Guard of Thorn proved to be more than up to the task, defeating a pack of ravenous rotteral without assist, enlisting the help of the forest nymph, Phesophosophenalia (pf. Phesophosophenalia, “Phizzy”, wood nymph, see chapter notes), penetrating the defenses of the trolls of Titan Woods, and retrieving the Ogre Drums, precisely as he was charged. If this were not enough, he was also the first to uncover the treachery of the Tarm Elves, and their betrayal of Thorn village. This was no small thing, as it led to much that followed, and indeed some have said (though not your author, as I still reserve judgment) that it was this early event on which the final outcome of the ascension of Guard of Thorn, and the final War of the Dominions, turned.

 Guard returned to Thorn village and enlisted the aid of Stephen Mahallian, whose stone-magic of music was used in concert with the powerful Ogre Drums to restore the deceased Leasia Prillian to life. Young Guard of Thorn had returned to his home triumphant, and had snatched the life of the woman he loved from the very jaws of death.

 Yet all was not well. Though Leasia Prillian was healed and restored, she still carried the virus for the Two-Day Fever, now changed, unbeknownst to the denizens of Thorn at that time, into something more peculiar, and much more deadly. Because of her stone-magical resistance to spells and potions, she had been untreatable, and the Two-Day Virus had consumed her. Only the incredible power of the Ogre Drums had made her recovery possible. Yet it would later become clear to all that the same great magic that had saved Leasia had transformed the dis-ease, and in village after village, new infections would show up as the contagion spread, until the sickness became a plague.

 There is general consensus among historians that it was the magic of the Ogre Drums being played that led to the transmutation of the virus, and that the ensuing plague was, indeed, the Fouling Plague as revealed in the Final Prophecy of the Scriptures. On the issue of whether or not it was the Ogre Drums that awoke the wyverns of Hoan Jolot Mountain and the great dragon Shi’kala’ta’ish, there is still some debate.

 While the argument that it was, in fact, the trolls of Titan Woods tunneling too deep and far into and under Hoan Jolot is certainly credible, it is your author’s opinion that it was indeed the playing of the Ogre Drums, as both Leasia Prillian (pf. Clan Prillian, prosecution of, chapter 20) and Tobias Windhammer would record separate journal entries indicating the appearance of the first wyverns but the day after, and the first attack of Shi’kala’ta’ish.

 Your author is aware that other esteemed and reputable scholars subscribe to the more conspiratorial view that it was the Wizard Warwick’s machinations that, from the outset, awoke Shi’kala’ta’ish, seduced the Tarm Elves into their misbegotten war with Thorn and the surrounding demesnes, fueled the dark plotting of the trolls of Titan Woods, enchanted the rotteral, etcetera. It is, however, the considered opinion of your author, having thoroughly reviewed all material relating to those dark days, that such views give the Wizard Warwick too much credit, even for one of his prodigious powers.

 What is known for certain, and agreed upon by all serious scholars of Ashealean history, is this: as with so many others in those evil days, Shi’kala’ta’ish was possessed of darkness, and would have scorched all the towns, forests and fields of Kloston to ash, had not the courageous and venerable Guard of Thorn not taken up sword against Shi’kala’ta’ish and, under pain of his death, slain the mighty dragon.

 Though Guard was restored to life through the direct intercession of the Gods (some dispute this, but most scholars agree and this author takes the same position), his battle with those under the black veil of evil had just begun. Indeed, most historical texts clearly indicate that it was after his death in the jaws of Shi’kala’ta’ish and his subsequent restoration to life that the sheer magnitude of his stone-magic was revealed (pf. Joskin Nodd, staffcrafter, chapter 23; pf. Parudah the Stonecaster, chapter 10). As was always the case with Guard of Thorn, even as events epic in the history of Ashealla unfolded around him, he was reluctant to accept the truth of his own power, and his favor in the eyes of the Gods.

 It was only after unprecedented conflict arose between the village of Thorn and the elves of Tarm Fen, that Guard of Thorn, the Sorcerer Dach, and Elder Tobias Windhammer set out on a mission to confront Susan of Blackwood, the Child Queen of Jarris, that Guard of Thorn could no longer deny the truth of his destiny.

 It is telling that shortly before Guard’s ill-fated trip to the Jade City, Leasia Prillian was given a vision by the Gods, and an obligation to sacrifice her own life for the preservation of Guard’s and, by doing so, willingly abandon her own soul to the black fires of Hell . . . 

Next: Chapter 1, The Elder.

“Come in! Sit!” The Elder’s voice boomed in the tiny room. “Just finishing a bit of business,” he explained, pouring out a smallish dollop of sealing wax onto the envelope before him, then stamping it firmly with his seal. He turned, momentarily inspecting the chess board in the corner, then nodded vigorously. He held up the envelope, and tapped it against his head as he turned back around. “I’ve just made my next move. I think it was a good one. Time will tell, time will tell.” He placed the envelope in a small basket on his massive oaken desk, and stuck his hand out to Guard. “I’ve been waiting for you all morning!”

Guard took the offered greeting and the Elder’s broad, tan hand swallowed his small brown one. The Elder squeezed, and despite his recent rejuvenation, thanks to both Stephen playing the ogre drums and Sylvania’s ministrations with a dozen different lifegems, he was still sore and the firmness of the Elder’s grip sent a spike of pain up his arm. But the pain was not bad. It was much better than being dead, which, not that long ago, he had been.

“I’m sorry I’m so late—” Guard began.

“Nonsense!” the Elder insisted heartily, releasing Guard from his tremendous grip and sitting back down. “I am glad you are here at all. I am glad that any of us are here at all—were it not for your bravery and talent, I daresay I don’t think we would be. When I think where this village would be without you, Guard—I thank the Gods that They saw fit to send you to us. You have lived up to your name. Thorn would be a dark and desolate place now, if it was not for you.”

Guard sat down, shifting uncomfortably. He didn’t like the praise. He had always thought he wanted it, and not just the praise, but to know that he truly had value. That there was a reason he was here. That he could do some good for both his village and the people he loved and all the village Elders, to whom he had long ago pledged an Oath of Fealty. In many ways, yes, it did feel good to make good on his pledge. When he had made the oath, as all denizens of the Dominions did when they entered their tenth year, he had done little in life but work the fields, work in the mill, keep the goat pastures for the Sisters, and attend class. It had seemed so foolish to him—how could he, Guard, ever give back to the village that had taken him in? What could he do to protect, provide, and preserve? He had plowed fields and threshed wheat, he had shoed horses, he had herded goats. Over time, he had gotten fairly adept at mending fences, patching roofs, and even boiling sap and making pitch for boats—his likely future career, he had thought early on, as he much preferred the idea of a life spent boat-making to a life of plowing the field. In that way, he had supposed, he could do some small good for Thorn. But the noble language of the oath was so far beyond that—their life for his, his for theirs, to protect, provide, and preserve. He had wanted to live up to the oath. He had wanted desperately to live up to it. But, with a few useful exceptions, all he had managed to do up until the day of his oath was alienate most of the other children his age in the village, get on the bad side of more than one of the Elders because of what he had done to the Tutor Imperial, and fix some fences and harvest some wheat. And herd goats.

There had been no reason to think things would change much afterwards. But things did change. It wasn’t more than a year and a season after his oath that a chain of bizarre coincidences had ended up with Guard a dozen fieldlengths past the Tarm fen, and an accidental eavesdropper on a band of zealots who had kidnapped a young woman from Thorn village, and were in the process of burning her alive for witchcraft. While the girl—Gretchen of Shallen and Kamnar—actually did most of the heavy lifting, Guard had managed to delay the setting of the fire, and had also freed Gretchen’s hands. As her particular magic was as a spellcaster—a witch, if you wanted to call her that—with her hands free, she had made quick work of her kidnappers. Though he had been terrified, and Gretchen had, in fact, done most of the work, word had spread that he had been “heroic”, and Gretchen had been almost fictionally effusive in her praise. After the harvest that year, the Elders had appointed Guard to act as a diplomat between Thorn and other villages in their Dominion. What that had ended up meaning, however, was that he had become responsible for Thorn’s relations with Tarm Fen—a fen of one-thousand-and-one elves, twelve fieldlengths to the West of Thorn village. There were disputes in regards to both land possession and right-of-ways for paths of travel, drainage, and irrigation. There were arguments over trade. There were accusations of mistreatment, and even outright theft, that he had ended up trying to smooth over. Dealing with the Tarm elves had turned out to be an arduous and often dangerous task, and Guard had found himself wishing on more than one occasion that he had been back in the wheat fields.

Although he had never been happy with his performance when dealing with the Tarm, the village elders had been pleased for reasons inexplicable to Guard and had sent him on even more important diplomatic efforts to other human towns and then the Hejeem Fen, nearly fifty fieldlengths to the north. Shortly after his second full season engaged in politics rather than plowing, Leasia had fallen ill, afflicted with the two-day fever. Her own magical healing abilities had ended up working against her, trapping her body in a loop that had nearly killed her. The village Elder had tapped Guard personally to seek out the Sorcerer Dach and find a way to save Leasia. During that process, Guard had ended up both uncovering a plot by the trolls in Titan Woods to attack the human villages, and had located an ancient and powerful set of healing drums, made by Phenelope, the Mother of the Nymphs, from the skin and bones of an evil ogre. Although that time it had truly been Dach who had provided the answer and Stephen who had done the heavy lifting, channeling his tremendous magic through the drums to save Leasia’s life, Guard did know he had played a part in bringing Leasia back from the very gates of death. For once, he had almost suspected that he had, in some small way, made a legitimate contribution to his village—a small step toward fulfilling the obligation of his oath. Then, of course, Stephen had disappeared, the fever had started spreading, and the dragon had come, and Guard had managed to do his part there, as well.

Still, as much as he wanted to live up to his pledge to Thorn’s Council of Elders and protect those that he loved, those who had given him so much love for no reason other than the goodness of their own hearts, the praise made him uncomfortable. It didn’t ring true. If it hadn’t been for Dach and Stephen, Leasia would be dead right now. If it hadn’t been for the efforts of Gretchen, Sylvania, Katie and the wood nymph he had befriended when he had ventured into Titan Woods to search from the ogre drums, Thorn village—and who knew how many others—would have burned to the ground. His contribution seemed so small, so insignificant, that it was hardly worth mentioning, much less worth singling out for praise.

“I thank you for your kind words, Eldest of Thorn,” Guard said deferentially. “I do not deserve such credit. Without the help of Katie and Gretchen, of Sylvania and Drag, without the help and guidance of the Sorcerer Dach, I would have failed in all respects—”

The Elder fixed his gaze on Guard. “And they without you, Guard?”

“And I didn’t want to kill the dragon. That was the last thing I wanted.”

The Elder smiled. “Guard, you have a good heart. You did what you needed to do in order that you would save the village. So many in this world would jump at a chance to be a dragon slayer. You actually are one, Guard. You may well be the only man alive today who can say such thing.”

Guard blinked. Although rested and healed, he was still exhausted. Exhausted to the very pit of his being. He could feel his throat tighten and tears threaten to well up in his eyes. “It—” Guard started. “She was a sapient, Elder. I take no pride in killing a sapient. I have no title to have killed a soul-bearing creature—”

The Elder smiled patiently. “Guard, life is oft a struggle, with many hard decisions and difficult roads. You have acted with great courage and compassion in every difficult circumstance I have known you to face. You did what you had to do. The Gods see your heart; They know what is written on it. I am sure They can see you are penitent to a fault.”

Guard bowed his head. “There is nothing I want to do more than serve Thorn,” he said. “But I feel uncomfortable being singled out for praise. So much good has been done by so many here. There are so many with talents so much greater than mine—and my stone is cast, I accept that, do not misunderstand—but I hardly deserve—I cannot take—credit for things I did not do or could not have done without so many others. Or be praised for something of which I am ashamed. There is no honor in killing the dragon.” Guard looked down, studying the floor, unable to meet the Elder’s eyes, which seemed to be boring into the top of his head.  “Although, even if it damned my soul to the seventh chamber of Hell, I would do it again to save Thorn. But I cannot possibly take pride or accept praise for something that dishonors me.”

The Elder nodded. “I understand, Guard. Dach was right: you’ve matured considerably over the last year. But you are still far too hard on yourself.”

“I hold myself to no standard that every person of Thorn does not hold themselves to also. I could do no less.”

“Enough,” the Elder said. “There was to be a banquet in your honor—”

Guard looked up in horror. “Oh, no, you can’t. You must not. I could not—Elder Tobias, it would not—”

The Elder shook his head. “It’s a good thing it’s not past the planning stages yet. I just wanted to give you a heads up, actually—but I can see you’d be something of a wet blanket. No point in throwing a celebration in your honor, just to have you make everybody feel bad for it.” The Elder frowned with the slightest trace of reproach at Guard. “But I’m sure a more general celebration for our village’s continued prosperity will be more than acceptable. But on the more general point, there isn’t much I can do—the council has spoken, and eventually most of the village will know of your honor. You will, after all, be wearing the badge of the Outside Ambassador.”

“I—Ambassador?”

“Ambassador to all outside realms. Any resident ambassador to any village, fen, city, kingdom or outpost that requires and will accept a resident ambassador—that position would be appointed and overseen by you. The pay is higher—eight additional coin a week—and a horse comes with the position. And as Outside Ambassador, you will be speaking for Thorn. You will have authority to negotiate on our behalf and enter agreements, exactly as if you were the Village Elder yourself.”

Guard froze. “Oh my Gods. You can’t be serious.”

“Oh, but I am. The council has spoken. Any agreement will, of course, be subject to council veto—just as any decree I make is subject to veto. But the council has spoken: you are the voice of Thorn village.”

“But—“ Guard started. “I—you—but I—it was an accident—I can’t—I’m just—”

The Elder just looked at Guard patiently as he stuttered. The urge to say it—to say he was only sixteen turns, a wee sixty-four seasons to the Elder’s almost two-hundred and forty-eight seasons—was strong. But he knew arguing his age, as he had when first assigned as courtesy diplomat to the Tarm Fen and the rural outlands of the Thorn, would not be well received, and he had no urge to anger the Elder like that again. In fact, he knew the only real reaction that would acceptable. The only response that would be a fulfillment of his oath to Thorn. So, he stopped stuttering. “Yes, sir. It will be my honor and duty to serve the people of Thorn.”

The Elder smiled. “Good. Of course, you will wear the badge of the Outside Ambassador—the first one Thorn has had in twenty turns, Guard, before the Gods blessed us with you. So your honor will not be hidden, and the council would not allow it. But you don’t have to talk of it, if you do not desire.”

“I—“ Guard started again, seemingly unable to help himself. “I am not the person for—”

The Elder narrowed his gaze. “The appointment is not open for discussion, Guard. I thought I made myself clear.”

“Yes, sir,” Guard mumbled sheepishly. “I am sorry for any disrespect.”

“I understand you have doubts. Frankly, your doubts are perhaps your only real weakness. But I have every confidence you will grow quickly into your position.”

He knew the Elder would not like it, but Guard simply couldn’t stop. The last several months had simply been too long and too difficult. “I wish I shared your confidence. I do not. I mean no disrespect, but it would be dishonest for me to say—”

“Guard, perhaps you are still a little young, and cannot see the forest for the trees. Two years ago, you had little experience in life beyond tending the fields and flocks of the Sisters. You harvested wheat and sheared sheep. In the past year, you have managed—well, let’s say, you have well-managed much belligerence from the Tarm fen with a skill at diplomacy I could not muster. You have saved the lives of countless villagers—not to mention elves, nymphs, horses. The sapients who are alive because of you number in the hundreds—quiet, Guard, I am not interested in your protest. You have faced the rotteral in Titan Woods—and survived. There is only one other person in this village who could say that. You have intruded on the Titan Trolls, escaped with valuable information—even now, what you learned is being discussed by the Kloston Dominion Council at Farfly—your name is on the lips of Elders whose citizenries number in the millions, the Elders to whom all village elders bow—and that is before you saved Thorn village and perhaps our entire dominion from being razed by dragons. I do not say single-handedly, although I think it is deserved, simply because I do not wish you see you open your mouth in protest again.”

Guard closed his mouth.“That’s better. The point, Guard, is that of the good people who have served under me, and of the good people I have served with—and even the Elders Orion and Chiakis, who I served under, and the old Sorcerer Parn from—well, back well before your time, I’m sure the White Sisters have told you stories—I have never seen a human rise to the task set before him the way that you have. I have never seen someone grow into a position as you have. And as irritating as your ill-fitting modesty and self-doubt are, I have never known a man with abilities and success such as yours, with such potential at such a young age, to not have a head so swollen with pride that he regularly fell over on his face.” The Elder smiled, pointing his finger at Guard. “You are something special. Sometimes I suspect there is more to your magic, Guard, than your ability to persuade.” 

“I—I hope I meet your expectations, Elder Tobias.”

“Your horse will be ready for you in the morning. We will have it brought to you at the Cornfairy.”

“It?” Guard asked.

“Her,” the Elder corrected. “A young mare. She should be a piece of work for you.”

Guard looked down. A horse. He didn’t know what to think. He had always wanted one of his own, and the Gods knew it would make diplomatic travel easier, but after everything that had happened recently, he wasn’t even sure how he felt about that. Not to mention, the half-coin a week it would cost to rent a stall in back of the Cornfairy, and that was not a keeping fit for horses. “I will be up to receive her,” Guard said.

“I know you will. The council wants to you leave on the morrow.”

 “On the morrow?” Guard asked. He would not deny any request from the Thorn council, or even argue it. But tomorrow? He was exhausted. A week ago, he had been beyond the very gates of death. It was but a two full moons past since he had faced the rotteral in Titan Woods, and had spent more time than he cared to recall slogging through an underground cavern filled with troll shit. Now, they were sending him out again? Without even a fortnight to rest? He felt his shoulders slumping.

The Elder smiled sympathetically. “I know you are tired, Guard. Sylvania has something prepared for you, at my instruction, to help ease your recuperation. You should stop their tonight before your evening’s rest and collect it.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I would not send you out in your new capacity so soon, Guard, if it weren’t of vital urgency.” He sighed. “As you know, the Tarm elves have been something of a thorn in our side—and I mean no humor by saying it. We had little problem with the Tarm when Thagrar was their Liege and Chieftain. Being small, we had no official envoys, we haven’t even had an Outside Ambassador for two decades, until Thagrar died, and his half-brother Jackdaw assumed leadership of the fen. He put his own lackeys and loyalists in every leadership position he had authority over, and I suspect some he didn’t, and—well, I think it is pretty clear that he has been fairly hostile to the people of Thorn, and I have it on good authority that all Tarm relations are strained with every human village they trade with.”

Guard nodded. True enough; Thorn had had no official relations with Tarm for as long as Guard remembered, until he had been recruited as diplomatic envoy to the Tarm Fen and the outlands. He had found himself thrown into a powder keg, where the leadership of the fen was seriously hostile to him, where his counterpart in the fen, Sreesa, was hostile to everybody, and the rich, cluttered, and complicated elf culture had made precious little sense to a farm boy. He had adapted, and done fairly well, but his cultural adaptation had not eased the strain between Thorn and the Tarm; if anything, relations had gotten worse.

“Given recent circumstances—crafting magic, most dangerous magic, for trolls–I was given to grave concern. I brought my concerns to Dach, who concurs with many of them. He is a good man and is confident in the continuing good will of the Tarm in general, but he worries as much about as I do. I am afraid a new darkness has come over the Tarm, and, with it, much danger to us all. The council asks you to journey to the Tarm, in your new capacity as Outside Ambassador. Unannounced. “

Guard swallowed. He wasn’t sure if the Elder noticed, but it was a very loud thing in his head. “Unannounced?”

“Unannounced,” the Elder agreed. “Be difficult. Do not worry about stepping on toes. I believe the time for politeness has passed. You need to confront them, and you have the authority of the Tarm Elder Council behind you entirely. I am not sure time is on our side, so it is urgent that we begin now.”

Guard nodded. “As you wish, Elder.”

The Elder pushed back his massive oaken desk easily and stood up, towering over Guard. “And make no mistake, Guard. As much danger as you have faced recently, your task is fraught with peril. Proceed with great care. The Tarm elves are smart and powerful—a hungry pack of rotteral present little danger compared to a single malicious elf.”

“But—Dach said the elves—that they would never do something that would threaten themselves—that stood to hurt sentient beings. He told me the magic they crafted for the trolls would be conditional, that if they tried to hurt a sentient—”

The Elder nodded. “Dach assures me this would be the case, and I trust him. However, he cannot assure me that this will always be the case. Or that any protection for humans had anything to do with Liege Jackdaw or the highseats of Tarm. More likely, those crafting the magic are more loyal to the ways a Thagrar and the high elves of old. And perhaps they were more cautious than Liege Jackdaw would have liked. I don’t believe we can depend on that. We cannot rely for our future survival on the Tarm’s goodwill. I seriously question the wisdom of entering into such bargains with trolls, even if the magic is conditional. I certainly question the wisdom of making such deals without informing nearby villages, with whom you are supposed to be on reasonably good diplomatic terms with. No, it is time to get hard with them. And I know you are up to the task.”

Guard wanted, but knew better than, to protest. “Yes, Elder.”

“In the meantime, I think you had better speak to Dach. Better to get the critical details from the horse’s mouth than second-hand, I’d say.”

Guard’s eyes widened. “Before I go? I’ll barely have time to get back to my room and prepare for tomorrow if—” He stopped, realizing that it sounded as if he were whining. “May I secure a horse before leaving to see Dach?”

“It won’t be necessary. Leslie will transport you to Dach’s and back. She can take you to the Tarm, if you like, and you may—it will take you more than fifteen minutes in the morning to secure the cooperation of a new mare. At least, a mare of quality. Which, for you, I insisted upon. Leslie has been taken off all other duties and been assigned to you, full time, until you cease to have need of her. We do not have the time to waste. In addition, if there is any other person within the realm of Thorn whose abilities, talents, or resources you have need of, you will have but to contact the council, and it will be arranged.”

The Elder walked around his desk. “I will respect your wishes in terms of celebration and public accolade. But the authority is yours as well as the responsibility. You can use your authority and position as you will, or you may not, but the decision rests with you. I know you are more than capable, even if you do not.”

Guard stood, and waited for The Elder to meet him at his massive oaken doors. Seventeen hands tall by twelve hands wide and at least a hand thick, it would have taken four men of Guard’s strength to open them. Grabbing a massive iron handle, the Elder pulled the left door open effortlessly. “It is time to go. Leslie?” The Elder asked.

“Behind you,” Leslie said, tapping them both on the shoulder. “I was delayed.”

Guard turned around, startled, although he shouldn’t have been. It was a typical entrance, for Leslie. She nodded at Guard, and then the Elder, her raven black hair falling across her tanned, sun-freckled face as she folded her arms beneath her gray robes. Keeping her head bowed, she said, “I’m sorry I’m late.”

“Right on time, actually,” the Elder said. Then he raised his right hand. “But you are correct. Time is of the essence. Let’s get the formalities out of the way. Leslie of Thorn, you are committed to serve Guard of Thorn, shandoa of the White Sisters, in any and all of his duties as Outside Ambassador of Thorn, at his call and order, under penalty of law.”

There was a crackle in the air as the Elder’s hand began to glow a soft white. “I consent, and am honored,” Leslie murmured, and there was a flash of light, hovering in the air before her robes in the center of her chest, a sign of the binding fidelity of her oath.

“Guard of Thorn, shandoa of the White sisters, you are committed to respect and protect your servant, Leslie of Thorn, daughter of Moama and Draagora, until such time as your need is past, and you release her from this oath, under penalty of law.”

Guard felt enormously uncomfortable having such an oath sworn to him, but Leslie—on the receiving end, undoubtedly discontent with being so blithely committed to Guard—had consented without apparent qualm. Guard did the same. “I consent, and am honored,” he said, the light of the oath flared before his heart, and the weight and responsibility of the commitment he made caused him to stagger. Of course, he would have protected and respected Leslie under any circumstances, but taking an oath was to take such intent and inject it into your blood, to burn it onto your very heart. And to know the other had done the same. Guard felt dizzy.

He was not up for this.

“It is time to go. Make haste to Dach’s. I expect you to stop by and see Sylvania before you retire. May the Gods speed your journey and protect your souls.” With that, the Elder retreated back into his office and the doors closed, leaving Leslie and Guard alone in the dim, yellow light of the entrance hall.

 “To Dach’s, then?” Leslie asked, head bowed in deference.  Like a common servant girl, Guard thought.

 Please don’t bow your head like that, Leslie. It makes me uncomfortable.”

 Leslie looked up at him. “As you wish.”

 Guard frowned. He supposed that was better, but he didn’t actually like it any better. “Okay. Yes, to Dach’s,” he said.

 “Turn around,” Leslie instructed. “You’ve done it before, you know how it goes.”

 Guard nodded, turning around. “Yes. Unfortunately, yes.”

 “Don’t get any funny ideas,” Leslie said lightly, wrapping her arms around his chest from behind and pressing her body firmly against his back. “This is just how it has to work. I wouldn’t want you to lose a leg. Or your head.”

Guard chuckled humorlessly. “I know, I know.”

“And you haven’t done this much, so you are probably going to vomit again. I hope you didn’t just eat.”

 “No,” he said with a sigh, resigned to the truth of what she said. “It’s been hours since I broke fast.”

 “’kay,” she half-mumbled. Guard could almost feel the power of her magic pooling around her. “Hold on.” She drew him tighter, and then pressed her lips warmly against the back of his neck. Then she began murmuring, words Guard couldn’t make out. Murmuring deep, dark words that he could almost hear in his bones, his skin growing uncomfortably warm. Then he felt her mouth opening, her arms tightening, her fingers almost clawing into his chest, her tongue and teeth against his neck. The air was getting hot. Leslie was getting hotter—it felt like she was on fire, even through her clothing. Her mouth felt like a branding iron against his neck. Then, the air was gone, and he couldn’t draw a breath. It felt like a giant hand reached in and grabbed his stomach and closed tight, squeezing everything out. 

Then there was nothing.

Next: Chapter 2, The Sorcerer Dach

Leslie let Guard fall to his knees, coughing his small meal from the morning out of his mouth, sweat streaming down his face. “Erk,” he gurgled, spitting on the bright green, close-cropped grass that surrounded the Sorcerer Dach’s castle of trees. “Yargle.”

He collapsed on his side and rolled over, looking up at Leslie, who gazed down at him without expression. “I don’t know how you do that all the time,” Guard said finally. “I feel like somebody hit me in the chest with a hammer.”

He thought he saw the faintest trace of a smile on Leslie’s impassive face. “It’s easy by myself. Harder—and hotter—the more I take with me. You’ve put on weight. Since last time.”

“Hot, yes,” Guard murmured, trying to sit up. He felt feverish. The spot on the back of his neck where Leslie had placed her lips still felt like it was on fire. As he finally did manage to sit upright, he touched the fold of his belly self-consciously. Leslie was right, of course, and she would know—he had put on weight, perhaps a full stone, since he had stopped working the fields. Diplomacy was not without rigorous activity, but it was something short of the ten-hour days he had been used to spending in the fields and tending the Sisters’ flocks. And the food was often better, and there was often a great deal of it. The etiquette of elfin banquets often left Guard so stuffed with meat, bread and ale he could barely move. And the Tarm Elves, whatever else you could say about them, were no slouches at preparing breakfast, either. Roast pig with sweetfruit chutney, condor eggs poached and served in lemon butter with goat’s cheese—he could almost smell it, and, at the moment, it made him want to throw up again.

“If you wish to travel much with me, it will get easier with time,” Leslie said. “It is probably best that you don’t eat on a day you wish to travel with me. And do not drink for an hour before. And no mead or ale or wine for forty-eight hours. I suggest you avoid it, before or after.”

Guard tried to stand up, and then fell back on his rear. “I feel like I’ve been kicked by a horse. Gods. My head is pounding.”

“Yes, it does that. It gets easier, but never easy. It keeps—“ she paused. “It gets easier,” she finished.

Guard looked up at her. “It keeps what? You were going to say something else.”

“I decided not to say.”

Guard finally found his footing and stood up, able now to look eye-to-eye with Leslie. “Decided not to say? Why?”

“Because I decided not to say.”

“All right,” Guard muttered. It was her prerogative, and there were more pressing matters. Brushing himself off, he looked up at the massive, towering oak, redwood and ironwood trees that made up the main structure of the Sorcerer Dach’s castle. He looked back briefly towards Thorn, to the extensive thicket of trees, bushes and brambles he normally had to traverse to get to Dach’s castle—even with a horse, there was no avoiding the thicket, if you wanted to call on Dach. Pounding head and aching stomach or no, Leslie’s form of travel was, without question, much faster. And probably less difficult, just more concentrated.

He stepped on the first of the massive, interlocking tree roots that made up the steps to the two massive wooden doors—and the doors swung open. Guard blinked. Normally, he at least had to raise his hand to knock.

The Sorcerer Dach stepped out, his bearded and bespectacled face less than serene for the first time in Guard’s recollection. He looked . . . distracted, somehow. That was not a good sign. The Sorcerer Dach was always serene and unconcerned. Worried and distracted—that had to be bad. What was more, his gray and brown robes were dirty and didn’t entirely seem to fit him. It was the first time Guard could think of that he had ever seen the good Sorcerer Dach look so, well, disheveled.

“Guard. Good, good. I’m so glad you could make it so quickly. I—it has been a long day. A long night, and a long day. And then another long night. I apologize, I haven’t slept, I know I appear something less that well-kept. Please, come in.”

Guard raised his eyebrows. He had only been in the good Sorcerer’s castle once, and not for very long, and not very far into it, at that. Usually, Dach met him outside, or on top, or in the gardens, out behind his castle in the shadow of Hoan Jolot Mountain. He couldn’t recall a time that the Dach had just asked him to come in.

Nodding, he began up the stairs and looked back, where Leslie stood, head bowed, not moving. “Aren’t you coming?” Guard asked.

She looked up. “Inside?”

“Yes, of course inside. Unless Dach wishes to meet elsewhere—“

“No, no,” Dach interjected. “You must come inside. I have something I must show you.”

“But you are to discuss urgent business,” Leslie said, her tone neutral. Guard had gotten much better at paying attention to the tell-tale signs that gave away an individual’s context—their emotional state, their point of view, their underlying agenda. But Leslie was tough to read. Was she wanting to come in but did not out of propriety? Or was she saying she just didn’t want to get involved any more than she already was? Or something else entirely? Well, if the former, it was foolishness that Guard didn’t plan to put up with unless under obligation to do so, and if the latter, then she needed to speak plainly and make her preference known in no uncertain terms. “I am in your service. I await your call.” She paused as Guard looked back expectantly. “I respect your position and wait outside for you,” she said after a moment, her tone still neutral. “You have urgent business to discuss.”

Guard frowned, and turned to Dach, whose finger was to his ear, his eyes down as if he were busy listening to something important, from somewhere else. “Do you have any objection if Leslie attends our discussion?” Guard asked. “In full participation?”

Guard thought, at the very edge of his vision, he saw one of Leslie’s dark black eyebrows arch.

“What?” Dach asked, re-focusing his attention on Guard. “Leslie? Of course, she is most welcome.” Dach looked straight at her. “She always has been. Unfortunately, not every one the Elder or the Highest Council has sent to me, with her great and powerful assistance, has always been as unimpressed with their own self-importance as our good man  Guard is. Yes, Leslie, come in, come in. You may trust that Guard will not get started on our important business until you do.”

Guard thought he saw a light pursing of her lips. Maybe a tiny nod of the head. But nothing else. “It is your wish I attend?” Leslie asked, tone still as neutral as could be.

“Yes,” Guard affirmed. “Can we please get going?”

“As you wish, sir,” Leslie bowed her head and began up the stairs behind him.

“Come on, come on,” Guard paused on the stairs, pushing her gently in front of him, between himself and Dach. “You don’t need to trail behind me or keep quiet or keep your head down. I understand it’s traditional but—look, I just can’t work that way. I have more than enough of protocol dealing with the rest of the world, I cannot endure it from the people who are supposed to be helping me. And you’re, like, a year older than me. I’m not a ‘sir’. All right?”

Leslie nodded slightly, not dropping her head, as they stepped across the threshold into Dach’s castle. “Okay.”

“Okay, then,” Guard said, frowning slightly. There was something peculiarly unsatisfying about Leslie’s responses. But what he would rather her have done, he wasn’t sure. Perhaps not bowing her head or calling him “sir” in the first place. Good grief, she was almost nineteen. He was just barely seventeen. Beyond that, the entire process of human protocol had always bothered him. The implicit and explicit hierarchies in every relationship, the appropriate and traditional manners of engagement, the inherently submissive roles that people who should have been operating as equals often had to play. There hadn’t been much of that nonsense with the Sister’s or on the farm. Only with the Tutor Imperial had he really encountered the procedures and behaviors that designated class and caste, that demonstrated the recipient or exhibitors current understood rung on the hierarchical ladder. There had been so much of that, with little evidence that it had practical value that Guard could see. But, he had sworn an oath to protect and honor Thorn and its citizens, and he would. He had obligations that he had to honor, like them or not—and usually, it was not—because of his oath and his love of Thorn. But if he did have some authority, and he apparently did, he was not going to put up with those around him behaving as if he wanted or expected a lackey. A lapdog. A cringing servant girl. He hadn’t had much patience for it before, and he had grown much older than just the passing of time in the past six months.

“This way, this way,” Dach was saying, touching his finger to his ear and motioning them down the spectacular main hall, so tall it must’ve reached the very canopy of the castle, so long it must have run end to end, with walls made of living trees, each tree flat up against the next. The floor appeared to be made of a thousand tree stumps, all pressed tightly together, with black pine tar poured in the small gaps that did appear and cured to a glossy hardness. “Turn here,” he said, turning suddenly into the right wall. Two ironwood trees separated at the last moment, allowing Dach to pass through into darkness. “Come now,” he said. “Before they close.”

Leslie had already followed Dach. Guard stumbled after them, almost getting clipped by the ironwood trees as they slammed back together. Although still clearly made of live trees, and smelling strongly of cedar, this hall was dark, barely lit every fifteen hands or so by a sap-caked diehard candle. Here the floor was rougher, too, like walking on bark, and the walls not just clean rows of tree trunks but branches and roots and bumps. And the floor seemed dirtier. After the fourth candle, Guard realized they were descending, going down underneath Dach’s castle, a place Guard had never even heard of anybody else going. All he knew of it was that that was where Dach, it was said, crafted his most potent and terrible magic.

“I’m afraid I wasn’t entirely right,” Dach said as the walls got closer and became less like branches and more like roots—all roots and dirt. “When I first saw you after you had retrieved the ogre drums, you told me of your experience with the trolls. Your conclusions were right, of course, but I dismissed your more dire concerns, given what I know—what has been true of elfin culture in the past. What would be true of it now, I think, if darker forces weren’t at work.”

The candles had seemed to stop. It was pitch black. But not entirely quiet. The floor seemed to be . . . moving. Guard absently let his had touch the wall, which now seemed mostly hard packed dirt, and he felt something like a snake wriggling across his hand. “Gods!” he cursed.

“Just the roots. My tree roots. The roots of the castle. They are—they are very active at the deepest level. Down here. For many reasons. But not to worry, not to worry,” Dach said quickly. “They won’t ensnare you and suffocate you and then crush you until your bones all break and your blood soaks the ground. Not while I’m with you. Heh. But I wouldn’t come here by yourself. If I were you. This way.”

Guard followed Dach’s footsteps into the darkness. Then bumped his head in the dirt. Gritty tendrils of tree roots slithered across his face. “Gods!” Guard exclaimed again.

“Sorry, sorry, please remember to duck,” Dach instructed. “There is no danger of the roots entering your head through your nose and ears and shooting through your brain while your in my presence. But do stay close.”

Guard felt Leslie’s hand take his, and her other hand push his head down—way down. It wasn’t ducking so much as it was crawling. How in the Hells had she not hit her head?

After what seemed like a solid minute of crawling through fairly unpleasant smelling, wriggling, slithering dirt, he felt the dirt floor give way to a hard smooth surface, like poured slag. Waving his hand over his head, he quickly established that he could now stand up safely as there was a flicker in the darkness. Then a brilliant light filled the cavernous underground chamber—two huge, burning balls, like miniature suns, hung twenty hands above them, as Dach dropped his arms. Apparently, there was no native form of light in the chamber—it depended entirely on Dach’s ability to conjure. Once Guard’s eyes adjusted to the sudden illumination, he could see the chamber was filled with the stuff of Dach’s magic. Rows of thick, oaken bookshelves, sagging under the enormous weight of the many ponderous volumes they contained, took up half the north side of the chamber. Tables with vials and flasks and glasses, some full and some not, took up the rest and intruded towards the middle. Chests and trunks took up much of the lower half of the eastern wall, and a large silvered mirror took up most of the top, its thick, rounded black frame so random and organic that it must have been naturally grown—no doubt one of the many creations of the late Sorcerer Parn from which Dach, and all of Thorn therefore, still benefited. A small greenhouse, and a large number of plants, filled up much of the west wall. Also, a number of cages, many of them containing odd creatures—Guard thought he saw a large black spider the size of his fist in one cage. In another, he spied a condor. He thought he saw a cat, and also a mongoose. In a large cage that was pulled out and in the center, there was a large black lump towards the back of the cage.

“Sit, sit,” Dach said, pulling out two thin chairs woven, it appeared, from reeds and leaves. As Leslie and Guard sat, Dach sat in his own, only slightly more substantial chair at the end of the table. “As I was saying, when you first told me that the Tarm Elves had sold magic to the trolls that might make it possible for them to organize a daylight attack, I thought it—well, I thought it wouldn’t happen. That the elves would be too smart and too careful. Too concerned with sentients. But I’m afraid darker forces may be at work.”

“Are you saying,” Guard asked, still brushing dirt from his tunic, “that there is no failsafe in the magic the Tarm Elves made for the troll—the magic that keeps the trolls from turning into stone? That they can attack us or others without—without it turning off?”

“I think so, yes, now I do.”

“Think that the Elves crafted the magic to be conditional—or not?”

“Well—not, I’m afraid. I wish it wasn’t the case but I think it is only conditional in respect to elves. That is, should the trolls attack the elves, then and probably only then would they lose the magic that protects them from the sun. There are indications that, in fact, the trolls have conducted test runs, as preparation for battle. Mirror, show the horse from this morning.”

Obediently, the mirror on the wall clouded over and then cleared, showing what looked to be the carcass of a horse, splayed out on the ground and burned to char. Dach pointed absently at the mirror. “See these pits at her chest and through her head? Hotrock. Hotrock, burned straight through.” The images on the mirror rolled upwards. “See those burn marks on the ground, and the tiny lumps in them? Hotrock, again, not quite spent. Still smoldering with heat. Thank you, that will be enough,” he finished, and the mirror cleared, returning to reflection. Although disturbed by what he had seen, Guard still couldn’t help but notice how useful Dach’s mirror was. And the fact that the good sorcerer did not have to present his requests in rhyme.

“A rural farm has also been attacked. About thirty fieldlengths or so from the White Sisters—the Noke Hollis farmstead. You know them?”

Guard blinked. He did—he knew of them, anyway. He had occasionally seen them briefly on social occasions. They had been a family of rural farmers, more rural than the sisters, and all brown-skinned and kinky-haired like Guard. It had, in fact, been the eldest boy, Charper Hollis, who had made Guard first long to take the simplest solution with his hair, which he had never been all that fond of, and shave it down to the scalp, and keep it shaved. He had always been hesitant to do it—working long hours in the noon day sun with a bald scalp didn’t seem like the smartest move. Charper’s often scorched pate, even though he used the latest lotion or salve, had suggested to Guard that, like it or not, he might want to keep his tangled hair until such time as he didn’t spend quite so many hours out working in the midday sun. After taking up his new diplomatic responsibilities for Thorn village, and moving out of the Sister’s farmhouse and into the Cornfairy, he had thought that life had brought him enough major changes, without also going topless, as it were. But after bringing back the ogre drums from the troll demesnes, Guard had noted he had both lost more than a few full patches of hair and that what was there was something of a mess. So, he had finally started shaving his scalp bald. And every time he did—almost every time he ran his hand over his head—he thought of Charper Hollis.

Guard nodded. “They were attacked? By trolls?”

“There isn’t much doubt,” Dach said. “The farm burned. The stables burned. The fields burned. Jennham of Thorn finally stopped the fire, and nearly drained the Hollis lake in doing so. Little doubt it was hotrock. I found a hollowed-tree not a fieldlength from the Hollis farm. It led to a troll passage. Which, so you know, I conjured a trap for, so be cautious should you be out that way.”

Guard nodded. “What about the Hollis family—Ghame and Lillia and Popkin and Charper—did they—“

Dach sighed. “They are all dead, Guard. They were burned alive. I believe the trolls took much of their livestock and perhaps some farm tools and canned goods. Otherwise, they burned everything.”

Guard shook his head slowly. “And we are sure it was the trolls?”

“There is no doubt,” Dach answered. “Mirror, show me the Hollis farmstead.”

The large organic mirror on the wall behind Dach rippled, and then the image of the smoldering ruins of the Hollis farmstead came into focus. Guard could see nothing but the stubs of beams where their farmhouse and stables had been. The fields had all been razed, even the old trees burned to char. “Mirror. Show us . . . “ Dach trailed off, gesturing at the mirror, as it zoomed into the blackness. After a moment, it stopped and Guard saw a body, blackened and almost unrecognizable, but so large it must have been Mother Hollis. Guard was suddenly glad he had already thrown up outside. Laying right beside the large, burned body Guard thought must’ve been Mother Hollis, there was a much shorter, much more compact body with long, drawn-back ears and a broad, ovoid head. It was blackened with soot, but it was recognizably a troll. A troll with Mother Hollis’s big butcher knife inserted, practically up to the hilt, through its left eye. “Go on.” Dach motioned at the mirror, and the image moved up—and there was the body of another troll, a carving knife in one eye and what might have been an ice pick inserted up its nose. Then the mirror moved, and then still another troll, its head clearly split open, whatever had been inside black and charred.

“What—how in the name of the heavens did she—did Mother Hollis do that? Did they? The hide of a troll is well-nigh invulnerable. I can almost see Mother Hollis dispatching a dozen trolls—”

There was a faint, sad smile on Dach’s lips. “Actually, they managed to take out forty-eight trolls, Guard. It was something of a rout. Of course, it would have been less, but you remember when Parudah gave Mother Hollis the stone cleaver—the stone splitter with blade made from dogsword—that she kept in the kitchen for cutting meat?”

Guard smiled. Indeed he did. Once he had been at their house for dinner, and she had been slicing up a ham hock she was going to fry and had gotten distracted, complaining about Charper and Popkin, and had cut through the ham hock, the butcher block, and counter. So that was how she had split the troll’s head. Good for her.

 “I don’t think they would have taken out forty-eight trolls without the stone cleaver—perhaps the trolls should have picked their test run more carefully. But they would taken out many of them. There were a dozen in back with shafts in their eyes and noses—Charper, who was quite the marksman as I recall. One had a pair of sewing needles up its nose.” Dach shook his head ruefully. “I’m afraid if they thought they had easy marks, taking on farm folk, they were mistaken. Mirror, I wish to see no more.” Dach sighed heavily. “If this were all there was to it, though, I would be less concerned. In any case, the trolls have signed their own death warrants. I count the Night Troll’s minions at a little under eighty-thousand. Perhaps hundred score are actually fighters. I could’ve put an end to half of them myself. The right band of irregulars from Thorn could kill them all, and take not one casualty.”

Guard nodded. “So, what do we do?”

Dach sighed. “The troll issue is being addressed. I arrived at the Hollis farm shortly after Jennham had gotten the blaze under control. I found the tree-tunnel and I went troll hunting. I caught three, and it didn’t take much to get them to tell me what they knew. The one that I thought was the smartest, I kept with me. The other two I delivered to Parudah and the White Sisters.”

Guard blinked. “The White Sisters? What can they do?”

“Whatever can be done, can be undone. Whatever magic the elves crafted for the trolls can be unmade. Both Parudah and the White Sisters have the necessary experience with crafting magic to have a good chance at it. And the Sisters are very, very old. There isn’t much they haven’t seen. They seemed quite pleased, actually.”

No doubt. Guard could see them clapping their wrinkled hands together. A troll, Salara would say. How lovely! And Salana would concur: Oh, yes, just lovely! Do you think he will look better out front, or in the garden?

“But the larger question, Guard, is why? Why would the Tarm Elves cooperate with the trolls? Craft them such deadly and dangerous magic? Particularly considering they would know the source would be revealed? Why are the trolls so confident about marching into what will be a slaughter? Make no mistake, without pre-emptive measures they could do us terrible harm. But, in the end, the result would inevitably be their annihilation. As well with the elves, should they choose to align themselves against Man—and I find it hard to believe that every fen in dominions has gone the way of the Tarm. And as I search for answers, Guard—I find my way darkened. I find obstacles in my path. As if I could see the truth, if not for the smoke in my eyes.”

Guard shifted uncomfortably. “The dragon. The wyverns. When they attacked Thorn—“

Dach looked apprehensively at Guard. That was trouble. Dach was never supposed to look apprehensive. “Suicide, again. If you hadn’t killed the dragon, it might have done much more damage, but it would have fallen. Villagers and farm-folk beat back the wyverns. And as I’m sure you know, the dragon stood nothing to gain from the attack. Nothing.”

“It thought—it thought we had raided its nest. Stolen its eggs. Me, in particular. It told me. She told me. Told me that she had smelled me. Smelled my scent at her nest. That I had broken her eggs.”

Dach inhaled deeply through his nose. “Doesn’t make sense, does it? Except—after the trolls, I had a thought.”

“What?” Leslie interjected. Guard had almost forgotten she was there. When he turned to look at her, he saw she had grown paler, her eyes larger and bright. “What is it?”

Dach stood up. “Come with me,” he said. “I think you’ll need to see for yourself.”

Exchanging a brief glance—at the very least, Leslie seemed more engaged now—they both stood up and followed Dach past the tables and bookshelves into the darkness at the very back of the chamber where, as Dach vanished into the darkness Guard heard him mutter something, and abruptly they were all bathed in a white-blue light, like moon glow. Guard could see that they were standing at a great stone door, a man-and-a-half tall and twice as wide again, with only a small opening at eye-level, crisscrossed with thick iron bars. Guard wondered what the Sorcerer Dach could keep in such a place, or what he could have to show them that would have to be locked behind such a terrible door. Almost at the back of such a large chamber, already well-protected from intruders by the very roots of his wooded castle. At what must have been a hundred hands below the surface.

Dach whispered, and the light grew brighter. It emanated from a rough piece of glassrock embedded in the end of the long black staff the good Sorcerer now held in his hand. Of course—Dach was a staffwielder, a rare ability for even as powerful a sorcerer as Dach. As his magic was that of conjuration, it made him a double-threat. His staff was only in his hand when he needed it, and always when he needed it—it could not be taken. Nor did he ever need to reveal the ability, until the last moment—at which point it was always too late for anyone or anything that stood in opposition. Was the staff, Guard wondered, just the key to the door—a door so large and ponderous perhaps even the Elder could not open it? Or did he bring his staff to him for some other purpose?

Guard marveled as Dach held the staff out to great stone door and it began its slow swing inward, the light growing brighter and seeming to hum with the effort. The deep rumble of stone against stone reverberated in Guard’s very bones. And it seemed terribly dark on the other side. Then, the door was open, and the three stepped through. As Leslie and Guard followed behind Dach, who, once inside, took off at a rapid clip, Guard could hear, and feel, the door closing behind them. He found himself very glad that Leslie was with him. Her talent would be a lot more useful than his, if something were to happen.

What? What could happen? Why was he thinking like that? He had been through way too much lately. Entirely too much.

But something could happen, he thought. Something was happening. Something bad enough to worry the Sorcerer Dach.

“You remember about six moons ago?” Dach asked. “When Gretchen reported to the council that she had been accosted by a demon, in the form of a black serpent, near Dreamer’s Cliff?”

Guard nodded. “Yes,” he said. “I think so.”

“A demon tried to tempt her to eat a ‘forbidden’ fruit,” Leslie said. “The proverbial ‘black apple’ of Scripture. The real point being, of course, to use her own doubts against her, so that she might be tricked into making a deal with a demon. Then her soul would be forfeit.”

“That’s right, that’s right,” Dach said, continuing to hurry down the dark, damp stone hall. Even this hall, disconcertingly, seemed to be descending. How far down were they going? Guard also couldn’t help but notice the occasional door they passed, with small windows with big iron bars, each with three locks—at the top, bottom, and the side. This was a dungeon. Guard had never known that Dach had a dungeon. Thankfully, most of the cells were empty. But he couldn’t help but feel a little worried. “Come on, keep up, you don’t want to be stuck back there in the dark.”

“So, what about the demon?” Guard asked. “Is there something more there? Do you think these circumstances are—well, demoniac?”

“We’ll get to that. Although, I would like to catch that demon. Which I believe I can do, with your and Leslie’s assistance.”

Guard blinked. “Catch a demon?”

“Yes,” Dach reiterated. “Oh, wait one moment.” He pulled up in front of one large wooden door and, with the barest twitch of his staff, the three locks snapped open, and the door swung forward. “The troll I kept is in here. Come in.”

Guard stepped through the door, not without some trepidation. But there was little to fear. The room was cut in half by iron bars that separated the troll from Guard, Leslie and Dach. What was more, he could almost feel the magic humming in the bars. He knew they would be far too dangerous to touch. Most notably, however, was the troll, whimpering and cowering in the corner, black sticky smudges that looked like pine tar on his head, shoulders, and around his wrists. The troll looked briefly at Dach, and then collapsed into a quivering, gray, stony ball.

Dach held out his staff and the troll swiveled around with a snap. It let out a little yelp of surprise. Then, with little more than a twitch of his staff, the troll was jerked into a standing position, its long, wart-covered gray lips grimacing I pain. “I done told you everything you gloggin’ son of a nymph-kisser—“

Dach turned his staff ever so slightly, and it looked to Guard as if the troll’s left hand spun around 180°. It screamed in pain, black, viscid tears dripping from its eyes. “Glog, that hurt, I done told you everything—“

“I suggest that you watch your mouth around my friends. You can hurt a lot worse.” As if to illustrate the point, he flicked his staff, and the troll was thrown bodily, with a great, deep thud, against the dungeon wall.

Guard looked on, wide-eyed. He spared a fleeting glance at Leslie and saw that she, too, was gazing at Dach with amazement. They had both, over the years, seen Dach do some truly incredible things. But they had never seen him be so hard. They had never seen him be almost . . . cruel. Of course, the trolls had taken part in the murder of the Hollis family and the burning of their farm. Such offenses left little room for sympathy for those who would commit them.

“Whose idea was the attack on the farm?” Dach asked. “Whose idea was it to murder humans and horses?” He flicked his staff slightly. “Tell me now.”

Gooey black tears were oozing from its eyes. “Arrgghg, Gods, I don’t know, I don’t know, I already told you, I just got my orders.”

“And you got your orders from?”

“Fregrur Wahmbal. Captain Whambal.” The troll wheezed. “Oh, Gods, it hurts, make it stop.”

 “And who did your captain report to?”

 “I dunno. Somebody. Arrrrghghghg! I mean, somebody like General Toespit. And he talked to the Troll King, so I guess it was his idea. So stop, ya gloggin’ dog-sniffer!”

 Dach turned his staff slightly, and the troll began to twist, his top rotating rightwards and his bottom turning left. “Oh that hurts that hurts worse—“

 “Then answer me this question,” Dach said, approaching the bars, the edge of menace—beyond anything Guard had ever heard in Dach’s voice before—unmistakable and razor sharp. “Do you have any doubt that I could kill you now?”

 “No! I don’t! But don’t do it! I can do stuff. I can garden—I’m good at digging! Aaahhhhrrgggh! You’re gonna break my back!”

 “Well, then, you had better answer quick, hadn’t you? Do you have any doubt that I could kill a hundred of you? A thousand of you? Before I even began to sweat?”

 “No, no, I bet you could, I think you could, I—ahhhrgghgh—I’m sure of it, sure of it!”

 “And do you know that I am but one human in Thorn? That there are thousands that live there?  That there are a hundred thousand more humans in the dominions than trolls?”

 “We just learn how to—gack!—dig. Work stone. They don’t gloggin’ teach us nothing else! Arrgggh!”

 “Do you not see that it is suicide? That your leaders—your king—doom you all to certain death? Why would you take on such a suicide mission? You couldn’t even take a simple farm house without losing forty-eight trolls. To a rural family with very minor magic. I found your tunnel. I walked right in. Was it difficult for me to catch you and your friends, do you think?”

 The troll was quivering. “Uh . . . no?” it asked uncertainly. “Is that—gug, ulg, erg—is that the right answer?”

Dach’s eyes seemed to burn behind his spectacles as the light of his staff flared, and the troll let out a bellowing scream. “The right answer is the one that tells me why your kind would cause so much pointless death. If we cannot break the magic that makes you Titan trolls immune to sunlight, we will have to fight and kill you. All of you. It will be a battle the trolls cannot even hope to win.”

 “I don’t guh-guh-guh-know, I duh-guh-duh-don’t know,” the troll was blubbering. “I’m just tuh-tuh-told to take orders and they told me to take the hotrock and throw it and that’s what I did they said we’d guh-guh-get nice farms and horses and puh-pigs to eat like you people and we’d be the kings and have the castles that tuh-tuh-touched the sky but I just wanted to do what I was tuh-told and get home and eat muh-muh-my slop and get to bed—“ And then the troll wailed. It was a terrible sound, sticky, gooey tears leaking from it’s coal black eyes. “I’m suh-suh-sorry, I’m sorry—”

“You should be,” Dach said quietly, a brought his staff to his side. The troll fell heavily onto the earthen floor, weeping.

Guard blinked. He had never seen a troll look quite so pathetic. Or Dach be so hard on any living creature.

“Good Sorcerer,” Leslie said, touching Dach’s robe. Her own eyes round and bright. And not a little pained. “I understand the importance of the interrogation. And the evil the trolls have done. Do you think there is anything else he can tell us now?”

 “No. Not now,” Dach said, turning. He touched his finger to his ear. “You are right, of course,” he said, nodding to her. “There has been enough suffering.”

 Leslie bowed her head. “Then you know I would ask you to ease this creature’s pain for the time being. Or put him out of his misery.”

 “Ease the pain!” the troll croaked from the floor. “Ease the pain!”

 Dach gestured towards the cage, and with a crackle, two lifegems appeared, one beside each of the trolls grimy, bloody hands. “Stupid girl, didn’t need your help, don’t need your stupid stones,” the troll grumbled, wrapping his hands around each rock.

 “It’s a compliment,” Guard murmured, standing between Leslie and Dach. ”It’s as close to ‘thank you’ as it is possible for most trolls to get.”

 “Yes, yes, I remember that to be true,” Dach murmured, wiping his brow. “Come on. The troll is not my only prisoner. And I’m afraid the second one is much more important.”

Three doors down, the doors became larger, double doors, and the doors themselves were more ornate. Dach waved his staff absently in front of the first door, and it opened. Guard noticed that, as the door opened, this cell was lit from the inside, with a shimmering white light. Dach stepped in, beckoning Leslie and Guard to follow. They did, and both stopped abruptly as they saw Dach’s other prisoner. It was the first time that either of them had actually seen an air demon.

The room it was kept in was larger than the troll’s, but without a cage or bars of any sort. Instead, a pentagram, burning with white fire, was drawn large on the ceiling and floor, and the air demon was trapped in between, unable, it appeared, to escape. The thing itself was difficult to look at. It was a roiling, empty nothing, that was at once an undulating cloud of greasy black smoke and yet an absence. An empty, inky blackness that seemed to go on forever. Guard couldn’t help but think of it as a gash. A gaping wound torn through the very flesh of reality. It was at once as if there was almost nothing there, and yet still something terrible to gaze upon.

 “Demon Azharkavsha, Demon of Sky and Darkness, I come again to ask you your purpose.”

 An unpleasant sound issued from the boiling black smoke, as Guard saw, for the first time, two flames, suspended in the blackness, that might have served as the infernal creature’s eyes. The sound continued—a hissing, scraping sort of laugh. Then it spoke. “Iiishheeesh caammeee too seeee youuuussshhhh dddiiieeee, Daaaach. Yyyyoooouuu aand aaall yyyoooourrr fffrrieeeendss.”

It hurt to listen to its voice. It sounded, in some ways, almost human—like a person so old you could no longer tell if it was man or woman, hissing words out of a withered and desiccated throat. At the same time, it did not sound human at all. It was like a foul wind blowing over black, poisoned waters, each word drawn out and ugly, as if each thing it said was somehow torn on its way out.

 “And how do you hope to see us die, Hellspawn?”

 “Iiiinnn gggrreeeeaaaaatttt paaaaaaiinnnn, Ddddaaacchhh,” the demon hissed. The greasy, inky blackness undulated unpleasantly. Guard couldn’t help but think it was testing its boundaries. Waiting to, somehow, get out. “Aannnnndddd yyyoooouuuu ccaannnn cccommmeeee ssseeee mmmeeeeee iiiinnnn Hhhheeeelllllll.”

“If I did, it would be the last thing you ever saw, Demon,” Dach said. “But don’t expect you will ever find your way out of here. You will be in this cell long after I am dead and buried.”

For a moment, and it was terribly hard to tell for sure, the cloud seemed to waver. Almost as if it was uncertain. Almost as if it were scared of Dach’s threat.

 “Sshhhttuuupppid mmmaaaaan,” the Demon began.

 “Not just a man,” Dach said pointedly, the glassrock at the end of his staff glowing brightly. “As I think you already know.”

 “Yyooouuu ddooo nnot sssscaaarrreeee meeee, sssttafffwweildeerrrr. Iiiii hhaavvveee ffffeeeassstteeed oonnn tthheee ffllesssshhh offff tthhoooossseee mmmuuuccchhhh mmmmooorrreeee ppppowwwwerrffuullll tttthhhaaaaaannnnn yyyyyooooouuuuu.”

 Dach gazed steadily at the demon. “Perhaps I should introduce you to my friends. This is Leslie,” he said, gesturing towards her. “Perhaps you’d like me to put her in there with you?”

Guard couldn’t help the small smile that curled his lip as Leslie, so studiously unemotional so much of the time, jerked, looking at Dach with wide-eyed horror. He could almost feel the word No! struggling to burst forth from her lips.

“Iii wwooouulddd eeeaaattt hheeerr ccrruuunnnccchhheeee bbbbooonnnneeeessss,” the demon intoned gleefully. “Iiii’mmm nnoottt afraaaid offf aaa ttrraannsssppooorrtttterrr.”

 Dach smiled. “She’s a very powerful one, Azharkavsha. In fact, I think she could take you into a church. Without crossing the threshold. So you could petition your grievances against us directly with the Gods, in Their house. Would—”

 All of a sudden, the demon was writhing around, beating against the invisible force that contained it, a guttural howl filling the room. After it struck the pentagram on the ceiling, there was a cracking sound and a jet of black steam, like coal smoke shot from a bellows. For a moment the roiling black nothing burned with white fire. It seemed, to Guard, to be cooking in it. The scream—if that’s what the terrible metallic twisting sound was—was something awful to hear. Then, the white fire dissipated, and the inky blackness was back again in the middle, hovering between ceiling and floor, twisting slowly.

“Would you care to answer my questions now? What was your purpose? Why did you come to my castle?”

“Iiiii tttoolllddd yyooouuu—”

 “Leslie?” Dach asked.

“My pleasure,” Leslie said, apparently understanding that Dach was almost certainly bluffing—if she did manage to get the demon into a church, the demon would be destroyed, forever, and there was also some ambiguity as to what position doing such a thing would leave Leslie’s own soul. She had to know, Guard thought, Dach would never seriously put her in such a position.

“Kkkkeeeepppp yyyooou buusssyyyyy,” the Demon said quickly. “Tttteeemmpppttt t yyyoooouuuuu. Dddiiiissstttrrraaaacctttt yyyyoooouuu ffrrrooommmm yyyyoooourrrr ssseeervvvviiiiccceeee tttoooo ttthhhheee ttteeerrrrriiibbbllle Gggoooooddddddsssss.”

 “Why?”

 “Ttoooooo ppputttt yyyooouuuurrr ssoooouulll iiinnn jjjeeaappoorrdddyyyy—”

 “But why now?” Dach insisted. “Why now?”

 “Wwwhhhhyyy nnnooootttt nnnooowwww?”

“Do not play games with me, Demon. Trolls are planning a suicidal attack against the surface, enabled by the magic of an elfin fen that has long been our ally, there is a plague on our land for the first time in a two centuries, there is news of famine and pestilence from Jarris, we were attacked by a dragon for the first time in a hundred turns, and there have been more demons on the surface in the last two seasons than I remember in my life. What darkness calls you?”

 The black smoke swirled in silence.

“Is your kind at work in the minds of the trolls, in the hearts of the elves? Why would a dragon believe that my friend Guard had broken its eggs? Do you know, demon?”

Again, silence.

“Guard,” Dach said. “Would you ask the demon to be more cooperative?”

“I—I don’t know that I can—” Guard started. “I mean to say, I’ve never tried to influence a demon before.”

“No time like the present. I have great confidence in your abilities. And it is important.  Please, try.”

Guard closed his eyes, letting the magic build. Letting it pool around him. It seemed difficult to believe, but perhaps Dach was right. Both his experiences in pursuing the ogre drums, and even more so the events around Stephen’s disappearance and the attack of the dragon, had indicated that his power might be growing. And it had proved, so far, unusually versatile, applicable to almost any sentient creature—even some not-so-sentient creatures, as his encounter with the rotteral in Titan Woods had demonstrated. So, he would try.

 “Iii’mmmm nnnoottt aaffffraaaiiiddd oooffff yoooouu, ppperrrssuuaader,” it hissed. Although it did sound a little afraid, to Guard. “Mmmyyy mmmiiinnnddd iisss nnoottt sssooffftt lllikkkeee mmmoorrrttaaalllls—”

Guard’s eyes snapped open, and he focused the full force of his magic, certainly as potent as he had ever felt it despite his physical exhaustion, at the air demon. “You would like to tell us all you know,” Guard said reasonably, and the demon seemed suddenly frozen. “Tell us everything. Answer every question. What could it hurt? We’re stupid humans, after all, and nothing we might do could, in the end, stop your infernal plans.” The black smoke was frozen as Guard talked, and he knew immediately that Dach had been right. The demon was susceptible to his power. Even as he thought it, he felt the magic swelling around him, almost effortlessly. Again, he focused the full force of it directly on the demon. “In fact, what a clever way to mislead us—to tell us the truth, so that we’d think it a lie. Yes, you are so clever demon. So you should tell us the truth. Answer our questions.” Again, the magic was pooling around him, as much as his will could focus on the demon. Even a week ago, he would have been depleted for six or perhaps eight hours after such effort. Yet now, unlike his emotional and physical reserves, the supply of energy, of magical force, that he could draw on seemed larger than he could even use. Since he had it, he let it fly, one more time. “And talk faster. Stop it with the hissing.”

Dach seemed to take Guard’s final exhortation as his cue, and stepped to the edge of the pentagram. “What do you know, demon? Why are you here?”

 “Wwee arree ccallledd toooo ttaakke yyooouu out,” the demon almost whispered, its smoky form slowly beginning to curl and undulate again. “To occupy, ensnare, or destroy you.”

“Why me? What purpose does that serve?”

“I do not know the purpose, I do as I am told.”

“Told by who?” Dach asked.

 “By The Father of Lies, the Destroyer of Truth, the Tempter of Men, the Reaper of Souls, the Heart of Hatred—”

 “Satan,” Dach said.

 “Our Dark Lord rules all,” the demon replied.

 “Is there a force that calls you at this time—that calls you out?”

 “We are called by those who wish to see Our Dark Lord return to reign over the ends of the world and the bowels of Hell. We are—” The demon stopped, and for a moment there was a bright orange lick of flame that seemed to bisect it, almost splitting it apart. “We are called to prepare the way—” There was a howling, metal-scraping sound as a bright, larger thread of red fire shot through the center of the roiling black cloud of smoke.

 “A name, Hellspawn,” Dach said steadily, standing ever closer to the edge of the pentagrams, his face only a few hands from the demon. “What mortals would call you?”

 “Su—” It started, and the stopped, the boiling black emptiness turning almost gray, the dark and greasy black again. “I cannot say. I must not say.”

 Guard stepped forward, his own magic so large, so intense, it almost felt like heat against his skin. He knew, even as he focused his will on the Demon, that it had never been like this before. That there was a strength in his power at this moment he had never felt. “Demon, give us a name. What could we do with a name? How could we defeat your Dark Lord? No matter what? Give us a name.”

 “Yes,” Dach said, leaning forward. “Tell us the names.”

 “Susan,” the demon said, and a spiderweb of red flame spread across it, and it made the sound again—a scream of twisted metal. “Susan of Blackwood. The—”

 “Susan?” Leslie asked. “What kind of name is that?”

 Dach blinked. “Susan,” he said. “Susan of Blackwood. The Child Queen of the Third Dominion. The Dominion of Jarris. The beloved Child Queen of Jarris. The largest and most populous Dominion of all the four Dominions.”

 The air demon seemed to fold over, perhaps nodding assent, perhaps in pain. “Thhheerrree isss annottheer,” it said, and his time the flame seemed to leap from its eyes, striking the invisible boundary created by the pentagrams and then shoot back directly at the demon, cutting directly through its center. “—I—another. There is.”

“Who, Hellspawn? Tell us.”

“Yes,” Guard insisted. “Tell us now.” He felt acutely aware that time might well be running out. He could see the lines of the pentagram, drawn in white flame, shifting and adjusting as if something else was working to break them.

“It is—he is—the Wizard. The Wizard of The Light. They call him—him—call him—call him war—“

 Guard leaned forward, letting his own magic flow out of him. “Yes? Quickly. They call h—“

With a burst of black and red flame, and the sound of a scream, a terrible guttural scream like twisting metal and shooting fire, the air demon exploded.

Dach promptly fell back on his haunches, weakly shaking his head. “Susan of Blackwood. And another.” 

“What happened?” Guard asked, as the last tendrils of white flame faded from where the pentagrams had been, the only light now coming from the end of Dach’s staff. “What happened to it?”

 “A dark hand reached out,” Dach said. “To stop it from telling us more.”

Leslie sat down beside Dach. “I—I have never heard anything but good about the Child Queen of Jarris. I find it difficult to believe she would—that she is in league with—I mean to say, the demon could have been lying. Yes? Pretending to bend to Guard’s will?”

 Guard bristled a little at Leslie’s easy dismissal of his clearly growing ability, but had had the same thought himself. His encounters with demons—at least, that he knew of—had been few indeed, and he had never tried to use his influence on such an infernal creature. It had seemed to respond to his power. But that could have been a ploy to further deceive them, right down to the demon’s apparent destruction.

 “It is a possibility that must be considered,” Dach murmured. “Of course it is. But I doubt it is the case that it was a deception. I believe Guard compelled the demon to obey, and that the demon told us what it knew. This isn’t random—the demons are called. And they are invited into our realm by mortals.”

“But why?” Leslie asked. “Why would Susan of Blackwood do such a thing? Why make deals with demons if you are already so powerful—she is the one Child Queen—“

“Who is to say even that position did not come at a price?” Dach put his head in his hands. “The demon was silenced before us, by a great dark hand with the power to reach through the magic that imprisoned the Hellspawn. That was no small thing you saw. It was a great and terrible thing. What would be worth such an effort to the Father of Lies?”

 “It cannot be,” Leslie said.

 “Prophecy,” Guard said. “The End Times. The rise of the Dark Wizard.”

 “He—it said—a Wizard of Light—“ Leslie started.

“The Wizard of the Light,” Dach corrected. “Yes, it did, but prophecy is never straightforward. If it were, it wouldn’t be prophecy. We are always meant to doubt until the time that prophecy is fulfilled. There have been no end to doomsayers who have cried that the end was nigh over the past thousand turns. Over the past three thousand turns, since the scriptures of the Final Prophecy were written. Thus far, it has never turned out to be the case. I pray it is not the case now. But the seeds of destruction are being sewn. By the spawn of Hell. And the Wizard of Light—that’s straight out of the Final Prophecy, given by Rolthar-Bodam, the last apostle of Michael, the Son. The Wizard of Light—according to prophecy, his way through the People of the Gods is ploughed with blood and bone by the King of the Demons.”

Leslie blinked, shaking her head. And then she quoted Scripture: “’With the heart of dragon, the blood of goats and sheep and men in his veins, his flesh from spit and dirt, the King of Demons becomes ruler of men, and will make endless war—’”

 “’—in the everlasting night,’” Guard finished.

Dach was nodding. “And though the faithful to the Gods may rise up and destroy the King of Demons, the Wizard of the Light may still be victorious. But if the King of Demons is not defeated, the Wizard of the Light will visit every plague upon man, burn all magic from the world, and Satan will rule for an epoch.”

“And if the Dark Wizard wins,” Guard said. “All of those ‘first born-male, fair of skin and hair, shall put yoke and chain to all brown and red and tan, all elf and troll and nymph and gnome—‘“

“And it will be the man’s evil heart, the fallen and sinful nature of our spirit and our flesh, that brings down ten-thousand turns of darkness.”

 “I never liked that part of the Scriptures,” Leslie said plainly.

Dach laughed a little, shaking his head ruefully. “Nobody in their right mind would. It’s paints a dark and terrible picture, one which would make us pray that either this is a much more metaphorical prophecy than some, that it is not entirely accurate—as even the final prophet did say near his death that the Scriptures are not inerrant—“

“—But are always holy and always in the service of the Gods,” Leslie interjected.

 “Yes, yes,” Dach consented, a small smile on his face. “I would never question the holiness of the Sacred Texts. But we could hold out hope that the last prophecy was more of a rant than an inspired vision. Or that the Final Prophecy was especially metaphorical, or that there are other options not touched on by prophecy, a superior outcome that the Gods have put it upon us to discover. There is certainly precedent for that, with prophecies from the Ancient Testaments.”

“I—“ Guard started, not exactly sure what to say. He wasn’t comfortable with expressing doubt in what Dach said, especially after seeing how Dach had handled the troll earlier on, but felt he would not be doing his duty if he didn’t make his doubts and questions known. “Where is the King of Demons, then? The demon didn’t say anything about the King of Demons—and the King of Demons is supposed to be a mortal. A ‘man, covered in ichor, bird-serpent, servant only to Satan—‘”

 “I think you glean my concern. All the original scriptures are written in the Old Language, and, as part of my training, I’ve read them all—three times, actually, in Old Language. Some things, the prophecies in particular, can come across extremely different. ‘The King of Demons’ is a single world in Old Language—and yes, ‘The King of Demons’ is one way to think of it, but a more likely meaning, given the root and modifier, is ‘Bitter Angel of Darkness’, and even ‘King of Demons’, as it would be in the Old Language, might more appropriately be expressed ‘The Ruler of Evil Children’. So it could be Susan of Blackwood. It doesn’t have to be a reference to a man at all.”

Guard shook his head. “People have predicted the Final Prophecy for ages, and it was always upon us, and yet it never came. I—I’m not quite ready to tie two clapboards to my body and wander from village to village proclaiming that the End Times are upon us.”

“Guard,” Dach said patiently. “I know what it is I say. I know how it sounds. This does not go beyond this room. Do you both swear?”

“I swear in secrecy,” Leslie and Guard both said, almost simultaneously, raising their hands towards Dach. A white crackle signifying a faithful oath made in truth briefly lit the air, and then vanished.

“Good, good. Because there is nothing to say now. Nothing to say. I know next to nothing of Susan of Blackwood, and certainly can’t trust a demon, no matter how far-reaching the scope of Guard’s power.”

“Uh, I don’t know that my magic is all that far reaching,” Guard said quickly. “I would—I suggest we would think about it—investigate—“

“I agree. I will bring this issue before the Elder, as a concern that she was named by the demon, and that I believe the influence upon the elves of the Tarm and perhaps even the trolls of Titan Woods has been demonic. Nothing more. I will not allude to prophecy. As you say, we don’t have much to go on, although history certainly does not record this much demonic activity, especially with what appears to be much larger, more coordinated intentions than the temptation of a single soul, one at a time. Additionally, the prophecy begins with the simultaneous rise of the Wizard of Dark and the Wizard of Light, and there have been no Wizards in this world for a thousand years. And the first sign given in the prophecy is the rise of two wizards, one of the dark, one of the light: ‘By this you will know that the last prophecy has come to be fulfilled.’

“But a terrible darkness is growing in our lands. Whether it is prophecy or the relationship to prophecy is, in itself, an intentional distraction, there is evil at work. And we must work to stop it. Because whether it is prophecy or not will make precious little difference if we allow evil to subdue us. The Gods are always there, but they do not schedule every event, every outcome, every conflict. Should we fail in the tasks set before us, the Time of the Final Prophecy could come a thousand years hence . . . and find us already enslaved, the land already submerged in darkness.”

“What do you think we should do, Dach?” Guard asked.

“Fulfill your current obligation to engage the Tarm Fen.” Dach shuddered, holding his staff across his chest. “I will prepare for battle, if necessary. I’d rather take on ten-thousand trolls with a million bushel-baskets of hotrocks, but I don’t think diplomacy will solve Thorn’s trouble with the Tarm Fen, this time. Liege and Chieftain Jackdaw will not respond well to your inquiries, and I expect your presence in general will be unwelcome, after you told the Night Troll that you were an emissary from the Tarm. I have several words of power and protection, and a few Old Language incantations, which I think you are now up to using—and which may serve you well, with the Tarm. I suggest Leslie accompany you, as a quick escape may be your best defense.”

“It would be my honor to serve Thorn,” Leslie said, not a little by rote.

“And what then? After I confront the Tarm and report back to the Elder, what should I do?”

“I think we should confer and prepare you for a longer trip. Unless I am mistaken, your next errand will be to Ashwan, the Jade City, the very center of Jarris. The home of the Child Queen of Jarris, Susan of Blackwood.”

Guard felt woozy. The very idea of such a long trip through such unfamiliar territory—to Jarris, an entirely different dominion, when he had yet to ever leave the admittedly spacious boundaries of Kloston—made him a little nauseous. He’d have to have his horse ready—unlikely, for a new mare—by the time he departed. He’d have to have significant food and medicine, far beyond a single lifegem and a flask of water and some ouncecakes. Tarm was maybe 20 fieldlengths beyond the outpost borders of Thorn—just the border that separated dominions, the River Poseidon, was easily 300 fieldlengths outside of Thorn, the Jade City probably another three-hundred fieldlengths inside the borders of Jarris, if not four-hundred. Good Gods, it was a trip for a convoy with supply lines, not one lone diplomat—Outside Ambassador or not. Just to survive would take some planning. Doing anything useful would be something else again.

“I fear much is at stake. Did the Elder tell you about Stothenby?”

Oh, good Gods. What else? “No, he told me nothing about Stothenby. I haven’t heard anything about or from Stothenby in—I don’t know, six moons at least.”

“Thirty-seven have died from two-day fever. Sixty-seven more have it an are well-nigh on death’s door. We believe it was a courier that stopped at Stephen’s and Sylvania’s before Leasia was quarantined for contagion. Those still alive are being treated similarly, as Stephen is making the rounds with the ogre drums, only stopping to aide in your recovery before going back—so far, it’s the only thing that stops the fever—”

“But Stephen had it,” Guard said. It was true, in the process of saving Leasia, they had apparently done something to the two-day fever virus, making it more resilient and much longer-lasting. But this was the first Guard had heard of people dying because of the mutation. “Stephen was the first one to catch it, after we healed Leasia. And he recovered—it took ten days or so, I know, but he recovered. And he had given it to a farmer in the outlands, and he recovered—”

Dach nodded. “And his wife died. It’s the women that are dying—much like Leasia almost died. Would have, if not for you. Sylvania might have been at risk, had she not had the two-day fever in her adolescence. Fortunately, it’s only spread to two women in Thorn, and both were saved. But Leasia remains contagious. As far as we can determine, nearly every woman who had not had two-day fever previously in Stothenby contracted the fever. Katie has said she can develop something, some sort of vaccination made from the dead virus, but she does not know how long it will take her. In the meantime, we seem to have been visited by a plague. Caused by healing Leasia of an infection that, to this day, nobody understands how she could have contracted, given her normal magical immunity to such things. The healing process that made it much more virulent and much more potentially deadly came from the ogre drums, that were, for some time, in the possession of trolls that had cut deals with elves that might be under the influence of darker forces. You see what I’m getting at.”

“I think,” Guard said. “It’s all too much to just be coincidence. That’s what your saying.”

“Yes. So I think we have much work ahead of us.” Dach sighed, standing up. “About time for me to get to work. With this new information, I have much to do. Additionally, I’m going to need both your and Leslie’s help. I want to catch a demon.”

“Our help?” Leslie asked, eyes wide. “Me? To catch a demon?”

“Yes. But later. First, Guard must attend to the Tarm. He and I will need time to prepare for the journey to Jarris; during that time, I hope to catch a demon, but I will need your help.”

Leslie nodded. Dach turned slightly, putting one finger to his ear. “Mmm,” he hummed. “Oh. Mmm. Not good.”

Guard leaned forward. What was Dach doing? Listening to his oft-referred to Oracle Ear? And what was it saying to him, Guard wondered.

“I’ve got a lot to do. We need to get moving. Thank you so much for your help and insight, Guard and Leslie. I wish I could say recent events were the end of it, but I’m afraid they are just the beginning.” Dach sighed. “Might I speak privately with you Guard, before we go? I have some spells and supplies for your journey to the Tarm.”

 “As you wish,” Guard said, and Dach was up and off, gray and brown robes flowing behind him as he sailed out the door and into the hall.

“Come quickly,” Dach said, gesturing with his staff at the two massive oak doors, which began their ponderous journey towards closure before Dach was through the door. “Before the doors shut.”

Leslie and Guard followed rapidly. “Thirsty,” croaked the troll as they walked swiftly passed his cell. “Water. Help.”

 “Dach—” Leslie and Guard started almost simultaneously.

“Of course,” Dach said without missing a beat, holding his left hand out towards the troll’s cell. There was a sudden loud splash.“That should be plenty of water for now,” Dach said.

“ . . . shatt’s more like it, human freaks,“ the troll said in a water-logged voice, then coughed.

“Doesn’t he need a cup or something?” Leslie asked, almost whispering.

“Trolls would probably prefer licking water up off the floor,” Guard told her. “The dirtier the better. They are odd creatures.”

When they were past Dach’s laboratory and safely out of the root-lined tunnels, back in the main hall of Dach’s castle, Dach motioned with one hand. A large, soft chair, upholstered in crushed blue velvet seemed to melt into existence. “Please have a seat and be comfortable, Leslie, this won’t take but a moment.”

 “As you wish,” she said, nodding. Guard wasn’t sure how he felt about excluding Leslie from any of their discussion—good Gods, Dach wanted her to help him catch a demon in the not-too-distant future—but wasn’t going to argue the point. If there was something she ought to know, Guard would tell her.

 Dach continued down the long hallway, motioning for Guard to follow. At the end, he opened a great redwood door and both entered. He closed the door, and then sat down at one end of a large, oval table, motioning for Guard to come sit beside him.

“Time is precious, so I’ll get to the point. You’ve never used a staff.”

“A staff? You mean a magic staff—like a staffwielder?”

“Yes, that’s exactly what I mean. You’ve never wielded a staff, in any form.”

Guard couldn’t help laughing. “Of course not! You’ve got to be a sorcerer to be a staffwielder, and precious few of them are staff—but you know that, I’m sorry, it’s just . . . I mean, me, a staffwielder! I know my magic seems to be increasing, but . . . a sorcerer? Me? That’s just nuts. You were conjuring entire houses out of thin air when you were, like, ten years old! Everybody has heard the stories. That’s how they knew you were a sorcerer. And your stone—the stonethrower stone. I’m—you’re joking with me, aren’t you?”

“Not at all. I just want to make sure. Here,” Dach said, a simple white staff fell from the air into Guard’s lap. “This is a testing staff. If you were a staffweilder, you’d have to travel to a town with a staff-maker. There aren’t many of those. But it is enough to see if you have the gift.”

Guard couldn’t help but shake his head at such foolishness. “Or that I don’t.”

“I’m afraid that’s less conclusive. Not everybody can do it early on—of those, admittedly, most staffwielders have their staffs by the time they are seventeen. But there are always exceptions.”

“Okay, okay,” Guard said, holding the staff forward. “What do I do?”

Dach gestured, and an apple appeared on the table. “Lift the apple. Into the air. Making it stay there. Just give it a try. Think about it happening. Will it to happen, as you do when you focus your magic.”

“Okay, whatever,” Guard said, and, holding the simple white staff out towards the table. He willed the apple to move. Nothing happened. He willed again. Still, nothing happened. “I don’t think—“

“Just try,” Dach urged. “One more time.”

“All right,” Guard consented. “One more time.” He held the staff out towards the apple, willing with all his might, and he felt a distinct shock in his hand, and then staff bent back, twisting his wrist and rapping him soundly on the head.

“Ouch!” Guard said, and then laughed. “I don’t think this is working.”

“All right,” Dach consented. “I just wanted to see.” He waved his hand, and the apple and staff both evaporated without a sound. “There are many things unique about you. My curiosity was not without legitimate reason. But, time is of the essence. Here is a list of words and spells—I suggest you memorize them tonight.” His hand raised, a scroll shimmered into his palm. He placed it on the table. “Here is a memorystone. And here is some callingwood. I’ve got a piece from this same tree, and you can give the other three to whoever you like, keeping one for yourself. Do you know how to use callingwood?”

Guard nodded. He did. How you used it was sparingly, because it did not last for long.

“Good,” Dach said. “My understanding is that Sylvania has elixir prepared for you. You already have chainmail to wear under you tunic, correct? Don’t forget it on this trip. And if you see the White Sisters before you go, you might check on how they are doing in defeating the elfin magic that lets the trolls roam around in the daylight. And see if they can give you something to assist in the abolition of demons. Should you be bothered.”

Guard nodded.

Dach pursed his lips. He sat there in silence for a full twenty ticks before he finally spoke. “Guard. I have little doubt that you influenced the demon. It was not misleading us, or pretending—you commanded it.”

“I—” Guard stuttered. “I just don’t know.”

“But I do. Your power is growing. I could tell—you kept applying your magic to the demon. Almost as if your energy was unlimited. Almost without pause. That sort of robustness—that’s new for you.”

Guard nodded. “New as of today. I mean, I know my magic has been maturing. But it has never been like that.”

Dach nodded thoughtfully. “And your power may have further to grow, yet.” He stood up. “We will test you on the staff again. Some other day. But now, I know you must be on your way to prepare for tomorrow’s confrontation with the Tarm Elves. And I have much work to do, myself.” Dach waved one hand, and a large book appeared on the table, an oil lamp beside it. “I bid you farewell,” Dach said, the door to the room opening. “May the Gods speed your journey,” he finished, as Guard sat up and stepped out.

“And may the Gods bless yours,” he concurred.

Dach was already opening the book he had conjured, nodding absently at Guard’s words, as the door shut with a loud thump.

Guard walked the distance between himself and Leslie, who stood up, the blue velvet chair vanishing as she did so, as he approached.

“Are you ready to go?” she asked.

“As ready as I’ll ever be. Can you drop me by Sylvania’s? I can just walk back to the Cornfairy from there.”

“If that’s what you want,” Leslie said. “Or I can wait for you.”

“No, that’ll be fine. If you can just get me to Sylvania’s cottage, that will be plenty for today.”

“All right.”

Guard turned around, facing away from Leslie, putting his back to her. “Let’s get this over with.” He chuckled humorlessly. “I hope I don’t get the dry heaves.”

 “Um,” Leslie started. Then she sighed. “Guard, there is an easier way.”

 Guard looked at her, cocking an eyebrow. “Easier way? What easier way?”

 “I—I don’t start with the easier way until I feel somebody has demonstrated they merit the attempt. And even then, I have to get something straight.”

 Guard nodded, turning back around, not sure what he had done to “merit the attempt”, but also not planning to look a gift horse in the mouth. A form of transport that was easier on his stomach and head would be most welcome. “All right.”

Leslie took a deep breath. “Here it is. I’m not attracted to you. I don’t want to get to know you any better. I don’t want to have dinner with you or come over to your room. Just because—just because the process is a little more intimate, this way, it’s not an invitation for your hands or eyes to wander. Especially your hands.”

Guard nodded his head. “I didn’t think you liked me. I mean, I wouldn’t presume. And you’re very nice, but I’m not interested in anything but doing my job.”

Leslie blinked. “Well. Good. I just want to be completely clear,” she said, taking a small piece of twine out of one pocket and wrapping it around her long, black hair, and then flipping her hair over it, pulling it up in an informal bun, away from her neck. As she did so, she turned around. “All right,” she sighed heavily, as if she was already regretting the decision. “You come up behind me.” She pointed to the center of her back. “Put your hand through here—there’s a small hole. Bring your hand through here and go around—wait, roll back your sleeves as far you can. Do it for both your arms, your sleeves need to be up for both arms. Now, bring your left hand in and around against my stomach. Keep in mind that the idea is for as much skin contact as possible.”

“Okay,” Guard said. He understood why Leslie had made such a point of clarifying her lack of attraction to him. His arm was now around a lot more soft, warm, naked female flesh than he was used to. Than it had ever been, except for the time he had helped rescue Leasia from the highwaymen. Additionally, the rest of his body was pressed against hers, and he could smell her hair and skin, and even after a day of difficult work, she smelled very good. And it was—stimulating. It was no lie: he had no interest in her, other than getting the job at hand done. But he was a young man, and his body was reacting despite his wishes to the contrary. He hoped this would be over soon.

“All right,” she said, loosening her robes at her neck then pulling it down around her right shoulder. “Put your right hand around my stone—my necklace. Hold it tightly. Keeping your hand around the stone, trying and keep your arm up as high as you can without separating from my skin.” 

“Okay. Now, as I begin to speak and you feel my skin get hot, put your mouth on the back of my neck—open mouth, teeth and tongue, is the best way–”

“Oh,” Guard said. He was already feeling too aroused as it was. This was too intimate, for him, as it was. “Oh, no, I can’t. I—I mean, I’m sorry. That’s not something I can do.”

Leslie shrugged. “It’s up to you. It would make the trip easier for you. I’m going to be, as a practical matter, almost licking your arm. It’s a hazard of the job for me. Perhaps you could just press your lips against my neck or my shoulder. Nothing inappropriate. Understanding, of course, that it’s not a come-on or an invitation to fondle anything. That would be a good way to lose a foot. Or the back of your head.”

“I understand,” Guard said, wishing he had an alternate—but equally swift—mode of transport. But there was none.

“Okay. Up against me. Closer. Spread the fingers of the hand on my stomach. Push just a little more firmly. Hold tight to my stone. Don’t choke me, though. Then, just put your lips against my neck. Nothing fancy.”

 Guard did as he was told, pressing his lips to her bare shoulder as her head bowed, and she pressed her own lips to his forearm. Then, her mouth moving, she started saying words. Words that sounded like the Old Language, but words he could not understand. Her body grew hot quickly, as her mouth, now burning like fire, opened, her tongue touching the skin of his arm like a blazing flame. And to his horror, as he was pressed so tightly against her, he found himself so aroused physically that he knew she was sure to notice. Even with the burning, prickly heat of his skin, he felt the blood rushing to his cheeks, in profound embarrassment. She shifted her backside against him, obviously noticing the sudden change, but did not pull away. But he did feel her teeth biting into his arm, with the heat of a branding iron. Scorching pain bloomed in his arm—it felt like his forearm had been run-through with a sword of molten steel, but if anything it only made his arousal worse. And as the pain seemed almost unbearable, she pushed him back gently, and he stumbled on the dry, dusty street, but neither fell or vomited. He rubbed his eyes, looking at the small cottage in front of him. Sylvania and Stephen’s cottage. She had taken him directly there. And this time, the sensation of having all the food in his stomach squeezed out by a giant hand was absent. He felt mildly nauseous, but it wasn’t bad. Leslie had certainly been right about this being the easier way to go. Still, he couldn’t help but feel ashamed for the physical reaction he had had to simply being in such close proximity to her. Especially after all she had said.

He turned to face her. She returned his gaze evenly, expressionless. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean—I wasn’t thinking—I should have—” He stopped. “I have no designs on you. But perhaps we should do it the first way we did it, next time. I’m—I’m afraid it appears I can’t quite trust my own body.”

“It’s all right,” Leslie said neutrally. “That is not the first time. It won’t be the last. As long as you understand, it ends there.”

“I understand,” Guard said, nodding, keeping his own head down in shame. “Thank you for your help today. If it suits you, I’d like you to meet me at the farm of the White Sisters before noon tomorrow.”

“You are sure you have no further need of me tonight?” Leslie asked, pulling the twine from her hair and then pushing her long, black locks away from her face. She was disheveled and clearly exhausted, but in last light of the setting sun, she was strikingly beautiful. Given the nature of her magic and her statuesque features, no wonder she had had trouble with the men she was assigned assist.

“We are both tired. I think it’s time we both rest. I suspect I will have need of you, and tomorrow will be very busy.”

“Good night, then,” she said, then turned and walked away. Guard suspected that, after a day of transporting him back and forth, she was happy to just walk back her house. As all who had had their stones thrown knew, one’s magic could often be more of a burden than a blessing.

Sighing, he turned to the small oaken door of Stephen and Sylvania’s small cottage.

Next: Chapter 3, Leasia’s Curse

He turned to face the door to door of the small cottage, where Leasia had been living with Stephen and his wife, Sylvania, for the past year. Leasia had lived with them since she had been shot with a crossbow and robbed, and no doubt worse had been in the offing, had Guard not idly wondered how Leasia faired to the little magic mirror that Sreesa had, at that point, given him only the week before. Had he not, Leasia would have almost certainly been dead. That had been the first time Guard had helped to save her life. Although then, as always, without the support and assistance of so many good people in the village, he could not have done it. Since the incident, Leasia had grown uncomfortable keeping a room at the Janeflower Inn which, for a place that offered room and board for single ladies, had not been in the best part of town. So, at Sylvania’s and Stephen’s behest, Leasia had moved in with them.

Guard raised his hand to knock, exhaling slowly.  He had been exhausted before seeing Dach. Now, he felt completely wiped out. He had hoped to get over to see the White Sisters before ending the evening, but was simply too tired, had not wanted to try and make it there on foot, and had not wanted to be any further burden on Leslie. After visiting Dach and transporting Guard back and forth, she had clearly been in need of rest herself. Besides, he thought he might have time to visit the Sisters in the morning, before he began his errand to the Tarm, and might simply have Leslie meet him there. The Elder said his horse would be delivered to him at the Cornfairy in the morning, and it simply wasn’t practical to try and get real work done with a new mare. She would not likely be cooperative, and he wasn’t sure how good he felt about leaving a horse tied up outside the Tarm, all things considered. And he knew he didn’t want to park his new horse in the seedy, unpleasant stalls behind the Cornfairy, so he thought he might just board her, until he had more time, with the Sisters, who had a good stable, large pastures, and no shortage of oats and honey.

He frowned as he read the post on the door: “Quaerantine: These House Be Withe Contagion” it said, in red, gothic text. “Unless Ye Have Been Certifiead To Have Had The Two-Day Faever, Entrance is Forbade”. It didn’t explain the details, but it really was sad. And Guard couldn’t help but feel at least partially to blame—he had brought the healing drums, he had gotten Stephen to play them, and something in that combination had saved Leasia’s life—and turned her into a carrier of the disease that had been killing her. And, somehow, the process had changed the virus, changed what it did, in some crucial way. So that now it lasted longer, and was almost universally fatal to the human women it infected, if not treated with powerful magic. As a result, Leasia could no longer leave the house. She was quarantined, indefinitely.

Shaking his head sadly, Guard knocked on the door. It was really Sylvania he was here to see, anyway, for elixirs, of course, but also to see if there was any local gossip about the issues touched on by Dach. So, even though he knew Leasia would be here—that she had no choice but to be here—he was surprised when she opened the door. Even more surprised when she said, “Guard, I’m so glad you’re here.”

“I—you are? Why?” It was an odd thing to ask, but he couldn’t help himself.

“Because there has been something I’ve been meaning to address with you, but I just haven’t had the time,” she said, shepherding him in and then closing the door. “The first is this—” And she threw her arms around him, drawing him so tightly to her that it hurt, her bosom pressed intimately against his chest, her hands firmly gripping his back. The smell of her filled his nose. The lilac and pear tree smell of her hair, the after-the-rain smell of her skin, the sweet honey-dew smell of her breath, like she had just eaten a fresh melon. “Thank you so much, Guard. You saved my life. Again. Thank you so, so much.” They stood, her arms around him, his arms slowly encircling her, the smell of her, the sound of her voice, overwhelming him. His heart was pounding. As he held onto her, he swayed unsteadily on his feet. It felt like he was falling.

“You stupid man,” she whispered in his ear, her lips almost touching it. “You did not even tell me. I didn’t even know, until Sylvania and the Elder told me the story about the drums—about what you did, to save me. I thank you, Guard.”

His reaction this time was worse than it had been with Leslie. He could feel his eyes welling up, a lump forming in his throat. Suddenly, he just wanted to tell her. Tell her that his heart ached for her, that his soul longed for her—and have her tell him to go to Hell. And then it would be answered, once and for all, and maybe there would be closure. Maybe his feelings for her would stop weighing so heavily on his heart.

After a moment, she disengaged. “Guard,” she said, looking at him closely—and he noticed, in the back of the room, Sylvania stood quietly, folding napkins, her eyes occasionally flitting in their direction. “Guard, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing, nothing,” he said quickly, wiping his eyes with the ball of his hands. “It’s just—it’s been a long day. A long month. A long three months. I just—I wasn’t expecting anybody—I was expecting you, I guess I should say—to be so nice to me. I mean, I know you would, but I wasn’t expecting it. I guess.”

Leasia stepped back a little further. “Guard,” she asked. “I think there is something I should ask you.” Her eyes flitted over to Sylvania. “And Sylvania has fair insisted I do before I go forward.”

“Sylvania?” Guard asked. “Has insisted what?”

“That you had feelings for me,” she said. And there it was. Cold, stark, true, and terrible, and not in the quiet of his solitude but the bright light of the here and now, right from her very mouth, and he could not deny it. “She has said that you would give your very heart to me. That I had but to ask.”

Guard knew better than to hope for a positive outcome from this conversation. At the same time, the relief that it was finally going to be over, that the truth was finally spoken—by the one of them with more courage, he was sure—was tremendous. A deep sadness took him, because at once he knew his heart would be denied. Yet there was also deep, deep relief. It would finally be resolved. “I do,” he said, looking away at the wall. “I would.”

Leasia sighed. “You must know—you must at least feel—that my heart will never be yours. Could never be yours. That I cannot, and I will not, love you. As good a friend, and as good a man, as you are. That I would not love you. Even if I could. And, Guard, I cannot.”

He had thought they were coming, but to hear them spoken aloud, from the very mouth he had dreamed of kissing so many times, stung, like salt in an open wound.

“I understand,” Guard said, he turned around, bringing his arm to his eyes, wiping them clean, trying to control himself. This was not the time or place.

“Guard, I don’t wish to hurt you, but I also cannot lie. You have done so much for me. So much I did not deserve. Because you are truly a good man. But . . . I don’t love you. I never will.”

Guard tried to shrug nonchalantly. “I never expected anything else.” He couldn’t help but notice that his boots looked worn, and felt a sudden need to examine them more closely.

“Oh, Guard,” she said moving closer to him, putting her hands on his shoulders.

“Go on,” Sylvania prompted. “If you’re going to do this thing.”

Guard was looking away, but he could hear the consternation in Sylvania’s voice. There was some dissension between them, he thought. About what? “Yes, you’re right,” Leasia said, giving Sylvania an unpleasant look. “Thank you, Sylvania. Guard—you know the Oath of Life.”

Guard nodded. “Of course.”

“And the Rule of Three.”

Guard blinked. It had occurred to him, yes, but it hardly seemed applicable, and, in any case, even if he could have invoked it, he never would have. “Yes, but—I would never—”

“You have saved my life three times,” she said firmly, cutting him off. “My life is now yours. You should know, I am betrothed, and on my eighteenth birthday, I will marry another. Until then, I must submit to you, by the Rule of Three. And the Oath of Life allows for an Oath Marriage. You know that, too. Until such time as it must be dissolved. So I may marry the one to whom I am betrothed.”

Guard shook his head. “What are you saying? I thought you said—you said you had no feelings—”

“I don’t, Guard. But you have saved my life three times, and you are owed the debt of my submission as called for by The Rule of Three. And you could marry me by oath, and I would in all ways be your wife. I could not love you. But I would be obedient, by your side, and be a good wife to you, in the market and in the bedroom—”

Guard shook his head. “I don’t understand. I—why are you saying this?”

“The Rule of Three means my life is yours, until, by pledge, it is redeemed by another. Until then, if I honor my oaths, I must submit to you. If you will it.”

“I would never obligate you to something for which you had no heart. Something that would be against your will. You know that.”

Guard was looking straight at her now, and he could not help but notice the look that passed between Sylvania and Leasia as he spoke. What was going on here?

Leasia inhaled deeply. “It is my duty to inform you of my obligation and what it entails, as it would be my duty to fulfill it at your word,” she said, and she raised one hand in the air, the other across her heart. “I swear an oath now, as I swore the Oath of Life upon confirmation, that it would be both my duty and my honor to submit to you, as your lifeservant, and do as you willed, in keeping with the Oath of Life and the Rule of Three, until my pledge of betrothal must be redeemed.” As she finished, there was a flare of white that swelled in the air before them and it seemed to Guard he felt it cut through his own heart.

“I—I would never—I could never—” Guard stuttered. “A marriage should be based on love, faith and trust. Not the repayment of a debt, however incurred.”

Leasia sighed, looking away. For a moment Guard thought he saw something that he only recognized because it was so familiar in his own face: a flash of shame. “I just confess the debt I owe, and the limitations I face in repayment. I am yours, if you wish. But my heart cannot be.”

“You owe me nothing, Leasia,” Guard said. “You live. That is payment beyond anything else I could measure. Would I that you were not kept here, like a prisoner, in this house—”

“I’m sure an answer will come,” Leasia said. “For the good of all, it is my honor to stay here. And with such fine visitors and company, I have nothing to complain of.” She smiled. “But I do require your answer. Do you collect your debt, yes or no?”

“I would never make you-I would never want you to do something you did not wish for yourself, of your own free will,” Guard said. “It was the last thing on my mind. I came here for elixirs, from Sylvania.”

Leasia nodded. “I know. But Sylvania felt I should get this out of the way tonight, and I believe she is probably correct. If you don’t wish to collect your debt, I ask you, then, to absolve me of it.”

Guard blinked. “I—what? I just said—”

Leasia looked steadily at him. “By oath. Forego any claim to me, any claim to my submission, any province over my will. Acknowledge by oath that I have no debt to you, now and forever more, and you have no right to me, and no authority over my action.” Leasia tilted her head slightly, examining Guard, unsmiling. “If you mean what you say.”

Guard just stared at her for a moment, in shock. Stung, again. Stabbed, almost. With a barbed dagger, through his heart. It was one thing to hear her say the words, to tell him that there was, in truth, no room in her life for him, and never would be. Another to, directly after, extend him so little trust. To suggest, as she clearly was, that given an opportunity for a second thought, he might come back and make a veritable slave of her. He knew that they had not spent so much time together that she could be said to know him well, and he understood that he had always been more interested in her than she in him. But to even think him capable of turning her into a slave for his selfish fulfillment, when she had already told him, in no uncertain terms, that there was no room in her heart for him? How could she see him that way?

His face hot with shame, feeling the tears well up but refusing to lose control, he raised his hand. “I take this Oath and Pledge, upon the Sacred Scriptures and the Honor of Thorn, that I, Guard of Thorn, have no claim on Leasia of Thorn, in body, mind or spirit, now and forever. All debts are forgiven, in perpetuity. Any authority I have, renounced. Any rights over Leasia under the Oath of Life or the Rule of 3, I renounce for now and forever. These things I swear.”

For a moment, it was if lightning struck. There was a burst of white, as the truth of Guard’s Oath burned into the air before them. Then the light faded.

Leasia nodded solemnly, “Thank you, sir Guard. Now, I have something else to tell you. And I want you to pledge to hear me out.”

Another pledge? Just to hear her out? This was almost too much. “Why should I need to pledge just for me to hear you out? Of course I will hear you out. I–”

“I’m sorry if you take offense, friend Guard, but I feel it is important. I just ask for your pledge to hear out all I have to say.”

“But I would–would never not hear you out. You’d have but to request, at anytime.”

“Then I request you do me the honor of being bound by oath to do so.”

Guard, so stung by the words, so surprised at what his visit to Sylvania’s for some Elixirs had become, raised his hand. “I take this Oath and Pledge, upon the Sacred Scriptures and the Honor of Thorn, that I, Guard of Thorn, pledge to listen in full to all Leasia would tell me.” There was a crackle of light as the oath was made.

 “To be certain,” Leasia said, “Give me your hand.”

 Numbly, Guard offered his hand, unsure what she was planning but still too stunned be Leasia’s previous demands to even ask. “Thank you,” she said, and then, holding his palm out flat, she placed Guard’s hand in the middle of her breastbone, across her heart. “Ashiam felloneth miam,” she said, and Guard felt himself freeze. Shock turned to something like fear. She was using the Old Language. And the words she had used: ashiam, that meant, essentially, You freeze or you turn to stone. Felloneth, he thought meant when it is all done, or until it is over. And miam was Old Language for my pledge. It had had its effect. He tried, now, but could not move. What in the Hells was she doing?

But it was too late to worry about it now. His hand was locked to her chest, like iron welded to iron. He could not move his body. He could not speak a word. Ashiam felloneth miam, he thought. A variation on the standard incantation to disable the enemy, before casting the spell that kills them. This couldn’t be good.

Leasia’s eyes closed and her face was turning red, and Guard could see Sylvania walk into his field of view, and then put her right hand on Leasia’s shoulder. Was she in on this too? My Gods, he thought—was Dach right? Were there demons everywhere, now? Even here? Had darkness fallen on Stephen and Sylvania’s cottage?

“Ishiam ashaala mia, ra grijion monma astan espway,” Leasia continued, her eyes darting around beneath their dark lids. He could feel her heart, pounding against her chest, not so much a heartbeat but as if something were inside her, hitting her breastbone with a hammer, trying to break out. He thought he understood some of the words, but it didn’t make any sense at all, given what had transpired before. Ishiam ashalla mia, or, roughly: I pledge my heart to he who pledges to me. Or, I pledge my soul. Or possibly, my life and soul. Then the second part—monma was essentially, grace and duty. Espway meant something on the order of life and death, and ra grijion was to protect but one. The rest didn’t make much sense, but Guard only knew enough of the Old Language to get by. Leasia, on the other hand, apparently knew a great deal, and was, in essence, casting a spell on him. And he was helpless to resist. “Ishimi maol rauude,” she said. Something about blood. “Atwa isp ishiam hoklai mia.” What was that last bit? My last breath for my pledge?

If he could have moved, his eyes would have no doubt widened in the dawning horror and realization as to what Leasia was doing. This was a spell of one-way mortality exchange. If it was what he thought it was, then if he died, then she would die in his stead, and he would get one more chance. At the cost of her death. Her life now inextricably bound to his.

He tried to scream no. But it was impossible. He was frozen. He felt her chest leap, her torso almost seeming to ripple as she cried out in pain. Then it felt as if something had jumped from her, into his arm. He couldn’t see it, but he could feel it. Pulsing. Warm. Beating. Alive. Beautiful. Horrible. He wanted to shake his head no, no, no. But he couldn’t move.

Her eyes closed, her body swaying back and forth on her chair, she almost spat the next words: “Shenom miam ishiam atwa SHOM!” And then she drew in a sharp, whistling breath, her back arching and her head snapping back in a spasm, her breast bone thrusting against his hand, at once hot like a stove plate and yet cold like lake ice in the deepest day of winter. Then she doubled over, as if in terrible pain, saying words he could not hear. Then she righted herself, her face pale, her closed eyes rimmed with tears.

At the same time, Guard felt his own heart surge, warmth and vitality seeming to burst inside his veins, inhaling the fullness of the air, and as he breathed in, he smelled her—he was breathing her in. Her scent, her wonder—her very life. It was at once sweeter than the sweetest fruit, more potent than the most powerful elixir, and yet terrible. Terrible as if he were eating her flesh for his dinner. Terrible as if, in the thick of battle, he had thrust a woman or child in front of him to take an arrow meant for him, to save his own sorry hide. Terrible, as if he had just been doomed to be forever haunted by his own personal ghost.

But it was slowly dawning on him that he had surrendered, not moments before, all rights to object or have any real say as to what Leasia did. Stupid, stupid! He cursed himself. What had he been thinking? What if there was a darker force in control at this house? What if Leasia had been planning all along to repay a debt she did not owe him, in his estimation, and do it against his will, leaving him with no recourse? Surely it was the latter, but given recent circumstances he was ashamed he had not been more cautious, ashamed he had been caught unaware. Blinded, perhaps, by his own foolish infatuation.

 “Ashiom felloneth miam,” she finished and Guard felt his hand snap back from her, as if slapped back with the force, almost, of a cannon ball. He toppled out his chair.

Leasia collapsed onto the floor, pale and wan. Sylvania was there in a moment, placing a small flask to her lips and then pouring in the contents. Then, Sylvania put away the flask and put her hands under Leasia’s arms.

“Guard,” Sylvania said. “Stand up, and get her feet. Help me get her to bed directly.”

Blearily, Guard did as she said, anger, concern, and shock all in a sudden fight for dominance in his heart, but his first priority to see to the welfare of Leasia. He stood, finding he now had no shortage of vigor, and lifted up Leasia’s feet—bare, he noted, beneath the folds of her long brown and red skirt and modest pink petticoat—and took her to her room, the room in which not so long ago Leasia had been pronounced dead. And if not for the ogre drums and Stephen’s prodigious and providential talent, Guard knew she would now be buried beneath the grass in the Field of Memories beside Thorn’s Great Western Church.

If she had felt a debt needed repayment, why had she not put this curse on Stephen?

 Sylvania and Guard lay her on the bed. She did not look well, and her breath was shallow. Still, Guard felt anger rising in him. Deep anger. At himself, yes, but also at Leasia. Such a foolish risk. Such a foolish thing to do at all! And Sylvania, apparently in cooperation. His first concern was Leasia’s well-being, but did not think he could hold his tongue on the issue for long.

 Sylvania began unbuttoning Leasia’s dress. “Thank you, Guard,” she said simply. “You may leave. Please close the door.” She looked up briefly at him, and, catching the look in his eye, quickly looked back down. “I’ll be out in a moment.”

 Guard turned and left, closing the door behind him. He walked over to the table where Sylvania had been working, folding napkins, grinding together ingredients for elixirs. How could she? Guard demanded in his mind. How could they both? Conspire against him? He inhaled deeply, his eyes darting around, wanting something to fix on, something to do, words exploding in his mind, but none sounding right. As he exhaled, the smell of honeysuckle and allspice, of lye soap and lavender, heavy on his own breath. Her smell. It was all over him. It was inside him. He could feel the force of her life in his blood, of her heart beating in time with his own. It was, in its way, closer to her than he ever dreamed he’d be. But he had not wanted it this way. He could not accept it, this way. Could not stand it, this way.

 The anger—as deep and dark as any he could remember—beat at the inside of his skull. He picked up the mortar and pestle Sylvania had been using and sniffed at it. Cinnamon peppers. She had been grinding spices. He looked at the far end of the table, and past a few old books and jars of fresh or pickled herbs and roots was a bag of, no doubt, hardbread, ounce cakes and sweetfruit, maybe some pears—three vials of elixir, a rolled scroll, probably containing some utility spells, and a water flask. Sylvania had prepared him a travel pack for his mission to the Tarm. Probably hours ago. All of Sylvania’s milling about had been for what? For show? To keep an eye on Leasia’s enchantment on him? To aid and abet? Certainly, he wouldn’t have just taken the goods and run, but . . .

He sighed loudly. Again, he could smell Leasia. The breath of her very essence seemed to fill his lungs when he inhaled.   

The door to Leasia’s room opened, and Sylvania stepped out. “I think she we will be fine, after some rest—“

Guard walked up to her, the urge to raise his voice considerable, but he bit his tongue. Though he could do little to moderate his tone. “What is the meaning of this?” he demanded. “What the Hells was she thinking? What in the Hells were you thinking, Sylvania? You, at least, are supposed to act like an adult. Act with some honor—“

“Guard,” Sylvania began patiently. “Perhaps I should explain.”

“By all means!” Guard yelled. The volume of his voice was rising, anyway. He just couldn’t help it. “Explain to me why the two of you conspired to cast this spell on me! Why she forced me to swear an oath, yet she deceived me—”

Sylvania nodded. “You may be able to consult the Hall of Judgment and have your oath revoked, based on the misleading nature in which you swore it.”

“I—Yes. Yes. No! I want Leasia to release me from this yoke. Today! At this very moment. I want her to take it back. I cannot have her life so tied to mine. For reasons times ten, I cannot have that.” Again, he felt the sting of his eyes tearing up, but there was nothing he could do about it. “I cannot bear it. She tells me she feels nothing for me and will not and yet she puts a chain around my heart. She would not be with me, now or ever, but burdens me with her very ghost. Now and forever.”

Sylvania sighed, placing her hand on his shoulder, her long, wine-colored fingernails dusted with the black-brown residue of crushed cinnamon pepper. “I was against this, Guard. From the beginning. This was her idea. It was all I could do to get her to pledge to do it under my watch, so that I might keep her, should things have gone awry, from doing damage to you both.”

Guard shook his head. He tried to stop it, but he felt one single, burning tear roll down his cheek. “I feel as if it is her very blood that flows in my veins.”

 Sylvania nodded. “I am sorry, Guard, I was opposed to this course for three very specific reasons. The first is your feelings for her; I tried to make clear the pitfalls of such an enchantment, cast between the two of you. Given that there is–and I am sorry for it, for you; sorry for you both—a chasm between your hearts that cannot be bridged. The second was that she is, in my opinion, far too young to be involved in such powerful magic. I do know she is far too naïve to see the outcome. The third was . . . “ Sylvania trailed off, lowering her head. “The third was, it dishonors you. And I thought that was perhaps the worst of it. But I do not control Leasia.”

Guard looked at her, eyes narrow, and Sylvania looked down. That did cause Guard pause, as that was hardly the usual nature of his relationship with Sylvania, or any of the Thorn superiors. But he could not help it, or his own disrespectful words: “You might have warned me,” he said, the dark tone of his voice a surprise to him, and a visible sting to Sylvania. “To have given me some warning as a friend is not to control Leasia but to allow me informed consent.”

Her head still down, Sylvania nodded. “You do still have options. You are right, that her tactics aren’t above question. You may get the oath repealed, but I cannot do that. And there are—” She paused, as if considering her next words carefully. “There are aspects you do not know.”

“I am not leaving until I speak to Leasia,” Guard said. Even in his new position as Outside Ambassador, he knew he was stepping well above his station. But he could not stand for this. “Is she decent?”

“Of course,” Sylvania said. “But she is exhausted. She is barely conscious. You cannot—”

“I can and I will,” Guard said. As he said it, he felt his magic, without his even thinking about it, gather around him and release, his focus entirely on Sylvania.

 She blinked. “Yes,” she said, her voice suddenly small and . . . absent. “Of course. Come with me.”

She walked over to the door and brought out her key, opening it. “Leasia,” she said. “Guard must talk with you.”

 Leasia, pale and wan, turn her head weakly to the door as they entered. Her eyes fluttered open.

“I . . . am sorry . . . Guard . . . “ she said. “I will . . . not . . .”

“You will and you must,” Guard said. Never in his life would he have ever thought, ever considered, ever entertained the remotest possibility of using his magic on Leasia. But now he did it, with intent, with little of his typical doubt or question. Without reservation. “You will free me from this onerous burden because I cannot—” He felt the tears threatening to come again, and he blinked them back, clearing his throat. “—because I cannot bear it. I cannot stand beneath the weight of it.”

“I am sorry . . . Guard . . . ”

“You did not ask me. You did not tell me. You intentionally hid what you planned to do. That is not how a debt is repaid. If there was a debt, which there was not, because I had no expectations of you. None! There was nothing owed me, and I wanted nothing. This is not how a friend would treat a friend. And if you would know—and if you know how I have—for how long I have felt—almost since I have known you, I have—I have wanted you. And you say to me now what I have known all along, that it could never be, and then you would curse me with your very ghost? Possess my very heart and blood?” Again, he felt the tears. Already, the onus of her spirit upon his was oppressive. He had to have relief. “Why would you—do you wish me to suffer—”

Sylvania came up behind Guard, putting her hand on his shoulder. “Guard. Leasia meant you no wrong. She knew it would dishonor you, but—”

“But what?” Guard demanded, turning on her angrily. Sylvania stepped back. Guard had never been prone to anger, at least not in front of others, and he knew his temper now must be a shock. But what in the Hells would they expect, after such a betrayal? “What reason is there to do what she knew would not only be dishonor to me but cut me to my very bone?”

“Leasia—“ Sylvania started. “Leasia feels that, upon her death—upon death from which you saved her—she had a vision—”

“I . . . do not feel I had a vision . . . “ Leasia said, with some effort, brow furrowing at the word feel, almost sneering it, her eyes closing, as if just keeping them open and talking simultaneously was too difficult. “I do not believe I had a vision. I . . . do not . . . imagine . . . I had a vision. I was given a vision. I knew what I had . . . to do. I am sorry, Guard . . . I cannot take it back.”

Guard, eyes narrowing, stepped towards the bed, the power, his magic, swelling around him. The very room seemed to brighten with the potency of it. “You will free me of this curse. This enchantment. I cannot have your life tied to mine, I cannot be tied to your heart—under no circumstance I can imagine would I agree to it, under these I cannot bear it.” The magic poured from him. He felt it, flowing out, as if he were the great riverbed, directing the flow of the endless, rushing water. He was angry, he was intent, but even so he knew it was more power, now, than he had ever used before. More than he ever could have. More than he had even applied to the demon a short while ago. The lamp beside Leasia’s bed flared with the force of his power, the curtains rustled, the dust ruffle around her bed billowed in, as if pushed by wind. Leasia’s dark auburn hair blew away from her face. That even gave Guard pause, who had never experienced such a kinetic manifestation of his power. It was not just mental, now; it was physical. It was potent, in his emotionally distraught state, or perhaps because of the unnatural elevation of his own life force, tied as he now was to Leasia. “You will release me from this oath,” he commanded. “You will untie my life from yours.”

“I . . . am sorry, Guard . . . but I will not,” Leasia said. “Please . . . don’t bother . . .”

“Release me!” He heard Sylvania gasp and stumble back behind him as the energy, the magic, thrummed inside of him, pouring out onto Leasia.

“I will not,” she answered, eyes still closed but speaking plainly. “If I do, both of us will die.”

At this point, her assertion didn’t hold much water with him. “How? How would it be that without this curse upon me, we would both perish?”

“I . . . can’t tell you . . . “

“Tell me,” Guard demanded, his magic surging from him, so much so that he felt it pressing out from him as an almost physical force, a vibration deep in his bones that radiated out from him, to everywhere, but focused on Leasia. With a glassy pop, a long, white crack appeared in the bottom left pane of the window. A vase tumbled off the top of the bookshelf, as if someone had just casually thumped it off with their finger.

“I cannot, Guard,” she said. “I will not. I have . . . no oath to you. You cannot . . . compel me. Please, you are breaking things—”

“Why can you not tell me what it is you say you’ve seen–?”

“I can tell no one, Guard,” she said tiredly, her eyes fluttering open, looking past him. “Guard . . . stop . . . you are hurting Sylvania . . .”

Guard turned on his heel, and saw Sylvania slumped back against the wall, eyes rolled up in her head so that only the red-rimmed whites were visible, a dark rivulet of blood streaming slowly from one nostril.

Fear stabbed him like an icy dagger. My Gods, what have I done? he thought, drawing the force of his magic back into himself, without effort, barely without thought. The moment he did, Sylvania slid the rest of the way down the wall and collapsed. His fear turned to terror as he knelt down beside her. Her mouth open, spit was pooling on the floor. And there were red dabs of blood at her ears. He carefully tried to angle up her head, prying open one eye—an eye that was bloodshot and rimmed with red, one or perhaps two small blood vessels clearly burst. And no awareness in it at all. “Sylvania,” he said. “Sylvania, please—I did not mean—”

“Healing elixir first,” Leasia said quietly from the bed. “Pour it . . . in her mouth. Then on her face . . . lifegems are in the gembox on her work table . . . get as many as are in there . . . ”

Guard ran out of Leasia’s room and grabbed the healing elixir that Sylvania had, earlier, set aside for his journey. Then he picked up the gembox and brought it into Leasia’s room, again kneeling beside Sylvania. Immediately, he uncorked the elixir and tilted her head up, pouring it into her mouth. What remained after he saw her throat swallow, once and then twice, he poured on her ears, then around her eyes.

“Lifegems . . . “ Leasia breathed. “How many?”

Guard opened the gembox and counted. One, two, three, four. “I count seven,” he said after moment.

“Lay her back and place one . . . on her forehead . . . place one over her heart . . . place the next over her navel . . . place one in each hand, and make . . . sure to curl her fingers . . . around them. Then . . . put one in her mouth, but hold it so she does not . . . try and swallow. Put the last against her throat, and hold it . . . wait until she awakes . . .”

Guard did as he was told. It was almost ten minutes before Sylvania’s eyes fluttered open, red and bleary but no longer rimmed with blood. Guard removed the lifegems from her mouth and off her throat. “My head,” she said after a moment, her voice hoarse and papery. “I feel as if someone has driven a spike right through it. And pulled it out other side.” She tried to sit up, and then immediately slipped back down. “What has happened to me?”

“Guard . . . almost killed you . . . trying to bend my will,” Leasia said.

Sylvania blinked. “What? Guard?”

“I am so sorry,” Guard apologized. “I was angry—I am angry—I wanted to force Leasia to lift this curse of life from me—I didn’t know that it could—that it would—I have—nothing like this has ever happened before! I did not know it was an affliction on you, until Leasia said it.”

Sylvania looked at Guard unsteadily. “You did this? To me? Trying to—use your magic—on Leasia—you?”

“I am sorry. It wasn’t on purpose, I was just—I was turning it up, because Leasia was—it was if I was doing nothing. My temper was such—“

“You know,” Sylvania mumbled. “You know that. You can’t. But—I had no idea. No idea that—your power was such.”

 Sylvania wasn’t entirely making sense, but Guard got the last part. She hadn’t suspected that his magic was—well, so potent. That was able to marshal so much of it as to have a kinetic impact beyond the scope of his actual talent, which was entirely mental. She was saying that she had had no idea that Guard’s magic was more than a simple curiosity. And, actually, Guard hadn’t, either. Not until recently, and, even so, nothing like what had just happened had ever happened before. And it frightened him not a little. His magic had never been great—he had never been given the impression that his magic would ever be great, anything more than a minor power. Useful, perhaps, for making diplomatic relations smoother, or negotiations turn out more favorably—although, so far, even this hadn’t truly happened—but not much more. Recent experience had suggested his magic was growing, but this—this was beyond anything he expected. He had not even been concentrating on Sylvania. Leasia was apparently immune to his power—it would not be the first time her magical immunity had demonstrated an interesting new wrinkle beyond her complete and total resistance to all potions, powders, and hexes. Thank the Gods for it, too, he now thought—what if she had not been? What would he have done to her?

Guard was emotionally exhausted. He was not thinking clearly. His reasoning was not good, and he had not been expecting to step into such a circumstance—he had meant to collect the items Sylvania had prepared for his journey, perhaps peak in to see how Leasia faired, and then retire for the evening. He doubted he would be any less ill-at-ease with the deception that both Leasia and Sylvania had practiced upon him, or Leasia’s intransigence on removing the near-curse she had put upon him, after rest. But he felt sure he would practice greater wisdom in dealing with it. He had been acting out of anger, not reason or logic. He needed to step back, let Leasia recover, let Sylvania recover, and—well, to borrow a phrase of the White Sisters, keep his light under a bushel for the time being. He had not even been trying that hard—he had been angry, he had been motivated, surely, but the thought that he had done something to Sylvania, knocked her unconscious—

Given her a severe brain hemorrhage, Guard’s mind suggested helpfully. 

Yes, well. There had been blood. Hells, there was still blood, as he helped Sylvania up, guiding her to the chair beside the door. Not a good thing, the blood. How had he made her bleed like that? He had always worried a little bit, in the back of his mind, about really using his talent, except when he had to. Except for emergencies. For one thing, he wasn’t going to abuse what had been given. Magic was a gift to all the creatures of Ashealla from the Gods. Not a thing to be taken lightly. For another, what if he made them, say, want to be nice to him—and it went too far? Or ended up with them doing something he had never anticipated? Or made them violent? Or paranoid? Or irrational? Or hallucinatory? It hadn’t happened, of course, and after a year of diplomatic work his small magic had gotten a lot of use. Still, there had always been the possibility. He had never tried to use his talent on Leasia—even just to suggest that she do something simple, like linger and talk with a him a little longer—out of fear of what could go wrong. Officious bureaucrats in Gallow’s Village, he didn’t care much about, nor did he have many reservations about using his magic on any of the Tarm, although, to date, the efficacy had been questionable—elves could be most resistant to both human magic and human logic. It wasn’t that he wished ill to those he did use his magic on, but if he made an error, if he burdened a faceless politician with a lingering paranoia about black cats or cooked fish, he barely knew them and, to some extent, it was simply a hazard of the line of work they were all in. If he did the same thing to a friend or acquaintance in Thorn, it would be something else again. And how would he explain it? Well, yes, I used a little magic on Leasia, but only because I wanted her to like me . . .

No, that would never have work. And, the truth was, if his power was growing—and it seemed to be shooting up dramatically over extremely short periods of time—he should be more worried about the effect it might have on friends and acquaintances, not less. What had happened to Sylvania proved that. If he hadn’t been at Sylvania’s, surrounded by lifegems and healing elixir, what then?

“You should . . . go . . . “ Leasia said. “It is . . . late . . . Sylvania needs rest, as . . . do I.”

“Yes,” Guard said. Although still not happy about his situation, his concern for Sylvania’s health was now overriding. His concern, as well as his guilt. “I’ll go. But I—I’m not done. Not done with this.”

“I cannot take back what I have done,” Leasia said sleepily, eyes closed. “I cannot. I can try—to better explain. But not right . . . now. Sylvania . . . I’m too tired.”

“Sylvania?” Guard asked. “Are you all right?”

She nodded unsteadily. “Yes, just . . . let’s not do that again.”

“No,” Guard said. “I won’t. I’m sorry. I did not mean to . . . “ His shoulders slumped. “I’m so sorry.”

“You’ve got—I packed you a bag. For tomorrow. Be careful.”

“Yes, thank you. I will.”

“And we should—we should still—we should talk. I wanted to tell you—I had more to tell you. About the circumstance—“

“There is nothing more to say,” Leasia said plainly, without pause. “I cannot break the enchantment cast. That’s . . . the end of it. There is nothing to tell him.”

“I think there is,” Sylvania said. “But—” She looked up at Guard. “But not tonight.”

“All right,” Guard said, not wanting to pursue the issue now. “Later.”

“Never,” said Leasia.

Sylvania looked up at Guard, smiling wanly. “Why don’t you go on and go? Don’t forget your pack.”

“I will not,” Guard assured her, and left. 

Next, Chapter 4: The Cornfairy

“Master Guard,” said Wyeth as Guard entered the modest lobby area of the Cornfairy Inn. “So good to be seein’ ya, as such. Just heard the good news, we all did. Outside Ambassador. That’s quite a step up, if I do say so, which I do.”

Wyeth, the night keep at the Cornfairy’s front office, grinned broadly as he counted the gold notes in the cashbox. Guard smiled politely, without much conviction. “It’s kind of the same job, just with more problems to deal with.”

“Aye,” Wyeth concurred. “Government jobs are always like that, tain’t they? Still, Outside Ambassador, it sounds impressive. And we haven’t had one in Thorn for—well, since before you were even born. It’s been almost twenty years, I’m thinking.”

“It’s been a while. Not much call, I guess.”

“Well, seein’ as the last one had his head cut off and stuck on a stick, it was probably a tough position to fill, too! Ha!” Wyeth paused, seeming to reconsider his words. “Not that such a thing would happen to you, naturally. The last Outside Ambassador—well, instead of dealing with the local politicians, he was usually dealing with their wives, if you know what I mean, and it caught up with him. Is all that I’m saying. Could be it was a good thing he was caught in Johnstown, where there’re decent folk about, instead of someplace where he really would’ve gotten it. Anyway, you’re nothin’ like that, are ya, Master Guard?”

“No, no, I’m not. Look,” Guard said, taking out three haypennies, “If you don’t mind, I’d like to get a shower tonight—“

“No problem, indeed. Big day tomorrow, I hear. Word is, they’re bringin’ ya a horse by! Tomorrow! A young mare, barely more than a foal, by what they say. I suppose you’ll be needin’ a stall now for parkin’ her.”

“Thank you, no,” Guard said. “I think I would rather keep the horse at the stables of my shandoean, the White Sisters. Your stalls leave something to be desired, no offense. The Sisters keep good stables and have large pastures. Plus, they won’t charge me the extra coin.”

Wyeth nodded, turning around to the hanging board behind him to pull out a shower key for Guard. Three haypennies was enough for ten minutes; he didn’t plan to shower long. “I understand, sir, my stalls are barely fit for a good horse, but—well, I can’t very well go up on the rent to pay for better stalls and if I charged more for the stalls, I couldn’t just improve ‘em, I’d have to replace ‘em—edict of the council. What with the taxes on innkeepers these days, it’s hard enough to keep the doors open. I mean, certainly I understand it, we’ve got to have roads—“ He nodded at Guard. “And Outside Ambassadors and the like. I’m not complainin’, you mind. But room taxes just went up again the other week, you know.”

Guard smiled. “I understand. Trust me, I don’t know where all the taxes go. They don’t show up in my pay, I assure you of that. I think I did better, in the long run, working the fields.”

Wyeth laughed, handing Guard his key. “Probably so, probably so. Here ya go, sir—“

“Any mail? Packages?”

“No, sir, none today. I’ll tell Missus Parker to keep an eye out for your horse, in the morning. If you need, you can tie her out front until after you’re done getting’ ready or getting’ breakfast.”

“Thank you,” Guard said, not in good enough humor to ask Wyeth which he meant: that Guard could tie his new mare, or Missus Parker, out front? “Hopefully, I’ll be ready to go before they bring her to me.”

“Yes, sir. You have good night, Master Guard.”

“You as well.”

Guard left the lobby and made his way back around to the inside stairs, and went up to his hall on the second level. He stopped by his room to drop off his satchel and the bags of sundry items given to him by Sylvania, and get his own cornmeal soap, rag, and towel, and then walked down to the end of the hall to the shower. The rear of the shower opened up to the outside, a high porch blind sparing the neighboring building a view of the no doubt unglamorous site of Guard washing himself, while giving Guard a nearly unencumbered view of the star-filled night sky. It was crystal clear, tonight, the sky ink black, a million stars shining, pinpricks in the pitch-dark canvas of night. The moons were high, and Guard could see two of them from where he stood as he draped his trousers, tunic, and undergarments over the porch blind. The wind, warm and sweet and strong, rustled the leaves of the trees and touched his face, the scent of grass and hay and burning coals and cooking meat strong in the night air.

Guard found himself wishing, belatedly, that he had arranged for a longer shower. Although it was drafty and cold in the winter, even with doors closed and locked and towels shoved in the crevices of the doors to help keep the chill out, during the spring and summer the Cornfairy showers were the best thing about living there. Washing there, under the stars, with plenty of hot water and not but two rooms away from his own apartment, was a pleasure. He had never had anything but kettle baths and washing in the lake, living with the White Sisters, and the novelty of showering had still not worn off. Better it was, too, than some of the places he had stayed in the midst of diplomacy—outside showers with momentary hot jets of water, which might have been all right had the air not been frozen and snow falling from the sky. Or cold showers that barely trickled their frozen water, in moldy stalls without rag or soap. Certainly, the Cornfairy left a lot of things to be desired, but the showers weren’t of them.

Disrobed, with clothes and towel neatly draped beyond the reach of the water, Guard put his key into the small iron box by the door and turned. A mechanical clicking sound began, and, with a sputter, jets of steaming hot water began to cough from the tarnished brass shower head. He did what he could to adjust the temperature; Guard liked it hot better than cold and could bear a little scalding, if that was the price of a good shower. He began to wash, with rag and the rough, sweet-smelling cornmeal soap—it smelled to Guard like fresh cornbread and nutmeg. Jori made soap and candles to sell at her sundry shop, Hand of Glory, just down the street from the Cornfairy, and he had never used finer soap. Plus, now that he shaved his head clean, the rough texture of the cornmeal soap felt good against his scalp, and helped, he thought, to keep it smooth.

He had barely finished scrubbing his feet with his rag before there as a click, and the key disappeared inside the box. He heard a clanking noise as it fell down its small chute, returned to the Cornfairy lobby, and the water stopped with loud bang, shaking the pipes.

Guard sighed. He toweled dry, looking up at the moons—Shamala, the Mother-Moon, the moon by which the passing of months, seasons, and turns was measured—and her littlest sister, Yilli—who, of course, being the pest she was, never seemed to let Shamala go far at all without her. Kamarsh, the fat orange father moon, was never seen during the summer seasons, always busy during the nights and asleep during the days, and even during autumn until the winter season, Kamarsh would only peak over the horizon, looking large and fat and lazy, and then sink down again, while Shamala and Yilli did the work and Reelis and Giomani played tag across the sky. Katie had told him–and although he had no doubt it was true it still seemed difficult to accept–that on the other side of Ashealla, far past the Dominions and across the great Western Ocean, it was Kamarsh that filled the night sky, and Shamala and Yilli who rarely appeared. And Yilli more so, and much further away from Shamala. The difference was, Katie had explained, the relative orbits of each moon to Ashealla—which Katie said would look like little more than a fat moon of blue and green to someone on Shamala, Yilli, or Kamarsh. The moons were, in fact, worlds of their own, much like Ashealla, so strong and bright in the night sky yet so far away that they could never be reached. Leslie could not transport even just herself across the oceans, and Katie had told him that even the closest moon was tens-of-thousands of oceans away. Beyond the magic of any creature.

 Looking at the moons, he thought of a warm summer night like this, almost a year ago, walking Leasia to the room she had once kept at the Janeflower. The casual conversation, the pleasant warmth she had shown him, her smile to him so simple, so genuine, so beautiful, that it was almost heartbreaking. Her long dark hair, lustrous and blue in the moonlight, the rustle of her simple brown dress against her petticoat as they walked. His hand, touching her back, affecting an air of casual friendship but highly aware of his heart, skipping a beat, as she had leaned closer to him, such that they were almost walking with his arm around her shoulder. Then, they had bid goodnight, and he had stayed at the bottom step while watching her make her way to her room, as a gentleman should, then retired back to his own recently rented closet at the Cornfairy, the scent of her hair, the sensation of touching her dress, his hand on her shoulder, his companion for the rest of the night.

Now, as he finished drying and knotted his towel around his waist, she weighed more heavily on his mind than ever. He brought his hands to his nose—scrubbed and washed clean, he could smell the very essence of her on his fingers, his palms. He put his forearm then his elbow to his nose—he could barely smell the earthy scent of his own clean skin under the overpowering smell of honeysuckle and allspice, and warm, fresh cream. And a little bit of the smell of ripe sugar cane, tall and green and ready for the scythe. Or maybe it was the smell of the wind blowing through the leaves of the pear tree. In any case, that smell was not his. That was Leasia.

Guard shook his head, his anger coming back. He grabbed his clothes and washcloth and soap and pushed open the door. Even as he inhaled, he could smell her—her breath. Not entirely without the pungency that possessed the breath of any creature, Leasia’s breath had always seemed to Guard both sharp and clean, slightly pungent but clear and healthy, also a little citrus-sweet, as if she had just eaten a plump orange. And the odor was on his own breath, now, as if it were no longer his lungs that he breathed with, but hers. Not his own blood anymore that pumped through his veins, but Leasia’s. It was as if he was haunted. No, not haunted. It was if he were possessed. And it was as unpleasant a feeling as he could imagine. The emptiness, the desire, the futility he had always felt with Leasia—that in some ways, she had always made him feel—was multiplied by a factor of ten. It was suffocating.

It was far beyond any obligation he might feel, should Leasia have done something to save his life, had he been sick or in jeopardy, as he had done for her in the past. There as no point in not admitting it, now—apparently, it hadn’t exactly been hidden, and even Leasia had had some awareness of how he felt. His heart ached for her. His entire body ached for her. He had, almost since he had first met her, both taking classes under the Tutor Imperial when neither of them had been more than thirteen turns. After the past few years, with the occasional day like the one they had spent together—as no more than chaste companions, he knew, but Guard could not help but wish that it had been more—in Parker’s Meadow. The warm spring afternoon they had spent sitting and talking at Dreamer’s Cliff. The night they had both stayed late, talking at the Great Council Hall, drinking hot tea with honey and cream by the huge Hall fireplace, the fat white flakes of snow making a blanket of white in the dark outside. The times he had walked her home to the Janeflower, watching as she made her way safely to her room, and then sometimes staying there, standing, perhaps for minutes, lost in thought. Wanting to go knock on her door, confess his feelings for her—but always turning around, and going home. Because he had known what the answer would be. It would be that he was her friend, and that was all that he could ever be to her.

If that, he thought now, closing the back doors of the shower and latching them, then making his way back to his own room, nothing but the towel knotted around his waist. No need to be shy, after all, as the Cornfairy was a male-only inn. If that, indeed, he thought again. Leasia did not even desire him as a friend; she had left little doubt of that tonight. She had not even afforded him the honor a decent person would a stranger. The enchantment she had put on him—the curse, he called it, because for him that’s what it was—how could she do such a thing? If she had no love for him, but would still call him friend, even then, how could she do such a thing?

He knew Leasia was above such nonsense, but couldn’t help think of Drag’s brother, Crag, who had gotten angry at Guard for suggesting that Crag borrowed more than he lent. Although true—or, perhaps because it was true, so obviously true–Crag had taken offense and returned everything he had borrowed from Guard, plus a sack full of haypennies as interest, and the next day returned a few things that Guard had simply let Crag have, and then a few things Guard had once given to Drag, that Drag had passed onto Crag. Crag had become irritated by Guard’s insinuation, and had insisted on immediately, and childishly, expiating his debt, and the real usury he had paid upon it was not the sack of haypennies but his own self-righteousness, anger, and resentment. The intent had been less to pay a debt than get even with Guard’s temerity for naming it; indeed to make Guard pay, whether by guilt or just discomfort with Crag’s anger, for suggesting that Crag, perhaps, borrowed a little too much. Which, of course, the sheer amount of things he had returned in his anger had been clear evidence of, only Crag had been too self-righteous in his fury to see it.

Leasia had not, he knew, would not have done such a thing. Certainly, she would not, under the guise of expiating a debt, try to exact some revenge on him for having gone overboard in regards to saving her life. For having refused to hold her to the Oath of Life. For wanting her. But he couldn’t help but think of that. Otherwise, no ready explanation came to mind. Except, of course, for whatever she had seen in her vision. In the vision she could not tell him.

Guard entered his room, the glowgems in the jar on his dresser swelling with light at his presence, and then bolted the door. He put his dirty clothes in the wicker basket by his closet, so that he might take them down on Thursday to have Missus Parker wash them––for only five haypennies, too, no more than he’d pay for a packet of washing lye at the Hand of Glory. He laid out his clothes for tomorrow, next to the items Sylvania had packed for him, then lay down in bed. He picked up his black leather-bound book of Scriptures, and, for a while, read the Word of the Gods, but shortly found himself too tired to keep his eyes open. So he put his Scriptures aside, and closed his eyes, the light of the glowgems fading.

Next, Chapter 5: Jessiny

He awoke early and prepared himself for what he knew was going to be a long day. He dressed and took breakfast from hardbread and salted pork, wrapped in paper from the previous day’s lunch, and, as he was up early, spent a little time cleaning his room and warming a small flatiron in hotrock, so that he might press his clothes, as he noted in the morning light they were a bit more wrinkled than he had recalled. By the time he was done pressing his pants and tunic, he heard Susannah out in the hall, calling for shaving cream and coffee. There was a familiar slap and an admonition to keep his hands to himself made to Guard’s immediate neighbor––a stout fellow named Yarbrough, who was something of a bore–and then she was outside his door, and Guard opened it, a full coin in hand.

“I’ll take two of both, thanks,” Guard said, handing the coin to Susannah. “And keep the change. You deserve it for having to deal with a cretin like Yarbrough.”

Susannah was Wyeth’s oldest daughter, a green-eyed brunette who was, while perhaps twice Guard’s age, quite comely, and large of bosom and broad of hip. She smiled widely at him as she took the golden coin. “I thank you, Master Guard,” she said warmly. “If you ever wish to put your hand to my teats, I promise, I’ll only hit you half as hard as I hit Yarbrough. At least, I promise not to draw blood.”

“That’s quite all right,” Guard assured her, taking his two mugs of coffee, then two mugs of hot shaving cream, and putting them on the small sideboard inside the door.

“Then bring me your basin, and I’ll fill it with hot water for your shave,” she said, and Guard did, bringing out his water basin, which she emptied the last little bit of onto the hallway floor, and then poured steaming hot water into it from a large white jug.

“Careful now,” she said as he took the basin back into his room. “Don’t spill it on you, you’ll burn yourself.”

“Thank you,” he said, closing the door. He then briefly sharpened his straight razor on his belt, and proceeded to shave. First his face, which took most of one mug’s lather, and then his head which took all the rest of the first, then the second. By the time he was done and had put on his freshly pressed trousers and tunic and fastened his boots, there was a knock on the door.

“They’ve brought you a horse,” Susannah said. “Should Missus Parker have them tie it up front?”

“Actually, I’m ready to go,” Guard said. “If they’re holding her, I’ll be right down.”

Guard quickly grabbed his satchel and then paused, looking at the sword, bundled in sackcloth and tied with twine, leaning against the wall at the corner by the door. It was a small sword, but a good heft and weight for him. He didn’t have a scabbard for it or a hip sheath, however, and wasn’t going to go to the Tarm with an exposed sword in hand. It would be a good way to hurt himself, or provoke someone else into hurting him. And, although he had had numerous classes in fencing and swordplay, having his own sword was new, and he wasn’t sure that he wouldn’t just end up doing himself more damage than his opponent, if threatened. All good reasons not to bother with it now. But there was another.

It was the sword that had killed the dragon. No, to be honest, it was the sword that he had killed the dragon with. It had been in the dragon’s den, it hadn’t been his. He had used it only in self-defense, only out of terror, only because it had been, by some miracle, within his reach. Shoving it down into the dragon’s brain, through her left eye, as her teeth had punctured his abdomen, his blood spilling out of him in a great gush like a punctured winesack—

It was settled, then. He couldn’t really use the sword right now.

Guard took his small silver dagger and sheath from beside the door and tied them around his calf. He fastened the small cloth sack of food and elixir Sylvania had given him at one belt loop, tucking the scroll Dach had given him into the inside pocket of his tunic. Satisfying himself that he had everything he needed, he exited, closing and locking the door to his room, and then headed down the stairs.

The older, fatter man who had brought him the horse was one Guard recognized vaguely from village meetings, but he couldn’t put a name to the face. Fortunately, he just stuck his hand out to Guard and announced it: “Tom Jaskin,” he said. “This here is Jessiny. Although I guess you can call her as you like, seeing she’s yours now.”

She was a beautiful horse, and clearly new to service. Her coat was the color of sand, with white around her nose and at the socks, and white patches across her stomach and on her hindquarters. He could see the muscles rippling beneath her skin as she shifted on her feet impatiently, and then snorted.

“She’s shoed. She’s got bit and bridle, but you certainly don’t have to use them—“

“And I wouldn’t. You can take them back with you.”

“You don’t even want the bridle?”

“She’s got a rope around her neck. I can walk her by that. Take the bit and bridle.”

 “Yes, sir. She is ornery, but I don’t guess you’ll have much trouble—”

Jessiny snorted.

“Why do you think I won’t have much trouble?” Guard asked.

Tom Jaskin looked a little troubled, now, but muddled through his answer. “Well, because—your power, you know. Convincing and whatnot. Your magic. You can—you know, make her behave.”

“Not a very good start to a long relationship, I don’t think,” Guard said, although it was interesting how word got around. He hadn’t even been able to recall Tom Jaskin’s name. He didn’t have the faintest idea what peculiar ability Tom Jaskin’s stone might call forth from the center of his soul. Yet Tom knew Guard’s well enough. Guard stepped down, looking the mare in the eye as Tom Jaskin took bridle and bit away. “Either it will work out or it won’t. I’m not using magic to make her my friend.”

Tom Jaskin shrugged at this. “You want I should put her to the stalls in back?” he asked. Jessiny snorted loudly, and shook her head back and forth vigorously. Guard smiled. “I don’t think she much cares for the idea. And neither do I. That’s no place for a horse like this. I am going to take her the White Sister’s ranch, where she can have a full room in a good stable. Large pastures for running.”

Tom Jaskin cocked an eyebrow. “You gonna ride her there?”

Guard laughed. “I think it’s way too early for that, don’t you?” he said, looking straight at Jessiny, who seemed to cock an eyebrow at him. “I’m going to walk her to the White Sisters.”

“Isn’t that—I thought that was, if you like it, twenty fieldlengths away?”

Guard nodded. “I’ve walked it a number of times.”

“Y’all right, whatever,” Tom said dismissively, then turned around, heading away, mumbling something about wasting a good horse.

Guard shook his head. “A waste, indeed. A waste to bring you here with bit and bridle—what difference between myself and a troll, to try and ride you now, with a bit in your mouth?” Guard smiled at Jessiny, who blinked at him. “At least you know me better than that. You’ll let me know, when you are ready. If you ever are.”

He pulled out a small square of honey and oats and held it out to Jessiny, who ate it without hesitation. “Not all horses are meant to be ridden, after all,” he told her. “I do understand that. You are hungry. They apparently haven’t been feeding you well enough.”

Jessiny shook her head back and forth vigorously. “Here, I think these were supposed to last me, but I don’t eat that much on business, anyway. And someone is always serving a meal.” He dipped into his satchel and brought out a handful of ounce cakes and held them to the mare, who gobbled them up greedily. “My,” Guard commented. “They must have been starving you. Come on around back—there’s a watering trough. I think the water is good, but I’ll let you decided.”

Guard led Jessiny through the small side alley to the back of the Cornfairy. She stopped short with a loud snort, throwing her head dramatically towards the horsekeep, seven unhappy horses distributed amongst the almost thirty cramped stalls. The horses that were there looked uniformly dirty and ill, staring sullenly out at Guard and Jessiny. The mare snorted, and then began to back up.

“We’re just here for water,” Guard assured her. “I think it should be all right, though I welcome you to decide it for yourself. We will find somewhere else to water you, if necessary, before leaving for the Sister’s. But, no, I could never keep a horse in such a thing. It’s disgraceful. I’d sooner cut off my own hand. You’ll be staying with the Sisters. It is a large farm, you don’t need to worry. Here is the water.”

Guard pushed the pump handle, and fresh water came out. “You see?” he asked. “At least the water is fresh. Go ahead and drink.”

With some trepidation, Jessiny drank from the cool stream of water coming from the mouth of the pump, rather than trough it was pumping into. Well, Guard couldn’t really blame her. The trough did look a little scary. After a moment, she was done, and Guard led her out and around to the road, and then began towards the outskirts of town. It was still early, but he wanted to make good time to The Sister’s. It was going to be a busy day.

Next, Chapter 6: The White Sisters

Guard had barely crested the small hillock, the last one before reaching the whitewashed picket fence and gate that guarded the path up to the White Sister’s modest but beautiful gingerbread cottage, when he heard Salana calling to him. Then he saw her, standing in front of the house, waving. As he walked closer, the light clip-clop of Jessiny’s shoed hoofs behind him, he couldn’t help but notice the new statuary in the yard. A troll, arms up to block the sun.

“Guard!” Salana called, a white condor lazily descending to a perch on the troll statue beside her, as she waved to him from the front of the house. “It is so wonderful to see you! We had been expecting you might come by. And here you are! Which is what we were expecting.” She nodded towards the condor perched comfortably upon the statue beside her, now preening the slightly soiled down beneath its wing. “Hambone told us he saw you coming. And here you are!”

Salana came to the gate and it opened at her touch, just as Guard reached it.

“Hello, Salana,” Guard said, taking her worn, wrinkled hands in his. “It’s good to see you. It truly is. I’ve missed the farm.”

“Oh, of course. My! You’ve started shaving your head!” she ran a hand over Guard’s smooth-shaved pate. “Lovely! You’re so handsome. Every time we see you, it seems you’ve grown more handsome. And who is this with you?”

Guard smiled. “This is Jessiny. My new horse. They’ve made me Outside Ambassador to Thorn, just yesterday—”

“Yes, yes, I’ve heard,” Salana said. “We’re both so proud of you. Although the last one ended up with his head on a stick, as I recall. He really was quite fresh, though. What a beautiful animal,” she continued, turning her white-eyed gaze on Jessiny. “And how lucky, to find a master like our Guard.”

Jessiny snorted contemptuously. “You wait,” Salana said. “You’ll see, little horse. I’ve seen many a poor horse struggle under great cruelty in my time. Though much has changed, even today you could hardly hope to find a master as kind of heart as our Guard. There is a bag of fresh oats, sitting by fence post, if you’re hungry.”

Jessiny cocked an eyebrow and then, with a dismissive snort, turned and trotted over to the fence. Guard released the rope, knowing Jessiny would not likely want to go anywhere after she had eaten some of the Sister’s homegrown wheat oats, fresh rolled and baked. Although they made for a wonderful hot cereal, Guard had often eaten them with nothing more than cream and fruit or honey, so sweet and tender was the wheat the Sisters grew. Of course, they had been doing it, among other things, for over six-hundred turns—so they knew what they were doing.

In more ways than one, he thought as he watched Jessiny hungrily nosing the bag of oats, as they hardly had reason to leave a sack of fresh oats by the gate—unless they had been expecting him to arrive shortly with a new mare. But Guard had gotten used to their knowing very much—as witches, they were both of sorceress caliber, and thus capable of using oracle objects—and Guard knew, from long experience, they were not shy about invoking the powers of their Oracle Eye. They had rarely told him much useful from their seeings, but they usually seemed to know what was going on. Often well ahead of anyone else.

Salana, still grasping his hand, lifted it to her nose and inhaled deeply. “Ah,” she said. “Sweet, sweet dragon’s blood.” She looked up at Guard, eyebrows arched, her look almost conspiratorial. “You’re hands were soaked in dragon’s blood. I can still smell it. How sweet. And quite the omen, too. We haven’t had a chance to catch up properly, since after the dragon. We saw you, you know, when Pastor Oddman administered your rites. I think he knew you were coming back, but it pays to be careful, I guess. I’m sorry we couldn’t look after you right then, but Sylvania and Katie obviously did a fine job taking care of you. And the drums! Stephen played the drums, the ogre drums that you took from the Night Troll. We were there for that, and it was something else. But our Guard, a dragon slayer! To live to see the day.”

“I see you’ve got a new statue,” Guard noted, eager to change the subject. Guard gestured at the troll statue that Hambone currently rested upon, preening his feathers. Its hands were upraised, as if trying to protect its face, fear and pain clear in its twisted expression. Appropriately, it was entirely white, as if carved out of granite. “I talked to Dach yesterday—“

“Yes, yes, isn’t it wonderful? Doesn’t it look so beautiful by the door?”

“He should be in the vegetable garden,” Salara interjected, stepping out of the house, leaning heavily on her gnarled whitewood cane. “Scare away the macaws. Keep them out of the colorcorn.”

“Salara!” Guard said, releasing Salana’s hands and embracing Salara as she reached the bottom step. She pushed him back, her silver-white eyes narrow, looking at him curiously. “There’s something strange about you,” she said after a moment. She leaned forward and sniffed at his neck, her long, frizzy white hair tickling his nose and almost making him sneeze. “You smell different.”

 “Dragon’s blood,” Salana advised. “His hands were soaked in the stuff.”

 “No,” Salara said, still sniffing. “Not that. Of course, anyone can smell that.”

“He’s started shaving his head,” Salana said, nodding wisely. “Doesn’t he look more handsome than ever?”

“Obviously,” Salara responded dismissively. “But there’s something else.” Salara touched her hand to her long, immaculate white robes, and pulled a pair of reading spectacles out, seemingly from nowhere. She put them on, and, grabbing Guard’s chin, tilted is head up, seeming to look in his nose, then tilting it down, running her fingers over his bald scalp.

“He has a horse,” Salana said helpfully. “It’s quite a lovely animal—she’s eating oats by the gate—”

“No, you stupid old bat, it doesn’t have anything to do with horses, have you gone senile?” Salara said crossly. “Hush!” She looked in Guard’s ear, and then grabbed his hand, examining it carefully, then touching it to the pale, wrinkled skin of her face.

“I think I know what you see,” Guard said.

“You have an enchantment on you,” Salara said. “It’s a—spell? You’ve been bewitched? Or is it a curse?”

“An enchantment? We didn’t see that this morning, did we, Salara? You sure it isn’t because he died? And returned? He could be a warlock—”

“Yap, yap, yap!” Salara snapped. “You brainless old ninny, why don’t you pay attention and see for yourself? Somebody has enchanted our boy. Not a witch. Not a proper spell. Hold on.”

“I think you were right the second time. I feel as if it is a curse. I—”

“Wait, wait, don’t tell me!” Salara said. “I’m hardly worth my water if I can’t see it on my own. Just hush.”

Guard shut his mouth with a sigh that was not a little wistful. The last year had made him miss the White Sisters something terrible. Even getting ordered to be quiet when he was trying to interject something useful, which had eaten at him terribly when he lived with them, was actually kind of comforting. He found that as much as he had chaffed under the White Sisters and their rules, their orders, and the seemingly endless chores, he missed that simpler life a great deal these days.

Salana leaned close to Guard, smelling him. “I think he smells very nice,” she said. “He smells a bit as if he’s wearing perfume.”

“Ah!” Salara said, putting one gnarled hand behind his neck and then one over his heart. “Mmhmm. Mhmm. Someone has given you their breath. The very breath of life.” She cocked her head. “Against your will?”

“How sweet! Was it a present?” Salana asked.

“Of course it wasn’t a present, you old crone,” Salara snapped. “I apologize, Guard, Salana gets more doltish with each passing moon.”

“Well, you keep getting nastier, and I don’t see the need to always raise your voice to me.”

“For pity’s sake, can you just be quiet? I see it, now, anyway.” Salara released him, stepping back, clearly satisfied. “It’s Leasia’s breath that fills your lungs. That girl you’ve had eyes for. She has given you her life. And her strength.”

Guard blinked. “What? What do you mean, ‘and her strength’?”

Salana put a hand on Guard’s shoulder. “She has given you her breath. The heart that pumps her blood. There is no magic that can return that to her—she will barely be able to walk, to move, sometimes to even breathe, while your own strength and energy comes to seem almost boundless to you.”

“The old witch is right,” Salara concurred. “You’ve walked a great distance this morning—and, judging by the sun, you must have made good time. Are you tired?”

Guard paused to think about it, and realized he was not. Not in the least. He hadn’t even really broken a sweat, and he had indeed made better time than normal. “No, I am not tired. Not physically.”

“Yes,” Salara said. “Not physically. But—it is like a yoke on you. A curse. You cannot take a breath without the very smell of her seeming to fill the air. Isn’t that it? And she knew it would be so, which is why it was forced upon you.”

“Yes,” Guard started. And he felt tears beginning to well in his eyes. Gods, how he hated that. He had known sadness in the past, but this had to have something to do with enchantment Leasia had placed on him. He may have had more strength and general robustness physically, but, emotionally, it was if she had hollowed him out, leaving nothing in him. Nothing at all, but the dark, emptiness of his endless, unrequited desire for her. And a terrible guilt—that some situation would occur at some point that would, as the Gods had planned it, end his life. Only it would not end his life, at least not at that time—Leasia would die in his stead. At the moment, he felt he would gladly give up his right arm to be free of the enchantment. Whatever vision Leasia had had or thought she had had be damned. “Yes. I would never—I would never had allowed it. If I had ever thought—she would do something like that—and she thanked me, threw her arms around me and thanked me, and I thought she meant it. I—and she—“

Salana nodded wisely, putting her head to Guard’s shoulder. “It burns in you. If any person made such an enchantment on you, I think you could not bear it. But her—she cannot love you, and would not if she could—”

“I know, she—” Guard paused for a moment, blinking, the continued. “She—she said that same thing, almost exactly. What do you mean she would not if she could? Are you saying she—she has no heart? That she is not capable of loving? Or that—that her betrothal is enchanted? That she has an enchantment on her? As part of her betrothal? That’s why she never talked of her betrothal? Before?”

Salara glared at Salana. “You should ask her, if you want to know. We shouldn’t say. Said too much, already. I am looking at you, Salana. ‘Said too much, already,’ is what I just said, while I was looking at you.”

“You are so smart, Guard. Yes, of course, she is under and enchantment herself, because of her betrothal. Which is just common sense—” Salana looked up at Salara, her silver-white eyes blinking innocently. “—as what young lady in the dominions would ever be tied to a man by such a pledge in this day and age, if there was not a larger story to it?”

“Enough!” Salara almost spat. “You ask her, if you would know her situation. And as for the other thing you are wanting to ask us—”

Guard looked over to the white troll statue, its ugly face a mask of terror. It had only taken the White Sisters a half-a-day, it would seem, to completely undo the elfin magic that had protected the troll from the natural reaction such creatures normally had in the sunlight. “Yes, I did wonder. If you could undo that so easily—“ He motioned at the troll statue. “—can you undo this enchantment? Can you set me free? Sylvania said I could petition the Hall of Judgment—“

“Won’t do a bit of good,” Salana said.

“Certainly not,” Salara concurred. “They will reject your petition out of hand, unless it was done in direct violation of an oath to you—and I expect she would have been more careful than that. Seems entirely legitimate, as such things go. No—”

“So, can you free me from this curse?”

Salana smiled sadly. “Of course, Guard. In a moment. But there is something you should know.”

“The enchantment is not your real problem, Guard,” Salara said, grabbing his chin and turning is head side to side, as if examining a plump honey melon she was thinking might be on the ferment inside, trying to see the tell-tale signs. “I’m afraid your Leasia barely knows the language itself, much less how to craft a solid enchantment. I speak three words, and you are free.”

Guard inhaled deeply—the smell of Leasia so terribly strong now it was almost oppressive—his heart leaping in his chest. Could it be true? Could it really be that easy? He hadn’t even really come here with that hope in his mind—and yet the White Sisters did not exaggerate. If she said she could free him, she could.

“The problem is,” Salana said sadly. “We set you free, and Leasia dies.”

His heart sank like a stone. He felt dizzy, almost stumbling backwards. Could that be right? “No,” he said hoarsely. “Tell me that’s not true. Please tell me you aren’t saying what I think you are saying.”

“She is, Guard,” Salara said. “If we release you, she dies, now. If the Hall of Judgment ordered you be released—which they would not, so don’t bother—and she did, she would die. If she releases you of her own free will, you can’t do a thing to stop her—and she will die. Plus, she goes to Hell, in all three cases, as this sort of enchantment is technically suicide.”

Guard blinked. “Hell?” He couldn’t believe it, and the news that he could not be released, now, without killing Leasia, added to the fact that the enchantment automatically fated her for eternity in Hell, must have left him even more stunned than he believed, for the next question he asked was pointlessly foolish. Which did it matter, in the end? Any Hell was Hell. But, he asked it, anyway. “Which Hell? Where?”

Salara did not answer. “So I take it you don’t want to be released, then.”

“But which Hell?”

“Well,” Salana said. “Normally, it would be the first chamber of Hell—purgatory—of course. Leasia, alas—”

Salara hit Salana on the back of her head with the flat of her hand, hard. Salana cried out in pain. “Shut your mouth, you stupid old biddy, he’s got to ask her, if he wants to know. To abuse the Eye is to lose the Eye.”

“But Guard—” Salana protested. “He deserves to know. I mean, we’ve seen so much—”

“Fine and good for you, then, but you need to think of Guard, you selfish twat!”

Guard blinked. He had forgotten how rude the language the Sisters used could be. And, he frowned to himself—some diplomat. He had just started an argument. As usual.

“What? I am thinking of Guard.”

“Then let him learn what he needs to learn when and from whom he needs to learn it. If you want to read for him his future from the Oracle, that’s your business. But the truth in the past he must learn for himself. Or how much darker will his already bleak future be?”

Salana bowed her head. “Of course. You are right. I am sorry, sister.”

“What do you mean,” Guard asked, “’how much darker’ will my ‘already bleak future be’? I don’t like the sound of that.”

Salara glared at Salana, her silver-white eyes seeming to shine with her anger. “Ask Miss-Can’t-Keep-Her-Fat-Lips-Together. It rarely helps a person to know what an Oracle says about them. I will not participate.” She looked at Guard appraisingly. “I will make you some lunch, though. You and Salana may talk. But—” she cast a meaningful look towards Salana. “I pray my dear sister uses reason when she discusses that which is yet to be. A dangerous pursuit, in the best of circumstances. And these are not the best of circumstances.”

“I will try to do better, sister,” Salana said, head still bowed.

“See that you do. And we’re going to put the troll in back, right in the middle of the colorcorn. Macaws hate trolls.”

“Yes, yes,” Salana consented. “I’m sure you’re right.”

“So,” Guard started as Salara slowly retreated back to the house, deciding to ask a question that he did want answered, but that wouldn’t immediately get Salana in more trouble with Salara while the other was still in earshot. “Was it difficult to undo the magic protecting the troll?”

Salana laughed. “Not hardly! I mean, I’m sure for a younger witch it would be quite a challenge. But we’ve been at this for well-nigh almost all of our seven-hundred turns. We’ve had to undo elf magic on more occasions that I’d like to recall. Plenty of knots and traps and clever distractions, but predictable, if you know how the elves craft their magic. Which we do.”

“How difficult will it be to break the spell for all the trolls?”

“It won’t be difficult at all. The elves crafted it so that would all be interwoven—I suppose so that they themselves could turn it off manually, should the trolls become a threat, as there were no conditions built-into the magic—Hells, the trolls could have attacked the Tarm Elves themselves without it turning off their magic. Odd, for elves, to do something like that. They would just undo their magic at will, rather than automatically—which I’m sure presented little trouble to them, but still, an odd risk for elves. They are usually so cautious in their magic, you know? Either way, it would have been a fairly simple matter to disable—well, simple for us—but the parts of the spell that bind it all together would let us release them all from their magic at one time—indeed, even reverse it, so that not only did it not protect them from the sunlight, it would actually bring the sun to them—turning every troll so enchanted to stone, wherever they were. Which I’m not sure was an accident. Your head is really so handsome. Do you shave it every day?”

 Salara has disappeared into the house now, and Guard could have resumed asking about his own apparently bleak future, and Leasia, but decided to stick with the trolls and the Tarm Fen—as he would be visiting them later in the day—for a moment longer. “What do you mean, not an accident?”

 “Well, it would look to me that it was designed so that once the trolls had done the dirty work for the elves, they could easily turn the trolls to stone, and claim whatever spoils of victory the trolls might have enjoyed for themselves. Although, I think the elves have, as is usually the case, underestimated what human-folk can do. And overestimated their own brilliance by a bushel-and-a-half.”

Guard then reached into his pocket, pulling out the small rectangular mirror given to him by Sreesa. “I don’t mean to be paranoid but—do you think you could look at this? It was given to me by one of the Tarm Elves, and I’m not entirely sure I can trust it. Not to be spying on me, for one thing. I’m also not sure I can trust it to work when I need it.”

Salana took the small mirror, gingerly turning it over in her hands. She held it against one cheek, and then held it to her nose, inhaling deeply. She exhaled slowly, rubbing it between her wrinkled palms.

There was a sudden flash of light between Salana’s hands, and a loud whip-snap, like a breaking tree limb.

“What the Hells was that?” Guard asked.

“Booby trap,” she replied breezily. “Quite potent, actually. It’s got several. Not too bad, but—well, it’s a good thing we’ve got several hundred years dealing with elf magic. But this is a quite complicated enchantment, for such a simple object. Very complicated.”

“So, is it watching me?”

“Not watching you, no.” She stood, rubbing the mirror, eyes closed. “It is spelled against certain views of the Tarm. In fact—one moment. Well. My. It contains—creative scenes. I—it would appear it is designed to take actual scenes and modify or redact them. So that you will believe you are seeing something actually happening, that wasn’t—and—blocks for certain things in the Tarm Fen. Very obvious ones. I think—I think the idea would be to make you believe you had gotten around the blocks and then spoon feed you fairly innocuous scenes. I can simply remove that whole process, blocks and all. Would you like me to?”

“Yes,” Guard said. “Yes, very much.” Guard could have kicked himself. Why hadn’t he thought of bringing the mirror to the White Sisters before?

“Let me see. Hmmm. Interesting. This mirror has a twin, did you know that?”

“No,” Guard said. “I didn’t. I must have missed that part.”

“So it can broadcast to you, I think. Hmm. I suppose—no, it appears to allow voluntary communication between two parties, but nothing to actually spy on you without your consent. Still—a two-way communicator. Powerful magic.”

Salana looked up after a moment, her white-silver eyes glittering mischievously. “It’s spelled against too-intimate views of females. And of one, in particular, it would seem to—I think it would count the attempts. That is spying, though an odd thing to spy on. Sreesa. An elf. You’ve talked of her before, I know. She is the elf that gave you the mirror, I am guessing?”

“She flatters herself,” Guard muttered.

“I can remove that, too, you know. As I recall, young men sometimes oft enjoy the sight of a naked woman, and I think you’d hardly be the first young man to apply a magic mirror thusly. And I can take out the counter, so your Sreesa won’t know how many times—“

Guard shuddered. “No, that’s quite all right. I think I’d rather find myself struck blind. I can’t believe she’d think that I’d—that I could want—such a thing. Stupid woman. She’s an elf!”

“Well, it’d hardly be the first pairing of elf and man. They might be small, but otherwise everything seems to operate quite normally—”

Guard shook his head firmly. “She is as shallow as she is cruel. As self-centered as she is temperamental. Not to mention, I’ve seen quite enough of Sreesa, already. Elf women aren’t all that restricted by accepted standards of modesty. If anything, I’d prefer something that might put some clothes on her.”

Salana nodded. “Yes, yes. I remember that. Neither elf-men, as I recall. All bare-chested and rippled muscles and what not. Too bad they’re so small. If you are sure, I can leave it in—but I am disabling the restrictions on what you can see in the Tarm Fen entirely—I don’t think there can be much good behind that.”

“What sort of things was I not supposed to see? Do you know?”

Salana flipped the mirror over in her hands a few times, then placed it to her ear. “Hard to say, exactly. I’d have to know more about them than I do, to say for sure. Meetings. Gatherings. It looks as if it is meant to occlude participants—so that you might think you were observing a meeting of Tarm elves, but some that were there in reality would not appear to you, on your mirror. Though the question is moot; I’ve already lifted that restriction. And, last but not least, a bit of the old reversal—it is spelled so that it could be turned off, should they so choose. Oh—wait, not quite it, I see that they also crafted it so that they might change who may use the mirror, at any time from any distance—so that the protective magic would then turn on you. Nasty little buggers. I’m definitely taking that out.”

Guard nodded assent. “Thank you. I’m glad I thought of that. Otherwise, it might well had been used against me.”

“Oh ho!” Salana exclaimed. “Well! I thought that was the last, but not quite—I’m not the first person to tamper with the enchantment of this mirror. In fact, the crafting is, now that I see it—“ she held the mirror up to her nose. “Well, smell it, I should say—and—“ She touched it to her lips. “–now that I taste it. Yes indeed. The counter was tampering, by your elf friend.”

“She’s not my friend. She’s my liaison with the Tarm elders.”

“Yes. We’ll, I think she is at least something of your friend.”

Guard blinked. “How do you mean?”

“There’s a hole in the enchantment on this mirror. Where a spell of destruction must have been. The shape—well, the smell—it’s unmistakable. This mirror was crafted with magic to allow the Tarm elves to destroy its bearer with but a word. To allow them to bring the cold hand of Death upon the possessor, at any time, from anywhere.”

“They meant to kill me?”

“No, dear, they wished to kiss you gently upon your brow.” Salana giggled mirthfully at her own humor. Then she stopped, observing Guard’s grim reaction. “Obviously,” she continued, “it was an option they wished open to them. The shape of it—the flavor—it’s quite distinct. As is the nature of its absence. It was pulled out very sloppily, by the hand of a neophyte. The same little elf that added the counter, to see how often you might have wished to spy on her, she is the one that pulled the spell of death off this mirror.”

“Sreesa went to that trouble for my benefit? I find that difficult to believe.”

“Perhaps not for you personally, but as a general principal,” Salana offered, shrugging. “Elves are not of a single mind as to what is appropriate and moral any more than men. Although, if you asked me to wager, I’d guess that she took some risk, removing the spell of death. Because it would seem that this mirror was crafted with you in mind, and—well, should they have ever decided to pull the lever, so to speak, I think it is you they meant to kill. When the time came to do it, and you didn’t die . . . “ Salana shook her head, frizzy white hair falling into her face. She brushed it away. “No doubt she’s very good for her age, but the work is, on the whole, quite sloppy and has her fingerprints all over it. They’ll know it was her.”

Guard frowned. “Can you change that? She has been nothing but a harpy since the day I met her, but I—Dach is not confident that there are not dark influences in the Tarm. No matter how shallow and cruel she is, I don’t wish her any harm.“

“Difficult proposition, at best,” Salana said. “Look, let me take it inside and see what we can do. I think we can make it so that it appears to whoever tries to use the mirror against you that they have met with success. And then we can make it so that the mirror will tell you when the spell has been invoked—or when it is attempted, at any rate. So you know to be careful, as to when you show your face again. And keep an official record, so that you might relay the attempt on your life to the council, and elsewhere. Truly, you look so nice with your head shorn clean—I wonder why you never did it before?”

This time, Guard laughed at Salana’s non-sequitur. “Thank you. Yes, I wonder, too. So hot working in the fields, though, and—I just never have thought I’d look good in a hat. So my little mirror—they meant to kill me with it.”

Salana nodded. “Someone did, yes, I think. I believe your Sreesa has put herself at risk for your protection. Do you find that odd?” 

Guard nodded as they walked towards the house. “Yes, I do,” Guard said. “She has been nothing but hateful and harsh to me, since the beginning. Based on my experience with her so far, it hardly makes sense. I would think it was she who wished me dead most of all.”  

As they moved, Hambone—who had gone from preening beneath his wing to sleeping, in the same position, as Guard and Salana talked—startled awake. Seeing them walk towards the steps up to the Sisters’ cottage, he took flight and landed on the perch in front of the door.

“There, there,” Salana cooed to the fat white condor. “I’ve got a juicy field mouse for you. Half a dozen.” She touched her own white robes and seemed to pull a handful of squirming mice out from between the folds, holding them by their tails. Hambone eyed them with rapt attention, and she threw them with a flourish out into the yard, where they immediately scattered. Hambone was off, a flurry of white feathers, trying to chase them down. A distinct, pained squeak was heard as he caught the first of them. “We have to do something to get him off his perch. He needs a little exercise. He’s getting so fat. But the only thing that really makes him move is more food. Come in, come in.”

“You said you thought the mirror was crafted with me in mind,” Guard said. “Why would they have gone to so much trouble? For me? That makes no sense.”

“What makes no sense,” Salana said, stepping into the cool dark of the house, “is why the Tarm Elves would have put such a terrible spell on a gift—a diplomatic gift, isn’t that right? Such a thing would be, as I understand it, very dishonorable in elfin culture. Better to shoot an arrow through your heart in full view—such secrecy and duplicity is hardly respectable to elves. I would think, anyway.”

Guard had to agree. That didn’t make any sense, either. Unless Dach was right—that the Tarm Elves were in fact under much darker influences than they could see on the surface. Perhaps even under the influence of demons. “Dach said that he thought there might be demons involved. And he wanted to try and catch one—well, he did, in fact. He caught a demon. An air demon. He said he thought that there might be demonic influences involved. With the elves.”

“It would be odd that we’ve seen nothing in the Oracle Eye. Still, I wouldn’t doubt it,” Salana agreed, taking a seat on the sofa. “Come, sit down. We have several demons in the back, actually.”

Guard stopped. “Um—pardon me,” he said after a moment, brow furrowing. “Did you say you have demons in the back? Inside the house?”

“Well, we certainly wouldn’t keep them in the barn or the stables. Far too dangerous! Though, I must say, some of them are truly quite handsome! And I hadn’t caught a demon for—well, for well over two-hundred turns. You’d just barely see them and, obviously, they would avoid witches, anyway. But I’ve caught four of them! In just the past three months. One is just this lovely red and blue wyvern, in appearance—a serpent demon, but, just so very beautiful! Yes, though, I think something must be afoot, as there are so many demons on the surface—and with an interest in witches, no less. Spellcasters are certainly some of the most capable creatures on the planet, when it comes to capturing or abolishing such infernal creatures. Asking for trouble, really.”

“Huh,” Guard murmured. “I wonder.”

There was bang and clatter from the kitchen, and the rattling of many pots and pans, and sound of Salara cursing loudly. “Sounds like lunch will be on in a moment,” Salana said. “I—Salra is right, I should not tell you that which you should seek out on your own, and, truly, there was no reason for you to know of Leasia’s circumstance—until now, with the enchantment she has put on you, it should be your right, I would think. I would tell you, but—you should ask her. Or Sylvania, perhaps, could answer your questions, should Leasia prove too proud or ashamed to explain the—the nature of her betrothal.” Salana gazed at Guard pointedly.

“But why—the ‘bleak darkness of my life’ or whatever it was you said, what’s that all about? That doesn’t sound promising.”

Salana sighed. “Salara said that. I don’t know that I’d put it quite that way. But, yes. We’ve always known you were destined for great things, Guard. That your magic would prove to be unprecedented in its power and scope. And you’ve felt it, have you not? What once seemed barely a small twig has grown into giant oak, almost overnight. And yet—it is just beginning.”

Guard leaned forward. “Okay. We’re still talking about me, right?”

“When we looked into the Oracle Eye—we could only see the gray cloudy shapes of your future, Guard. The futures of great men are not written in stone. We might be able to see to the last detail what the farmer down the lane will be doing on the last Thursday of the season, three decades hence. When we looked to your future, Guard, we could only see the great, gray clouds. The largest, most broadly painted shapes—a sign of greatness. And greatness almost always comes in struggle, pain, and woe. Salara and I—we have both had our share. So I know of what I speak. As steel is tempered inside the flame, so is greatness born in the eye of the most terrible storms.”

“I—are you sure you are all right? Why did—if this is true, why would the two of you always talk as if I would be farmer? Why did you take me to the boat builders and have me apprentice the year before I was called to serve Thorn, if you knew—”

Salana smiled, patting Guard’s hand. “Because no matter your station, you do not have to seek sadness in your life. When you are destined by the Gods for greatness, you are at once given the greatest honor and yet a terrible yoke of pain and hardship. Though there is tremendous honor, there is no delight in battling evil. And with the shapes of the clouds through the Oracle Eye, I can tell you this with much certainty, Guard: battle evil you shall.”

“You—this is what you saw for me? When you’d have me spend all day plowing the fields? Peeling potatoes and shucking colorcorn?”

“Because we looked to see what would give your heart peace, Guard—while it could be yours.” Salana placed her hands on Guard’s shoulder as they sat, her eyes fluttering closed. “I am sorry that is over now, for you. But you have spent your last day behind a mule in the wheat fields. I hope those times gave you some happiness.”

Guarded nodded solemnly. While it was a realization he had already reached himself, to hear it said was like a dagger in his belly: You have spent your last day in the wheat fields. “Yes, I know.”

Salana smiled sadly at Guard. “I cannot tell you what will happen to you. Your destiny is far from sure. But I can tell you in the darkest days you face, in the most terrible loneliness you will confront, when amidst misery that will suffocate the very life out of you—you will think of sunset in the wheat fields, blisters on your hands and sweat on your brow, the smell of hay thick in the air, and you will find peace in that place. You will remember the smell of raw potatoes as you filled that old oak bucket in the cool shade of the stable, as the horses ate their oats and kicked the dirt. You will remember you and I and Salara, spending the day chasing—and even catching—macaws out in the colorcorn, before you could even read. You will remember taking service at the Ebby-Kebosh Chapel, in Clearwater’s Grotto—our little congregation, Pastor Oddman eating his breakfast while giving his sermon! He’s still the pastor, you know. He asks after you.”

Guard tried to nod, but his head felt heavy as he rested his chin in one hand, his finger covering his mouth and touching his nose. Even as she said them, he at once found peace in those memories, and yet missed everything she described profoundly. Each scene seemed to carve its own emptiness in his middle. Times that had been bursting with sweetness and peace and tranquility. But he had to feel they gave him none of that now.

“I—is Pastor Oddman well?” Guard asked, deciding to try to make conversation. He found he no longer wanted to know anything about the ambiguous shape of his future. He just wanted back to the here and now.

“Well as one would expect. He’s fatter, I’ll say that. But he won’t stop eating. For anything. Don’t suppose he really could if he wanted to.”

Guard nodded. It had been awhile since he had taken service anywhere, he had been so busy. After killing—murdering, maybe—the dragon, after the enchantment that had put on him by Leasia, hearing the words of someone closer to the Gods than himself seemed not only desirable, but necessary. But the Sabbath was tomorrow, and he doubted there would be time enough, given all they faced.

“You know—” Salana started, and then the curtains between the den and the kitchen burst open.

“Lunch!” Salara called. “Let’s eat in the eating nook, by the window. You can watch the macaws eating our corn.”

Lunch was typically substantial—meals had grown ever larger since Guard had left, and any time he visited now there was always something more. Today it was white potatoes and onions, colorcorn on the cob and deer butter, wheat biscuits, spiced ham and cream chicken gravy, mustard greens with hot pepper apple vinegar, sweet-and-spicy green apple chutney and squash blossom casserole. Guard served himself a plate fat with ham and green apple chutney, and a few biscuits with gravy.

“Tea?” Salara asked, already pouring poor-pot tea into a mason jar.

“Yes, thank you.”

“So, she told you, then?” Salara asked, sitting down at the table herself, her own plate filled with ham and mustard greens and squash blossom casserole and potatoes and onions, plus three biscuits. How that thin little woman could eat so much, Guard didn’t know. But she always managed to clean her plate.

Guard nodded a little, his mouth full of ham; sweet, tender ham that tasted of honey and cinnamon and clove. Before he could finish chewing and go on to explain that it hadn’t been very much, Salara said: “I told her not to tell you about your soulmate. A man should never know too much about the destiny of his heart. You should ask Salana how things turned out with Geoffrey Pashwan, when we lived in Elsbeth, if you need proof of that. She should know—”

Guard finally finished chewing. “Salana said nothing of a soulmate. What soulmate?”

Salara blinked. “Oh. I—well, I suppose I misspoke. Eat your ham.” She busily started buttering her biscuits.

“Well, now, we really should tell him—you’ve already started,” Salana offered. “I have told him there is much darkness in the days and moons and turns to come. And that is certainly part of it.”

“Part of it?” Guard asked. “How? How is—who is–?”

“Shush and eat your ham; I was mistaken and Salana is a senile old hag and she’s out of her mind.”

“Really, Salara, you’ve brought it up, and you know our Guard’s too smart to think you really don’t know.”

“Oh, for the sake of Peter. Fine. Your heart is destined for war—you will find your true love, and she will forever be a yoke around your neck, a burden upon your shoulders, an ache upon your heart, a knife in your back—”

“Uh,” Guard murmured. “That doesn’t sound good.”

Salana nodded sympathetically. “Truly, I wasn’t going to say anything. But even as you feel the deepest love you have ever felt for a woman, she will also create the greatest loneliness you have ever felt. You will be chained to her—chained by the heart—and wish at once nothing more to be free, completely, and also to surrender completely—to be hers completely.”

Guard felt understanding dawn, and nodded. “Leasia,” he said.

 Salara barked a laugh. “No, not her. She’s very pretty, but your name is written on the heart of another. And her name is written upon yours. And in love, in marriage, the yoke is much tighter, the burden much heavier, the road much longer than you could possible know of now. To fall in love, for you, will be as to fall into a bed of glass. I am sorry to say it, but it is a terrible task—”

“I—not Leasia? Who is she?”

Salara and Salana both shook their heads sadly. “We cannot say,” explained Salana. “It is much better that we should not. Than jeopardize this and lead to much greater misery for you. And others.”

“Then—I—can you tell me when? How do I meet her? Is it this year?

Salana and Salara exchanged a glance. Then Salana spoke. “You will meet her after you return from the Jade City. After you have met the Child Queen, Susan of Blackwood. After you have descended into the mines of Ashwan and returned to Thorn. Not before.”

“And that is enough,” Salara said decisively. “To know more would be to put Guard, and everything he would fight for at much greater risk. And past that, now, it is so cloudy. So dim. To draw conclusions from the dark shapes of the future, little more to us than shadows in twilight, would be the height of folly.”

Guard sighed. More good news. A life of perpetual misery and a future love that would place an even greater burden upon him than Leasia already had. He sighed heavily. He was supposed to battle evil? Him? There were days he left for council with his tunic turned inside-out. And he was supposed to battle evil? With his britches on backwards or mismatched socks? Guard ate another bite of ham. “So how long—how long have you seen this? How long have you known?”

“Much of it since you became our shandoa,” Salana said sweetly, putting a wrinkled white hand over Guard’s much smoother brown one. She looked at him, sadly, her silver-white eyes glittering metallic diamonds. “Some almost before you were born. Some things are more distinct now than they were a few years ago. As the future gets closer, it is almost always more distinct. Thought it is, truly, the future. We can never be entirely certain of what we see.”

Guard swallowed, and perked up a little. “So the rest of my life might not be entirely miserable, if I’m lucky, is what you’re saying, right?”

“Guard,” Salara interrupted. She leaned forward, not seeming to notice that she put her elbow down into her plate of onions and potatoes. “Our lives have been shrouded in great darkness for so much of our seven hundred years—and so shall we be in darkness, for all eternity, when we ultimately shrug off this mortal coil.”

“Yes, we certainly will,” Salana agreed gravely. “Still—”

“Yet we have been honored by our calling,” Salara interrupted, undeterred. “Blessed to serve the Gods, blessed to have been married to some of the most wonderful men one could ever hope to meet. Men we could see off to their place in the Heavens, even if we may never join them.”

“Well, I’d never say never,” Salana said, popping a fat plum in her mouth and chewing on it. Guard blinked, looking over the table and the baskets on the counter. Where had she pulled the plum from? “I mean, I certainly don’t count on it, and the Gods know we would serve Them no matter, but—”

“Shush, I’m making a point, Salana, why must you always interrupt me as if I wasn’t even talking? Guard, as I was saying—we’ve been blessed to marry and even help secure the eternal Heavenly rest for our husbands, although we will not join them. We have each had our seven children, who have grown up and gone on and most now passed away, but each of them will always be precious to us. And, even if we don’t follow them to the Heavens—”

Salana snorted. “I’m sure your Karthmon isn’t in the Heavens! We’ll get to see him, at least.”

Salara scowled. Gods, Guard thought. How he missed these conversations.

“As well as Marie-Marie,” Salara shot back. “Given she ended up a prostitute and an alcoholic and contracted a disease of the loins and drove her poor husband to fall upon his own sword with her infidelity and congenital gambling—”

“Well, now, no need to get snippy.”

“Anyway—you see what a task my every day is, her at my side. For seven hundred years!”

“You’re not exactly a bowl of pudding each day yourself, sister,” Salana noted, nodding.

“Oh, for pity’s sake can you shut your yap? I’m trying tell the boy something important!”

“All right, I’ll be quiet, you old grump.”

“Shush. Guard. Listen to me. At each step there has been struggle and hardship.” She glanced over at Salana. “Every single moment brings great struggle and hardship, for me. But there have been great hardships for us both. Great sadness in our lives, Guard. Terrible sadness. But good and noble purpose, too. Noble purpose that, though sometimes tempted, neither of us would trade for having had an easier road. Or a better end. You have such a calling.”

Guard looked at his plate, pushing his green apple chutney around with a fork. “I’m not sure I’m worthy of such a calling,” Guard murmured. “I’m not sure I want to be.”

“Given my druthers, I think I would have rather have been appointed to a life of leisure,” Salara said, almost smiling. “A life of ­solitary leisure. But, as far as callings go, I think we could have done a lot worse.”

“I just—I didn’t expect anything like this. I certainly didn’t ask for it. I was—I was happy working the fields. I really—before I got called by the Thorn council, boat-making sounded exciting. I looked forward to it. I—I didn’t ask for greatness. I never asked for it.”

Salana laughed. “None of us asks for it. You don’t pick whose name is burned upon your heart, not truly—you have tried, with Leasia, and what has that gotten you? You do pick how you end up dealing with that person, though.” Salana nodded at Guard pointedly. “If they are a challenge—and, often, they are, I can tell you, after four husbands I thought I’d seen everything and yet there came number five—John Jacob Horsefeathers, you remember him, don’t you Salara?”

“He was something else again, yes,” Salara agreed. “But you are wandering from your point.”

“Yes, yes.” She smoothed her robes out in her lap, then lifted her fingers to her chest, lightly touching the black stone, a pitch-black stone with three jagged white flaws, that hung there. Unlike so many, Salana and Salara were not shy about wearing their stones out where everybody could see. But then, they had both had them for seven hundred years. “Guard, you don’t pick the great storms of your life. You choose what you do in those storms. And we’ve raised you since you were a pup, and we’ve both raised seven children before you—you are worthy to excess. You are more than worthy. But there are—well, there will be pitfalls.”

Guard shook his head at his empty plate as he chewed up the last bite of spiced ham and green apple chutney. “I don’t think I want to know.”

“We don’t know specifically,” Salana said.

“But we do know that your love—your true love—will be a terrible task for you. One you will, eventually, rise to meet. You will be plagued by your doubt. And by your temper. You were always such a good boy—but Guard, you are older. Going into a much harsher and more mercenary world than the one you grew up in. You will be surprised at your anger—as the potential of your magic has grown, so has the great potential of your rage. You must learn to reign it in, or it will be your downfall.”

“But,” Guard protested. “Usually I don’t get angry. I mean, not so much.”

“Sweety,” Salana said, clearly trying to be gentle. “You almost gave Sylvania a brain hemorrhage. Acting out of your anger, rather than reason. Things are different for you, now. You will have to make fast decisions, often that affect many more people than yourself. Wielding a magic that is ever more potent with each passing day. Your anger will often surprise you. Like a hidden attacker. Do not surrender to it. Do not be unprepared.” She looked over at Salara. “We insist upon it.”

“We do indeed,” Salara concurred. “For your sake as much as anybody else’s.”

“Yes, Sisters,” Guard consented.

“Finish eating. We have a few things for you, before you go.”

Guard stood up with a start. “What about—?”

“Your mare is fine, Guard,” Salana said. “She’s going to stuff herself on oats and have indigestion the rest of the day, but she will be fine. Jentillian and Toramon will show her the farm and the stables. She is a fine horse and will serve you well, and I expect you’ll be able to ride her by the time you return.”

“Just don’t ever expect a horse to make things easy on you,” Salara added, shoving a giant forkful of potatoes and onions in her mouth and chewing noisily. “Prowf majimals,” she continued, spitting out white bits of potatoes onto the table.

Salana rolled her eyes. “Are you full, sweety?” she asked Guard. “Would you like a cookie?”

Guard couldn’t help but smile, even as he demurred. “No thanks. I don’t think I’m really in a cookie mood.”

Salana nodded. “Well, perhaps you can help Salara clean up and I’ll see what I can do about this mirror—”

Guard nodded. “All right. Can I see the demons you’ve caught, after?”

“Of course, I’ve course. We’ve assembled quite a collection! I’ll be in the crafting room—but it shouldn’t take me long.”

Salana disappeared through the curtains as Salara shoveled the very last of her food into her mouth. Guard picked up his plate and mason jar and moved towards the sink, looking out the window at the macaws in the colorcorn. One particularly large bird, happily gnawing on a full piece of corn, was colored like a rainbow—green, yellow, blue, red, and violet. They were very pretty creatures, and quite clever. Such a pity they ruined the crops.

“All right, come on,” Salara said, picking up half the plates on the table and dropping them into the sink. “You pump, I’ll wash.”

Guard nodded, putting his own plate and cup down in the sink, and started working the old iron hand pump. Water immediately flowed in abundance; the Sisters, neither any slouch at divining, had of course built their farm over one of the best water wells in the area.

Salara poured lye into the sink and began scrubbing the dishes with an old scouring pad. “You shouldn’t let it worry you too much, you know.”

Guard barked a shrill laugh. “No, only the part about being doomed is kind of a downer.”

“Don’t be a shithead,” she said tersely. “You’ve got more between your ears than that. If you busy yourself living your life and doing what you should, you’ll have precious little time to cry over the darkness. If you listen to what you are called to do, and you do it, the reward of living your life on purpose is a beacon in the night. In your terrible, dark night. That’s enough water. You start drying.”

Guard did as he was told as Salara quickly rinsed each dish and handed it to him. “There was a reason that I worked you so hard, Guard. Why I made you finish plowing the last two rows when the sun was set and you were already tired and aching.”

Guard laughed, lighter, this time. “Yeah, you wanted the work done.”

“Well, that, yes. There is always work to be done, and it should be completed. But also so you would know. The rewards of enduring. Of completing difficult tasks. Of persisting in hardship. That it was not all exhaustion and blisters—that it was satisfaction. That there was accomplishment at the end of dark tunnels and lonely roads. Do you know?”

“I think, maybe,” Guard said, placing his hand on Salara’s bony shoulder. “I also think you wanted it done when you wanted it done, and no excuses.”

“Well, that too, of course,” she consented, smiling. “But I knew it would help. We had easy lives, Salana and I, until our parents, and the township we lived in, came to understand that our talent was one of witchcraft. We had led pampered lives. Then, in a moment, everything changed. It was six-hundred and ninety-three turns ago and every one of them is long dead—but at the time, it was incredibly hard.”

“I know,” Guard nodded. “Abandoned. Left in the woods—to be food for rotterals.”

“Or demideaths. Or fodder for more common miscreants. This was far from Titan Woods, I don’t think rotteral were all that common back in Rishim or Rishim’s Green. But survival was still very hard, to go from being waited on to having to find our own food, protect ourselves—everything.”

Guard nodded. He had heard the story many times before.

“We made sure that you were tough. That you knew how to work hard. That you knew why you worked hard. That you took that with you, into the dark, gray landscape of your future.” Salara handed Guard the last of the plates, which Guard dried and put up dutifully. “Great and terrible power should always be informed by the knowledge of what it is to have raw fingers from peeling potatoes, and blisters from working the plow. We made sure you knew those things well.”

“I know you did.” He smiled. “I’ve still got the scars to prove it.”

“To always remind you,” Salara agreed. “Come, then. Let’s see the demons. After you wipe the table.”

Guard wiped the table with a wet, soapy rag handed to him by Salara. When he was done, they both preceded through the curtains and out into the den, then down the main hall past the bedrooms and the guest rooms to the bookshelf at the end of the hall.

“Open ye now, or forever be doomed,” Salara said to the bookshelf in sing-song. Although he had seen it before, with different words, it was still a little startling to see the fat, brown-leather bound volume in the middle sprout a face, the gold stamped lettering on the binder outlining the sudden bulges of nose and eyes.

 “Up yours, you old hag, I spit on your tomb!” the book retorted in its thin, papery voice.

“Ye’ve got one more chance, ere ye meet ye’re end,” Salara insisted.

“You wicked old bitch, I guess that just depends,” the book replied. “Which page of my extensive, indeed almost limitless, knowledge and wisdom tells of the poisonous bitterfruit from the great Eastern lands?”

“Page 574. Open the door.”

“Bah,” the book said. “You’re still an old bitch.” And the face vanished and the bookshelf flipped upwards, revealing the long, candle-lit stairwell that led down to the White Sister’s crafting room.

“It sounds like Elrod is—uh—developing an attitude.”

Salara cackled as the began walking down the stairs. “Heh! No, dear boy, he’s always had an attitude—I made him that way. Salana insisted I tone him down, while you were younger. I never got around to returning him to his former glory until after you’d left the farm. Actually, that was pretty tame, for Elrod.”

When they reached the bottom of the stairs, Guard could see Salana in the far corner, bent over a large oak desk, two massive leather-bound books open, half-a-dozen candles burning fiercely. She was wearing her working glasses—a pair of spectacles that had nearly a dozen different lenses, unique for each eye, that she could rotate down or flip up as needed, passing what looked like a large, polished piece of amber over Guard’s mirror.

“I’ll be done soon,” Salana said distractedly as Guard crept a little closer, trying to see precisely what it was she was doing. “Quite a piece of work. Quite a piece of work. I tell you, Guard, more care was put into this mirror, I think, than the magic the elves sold the trolls.”

“Let her work,” Salara said, putting a bony hand on Guard’s shoulder and nudging him towards the other end of the room. “The demons are over here.”

Indeed they were. Salara led him through the thick black curtains that separated the crafting room from the even larger storage area. The left and rear of the storage room was, as had always been the case in Guard’s memory, almost filled from top to bottom with boxes, trunks and chests containing just some of what the Sisters had accumulated during seven-hundred years of work. Much space had been cleared on the right, however, since Guard had been down here last, and, from ceiling to floor, eight burning white pentagrams stretched, and each held a demon. Two air demons, three serpent demons, one wolfdog, one little different in appearance from the macaws he had just seen eating the Sisters’ colorcorn, and one humanoid.

“Eat your soul,” the macaw croaked. “Cacraw! Eat your heart right out of your chest.” The macaw, otherwise normal in appearance, did seem to shimmer as it batted its wings. It rippled, the only hint that its appearance was illusory. That, in truth, it was not a bird, but a demon. A servant of Satan, in avian form. As he looked closer, he could see its eyes, like glowing red embers behind its bright orange beak. It was just a small bird. But there was something dark and terrible about its aspect, as there had been with the air demon he had seen at Dach’s. Something that made Guard cringe.

“Isn’t it darling?” Salara asked. “I haven’t had a demon-bird in—well, four hundred years, and it was Pottontoc—my third husband, I’m sure I’ve mentioned him—who got it for me. Pottontoc could conjure demons—that was his peculiar magic. He was a good man. It was so sad, when he was eaten by wolves.” Salara wiped her eyes with the sleeve of her robe. “But, that was a long time ago. You see the serpent demons—a redsnake, the wyvern, and the iguana.”

“Gecko!” the iguana spat. “I am a gecko, you stupid old whore. My master will eat your eyes like olives, your tongue like a piece of breaded veal—”

“Hush, now, you’re making me hungry.” She smiled, looking towards the end of the line, where the humanoid demon stood, unmoving, in the white fire of its prison. “That’s the real find, though. The prize.”

Guard nodded. It was another first. He had seen serpent demons before, and a demon dog. He had never seen a demon bird, but it didn’t seem to be that far from a serpent form. Certainly, less strange than the time he had caught a demon fish out at Angel’s Lake. But never before had he seen a human-formed demon. At least, not that he had known of.

“The humanoid is a rarity,” Salara said, gesturing to the muscular man-shaped demon at the end. Its head was bald and shiny, much like Guard’s, but terribly scarred, as if severely burned, long ago. Unlike Guard, its skin was bright red. Its eyes were smoldering orange embers, pushed back into its skull. Its teeth were crooked and yellow-brown and its gums looked diseased, and these were easy to see as its face was twisted up into a perpetual snarl. It looked in Guard’s direction. A little nervously, he thought.

“Come closer, Guard,” Salara said, approaching the line of demons. “They can do nothing to you.”

“Eat your soul,” the macaw croaked. “Cacraw! Peck out your eyes.”

“You are so cute,” Salara murmured. She pushed a finger out in its direction, as if to poke it. “Are you more white meat or dark meat?”

“Demon,” Guard said, and not even intending it, he felt his magic enveloping him. “I suggest—”

To Guard’s surprise, the macaw jumped back, crossing the boundary of the pentagram and then lurching forward, feathers burning with white fire. “Awwwk! Awwwk! Awwwk!” it called, in clear terror. Guard looked around, as, with a collective shuffle and hiss, all the demons seemed to back up in their prisons. Even the humanoid took a step back, looking up at Guard with clear fear, drops of sweat beading up on its forehead.

“My, your reputation must proceed you,” Salara said with a broad smile, clearly pleased. “They are absolutely terrified!”

Guard blinked. “Terrified? Of me?”

“I think they must be. Look at them cower.” The wolfdog paced within its boundaries, whining and whimpering, as the macaw fluttered its still smoldering wings. Guard wasn’t sure, but thought he could smell the singed feathers.

He moved closer, approaching the first air-demon. It seemed different in quality than the one he had seen a Dach’s, yet generally similar. A little rounder, perhaps—fatter. Its eyes seemed more yellow-orange than red. And the roiling, oily smoke of it seemed greener—a sick, putrid black-green, rather than just the inky black of the demon he had seen at Dach’s. But it talked with the same, raspy voice.

“Ssshhhhhttttaayyyy . . . aaawwwaaaayyyyy . . . ” It hissed. Guard felt his magic swelling around him. It was time to ask some more questions.

“Demon,” he began, and this time the wolfdog threw itself against the back of its invisible cage with a flare of white fire and gray smoke, and it howled in pain. The wyvern began spinning, its mouth open as it spat a great plume of blue fire, filling the boundaries of its pentagram and enveloping itself in flame. The snake slithered and hissed, knocking its head against the rear boundary of its pentagram, a flash of light and a plume of smoke curling up from its suddenly scorched scales. The macaw again threw itself against the invisible borders of its prison, and was almost entirely consumed with white-yellow fire. Both air demons seemed to roil and fracture and crack, the one he was addressing with sickly green yellow light oozing out between the sudden fractures in its putrid green-blackness.

“My,” Salara said, her eyes glittering. “They are terrified! Yell ‘boo’, very loud, and see what they do.” The flame of the pentagrams flickered, and the torches on the wall seemed to dim. There was suddenly a dank, stale wind blowing through the Sisters’ basement.

Salara looked to the candles at the door, their flames flickering wildly. “They are indeed afraid. And I see why. Darkness comes. I—”

There was a terrible, deep groan. A basso-profundo rumble that Guard could hear in his teeth, in his bones. With it, all the demons jerked and writhed, as if in the throes of death.

“No time,” Salara said, stepping forward toward the demons, pushing Guard back gently, and yet he felt himself slide backwards almost twelve hands, until his back hit the wall. “Salana! I have need of you, Sister!”

Salana was already pushing through the curtain, removing her complicated, multi-lens glasses, letting them almost fall and then vanish into the folds of her robe. She held up her arms, gliding into the room at a speed as if she were running, though barely seeming to move her legs. “Here, my sister—darkness is falling. It is—”

“—coming for our prizes. Our demons.” Salara finished. She cocked her head back towards Guard. “Because of our little boy. We must—”

“—we can’t—”

 “—protect—”

 “—all of them—”

 “—just one—the last one—”

Guard felt a wave of nausea as the white flames of the pentagrams turned yellow and then orange and the candles on the walls went dark. He could, even as he began to double over as his stomach cramped, see what appeared to be an explosion of smoking feathers from where the demon bird was, and the yellow-green ruptures in the first demon, almost matched by the purple-red gashes in the second, threatened to consume them. And then darkness was complete.

The air whipped around him, hot and stale and dry. He heard a crash, he heard papers blowing around him, he heard that terrible, deep rumble, but could see nothing.

Then the Sisters spoke. They spoke with one voice. And the room exploded with light.

Guard stepped back, and hit the wall again. He held his hand up, trying to diminish the light enough so that he could see clearly. He could hear the Sisters, speaking in perfect synchronization, words that were clearly of the Old Language but outside anything that they had ever taught him. Their voices seemed to come from everywhere, from all around him and even inside him. They were different, too—the sound was younger, sweeter and stronger. As his eyes adjusted, he saw that their voices were not all that had changed.

The Sisters now stood, back to back, hands outstretched and over their heads. But they were not the Sisters Guard knew; they were not the Sisters Guard had grown up with. These women—they were young. Bathed in white light, their eyes shown brilliantly, blazing white suns inside faces of stunning, even transcendent beauty. Guard had seen them work serious magic before, had seen them together, back to back or side by side, hands clasped, eyes ablaze with white fire—but he had never seen this. They looked to be nineteen turns at most, skin clear and smooth and white like fresh cream, lips full and dark, the color of wine. Their long, flowing hair was no longer white but blonde, and it shimmered as it whipped around their heads, impossibly wonderful, like spun gold. Even has the pain in his stomach made him fall over, he was struck by their physical perfection. The looked almost like sirens. He had never seen human women so beautiful in all his life. Could these two really be the Sisters? 

Their white robes swirled and undulated with a life of their own as Guard saw and heard the first air demon burst, then the second. Then each Sister was on the opposite side of the man-demon, their robes stretching outwards, luminous and alive, forming a cocoon around it. The wolfdog exploded in a puff of greasy black smoke with one last, tortured, howl. The wyvern, still scorching itself with its own fire, detonated in a burst of orange flame and red and blue scales.

One of the Sisters turned to look at Guard, white eyes blazing. Even as her mouth continued the stream of words; such perfect, such powerful words, at once unrecognizable to him and yet at entirely familiar, he could hear her to speak to him. What are you waiting for? We cannot protect it for long. Hurry up. Chop-chop!

He pushed himself up on his feet, even though his legs still felt wobbly with nausea. He stumbled forward, the extended white folds of the sister’s robes parting as he reached them. Hurry, Guard. We cannot hold the Other back for long. We are old but He is much, much older. Ask what you would.

“Demon,” Guard started, licking his lips. His lips felt dry—his whole mouth was dry. What should he ask? What had Dach wanted to know? No point is asking who the demon was working for. Something about Susan of Blackwood? More specific information? He leaned forward, focusing on the demon, trying to put the luminous white folds that billowed around him out of his mind, trying to the put the noise—the noise that seemed to come from between his ears, that seemed to vibrate out from his bones.

Guard had never seen a humanoid demon—at least, not one that he known of; if he ever had, it hadn’t looked like this. In a way, it was actually quite comical. Its skin was a deep, dark scarlet, the color of drying blood, and grimy and mottled with filth.  Its eyes were a sick yellow, but bright, almost luminous in its deformed skull. It’s teeth were yellow, dirty and canine, almost too big for its mouth, which it couldn’t quite seem to keep closed. Spit dripped down its chin, and by the looks of it, that had been happening for a long, long time. About an inch over and to the side of each eyebrow was a curled, pointed horn, each black and crusted. The swollen skin where they emerged from its head was purple and oozing, as if they had been somehow nailed into its skull and now the wounds were infected. Its lower region was covered in hair, and completely unclothed—and, while Guard tried not to pay attention, the demon was clearly endowed like a stallion—its legs ending in cloven hoofs. What little hair it had on it’s head and was black and wiry—it looked as if, had it been a person, it had suffered severe burns, and only a little hair could still grow from its scorched scalp. In fact, he thought, that was what he smelled, wasn’t it? That’s why it smelled so bad. It was the smell of burnt flesh. Of burning blood.

That made Guard think of the trolls, of hotrock. Of the Hollis farm. Of Mother Hollis, burned beyond recognition, only identifiable by her prodigious mass. Ghame and Lillia, Popkin and Charper—all burned alive.

Quickly, Guard. We are running out of time.

“You don’t scare me, Persuader,” it said as Guard opened his mouth. “Stupid human magic doesn’t scare me. I’m dead, anyway. You’re damned sisters cannot keep my Father at bay. He will take me and eat me alive, swallow me whole, and I’ll cook forever in His belly before your puny magic—”

Guard’s magic didn’t just gather around him, it didn’t just “rise up”. It slammed into him, almost pushing him forward, and he felt his hand lift from his side, involuntarily, fingers splayed out, almost as if he were reaching for the demon. As he released his magic, focused on the demon, it felt as if a dam had broken, and an ocean—a wonderful, beautiful, intoxicating ocean—of power was pouring through him. He saw the demon cringing as he raised his arm. Guard blinked. The thing knew it. It was so much power, even the demon could feel it. Before he even spoke a word.

“Quiet, Demon. Who is the Wizard of the Light?”

 “I—do—not—know,” it said haltingly, as if trying to fight the words.

 “Tell me how I can find out,” Guard said. Normally, he had always had to finesse his magic. He would give those he used it on reasons, hopefully well-crafted but sometimes poorly considered foundations upon which to justify their cooperation with his persuasion. At this point, though, there was hardly time, and as large, as powerful, as boundless as his magic now seemed, it did not seem necessary.

Still, it seemed to resist. “You want—you want to know—what your biggest—what your biggest problem is going to be, fallen human? Look—look in the mirror, and you will see—see your doom.”

“I don’t like that answer,” Guard said, letting as much magic as he could move through him, directed at the demon. “Who called you here?”

“The Child Queen of Jarris,” it answered without a stutter. “And the other human. The Wizard of the Light.”

“Is Susan of Blackwood—is she the ‘King of Demons’ from prophecy? Is this—“

“I could not read your foul book of pain and blindness if I wanted,” the demon replied, affecting an air of casualness belied by the sweat that slicked its skin and the labor in its breathing. “Which I do not. I could not tell you anything about your prophecy. Why don’t you ask your Gods? If They are so great and holy, I’m sure They can help you.”

Guard felt his magic—almost like a pulse of energy, like a thunder bolt, almost shoot out of him. There was nothing to see, no fireworks or blasts of lights, but he felt it. Felt it coincide with the flare of anger, of irritation and impatience and not-a-little hate for the callous and predictably blasphemous retorts from the demon. “Say ‘Praise Michael, Son of the Father, Blessed Be Their Names’,” Guard instructed.

The Demon’s eyes widened with terror as its mouth began speaking the words. “Praise Michael, Son of the Father,” it said, the words turning to brilliant white fire in it’s mouth, its face—it’s entire body—contorting with pain. “Blessed—ahhhhrrrrggghhh—-be Their—ah—ah—hah—names—gah! Uhg!”

“Would you like me have you recite the entire Prayer of the Father?”

“I don’t know about your prophecy, I said!” the Demon spat.

“Then tell me about the Tarm elves. Do you know anything about the Tarm?”

 The Demon blinked. “A trade was made. For power.”

 The sisters were now speaking more rapidly, as the white shield of their robes seem to contract, shrinking around him and the demon. Just moments left, now, Guard. Make it count.

“By who? Who made that trade?”

“The—it was—he was—he-she—” The Sisters were speaking so rapidly now that their voices had become a blur of sound. The flames of the pentagram tore away as their robes suddenly flew open, and, buckling over in obvious pain, the demon vomited up a great gout of orange fire, volcanic magma that seemed to burn through the stone floor of the Sister’s crafting room. “Shyarg—gah—yurg—” it spat. “—the deal—was made—by the chieftain—the eagle—”

It expelled another terrible blast of molten fire, this time punching a hole through its chest as well as its mouth. Black, viscid blood was oozing from its torn and ragged ears. As it fell to the floor, Guard could see an arc of red-orange fire start from its twitching tail and shoot up its back, forking like lightning. Guard knew at that moment that the questions were over.

Two small, delicate hands grabbed Guard firmly by his shoulders, pushing him back. It was one of the Sisters, pushing him away from the demon as the burning spider’s web of cracks spread rapidly across its entire twisting, bucking body. For a moment, Guard was looking a the Sister—and again, he was helpless to tell which one it was—not a hand’s length from her face, golden blond hair swirling around her head like it had a life of its own, her eyes burning with white fire, her lips, dark and full, still speaking in an endless, synchronized stream. And her teeth. Her teeth were perfect! Guard marveled at that. He had much good to say about the Sisters, but their teeth were far from perfect. It took Guard a moment to realize that she was putting herself in the way of the coming destruction of the demon.

There was a loud boom, like a thunderclap right behind the beautiful Sister that was protecting him, and orange flame and black smoke filled the room. The sound of glass breaking and wood cracking as bottles fell and furniture toppled came from everywhere at once. There was a deep, terrible, guttural scream, accompanied by the acrid, near suffocating odor of burning blood and hair. The Sister pushed Guard backward more, clearly being pushed herself by the force of the blast, blazing white eyes closing as her robes spread out behind her, protecting them both from the destruction of the demon.

With an eerie suddenness, it was over. The sound and wind and flame were gone. The thrumming, deep throbbing noise that had seemed to come from Guard’s very bones was gone. There was just the beautiful face of a very young, very blond woman, eyes burning with white fire, smiling down at him.

And then it was just Salara. Old and withered and tired, not young and powerful as she had appeared to him just a moment before. “Oh my,” Salara said, and sat down on the floor. “That was exhausting.”

“Salara,” Guard said. “You were—you were—”

“Beautiful, yes,” she said as Salana hobbled over and then sat laboriously on the floor beside her. “Young, yes. You’ve seen that before, though.”

Guard shook his head. “No, I haven’t. I’ve seen you crafting magic together—I’ve seen you do the whole speaking-with-one-voice bit but I—I didn’t even recognize you.”

Salana nodded. “Salara and I are fraternal twins, not identical. But when we were young—we looked almost the same. And, I’m sorry to say, not too much like we do now.”

“But we put our youth away,” Salara said, nodding. “So we could use it—use it later, when we truly needed it. We needed to be young to resist the darkness coming to consume the demon for any length of time at all. It was there for us to call on. It was part of our trade. Part of many trades.”

Guard’s brow furrowed. “I’m not sure I understand—put your youth away? I don’t remember you every telling me about that. I’m sure I haven’t seen it.”

“I’m sure you have,” Salana said. “But you were very young, maybe, the last time. Perhaps five? It has been a while.”

Salara nodded. “We put away fifteen turns of our lives when we turned sixteen—when we made our bargains, so long ago. So we can call on that youth, when we must. Eventually, it will be gone. But we use it sparingly.”

Guard frowned. “How do you ‘put away’ fifteen turns of your life?”

“First, you must be the twin daughters of a seventh daughter and a seventh son—thus, our twinning. Then, you must spare the existence of an ancient demon when you could destroy it forever—”

“Sister, I think I hear knocking upstairs.”

Salara paused. “I think I do, too. I am tired, Guard. Would you help me up?”

Guard stood and then took both of Salara’s cold, bony hands, helping her stand. “Thank you, Guard,” she said, and then turned to leave. “I expect it is your friend, come for you, Guard. It is well past noon.”

“Me, too, please,” Salana said, arms outstretched. Guard pulled her up, and she stood, then leaned forward with a sudden lurch. At first, Guard thought she was falling and moved to catch her, but she simply threw her arms around him and squeezed. After a moment, Guard hugged her back, and Salana pulled him down a little more, so their heads were closer. “My little Guard,” she said, her voice cracking as she said it, but the pleasure in it unmistakable. “I always knew—I always knew you would be great. But—this. This is like nothing I’ve ever seen. Demon’s quake with fear in your presence. Even the Dark Father, the very Archangel of Hell, fears you Guard. Fears the power, and the destiny, the Gods have put upon you.”

Guard couldn’t help but laugh. “You’re talking nonsense, old woman,” he said with a smile. He took great satisfaction in Salana’s pleasure with him, but the idea that Satan was trembling upon his great hooves of fire, afraid of farm boy from a small town in the smallest of the four Dominions, whose talent, until recently, had been as small and colorless as the gray stone he wore around his neck—it was nonsense.

Salana released the embrace, stepping back and looking at him, seeming to both inspect and admire him at the same time. “You are right, Guard. I am an old woman. I’ve seen much more than you. I’ve been to Hell. At least, my soul has. Twice. I’ve been beyond the Great Gate that Michael, the Son, erected after his terrible battle to keep Satan forever at bay. I have seen the vast, blazing cavern where demons and damned souls stretched further than the eye could see. I know what I saw.”

Guard shook his head. “If you say it, I’m sure it must be so. But—why would Satan fear any man?”

“Michael was a man, too. The Word made flesh, but a man and the Son of Man, nevertheless. And it was Michael who descended to Hell to battle Satan. Who erected the Great Gate that forever bars the Archangel of Destruction from the world of men. And it was only His mercy that spared the eternal existence of the Father of Lies. If it was the will of the Gods, Satan could have much to fear from a man. Much indeed.”

He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “You aren’t saying, that I’m—I’m, like, the return of Michael—?“

“Guard!” Salana exclaimed, shocked. “That would be blasphemy! I would never. No. Not at all. I mean, I might blaspheme, if necessary, but I wouldn’t say that. I’m saying you are a man that the Gods have given great power, power that the Dark One clearly fears.” She sighed. “I think mayhap all the Hells could tremble before you. In time. I am so proud of you.”

“It is Leslie, of Moama and Draagora,” Salara called down. “She awaits your word, Guard.”

Salana smiled sadly. “You must leave again. We truly miss you here.” She sighed. “The rent at the Cornfairy is awfully high. And the horsepark—hardly fit conditions for a young mare like your Jessiny. You know, you had mentioned the shower at the Cornfairy, and we had been thinking of putting such a thing in here, ourselves. Perhaps you could help—”

Guard smiled. “I’m not much of a metal worker. I don’t know. We’ll see. I know you miss me. I miss you both, very much. But—it’s not about having a shower. I do feel like I need to try to live my own life. And, given how much I need to consult with the council, living in Thorn proper has advantages. But I would have to keep Jessiny here, which would mean I’d have to be by much more often—”

Salana nodded, smiling. “Yes, that is true.”

“Besides—“

“Guard, your friend is waiting,” Salara called down again. “I wouldn’t keep her waiting, if I were you.”

Guard chuckled, pushing back the black curtains that separated the storage area from the crafting room and heading towards the stairs. “We are always here for you. We love it when you come buy, you know. I know you’ve been busy, but we’ve missed you. How much more are they paying you, in your new position?”

“Eight coin a week. Not much, I know, but I make do.”

“That money would certainly go further, if you didn’t have to pay rent, wouldn’t it?”

Guard laughed. “You just don’t give up, do you?”

“And why should I?” she asked, as the door at the top of the stairs slid open and they stepped out into the hall.

“Because you’re a rotten old hag,” spat the book of Elrod as the bookshelf slid shut behind them. “And because glugglemumphlyrumf—”

Guard looked back at the bookshelf, where a fat green apple was now crammed firmly in the brown, leather bound book’s mouth. He hadn’t seen Salana do anything, but he had noticed before that Salana and Elrod did not get along.

Salana whispered quietly and the apple suddenly sprouted a mouth and big white eyes. “Oh, I love the sunshine, I love the night,” it immediately started singing in a high, squeaky voice. “I love the morning, it’s an apple’s delight! Come on, sing it with me!”

“Grumphulumphluph!” Elrod protested, eyes wide with what looked to Guard like abject terror.

“He’s going to sing to you for the rest of the day,” Salana admonished the book. “Maybe next time you’ll think twice before wagging your rude paper tongue.”

“Humphumphlmumph!”

“We all love each other, we’re all the best of friends,” the little green apple continued singing, as chipper as could be. “I’m here for you if you need me, on that you can depend!”

They walked forward to the kitchen, Salana brushing her hands together, proud of her handiwork. “I have to put up with enough of her mouth from her. I’m not going to take it from a book.”

“Don’t blame you,” Guard said as they entered the kitchen, where Leslie sat with Salara, holding a mason jar of fresh poor pot tea to her lips, rough chunks of ice clinking in her glass as she drank.

“Guard,” Salara said as he entered. “Leslie was just telling me about you and the air demon at Dach’s castle. Interesting indeed. We will consult the Oracle Eye while you are gone, but it has shown us nothing of this—of the Child Queen, Susan of Blackwood, some—we knew that you would meet her soon. But not the Wizard of the Light. What mortal might be calling forth these demons. Nothing.”

“Mmmm,” Salana hummed. “If it is true, no small thing. No small thing to blind the Oracle Eye.”

Leslie put her poor-pot tea down on the table. “Are you ready?”

“Not really. But I know we need to get going.” He sighed. “I want to check on Jessiny before I go.”

Salara stood up. “We’ve also have some things prepared for you—some words, a few spells, should you need them. I think—”

“—we both think—” Salana interjected.

“—that the Tarm may be a very dangerous place for you.”

Guard smiled. “I’ve had that same thought, actually.”

“That’s our Guard,” Salana started, reaching out and squeezing one shoulder.

“Always a step ahead,” Salara finished.

Guard shrugged dismissively. He hardly thought he was always a step ahead—if anything, he was always two steps behind. But he wasn’t going to make an argument of it right now.

Salana picked up a sackcloth bundle with a white ribbon around it and handed it to Guard. Guard took the bundle and looped the ribbon around his trouser belt, suspending the bundle just under the fringe of his tunic, concealing the package itself but leaving a small bulge. “There are some spells and just a few useful words, should you need them. Some lifegems and glowgems, as well. Most of the spells are for you—elves pride themselves on their ability to resist and defend against magic, and you never know how skilled a particular elf might be in that regards until you try to spell them—”

“-and then it can be too late,” Salara interjected. “But they are sometimes too clever by half—“

“—and can be stymied by spells you cast upon yourself,” Salana finished.

Salara nodded. “There is a short spell—temporus antemshom—that will slow down time, for you.”

“For a few moments,” Salana said. “Such general magic cannot last for long, or be used many times.”

“He knows that, you nitwit!” Salara said. “The child was raised at my knee—”

“And mine as well!” Salana huffed.

Salara rolled her eyes. “Yes, well, I was talking about the knee at which he learned things of practical value.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Um, Sisters—” Guard interjected.

Salana raised her eyebrows, looking at Salara pointedly. “You see? You are wasting poor Guard’s time with your foolish bickering.”

“My foolish bickering?” Salara asked, incredulous. “You’re the one wasting time covering the obvious, you withered old dolt.”

“Ladies—”

Salara held up her hand to Salana, shushing her. “There is a spell to make things heavy. You can probably get a fair amount of use out of it. If you need to use it at the Tarm, don’t use it on elves, but other things—their clothes, any weapons—”

Guard blinked. “You seem to be anticipating some trouble, Salara.”

Salana nodded. “Better safe than sorry, Guard. We don’t know for sure, of course, but—”

“Shut your yap. You chatter on endlessly. It is a wonder I’m not insane!”

“I think that’s up to debate, whether or not—“ Salana started.

“And rashikmum chanoi, a spell of strength,” Salara continued. “Use it well, if you do, I doubt it will work more than once. That’s all, but we thought those would be best—”

“—given the nature of the elves,” Salana finished. “Having too many spells at the ready would dilute the power of each, so we try to be selective—”

“Oh, for the sake of Jall-Peter, you vacuous old goat, Guard knows that.”

“And I think he needs to be going,” Salana murmured. Leslie had put down her drink and was standing beside Guard, waiting expectantly. Guard was shifting back and forth on his feet. Although not looking forward to confronting the Tarm elves—dealing with them had not been pleasant, even with Thorn had ostensibly been on good terms with them—he knew he had to get a move on.

“And he’d already be gone, if you didn’t waste such time running your yap. Well, come give us a hug—”

Guard stepped forward and pulled them both in his arms. Again he was surprised to feel his throat tighten, his eyes becoming damp. This time, though, it was pure gratitude and love for the blessing of the Sisters in his life. He truly missed them. He missed the farm, the food, tending the flocks and working the fields. He missed looking forward to a life of boat building, thinking that that would, one day, be his interesting but uneventful future. But more than anything, he missed the sisters—their foul mouths, their constant bickering, and their wonderfully good hearts.

“We love you, child,” Salara said. “We miss you every day.”

“We do, indeed,” Salana agreed. “We’ve kept your room, too, just like you left it—“

“Hush, don’t keep pressuring the boy,” Salara scolded.

“I just wasn’t sure I had mentioned it.”

“I’m sure he’s already gotten the idea.”

“Salara, Salana,” Guard said. Disengaging from the group hug. “I really have to go on. But I do miss you both terribly.”

“We know you do,” Salara said, as he released them. “Oh, and I almost forgot, I just packed you a half-dozen or so cinnamon peppers in there, too.”

Salana arched her eyebrows. Then, she clapped her hands together. “Cinnamon peppers!” she exclaimed. “How clever. Just the sort of thing.”

Guard blinked. “Sort of thing for what?”

Salara smiled. “Breath deep,” she said. “What do you smell?”

Guard inhaled, and then belched loudly. “Excuse me,” he said. “All I smell is spiced ham. I think I’ve got indigestion.”

“And Leasia?” she asked. “What about her?”

Guard’s eyes widened. “I don’t. I don’t smell her. I barely feel the enchantment. I—” His eyes widened further. “Tell me you did not break the spell? You said she would die—”

Salara laughed. “Don’t be a nitwit, Guard. It was us that told you. You’re still enchanted. We wouldn’t have done anything like that.”

“It’s the ham you ate,” Salana said.

“And the chutney. I made the apple chutney and the ham with cinnamon peppers. The aroma can and flavor can be . . . overpowering.”

“Cinnamon peppers?” Guard asked. Hadn’t Sylvania, in fact, be grinding dry cinnamon pepper the night Leasia had put her enchantment on him? Had she been making something for him?

“There was no guarantee, but you looked so distressed,” Salara answered. “Cinnamon peppers have long been used to deaden the senses against the perfumes of women—sometimes men, too, but they are often a staple in the conscripts rations. No one would take a boat to the ocean without a case of cinnamon peppers, whole or ground—”

Guard looked up from his sack of peppers to Salara’s wrinkled face. “I don’t understand. What does that have to do with the enchantment Leasia put me under?”

“Do you want to smell like her or not?” Salara snapped. “Eat enough cinnamon pepper, that’s all you’ll smell like.”

“But I don’t even feel it. Not like I did when I got here. I didn’t notice until you asked, but—I feel almost as if the enchantment as been lifted. Like it’s—it’s distant.”

Salana smiled at him. “Even today, when sailors journey through the Southern Islands beyond the horizon, they always carry cases of cinnamon peppers. All their food is spiced with it. Because there are islands along the Great Southern Way that are populated with succubae. Half-demon, half human women that they once thought were sirens. But are, in fact, a form of vampyre—”

“Do you have to take forever to tell anybody anything?” Salara asked. “The point is, humans are highly influenced by smell—”

 “—which is how the succubae of the Southern Islands would capture men. Their scent would arouse the men and they would stop on the islands to pursue the women, or what they thought were women—”

 “—who would then eat their genitals, yes, yes—”

“–and use their skulls—skin still attached, eyeballs still in, actually—as pots or water vessels. Though often to keep the blood of their victims in, as well.”

Guard nodded, brow furrowing. “And the cinnamon peppers do what exactly? Make their victims taste better?”

Salana laughed. “No, no—dulls the olfactory senses so that the hypnotic essence of the succubae scent does not overwhelm them.”

“I thought it might help, with Leasia’s enchantment on you. At the least, it would keep you from smelling like the girl. So you wouldn’t be reminded—”

Guard grabbed Salara by the shoulders and pulled her to him. “You wonderful old woman!” he said, then kissed her full on the lips. “Spices! I never would have thought it. Leave it to a witch.”

“Simplest solutions are often the best,” Salara murmured, looking away as Guard released her.

“Sister, I think you’re blushing,” Salana said brightly.

“And one for you, too,” Guard said, grabbing Salana.

“Enough, enough!” she said. “I didn’t figure out about the cinnamon pepper. And you need to leave.”

Guard nodded, giving Salana one last squeeze before letting her go. “I do—but I can’t take my mirror yet, can I?”

Salana’s eyes widened. “Oh! I almost forgot. No, not yet. I strongly suggest you do not. We got interrupted down there, didn’t we? I need another hour, at least, to be sure.”

Salara nodded agreement, looking at Leslie. “Salana has always been slow, you know.”

“I have not!”

“Enough!” Guard said, laughing. “I do miss you both. Terribly. But I have to go.”

“Go, go, the both of you,” Salara said, shooing them towards the front door, wagging her hands out in front of her.

“It was an honor to see you again Salara, Salana,” Leslie said, bowing her head as she backed out the door.

“The honor was ours,” Salana said sweetly, waving from behind Salara as she all but pushed them out the door.

“Go! I have a farm to run!” Salara said, closing the door.

“And remember, your room is still here, Guard, just like you left it,” Salana reminded, waving from behind Salara as the door shut with a bang. Guard could still make out a loud, if muffled, exchange between the Sisters, but leave the boy alone was about all he could make out.

“You are very lucky,” Leslie said as they stepped off the porch. “They obviously love you a great deal.”

“Yes, they do,” he replied, at first squinting into the sun and then looking down to Leslie. “I am. I’m not sure I appreciated it enough growing up, but, yeah, I am pretty lucky.”

“Is that your new mare?” Leslie asked, gesturing at the pasture where Jessiny was running and bucking and, it appeared, either playing with an imaginary friend or chasing insects too small to see at a distance.

“Yes, that’s Jessiny. She looks like she’s adjusting pretty well.”

“She is a beautiful horse. The council certainly did right by you.”

“Yes, they did. I look forward to getting to know her better. But the very first day—it’s not the day to try and ride her.”

Leslie nodded. “I think she’d throw you off.”

“I know she would,” Guard said, smiling and squinting into the sun. “I’d need to earn her trust, and her friendship, first. Before I’d have any right to expect anything.”

Leslie nodded, a small smile on her normally impassive face. “That makes good sense.”

“I thought you’d think so,” Guard said, wiping his forehead with the back of his sleeve. The sun was higher now and the day at least ten degrees warmer. Although it was rarely very humid in the outlands, Guard could already feel his skin getting sticky with sweat. He mumbled a well-worn spell of cooling, and immediately his clothes felt drier and cooler, if only by a few degrees. He sighed. That spell was weakening.

Leslie laughed. “Wimp!” she said. “I thought you were a farm boy. I thought you were used to working out in the hot, hot sun.” She smiled at him, and Guard found himself again struck by how attractive she was. The dark freckles on her tan face, her deep brown, almost ebony eyes, her long, thick raven-black hair which now glittered like black diamonds in the sun. The way her cheeks dimpled when she smiled. During his many long days of class under the Tutor Imperial he had barely noticed Leslie, always too busy mooning over Leasia to give anyone else in class a second thought. But Leslie was truly quite beautiful. She was also very powerful. And Guard was discovering that, under all that quiet, obedient stoicism, was actually a pleasant personality.

“I am a farm boy,” Guard insisted. “Or was. Would be. I—I just don’t like getting hot. Aren’t you hot in that?” he asked, indicating her thin, gray-blue robes. Her hood was down. It was appropriately modest garb and she looked very good in it, but as the sun burned overhead it had to be hot, without some minor magic to cool it down.

“It’s cool enough,” she said. Guard could see a fine sheen of sweat already glistening on her tan forehead as she squinted at him in the noonday sun. “Anyway, I’m not a spring posy. I can take a little summer heat.” She grinned at him.

“Is that so?” he asked, arching an eyebrow. “Very well. No more magic to cool me down.” He grinned. “At least not while you’re around.”

She smiled. “We’ll see if you can take the heat.” She turned around, lifting her hair up with one hand and holding the small hole in the back of her robes open with the other. “Time is wasting. Let’s go.” 

It felt like his skin was burning, and where Leslie’s mouth touched his arm it felt like someone had taken a giant chunk out of his flesh with a ragged butcher knife and then cauterized the wound with a white hot torch. But the worst thing was that as the world shifted and he saw Leslie’s lovely tanned shoulders and neck before him, he realized he was going to throw up. Even though they had done it the easy way, and he hadn’t felt quite the same arousal as before, he was going to get sick. The giant hand was already squeezing, and he couldn’t even turn his head. He was going to barf all over Leslie’s back.

Everything he had just eaten at the Sisters, every last bite, erupted from his mouth, spewing out in front of him into empty space. Leslie had already disappeared. Guard fell forward and sideways, just managing not to land in the fresh vomit he had put on the flagstone-paved road that led up to the Tarm fen.

He rolled over, and saw Leslie standing a few feet away. “I told you not to eat for at least four hours before we travel,” she said. “Maybe next time you’ll listen.”

“I forgot,” he croaked. “Sorry.”

“I can only make it easier if you help. Eating like a pig less than an hour before we travel—that doesn’t help.”

“Sorry,” Guard mumbled again, pushing himself up. “This isn’t the Tarm.”

“Just one fieldlength down the road,” Leslie explained. “I didn’t think it would be good to appear right at the gate of the Tarm Fen with you retching and collapsing on the ground. Do you think?”

“No, no, that probably would not have been good,” Guard mumbled, sitting up. The nausea was fading, and his head didn’t hurt, but the taste of vomit was still strong. He pulled his flask from his satchel and took a small sip of water, washing out his mouth. He spat, and then took another drink, then wiped the top of the flask with his sleeve.

“I’d offer you some,” he said to Leslie. “But perhaps you’re not that thirsty.”

“I don’t like drinking after people who have recently thrown up,” she said plainly. “I carry my own, in any case. Two, actually.”

Guard stood up, finding the dizziness and nausea now almost completely gone. “Two, huh? In case you need to share?”

“Doing what I do, it comes up fairly often. I’ve had to watch more people than I care to recall vomit up some terrible things. Usually, I just let them keep the flask.” She let her hair down and put the hood of her robe up. “Are you ready?”

“I hope you mean to walk the rest of the way,” Guard said, smiling. He had to admit, even though he did end up throwing up most of the Sister’s dinner, that doing it the second way was easier than the first. Certainly, the effects didn’t seem to linger. Barely two moments ago he had thrown up and fallen over from the nausea, and now he felt right as rain. Robust, actually.

He inhaled deeply, the smell of breath that was not his filling his lungs. A citrus sweet smell, like he had just eaten a ripe orange.

“Of course, we should walk,” Leslie was saying as Guard whipped around, patting franticly at the small pouches tied to his hip. “Unless you want to make an entrance or—or something. Is something wrong?”

“Nothing,” Guard said, undoing the loop of twine that held the small pouch he gotten from the White Sisters. “Nothing at all. I was just stabbed in the back. Betrayed. Humiliated. Haunted. That’s all.”

Leslie blinked. “Guard, you’re not making any sense. Did I miss something? What just happened?”

“Leasia, Leasia,” Guard almost spat, opening the small sack and fumbling around in it for the cinnamon peppers. “She’s what happened. It’s almost like I’m possessed. Like I can—taste her. In a bad way. Bitter and cold and—I don’t know what I’m saying. Ah!” He pulled out a cinnamon pepper and popped it in his mouth, chewing vigorously. “Ah! Ow! Ow! Hot—hot—“

“Tell me it is none of my concern, and I won’t ask another word. But what, exactly, did Leasia do? Didn’t Salana—or was it Salara?—say something about Leasia and an enchantment? She asked you if you wanted to smell like a girl. I remember that.”

“Yes,” Guard said, popping another cinnamon pepper into his mouth. “That’s what she was giving me the cinnamon peppers for. To—to dull it. Leasia—she put an enchantment on me. A life exchange. If I am to die, she dies in my stead. Which is bad enough, but it doesn’t stop there. It’s like every breath is her breath, like every beat of my heart pumps her very blood inside my veins—“

“And you love her,” Leslie said.

“Oh, for the Gods’ sake!” Guard shouted, throwing his satchel on the ground. “Was there a bill nailed up in the town square? Did some traveling minstrels put on a show about my pathetic infatuation while I was gone? Was there a council meeting to discuss my—“

“I am sorry, sir, I meant no offense,” Leslie said quickly, folding her arms and bowing her head in deference. “I just did not understand. I am sorry, I spoke beyond my turn.”

Being called sir was enough to make Guard step back and reassess. He chewed slowly on another cinnamon pepper. “No, no. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have raised my voice to you. I just—it was bad enough when I believed it was my own private infatuation. Now it’s as if I’m afflicted. And—much has changed in the past year, for me. Now this. It is—it can be like I am haunted by a ghost.” Guard inhaled deeply again, smelling nothing but hot cinnamon. The odd thing was, he almost immediately felt better, too. Not quite released, but as if the chain, drawn so tight it was almost choking him, had been let loose a few links. He was still unhappy about the circumstance. He was still resentful that Leasia had done what she had. And he was more afraid of dying, now, than he had ever been in his life—because she had insured his death would mean, instead, her death. But the hopelessness, the emptiness, the darkness was more distant. Not gone, but almost as far away as before Leasia had put her enchantment—her curse—upon him. For whatever reason.

“I’m sorry,” Leslie repeated. “I did not mean to pry.”

“I’m sorry I snapped at you. I’m feeling better. Perhaps it’s all in my head, but I think the cinnamon peppers help. Just not smelling her, it feels better.”

“I shouldn’t have pried. It’s none of my business.” Guard wasn’t sure, but he thought he heard her saying that not only was it not her business, she didn’t want it to be.

“You should walk ahead of me,” Leslie murmured as they began walking down the worn flagstone road that led to the Tarm. Guard sighed, and picked up his pace until he was in front of her, shaking his head.

“You should not have someone in your service walking in front of you, when you approach the Tarm,” she said quietly, the tall wooden walls and garrisons of the entrance to the Tarm Fen coming into view.

Guard thought about telling her that he knew that, he just thought it was stupid, that, in fact, he considered most protocol stupid and was clearly, aside from whatever leverage his magic might give him, a bad choice for an ambassador. But the Tarm Fen was now well in view, and the elves posted in the twin watchtowers in front of the main entrance had spotted them, arrows knocked and at the ready and trained on both Leslie and Guard. Probably not the best time to tear off on a personal rant.

As they approached the edge of the moat that bordered the fen, Guard waved to the elves in the watch towers, both of whom simply glared back, arrows remaining aimed directly at Guard and Leslie. Then he stopped at the edge, palms up and out to show he meant no harm. After a moment, Leslie did the likewise.

“I come to talk with Sreesa, as Outside Ambassador of Thorn, liaison to the Tarm Fen and all the outlands. I am Guard of—“

“Enough!” the elf in the second tower—the one with his arrow aimed directly at Guard—shouted. “We know who you are, Guard of Thorn. You have no business here and you are not welcome.” The elf shifted slightly, as if he were adjusting his aim to make sure the arrow, once loosed, would go cleanly between Guard’s sixth and seventh ribs and puncture his heart. Elves were excellent marksmen and, save some intervention, would not miss their target, even at much greater distances than the short one between Guard and the tower.

“Please, put down your bow, we mean you no harm,” Guard said, padding the words with his own magic, perhaps more of it than he intended.

The elf lowered his bow. “You are not welcome here. Sreesa does not wish to see you.”

“Have you taken leave of your senses?” the other elf asked sharply, her voice high and thin. Guard blinked. With her hair bound back and dressed in the uniform of the Tarm protectorate, she hadn’t looked much different at a distance than the male—her skin was, perhaps, a shade more yellow, but she wore no rouge or lip-paint, no jewelry. And her hair was darker, a sandy brown—the male that had first addressed Guard was clearly a young male, but his bound hair was white as snow. As the male elf turned his head to answer the female, Guard could see that his hair, tied into a single, thick long tail, wrapped from top to bottom with crisscrossing leather straps, reached past his hips. He couldn’t tell from where he stood, but he guessed the female would have her hair done likewise.

“I have told him he must go,” the elf began.

“Please, good folk, I mean no harm or ill. I don’t know what the difficulty is, but I know it is upon me to resolve it. I must speak to Sreesa as soon as I possibly can, and I cannot leave until I do—“

“You will leave,” the female said through gritted teeth. “One way or another, I guarantee you will leave.”

Guard smiled politely. “That sounds like a threat. To an ambassador, on business for Thorn, at the direction of the High Elder of Thorn, who sits in the third seat of the Leadership Council of Kloston. It is up to you, but I don’t advise—“

“You are not in a position to advise,” the female almost spat. “You are not welcome. You have until I count to three to turn and leave.” She steadied her bow, moving her aim from Leslie to Guard. The male elf blinked, and then lifted his bow again, too. Great. Now both of them were aiming at Guard.

Guard felt his magic swell. “Let’s be reasonable, please,” he asked. “Put down your bows so we can talk in a civil manner.”

The male elf threw his bow and arrow out of the watchtower and into the moat. With barely a sound, Guard saw the murky surface of the water break, and a large black crocodile surfaced just long enough to snap its jaws through the bow and vanish back beneath the darkness. 

“One,” the female elf counted. He could see her hands shaking, but she did not respond to his magic as readily as the male had. He had always known elves, expert crafters of magic, were themselves resistant to most magic. Some elves were apparently more resistant than others. “Two.”

Guard let his magic flow. It was his only hope at this point. Dach and the Sisters had both given him a spell or three that would be useful, but he hadn’t reviewed them before approaching the Tarm and was afraid of doing himself more harm than good, should he try half-remembered magic.

So he let his own power expand outwards, the gray stone that lay against his breastbone feeling heavier, hotter. To him, the strength of his magic seemed gigantic. He prayed very hard that it had, indeed, become has formidable as Dach and the White Sisters believed it had; in truth, he still wasn’t convinced. But he did feel it. His magic swelled around him like a great tidal wave that went where he would point it. Invisible, intangible, but real and unmistakable. His magic seemed to blaze around him, at least in his mind’s eye, and he directed it all at the female elf in the first tower. “Please, be reasonable, and put down your bow.”

“Three,” she said, her hands shaking and a fresh sheen of sweat clearly coating her face, but not breaking under the force of Guard’s will. She loosed her arrow, and Guard was suddenly sure that, less than a day after Leasia had cursed Guard with being the inevitable cause of her death, it was going to happen. He was going to get run through the heart with an arrow—chainmail or no, he had little doubt that shaft was going into him, and elves did not miss, and there would be another shaft following that one, then another, so rapid he could barely see them, and even if the one didn’t get through his chainmail the next would be in his neck or in his groin or in an eye—

And Guard fell forward, a sharp, piercing pain between his eyes. His stomach lurched, trying to vomit up food that was not there. For a moment, he thought the arrow had gone into his head, but then he realized he was now on the ground, a good forty hands away from where he had been just a moment ago, the arrow that had been meant for him lying on the flagstone road where he had, just a moment ago, been standing.

He pushed himself up just in time to glimpse Leslie stepping quietly behind the elf-woman. It added some perspective to see Leslie towering above the small elf—the elf female’s head barely came up to Leslie’s chest. Leslie, who was svelte—sleek would be the word, right after statuesque, that came to mind—was twice again as thick at her thinnest places as the elf woman at her very thickest. Though small, like almost all of her kind she was much stronger than her size would indicate—it was no child’s arrow she had shot at him—and fast. Almost as Leslie rose behind her did the elf turn, quick as a cat, to strike her, only to have her arm slice through empty air. He saw the elf reach back for another arrow, but her quiver was gone. Leslie was back down on the road, throwing the elf-woman’s quiver of bows into the bushes. “We do not wish you harm. But we cannot allow—“

“You are in position to allow or not allow the Tarm a single thing,” the elf woman shouted, and before she had even reached the middle of her words, something was flying out of her hands towards Leslie’s head. But Leslie was standing about six hands away, and the little dagger the elf had thrown plunged into the dirt between the flagstones, up to its hilt.

“All right, that’s it,” Leslie said, inhaling deeply. She pulled back her sleeves.

“Come up again with your parlor tricks, and see what happens—“ the elf shouted, as Leslie, already there, wrapped her arms around the elf woman’s shoulders. Guard felt a faint tickle of fear at how quickly the elf-woman flipped her legs up, scissoring them around the back of Leslie’s head, her little arms swinging back, attempting to hit Leslie in the ribs, or perhaps her stomach or under her arms—but then Leslie was releasing her on the flagstone road below the watchtower, and the elf collapsed on the ground, immediately throwing up.

“If you think your head hurts now,” Leslie began, reaching down and grabbing the elf woman as she vomited again, and then there was silence. If Leslie had completed the thought, she had done it somewhere well beyond where Guard could hear. He looked up at the elf man in the second tower. He didn’t appear to be doing anything, just standing there, eyes glazed, as if very tired and distracted by some distant thought. Guard recognized that—on more than one occasion his magic had had that effect. One of the reasons he had worried about using his talent, even with the best of intentions, on those he knew. It wasn’t that often, but sometimes—sometimes it left people distracted. Still, better safe than sorry. Guard stood up fully, his head screaming in protest. He managed to keep his voice steady and his stomach settled. “You don’t want to be the cause of a war with Thorn, do you? A war between elf and man? Over an issue of pure diplomacy?”

The elf shook his head slowly, looking towards Guard but more past him.

“Then be a good man and lower the drawbridge, so that we may cross.”

The elf-man blinked. “I—I am not supposed to—“

“I said to lower the draw bridge, please,” Guard reiterated firmly.

The elf leapt from the watchtower, and disappeared past the top of the wall. A moment later, the familiar creak of wood and the rattle of chain unwinding filled the air, and the bridge began to drop. At that moment, Guard heard a sharp intake of breath and again saw Leslie release the elf woman, now soaking wet and coughing thickly, back on the flagstone. Leslie, too, was soaking wet, her thin blue-gray robes clinging tightly to her, her pitch black hair matted against her skull. The elf woman coughed up a gout of water, quivering. Her nose was bleeding profusely, and her eyes were darting around, bleary and bloodshot.

“I could have left you there, at the bottom of your lagoon. Or in a cave without an exit or entrance, without light or air.  Or I could just take, say, a hand or an arm, the way I just took the arrows you were trying to shoot us with. It can be much worse than that.”

The elf woman coughed, and when she spoke, her voice was slurred and halting. “—not—scared—of—“

Leslie made an exasperated noise that sounded, to Guard, like she was growling. Bending down towards the elf, hands out, she said, “Perhaps you would like to see the inside of the Great Volcano. It can be arranged—”

“Leslie, stop,” Guard said. “You have disabled her. Please make sure she doesn’t have any concealed weapons, then let her be. Until such time as she chooses to attack us again, which I would strongly advise her against. Look, they are lowering the drawbridge for us.”

Leslie immediately straightened up, lowering her hands. “Yes, Guard. Although, I think we should be prepared to make a hasty exit, if necessary.”

Guard was seeing the same thing Leslie was seeing: a dozen elves, lined up behind the lowering drawbridge, arrows knocked. Four other elves, all dressed in the plain uniform of the Tarm protectorate, were running up from behind, taking their positions. A stocky brown-skinned elf with a gray beard was standing slightly in front of the other elves and had a golden crescent on a thin silver chain fastened around his neck. While still not quite as familiar with Tarm tokens and hierarchy as he should have been, given his position, he was fairly certain that, with the protectorate, that put the bearded elf in a leadership position. So Guard directed the full force of his magic at him.

“Please, I seek a diplomatic solution to the tensions between Thorn and the Tarm Elves. We do not want a war between our village and the Tarm—“

“War?” the lead elf, the one with the gold crescent around his neck, barked. “Don’t be stupid, human child. We don’t seek war with Thorn. But you are not welcome here. You may tell your Thorn chieftain to send another ambassador.”

“There will be no other ambassador. It is urgent that I speak with Sreesa now. If I need to return with the Elder Tobias and the Sorcerer Dach and the White Sisters and others from Thorn and elsewhere I will—“

The elf’s already dark face grew darker. “Boy, it’s not smart to threaten the Tarm.”

Guard nodded politely. “I do not make threats. I am telling you what will happen, should my request to talk with Sreesa continue to be denied. Should any harm befall my companion, or myself, Thorn will consider that an act of war and war will be declared. Feel free to send a courier to the Thorn council, if you wish to confirm what I say.”

The elf blinked. After a whispered conversation with the person standing directly behind him, the brown-skinned, gray-bearded elf turned his attention back on Guard. “I have sent word back to Sreesa to see if she will grant an audience. Liege Jackdaw will be informed, as well, of your arrival.”

“Then we await word back. I would ask your men to stand down.”

“We will not,” the elf responded. And the dozen-odd elves continued to hold their shafts trained on Guard and Leslie.

“I think it’s going well so far, don’t you?” Leslie asked in a whisper. Then she started wringing out the sleeves of her robe.

Despite his still-pounding head, Guard let a small smile curl the corner of his lips. Leslie had to know the keen ears of the elves could easily overhear what she had said; she was, in no small part, letting them known they weren’t nearly as impressive to her as they apparently fancied themselves. While two unarmed humans were hardly a match for over a dozen elves, there was little doubt that if one of those humans happened to be Leslie, the odds against the elves would suddenly have gotten a lot worse. Even now, with his ability supposedly growing by leaps and bounds, it was her magic that had saved them, not his. He had apparently been able to give Sylvania a brain hemorrhage without even focusing on her the night before, but had not been able to bend the will of the little she-elf a single iota. It was actually quite amazing. His magic was growing. There was no doubt of it. He could feel it. There was more of it than ever, and, at its source, it felt infinite in a way that it never had before. Not before the dragon. Not before he had died.

“I thought the Sisters gave you something,” Leslie murmured. “Didn’t Dach, as well?”

Guard couldn’t help but notice the uncomfortable shifting of the lead elf at the mention of Dach’s name. She was right, of course. They had both given him magic that might be helpful against the belligerence of the Tarm, but he had not reviewed it adequately to trust himself to use it. The Sister’s had given him a two-word spell of suspension, he had seen, that would have been perfect for stopping arrows. But he had only reviewed it briefly, and such short, yet powerful, Old Language magic was notoriously difficult to remember correctly. Powerful words were always slippery, and difficult to hold onto. But she was right, of course. He should have been better prepared.

“Yes, but I see no call to use such powerful magic against the Tarm elves now,” Guard whispered back to her, expecting the elves would know he knew they could hear it, but figuring he might as well at least try to plant the seed of doubt, anyway. “I’m sure they will be cooperative.”

Leslie nodded. “I hope you are right.”

Guard casually extracted one of the scrolls from the inside pocket of his tunic and began focusing on the simple, yet so difficult, words.

There was a cough behind them, and Guard realized the she-elf that Leslie had so handily dispatched was hobbling up behind them, her little dagger retrieved from the road and in her hand.

Leslie sighed loudly, almost a groan. “For the sake of Peter, what is wrong with you?”

Guard wondered the same thing, as the little elf hobbled towards them, blood still running from her nose, eyes so rimmed with red that they appeared to be bleeding, a thin line of spit hanging from her lip. Not her unwillingness to back down—all the elves he had ever known were brave to a fault. They had always shown great courage in his experience, even when, perhaps, discretion would have been the better part of valor. But this belligerence, this readiness to attack—that was new. That was wrong. Elves were brave warriors and skilled fighters but they did not first seek violence as a resolution. Not in his experience, not that he had ever known. Indeed, relations between Thorn and the Tarm had always been excellent. At least, they had been, until chieftain Jackdaw had taken over.

“D’ane Nieshia,” the dark brown elf said loudly. “Sheath your knife. Then seek Kyonnu and tend to your injuries.”

The elf-woman, apparently named Nieshia, stopped in her advance and stared blankly, still holding up her knife.

“D’ane Nieshia,” the lead elf repeated. “I have given you an order. Sheath your knife and return to the fen and seek Kyonnu so that he may minister to your wounds.”

 “Yes, liege Jrenn’son,” Nieshia mumbled, tucking her knife into her belt and then limping past Guard and Leslie, across the drawbridge and into the fen. As she passed the brown elf with the golden crescent medallion—liege Jrenn’son, apparently—another elf came running up. It was apparently the one they had dispatched a dozen moments ago to see if Sreesa would agree to meet him.

After what appeared to be some harsh words for Nieshia that Guard could not quite hear, Jrenn’son spoke with the elf that had just breathlessly run up to him. “What?” he asked. “Are you sure?” The other elf nodded. “And have you told Jackdaw?” The other nodded again. There was more discussion, then, that Guard could not quite hear.

“Sreesa has agreed to meet with you,” Jrenn’son said at last. “That is her decision. I suggest you be grateful.”

Guard did not answer as the other elves lowered their bows, but simply began walking forward. He had learned early on with the Tarm that, if he wasn’t sure what to say, it was best not to say anything. The elves parted as he approached, and it was odd, again, the tricks perspective played—it was hard to think of these handsome, muscular creatures as only coming up to his midriff. But as he approached, their size made them look less and less like adults and more like twelve-year old human children.

“D’ane Kespam, D’ane Jhodney, escort the human to see Sreesa.

As Leslie followed behind him, liege Jrenn’son reached out to block her. “Not you. Only the male.”

Guard looked back. “I’ll be all right. You—keep and eye out for trouble. You know what to do.”

Leslie nodded. Guard wasn’t actually sure what he meant when he said that she knew what to do, but guessed that she probably did. Like so much of his conversation in diplomacy, what he had told Leslie was really intended for the elves consumption.

At least, he had seen Leslie handle herself. He knew he didn’t have to worry about her safety.

The two elves escorted Guard down the main road towards the Chieftain Block, the largest, oldest building in the Fen—almost a palace, built of wood and stone with the exacting and enduring elf craftsmanship that marked everything done by their kind. The Chieftain Block was several buildings, some later additions but all done within the same style, carefully constructed amongst the towering ironwood trees, a large fountain in the center courtyard, a stream running across the front that curled around the main building and ended at the lake in back. Flagstone paths lined with torchlamps that would be lit, once the sun went down, connected each building to the main building, where the Tarm leadership both lived and worked, and the main gate.

“This way,” said the larger, apparently older elf, leading Guard to a large building at the perimeter of the Chieftain Block, almost against the large stone wall that circled it and towards the back, past the lake. “Sreesa is in the middle of her training. You may wait inside until she is done.”

Guard nodded, stepping inside, slightly annoyed but unsurprised that the two elves that had escorted him this far also followed him in.

Inside, the entire building was a single open chamber. The entire length was floored in a varnished yellow wood, great hanging circlets of diehard candles extending from the ceiling, a good two levels in the air—nearly three levels, he supposed, at elf-size. The assortment of training equipment and other objects that was currently out on the floor, much of it quite large, was also apparently mobile—it could be reconfigured for other users, and other purposes. Indeed, as his eyes adjusted from the outside sunlight, he could see the entire back wall was hung with targets, straw-filled sackcloth painted with ever-shrinking circles, the center of the targets so well-shot that yellow hay was leaking out of most of them. Large pegs with hanging numbered wooden cards, with a small seat to the side and about eight hands above the targets, suggested that the building was also used for competitive demonstrations, not just training. At the moment, though, with ropes tied to the beams of the ceiling and hanging down to the floor or halfway between floor and roof—most of them, he saw, swinging back and forth vigorously as if recently used—and the heavy equipment out on the floor, it was obviously configured for training.

At first, he didn’t see Sreesa, but then movement to the side, slightly in the shadows, caught his eye. She was rounding the inside perimeter of the structure, running with such speed that it was difficult to believe her thin little legs—completely exposed, of course; the swatch of brown cloth wrapped around her waist could hardly even be called a skirt and stopped at the very top of her thigh—could move so fast. As she neared the front of the building, coming closer to Guard, she bounded up—Gods, she could jump like a jackrabbit, jumping well over Guard and then pivoting as she hit the wall and then jumping upwards again, catching one of the ropes that hung midway from ceiling to floor and, with a single dramatic kick, swinging up on it almost to the very top of the building. Where, to Guard’s amazement, she let go of the rope and grabbed onto one of the large, round wooden beams that stretched east-west across the ceiling. Even though the beam was round and clearly well varnished, and Sreesa appeared to be glistening with sweat, she seemed to have no trouble holding on, working hand-over-hand down the beam until she was but a few handslength from the wall. She then swung back and forth for a moment, quickly building momentum, and then pushed off from the ceiling and, as her bare feet touched the wall, pushed off again with a strength and speed that was disconcerting. She almost seemed to fly across the middle of the room, descending so slightly as she shot through the air it was as if she was gliding on invisible wings. Then, as she passed a set of great bamboo bars that were tied to large wood beams with thick straps of leather, she reached down, grabbed the highest bar, and then swung around it in a complete arc. The wood supports were, in turn, secured to heavy stone foundations. As the bamboo beam she had grabbed bowed as she swung around a second time, and even the wooden posts seemed to bend forward, Guard thought it was likely only the stone foundations the post were mounted on that kept the entire apparatus from tumbling over. So much power in such a little body.

Sreesa did one more loop and let go just as her legs pointed at the ceiling, arcing through the air and then flipping over so that she landed perfectly on what appeared to be a bundle of squared wooden beams, padded and wrapped with taut, burnished brown leather. Perhaps three hands wide, any human attempting such a stunt would surely have slipped, fallen forward, pulled by their own inertia, and landed on their heads. Sreesa, however, simply came to a perfect stop.

“She is something to watch, isn’t she?” the elf to Guard’s right murmured. “Thagrar would be proud.”

“I’m sure he is proud,” said the other. “Little doubt that she’s his daughter. And her mother’s.”

“Yes,” the other elf consented, nodding ruefully, it seemed to Guard, and sighing. “Her mother.”

“She is impressive,” Guard said.

“Hah!” the first elf laughed. “You don’t know the half of it. But you will, coming to the fen, unannounced. I don’t expect she thinks much of that.”

As if hearing the elf—which he guessed she must have—Sreesa leapt from the padded leather platform she had landed on, grabbed on to a large iron ring tied to the end of one of the ropes, and then, rather than swinging to build momentum, just leapt from that rope to the next, moving up at the same time she moved across, almost by six hands. Then she vigorously began working her way up the rope, hand over hand, her little, barely-clothed body swinging back and forth beneath her as she did because she was not using her legs at all, climbing what was easily twenty or twenty-five handslength by arm and hand alone. Then she just let herself drop, turning and catch the rope beside her at the last possible moment, and then flipping around with a flourish off of that, landing neatly on the yellow wood floor. Almost as her bare feet touched down, she was off and running—this time directly towards Guard. There was a large set of what appeared to be tree stumps with padded leather tops and then a set of ramps, the purpose of which was not exactly clear, between them. However, with one powerful jump, she cleared them both, drawing her knees to her chest and rolling over in the air as if she were performing a dive into a lake. At the last moment, she stretched and hit the floor again in mid-run, not missing a beat, still bearing down on Guard and now with nothing between them. Although she only came up to his midsection, and couldn’t have weighed more than a dozen stones, it was like being charged by a wild animal. It didn’t help that the two elf protectorates who had been standing beside him chose that moment to step to the side, obviously getting out of the way.

“Sreesa,” Guard started. “What—“

Again, she bounded in the air, not two-dozen hands away from him, flipping over. Before he could react, her little bare feet landed squarely on his chest, pushing him down onto the floor with a thud, the back of his head cracking against the hardwood. Which didn’t exactly help the headache that he still had, from Leslie stepping in and saving his bacon earlier.

The two elf escorts started laughing loudly.

As he landed, Sreesa slid down on him, bare legs scissoring his midsection, her little hands pushing down on his breastbone, her glistening face leaning over into his. She looked at him, brow furrowed in obvious irritation, but her large blue eyes revealed some pleasure in his current predicament.

She would be rather pretty, Guard thought, if she wasn’t such a harpy. Her honey-colored hair, cropped short because she could, given her position—was tousled and unkempt. But it still shone like spun gold in the mottled light that came through the criss-crossed bamboo bars mounted over the floor-to-ceiling windows. Her eyes were large and brilliantly blue, large even by elfin standards, easily twice as large as a human’s eyes, and on a head two-thirds the size of a human’s. Her blue irises were huge, the size of haypennies, and her eyes tilted inward, giving her an unmistakable feline quality that may have come from her mother—or from Mother Nature, as they often said, elfin children so frequently resembling neither parent in bone structure, in skin, eye, or hair color, or in temperament or build, that it was pointless to try and make sense of elfin genealogy by appearances.

Her ears were large, too. Large and thin. They tapered off to a point almost level with the top of her skull, which made for ears as impressive—and perhaps as keen a sense of hearing—as Guard had ever known on an elf. And her lips were thin and dark, a shade red but mostly just a shade darker than her tan, freckled skin. Guard had mostly seen her inside or at night, so did not know when she made the time—even now, exercising and training, she was inside—but she clearly spent a good deal of time in the sun.

The most notable thing about Sreesa to Guard, however, was her breasts. He could see almost half of them. The ragged brown cloth wrapped around her torso cut off at the bottom—so one could easily see her ribs, her navel, and even a little beyond—which was bad enough, but it was also cut in a V-shape at her bust and drawn tight so that her bosom was shamelessly on display. The cloth was drawn so tight at her small breasts—almost exactly the size and shape of ripe tangerines, Guard thought—that the contours beneath were incredibly distinct, to the degree that it was, perhaps, almost more revealing than had she simply been completely unclothed. She breathed in and out rapidly, her chest heaving, her small bosom almost seeming to want to be done with it and burst out of her top. Good Gods! The elves were such renowned craftspeople—couldn’t they sew themselves some clothes?

“There’s nothing for you down there, Guard of Thorn,” Sreesa said, breathing hard. “And my face is up here.”

The two elves behind them laughed.

“Get off of me,” Guard said forcing himself to look up at her face. “Now.” He thought, perhaps, he felt a little of his magic leaking out—even though he didn’t really mean for it to. If it did, it had no effect.

“You were not invited. You were told to go away. You did not. I will get off you when I am ready, and not before.”

“You aren’t decent,” Guard said. “You—a man should not see so much of his wife, much less—well, you. This is not—you aren’t decent.”

“I am not decent?” Sreesa asked. “Me? I did not ask you to stare at my bosom. You should have better control of your eyes. I find nothing indecent about the body the Gods gave me—“

“The Gods do not give us all gifts for public exhibition!” Guard protested. “Would it kill you to put on some clothes?”

“I may, so that your eyes will stop wandering over my body—“

Guard jerked his gaze back up to her face. “You complain that a man looks at you when are barely clothed and then thrust your most private parts almost in his face—“

“I prefer to dress lightly. That does not mean I wish to be treated like meat—“

 “Then you should not dress as if you were meat for sale—“

Sreesa stepped off of him, almost seeming to float up and glide back in one move. She crossed her arms across her chest, almost self-consciously, which just drew attention to how little the short piece of cloth wrapped around her waist actually covered. “I prefer dressing light,” she repeated. “Especially when the weather grows hot, which it has. Should I train dressed in an ankle-length dress and a blouse and a jacket, with stockings and boots and gloves—“ She stopped, and then pointed her hand out toward him. “Look at you, you are dressed as if it were at the bottom of the autumn, not almost the end of summer. Doesn’t that get hot? Would it be so terrible to wear something that didn’t completely cover your arms?” As Guard sat up, she nodded her head towards the protectorates behind him. “They are our soldiers, our protectors, and they wear loose fitting vests that let the air in, during the summer. I know their bare arms might offend your sense of decency—“

“Enough,” Guard said. “You dress your way, I will dress mine.”

“That would be: I will dress practically and you will not.”

Guard gritted his teeth. Already, she was grating on him.

“However you wish to see it,” he murmured, standing up, glad, at least, to be towering above her again.

“I see it the way it is,” Sreesa said. She snapped, and another elf came up—a short, stocky fellow, extremely muscular with tan-yellow skin and long black hair. Guard had not seen him before, but he had obviously been very close by. “Bring me my robe,” she said, looking back over her shoulder at Guard. “Our visitor cannot control his eyes.”

Guard bit his tongue. She was insufferable. Completely insufferable. But he thought it would be best to control his temper.

The tan-yellow elf brought Sreesa a small robe made from cream-colored silk, and she pulled it on. She again looked back over her shoulder at Guard as she tied her robe. “You have some steel in your belly, coming here, Guard of Thorn. After what you did.” There was something odd in tone that had not been there before. Something that almost sounded to Guard like a grudging respect. She paused, then turned around. “Or iron between your ears. I think that is more likely.”

 So much for thinking he had heard any sort of respect in her voice. A stupid thing to think, anyway. “After what I did?” Guard asked, incredulous. “After what I did?”

Sreesa met his gaze evenly. “You represented yourself as an agent of the Tarm elves. You attempted to usurp the legitimate authority of Jackdaw, Liege and Chieftain of Tarm Fen by claiming to negotiate on our behalf—“

Guard blinked. “I—that—I only did that because you—the elves of the Tarm—sold magic to trolls to allow them to wander the surface during the day, and because I was a prisoner of the troll king—“

Sreesa stiffened. “The business dealings of the Tarm Fen are of no concern to you.”

“’Business dealings’?” Guard asked incredulously. “’Business dealings’? Is that what you call such hostile betrayal? I would tell you, they are of great concern to me! They are of a great concern to Thorn village! You—your Fen—gave the trolls magic sufficient enough to allow them to mount a daylight attack on us. To attack the human villages during the day.”

Sreesa’s large eyes narrowed into slits. “You lie. You know better. We—our Fen would never craft magic to allow that. We would not allow that sort of abuse—“

“Then you could explain the attack on the Hollis farm outside Thorn? By trolls? Who killed the entire Hollis family? In the middle of the day? The horses—“

Sreesa shook her head. “You are mistaken. We would never make such a bargain—“

“They were trolls. From the Titan Woods. Attacking human farms in the middle of the day—it is someone else’s magic?”

“It—I do not know. Our—we would craft our spells to cease to protect those who would try to do harm to others, to sapient creatures—“

“You are wrong,” Guard said flatly. “We’ve caught trolls. The magic upon them has been defeated. But there was nothing to prevent the trolls from attacking anybody. Not humans. Not horses. Not even elves. Not even the Tarm.”

Sreesa’s eyes widened, then her brow furrowed angrily. “You lie! You cannot possibly know such thing, even if it were true, which it cannot be—nobody, no human, no elf, can just unfold an enchantment and read it as if it were a book. It’s not possible. I don’t know what you hope to gain by such lies—“

“The same people who undid the enchantment on the trolls—I also had them take a look at the mirror you gave me.”

She paused. “I—what—the mirror? Why? For what possible reason? That was—it was just a trifle. A token.”

“Then you did not spell it against certain, too-intimate views of females? Frankly, a little ironic, considering your shameless mode of dress—“

“That is a perfectly normal thing to do,” Sreesa snapped. “Especially when presenting such a thing to a man. A human man. Considering they have such difficulty controlling their baser natures they feel they must blame others for their own wandering eyes. And certainly easy enough to tell.”

 “And you put a counter within the magic, did you not? To see if, and how often, I asked the mirror about—“

“That was a gift!” Sreesa shouted, more, Guard thought, to cut him off than to make the point. Her face, to the very tips of her ears, had flushed a bright red. She was embarrassed. Interesting. “You had no business mucking about in the magic crafting—“

“My point is, yes, it is possible to unfold the enchantment. For the magic your Fen sold or traded with the trolls—and there was nothing to turn it off, if they attacked humans. Or horses. Or elves. Or even the Tarm Fen, in particular.”

“No,” Sreesa repeated. “That is not possible. The Tarm elves, the crafters—they would not concoct such irresponsible magic. I do not have to listen to this.”

“I should say, I was told it was done so that someone, somewhere, could turn it off—when they wanted to. Perhaps after the dirty work was done.”

Sreesa, still red, also looked visibly shaken. Guard was ashamed to admit it, but it gave him some pleasure to see Sreesa in a condition, for once, other than unflappable and surly. “Why do you insist on lying like this?”

“Perhaps it was a decision made by the same elves, I am guessing, that spelled your little mirror—the one you gave me, if you remember—so that it might be used to kill me—“

Sreesa took a sudden step back.

“–if someone had not removed—“

Sreesa took a sudden step forward, and slapped him. Though she was the size of a twelve-turned human girl, she was considerably stronger that even most adult male humans. Guard stumbled backwards, the pain in his jaw hard and bright. 

As he stepped backwards, he saw Sreesa’s head bob down—and felt what must have been her leg strike against his heel. It was like being tripped with an iron rod, and he fell backwards, as Sreesa almost seemed to float over him—and then descend like a load of stones, her small knee thumping against his breastbone, causing another burst of brilliant pain. For a moment, it almost felt like she had run him through with a spear, it hurt so badly.

“Give me one reason I should not relieve myself of your lies and deceit, and kill you now?” Sreesa demanded through clenched teeth, sticking her face almost directly in his. In one motion, she reached to her side then brought that hand back around, flipping around her small ivory dagger in her palm so its white blade was against Guard’s neck. He could feel the point, beginning to cut into his skin. This, he thought with a sudden, stunning clarity, had definitely not been a good idea.

“Because there will be war,” he said, padding it with his magic as he said each word, so that she would, he hoped, know and understand the truth of what he said. “Because Thorn and then all the men of Kloston will be arrayed against you. And do you think you can depend on every fen, every elf, to be as loyal to Jackdaw as you? Do you think the Hejeem or the Ashen elves would follow you to war?”

The pressure where Sreesa’s small dagger was cutting into the soft flesh of his neck eased a little. But the two elves that had escorted him in were now behind her, their swords drawn and pointed at him. “I have the situation under control,” Sreesa hissed at them. “Stand back. If I want your assistance I will ask for it.”

The two stepped back slightly, but kept their swords drawn.

“Get off of me,” Guard said, now letting his magic pour out of him. He could feel it, coming down into him and shooting out through him, in great, invisible waves. For a moment, it was almost as if he could see the air ripple. “Put down your dagger and get off me.”

The pressure of the dagger eased slightly, but Sreesa did not budge. Her left eye—Gods, her eyes were so big, they were almost hypnotic—twitched. But she stayed put.

“You are in no position to command me,” she said. “I will—“

“Shut your mouth and get off of me,” Guard commanded, concentrating, trying to increase the power, the intensity, of his magic. “Put down the dagger. Get off me. You don’t want to start a war.”

Sreesa was starting to sweat, cold beads of moisture dotting her forehead and the hollow of her throat. The muscles of her tiny neck were standing out in taught, flexing cords as her jaw worked. He could feel the slight tremble in the arm with the dagger. He knew she felt his magic—it wasn’t like Leasia, who responded to his magic as if it were nothing at all. Sreesa felt his power. She was actively resisting it. Fighting it.

He closed his eyes, trying to find the center. The middle of his stone, the middle of his soul, where his little gray rock sang to the magic inside, and it came out, through him and guided by him, at once called out by the stone he had worn around his neck since he was an infant, but at the same time given to him, as given to all, by the Gods, for Their will and glory. He exhaled, feeling the power coming through him, through his center, out of his breath, wrapped around and radiating forth from every word.

“I command you to drop your weapon and get off of me now,” Guard said, his magic, to him, like a burning, invisible fire, like a great, noiseless explosion. “Sreesa, do as I say.”

A little red drop of blood came from Sreesa’s nose, as one of the two escorts dropped his sword, the other still holding onto his sword, Guard saw, but swaying on his feet. At the far side of the building, one of the arrow targets fell off the wall and landed with a dull thud.

“I . . . will . . . not!” Sreesa almost spat each word. Each time she opened her mouth, it was like a terrible effort, as if her speaking caused incredible pain. But she would not bend to his will. No wonder diplomatic relations hadn’t ever gone any better than they had, when the level of his power had seemed little more than a novelty. Even increased a thousand-fold, she resisted.

“You are . . . using . . . your . . . human magic on me.” She was straining, her entire face slick with sweat, arms shaking, her eyes looking suddenly bloodshot, still twitching. “You . . . I will not bend! No man commands me!”

The dagger dug into his throat, pain blooming from point where it cut him, and he felt a warm trickle blood slide down his neck.

Guard had a thought. He concentrated, shifting his magic, turning it on his two escorts. “Get her off of me, now!” he shouted, and the one who still held his sword dropped his, leaping over to Sreesa, as the second already had his hand on the arm with the dagger, pulling it away. They could certainly move fast.

In a moment, the two elves had Sreesa by her arms and off him. “Are you mad? What are you—why would you do as he says?”

Guard sat up, touching the small cut on his neck. “No doubt they don’t want an all out war between human and elf, over such foolishness,” he said, brushing his tunic off with his free hand. “Especially when the Tarm Fen might fight that battle alone.”

“We don’t want a war between elf and man,” the first elf escort repeated dutifully. “Especially given that no other fen—“

“Oh, shut up, and let me go, you stupid fools! Have you no wills of your own? Are your minds so weak that you’ll be ordered around as if servants to this—this—“

“She’s clearly irrational,” Guard said, standing up. “Look at her. She should continue to be restrained for her own safety.”

“This is for your own good,” the second elf said, taking a leather strap that had been looped around his belt and binding Sreesa’s hands, as she glared at Guard.

“Prahg!” Sreesa called. “Prahg, make these two idiots release me.”

The yellow-tan, deeply muscled elf that had brought Sreesa her silken robe again stepped forward, out the shadows, but with a stumble. Coincidence? Guard wondered distantly. Or some artifact of his magic? Hopefully, he thought, the latter. ”Prahg, stand there, these two elves are helping Sreesa. Come no closer. She’s irrational.”

Pragh froze in mid-stride, swaying drunkenly on his feet.

Sreesa, straining and sweating, cursed Guard’s escorts. But the elves would not let go. “Prahg, do not let this human’s words deceive you—“ she began, staring intently at the yellow-skinned elf, who turned in her direction as she spoke. “Look at me. Hear my voice. Hear only my voice—“

“Pragh, you are needed outside,” Guard said, and the burly elf turned around and ran for the door.

Sreesa grunted, almost screamed, in unintelligible frustration. “Are you all so weak-minded—?”

“It is not that they are weak-minded,” Guard said, knowing what he was about to say was neither necessary nor diplomatic, but unable to stop himself. “It is that you are thick-skulled and mule-headed and so immovably obstinate that to reason with you is as if to reason with a wall of rock.” He couldn’t help but notice the small nods of agreement from his escorts. At least he was not the only one she gave such a difficult time.

“How dare—how dare you speak—”

“I think your behavior, and the actions of the Tarm, have demonstrated your lack of interest in cordial diplomatic relations. From this point forward, if you desire the degree of respect and civility freely given to you before, you must now earn it.”

He pulled a small vial of healing elixir from his satchel and dabbed a little of the contents on the cut on his neck. Not entirely necessary for the cut itself, but for what might have been on the blade. As artisans of all crafts, potions and poisons included, elves were known for coating blades and dipping arrows in special concoctions that might kill with a scratch. Or drive a man mad. Or make him blind. Or make him old. Or allow the crafter to control the will of the victim. Although not necessarily complete protection against such things, the quick application of healing elixir could certainly help.

“Jackdaw will not stand for this,” Sreesa hissed. “If you seek to avoid conflict, using your parlor tricks and hypnotisms against me—daughter of Thagrar, heir of the Tarm, the lineage Liege and Chieftain following, I—“

Guard returned Sreesa’s angry glare impassively. “And you think Jackdaw is ever going to let you become Chieftain of the Tarm? That Jackdaw will respect the lineage of Thagrar?”

Sreesa stared at him coldly. “You speak of what you have no right, of what you do not know,” she said, and then lunged toward Guard. But the two escorts held her fast.

“She’s irrational,” said the first. “Just look at her.”

The second nodded. “She should be restrained for her own safety.”

“After all, we don’t want to start a war with the humans,” the first murmured quietly.

“Gods!” Sreesa spat. “Gods and devils both, may they curse you!”

“Irrational,” said the first elf.

“Mmmhmmm,” the other agreed.

The wide doors at the front opened with a bang. “Chieftain Jackdaw demands to see the human now,” the red-skinned, black-haired elf said quickly. A small detail of armed elves accompanied the red-skinned one, no weapons drawn but clearly ready to do business. Three females and two males, Guard noted.

The elf delivering the message looked at Sreesa, blinking with confusion but undeterred in the delivery of his message. “He asks that Sreesa attends, as well, heir Sreesa.”

“The human would do well to pick this time to leave, and not disgrace Chieftain Jackdaw with his unworthy presence,” Sreesa said, jerking forward and then pulling back against the elves that restrained her, making it very hard for them to keep their balance. “In fact, I ask that you tell liege Jrenn’son to return with a detail to eject the liar from Thorn—and make these two dolts release me, he’s put some sort of enchantment on them-“

The red-skinned elf looked from Sreesa to Guard. “I was told by Chieftain Jackdaw himself that he wanted to see the both of you now.”

“Perhaps you should release her now,” Guard murmured to his original escorts, who were still restraining Sreesa. Wordlessly, the both released their grip on her.

“And my hands,” Sreesa said. “You weak-minded dolts.”

“Untie her,” Guard murmured, and the larger of his elf escorts undid the leather strap they had just bound her arms behind her back with.

Sreesa rubbed her wrists. “I suggest you don’t try such foolish tricks with Jackdaw, human,” she said. “In fact, I suggest you beg for mercy and swear never to show your face again.”

“I am also here to seek an audience with Jackdaw,” Guard replied. “I’m not going to beg for mercy. I’m going to challenge him to answer for his betrayal of Thorn and all of Kloston, up to and including the Tarm—”

“Then you have come to die,” Sreesa hissed between clenched teeth as they exited the building, the detail of five protectorate and the two that had escorted him originally falling into line behind him. “Liege and Chieftain Jackdaw will not stand for—”

“Then there will be war between the Tarm and all the human villages, towns, and cities of Kloston. And little likelihood that the other fens will join the Tarm in your suicidal pursuit, it will be a fight between one-thousand-and-one elves and almost a hundred thousand men, at the very least. You cannot tell me you do not know how the other elves of Kloston and elsewhere will regard the foolish and dangerous bargain you made with the trolls—”

“It is none of your concern, at the start of it, and you can tell your lies until the day is dark—”

Guard felt the his anger rising. Why did she persist in her denial? What could she possibly hope to gain? “And you can deny it until the day is dark, but there is nothing but respect for Elder Tobias of Thorn on the High Council of Kloston, for the Sorcerer Dach, for the White Sisters, who would be called on in regards to the magic you crafted. Your denials would fall on deaf ears now, thrice the worse should you kill an emissary of Thorn, or any human village. You should know this.”

He paused, looking at Sreesa, whose large, blue, almost feline eyes were locked on the central building of the Chieftain Block. The main building was a great, ten-leveled structure of ironwood and white granite, built in equal parts of wood and stone, splendid with the craftsmanship of the Tarm. Great windows lined with polished white granite and shaded by oversized varnished wood awnings, each almost three levels tall, ringed the lower levels. At level five, the walls receded backwards fifty hands, and then again at level eight, leaving the tenth level barely larger than a typical cottage in Thorn. The open area at each receding level was framed with intricate fence work, and even now, as they approached, Guard could see elves milling about, some sitting on benches, some standing at the very edge of roof. Each open area included observation decks, gardens, and courtyards displaying the prowess of generations of Tarm elves in architecture and sculpture. On the first, and largest, of the receding levels, Guard could see large ironwood trees and smaller, but still very large and very old, crimson oaks.

In the afternoon sun, the play of light and shadow in the wooden columns, the visible rafters and cantilevered observation decks that extended the rooftop courtyards, was something to behold. Each shadow seemed as critical, as solid, as significant and intentional as the structure that cast it. Each empty space, each open area, as important as the structure that enclosed it. In many ways, it was what wasn’t there that made the Chieftain Block so compelling to look at. The Tarm elves knew well how to craft with light, how to shape with shadows. It was the expertise of the Tarm.

As they drew near the large oak and marble doors, Sreesa still had no reply. She just continued looking straight at the main building, jaw working, her face shiny with what looked like cold sweat, a small touch of blood still under her left nostril from before. Something was different about her. With lips pursed and jaw clenched, she looked extremely pissed off. But that wasn’t unusual for Sreesa. What was different was the something else.

She’s afraid, Guard thought. And not of me. Not of war. Of Jackdaw.

As he thought it, he felt the truth of it. But it also felt incomplete. There was something else, and he could not put a finger to it.

“I won’t say anything about the mirror,” Guard said quietly as they reached the steps. “I am here to address the issue of the Night Troll—“

Sreesa’s head whip-snapped around and one small hand shot out, grabbing him tight at the wrist, even though her tiny fingers barely went all the way around, and she squeezed with a grip like an iron vise. “You don’t know anything,” she spat. “You think you know something but you don’t know anything. You walk to your death.”

“Then so do you,” Guard said. “And all those that still follow Jackdaw.” Sreesa did not argue, instead letting him go and turning to face the great doors as two servants pulled them open with a dozen silk ropes, the ends tied around the great wooden handles that ran the entire height of each door.

Guard blinked. It still wasn’t the whole story, but it was immediately clear to him that she knew he was right. Whether she truly believed the Tarm’s dealing with the trolls of Titan Woods were innocent or not, she knew the hostile approach they were taking towards Thorn village—and, essentially, the entire human population of Kloston—was suicidal. But she was loyal to Jackdaw, and elfin loyalty was fierce. She’d see war and walk to her own death before betraying the leadership of the Tarm.

Even if she already knew that the leadership and betrayed her—and all the other elves of the fen.

They were led through the great hall, with its polished white marble walls and varnished oak and maple floor. Great cream-colored silk curtains were tied between the supports where the columns of the walls met the ceiling, undulating slowly with light and shadow in the sun-filled corridors. To Guard’s surprise, they were escorted away from the Chieftain Hall, where the Tarm Liege and Chieftain normally conducted business and intimidated outsiders. Instead, they walked the entire length of the great hall until they reached the end, then took a much smaller corridor that, except for a few white granite accents, was built entirely of varnished dark hardwoods. At what Guard judged to be the middle length of the smaller hall, the red-skinned elf opened a small door on the right, and motioned them through.

As Guard walked through the door, at he very end of the hall he thought he saw a figure in the shadow, fully human size, looking directly at him. Then, nothing but a dark corner of a small hall.

Leslie, Guard thought. She’s keeping tabs on me. Thank the Gods.

The red-skinned elf motioned to the protectorate, who stopped at the door as Sreesa followed Guard in to the room. Then, stepping back, he closed the door behind them as the small, though very tall, interior of the room came into view. Like the hall, the floor and wall of the room, and probably even the ceiling which disappeared into shadow, was constructed entirely of dark-varnished oak, maple and poplar. The room was sparsely furnished, with three large rough-hewn wood tables, each with tabletops two hands thick. Similarly rough and bulky chairs were at the tables and against the walls. Even though a little too small to comfortably seat a human, the tables and chairs were all quite large for the elves that sat in them. Jackdaw’s, in particular, was gigantic for an elf. Guard himself could have easily sat in it comfortably, and the tall, intricately carved back would have still stopped three hands above his head, and it seemed unlikely that his feet would have touched the ground.

Jackdaw sat in the imposing wooden throne, his torso bare except for a worn leather vest, and a golden crescent pierced by three daggers hung around his neck, the sign of the Liege and Chieftain of the Tarm. Jackdaw’s hair, cut short on top like Sreesa but with full beard, was a dull straw color—like dirty hay, Guard had always thought—and salted with white. He was a sallow tan color, and the muscles of his arms and chest seemed to push against his skin with each movement, with each breath, large and hard and almost bursting with power on his short, stocky frame. If Sreesa could hurt him as bad as she had just by slapping him with her thin limbs and slight figure, Jackdaw could probably take on Elder Tobias himself, Guard thought. And Elder Tobias could carry a full grown horse over each shoulder.

Jackdaw had a scar across the right side of his face, starting at the middle of his forehead and going down diagonally, across his right cheek, which was twisted and hollow, some large bit of flesh apparently having been forever lost from his face when he earned that particular wound. His right eye drooped in the direction of the scar, and was an unpleasant shade of yellow, forever discolored by whatever, or whoever, had cut him. His left eye, white and clear with a large gray cornea, made the one yellow eye with its solid black pupil much more disconcerting than if both eyes had been the same sick shade of yellow. Although Guard kept his gaze steady as he entered the room, it was hard to look at that face.

On either side were two elite protectorate, in white, sleeveless tunics, each sporting a gold crescent with a silver star suspended between the points of the crescent, tied around their necks. Both had bow and quiver, bows already out for easy access.

“Come in, come in,” Jackdaw said, his voice pleasant and warm, a low, deep timber incongruous with his small elfin body. “Please sit. Would anyone like anything to drink?”

“No, thank you,” Guard said curtly. “I have come to—”

Jackdaw raised his hand. “I know why you’re here. It doesn’t interest me.”

He turned, instead, to look at the girl-elf as she sat next to Guard. “Sreesa. Sreesa. Didn’t I tell you this was going to happen? That trying to practice this diplomacy of yours with the humans—would simply delay the inevitable? And yet you continued in this foolishness.”

Sreesa nodded, clearly agitated, cold sweat on her forehead in large, glittering dewdrops. “I did, my Liege,” she said. “It was—my father, Thragrar, would have wanted—”

The warm and avuncular demeanor Jackdaw had been affecting evaporated, his face and tone both turning equally dark. “Do not say that name,” he warned. “Your father negotiated away the boundaries of our land, in his hundred years of unaccountable rule, until we had nothing beyond the edge of the moat, when we should have laid claim and we do have a claim to the outlands of Thorn, to the borders of Titan Woods. Your father gave away the best farmland, the best water wells, to men for horses and tobacco and wine, for gold and silver and jade—”

“Liege Jackdaw,” Sreesa interrupted—a major offense in elfin culture, to interrupt a superior for any reason, Guard knew. “I had discussed some of these issues with Guard. He told me when we met last at the third moon of the winter season that he had presented the issues both the Thorn Village Council and the Kloston High Council and both were agreeable to new treaties that returned farmland and waterways to the Tarm—”

“And what did you get, stupid girl?” Jackdaw asked, his tone dark but still deep and sweet. Something bothered Guard tremendously about the way Jackdaw sounded. A little like a loving but disappointed parent, about to discipline his wayward child. Only loving wasn’t a word that would apply to Jackdaw.

He could see the veins pulsing in Sreesa’s temple as she struggled to keep herself under control, even as her father—who had been, as he understood it, much beloved in the Tarm and elsewhere—was maligned and disrespected. “It was working—an agreement that would end up with almost twice the land we have now as the recognized demesnes of the Tarm was being put together—”

Jackdaw twirled his hand dismissively towards Guard. “With him,” he said, with honey-sweet condescension. “Poor, foolish Sreesa. I told you I didn’t want you talking to the human village. Yet you did it, against my direct order.”

Sreesa blinked. “I—that’s not true. You advised me not to—but you said that if I wished to—”

“Then you defied me again, trying to broker agreements with the humans when I told you not to—”

“You—Liege Jackdaw, the agreements—the treaties—they were going to be entirely in our favor, to our benefit—”

“And now, this very day, after I explicitly forbid you from having contact with this human, you defy me again and have him brought to you before he is brought to me.”

Sreesa looked down. “I did not believe he was worthy to see you. I wished to advise him to leave and never return. I was—I am willing to acknowledge that my efforts at putting together new treaties could not work, with someone who would misrepresent themselves as someone who could negotiate on the part of the Tarm—”

“Yes, yes, I know, you’re shocked that the humans are just as untrustworthy as I told you they were. Although, I must admit, I question your loyalty to the Tarm, given the frequency with which you have defied my direct orders—”

“Liege Jackdaw, I would—except for today, I have not—”

“—you argue everything I tell you, you interrupt the Liege and Chieftain as if we were equals, heir Sreesa, and you may be your father’s heir, but we are not equals. I and I alone am Liege and Chieftain of the Tarm. You serve me.”

“We should not have this discussion here,” Sreesa said, looking down. “The human—”

“That you have been in conspiracy to betray your fen with? That human?”

Sreesa was sweating. “Liege Jackdaw, I cannot believe—”

“If I may speak,” Guard interjected. Then, without pausing for acknowledgement, he continued loudly. “Sreesa has been nothing but hostile towards me, which you must know. What I am here about—”

“Sush, boy,” Jackdaw murmured dismissively. Guard noticed that one of the elite protectorates drummed his fingers against his hip. Almost a twitch, as if readying to knock an arrow and send it flying. “I already told you, I know why you are here. I am not interested in the problems your little human village has with the Tarm. Or your pretense, to represent the Tarm with those we do business with—”

“Business?” Guard asked. “Is that what you call the betrayal of every sapient within reach of Titan Woods? And now to find you had no interest in working with Thorn at all—”

“For what? So that you might lay claim to our moat, and our houses, and the Chieftain Block itself?” Jackdaw looked pointedly at Guard. “I tire of your mouth. Do not speak again unless spoken to.”

The other elf behind Jackdaw, Guard saw, shifted on his feet, as if uncomfortable. Odd, Guard thought. The protectorate were normally as still as statues, unless called to action. Something was wrong. Guard closed his eyes, trying to bring the short spells and words both Dach and the White Sisters had given him to mind, but found them all slippery, and hard to recall exactly. Oh, shit, he thought.

“Sreesa, your obsession with the ruinous and discredited rein of your father has—it has damaged you. Your constant disobedience to me is not acceptable. Finally, your betrayal, working in concert with this human boy to finish your father’s work and pledge away the rest of our fen to knaves and thieves to exploit and plunder—”

“Liege Jackdaw, you are my chieftain—I would not betray you, or my fen, I would sooner die—”

“And so you may. Treejack, Findal.” In a movement, the two protectorates had arrows knocked and were, to Guard’s amazement, both trained on Sreesa.

Sreesa took a step back. “Liege Jackdaw, you cannot—”

“You do not tell me what to do, girl!” Jackdaw snapped. “You have been jealous of me since I ascended, you have coveted the chieftainship even though, as Thagrar was my brother, it was rightfully mine—”

Sreesa shook her head, her face glistening with cold sweat and her legs almost seeming to tremble under the thin robe she still wore. But she spoke clearly. “You cannot possibly believe what you say. You know it to be lies. Tell your protectorates to stand down—“

“You dare talk to me of lies, and have the temerity to instruct me on what I should do?” Jackdaw said softly, shaking his head. “Though you have betrayed your fen, with this human? Already, the trolls have stopped payment, as word comes to me that the human villages are gathering forces of regulars to attack our fen and take all that is ours while keeping foolish elves like yourself occupied with nonsense of treaties and ‘bargains’ that will simply end with the Tarm destroyed or enslaved—”

“Liege Jackdaw, you speak madness—there are no forces gathering for attack. We would know at once, if it were true, we all would. And if the humans were deceiving us with their diplomacy—” She looked pointedly at Guard. “—and there is certainly reason to believe that, at least. If they were, then that is hardly a betrayal at my hand. The very idea that I, heir of Thagrar—”

“She keeps talking,” Jackdaw said. “Treejack, her shoulder.”

Before the words were out his mouth, the arrow was vibrating in the far wall. Sreesa had dodged, but just barely, a line of red spreading across the fabric of her robe at her upper arm. “You need to appreciate the gravity of your situation. Heir Sreesa. And keep your mouth shut, unless I give you leave to open it.”

Guard’s hands twitched, as he felt two things—two things that seemed peculiarly entwined, almost as they had been the night at Sylvania’s cottage, when he had first demanded Leasia release him from the enchantment she had put upon him. His anger rose quickly, darkly, hot blood pounding in his temples. In concert, more than before, he felt his magic rising, too, without his even summoning it. It was just there, tall and dark and burning, like his temper. His own terrible arrow, knocked and ready to be loosed, a thousand times over, if need be.

“You should shut your mouth, Jackdaw,” Guard said. So much for diplomacy. “Before someone does it for you. If anyone in this room has betrayed this fen, it is you.”

“I—you—I would—“ Jackdaw stammered, a fine sheen of sweat suddenly apparent on his brow. While not exactly keeping his mouth shut, he was obviously finding it an effort to speak. “I—you—should—not—dare—”

“Treejack, Findal,” Guard said, since Jackdaw had helpfully supplied him with their names. Putting a name to somebody always helped. “Train your arrows on Jackdaw.” The words were soft, but he could feel the magic behind them filling the room, thick and hot like his anger. Treejack turned immediately, the point of his arrow almost directly at Jackdaw’s throat. Findal hesitated, resisting, almost trembling with the effort.

“Findal,” Guard said. “Jackdaw has betrayed you all and is trying to complete his betrayal with the murder of the rightful heir to the chieftainship of the Tarm, Sreesa, daughter of Thagrar—”

The combination of his magic, and providing Findal with a justification, turned the trick. Findal turned, the point of his arrow pointed almost directly at Jackdaw’s one yellow eye.

“Guard,” Sreesa hissed. “You must not. He will see you dead! He will see us both dead!”

“Too late, now,” Guard said. “Jackdaw, tell me why you betrayed Thorn and all sapients, even the elves of the Tarm, by selling magic to the trolls that you knew full well they could turn against not only human villages but even the Tarm Fen itself—”

“I–I—did—shoot—him—Findal,” Jackdaw said haltingly, each word seeming to cause him to sweat more profusely, his face turning red.

“The Tarm elves have always been peaceful and enjoyed good relations with Thorn,” Guard said, addressing Treejack and Findal, really, but also Sreesa. “Who has brought circumstances to what they are, if not Jackdaw? Who has put the future of the Tarm in jeopardy, if not Jackdaw? Who here does not believe that Jackdaw must have betrayed Thagrar, to gain his position, and now seeks to end the line of Thagrar forever with a thin excuse and the cold-blooded murder of Heir Sreesa of Thagrar?”

“—shoot—him—” Jackdaw spat, standing up in his huge wooded chair, Treejack and Findal’s bows following each move. “—weak—minded—”

 “Sit down, Jackdaw,” Guard said, focusing his magic directly on the stocky elf. “I said: sit down.”

Jackdaw did not reply, sweat dripping from his beet-red face, his thick muscles flexing under his skin, resisting Guard’s command, though, by all appearances, just barely.

“Guard,” Sreesa said quietly. “You must go. Jackdaw will have planned for—something like this. You are in great danger.”

Guard blinked. Surely she knew Jackdaw would hear her, and surely she knew that what she said sounded as if it confirmed what Jackdaw had just accused her of—even though in all their meetings she had been nothing but difficult and intransigent on every issue, diplomatic or personal. Why would she say such a thing? Was it a set up? Given the murderous look Jackdaw was given Sreesa at just this moment, he didn’t think it was.

Guard closed his eyes. He let himself fall back, in his mind, breathing deeply and listening. Listening to the silent sound of his stone, hung loosely around his neck and pressing gently against his breastbone, calling to the center of his soul. Calling his magic out into the open. The stone sang, and his magic swelled around him. The room seemed to crackle with the energy of it, the candles flickering, the little hairs on the back of his neck standing on end.

“Did you betray Thagrar?” Guard asked, letting his magic fly. “Did you have a role in his sudden death? Tell me, Liege and Chieftain Jackdaw. What have you done, in the name of power?”

Jackdaw’s face turned a deeper shade of red, his good eye twitching, his entire body shaking, muscles like dozens of ropes pulled tight, knotted loops creaking under the great weight they restrained. The sweat was pouring off of him. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out. His jaw worked up and down. “—sss-skiiiiiisskkk—hhiiisssshh—” 

“Speak up,” Guard commanded. “What have you done—what will you do—for power? Whom do you serve?”

There was a series of stuttering clicks in the back of Jackdaw’s throat, and his eyes rolled back into his head. All at once, his muscles relaxed, the red color drained from his skin. With a loud thump, he collapsed across the table.

He felt Sreesa’s tiny hand grab his. “Guard, you must—go—you—“ She stumbled, then touched the back of her neck. “—too—late—run—”

As Sreesa fell forward against Guard, he felt a sharp pain in his neck, below and behind his left ear. As he reached his own hand up to touch the sudden sharp, stinging pain, he looked down at Sreesa. There was suddenly two of her, falling across his feet. His vision blurred. A sharp ringing rose rapidly in his ears. His hand touched a tiny dart, lodged firmly in the flesh of his neck. Poison, he thought.

He knew he only had seconds. He released, letting all the magic he had explode out of him, towards Treejack and Findal. “Tell others, let them know, find the proof—about Jackdaw, about what he has—what he has done—to betray the Tarm—Chieftain Thagrar—heir Sreesa—all—of—us. See to it—” He fell to his knees, his arms dropping. It was like all his muscles were liquefying. “—Sreesa gets immediate—care—sees your healer—” Guard groped for the small bag tied to his belt loop, the one with the lifegems in it. His fingers worked it open, touching one. He felt the effects immediately. It wasn’t going to be enough to stop whatever poison was racing through his body, but it could slow it down. Perhaps, he hoped, keep it from killing him.

Treejack and Findal were already stepping forward, arrows back in their quivers and bows looped across their chests, gently reaching for Sreesa.

“—if anyone—anyone at all—tries to stop you—if anyone tries to hurt Sreesa—kill them. Protect her—at all costs. She is—the rightful—heir—”

He was fading fast. “Take—this—“ he said woozily, lifting up the lifegem he held and handing it to Findal. “Keep it—against her neck—”

Findal took it as the two elves easily lifted Sreesa.

“—this—“ Guard mumbled, holding out a small vial of healing elixir. “Pour it—in her mouth—healing elixir—”

Findal took it as well, as they headed for the door. Guard looked around as they exited with Sreesa, leaving the door open. Jackdaw still lay across the table, unmoving, but Guard heard the barest sound of something. The soft sound of feet gently landing on wood. He managed to pull another vial of healing elixir from his bag, letting the bag fall, the contents spilling on the floor. He fell sideways, fingers working to uncork the vial. He saw two bare elfin feet padding up to him. “How do you still move?” the gentle, feminine voice asked lightly. “You should already be dead.”

One small foot kicked out, knocking the vial from his hand. It didn’t really matter, he could no longer move his arms, anyway. He looked up, but beyond the blackness of her clothing—and her hair, he thought, it looked as if it might be raven black, with stripes of snow white or silver, but he could not tell for sure—he couldn’t see her. She blurred, then blurred again. When she spoke, it seemed as if it was from a very great distance. “We’ll just have to make sure, won’t we?”

Two words popped into his mind, as the darkness swallowed him whole, and, to his amazement, his mouth was able to say it. “Loram hijma,” he said clearly, and then there was nothing. 

It took a moment of trying to use his arms, to move, to realize that it was not just a pain in his left arm—it was broken, perhaps in two places. His right leg must be broken too, he thought, at the calf. To try and move it sent pain burning up through the rest of his body. His left foot hurt, as well, but he thought maybe his ankle was just sprained. His torso felt bruised and bleeding and burned, and when he tried to breathe, he was sure at least two ribs were broken. There were places on his back that seemed like they were on fire, from where—from where—from—

There was a flare of light in the distance, and Guard remembered how he had gotten here. Shi’kala’ta’ish. The dragon. The places on his back that hurt so badly, those were from her talons–her claws, whatever they were–as she had swooped down upon him at the edge of the mountain, and before he had had a chance to say a single word, her talons had been around him, lifting him into the air through the trees, as one branch struck his head, then another. Then, she had flown against the mountain side, right towards an outcropping of rock, slamming Guard into it at what had seemed a terrible speed, and then nothing. Nothing until awaking in the darkness, bruised and broken, the footfalls of the terrible dragon coming ever closer.

There was another jet of flame, shooting up from the maw of the dragon to the ceiling of the cavern, making the stalactites there glow with a dull orange light, even after the flame was gone. Guard looked around desperately, trying to avoid any close inspection of the damage already done to himself. The cave glittered, even in the dull light—he was surrounded by treasure. It reminded him not a little of the Night Troll’s keep—and perhaps it had been, at some time long ago, the keep of a troll or the cavernous dwelling-place of ancient dwarves, driven out by Shi’kala’ta’ish. For what use would a dragon ever have for treasure?

Within his grasp were coins and rings, jewels and necklaces. Also a small scepter and a tiara. Perhaps the scepter—but what good could such a thing be against a dragon? In the distance, he saw a shield and what perhaps was a mace. But they were far away, and he couldn’t reach them. Further away still was the glint of a simple sword, buried almost to the hilt in a pile of coins and golden chains. The sword would be his best option, but it was far too distant.

There was no chance, he knew, as the shadow of the dragon fell over him, and flame erupted from it, turning the ceiling into a swirling, burning vortex of fire. Then, as that faded, the stalactites glowed a dull orange with the heat. Shi’kala’ta’ish was a dark shadow, only her eyes, glowing with a terrible, angry light, visible to him inside her silhouette.

“You killlled my babieessss,” she hissed, her voice deep and guttural. “My babieesss allll deaaadd, and you smelllllled effferywherrree—alllll over my eggggsssss my babbbieeesss.” Her voice was painful to hear, like fire in his ears, filled with such terrible anger and bottomless sorrow, it almost made Guard wish for death, rather than to hear that voice again. “Wwhhhyyy? I would nefffferrr haffff come outttt—leaffffe you hummmaannnss alone forrreeeefffferr—weee have not botherreeddd you forrr an eeeeehhhhhpoch. And you killll my babieesssss—“

“I—I—“ Guard stammered, looking around desperately. The glint of the sword caught his eye again. It was actually closer than he had thought at first, but still much too far away to reach. The dragon would burn him to a cinder or crush him with her massive talons before he could reach it, even if he could have moved on his broken limbs. “I didn’t kill your babies—I don’t know what happened, but I would never have—“ He tried to pad it with what little magic he could, but there was nothing there. A little, maybe, but hardly enough to touch the mind of the dragon.

“Yourr mouth lieeessss,” the dragon breathed, its dark features lit by the flames that burned in its throat as it talked. “But your smellll doesss not,” it continued. “I smelled you effferywhere. Alllll oafffer my pooooorrr dead babiesssss.” It shifted on its great haunches, the ground shaking as it did so, dust and stone falling from far above, pelting Guard’s bruised body.

Hot breath scorched Guard’s skin, billowing out in great waves from the black shadow of the dragon. The only clear detail he could make out now was the burning red embers of its eyes, the orange flame that sometimes came with the words, from the back of its mouth, making jagged black silhouettes of its teeth.

Already impossibly huge to Guard, it seemed to grow, its breath on him so hot it raised blisters on his skin. He could smell his hair burning, his clothes. The smell of his own blood, baking on his skin as it blistered and peeled under the terrible, oppressive heat.

It wasn’t growing, he realized, as he finally groaned in pain and desperation, the thunderous vibrations of its footfalls resonating in the base of his skull, in the marrow of his bones.  It was simply moving closer. “Whhhy didd you kill myyy babiessss? Jusstttt babbbies . . . not for the blooodd, not for their scayllless . . . too young . . . so little . . . ”

Guard looked back and forth, as much to lessen the heat burning against his face as to look for a weapon or a way out. And again, the sword caught his eye, and he could swear it was closer. Closer, and it almost seemed illuminated in the darkness. Catching what little light there was almost perfectly, angled almost as if meant to catch the light. But not close enough to reach, not by a long shot.

“I didn’t—“ Guard stammered, but inhaling the scorched air made it impossible to say more. In a hoarse whisper, he mumbled a spell of cooling, and the relief was immediate. But he knew it would not last. “I would have no reason to harm you, or your babies—I have never before been up Hoan Jolot mountain—or in it—I know—I—I knew—nothing of who made Hoan Jolot its home—“

“Thisss mountain isss Shi’kala’ta’is,” it roared, standing back on its massive haunches, its terrible black wings stretching out until they filled the cavern. “Shi’kala’ta’is! And yyyooou killlledd myyy babbbiieeessss!”

“I didn’t,” Guard protested. He was trying to summon all the magic he could. But he was exhausted and beaten, and as hard as he tried, as desperate as he was, nothing came.

 “I’ve never been here! I did not touch your—“

 “Kiillllll yyoooouuuu!” the dragon bellowed, her voice burning flame. Her great tail seemed to go on for a mile behind her, swinging up and around, making a terrible thudding sound as it hit the walls of the cave, loosing stalactites and sending them hurtling towards the cave floor. With amazing speed for such a huge, ponderous-seeming creature, her head descended towards him, jaws separating, the fire in its throat burning bright. This was it; it was going to kill him.

Knowing it was hopeless, but terrified and desperate—and angry, almost enraged, at the unfairness, the wrongness of it, that he might die for something he didn’t do, that he knew nothing about—Guard lunged sideways, his legs screaming in pain as they twisted around, reaching for the sword. Though beyond his grasp, it seemed to move towards him and in a moment, as the dragon’s head reached him, he felt the hilt of it landing in his hand. It was almost as if it had been handed to him. He could feel it burning, and even with his eyes barely open, he could see it in his mind, consumed with white flame. As he felt the dragon’s teeth cut into his abdomen, then pierce his stomach, he brought the sword down as hard as he could. He heard a terrible scream and felt flame burning his skin as the sword descended. He understood, as he felt warm blood pouring down his twisted legs, that the terrible burning lava charring his head and hands was the dragon’s blood. His eye opened, just for a moment, as he saw the hot black liquid spew in steaming gouts from the dragon’s eye and the deep wound above its brow, where the sword had cut through its thick scales and steel-hard skull like it was butter. He saw the sword, still burning in his hand, brilliant and white like a miniature sun, the blood that sprayed on it turning immediately to an inky black steam.

The dragon made a terrible noise—a terrible, miserable, defeated noise—from somewhere deep in its long throat, and then collapsed, its teeth sinking deeper through Guard’s abdomen as it did so. The pain was at once unbearable, and yet distant, almost abstract. As if it belonged to somebody else, and Guard was just observing.

His own eyes closed. So much he wanted to do. To say. So much he would miss. The Sisters. If only he could see Leasia again. One last time. Tell her. But—

 But he was passing.

 His eyes opened, just slightly, as he felt his breath stop. Something rose from the dragon, Guard saw. He saw it clearly, though there was nothing to see. It was shapeless, colorless, silent. Not invisible, exactly, but not visible, either. But something was there. Rising from the dragon, as if being expelled from under every last scale, from its mouth, its still-smoking nostrils, its tiny ears. Like smoke without color or odor, it escaped the dead body of the dragon, coalescing above it. It was roiling. Writhing. But it wasn’t doing either. There was no “it” to it. But—

The ground split open. With a sudden, terrible wrenching noise, the cave floor cleaved in two and the thing coming from the dragon, the thing that wasn’t, disappeared into the chasm, pouring into it like clear water, the sound of it like a noiseless scream, poisonous and wretched and silent.

Guard, who felt as if his insides had finally poured through the gaping, burning holes torn in his torso, found his eyes to heavy to keep open. Breathing was so hard. Too hard. It was like trying to inhale glue. He heard bells ringing. As his world went dark, he saw a light—a pinprick, white and growing, at the furthest distance of his vision. He was dying, he knew. Dying, Hells. He was dead. Was it the pinprick of distant light, or the yawning, burning chasm that was opening for his soul? He tried to pray, but could not focus. He could not put two words together, even in his mind.

As the darkness took him, he could only think one word: Leasia.

 Only her, he thought, as his heart stopped beating. Only for Leasia.

“Leasia!” Guard shouted, trying to sit up but failing. “Oh, Gods—I—I have killed her—”

“Oh ho! He awakes!” a voice—Guard thought it might be Salara—said. “And with guilt and self-loathing on his lips.”

“Salara,” a deeper, warmer voice said, and then Parudah’s large, dark face came into his field of vision, smiling at him. “The boy is troubled. And hardly without cause. Calm down, calm down. Leasia is fine. You did not die. Although you weren’t too terribly far away from it. How are you doing, Guard?”

“I—I can’t feel my legs. I can’t—” He struggled to lift his arms, and could not. “I can’t lift my arms. It hurts—”

“Hurts to talk, I know,” Parudah said sympathetically. “It’ll get better. Breathe deep.”

Guard did, and he could feel the warmth of her—of Leasia—as inhaled. He could smell pear trees and jasmine. As he exhaled, he could almost taste her—a pungent, citrus flavor, like he had just eaten an orange or a piece of melon. He could barely feel his legs and arms, but as he lay back and settled down, he could feel her heart, beating in his. Her blood still in his veins.

The tears welled up in his eyes, and he could not stop them. He was so glad that his foolishness and incompetence had not ended up with her dead, the very day after she had put her enchantment upon him. Glad enough that he was now grateful that he could smell her on his own breath, that he could feel her with each heart beat. He was not so pleased with the sadness, even despair that was on him, that had been, in some form, since Leasia had cast her terrible spell upon him. But there was nothing to do about it now. The tears spilled from his eyes, and he gasped for breath, so oppressive were the mingled feelings of misery, fear and relief.

“Puh—Parudah,” Guard gasped between halting sobs that he was doing his best to silence. “I—I am sorry—give me a moment—“

“Here, sweet boy,” Salana said, peering over Guard where he lay—in the cottage den, at the Sisters’ house, Guard thought, but could not seem to turn his head to be sure. She dipped one bony finger into a small curved dish she held in the opposite hand, and then smeared a dark red paste over his lips and pushed some, not entirely gently, into his mouth. “Suck on that for a minute, I think it will help clear your head.”

“Mank oo,” Guard mumbled, and almost immediately, the overwhelming urge to bawl like a baby receded.

Parudah nodded approvingly. “Cinnamon peppers,” she said. “Very good thinking. Guard is blessed to have such clever and industrious shandoean.”

Guard swallowed the last bit the of the spicy, pungent jelly Salana had stuck in his mouth. “How—?”

“You may thank Leslie, when you see her,” Salara said, her gnarled whitewood cane clacking against the stone floor as she moved to where Guard could see her. “She fetched you to us, and then brought Parudah, to make sure you were well taken care of.”

Parudah laughed, patting her large midsection. “And it was no easy trip for me, I will tell you.”

“Why did not—she get—Sylvania—?“ Guard asked.

Parudah snorted, frowning. “Well, that’s a fine welcome.” She turned and walked away.

“Sylvania is still not well enough to travel, Guard,” Salana said from behind him. “It may take some time, for her to recover completely.”

“Recover? From—what?”

“From you, Guard,” Salana said. She looked at him, her silver eyes darkening with reproach. “Our admonition to guard your temper was not a casual one.”

Guilt stabbed him like a knife. “I—I did not know. I thought she was all right—she spoke with me, before I left—“

“Oh, I think you did know,” Salara murmured, examining something on Guard around his legs, below where he could see. “You just didn’t want to know. If you know what I mean.”

Parudah reappeared, a small blue porcelain cup in one hand, a steeping spoon filled with leaves, nettles, and what looked like nuggets of raw silver between its clasps. She raised and lowered the spoon into the cup then took a deep sniff of the yellowish vapors rising from it. “Perfect,” she said, and held the cup to Guard’s lips. “Drink this. It should relieve your paralysis. Which I am glad to do, despite my poor welcome. Which I will excuse, this time, given that your ill physical state must have effected your mental state, as well.”

Guard smelled it as she held the cup to his lips, and hands from behind—it had to be Salana, unless there was someone else present—lifted his head up. “It smells like garbage,” Guard said.

“I always thought it smelled like pig manure, myself,” Parudah replied. “Taste more like fermenting dockweed. Not for the faint of heart.”

“Ugh,” Guard said. “Do I—have to—drink this?”

“Well, that depends,” Salara snapped, pacing back and forth in front of Guard. “Would you like to use your legs to walk again, or would you prefer to spend the rest of your days here as a piece of our furniture? Far be it for me to offer such a wise young man counsel, but you might find it preferable, in the future, to be able to wipe your own arse.”

“Fine, fine, I’ll drink it,” Guard mumbled, and, with Parudah tilting the cup to his lips, he finished it off to the bottom. Almost immediately, he felt a warm tingle in his arms and legs. He found he was also able to move his neck and turn his head.

“As I thought,” Parudah said, nodding as Guard rolled his head around, with multiple, highly audible cracks and pops from his neck. “Tasthanemus Origalin, or Medusa’s Eye. It can paralyze a victim for days if consumed orally—for life, if introduced directly to the blood by tip of blade or spear. Or dart. You were thrice poisoned—Medusa’s Eye, Creekland Salamander venom, and Poison Pendragon.”

There was a gasp from behind him. “It could not have been Poison Pendragon,” Salana murmured in disbelief, and now Guard could crane his head around to see her. Her eyes were wide. “Are you sure?”

“Without doubt,” Parudah replied. “This was a concoction meant to bring anything that walks on two legs to certain death.”

“Yet Guard escaped death,” Salana said. “And not by Leasia’s enchantment. How was it that he did not die? There is no antidote for Poison Pendragon. There is no surviving it. A single drop can kill twenty men—”

“There is an antidote,” Parudah said. “One. Hand of Glory and Sleeping Willow bark—mixed exactly and evaporated over a fortnight to extreme concentration. But it must be administered before the Poison Pendragon. Shortly before. Elsewise, it might help with a bad headache or rheumatism, but little else. So you would have to know shortly beforehand that you were going to be poisoned. Or somebody would have to know, and administer the antidote.”

Guard sat up, the warm tingle from Parudah’s tea now filling his body. “I took no antidote. Nobody gave me anything—”

Parudah touched the back of Guard’s neck. “The dart hit you here.” Then she touched the small cut on the front of his throat, where Sreesa had held her sharp elfin blade. “When did you get this?”

“My Gods,” Guard said. “Sreesa.”

“The little elf girl who gave you this mirror?” Salana asked, holding Guard’s small trinket out to him. It was his mirror, but the surface seemed to throb with an odd, reddish cast. “Then she has saved your life twice today.”

“Gods! She was shot by dart, I am sure, by the same that tried to kill me. The other elves took her to their healer, I think—twice, you said?” Guard asked, rubbing his head. “What do you mean, she saved my life twice today? And my mirror—?”

“It seems to shimmer with red to your eye because I spelled it to do so, once those who crafted it tried to trigger the spell of death that was attached to it. And it was meant to kill you. You very specifically. Apparently, someone in the Tarm decided it was time to do you in, after today’s diplomacy.”

Guard sighed heavily. Yes, he had, apparently, made a terrible mess of things.  And it was clearly known.

“I do not know the whole story,” Salana continued. “But I understand that your exit from the Tarm was not uneventful, and Leslie did quite a bit of—well, damage. Even if you had not given us the mirror, it still would not have been your end—because your elf-friend had already pulled that spell out.”

“Sreesa. I do not understand it. But, you said they would know it was her—“

“And, no doubt, had I not finished my work in a timely fashion, they would have known that the spell had not killed you, and that Sreesa was the one who had spared your life. As it is, they will believe the deed is done at that you are now dead. How much time that will buy her, or how much that will change the course of events, I am not sure.”

Guard sat up. “Little, I expect,” he said. He took his mirror from Salana’s hand. “Mirror, mirror, this is a rhyme, show me Sreesa at this time.” The little mirror clouded over. “All right,” Guard muttered. “Fine. Mirror, mirror, I need to know—it is Sreesa you must show.” Again, the mirror clouded over.

“I thought you would want to know your elf-friend’s condition, when you woke,” Salana said. “We sought it, with the Oracle Eye, but the Eye is clouded as well. There is a shadow that dims the light, and we can see nothing in the Tarm. If there is to be a war, I’m afraid it is now begun.”

Guard lowered himself back down on the small, padded table with a sigh. “Some diplomat I’ve turned out to be. Some ambassador.”

“They tried to assassinate you,” Salara said. “They wanted war. They will, sadly, get it. Again, we have not heard the whole story yet, but as I understand it, Leslie believed you to be dead, and perhaps beyond recovery—or was maybe just enraged by the attempt. I couldn’t blame her, either way. You have tasted some of her power, so you know what damage she can do. After rescuing you, she caused some destruction to the Chieftain Block, collapsed the garrisons and brought down all the walls at the moat’s edge. A course I’m sure you would have counseled her against, had you been conscious.” Salara shook her head ruefully, then patted Guard on the head. “But you can hardly blame yourself.”

“And there is a greater darkness at work here,” Parudah added. “A darkness that wants conflict. That desires destruction.”

“But it is an enemy that stays in shadow,” Salana said. “That travels by night. That changes color with the green of the grass or the brown of the tree or the gray of the rock. It would love nothing more to make mischief from the cloak of darkness, and have good men, seeing no better explanation, turn blame upon themselves.”

“She’s right, you know,” Parudah agreed, holding the steaming cup to Guard’s lips again. “Drink a little more, and I think you’ll find you can sit up.” Guard drank, but continued to lay, looking up at the dark slats of wood that made up the ceiling.

“And no word of Sreesa?” Guard asked after a moment.

“None,” Parudah replied. “Leslie was not aware of Sreesa’s aid to you, I don’t think. She said there was none other in the room with you, save Jackdaw. But that there appeared to be elfin garb near you—torn cloth and a belt, black and silver, and a thin reed—perhaps to blow darts. Leslie says she thought to take the reed when she retrieved you, but found it too heavy to move, as if affixed to floor with iron bindings, I believe was how she described it—and by the time she returned, Jackdaw, the torn clothing and the thin reed were gone.”

“So she satisfied herself with removing the front support beams from the main building of the Chieftain Block,” Salana finished, bending forward, relaying her part to Guard with wide-eyed pleasure. “The central pipes from the water channel. The struts that held up the border wall at the moat. She is most impressive. And so charming. And so polite. And she eats like a bird, there’s almost no point in fixing a full meal for her. She just pecks at it. But she’s such a fine young lady, and so well-mannered. You really must invite her over for tea again, sometime.”

“Did you see your attacker, Guard?” Salara asked. “You cast a spell upon her—upon her clothes and adornments, didn’t you?”

Guard nodded. “Before I passed out, I remembered one of the spells. Providence, perhaps, that kept her from slitting my throat. But she was an elf—one I have never seen, that I can recall. A slender little elf, very thin. I saw her feet. Her feet were bare and small, even for an elf, and her toenails were painted with silver. And she wore a silver anklet, at least one, maybe two. She wore all black, and it seemed, I think, to stretch to fit her exactly, as if it was a second skin. And she had a large belt, with a silver loop for the buckle. And her hair—her hair was black, black like raven’s feathers, with streaks of white. Her face was pale. And her eyes were small, I think, for an elf-woman. I believe they were silver. Not like yours, exactly, yours are almost like diamonds. But some of it may he been a dream.”

“She does not sound familiar,” Salana murmured.

“Is that the whole of it?” asked Parudah. “Did she speak at all?”

“Yes,” Guard said. “Yes, she did. She marveled that I was still alive.”

“The Poison Pendragon,” Parudah said, nodding. “She knew what she used. I pray your little friend had the good sense to administer the antidote to herself as well as to you. If she was truly poisoned the same as you, as you suspect.”

Salana nodded gravely. “I expect your assassin tried to kill you both. But it is possible your little friend underestimated the danger she was in. If her sloppy work on your mirror was any indication.”

Guard said nothing. Instead, he sat up slowly. Then he belched loudly.

“The tea has something of an after taste,” Parudah agreed. “But it turns the trick, doesn’t it?”

“I do not know that I feel better than when I awoke, after the dragon had—after—”

“After you’d been disemboweled and near burnt to a crisp?” Salana asked cheerily. “I expect not, if it was indeed Poison Pendragon that tipped the dart.”

“It was,” Parudah said. “And Salana is right—if not for the antidote administered to you before, you would have died with your rotting flesh steaming and sloughing off your very bones, blood gushing from a thousand festering boils—”

“All right, thank you for that,” Guard said, holding up his hand. “Please stop.”

“Speaking of the dragon,” Parudah said. “You slew her with a sword that you found in her nest, is that correct?”

Guard shook his head, not sure that he liked this direction in the conversation any better than hearing about the flesh-rotting death he had escaped only by Sreesa’s inexplicable good will. But Parudah was a very powerful and very busy woman, and she did not trifle, he knew. So he answered. “In the great cavern, I did. I don’t know if that was all a ‘nest’, or if that is the right word for it. I remember her saying—saying that the whole mountain was her home. Or that she was the mountain. That it was not Hoan Jolot, but that the mountain was Shi’kala’ta’ish.”

Parudah nodded. “So named by Shi’kala’ta’ish when she drove the dwarves from Hoan Jolot so long ago. But the sword—it was with you, when you were rescued. And you kept it, isn’t that true?”

“Yes. I did. It was—I did not try to keep it. When I was pulled back across the threshold of death—it was in my hand when I awoke, and I cast it aside. After I returned to the Cornfairy, the next morning I found Sylvania had wrapped it in sackcloth and delivered it to me.”

“Ahem, ha!” Salara exclaimed. “So rather than keep it, it kept you.”

“Even in the great cavern within Hoan Jolot, it seemed to come to me. I tried to reach for it, when I saw the blade glint in the darkness, but it was so far away. And yet, when the moment came, it was as if it moved to me—as if it came into my hand. At my bidding or its, I do not know, but I could not move, and my own magic was depleted so that I could barely cast a spell of cooling to protect me from the terrible heat. More than that, I couldn’t—it wasn’t me.”

“And you ran the sword through her eye,” Parudah continued. “Even though the eye of a dragon is lidded with scale like iron, even though what would be the soft flesh of the ball in man or horse or even troll is like a round crystal, in a dragon—hard, like quartz, and the bone of the socket beneath much harder than iron. In your weakened state, how do you think you managed such a thing?”

“I do not know,” Guard replied. “It was as if I were stabbing a sharp knife into freshly churned butter. Like cutting through cheese. Perhaps the blade is dogsword—the only explanation that I can think of. But the blade seemed to glow, when I used it, brilliant white. It seemed to sing, almost, though surely my mind played tricks on me, as I passed into the shadow of death.”

“I have never known dogsword, as sharp and strong as it can be, to glow,” Parudah said. “Is your sword now lost? Did you take it with you, on your errand to the Tarm?”

“No,” Guard said. “I—no. I could not. It is not lost; it is stored in my room at the Cornfairy. I have no scabbard or sheath, and the memory of the dragon—of her death, and my own. I could not, just yet. I’m not yet sure I wish to keep the thing.”

“I see,” Parudah said. “Somehow, I didn’t think you could have lost it, if you wanted to. I would like to see your souvenir sometime, if you have a moment to bring it by my house. I will be quite busy this next week, but I’ll be glad to make time, if you send word ahead of your arrival.”

Guard nodded. He would be glad to see Parudah, and had been wanting to talk to her at leisure since—well, since the dragon. Since he had died. “I would—I would—be—” Guard stammered, then stopped.

Salara was still pacing around the room, but Parudah and Salana both looked at Guard with concern. “What’s wrong? Are you all right?”

“I—I seem to remember something. But I can’t trust it. But I dreamed, before you woke me. Dreamed of Shi’kala’ta’ish and the sword. But I saw something, in the dream, that I did not remember. From the event itself, I mean. Something new. But it was just a dream.”

Parudah looked at Guard closely. “Dreams often have deeper meanings. What is it you saw?”

“Something rising from the dragon. As if—as if its shadow had torn free and escaped. Which sounds crazy, I know.”

“Hmmm,” Parudah murmured. “A little more tea, and I think you can stand.”

“Oh, Gods,” Guard said. “No more of that foul broth you say is tea! Please!”

“Just one more sip,” Parudah said, holding the cup to his lips and coaxing one last noxious swallow down his throat. “Wait a moment, then try to stand.”

“Shall I send word?” Salana asked.

“Yes, yes,” Parudah said brusquely. “I’m sure Dach knows, but by all means, send word as you can.”

“Already done,” said Salara impatiently. “I sent Hambone on ten minutes ago. He may be fat, but he will make short work of the distance to Hoan Jolot. Not so long, really, as the condor flies.”

Guard stood up, holding onto Parudah’s hands for balance.  “My legs feel like sacks of jelly,” Guard said. “That’s unpleasant, in case you wondered.”

“It will pass,” Parudah replied. “In the mean time, I would love to stay, but I must be on—under my own power, this time, I think.”

“Oh, Parudah! No!” Salana said. “Salara was going to make omelets. This is very disappointing. I thought you would at least stay until after supper.”

“Wish I could, wish I could,” she replied. “But I have much to do. The new outbreak of the Fever Plague in Gallow’s village has been more swift and more fatal than the one before, and they need help now. I understand Katie has developed a vaccine, which is great news indeed, but does little for the seven hundred women dying in Gallow’s Village at this very moment.”

Guard blinked. “Seven hundred women? Dying, from the Two-Day Fever?”

“Or what it has become. About a hundred have died so far. More will die before we can stop it. The remaining women and children in Gallows are being vaccinated as we speak, but it is the sick I must tend to.”

“Waste no more time here,” Guard said. “I had no idea! You must go.”

“My ministrations to you were no waste of time, Guard,” Parudah. “Now, come on, give me a hug!”

“Yes, ma’am,” Guard said as Parudah squeezed him against her ample bosom and then, releasing him, slapped him firmly on the rear.

“Now, I’m off,” she said, and left the den, heading out into the hall. After a moment, the door opened, then slammed shut.

Salana looked at Guard sweetly, as Salara continued to pace back and forth. “Are you all right, Guard?” Salana asked. “You still look a little peaked.”

“I don’t feel well,” Guard said. “And I don’t understand. Anything. The fever—how could it spread so fast? And Sreesa. Why would she put herself at such terrible risk? And why was Parudah so interested in the dragon? And the Tarm—what has happened? Have they attacked Thorn? Are we attacking them?”

“We don’t know, don’t know, not now,” Salara muttered. “Foul little dwarves. Gnomes. Dare to call themselves elves. Would true elves practice such treachery? Align themselves so easily with darkness? Foreshortened bastards.”

“Would you like some proper tea?” Salana asked. She looked back at Salara, still muttering and pacing the length of the den, white cane clacking against the floor. “Don’t mind her. The Eye is clouded, when we try and see—she hates that. Just hates it. It drives her crazy, not to be able to see far. Even when we thought our sight was clear, we did not see the scope of your danger in the Tarm, elsewise we would have advised greater caution, or a larger group. Although I don’t suppose you needed more than Leslie. She is really a talented girl. I don’t know, but I expect that just by herself she has brought much greater grief to the Tarm elves than the news she brought when she brought Parudah. But, yes, there was conflict between Thorn and the Tarm. A score of troops have journeyed from Roke, to the Tarm path, and join the Thorn regulars in battle. What has happened since, or how that battle fairs, we do not know.”

“The Eye will not say, they Eye will not show,” Salara muttered, then lifted her cane and brought it down against the rough hewn table that sat, low to the floor, in the middle of their den. The sound was like a thunderclap, and a great wind filled the hall. “And if the Father of Lies, the God of Hate, if the Lord of the Flies thinks that we would do any less than fight, with all that we have, then He makes a great error. Error indeed.”

Guard cut his eyes over to Salana. Salana shrugged. “What is that all about? Is—”

Again, Salara struck the table with her cane, this time training her gaze on Guard as the walls rumbled with the force of it. “He fears you Guard, as He has feared no man in this history of men. I know it.”

“She’s upset,” Salana murmured to Guard. “All our lovely demons. Gone. And she is certain it was at great cost. Great cost to Him. So afraid is He of you. She believes.”

“I fear He will stop at little in His pursuit against you,” Salara said. “What He did this morning cost Him greatly. I fear we were misled by the Oracle Eye, when we looked forward to your mission to the Tarm today. That, too, is not without cost to Him, or those who dwell in His darkness. Evil does not spend so lavishly, unless it hopes to earn a high and terribly usury on the investment.”

Salana leaned over and whispered to Guard. “She’s worried about you.”

“I’m worried about all of us, you old hag!” Salara snarled. Then just as suddenly, she softened. “But, Guard, yes, most especially.”

Guard hobbled over to the large upholstered fainting chair near the door and sat down in it. “You are saying again you think—you truly believe—that Satan fears me? That He pursues me? Because of some supposed ‘greatness’ I have, though I have yet to discover it for myself? That—are you saying the Oracle Eye is clouded because of—that it has something to do specifically with me? That what has happened with the Tarm is in some way about me?” Guard paused, eyes flitting to one, then the other. “Have you both gone senile?”

“Salana, perhaps,” Salara said. “Alas, I have not. There is little doubt that darkness descends.”

“We’ve seen it before,” Salana said, sitting by Guard on the fainting chair. “Dark times. The beginnings of a siege of darkness upon the world. We were much younger, then, but it was a dark and terrible time, and only by the thinnest thread were we spared from defeat. From the terrible victory of the darkness.”

Salara resumed pacing, tapping her cane loudly upon the floor as she did so. “The boy doesn’t need a history lesson,” Salara snapped. “Too late for history.”

“You hate to see such things come again,” Salana continued. “There was a time when evil won, before our time, of course, and for a thousand years all of Ashealla labored in darkness and suffered the yoke of a great and merciless Master. We missed that time, but only by a three hundred turns. Since His defeat at the hands of Michael, the Lord of the Flies has long sought to regain a foothold in this world. If he cannot pass the great and righteous gate, then he would rule by proxy. A man, a warlock, that would rule all the lands by His evil will. Though still trapped in Hell, the Adversary has forever sought first release, and then to rule through men, to control them on their thrones and in their castles, from whence He should reign in fire and pain and all the creatures of the world will moan and cry—”

Salara paused her pacing, and knocked Salana on the back of her head with the top of her cane. “Stop it, will you? Anyway, you remind me,” she said, and then turned to Guard, handing him a small brown scrap of stationery that, a moment ago, she had not been holding. “Pastor Oddman sent word earlier that it has been a score of Sundays, and he would like to see you on the Sabbath. I told him you would come, as you would not be well enough to travel back to Thorn on the Sabbath and you were in need, in any case, of some time in church. And the congregation has missed you.”

“I—but Salara—I can’t—“ Guard stammered. “Salana, tell her. I must get back to Thorn. After what has happened with the Tarm, I cannot turn my back—”

“I have already sent word to Elder Tobias, and word reached us just before you awoke that of course you should stay and rest, that Thorn is well and matters are handled and, only if you were recovered, he would expect to see you come the Monday. But not before.”

“I cannot—”

“Pastor Oddman was very insistent. Came by himself, to leave you the invitation. The Elder has agreed, and I expect Dach will, as well, if you should like me to bother him when there is so much to be done—“

Guard nodded. “So much to be done. I—all right. I will stay the night and for church, but I will leave for Thorn directly thereafter. I can’t stay any longer.”

Salara nodded. “We ask no more. Now—”

“But why are you not gone with Parudah?” Guard interrupted. “If the situation is so dire, shouldn’t you be lending your talents—”

“We have done what we can,” Salana said. Then she sighed. “We are not always welcome, being considered witches.”

“But Parudah—”

“Is a stone-thrower,” Salara finished. “That she is a spell-caster is subordinate. The stone thrower is always welcome. I do not know, but I expect when you return to Thorn you will find Gretchen lending what help she can behind the scenes, not in front of them. Witches are not welcome in most places. If she, or we, could throw stones as Parudah, perhaps it would be different. And even Parudah would not be welcome far afield of Kloston. Some would sooner be without their stone, than have Parudah casting their fate.”

“I don’t understand,” Guard said. “Why—?”

Again, Salara cracked her cane across the low table in front of her. “You know well enough. You will learn better still, if the Eye did not lie to us there, as well. But it is time for dinner, and I tire of this ceaseless yammering.”

“Then go,” Salana said. “We weren’t talking to you, anyway.” She leaned in close to Guard. “Because Parudah is a brownskin, like you. There are many who would not trust the stone of their kindred to be cast by a brownskin, though it has been a thousand turns since Akaldamesh cast off the chains of bondage and ended the evil of Harop’ta and the heirs of Garogan. There are many who still believe the lies—that is the blood of demons in the veins that turns a fairskin brown. There are places where we would be much more welcome, be it known that some would call us witches or not, than you. Because it is thought that darkness of your skin reveals a darkness of your soul. Though such evils should have long since disappeared from all the lands of Ashealla, I’m afraid they are still very much alive.”

“He has been tutored,” Salara muttered, clearly tired but still returning to her pacing. “He knows this. Let the boy finish a thought before answering it for him. He does not need a wet nurse or a nanny; he needs to care for himself.”

 Salana shrugged, looking down at her feet. “I was just saying,” she murmured in response. “I enjoy talk too much, as you always tell me. And he was asking.”

“He will have more than enough opportunity to understand, first hand, what were just words in his classes, when he travels to the Jade City.” 

“In the Jade City? Is the Child Queen of Jarris—I’m not sure I understand.”

“This land, though small, is truly blessed,” Salana said. She looked at Guard with a smile, and then took his hand. “In more ways that one. But there is much more to Ashealla than Kloston. Places not so favored. It was in Jarris—far from the Jade City, to be sure, but in Jarris it was—that Salara and I were born. Pandwen, at the south side of the Kandakar Mountains. Not without it’s charm—”

“If the charm included having ignorant peasants hunting frightened children with torches lit and pitchforks brandished then Pandwen was just packed full of charms,” Salara said. “The boy will not be going to Pandwen—”

“But he is going to Jarris. And it is like another world, compared to Thorn and its outlands. The Tarm and Hejeem fens would not prepare him for the high-elves of Fonhusher—”

“He will not be going to Fonhusher!” Salara snapped in exasperation. “Or Blackwood or Kotpottle or Jiradmiac or the Sticknettle Spicket or the Jadputt-Fahrna. You will cloud his mind with distractions; just quiet your tongue.”

“I thought you were going to be making omelets,” Salana said pleasantly. “It will be too late to eat, if you wait much longer.”

Salara stopped pacing. “Fine, I tire of having to correct you. Guard, don’t let this senile old biddy fill your head with unnecessary nonsense. Or try to do your thinking for you. In the long run, that will do you no good. And you—” She glared at Salana. “Stop flapping your gums. You may best help him by not. It will do him little good to know the answers before he knows the questions.” She sighed. “And we can hardly trust the answers we think we know.”

“I’d like my omelet with cheese and mushrooms and some ham, too, if you could. And peppers. Golden peppers. That would be wonderful.”

Salara frowned. “I may decide to cook something for you, since I’m set to prepare something for the boy, anyway. At least you don’t run your mouth so much, when you are eating. What would you eat, Guard?”

“I—I’ll have the same,” Guard said. He wasn’t all that hungry, but did not want to be rude. Or possibly deny Salana her omelet. “Tea to drink, if you don’t mind. Real tea, if you please. I can still taste the foul medicine Parudah brewed for me.”

“That foul medicine lets you walk when you ought to be dead, or in a coma, at best,” Salara scolded, heading towards the door. “And I’d wager it was a lot more pleasant than what we would have done to you, without her help.”

Salana nodded as Salara pushed back the curtain at the hallway and headed for the door.

Guard sighed, throwing his head back. “I need sleep,” he said. “I am exhausted. But I should get back to Thorn.”

“You won’t do anyone any good right now, Guard, I don’t think. And I expect the troops from Roke and regulars from Thorn will have things well under control, though, perhaps the Tarm had the advantage of surprise.”

Guard looked up. “Surprise? What surprise? The attack on me?”

“That, of course. It escaped the Eye—and the watchful prognostications of all other practitioners of the seeing arts. But also, several small bands of Tarm protectorate attacked at the borders of Thorn from the west and the north  at the outposts, which they easily subdued, but also the Council Hall—which they could not so easily subdue, and they paid a price for their boldness.” Salana sighed. “Which was an attack that no one foresaw. So you see why Salara is in such a foul mood.”

“I see,” Guard said, shaking his head. “That one elf could do so much damage. It’s Jackdaw: he poisoned all of the Tarm.”

“Something else, through him, I think,” Salana said quietly. “I wish it was not so. But I think perhaps Jackdaw sold his soul. For what, I do not know, but I expect for his own gain.”

Guard said nothing, and Salana smiled at him in the warm light of the oil lamps, saying nothing but looking at him expectantly. After two minutes had passed, Salana spoke. “You want to ask me something,” she said. “About you. Your fate? What we’ve seen in the Eye? Or your magic? You want to ask about your magic.”

Guard nodded. “You still see pretty good, Oracle Eye or not,” he said. “I don’t understand, Salana. I don’t understand what’s happening to me. I don’t understand how my power has grown so fast—I just don’t. That doesn’t happen, not that I’ve ever heard. I don’t understand why, with some, I can just tell them to do something, and they do it blindly while some resist—resist to the point where I can compel them to do nothing. Like Sreesa—and the elf that stopped us at the gate. She tried to kill us both, and I tried to compel her to cooperate. I think I affected them both, but, in the end, neither complied. But, except for Jackdaw, most of the male elfs I tried to persuade responded—I suppose obeyed is the better word—without a fight.”

“I cannot tell you why elf-women would be able to resist your magic where the men may not. I cannot tell you why your power has grown so much, although I can tell you that it has, and that everyone who is sensitive to such things knows it. I can guess, though.”

Guard smiled a little. “I would very much like your guess.”

“Well. Perhaps I should say it this way: one might conclude that it was returning from the gate of death, back into life. Often, men and women have felt their magic change, or increase or decrease in strength, after they have died and returned to life. There are reasons things happen. There are reasons we cross over. Reasons we come back. It is not a journey anyone makes without bringing something back with them.”

“And I have thought that myself, but I don’t understand why it should make such a big difference—”

“But,” Salana interrupted, holding one long, bony finger up, her long silver fingernail sparkling in the light. “But, if it has anything at all to do with it, then it is just a catalyst. If you were to ask my opinion. I believe that your power is growing so monumentally, because—” She looked down, folding her hands in her lap. Then she looked back up, her expression dark and stern. From Salana, who was rarely either. “Because it is time. Because you are called to battle. Because you are called to quest. To fight evil, in the name of the Father and Mother and Son and Daughter. That is why your power grows—because all magic comes from the Gods, for you to do Their will and meet your destiny, it is time for your magic to grow. So it is.”

“I have a very hard time with that,” Guard said. “I know you know that, I just have to say it again. It is difficult for me to accept that. It sounds foolish to me, and an arrogant presumption for me to make, were I to agree. And I can’t see it. No matter how my magic grows, I seem unable to do the best thing—with the Tarm, or with Leasia, or with anything else. One day, and I nearly get her killed—”

“Leasia? Perhaps. Or perhaps your combined strength saved you both. Poison Pendragon is the nothing to be taken lightly. That you survived long enough for Leslie to bring you to us and for us to care for you—I don’t know that much could have been done for you, without the strength of Leasia’s breath and blood added to your own.”

Guard sighed. “I’m just saying that even if my power is growing, I’m not ‘great’. I can’t be. Look what a mess things are, since I got involved—with the Tarm, with the Fever. There are people dying. The Tarm declared war on Thorn. When has that every happened, in the history of Tarm and Thorn? Never. I just—”

“Not all circumstances are a result of what you have done, Guard. Keep that in mind. Some may be a result of an attack on you. Some may simply be the insurgence of evil into our world, where any role you had to play would have been played by another, had you not fit the bill. Just remember what I told you: there is an Enemy at work here. A great and terrible Enemy. It would love nothing more to make mischief from the cloak of darkness, and have good men like yourself, seeing no better explanation, turn blame upon themselves.”

Guard chuckled softly. “You are repeating yourself, old woman.”

“It would not be necessary,” Salana said, looking at him reproachfully, “if you listened well the first time. I would say more, but I smell omelets.”

“So do I,” Guard replied. “And I didn’t think I was hungry. But they do smell good.”

“Then perhaps we should table our discussions until after dinner? Salara doesn’t like my speaking so candidly with you on—ah—certain issues. As I’m sure you’ve noticed.”

Guard stood up and, though walking was a little shaky, he found he could move all right. He and Salana parted the dark green velvet curtain that separated the den from the hall and headed for the kitchen.

“Smells like garbage,” said a disgruntled voice behind them. “I hope you all vomit it up and choke on it.”

Salana frowned, rolling her eyes. “Elrod. Why she insists on him for a door watcher, I’ll never know.” She whispered something, and twiddled her fingers over her shoulder.

Guard heard a muffled glumph! of surprise from Elrod, and a thin, high voice started singing brightly. “Oh, I love the sunshine, I love the night, I love the morning, it’s an apple’s delight!”

“You would think it would learn,” Salana said with a smile. “But golems take so few lessons of life to heart. They just are as they are made to be, and little else. Still, I don’t see why she had to make it with such a foul mouth.”

“Make what with the who now?” Salara asked, as she kicked the side of the stove and the black iron door opened up onto the roaring fire. The Sister’s sleek black wolfdog, Pepperpot, trotted up with a large piece of split wood in its mouth and tossed it in. Salara waved her hand distractedly, and the door shut with a clang. Pepperpot trotted over to his blanket in the corner and curled up, eyes open and watching for any stray scraps of food. Salara lifted two large cast iron skillets at once and, with a flick of her wrists, the two generous omelets within flipped out and over, landing perfectly back in the pans as she put them back down on the stove.

“Elrod,” Salana said. “Why he’s so nasty. It hardly seems necessary.”

“You make the next one then, I don’t care,” Salara muttered dismissively. “Put yourself to some actual purpose, if you can stand to stop talking for a moment, and get everyone something to drink, and some silver and napkins. I’ll have sweetfruit juice. It will do me good.”

“Yes, sister. Guard, you should drink some hot needleroot tea. Won’t take me but a moment to make some, and I think it may help. You still seem a little shaky.”

“Thank you, Salana, that will be fine.”

Salana poured drinks and set out silver as Salara finished the omelets and prepared a plate for each. The omelets were served with steaming barley bread and wheat biscuits, deer butter and sweetblossom honey on the side. There was salt and pepper and colorcorn chutney, plus sweet tomato and vinegar relish, to put on top of the omelets, and cottage cheese with sliced pears and peaches and oakapples. Fairly light cooking, for the Sisters.

Guard sipped at his tea, which had a bitter, metallic taste, but ate heartily of bread and biscuits. He topped his omelets with colorcorn salsa and the relish, and polished off every last bite. After, he spooned up half-a-plate of cottage cheese and three halves each of pears and peaches and twice-as-many again of the oakapples, and ate it all.

“I think you are recovering,” Salara commented. “You’re eating like a hog at the trough.”

“Hungry,” Guard mumbled as he wiped his mouth. “Didn’t know I was so hungry.”

“We saw,” Salana said. “Finish your tea, too. It may not taste as good, but I think it will help you rest and recover tonight.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Guard said, and downed the rest as fast as he could swallow.

After dinner, Guard helped clear the table and wash dishes. Once all was cleaned and put away, Salara put Guard on peeling a small bushel basket of potatoes for the morrow, while Salana churned fresh deer butter—though mostly without discernible effort, as the butter churn seemed to pump up and down by itself. Salara busied herself making bean-and-colorcorn salad.

“Jessiny has warmed up considerably, since the morning,” Salana said after a while. “I think Jentillian and Toramon have explained things to her, though I wouldn’t dare inquire. But I get the impression she understands the good fortune of her situation, and will be available to you. You may want to ride her back, in the morning.”

“Already?” Guard asked. “I’ve barely spent three hours with her.” He eyed Salana suspiciously. “You didn’t do something to her, did you? Put something in those oats?”

Salana frowned reproachfully. “Guard, you know better. The only thing we did was let her mix with Toramon and Jentillian. They are good horses, of pure stock and noble lineage, and if your Jessiny is half the mare I think she is, she’s recognized it. And would take their counsel, such as it was. Though I don’t know what, if any, they may have offered, and it would be foolish to make a point of it.”

“I took your hint the first time, I won’t say anything around Jessiny.”

Salara barked a laugh as she sprinkled diasha temporum—a pungent, salty preservative that both flavored food and helped keep it wholesome—over her finished colorcorn-and-bean salad. “I’d wager Salana is less worried about how your mare’d take it than how Toramon and Jentillian would treat her, if they got the idea she was expecting them to lean on a new mare to behave. Or that she’d talk about such things. She thinks they’d think she was trying to manipulating them.”

“Oh, but I’m not!” Salana exclaimed. “That’s the whole point. Just, no confusion, you see.”

“I can keep my mouth closed, and shall,” Guard assured her. “Though I don’t know about riding her.”

“Maybe not. I suppose we’ll see, on the morrow. In any case, would you like a story before bed?”

“Salana!” Salara shouted. “He’s not five turns old! If he wants a ‘story’, he can read for himself.”

Guard smiled. “Thank you, Salana. I do love your stories. But I think I’m going to stick with the Scriptures, tonight. Tomorrow is the Sabbath and I am tired and I need to pray and praise before I sleep.”

Salana flung her bony arms around him. “You are such a good boy. Every day, I am proud of you in some new way. It is wonderful, to have had the privilege to raise a boy into a man like you are becoming.”

Guard felt his cheeks burning. Not to mention a little teary-eyed. He felt his throat constricting. He needed some more cinnamon peppers.

“I love you, Salana,” he said. “I’ve missed you. I’ll do my best not to let you down.” He put down the last few unfinished potatoes and stood up, coming behind Salara and embracing her. “And I love you, you old goat-woman.”

She touched his hand. “We both love you, Guard,” she said, her voice a little too soft for Guard’s comfort. “I hope it serves you well, in the battles to come.”

Guard released her, squeezing her shoulder briefly. “Hopefully, there will be very few battles to worry over.”

Salara opened the thick wood door of the ice-box and put her bean-and-corn salad inside. She paused for a moment, eyes narrow, and then reached in. “A little warm,” she mumbled. “Our iced cream is probably melting.” Then, she whispered, and with a great exhalation of frozen breath, she blew into the ice-box. In a moment, frost covered the inside and the door frame, and she shut the door. “That should hold it for a while.”

“To bed with you, Guard,” Salana said, standing up herself and motioning him towards the curtain that exited out into the hall. “You need your rest. We will get up bright and early and prepare for church ahead of time. So expect to rise when the cock crows.” 

“Rather than two hours before, to milk the cows?” Guard said. “What luxury!”

“Bah, get to bed!” Salara growled. “Salana, you stay here. We need to talk.”

“Whether we talk, sister, depends on your tone. But, yes, good night, Guard.”

Once again, Guard bid them good night and made his way to his room. As Salana had assured him that morning—a morning that now seemed a lifetime away—it had not changed since he had left. It was still spare—a cot with a thin cotton mattress and threadbare blanket, stone floor with a straw mat, and a small side table with a jar of glowgems and a black-and-brown leather bound edition of the Scriptures that the Sisters had furnished the room with, once he had left and taken his own to keep with him at the Cornfairy. There was a framed woodblock print of the Great Tree on the wall, and a painting of the Sisters together, and one of Guard when he was about nine turns. The closet had a few spare blankets and a cloak and an overcoat his size, but little else, since he had taken his wardrobe, such as it had been, with him when he had moved to Thorn proper.

It was simple, and not terribly luxurious—his room at the Cornfairy was almost ostentatious, by comparison—but it was familiar and he remembered it with love.

There was one other thing, he noticed as he closed the door, at the edge of the basin. The white bowl was clean and empty, and the vase beside filled with steaming water, which was always the way. But there was also a small wooden bowl with half-a-dozen fresh cinnamon peppers prominently displayed.

“Bless you, whichever one did it,” Guard said, and grabbed two peppers and popped them in his mouth, chewing vigorously. After he was done, he stripped to his underclothes, washed his face, hands, and feet with hot water in the water basin, then crawled into bed. He picked up his book of Scriptures, turning to Prophecy, and read for almost an hour before finally falling asleep.