She was away a long time, that spring.

 The world was troubled; the Gifted were at their zenith, and strange unruly power rolled through human hearts and human souls. And many of those who had power had restraint with it, and wisdom, and care. But some...ah, there were always some who did not, and sometimes magick and madness ran together, and overran all in their path.

 There was much for the Phoenix to do when she left the mountains, burning again, blazing with a strength that came not from muscles or from magic, but from the simple support of kith and kin. There was always greed and cruelty in the world; new monsters born with each fool's dreaming, new monsters born in human form and shape.

 Her legend resounded through the land that spring. Among the snowdrops, mothers told their children of the Phoenix, who walked through the Scanran Sorcerer's web of enchantment to behead him with a single blow; of the invisible killer revealed under the firebird's purity; of the army that crumbled under her dazzling skill.

 And in the mountains, ah, in the mountains, the hunters drew closer, and closer, and laid their trap with the utmost care, waiting until the Phoenix was in the far Yamani Islands, and striking down a tyrant-

 And they struck.

~*~

"Stop."

 She looked like some figure from legend; slim and tall with her long blade drawn back and one foot forward. Her weight was even on her spread feet; Yvenia was glad now of the thick hide of her boots and warm furs she wore for they might serve as scant armour against the razor claws that scraped against the ground as the hounds turned.

 Mithros, Lady, Shurri Shang-Shield, help me now. I am your own; help me against these horrors.

 And horrors they were. They had been darting shadows before, revealing only pieces of what they were. But now she saw them, still and lingering before her. Twice the size of a wolf, with thick muscles running under fur that was short and shimmering blackly as poison on the lips of a maid, but long and messy along those sturdy long legs with two inches of wickedly honed claw glinting from their feet.

 But what struck her most was their eyes, a wide bright red, as though stained glass had been filled with water and held to sunlight. And horribly, awfully intelligent.

 It was as though there were people sat behind those eyes.

 "I won't let you," she said, pleased at how strong her voice was. Her stomach was a sphere of ice, her skin chilled. She had long learned to deal with fear, and though this was fear beyond all, fear to break the gods themselves, she fought it fiercely. "You can't have her."

 Behind them, the unicorn's head swung to her, and dipped, as if in a bow. So white, white of surrender, white of a shroud, Yvenia thought with a pity for such a lovely victim.

 A low, rumbling growl broke from one creature's throat, and the others took it up.

 "Stay back, child," she said to the little girl concealed in the shadows, never turning her head. "Don't move, whatever happens, do you understand?"

 Silence, bar the snarl which was growing louder and higher, scraping along her ears.

 Yvenia tightened her grip on the knife. The one on the left was closest; that one first, but watch for the one furthest away, her back would be facing that-

 "Do you understand?" she snapped loudly.

 "Yes," the trembling answer came back.

 Her stare was fixed on the hounds, and she had to exert every inch of self-control not to turn and flee. "You shan't have her," she told them, for the first time in many years feeling sweat trickle icily down her back. "Not unless you kill me too."

 The snarl broke into a howl, searing the air, and the closest hound pounced.

~*~

 Kel felt goosebumps roll over her skin in wave after wave as the howl sliced through the still air.

 "Mithros!" Raoul swore, and urged his horse into a gallop. "Pick up the pace, men, we'll miss this blasted hunt!" His last words weren't meant to be heard, but they flitted back to her all the same. "And his Highness will have my guts for garters, and my stomach for a souvenir."

 Peachblossom's hooves pounded on the road, part of the rolling thunder as the Own sped up, sending up trails of dirt that looked like diamond dust in the moonlight.

 The howl came again, and Kel shuddered. She'd never heard anything like it, not in all her time on the trail with Raoul, not in wolf-song or eagle-cries. It was unearthly, and bloodthirsty, and terrible.

 She thought she would never experience anything like that short, hurried flight again, with the moonlight cutting the world into black and white, the shadows lurking thorny and twisted beneath the trees, and the howl vibrating in her blood and in her bones. She felt as though she rode into the jaws of death, waiting to snap closed over her.

 I shouldn't be this afraid, she thought, but saw the same fear frozen on those around her.

 I shouldn't be this afraid - but I am.

 And then they reached the village, and Kel could scarcely take in what she saw.

 The unicorn, with black blood trickling down her heaving sides, dripping from long gashes - rearing, kicking, her horn slashing through the air like a golden scimitar. Her eyes spilling fire, eyes of sunlight, eyes of a falling star, eyes old and cold and secret as the moon; her mane fell like silk curtains rippling in a breeze, and no sound at all escaped her.

 A rotting, sickly-sweet scent hit her nostrils, and Kel nearly choked as her stomach churned. She knew their orders were to observe - only to observe - but at the sight of the hounds, dreadful, dark to the unicorn's light, she wanted to hurl herself into that desperate dog-fight and help, despite the rabid terror chattering inside her.

 In front of her, she could hear Raoul taking choking, vast breaths, and his head was turned in the direction of the hounds, the hounds that darted in and out, scant blurs, claws flashing; causing fresh streams of blood to gush down the unicorn's sides. "Mithros take us all," she heard him say to Buri, who was stroking her trembling mount with an equally shaking hand. "This is their hunt? They expect us to sit and watch this?"

 "I'm afraid," she heard the Rider say in a low voice that the men and women behind wouldn't hear. "Gods, Raoul...they're monsters. I feel like I'm facing every Stormwing on earth...I've never felt any fear like this."

 "It's magical all right," he agreed. The big knight's shoulders were hunched, and there was no missing the grimness in his voice. "Perhaps we should interfere. You read those predictions - if that creature dies, this place will be cursed."

 Buri chuckled shakily. "Flimsy excuse, Goldenlake. We both know you believe in curses like I believe in intelligent recruits."

 Raoul shook his head. "I don't like this. I don't like this at all."

 Then Kel saw something else. She had missed it before; the unicorn and the hounds would distract anyone - but beside the unicorn, laced with cuts and bruises was something scarcely recognisable as human. Kel felt her eyes widen.

 "Sir!" she croaked.

 Raoul's face, pallid and taut, turned to her. "Squire?"

 "There's a person in there!" she said, gesturing to the figure that stumbled. Her heart leapt. "Sir!"

 "That decides it," Raoul growled. Kel didn't know whether to be relived or terrified. "Off the horses, people, we're joining the fun."

 "M'lord?" The stout voice was Flyndan's, and though Kel knew he was no coward, she wasn't surprised to see the beads of sweat on his face. Those creatures weren't normal. "Our orders were to observe. The King-"

 "There's a person in amongst that mass," the knight snapped back. "I don't like it any more than you, Flyn, but I don't want to stand by and watch that get murdered. The King will no doubt have great fun thinking up a punishment for me. I'm sure there's some spinster he can seat me with at the next banquet."

 That raised faint grins as men dragged weapons from saddlebags, and from scabbards. Most had spears; Kel could see why - she wouldn't want those creatures any closer than they had to be.

 "Can they be killed?" she heard Buri mutter. "These are no ordinary dogs."

 "I don't know," Raoul said tightly, "let's find out."

 He organised the men into groups of four or five and flatly ordered them to stay together. Healers and anyone Gifted were ordered to stay back, and throw what magick they safely could into the fight. Kel was thrust in with Dom; even he had lost his good-humour, and was staring at the scene with wide and dark eyes.

 "Go," Raoul snapped, and led his group into the fray.

 Kel swallowed hard, and followed.

~*~

Ryan didn't know where he was running. He didn't have anywhere to run to now. Before, there had always been street-haunts, and dark holes to hide in. Now he was stuck in this palace, not street any more, but not noble either. Stuck in between, and no one gave a damn.

 He'd never asked to be Gifted - he'd not asked for anything that had happened over the past months, but happen it had, and trapped him here.

 He paused, and looked around him. Why had he come here? Here of all places, the shrine of the woman responsible for this.

 The Goddess's temple was lovely, a place of light and air, filled with arching windows that let in the bright moon to flush the marble with holy radiance, and turn the silver statue to a mass of blinding light. There were flowers and gifts at her feet, and for a moment he was tempted to kick them to pieces.

 "Can ye hear me?" he demanded angrily. "Or are ye off wreckin' lives again?"

 "Still rude, I see," a cool voice said, and he spun to see her stood there. A simple woman, with a cascade of dark inky hair swaying about her, and eyes green as luck, green as the grass on a grave. The Goddess raised one slender eyebrow, and her scarlet mouth half-smiled. "You don't change, Ryan Talver."

 "Nor do you," he snapped back. "How could you let them men die?"

 "I?" She shook her head, and leaned against one of the marble walls. There was a radiant beauty to her that no mortal could ever had, but if Ryan had a mirror then, he would have been shocked at how similar his face was to hers. "Men's lives are spun, Ryan Talver. They are spun, and they are measured, and they are cut. We do not decide when or how men die."

 She paused, and waved a hand. "Except for the occasional smiting," she added reflectively, "though that does tend to be Mithros. He's so tetchy these days."

   "Tetchy?" Fury flared up in Ryan, hot and sharp as boiling water. "You could a' saved them men, you could. Lives are just some game to you, ain't they?"

 The Lady shrugged. "So you believe. Child, you're always so angry about the world. It's a great waste; you were not born to throw tantrums."

 The grey eyes were doused by the unholy blue fire that flooded his irises. "No? Then why was I born? I ain't done nothin'. I can't do nothin'. I should a' helped them men, an' all I could do was see 'em die!"

 A touch of pity came into the cold face. "Ah, child, it's a hard lesson and one your friend knows well. You can't save every man, and you can't save every soul. But has raging and ranting and crying out how unfair it is changed a thing?"

 He glared, but the words were a subtle barb. "No," he muttered.

 "Has it made you feel any better?" the Lady said.

 Ryan shook his head.

 "Then perhaps it isn't the solution, child." She cupped her hands, and blew into them softly. A sparkling mist drifted from her lips, and swelled like an expanding balloon. "You were born for more than anger. There will be little peace in your life, and perhaps in time you will learn to treasure it when it comes. But as you will. You want something you can fight?"

 "I don't want to be helpless," he said glumly. "I thought...I thought this Gift would stop that."

 "Very well," she said, and threw the hazy sphere into the air. Ryan blinked, and stepped back uneasily as it grew and flattened until it was a screen. "If you want a task, chosen - I will grant you one, though it gives me only sorrow."

 Colours began to fill it, like fireworks bursting into fiery bloom. Settling, and clearing, until it was a picture. Ryan didn't know the place; it was as though all the moisture had been long drained from it, leaving a cracked and charred ground littered with craters like giants' footsteps, and stubs of trees. Among the shiny black earth, he caught glimpses of yellow, ivory-smooth chunks that looked like-

 "Bones," the Goddess supplied placidly. "It looks like a dragon's crèche, doesn't it?"

 The devastation was immense. It stretched for miles; Ryan could see nothing but the scorched terrain, rolling on and on to the horizon. And there - down there were tiny ant-like figures, picking their way through the mess.

 "What is it?" he whispered, unable to drag his eyes from the scene.

 "The remnants of a war, Ryan Talver. Of a mortal war, when Chaos and Order clashed, and man slew man, and man slew beast, and man slew all that stood in his way."

 "The Immortals War?" he asked.

 The Goddess shook her head, though he only caught the gesture in the corner of his eye. "No. This was long before your time, Ryan Talver. It had many names, but few history books will ever mention it for it was a war between few people, though many stood by and did naught. It is, I believe, a cause of great shame to those who know. The historians call it the Ashes. The mages call it the Folly. And the common people - when they knew, they called it the War of the Phoenix."

 On that magical window to the past, time began to roll back; great gouts of light and fire appeared, and where they flashed, the land became green and fresh again, and he saw glimpses of people - of creatures on that plain.

 "It began," she said quietly, "with this."

 And Ryan saw the strangest sight; bounding over the ground, moving like a shooting star diving through the heavens, a unicorn. And behind her...four slinking, slithering shapes, quick as nightfall in the desert. And the shadows grew closer and closer to that fleeing, fleeting shape - so close they would merge-

 And arrows raced through the air, arrows set alight, arrows glowing with Gifted fires, a horde, a mass that struck the hounds and felled them while the unicorn streaked on through the night.

 "What was that?" he breathed, staring as the scene fizzled out, and only the charred land remained.

 "They call it the Hunt, child. It comes once in seven decades, and fool men must always try to save the unicorn. Ah, either way, they face grief. The Hunt is an evil revenge, dreamed by an evil man, and like all things Immortal, its price is high. If the unicorn dies, there shall be no joy in that place until the next Hunt, when she is reborn."

 Ryan stared at the Goddess's smooth oval face. "An' if she don't?"

 "Then an innocent must die. And they will die in the same violence that unicorn would have; perhaps worse. Those creatures take the shape of hounds, but they can be any creature they choose - and tonight, only three of them run."

 Her eyes were brilliant as emeralds, and seemed almost sad.

 "Where's t'other?" he said, almost afraid to ask.

 She gestured to the blackened earth. "Beneath there, child. The unicorn did not die, but an innocent did, for those men with their arrows caught a hound, and subdued it under reams of spells that killed many promising, if misguided, sorcerers. Magick was so much stronger then, child.  They turned that beast against an innocent who sought them for their crimes, and the two fought long and hard; and that innocent died most terribly, though she wounded the hound almost to death. But it has had many long years to heal, and that land has had long years to heal."

 Her fingers moved in an odd, complex pattern, and the scene shifted.

 Ryan stared. He knew that place. He knew it far, far too well. And he had known that it had only stood for some three hundred years, after earthquakes, and wars, and the whims of various despots. The capital had moved all over the country since Jonathan the First's reign, but...

 "Five hundred years wields much change," she murmured, "but the Phoenix's Bane has neither moved nor changed. It will wake soon, child."

 His skin seemed to have gone icy cold, and the numbness spread through his bones. "Goddess..." he said.

 "I cannot help you against that," she answered sadly. "It is not my creation, and it is beyond my power."

 He was looking at the castle.

~*~

 Kel was never entirely sure what happened afterwards. She remembered only fearsome moments of that fight; the supernatural swiftness of those hounds, the hot-coal flash of their eyes, the stink of their breath - once, the swipe of their claws across her legs as she stabbed at shadows with her spear, and tried to control the panic raging inside her.

 Men fell, and voices cried out in the night; she was knocked to her knees once, and hauled up by a bloody Dom, who had his spear in his left hand because his right hung useless. She remembered the brush of heavy fur on her hand as she thrust her weapon wildly at the gleam of teeth, remembered the clacking sound of jaws snapping.

 Vaguely, orders had made their way into her mind, her knight master shouting over the howling, and the growling and the shrieks. There had been only confusion and too many shadows; and the night had seemed to grow dimmer when the unicorn fled like the crest of a wave soaring out to the shore.

 And just when Kel thought that she would collapse form sheer exhaustion, the hounds were gone, and only the Own were left. She stumbled back, limping and wary, but back to find that though too many, far too many were wounded and battered, no one was dead - and that slender, surely foolhardy figure they had risked their lives for was laid on the ground.

 "Mithros," Raoul groaned, slick with blood. His armour had been ripped clean through as though it were paper, and there were deep gouges on his arms and legs. "Our healers will be working overtime."

 "With all respect, m'lord," one of the nearby men said slightly feverishly from a huddled heap on the ground, "you shouldn't have kept getting in the way of their claws."

 There was tired, near-hysterical laughter. It wasn't at all funny, but Kel knew it was some kind of dumb luck they had survived. They had been lucky; lucky there were so many of them, lucky the hounds had spent more time trying to reach the unicorn than attacking them.

 "If there's anyone unscathed or Gifted who isn't a healer," Raoul raised his voice, so all of them could hear, "or at least, anyone without any limbs hanging off, some torches would be useful."

 "I'll go," Kel said tiredly, standing up and testing her leg. It's only a little blood, she told herself. You've had worse than this. "I'm only a bit scratched."

 She heard Dom's snort of disbelief and hissed a soft 'shut up' at him.

 It really wasn't too bad, she decided, hobbling off towards the horses which someone with a piece of sense had tied up by the row of shuttered houses . As she passed, she saw people peeping from the doors, people confused and bewildered. And no wonder; who expected this on a night - they must have heard the howling, and the fight...

 A noise broke into her ears. A soft, repeated sound that she knew at once. Someone crying.

 "Hello?" she said quietly, hand going to the dagger she carried in her belt. "Anyone there?"

 There was a scuffling noise, and something - someone crawled out of the shadows. A little girl, sniffling and wiping at her nose with a ragged sleeve. "Where's Eve?" she said, looking up at Kel with scared and wide eyes. "Where'd Eve go?"

 "Is Eve your mother?" Kel asked gently.

 The child shook her head. "She's a...a Shang-Stormwing. She seen the unicorn and she went to fight." The child burst into noisy tears, and around her, Kel noticed doors swinging open and people stepping out; most of them holding pickaxes, or cleavers, the closest they could get to weapons. "An', an', an'...she didn't come b-back!"

 A Shang? Well, that explained the unknown fighter.

 "She's all right," Kel told her, starting to crouch down so she was at the child's height, and stopping as her leg screamed in protest. "Just a bit hurt-"

 "Kyrie!" A man came running towards them, and swept the child up. "Kyrie, what are you doing out here? Why weren't you in bed!" He was a bear of a man, almost as big as Raoul, but there was only gentleness in the way he held the girl, and more relief than anger in his voice. "I thought you'd stopped sneaking out at night!"

 "Sorry Da," the child sniffed. "I just wanted to talk to the Stormwing..."

 "Kyrie, I've told you she's dangerous!" he said angrily. "Look what she brought with her, eh?"

 Kel felt obliged to defend the unknown Stormwing. "That wasn't her." The man's deep-set eyes turned to her. He couldn't have been much older than forty, but his face was deeply lined.

 "And who might you be, m'lady?" he asked courteously, obviously noticing the badge of the Own. "Are you of Fief Goldenlake? You wear their colours." His gaze jumped to her leg, and concern crossed his face. "And you're wounded - we've healers who'll help you. It was you fighting those...things?"

 Kel smiled faintly. "It was the King's Own. We've a good many injured, and if you could send healers and some torches to the courtyard, Sir Raoul would be glad of it." She paused. "I'm not of Goldenlake though. I'm his squire."

 The man blinked. "You must be the female squire then," he said slowly. There was neither approval nor disapproval in his voice until he shrugged. "Well, good luck to you, m'lady. I'll send over some healers and some food. It's the least we can do."

 She thanked him, and returned to the Own for a long night of healing and explanations.

~*~

Morning found Pip loitering in one of the palace practice yards, and warming up her arms and legs with a staff. She kept her mind focused on the moves, whipping the weapon back and forth, behind her, around her sides, under her arms. It was almost a dance, though far deadlier than any made to music.

 "You're very good."

 The voice snapped her from the pattern, and she stopped, warming pain on her muscles and perspiration gleaming on her forehead. Her breath fogged a little in the crisp morning air; Corus had woken to find a late frost had struck and scattered itself across the lawns.

 She met the dark, cool eyes of Davir sin Porphyros, and nodded curtly.

 "...for a woman," he added, and the challenge curled like a tiger's tail in that deliciously dark voice.

 Pip smiled tightly, more than pain warming her now. "Oh? You're very outspoken - for a dog."

 "The noblewoman stings!" he drawled, and whipped off the dark leather gloves he was wearing. "Shall I hurl this in your face and demand satisfaction, lady?"

 "If you want satisfaction," she murmured sweetly, slamming the end of the staff into the packed and frozen earth, "you'd best try the court ladies. They're far better versed than I. But if you want a good fight - I'm your woman."

 "My lady," he said, and she thought a flicker of humour leapt in his eyes, though it didn't show at all on the proud mouth.

 "I'm no lady, Kyrios Davir." Pip lazily pulled a few strays wisps of hair into place, and pretended not to notice his raised eyebrows at the title.

 "I take it you saw my arrival yesterday."

 Pip laughed, and threw his own words in his face. "We are equals - and if I am to be a lady, you may as well be a knight, though you show little chivalry." Her green eyes danced with devilment. "It's rather refreshing."

 "Refreshing?" His teeth gleamed white against the bronze skin. "Not, I believe, how most see it."

 "I'm not most. And do you want to fight, Kyrios, or shall we just throw words about?"

 "I'd much rather throw you about," he purred, and nodded to the staff. "Weapons? Or hand-to-hand?"

 Pip narrowed her eyes. "I didn't know Carthaki nobles fought that way."

 His smile became lop-sided. "Emperor Ozorne was not overly fond of my family. He stripped us of our title and hurled us into the gutter. I learned to fight, lady, because I would rather lose my chivalry than my life. Rules can survive being broken. People cannot."

 There was a storm simmering low in his voice, and Pip thought she could glimpse threads of lightning streaking through his eyes.

 "Luckily," he said, with a one-shouldered shrug, "my cousin managed to miss the streak of raving insanity that Ozorne had in such abundance, and restored the title." His face suggested further questions would not be a good idea.

 "Hand-to-hand it is, then," she said.

 The Carthaki nodded. He didn't move like anyone she had ever seen - there was a long, slinking grace to his movements, and if he had been a creature, Pip could all too easily see him stalking through a jungle with black fur and a lashing tail. "I will, of course, be stronger. A handicap?"

 "We're not playing by chivalry," she told him curtly. "Nearly everyone I fight is going to be stronger."

 He held up his hands. "As you will, my lady."

 They took up the stance opposite each other, two metres apart; Pip left her hands by her sides, but kept her weight slightly on her front foot, ready to attack, or to duck quickly if she had to. Steady, she told herself, keeping her breathing even as her mind slid into that intense focus she always needed when sparring with the Shang Masters.

 Black eyes met green, night clashing with spring, and he moved.

 Fast, she thought, blocking the punch with one hand, and sliding her body out of the way of the swift kick that followed. Fast-

 He feinted right and she caught the quick upper cut aimed at her, though it threw her back a little. His face was set, grim - as if he weren't fighting her, but some other demon.

Fast and dishonourable.

 Good, she decided savagely. She didn't have to go easy on him. Pip stepped back, letting him throw the hard punches and the lightning swift kicks at her. Easy to block, after the longs hours of training, and the long years of stealthily drinking up all things Shang. She held back, testing just how good he was.

Then she stepped into his punch, making sure it slid past her ear and kicked his feet out from under him.

 She was startled when the Carthaki caught her wrist on the way down, and threw her. Air rushed past, and she was rolling up on to her feet, a little frost glinting in her hair, turning in time to glimpse the kick flying at her-

 (Damn me, her mind whispered, he's been Shang-trained)

 And easily throw him past her, using his own momentum to make sure he hit the ground very hard indeed. She followed, and seeing him turning and ready to kick up at her, borrowed a move that was not at all Shang, but pure acrobatics, and jumped into a hand-spring that launched her over the startled Davir, to land gracefully on his other side and easily the deflect the wild punch.

 He managed to get up, but Pip knocked him back to his knees, and before he could react, sent her hand slicing down to his neck in a crippling, maybe even killing chop-

 She stopped a centimetre short, and met the eyes that held no fear at all, only cold defiance.

 I could have killed you then, she thought, as the pair of them stayed frozen, breath fogging on the chilly air, jade and black stares locked and silent. She had to wonder what he saw in her eyes.

 Then his teeth bared slowly, a challenge drawing itself up in his expression, and he drawled, "You missed."

 Pip gaped at his audacity...then started to laugh. And after a moment, the Carthaki joined in, a low rolling laugh that was as charming as his manner was obnoxious.

 "Are you always this arrogant?" she asked, giving him a hand up.

 He brushed dirt and frost from his tousled hair, and gave her a bright feral grin. "Of course. I take my words back, my lady - you are good enough to be Shang."

 She glanced at the proud face, devoid of anything but that watchful amusement. "So were you?" she said, questioning.

 "I was noble," he said mildly. "But my time in the streets was - informative. As long as I kept my mouth shut, no one noticed the accent, or indeed, anything but the dirt." There was a strange look on his face. "I was trained - briefly - by the same master who taught the Stormwing."

 "The Stormwing? I've not heard of her."

 His expression grew bleak, his eyes colder. "She's more infamous than famous. Not...a compassionate lady, the Stormwing. She was cold as a child, and she's frozen now. Ozorne...showed her family not even the shred of mercy he showed mine."

 She had no answer to that.

 "Tell me, my lady..." he said, leaning on the fence of the court with a small grimace - so that fall had hurt him . "The Princess Kalasin....is not what I expected."

 She restrained herself from remarking that neither was he, but instead, gave the statement serious consideration. "Did you know she had her heart set on being the first female page?"

 He blinked his hooded eyes, though otherwise not a flicker revealed his thoughts. "No, though it doesn't surprise me. She's quite the tigress in those repulsive gauzes. One can only pity the enemy if she laid her hands on some plate armour and a battle-axe."

 Pip smiled tightly. "Well, her father talked her out of it. He promised other...concessions. Some choice in her husband, for example." She couldn't help but sympathise with the Princess. She herself had come so close to being thrust into the noble's mould; look pretty, speak elegantly, marry well. "But then his majesty began bargaining with Ozorne, and it turned out Kalasin had no choice at all. And she was forced to watch Roald progressing down the road she had wanted."

 Davir was listening attentively, his great dark fox-sharp eyes concentrated on her. "She's not even met my Emperor. I'll admit he can be a right royal pain," she grinned at the pun, "but for all that, he's a good friend."

 "I think...it's more the idea she hates than the man," Pip said slowly. "She's more like the King than anyone will ever say. And well - there's some who say she's got a streak of Duke Roger's old rebellion in her."

 "Ah." The nobleman was silent for a few moments, and she could see him turning what she had said over and over. "There's fire in her soul. We have a word for it - k'shaia. It's the same word as royalty."

"It's certainly fitting," she agreed. "Will the Court be graced with your presence tomorrow, Kyrios Davir? After all, I believe the ball is being held in your...honour."

 The long eyelashes drooped to shield his eyes, and she knew he had caught the gentle barb. "Perhaps. If you will agree to grace it too, lady warrior. After all - " His smile flashed. "We outcasts must stick together and you, Lady Phillippa ha Minch, are as improper as I."

 She started at her name, but he only chuckled.

 "Oh yes...I have heard the whispers about this lovely brazen lady who deplores fools, and therefore the Court. I have heard the whispers of her Shang training, and the strange - yet true, I believe - tale of her taming a hurrok. I have heard much about you, Lady Phillippa. I wonder...how much is true?"

 She met his gaze boldly. "Truth is what you make it."

 "Sharply said! Well then, shall we make it your presence tomorrow, and the first dance?" He winked, and Pip was startled to realise she liked this curious, outspoken stranger. "After all...that should ruffle a few of those feathers that they pay so much for."

 "The first dance," she conceded, "and a rematch in three days time - this time with weapons, Kyrios."

 The lean man stood straight, and nodded. "Very well. But I am Davir to you, Lady."

 She raised her eyebrows. "Then I'm Pip."

 "Pip? A seed, yes?" He threw a last parting shot at her. "And who knows what you will grow to be?"

And she was left on the practice court to wait for the Shang. But his earlier words had put an idea, a curious idea into her head, and they rolled about her mind in soft, insistent echo.

 And if I...if I kept my mouth shut, who would know I was noble? she thought Who would know I was anything but a Shang apprentice?

 They say the darkness did not end that night.

 For three days and three nights, the Phoenix and the Hound fought. The firebird, and the shadowdog, fighting while good men stood by and did nothing. While the skies were seared by a mage's rage as he struggled to escape the bonds that held him, and kept him from his love.

 Three days, and three nights, as the clock counts, but by the count of a loving heart, centuries. The common people cowered, and whispered hope to their children, though the children heard only fear. The rich watched, and kept secret their shame. The mighty averted their eyes...

 And the Phoenix fell.

 Not a mage's rage, or a mage's love could raise her from the ashes. She sank into the longest sleep, and her foe into a deep slumber, but a slumber from which it would one day wake.

 They say the mage went mad, and turned the land into a cratered mass, that his tears burned like acid and his voice screamed in thunder.

 They say he swore that good men would never stand by and watch evil again.

 They say he changed the world...

 But maybe what they don't say is more important.

~*~

Phillippa ha Minch was unusually thoughtful as she made her way through the palace corridors to her Shang lesson. Had Neal of Queenscove been there, he would have warned anyone away at the sight of that hard emerald glimmer eyes, and promptly taken himself to some quiet and safe place.

 Her thoughts were swirling like a carousel gone crazy, focused around those hauntingly brief words.

 They banned nobles from Shang. Everyone knew that. The Wildcat had murmured it was something to do with what she had called the War of the Phoenix, and the Horse had just given a shrug of his broad shoulders and remained mysteriously quiet.

 But suppose no one knew she was a noble. If she hid her face, and said not a word, what would give her away?

 Stupid, she told herself with a shake of her head. Just building castles in the sky. All right, perhaps you've had some of the training, and perhaps you love it, but noble is noble. They won't bend the rules for anyone! You'd need the Horse and the Wildcat to agree - they'd have to, they'd know it was you if no one else did - and they wouldn't.

 It was when she was passing the Chapel that she saw someone kneeling inside, and stopped dead in her tracks. She recognised the coal-dark head, and the hands on the door that were pale and shaking.

 The Chamber of the Ordeal. She'd heard tales to curdle the blood in your veins, and send children shrieking to their mothers. No one had died in many years, but still, Pip knew the tales and had always thought it was a godsforsaken piece of evil.

 Pip could never forget or forgive the bruised, terrified eyes of her brother when he crawled out. He'd got to his feet, and he'd smiled at them all with a wondrous pride, but that second when the door had swung noiselessly and he had stumbled out, that second of utter anguish in his eyes....it was burned on her mind. Even now, it brought a shadow across his face, same as it did to her father, and her cousins, and her uncles.

 They said the ha Minches had molten iron for blood, and diamond for bones, but the Chamber made even the Ironmen mere flesh and blood. And now - she wondered at the boy kneeling there, head bowed and locked in some dark reverie.

 Silent as a cat on a midnight prowl, she slid inside, and tiptoed down between the pews of the Chapel until she was behind the figure. Close enough to hear the gasping breaths he was taking, close enough to note the fine tremors running through his frame.

 There was sweat beading the back of the Prince's neck, sending his hair curly at the base, and she could see the tautness in his shoulders. And Pip was grateful she couldn't see his face.

 "Roald?" she said softly, but the Prince didn't move.

 Ah, that door was only wood and iron, but somehow, it exuded evil. The ultimate judge they called it. Without care, without compassion...but sometimes, Pip thought grimly, a judge needed compassion. Sometimes, crime could be justified. The thief who stole because he would die without food. The woman who killed her husband because he beat her. The man who slaughtered only because he was ordered to.

 Evil thing! she thought, and took hold of Roald's arms. His expression was clear to her now, and it was filled with horror. His eyes wide, a turbulent navy wash, and his mouth slack. She tugged.

 Nothing. It was as though he was stone.

 It was the Chamber doing this, she had no doubt. His Ordeal would be in the Mid-Winter, scarce six months, and perhaps it was giving him an early taste.

 "Let go," she hissed at it. "He's not yours yet!"

 She pulled at the Prince's hands again, and again nothing happened.

 "Let go!" she snapped, and turned to bang her fists on the door-

 The world vanished.

~*~

 "Well, you're looking better, Squire," Raoul said with a tired grin as Kel brought some water over. "I suppose you've heard the news?"

 Kel nodded, and sat down, suppressing a groan as her over-exerted muscles complained. Everyone was feeling the after-effects on last night's fight, though the village healers had done an amazing job curing the dozens of cuts and gouges. "A section of the mine collapsed. Luckily, no one was inside."

 "The headmen is not terribly pleased with us," Buri said dryly. The stocky woman was fletching arrows, and there was a sharpness to her movements that warned Kel she was perhaps not in the best of moods. "In fact, I think the sooner we're gone the better."

 Raoul snorted. "Surely he doesn't believe those...astrologers' absurdities?" His black eyes snapped with irritation. "I refuse to believe that letting that unicorn escape means this place will be cursed for the next seventy years. It's coincidence."

 Buri raised an eyebrow. "Tell that to him, Sir Commander. From a distance would be best."

 "It can't be that bad," Kel protested, glancing over to where a cluster of villagers were evidently discussing the cave-in. "If we've brought such bad luck, why didn't his daughter die? And we rescued the Stormwing, didn't we?"

 "Ah yes," Raoul said heavily. "The Stormwing. About as popular here as I'm going to be with the King when we get back. The headmen demanded we take the 'harridan' away with us when we go, and he did hint that the sooner we leave, the happier he'll be."

 "And," Buri said darkly, cursing as she snapped an arrow, "he inferred that should any 'innocent' here die, as per the prediction, those pickaxes may not be striking rock. Not a happy man, I think."

 She glanced at the faces of the commanders. "I think it's his wife."

 Two pairs of dark eyes flicked to her. "Squire?" Raoul asked.

 "I've been talking to some of the villagers," she explained, lowering her voice, "and I overheard some of the women talking about her. I get the impression she's...not entirely there. Did you notice the bruises the headmen had, sir? And the child?"

 The knight nodded. "I thought they were injuries from the mine." His mouth twisted in a sour smile. "And sometimes it is safer not to ask. We can move out today...except for the Shang girl. Still unconscious, and no wonder."

 They had all heard the healer's report; the woman had been stunned that anyone could be alive with such injuries. None especially severe - but so many. The girl had seemed to have a mesh of cuts laid over her skin, and it had taken the healers hours just to clean away all the blood caking her.

 "The Riders are all fit to travel," Buri said, glancing over to where the young men and women were joking with the Own. "Nothing worse than scratches, sprains and one broken wrist in Evin Larse's case, though he says he can ride."

 "And can he?"

 The woman gave her flashing, savage grin. "Evin managed to run away from an enraged husband with a fractured shin. I'd say he'll be all right."

 A guffaw escaped Raoul. Evin Larse's exploits were well-known among the military; Kel had heard he was an excellent commander, with just one fatal weakness. Like an Achilles Heel, Neal had once said dryly, only higher up.

 "I think it best if we leave," he said thoughtfully. "We're clearly not welcome here, and gods know there's resentment enough against the King and all his minions at the moment - did you hear about that case in Genlith where sixteen commoners were thrown out?"

 Buri's lips drew back in something that was not a smile. At that moment, she looked enough like an angry tiger for Kel to pity anyone fool enough to vex her. "I heard."

 "And his Highness - as ever - is complaining of our absence." A frown marred the knight's face. "We'd be more use against those Scanran raiders up north, but he wants us back to impress the ambassadors."

 "More fripperies," Buri said. The two shared a look of mutual disgust. "I always seem to get cornered by the idiots."

 "At least you're small enough to hide," Raoul grumbled. "Short of sitting under the table, I'm stuck."

 "And the one time he did that," a passing Dom, his arm bandaged, said cheerfully, "the King decreed that all the tables should be moved to one side to make the dancing space bigger. M'lord had to pretend he'd dropped his plate."

 "Though you did drop a glass of red wine on the King, didn't you?" Flyn added with a wry grin. "Told him you were so revolted at the sight of alcohol you just couldn't bear to touch it."

 Raoul coughed, and Kel was amused to see him unsuccessfully trying to hide a smug smile. "Well, if he will wear white..."

 "Mind you," Flyn growled, his sharp face somewhat agitated, "we spent the next three weeks on the dirtiest jobs his Highness could find. In the fiefs with the most desperate women you've ever seen."

 "They were after me," the knight said dryly. "They had to be desperate, eh?" he sighed, and glanced around. "All right, Flyn...call a meeting of all the squadron leaders. I'll tell them we can make our way - slowly - back to the palace."

 "Pity." Buri had a wistful look on her face as she gazed at the green land, flourishing in the last clutches of summer. The town was small, but prettily built and well-kept; children dodged among the packs and tents of the soldiers. "Now the Yamanis are there, they'll be throwing more balls than a troupe of jugglers. And I'm almost positive Thayet will find me some over-confident idiot to dance with."

 "Just tread on their feet," Raoul advised. "That's what I do."

 The Rider glanced at him, and her lips quirk. "I'm not quite as heavy as you."

 "Wear spurs," the knight said dryly.

~*~

 Blood.

 Blood and marble, crimson spilling down the exquisite statues of the throne room, slithering over the floor like flickering vines.

 Pip turned around slowly, her heart ducking into her stomach for a frightening moment. She stood, half-hidden behind a pillar. Goddess! What on earth...

 The King, with his head thrown back, his crown bouncing in a circle of gold down the steps of the throne, an arrow through his heart. And the Queen, her skirts splayed about her in emerald glory, her throat laid bare to a blade's cut.

 Goddess...

 Nausea churned in Pip's stomach, and she swallowed hard. And looked about the rest of the room, all silent and all still, and all swathed in scarlet like a nightmare brought to life. People she knew, flung back like discarded dolls, pinned by arrows, sliced by weapons, and all so motionless in that horrific hush.

 And she heard a soft laugh, and her head snapped to the doors of the hall and the figure that cast a long shadow, framed within them.

 He stepped forward with an easy and careless confidence; the stride of an emperor, the stride of a man for whom power was only a weapon, not a responsibility. His face was handsome, and artfully painted with the exotic golds and blacks of Carthak.

 She had never met Emperor Ozorne, but she had seen his portrait, and surely this panther of a man could only be he.

 He picked up the crown, and threw it up casually. "Born to rule," he mocked coolly, and caught the circlet, his eyes dark and vicious. Not looking at her. No, not looking at her at all.

 Pip turned her head to see the boy kneeling at the foot of the throne, his head in his hands, pale as the first snowfall. Then he looked up, his profile visible to her, staring disbelieving at the mess and the man.

 "This is what you will bring," Ozorne hissed ferociously. "Failure! A boy who doesn't even know his own heart and yet expects to sway others'? How can you rule? You are not your father! Your choices will be wrong, and you will send them all to their deaths. "

 "And you were such a resounding success, I suppose?" Pip heard herself say, as she stepped out of her hiding place. "You're not Ozorne. He's long dead. The Wildmage put paid to him."

 "You think evil dies?" The Emperor's gaze fixed her, and in it she saw the gloomy night, the sheen of blood, the reflection of her own fears. "Fool girl. Men are always greedy, men are always weak."

 Pip stared, fascinated by the conviction in his - its - voice. "What are you?" Then she remembered why she was here - how she had come to be here. "You're the Chamber, aren't you? Somehow. All this is - you. Playing games."

 The Emperor threw back his head and laughed. It was an enticing sound, full of velvet darkness. "You think this is a game, mortal girl? Very well, let us talk about games. After all, aren't you playing at being Shang? Do you think you are good enough to pass as one of them?"

 Pip said nothing, but doubt wavered in her.

 "Dreaming your useless dreams," he mocked, and slowly the face was changing and it was no longer Ozorne who stood before her, but the Shang Horse. "You! A noble! Good for nothing, not even good enough to be wed and bred!"

 "That's not true!" Roald's defiant voice burst into the silence. He was on his feet, hands clenched by his sides. He glared, and the sapphire eyes were stormy. "You don't know anything! She's better than any of those - idiots out there."

 The thing's head snapped so fast it would have broken a mortal's neck. "And you...the weak Prince. Ah, I can see what lies in your heart. And it's what lies on this floor, Prince. All you will bring this realm is blood."

 "No!" Roald stepped forward, and though Pip saw his breath hiss in at the sight of his sister, her raven's hair fanned across the floor, he stood firm. "Maybe I'm not my father. But I will never be Ozorne. And maybe I am weak...but no one will know. I will do my duty."

 The Horse stared from one to the other, and then it melted, and before them stood a young man with an empty smile and the simple black robe of a mage. Long hair framed a gaunt face; his bones pushed against his skin as though his skeleton yearned to burst free of his flesh. But his eyes burned hellishly, burning with what seemed to Pip like grief, and his mouth was full and shaped for mirth.

 "We shall see when you face your Ordeal," he said, and there was a warning in the words. "And you...girl - you are no knight. Why did you seek to wake me? The Shang do not pass my doors."

 Pip shook her head. "I...was trying to help my friend."

 The man glanced from one to the other. "A royal and a rebel, and both of you seeking to escape. How interesting. You, royal...I have not tested you yet." His eyes, a stunning shade of orange, flicked to Pip. "And you...intriguing, certainly intriguing. There is a hunger in you I have not seen in...many years. I saw it last in my lifetime."

 "Did you make this?" Roald asked in his quiet voice. The defiance had died in his eyes, and he was the quiet prince she knew again.

 "I created the Chamber, yes. Things were - different then." The man gave a harsh laugh. "Until then, there was no need for a Chamber. But then...the Phoenix waged war, and too many good men forgot chivalry and stood by while she died."

 He wasn't so terribly old, Pip thought, surely not more than his early thirties, but heavy lines stretched out from the corners of his eyes.

 "You have the same thirst in you," he told her. The grief in his expression flared, sharp as lightning. "Ah, she was beautiful, my Shang Phoenix, beautiful beyond belief."

 How sweet of him, Pip thought.

 The mage looked at her. "You aren't."

 She mustered a smile. "Well, excuse me, but I'm not the one who spent the last few centuries being a room."

 "But...still...there is the same fire in you." His eyelashes drooped. "In the end...it burnt her up. And that last time, she remained ash. I will not judge you either way, girl. I cannot decide your future. But I will warn you - it is a terrible thing, this craving you have, this dream. But to realise it may be more terrible still."

 He brought his hands together in a gesture that was almost prayer. "I weary of this. Many ordeals await you - and this, Prince, will not be the worst of them. If you cannot survive the Ordeal without help...you are not fit to rule."

 He pulled his hands apart sharply, and Pip found herself leaning on the door of the Chamber, all the strength drained from her limbs. She rested her forehead against the wood for a moment, just a moment.

 Behind her, she heard Roald scramble to his feet before gentle hands closed on her waist. "Pip?" His voice was shaky. "Are you all right?"

 "Peachy," she muttered, pushing herself away from the door, and stumbling before the Prince steadied her. "Does that happen every time you - touch that thing?"

 "The visions...yes," he admitted ruefully, consternation evident on his face. He was avoiding her eyes, and something in the way he said it told her that Roald had been here more than once. "An interview with its creator - no. I didn't even know it was a mage who made it."

 "I wonder what he was talking about?" she said thoughtfully. "The Phoenix? I've never heard of a Shang with that name. He was..."

 "Mad?" Roald suggested. "Disturbing? Unflattering?"

 "Fascinating," Pip said firmly. "Maybe there's something in the library.... I could go and look- my lesson! I'll be late for my lesson!"

 The Prince looked at her. "Shang training?"

 "Yes..." And she caught her breath, and wondered if he would say anything. The Chamber had seen straight to her heart, and picked at her doubt like opening old wounds. But Davir's words had triggered something in her, and the Chamber had only spoken her deepest desire aloud.

 The blue eyes were steadfast on hers. "I hear you beat Kally's bodyguard."

"You hear right."

 "Pip..." He shrugged, and flushed slightly. "I've heard the Wildcat say you're good enough to be Shang. But - they don't let nobles in."

 "Five hundred years ago," she said in her low clear voice, "women weren't allowed to be Shang. Thirty years ago, women couldn't be knights. Fifteen years ago, commoners couldn't fight. All of those have changed, Roald. Why not this too?"

 He looked at her, and something she couldn't decipher at all crept into his eyes. "Why not?" he echoed, and smiled.

 She hurried away, her mind made up. She would do it. Tell them today. And as she strode into the room, the two Shang awaiting her, Pip took a deep breath.

 "You look a bit flustered," the Wildcat said. "Been fighting Carthaki again?"

 The Horse's grin said he approved.

 "Yes," Pip said. "And I've got something to tell you."

 "Sounds ominous," the woman said, seating herself on the floor.

 Her skin had gone cold. "Maybe it is," she said, and then the words fell out in a rush. "I want to be Shang."

 The Phoenix, deep in the longest sleep of all; a legend lost to the world.

 And as the days rolled on, and the shadows stretched far and dark and wide across the world, the legend was forgotten. Truth became hearsay, and hearsay became myth. Myth became fairy tale, and only children ever knew a fragment of what the Phoenix had once been to a troubled world.

Except to one man.

 They called him mad, and called him empty, and called him a thousand names that he never heard. In the harsh jagged depths of his grief, he heard only the echoes of her voice, and the lingering memory of her touch.

 How her eyes blazed in the feather-edges of his dreams, how bright she burned now her light had been doused. Until the end of his days, he would seek to put right all that had been wrong in a world that had let her die.

 He made the Chamber, and one day, walked into it to leave the strength of his soul in it forever, judging and choosing. Its foundations sat strong, upon the grave of the woman he had loved. Upon the prison of the beast that had killed her.

 Through all the long years, he shaped and pruned the men who would change the way humankind lived. Rooted low in the Chamber's heart, he tested them, and destroyed those unworthy. He saw the misty coils of the future yet to wind out, and sought to change the horrors in it.

 He never dreamed that one day, the Phoenix might rise again, shrieking from the ashes of her last, glorious battle. In his life of wanton tragedy, there was no more room for hope.

 And he certainly never dreamed that her murderer might as well.

~*~

 Ryan made himself walk quite calmly from the Goddess's temple, and through the courtyard up to the start of the winding flights of steps that led onto the battlements. His heart was pounding madly, as though a herd of elephants stampeded within it.

 Several of the guards watched him surreptitiously, and took the grim line of the boy's mouth and the distant eyes as outrage at being caught thieving the day before. One or two hefted their weapons, and thought of the companions they had lost to a harpy's brutality. But none dared touch the thief for fear of waking the magick that seemed to ripple so close to the surface nowadays.

"Out of my way, boy!" a voice ordered, and a slender girl elbowed him out of her path. "Wretched peasants-"

 "I'm no peasant," Ryan snarled, and caught the girl's arm as she strode past. "An' you ain't got no manners."

 Oh hell, he thought as he recognised the lovely face before him, with its wide-set sapphire eyes that glimmered like the sea in summer, and the full if sulky lips, and the gravity-defying clothing.

 Her eyebrows snapped together, and there was raw fury, primal as a storm swirling, that gathered in the fetching face until-

 Her anger faded, and thoughtfulness replaced it. "I know you," Princess Kalasin said. "You're that mage - that boy that Father sent Numair to find. Ryan something."

 "Talver," he informed her, then reluctantly tacked on, "your highness."

 Well-kept hands planted on her hips. "I've heard you used to be a thief."

 "I did." Ryan watched her carefully; he'd heard the Princess was rather volatile these days. He didn't want to be on the receiving end of a royal's temper. But his tongue, as ever, freed the words before his mind could mention that maybe they weren't such a good idea. "I heard you used to be a lady."

 A hand connected with his face and snapped his head sideways.

 "How dare you?" she demanded hotly as Ryan rubbed at the stinging heat on his cheek. Gods above, the girl knew how to hit! "Do you know the price for insulting me?"

 "Is it the same as the price for-" The thief managed to cut the words off before he finished the sentence and really land himself thigh high in trouble. "Ain't they told you I ain't got no manners either?" he asked dryly. "That's some strength you've got there, your highness. But if ye don't mind, I'm busy now. I've somethin' to see."

 "Something to steal, more like," she muttered. A careful, considering look slid onto her face and Ryan didn't like it all. "I could call the guards. You shouldn't even be talking to me."

 He gave her a big, false grin and hoped she'd take the hint. Ryan had had to get used to nobles, living in the palace, but for the most part he didn't like them and he certainly didn't trust them. They were tolerable, if only because so many were so slipshod about locking their rooms and concealing their expensive possessions - unbeknownst to many, Ryan was running a small and yet successful enterprise fencing jewellery for various resentful servants - but he liked almost none of them. "I'll stop then."

 He gave her a mock bow, flourishing his hands elaborately, and turned to walk away.

 "Boy!"

 With a groan, he swung back round to find her eyes gemstone-bright, pulsar bright, and fixed on him intently. "Girl!" he said chirpily. "Are ye goin' to hassle me all day?"

 She glanced meaningfully at the guards.

 "Your highness," he said through gritted teeth. His head was full of the Goddess's words, blinded by the visions he had seen, the ethereal beauty of the unicorn and the charred remains of the war. He tried for politeness, something about as natural to Ryan as pink ringlets. "I do have errands t'run, ye know, without ye botherin' me."

 She smoothed back her hair in a motion calculated to entice. It didn't fool the thief; he'd lived for years with Hana Alhaz, a woman both well-versed in and well-endowed with the arts of seduction.

 It was a beginner's trick, she'd told him. Draw their attention to your face, to your movement, to the promise of where their hands might be later.

 "Most peasants would be honoured to speak with the Crown Princess," she remarked.

Peasant. He'd thought things would be different here, but the world was still chopped in half by a gold-minted line. The rich, and the poor. They lived in their smooth stone castles and elegant houses while people less lucky than him rotted away, husks left to die in the street.

"I'm sure ye'll forgive me if I don't swoon an' grovel," remarked Ryan coldly. "I ain't most peasants. Now if ye'll excuse me, I've got fields to hoe."

 Her manner dropped, and she actually reached out to grab his wrist. "Wait. I…"

 There was almost nervousness in her eyes, and her grip was a little too tight to be merely casual. Despite himself, Ryan was beginning to be intrigued. "Princess, do ye want somethin'?"

 "A favour," she allowed, releasing him. But she still edgily fiddled with her necklace. "That's all."

 What could a princess possibly want from him? "Go on," he said warily.

 She shook her head. "Not here." A quick, subtle gesture to the guards. "This is strictly...personal."

 This is going to get me into trouble, Ryan mentally translated. I shouldn't even be listening to this - I should know better. Don't get messed up with the nobility, they don't understand commoners, they just want to use us. I should just go now.

 But somehow, he found himself being guided away from the battlements and downstairs, into one of the wide corridor until the Princess yanked opened a door and unceremoniously thrust him inside it.

 It was a closet. Stacks of sheets, pristine and white filled shelves that stretched upwards.

 "Uh…" He wavered over whether he should say it or not, and decided that his life was not worth this. "Princess, this is an airing cupboard."

 "Bravo," she said tersely. "Now-"

 He interrupted, despite the flash of irritation that was familiar as an old friend on her features. "I don't think you understand. If someone walks in, this is goin' to look...bad. I'm not too sure on the rules for consortin' with royalty, but it seems to me that it ain't usually done in cupboards."

 A mischievous glitter appeared in her eyes. "More consorting goes on in cupboards than you know, boy, but don't worry."

 "If someone finds us," he interrupted anxiously.

 "No one will walk in," she proclaimed with utter confidence, and a little flick of her head. "And if they do, worry not, I'll just say you accosted me and they'll cut your head right off before you have a chance to babble."

 A pause, and he eyed her deadpan face and then said cautiously. "Were that a joke?"

For a moment, he thought a smile would crack across her face, but she restrained herself, though soft, darting lights leapt in her eyes. So she had a sense of humour. Maybe she was salvageable.

"Didn't they ever teach you to speak properly?" she flicked back, covering that glimpse of humanity with raw scorn.

 Too late, though. He saw it was a cover now, and it baffled him utterly - why would she want to pretend to be one of those useless court creatures? All they did was fritter away the time with gossip, and spend money endlessly on whatever fashion rolled through the land. Sometimes it actually pained him to see how they wasted wealth, these people who had so much of it and not for any worthy reason, but simply because they were born to it.

 It made him so angry sometimes.

When he remembered the endless nights that tumbled on like windblown leaves, heaping up. The alligator snap of the cold, times when the wind ate right into his bones like some great hungry beast and took everything he was away, until he was only a nameless creature lost in cold, cold, c-c-c-cold.

 When he remembered the bodies he'd passed by, skin over starvation, eyes opened because no one cared enough to close them. Not even him. Huge blotches spreading as they rotted soft and slow as their humanity surely had.

 All for the wrong parents. All for lack of a little coin.

 "I speak how I want," he retorted, that old wound of injustice rising again as though the scab had been knocked from it. "Maybe I ain't got your pretty phrasin' and maybe I ain't wearin' silks to drop the jaw and raise the..." He paused, as he caught the warning pursing of her lips and rethought his words. "...blood. But I do somethin' with my life. Can you say that...Princess?"

 She tipped her head and opened her mouth, with a dangerous flash zagging clear across the crystal cobalt of her eyes. Ryan only stared back, refusing to be intimidated, though some part of him chattered that this was madness - this was folly, challenging the child of a king, a girl who could have him killed with a word if so she wished.

 And her shoulders sagged.

 "No," Kalasin said very quietly. "No, I can't say that at all."

~*~

 Beneath the Chamber of the Ordeal, in a room far below the earth and encased in layers of spells and stone, in a tomb made from nothing earthly, buried alive and buried deep...

It stirred.

 It felt the life begin to flow sluggishly within it like the paths of ducklings over water. The enchanted darkness had been long and powerful, the inexorable drag of a whirlpool that had kept it sunk in sleep. The weight of all the years had pinned it down and kept it from the hunt.

But now...something had changed. Something had weakened.

 Something of the magick that held it under sway had been removed. Only a smallest fraction, but like the flake of snow that begins the avalanche, it was enough.

 Oh yes...the Hunt.

 It shut its eyes, and breathed in shallowly. In its ears, war tumbled like dice across a wooden floor. The great gamble, the dance between death and glory. It remembered those endless days too well, of struggling with a woman who had met and matched it at every turn, with the sleek slide and slice of her limbs, the grace in her feet. It remembered shifting from shape to shape - man to beast to immortal, yet none fit to best the Phoenix.

 It had awaited its death eagerly in the end, wishing to be free of its curse. And then treachery had weakened the woman - and she had died beneath its hands, because though it was a monster wishing to be a man, it was still a monster.

 Always a monster.

 It  had slaughtered the woman with eyes of sunlight, hair that swayed like fire. It had turned to flee, to return to the place of shadows before the Hunt began again, and the unicorn burst forth from the night like a falling star, like a dying wish. To wait for the Hunt, until it could give chase once again.

 It had turned - and magick had caught it. Only one man's magick, but this man had clung with all the fervour and grief in his fractured heart, and the monster, already exhausted, could no longer fight.

 It had been defeated by magick, forced into the icy grip of sleep near to death. Meant never to wake, held down by the steel justice of a broken man. For centuries, it had struggled uselessly against this cruel fate, separated from its pack, a hound alone in eternal twilight.

 But the magick was weakened...

 And it was awake.

 It thrust upwards with its arms, and the lid flew upwards from the tomb to crash against the ground and shatter. Out it stepped, a strange shapeless thing that slipped from form to form as if undecided. A hand was human; the head horned, the other arm a tentacle...

 It was awake.

 And soon it would be free.

~*~

 Ryan blinked, startled by the Princess's admission.

"I'm a trophy. All everyone wants me to do is sit around and wait to be married off. I'm just a thing - a little token of my father's alliances."

 "From what I hear," he remarked cautiously, "you chose it that way."

 She lifted a slender shoulder. "I wanted to be a page. I wanted to be something different - something useful. But darling Daddy thought his little girl might scare off the suitors if she could hold her own with a weapon."

 And now, thought Ryan, his little girl scares off suitors with silk and seduction.

 "So I thought..." A small sigh, that shivered the silks and made the thief hastily avert his eyes. "If he wanted to be more ladylike - I would. I'd dazzle his whole damn court. I'd make light chatter and jest, and I'd dance, and I'd gossip. And that would be it."

He understood something of why she had done it now, a beautiful sharp revenge. Almost obedience. Almost.

 "I even enjoyed it for a while." Her smile was tight and grim, and ugly thing to spoil the splendour of her face. "Oh, it was so satisfying to see Daddy's face go that fantastic shade of aubergine that means he's somewhere between a stroke and a heart attack. I'd laugh myself sick."

 She looked right at him then, and he saw something of what she might have been - a fresh, sweet loveliness that opened up like blossom in her face. It wasn't as striking as the harsh beauty she had made with cosmetics and clothes, yet Ryan found it more appealing.

 "And then I'd cry myself to sleep."

 "Look..." He cleared his throat, hoping she wouldn't start crying. He couldn't cope with crying women. "I'm sorry ye're not happy. Well," he added, his suicidal honesty perking up. "I'm not that sorry, 'cause at least ye can be miserable in style, but what's any of this got to do with me?"

 A flush climbed her cheeks, rosy as dawn under a rising red sun. "I...need your help."

 "Do ye now?" Ryan didn't like the twitch of her fingers, or the rigidity of her stance. It screamed of trouble. And he didn't have time to be standing around making polite conversation! "With what?"

 "Promise to help me first," she demanded. "Or else I'll let slip just who it is who took Lady Sasura's black opal drops - and all about your little deals with the servants. You should be more careful who you choose to deal with, boy - some of them have more faces than a bagful of dice."

 How had she...? Dumbstruck, he gazed at her triumphant face - yet still noticed the beads of sweat at her temples.

 "All right," he said glumly. She probably wanted something nicked. Or maybe a magical trick - nobles liked them, though she was supposed to be Gifted herself. "What do you want?"

 Her body sagged, as though a huge strain had dissolved from her bones. "Teach me to steal."

 Oh, gods.
 
~*~

Strange place, the Carthaki thought, and trailed his hand idly over the polished stone. Strange, charming place.

He had spent the day wandering it, until he had found what he sought. It would have been easier had he a guide, but a guide would never have let him do what he had. Take what he had. He patted his pocket thoughtfully.

 This was dangerous. But if what he had been told was correct...it was necessary.

Davir sin Porphyros sighed, and leaned his head against the cool stone for a moment. This palace was sculpted through every inch, a curious mix of practicality and art in its sturdy, stark ramparts and ornate, gilded ballrooms. And utterly alien to him.

 His old life had been mud, mostly. Mud. Cold. Poverty. Almost the first thing he remembered was the smooth paste of mud on his fingers as he helped his parents scrabble in the dirt for their belongings. They had been hurled from their home, out into the barren sludge of the Carthaki monsoon. His mother, her silks stained as she searched futilely for her jewellery, lips bleeding from where she had been hit by the soldiers. His father, dragging her from her knees in the mud and trying to comfort her.

 Those days had been harsh, one painful lesson after another. He'd been a thief, a liar, even an assassin for a short time, until he was sent to kill a child. He hadn't been able to do it, but the girl with him had, and the terrified blankness in that child's eyes haunted him still, in the iron grip of night.

 The Shang Stormwing had lost her mercy before ever he arrived.

 He'd learned much from her. But most of all, he had learned to treasure his humanity and keep it burning inside his heart.  How hard he had to try sometimes to keep that little fire burning. Sometimes, enraged at the unfairness of his life, he'd wanted to rip and tear at the world.

 Yvenia would have welcomed his company. That last time he had seen her was still cut sharp on his memory, fresh and acrid as the smell of paint.

 "Turn away then," she said in her gravely, arctic voice. The long sheet of silver hair had shone like the blade she held in her hand, idly turning it in the light. Above all, he remembered her hair, so feminine and delicate against the severe lines of her face and body. "Don't you want revenge, Davir? Don't you remember how they ripped apart your family, and drove your mother to her death? I was there while the breath rattled from her. She had nothing to live for. The Emperor took that all away."

 "And the Emperor will die for it," he had flung back. "But not his servants, or his relatives, or anyone you happen to hear mention his name. The man is a tyrant, Eve. He rules with fear, with whips and swords. Of course people bless his name when they speak! They curse it when they pray."

 "Fear." She spat on the ground. "That to fear!"

 There was ice wrapped around Eve's soul, and always had been. He'd walked away from her and her dream of revenge that day. Left her black, mirroring eyes behind him, her crooked and pitiless smile too. Yet however far he ran, some memory of her always lingered, to remind him of what he could become if he let the cruelty and the indifference of the world wear him down.

 It was what, in a way, had brought him to this door, of all others.

 He raised his hand and knocked sharply.

There was no answer, and he only sighed. A pity; a pity that the one creature he had met in the palace with the gall and the wit to challenge him had vanished like morning mist.

 "Are you looking for Pip?"

 He turned sharply at the voice, hesitant and muted. There was a girl stood there; a little girl, he thought at first, before he looked more closely and saw it was only the tentative way she held herself. There was the pale glimmer of fear in her eyes, looking ever for the threat. She wore a noble's exquisitely cut clothes, but wore them uneasily, and her words had a Northern twang.

 "Indeed," he answered. "I don't believe we have met."

 He swept a polished bow, and flashed her what he hoped was reassuring smile, although Kaddar had told him all his smiles looked like he was two meals away from cannibalism.

 "I saw you last night," the girl confided, not returning his smile. "With the Princess. I don't think you're meant to treat royalty that way."

 Another royalist. Dear oh dear. "True. I should not have been so gentle."

 She gaped, the fear blooming up in her too-thin face like poison flowers. Blast. He hadn't meant to terrorise her.

 Her eyes were a curious colour, the unsullied gold of crocuses. This must be one of the mages he had heard of. One of the servants had told him of the strange pair; the outlandish thief and his shy golden shadow.

 "Andrea," he said thoughtfully. "You must be Andrea. Let me reassure you I shall not sling you over my shoulder." And because he couldn't help himself, he lowered his lashes a little to stare smokily at her with the faintest of faint smiles. "Unless that is your...desire."

 The girl did smile then, very hesitantly as if she found him odd. "No, thank you. I suppose they've told you about us. Or at least about Ryan."

 "Something of it, yes," he agreed, eyeing this willow-slender girl. Fearsome. Unnatural. Fierce. Those were the words he had heard murmured, but none of those seemed to suit this butter-soft child. "I was expecting someone..."

 "Taller?"

 "More monstrous," he said dryly.

 She shrugged a little. "That's Ryan's territory. I'm just here to look after him." Shadows passed across her face like black moths. "He saved me from - oh, but you don't want to hear about that."

 Actually, I think you don't want to tell me, noted Davir silently, but he didn't pry. He had heard the strange story of that pair, and he had no urge to hear it again. Too many wanton tragedies in life to note every last one.

 "Pip's gone to see the Shang Masters, I think," she continued in her chiming voice. "She's...not like the other nobles. They don't like Ryan and I very much."

 "I have the feeling they don't like me much either," he said wryly. "Some fool slapped me with a glove today, and actually seemed surprised when I knocked him down."

 She seemed to be struggling with laughter. "He was challenging you to a formal duel. It's how they do it here."

 Oh. Maybe that was why every other noble suddenly found pressing matters elsewhere when he tried to talk to them. Washing their hair, indeed!

 "Are you really the Princess's bodyguard?"

 He sighed. The infuriating Princess, who had already managed to elude him this evening. No one had seen her at all. "Unfortunately. I've barely met her - or at least, I've met her in barely anything - and already I wish I'd volunteered for easier duty. Say, testing out the Iron Maiden."

She chuckled, and it sent the light bending and snaking over the fall of golden hair.

 "Perhaps you can help me..." He would have preferred the razor company of Phillippa ha Minch but this girl was one of the few people who would pass the time of day with him. "I require the services of a soothsayer - but I have no idea where you keep them stashed."

 "A fortune teller?" A frown, and she looked him up and down. "You don't seem the superstitious type."

 He gave her a tight smile. Not as insipid as she seemed then, but the truth was too risky to reveal. "I like to know what the future holds. It's always best to be prepared."

Yes. He needed to be prepared for what was to come.

Unconsciously, he touched his pocket again, the pocket that held a nail from the door of the Chamber.

~*~

The world dawned in on her slowly, the darkness drawing back like two grey curtains. With awareness came the nudge and nip of pain, of one solid ache that throbbed with the rhythm of her heartbeat.

 If she'd let herself, she would have cried out.

 But she was Yvenia, the Shang Stormwing, and her screams had stopped long ago. Never would the world see her bowed and broken again. Never, never, never...

 Her fists clenched, a tiny knot of tightness in her sore body. The memories of that desperate night came back to her - the flickering grace of the unicorn, shining out like holy fire in the darkness against the hungry claws and vicious teeth of the hounds.

Had the unicorn escaped? She didn't know why it should bother her - why she had even walked into that fight - but she had, and it did.

 Yvenia sat bolt upright, ignoring the screams of her muscles. Pain was nothing. It was nothing at all, only a cruel trick of the world to keep her from revenge.

 "Who are you?" she demanded loudly.

 The healer in the tent, working with a mortar and pestle, yelped at the sight of her. "Lie down at once!" he ordered. "You'll pull out all my stitching."

 She growled impatiently and swung her legs from the pallet onto the floor. For a moment, dizzying waves ebbed through her body, but she gritted her teeth and forced them back. Control - there was nothing discipline would not defeat.

 The idiot man was actually trying to push her back into the bed.

 "Get your hands off me," she snapped and dealt him a glancing blow. She heard something tear, and felt the sutures in her arms snap. The warmth of blood trickled sluggishly down her arm.

 He crumpled onto his knees. A glancing blow from Yvenia was like being hit with a sackful of bricks. "Your wounds!" he protested. "My lady Shang, you are not healed-"

 "Physician, heal thyself," she advised coolly, and swept - or rather, lurched - from the tent.

~*~

 "I'm sorry," said Hakuin, staring at her as if she had just announced her intention to strip and dance a naked mambo. "I think I misheard you. Did you just say you want to be Shang?"

 Pip took a deep breath. The two Shang were watching her closely, the Wildcat tapping on hand on her thigh, her grey eyes narrowed. "I did."

 "Pip, in a word - no." He nodded his head once, as if that was the end of it. The black eyes were firm, the shock faded from them. "You know Shang doesn't let nobles in. It's against the rules."

 "Rules are made to be broken," she retorted stubbornly, panic fluttering in her chest, She had been so sure they would at least consider it.

 "So are limbs, if the council finds out," the Horse told her. His mouth was drawn in a tight line. "I'm sorry, but it's impossible."

 The Wildcat spoke for the first time, her face utterly unreadable. "She knows that, Hakuin. Our girl's no fool. Why are you asking, Pip?"

 She met the steadfast grey eyes straight on. Listen, she pleaded, at least hear me out. "Could I be good enough?"

 The woman stared back levelly, her hands coiled at her sides. Then her mouth relaxed, and she sighed. "Yes. Yes, you could be."

 "Eda!" protested the Horse.

 "She's a right to know, Hakuin." The woman pointed a finger at him. "And a right to ask. I remember a young lad who was told 'no' by the Kestrel. Forgive me if I'm wrong, but that boy ran away from home and followed the Kestrel halfway across the country, getting set upon by bandits and beggars until the poor man gave in to stop you being murdered on the road."

 A faint flush was streaking up Hakuin's cheeks. He shifted uneasily.

 "That was different!"

 "How?" There was definite amusement in the Wildcat's gravely voice. "You were good enough too. You didn't take no for an answer."

 "I'm common as muck," the man said pointedly. "Nobles cannot be Shang - it's our law, simple as that. We live a hard life, a cold life and we can't walk off back to our castles when we get tired of it."

 Pip snorted. "Yeah, your life's so hard teaching pages in the morning."

  The Wildcat let out a sharp laugh. "True, girl."

 "Eda, you cannot be considering this," Hakuin snapped. His plump lips were pursed. "The Shang Circle will be furious!"

 The Wildcat's grey eyes narrowed. "Let them be. The girl's good enough, Hakuin, we can both see that. She's been fighting since she was born and she's a natural. She's learned arts we haven't from the pages and squires, and from that street-lad who's so determined to kick everyone into shape."

 "I'm not arguing that she's good enough," the Yamani said. "I'm arguing that they'll cut our heads off if they find out. I'm arguing that everything in our law and history forbids it."

 "Not...everything," the Wildcat said slowly. "Not at all."

 Eda Bell was fighting her corner. Pip could only feel relief, and a churning excitement in the pit of her stomach. If they could bring the Horse round - if, if!

 "What do you mean?" He frowned, as confused as Pip.

 She dragged her hand through the tight silver curls. "It's a little known secret outside the Shang circle." She coughed delicately. "Unless you happen to be married to one of them, of course."

 "What is?" demanded the Horse.

 "Shang used to accept nobles."

 "It did!" squeaked Pip, thrilled. "When?"

 "It was centuries ago. Five hundred years, to be exact, before any of us were even a glint in a courtesan's eye. Until then, nobles were accepted into Shang as readily as commoners. Times were different then, you have to understand. The kingdom was in turmoil - Immortals ran rife in the land, and the Gift was still new and largely unknown. The countries had different names and different borders; two kings were fighting for control of what are now Tortall and Scanra. It was a bitter war that had raged for some fifteen years and they were looking for any edge to win."

 "I've never heard any of this," murmured the Horse, his eyes wide.

 "There was a lot of support from the nobles for a man called Justinian- he promised tracts of land to his supporters and virtually unquestioned feudal law. He would have made slaves of the commoners without a second thought. His cruelty was notorious, particularly to mages - in a land where magic was new, Justinian distrusted and feared it. Most of the common people were behind Faeleon, a Southerner who'd been a fisherman until Justinian ravaged his village and took his wife for a concubine. Faeleon was a cold man - Iceblood, they called him in the Shang scrolls - but he was a mercilessly fair man. He was a vastly powerful mage, and an excellent tactician."

 "Eda," Hakuin said impatiently, "this is all very interesting - but what on earth has it got to do with anything?"

 "Youngsters," muttered the woman. "You're all so impatient. Sit down and be silent, lad, or I'll bounce you off the walls until you can't tell up from down."

 She sounded as if she meant it. Hakuin sat.

 "The Shang were uncertain who to support, and it was becoming clear they would need to make a choice soon. Neither Justinian or Faeleon wanted Shang running loose who might decide to support their enemy. The circle met many times to try and resolve the issue; support was swinging towards Faeleon anyway, though many of the nobles stood for Justinian, when the decision was taken from them."

 Pip felt an uneasy flicker in her stomach, It seemed to her almost as if she had heard this story before. In her ears, she thought she heard voices arguing, voices with every accent possible - some rough and ready, some cultured. Some Northern, some Southern, all Shang.

 What must it have been like to be Shang then? Balanced on a knife edge, knowing one slip meant blood spilt, scarlet on metal.

 "The most powerful Shang at the time, and the most powerful ever, came forward." The Wildcat had a faintly dreamy look in her eyes. Pip had the feeling she at least would have liked to live in those edgy, tumultuous times. "The Phoenix."

 "Never heard of her." Hakuin gazed up from where he sat cross-legged, a challenge in the set line of his jaw. "Except..." His brows drew together. "The Kestrel used to call Corus the 'Firebird bane'."

 Eda nodded. "He was right to. Few have heard of her, but she was a legend in her time, a woman who changed the world in a thousand small ways. She was loved as much as she was hated and utterly fearless. Well, she decided for the circle."

 "How?" breathed Pip, fascinated.

 The Wildcat smiled winsomely. "She fell in love with Faeleon. And he with her; he issued an edict protecting all the Shang from attack. And immediately, Justinian declared war on them if they did not choose to support him. And we've never taken kindly to orders. The Shang voted - narrowly - with Faeleon, and the war was stepped up on both sides.

 "Justinian was furious. But now it was apparent that Faeleon had a weak point, and it was the Phoenix. Justinian found some of the Shang nobles who were unhappy with the circle's choice. They betrayed the Phoneix, leading her into a trap where Justinian unleashed a monster on her, and helping it defeat her. She died, and Faeleon's heart went from the fight. Justinian took the throne, and the time known as the Age of Shadows began. Shang banned nobles, and sent those who remained into exile. The rest, as they say, is history."

 Hakuin let out a low whistle. "So that's why. The circle has held a grudge for five hundred years?"

 "That's about the shape of it," confirmed the Wildcat gruffly. "Still think we should keep her out? Myself, I think it's time we gave nobles a chance again. Pip's no traitor; there's no Justinian to steal the throne."

 "I don't know..." said the Horse hesitantly. He looked steadily at Pip for a long moment, his face tense and stern. "Is this really what you want, Pip? Are you prepared to give up your life for Shang?"

 "Yes," she answered without even thinking. Gods, yes!

 "You know she's got the talent," put in Eda Bell helpfully, a little smile quirking up the corners of her mouth. She winked at Pip.

 "I know she's good enough." His black eyes scrutinised her closely. "We just have to make her so good that not even the Circle can refuse her."

 Pip couldn't contain the grin that broke over her face. He was agreeing - he really was. She could make something of herself, gods, she'd free herself of this life of idleness and fripperies. She could make a difference.

 "If they hear we're training her though..." he continued thoughtfully.

The Wildcat spread her hands, her words edged with wicked delight. "A mask."

 "What?" Pip said, startled.

 The Horse nodded. "That'll do. Yes - a mysterious apprentice, plucked from the streets of Corus. Horrifically shy - but too talented to ignore. They'll swallow that. And of course, it will work in our favour when it comes to the Ordeal. You have to defeat three of us to be inducted into the Shang Order, Pip. But if you're a noble, none of them will fight you. Your face will give you away for starters, but the mask will solve that. And get rid of that cultured voice."

 "Or alternatively," the Wildcat said, prowling round Pip, "you'll have to be mute."

 "That would be better," the Horse agreed.

 "You'll help me?" Pip said incredulously. It was happening - she could hardly believe it. Oh, she knew there would long months of training ahead, there would be difficulty and days she would detest the ache of muscles and the strain of waiting...but she didn't care.

 They looked at each other, then the Horse grinned. "You've potential to be better than both of us," he said decisively. "Maybe even an Immortal. Eda's right; your birth shouldn't keep you out."

 Pip shrieked with delight and hugged both of them. The Wildcat looked slightly taken aback - she wasn't one for affection - but there was a pleased smile on her face. "You realise, of course," she remarked dryly, "training's up to eight hours now."

 "I don't care!" Pip said joyfully, her eyes sparkling. "I'm going to be Shang!"

 She shaped the world in fire.

 And she was undone by desire.

 Love was her weakness, she would think later when she was the Phoenix again, soaring above the world in a trail of lightning and scented smoke. When she was no longer the woman, but the legend. Love was her weakness, and because of it, she was betrayed.

All her life, she dedicated herself to her calling, and gave her life for others, piece by piece. Every wound was a part of her soul doled out in trade for people nameless, faceless, voiceless.

 She gave them a name. A face. A voice. All of them hers - she gave them someone to pray to, more tangible than the distant, dreamy gods. More tender than the metal chop of kings and commanders.

 The Phoenix was the possession of everyone; their legend, their hope when times were hopeless and life unbearably cruel, their unspoken promise of deliverance. They blessed her name, and never saw the tears she wept sometimes, deep in the shadows of her soul.

 She gave up everything to be the Phoenix.

 Everything.

 The Phoenix was the possession of everyone - and had not a single possession of her own.

 Until him.

 Until the day when she stumbled upon a lone man, bleeding heavily and almost dead in the slippery sludge of a river bank. Under the willows, where the waters ran slow and the rushes grew thick. He was only a man, with one eye swollen shut, and bruises purpling the length of his body. A fallen king.

 She had meant to move on, to sear new paths of light in a murky era, but she stopped for one dying man. She took him to her camp, and tended him there through his feverish spring nights, and the fresh promise of the days. And when he asked her name, she did not speak of the legend, but of the girl who had been born in the mountains, of the truth that had been long banished under the thrill and glory of her myth.

 He did not love the legend, but the truth.

 Love is weakness, love is wondrous,  love is a cross we all bear. It is our holy symbol and holy self; our deepest wish and darkest desire, our phoenix blazing in the cold black night, shining out bright - and doomed to perish.

  He loved her, and destroyed them both.

~*~

"No." Ryan said it flatly, and meant it. "I ain't teachin' you to steal. D'you know how much trouble I can get into?"

 Princess Kalasin flashed him a confident, cool smile. "You'll be in more trouble when all those nobles find out where their jewellery's been going."

 "Blackmail's an ugly phrase," he hinted. "But 'I'll tell your pa' is an uglier one."

 She crossed her arms, but not before he'd seen the scuttle of spidery pain through her eyes. "Who will he believe - his own daughter, or some thief?"

 She had a point there. Most nobles might be thick as two short planks, but they were also thick as thieves. Ryan had no urge to be seeing the business end of an axe. Still, he wasn't going to give in that easily.

 "It's dangerous."

 She flicked her fingers. "That's life. I would have thought you, of all people, would have known that."

 Ryan gritted his teeth. She had him by the...throat, and she knew it from the little sparkle in the sapphire depths of her eyes.

 "It's illegal."

 "Didn't seem to bother you."

 "It's morally wrong," he tried for desperately, but as his own halo was not so much tarnished as non-existent, that one didn't hold up too well to the princess's single disgusted look. "All right, all right! I'll teach ye-"

 Her smile was softer this time. "Good."

"-but ye do what I say, when I say," he finished sharply. "Agreed?"

 That famously sulky mouth curled up a tiny bit at his tone, and for a horrible moment, Ryan thought she would refuse. "Very well," she said at last. "If you really feel it necessary. Is it that dangerous?"

 Did she live in a castle in the clouds? Disbelieving, Ryan pulled back the sleeves of his shirt to show her the marks that laced his arms. Some thin, some thick, ranging from a clean shiny pink to a poisonous purple, they latticed his arms like a cage of scars. The cage he had lived in all his life, until magic had broken the bars.

 "What...?" she breathed. There was horror and shock in her voice, in the  way she flinched back. "Who did that?"

 He shrugged. "Dunno. Lots of people. These ain't anythin' special. Just got 'em from fights, an' brawls - couple of them were a warnin' when I fleeced someone too important." He looked straight at her. The petal-pale skin was white now, except for two spots of crimson colour on her cheeks. "This is what you're goin' into. I'll do my best to look after ye, but I can't promise to - 'specially not if ye talk to street people the way ye talk to me. Ye'll last ten minutes, and nine of those minutes will be spent flat on your back."

 She gawped at him. Probably no one had talked to the Princess that way in years. He could tell she was about to say something cutting, before her gaze flicked once more to the mess of his arms, and she nodded.

 "What do I need to do?" she asked.

~*~

 It was a white piece of wood, thin as her fingernails and the same pearly white. A blank screen, with two holes for eyes and rudiments of human features. This was who she would be now, this was what her future was.

 Faceless. Voiceless. Nameless.

 Not even Shang, but learning. Learning every day, and here was one of the hardest lessons. If she wanted this, it would be secret. It would be silent; there would be no one to share this with, because she would only be a mystery clad in white wood. Her friends could not know; her family certainly could not.

 She would have to give up herself for Shang.

 "What do you think?" asked the Horse mildly, from where he was warming up with a staff. It spun blindingly fast in his hands, a whir of wood that moved about his body. "You'll find it difficult at first, obviously - it restricts your vision, but bigger gaps might mean someone recognises you."

 "We'll work on that, though," put in the Wildcat with a neat, feral grin. The woman was leaning against the wall in her harmless old lady pose, from which she could drive her fist through someone's throat.

 Pip turned the mask over in her hands. It wasn't the ornamented craft of the Court masquerades - it was nothing but a slightly shaped piece of wood that was rough to the touch with slapdash paintwork. But that was all it needed to be.

 "How will it stay on?" she asked, frowning down at it. There were no strings, nor even any holes for them - it would just fall right off.

 "We've had it magicked," confessed the Wildcat with a small flick of her head. The woman had disappeared for an hour or so, and returned with the mask.

 Pip knew Eda Bell was wary of the Gift, and knew what a concession it was for the Wildcat. Magic, she had said once, was the poison of Shang. It made the fastest kick, the most powerful punch useless. It denied everything Shang were.

 "Thank you," she said softly.

 The woman only nodded. "Before you put it on - some rules. While you wear it, you aren't Lady Phillippa ha Minch. You aren't anyone but our mute, reserved student. So when you wear that mask, you don't speak. You don't make a sound, girl. I know it's harsh, but if we're found out...well, let's say I've seen the Shang Circle in full fury, and they could make a flock of angry Stormwings look harmless as a bunch of schoolgirls plaiting each others' hair."

 "I take it they wax wroth rather well then," murmured Pip dryly.

 Hakuin flicked up a dark eyebrow. "The only thing they wax is the floor, with anyone who displeases them."

 "I understand," Pip told them, looking from face to face. "I promise - not a word."

 "Shrieks of pain are allowable," the Wildcat threw in. "Even knights squeal like stuck pigs when their elbows are being twisted behind their heads."

 "Oh, wonderful," she said under her breath.

 And again, she was looking at the mask. It seemed such a small thing to change so much.

 Slowly, Pip lifted it to her face, and felt the cool tickle of magick about the lines of her face as the mask settled. The edges of her world curved into darkness; suddenly the Horse was gone from her vision, obliterated by the blinker effect of the mask.

 Her back prickled - gods, she was so easy to attack now. Half her vision was gone, and it panicked her. All these last weeks, she had become accustomed to using her peripheral view to see the first signs of an attack. It was like having her thumbs chopped off.

 She turned her head to see the Wildcat watching her.

 "Unnerving, isn't it?" The Shang straightened, pushing her wiry body away from the wall. "You don't realise how much you rely on sight until you lose it."

 "You did something similar once, didn't you, Eda?" commented the Horse. Pip whipped her head round to see him. Even though neither of them had made a move towards her, she felt vulnerable.

 "I did," the Shang confirmed. "It was decades ago though, and I don't know how you know about it, my lad, because I certainly didn't tell you."

 The Horse's cheerful grin beamed out. "Word gets around. Especially word of the Wildcat in orange ruffles."

 "It was a disguise," she muttered. "Even wildcats put their claws away to lure in the mice."

 Hakuin guffawed. "Say what you like, Eda. I heard what you did to that poor man."

 "Enough," the Shang ordered, though Pip was much amused to see her mentor shift uneasily from foot or foot. "If you want to gossip, Shang Horse, put on a dress, flutter a fan and join the Court. We're here to train our student, not discuss my social graces."

 He took the sledgehammer hint. "And train her we will."

 The staff spun again.

 "No more tender treatment," the Yamani said, and there was no smile at on his face. She was so fixed, alarmed at the thought that they considered the last weeks tender, that she never noticed his eyes dart behind her.

 But she certainly noticed when the Wildcat kicked her, and she was fighting to stay upright.

 Amidst the flurry of blocks and blows, she thought she heard his rueful voice rising over the chaos.

 "The real work starts here."

~*~

 "...and this is the Hall of Stars," finished Andrea somewhat weakly, careful to keep well out of Kyrios Davir's reach.

 It was a lovely room, a vast circular place that lay open to the blue arch of the sky, cut from silky marbles and gleaming mica. The hallowed silence of a temple filled it, and gazing up at the heavens so serene and so distant, she felt something of just how small and trivial she truly was. She just wished it would affect Davir sin Porphyros that way. And silence him.

 "Pretty name," remarked her companion in that lilting accent. "Pretty decorations. Does it serve a purpose, or is it just another sop to your King's ever-expanding ego?"

 He was rude. He was abominably rude.

"The astrologers watch heaven from here."

 A small and assured smile curled across his mouth with a wicked little tilt at the corner of his mouth that only suggested what that stare, dragging over her like the brush of black velvet, demanded. "Only watch?"

 "They can hardly go there," she snapped, wishing she had never agreed to help him. Maybe Ryan was right; charity might give you a peaceful glow, but greed would give you peace and quiet.

 He gazed up thoughtfully at the sweeping sky. "My dear, if you've never been taken to heaven, I'll happily oblige."

The cheek of the man! ""How charming," she said primly, trying not to blush under the feline mockery in his face. He was doing it to embarrass her, she was sure. "Any more thinly veiled suggestions you'd like to make?"

 Andrea was starting to hate that little knowing arch of his eyebrows. His voice was cool, except for the purr of promise that caught on the ends of every words. "Well, if we speak of thin veils, I certainly have a suggestion for those..."

 Equal rage and mortification wrestled in her mind. It was on purpose! The wretched man could see he was making her uncomfortable. "I don't have to listen to this, you know!"

 "Had enough pillow talk, have we?" he drawled. "Finally - I thought you'd flirt all day."

 Andrea mouthed furiously. And to think she'd thought Ryan was bad - next to Davir, he was saintly as they came. "Don't be so - so disgusting!"

 Those shadow-soft eyes swept her from head to foot until she was aware of every mark on her skin, every hair out of place and had to fight an urge to shrink into a corner. He wasn't a handsome man - nothing to the clean chiselled looks of Roald, or Faleron's boy-next-door appeal - but he was arresting.

 His face was all feline curves and angles, from the narrow, bladed eyes above the swell of his cheekbones The line of his jaw was utterly stubborn, and his curving smile made midnight promises his stare said he might or might not keep. It was proud face, maybe a cruel face if it hadn't always been lit with his odd sardonic humour that flashed in the lift of an eyebrow, the flick of his fingers, the playful arch of his voice.

 And he carried himself with complete confidence.

 It was something in the way she moved, Andi thought, that made her afraid to walk too close. The lazy, long steps, his head high and ever studying the world, drinking it in as if it were a fine vintage.

 It seemed to her that saunter could just as easily become a strike.

 "Disgusting?" he murmured at last. "My apology if I offended you, Andrea. I was only playing. Perhaps Tortallan games are not as - informal as those in the Carthaki court."

 "I wouldn't know," she answered quietly. "I'm no noble."

 He looked at her, and then laughed, yet gently. She wouldn't have suspected there was anything gentle about him.

 "Am I so amusing?"

 "Not at all." One shoulder lifted in a half-shrug. "I'm just no palace peacock myself, but I learned their ways fast when my Emperor took me in. I learned - and I lived. Carthak is a dangerous place to be noble at the moment, especially if you are an imperialist. There are many factions who would have my cousin's power for their own."

 "You..." She stared at him. But he was so assured. "You're not noble?"

 He slanted a conspiratorial glance at her. "I was born noble. The Emperor flung my family to the wolves when my father defied him. I'm just another grubby urchin really. Donations welcome."

 "You?"

 "Me," he confirmed. "I'm afraid I grew up without any respect for authority. And you are so delightful to tease..."

 But he acted so...

 Well, she thought, Ryan can be just as churlish and obstinate, and Numair can be more lordly than anyone you'd care to name - and neither of them are noble. "It's just hard to believe."

 "It's true." His voice was dispassionate, but something close to fury darted in his eyes. "My mother saw her own daughter hung, and she went to her grave hearing the trapdoor drop, and the rope squeal. My father followed not long after. I was lucky."

 Just as quickly, that flicker was gone and his sure smile was gleaming.

 "I...I'm sorry."

 He gave her a distinct leer. "How sorry?" Under her withering stare, Davir only grinned unrepentantly. "Do calm down, you'll strain something."

 "You're straining my patience," she muttered. "Can't you turn it off?"

 "Oh, I'd much rather turn you on," he flicked, and held up his hands when she turned on him. "I'll stop. Probably. I have no designs on your body, my dear and deadly mage. Now take me to this astrologer, and we shall say no more about it."

 "Promise?" she said suspiciously.

 "On my honour. Or possibly something that exists - on my life."

 She sighed. Despite herself, she was starting to like him. "Just try to be polite to Prava Mavres. He didn't like Numair visiting him, never mind me and Ryan. I don't know how he'll react to you."

 The impressive door on the other side of the room was the entrance the Court soothsayer's quarters. It looked like a battering ram wouldn't knock it down, plated with iron and copper runes. Davir gave it a single unmoved look, and then pounded on it with his fist.

~*~

 "What are you doing?" The arch of the Stormwing's voice was razor sharp, the high keen of bees in summer swelter. "Little girl, that is not the correct way to punch."

 Kel fiercely resisted the urge to belt the woman  in the shins. It wasn't nice to beat up the wounded, and besides, the wretched woman would probably just get up and criticise her technique. As she had criticised everyone and everything in the camp, until even the placid Dom was looking distinctly frazzled.

 They were camping for a day or two in a sly bid by Raoul and Buri to avoid the trappings of Court life. The horses were tied up, coats gleaming from the not-so-tender ministrations of Leraint who was muttering darkly about some Court girl waiting for him. Fires crackled, sending gouts of smoke up into the blasting blue of the sky, and the smell of cooking meat arose.

 "What a pity," Kel answered evenly, bending to pick up her glaive, admiring the brief wheel of sunlight over the blade, "It is how I was taught."

 "Then you were taught wrongly."

 Kel pressed her lips together tightly, and unleashed a little of her anger into swing of her weapon. "It has served me well enough."

 From the corner of her eyes, she saw the woman look down that sharp nose that dominated her face like a beak. "Have you ever faced a Shang-trained warrior, girl?"

 Kel stopped short, and slammed the butt of the glaive onto the hard ground. "Stop calling me girl. My name is Keladry. Squire Keladry, to be exact." Her voice was polite; she was pleased with that because the Stormwing danced on her nerves like a troop of morris men. "Lady Stormwing, I will glad to listen to your advice, but so far there has been none."

 The black eyes glittered like the moon fracturing upon water. How strong that face was, yet sharply lined about her eyes and mouth for all that the woman could not have been older than Dom. "Words will not teach you what a good thrashing will."

 "If I want that pleasure, I'll join the flagellants," she replied smoothly, picking up the glaive again to begin the light, even dance that so fascinated the men of the Own. Several had shyly asked where they might find glaives, and a teacher. She hadn't the heart to tell them it was primarily a woman's weapon and the blacksmith back in the palace had several orders placed with him.

 She was surprised to see a small smile on the woman's face.

For a while, there was soft silence, the humdrum of the camp fading into the background on Kel's senses until the swish and sweep of the blade was all her world. How she loved the smooth way her muscles moved; not for the little, rhythmic steps of the balls and soirees - here was her dance, cut in steel and stealth.

 "I have not seen your weapon before," the woman said at last.

 Still standing like a stubborn mule, Kel noted, despite the healer's best flapping and fussing. The Stormwing refused to sit and heal like a good patient; instead, she had pointed out how uneven the stitching was, and how she expected her cast to be a pristine white, not this stained, beaten linen...

 "It's from the Yamani Isles."

 "I'm sure." The woman stalked forward, ignoring her limp as if it was a brief inconvenience. "I have not been there. I have no wish to meet another tyrannical emperor."

 Her voice was harsh, catching on the last word.

 Kel slowed, sweat trickling down her back from the gentle exertion. Despite her vow to keep as far away from this icy woman as possible, she was intrigued. Upon learning just who their guest was, Raoul and Buri had both muttered words under their breath that would have shocked a priest, and promptly spent most of their time either out of the camp, conferring in their tents, or training the men well away from the Shang's eye.

 "The Yamani Emperor is not a tyrant," she said mildly. "His justice is...ruthless, and he is a man to watch your words around, but he is not Ozorne."

 "Ozorne!" The Stormwing spat on the parched ground. "I would dance on his grave, if I knew where it lay. I wish him ten thousand years of screaming agony in the Black God's arms, and my only regret is that another killed him."

 Kel was shocked at the outburst. Every line in the Shang's body was taut as straining rope.

 "I'm sorry for whatever he did," she said quietly, her hazel eyes a tad baffled by this vicious creature.

 "Did?" The strange, silvery hair was flung back like dozens of whips. "He burned my family alive. He would have burned me too, if a Shang had not had more mercy than the people I lived with all my life. They watched me burning, but he alone acted. Your 'sorrow' is nothing to me, little girl - your sorrow will not bring back my parents or my sister, your sorrow is nothing!"

 All the same, Kel wanted to say, her heart filled with stinging pity, I am sorry. I am sorry that the Emperor made you so bitter. Had he known his cruelty would live for all these years in you, he would probably have laughed in delight. How sad...how sad that you cannot see how monstrous you have let your grief become.

Yes, the Emperor had a fine revenge when the hatred was born in you. Even now, he touches us.

 Maybe she would have said it too, had not the frantic hoofbeats crashed in her ears. Not the sedate trot of scouts returning safe, this was the urgent, uncontrolled gallop of a messenger. Dust lifted, whirled, and choked her vision until it cleared.

 Flyn was on his feet; men had stopped their tasks to stare at the white-faced girl who swayed astride her mount. Blood drizzled down from her lips, a slick red trail.

 "In the village," she gasped out, her hands trembled violently on the reins. Her horse danced on its feet, colt-skittish. She swayed again, and Kel saw her hands going slack on the rope.

 Quickly, the squire moved to grab the reins, a fraction too late as the horse kicked, and the Rider toppled to the earth, a limp pallid huddle. Only now did Kel see the strange weapon that protruded from her back, in the centre of a puckered ring of leather that seemed to be smoking.

 Flyn was beside the woman, motioning for the healer to be fetched. He nodded at Kel who at last had the reins secure, and was using all her strength to hold down the nervous horse.

 "Anella," he said gently, looking into the Rider's glassy eyes. "Can you hear me?"

 "Don't be such an idiot, sir," croaked the woman, more blood spilling from her mouth with each word. Buri came flying out from her tent, papers scattered in her wake. "I'm shot, not deaf. Sir, you have to go to them - Raoul, and half the first...they were ambushed in the village. A mile east. Monsters. I don't know what. Things that spat metal and fire..."

 Raoul, thought Kel instantly. The Own and the Riders, trapped! She had to go - but she couldn't let go of the horse in case it began kicking again. What if it trampled Anella?

 "Go, Flyn," the rough voice of Commander Buri ordered as she knelt by Anella, stroking the woman's cropped red hair with a steady hand. Her face and words did not match at all; the jollity was forced. "Anella, what did I tell you about fights?"

 "Stay out of them, sir." The Rider smiled faintly. "Commander Buri, ma'am, sorry I was stupid enough to...to..."

 "Don't worry about it," ordered Buri gruffly, distress plain on her stout face. "You've told us now. You need to rest - that lad of yours is waiting back in Corus, Mithros knows he needs a good woman to keep him on the straight and narrow..." She stepped aside as the healer hurried up, bag full of potions and bandages.

 "Here." Kel blinked as the reins were taken by one of the men too injured to fight. He nodded at her grimly. "G'wan, Lady Kel. And give 'em one with that glaive o' yours for me."

 By Anella, the healer lifted his hands from her forehead and shook his head. Just once. But it was enough. Buri's fist pounded the ground, furious at losing one of her own.

 Peachblossom was whickering, tossing his head as Leraint saddled him. No banter now, only the fast motions they had practiced so often it was automatic - half the Own remained to guard the camp; the other half were ready, weapons bristling.

 Riding out to battle again.

 The Stormwing watched them with those fathomless black-pooled eyes, the curl of her lip the same still. Affected by nothing. Cold, Kel thought. Don't ever let me get cold like that.

 Why did this have to happen? It was all supposed to be so simple. Just follow this Hunt. This cursed Hunt.

 Had she thought about those last words a little more carefully, she might have understood some of what was to come. She would have understood - but it would not have eased her pain.

~*~

Kalasin stepped out. The airing cupboard had provided the right sort of clothes for both of them, though Ryan had hastily demurred at her twinkling offer to turn her back while he changed.

 The luxurious black hair had been roughly pulled back into a ponytail, swinging high on her head. From the bumps and strands flying free, Ryan guessed she didn't usually do her own hair. The gauzes were stuffed into one of the many baskets of clothes, replaced by a patched linen tunic that reached to mid thigh and was a touch too big, hiding her figure. The trousers were dark brown, and baggy at the ankles. Gone were the delicate heels, replaced by scruffy boots. A faded cloak hung over it all.

 And strange - so strange - she looked more natural in it than ever she had in scraps of silk and gossamer.

 Ryan stared.

 "What?" She patted her hair nervously, the smug confidence replaced by something much more appealing. "What?"

 "Sorry," he drawled with a merry grin. "Wasn't used to seein' ye with your clothes on."

 Did women practice that scornful glare? It could have charred bacon. "I see you've already ripped your clothes."

 He shrugged. "The messier we looks, Sin, the less likely people are to rob us."

 "Sin?"

 "Ye want me to call ye, Kalasin, fine. But I might as we call ye Princess then - it ain't exactly a common name. And besides....Sin fits ye so well."

 He thought that would make her scowl, but instead, the Crown Princess chuckled. He'd made her scrub off all the make-up with a cloth, too, and he'd been surprised how much of the colour of her face was artificial. The petal perfection was gone, replaced by a more golden and uneven complexion.

 "We're going now?" she asked as they walked along the corridors. He gestured to her to pull up the cloak's hood. Too many people knew her here.

 "Yes..." He eyed her. Could he tell her? No. He didn't want to tell the Crown Princess a monster was buried somewhere under her home. But maybe he could only half-lie. "Princess, have ye ever heard of something called the Folly?"

 "Of course - why?"

 He held her eyes, like he always did when he told his most convincing lies. "Master Numair's set Andi an' me writin' a paper on it. Well," he added hastily at her raised eyebrow, "I'm readin' and Andi's writin'. I was just wonderin' if ye knew about it. Happened near here somewhere, I heard."

 "Did it?" The Princess shrugged, turning her head away from a serving woman who tramped by with sloshing buckets. "I don't know about that, but Numair told us about it once as a fairy tale. He used to do that a lot - little tales about the Gifted with uplifting morals." She pulled a gargoyle face. "All I ever learned was that kissing frogs was more likely to give you a cold than a handsome husband, and to stay well away from spinning wheels."

 "What did he say?" he prompted.

 "Oh - it was all a long time ago. There was a power struggle between two kings, one Gifted, one not - it went on for years, until no one could really remember what it all started over. Until the unGifted king trapped the mage's lover and killed her. The mage went mad, and..." She fell silent as they passed by a butler, casually flirting with one of the maids. "Well!"

 "Oh, ol' Murdock'll chase anythin' in a skirt," Ryan said casually. "Had a horrible mistaken encounter with Maren highlanders, I hear - their light infantry wears kilts."

 Both paused at the thought of the elderly butler courting the fiery highland troops.

 Both shuddered.

 "Anyway," he continued. "What were ye sayin'?"

 "And he burned the world," said Kalasin very quietly. Instinctively, she drew the cloak closer about her. "Numair said it burned for seven days and seven nights - he made the earth one huge funeral pyre, blazing out so high that the night became day. And all that time, he sat before it and stared into it, as though he was waiting for something. He burned the world, and burned with it."

 "Nice inspirin' tale there then," muttered Ryan. "What's the moral - don't forget your marshmallows?"

 "Probably great magic brings great responsibility." Kalasin shrugged, and cocked her head. "It was always hard to tell with Numair - he got very confused about fairy tales. He's the only person I ever knew who told the story of the princess who ate the poisoned pea which meant she turned into a swan every night until someone plucked off her feathers to make forty mattresses."

 The Folly. A mage who burned the world? And the thing - the monster under the castle. But where under it?

 Ryan sighed heavily. He was clueless.

 Maybe someone on the street would know more. People there had long memories - particularly for grudges. And it seemed to him there'd be a lot of grudges for a man who set the world alight, all for a lost lady love.

 "C'mon, lass," he said, trotting down a flight of back stairs. "Let's take ye to meet the streets. Try to behave.

 Try very, very hard, he added silently. Nobles have sharp tongues - but street rats have sharper knives.

~*~

 Roald jammed his hands into the pockets of his breeches and stared at the doors of the Chamber. His old enemy, who would open one day far too soon and swallow him. He was afraid he would never return, his soul consumed in a blaze of failure.

 And yet...

 And yet, his encounter with the mage had intrigued him. He'd never come here twice in one day, but the thought that the Chamber was not simply mindless malignancy caught him. Of all the wild tales he'd heard, nothing had ever suggested it was - or had been - in some way, mortal.

 Why had it revealed that only now?

 Why now? He had fallen before its forbidding doors too many times before, and never seen anything but the horrible visions of his own doom. Nothing had been different today, except...

 Except Pip.

 But why would Phillippa ha Minch, in all her untamed ferocity and delightful insouciance, Pip of the sea-green eyes that washed over him not often enough - why would Pip affect it?

 Only one way to know.

 He reached out...

 Nothing.

 Every time before, there had been some reaction. Some blinding image of pain and destruction. The steel-blue eyes narrowed, and Roald was unaware how impassive and cold his face looked then.

 "Are you afraid?" he whispered. "Are you afraid of me now-"

 A burning jolt convulsed right through his body, once, twice. Roald squeezed shut his eyes at the sensation his very self was being shaken to pieces.

 And he opened his eyes onto somewhere quite different.

 Utterly unaware that Neal of Queenscove, curious to discover if Roald was sneaking off to see some lady, had followed him. Unaware that the squire had watched his friend seemingly meld into the Chamber's doors as if they were liquid.

Unaware of Neal watching, debating. Reaching out and pulling back his hand in case he too was drawn in.

~*~

The door opened slowly, with an arthritic groan. When the little, squinting man opened the door to see Davir before him, smiling his wicked feline grin, he squawked, and slammed it-

 It hit Davir's conveniently placed foot with a jarring thud.

 Andrea flinched too. Maybe this hadn't been such a good idea.

 "Good morning!" said the Carthaki, leaning one dark hand on the door. "Will it continue to be so, one wonders?"

 "Not with you clogging up my doorway," snapped the old man curtly. "Go and play in the rain, boy."

 She saw the rolling shift of muscles in Davir's shoulders under that clinging chocolate-brown fabric, and the door inched open further. "The sun's shining outside, old man."

 There was the rattle of thunder outside, like the gods playing dice, and rain began to patter through the ceiling.

 "Is it now?" asked the astrologer with a knowing flick of one eyebrow. "You've got your proof, boy - now go and wave your big pointy bit of metal around and stop bothering me. I'm too busy to be harangued by barbarian invaders."

 A low, ferocious sound rippled out over the air, like the rip of velvet. It was a minute before Andi realised what it was.

 Goddess, Davir was growling.

 "Barbarian?" The agonised scream of the hinges as the door crept inwards a little further. "Invader?"

 The old man was trembling with the effort of trying to keep Davir out. Red mottled across his wrinkled face like patches of rot on a strawberry. His watery eyes flicked desperately to Andrea and a sting of pity ran through her.