orb would pulsate if a lie was being told, and the foolish prisoner who had thought to trick the Emperor received a beating instead of a bath.

As he passed cell after cell after cell, the Emperor’s excitement grew. He was always excited to see this prisoner, even if the boy never told him anything.

There were guards for each corridor of cells and one at the entrance to the dungeon, but the vital importance of this prisoner necessitated he be assigned his own personal guard. The Emperor felt his heartbeat quicken as that guard bowed to him, then unlocked the heavy door. It swung open with a creak of disuse, and the youth within blinked even as this feeble light struck hazel eyes unaccustomed to brightness.

“Your Excellency,” the boy said, his voice both sad and angry. “How kind of you to pay me a visit.”

“Think nothing of it,” the Emperor said. He nodded to the guard, who closed the door. The absolute darkness was chased away by the light of a single candle. More than once, angry at the prisoner, the Emperor had ordered even that little bastion of light extinguished for days at a time. The boy looked so delicate and frail, and yet he never broke.

And gods knew, the Emperor had used every means short of physical torture to get him to.

They gazed at one another. The Emperor could not hide a grimace of disgust at the rank smell of the tiny room. It was as crude as could be imagined; a chamber pot, a pile of vermin-infested hay, a candle. This prisoner, unlike some of the others, never offered information in exchange for physical comforts. He was pale, almost ghostly beneath the grime; of course, his skin had not felt the kiss of the sun for years now. The Emperor’s eyes bored into the prisoner’s, hoping against hope that today, this moment, might be the moment when he would finally shatter and join the Emperor.

Instead, the young prisoner said in a soft, urgent voice, “How…how is she?”

The Emperor drew back his lips from his teeth in a rictus of a smile.

“Well enough,” he said, knowing exactly of whom the boy spoke. “The ki-lyn continues to be my prisoner, as do you. And, as you know, if you agree to aid me, I will release both of you and embrace you as my friends.”

Even now, even after so many conversations like this one, the pain of knowing that a part of himself was being held prisoner hurt the boy. “This is wrong and I know you know it,” he said quietly. “Why do you persist in this misguided search for a way to avert what we both know must happen?”

The Emperor recoiled. Never before had the prisoner spoken to him so bluntly.

“It is not misguided!” he cried in a voice that was perilously close to a shriek. “I have explained to you time and again….”

They continued to regard one another, neither willing to move an inch from his position. The Emperor felt a wave of helplessness wash over him…an alien sensation. He needed this youth to work with him. He needed the ki-lyn to stop resisting him, stop doing everything she could to thwart him. These two needed to be on his side. How was it they could not see what he was trying to do was reason and not madness?

A terrible thought came to him.

“I can hurt her,” the Emperor said quietly.

The prisoner went, if such a thing was possible, even paler. “You wouldn’t.”

“I know exactly how,” the Emperor continued, pleased that his words had elicited such a reaction.

The youth glanced down, obviously not wanting to reveal more than he already had. He stared at fingers that had long since gone black with grime so deeply embedded that the Emperor doubted that scouring would remove it all.

“I will,” the Emperor continued.

The boy looked up at him, his sweet face composed once again.

“You know how,” he agreed. “And you might want to. But you won’t. You need her and you know it. Just as you need me.”

“I wouldn’t kill her,” the Emperor replied quickly. “But I could cause her great pain.”

The boy smiled. “Just as you have caused me pain?” he challenged quietly. The Emperor’s face grew hot. The boy was right; he had ordered others tortured when it seemed expedient, but never this prisoner, even though he had wanted to, even though his Advisor had suggested such a course of action time and time again. Something always held him back.

He got to his feet. “Simply because I have refrained from doing something in the past out of respect for who you and she are does not mean my indulgence will last forever,” he snapped.

“You’re bluffing.”

Curse him! Why was this boy always so calm? Why did he always have the upper hand? So quiet, so physically fragile, so haunted. And yet their confrontations ended with the Emperor losing his temper and storming out while the boy watched, that damned, knowing smile on his face.

He wanted to order that smile cut off.

But he knew…as the boy knew…that such an order would never come. The Emperor was incapable of seriously harming either the boy or the Dancer’s Companion.

He stared, shaking, at the prisoner, then whirled and seized a ceramic pitcher. Shrieking, he hurled the pitcher against the stone walls. It shattered and the precious water it contained spilled on the floor in a spreading pool.

Without another word, the Emperor stormed out. He said to the guard in a voice loud enough for the prisoner to overhear, “See to it that he does not receive any water for three more days.”

For the first time in years, Yeshi was happy.

Everything had started to slide into a dark, deep pit when her husband had ripped their daughter from her arms to abandon her to death at the Four Waters altar to the Dragon. It was custom, of course, and there was no way Yeshi could have denied the clear imperfections of her unnamed daughter’s face. By law, the little girl had been born to a death sentence.

But knowing that her husband was obeying the law did not prevent the grief-stricken mother from hating him for what he did.

She had crawled out of that pit somehow; to this day, Yeshi did not know how she managed it. But she had left all that was gentle and soft in her in that pit. There, she had divested herself of her love of her son, her enjoyment in the sensual pleasures that had always delighted her. Other blows had awaited her upon emerging from that darkness; the knowledge that Tahmu, her husband, had brought his bai-sha daughter into her household under her very nose; that her own son had befriended this Kevla.

Shattered, betrayed, hatred and a lust for revenge had been all that sustained her. She had plotted to overthrow her husband, but before that sweet plan could be carried out she had been discovered. Her lover had been killed, and she herself had been formally stripped of all rank.

But not of her hatred.

She had gone to the enemy then. First to one of the Emperor’s captains, then on to the Emperor himself. He was young, but not so callow that he did not know an opportunity when it presented itself. Yeshi hated Kevla; the Emperor wanted to see the Dancers halted right where they were. Yeshi did not comprehend his reasons and was certain that although he nodded his head and said he understood, this youth did not comprehend hers.

It didn’t matter. They could be of use to one another.

They had hatched their plans in isolation. He had an advisor, though Yeshi thought little of the man and was pleased that he would not be an integral part of her machinations. No, the Emperor kept his dealings with Yeshi between the two of them-well, the two of them and that strange, pretty creature constantly crouched at his feet. Yeshi disliked it on sight. She sensed its intense desire to thwart her, and Yeshi would no longer be thwarted.

She would ruin Tahmu. She would destroy Kevla. And she would again reach the highest pinnacle her society offered women; perhaps even higher, if she had her way.

The Emperor had given her everything she had requested: men, horses (odd things, in strange colors and lacking the distinctive tusks of good Arukani beasts), supplies, gold with which to purchase items she did not have, services she would require, and the complicity of those she deemed necessary to her plan.

The trek over the mountains had been difficult, but nowhere near as brutal as it had been when she had been forced to walk every step of the way with no food and no water. Now, at least, she had an ornate, padded saddle, plenty of delicacies to tempt her palate, and men and women to serve her every need. She traveled as she ought to-as a respected khashima, with great power and wealth.

The only thing she needed in order to set the plan in motion was a partner. Her spies-the Emperor’s spies, to be exact, but more and more Yeshi was beginning to think of them as hers-had scouted ahead a few weeks before. They came back with reports of a most promising nature, and the names of several who, in their estimations, would not turn unwilling ears to what she had to say.

Yes, Yeshi thought as she entered the land from which she had so ignominiously been exiled; yes, things are about to get better.

Chapter Nine

Kevla was glad that she and Jareth had decided to stay. She was not looking forward to traveling for who knew how long with just the three of them. He had not approached her alone since she had told him the great lie, the lie she’d told to save his life and break her own heart in the process, and it was just as well.

She must have sighed, for the young woman sitting near her said softly, “What troubles my lady Dancer?”

Kevla forced a smile. “Not a thing, Sliah. Only that sometimes I focus so hard I forget to breathe.”

She and the Namaraban woman who had been appointed to assist Kevla when the Anam was unavailable were in what passed for a “chamber” among the Lorekeepers. It was a room formed by the intertwining of huge roots, with a mossy “roof”. Stones that had been smoothed by caring hands served as seats. A curtain of leaves closed over the entrance, and on rare sunny days, what light penetrated within was tinted yellow-green. Rain pattered down, but the little chamber was snug. A little fire burned cheerily in the corner and several candles provided plenty of illumination for Kevla to read. Over the soft sound of the rain-Kevla for some reason thought of Copper’s comment about the ocean “singing” to her-Kevla heard the sounds of metal being worked, even in the rain. The forges were always going. Kevla asked about it once, assuming it was weapons that the Namaraban were working so diligently at turning out.

“Oh no, my lady Dancer,” Sliah had said. “Such mundane and graceless things we leave to the more common smiths. It is jewelry that we Namaraban create. Surely it cannot have escaped your notice that we Reshanaban love our jewelry!” She had extended an arm that was indeed covered with thick golden bracelets, and about her neck was an exquisitely wrought gold torque. Kevla recalled that even the men seemed to enjoy adorning themselves with precious metals.

Sliah chuckled at Kevla’s comment. Kevla found the woman good company. She was a good teacher; Kevla already could read very well and write a passable hand in the elaborate, swirling Namaraban language. “The tales entertain you, then?”

“More than that,” Kevla answered honestly. She found she loved coming here, especially on rainy days-such days seemed decadent to her, water falling so freely from the sky like that—curling up with scrolls that told histories of Dancers past. Who their Lorekeepers were, what memories they had. It was a strange feeling, coming face to face with oneself in such an unusual manner.

“How is Jareth progressing?” she asked, hoping the query sounded casual. Sliah also taught Jareth, whom she tactfullly referred to as “rather set on having his own way.”

Sliah hesitated. “He progresses very well, when he chooses to do so,” she finally said. “He is a very intelligent man and grasps things swiftly. For one who has never learned his letters, already he has a good hand.”

Kevla had expected Jareth would be the one to visit the Grove more than she, as it was so obviously a healthy and harmonious blend of nature and magic. But the Stone Dancer had largely given it a wide berth, although he had agreed to learn to read and write when she had reminded him of the letters they had seen in their vision.

They had seen a sword in their vision too, however, and that was what Jareth pursued. Pursue the sword and, Kevla was beginning to suspect, the woman who taught him how to wield it. Kevla mentally scolded herself. She could not blame Jareth one bit if he sought female companionship elsewhere, after she had gone to such great lengths to tell him she didn’t want him.

Swordsmanship. Kevla grimaced. “I have lost track of time again, lost in these old records,” she told Sliah, getting to her feet and smiling. “Master Eion will not be pleased with me.”

Sliah rose as well, reaching to roll up the parchments and place them in protective treated leather containers. “I have heard he is not so lenient a teacher as I,” Sliah said, smiling at her own daring.

Kevla smiled back. “Like you, Master Eion demands the best from his students. The only difference is whether I receive an ink smudge from using the pen improperly or a bruise from failing to block a blow.”

“Ah,” Sliah said, and dropped a curtsey. “May today be both ink-and bruise-free.”

It wasn’t.

Kevla was beginning to wish she hadn’t argued so strongly in favor of staying.

Surely her body had ached more in the past, but for the life of her, she couldn’t remember when. And every time she faltered, just as she had lamented to Sliah, Eion gave her another bruise. Now, as she rubbed her upper arm and glared at him, he laughed.

“Does it please you to beat helpless women?” she snapped.

He saluted her with the wooden sword he used for sparring and replied with mirth in his voice, “Dear lady, if you are helpless, then I should be a happy Swordmaster indeed to have an army of helpless women.”

As always, Eion made her smile when she would much rather be irritated with him. Kevla ducked her head so he wouldn’t see the revealing curve of her lips and continued to rub her smarting arm. He was right to push her has hard as he did, of course. The skills she learned here would come in useful. Even if Kevla never used a sword in combat herself, her new and deeply personal understanding of how to wield one would make her a better general if such fighting needed to be done. The bruises would fade-especially when helped by a certain ointment Liadan had had delivered to her room the first night after Eion began his merciless teachings-as did the hot baths Kevla now began to look forward to each night. She wished that the Reshanaban placed as high a value on massage as the Arukani had; but their warriors were expected not to need such coddling and Kevla had been laughed at by Liadan the first time she had made such a request. Though Liadan had quickly recovered and tried to be courteous, Kevla had felt her face growing hot and did not ask again.

“If it helps the pain any,” Eion said, his voice still cheerful, “you are improving by the day.”

She gave him a dubious look. “If you mean improving my chances of turning my body into one solid bruise, I agree with you.”

He laughed again, that bright sound, and with no warning lunged at her. Without thinking, Kevla brought the wooden blade up to parry the blow and felt a jarring all the way to the bone from the impact. But Eion’s blow had not touched her body.

“See?” Eion sounded as excited as if it were he who had successfully executed the parry. “Not that long ago you were still fumbling with the grip.”

Kevla smiled. His enthusiasm and good nature were contagious. “I suppose you’re right.” And although they had been going at it for some time now, she realized she wasn’t as tired as she had expected to be. The muscles in her arms were getting stronger, as were those in her chest, her back and her legs. It was no wonder that Eion, who looked to be in his mid-forties, was as fit as a man half his age.

He handed her a goblet of watered wine. She drank thirstily, hot even though the day was drizzly and cool. The island seemed perpetually surrounded by mist or rain. She had seen only one or two sunny days the entire time she and Jareth had been here. She was grateful they were practicing under a shelter and not out in the rain. She’d been lucky; Jareth was with Liadan today, and Eion told her that training with the horses necessitated working in the open air. Kevla looked out onto the gray day and wondered how Jareth was faring.

Jareth. She felt the smile, placed there by Eion’s banter and her own sense of accomplishment, bleed from her lips. Horesemistress Liadan seemed to require a great deal of his time; more than she seemed to need to spend with Kevla. Of course, again, Kevla had more skill in an area than Jareth; she already knew how to ride a horse, although neither Dancer had ever had to fight on horseback.

“And there it went,” said Eion, startling her and confusing her. She looked at him, puzzled.

“The sun went behind a cloud,” Eion continued. Kevla was no more enlightened than she had been before.

“It’s been raining all day,” she said.

“Not that sun,” Eion said. He looked her in the eyes and said, “This sun.”

Kevla sighed. The man was too perceptive-either that, or she was simply too obvious. She doubted the second option; she had learned to mask her feelings from earliest childhood. But then again-she had never had to mask such feelings as this.

She regarded him, thinking about certain things he had said or done over the last several days.

“Then I believe we have something in common,” she said, deciding to risk voicing her suspicion.

“What is that, my lady Kevla?”

Kevla smiled sadly. “We both want someone we cannot have,” she said quietly.

Eion’s cheerful visage froze for an instant. Then his face grew solemn. “My lady treads on dangerous ground,” he said.

“Then she is correct,” Kevla said. “Is she not?”

Eion’s blue eyes flashed in anger, but he could not hold it. It was not in his nature. “She is,” he admitted. He gestured to her with the wood sword. “Ready yourself.”

He did not want to talk about it and she appreciated his reticence. She even shared it. But now, at least, they understood one another, and she would not have to keep making up excuses to fend off his solicitous inquiries.

“Kevla?” The voice belonged to Copper. Kevla lowered her weapon and turned to the other Dancer. She stood there, wearing the odd mask of blank tranquility that seemed her constant expression except when she shattered it with often incomprehensible and inappropriate humor. “Would you like to go for a swim?”

The absurdity of the statement made Kevla laugh despite her melancholy mood. Copper stood in the drizzle, her hair plastered to her skull, her cream-colored linen gown clinging to her body, and inquired about a swim. Kevla was no better off.

“I think I am already swimming,” she said.

“No, you are sparring with Eion in the rain,” Copper said, frowning a little.

“Go ahead Kevla,” said Eion. “You’ve lost focus. There’s no point in training you any more today.”

It was a sharper verbal jab than she was used to from him, but she supposed she deserved it. And he was correct. Any more fighting would probably resulting more bruises without compensating learning.

“Very well.” She saluted with the sword. He did the same. He did not meet her eyes as she handed him the training sword and she supposed she couldn’t blame him. “All right, Copper. Let’s go.”

“The beach is close by. It’s a pleasant walk.” Copper strode away from the training area with coltish strides. Kevla followed.

“When it is not raining, I suppose it is.”

Copper turned to regard her. “I thought you came from a land where water was scarce.”

“I did. And therefore I am not used to it. It feels…strange for my skin and clothes to be damp all the time.”

“I see,” Copper said. As she spoke, the needle-fine drizzle slowed and stopped. The clouds quickly began to disperse and Kevla blinked as the sun emerged.

“I have never seen the weather change so quickly!” she said. “It’s almost as if it heard me.”

Copper giggled, a snorting sound that again reminded Kevla of the Kelpie. Her green eyes were bright with mirth.

“You’re welcome,” Copper said, and almost doubled over laughing.

“What in the world is so funny?” Kevla asked. Copper just kept laughing, wiping her eyes and skipping a little in her delight.

Then the realization hit Kevla and her eyes widened. “You…can control the weather?” she asked, disbelieving.

Copper finished laughing and composed herself. She shrugged her slender shoulders. “Not completely, of course. But I can choose when it rains or not. And…I like rain.”

Kevla could not believe what she was hearing, and yet it made a strange kind of sense. Copper was the Sea Dancer, the element of water. Of course she would like rain. Of course she would call it forth to please herself. The magnitude of such power struck Kevla to the bone. Doubtless Copper had been manipulating the weather to some extent for the last decade. What was Reshan like before then? What would happen to it when Copper left?

They walked in silence. The sun on her skin was pleasant, and the sound of the waves, rushing to the shore and then retreating in dance of their own, grew louder. They crested a small hill and there it was-a beautiful shade of aqua, with white crests atop the waves as they surged onto the beach.

“How is it you cannot see the mainland, Copper?” Kevla asked. “It is not that far.”

“Bram says that magic protects our island. It keeps us safe. That’s why I was never really sure it existed. I honestly thought it was just a made-up story.” Kevla smiled a little at the thought of a half-human girl who was the element of water incarnate scoffing at anything being a “made-up story”

Copper paused briefly to kick off her boots, then raced down the sandy hill toward the ocean. As she ran, she quickly divested herself of the linen shift she wore. Kevla glimpsed milky pale skin dotted with freckles before Copper dove like a sea hawk into the ocean.

Kevla followed more sedately, removing her boots but not her rhia. Copper obviously did not care about modesty, but Kevla, a stranger to this land, was a bit shyer. She stepped forward, moving into the water, enjoying the feel of it caress her. It was like and yet unlike the caverns at the House of Four Waters. The water there came from an underground spring, and moved only slightly. This…this was Water at its most powerful.

Copper surfaced near her, smiling, her face alight. Treading water, Kevla smiled back at her, thinking that for the first time, Copper looked simply like a young woman enjoying herself.

“Do you like it?”

“It is unusual, but yes, I think so,” Kevla said. “It is so very strong. Very powerful.”

“Water is a very powerful element,” Copper said, with no trace of arrogance. “It provides life. And it can take it away. There is a whole world underneath here. Would you like to see it?”

“I would, but—“Kevla had been about to say, “I can only hold my breath for so long,” but to her shock Copper seized her hand with a surprisingly strong grip. The next thing Kevla knew, the young Sea Dancer was pulling her down to the heart of her element.

Alarmed, Kevla struggled. Copper’s pale fingers closing over Kevla’s brown wrist were like bands of steel. Kevla stared at her as the girl swam downward with powerful kicks. Copper turned to her, her hair floating behind her in a red wave, her green eyes unreadable. Kevla thought wildly of the legends of the Kelpie-a fey water spirit, who invited people to leap onto its back only to laugh as they drowned….

Precious, shimmery bubbles of air escaped Kevla’s lips as she struggled. She was larger than Copper and strong from hard work in her youth, how was it she could not break free? Why was Copper doing this? Air burned in her lungs. Kevla tried to heat her body so that it was unbearably hot, to force Copper to release her, but apparently when in her element, Copper did not feel Kevla’s Fire heat.

This could not be! Another Dancer was trying to kill her! Kevla held onto air as long as she could, but finally her body betrayed her and the last precious bubbles escaped her lips and her lungs filled with seawater.

And…it was all right.

Kevla stopped struggling and stared at Copper. The girl shifted her grip, entwining her fingers with Kevla’s now instead of clasping her wrist. She squeezed Kevla’s hand and shook it for emphasis. Kevla understood-as long as Copper, the Sea Dancer, was touching her, Water would not harm her.

Copper pointed downward, to shafts of sunlight slicing through the water to dance and sparkle on the ocean floor, to brightly colored fish that darted about, to mysterious plants undulating in the current. Kevla now willingly dove with Copper to explore this place.

Although once she could speak again, Kevla fully intended to give Copper a lecture for frightening her so.

Chapter Ten

Liadan, Jareth decided as he attempted to juggle sword and shield while weighted down with leather armor and simultaneously trying to stay atop his horse, took pleasure in other people’s suffering. She laughed at him when he first tried to ride, teased him when his arms wearied of holding the unfamiliar tools of offense and defense, and came perilously close to insulting his masculinity when his first few blows in practice rounds were clumsy.

She was also, he had decided, a great deal of fun.

Liadan seemed to live a life that existed entirely for pleasure. She drank copiously, ate well, rode hard and fought furiously. She told jokes that sometimes made Jareth blush and then grinned at his discomfiture. He knew that she was devoted to the queen and had fought well and nobly in battle for Riona, but somehow he suspected that Liadan had a trick or two for turning duty into something enjoyable.

She was a little older than he, but not much, and certainly his match in physical stamina, if her energy at the end of a training session was any indication. He enjoyed his time training with Swordmaster Eion as well; he liked Eion and thought that ground fighting was easier to master, but found himself actively looking forward to his time with Liadan.

“On your rear again, Dancer?” she teased him when the horse shied at something and Jareth went toppling to the ground in a tangle of shield, sword, armor and now-bruised flesh.

He got to his feet and glared at her. She laughed brightly. “Maybe I’m expecting too much from you. After all, you’ve never fought in a single battle.”

“Living in a land where war isn’t necessary is hardly something to be ashamed of,” he shot back, reaching down to pick up his wooden sword. The steady drizzle had soaked his shoulder-length blond hair and was now starting to seep down his neck. The droplets dribbling into his eyes kept making him blink and want to wipe his face. He did so now, taking advantage of the fact that he actually had a hand free at the moment.

“Ah, but living a life where there’s no chance of winning glory in battle is something to be ashamed of,” Liadan replied. She watched Jareth for a moment, then, grinning, stepped beside him. “Your fingers are better suited to a scythe than a sword,” she said. “Here. Like this.”

She reached and with her own strong hands wrapped his fingers around the leather-wrapped hilt of the wooden sparring sword. He started at her touch, even though it was brusque and purposeful. Her hands were callused, scarred with innumerable nicks and cuts. He imagined that they had closed on the hilt of a sword more lethal than the one he wielded several thousand times; those hands had dealt death blows. And yet, he suddenly wanted to entwine his fingers with hers, bring them to his lips for a kiss.

She felt it too. A fleeting tremor passed through her and she let her hands linger a bit longer than was absolutely necessary to adjust his grip on the sword. When Liadan drew back, her eyes were brighter than they were before and her face had more color to it.

There was the briefest of pauses, as if each was waiting for the other to do something, then Liadan continued as if nothing had happened. And in truth, Jareth reflected as he did his best to get back on his mount with a modicum of dignity, nothing had.

Liadan was as different from Kevla as any two women could be and still be of the same gender. Kevla was dark, of skin and hair and eye, her movements sultry, though he was certain she did not realize it. Liadan was not as fair as the women of Lamal, but her brown hair was light, her skin freckled and she moved with a bold, quick assurance that Jareth was certain she did realize. Kevla was quiet, Liadan was animated.

Kevla, Jareth thought with a fresh surge of anger, kept secrets. Liadan would probably tell him anything he wanted to know without batting an eye.

He had thought Kevla had felt the same pull he had; that they were walking carefully around a blossoming attraction that neither was really ready to admit. But he’d been quite mistaken. He saw again the cool look in her eyes as she said bluntly that she did not love him. That all she felt for him was friendship and the normal attraction Dancers felt toward one another.

“Have I got dirt on my nose or something?”

Liadan’s quip brought Jareth back to the present moment. She was grinning up at him, her hands on her hips, her eyes crinkled. She was wearing a man’s linen shirt, belted at the waist, and breeches that hugged her legs. The relentless drizzle had soaked her hair as it had his, and her shirt clung to her slender curves. He blushed as he realized that he had been staring, probably for several minutes.

“No,” he said, “there’s no dirt on your nose.”

“Well, there is on yours,” she said, and he blushed deeper as he realized that when he had wiped his face before picking up his sword, he had probably smeared mud all over himself.

“I thought we Reshanaban were pale,” Liadan said, and Jareth gave up as he realized that she had witnessed his blush. Kevla had said something to him once about how Lamali skin gave away emotions easily, and now he was discovering it was true. He would have given much to have Kevla’s dark coloration at this moment.

And, he thought as Liadan continued to regard him with an insolent grin, making no attempt to hide what her soaked and clinging shirt revealed, a cold lake to jump into.

He swung himself off the horse, wincing at how awkward his movements still were. He had thought he would be better at riding than he was, considering how well he rode the blue Tiger. Then again, she was his Companion. They had been together in four other lifetimes.

Liadan stepped up to him and wiped the mud off his face, still smiling. He had expected her touch to be as rough and strong as the rest of her, smearing the mud off with vigor. Instead, her fingers traveled over his cheek in a soft caress. Jareth’s breath caught.

Liadan gazed at him steadily. “You’ve been out here for most of the afternoon,” she said, “and it’s showing no signs of letting up. I imagine you’re a bit chilled by now.”

“And you’re absolutely soaked,” Jareth said. His voice, thank goodness, did not tremble. He kept his blue gaze locked with her hazel one, not daring to glance any lower. Her grin widened. No doubt, she understood exactly what he was attempting to do.

“We could both use a hot bath,” she said.

There had once been a time in Jareth’s life when he would have eagerly accepted this blatant invitation. No doubt there would indeed have been a hot bath, followed by vigorous exercise beneath the covers.

Why couldn’t he accept it now?

He wanted to. Didn’t he? His body’s reaction, even in the cold weather, certainly indicated so. But something inside Jareth drew back at the thought of coupling with this lively, fun, athletic woman.

So instead of drawing her into his arms and kissing her, he smiled and looked away, stepping back a pace and not acknowledging her comment.

“I think I’m making progress,” he said, trying to change the subject.

“You almost made it through an entire training session without falling off the horse,” Liadan said. “That’s a definite improvement.” She studied him for a moment. “In fact…let’s delay that bath. I want to show you something. We’re going to go for a little ride.”

Chilled and confused, Jareth nodded. Liadan mounted and turned her horse and cantered over to one of the akhas. The two women spoke quickly and quietly, and the younger girl nodded. Liadan turned Tali back toward Jareth.

“This is a bit unusual, but then, these are unusual times.” The akha returned, carrying two swords-not the wooden training swords, but the real thing. Jareth turned inquiringly to Liadan. The Horsemistress took one of the swords and gestured to Jareth. The akha approached him and extended her arms, the sword balancing on her palms. Jareth accepted it and strapped it onto his waist, as he had done with the practice sword. The weight of it was similar to that of the wooden sword, but different, somehow.

“We’ve practiced drawing the sword before,” Liadan said. “But watch me again.” Swiftly she reached, grasped the pommel of her sword, and drew it free of the leather scabbard. “You don’t want to lop off your horse’s neck. Do it slowly the first time.”

Jareth obeyed, wondering why she was now permitting him to train with live steel. What did she have in mind? He drew with exaggerated slowness and was glad of it-he did bring the blade close to his mount’s neck. Had he been so careless when the sword was just a hunk of wood?

“Again.”

He obeyed. He drew it several more times until Liadan was satisfied. “Not bad. Let’s go.”

She turned Tali’s head and cantered easily out of the courtyard, moving as easily as if she and the creature were one. Jareth followed, rather more clumsily, the unfamiliar sword at his side banging against his thigh.

Liadan’s demeanor had changed. She was much more serious than she had been before, and Jareth, too, became more alert despite the discomfort of the rain trickling down the back of his neck and his soreness.

They rode for a long time in silence. The rain slowed, stopped and the clouds drifted away. The warmth of the sun felt good, although Jareth’s clothing beneath his leather armor was still soaking wet and chafed. Finally, Jareth could stay quiet no longer. He managed to bring his horse alongside Liadan’s and asked, “Where are you taking me?”

She glanced at him. “The first night you were here, you heard about the FinFolk and the Fialaban.”

“Right,” Jareth said, trying to remember. “The FinFolk are attacking Reshan, and the Fialaban are…the other ones. Copper’s father’s people.”

Liadan nodded. “We got word of an attack last night. Thought you might want to see what we’re up against.”

“Do the Reshanaban ever attack the wrong race of sea-people?”

Liadan laughed. “Believe me, there’s no way you’d confuse the two of them if you saw them. The Fialaban look a lot like us, except…well, bluer, I guess. Skin tones and hair and such. They’re very elegant and civilized. was frankly gorgeous. It was no wonder Ri wanted him so bad.”

Jareth blushed a little at Liadan’s frank talk. “Wanted him enough to trick him into staying, from what I heard.”

“Where’d you hear that?”

“From Copper. But she didn’t elaborate.”

“Ah,” Liadan nodded. “You should probably know the whole story then. The Fialaban have a necklace that enables them to come onto the land without being harmed. Riona and Farron had been lovers for a while, but she wanted more. She wanted to keep him-to marry him. So one night when they were together, she stole the necklace and hid it for several years.”

“That seems a bit-selfish.”

Liadan shrugged. “Riona is used to getting what she wants. But Farron had the last laugh. He apparently knew where Riona had hidden the necklace, and when he learned that Bram was planning on tossing Gold’s body and Silver into the ocean and whisking Copper away to be raised as a Namaraban apart from her parents, Farron took the necklace and all three of his daughters-even Gold’s poor corpse—and went back to the sea. Never said goodbye to Ri.”

“Well, he was kept a prisoner.”

Liadan eyed him. “Jareth-Farronknew where Riona had hidden the necklace. No one knows how long he’d known where to find it. He must have stayed voluntarily for at least a while.”

Jareth frowned. He still did not think highly of Riona for tricking Farron the way she had, queen or not.

“The FinFolk, now,” Liadan continued, “are almost like walking fish. They’re covered with scales and ooze a very nasty slime that the Namaraban think protects them from the coldness of the ocean. The only good thing is they can’t live on land for very long, so they don’t really press their attacks inland. It’s the poor souls who work the sea who are most at risk.”

Liadan frowned as she spoke of her enemies. “Over the last couple of decades, they’ve stepped up their attacks. No more using the little coracles that were the traditional vessels for small crofters. They’re too easy for the FinFolk to just reach up and capsize. So we started building bigger boats, and for a while that worked. But about ten years ago they somehow figured out how to attack those too. All we ever find of them are broken timbers, washed onto the shore. No bodies.” She glanced at him, her eyes flashing with anger. “Ever.”

Jareth could think of nothing to say to that, and so said nothing. He could see something up ahead now, what looked like several small stone huts with thatched roofs.

“Brace yourself,” she said as they drew closer.

The stench was awful. Jareth’s stomach churned and he struggled not to vomit. Liadan made a face, but otherwise did not react. Jareth could see that there were several trails of ooze that led from the ocean up to the doors of the huts. Liadan dismounted and drew her sword, indicating that Jareth should do the same. He did and followed her inside.

The slime covered everything, it seemed-floors, tables, chairs-

—and bodies. A whole family had been killed here, it would seem; a man, a woman and three children, a boy, a girl and an infant. Jareth lost his battle against his body and staggered outside, vomiting up the contents of his stomach. His stomach kept heaving. After a few moments, Liadan came out and slapped his shoulder in a comradely fashion.

“Don’t worry about it,” she said. “It affects everyone that way the first time.”

Jareth wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He knew the real reason was not the sight of murdered strangers, tragic though it was, nor the horrendous stench that seemed to penetrate his skin. He had gotten sick because for one terrible moment, he was again entering his own home, filled with snow, to find the dead bodies of his own wife, daughter and infant son.

He drew a ragged breath and spat. As he straightened, Liadan whirled. “Dammit…they weren’t done.”

Five monstrosities were emerging from the ocean. Jareth stared. The things were indeed walking fish, covered with fine scales, their bodies gleaming in the sun from the slime that covered every inch of them. Their eyes were the size of Jareth’s hand, round and dead-looking, and slashes in their necks opened and closed as the things sought to breathe outside of the sea. Long, green-blue hair was plastered to their scaly, humped backs. Webbed hands carried spears that looked decidedly dangerous, and they were running with startling speed toward Jareth and Liadan.

An ululating cry that lifted the hairs on the back of Jareth’s neck rent the air. He realized with surprise that the sound had come from Liadan. She leaped onto Tali’s back and charged them. Recovering quickly, Jareth ran on foot after her.

Liadan’s sword glinted in the air, then descended. One of the FinFolk toppled to the sand, spasming, its head almost severed from its hunching shoulders. One of them charged with its spear, but again Liadan was too fast. She cut the spear in half on the upswing, and cut the enemy in half on the downswing. By this time Jareth had reached her, gripping his sword tightly with both hands as Eion had taught him to do when fighting on the ground. The third creature charged him. Jareth brought the sword up and struck the spear, moving it out of the way sufficiently to get in closer to the awful-smelling thing. He almost gagged again on the stench, but brought the sword up and then down. It struck solidly across the midsection, and bluish-red blood oozed out. The creature dropped the spear and wrapped its webbed hands around Jareth’s neck. Jareth fortunately still wore his armor, including the throat-protecting gorget, and the fish-thing shrieked in annoyance as its grip accomplished nothing. Jareth shoved it back, his hand sliding over the thick ooze, and brought the sword down. This time, the being fell to the sand and did not rise.

He looked up, sword at the ready, to see the other two racing back into the ocean. Liadan followed, swearing violently, splashing into the water up to her knees before turning around, a fierce grin on her face. It faded as she saw Jareth.

“Hey, you all right?” she said, running up to him. “I wasn’t expecting any more of them, or else I wouldn’t have brought you. The sword was just a precaution.”

“I’m fine,” he said, and meant it. He caught his breath and looked at the sword in his hand.

Kevla had been right. They would indeed need to learn how to use the sword. Jareth thought of the innocent fishermen, lying dead in their own homes, and of the ugly things that had attacked and then fled in fear even though they had had the greater numbers.

“Like your first taste of battle then?” Liadan grinned at him. Her color was high and her eyes were bright. Clearly she thrived on this.

“No,” Jareth said honestly. “But…I am glad to have had it.” He thought of the shining sword in his vision. He had now fought in combat. He had learned much, and would keep learning

Jareth looked down at Liadan. “Let’s step up my training.”

Chapter Eleven

Silver propped herself up on her elbow and regarded her sister as she spoke. She listened attentively, but all the while thought: You have changed since the strangers came.

They were well away from land, the two sisters. They had swum together for many hours until Copper had announced she wanted to feel the sun on her skin for a while. They had found a large, flat stone that jutted sufficiently far out of the water for their purposes. Now Copper, pale and pink and naked, lay on the gray rock, her face turned up to the sky, and Silver floated on her back in the water’s arms.

“It is funny to watch Kevla try to fight with the sword and shield,” Copper was saying. “She is bigger than I, and stronger, but she is very clumsy. Which is odd, because really, at other times she is quite graceful.”

“And the male human?” Silver asked. “How does he fare with weapons?”

“A few days ago, he held his own against the FinFolk, Liadan says. She seems very proud of him. And more.” Copper grinned. “He has been targeted by her and everyone but him appears to know it.”

Silver smiled and nodded; Liadan’s appetites had been the subject of many a mirthful conversation between the two sisters. Copper seemed to admire the Horsemistress, almost more than she did her mother. Silver wasn’t surprised. Liadan had a freedom that the queen of the realm did not, and all her choices and actions were her own save those performed in her official capacity. Riona was not allowed that kind of freedom; had not even been permitted to determine the fates of her own daughters.

Sometimes, Silver thought of their mother. She wondered how Riona would react to seeing her silver-scaled daughter again. Would she recoil, as nearly everyone but Copper and their father did? Or would she reach out to Silver as a true daughter of her flesh? What would a queen, a woman, a mother do?

Silver felt melancholy descend upon her as she pondered the question. She knew it would never happen. She would not see her mother, not now, not ever. Silver was of the sea, and Riona was of the land. Copper was yet of both and neither, but every time the sun sank into the ocean, Silver knew her sister was a day closer to making a final, irrevocable decision.

She remembered the day that Copper had left the sea for the first time. Even now, even though Copper returned as often as she could, Silver still felt pain in her heart at the recollection of that awful moment over a decade ago.

Farron had summoned his daughters, looking from one to the other with sorrow, and pronounced what seemed to them at the time a dreadful sentence.

It is time you returned to the land, my sweet Copper, he sent. To save you both and keep you together, I took you from your mother’s arms the night you were born. I would keep you here with me, but that is not the right thing to do. You are half human, and can live on the land as well as the sea. You must taste both worlds if you are to know where you truly belong.

No! both girls had cried, clinging to one another. But Farron was implacable.

Three times seven years you shall live in the sea and on the land, and then you must choose.

Ten and a half years to the day since Copper, along with Silver and Gold, had entered the world, she emerged dripping from the sea. Copper was almost twenty-one, and on that day, she would have to choose-live in the sea for always, or forever upon the land.

Silver later learned that the Kelpie, who used to come join them in their ocean playtime, had posed a similar question. The day Copper had found him, he had craned his neck to look at her. “Where do you belong?” he had asked.

Copper had had no answer for him, and had none still. Silver wondered if the Kelpie still asked, or if he, too, waited upon Copper’s twenty-first birthday for her decision.

“I think there may have been something between Kevla and Jareth…or maybe something that could have been.”

Silver started from her thoughts and returned her attention to the conversation. Back to the two other Dancers, then. Copper looked thoughtful. She reached and splashed in the water with an idle hand.

“The young man inside of her is part of the trouble, I think. Although he is her greatest blessing too.”

Silver smiled fondly at her sister. She did not have Copper’s gifts. She could not have visions, or see thing no one else saw, and this revelation about the “young man inside Kevla” was as startling to her as she knew it must be to others.

“But what about you, my sister?” Silver pressed. “You have told me of the strange being in the waters that wore your face. Have you been able to return to the cavern and speak with her again?”

A shadow settled on Copper’s features and she shook her head. “No,” she said. “It is far too closely watched. The Namaraban are thick as fleas on a dog in the Grove. I’m beginning to wonder if I will ever be able to return.”

“You have tried to contact this…being…by scrying in water elsewhere, yes?”

Copper nodded and sighed. “Every day…more than once a day,” she said. “But apparently it is only in the cave that she will manifest to me. I wonder why?”

Silver shrugged her shoulders. Her scales winked in the light.

“The Namaraban have nurtured magic for a thousand years, so you tell me,” she said. “I am not surprised that in their Grove, their heart, magic is strong.”

Copper heaved an exaggerated sigh and slipped into the water. Silver dove down at once to swim with her sister. She reached for and held the warm hand in hers, aware of the paucity of the webbing between the pink, human looking fingers, seeing Copper’s pale, freckled skin and thinking again of the differences between them.

I miss this, Copper sent to her sister. In the water, breath for speech was impractical. All Fialaban could speak with one another with their thoughts while held in the ocean’s cool arms. Sometimes Kelpie and I run into lakes and rivers. But not so often now. I am needed more and more by everyone, it seems…Mother, the other Dancers, the trainers…. and they all seem to want to keep me as far away from the sea as possible. Even Bram, who really ought to know better.

Silver nodded. I can sense it. She did not give voice to her worst fear-the fear that when sufficient days had rolled past so that Copper must make her decision, she would choose the land.

But for now, Copper was here, and they laughed in one another’s thoughts with closed lips, and darted among the rock formations and swaying multi-colored seaweeds, and playfully hugged the otters who kept trying to crack clam shells while floating on their backs. The time passed so swiftly that Silver was startled to notice that the light passing through the waters had a different hue.

Copper, she sent, you will be missed…and Father will be worried about me.

It was the between times that held the most power for the FinFolk. Dawn and dusk was when they were active, and when they were strongest-or so Farron had warned his daughters. Now, the afternoon gold had turned to a richer, mellower hue, and twilight was upon the world.

Copper made a face. It was clear she was enjoying herself and she had no wish to return to the land, at least not at the moment. But Silver knew that they both had to go back to their respective homes, and soon. As it was, she would be late…if she did not take the shortcut she had often considered.

Her sister knew her thoughts even as they formed. Father says it’s not safe, Copper replied.

If I am late one more time, he may consider forbidding me to see you again.

He would not!

Silver thought of her father’s handsome, grave face that always seemed slightly wreathed in sorrow. He had not said as much, that was certain; but it was clear he worried about his daughter, his heir to the kingdom, growing too fond of Copper and the land.

What if she chooses to stay on the land? he had asked Silver once. Even I do not know what that will mean. She may never be able to swim in the ocean save as a human; she may not be able to sense your thoughts any more.

Land or sea, nothing will ever stop her from being my sister, or your daughter, Silver had retorted with more boldness than she felt. He had been silent then, unable to argue the truth of her statement.

She did not want to give him any excuse to forbid them to be together, not now, not when the time of Copper’s choice was approaching.

Very well. Silver could hear the resignation and sigh in the words as clearly as if Copper had spoken them with lips and breath. I will see you again soon.

The two sisters embraced tightly, then Copper struck out for the surface. Silver permitted herself a few precious heartbeats to watch Copper swimming upward, her legs kicking and arms pulling the water, her red hair flowing out behind her. Above, the paling sunlight called Farron’s youngest daughter upward, away from Silver’s realm.

Silver’s heart hurt. Weighted with her own feelings of resignation, she tucked and dove deeper, down to the cooler, bluer depths, toward home.

Her father would not want her to take the route she had chosen; it passed too near FinFolk territory for him to be comfortable with it. But it was the shortest route back to the palace. Silver feared being forbidden to see her sister more than she feared a chance encounter so, feeling a bit daring and not a little excited, she swam through the kelp forest that served as a barrier between the two races of the ocean.

Silver sensed him before she saw him.

She came to a sudden stop in her easy, swift swimming, her hair floating around her as she glanced around. Her heart raced. What had alerted her…a sound, a flash of silver scale…?

Now she wished she had listened to her father. He had told her not to come here…had warned her that sometimes the FinFolk wandered out of their boundaries into Fialaban waters. But so close to the palace? Silver had not believed him, not until this very moment.

Silver undulated in the waters, waiting, watching.

Show yourself! she cried in her mind.

There…it was there, hiding in the swaying forest of kelp. Was it only one of them after all? Or were there many? Was this a scouting party, to see what sort of defense the palace had against a possible attack? Or worse…the vanguard of such an attack?

The kelp shuddered, and it emerged.

He, Silver corrected at once, for the thing that looked at her with bulging, piscine eyes was most definitely male; the FinFolk apparently did not wear clothing in the water.

She had never seen one of the FinFolk before, though of course she had heard them described. Her fear abated somewhat when she realized that the creature was indeed alone, and if she was interpreting his movements correctly, seemed as frightened as her as she was of him. Silver tried to calm her racing heart as she scrutinized him, her initial fear giving way to curiosity.

The FinFolk male was about her size, perhaps a little slighter in build. Long green-blue hair that resembled seaweed streamed from his round skull and floated around him. His lips were fishlike as well, and a fin protruded from his back. His hands and feet had webbing, as hers did, but his was much more obvious than the subtle webbing of the Fialaban. Gills, large slashes in the saggy flesh that was his neck, opened and closed rapidly, demonstrating his nervousness. His skin was covered with fine silver scales…scales that were almost exactly like her own.

I…have never seen a Fialaban before, he thought to her. You look nothing like I was told you would.

I do not look like the Fialaban, she thought to him before she could censor herself.

He tilted his head, looking curious. The expression somehow made him appear less ugly.

You do not? Are you not Fialaban then?

Silver’s smile faded. Was she? Half-human, half-Fialaban, looking nothing like either and nothing like her sisters.

My name is Silver, she thought. My father is Fialaban, but my mother is…human.

The FinFolk male was so startled he flipped in the water several times. Oddly, despite his appearance, the gesture reminded Silver of the dolphins she and her sister loved to play with. When he moved, he was much more graceful than she had imagined.

Human? How could-oh! I know who you are now…you are the child of their King!

All at once, the apprehension that had ebbed from Silver flowed back with renewed force. The FinFolk male now knew who she was. She realized suddenly how valuable a hostage she could be…or how substantial a bounty her unique, scaly skin could fetch.

Fear spurted through her and she turned to flee, speeding through the water as fast as she could. He was right there behind her though, and, panicked, she could all but feel those cold, webby fingers closing on her leg….

Please don’t go! I only want to talk to you…my name is Shess…you look so much like me, like us….

Sickened by the words, Silver swam with renewed speed. She didn’t want to look like the FinFolk, and now she understood how closely she resembled them. She felt the warmth of tears in her eyes along with the coolness of the ocean water. They were hideous! Disgusting! They hated the Fialaban, they hated the humans, and who could blame them, looking as they did?

Looking as she did…

No. She was not like them. She, like Copper, was the offspring of her handsome, beautiful Fialaban father, he of the smooth light blue skin and indigo hair and wise eyes; of her human mother, straight and tall and proud, queen by her own hand.

She thought of Gold, whom she had never seen but of whom she had been told, a tragic hybrid of human and Fialaban that never could have survived. She thought of Copper, so human-looking whom she sometimes envied and sometime pitied; and she thought of her own silver scales flashing in the sunlight that pierced the ocean’s waves.

No, I am not like the FinFolk…I am not…I cannot be.

Chapter Twelve

Kevla had just started up the path toward the Grove when she heard hoofbeats behind her. Turning, she beheld Queen Riona galloping up to her, mounted atop one of the beautiful golden horses ridden exclusively by the Aofaban.

Kevla had not seen Riona much since the first night. The queen struck her as aloof, and made no attempts to befriend her or Jareth as Eion, Liadan, Bram and even Copper did. In many ways, Riona reminded her of Yeshi, her father’s wife and the khashima of a great house. While Riona seemed to eschew the creature comforts that Yeshi so thrived upon, like the Arukani woman, the Reshanaban queen was a woman in command and well aware of it. Also, she had heard Bram and Copper both speak of Riona’s manipulation of Farron, which did not reflect well upon how the queen went about acquiring what she wanted. Still, she was Copper’s mother, and the ruler of this nation, and Kevla inclined her head respectfully as Riona’s horse cantered to a stop in front of her.

“Flame Dancer,” Riona said. “Are you headed to the Grove again?”

Riona’s dislike of the Grove and its inhabitants laced the words. Kevla nodded. “Indeed, Your Majesty. I go there daily, to be instructed and to read about past Dancers.”

“I see. I trust your needs are being met?”

“Very well, thank you. My servant Liura is wonderful, and when I am at the grove Sliah takes good care of me. The Namaraban are very gracious hosts.”

“I am pleased to hear it, though I confess a bit surprised. The Namaraban are not known for their friendliness.”

“But Lorekeepers are born to help the Dancers. That they do so well is nothing unusual.”

Riona laughed without much humor. The horse she rode pranced agitatedly. Despite her words, Riona did not look pleased.

“It amuses me to think of the Namaraban helping anyone. They wanted to cast Gold and Silver into the sea the night they were born, not allowing Gold a proper burial and not even waiting to see if Silver could survive in the ocean. And they wanted to take Copper to be raised as one of them. I gave birth to three daughters, and they would have given me none of them. That is how they helped their own queen. Did they tell you that, Flame Dancer?”

“Yes,” Kevla replied in an even voice. “I have heard that story from them. And they told me that you deprived your husband of his freedom to force him to stay with you.”

Riona flushed, then went very pale. Kevla braced, expecting a burst of outrage, perhaps even an attack, or a furious denial. Instead, Riona sighed.

“Yes. I made that mistake. And I live with the repercussions of it daily. I have lost husband and daughters both.”

“Copper has returned to you.”

“And you plan to take her away.” There was no mistaking the challenge.

“You know what is at stake here. Would you doom the world just to have your daughter by your side until it ends?”

“I am not the one who will choose,” Riona said, completely unexpectedly. Without waiting for Kevla’s response, she kicked her horse and it leaped forward with a sharp neigh. Kevla watched the queen ride off, completely taken aback by the encounter. She stood there for a long moment, lost in thought. The queen had not answered her, and her comment merely raised more questions. Would she stand in the way when it came time for the Dancers to leave, to find the fourth and fifth of their number?

“Kevla?” It was Sliah’s voice and Kevla started. Sliah smiled warmly at her. “I thought that was you. Is everything all right?”

“I’m not sure,” Kevla answered honestly. “I just spoke with Riona.”

Sliah’s brow furrowed slightly. “Queen Riona can be unsettling. She frightens me a little. All of the Aofaban do. I’m no warrior, just a scholar, and they are all so…boisterous.”

Kevla laughed and reached to squeeze the other woman’s arm affectionately. “That is a very apt word. But tell me what you have found for me today.”

The cloud left Sliah’s face. “Ah, I have found something fascinating. About the youth you were in the Second World. I’m sure you’ll enjoy reading about him!”

As they walked together, Kevla was grateful for the girl. And for the Lorekeepers. Visiting the Namaraban always calmed and cheered her. She felt her spirits lift as she entered the Grove, smiling at the jewel crafters and the exquisite necklaces and bracelets they wrought, and followed her friend to explore the new scroll.

The Emperor stared at the hovering Tenacru, listening to Ilta’s voice.

“She begins to trust me,” Ilta said, smugness in the word.

“Of course,” the Emperor said. “You are very good at making people trust you, Ilta. Whatever form you are wearing. That is why I chose you for this most important task. Do not overplay your part, though.”

“Of course not,” and Ilta sounded affronted. “I await your orders, Your Excellency.”

“For now, just keep getting her to trust you. And report on everything you learn.”

“I shall do so, Your Excellency.”

He waved a hand, ending the conversation. He sank back in his chair, thinking. Why could he not see the Sea Dancer? Was the Tenacru insufficient? Could the Dancers block its powers somehow? The Mage had spoken of other magic, of another tool like the Tenacru. Maybe it was time to shift his focus to finding this tool, rather than seeing the Sea Dancer.

Because if he could find the one, it would perhaps enable him to, finally, behold the other.

The Emperor smiled, pleased with his new plan, and at his feet, the ki-lyn shivered.

It had been a long time since Liadan had been so attracted to a man. She wasn’t sure quite what it was about Jareth that she found so appealing. Certainly he was a fine physical specimen, with that chiseled face, those piercing blue eyes, the thick blond hair and a body that she wished wasn’t currently enveloped in leather armor. But the Reshanaban produced their share of handsome, well-built men…most of whom Liadan had had at one time or another. Look at Eion, for instance-beautiful and a good tumble as well. She watched Jareth as he turned the horse and continued to canter, powerful thighs gripping the beast. He was becoming more at home atop the animal with each passing day.

Was it the fact that he was a Dancer? One of only five elite heroes of their world? Liadan sniffed. Jareth and Kevla had arrived on two amazing creatures, that much was true; Liadan itched to ride either the Dragon or the Tiger, but knew better than to ask. But other than that, she had seen little evidence of these so-called elemental powers. Indeed, the newcomers had seemed…weak to her. Neither had even the most basic training in armed combat-indeed in combat of any kind. Jareth was illiterate and had at first looked like a sack of grain in the saddle, though he learned quickly. He’d almost managed to unhorse her yesterday through what she insisted was a lucky blow but what she knew was not. And he had fought surprisingly well against the FinFolk. He’d asked that they step up their training. She had, and he’d kept up with her.

Maybe that was it. Maybe he was such a good student, learning things so swiftly and well, that it was a joy to teach him.

She eyed him, watching the play of muscle in his arms as he swung at the training dummy, striking it twice as he cantered past. A grin curved her lips.

I wonder if he knows how to swim. They would need a warmer day for that, though. Although the rain held off, there was a chill in the air from the wind blowing off the ocean.

Another thought struck her, and this one she was inclined to follow at once. Liadan usually followed thoughts when they struck her, and more often than not, they paid off. Jareth was doing well under her tutelage; maybe it was time for him to teach her a thing or two. She was curious about those “Dancer” abilities.

Liadan strode toward the riding field and waved. Jareth saw her and without wasted movement slowed the horse to a trot, then a walk. He was on Tali today; no other trained mounts were available. He guided the mare over to Liadan and looked at her inquiringly.

“What next?” he asked. He was breathing a little heavily; those who scoffed and said the horse did all the work when riding had never ridden one through a series of warrior training exercises. Liadan’s own breathing picked up slightly as she regarded him. Why in the world was this one so difficult to entice into her bed?

“Next, we take a little break,” she said, handing up him a waterskin. He drank, then handed it back to her and dismounted. She watched with admiration, noting how fluidly Jareth now got off and on a horse. He gathered the reins and began to walk Tali back to the stable, something they always did at the end of a training session.

“No,” said Liadan. “Leave the weapons and the armor here. The akhas will take care of them for us.”

“Very well,” he said, and shrugged. Although he was obviously puzzled, he obediently dropped sword and shield onto the grass. Liadan helped him with the buckles and tugged the armor and the padding below it off, dropping them on the shield. Divested of the accoutrements of war, Jareth looked at her inquiringly.

“Get back on Tali,” Liadan said, and he obliged. Without any word of warning, she swung herself up behind him. He was startled, she could tell, and she grinned as she slipped her arms around his waist.

“Head northeast to that hill,” she said. “It’s time to take you off the training field and onto a trail.”

“All right,” he said. Was it her imagination or was there a hint of tension in his voice? Liadan wasn’t sure. She didn’t care right now. All she wanted was to get him alone in a beautiful place and get him to tell her about some of his Dancer abilities. And…maybe get him to do something else. For perhaps the first time she regretted her spontaneous nature; if she had thought about this, she could have prepared some wine and cheese for the trip to make it more pleasant. Mentally, she shrugged. Another time…or not.

“Bring her to a canter, she knows the trail,” Liadan instructed as they approached the hill. Nestled up against Jareth, Liadan could feel the subtle movement of his thighs as he squeezed the horse. Trained to respond to slight gestures, Tali eased into the canter smoothly.

“Beautiful up here, isn’t it?” Liadan said after a few moments of a silence that was unbroken save for the sounds of Tali’s hooves and the twittering of birds.

“It is,” was the heartfelt reply. Liadan felt slightly embarrassed. She had been making idle conversation, but as she turned to look at him she saw that Jareth’s eyes were fixed not on her, but at their surroundings. He smiled as he looked out over the trees and fields and hills of the island. From somewhere in the distance came the musical sound of a creek rushing to the sea, swollen from the recent rains. He breathed deeply and she imitated him, inhaling scents of ocean and earth and grass. It was pleasanter than she had expected.

It rattled her somewhat, and she turned her gaze forward. A short walk from here was a meadow with an overlook of the ocean that she knew well. She’d leave Tali tethered at the foot of the little hill; anyone coming up the trail would recognize the beast and not venture further. Liadan had brought many a lover here in the past, and she was hopeful that the echoes of those many trysts might yet linger and help make Jareth more amenable to her advances.

“Slow her down now,” she said as they approached the turnoff. Jareth did so and the horse dropped easily into a walk. Liadan dismounted, took the reins and wound them around a low-slung tree branch. There was plenty of grass within easy reach of the mare, so she could graze while Liadan and Jareth got to know one another a bit better.

“This way,” Liadan said, striding up the trail that took them to the top. Jareth followed. He said nothing, although Liadan knew he was confused. When they cleared the rise, she heard him gasp.

Before them lay the silver ocean, its waves crashing on the wide expanse of sand only to retreat and return again and again. The sun was starting to break through the vast expanse of gray, and the ocean sparkled. The hill upon which they stood was covered in soft, green grass dotted with white flowers that looked like stars come to earth.

“I wanted to show you this place,” Liadan said, “because you are the Earth Dancer.”

“The correct title is Stone Dancer, actually,” Jareth said, “and I’m glad you did. It’s beautiful.”

His words made her smile. She patted the grass, making certain it was dry enough to sit on. She folded her long legs and indicated that he join her. Jareth did so, but only after looking around a moment longer.

“I can best teach you if I understand what exactly it is you do,” Liadan said.

He regarded her with a slight smile. “How does understanding my Dancer abilities help you to teach me how to ride and fight?”

“I won’t know that until I know what they are,” Liadan replied. She knew it was really just an excuse to get him alone in a pretty place, and she suspected that he did too. If so, he didn’t look displeased at having been misled. In fact, he stretched out on the grass, clasping his hands behind his head and gazing up at the sky. Liadan wanted nothing more at that moment than to lean over and kiss him, but she restrained herself.

“What exactly do you know about us?”

Liadan propped herself up on one elbow next to him. “Bram doesn’t tell us much, and frankly, I’m just a soldier and don’t know much about such things. I know what he said at the feast-that you were born to save this world, that you and the Lorekeepers have all lived before—and what I’ve seen with my own two eyes.”

He turned his head to look at her. She felt her pulse jump.

“That’s not much at all,” he said. He reached out a hand and gently touched a small white starflower, long, strong fingers caressing the petals. Liadan expected him to pluck it, but he did not. “We are the elements incarnate,” he said. “Earth, air, fire, water, spirit. Our Companions are an aspect of us, just as our Lorekeepers are.”

Liadan raised an eyebrow. “All of them? There are an awful lot of Namaraban.”

He chuckled. “No, there is one special Lorekeeper who is a part of the Dancer. He or she is the Dancer’s soul. It’s like the Dancer has three faces-the Dancer proper, the Companion animal, and the Lorekeeper.”

“Dancer, Companion, Lorekeeper…mind, body, spirit,” mused Liadan, nodding.

He looked at her sharply. “I never thought about it that way, but you’re right…that’s exactly what it is.”

“So you’re the Dancer, the Tiger is your Companion, but where’s your Lorekeeper?”

She wished the words back when she saw his reaction. The friendly blue eyes turned cold as chips of ice and the muscles in his jaw tightened.

“Let us not speak of her,” he said stiffly.

“Her?” Despite what he had just said Liadan couldn’t stop her exclamation. “Interesting. And Kevla’s is male…it’s that young man that Copper saw inside her when—“

“I said, I don’t want to talk about this,” he snapped. He sat up and for a moment Liadan feared he was going to leap to his feet and leave.

“All right, all right,” she soothed. “Tell me about your abilities then.”

He sat cross-legged on the grass, his nostrils still flaring with anger. Liadan wondered exactly what it was that had upset him so much. It was not just the topic of his own Lorekeeper that had distressed him; it was also that of Kevla’s. What had happened?

Jareth placed both hands on the ground beside him and breathed deeply. The action seemed to calm him somewhat, and the darkness that sat on his brow lifted.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I shouldn’t have barked at you like that.”

Liadan grinned and shrugged. “Don’t worry. It takes more than a bit of snapping to unsettle me.”

He smiled a little then. “I’m certain that’s true.”

“So. Your powers.”

Jareth’s gaze fell to where his hands rested upon the grass. “I am Earth,” he said. “It obeys me.”

The blunt statement fascinated Liadan. She sat up. “How?”

“In many ways. I doubt I’ve explored the full depth of it yet myself. I first discovered I had this…this connection when I was a boy, barely thirteen.” He fell silent, as if suddenly realizing how much he was revealing and gave her a sidelong glance.

Liadan smiled as gently as she was capable of doing. “Go on,” she said.

“I felt something calling me, asking me to bring the change. It was winter, and I dug through the snow like a fox after a mouse. I didn’t know what I was looking for, but I placed my bare hands on the frozen earth and…spring came.”

Her jaw dropped. “You…turned winter into spring?”

He nodded.

“Just like that?”

“Just like that. I did it with all the other seasons as well. I called the animals in winter, when food was scarce. I helped the fruit ripen perfectly, without blemish.”

He fell silent, and she sensed there was something he was not revealing to her. That was all right. Let him say what he felt he could say now; the rest could wait.

“But…At one point, I misused my powers. I was angry, hurt. I had tree roots trip someone, had their branches hold him. It was wrong of me to do that. I hope I never lose control like that again.”

Liadan hugged her knees to her chest. She hadn’t enjoyed a story so much since she was a child. “Show me something,” she urged.

Jareth’s cheeks turned pink. She loved it when he blushed. “The abilities are not for simple displays to entertain,” he said.

She shrugged. “I know that. But…still. I would like to see. The Namaraban keep all the miracles and magic to themselves. We common folk see so little….”

His eyes searched hers, then he nodded. He rose and when to one of the small, stunted trees that clung to the soil. There was no windbreak up here, and anything that grew had to battle the fierce gales that sometimes whipped off the ocean. The trees survived, hardy and gnarled, but they survived. Jareth knelt beside it and put his hands on the twisted roots. He closed his eyes.

“Grow,” he whispered.

Before Liadan’s shocked, disbelieving gaze, the tree began to tremble. With a strange groaning, stretching sound, its roots disengaged, grew longer and healthier, and sought fresh, strong purchase in the soil. The trunk expanded and moved steadily upward. The leaves whispered to her and almost, she thought she could understand their green language. Branches shot out, undulating and writhing as they provided new shade. And then, like the last note of a beautiful song, pink and white apple blossoms appeared, became fruit, and turned red.

Jareth plucked two and tossed her one. Liadan caught it without thinking, staring not at the small round miracle in her hands but at the man who had wrought such a thing. He smiled and winked at her.

Liadan had never been in love, but the feeling that suddenly swept over her was suspiciously like what the bards assured her that tender emotion ought to feel like.

Chapter Thirteen

Kevla stared into the mountain pool, which caught and held the reflection of the sky, the clouds, and a sad young woman. She sighed; did she truly present such a melancholy face to the world?

“Of course not,” said the beloved voice, and suddenly Kevla’s gaze met the reflected one of her brother. “You are most skilled at hiding your emotions. You had to be.”

Her reflection suddenly brightened as Kevla smiled. She turned and hugged him tightly, smelling his dear, familiar scent of spicy oils and warm skin. He returned the embrace, resting his cheek on her hair.

“I’ve missed you,” she said. “I’ve missed this place. There is nothing familiar here in Reshan, not even….”

“Not even Jareth,” Jashemi said, finishing her sentence as he often did, even when he walked the earth as a living man. “You feel he has forsaken you…because of me.”

“Initially, perhaps. But he wanted to understand, to forgive-to find a way to make it work. It is I who have pushed him away. I had to. I cannot be with him the way a man and woman are meant to be. I would destroy him.” She could not bring herself to look at her brother as she spoke. Even now, though she had exchanged the passion she felt for the lover for the warm peace of a brother’s love, the thought of what had happened between them-what she had done to him-still filled her heart with pain.

As ever, he knew what she was thinking, and slipped an affectionate arm around her.

“There will come a day when you will be at peace with what happened between us,” he assured her. “When you truly understand that it was not your fault…that the connection had to be made regardless of the consequences.”

In life and in this form of spirit, Jashemi had been right about so many things. But Kevla could not bring herself to believe that he was right about this, and so remained silent.

He kissed the top of her head. “But I have not come to you today to discuss that. That is the past. I have come about the future.”

Kevla realized with a start that her friend the Dragon was absent. He was always with her; always a part of her as Jashemi was. She looked around, starting to grow frightened.

“Where—“

“You know where he is,” Jashemi said gently. “He is right outside the Grove, with the Kelpie and the Tiger. They are safe there.”

“But…he is not here, he is not with me.” Jashemi did not reply, and Kevla wondered if this new development was a good or a bad thing. Suddenly she missed the Dragon, missed his irritable remarks and dry wit and deep love. Almost as much as she missed Jashemi.

Almost as much as she missed….

“You are in love with him, then.” Jashemi’s voice held no trace of jealousy.

“I am,” she said softly. “I wish this heart of mine did not choose to wander down such paths. First you, and now Jareth. Two men I love so much, neither of whom I can have. I can be with no one…what happened to you proves that.”

“Does it?” Jashemi said mildly, as if they were discussing the weather. “My flesh was consumed by the fire of your passion, my dear one, but-“

The knock on the door made Kevla bolt upright, gasping. It was loud and insistent. She felt sluggish, almost drugged; she had not expected to fall asleep in the middle of the day. But she was so tired after an entire morning of training that her body had seized the chance for rest when Kevla had lain down to close her eyes for just a moment.

“Coming,” she called, and went to the door. She opened it and stared, surprised, at Liadan. She blinked, unable to think of any reason why the Horsemistress would show up at her door.

“Did I have a session this afternoon? I thought—“

Liadan laughed. “No, Kevla, I haven’t come to track you down because you missed a training session with me. I’d send one of my akhas for that.”

Kevla stood in the doorway, her brain still foggy from sleep. After a moment, Liadan said, “May I come in?”

Kevla felt her face grow hot. “Certainly,” she said, stepping aside so that Liadan could enter. She indicated one of the carved wooden chairs. “May I get you something to eat or drink?”

“I’ll have a glass of wine, if you’re having one,” Liadan said, taking the chair Kevla had offered. Kevla had not been going to have any wine, but wordlessly poured two goblets and handed one to Liadan. She took the chair opposite the Horsemistress, sipped the wine, and looked inquiringly at her visitor.

Despite her request, Liadan did not drink at once. She sat holding the goblet in both hands, staring into its ruby depths as if she were Copper scrying in a bowl of water. Kevla patiently waited for the other woman to speak. After a moment, Liadan knocked back half the goblet in one hearty swallow.

“I’m not a delicate woman, and I don’t prance around things,” she said, looking at Kevla.

Kevla smiled. “So I have gathered,” she said. She had found she enjoyed the other woman’s bluntess. After a life lived surrounded by court intrigue, Kevla found Liadan’s personality very refreshing-once her shock had worn off. “I hope you won’t feel it’s necessary to prance around anything with me. Have you given up trying to teach me to fight while riding?”

Liadan threw back her head and uttered one of her hearty laughs. “I’d have said so the moment I determined it,” she replied, still grinning. “No, it’s not about your horsemanship.”

“Then-what?”

Liadan’s hazel eyes met Kevla’s brown ones evenly. “I’ve come about Jareth.”

Kevla inhaled swiftly and almost spilled her wine. Her eyes stung and there was a huge lump in her throat. She could not meet the other woman’s level gaze and stared at the goblet, trying to think of what to say.

“I’m not the most sensitive of women,” Liadan went on, “but I’ve been around long enough to recognize connections between people when I see them. There’s something between you and Jareth…or was, or you would like there to be.”

Unbidden, the thought of their single kiss filled Kevla’s mind. He had summoned spring, after a winter that had threatened to be interminable, and she had joined her powers with his to prevent flooding as the snow suddenly melted at his command. For that moment, she had shared the rush of awakening life that surged through Jareth. Their eyes had met, their desire had been mutual, and he had pulled her into his strong arms and kissed her with an intensity that even now made her heart race.

There had been many nights when Kevla had lain awake wondering what would have happened between them had she not pulled away. But pull away she had, the sudden recollection of what she had done to Jashemi driving physical desire out of her thoughts. The instant he felt her withdraw, Jareth had released her and apologized.

I didn’t want him to stop, she thought. But he had to, or else he would have-

“Kevla?”

Kevla realized she had closed her eyes and tears had escaped from under closed lashes.

“I’m not quite the heartless bitch some like to portray me as,” Liadan said. “Sport’s one thing, but love….” The word seemed to sit oddly in her mouth, and Kevla wondered if she ever had experienced that fierce yet tender emotion. “Love is something else entirely. I won’t try to take him from you if you love him.”

Kevla wiped at her face and regarded Liadan. There was an unease about her that was at odds with her normal confident demeanor. And suddenly she realized what was going on. Liadan wasn’t talking about Kevla, not really.

Sport’s one thing, but love is something else entirely.

Liadan was starting to care for Jareth.

Kevla felt a pang of sympathy for Eion, who had loved Liadan in silence for years and never had the feeling returned. Once, Kevla had trod on that sensitive ground and encouraged Eion to voice his feelings to Liadan.

He had laughed with no humor. “What, and send her running for the hills? Have her laugh at me-or worse, look at me with pity?” He had shaken his dark head, and the look in his blue eyes broke Kevla’s heart. “No. Right now, she thinks of me as a friend, and graces me with her body when the mood strikes her. I’ve accepted that’s all I’m ever going to have from her. And even those crumbs are too precious for me to—“

He’d bitten back the rest of the words, his face flushed with anger or embarrassment, Kevla did not know which. But his attack on her when they resumed training had been particularly rough and Kevla had been hard pressed to defend herself.

And then the wave of her own impending loss hit and Kevla had to fight not to lose her composure. Jareth might have held her in her arms and kissed her passionately once, but it had to end there. He could not join with her in physical union; it would mean his death. Jashemi was holding out false hope. She’d been right to end this now, to let Jareth go into the arms of a woman whose lovemaking would pose no danger.

“You misunderstand,” Kevla said. “I care about Jareth very much, of course I do. We are both Dancers. We-we all have a bond in that way. But no, I am not in love with him.”

She had been able to say it calmly once, to Jareth. To watch the hope die in his eyes. She hadn’t expected to have to say it again, and her body betrayed her. Her eyes stung with tears and her voice cracked slightly.

“I hope defeating this Shadow doesn’t hinge upon how well you lie,” Liadan said wryly.

Kevla rubbed her eyes and smiled with no humor. “I hope not, either. Regardless, my feelings are immaterial. He can never be mine.”

A smile tugged at Liadan’s lips. “What a dramatic phrase. Pray tell, lady, why not?”

Kevla answered a question with a question. “What do you know of our powers?”

“Jareth told me a little,” Liadan said. “He demonstrated some of his earth magic. Impressive stuff. I imagine you can make things burn?”

Kevla tasted bile in her throat. “Yes, I can…burn things. Sometimes without meaning to. Sometimes…sometimes when my emotions are very intense, the fire comes forth from me and I can’t control it. Then…others are in danger. Others…die.”

Please don’t make me say any more, Kevla thought. I don’t want to have to tell you exactly what happened….

It took a second, but then comprehension dawned on Liadan’s sharp-featured face. Her eyes widened and her mouth dropped open slightly.

“You and someone…when…Kevla, I’m so sorry. I really am.”

The hazel eyes were kinder than Kevla had ever seen them, and suddenly she understood just why Eion was so reluctant to have Liadan gaze at him with pity. It was almost more than Kevla could bear.

“It is part of being the Flame Dancer,” she said, the words coming out more harshly than she had intended. “If I must endure this in order to help save my world, I will.”

She stood, indicating the conversation was over. Liadan emulated her, eyeing her with a new appreciation.

“I misjudged you, Kevla. You really are a warrior.”

From this woman, there could be no higher compliment. Kevla knew this and yet it meant nothing to her. She had not gone chasing her destiny; it had been thrust upon her and had cost her so very much. But to fail in her duty after enduring such pain would be worse, and her words to Liadan had been the truth. She inclined her head in acceptance of the compliment, and watched as Liadan went out the door, closing it behind her.

She will walk out of the castle keep, find Jareth, and take him to her bed, Kevla thought, her heart heavy and painful in her chest. He will kiss her as he kissed me…. and he will do so thinking I do not want him.

The thoughts were overwhelming and she did not dare follow that path of thought. She took a deep breath and washed her face in the basin. She was patting it dry and collecting herself when there came another rap on the door.

Kevla wanted to scream, but instead took a deep, calming breath. She half expected to see Liadan again, but was surprised to instead see Copper.

“Hello,” the Sea Dancer said. “I saw what just happened. In my basin in my room.”

Kevla didn’t know whether to be offended or amused. Copper showed no signs of embarrassment. Kevla groped for words.

“Were you watching me, then?”

“No. The visions just come. But I wanted to know if you would like to go for a ride.”

Suddenly Kevla smiled. Copper was doing what she could to extend a hand in friendship after seeing someone get hurt. The girl’s grasp on human emotions was not the most secure or accurate, but Kevla wanted to encourage it. After all, they were Dancers. They had a bond that no one else had, and they would need to work closely together if they were to defeat the Shadow.

“I would love to go for a ride with you,” Kevla said.

Kevla expected they would ride their Companion animals-or at least, Copper would; the Dragon was so large it was difficult to take him for an amble across the countryside. But to her surprise, they simply went to the stables and took two horses from there. Kevla did not know whether to be relieved or unhappy that they did not run into the Horsemistress. Liadan was quite possibly the last person Kevla wanted to see right now, but if Liadan was at the stables, then she was not in Jareth’s arms. Copper looked at her searchingly as they entered the stables. Knowing what she did, she probably wanted to see how Kevla would react if the Flame Dancer did encounter Liadan. But the incident Kevla feared and dreaded did not occur, and they took their saddled horses and rode off together.

It was one of the rare clear, sunny days that Reshan saw all too seldom. Kevla actually found herself squinting in the sunlight as they rode. As they left the castle and headed down a dirt path into the countryside, Kevla noticed how lush and green everything looked; the rain Copper so loved offered great benefits.

“I am surprised that you did not choose to ride the Kelpie,” Kevla said.

“He likes it in the Grove. As do the other Companions.”

“Yes, apparently,” Kevla said. “But do you not enjoy being with him? He is your Companion, after all. The Dragon and I are-were-inseparable once we found each other.” Until we came here.

“I loved it when we met,” Copper said. “I did recognize him, in a way. And at first, we were as you said. We were together all the time. But I have my duties and studies, and there is really no place for him in such activities. So he waits in the Grove, and I visit him when I go there to study with Bram.”

Kevla shook her head, understanding Copper’s words but not comprehending the emotion-or lack thereof-behind them. The Companion was a part of the Dancer, not a steed or an acquaintance. She and the Dragon had been so very close; sensing one another’s thoughts, sharing everything. He had supported her when she needed unconditional love, and been sharp with her when she needed the prod.

Copper was watching her. “You miss the Dragon,” she said. “Let’s go to the Grove and see him then.”

They turned their horses’ heads around and made for the Grove. Kevla was delighted, and when she saw her friend’s massive red form in the distance her heart surged.

Dragon! I have missed you!

And I you, Flame Dancer. Though the time has passed pleasantly in your absence. It has been good, to be with these old friends again.

I am sure you have all told many humorous tales at our expense, Kevla thought, and smothered a grin.

A few, the Dragon admitted, sounding in her mind very much like his old wry self. Although she passed by her Companion on her way to study in the Grove, he was often asleep, and she was disinclined to awaken him. It was good that he was awake and seemed happy to see her now. She anticipated that the next hour or so would pass pleasantly, she with the Dragon, the Sea Dancer with her Kelpie. But when they arrived at the Grove, the Dragon barely stirred. He opened one golden eye and regarded her, but otherwise made no move to welcome her.

Dragon?

What is it, Flame Dancer? Have you need of me?

Kevla gazed at her friend, confused. Do I require aid of you in order to come see you?

No, but I cannot think why else you would disturb us.

Kevla’s heart jerked. Disturb? Their visit-two Dancers wanting to be with their Companions—was a disturbance? She looked around to see the Blue Tiger curled nose to tail in a patch of warm sunlight, to see the Kelpie bow its head for a brief caress from Copper before folding its legs and resuming its drowse. The Dragon’s eye closed and he again fell asleep. Kevla knew that even now, she could touch his thoughts with hers, but refrained. Her mind went back to the vision she had had earlier, when Jashemi had come to her in her sleeping moments.

You know where he is…He is right outside the Grove, with the Kelpie and the Tiger. They are safe there.

But…he is not here, he is not with me.

Even now, when she stood close enough to touch him should she but extend one arm, he was not with her. Nor was Jareth.

But Copper was. Copper had seen her very soul and all but named him the moment Kevla’s feet had touched Reshanaban soil. Copper had shown her the wonders of her realm of water. She had witnessed the meeting between Liadan and Kevla, had heard Kevla voice a longing that must forever go unrequited. And Copper had come to her afterward, to take her riding into the countryside.

Perhaps this was what was supposed to happen after all. Now that the number of Dancers was growing, now that they were at long last reuniting this final time, perhaps they were supposed to turn to one another instead of the trusted and beloved Lorekeepers and Companions.

Kevla turned to regard the Sea Dancer. She looked at the other girl thoughtfully, as if seeing her for the first time. In a sense, she was. Kevla was looking at this young woman as a friend.

“Let’s go back to that trail,” Kevla said, and Copper grinned.

Chapter Fourteen

Yeshi fanned herself as the litter swayed gently. She had forgotten how hot it was here in Arukan. The Emperor’s lands were much more temperate and she had grown accustomed to the climate.

Do not permit yourself to grow soft with your comforts, she chided herself. That was part of the reason you failed before.

She was harder now than she had been. Pain, loss, and hatred had toughened her spirit as the desert toughened those forced to live out their lives beneath its scorching sun. She thought back to when she was nothing more than a khashim’s wife, when her days were filled with tempting foods, cool water and languid massages with scented oils.

The time I wasted then! If she had known then what she knew now, she would not have had to crawl to the Emperor to reclaim what was rightfully hers. She despised the soft creature she had been, and was fiercely proud of the woman she had become.

The road to her present self had been rocky. She had had a bad moment a few days ago when one of her spies had reported that her daughter-the girl she had so longed to bear, who had been so perfect save for the red blotch on one cheek, whose sacrifice to the Dragon had all but killed her mother-still lived. Meli, Tahmu had named the child; “gift.” For a few horrible seconds, Yeshi had been tempted to abandon the Emperor and his plans, rush to the House of Four Waters, beg forgiveness and try to reunite with her daughter and husband. But that moment of madness had passed, and she emerged emotionally wrung out but with a renewed dedication and clarity. Her path was set and she would not turn from it.

Yeshi frowned to herself as the road turned and her litter shifted. These men were the Emperor’s; they were soldiers, not servants, and they had not been trained in the proper art of litter-bearing. Yeshi was certain she would have bruises from all the sliding about. Perhaps she would order one of the bearers beaten. The thought was pleasing to her.

She went over the plan once again. The Emperor’s spies had been planted in all the Arukani clans which had expressed dissatisfaction with how the country was changing. The Clan of Four Waters, of course, was in the forefront of change. No woman in the household was forced to veil herself at any function. No servants were beaten; their punishments were extra work or loss of privileges. And Tahmu had completely abolished the practice of taking five-scores. Yeshi had even heard that within the household, both men and women were free to decline marriage arrangements if it displeased them.

All this was done in the name of the Great Dragon, who had proved to be at once both more than the legends had claimed and less. He was real. He was a physical being, enormous and red and scaly and powerful, breathing fire and taking wing as easily as a bird. But he was less than what they had thought him, too. He had been their lawgiver, the creator and enforcer of taboos. To discover that the Arukani had been “misinterpreting” the Great Dragon’s law all these years…that he was nothing more than a servant of the Flame Dancer…of Kevla-well. Many who fought for Kevla that day against the intruders in their land had since had time to cool their battlelust and take another look at what their country had become. Many did not like what they saw. If the Great Dragon had stayed, it might be one thing, but he left…left bearing Kevla, left his people behind. Some felt abandoned.

There were many on the list that the Emperor’s spies eventually compiled. So many that Yeshi had started to grin as the Emperor’s eyes flicked over the names. If one did not work out, there would always be another.

The one she was going to meet with today was the one that Yeshi thought would be their best opportunity. A lesser son of a great Clan’s leader, he was estranged from his father. He had taken some men with him, but he did not have enough to challenge the khashim. This boy-for boy he was, barely twenty-despised the “new” Arukan, burned for revenge, and had the bloodline to claim respectability. He was ripe for the plucking, and Yeshi intended to harvest him.

The litter was set down so abruptly that Yeshi’s breath was knocked out of her. Fury rushed through her, but she tamped it down. She would beat bloody one of the bearers by nightfall; it mattered not which one. Catching her breath, she drew aside the curtain that covered the door and extended a hand for assistance. Hard, callused fingers grasped her arm and she was all but hauled to her feet. She made her decision as she looked into the green eyes and pale, ugly face of the man. He’d be the one she’d pick.

She smoothed her rhia and frowned at the wrinkles in it. She had hoped to present a better picture, but this would have to do. Her servants began to set up a small pavilion. Yeshi had insisted on lavish silks and pillows and rugs to make it as opulent-seeming as possible. She would negotiate from a position of power, not as a supplicant. The boy needed her to achieve his goals; she did not want him to realize how badly she needed him.

Yeshi sipped from a waterskin as she watched, her dark eyes missing nothing. She nodded her approval as the trysting place took shape. Pity there was no one in the Emperor’s service who knew how to make eusho; being able to present the young man with the traditional beverage would have been a perfect touch. There were some foods from her homeland, but not many. Goat cheese, olives, paraah and other fruits sat on golden trays. They were accompanied by other, more alien foodstuffs; Yeshi wanted to introduce the boy to the delicacies the Emperor’s power could provide-things unusual and strange and pleasing. The young were easily seduced by such things. Yeshi smiled. The young were easily seduced, period.

Per her instructions, the servants had erected the pavilion in the shade. The coolness and darkness inside would be welcome. Deciding all was satisfactory, Yeshi stepped inside and arranged herself comfortably. He would be here soon.

Her riders had gone ahead to meet him, and after a short time Yeshi’s ears caught the unmistakable sound of broad sa’abah feet slapping against the sand. Her heart sped up. If this failed, if he did not agree to ally with her, they would have to kill him, and that would present problems of its own. She had sent a hostage in exchange of course, but the girl’s fate if the deal went bad did not trouble Yeshi. What troubled her was what would happen if the boy did not return.

Let us hope all goes well, she thought. She almost formed it as a prayer, but then realized that with the Great Dragon being revealed as nothing more than an aide to the hated Kevla, she no longer had a god to pray to.

The silken doorflap was pulled aside. The boy stood in the doorway, backlit by the bright light of midday. Yeshi smiled languidly and waved him in. When the doorflap dropped, she saw that it was indeed he. She appraised him thoughtfully. He was shorter than most men, slender but muscular, with a soft mouth that spoke of indulgence and flashing, angry eyes that spoke of the rashness of youth. It all fit with what she knew of him.

“Raka-kha-Terku, of the Sa’abah Clan,” she said formally. “I give you greetings.”

The boy scowled, his attractive features rendered ugly by the gesture. “I am no longer his son,” he said. “I am my own man.”

“Of course you are,” Yeshi said soothingly. “I would not have wished to meet with one who had no power.”

He brightened so visibly under the compliment that Yeshi felt hope rise inside her. She had never met the boy, to whom she was actually related by marriage. Her only son, Jashemi-kha-Tahmu, had married Terku’s daughter Shali. Rumor had it that Jashemi’s widow was expecting a child-Yeshi’s grandchild. The knowledge meant nothing to her.

What did mean something to her was how arrogant, youthful and malleable Raka was.

“I have heard that you were one of the few who dared stand up to the Great Dragon, when he appeared,” Yeshi continued, pouring a cup of mint tea and handing it to Raka. He accepted the beverage and sat on the silken pillows.

“I did,” he said proudly.

Raka had said that Kevla was in truth a kuli and the Dragon an illusion she had conjured. What Raka did not speak of was what happened next. The Dragon had shamed him, trundling over to the youth and picking him up with his giant claws. Raka had begun to weep and the Dragon had put him back on the earth with a gesture of contempt. Yeshi, disgraced, even her name ripped from her, had hidden in the back of the crowd, but she had seen it all.

That gesture had to have burned in Raka’s young, insulted heart ever since. Doubtless it was what drove him to rebel against his father and the emasculating “new” ways that were starting to spread across Arukan.

“And then I stood up to my father, when he wanted us to abandon our traditions. I still believe that that was not our Dragon. Our Great Dragon would not be so dominated by a woman.”

Yeshi kept her eyes demurely lowered as she sipped her cup of tea. She would have to be careful. Raka would need to think that everything was his own idea.

“I am pleased you agreed to meet with me,” she said quietly.

He looked at her somewhat contemptuously. “You were cast off by your husband for taking a lover and attempting to overthrow him,” he said. “I thought long and hard about meeting with you. What is it you, a disgraced Bai, could possibly offer me?”

“You too are Bai,” she said as gently as possible. “The word means nothing when the so-called disgrace is undeserved. You were wrongly cast aside. So was I.”

He looked at her curiously. “You claim you did not do these things?”

She risked a look at him then. “I do not deny them, but let me ask you this-do you think Tahmu-kha-Rakyn deserves to be khashim of the most powerful Clan in Arukan?”

He frowned, considering. “No. He has betrayed the traditions.”

Yeshi dipped her dark head slightly. “He has. If he is an unworthy leader, how can wanting to depose him be wrong?”

An older man would have laughed at the argument, and in truth, Yeshi knew it was a feeble one. But Raka was young and while he wanted to be wise and clever, he was gullible and eager. He thought in terms of black and white, good and bad, wrong and right. Unlike Tahmu. In truth, Yeshi knew that Tahmu was a very good leader, although she hated him. He understood the power of gray, and was a master of the intricate game of Shamizan because of it. “Between the absolutes of black and white lies true power,” was the game’s motto, and Tahmu knew it in his blood. Oh yes, Tahmu would have laughed at Yeshi’s argument.

But Raka was not Tahmu, and he was not laughing.

“What do you offer?”

She told him.

He grinned.

Chapter Fifteen

When Kevla returned from her ride, she realized that she was smiling. It had been a long time since she had done something so simple yet so enjoyable. Kevla had not gotten close to very many people; her birth as a bai-sha, an illegitimate child, had been a barrier few wished to cross in her homeland. Only Jashemi had done so. Since then, she had been traveling to find the other Dancers. Ironically, she was now as set apart from others as she had ever been in Arukan, except this time it was because she was respected and perhaps feared for her power rather than despised for her low rank.

When she had traveled to the north to find the Stone Dancer, she had befriended a Lamali girl named Mylikki. They had parted when Kevla and Jareth left for Reshan; Mylikki had chosen to stay in her homeland rather than accompany the Dancers, and Kevla couldn’t blame her. Now, Kevla was daring to hope that perhaps she had found a female friend in Copper. Certainly she had enjoyed their time together, and that was a start.

She halted her mount inside the courtyard, where a young woman hurried up to take the reins from her.

“How was your ride, my lady?” the akha inquired politely.

“Lovely,” Kevla replied. She gave the girl a smile and dismounted. She turned and started for the castle entrance, more than ready for a quick bath before dinner to wash away the sweat of the day, when a voice called her name. The smile faded from her lips as she recognized the voice’s owner.

“Kevla!”

Bram hastened up to her, slightly out of breath.

“Yes, Bram? How may I help you?”

“I understand you were at the Grove today,” Bram said, catching his breath. “I am so sorry I missed you. I am surprised that none of the Namaraban came to greet you and offer you our hospitality.”

Kevla was certain there was more behind Bram’s appearance in the courtyard than a courtesy overlooked.

“Please do not worry, Anam. I am sure if I had approached Sliah would have made me most welcome. She always does. Copper and I stopped by only to briefly visit our Companions, then we had other things planned.”

“Really? What sort of other things?

Kevla looked at him. Why should he care? Still, she saw no harm in answering truthfully. “We went for a ride together.”

She felt it almost like a physical tickle at the back of her brain. It was so subtle that at first she thought it was just an errant breeze wafting across the courtyard.

“Good, good! Did the Horsemistress come with you?”

“No, I can ride sufficiently well on my own.” Again, the tickle, and this time she reached up a hand and scratched at the base of her neck. What was it?

“Would you care to join me for some refreshment? It seems silly to simply stand out here the courtyard chatting.”

It was a perfectly reasonable request, and yet Kevla suddenly felt very strongly that she had no desire to spend another moment in this man’s company. But why? She liked Anam Bram, was very fond of Sliah and the Namaraban.

“You must forgive me, but I am tired from my ride and I would like to freshen up a bit before I am summoned to the evening meal. Perhaps we can talk later?”

Then she felt it. Something soft and dark as a shadow brushed her mind, probing and tickling-

And then gone so quickly she wasn’t certain she hadn’t imagined it.

Bram smiled. “Of course. How thoughtless of me. Please excuse me, I was simply eager to speak with you, that’s all. Another time, then.”

He bowed, smiled, turned and ambled away without looking back. Kevla watched him go, one hand pressed to her temple.

She crossed the courtyard as quickly as possible, feeling the coolness of heavy stone as she stepped into the castle. She hurried through the corridors to her room. With shaking hands she opened the door and went inside, closing the door and leaning against it as if her body could provide as much of a barrier as the sturdy wooden bar. She was breathing quickly and her heart was racing. She held up a hand before her eyes and saw that it trembled.

“No,” she said aloud, as if hearing the word spoken would make it more real. She hadn’t imagined it. Bram was better at this sort of mind-trick than the Emperor had been-subtler, smoother, less intrusive—but it was the same thing; an attempt to break into her thoughts, to read her mind.

Don’t jump to conclusions, she cautioned herself. Magic is a tool, just like a sword. Two men may use the same type of weapon, but one may be your ally, the other your enemy. She knew little of magic that was not intrinsic to her skills as a Dancer, and knew that these Lorekeepers, at least, had their own magic. Surely he hadn’t meant any ill.

But he had violated her mind without permission, regardless of his intentions, and Kevla was not going to sit silently by and let a stranger probe her innermost thoughts. A wave of gratitude swept over her as she realized she had been doing nothing but thinking harmless thoughts of her pleasant outing with Copper. She could have been thinking of Jareth, or Jashemi-and she most assuredly did not want the unctuous Bram knowing about those intimate matters.

Jareth. More than anything, she wanted to turn to him, to her fellow Dancer, her friend. He knew so much about what it meant to be a Dancer, to struggle with the burden. But she herself had pushed him away, into the arms of Liadan. She had seen the two of them together, seen how Jareth brightened whenever the Horsemistress was around. And Liadan had all but confessed to falling in love. Kevla would not thrust herself upon them with her suspicions of Bram until she had proof that he meant them harm.

Still…the thought bothered her. The mental probing was so very similar to the Emperor’s probe. Jareth was able to take care of himself; he would understand what was going on if Bram tried the same thing on him. Jareth didn’t need her advice, her protection.

Someone else did.

The bath forgotten, Kevla went to the fireplace and summoned flame. She gazed into it until she found the face she wanted.

“Hello Copper,” she said calmly, smiling.

Copper’s eyes widened, and then she grinned. “Kevla! This is fire magic isn’t it?”

“Indeed it is,” Kevla said. “One of many things I can do. May I…come see you? I have something I must discuss with you.”

“Certainly,” Copper said.

Kevla stepped forward into the huge fireplace and materialized in Copper’s chambers. Again, the girl stared at her, but then Copper began to laugh and clap her hands excitedly.

“This is wondrous!” she said. “Your magic is so exciting! Much better than just having visions.”

Gently Kevla took her hands and stilled them. “You must not be too loud, Copper. No one must know I’m here.”

Copper looked at her curiously. “Why not?”

Kevla sighed and motioned to the chairs. “I have some questions for you, and some things to tell you.”

“Please proceed,” said Copper, obediently taking a seat.

Kevla took a deep breath, wondering how far she should go with her suspicions. She was uncertain as to how much Copper liked and trusted the Anam. Too, Kevla was deeply reluctant to believe ill of the people who were this land’s Lorekeepers. Such a concept was alien to her. She had witnessed poor Ilta’s madness, but Ilta was only one person.

And Anam Bram is one person too, Kevla reminded herself. Better to voice my suspicions and be shamed if they are proved wrong than to not speak and invite danger.

“I just spoke with Anam Bram,” Kevla said. “He caught me as I was leaving the courtyard. He asked me about the time I spent with you.”

Copper’s large green eyes regarded Kevla shrewdly. “Clearly this upset you, but…I don’t know why. There’s nothing wrong with him knowing we went riding together.”

“No, of course not,” Kevla replied, “but…Copper, while we were talking, I felt him…inside my head.”

“Oh,” Copper said. “Yes, he does that. Namaraban magic I think.”

“Really? And you permit it?”

Copper shrugged. She rose, went to a heavy wooden sideboard, and brought back a tray laden with apples and cheese. She cut up the apple as she spoke.

“He’s done it ever since I came back from the ocean,” Copper said. “I’m quite accustomed to it.”

“You don’t think there’s anything…wrong with someone reading your thoughts without your permission?”

Copper handed Kevla a slice of apple topped with cheese. Kevla took the food without thinking, but food was the last thing she wanted right now. Copper bit into the fruit and chewed for a moment.

“No, I don’t. He’s the Anam. Why shouldn’t he know what’s going on in our heads?”

“You think your mother would subject herself to that?”

Copper laughed. “No, Mother hates it when he does that.”

“Well, so do I.”

“Then don’t let him.” Copper took another bite. She had adjusted her position in the chair so that one leg dangled over the chair’s arm. She looked very young. “I love this cheese,” gesturing with it to emphasize her words. “It’s made from goat’s milk, you know.”

“Copper, you must listen to me. There’s a reason I grow upset when someone probes my mind like that.” She took a deep breath. “Not everyone in this world wants the Dancers to succeed. Some want to cause our downfall. We have an enemy. I only know him as the Emperor. He is strong and he has opposed us at every turn.”

Copper looked at her with those fascinating green eyes. There was a sudden alertness in her pose.

“Why does he oppose you? Doesn’t he know that if the Dancers fail, the world will end? Him right along with it, one would think?”

Kevla looked down at the apple and cheese that lay forgotten in her brown palm. She put it back on the tray. “There is so much we don’t know,” she said. “Even with the Lorekeepers to advise us, to tell us about what has gone before, we are floundering in the dark much of the time. I don’t know why the Emperor hates us so, why he wishes us to fail. Maybe he has a reason. Maybe he’s insane. It doesn’t matter.”

She lifted her brown eyes to Copper’s green ones. “What does matter is that he is trying to stop us. In Arukan, he raised a great army to overcome my people. We were isolated, disparate clans. He would have won had we not united, and even then we needed my skills and those of the Dragon to force him to withdraw. So we know he has great physical resources at his disposal. And when I went to find Jareth, he had created a magical obstacle which nearly destroyed Jareth’s land and all the people in it.”

Copper narrowed her eyes. “The girl,” she said. “The girl I saw, connected with Jareth—“

“You have the ability to see our souls, Copper,” Kevla said solemnly. “The youth you see inside me…he is my brother, Jashemi. He was my Lorekeeper in life…the one person closer to me than any other. And he is my soul. The girl, the mad young woman you see connected with Jareth-that’s his Lorekeeper. The Emperor got to her and corrupted her, tried to turn her against the other Dancers with the promise of having Jareth forever.”

Copper shook her head as she finished the bite of apple and cheese. “Another one after him. Does every woman in the world want Jareth?”

The blush that flooded Kevla’s face was so hot it was almost crippling. She could not reply.

“Keep going. I’m curious about this Emperor. Tell me more.” There was something in Copper’s tone of voice that made Kevla forget about her embarrassment and look at the other girl sharply. Copper was trying hard to keep her usual peculiar, languid detachment, but the mention of the Emperor had clearly gotten her attention. Kevla wondered why.

“What bothers me about Bram is that the way he probed my mind today was exactly the way the Emperor did,” Kevla continued. “It felt the same…only more…advanced. As if he could do it better than the Emperor.”

Copper stared at her. All the color had drained from her face and the freckles stood out in stark contrast to the milky hue of her skin. Her eyes were enormous.

“Copper? Are you all right?”

Copper did not answer. She folded her arms over her chest and curled up in the chair, shivering. At once Kevla hastened to her, kneeling beside the chair.

“Copper?”

Copper turned to look at her, and for the first time since Kevla had known her, there was real emotion in that gaze.

“S-someone else told me about the Emperor. Warned me. That same…source also warned me about Bram. And now here you come, and you know about the Emperor too….”

Kevla squeezed the girl’s arm gently, noting how thin and vulnerable it felt beneath her fingers. “Copper, tell me everything you know. Please. This is very, very important.”

Copper swallowed hard. Her eyes searched Kevla’s and then she nodded. “All right. It was when we went into the cave. I sneaked away and looked into a pool in another cavern. I saw…I saw my reflection.”

Kevla looked puzzled. “I thought you never saw your reflection.”

“It was the first time,” Copper replied. “I only knew it was me because I had seen the portrait earlier. It started talking to me. It knew I was the Sea Dancer and said it had come to warn me. It said the same thing you did-that the Emperor sent an army against your people and corrupted Jareth’s Lorekeeper. It said…” She frowned, her brow knitting. “It said his intent is to see to it that the Dancers will never stand against the Shadow.”

Kevla was silent, letting the girl work through all this. It had to be a shock. At last, she said quietly, “Whoever was talking to you is right about the Emperor.”

Copper whimpered, softly, like a frightened puppy. “Then…maybe it was right…about the rest.”

“What else did it say?”

Copper shivered. “It said the Naramaban were posing as our friends, but they meant to do us harm. Especially Bram.”

The words made the hair on the back of Kevla’s neck lift.

“Did it say what kind of harm?”

Copper licked her lips nervously. “It said that the Lorekeepers are the servants of the Dancers, but the Namaraban want to control us, not serve us.” She turned anguished eyes on Kevla. “You’re telling me that it was right about the Emperor. Do…do you think it was right about Bram? About all the Namaraban?”

Kevla didn’t want to believe it any more than Copper obviously did. She felt sick at the thought that she might have been being toyed with by Bram, by Sliah, by all the other Namaraban who had been so kind and welcoming toward her.

But…

“Two faces,” Kevla murmured.

“What?”

Kevla looked up. “Two faces. Jareth and I-when we were trying to find you, we used to link our hands together and we sometimes could see you. And one night we saw other things as well. We saw a light-very bright, almost blindingly white. We saw a sword and letters floating upward.”

“Ah. That’s why you wanted to learn our language and train to fight.”

Kevla nodded. “We also saw faces-faces I now know belonged to your mother, and Bram, and Liadan and Eion. And at one point it looked like a single head bore two faces. When we came here, it was easy to see that there were two factions-Riona and the Namaraban. I thought the vision meant that one meant us harm, and we had to decide which one.” She laughed, shakily. “But it was even simpler than that. Two faces…two-faced.” It seemed so obvious now. How could she have missed it?

“Bram is showing us all one face, a kind and helpful face. But I fear his true face is a dark one. The feeling that I had when he probed my thoughts was the same as what I experienced when the Emperor did so. Horrible as it might be to believe, I think this mysterious friend who uses your own face may indeed be trying to warn us that Bram is in league with the Emperor.”

Copper chewed her lower lip and fidgeted with her hands. At last she said, “I wish I could see it again.”

“It won’t come when you try to scry in water?”

Copper shook her red head. “No. I’ve only ever seen it in the pool.”

“Then let us get back to the pool and see if it will come to you again,” said Kevla.

“I can’t. It’s sacred to the Namaraban. Bram would have been very upset if he thought I’d even been there once.

Kevla sighed and rose, brushing her hair out of her eyes with a shaking hand. She kept her voice steady as she spoke. “So he forbids you access to this pool…the place where you received at least one accurate warning. That is another reason not to trust him.”

“You’re right, Kevla, I have to go back there. I have to talk to it again.”

“I agree. The question is, how do we get you in there?”

Chapter Sixteen

Silver knew that if she were discovered, things could go very badly. At the very least, if her father knew what she was doing, she could be forbidden to leave the palace for who knew how long.

She moved quickly through the water, now and then pausing to flip around to ensure that she was not being followed. Despite the danger, she was smiling in anticipation. Her heart spasmed for an instant when she saw a movement out of the corner of her eye, but it was only a sea otter. She reached out and caught the furry beast and cuddled it for a moment, kissing the top of its head. The sea otters were used to such behavior from the Fialaban. They knew and did not fear them, and frequently Fialaban used the sea otters to fish the way humans used hunting dogs on the land. The otter endured her caressing but darted off quickly once Silver let it go.

She continued on her way, her smile even wider. She reached the rendezvous spot and hid herself deep in the waving kelp.

Her anticipation turned to worry as time passed and he did not show. She wondered if he had lost interest in her, if he had been caught…if she had inadvertently led them both into a trap. When the kelp finally parted and he emerged, his ugly face almost literally split into a grin when he caught sight of her.

I am so sorry I’m late, Shess sent at once. Something came up…I could not leave without arousing suspicion.

I understand, Silver sent. The wave of relief that washed through her upon seeing him left her feeling slightly weak.

After their first meeting, when Silver had fled in disgust and terror, she had found herself thinking about Shess almost constantly. The FinFolk were indeed so very much like her, she had to wonder why. Her curiosity overcame her fear, and the next day she had returned to the kelp forest, hoping wildly that he was as curious as she, and that he would be there.

He had been. It had been strange and uncomfortable, yet exhilarating at the same time. The danger they were both courting from their respective peoples added an edge to the encounter. Repeated exposure to his features lessened the revulsion Silver felt at beholding them. She learned to interpret his expressions, recognized the harsh barking sound as laughter, and found that in the end, she was fascinated by him.

He seemed to feel the same about her. Once, he asked timidly if he could touch her arm and feel the scales. Nervously Silver had agreed. She was surprised at how soft and respectful his hands were as he ran his stubby fingers along her scales. When he invited her to do the same she did so with only a slight hesitation. His scales felt exactly like hers.

You promised last time you would tell me what your people believe about the Fialaban, Silver sent. And why you hate the humans so much.

The Fialaban. Even as she formed the words in her mind, Silver realized that at least when she was with Shess, she did not think of the Fialaban as “her people.” Her father was the king of them, that much was true, but she did not belong to them, any more than Copper truly belonged to the world of the humans. Both she and her sister were set apart. They were unique, and Silver found that she craved knowledge that did not come from her father’s lips about other races. Perhaps if she understood the humans and the FinFolk as well as she did the Fialaban, she would discover something that would help her understand herself.

Shess’s lower lip protruded, a gesture that Silver now knew meant he felt uncomfortable. I didn’t tell you last time because I did not want you to think I was attacking the Fialaban or the humans. You are part of both of them, and I…I like you. I would not want to hurt you.

Silver smiled. I know that. But the world of the humans is denied to me. And I have learned all I can from the Fialaban. I would know what your people think of us.

He cocked his head in that quizzical gesture that made him look more appealing, then nodded. Very well. As long as you understand that I am not your enemy.

Again, Silver smiled. I know you’re not.

It goes back a thousand years, Shess began. We did not exist before then. At least, not as you see us today. Then, Reshan was not the island it is now, and we knew nothing of humans at all. Reshan was part of the ocean floor-our part of it. We lived in peace with the Fialaban…in fact…we were Fialaban.

Silver stared in shock. She had never heard this story. Never even suspected….

You were Fialaban?

Shess nodded his fishy head and repeated what he had sent before. The FinFolk as we are now did not exist.

Silver’s heart thudded almost painfully against her chest. Nothing in Fialaban history indicated that the FinFolk had once been Fialaban. True, no myth or tale had ever adequately explained the FinFolk origins. They just appeared. And she had thought Reshan had always been an island. She went cold inside. She would eventually have to confront her father and demand to be told the truth. Was it possible that Farron simply did not know about this, or was he lying to her? She had not thought lies possible, given the almost entirely mental form of communication used by the Fialaban, but….

Do not tell him! He will know that you have been speaking with one of us. It could mean war between our peoples!

Shess, of course, had read her thoughts. His plea was almost painful as it shot through her mind. She shook her head, her white hair drifting behind her.

Truth could bring about peace between our peoples-all of them, human, FinFolk and Fialaban! Silver insisted. The humans could understand why the FinFolk hate them so much, if they stole their land…the Fialaban might not hate the FinFolk, if they are true kin-

When you are ruler, perhaps you can do something about this, Shess sent. But please…let me tell you what I know. And I beg you, say nothing to your father for now.

Reluctantly, Silver nodded.

We were all Fialaban, Shess continued. Then one day, several ships sailed out from the mainland. They stopped here and…something happened. Not even we, who have kept this story alive for ten centuries, know exactly what transpired. They used magic of some kind.

The Namaraban, Silver thought. Only the Namaraban have magic. Not all humans.

That is a very fine distinction, Shess sent. I do not know that those of my people who harbor hate in their hearts would make it. But I am glad you have told me that not all humans use magic now. But humans used magic then, and suddenly there was a bright light and the ocean was thrown into turmoil. A large chunk of the ocean floor was broken off. This huge, solid piece of rock and earth kept rising and rising until it broke the surface. This became known as Reshan…a floating piece of the ocean floor. This was what the humans claimed for their own.

The story sounded ludicrous. Part of Silver wondered why she was even listening. And yet there was something in this story that felt…right. Something that had the ring of truth, preposterous though it seemed at first. She wondered what the humans had to say about this. She would have to ask Copper about it.

Shess had paused in his relating of the story. He looked sad and hesitant, as if he was uncertain whether he should continue. Silver sensed that he didn’t know if she believed him.

Please, go on, Shess, she encouraged him. I sense there is much more of this story you have yet to share with me.

He nodded sadly. His whole body seemed to droop, but he continued.

The magic didn’t stop with pulling the ocean floor to the surface. It continued…covering the island with grass and trees and other plants, calling forth freshwater springs, even somehow spawning creatures. And the magic…changed those who were caught on this piece of land when it was so brutally hauled forth.

Silver listened to his thoughts in horror, wanting to know what was next, not wanting to discover what dreadful thing happened.

It transformed the Fialaban unfortunate enough to be within its range. It turned them into…into us. Into the FinFolk. Into the twisted, malformed, mutated shapes we have become.

Silver couldn’t believe he was speaking of himself and his people in such a fashion.

Do you think we do not understand how hideous we appear? Silver winced. Anger and pain laced Shess’s thoughts now, and she felt the emotions physically through their mental link. Do you think we do not look upon the Fialaban, and wish that we looked like them again? To know that once we did, that once we were, but through no fault of our own are no longer? Do you not think the scholars and healers among us have not been working furiously since that day, that moment, to find a way to change us back?

Silver held his pain in her heart. The Fialaban who were not caught in this-this magic tide…they did nothing?

She knew the answer before she formed the question. She knew that as far as Shess was concerned, it did not even need to be asked. But Silver needed to ask it. She needed to have the words formed in her mind, to hope, even for the briefest of instants, that her people did not do what she feared they had done…what in her heart she knew they had done.

He did not reply at once. Finally his thoughts, no longer angry but sad and almost sympathetic, brushed hers tenderly.

They fled in horror, Silver.

Silver closed her eyes.

They shunned us immediately. I don’t blame them, at least not at first. No one really understood what was happening. It could have been contagious. The tenor of his thoughts hardened. But as time went on, and it was clear that only those originally-affected continued to be…malformed…they could have tried to help. They could have tried to understand that we were innocent victims of human magic. That we had not chosen to be like this. But the Fialaban did not do so. They continued to avoid us. They felt sorry for us, indeed, but not enough to bring us back into their families, their circles, their lives.

Oddly, Silver’s next thought was of the Flame Dancer Kevla, whom Copper had described. She had been shunned because of something she could not control. Born illegitimate, she had only a life of begging and poverty to look forward too. Except she had a destiny that surpassed that which her people wished to thrust upon her.

We are not so fortunate, Shess sent. Silver nodded sadly. The one thing we did discover as time went on was that the magic that had so dreadfully changed us had gifted us as well. We have certain magic of our own. We were the ones who crafted the shell necklaces that permit your people to travel freely back and forth from the waves.

Silver gaped at him. He smiled a little.

You did not know that? Reeling from the shock, Silver shook her head. I am not surprised. The Fialaban do not want their shameful secret known. The Fialaban have no magic-crafters. They never have. Have you not wondered how your people have magical things, but yet no one who knows how to make them? They have always come to us, silently, stealthily, to get their needs met. I believe it is the only reason they have let the FinFolk survive so long.

Silver felt sick. She stared at him, not wanting to believe him, yet knowing that he spoke the truth. Copper had spoken of the Namaraban and their little enclave they called the Grove. Her sister had mentioned artisans and craftsmen as well as scholars. They made jewelry and beautiful objects. Silver’s scaly fingers reached to touch the shell necklace she wore, a gift from her father on her tenth birthday. She thought about his crown, his scepter, his throne…all objects that had magic woven tightly into them. Woven into them by ugly, stubby, scaly FinFolk hands.

I am a fool! she thought bitterly. I have seen all these things…and I have never questioned, never thought….

She covered her face with her hands. The touch on her shoulder from his soft, webbed hand was gentle and compassionate.

No one does, Silver, came his comforting thoughts. You are not taught to question. The fact that you dared to come back to the kelp forest to see me again sets you apart from all other Fialaban.

There was much, much more than her willingness to meet with a FinFolk that set her apart. She did not form the thoughts as words, but he sensed them immediately anyway.

Unlike any other Fialaban, you understand a little of what the FinFolk have endured, he sent. You are special. You and your sister.

How do the FinFolk endure it? She saw him wince at the raw emotion with which she had imbued the thought. I know that you make raids on the human villages. I think I understand why you want to hurt them-because of what they did to you so long ago. But why do you not attack the Fialaban? I would think you would hate them even more than the land-dwellers. It is possible that those humans who created the island did not know what their magic had done. But the Fialaban knew.

We do not attack the Fialaban because we are still their brothers. The thought was soft and profound. And because we need each other. One day, perhaps, we will find what we are seeking. And in the meantime, there are many who have decided that being FinFolk has certain advantages.

Silver looked at him miserably then. She suddenly felt naked and vulnerable. Everything she had been taught to believe was now suspect. The father she adored was ruler over a race of beings that had been sickeningly quick to turn their back on brethren in need. Her mother was descended from a line that had ripped up the ocean floor and subverted it to their own purposes, without care for what it might do to others.

Silver did not want to own either her Fialaban or her human heritage at this bitter moment. She reached out her hand and grasped that of Shess. Ten scaled fingers intertwined tightly, catching the light that filtered down from the surface.

I want to help, she said. Tell me how I can help.

Chapter Seventeen

The Emperor stared into the pulsing, crimson depths of the Tenacru. The Mage had told him he was getting better at commanding the tool, but he was not so certain. He felt frustrated and a little bit frightened, like something precious was slipping through his fingers even as he tried to tighten his grasp. Which was, of course, exactly what was happening.

He took a deep breath and rubbed his eyes, forcing his tense muscles to relax. No, that wasn’t entirely true. Things were in place. They were making progress on tracking down rumors of other powerful tools he could use, to focus and direct his powers as the Tenacru did. Yeshi had reported that she had made contact with Raka, and he was amenable to their proposition. Ilta was also in service to him, executing his plans, ingratiating herself as only she knew how to do. And there were others too, who were in their proper positions, utterly loyal to him, obeying his commands. Things were not spiraling out of control.

And yet…he could not see the girl! Alone of all the Dancers, the Sea Dancer eluded his vision. Why could he not see her? He was neither a fool, nor blind to his own failings; he recognized that this was becoming an obsession with him. But he just wanted to see her. He knew what the other four looked like in their current incarnations. But this one….

Was she fair, or homely? Pale or dark of skin? Her body, was it slender or round? Short or tall? What color was her hair? Cropped or long, curly or—

He pounded his fist on the arm of his chair and uttered a harsh, angry bark. His advisor, pouring over an ancient tome in the corner of the room, looked up at him in surprise. The ki-lyn at his feet started violently, and then shrank back, no doubt expecting one of the blows that descended when the Emperor was in a vile temper.

“My lord,” came the smooth, placating voice of the Mage, “do not distress yourself so.”

“I want to see the Sea Dancer, damn it!” The words exploded from him. “I need to see her…I need to know what she looks like….”

“Why, my lord?”

Why indeed? It was not necessary that he know what she looked like in order for him to achieve his goals. And yet, it was as if he was driven. As if this desire was directing him, as if were not a conscious wish but rather the most basic of necessities, like food or water or sleep.

“I don’t know,” he said softly. “I don’t know….”

He buried his face in his hands for a moment, not wanting to face the shocked gazes that were trained upon him, and wondered if he was going mad.

Bram had never felt happier or more in control. All was going according to plan.

He had worried a bit, at first, that these new Dancers would present a problem. Instead, they were almost easier to deal with than Copper and her Companion. They did not have as mother a queen who was deeply suspicious of him, nor were they odd half-breeds like Copper, who was so difficult to read sometimes. Having had positive experiences with Lorekeepers prior to arriving on Reshan, the Flame Dancer and the Stone Dancer were inclined to trust the Namaraban. Although Bram had to admit, Jareth was the more suspicious of the two. A quick perusal of the Stone Dancer’s unguarded thoughts revealed to Bram that Jareth’s Lorekeeper had betrayed him. Bram cursed the girl; she had made his task more difficult.

The Companions had taken to the chain necklaces about their throats with surprising equanimity. Now they lounged and lolled in the Grove, happy to sleep and lie in the sunshine with the Kelpie like the cat and lizard they were at heart. They were not controlled, of course; no one could control an elemental Companion, not even the Dancers themselves. But they were certainly not the threat they would have been had they been allowed to remain unfettered.

He walked the short distance to where the great creatures lay and perused them as he did at least once each day, to reassure himself that they were still docile. His shrewd gaze traveled over the bony, black body of the Kelpie, who stood sleeping on his feet, his disproportionately large head drooping. The Tiger was on her back, her creamy underbelly exposed as if she were expecting someone to rub it for her. Her paws dangled in the air, but her eyes were shut and her belly rose and fell rhythmically.

The Dragon was curled nose to tail, almost completely motionless. But if Bram looked closely, he could see his mammoth sides rise and fall with slow, even breaths.

He smiled. Perfect.

The magic woven into the necklaces that encircled the great creatures’ necks was powerful but subtle. An outright attempt at controlling the minds of the Companions would have been noticed and resisted immediately and violently. This was not control, it was…suggestion. Even more than the Dancers, the Companions were the elements in a pure and powerful form. Unlike frail humans, the Tiger could not be bought; the Dragon would never betray others for love; the Kelpie would not be swayed by flattery. Humans were easier to manipulate, Dancers or no. They could be lied to, persuaded, bribed, misdirected, intimidated. He knew; he and the other Lorekeepers remembered. Not so the Companions. They were outside such things. Without careful management, such as the calming and soothing energy radiated by the necklaces, the Companions could ruin everything.

He had observed that there was some sort of tension between Jareth and Kevla, and that had pleased him. He had not been quite so pleased to see Liadan target Jareth like a deer she was planning on having for dinner. It would be best for Bram if the Dancers were alone, disconnected from one another and anyone else. Like any predator, Bram preferred his prey isolated and weakened. And now Kevla and Copper were starting to become friends. As he walked back to the Grove, mentally opening the tree-branch gate, he reflected on his brief conversation with Kevla in the courtyard.

Bram wondered if Kevla had sensed his mind-probe. Some could. Try as he had for so many years, even he, with his great skill and talent could not make the thought-reading process imperceptible. Most who noticed, though, commented on it, giving Bram the opportunity to allay their fears. Kevla had said nothing, only looked at him oddly and spoken with a sharper tongue than he was accustomed to hearing from the mild Flame Dancer. Ah, well, if she knew, she knew, it could not be helped. Nor would it change his plans.

He and the Namaraban would continue to offer whatever assistance they could to the Dancers. After all, they were the Dancers, and the Namaraban were the Lorekeepers. They would serve, as always, as helpful allies in this, the final stand against the Shadow. There was nothing insincere in Bram’s fervent desire to aid the Dancers in this last battle. Knowing what he did-and he knew more than most-why would he stand in their way? If the Shadow triumphed, everything would be lost. No indeed, if the Dancers ever challenged him in that respect, his vow of support would be honest.

But…and was it not always so in the delicate game of politics?…it was not if the Namaraban would befriend the Dancers, but how. The Dancers were the most powerful people in existence. Yet they could and would fail if they did not have support. Bram intended to give that support, so that the Dancers would win and their world would be saved.

But what to do with them after this happened?

Such powerful forces were fine, when they had a direction in which to focus their abilities. When the Shadow had fallen before them, and they were lords of this world, then, ah then, Bram and his people would step forward. The masters of knowledge would be more important than the masters of the elements then, with a whole freshly-saved, malleable world upon which to set their imprint. Those who controlled the Dancers controlled the world…controlled the future.

There were only two more Companions left who needed to feel the pleasant weight of the necklace about their throats. There were only two more Dancers left for Bram to locate and safely bring under his wing. Then would come the battle with the Shadow. Bram had not been dishonest when he urged Kevla and Jareth to stay so they could improve their skills; he wanted all the Dancers in top form before that great battle came upon them. But he also wanted the opportunity to examine and analyze them.

He passed a jewel crafter intent on his work and smiled. His people loved adorning themselves. When it was time for the Dancers to leave, they would not think twice about accepting the beautiful torques so lovingly made by the Namaraban crafters. It would be a perfect remembrance of Reshan. As elegant and as subtle as the chains that draped the necks of their beloved Companions, the necklaces Kevla and Jareth would wear would bind them unwittingly to Bram. They would not dream of departing without him.

He would speak with Eion and Liadan about their progress. Neither Swordmaster nor Horsemistress was overly fond of the Anam, but they would give him their honest opinions, he was sure.

Then Anam Bram could decide what the three Dancers would do next.

Kevla did not want to do what she was doing at this moment. She would have given almost anything to avoid this particular task, but she knew it was necessary. Even with the shadow that had fallen between them, she knew Jareth would trust her on this point. He would not trust Copper.

As she sat in front of the fire gazing into its flickering orange and yellow depths, Kevla realized that she was trembling. Angrily she told her body to stop it; her body did not obey.

She had seen Jareth almost every day. Some of their lessons from the Namaraban occurred at the same time, and they shared meals together sitting side by side just as they had at that awful feast they had attended upon their arrival. But they barely spoke a word to each other, and she could not remember the last time she had gazed into those blue eyes for more than a brief moment. There was a distance between them as vast as an ocean, even though physically they might be only a few inches apart.

Now, she would have to bridge that distance. She would have to speak with him alone, look into those blue eyes, and it was the last thing in the world she wanted to do.

She took a deep breath and made her gaze soft. “Show me Jareth,” she said.

It was some time before the fire obliged, but eventually her patience was rewarded. She saw a hand seem to reach toward her, and realized that it was Jareth putting another dried log on the fire. It was heading toward evening on a particularly cold and dreary day, and the warmth would be wanted.

“Jareth,” she said quietly.

The hand was replaced by Jareth’s face as he gazed into the fire. His face was expressionless.

“Kevla. What is it you want?”

A thought struck her and her heart contracted. Her face grew hot. She swallowed and asked in as calm a voice as she could manage, “Are you alone?”

His lips thinned. He replied, “Yes. What is it?”

Even as she felt the wave of relief wash over her Kevla wished desperately that it did not matter. “I need to speak with you.”

“We’re speaking.” His cool voice had an edge to it. He did not wish this conversation any more than she did, but Kevla knew that they had to put their feelings aside for something more important than either of them.

“I need to speak with you in person. May I come through the fire to your chambers?”

He frowned, then nodded. His face disappeared and she assumed he had risen and stepped back. Kevla closed her eyes and forced herself to concentrate on the conversation she intended to have with him. Whether they loved or loathed one another, they had another bond-that of being Dancers, and it was this that needed to be addressed. She stood and took a step forward.

She materialized less than a foot away from him, and as her eyes widened in surprise at his nearness he hastily stepped backward. Kevla forced herself to meet his gaze and not glance down.

“I apologize for the intrusion, but it was necessary that we speak,” she said softly. “Are you certain we won’t be disturbed?”

“I don’t know about your servants, but mine knock,” Jareth replied. He strode to one of two chairs in the room, dropped into it and waved to indicate that she should sit as well.

Kevla felt a sorrow inside her that went beyond her own personal desire. He was stiff and defensive around her. It was as if he stood behind one of the Ice Maiden’s impenetrable walls. She knew this to be deeply wrong. They were Dancers. They needed one another. This gulf would only harm them. If only she knew how to bridge it.

“Well?” Jareth asked. “What was so important that you needed to come here to tell me?”

Kevla took a deep breath and looked at him squarely. “I believe the Dancers are in danger,” she said.

He tensed. “The Emperor? Has he—“

Kevla shook her dark head. “Not the Emperor. Nor Ilta either,” she added, knowing that would be his next query.

“Then…who?”

“Anam Bram.”

“Bram? Are you sure?”

“I felt him try to probe my mind, just like the Emperor had done. Except…Bram was even better at it. I hardly noticed.”

Jareth rubbed his chin. “That’s not good. I have to say, I never cared for Bram. There’s something about him that I find…irritating.”

Kevla permitted herself a smile. Jareth would find Bram irritating, whether the man was ally or enemy. Jareth had little love for writing and history; Bram clearly thrived on it. Jareth was simple and basic in his clothing and physical needs; Bram loved ornate fabric and decoration. The two would never have been friends, even if Bram had been Jareth’s own Lorekeeper. The smile ebbed from Kevla’s face as she thought about how truly antagonistic Bram and the Namaraban were toward the Dancers-the very people they had been born to aid.

“There’s more,” she said. “I’ve been spending a lot of time with Copper. She confided something to me, something you need to know. Do you remember when we were in the caverns, looking at the paintings of all the other Dancers?”

He nodded his golden head. “Of course.”

“Copper slipped off by herself for a bit. She found a pool in another cavern. And when she leaned over to look into it, she saw her own reflection.”

That made him start. “I thought she never saw her reflection, ever,” he said.

“She never had, not until she looked into this pool. And then…that reflection started speaking to her, giving her warnings.”

He bent forward, eyes bright, leaning his elbows on his knees. The hardness and wariness that he had worn like a mask had been abandoned. For this moment, they were on the same side again, working together, sharing information, and Kevla felt gladness rise in her heart. Even if they could not be together, even if he could never love her, at least they had this connection still.

“What kind of warnings?”

“It told her about the Emperor,” Kevla said. “How he had sent an army against Arukan. How he had…about Ilta.” Kevla paused.

Jareth’s face flushed, but he nodded. “Go on.”

“And it told her that the Emperor’s intent is to see to it that the Dancers never stand against the Shadow.”

Jareth exhaled and rubbed his chin, thinking. “Right on all counts. So now Copper knows about the Emperor.”

“There’s more,” Kevla said. “The reflection also warned her not to trust Bram or the Namaraban. It told her that they were only pretending to aid us, that these Lorekeepers don’t want to help and serve us…they want to control us.”

The cold anger that Kevla had seen in Jareth’s eyes more than once before burned there again. She hated that look, but understood it.

“Bastards,” he said. “What else did that reflection tell Copper? Anything we can use?”

Kevla shook her head. “Nothing more than that.”

“Well…anyone who’s against the Emperor is someone I’d be inclined to consider a friend. Unless…this is the Emperor, trying to turn us against our Lorekeepers. He knows what he’s done to us, and would use that as evidence to convince us that this reflection can be trusted.”

“There is one other thing. The vision. Do you remember?”

Jareth frowned, then his eyes widened. “Two faces-oh, how easy and obvious it is now!” He swore. “You say you’ve been spending time with Copper-I’ve been spending time with Liadan.”

Kevla forced her expression to remain neutral, though suddenly her chest ached again. “Yes?” How is it possible to feel such pain and still speak so calmly? she wondered.

“Liadan does not trust Bram farther than she could throw him,” Jareth said. A smile of fond amusement curved his lips. The expression was like a knife to Kevla. “She says that Eion shares her poor opinion of Bram and all the Namaraban.”

“He does,” Kevla said. “I’ve gotten to know him fairly well.” At this, Jareth’s nostril’s flared and his eyes snapped for an instant. He looked angry…jealous. When he spoke, however, his voice was calm.

“I wish we knew more about this talking reflection,” Jareth said. “Very odd and mysterious. Who is this person? Why this form of communication? Why did she or he pick Copper to communicate with instead of you? You’re the leader, surely it would have been better to contact you if the Dancers were in danger.”

Kevla still had not gotten used to thinking of herself as the “leader” of the group. But Jareth tossed the term out casually, as if she were well aware of the fact. She supposed she was; had not the Dragon always said that the Flame Dancer was the leader? She sighed.

“All very good questions,” she said. “Copper wants to have another conversation with this person. She said the only place she has ever been able to see her reflection was in that pool, and that Bram has expressly forbidden her to enter that cavern again.”

“Which means, of course, that we must do so immediately.” Jareth grinned at her, and it was his old friendly grin. For this moment, it seemed, he had forgotten that she had sundered them. Kevla wished she could.

“That is exactly what Copper and I decided as well, but we need your help to get her back in there.”

“Of course. What can I do?”

“Well, this is what I was thinking….”

Chapter Eighteen

“Anam?” The voice belonged to Sliah.

Bram sighed, placed the parchment he was perusing down on the table and weighted it with a heavy stone, and commanded the branches to part. The girl stared in, a look of confusion on her face.

“What is it?” Bram asked.

“It’s Kevla and Jareth,” she said. “They’ve come up to the Grove.”

Bram frowned. While Kevla was a frequent visitor to the Grove, seeming to be becoming rather fond of Sliah, Jareth came with obvious reluctance only to improve his reading and writing. But both of them together? He had thought there was some distance growing between them.

“What do they want?”

“I don’t know. I merely thought you might want to know.”

He hurried the rest of the way to the gates, puffing a little and slightly out of breath from even that modest exertion, and looked down the road.

It was indeed the Flame Dancer and the Stone Dancer. They each carried baskets covered with cloth, and they were laughing and talking to one another. Kevla looked up, saw Bram, and waved.

“Good day to you, Anam!”

“Good day, Flame Dancer!” Bram replied, equally cheery. He was wondering what had happened to put them both in such good moods.

“Have you come to study, Dancers? The knowledge of the Namaraban is yours for the asking, as you know.”

Jareth shook his head. “No, we are not here to work today.” He handed his basket to Kevla, strode up the slight hill to where the three Companions were sleeping, and embraced the Tiger. She sat up, scratched an ear, and butted her head against his chest so hard the Stone Dancer had to take a few steps backward. The big man chuckled and easily climbed atop the big cat’s back.

“Jareth and I were talking,” Kevla said, setting the baskets on the ground, “and we realized we had not done very much to thank you for your aid. The Dancers would be at loose ends without the Lorekeepers, and you are the best-informed and most helpful we have yet encountered. We wanted to let you know how grateful we are.”

She indicated the baskets. “We spoke to the cooks and had them prepare some delicacies for you and the other Namaraban.”

Kevla removed the cloth and Bram saw that the basket was brimming with food-pastries and savories and small jars of who knew what spreads and sauces. He raised an eyebrow. The Namaraban traditionally kept to themselves-raising most of their own food, weaving and crafting their own clothing and of course jewelry. At Kevla’s words the other Namaraban had gasped in startled, pleased surprise. They looked at one another uneasily, then at their leader for his approval.

Bram smiled and nodded, indicating they could partake of the treats. Kevla handed one of the baskets to a little girl, who beamed up at her. The treat-laden basket was almost too heavy for the child, but she clearly didn’t mind.

“And we also wanted to thank you in a more special way,” Jareth added, still astride the Tiger’s back. The Dragon had awoken and lifted his head, gazing down at the growing crowd of Namaraban.

“The Lorekeepers are invaluable, and yet in many ways their task goes without thanks,” Jareth continued. “The Dancers…if we win…get the glory. The Companions-well, they are always admired wherever they go.”

He reached forward and began rubbing the Tiger’s ears affectionately. The great cat yawned, exposing a pink tongue and sharp teeth, closed her eyes and enjoyed the caress. The earth trembled slightly as the Dragon heaved himself up and slowly moved down toward the crowd as well. A slight murmur of apprehension rippled through the assembled Lorekeepers. They were used to seeing the Companions, that much was true, but the three great beasts were usually asleep on the hill. It was one thing to see them harmlessly drowsing, quite another to see the smooth-striding Tiger and the enormous, dramatic-looking Dragon approaching their very gates.

“The Companions are our friends. We ride them without a second thought.” Kevla went to the Dragon and stroked his smooth scales, gazing up at him affectionately. “We have decided that, if they agree…they will let all of you ride them as well.”

Gasps of delight went up from the crowd. Bram looked around and there was not a single face that did not look pleased and perhaps a little bit frightened at the prospect.

He looked back at the Dancers again, his eyes narrowing. Why were they doing this? Was it really just the simple offering it claimed to be? Or was this a trick of some sort? He did not dare try to probe the Dancers’ thoughts; they would be on guard against him, if his previous encounter with Kevla was any indication. Bram would simply have to watch them and see.

“Who would like to go first?” Kevla said. Bram glanced at the Dragon. The huge red creature did not look as pleased as his Dancer at the thought of giving rides. He looked…offended. His golden eyes were shut to slits and smoke curled up from this nostrils, but he made no audible protest. The Tiger too, her blue fur looking rich and soft and comfortable, seemed a trifle annoyed at the request from Jareth.

None of the Namaraban moved, although they seemed eager to take the Dancers up on this once in a lifetime chance. Bram suddenly realized what they were waiting for, and he was pleased.

“Kevla, Jareth…what a gift you give my people! It is of course an honor merely to serve, but this…It will go down in history!”

“How about you first?” said the Dragon. Bram started. The Dragon spoke seldom and Bram had forgotten just how very loud and how deep his voice was. He gazed at Bram now with his penetrating golden gaze and there was a hint of mirth on his scaly face.

“I should go last,” Bram demurred.

“No, I think the Dragon’s right,” said Jareth. He was grinning now, and Bram did not think his amusement stemmed from simple good will.

“But then the honor should not solely be mine,” Bram said. “Surely the Dragon can carry several at one time.”

“We want everyone to enjoy the experience one by one,” said Kevla. “There’s something very special about being atop the Dragon’s back by yourself.”

Bram was confused. He knew that Kevla liked and trusted the Namaraban, and that Jareth, because of his experience with his own Lorekeeper, was more suspicious. Considering how pleased he looked at the prospect, this was probably the Stone Dancer’s idea. Jareth wanted to embarrass him in front of his people. That was what this was all about.

Well, he would not give Jareth that satisfaction. Bram smiled and strode to the Dragon. He made a little bow-enough to be courteous, insufficient to display actual deference to the creature. Bram waited for the Dragon to lower himself so that he could mount. The Dragon continued grinning at him and did not move.

Kevla glared at her Companion. She said nothing, but the Dragon heaved an exaggerated sigh and settled down on his belly, extending a leg. Bram was suddenly very nervous, but refused to show it. Feigning a confidence he was far from feeling, he began to climb atop first the lowered leg, then up to the huge back. He felt clumsy, awkward, and heard a few muffled giggles. His face flamed and he gritted his teeth, determined to go through with this and not give the Dancers the satisfaction of watching him fail.

When he at last sat astride the enormous red back, Bram permitted himself a sigh of satisfaction.

Then the Dragon leaped straight up into the air.

Copper was settled in the cool shade provided by the huge intertwined trees. She had been in position for some time now and was growing impatient.

Had something happened? Had they been discovered? What if Bram-

And then, before Copper’s eyes, the massive tree root pulled itself free from the earth and she sighed in relief. The opening into the grove was small, but then, so was Copper. The Sea Dancer darted forward like a rabbit into the narrow opening. She was forced to edge her way in on hands and knees and frowned, knowing her dress was getting covered with dirt. She dismissed the worry; a dirty dress was nothing if it would get her what she wanted. And so far, the plan was working.

The Grove trees grew thick and impenetrable, forming a natural barrier that embraced and protected the enclosed area more effectively than any human construct. But powerful though the Namaraban were, ultimately the trees answered to the Stone Dancer, and when he asked them to create an opening for Copper, they obeyed.

She was far away from the meadow, where the Dragon had just taken wing with Bram on his back. All eyes would be upon that spectacular sight and for a longing moment Copper wished that she could see it herself. She was angry and frightened at the deception Bram had apparently been perpetrating all her life. Anything that made Bram look silly, and she was certain this would, would make her feel better. But she was here, close to the cave, in an area that was not heavily watched at the best of times and was now all but deserted.

She finally squeezed her way through the living barrier and got to her feet. A quick glance told her that indeed, every Namaraban was in the meadow, waiting for a chance to ride the Dragon and the Tiger.

She sprinted across the soft green grass as fast as she could, her eyes trained on the cave. After what felt like an eternity in the exposed open space, she reached it and was enveloped in its cool embrace. The slapping sound of bare feet on stone echoed in the hollow chambers and she tried to make her steps lighter for fear of discovery, just in case someone was inside.

Hurry…hurry….

Bram held on for dear life, his uncallused hands cramping as he clutched one of the Dragon’s spine ridges. The Dragon was clearly enjoying himself to the fullest, soaring and diving so abruptly that Bram was glad it had been some time since he had eaten. It seemed like the Dragon swooped and wheeled for centuries, but at last, he landed on the ground with a heavy thump. Bram did not want to spend a moment catching his breath, but he had to. He forced himself to be calm and slid off the mammoth beast without stumbling when his feet hit the ground. He was very pleased with himself for this.

“Dragon!” Kevla’s voice was angry. “That was unkind of you. You will be gentler with the others.”

The Dragon looked at Kevla, cocked his head, and emitted a thin stream of smoke from his nostrils.

While he had been atop the Dragon, others had been riding the blue Tiger. Even as he turned, she came charging up, going so swiftly she was all but a blue blur. One child clutched the ruff of fur at the Tiger’s neck, the other clung to her companion. Both children were laughing in delight.

“Thank you, Jareth!” they cried simultaneously, tumbling off the Tiger still laughing. The great beast made a rumbling sound in her throat and dragged a pink tongue across the flushed cheek of the little girl, who squealed happily.

Even though Bram’s ride had been…bumpy, to say the least, there was not a Namaraban present who did not want to have the opportunity to ride atop a Companion. Bram took the waterskin Sliah offered, drinking deeply of the cool liquid. It had come from the pool in the caverns, and it seemed to revive and refresh more than ordinary water. He felt the coolness travel down his throat to his stomach, and calm spread over him. He glanced around, and his wandering gaze met that of the Kelpie.

The ugly, bony beast stood apart from the other Companions. It had watched the goings-on with a mixture of amusement and contempt. Now it stared boldly at Bram, as if daring the Anam to complain about his rough treatment atop the Dragon’s back.

Copper.

Where was Copper?

A chill raced down Anam Bram’s spine as he looked down at the waterskin he held.

Copper’s heart slammed against her chest and even as she focused on the goal of hastening past the five chambers that bore the images of the Dancers on their walls and slipping through the crack into the final, secret chamber, she realized that she had never felt more alert…more alive…in her life.

She was moving more quickly than she had been the last time she was here and was not as careful. The rough stone of the passageway tore at her skin and she hissed in pain but did not slow. Copper emerged into the chamber and beheld the pool, as calm and flat and peaceful now as it had been before.

She rushed toward it, breathing heavily from exertion. She dropped down hard on her hands and knees, her hands splashing the water, hoping to see her reflection for only the second time in her life.

The surface stilled. And it was there.

“Sea Dancer, I am glad you have returned,” said her own voice in her ears.

“I believe you,” Copper said, not wasting a moment on courtesy. “About everything. About the Emperor and the Namaraban. I have taken a great risk to come see you again. Please, what more can you tell me?”

Her face smiled at her. Distracted by the image, she realized that when she smiled, she was pretty.

“I spoke to you earlier about the Emperor,” the reflection said. “I told you he had at his command great magic. There is one who serves him who calls himself the Mage. This being has given the Emperor an object that greatly magnifies his magic and will aid the Emperor in his quest to stop the Dancers. It is a glowing red orb called the Tenacru.”

“The Tenacru,” Copper repeated, searing the term into her brain.

Her reflection nodded. “It is powerful magic indeed, and it has given the Emperor an edge over the Dancers, despite their own inherent magic. But more than one such object exists in this world. The Tenacru has a companion-the Tenachrym. It is identical in every way, save that its color is white. It has been thought lost for centuries, just as the Tenacru had been lost.”

The reflection paused, and Copper had the strange experience of having her own eyes searching hers.

“But it is not lost. Sea Dancer…the Tenachrym is here. In this pool.”

Copper’s pale skin erupted in gooseflesh. Her mind went back to what Kevla had said earlier. Jareth and I-when we were trying to find you, we used to link our hands together and we sometimes could see you. And one night we saw other things as well. We saw a light-very bright, almost blindingly white….

“This object is the source that has given the Namaraban their powers for a thousand years. This is what has allowed them to develop magic, to hone it, to perfect it. And yet, they have forgotten that it lies here. The knowledge of its existence was to be passed from Anam to Anam, but the chain was broken centuries past, when one greedy Anam cherished the secret as his own for too long.”

Although Copper listened raptly, barely breathing, she still had enough presence of mind to strain her ears for any sound of discovery.

The reflection continued. “Like the Tenacru, its mate, it was neither good nor evil, but could be used for any magical purposes. The Emperor uses the Tenacru in a way that could destroy his world. The Namaraban, even though they are ignorant of its existence, use it today for their own reasons. A thousand years ago, when humans first set sail from the land to this place, there was no island of Reshan. There was only the ocean, and those who dwelt there.”

“The Fialaban and the FinFolk,” Copper breathed.

“Yes…and no. But our time is short and that is a tale long in the telling. The Lorekeeper known as Caldan forced the ocean to surrender part of itself, in order to create the island of Reshan. During that upheaval, much was created, and much was destroyed. Reshan was born, a floating piece of earth anchored only by magic. The Tenachrym was lost. But it can never be completely destroyed until the Final Dance, until the Dancers have stood against the Shadow for the last time. It was caught, in this pool, and has lain here ever since.”

Copper’s reflection looked at her imploringly, almost panicked. “Sea Dancer, you must retrieve it and use its powers to help the Dancers stand against both the Emperor and the Shadow.”

“I—“

I do not know what you are playing at, Sea Dancer, came the Kelpie’s familiar voice in her mind. Although if it can bring that pompous Anam down a notch I am all in favor of it. He is coming to you now, by the way. I thought you might like to know.

Copper gasped in horror. She stared at her reflection. Should she try to recover the Tenachrym now or flee?

You do not have much time.

Her decision made, Copper scrambled to her feet. She tripped on her dress and fell hard to her knees, her hands splashing the water again.

Sea Dancer….

Her heart in her mouth, Copper squeezed through the narrow stone opening and fled through the five chambers, half expecting to run into the furious figure of Anam Bram. But luck was with her-she made it out into the sunlight, searingly bright after the muted light in the cave, and raced back across the meadow to the gap in the trees. Even as she threw herself on her hands and knees and used her elbows to propel herself to the other side of the tree-branch fence, she glanced back and saw the blue-robed figure of Bram entering the cave.

She emerged on the other side and leaned against the tree, flushed and shaking.

Bram hurried inside the cave, looking for signs that Copper had been here. He wasn’t sure what they would be-the cold stone would not take a footprint, and the girl wouldn’t be stupid enough to leave anything behind that might announce that she had been here. But he had to check.

The pool had drawn her. He had believed her at the time when she said she not gone all the way into the chamber, but now he was certain she had lied to him. Curse the Sea Dancer, what had she seen in the water?

He paused at the opening to the cavern that housed the pool and frowned at the narrow entrance. He hated having to squeeze through here, but those among the Namaraban who understood such things warned that trying to enlarge the entrance could have serious consequences. Just as he was about to make the effort, he paused. There was something wet on the stone wall. He reached and touched a finger to the wetness and brought it out into the dim light.

Blood.

Bram knelt and peered into the cavern. Beside the pool’s edge, he could clearly make out the pattern of small hands and feet. Hands and feet that could only belong to a girl…hands and feet that had gotten wet by the water in the pool.

She had been here.

As the last Namaraban, an older man who nonetheless grinned from ear to ear at being able to sit astride the Dragon, was helped down from his flight, Kevla dared to hope they had succeeded. Bram had disappeared a while ago, but he had returned eventually and nothing seemed out of the ordinary about him. Certainly he had made no attempt to stop the festivities. Out of the corner of her eye, Kevla caught a flash of white running toward her along the length of the Grove. It was Copper. Kevla sighed in relief, then almost immediately tensed. The girl’s formerly white dress was smudged with dirt and torn in some places. Clearly, gaining entrance to the Grove and then the cavern had been physically more difficult than they had anticipated.

She glanced at Jareth. His eyes followed hers for an instant. Then he nodded briefly, his face revealing nothing. He returned his attention to the Tiger, stroking his Companion affectionately.

“Thank you again,” Bram said. “You have done something very kind today. We will not forget it.”

There was something in the way he said the last words that made a chill run up Kevla’s spine. Was it possible he-

Bram turned and raised his eyebrows in surprise. He was gazing right at Copper, who stood as still as if she were as rooted in place as the trees of the Grove.

“Copper! Goodness, child, what mischief have you been into today?”

Copper went as white as milk. Her freckles stood out starkly against the paleness of her skin. Her green eyes were enormous and Kevla could see the blue vein in her neck throbbing wildly. She sympathized with the girl, but cursed her silently as well; if Copper were not careful she could give them all away.

“Where have you been, to get so torn and muddy?”

He knows, Kevla thought suddenly, not knowing how she knew but absolutely certain of it. He knows something, at least. Those pale blue eyes turned with false benevolence upon her and she immediately thought about the latest parchment she had read, describing the Dancers of the Third World. The intense thought came just in time, for she felt the soft, sickly tendrils of Bram’s mind wrapping insidiously around her thoughts.

“Did you frighten an animal?” Jareth asked. He, too, must have instantly realized how vulnerable Copper’s stunned expression had made them and was attempting to redirect Bram’s scrutiny to himself.

Copper nodded vigorously. “A boar. I startled a boar.”

“Copper, you shouldn’t wander off like that. Look, you’ve hurt yourself!”

Kevla moved swiftly to Copper’s side and looked at the scraped flesh that peeped beneath the rents in the dress. She touched it gently. Copper yelped and pulled away and glared at her.

“That hurt!”

All of Kevla’s irritation vanished. A few moments before Copper had been about to give them away; now, with a completely believable outburst, she had reestablished herself as the odd but childish and ultimately non-threatening girl she had always been. She saw it in Bram’s face, as his false concern slipped to reveal his contempt.

Still…

“Come into the Grove, Copper,” Bram asked, the false care returning. “I’m certain one of our healers can treat that cut for you.”

Copper set her mouth. “I want Kevla to do it. She’s always talking about her healing skill. It’s not that bad…when you don’t poke at it.”

Jareth laughed. “She’ll have to poke it a bit to heal it, Copper.”

“Still…I think it would be interesting.”

Kevla smiled. “I think you’ll live long enough to walk back to the castle and my herbal salves. Bram, you must excuse us. We need to tend to Copper.”

She smiled, hoping it did not appear as false to him as his did to her. They had to get out of here. Fast.

“Certainly. But Sliah also needs to go to the castle to deliver some special herbs for the meal tonight…I am sure you would not mind walking with her? She so enjoys your company.”

Sliah smiled in happy anticipation that seemed genuine. She was indeed carrying a basket of herbs. Despite their façade of Kevla making a healing salve, the Flame Dancer was not familiar with the herbs that this land produced. Nonetheless, she suspected that there was nothing this woman carried that would be necessary for tonight’s feast. But to decline would be for him to suspect them even more.

“Certainly,” Kevla said. “Sliah, you’re welcome to accompany us.”

She met Jareth’s eyes briefly. They could not speak with thoughts to one another, as they could to their Companions, but Kevla did not have to be able to read Jareth’s mind to know what he was thinking. Copper had clearly seen something of great import in the pool, and with Sliah watching them the entire way back, they would not have a chance to discuss whatever it was that the Sea Dancer had learned.

Kevla smiled at Sliah as the four turned to walk back to the castle and said, “Tell me about the herbs you carry.”

Bram watched them go, the smile slipping off his face like a discarded garment. Copper had seen something in the water. Something that made her look very, very frightened of him. He did not know what it had been, but he was certain of one thing.

The Namaraban would have to move quickly.

Chapter Nineteen

For the first time in her life, Copper wished she was nothing more than a simple human girl. The information imparted by the reflection in the pool had shaken her to the core. If only she had had a few extra moments to retrieve the object of which the reflection had spoken…the Tenachrym. For surely, this object and its glowing white luminescence was what Jareth and Kevla had glimpsed in their vision.

But the warning from her Companion, who still did not know all of what was going on, had come just barely in time. And even though she had made good her escape, Copper-and, she assumed Jareth and Kevla-suspected that Bram knew.

Kevla made pleasant conversation with the Namaraban who had been ordered by Bram to see to it that they didn’t speak to one another. Copper was certain that was her real purpose, not to bring herbs to the castle. Copper watched Kevla out of the corner of her eye and envied the way the other woman was able to make those around her feel so at ease. Copper knew that she unsettled people more than she calmed them.

If only she could have told Jareth and Kevla about the Tenachrym! But Sliah’s presence effectively destroyed the opportunity, and Copper’s thoughts turned to the one person in this world to whom she knew she could confide anything. By the time they reached the castle, Copper had decided that she would talk to Silver before sharing the information with the other Dancers.

As they approached the castle, Copper heard the sound of hoofbeats. She glanced up to see a beautiful golden horse cantering in their direction. Copper recognized both horse and rider. Beside her, Kevla’s musical voice faltered and there was silence.

Liadan brought Tali to a smooth halt and grinned at them. “You,” she said, pointing at Jareth, “You and I were supposed to train an hour ago.”

Jareth colored slightly as he looked up at her. Copper looked from him to Kevla, but other than the other woman’s abrupt silence, saw no sign of jealousy. Indeed, Kevla smiled pleasantly at Liadan.

“Hello, Liadan. I’m sorry, it was my fault Jareth was late. We wanted to do something nice for the Namaraban, so we let them ride our Companions.”

Liadan looked annoyed. “Really? I see. Well then, what about doing something nice for the Horsemistress, or the Swordmaster?”

“Well, if you’re nice to me, I might just let you ride the Tiger. You’ll have to be nice to Kevla if you want to ride the Dragon.”

The eyes of the two women met. Copper watched closely. There was no hostility between these two, but there was sorrow and regret.

“I am always nice to Kevla,” Liadan said, “because I have absolutely no desire for an enormous fire-breathing dragon to decide that I would make a tasty morsel.”

She winked at Kevla, and although Copper sensed it was an effort, Kevla smiled back.

Liadan returned her attention to Jareth. “Climb up and let’s be about it.”

Jareth did not look at Kevla. He immediately went to Tali and mounted the horse with a finesse that surprised Copper. The man obviously had learned a great deal under the Horsemistress’s tutelage.

“Kevla, I think Eion is looking for you,” Liadan said. Jareth settled himself behind her, and neither Copper nor Kevla missed his arm going around Liadan’s trim waist. Liadan clucked to her horse and gently maneuvered the obedient animal toward the training area in the castle’s courtyard.

“I would very much like to show you the herb gardens,” said Sliah, smiling. “They are not our gardens of course, but I know the herbs of the land well and could tell you a great deal about them.”

Copper sighed inwardly. There was no way now that Copper and Kevla could exchange even the briefest of words.

Kevla hesitated only for an instant before smiling and saying, “Sliah, thank you. I’d like that. I’m always interested in improving my healing skills and it would be good to know about Reshan’s herbs. But if Liadan is right, then the Swordmaster is looking for me. And besides, I need to tend to Copper’s injuries.”

“That’s all right Kevla,” said Copper. “It’s stopped bleeding now. I think I will go into the ocean for a bit.”

Kevla’s brown eyes widened. “Surely the salt will sting those cuts.”

Copper shrugged. “It never has before.” Without a goodbye or any further explanation, Copper turned and strode briskly in the direction of the ocean. As the soil turned to sand beneath her bare feet, she was unable to contain herself and began running. She wanted to rip off the dirty, bloodied dress, to slip naked into the cool, healing embrace of the ocean, but did not dare. Not yet.

The waves were high today, but Copper paid them no heed. She swam with the skill of one born to the sea, not the land, and there was no surf so high that would give her even a moment’s pause. She dove into the water, feeling it seize her once-white dress with greedy fingers and making it heavy and clinging. Frustrated, frightened, hating this clothing that symbolized her identity as a princess of the land, she struggled out of the garment and watched as it floated away. The water was cool and gentle on her skin, and as she had told Kevla, Copper felt no sting from its salt.

Silver? Silver, my sister, I need to see you.

Copper, I am coming.

Relief washed over Copper and she dove yet more deeply into the depths, feeling the water change from warm to cold. It was several moments before she caught the gleam of filtered sunlight glinting on silvery scales. Love for her beautiful, unusual sister flooded her and she swam forward to clasp Silver in her arms. Silver hugged her back fiercely, having sensed through their mental connection that Copper was in distress.

I am here, dear sister. What troubles you so? sent Silver.

So urgent was her need to share what had happened that Copper did not think in words. Instead she held in her thoughts everything that had transpired. As the mental images flowed from one ocean sister to the other, Silver’s gray eyes widened as she beheld all that Copper had seen. Copper held nothing back-not her fear, not her wonder, not her sense that somehow, some way, despite all their precautions, Bram had known what she had done.

When Copper had finished, Silver simply floated quietly, trying to make sense of everything. When she finally did brush Copper’s mind with her thoughts, it was not what Copper had expected.

The reflection spoke of how the island of Reshan was created, she sent. I can tell you more of this.

Copper stared at her sister. How do you know about this?

Silver smiled a little. I will share that with you after I have told you what I have learned.

Copper listened with her mind, eyes wide, lips parted, as Silver told her of what Caldan-the first Lorekeeper of Reshan, the man who had envisioned all of the Dancers and had their portraits painted in the cave-had done. Spoke the tale with thoughts instead of words, of how Caldan and the first Lorekeepers had forced the ocean floor to obey the command to surrender part of itself, and what that had done to the Fialaban unlucky enough to be caught in the swirl of seemingly all-powerful magic. Copper could not believe it…and yet, she could not disbelieve it either. Too much of what Silver was imparting coincided with what Copper already knew.

Then…the FinFolk are nothing more…and nothing less…than Fialaban, Copper thought.

Silver, her white hair flowing out behind her in the water, nodded solemnly.

From what you have shared with me, sent Silver, I believe that this object that lies in the heart of the cavern pool-this Tenachrym-is what created Reshan a thousand years ago. It is what twisted and deformed the FinFolk.

I am certain it was not Caldan’s intent to do such a thing, Copper thought quickly. Even as that thought formed, so did another-why was she rushing to defend the actions of the first Lorekeeper?

Silver understood both thoughts and smiled. It doesn’t matter if it was or wasn’t, she replied. What’s done is done. The FinFolk were created, and now they share this ocean with us as scorned, frightened beings when they are nothing less than Fialaban.

And with a sudden rush of deep compassion, Copper understood why this was so important to Silver. She, Copper, looked completely human, save for the slight, almost unnoticeable webbing between her fingers. But Silver looked like no one, no thing, anyone had ever seen before. And their sister Gold, dead at birth; according to what her father and mother had told them, she had been a hybrid of ocean and land, unable to live in either.

Both sisters had always wondered why-how-such a thing had occurred. Why Silver had the scales of the FinFolk when her blood was half human and half Fialaban. Why Gold had been born so tragically misshapen that she could not even exist outside the womb. Now, they both understood. The FinFolk, the beings that they had been taught to avoid and to despise, if not to attack out of some sense of superiority, were merely Fialaban who had had a tragedy forced upon them.

How did you learn this? Have you spoken with Father about it?

Silver shook her head and her white hair floated and danced about her face. I have not told Father. He does not want me to.

And again, instead of speaking in words, the two sisters shared the image of the FinFolk named Shess. Copper saw him in her mind’s eye as her sister did, with the softening of affection: saw humor and kindness and pain in a piscine visage that at first glance made her physically recoil.

This…this is not right. We need to tell Father!

Once again, Silver shook her head. I have promised Shess I would not. He says that now is not the time. Copper…you must retrieve this stone, as the reflection told you to do.

Copper nodded her head in agreement. Of course I must. Kevla and Jareth saw it in their vision. That’s one of the things they came here for-to find it. The Dancers will need its magic.

No, sent Silver, startling Copper. Not the Dancers. You have said yourself they cannot use it.

Copper was confused. But the Emperor has the companion item, the-the Tenacru-and he is already using it to stop the Dancers from standing against the Shadow. Surely the Dancers must have this one, and give it to some ally who will use its magic to help us!

Silver regarded her sister evenly. The Tenachrym is the source of power that created Reshan. That created the FinFolk, mutating them from Fialaban into the sad things they are now. Give the Tenachrym to me, my sister. Give it to me and I will use its powers to help the FinFolk. They could recover their forms. This thing made them; this thing could change them back. It is justice, Copper. It is the purest justice I have ever encountered. Please, please, give the Tenachrym to me!

Silver, you do not know how to use this thing either.

No. No…but it should be given back to the FinFolk. They understand magic. They may know how to use it. Copper, please!

A protest started to form in Copper’s mind, but it disappeared almost at once. Silver’s argument made perfect sense. Everything had stemmed from the Lorekeepers harnessing the Tenachrym’s magic to create their own private island. The tool they had used to achieve this staggering feat had vanished from their reckoning, but now it had been remembered, and waited for Copper to pluck it like a ripe fruit. Such power, such magic, sufficient to rip up the ocean floor and turn beautiful beings into twisted, angry creatures-it was waiting for her to decide what to do with it.

She turned helplessly to her sister, who was waiting for her answer.

Silver, I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what’s right.

Yes, you do. Search your heart. And when you do, you will see that giving this precious thing back to those whose lives it destroyed is the right thing to do.

Copper wished she had Silver’s certainty, but even now, her emotions were a whirl of confusion.

I will think on this, my sister. And in the end, I do promise you, I will do what I feel in my heart to be the right thing.

Silver smiled a little, though Copper knew she had wished for a firm yes. But Copper could not give such a thing now. She could only look at her sister and love her.

Chapter Twenty

Thunk.

Despite the hard leather armor and the thick, hot padding Jareth wore beneath it, the air went out of his lungs with a whoosh. The force of Liadan’s blow almost knocked him off the horse. He clung on with grim determination, but in the effort to stay mounted he dropped his wooden sword.

“If this was a real battle, you’d be dead,” Liadan muttered.

Jareth started to sigh, then stopped immediately. The gesture hurt his side too much. He did not reply as he dismounted and retrieved the training sword.

Liadan was right. And she really shouldn’t have been able to get in such a solid blow. He knew how to defend himself better than that; she’d taught him how. He’d even used the skill in actual combat. He’d have blocked her strike easily if he had been concentrating, and by the glare she gave him, he knew she knew it.

His mind was not on training, nor even on the admittedly attractive woman doing the training. He was thinking about the look on Copper’s face-the stunned, shocked expression that he knew meant she had learned something very important from the reflection in the water. And he was thinking about Bram…hearing again his smooth as oil voice, seeing that soft, smiling face that housed ill will. If only there was a way to—

This time, he did end up on the ground. He lay there for a few moments, catching his breath, and Liadan’s shadow fell over him.

“Your mind is not on fighting,” she said. She made no effort to help him up as she usually did when he took a spill. He supposed he couldn’t blame her. He too would be upset with someone so visibly distracted.

Wincing a little, he maneuvered himself into a sitting position, then got to his knees and rose. While he understood the necessity of the armor, he found it made him feel awkward and clumsy. He’d seen both Eion and Liadan fight while wearing more than what he had on presently, and both of them moved as lithely as if they were wearing nothing but light tabards. He wondered if he’d ever be able to feel comfortable in the hot, heavy stuff.

“No, it isn’t,” Jareth replied to Liadan’s statement. “I’m sorry.”

Instead of scowling and reprimanding him, Liadan gave him and odd look he couldn’t decipher. She opened her mouth as if to say something, then stared at the ground and turned away abruptly. Jareth waited for her to speak, and when she didn’t, he wordlessly climbed atop the training horse. The patient animal didn’t bat an eye.

Liadan mounted Tali, and without even using the reins took the horse in a slow canter around the courtyard. Jareth was definitely confused now. He waited atop his own horse for further instructions.

After a few moments, Liadan tossed down her training sword and shield and circled the horse back to him. He looked at her curiously. Her eyes searched his for a long moment and he felt his pulse quicken.

“You’re not an idiot,” she said.

“I’m glad you realize that.”

“But you’ve been acting as if you are.”

His smile faded. “What do you mean?”

She stared at him, then laughed. “We are adults. I’m sure that body of yours isn’t untouched.”

Her frankness made him blush. She saw it and grinned. “I see I’m right.”

He glanced down. He both wanted and feared to hear what she had to say next.

She placed her gloved hand on his thigh. “Jareth…it can’t possibly have escaped your notice that I find you attractive.”

He shook his head, his mouth suddenly dry.

“You’ve said nothing either way,” Liadan continued. “I’m not a patient woman. If you’re not interested in what I have to offer, just say so. And if you are…just say so.”

Now she was waiting for an answer, and he had no idea what to say to her. He knew whom he wanted to be with, but he also knew it wasn’t going to happen. She’d made that brutally clear, even if today they had been united in a common purpose. Even as he thought of the beautiful Arukani woman he felt himself stir.

Jareth refocused his attention on Liadan. She did not possess Kevla’s beauty and grace, but she was certainly an attractive woman. She would be, he was certain, a spectacular bed partner. And…more? There was something in those hazel eyes that spoke of a feeling deeper than simple lust and good humor. She was intelligent, funny, brave, strong, loyal.

And unlike Kevla, Liadan wanted him.

The words formed on his lips before he realized he was going to speak them. “I am interested, Liadan. Very.”

Her lips curved in a grin, and her eyes brightened. “That’s the best news I’ve had all day. For some time, in fact.”

Quickly, assertively, she leaned forward. One hand went to the back of his neck to confidently pull his head down to hers as she turned her face up to him. Their lips met and a shock went through Jareth. This was no sweet, tentative first kiss. Liadan boldly explored Jareth with lips and tongue that were clearly experienced, and after the first instant of surprise Jareth’s body responded eagerly. He wanted to pull her to him, but both hands held weapons. It was she who wrapped an arm around him. Jareth desperately wished that at the very least, he wasn’t wearing armor.

Liadan had initiated the kiss and after a long moment, she was the one who broke it. Liadan pulled away, her eyes sparkling and her lips red and swollen. Jareth suddenly thought he could take her even with the armor.

“Very nice,” she said, her voice husky. “Very nice indeed.” She was trembling a little and her breathing was quick. Jareth smiled. No doubt, Liadan was certain she had things to teach him, and maybe she did. But he imagined there would be a few things she’d learn from him as well.

“Moonrise. Tonight. Where you showed me your earth magic.”

The disappointment was like cold water. “Tonight? Not now?”

She grinned. “Tonight,” she said. “I think anticipation enhances coupling.” Then, oddly, her smile faltered. “And besides, I don’t want you to come up to me tomorrow and say you’ve changed your mind. Think I’ll give you a little time to cool off and to think.”

“I don’t need time,” he said.

She looked at him almost tenderly. “Yes, you do,” she said. “We’re done for the day. Moonrise,” she repeated, squeezed Tali, winked and cantered off.

Jareth watched her go and swore under his breath.

Kevla closed the door and leaned on it heavily, her cheeks burning and her eyes filled with tears.

After the seemingly interminable session with Eion, she had wanted only to return to her room and contact Copper. She had hastened across the courtyard and stopped in mid-stride when she realized that Jareth and Liadan were not done with their training session. Out of the corner of her eye, as she continued to move quickly toward the turret, she had witnessed the two kissing.

Why am surprised? Kevla asked herself angrily. Liadan never lied to me about what she wanted. She told me she would do this. And I told her it was all right.

But over the last day, when she had confided in Jareth what Copper had told her and together they had concocted their plan-she had felt the old connection with the Stone Dancer. They had spoken as they had before, as two people working toward a goal. And it had felt good.

But now Jareth had kissed Liadan-or rather, the Horsemistress had kissed him-in full public view. Kevla realized that she hadn’t really been prepared to see it. She splashed her face with water and patted it dry with a towel, taking deep, calming breaths. She had no claim to Jareth, no bond that went beyond who they were in this lifetime-the bond of the Dancers, trying to stop the end of everything. Indeed, she had done all she could to prevent anything more from happening between them. She just…did not expect to have succeeded quite so well.

She sat down in front of the fire and said quietly, “Show me Copper.” Copper was not startled this time, and indeed, judging from the look on the younger woman’s face, Copper had been expecting precisely such a contact.

“Kevla,” Copper said, her voice a whisper. “Can you come to me? I must speak with you.”

“Of course,” Kevla said, rising and stepping into the fire. Copper was pacing her quarters when she materialized. She had changed from the ripped, blood-stained dress she had worn earlier into a simple green garment. The hue suited her coloring to perfection and with one of those idle, useless thoughts that sometimes float into one’s mind at tense moments, Kevla wondered why the girl did not wear green more often.

Copper whirled when Kevla appeared. “Bram knows,” she said before Kevla could speak. “He knows I was there.”

“I thought as much,” Kevla said. “Were you able to speak with the reflection?”

Copper nodded. “I need to tell Jareth as well. Maybe we can—“

“Jareth is with Liadan.”

“And you were with Eion, but your training session is over. Surely Liadan-oh.”

Kevla could not bring herself to meet Copper’s gaze. “We will tell him later.”

“Yes, of course. Kevla, I—“

Suddenly Kevla was angry. She was tired of feeling sorry for herself, tired of knowing that others were feeling sorry for her too and desperately sick of pity.

“It doesn’t matter, Copper. Compared to what we are fighting for, whatever does or doesn’t happen between me and Jareth is utterly insignificant. Let’s get back to what’s important-what your reflection told you.”

Copper did not shrink back from the anger and pain in Kevla’s voice, merely nodded. “Very well. There…there is so much. I hardly know where to begin.”

Kevla immediately regretted her outburst. She went over to a small table and poured a half glass of wine, cutting it with water, and took it to the girl. It calmed her to take care of another. Copper looked up at her curiously. Kevla only smiled.

“Start at the beginning,” Kevla said gently.

Copper’s fingers curled around the goblet and Kevla saw a brief flash of webbing. Copper sipped it with a deliberation Kevla had never seen from her, and after a long moment, she began to speak.

“We spoke again about the Emperor. He has an ally called the Mage, and this Mage has command over a tool that augments the Emperor’s magic. It’s called the Tenacru. It’s…the way she-the reflection-told me about it is, it’s kind of an orb that glows red.”

Kevla gasped softly. Red…Her mind went back to when she and Jareth, clasping hands, had stepped into the circle of ice and appeared in the Ice Maiden’s realm. The sky had been a strange, blood red hue.

She told Copper of this, who nodded. “Probably the magic of the Tenacru at work, then,” the Sea Dancer said. She took another steadying sip of the watered wine before continuing. “The Tenacru is very powerful, and it is a very bad thing indeed that the Emperor has it at his disposal. But it’s not the only thing like it in this world. There’s another one called the Tenachrym. It’s just like the Tenacru, except its color is white.”

Kevla gasped. “Glowing white-the way the Tenacru glows red…. It sounds like this is what Jareth and I saw in our vision.”

“That’s what I thought too. It was brought here by that Lorekeeper-Caldan.”

Copper lifted her green eyes to Kevla’s brown ones. “What he did with it…Kevla, Reshan is nothing natural. It was made. Caldan fashioned it from a chunk he ripped from the bottom of the sea using the power of the Tenachrym.”

Kevla listened, shocked but somehow not surprised. So much made sense now. She had wondered how Caldan had become so powerful; now she understood. If the Emperor could use the Tenacru to create and breathe life into the Ice Maiden-create, as Kevla now suspected judging from the strange red tint of the sky, an entire little world for her-then Caldan could do what the legends said he had. He could scry and see the faces of all the Dancers, throughout time. He could transform the Lorekeepers of Lamal into magical beasts, ignorant of their identity and the knowledge they harbored and therefore safe. He could summon an island from the ocean’s floor, and his people, all the Lorekeepers of this place, would be enhanced as a whole. She shivered at the thought of that kind of power. Even her Dancer abilities did not seem to her quite so profound.

The second thought she had was one that made her feel ill. If the first Lorekeeper of Reshan had this orb, this Tenachrym, it would have been kept very safe. It would have passed from Caldan to his successor, from that person to…Anam Bram.

“So the Emperor’s mage has the Tenacru…and Bram has the Tenachrym,” she said miserably. “The vision came too late.” The odds were staggering. Even with all five Dancers gathered together, using their abilities in unison, it would be difficult for them to stand against that kind of magic.

“No,” said Copper. “He doesn’t have it. He doesn’t even know it exists.”

Hope blossomed in Kevla so intensely it was painful.

“Kevla…the Tenachrym lies at the bottom of the pool in the cave. It’s the source of all the Namaraban’s magic, but they don’t even know about it. It’s lain there, forgotten, for centuries.”

Copper grimaced and looked down at the goblet she held. “If I had had even a few more moments I could have dived down and gotten it,” Copper said bitterly. “But the Kelpie contacted me to warn me that Bram was on his way. I almost got caught as it was. I didn’t dare stay and try to find the Tenachrym.”

Kevla thought the words sounded like Copper was trying to convince herself, and she shared the girl’s wish that there had been more time when the opportunity had prevented itself. But there had clearly been no alternative, and she said so.

“You did the best you could, Copper,” Kevla reassured her. “If you had lingered and been caught, not only would Bram know that we are against him, he’d also have the Tenachrym. We can’t let him have it. It would be better for it to be destroyed than fall into the hands of someone who is our enemy.”

Copper sighed and rubbed at her eyes. “Perhaps it is best that it lies there undiscovered after all,” she said. “We might not have it-but then Bram wouldn’t have it, either.”

Kevla sat back in the chair and folded her arms, her mind racing as she considered the options. “Bram is not a fool. We are fairly certain that he knows you are drawn to the pool. He might take it into his head to investigate and then he would find the Tenachrym.”

Copper paled. Kevla shared her worry. An item that could do such things in Bram’s pale, pudgy hands-the thought could not be borne. The two women looked at each other.

“We have to go back and get it, don’t we?” Copper said.

Kevla nodded. “I’m afraid so. We can’t risk him getting it. I have not wanted to bring our Companions in on this yet because there was no reason to disturb them. But I think we have to, now.”

Kevla sat forward, looking at Copper intently. “We have no time to waste. We must act as soon as possible.”

The small window in Jareth’s room opened onto the courtyard. The horses upon which he and Liadan had trained earlier that day were in their stables now. The gates were closed against intruders, but Jareth knew that should he but ask, they would be opened for him. Opened, so that he could walk out into the cool, moist night and hike the short distance to where in a brief time a woman would be waiting for him.

He leaned on the window sill, looking down at the empty courtyard, his mind going over what had happened. He imagined he could still smell Liadan’s scent of faint sweat and clean grass; certainly it was not difficult to recall the pressure of her lips on his. He had enjoyed the kiss. He had wanted more. And she was more than willing to give it to him.

Why, then, did he feel so troubled? They were not children. They understood the dance of flirtation and consummation. From what he’d heard, Liadan enjoyed sexual pleasure as much as any man and more than most, and that appetite and skill had made those she had shared her bed with admire and respect her. Jareth had once been married to a woman he had loved with all his heart. Had Taya been with him on this journey, he would not have given Liadan’s flirtatious comments more than passing notice. But Taya was dead; had been gone for over a year now, and while a part of him would always love and miss her, he felt no guilt about the prospect of another relationship. She would have wanted that for him.

Jareth growled and banged his fist down hard on the sill. He flung himself on the bed, fuming. Liadan had set the time for their tryst at moonrise, not before; to give him time to be certain, she had said.

He didn’t want the time. Jareth knew himself better than she did, and he knew full well that he would use the intervening hours not to heighten his anticipation of the coupling to come, but to talk himself out of it.

There was nothing to do to fill the time; he had already bathed and changed into fresh clothing. He decided perhaps a walk would do him good; maybe physical movement would calm him. He leaped off the bed, strode to the door, and was walking down the corridor purposefully within moments.

He fully intended to navigate the maze of the castle and head into the courtyard, where he could watch for the rising moon and make certain the time was right to meet Liadan. Instead his booted feet carried him up the narrow stairs of the tower, and he found himself standing in front of Kevla’s door.

Turn around, Jareth. Turn around, walk into the courtyard, then go see Liadan. You know it’s the best thing for you.

Even as the thoughts rose in his mind, he realized that they were wrong. He didn’t know what the best thing for him was. All he knew was he wanted to be on the other side of that door, taking Kevla into his arms as he had on one unforgettable occasion before.

He leaned against the cold stone wall, thoroughly annoyed with himself. He knew why he had come here. He knew what-who-his heart and body longed for. Kevla had vexed him more than anyone he had ever met when she first entered his life, with her bizarre tale of Dancers and the Shadow and the end of all things. He had grown, almost against his will, to like and respect her, and gradually those feelings had turned to something deeper. He had held her once before, kissed her passionately, felt her respond.

But she’d pushed him away. Then and later. She’d said bluntly that she didn’t love him, didn’t want him. And yet…stubbornly, he refused to believe her.

In the midst of these chaotic thoughts, there was only one certainty. There would be no peace for him, no chance to truly lose himself in Liadan’s arms tonight or any night, if he did not face Kevla. Let her know what was about to happen, and see for himself that it didn’t matter to her. He wiped a hand across his face, took a deep breath to steady himself and knocked on the door.

Kevla stared into the fire. Her thoughts were scattered, and she needed focus. And, she thought, she needed to talk to Jareth. Before she had witnessed the kiss in the courtyard, she would have scried for Jareth’s face in the fire, tried to talk to him. But now, she did not dare.

She stared into the fire, letting her gaze soften, thinking. A face emerged in the flames and she gasped, wondering if she had drifted to sleep beside the fire. Never before had she seen him since his death other than in her dreams.

“Jashemi!”

She smiled happily, her heart swelling with affection as she beheld his face in the flame, colored in shades of red and yellow and black. He smiled as well.

“Flame Dancer. You need to be strong and have faith, now more than ever.”

She was stung. “You think me weak?”

“No. I think you in pain. You are not as alone as you think. For that I am grateful. I would not have my dear sister, my Dancer, walk with an empty heart.”

Kevla felt the heat rise to her face, and it was not from the fire. “You are wrong, Jashemi. Even though I know I have friends, my heart is still empty. It always will be.”

“No, Kevla. There is one who stands more than ready to fill it. He is good. He is kind. And,” Jashemi added casually, “he is here.”

Chapter Twenty-One

The door opened so quickly that Jareth wondered if Kevla had been standing immediately on the other side.

“Jareth…come in.”

She stepped back so that he could enter the room and almost immediately looked away. He stepped inside, closing the door behind him. Kevla went to the sideboard and poured them something to drink. Even as she handed him the goblet, she did not meet his eyes.

Jareth wanted this done with. “I’ve come here for a specific reason.”

“Of course. I was expecting you.”

He looked at her, puzzled. Until a few moments ago, he himself hadn’t known he was coming to see her. How had she guessed it? Kevla indicated that he take a seat and sat in the chair opposite him.

“You knew I was coming?”

“I—You haven’t heard what Copper saw in the pool.”

Impossibly, he had forgotten this. He felt himself flush. “Yes…I would like to know that.”

He sat and listened with growing fascination, the goblet in his hand forgotten, as Kevla told him a tale that would have seemed impossible to conceive of a year ago. And yet, it all made sense to him. It all tied into Caldan, the Lorekeeper from his own land who had traveled here, to the west, where his descendants would await the coming of the Sea Dancer. The Tenachrym had been used on the Lorekeepers of Lamal, and then again here, to wrest land from the very ocean to host the girl who would one day be born as the element of water incarnate. The thought that such a powerful talisman lay undiscovered was an exciting one, and he agreed that this was the “bright light” they had seen in the vision, and that they needed to recover the Tenachrym as soon as possible.

“We had discussed tomorrow night,” Kevla said. “Although I am worried about Copper. I’m not sure she’s ready to leave-tomorrow or ever.”

“She has to,” Jareth said promptly. “It’s her destiny.”

Kevla’s full lips curved into a smile. “I seem to recall a certain Stone Dancer who was also adamant about not leaving his land,” she said, mirth warming her voice.

Jareth wished Kevla weren’t quite so beautiful. Perhaps resisting her would be a trifle easier. He covered his stare with a rueful chuckle.

“Point taken,” he said. “But I didn’t have the sort of evidence Copper has. The Lamali Lorekeepers, as you may also recall, were not speaking to me at that point. I had no knowledge of the history of the Dancers. I thought my abilities were something altogether different. Copper doesn’t have that excuse. She’s known about her destiny almost since birth, and she has had the advantage of the Namaraban to teach her. She can’t claim ignorance.”

“No,” Kevla agreed. “But she is young, Jareth. I know she and I are close in age, but emotionally, she is still very much a child. She has her family here, divided though it might be, and for some reason her Companion does not seem to be driving her to depart as ours did.”

Jareth thought about that for a moment. “You’re right,” he said. “And since they have been here, our own Companions have expressed no desire to leave either.”

Kevla’s brown eyes widened. “Are you suggesting that our Companions have been enchanted somehow?”

“I don’t know that I’d go that far. The Dragon and the Tiger are very powerful.”

“So are the Namaraban,” Kevla said. “So is the Tenachrym.”

“I agree that the Tenachrym is indeed very powerful,” Jareth said. “But it’s not being used as…whoever designed it intended. If what that mysterious reflection told Copper is true, then it’s lying forgotten at the bottom on that pool. I guess any magic it’s emitting is secondary in its effectiveness.”

“And it’s given generations of Lorekeepers amazing magical abilities,” Kevla replied. “We can’t underestimate them, Jareth. We don’t dare—“

She gasped and her hand went to her mouth.

“What is it?”

“The chains,” she said in a hoarse whisper. “The necklaces they gave as gifts.”

Jareth’s mind went back to the day when they had first arrived on Reshan. “They had anticipated us and crafted them,” he recalled. “I remember the Kelpie was wearing one already.

Kevla’s gaze was distant as she, too, no doubt, was searching her memory of that eventful day. “‘I like not the thought of a noose around my neck,’ the Dragon said. I wish we’d listened.”

“And the Tiger said something about she wasn’t a housecat to wear a jeweled collar,” said Jareth.

“But…the Kelpie seemed unaffected. That was why they agreed to have them put on.”

Jareth said slowly, “Perhaps that’s the magic. Perhaps the chains don’t take over their minds. Maybe they just…soothe them somehow.”

He thought of how docile the mighty blue Tiger had seemed to him every time he visited her in the Grove. True, she was a cat, and cats enjoyed their naps in the sun…but she was a tiger, an elemental Companion, and she had often been more forceful in accepting her duty than Jareth had.

“I blame myself,” Kevla said quietly. “He asked me what I wanted him to do. I told the Dragon that it was his choice…but I thought it would look handsome on him. He can be a bit vain at times. Ai, I should have let him trust his instincts!”

“And I should have seen it before,” Jareth said slowly, filled with self-hatred. “It’s not like the Companions to behave like this. But I didn’t want to see it. I was too wrapped up in—“

Jareth blushed. Kevla looked away and cleared her throat. There was an awkward moment of silence, and Jareth rushed to fill it.

“The longer we wait to act, the more time Bram has to do so,” he said. “I don’t know that we can wait until tomorrow. We might have to make our move tonight.” Jareth realized with shame that a part of him was grateful for a valid reason to avoid seeing Liadan tonight.

“It will be hard to convince Copper to abandon everything she knows.”

“It will be harder if she fails to do so and the Shadow triumphs,” Jareth said, more bluntly than he had intended. “If he gets a hold of the Tenachrym, Bram may well succeed where the Emperor has failed.”

Kevla sighed deeply and looked into the fire with a sorrowful expression. “I feel very much alone in this,” she said quietly. “Copper is not overly keen on joining us. You and I-“She bit her lip quickly, then, still not looking at him, continued. “You and I are not as close as we once were. Our Companions have been lulled so that they do not see what is going on, and the Lorekeepers are intent not upon helping us, but making us their servants. I think that hurts worst of all. The other reasons…I understand. But this is a deliberate betrayal of what and who they were meant to be.”

“My Lorekeeper betrayed me,” Jareth snapped. “I think it’s nothing new.”

Kevla shook her head, still gazing into the fire that leaped and crackled in the hearth, still sad. “It is, though. I know it is. I know what they are supposed to be, how they are supposed to love and support us. Jashemi-Jashemi was not so.”

“No,” Jareth said quietly. “He wasn’t.” He took a deep breath. “Kevla…there’s something I have to ask.”

Kevla gulped. “Jareth—“

“You said you don’t love me. Is that true? Really true?”

Her mouth was dry. “Yes,” she whispered, forcing herself to speak the words. “I don’t love you.”

“Then you wouldn’t mind if I take Liadan to bed with me.” His voice was harsh. “She’s been after me since I got here, and I’m tired of refusing her.”

Kevla could have sworn her heart physically broke. “Then by all means, stop refusing her.”

“Doesn’t matter to you?”

“Of course not.”

His eyes searched hers, and for a moment she thought he would bridge the gap between them and take her in his arms. If he kissed her, she couldn’t keep up the pretense.

He rose without another word and turned to the door. Kevla buried her face in her hands. She heard his footsteps across the stone floor, heard the door open, and then slam shut.

Kevla buried her face in her hands and started to weep. Only once before had she felt such agony rip through her, when she had realized what had happened to Jashemi. She had deliberately pushed Jareth away, and even though she took comfort in knowing she had spared him, the searing torment of her loss overwhelmed her. Her slender body was racked with sobs and she murmured over and over, “Jareth…Jareth….”

“Gods help me…I cannot leave you.”

Jareth’s voice was raw and broken. Shocked, Kevla whirled. He stood leaning heavily against the door, his large frame bowed with pain, his fists clenched. At her soft cry, he looked up at her, and his gaze pierced her heart.

“I could never leave you. I am like a hound you cannot bid forsake your side. Outside waits a woman who would gladly give what you will not, and my legs are like stone. I cannot move to go to her.”

Kevla sat as if rooted to the chair. All she could do was gaze into his eyes, transfixed, wanting nothing more than go to him. She had tried to push him away, but now he knew her true feelings. She could not deny it…could not deny him…any longer.

Jareth let out an angry roar and Kevla gasped. Before she realized what he was doing, he had closed the distance between the door and the fireplace in three strides.

“Why are you doing this, Kevla? Why do you push me away?”

“Because-because I cannot be with you. I will kill any man I lie with, no matter how much I might want him. How much I love him.”

“You don’t know that. I’m not him.”

“Jareth—“

“Let us end this!” he cried, and shoved his hand into the fire.

Kevla shrieked in horror. The coals were white hot. Jareth would be badly burned. She sprang from the chair, but she was too late. Jareth’s strong fingers had reached deep into the fire and closed upon a coal.

Tears blurred her vision as she dropped to her knees beside him, prying open his fingers, wondering why she was not smelling scorched flesh or—

The coal glowed peacefully in the palm of his outstretched hand, so hot that it seemed to pulsate. There was no mark upon his skin. Kevla stared at it, hardly able to draw breath.

Moments passed, then Jareth spoke. His voice was soft, trembling with deep emotion.

“When we first met…I held a knife to your throat.”

“I…I remember.” He had come out of nowhere, and she had thought him one of the madmen who lurked in the forests.

“Do you remember what you did?”

She kept staring, enraptured, at the glowing coal in his hand. “I-I made the knife in your hand grow hot.”

“It burned the wrappings on my hand completely off,” he said. “Kevla-it did not burn my hand. You did not harm me then. This ember doesn’t harm me now.”

She dragged her gaze from the miraculous sight of fire burning peacefully in his hands and met his eyes, which to her seemed to burn almost as brightly.

“Earth can hold Fire,” he said tenderly. “It’s the only element that can.”

Was it possible? Could it be that Jareth could endure what had been Jashemi’s death? Kevla would not have believed it, and yet…the evidence lay in his palm. Gently Kevla picked up the coal, feeling it as cool and smooth as a polished stone to her touch. She tossed it back into the fire, her fingers caressing Jareth’s hand. There was only the soot from the ember there; his hand was whole.

“You can…we….” She looked up at him in stunned amazement. His eyes searched hers for a moment, than he started to smile. Her heart sped up as she waited for him to close the slight yet enormous distance that separated man from woman, friend from lover. He entwined his fingers with hers and brought them to his lips, then leaned forward and kissed her brow. She closed her eyes at the softness of his lips on her skin and trembled, want and fear vying for dominance within her.

Tears filled her eyes and slipped down her cheeks. He cupped her chin with one hand and wiped the salty droplets away with the other.

“Kevla-sha-Tahmu, Flame Dancer, beloved…Your passion is the purest, most powerful fire this world has ever known. And I wish with all my heart that it had not claimed the life of your Lorekeeper. But while Jashemi was unique in his own way, he came to this world clothed only in human flesh, with only human powers.”

He placed his hands on either side of her face and tilted her head up, forcing her to look at him. She blinked through the tears that still kept coming.

“We are the same,” he whispered urgently in a voice that trembled slightly. “I am a Dancer. If you are Fire incarnate, then I am the Earth incarnate. Earth can hold fire, Kevla. And I can hold you.” He pulled her gently into his embrace, placing her head on his chest and wrapping his arms tightly, possessively, about her while she gave vent to her fear. She wept for some time, grieving for Jashemi, fearing for Jareth, and he simply held her.

Gradually the tears slowed and she stood against him, hearing his heart beating rapidly and feeling the firm solidity of his muscular frame.

Earth can hold Fire. It’s the only element that can.

He knew without knowing how he knew that the words were true. He would come to no harm if she trusted him enough to completely surrender to the need that he saw sparkling in her eyes. But he would need to summon all his Dancer’s abilities, ask the Earth to hold him so that he could withstand the power of her release.

He ached with wanting her, but he held himself back. She would need to come to him, to reach for him, if they were to be to one another all he sensed they could be. So he pressed her head to his breast and caressed her flowing black hair. His fingers traveled beneath the silky mane to touch the back of her neck. Jareth moved his fingers in slow circles against the smooth dark skin, a sudden deep contentment welling inside him. How long had he wanted to do this? To caress that loam-colored skin, so different from his own pale flesh? To run his fingers through the ebon waves of her long, thick hair, to bring it to his lips for a kiss and inhale the sweet smoky scent of her?

Too long. A day would have been too long.

The moments passed in their own time, and Jareth simply held Kevla. At last, he felt her heave a great sigh and she looked up at him. Jareth knew he had been privileged to see that expression on a woman’s face twice in his life, and even as he gazed into Kevla’s dark eyes, he said a sweet, silent farewell to his Taya, knowing that she would bless both him and this exotic Arukani woman who had won his heart with her courage, determination and grace.

Still looking into the deep, sparkling pools that were his beloved’s eyes, Jareth slowly moved his hands to Kevla’s shoulders and slid her rhia down to her slender waist. Kevla’s breathing quickened, but she made no move to stop him. Jareth’s own breath caught in his throat as he gazed at her. He had felt this supple body against his skin once before, when he had desperately needed the warmth of human contact to survive. But he had not beheld her so, and although he had expected to find her beautiful, he was not prepared by how profoundly the sight affected him.

She stood before him as he gazed his fill, and smiled as he lifted his eyes to hers.

“Kevla….”

He wanted to say more. He wanted to tell her he had seen nothing more beautiful in his life. He wanted to tell her how much he admired her, how strong he thought she was, how courageous and kind. Yet all he seemed capable of uttering was her name. Her smile grew and her eyes sparkled; apparently, it was enough.

She leaned forward and tugged at his shirt, pulling it over his head so that he, too, was bare to the waist. He closed his eyes and savored the sensation of her fingers lightly caressing and exploring him. He heard her moving and then she was in his arms.

He opened his eyes and gazed down at her, his strong hands sliding up the impossibly silky skin of her back. Her face was turned up to his, her eyes wide, her red lips parted. Jareth swallowed hard and suddenly words came to him.

“I’m going to kiss you now,” he said quietly. “It’s going to be soft, it’s going to be slow, and it’s going to be deep. Then I’m going to love you the way I’ve wanted to almost since the day we met. And when we are done, and lying in one another’s arms, we will not be the same.”

Kevla shuddered at his words. Jareth placed his hands on either side of her face, looked into her eyes for a long moment, then bent and kissed her.

The kiss was everything he had promised-soft and slow at first, deepening as he felt her response. Kevla melted against Jareth, wrapping her arms around his neck and opening to him. How had she resisted so long? How had she been able to resist him at all? There was no awkwardness between them, only soft movements and sounds and this growing heat inside her as his lips and tongue caressed hers and his hands roamed almost reverently over her body. She pressed against him, her breasts crushed against the broad expanse of his chest. Was that her heart or his she felt hammering so hard? She could not tell; already they were beginning to merge. Soft and sweet as velvet and honey was his kiss, and she surrendered utterly to the sensations.

His lips slid down her throat and she whimpered slightly, his name escaping her in the softest whisper. Her body cried out for his touch. Desire rose inside her, molten and flowing, and she knew that if he took her right now she would be ready for him. Instead she kept her touch slow and deliberate. The fire inside her was burning hot, but she wanted to stoke it even more.

As his golden head bent lower she tangled her hands in his hair, her heart contracting with love as she watched him kiss her first between her breasts, then teasingly beneath the soft, voluptuous curves. She gasped in delight as his tongue finally found her nipples and danced against the hard peaks.

Dizzy with sensation, she melted against him, surrendering herself. She felt herself being lifted and then lowered gently to the cool stone of her chamber. Through half-shut eyes, she looked up and gloried in the sight and feel of him. Hands moved and unfastened clasps, slid silky fabric off hips, removed and tossed aside boots and breeches until they lay naked beside the firelight. Kevla closed her eyes and let herself sink into the feelings his hands and lips and tongue were rousing within her, and fought back the sudden, unwelcome taint of fear. I have lain with a cherished lover before…and….

Jareth felt the change in her at once. The connection between them, finally reestablished after so many weeks of achingly painful separation, told him that she was holding herself back. Dismay filled him, but only for a moment. He knew the fear she was facing, admired her for even being with him now. But he also knew that until this fear was allayed, she would never be able to truly give herself to him, to trust him with the most intimate part of herself. And they would always have this between them.

He would need to arouse her so powerfully she would forget this fear; need to make love to her with every fiber of his being, every shred of his soul. Jareth put aside thoughts of teasing and technique. Such things were pleasant, but were not what was needed here. He pulled back for a moment and looked at her face. When her eyes fluttered open inquiringly, he smiled tenderly.

“I love you, Kevla. I love you now, I will love you tomorrow, I will love you for the rest of your life. I will never leave you. You are mine, and I am yours. Give yourself entirely to me, my love, so that I may give myself to you.”

He kissed her passionately this time and she arched up into him, reaching to cup his head with her hand as she opened her lips beneath his. The kiss was forceful, wild; turned soft and languid; became a pledge and a promise. When he pulled back to begin kissing and stroking her writhing body, Kevla whimpered. Jareth, too, felt oddly bereft, but the glories of her body and the delight he knew he could give her tempted him away from the full, soft lips he now knew he could kiss forever.

Jareth kissed the tender hollow of her throat with a sort of awe, vaguely aware that the sensation that rushed through him with every beat of his hammering heart was something akin to worship. Down the valley between the hills of her perfect breasts, along her long, lean torso, wetting her flat stomach with tears he had not expected to weep, to the cluster of curls between her strong, smooth thighs he traveled, pouring his need for and devotion to this magnificent woman into every brush of hands and lips, losing himself in loving her.

Kevla was dizzy when Jareth’s lips left hers and she heard herself whimper as if from a great distance. Almost immediately she fell back into that soft, wild place as he kissed down her throat, then lingered on her breasts in sweet torment. She undulated beneath him, her skin so sensitive she felt that she would explode with pleasure at every tender touch.

And then the fear welled inside her, its coldness dampening her fire. Kevla felt herself withdrawing from Jareth’s loving touches. Perhaps this was the way. Perhaps she could be his lover and yet not expose him to the danger that was the ultimate expression of her passion. She could please him, and love him, but-

My sweet Kevla, that is not who you are, came the voice of Jashemi in her head. She could almost feel his heart breaking with compassion. Be who you are, who you were born to be. This is not the same as before. Jareth is not I. I am your soul, but this man…ah, this man is your heart.

He is my heart, thought Kevla. Earth can hold fire-

Even as the liberation of true understanding broke upon her, she felt Jareth press his lips in a deep kiss to the most intimate part of her and she realized how profoundly she was loved. For an instant that was an eternity, Kevla hung suspended between ecstasy such as she had never experienced and the searing joy of release.

Suddenly she cried out, sharply, and felt the heat of the Dragon’s fire wash over and through her. She clutched Jareth’s arms, her nails biting into his flesh, desperate to feel him solid and real in this moment of white-hot abandon. The fire beside her flared to a sheet of flame, its flickering light dancing against her closed lids and its smoke mingling with Jareth’s beloved scent of pine and loam.

“Jareth…!”

As she gasped for breath, she opened her eyes to see him smiling down at her.

“I am here, Kevla…I am here.”

Weeping with relief and still trembling with passion, she pulled him to her. His kurjah brushed up against her sensitive sulim and the pleasure was so sharp, so intense, it was almost pain. Then he was there, sinking slowly inside her with a soft moan that made her heart leap. At last, after far too long, after too much pain and denial of what they meant to one another, they were finally one.

They moved together in an ancient rhythm. Kevla reveled at every thrust, every kiss, every caress. She was filled and fulfilled, cherished and safe and she held nothing back now. And when at last she felt him swell and then empty himself inside her with a short, harsh cry, her own body responded a second time to bless them both with the pure fire of her unbridled passion.

He held her for a long, long time, his skin warm and real and slicked with sweat. Kevla slowly returned to herself, whimpering when he pulled out and shifted to lie beside her, turning to him and kissing him, unwilling to let him go. Jareth pulled her atop him, his warm, strong hands roaming over her body as if he had not just made passionate love to her, as if he were touching her for the first time, still hungry. He looked up at her, eyes glittering in the light of a fire which had now subsided in the wake of their shared passion, and nodded.

Between them hung that which did not wish but both knew must happen. Kevla took a deep breath.

“Jareth, you have to—“

“Kevla, I don’t want to but—“

They grinned and laughed. Jareth squeezed her to him tightly and planted a sound, playful kiss on her cheek.

“My darling Kevla, my beautiful fire maiden…I would like nothing better than to stay here with you all night and well into tomorrow. But I must go to Liadan and tell her what’s going on,” Jareth continued. “Both about what we’re planning and about….”

Before she realized it, he had kissed her again, not playfully this time, but hungrily. She responded, then it was she who pulled back and nodded. “Yes.”

Jareth growled softly in frustration as she slipped off of him and reached for her rhia. He sat up and began to dress. “She asked me to meet her on that little hill not far from the courtyard, where the apple tree is. We won’t be long. I’ll tell her and come right back with her, and we’ll decide what to do from there.”

“I know where that hill is.” It was indeed not far. She wished he did not have to go. But before all else in this world, they were Dancers. And their task was in desperate jeopardy.

He finished dressing and rose, extending a hand to her. She got to her feet. Bringing her hand to his lips, he kissed it gently.

“I love you, Kevla-sha-Tahumu. Know that once this task is done I will hasten back to your side. And then, I will never leave it.”

Her heart surged at his words and tears sprang to her eyes. “I will count the moments.”

They still held hands as she walked him to the door. As he opened the door, she let go reluctantly. She glanced quickly down the hall to make sure they were safe from prying eyes and ears. In a whisper, Kevla said, “While you are gone, I will speak with Copper. We will be ready when you return.”

Jareth nodded, then paused, his eyes roaming hungrily over her for a long moment. Finally, with a muttered curse, he reached for her and pulled her to him.

His kiss was both passionate and fierce, loving and possessive and she returned it with a fiery intensity of her own. Her legs went weak and she clung to him, kept from falling only by the iron band of his powerful arm around her. When he pulled away and steadied her, she felt utterly bereft, but his next words heartened her.

“Kevla, I love you so much…I can’t believe I almost walked away from this….”

She shook her head. “No, beloved, it was I who tried to send you away.”

His arm tightened about her so intensely that she found it hard to draw breath.

“Never again,” Jareth whispered. “Promise me. Let us never walk that close to the edge again.”

“Never again,” she pledged, her throat tight.

His face suddenly, oddly, melted into a grin as he released her.

“The next time we are alone together in private quarters,” he said, “You will not escape so easily, my lady.”

Kevla felt her own lips curve in an answering smile as she replied lightly, “You shall not escape at all, my lord.”

Jareth was suddenly serious as he replied, “Gods, I pray not.” He seemed about to say something more, then simply nodded, touched her cheek one last time, and left.

She watched him stride down the hall, moving with same powerful, lithe movements that distinguished the blue Tiger. He turned the corner and was gone. She sighed, closed the door, then leaned against it for support. Jareth had been right—they were no longer the same.

It was some moments before she had collected herself sufficiently to wash her hands and face and step through the fire to Copper’s room.

Chapter Twenty-Two

The cool night air, moist as always from the mists that drifted in across the ocean, tousled Jareth’s hair and caressed his face with the gentleness of Kevla’s fingers. He sighed as he strode briskly away from the castle grounds and up the twining path. Liadan had taken him here, perching behind him atop Tali and telling him the way.

He was not looking forward to seeing her tonight. He liked her a great deal, and there could be no denying-not to her, not to Kevla, not to himself-that he found her physically desirable as well. But something had always held him back from making the simple gesture that would lead to intimacy. He hadn’t really understood it at the time, and yet, a willing, lovely woman had wanted him, and he had found excuse after excuse to avoid being with her.

She would take it well, he knew. But still, it was not in Jareth’s nature to deliberately hurt anyone, and he knew that at the very least she would be disappointed.

But more important than any relationship that did or did not happen between them was the information he would bring her about Bram. If he knew the Horsemistress at all, and he was fairly certain he did, she would channel any disappointment into an attack. He was grateful for her candor about Bram earlier. It made him know that he could trust her. He was very, very glad Liadan was on their side.

As he walked up the twining path, he let his mind wander to Kevla. He felt suddenly cold inside as he realized how close he had come to abandoning his feelings for her. Something inside him that was wiser than his conscious mind had prodded him to go to Kevla tonight before meeting with Liadan. He had played a trick on her, by pretending to leave, but he had to know her mind. The moment that she bowed her head and sobbed his name, he knew that his heart had been right all along. She did love him, as he did her. The fear Kevla had harbored, that she would destroy him with her passion-she had held that fear tightly, wrapped in shame and longing, until he had dispelled it.

Kevla, Kevla, you have no idea how much I wanted to stay….

The soft whicker of a horse jolted him out of his pleasant reverie. He looked up and there was Tali, her reins tethered to the apple tree he had helped coax to fullness and health in front of Liadan’s startled gaze.

He realized that as edgy as he was about this night’s meeting, he had eaten very little at dinner. His stomach rumbled as he reached and plucked an apple, and he smiled a little. The body would not be denied, no matter what turmoil the heart or mind underwent.

He bit into the crisp fruit. Its flesh and juice were sweet and refreshing. He looked up at the moon as he chewed and frowned a little. The horse was here, so Liadan could not be far. He wondered where she had gone.

The moments ticked past and she did not appear. Jareth went to the horse, stroked its smooth neck and offered it the apple core. Tali lipped it gratefully and crunched.

It was then that Jareth saw something that had escaped his notice earlier. A rolled-up parchment was tied to Tali’s saddle. Jareth grinned sadly. No doubt Liadan had had something mischievously erotic planned for this evening.

Sighing, he reached for the scroll and unrolled it. Even though he despised Bram, he had to admit he was grateful that the Anam and his people had taught him the skill of reading. Jareth held the scroll so that the moon shone down upon the letters and read:

Dear Jareth, I am so pleased you kept our appointment. No doubt you recognize Tali; mount her and she will take you to where I am. I have a surprise planned for you.—Liadan

Jareth grimaced. He wanted this over and done with. To keep playing lovers’ games when there was no hope for love between them sat ill with him, but he had no choice. Tali was smaller than the geldings on which Jareth usually trained, so it was with very little effort that he swung himself up into the saddle.

He felt it hit the instant his foot left the ground.

Where once all had been solid, where he had been in control of his mind, his body and his destiny, the Stone Dancer felt all of that suddenly, violently ripped from him. He knew at once, without knowing how he knew, that until this moment, contact with the earth-with his element-had protected him more than he comprehended.

Tiger! He thought, sending a desperate plea out to the one being who knew him better than he knew himself, but even as he attempted it, he knew the message would never get through. His mind watched in horror as his body settled into the saddle, kicked the startled Tali with more violence than he would ever have used, and turned the mare’s head in a direction he had never been before.

Kevla and Copper had discussed their plan down to the last detail. They had tried to think of everything that possibly could go wrong and prepare for it. There was nothing more to say now, and Kevla watched the candle burn placidly, eating the hours away. And still Jareth had not returned.

“Maybe you were wrong, Kevla,” Copper said with a carelessness that was evidence of how little she understood love. “Maybe he was just leading you on. Perhaps he did pick Liadan after all, once he saw her.”

The thought would have hurt Kevla a few scant hours earlier, but now she shook her dark head confidently.

“No,” she said firmly. “I know Jareth better than that. He does not manipulate or lie. If he wanted Liadan, he would have chosen Liadan. Something…something has gone wrong.”

Finally, she had given voice to her fear. Copper did not naysay her. It would be better, of course, for their plans if Jareth had simply succumbed to Liadan’s charms and squandered a few precious hours in loveplay, but Kevla knew that was not what had happened. Jareth loved her, not Liadan. He would break the news quickly to the Horsemistress, tell her what they planned, and return with Liadan. The entire exchange should not have taken more than an hour.

Copper sighed. “I fear you are right. What do you think has happened?”

“I can’t begin to imagine,” lied Kevla. In truth, her mind was racing with dire scenarios, all of them ending up with Jareth in torment. She forced those thoughts out of her mind. It would not serve her to be distracted by worries that she had no way of proving.

Copper looked at her expectantly, and Kevla made her decision. “He told me where he was meeting Liadan. It’s not far from here.”

“Then let us go.”

They obtained mounts from the stables. The young akha who fetched the horses for them was too well-trained to inquire as to where they might be going this time of night. It was in truth not a far ride at all. Kevla didn’t know what to expect, but her knuckles whitened from the grip she had on her horse’s reins. Copper was silent as they cantered along the trail, the thick night mist wet on their faces.

They turned their mounts and ascended the hill. They saw no one.

“Looks like they’ve gone,” Copper said. “I-I’m sorry Kevla.”

Kevla slipped off her horse, biting her lip nervously. “No,” she said firmly. “Something happened to him.” She summoned a small flame in her hand that would serve as a torch and looked around, searching for-what? Something to tell her what had happened. She saw fresh horse’s hoofprints and the imprint of large boots in the moist soil. They looked to have been made by the boots Kevla had watched Jareth put on not so very long ago. He had come here, then.

“Huh,” Copper said. She too had been looking on the ground and now straightened, holding a piece of parchment. At Kevla’s nod, she unrolled it. By the light of Kevla’s conjured flame, they read the missive. Kevla’s heart sank as she read.

“I…I don’t believe it,” she said.

“Nor should you,” Copper said, startling her. “Liadan has the world’s messiest handwriting. She hates to write. I recognize this hand.” Copper looked at her. “This letter was written by Anam Bram.”

Kevla’s heart contracted. Jareth!

“So…what do we do now?”

Kevla swallowed hard, but though the decision nearly killed her, she knew she could make no other.

“Bram has taken Jareth, and probably Liadan too. We must-we must put our plan into action without him.”

Copper looked suddenly nervous. “Somehow I just thought….” She broke off and stared at the ground.

“You just thought he and I would take care of everything,” Kevla finished for her, gentling her voice so that it did not sound like a rebuke.

Copper nodded her red head. Her hair was unbound and it fell in smooth, silky sheets to hide her expression. Kevla reached and gently tucked a strand behind the girl’s ear.

“I didn’t ask for this either,” Kevla said. “But you and I cannot deny what we are. We have a duty that exceeds our own wants and desires…even exceeds our duties to others. Jareth will understand. We’ll do what we have to do, and then we’ll find him. There is one thing I am certain of, and that is that Jareth is still alive. We would know it if any of us were dead. As the Dragon once said to me, the Shadow comes swiftly, once a champion of the world has fallen.”

Copper perked up a bit at that. “Truly?”

Kevla smiled, though her heart was breaking and she was nearly sick with worry. “Truly. But the fact remains, it has come down to the two of us, Copper. Can you do what we planned?”

Copper searched Kevla’s eyes, her full lips quivering. She swallowed hard and announced, “Yes. I can, and I will.”

Kevla reached and squeezed the other girl’s hand. “Then we must speak with your mother. Now.”

Riona stared out the window, onto the moon-silvered beach below. She did not sleep much, any more.

She had slept the sleep of the innocent when she was younger, unwed and uncrowned and unbowed by responsibility. All she had known was victory or defeat, and her dreams were untroubled. And she had slept sweetly in her husband’s arms after passionate lovemaking, drifting into a dream world that was cool and soft and welcoming, waking to find the one she loved more than life itself holding her.

Over two decades ago she had climbed down from this chamber at night, ran across that very stretch of beach to meet her Fialaban lover. She could still feel the sand cool and soft between her toes. There-there was the rock where she had hidden her clothing. And there was where he would rise from the ocean when he saw her, awaiting him on the soft stretch of sand where they made love, clad only in moonlight.

A breeze blew through the opened window, caressing her body with the same cool touch as his webbed hands. She closed her eyes and saw Farronin her mind’s eye—his skin gleaming with water, his only adornment the shell necklace that permitted him to travel between their two worlds. He needed no other regalia to proclaim him as nobility, indeed prince of the realm beneath the sea. He could have been taken for a human in the moonlight, slender and tall and strong; only the sun would reveal the blue tint to his skin and black hair, and the slightly tilted, elongated eyes.

It had been so easy, to take the necklace. She’d just…grasped it and lifted it over his dark head.

Riona buried her face in her hands.

Why have you done this thing, Riona?

I do not wish you to leave me, Farron. I love you.

I come freely every night, risking capture or death, to be with you.

It is not enough. I would have you with me always.

As long as you hold my necklace, I am yours to command, great queen. What you say, I must do.

The bitter irony was that had known all along where she had hidden the necklace. She knew that now. He had known, and stayed because he had loved her. Until she had agreed to what Bram wanted her to do; until she had forsaken their children.

She had made good decisions in battle, in war. She had not been so wise when it came to her own heart.

Riona heard a gentle tapping on the door of her chambers. Her lady in waiting answered the door. Riona heard the murmur of soft female voices and turned from the window. Her eyes widened in surprise as she saw her daughter and the Flame Dancer. With a wave to her servant to indicate that she should withdraw, Riona looked curiously at her two guests.

“The hour is late,” she said bluntly. “What is it you require of me?”

The two young women exchanged glances. Riona realized with an odd combination of feelings that Copper was indeed a young woman, not a child. She was much smaller than Kevla, but they stood side by side with the same straight shoulders, the same quiet but confident bearing.

And to Riona’s surprise, it was Copper who spoke.

“Mother,” she said quietly, “you have never trusted Bram or the Namaraban. And now we bring you good reason not to.”

Riona listened with growing concern as her daughter spoke quietly. Copper spoke of the hidden pool, the reflection in the water and the warning it had given. She spoke of a magical item called the Tenachrym, powerful enough to lift Reshan from the bottom of the sea and to protect it from being glimpsed by the mainland for a thousand years. She spoke of necklaces made by Namaraban craftsmen, given to first her own Companion and then those of the two new Dancers, to “soothe” the mighty creatures. And finally she held out a slightly muddy piece of parchment, ostensibly from Liadan but written in Bram’s elegant script.

“He has Jareth and Liadan. He might already know about the Tenachrym,” Kevla said. “The reflection was right about the Emperor, and this attack on Jareth proves that it was right about Bram as well. If he gets the Tenachrym-I do not yet know the specifics of his plan, but he has proven himself no friend to the Dancers, for all that he is a Lorekeeper. We must act quickly to rescue Jareth and Liadan and stop Bram. He knows we are suspicious of him. How much he knows is the question.”

Riona asked calmly, “How do you know Jareth and Liadan are not dead?”

“Jareth is alive,” Kevla replied. “We would all know it if he were not. I-I cannot say the same for Liadan.”

Riona could not permit herself to think of how close she and the Horsemistress had been all their lives. If Liadan was slain, then she was a casualty of battle, and that was something both Liadan and Riona had accepted as part of their lives since their mid-teens.

She had only one question left. “When Bram speaks, I never know what is lie and what is truth. But is he telling the truth when he says that you and my daughter and Jareth are here to save all of us?”

Kevla nodded. “Yes. And we need your help.”

For the briefest of moments, Riona was shaken to the core. She had always known that Copper was marked for a special destiny. A love child between the land and the sea, she could not be anything but. Yet even in her wildest imaginings, Riona could not have contrived a tale such as this.

She turned her mind back to the matter at hand. Strategizing, planning with trusted allies, and a fight-these were things she understood. But yet-

“This thing you ask of me-it is not something undertaken lightly. The Namaraban are very powerful. Long has there been an uneasy but peaceful relationship between them and the rest of Reshan. If I attack them-if I turn on them as you are asking me to do-nothing will ever be the same. I cannot even begin to guess at the consequences. What you have told me-you must be very, very sure of it.”

Both of them nodded. “You must trust me, Mother,” said Copper.

Riona smiled for a moment. Trust this wild, strange creature who had sprung from her body-who had perplexed and confounded her at every turn. And yet…she did trust her daughter.

“Then you shall have the warriors of the queen of Reshan in this battle, Flame Dancer. Copper, help me with my armor,” she said. “Kevla, rouse Eion and bring him here. We will need to make a plan, and we do not have much time.”

Chapter Twenty-Three

The images were horrific.

Some were memories. Some weren’t. All ripped and tore at Jareth’s heart like a mighty raven feasting on battlefield corpses.

Watching the Legion of the Blue Tiger fall before the onslaught of the Shadow’s army, their white and blue tabards polluted now with the red and brown of blood and mud. Ilta’s face, mutating back and forth between her own and that of the body she had stolen. Standing alone, having failed, waiting grimly to wink out of existence. Taya’s pale, pale face, frozen in the sleep of death. Kevla screaming in fear, tied to a stake, and this time, this time the flames did not respect their Dancer, this time they attacked and burned and blackened and consumed her….

The splash of water brought him into consciousness, but not out of pain. As the liquid dripped from his face, Jareth realized that he had been trussed up like a sheep. He hung suspended from…he could not tell what. He blinked water out of his eyes and as it reached his lips, he realized he was parched and he licked at the droplets.

The voice came out of the darkness.

“You sure know how to show a girl a good time,” said Liadan. Jareth’s heart sank even as her words coaxed forth a smile, unseen in the darkness of…wherever they were. “And you’d better be awake, because that was the last of the water I threw on your face.”

“Liadan,” he said, his voice hoarse.

Her voice was soft, but her words carried. “We can speak, but we must keep our voices low. They come to check in on us from time to time.”

He nodded, then stopped immediately as he realized the futility of the gesture in the darkness and also at the sharp, sudden pain it caused.

“Who did this?” he asked, although he thought he knew.

“Damned blue robes. They must have overheard our conversation, because about eight of them were waiting for me at the hill. How did they get you?”

“Trickery,” he said quietly. “They tied a note to your horse that appeared to be from you. It told me to mount Tali and she would take me to you. Li—I am so sorry you got caught up in this.”

“Eh.” He knew her so well he did not even need to see her slim shoulders shrug. “I’m sorry they used me as bait.”

“I was coming to tell you things we had learned about Bram,” Jareth said. His voice was still rough, but he could speak. What he wouldn’t give for a full waterskin now…and the chance to move his body. The position in which he was tied was excruciating. “And…to tell you that I could not be with you. I’m in love with Kevla, Liadan. I’m sorry.”

Impossibly, she chuckled. “Oh, Jareth. You’ve been calling out her name ever since they brought you in here. I’ve figured that one out.”

Jareth felt himself blush. He did not want to think about Kevla now. His only hope was that when he did not return, she understood what had happened. He didn’t want her to think he had chosen Liadan over her. And even more, he hoped that she, Copper and the queen were putting a plan into action right away, and that they had not decided to wait.

“The note should have alerted you immediately. Why would I want to take you somewhere else when we had a perfectly good rutting spot right there?”

Jareth grinned ruefully. “I did think it was a more romantic gesture than I had expected from you.”

In the darkness, Liadan laughed her deep, throaty chuckle. Jareth was suddenly overwhelmed with affection for her. He was sorry he could not be what she wanted and hoped that she would find it.

“The minute I lifted my foot from the ground, I felt it,” he continued. “They had me right then. They could control my body. I could see what I was doing, but I could not stop it. Then I fell unconscious and woke up here.” He craned his neck upward, and the movement strained his entire body. “Suspended from the ceiling of wherever this is.”

“You get your power from the earth,” Liadan said softly.

“I knew that much,” Jareth said, “but I didn’t really understand how vulnerable I was away from it.”

“But they knew,” Liadan muttered. “And that’s why you’re hanging, rather than tied up on the ground like me.”

“Yes,” Jareth said. “They are Lorekeepers, and the most highly trained, highly educated Lorekeepers in the world, I would imagine. They know more about me-about all the Dancers-than we do ourselves.”

Tiger? he sent, hoping against hope for a response. But there was none. Between his being trussed up and suspended away from his element, and her having the collar about her throat, all communication between the Dancer and his Companion was effectively severed. He and Liadan were completely alone.

He began to twist in his bonds, but they were tied tightly. He had once heard Eion commenting on how those who farmed the ocean knew more about knots than anyone else; now he believed the Swordmaster.

“You said you were tied up too,” Jareth said. “Is there any way you can get to me? Help me untie these knots?”

“No,” Liadan said. “I’m bound hand and foot, curse the wretches. And there are ropes from my hands to my neck. If I struggle too hard I’ll strangle myself. I almost choked myself tossing the water onto you to wake you up.”

For a moment, Jareth permitted himself to be truly horrified at the utter wrongness of what had happened. He, a Dancer, a protector of this world whose destiny was to save it and everyone in it, had been turned on by the single group of people born to support him. They knew his weakness and had calculatedly exploited it. Fury surged through him and he fought the urge to struggle wildly against his bonds, knowing that the more he did so, the more tightly the rope would bite into his flesh.

“Why are they doing this? They must know that if I turn up missing that Kevla would suspect them.”

“I’ve never been able to figure out the blue robes. Your guess is as good as mine.”

Jareth said quietly, “I wonder if they already have the Tenachrym. If they’ve got that kind of power at their disposal….”

“The what?”

“It’s a long story…but it looks like we’re not going anywhere.” He took as deep a breath as he could with the ropes around his chest and slowly, methodically, began to work at the knots while telling Liadan what he, Kevla and Copper had learned.

As he had told Kevla, Eion scorned servants, and it was the Swordmaster himself who stood blinking at her as she stood out in the hallway. Kevla thought Eion looked like a little boy, his dark hair tousled and his face without its rather cocky, cheerful expression. Instead, he looked bemused as he peered at her, his body hidden behind the door.

“Kevla?” he said uncertainly. A grin split his face. “I would dearly love to know why you are here, and I hope it’s for the reason I think it is.”

There was a time when Kevla would have been embarrassed by the comment. There was another time when she would have been offended. Now, she was neither, caught up in the urgency of the situation.

“You need to armor up,” she said without mincing words. “We’re moving against the Namaraban tonight.”

The mischievous smile disappeared. “What’s going on?”

“They’ve kidnapped Jareth and Liadan. Riona asked me to find you.”

Her heart ached for him. She knew his secret, knew that he had loved Liadan for years and feared to speak. Kevla was the only one to whom he had confided, and with Kevla, Eion permitted himself to drop his guard. For a long moment, he said nothing. Then at last he spoke.

“She’s my life, Kevla,” Eion said simply.

And Jareth is mine…. “We will find her,” Kevla assured him with more confidence than she felt. “We’ll find them both.” She prayed that events would not prove her a liar. Impulsively, she placed a hand on his arm and squeezed.

Suddenly Eion was wide awake and deadly serious. “I’ll need some help,” he said. “Give me a moment.”

Kevla agreed, heedless of any sense of propriety. The door closed for a few moments then opened again. Eion was still pulling the tunic over his head. His heavy leather armor stood in a corner of the room. He had told Kevla once that as the Swordmaster, he insisted on having a full set of arms and armor in his quarters at all times.

Thanks to the sound instruction of both Eion and Liadan, Kevla was completely familiar with the buckles and laces on the armor and worked quickly, filling him in on the situation as she did so. The expression on his usually amiable face grew colder by the moment. Kevla looked into his eyes briefly at one point and then away. She loved looking into blue eyes, as their hue was so different from her own, but she was troubled by how easily the blue orbs could turn to chips of ice when their owners grew angry.

“What are my orders, my lady Flame Dancer?”

“Rouse your best men and the top fighters from the Aofaban. Armor them up as discretely as you can,” Kevla said. “We must strike a balance between force and the element of surprise.”

It was a group of about fifteen that quietly made their way to the Grove as the moon was well across the sky. Kevla had never been more nervous in her life. Even when she had approached the Clans of Arukan with the startling revelations about who and what the Great Dragon truly was, even when she had entered into her first battle and sent pulsing balls of fire to destroy living, breathing people, she had not felt this way. Then, she had had her Companion with her. Now, the Dragon drowsed immediately outside the protected Grove, a victim of Namaraban treachery, and she was forced to rely on people who were, for all intents and purposes, strangers to her.

She, Copper, Riona, Eion and some of the best members of both the Aofaban and the Eltaban walked with her. Kevla wished there were some way to quiet the rhythmic thud of the horse’s hooves and the occasional jingle of their tack. Even the leather armor that adorned both male and female warriors made noise as they moved.

She went over the plan in her mind for the dozenth time, trying to find holes in it. There were none, if everything unfolded exactly as they wished it to. She smiled humorlessly; how often did such a thing happen?

There was in truth a great chance of failure if any one thing went wrong, and if that happened, she had no idea what would become of her or any of her comrades in arms. Whatever Bram’s plans were, they did not involve killing the Dancers, or else she was certain Jareth would already be dead. But Kevla did not think Bram would be above murdering the queen in front of her daughter if he felt it would gain him an advantage over Copper.

Everything would hinge on the first thing she did this night, and Kevla knew it. If she succeeded, then the rest of the plan had a good chance of working. If she failed, it would all crumble like a castle made of sand when the tide swept mercilessly over it.

They had sent a scout ahead, a slender, petite woman who moved with shocking silence. She rejoined them now, moving so quietly that when she began to whisper her tidings Kevla jumped.

“They are not on alert, at least not visibly,” the woman said. She had blackened her face with soot and wore dark clothing. Only her eyes gave her away as they glittered in the moonlight. “There are a few lamps lit, but nothing out of the ordinary.”

Kevla suddenly caught the implication of the words. “You have spied on the Namaraban before?” she asked, startled.

The girl threw a quick glance at her queen and bowed slightly. “Her Majesty never has completely trusted the Namaraban,” she said. “I know what this Grove looks like every hour of the day. If they have been alerted to a possible attack, they are hiding it well.”

“Were there any signs of Jareth or Liadan?” asked Eion. His voice was cool and composed. Even Kevla, who knew how desperately worried Eion was, could detect no trace of such emotion in his words.

The scout spoke, “Not clear evidence, but I will report what I saw. There was a lamp lit outside one of the buildings that is usually dark at this hour. It could mean nothing.”

Or it could mean everything, Kevla thought. The scout rolled out a map of the Namaraban encampment. The moonlight was bright enough so that it was easily readable. The scout indicated a small circle with a sooty finger. “That’s the structure with the extra lamp lit,” she said. “It is used for storage, so it is sealed up well.”

Eion nodded. “Anyone stationed outside it?”

The scout shook her head. “No. Which could mean one of three things-either they think it is so safe that Jareth and Liadan don’t need guards, or they are expecting an attack and are trying to appear vulnerable and unaware. Or,” the scout added, flashing a grin that was white against her soot-covered skin, “the building is indeed being used for storage and someone simply left a lamp burning.”

“Let’s assume the second one,” Riona said. “It’s best to be prepared. I trust your eye, Celian, but I trust my knowledge of that man even more.”

The scout bowed. “As Your Majesty wishes.”

Riona squeezed Celian’s bony shoulder. “Wait here and watch,” the queen told her. “Bring in reinforcements if necessary.” She turned to the rest of the small group. She wore no crown atop her curly brown hair, but Kevla thought she looked every inch a queen.

“We know the plan,” she said. “Everyone knows what he or she is supposed to do. I have no doubt but that we will meet resistance. The Namaraban have never seemed to wish to resort to violence, but they will defend themselves. If their magic is as powerful as we suspect, that defense could be lethal. We have two goals, which we all know. If we fall and those goals are met, then glory in battle is ours.”

They all saluted in silence. The queen turned to Kevla. The Flame Dancer hoped that the night was sufficiently dark so that her trembling would not be visible to the others.

“Kevla,” Riona said. “When you are ready, we will follow your lead.”

Chapter Twenty-Four

Kevla licked lips that had suddenly gone dry. “Very well,” she said. “First unit, please take your positions.”

It felt both strange and familiar, giving orders again. Three women, all mounted on the glorious golden horses of the Aofaban, nodded and cantered off. Kevla turned and looked at Copper. For a moment, Kevla though the other girl would embrace her, but she just smiled that strange smile and turned to her mother. Despite her seeming lack of emotion, Kevla knew Copper was apprehensive. There had been a time not too long ago when Copper simply would not have cared enough to undertake such a risk. Kevla was proud at how the girl had grown.

In silence, Copper regarded her mother evenly, then inclined her red head. Riona tried hard to cover her worry, but was not as successful as her daughter. Riona had fought battle campaigns before. She’d faced death and lost friends, Kevla knew. But she also knew that the queen of Reshan had never had to face the possibility of Copper dying in a battle her mother led.

Copper turned quickly and hurried off with Eion and several of his men. They would wait in an agreed-upon position until the time was right for Copper to act. Kevla watched the girl go, almost having to run to keep up with the long-legged strides of the Swordmaster and his men. Already they were moving in the position Kevla knew they would take once they were ready to act, with the warriors encircling the Sea Dancer. She looked so delicate, surrounded by the leather-clad figures of the men; delicate and, Kevla thought oddly, very breakable, like a glass figurine.

She shook off the apprehension and turned to face Riona and the remaining warriors. They would be the ones leading the main attack on the encampment. Kevla knew that the queen had wanted to be the one protecting her daughter; knew also that it was wisdom to assign that task to Eion. The Swordmaster’s skill was equal to the queen’s, surpassing it in some areas, and Eion was not so attached to Copper that there was any risk of him losing focus in protecting her.

“I will go on ahead,” Kevla said. “You will follow. Believe me, you will know when to strike.” She smiled a little. “You won’t miss it.”

“May your sword strike true,” Riona said. Kevla knew it was a common blessing before battle, even though in her case her weapon would be fire, not a sword. She nodded, accepting the blessing, then turned and ran as swiftly and quietly as she could toward the Namaraban Grove.

The Companions all slept in the rolling, flower-starred meadow right outside the Grove. Even though Kevla knew that this was originally because Bram wanted the Companions close but not too close, it was a lucky break for her. It would be much harder to break into the Grove had the Companions been inside rather than outside the circle comprised by the huge trees.

Kevla kept her mind filled with anything other than what she intended to do, in case the Dragon awoke before she reached him. She thought of the day when Tahmu had first come for her, of learning how to make eusho and cure an aching stomach, of a thousand and one things that had nothing to do with being a Dancer or the upcoming conflict. The Dragon had helped her to do this; she felt somewhat guilty about turning this skill back upon her friend, but knew that once the Dragon’s mind was his own again he would understand.

She walked up to him as he drowsed, curled nose to tail. Affection surging through her, she pointed a finger at the gorgeous links of gold and gems that encircled his huge, sinuous neck.

Fire sprang lightning-like from her fingertip. Almost instantly, the chain broke and fell harmlessly to the earth even as the Dragon bolted upright.

His love for her, his outrage at what had been done to him, and his willingness to aid her swept over her so powerfully she almost stumbled. There was no need for words between them, just the fiery essence of the thoughts and feelings.

In silence even more alarming than his bellow of rage would have been to Kevla, the Dragon turned to his fellow Companions. He reached out a single enormous claw to the Tiger, hooked it around the necklace, and shattering the chains so that the links and gems went flying. The Tiger sprang to her feet, her mouth opening in a silent roar as she turned to liberate the Kelpie. Even in their righteous fury, the Companions controlled themselves. The Kelpie’s chain slipped off its bony neck, its fragile links unable to resist the Tiger’s paw. It tossed its head, then reared and pawed the air.

Kevla held up her hand and they waited for her signal. It came a moment later; shouts of “Attack!” to the south-east, where the first unit of soldiers had set fire to a tangle of trees. Kevla watched as figures emerged from houses and scurried to where the small orange flame was starting to grow.

The moment had come. Still standing on the ground, Kevla turned to the gates. At the same moment she extended her hands and thought, Burn, the Dragon opened his maw and exhaled a sheet of fire. The entwined, living branches that formed the gates to the sacred Grove of the Namaraban burst into flame.

The trees began to scream.

Kevla cringed against the sound of agony. All trees were living things, of course, and though Jareth had told her they had a sort of sentience all their own, and that he could feel their pain when damaged, Kevla had never been able to sense such things let alone hear them. But these trees were different. They were things of magic, created a thousand years ago by the awesome power of the artifact that now lay at the bottom of the pool, waiting for Copper to retrieve it. They were something more than simple ancient oaks, and as Kevla was forced to burn them, they retaliated by emitting sounds that shuddered along her bones and broke her heart.

The gate was almost completely clear. The Dragon was in the air now, still breathing great gusts of fire, and the Tiger and Kelpie waited for the way to open to them so they could rejoin their Dancers. Kevla kept firing bolts of orange-yellow flame as well. She saw the beautiful gate writhe and blacken as the guardian trees continued to howl their outrage and agony.

When the branches closed on her, each one grasping an arm and pulling, she supposed she should have expected it. Before they could tear her apart like a toy doll, she increased her body heat so intensely that the wooden limbs were reduced to harmless ash, and kept going.

Jareth now knew it was no boast that those who worked the ocean knew how to tie a knot better than anyone else. All his efforts had availed nothing except to tighten the ropes that bound him. He was exhausted, his muscles aflame with agony, and he was furious.

“Dammit. When I get my hands on these bastards I’ll—“

“Quiet!” snapped Liadan. “Listen. Something’s going on.”

Jareth ceased his rant and strained to listen. He heard it now too-faint, but growing louder. Cries of alarm. Hope surged through him, giving him renewed strength.

“I smell smoke,” he said. “Kevla. I knew she’d come for us.” He laughed, suddenly, even the awful pain retreating slightly before his elation.

The smell of smoke increased. Liadan started to cough. “Happy to be rescued, but let’s hope she finds us before the fires do,” the Horsemistress muttered.

The door was flung open and for a moment a figure was silhouetted against an orange-yellow background. Before Jareth realized what was happening, the figure had raced toward him. For an instance, he thought he was going to be released, but instead hands went around his neck. They were not choking him, not hurting him at all. They were trying to fasten something—

A collar-

So that was what they were going to do to him-just like they had done to the Kelpie and the Dragon and his own beloved Tiger—

“No!” Jareth cried, instinctively thrashing away as best he could. An involuntary scream was torn from him as white-hot pain shot through him at the movement. He would not submit! He would not become tamed, to give his free will to Bram and these false Lorekeepers. His mind cried out for the Tiger, even though he knew it was useless.

We are coming, my dear Stone Dancer. Stay strong. Your tormentors will fall beneath my claws.

The way was clear now, and they met little opposition. The Kelpie took off, its bony, ugly frame barely visible in the darkness, sensing where Copper was and galloping to her as fast as its legs would carry it. Kevla ran through the emptying encampment to the small building where the scout had indicated she believed Jareth and Liadan were being held, but the Tiger beat her there by several heartbeats. The great cat roared as she sprang through the open door and onto the blue-robed Namaraban who had had the bad luck to be there at that moment.

Kevla called a ball of fire for light as she raced in through the door. For an awful moment, the world stood perfectly frozen and still. In the dim lighting of the fireball, Kevla thought at first that Jareth was hanging by a hook through his body, and her heart stopped. Then she saw with a flood of relief that he was merely tied and suspended by a rope hanging from the ceiling. The Tiger darted beneath him as Kevla pointed a finger at the rope and sent a concentrated blast of fire toward it. Jareth dropped to the floor, his fall broken by the soft body of his Companion. Kevla pulled a knife from her belt and began to cut him free with one hand, keeping the ball of flame in her other so she could see.

“Kevla!” he rasped, his voice barely above a whisper. Tears threatened to blur her vision and she blinked them back angrily. Her throat was tight and she could not speak, but continued cutting the ropes that she now saw had sliced into his flesh. The moment his arms were free he pulled her into his arms and kissed her. She clung to him, kissing him back with a depth of emotion she had not suspected she possessed.

“How about a little help over here?” came a gruff female voice.

“Liadan!” Kevla said. “Of course!” Jareth slowly began to disentangle himself from the remains of the rope while Kevla went to the Horsemistress and freed her.

“A torque,” Jareth said, wincing as feeling came back to limbs that had gone numb. The Tiger tried to help, nuzzling him and licking him with her long raspy tongue. “They tried to put a torque on me. Just like on the Companions.”

Kevla froze for a moment, then resumed cutting Liadan’s bonds. “I remember when I came to the grove, they were always working on jewelry,” she said, slightly sick. “They were crafting chains for us, too, then.” Her gaze fell on the body of the Namaraban who had fallen beneath the blue Tiger. One hand still grasped something that glittered in the light of her fire-an elegant, golden torque, with flowing designs. Surely slavery had never been so beautiful.

Liadan got to her feet slowly, staring at the blue Tiger, who gazed back at her, tail lashing and eyes glowing eerily in the faint light.

“I have to go,” Kevla told them. “The Tiger will help you. Subdue as many Namaraban as you can. Try not to kill them-many of these people may not know what Bram was planning. We just have to buy time for Copper to get the Tenachrym.”

“Then what?” Liadan asked.

“I don’t know,” Kevla confessed. “We don’t know what will happen when Copper finds the Tenachrym. If indeed it is still there for her to find.”

Liadan looked surprised, then gave Kevla her familiar grin. “It will be fun to find out,” she said.

Kevla felt herself grinning in return, but she could not linger. She caught Jareth’s gaze one more time, longed to kiss him, and saw in his face the same desire.

“Go,” he said, and Kevla went, reentering a night of fire and screams and chaos.

Copper was gasping for breath, running full out as her guards jogged with single-minded purpose toward the sacred cave. She stumbled over her robe and fell hard on her knees. She had barely gotten to her feet when she was lifted off them and swung over Eion’s broad, armored shoulder. She did not protest, though; every heartbeat mattered now, and if they reached their destination more quickly this way, then she was content to be carried like a sack of grain. She clung to Eion as best he could and she felt him adjust his grasp on her, touching her in places that would be highly inappropriate at any other time but now was a grim necessity.

Bracing her hands on Eion’s back for support, she lifted her head and looked toward the village. The gray haze of smoke was starting to block out the twinkling stars in the night sky. Cries of fear and outrage reached Copper’s ears, but she was unmoved by them. The warriors under her mother’s command would exercise what restraint they could, and as far as she was concerned, the Namaraban had brought this, and worse, upon themselves.

Then she thought of some of the children she had seen here. Did they deserve what was happening here tonight? Copper’s soft mouth frowned. That was not her call, not her decision. She had a specific task tonight, and she would accomplish it.

I am coming to you, came a beloved voice in her mind. I will be waiting for you when you emerge. But first, I must kick a few of these Namaraban for what they have done to me and the other Companions.

Her face split in a grin. She sent back a wave of love to the Kelpie.

A few jolting moments later Eion set her back on her feet with surprising gentleness. They were right at the entrance of the cave.

“Go,” Eion said. “We will guard this entrance with our lives. No one will disrupt you. You have my word.”

She smiled at him fleetingly, then picked up her skirts and ran as fast as she could through the caverns. She ran past the images of the Dancers who had come before, not even noticing them this time, and squeezed through the tight opening into the cavern.

Copper did not slow as she approached the pool. She dove into the still, cool water with the grace and power of a dolphin, her body arrow-straight and plunging directly down.

The dim light from the cavern faded and Copper was swimming downward into darkness. Kicking powerfully, irritated at the drag the sodden garment she wore forced on her progress, she continued to go deep. She trusted whoever it was who had spoken to her through her reflection. And she was the Sea Dancer. Water, even water in which she could see nothing, was her element.

When the darkness began to lighten gradually, she wondered if her mind was playing tricks on her, but within a few heartbeats the light grew stronger. Copper’s spirit surged. She increased her speed, pulling with her arms and plunging ever deeper into the seemingly endless depths of this sacred pool.

The light grew steadily brighter, a cool, clean, pure white light that called to her. She could see the cracks and marks on the rocky walls that surrounded her, could see every wrinkle and whorl on her small hands as they reached out to pull her even more swiftly through the water. The light was as bright as the sun, but as soft as the moon, and although it revealed everything, it did not hurt Copper’s eyes with its radiance.

And then, when she felt she had been swimming downward for hours, she saw it.

It looked like a teardrop-shaped pearl about the size of her fist, radiating that soft, luminous glow. Her heart leaped and she hastened the last few feet to where it was nestled in the heart of the rocky surface. She reached out to grasp it, then pulled her hand back, suddenly hesitant.

Was this glorious object really for her? It had lain here undisturbed for ten centuries, probably peacefully radiating that hypnotic, gentle glow all that time. Should she really take it? What if the reflection was wrong?

She shook her head and her red hair floated around her cloud-like with the gesture. No. The Dancers had been reborn. This was the final Dance, upon which everything rested. They had had a vision about the Tenachrym long before they even knew what it was. The Emperor already had an advantage over them with his possession of the Tenacru. This beautiful, opalescent gem belonged to them.

Her heart slamming against her chest, Copper extended a hand and closed her small fingers around the object.

It felt warm and pleasant as it pressed against her palm. For a moment, she thought she would be unable to pull it free, then, with a small twist, it came loose. It fit her hand perfectly, and she brought it to her face, gazing deep into its heart. A sense of peace swept over her, and she smiled at it.

The water around her shivered. She felt it caress her as it moved of its own accord.

Impossible. This was an enclosed pool, not the restless water of the ocean. How….

Fear knifed through her. She clutched the Tenachrym hard and began to head for the surface as swiftly as possible. Something had been set in motion when she had removed the Tenachrym from where it had peacefully rested for so long. Something Copper didn’t understand, but hoped that Kevla or Jareth or the Companions would.

She knew she was almost as swift as the dolphins whose movements she now emulated, but the ascent seemed to take even longer than the descent. The water of the pool was now definitely moving.

Hurry, hurry, Copper, she told herself. Hurry…something is happening….

There was no darkness in the water, now that she bore the light of the Tenachrym. When she shot to the surface at last, she was almost surprised; she had had no idea how close or far she was to finally emerging.

She swam quickly to the edge of the pool and lithely pulled herself out of the water. Almost immediately, she fell. The very earth beneath her was trembling.

A rough hand seized her by the hair and hauled her to her feet. She heard a sudden crack and pain flashed across her senses. Her cheek burned furiously.

She blinked and stared, horrified, at Bram’s face, contorted in fury.

“You little idiot!” he shrieked. “You don’t understand what you have done! You’ll kill us all!”

Chapter Twenty-Five

Copper stared at Bram. She could feel the earth trembling slightly beneath her feet, a deep shaking that seemed to penetrate her very bones, and wondered if Bram were speaking the truth.

He was panting from exertion as he wiped a trembling hand across his face. “Give that to me,” he demanded.

Copper responded by folding the Tenachrym even closer. Keeping her eyes locked on him, she moved one bare foot back against the slippery surface, retreating. How had he gotten in? Had he managed to kill all those who were standing guard at the entrance to the cave? Somehow she doubted it. There must be another way in. Frightened of the coldness she saw in his eyes, she clutched the precious item, warm and smooth to the touch, and shook her wet head.

“No,” she said. “Maybe this once belonged to the Namaraban, but not any more.”

“You can do nothing with it,” Bram insisted. He took a step toward her. “That is not Dancer magic.”

Suddenly Copper’s fear dissipated. She looked at him with new eyes, eyes that saw not a once-respected teacher and friend and powerful mage, but a pale, soft man who yet was a terrible danger.

“No,” she replied, in a voice suddenly strong with resolution. “It’s not Dancer magic. But it’s not yours any more either.”

Bram’s face turned bright red. “Stupid child!” he spat. “The Tenachrym came to this place with the Lorekeepers! Who has a better claim to it than we?”

“You forfeited that claim when you turned on the Dancers!” Copper shrieked. “This is going somewhere where it can be used as it was meant to be used, where it—“

The earth shook so violently Copper stumbled and the precious item, still wet and slippery, nearly fell out of her grasp. She heard Bram cry out in horror, then grunt in relief when her fumbling fingers caught it just in time. An instant later, Copper opened her mouth in a soundless cry of pain. Bram had probed her thoughts-not delicately, as he had always done before, but violently, assaulting her mind and ripping the information he wanted from it. Copper realized that now, nothing was secret; he knew everything she did-about the reflection, the Tenachrym, the attack-everything.

“The island was raised by this,” Bram said in an unnaturally calm voice. “It will sink back to the bottom of the ocean if you don’t give the Tenachrym to someone who knows how to use it!”

Thoughts and feelings surged through Copper so fast she could not grasp a hold of any of them. Was he right, or was he lying? If she tossed the glowing orb back into the pool, would everything be as it was before? If she gave it to him, would he then-

“No!” cried her own voice, and Copper turned, startled, to see her reflection in the water. “It is too late. Things have been set in motion that cannot be undone. And at all costs, Bram must not be allowed to have the Tenachrym!”

Bram stared at the reflection that was moving and talking on its own. “It…what….”

Copper didn’t know or care what “it” was or wasn’t. All she knew was that she trusted it, she didn’t trust Bram, and Bram was in her way.

“Move aside,” she said coldly.

Bram shook his head. “No. Give that to me.”

Again the earth rumbled and Copper struggled to keep her footing. “You want to control the Dancers!”

To her astonishment, he laughed. “Of course I do! Do you not understand the odds stacked against you? Jareth is a barbarian and Kevla a bastard serving girl! None of you can be trusted with something of this importance. I don’t know how you found out about the torques, but I give you credit for it. Jareth’s should be on him even now. They were not quite ready, but they will have to do.”

Copper gaped. “Torques?”

Bram’s eyes narrowed. “Ah…so you didn’t know. A lucky guess then.”

“You-you made torques for us…just like you made the collars for the Companions!” Copper cried, working it out even as she spoke. “But why now? Why have you not tried it on me before?”

“You were never a threat,” Bram said. “You are a half-formed, stunted thing, Copper. Haven’t you ever wondered about your Lorekeeper? Or why you seem so different from everyone else? Why you never really fit in?”

She stared at him, eyes wide, panting. “I-“The Kelpie’s question floated back to her: Where do you belong?

He moved toward her slowly. “You are incomplete. Unfocused. Without directed will or motivation. Easy to bend to my will with no magic at all. And do you know why?”

He drew closer. “You’ve got no soul, Sea Dancer!”

Copper gasped, shaking her head in mute protest. Bram continued on inexorably. “Your Lorekeeper died in the womb in the Fourth World. It’s never been born here, and never will be. Without the Namaraban, you’d never even be what you are now. Give me the Tenachrym. I’ve no more wish for the end of the world than you do, but the Dancers will not be able to triumph this time, flawed as they are, without my direction. Come, Copper.”

He was almost benevolent now, extending his hand, and smiling. “Give it to me. A soulless thing like you cannot possibly-“

“No.” Directed or not, soulless or not, not knowing where she belonged, Copper knew one thing. Anam Bram could not ever, ever, be allowed to possess the Tenacru.

Something finally snapped inside Bram. His face went almost purple with rage. “Give it to me, damn you!”

He lunged for her, teeth bared, hands like claws. Copper was deadly silent and reacted without thinking.

The water, her element, obeyed her need. It surged up from the pool to tower for the briefest of instants like a wave about to come crashing down on Bram. He ignored it and sprang on Copper. The Sea Dancer’s feet slipped out from under her and she went down hard on her back. She still clutched the Tenachrym to her small breasts, wondering why the force of Bram’s weight slamming onto her had not shattered the object. Panting, Bram sat up, straddling her, and slapped her again, hard. His thick fingers dug into her arms, trying to pry them apart.

Copper expected the wave of water to come crashing over them, drenching them both. An annoyance, surely, but it would not deter Bram from his quest. He had proven he was quite willing to hurt her, but she knew he would not kill her. He needed her alive.

She wished wildly she could make the stones hurl themselves at Bram, as Jareth could have done; could call fire as Kevla did. But she was the Sea Dancer, and all she had was water. It would wet her enemy, but he would be relentless. He would force her arms apart, seize the Tenachrym, and use its power to somehow enslave them all. Copper wept, not from fear or pain, but from sheer anger at the situation.

Water, help me!

The water obeyed.

The wave that hung, poised to strike, did not come crashing upon the two struggling bodies at the pool’s edge. It formed tendrils and began to twine toward Bram, who struggled on, utterly oblivious. Before Copper’s startled gaze, the water-tendrils narrowed still further and forced themselves into Bram’s mouth, nostrils and ears.

Bram’s grip on her arms loosened at once as he clawed at his face. Copper scooted back, one arm firmly clutching the treasure. Bram tried to cry out, but the only sound he emitted was a horrible choking, gurgling noise. The water was merciless. It continued to pour into him, flooding his mouth and lungs and ears.

Copper watched, fascinated.

Bram spasmed, coughing desperately. He expelled a great deal of water, but still the liquid tendrils kept coming. Copper wondered if she could halt what was happening. By the time the thought occurred to her, though, she knew it was too late.

Bram pitched backward. Copper heard his head thud against the stone. The water suddenly lost its ability to hold itself into any kind of form and splashed down harmlessly.

Bram lay completely still. He had drowned on dry land.

Copper was trembling, but she wasn’t sure from what emotion. Was she horrified…or elated? She got to her feet, swaying a little as the earth trembled yet again.

Bram had earned this fate. She had no regrets for what she had done.

Sea Dancer, I await you-hurry! There is not much time!

Copper’s head whipped up as the Kelpie’s urgent voice filled her thoughts.

I am coming, she sent back, her thoughts clear and cool and focused, and raced back the way she had come.

Kevla fell to her knees as the earth shook. The tone of the cries around her had changed in the last few moments. Before, there had been whoops and shouts from the queen’s soldiers, designed to instill terror in their enemy. The Namaraban had responded with cries of alarm and outrage in return. Fighting had ensued; more than Kevla wished now lay dead or injured.

But then the earth itself had begun to shake, and suddenly the shouts and yelling took on a new timbre of fear and bewilderment. Kevla had realized quickly that if the Dancers had ever been in danger from Namaraban spells, such magic would need to be sprung upon them, as it had been with the enchanted necklaces that so tamed the wild Companions-and eventually would have tamed the Dancers—or the trickery that had led to Jareth’s capture. Caught by surprise, the Namaraban had nothing that would stop the Dancers. She saw a few Aofaban and Eltaban running terrified in the wrong directions, or standing still as if turned to stone, but even that would not stop the queen’s warriors from achieving their task.

Kevla herself concentrated on sowing fear and chaos. She had no desire to physically harm these people, so she kept her fireballs small and carefully directed. They exploded close to the Namaraban, not on top of them. This is a different sort of fight than the battle against the Emperor’s forces, she thought. These people have been misled. They are not really the enemy.

There was only one man among them she considered a true foe, and with any luck at all, Copper was well on the way toward capturing the essence of his power.

She heard the Tiger’s roar before she saw the mighty cat. Turning, Kevla beheld Jareth mounted atop his Companion. She raced to meet him even as he reached down to quickly clasp her fiercely.

“Liadan?” Kevla had to shout to be heard atop the screaming, even standing so close to Jareth.

“With the Aofaban. They brought her horse,” Jareth said, and grinned. His face was illuminated by Kevla’s fire. At that moment the earth again shuddered, as if it was in pain. Any mirth bled from Jareth’s face as even his sure-footed mount struggled to stay balanced. Kevla clung to him and managed not to fall.

“Jareth—can you stop it?”

Jareth was the Stone Dancer, the master of Earth magic. If anyone could halt this sudden shaking of the very ground, it was he. To her shock and disappointment, Jareth shook his head.

“No,” he cried. “I’ve tried. This is not a natural occurrence. I’ve no power over this.”

Their eyes met. Kevla opened her mouth to give utterance to her horrible, dawning suspicion when she heard a girlish voice crying her name. She turned, one hand still on Jareth’s arm, and saw Copper and the Kelpie barreling down on them. The Kelpie came to a sudden stop and Copper withdrew something she had wrapped carefully in the skirt of her dress.

The glow was soft and beautiful, and for a moment Kevla forgot about the madness swirling around them. It was as if Copper held the moon in her lap, luminous and soothing. Kevla stepped away from the blue Tiger, her hands reaching out to touch the softly radiating orb.

“Bram is dead,” Copper said abruptly, her voice breaking the subtle spell that had Kevla so enraptured. “I killed him.”

“How?” Jareth demanded. Kevla stared up at the girl. She looked completely calm.

“I drowned him. He tried to take the Tenachrym. He attacked me, and I fought back.” Copper looked down at Kevla. “The earthquakes-Bram said that the island is sinking. I don’t know if I believe him, he could be lying, but—“

“But the Tenachrym’s power is what raised Reshan from the ocean in the first place,” Kevla finished. She stared again at the orb, wondering how something so gentle-seeming could be so powerful…and so deadly.

“That would explain why the earth would not respond to me,” Jareth said. “I knew it was nothing natural…and now we know why.”

“How do we stop it?” Kevla demanded. Copper’s calm gaze wavered. “Copper…the island is sinking! We caused this, we have to stop it!”

“I don’t know!” Copper cried furiously. “I don’t know. I just took it like the reflection told me to, and now….”

“Jareth, is it true? Is Reshan sinking?”

Jareth shook his head, anger and helplessness in his expression. “I can’t tell. I know it is in distress, and I know it’s not natural, whatever’s going on.”

Let me make sure,” Kevla cried. She tore her gaze away from the Tenachrym and called mentally to the Dragon. She cast an anguished glance up at Jareth, who nodded his agreement. Turning from both fellow Dancers, Kevla ran toward a clear space to meet her Companion. When she looked up for him, he was silhouetted against the full moon, graceful and glorious and powerful, then he came swiftly to earth.

It had been a long time since she had sat astride him, but she climbed atop him now without even thinking about it, so deep went their familiar bond. She caressed his smooth scales, a lump rising in her throat as she realized how much she had missed this intimate connection between Dancer and Companion. She sensed his love for her as well, but they both knew they had a task to do.

The great red Dragon sprang into the sky, mighty wings flapping, rising higher and higher. The earth fell away from them, growing smaller. Even the blue Tiger became a small dot.

We need to find out if it is true…if the island is indeed sinking.

Understood, he thought back, and turned smoothly to take them in a flight path that encircled Reshan. Kevla stared down, grateful for the moon’s light that provided surprisingly clear illumination. Even so, the Dragon’s movement prevented her from seeing what she needed-dreaded-to see.

Dragon, can you hover?

He obeyed at once, flapping his wings rapidly and staying as still as he possibly could. Heart racing, Kevla leaned over and gazed down at the shoreline. She found a landmark-a large tumble of stones-and focused on them. At first, she thought perhaps that their theory was wrong, that all she saw was particularly violent waves crashing upon the black, jagged stone.

And then she hissed sharply. The single, jagged rock upon which she had fixed her eyes was now partially obscured.

The ocean was slowly but visibly creeping up the shoreline.

Reshan, stolen from the ocean and its people a thousand years ago, was returning to whence it had come.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Copper stared up at the sky, waiting for Kevla’s return. She clutched the Tenachrym with one hand and the sparse, spiky mane of the Kelpie with the other. Surely it was only a few brief moments since Kevla had left, but to the young Sea Dancer, it felt like an eternity.

The conflict had died down now, as the fires that had been set were starting to die. The Namaraban had been taken by surprise. They had been attacked and demoralized. The only thing that could have caused them to truly rally would have been the appearance of their Anam, and he had seemingly forsaken them. So far, only the three Dancers knew what had become of Bram. Copper’s mind went back to the image of the Anam lying dead in the cavern, water dribbling from his nose and mouth and ears. She still felt no remorse over the act and wondered if that would come later, indeed if it would come at all.

Riona was a good leader as well as a good fighter, and once she had sensed the shift in the tide of battle she had instructed her warriors to begin rendering aid and putting out the fires. And the earthquake, the terrifying rumbling of the place everyone in this Grove called home, had further sent any resistance to the queen’s troops crumbling.

Copper squinted, straining to see the faintest flicker of black against the indigo sky that would tell her the Dragon was descending.

“Are you sure you cannot stop this?” she asked Jareth, already knowing the answer but needing to voice the question nonetheless.

“My magic is natural magic,” Jareth replied. He, too, gazed upwards, his face drawn with concern. “The Tenachrym is something else entirely. The earth will not obey its Dancer on this. If indeed the island is sinking, then we will need to move quickly to save your people.”

Copper was silent for a moment, then said quietly, “I didn’t know this would happen. But…is it really such a bad thing?”

Jareth turned to look at her in shock. “There are thousands of people on this island, Copper. They’re going to drown if we can’t stop this!”

Copper bit her lower lip. Of course, when Jareth put it that way, it did sound bad. But still…She thought about what Silver had told her. She imagined the horror the Fialaban had felt, when their land was suddenly, inexplicably, ripped upward by the same force that twisted them into monsters. They had done nothing to deserve such a fate, and yet it had been forced upon them. Their descendants had been forced to live with the consequences for a thousand years. And now, the island was returning to the ocean. Somehow, it seemed to her to have an odd sense of justice about it.

But in those thousand years, the Reshanaban had grown and thrived on this island. It was their home now, as much as it had once been the home of the Fialaban who were now the FinFolk. She thought about the children she had seen bringing meals to their parents who worked in the fields, of the courageous men and women who fought the incursions of the FinFolk on horseback or on foot. Perhaps Bram had truly deserved what had happened to him…but did the little girl over there, crying as one of the Aofaban tended her burned arm, deserve to drown in terror? Did Liadan?

Her thoughts were broken by a reptilian shadow crossing the moon. A few seconds later, Kevla landed in the clearing outside the Grove, where until tonight all three Companions had drowsed in a spell-induced tranquility.

Both Sea Dancer and Stone Dancer hastened to her on their Companions’ backs. No sooner had they gotten within earshot than Kevla said bluntly, “It’s sinking.”

Before Copper could even form a sentence in response, Jareth had swung himself off the Tiger’s back and strode to her. “You’ve got to stop it.”

Copper looked at Kevla for help, but Kevla’s usually kind face was stern. Jareth’s blond brows had drawn together and he reached up to shake Copper. “Copper!”

“But I…I can’t use the Tenachrym, I’m a Dancer, just like you,” Copper cried. “It raised the island and now it’s returning it to the ocean. There’s nothing we can do!”

Kevla spoke quietly, but her firm voice carried. “Perhaps there is nothing we can do to stop Reshan from sinking. But we can save its people.”

“How?” Copper almost shrieked the word.

“You are the Sea Dancer!” Kevla snapped. “The ocean will obey you.”

Copper stared at her. “I don’t understand!”

The earth shook so hard that even the Companions stumbled. Screams arose again and this time, several buildings collapsed.

“I know you’re torn,” Kevla said, quickly and urgently. “But you don’t have the luxury of time right now. Get to water, immediately. Jareth, see to it that she does-the beach not far from the castle. We’ll meet you there.”

“What does she want me to do?” Copper demanded of Jareth.

“I don’t know,” Jareth said, returning to the Tiger and leaping atop her back. “But I know Kevla. If she has a plan, it’s probably going to work. Come on, Sea Dancer. Time to live up to your name.”

The mighty blue Tiger turned and raced toward the southeast.

“Shall we follow?” said the Kelpie, tossing his ugly head. “Or shall we let them stew a bit?”

Copper sniffed. She suddenly felt much younger than she ever had before-younger, and more helpless. She wanted her mother, for the first time she could recall. She wanted her sweet sister, her wise and kind father, the feel of the ocean water on her bare skin, with the only decision being how late to linger in its cool depths before returning to the castle that had been her home for half her life.

Her green eyes widened. Half her life. Tomorrow was her birthday. Tomorrow was the day she would have to decide-live on the land and forsake the ocean, or embrace the sea and abandon the feel of soft grass between her toes.

The Kelpie pranced, awaiting his Dancer’s reply. For a moment, Copper couldn’t speak. Then, in a thick voice, she said, “We follow.”

She felt a surge of approval and…love…from the Kelpie unlike anything else she had ever sensed from him before. Always he had been a steadfast friend, but his affection for her had been playful, mercurial, as readily shifting as the tides. Kevla had spoken with Copper on more than one occasion about the nature of the bond Kevla and Jareth had with their Companions. Kevla told Copper of the Dragon breathing fire on her, causing her terrible pain, so that she would remember who she was. Copper had been appalled. And then she had been even more confused when Kevla spoke of the great love and trust that was between them, and of the Dragon’s no-nonsense counsel and direction. Copper had not spoken much with Jareth, but she had seen the look on his face tonight as he almost constantly reached to stroke the Tiger’s thick coat, probably unaware that he did so.

She had never felt that kind of a bond with her ugly, beautiful Kelpie, although she remembered feeling a sense of connection, of recognition, when he had first urged her to leap onto his back and taken her into the depths of the lake so long ago. Of course, her relationship with him had been fettered far too early, thanks to the Namaraban and their deceitful, golden chain. Even so, even before that moment that had for years dampened this unique relationship, the Kelpie’s guidance had been different from that of the other Companions, she now realized. He held back. He waited for her to make her own choices, and supported her in her decisions, be they right or wrong.

She wondered if she’d ever made a really right choice before, because the sense of support and warmth that now flowed from him to her was new. Copper suddenly reached forward and clung to the Kelpie’s skinny neck as he raced on long, bony legs to follow Kevla and Jareth to the shore.

They reached it in a very few moments. It had been so long since Copper had ridden the Kelpie that she had forgotten that he was fleeter than an ordinary horse, even the glorious golden steeds the Aofaban rode. She leaped off his back, the Tenachrym safely wrapped in fabric ripped from her dress, and raced into the water. A heartbeat later, she felt the earth shake so violently that she fell to her hands and knees. She heard the rumbling and cracking sounds as all around her trees split and the sand which covered her hands up to her wrists quivered like a beast in pain.

Copper’s eyes widened and she looked up at Jareth, who had also dismounted and run to her. “It…it is hungry,” Copper said in a hoarse whisper. “It has been so quiet…so patient…but now it wants the island back.”

Suddenly the water splashed her violently and she gasped, but it was only the wave caused by the Dragon landing in it. Kevla slogged through the water as quickly as possible to Copper. Jareth quietly repeated what Copper had said.

“There’s nothing we can do,” Copper said, almost numbly.

“Yes there is,” Kevla said. “I’ve been on the Dragon’s back while you two came here. This is the point on Reshan that is closest to the mainland. Copper, the ocean—“

“Is hungry!” Copper cried, suddenly sitting back and hugging herself to stop her abrupt trembling. “Don’t you understand? I am of the ocean, but I cannot fight it!”

“I cannot fight the earth,” Jareth said, “nor would I want to. There are things it knows even better than I.”

Kevla looked at him, and Copper saw the love that passed between them. “Nor do I fight fire,” Kevla said. She knelt beside the girl in the water that now came up to their hips. “Copper, listen to me. The Dancers are the elements made flesh. But we are part of them. Their powers are granted to us so that we can help save this world. We’re not like Bram. We’re not rulers, forcing the elements to do what we want just for our own amusement.”

Something Kevla said stung Jareth, for a shadow fell across his face and he looked away. Copper’s eyes narrowed, but she listened attentively to Kevla.

“Doing that is wrong. It is an abuse of our powers. But you cannot simply throw up your hands and walk away from this. You’re the daughter of the ocean and of the land. If Riona were to die tonight, you would become queen of Reshan. You have a responsibility. We all do, but tonight, it all falls on you.”

Copper looked at her with enormous eyes. Kevla reached and gently squeezed her shoulder.

“The mainland lies in that direction,” Kevla said, pointing. “It’s not close…but it is there. I have seen it tonight-from the air, it is visible.”

“The mainland,” Copper said. “The Tenachrym kept it hidden from our sight.”

Jareth too stepped forward and knelt in the water beside Copper. Copper looked to where Kevla had pointed. She had only the other woman’s assurances and old folktales of the existence of an “island” so big her mind could not even grasp it.

“Even if the FinFolk would let us all sail safely, we do not have enough ships to carry everyone,” Copper murmured.

“Not ships,” said Jareth. “You need to ask the ocean for help. It will obey you-you are the Sea Dancer.”

And suddenly Copper understood what they were saying. She had called water earlier tonight, to a deadly purpose. She had summoned it as a wave, and then shaped it to suit her needs as thin tendrils that eventually drowned Bram.

Copper stared at the water swirling around her. She heard splashes, and then out of the corner of her eye saw two long, spindly equine legs. She felt the Kelpie’s soft nose brush the back of her head and a swell of support and devotion washed over her gently.

Copper closed her eyes and concentrated on the sensation of the water over her hands, her hips. In the cavern, the water had obeyed her need, not her spoken, articulated thoughts. How should she ask? Demand, or command, or cajole? How specific should she be? Should she-

Oh, for pity’s sake, just do it, came the Kelpie’s annoyed thoughts. Copper’s face split into a grin. The bluntness was exactly what she needed to chase away her own fears that might taint what she was about to do. The Kelpie-peculiar, contrary and strange though he might be-was obviously as wise as any of the other Companions.

The Sea Dancer took a deep breath and reached out with her mind to her element.

The need is great, she thought. Thousands will die if I do not help them.

Beside her stood her allies, Kevla and Jareth; strangers to her until so very recently, yet closer than any other people on earth save the two that still awaited their coming. There were no shocked gasps, no exclamations. These two understood the sort of thing Copper could do better than she herself, and they watched in silent appreciation and honoring, not in stunned wonder.

The earth again trembled, a sobering reminder of what was at stake. Still kneeling in the water and sand, Copper said to her friends in a voice that was calm and steady, “Find the Reshanaban. Find them all, even the Namaraban. Bring them here. The island is sinking, and I will not be able hold back the water indefinitely.”

Copper’s concentration was deep, so deep that she barely heard Kevla and Jareth speaking to one another in urgent voices. Faintly, she heard the sound of flapping wings and assumed Kevla had departed. She was unprepared for Jareth suddenly materializing at her shoulder and dropping to his hands and knees beside her.

Copper could not permit herself to be distracted, so she did not look at the other Dancer as he dug his fingers into the sand. He breathed deeply and dropped his head, concentrating as she was concentrating.

She could not help it; still focusing on the water, she asked quietly, “I thought you said that the magic prevented you from keeping the island from sinking.”

“It does,” he answered, his voice deep and resonant. “But it is still earth. It will tear itself apart in its descent if I do not help it hold together. Kevla is helping to gather your people. I will do what I can to keep the earth that is Reshan quiet. You must guide us safely to the bottom of the ocean floor.”

Copper shivered at the words and swallowed hard. She felt her control slip, for just the briefest heartbeat, and the water around her trembled like something alive.

“Then let’s do it,” she said firmly.

Later, she would recall very little of these moments, save that they seemed interminable. She asked the ocean to accept the island gently into it, to stay its greedy waves, to let it sink gently down and return to the ocean floor softly. It obeyed her, for she was of it, and it of her.

The earth beneath her rumbled almost constantly. She could not spare a glance any longer to see how Jareth kept it from breaking apart, only trusted that he did. Sometimes the island would drop suddenly, lurching heavily in its descent, and the water would try to engulf the land. Then Copper summoned everything she had and again, for the hundredth time, the thousandth time, pushed it back.

Once there came a dreadful roaring sound and despite herself Copper’s head whipped around. To her right, where the cliffs jutted out a ways into the ocean, she saw the entire cliff face crumble and slide with sickening slowness into the sea. There were crofters there, she knew; she watched as their little huts were eagerly devoured by the blue-gray waves. She could only hope that they had been safely evacuated.

More than once, she felt the earth heave and buck beneath her like an unruly mount. More than once, Copper’s control over the furious sea slipped, and she knew that an enormous wave had reached a great hand onto the land and grabbed what it could before she forced it to retreat.

The island moved ever downward. The ocean pulled away at Copper’s command, and Reshan lay in an odd hollow of the ocean. The strangeness of the image it presented baffled her. She was used to the ocean at her feet, receeding gently away from the land as the sand and earth moved upward to the hills and valleys and cliffs. Now, it was the sea that sloped upward around still-dry land, forming subtle but steep walls, like a watery hand cupping a stone.

That Copper was not overrun by panicked islanders as she strove to protect them was amazing to her; dimly she knew that Kevla and the Aofaban and Eltaban were responsible for keeping her safe from assault by those too terrified to understand what was really happening.

Down went the island, bucking sometimes, shivering and quaking. And upward soared the walls of water, wanting so badly to crash upon and reclaim this speck of land that had been stolen from its bosom so long ago.

You will have it soon, Copper promised the yearning ocean. Stay back a little longer.

The island met the ocean bed hard. Copper was thrown briefly up into the air and landed face down in the water, so startled she opened her mouth and took in sand and salt water. She spat it out and returned her attention to the water that was still under her control.

For the first time, she permitted herself to fully see what she was doing. She looked up, stunned even though it was her own creation, at the walls of water towering hundreds of feet above her. She could not even see a clear delineation of where ocean ended and sky began. It merged into dark, nighttime shades of black and indigo and blue, but above, the moon glowed.

Copper coughed again, craving clear water to wash out the sand, but that would have to wait. Still keeping a firm grip on her command of the sea, she held up her hands as if forcing the water to part with her slender fingers rather than her will. It began to move, drawing away from the center with such a sound as had never been heard on this world before. Later, Copper wouldn’t even be able to describe it. Like rushing water, only backward…like singing, only in a voice no human ear could understand. It happened slowly but steadily, starting with the water that surrounded her small hands. It pulled back, as if ebbing, but sideways rather than back toward the depths, parting as if for the brow of an invisible ship. The line was perfectly straight, running from Copper’s hands directly to where Kevla had pointed-where the mythic mainland was supposedly located. The channel became wider-the width of her shoulders, then a few more feet, then large enough to let several horses running abreast through, then larger still.

Slowly the channel expanded, moving steadily toward the mainland that was unseen in the darkness, but that Kevla had assured her was there. Copper felt the water obeying her, and smiled through the strain. She pointed to the channel that led away in front of them. Focusing as she had never focused before, Copper climbed atop the Kelpie.

“I am going forward,” she called over her shoulder to Jareth. “I will hold up the walls of water while you take them to safety. Find Kevla. Get them moving.”

Her gaze flickered to the water.

“For I do not know how long I can hold it back.”

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Kevla let them run.

At least now they were going in the right direction. The Aofaban rode among them, watching carefully to see that no one was trampled. The going was difficult as the Reshanaban flowed into the channel Copper had created, and the initial speed was soon forced to slow to a walk as the moist ocean bed sucked greedily on booted feet.

Even with the Dragon willingly ferrying several at a time across to the mainland, the trip would be long and arduous. Many of those who walked this path were exhausted or injured, elderly or very young. Those who could walk did so, plodding steadily over the soft surface, while the Dragon bore those who could not. There was a brief, failed attempt to get the children to the mainland aboard the backs of the golden Aofaban steeds. But the horses could move no faster than a walk, as their delicate legs sank deep into the muck. Carts got stuck every few feet, and finally Riona had to issue the difficult order that they be left behind. What could not be carried, she said, must needs be abandoned. Time ceased to mean anything as the refugee Reshanaban moved forward.

The only light came from the dim moon, shining in a dark smudge of a night sky that was largely blocked by the upward-flowing, surging waters, and from torches. Mist bathed the Reshanaban as they moved forward over sand and seaweed and shells and stones, fine and cool and dampening, but the torches lit by the Flame Dancer would not be extinguished so easily. The orange-yellow light cast dancing reflections against the wall of water that surrounded them.

Copper began to show the strain, as she bore this burden on shoulders that seemed very narrow to Kevla. The Kelpie moved forward as smoothly as it could, while Kevla and Jareth, riding together atop the Tiger, saw to it that the Sea Dancer had food and drink and respites as needed. But they also mercilessly kept her from falling asleep. A moment’s inattention, and the water would come crashing down on all of them. More than once Jareth met Kevla’s eyes and she read the concern in their blue depths. More than once, the mighty walls of water that surrounded them seemed to Kevla to quiver, as if in a heartbeat they would lose their shape. Copper grew more and more quiet, and the circles underneath her eyes seemed to deepen even as Kevla looked upon them. She was shaking and Kevla feared at any moment, those green eyes would roll back in her head and the girl would slip, unconscious from her mount.

Can you not bear more nor fly faster? Kevla sent to the Dragon, even though she knew the answer.

There are physical laws that even I must obey, Flame Dancer, the Dragon replied in her mind. I bear many more upon my back than I think is safe as it is, and in my claws too. I can fly as fast as I can fly, and no faster.

Of course. I understand. Kevla looked over at Copper, so thin and pale and fragile-seeming, and shook her head in admiration. She is strong, Dragon. I do not know if I could bear such a burden as what she holds now.

Your burdens have been and will be no less than hers. They are simply…different.

Nonetheless…at this moment, I do not envy her.

Liadan’s hazel eyes took in the scene as Tali walked beside Eion. It had been a horrible night, worse than any battlefield she had ever walked away from. Ahead and behind them were Aofaban and Eltaban troops, scattered amongst the populace to offer support, aid, and keep order, should it come to that. Leading them was their princess, Copper, who rode stiff in the saddle on her ugly mount and for whom Liadan was gaining a new respect.

“Tough girl,” she said to Eion. She was in danger herself of slipping from the saddle, and thought conversation might keep her awake.

“She is. But I’m not surprised. When she wanted to, she excelled in sparring.”

Liadan again looked around at the frightened, muddy and sometimes bloody faces. These people had survived the sinking of an island, but what lay ahead of them? She felt a flutter of apprehension and knew what to do to damp it down. Soldiers like her even had a term for it-“battlefield banter.”

“Nah, I taught her everything,” she said, and grinned down at Eion. The two of them had walked across fields that pooled with blood, some of it their own. He’d never failed to grin back at her.

Except now. Eion glanced up at her, then down. “Think what you want.”

Liadan glared at him. “You’re in a fine mood,” she said sarcastically.

He sighed. “Liadan…surely even you can appreciate the enormity of what’s going on.” He glanced around and added softly, “I do not wish to voice my own fears, but neither can I jest at such a time. So, let there be silence between us.”

Liadan snorted. “If anyone has a right to be dour, it’s me. You got to come and ride to the rescue, whereas I was trussed up for hours. Quite painfully, I might add.”

“Don’t you think I know that? When you came out of that hut with those rope burns around your arms, I thought I—“

Eion’s mouth snapped shut with a click that was audible to Liadan even over the sounds of the frightened Reshanaban they were guiding to safety. The Horsemistress turned to regard her longtime friend and sometime lover. He stared straight ahead as he walked beside her, his expression neutral.

“You thought you what?” she asked

He shook his dark head. “Nothing. It…it just angered me that you had been treated so badly.”

“I’ve had a lot worse on the battlefield,” Liadan scoffed. “Remember that time about ten years ago when I got sliced up the midsection? Still got that scar-but you know that. You were the one who carried me off the field when the horse went down, they told me.”

Eion nodded without looking at her. “You were too valuable to lose,” he replied.

The words made sense, and until this moment, until these nights of revelations and horror and shock and terror, Liadan knew she would have taken them at face value and pressed no more. She would have continued blithely chatting with this man whom she thought of-when she thought of him at all-as a colleague and friend.

Tali moved along slowly, her hooves sinking deep into the mire that released its grip only reluctantly. Liadan moved fluidly with her mount, not even thinking about it, her attention focused on Eion. He felt her shrewd gaze, glanced up at her, and then looked straight ahead. His boots, like Tali’s hooves, sank into the wet sludge that had until recently been the bottom of the ocean. Liadan watched the movements of his powerful body as if seeing them for the first time.

“And in our first battle together,” Liadan continued, “when you first joined Riona’s forces and we were all watching you for signs of treachery…you redirected the attention of that fat lordling who had set himself up as king when he would have—“

He whirled on her so suddenly she was actually startled. Even in the dim light of the moon she could see his face was cold and angry-two expressions she had seldom, if ever, seen the good-natured Swordmaster display.

“Do you have a point, Horsemistress?”

Liadan was surprised to find her heart was beating rapidly. She was not sure if it was from startlement, desire, or irritation.

She should be silent. She should back down, not voice what she thought-what now she realized she hoped…but Liadan was never one to choose prudent silence over imprudent speech, and the words spilled out.

“Yes, damn it, I have a point. I think you’re in love with me, Swordmaster. Are you?”

“Why would I be foolish enough to fall in love with you?”

Oddly, the comment stung and Liadan blinked. “What’s wrong with me?” she demanded. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw some of her women exchange amused glances, but she didn’t give a damn about it.

“Nothing’s wrong with you,” Eion shot back. He stopped in his tracks and glared up at her, and she halted Tali’s slow movements by subtly adjusting her weight in the mare’s saddle. “Only that you like to tumble in and out of bed with as much commitment as you take your horses out for a canter.”

“Hey!” she cried. “I have a lot of commitment to my horses! I take good care of them, and I took good care of you, too, if I recall correctly.”

There was a small crowd sneaking glances at them now, trying to hide their gawking and largely failing. Eion seemed as immune to their stares as Liadan was. He had moved to Tali’s side now, his black brows, arched and beautiful as raven’s wings, drawn together in a scowl.

“You did, I’d be the last to say you didn’t,” Eion growled. “But it meant nothing to you. I meant what I said, Liadan. You care more for your horses than you do the men you bed. The best we can hope for is an occasional pat, a compliment on a job well done, and a vague promise of another ride later. The Golden Tide at least get a hot meal and a rubdown.”

Liadan shot out a hand, grasped the front of his leather chestpiece, and pulled him upward as she leaned down to kiss him.

For an instant, he resisted. Then she felt his arms go around her to haul her from the saddle and hold her against him as he kissed her passionately, lovingly, and very thoroughly. They had shared this before, of course, many times. But there was something different about the feel of his lips on hers this time. Or was there? Had he always kissed her so, and she simply been too oblivious to understand what he was trying to tell her?

When he pulled away after a long moment, she was gasping for breath and shaking. He pressed his lips hard to her cheek.

“You beautiful, wonderful, gorgeous, passionate idiot,” he whispered brokenly against her ear. “I’ve been in love with you since the first time I laid eyes on you. I’ve never loved anyone else.”

Liadan pulled back, stared at him and then smacked him-lightly, teasingly, but hard enough so that he felt the sting and blinked.

“You said nothing for twenty years!” Liadan cried. “Who’s the idiot?”

Their people were homeless. Their past was lying at the bottom of the ocean, their future uncertain. Liadan knew this. But she also felt a warmth spreading through her such as she had never known, and in the midst of this horror, she had unexpectedly found joy. It had taken the Stone Dancer to open her eyes to the prospect of something more lasting than a quick night’s entertainment, but in the end, it hadn’t been Jareth she’d wanted. It was this man, right here-comrade in arms, fellow soldier, lover, friend. She grinned up at Eion, watched his face brighten with understanding, and kissed him again.

One of the scouts that had gone on ahead returned, running as swiftly as she could through the mire that sucked on her boots with each step. Celian stopped in front of Copper, panting.

“I have walked upon dry ground, Highness,” she said, gulping air as she spoke. “It is not far.”

Kevla glanced at Copper, who perked up somewhat at the words. Before either woman could say anything, Jareth said quickly, “I will go to the back and tell the others. They may be inspired to pick up their pace.”

“We don’t want a panic,” Kevla said. “There could be a rush for the land-people could be trampled.”

“They are bone weary,” Copper said. Kevla wondered if perhaps she was speaking of herself. Her voice was soft and dreamy-sounding. “They could not rush or trample if their lives depended on it. A bit more haste would be welcome. I am…stretched to my limit.”

Jareth nodded. The big cat turned and moved as lithely as possible through the clinging mud. Kevla knew that the admission was a difficult one for Copper. She was proud and independent, like all her people, but Kevla knew that even she could not hold out for much longer. Copper looked up at the sky, which was beginning to grow lighter. Her gaze fell to where the scout had come from.

The mainland. She could see it now, if only a little above the towering walls of water. The idea that an enormous land mass, hundreds of times as big as their island, awaited them was staggering to Copper. The Tenachrym’s magic had kept them hidden from the eyes of those who lived there. What kind of reception would they get? Had she tried to save her people, only to lead them to their deaths?

“Copper!” Jareth’s cry snapped her out of her stunned reverie and redirected her attention back to the water. Just in time, too, she realized with a thrill of horror, for the water shuddered almost gleefully, as if in anticipation of losing this enforced shape and returning to its fluid form.

Kevla reached up and squeezed her hand.

“Just a little longer, Copper. Then you can rest as long as you like.”

Copper looked at her, haggard and much older-looking than her years, and nodded.

It turned out Copper was right. Earlier the people of Reshan might have destroyed one another in their frantic rush to get to safety, but now they simply had no energy to spare. A few ran, mostly the young; most simply quickened their shuffling pace. A few seemed unable to even do that, and Kevla spared a quick glance for Copper.

To her shock, the girl halted her Kelpie, who looked up at her as quizzically as Kevla did. Kevla was even more surprised when Copper dismounted, almost falling as she did so.

“Let them all get past me,” Copper said. “Even you, Kevla. The ocean will not harm me. Get them all to safety.” She turned to her Companion. “My friend, you have borne me all this way. Another favor I must ask of you. Go with my people, and when the last one is safely ashore, let me know. I will let the waters come then.”

The Kelpie pawed the muddy ocean floor, then whickered. “I like this not, but I understand, dear one. Kevla, come. The sooner we get everyone to safety, the sooner my Dancer may take her well-earned rest.”

With one final glance at Copper, who stood swaying and looked almost like one in a trance, Kevla obeyed. She looked up and against the lightening sky she could see the Dragon, coming to bear more to safety.

We are close, Kevla sent. Take as many as you possibly can. Copper cannot last much longer.

She felt his agreement as he landed in the channel. Kevla watched briefly as people scurried atop him with more alacrity than she had yet seen. More people passed her and Copper, and when she looked over her shoulder, she could see no one else.

“It’s clear behind us, Copper,” she said.

Copper sighed and closed her eyes briefly. Kevla’s own widened as the walls of water behind them slowly collapsed. At least Copper now only had to hold up enough water for this last press toward safety. Kevla swallowed. Even though she knew how to swim, having been taught by old Sahlik in the House of Four Waters, the thought of so much water chilled her fire’s spirit.

She turned around, trying not to think of water pressing in on them from three sides now, and hurried forward. She saw Jareth on the Tiger, several small children seated in front of him, hasten past her as fast as the cat’s muddy paws could take them.

Only a little longer….

The path before her sloped upward gradually and Kevla’s heart leaped. Even though the way grew steeper, her steps quickened. If the path led upward…. it led to dry land. While they had been able to see the looming shape of the mainland against the horizon for several hours now, at last she was able to glimpse it, just on the edge of her vision.

Dry land. Fires. Food. Safety.

All around her, the exhaustion seemed to dissipate as the Reshanaban realized what Kevla had seen and hastened. Kevla looked back. There were only a few dozen more it seemed. Midway between his Dancer and Kevla stood the Kelpie, tail swishing, neck craning to see how many were left, how many human feet needed to touch dry soil before his Dancer could rest.

The earth beneath Kevla became more solid, and with a sense of shock she realized that it was now wet soil and not wet sand. She looked back at the last few stragglers.

As they touched the land, Copper released the ocean. Even as the waves lost their shape and became liquid, Copper controlled them, Kevla saw. To simply stop holding them back could have caused a massive wave to wash over shore. Instead, the ocean seemed to melt before Kevla’s eyes, and she recalled the beautiful and terrifying Ice Maiden. The channel that Copper had guarded with the utmost concentration was slowly filled, until at last it was no longer visible.

And neither was the Sea Dancer.

Copper felt as though she had set down an enormous weight. She felt light and free and exhausted as the ocean ceased being something she controlled and once again became a friend, almost a part of her. She surrendered to the buoyancy and she floated dreamily. She was almost asleep when something hard butted her none too gently in the stomach. Her green eyes flew open and she regarded the Kelpie.

It is your twenty-first birthday, Copper, he sent solemnly. You must choose. Now.

Trembling, drained, wanting only sleep and peace, Copper stared at her friend.

Where do you belong?

The question. The question that had haunted her since they had met so long ago. Where did she belong? Right now she felt so at home in the water. She thought of her father, her sister, the new unity that stood to be built between Fialaban and FinFolk, and she ached to be a part of that.

And she thought of her mother, and the frightened people who now could no longer truly call themselves Reshanaban, for there was no Reshan left. She recalled how they had turned to her beseechingly, how they had obeyed and trusted her to keep them safe as she held back the ocean with her innate Dancer’s abilities.

And then she thought of Jareth and Kevla, and even of the despised and unlamented Bram, and she realized that this decision that the Kelpie had presented to her as a “choice” was no such thing.

Where do you belong?

All this time, Copper realized she had thought it referred to the two parts of her heritage; the land and the sea. Now she realized that there was a third choice, one that would be more painful than either, and one that in the end would truly mean to abandon both.

She clung to her friend’s neck, burying her face against the rough fur. She felt him do his best to comfort her, while still demanding an answer to the riddle that now was so plain.

Where do you belong?

Kelpie, she said, in true fashion answering a question with a question, is what Bram said true? Do I really have no soul?

Does it matter? You are still the Sea Dancer. You are still Copper, daughter of Riona and Farron, sister to Silver. You are still who you always have been since the moment you entered this world. And you still must choose. Where do you belong?

Copper kept her eyes squeezed shut. She did not want to answer, did not want to reject the two worlds that had each offered her something unique and precious. How could she not be part of the ocean? How could she not be with her people? But if she loved both the sea realm and the land of her mother…how could she fail to do her best to help save them both?

I belong with the other Dancers, she sent, grieving the thought, anticipating the loss.

It happened almost at once.

She could still breathe underwater, and swim as swiftly as a seal. But it no longer felt like home to her now, and she somehow knew that if she were to fall asleep here, in the depths of the sea, she would eventually drown. The tears that filled her eyes merged with the salty ocean before they could even be properly wept.

Copper released her hold on the Kelpie’s neck and felt him come up beneath her. She settled onto his back, knowing that she lacked the energy to swim to shore herself, even though it was not far. She let his untiring legs propel them both through the ocean that, while still friend, was no longer home. Dazed, sick in her heart, she barely registered it when the Kelpie broke the surface and his long legs ran on earth instead of in the water. Hands, gentle and supportive, reached for her to bear her from the Kelpie’s back onto a makeshift bed of sand and blankets.

As Copper’s eyes closed, she saw her mother looking tenderly down at her.

“I am so proud of you, Sea Dancer,” Riona said. Copper stared at her, at the usage of the title, then her green eyes rolled back into her head and she knew no more.

“Sea Dancer…you have a visitor.” The Kelpie’s bony head butted into Copper and she grunted, coming awake. Bone weary, she opened her eyes and blinked. She was on land, and the Kelpie stood next to her. Feeling almost drunk with exhaustion, she sat up shakigly, then, holding onto her Companion, got to her feet.

A crowd had gathered on the shore-the mainland, she realized-and was lookout out to the ocean. They were shouting and their voices were strained with fear. Some of them had weapons. The Kelpie knelt so she could mount him more easily and from atop his back, Copper could see over the crowd of people.

Copper had never seen the FinFolk, but it could be no one else who now swam in the shallow waters. She blinked. They really were ugly, and there were dozens of them out there. Groggily she realized that her people were preparing for an attack. But the FinFolk were unarmed-what was going on?

“Don’t! Please, everyone, stay your hands!”

After what she had done for them, even now, exhausted and terrified, the people who had once lived on the island of Reshan obeyed her. Even her mother lowered her sword and turned to her daughter, awaiting instructions.

Another figure emerged from the water to walk toward the shore. Copper’s lips curved in a joyful smile. She slipped off the Kelpie and on rather unsteady legs, pushed through the crowd to embrace her sister. Murmurs rippled throughout.

“Silver,” someone said. “The sister,” muttered another.

Silver hurried to meet Copper and they hugged tightly. Silver pulled back slightly, searching Copper’s eyes. Sorrow flitted across her face.

“You…you have chosen. You are not of the sea anymore”

Copper bit her lip and tears welled in her eyes. “I had to,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

Silver kissed her sister’s cheek sweetly, her lips cool but loving. “No. Do not be sorry. You know where you belong-what you needed to do. But…will miss you greatly.”

“And I you.”

Silver smiled, then still holding her sister’s hand, turned to the people who stared at her and her comrades. She pitched her voice so that her words would be clearly heard.

“Reshan has sunk back into the ocean from which it was so callously summoned,” Silver said. “I grieve that so many lives were lost, but glad that many more survived. The item you carry, my sister, is what is responsible for both the raising and sinking of Reshan. It is responsible, too, for turning Fialaban into the FinFolk.”

Silver turned back to Copper and squeezed her hand imploringly. “Give it back to us, and complete this circle.”

“I-“Copper looked back at the shoreline, trying to seek out Kevla and Jareth. Jareth was easy to spot, as he towered over most of the Reshanaban, and Kevla was right beside him. Copper’s eyes went to her mother. The queen stared at the daughter she had not seen for over twenty years. Riona opened her mouth to speak, but appeared too overcome with emotion to do so.

Liadan shouldered her way through the crowd and snapped, “Are you mad? That’s a powerful little bauble Copper’s got there. Why should she surrender it to you?”

Silver smiled a little, turning to address Liadan. “You must be Liadan. Your bluntness is legendary, Horsemistress. Copper speaks of you with affection. I am honored to meet you at last. Copper understands why I ask what I do.”

“But the Dancers-surely they would be the best keepers of so powerful a talisman.” It was Riona, her voice sounding strangely cracked, but gradually assuming its customary firm tones.

Silver turned to her, and it took her a moment for her to realize who was speaking. Her eyes widened and her mouth opened, but she did not speak. Finally she said, in a surprisingly calm voice, “Queen Riona, the magic of the Tenachrym was meant to aid the Dancers, but they cannot wield it.”

“This is true,” Kevla said. “Each Dancer controls the ability of the element he or she innately is. We are magic-we do not use it.”

Copper looked from her mother to her sister. “Mother…Silver has befriended the FinFolk. They were wronged by the first Lorekeepers, when we stole their land and turned them into…into what they are today. You loved Father. I think you love him still. How would you feel to see him changed into something like these people?”

People. It would take time for the Reshanaban to get used to thinking of the dwellers in the sea as “people,” Copper thought. But it would happen. Copper’s trust in Silver was absolute. For a moment Riona did not reply, and the tension between the FinFolk and the Reshanaban stretched tight as a bow string.

Finally Riona lowered her eyes. “It would break my heart,” she said, softly and honestly. Something tight and worried released in Copper’s heart.

“Then you understand,” Silver said calmly. “These people are Fialaban, Queen Riona.” She did not use the term “mother,” and judging by Riona’s reaction, the queen had not expected her to. “The Tenachrym made them what they are. With the Tenachrym…perhaps that can be undone. It belongs to them. They were wronged by it a thousand years ago. You owe it to them to make things right.”

Copper looked at her Companion. The Kelpie, standing half in and half out of the water, snorted and pawed at the sand.

“It is magic that does not belong to the Dancers, that is true,” the Kelpie said. “And it could very well undo the magic it wrought so long ago.”

“We would have sensed it at once, had not Bram had us under his spell,” said the Tiger in her rumbling, deep, feminine voice. Copper started; when had the great beast come to stand beside Jareth and Kevla? “Still, as the Horsemistress said, it is a useful bauble. I have no doubt but that the Dancers have challenges ahead of them. Friends of theirs might be able to use the Tenachrym to aid them in such difficulties. And they did see it in a vision. They were supposed to find it here.”

Silver turned to regard the big cat and the Dancers who stood astride her. Before she could speak, Copper said, “Silver is a friend of the Dancers. She is my sister, and I love her with all my heart. She would never wish ill on me or on my mission to save this world from the Shadow. But there are other things that must be put right, and the Tenachrym is the only tool that can do so.”

What the Tiger says is true. Jareth and Kelva had a vision of the Tenachrym. We were supposed to find it and take it.

Yes, Silver agreed, you, sweet sister, were the only one who could have freed it from where it lay. But did you not consider that you, a Dancer, were supposed to free it in order that Reshan might return to the ocean? That things might be corrected, made right? The FinFolk have magic. They make the very necklaces the Fialaban wear so that they can travel between the sea and the land. They will learn how to use it. I believe this with all my heart.

Silver looked back at Jareth. “As the Tenachrym was made to serve the Dancers, so I pledge to use it. If for any reason you ever need it, I will gladly return it to you. And I will keep it safe with my very life. It will not be used for dark purposes again. But I am asking…begging…to use it to help the FinFolk, so that they can again be one with their brethren the Fialaban.”

Kevla glanced at Jareth, only to find him watching her intently. He was waiting for her to speak first.

She made her choice. “The Flame Dancer supports this decision,” Kevla said firmly.

“As does the Stone Dancer,” Jareth said immediately.

Copper’s grinned. Kevla’s face broke into an answering smile. Copper slogged through the water to the Kelpie, reached into his saddlebag and pulled out an object wrapped in torn fabric. As she unwrapped it, she exposed its quiet radiance. It was as if she held moonlight caught in a bottle shaped like a drop of water. With great reverence, she handed it over to Silver.

The other girl took it gently. It illuminated her silvery features, and upon those features Copper saw respect, and wonder. She cradled the Tenachrym as if it were an infant, then turned her beaming face to her sister.

“I swear, I will protect this treasure, my sister. I will keep it safe until the Dancers have need of it. You have my word.”

“That is enough for me,” Copper said. From the shore heard mutters of resentment. All would not be smoothed over in a night, Copper knew. There would be plenty of Reshanaban who still feared and resented the FinFolk, especially now that they were homeless. They would not see the sinking of their island as a correction of an accident that happened a thousand years ago. They would see it as an attack, and behave accordingly. Copper hoped that Riona and Eion and Liadan, who did understand what had happened, would be able to wrest something good out of this.

She hugged her sister tightly, wondering if this was the last time she would ever do so.

Know this: Wherever you belong in the world, you always belong in my heart.

Copper bit back tears. And you in mine. I love you, Silver.

Silver smiled, stroked her sister’s cheek one last time, then turned and slipped beneath the surface. The FinFolk retreated, vanishing easily beneath the gently rolling waves

Copper’s legs gave out and suddenly she was on hands and knees in the water. The Kelpie nudged at her, and she smiled wearily up at him. It was Riona who reached her first, helping her daughter up and bringing her upon the land.

“Guess I’m still tired,” Copper muttered, her eyes closing. She was asleep before she reached the sand.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

The next few hours were a jumble of confusion. Most of the refugees from the now sunken isle had simply stumbled to a dry spot of land and collapsed. Others wanted food and water, still others spoke of building a shelter. Some started to keen, their minds, previously focused only on survival, only now appearing to realize that their homes, their possessions, perhaps even loved ones were gone.

The Dragon returned from scouting with two deer in his claws and a report of a spring to the northeast. Kevla started a fire, and with something to do, many of those who were panicking now redirected their energy.

If Copper had not slept during the entire long walk, neither had anyone else except the very young. The Eltaban and the Aofaban took shifts, and when Jareth urged Kevla to take a nap after a few hours, she willingly agreed.

“Provided you sleep too,” she added, curling up on the sand. He smiled and tucked a woven blanket around her.

“Don’t worry, I’m all but dead on my feet,” he assured her. And indeed, at one point when she awoke, she saw him stretched out beside her.

When night came, things seemed a little better. Tomorrow, once everyone was rested and fed, would no doubt come the discussion of what to do, how to proceed, how to pick up the pieces of a life that had been so thoroughly shattered.

Copper still slept on. Riona, Eion and Liadan seemed to have everything under control. Kevla sighed and gazed into the small fire she had lit, letting her eyes go soft.

“Flame Dancer. I am so proud of you.”

Kevla smiled back lovingly at the image of her Lorekeeper, painted in flickering hues of red and orange and black. “Of me? I did very little, Jashemi. Only assisted Copper. She held the ocean back.”

“You did more than you know, my sister. Sometimes a word of support at the right moment is as strong as the arm that wields the blow.”

Kevla heard the truth in the words and nodded. “These people are so wounded,” she said. “It will take a long time for them to recover.”

He sensed, as he often had when he yet lived, what she did not say. “But you cannot be part of that process. Your task lies elsewhere. But you will not be alone, and for that I am so glad.”

She felt the heat rise to her face, and it was not from the fire. “I wish you had had a chance to know Jareth.”

“Through you, I do.”

A hand closed on her shoulder, warm and strong and familiar. She had not heard Jareth approach; perhaps she was too lost in her vision, or perhaps he simply moved as quietly as the great cat that was his companion. The firelight that had a moment ago held Jashemi’s face was now reflected in Jareth’s eyes, and he smiled softly at her. Kevla dragged her gaze away to look at the sleeping forms of the Reshanaban.

“They have each other,” Jareth said quietly. “They will be all right. It is not our duty to look after them any more.”

“Nor Copper’s,” Kevla said.

“Nor hers either,” Jareth agreed. “She has made her choice. It has broken her heart, but she has made it. We are three, now. Come with me, my love.”

He entwined his fingers with hers and gently pulled her to her feet, taking her other hand as he did so. For a moment, they stood silently regarding one another. Then Jareth smiled that soft, sweet smile Kevla loved and led her out of the fire’s circle.

Jareth took her down the beach and up a sandy hill, anchored in place by the roots of stubborn grasses. They walked together in silence for some time, away from those they had so recently protected, onto a small, flat patch of earth dotted with scraggly trees.

Jareth lifted Kevla’s hand to his lips and kissed it before releasing it. He knelt on the earth and placed his hands upon it. Kevla watched, as always enraptured by the way Jareth’s Dancer magic worked as opposed to her own. He closed his eyes and the trees around them began to grow. Their branches reached out for one another and entwined, and within moments Kevla and Jareth were encircled by a living fence.

“The Grove,” Kevla said.

“Similar,” Jareth agreed. “But there is only Earth magic at work here, and I will release them later.” He rose and went to her, his hands closing on her arms, warm and strong. There was no hesitation in Kevla’s heart now as she turned her face up for his kiss, her arms slipping around his neck.

The passion, powerful and ecstatic, was there, but the fear, the anguish-it had vanished, like a nightmare upon awaking to a world that had everything right in it. She moaned softly as he slipped the rhia over her head and began to kiss a trail down her body. She reached with trembling hands to help him undress, wanting to feel his body, strong and steady as stone, pressing against her own.

They took their time, murmuring soft words and caressing until the need to be joined drove everything else out of their thoughts. As before, Kevla’s Fire-born passion blazed, and Jareth held her, and kissed her the scalding hot tears that flowed down her face as her body shook with release.

They drowsed, and loved, and drowsed again throughout that night. Entangled in his arms, Kevla breathed the scents of their lovemaking, musky and sweet and heady, and pressed a sleepy kiss against Jareth’s neck, tasting the salt of his sweat. She had never felt so safe, so sated.

She awoke to the sound of a bird’s call and the cool, crisp scent of dawn. Her heart was full and calm. Jareth’s long, strong body curving into hers at her back, one powerful arm thrown around her. She smiled and snuggled into him, contentment wrapping her like a blanket. As she turned over, wanting to gaze at his beautiful face in the daylight again now that everything had changed so deeply between them, she found him looking at her with an intense expression.

She reached to touch his face. “What is it, my love?” she whispered.

He reached to smooth her dark hair back from her face, still gazing at her with that strange look of mingled joy, awe and disbelief. At her touch and words, Jareth’s face eased into a smile. He took her into his arms and kissed her tenderly. As he drew back, he said, “Do you remember the night that the selva watched over us while we slept?”

“Of course,” Kevla said. “They sent me a dream…a vision. It was that vision that let me heal my feelings for Jashemi.”

“I had a dream as well,” Jareth said. “I dreamed of awaking in the gray light of dawn, with a woman in my arms. I was calm, at peace. Happy. And at that point in my life, that seemed impossible. In my dream, I simply held her. I was unable to move to look at her. All I saw was long black hair covering my arm as it went around her.”

Kevla’s eyes widened as his eyes smiled at her. “Me?” she asked in a whisper.

He nodded, the smile growing. “You,” he said. “When I woke this morning, it was as if I were seeing the dream all over again. And I felt the way I had then.”

Kevla remembered the morning after her powerful vision; remembered when Jareth had come to waken her, he had seemed softer than usual, that there had been a hint of happiness about a man who hitherto struck her as being nothing but a shell for pain and rage and brokenness.

He gathered her to him and held her tightly, pressing his face into her neck, and she clung to him. At last, reluctantly, they drew apart.

“They will be waiting for us,” she said. “There is much yet we need to do to help them.”

He growled playfully and kissed her hard. “I am tempted to say, let them wait, but like as not they will send someone to find us if we do not return.”

Kevla chuckled. As she slipped on her red rhia, she noticed with chagrin that the grass upon which they had slept was burned and blackened, as was the soil beneath it. Jareth followed her dismayed gaze and smiled. He placed his hands on the scorched ground, and closed his eyes briefly. Kevla watched, as always awed by the purity and power of his magic, as the entwined tree branches released and the earth began to heal itself.

“Earth can hold fire,” she said quietly.

He met her eyes and grinned. “I hope it gets to again, soon.” She ducked her head and laughed.

He threw on his own clothes and helped her to her feet. Kevla looked out over the ocean and gasped.

“Jareth! Look, what is that?”

His blue eyes squinted. “It’s a ship,” he said. “But one such as I have never seen. Come on, let’s go join the others.”

They made their way down the hill. Another time, perhaps, they might have been met with knowing grins from their friends and Companions, but now everyone’s attention was focused on the strange vessel that was coming closer and closer.

Kevla knew something about boats; her own people navigated the rivers of Arukan and she had seen the little coracles and rowed boats that the Reshanaban used. She had even been told by Jareth that some larger ships used something called “sails” to catch the wind in order to propel themselves across the lakes of his homeland. Apparently these were similar to the fabric the Arukani strung on their boats, but much larger. She suspected, judging from the patches of white against the blue-gray of the ocean, that this ship was one such.

More and more people joined them on the shoreline. Riona drew up next to her, frowning. And Kevla remembered that there might be danger from the Emperor coming from the sea.

She turned to Jareth. “The Dragon and I will go see who and what this is. If it is a threat to the Reshanaban, we will deal with it.”

She saw admiration and regret both flit over his strong features. “Of course.” He did not protest or demand to accompany her, as another man might; he knew well her own strength and courage, perhaps even better, Kevla admitted, than she did herself.

She ran down the shoreline, her bare feet splashing in the water, to where the Dragon sat. He was staring out to sea along with everyone else, his wings unfurling and flapping. Kevla reached out with her mind and was surprised to sense pleasure and amusement.

Dragon? Do you know what this ship means?

He turned his wedge-shaped head to her and his golden eyes glittered with delight.

Indeed I do, Flame Dancer. Have patience, and you will as well.

Confused but completely at ease, Kevla leaned against her friend. She had missed him so much, and now took a keen delight in the feel of his warm scales against her shoulder. She felt his love and his affection wash over her as together, they watched the ship come closer. She saw the blue Tiger and the Kelpie, along with their respective Dancers, approach them as she and the Dragon stood on the shoreline, feeling the incoming tide caress her bare feet. Jareth placed a hand on her shoulder, squeezing gently, and she smiled up at him for a long moment before returning her gaze to the approaching ship.

It was a beautifully made thing. The wood was carved and polished, inlaid with jewels and metal that winked and gleamed as they caught the early morning sun. The sails were full to bursting with wind, and the ship seemed to move more swiftly than it ought to be able. Unease stirred, raising the hairs at the back of her neck, and Kevla said quietly, “This is no ordinary vessel.”

“Indeed no,” said the Tiger. “But be at ease. All is well and is about to become better.”

“Cryptic beasts,” Copper muttered under her breath, and Kevla smothered a smile. She had often thought the same of her own Companion.

And don’t think I don’t know it, the Dragon sent, amused.

The three Dancers and their Companions walked to join the others as the mighty vessel drew nearer. The water was deep here, and the ship was able to drop anchor fairly close in. A smaller vessel was lowered down by men that Kevla noticed were as dark of skin and hair as herself.

Arukani? she thought for a moment, then realized it could not possibly be so. The Arukani would know nothing about how to build such a ship. They knew only the construction and navigation of the little river boats. Another race of people then; people who looked like her. Her heart fluttered with excitement.

What looked like an enormous wolf-dog covered with a blanket ran to the ship’s prow. And then it leaped off and Kevla gasped.

What she had mistaken for a blanket folded along the animal’s back was a pair of golden wings that now bore it to the shore. Kevla could see it clearly now and marveled at its beauty. The fur that covered its lupine face and neck gave way to golden feathers and powerful wings. It had the claws of the eagle and the hindquarters of the wolf-dog it resembled.

The creature met her eyes and those of the other Dancers with human intelligence in those blue orbs, and Kevla suddenly realized what-who-she was beholding.

“It’s another Companion,” Kevla said. At that moment, a little zephyr brushed her face and whispered in her ear:

The Wind Dancer greets you, dear Flame Dancer.

Kevla gasped in delight, and squeezed Jareth’s hand. The small boat crunched into the sand and was pulled fully ashore by the men rowing it. The Wind Dancer’s Companion hovered for a moment, golden wings flapping gently, then landed on the beach. Despite all that they had seen recently, the Reshanaban drew back slightly from it.

It was as large as a sandcattle calf, Kevla guessed. It initially reminded her of one of the wild dogs of the desert, but had longer, amber-colored fur that looked as if it would be incredibly soft to the touch. Its now neatly folded wings seemed to be made of gold, so brightly did they shine. Its blue eyes were calm and wise. It padded up to the Dancers, and the Companions greeted it with many sounds of pleasure and touching of noses.

It looked at each of the three Dancers and turn, then sat, tucking its bushy tail neatly around its paws.

“Unto the Dancers of Flame, Stone and Sea, I, the Senmurv, Companion to the Dancer of the Wind, give greetings.”

Its voice was soft and pleasing, masculine and more human-sounding than any of the others. It twitched an ear as it spoke.

“His Royal Majesty, Dhan Valan of Kalinestu, greets you and offers you the hospitality of his vessel the Wind Rider. It will bear you to his realm, where you may be treated with all courtesy. But before you embark, my Dancer has sent me with gifts.”

The Senmurv looked over his shoulder at the two men sitting silently in the boat and inclined his head. At once they whipped off the covering with a flourish.

Everyone gasped. In the boat was an anvil and tools, baskets of food and a few finely-crafted swords and bows.

“Dhan Valan knew of the needs of the Sea Dancer’s people and has sent you aid. You will have food, clean water and sweet wine, tools to hunt and protect yourself with and the basics to make shelter and weapons for yourself. Valan would not see the Sea Dancer’s people suffer when he can aid them.”

Cheers went up among the beleaguered Reshanaban. Tears filled Kevla’s eyes, and she saw Copper dismount, stride up to the Senmurv, drop to her knees and hug him tightly. The Senmurv looked surprised and a bit uncomfortable, then laughed and permitted the embrace.

Kevla beckoned quietly to Jareth. He came to her side at once, taking her hand. Quiet pleasure filled her at the ease of their touch now. Still, she was worried.

“We were made welcome before like this when we came to Reshan,” she pointed out. “And the Dragon and Tiger sensed nothing wrong.”

Jareth’s golden brows drew together in a frown. “True,” he said. “But the gifts are not for us, but for the people of Reshan. And there seems little to trap a Dancer in what this Valan offers.” He touched her throat with a finger. “No collars, for us or our companions.”

Kevla had to admit that there seemed nothing devious about Valan’s generosity. Nonetheless, she would be on her guard during this journey.

Over the next few hours, the Senmurv’s promise proved to be more than filled. When the Reshanaban had awoken this morning, they had little more than the clothes on their back and a few items they had manage to take with them. Kevla looked around and realized that by sunset, they would have a working forge, food for several days and the means by which to hunt and plant more. There were hides and woven blankets of bright colors and clothing that reminded Kevla of her home. It would seem that this Valan had thought of everything.

At one point, still worried about this unlooked-for generosity, Kevla asked the Senmurv, “How did he know our need? Where to find us?”

The winged dog that was so much more than that looked up at her. “The wind whispers to him, and he has been trained since childhood in how to listen to it.”

Jareth, walking past with a sack of grain, grunted and nodded. “I used to be able to sense the earth in places other than Lamal. I even knew about Arukan, a little bit.”

Kevla shook her head in wonder. She had been so ignorant of depths of her ability for so long, and envied this Dhan his youthful wisdom. Perhaps her worry was misplaced. She hoped it was. The Dancers had enough to worry about without mistrusting one another.

At last, the vessel was unloaded and the moment for parting had come. Jareth and Kevla said their farewells to the few they had gotten to know well over the last few weeks, especially the Horsemistress and the Swordmaster. Kevla had been one of-well, frankly, many who had inadvertently heard their argument and subsequent confessions of love earlier, so she was only quietly happy rather than surprised when they walked up hand in hand to her.

She embraced Eion first, kissing his cheek gently and smiling into his eyes. “Thank you for all your hard work trying to turn me into a fighter, Eion. If I ever have to swing a sword, thanks to you I won’t lop off my own head.”

Eion laughed. He looked younger, happier now and the cocksure expression he had habitually worn had been replaced by one of genuine delight. “I’ll admit it, you surprised me, Flame Dancer. You were an excellent student. And,” he added in a softer voice, “someone who taught me some things as well.”

Eion turned to Jareth. They embraced, clapping one another on the back, and while Jareth asked one last question about the grip used on a two-handed sword, Kevla turned to Liadan.

The Horsemistress, too, seemed to have been changed by the revelation that she was in love. But Kevla was strangely glad that the older woman had not lost the gleam of humor in her eyes nor her assertive pose.

“You have a good man in Eion,” Kevla said quietly. “I am glad you found one another.”

Liadan flashed her familiar grin. “Me too. And you’ve got a good one in Jareth, Kevla.” The grin widened and Liadan added teasingly, “I think I’ll always wonder how good, though.”

The comment was loud enough to be over heard by Jareth, who shot Liadan a look and then grinned. Kevla flushed and ducked her head. Liadan laughed and pulled the Flame Dancer into a surprisingly gentle hug, then let her go.

Kevla stepped back to let Jareth say goodbye. For a few seconds, both he and Liadan stood looking terribly uncomfortable as the silence stretched between them. Then Liadan sighed, said, “I want the last one before they’re all Kevla’s,” and before anyone realized what she had planned she had wrapped an arm around Jareth’s neck, pulled his head down to her, and kissed him hard.

Jareth was too surprised to resist, and then the kiss was over and Liadan stepped back and winked. Jareth immediately sought Kevla’s gaze, and visibly relaxed when he saw she was grinning. He reached out a hand to her and she clasped it, squeezing it lovingly. There was no jealousy or even discomfort in Kevla’s heart at Liadan’s gesture; it was pure Liadan, and she knew Jareth’s love for her was absolute.

She turned to the Dragon, ready to leave, when she felt a gentle touch on her arm. Kevla turned to regard Queen Riona. “Do not leave yet,” the queen said. “Stand before them a moment. My people would wish to say farewell to their saviors.”

Kevla wondered if the other woman knew just how uncomfortable such a statement made her. Nonetheless, she understood and smiled. Jareth had heard the comment and he nodded briefly. Standing on the shore of the mainland, they turned and waved to the people of Reshan. Kevla saw that now, the only distinction between Reshanaban and Namaraban was the blue robes the latter wore. Otherwise, they mixed together, working side by side, possibly for the first time in centuries. It was a good sight to see.

With a gentleness that doubtless surprised everyone save for Kevla, who knew how tender the Dragon could be at times, the giant red beast took the Tiger and the Kelpie in each foreclaw and deposited them on the deck of the Wind Rider. The Senmurv was already there, speaking quietly to the crew as they readied the ship for departure. Kevla and Jareth settled into one of the small boats and were rowed out to the ship, where they climbed a slippery rope ladder to reach the deck. Kevla thought the ship was the size of a small house, and marveled that it could traverse the sea so easily.

The Kelpie butted its hard, ugly head against her shoulder. “Not very comfortable with this, are you?”

She turned to smile at him. “No,” she said. “But if it sinks, we can always turn to the Dragon.”

He laughed then, a shrill, harsh neighing sound, and Kevla’s smile broadened into a grin. At first she had though the creature unattractive and confusing, with a streak of mean-spiritedness. Now she understood that more than any other Companion she had yet met, it understood the need for play and mischief.

The Senmurv, on the other hand, seemed to her to lean too much in the other direction. It trotted back and forth across the deck, poking its nose here and there, pausing to look back at Copper still lingering on the shore and muttering under its breath. She recalled the image of the Wind Dancer she had seen in the cave; handsome, dark-skinned, laughing but with a touch of arrogance.

“I wonder what he will be like,” she said aloud to Jareth as his arms wrapped lightly around her waist and he kissed her shoulder. “This fourth Dancer.”

“We will find out soon enough,” he said. Together, they looked back at the shore where Copper was saying her goodbyes. Kevla smiled softly as she watched the red-haired Dancer embrace her mother, then Liadan and Eion.

Kevla cocked her head. Over the regular sigh of the waves, she heard something else. Like the ocean, but not quite. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw movement in the water. What appeared to her first to be a group of dolphins was swimming to the shore. Upon closer inspection, she saw human shapes, darting through the water too swiftly to be merely human. Yet they were not the malformed shapes she had seen a few days ago, not the FinFolk-

“The Fialaban,” she breathed. A few moments later, they were in the shallow water. Their dark heads broke the surface, and Kevla was sure of it now-they were singing. She thought of Copper’s words to her on their first night there, and her skin erupted with gooseflesh.

Good night, Kevla. Do not shutter your windows tonight and you will hear the sea sing to you.

It-sings?

Just a figure of speech, Liadan had said.

No it’s not.

Kevla saw that while humans were colored in shades of brown-even Jareth’s blond hair was simply a very light shade of brown rather than the true yellow of flower petals or gold-these beings used a palette of blues. Their hair was blue-black, their skins had undertones of blue. She wished she could see them better, now that at last she had been given the opportunity to glimpse them.

One of them moved forward, striding ashore. The sun caught the gleam of gold on his head. Kevla gasped. Copper’s swift embrace of the male Fialaban confirmed it.

“It’s her father,” Kevla said to Jareth. “It’s King Farron.”

Jareth’s grip around her waist tightened, and Kevla clasped his arm as they both watched. For a long moment, the king of the ocean and the queen of the land stood staring at one another. Kevla remembered Copper saying, in her oddly detached way, that her parents were still in love with one another, but forever divided because of what Riona had done to their children.

Then Farron took a hesitant step. At the same moment, Riona extended a hand. Then the two were in one another’s arms, clinging to one another, land and sea as united again as they were in the blood of their two daughters. Copper watched her parents, then, before they had left each other’s arms, she turned and dove into the sea, slicing swiftly through the water to the waiting ship.

When she stepped onto the deck, she looked at Kevla and Jareth gravely for a few moments, her green eyes calm. Kevla thought about the mysterious reflection that Copper had seen in the pool; the being that had warned them about Bram and revealed the existence of the Tenachrym. What had it been? Who? Was it the spirit of Copper’s lost sister Gold? A manifestation of the Tenachrym itself? Or some other ally they had yet to meet-or perhaps might never meet? She supposed it didn’t matter if they ever learned its…his? Her?…true identity. Enough that it had aided them.

Copper’s brow furrowed for a moment, and Kevla wondered what was flitting through the girl’s brain now.

Then Copper smiled.

“I know where I belong,” she said.

Epilogue

Silver swam faster than she ever had in her life. The Tenachrym, the hope of all her people, Fialaban and FinFolk alike, was cradled between her breasts, nestled beside her heart. When Copper had given it to her, she had felt a surge of joy and delight, and had seen those emotions reflected in the eyes of the FinFolk who had accompanied her.

But there was one among their number she had not seen, and that had both surprised and dismayed her.

Shess had promised her he would join the group that had volunteered to confront the Reshanaban. But she had looked eagerly for him a few hours ago, and had not seen him among that number. Perhaps something had happened; or perhaps he was simply too frightened to appear. For all his passion about his people, and his sweetness to her, Shess struck her as somewhat shy and a bit of a loner. Both things, she understood more than he knew.

So now that she had precious talisman safely in her grasp, she was returning to where they had first met-the undulating green tendrils of the kelp forest, deep beneath the surface, in this ocean that was home to them both.

He was not there, waiting for her, and she felt a little stab of disappointment. She had promised her father that she would bring the Tenachrym to him, and that he would arrange a meeting between the Fialaban and their long-estranged brethren to determine how best to use the potent magic housed in the seemingly innocuous orb. But she had to let Shess know she had succeeded. He had been the one to inspire her to do this, to find the courage within herself to stand up for a race of beings who were, and were not, her people.

Next to Copper, Shess was the closest person in the world to her. Who knew but that Farron would forbid Silver to touch the Tenachrym ever again, once she had surrendered it? And she wanted Shess to see it, to hold it in those webbed hands, to see his ugly but dear face light up with a smile of delight.

Silver?

Lost in her thoughts, Silver started when she felt the brush of Shess’s mind against hers like a caress.

Shess! You were not among those who saw me retrieve the Tenachrym…I missed you.

I am sorry, and she sensed he was closer. A few heartbeats later and the long kelp fronds parted. His eyes were bright and as she had expected, joy was on his face.

She beamed at him and held out the talisman.

This is it? You’re certain this is the Tenachrym? He stared at it, hesitating to touch it.

I have never been more certain of anything in my life, Silver replied. I must turn it over to Father, who plans to meet with your leader to discuss how best to use it. There is so much we don’t know about it yet. But….

He dragged his gaze from the radiant, droplet-shaped orb to look at her. But you wanted me to see it…to touch it.

Suddenly shy, Silver nodded. Her hair floated out around her like a white cloud.

He reached for it then, holding it gently in his stubby, webbed fingers. She watched him, her face hurting from smiling, but unable to stop.

It is beautiful. It is perfect.

And it will restore your people, Silver thought. I did this for them, Shess. I did it for you. This belongs to you as much as it does to me.

He looked at her searchingly, then, holding the Tenachrym securely in one hand, opened his arms. Pleasure surged through her as she swam over to him. She had never before embraced him, but now she found she wanted to, to hold close this friend who had opened her eyes to the injustice-

The pain was excruciating. She stared down at the water between them, rapidly turning red and opaque from the blood that pumped from the wound in her abdomen. He still held the Tenachrym in one hand, and now she saw the other clutched a knife made from a sharpened shell. In an oddly detached place in her mind, she recalled that such tools were for filleting fish; it had done an excellent job slicing her midsection.

She sensed a great deal of pleasure and satisfaction from the being she had once thought friend. He turned and swam off, clutching the prize he had bought at the cost of murder, seemingly pleased and untroubled by the thought that the heir to the Fialaban throne was starting to drift in a bloody cloud.

Silver’s eyes closed and her thoughts drifted as her life ebbed with each pump of her heart. The last thing she felt was a hurt puzzlement at the betrayal.

Why, Shess? Why….

The only sound besides the crackle of the sullenly burning fire was the drum of the Emperor’s fingers on the tabletop. The Advisor glanced uneasily from his piles of parchment to his lord. The Emperor was gazing into the Tenacru as it hovered a few inches in front of his face.

Behind him, like a hunched and misshapen shadow, stood the Mage. Watching. Always watching. Even if no one could see his eyes. The Advisor wondered what those eyes looked like. In his more mistrustful moments, which were most of the time, he imagined they were either empty sockets or burning coals.

Yeshi had reported that the first wave of attacks had gone well. There were more than they dared hope still left in Arukan who mistrusted this “new” way of thinking, and who despised Tahmu almost as much as his wife did. That was good news, although as always, the Advisor was vexed that the news had come to him second-hand.

He dropped his surreptitious gaze to the beautiful, tragic creature who always huddled at the Emperor’s feet. As if feeling his eyes upon her, the ki-lyn lifted her head. Soft brown eyes blinked once, twice, framed by impossibly long lashes. The Dancer’s Companion could, of course, communicate mentally only with her Dancer. The Advisor knew this. And yet at the same time-perhaps it was his imagination-he could have sworn he felt a voice in the back of his head, uttering only two words with all the poignancy the soul could experience:

Help me.

The Advisor’s eyes widened slightly. At that moment, there came a booming knock on the heavy door.

“Enter,” called the Emperor.

The thing that obeyed the Emperor’s single word was one of the ugliest creatures the Advisor had ever had the misfortune to behold. Part fish, part human, it stood wrapped in a sodden blanket to keep flesh that was clearly better adapted to water moist and supple. It drew back thick lips from pointed teeth in a gesture that was obviously meant as a smile. Then it bowed, and from the folds of its blanket, it produced a glowing white object, the twin in all respects save color to the hovering Tenacru.

The Advisor started so badly that he knocked several of the precious parchments to the rug. He bent to pick them up with hands that trembled. This thing had somehow found the lost Tenachrym! How…when….

For some reason, the Emperor did not appear as pleased as the Advisor had expected. After a quick glance at the white, pulsating orb, the Emperor glared at the fish-man.

“There was no need to murder the girl,” the Emperor said. “I gave you no instructions to do so.”

The fish-man shrugged. “What’s one more?” it said in a strange, blubbering voice. “I got what you wanted. Now it’s your turn to give me what I want.”

The Emperor continued to glower, but his greed overcame his displeasure. He reached and took the Tenachrym and stroked it, like one might pet a kitten. He glanced over his shoulder at the Mage, who nodded. With a slow smile, the Emperor tossed the Tenachrym into the air. It soared upward quickly, then floated to a stop beside its companion, hovering peacefully. The Emperor’s face was now bathed with two colors of light, and he grinned.

From her place at the Emperor’s feet, the ki-lyn watched it all. A tear formed in her eye, rolled down her brown-furred cheek and fell in diamond form unheeded to the carpet. The Advisor realized there was a small pile of the precious jewels at the Emperor’s feet. When had she wept them all? How had no one noticed?

“I failed to stop the Dancers from combining forces…again,” the Emperor said. His hand reached to stroke the ki-lyn, who tensed, but did not shy away. “But I have not lost. Not yet. With the acquisition of this pretty bauble, I have achieved an important victory. I now hold the two greatest objects of power in this world, besides the Dancers themselves. They will not long stand against me.”

“Please…honor your promise,” gurgled the fish-thing.

The Emperor turned to regard his servant and laughed. With a casual wave of a beringed hand, the shape of the hideous creature began to shimmer and twist. As the Advisor watched, stunned, the limbs straightened and twisted, the skin turned the color of pale human flesh and golden hair sprouted from a lovely, feminine face.

“Thank you, Emperor,” Ilta said sweetly, as she modestly closed the blanket around her naked, female form.

Glossary

Arrun Woods: Mylikki’s village

Arukan: the name of Kevla’s country

Arukani: native to Arukan

Bai: Generic term for Bai-khas and Bai-shas Bai-sha: “female without father,” derogatory term for illegitimate girl or woman

Bayinba: Lamali term for “raids”

Blessing cloth: magic fabric woven by the tasskali

Clan of the Four Waters: Kevla’s clan

Gahalgeese: bird of Lamal

halaan: slang for “prostitute”

hamantu: the spirit of stonesteaming, embodied by the steam rising up after water is tossed onto the hot rocks

huskaa: bard or minstrel

huskaa-lal: apprentice huskaa

Kevat-aanta: “Spring-Bringer,” term for Jareth

kha: unit of money, gold

khashim: Lord of the clan; plural khashims

khashima: Lady of the clan

khashimu: the young heir, prince

kirvi: Lamali deer

kyndela: Lamali stringed instrument

kurjah: Arukani term for the male organ

kuli: demon

Lamal: Jareth’s homeland, the farthest land north

liah: gazelle-like creature

Riversong: village in Lamal

rhia: a flowing garment worn in Arukan by both sexes

sa’abah: desert animals, with long, fluffy tails, long legs with broad feet, small “hands,” long ears

SkalkaValley: Jareth’s village

selva: large mythic Lamali creature similar to a deer or caribou; tended by the taaskali

-sha-: “daughter of”

Shamizan: board game with colored glass “stones”

simmar: big cat of the desert

skeltha: literally “long sticks” used by the Lamali as skis

snow walkers: snowshoes

stonesteaming hut: Lamali equivalent of a sauna or sweatlodge

sulim: Arukani term for female genitalia

Summer Realm: Lamali term for the afterlife

Tahmu-kha-Rakyn: Kevla’s father, khashim of the Clan of Four Waters

taaskal: a wizard or enchanter, person of powerful magic, plural taaskali

Two Lakes: village where Taya is from

uhlal: term of respect, “gentleman” or “sir”

uhlala: female term, “Lady” or “Ma’am”

usk: gathered bunch of birth branches used in the stonesteaming hut