The Realms of the Dead.

 Andrea turned her head slowly to look around. She didn't know what she had expected. A green, verdant paradise perhaps, or a place filled with winged things and golden light, but not...this.

 A dark, narrow way lay before her, yew hedges lining either side. The scent of pine filled her nose, wild and fragrant, swamping her senses with its strength.

 I suppose I have to go down there, she thought. Glancing behind, she saw a thin golden cord that glowed with pearly light...and it was attached to her, disappearing into the small of her back. Fascinated, Andrea reached out and touched it. It felt warm, and it thrummed slightly.

 That's my Gift...that's my only way back.

 Jaw set, she walked into the narrow way.

~*~

 "Mithros," Cleon muttered under his breath. A cold feeling swept over his body. That was Kel. That was his friend, lying there so small and pale. He'd never seen her looking vulnerable, but now, in the arms of her brother as he carried her over to the Riders' healer, that was just how she seemed.

 "-gold nobles!" bemoaned Joren. "I had to pay through the nose for this-"

 "Squire," Miri said sharply, from where she was knelt down, "if you don't be silent, you'll be paying through a broken nose."

Joren shut up, but one corner of his mouth turned down in a slight sullen sneer.

 "Can I help at all?" Cleon said anxiously. He needed to take his mind off all this...carnage. That was the only word he had for the destruction that lay all around. He hated the silence, the way it seemed to swallow his voice, he couldn't bear the reek of blood and death on the air and the still forms around him.

 Miri frowned. "You can go back along the road and see if you can find Master Numair. And take Joren with you." Her eyes glinted with a little mischief. "Feel free to find a muddy, messy route."

 Cleon cast one final look towards Kel. The healer had her now, a steady flow of icy-blue gift rippling over her body, over the numerous cuts and lacerations. Too many. Cleon turned away. Thinking like this wasn't doing anyone any good.

~*~

 It was a maze.

 Andrea had realised that as soon as she came to the fork in the path. A vast, yew maze where the only light was that of the golden cord behind her, and the Gift-fire she called to her palms. She had been walking in it for what felt like eternity, turning left and right aimlessly. She didn't know where she was going, but surely there had to be an end somewhere. Surely...

But after her feet had begun to ache, and her heart felt heavy with disappointment, Andrea decided that perhaps she was going about this the wrong way.

 Let's think about this, she told herself, stopping at the next bend. This place isn't real. So this maze can't be real either.

 She reached out, and her hand brushed the spiny smoothness of yew. It felt real, and it smelt real...and what she could see of it looked real.

 That didn't mean it wasn't an illusion though. Dreams so often seemed real while she walked in them, yet they were only cages made from the desires of the mind. Maybe if she couldn't see the maze, that would help.

 Cautiously, Andrea let her eyelids fall shut. The darkness seemed to swoop in around her, dark wings dropping over her. No sound, nothing but the flutter of her heart and the swish of her pulse in her ears. And there was something else...something odd...

 She couldn't smell the green freshness of the yews anymore.

 Andrea opened her eyes and the smell flooded back into her nostrils, so strong she almost choked. Just an illusion, then, but a very clever one. Why? she thought. Why put a maze here?

 The answer was simple, of course. So the living couldn't reach the dead. The dead could see through illusions, everyone knew that. They saw the truth of everything, because they were no longer deceived by their senses.

 Again, she shut her eyes and this time, she began to walk. Step after step, half-expecting to hit the yew wall ahead...but instead, she kept on walking. Her feet began to thud on a floor that was no longer cold stone, but the perfect flatness of tiles.

As she stepped on, voices began to grow in her ears; first a soft murmuring, like a distant waterfall, then louder, until she could pick out individual voices. She didn't dare to open her eyes, in case it all disappeared, but she listened long as she walked faithfully into unknown darkness, and then...the voice she wanted.

 "...ain't nothin' I can do 'bout it," a voice said almost sadly. "They's on their own now. I wish..."

 Her eyes flew open, full of hope as the golden sun.

 Ryan Talver was standing there.

~*~

By dusk, the King had made his arrangements. Knights spilled forth from the castle in a sleek train, like dozens of tiny silver and bronze ants. Pitiful, feeble things. They looked so easy to crush...she prayed she was wrong.

 Phillippa ha Minch watched them, riding away to this unknown peril. Other ladies wept, and waved scarves, threw favours to their menfolk and lovers. So many seemed almost to enjoy it - it meant nothing to them, just another distant danger that would be quickly dealt with. There would be death and pain and screams, but they would hear none of them. They would remain safe and sheltered, spinning tales of courage and glory under a burning sun.

 "Pip?" She turned at the voice, still in her ball dress. It felt stupid now, a silly frivolous silken thing that didn't belong among this war that had come to Tortall. Yes, it was war. She at least would admit that.

 "Neal," she said with a sigh. "You're going now?"

 He was in armour, light mail that surely couldn't protect him from the monstrosity of these men who could become beasts. Magic. He was fighting magic, and all he had was a Gift to heal. Someone like him should never have been a warrior. What use was the sword he held again the ferocity of teeth and claws, against madness?

 "I have to," he answered. The emerald eyes were unhappy, but at the same time, filled with desire for triumph. "It's my duty."

 "Duty," Pip said scornfully. "Do you know what that really means, Neal?"

 He came to stand beside her on the battlements, looking down at the nobles galloping into the night. Back to their lands, back into that realm of unnatural magic. "I  think so."

 She laughed bitterly. "What it means, Neal, is people being sent to the slaughter. Kiery, father, you, all of you...how many of you will come back? While we have to sit here and - wait!" She spat the last word out, her pale face flushed.

 Neal considered his next words carefully. He didn't like seeing Pip this way, but what could he say? It was his duty. He had sworn to serve the realm, and that didn't mean that when the going got tough, he stepped back and refused to fight. He wasn't Vinson, something he thanked his gods for every day.

 "I know it can't be much fun for you, my dear girl," he said gently, "but would you rather be out there? Fighting...being afraid all the time because you have no comprehension of what you're facing?"

 "That's what life is!" Pip declared heatedly. Her sea-green eyes flashed with wrath. "It's not a tournament where the big brave men charge up and down and all us brainless ladies sit and clap politely. How can you expect to fight this when you leave half the kingdom to sit around and weep?"

 "That's the way it's always been," he murmured. "There have been women warriors true, and according to-"

 "You cite one book," Pip said in dangerously quiet tones, "and I swear, Neal of Queenscove, it will take the greatest healer in the realm to separate that sword from your posterior."

 He grinned, despite the seriousness of the situation. "Pip, it's probably not as bad as the King said. It's a chance to fight for our land, to put right a wrong."

 "How can you see glory in this?" Pip demanded. Looking out across the battlements, Neal saw the proud procession of knights, of glossy horses moving gracefully, or men whose faces were filled with determination to fight for the law of their realm. He wondered what Pip saw.

 "How can you not?" he asked in return.

 The wind lifted her hair in spiralling tendrils. As she swung back to him furiously, she was like some avenging goddess, fierce and primal and lovely. "How can you be so blind, Neal! This is war!"

 "I know," he said patiently. "But whether you see it as foolish or right, it's still going to happen. We have to fight for what we believe in, or there would be nothing to fight for."

 She stared at him, biting her lip. "Oh, I know that," she said. Her voice was more exasperated than anything. "I just...wish people would be realistic. Don't let glory stop you being careful, Neal. If you get yourself killed, I'll resurrect you and kill you again."

 She meant it. "I have no plans to get myself killed," Neal said dryly. "I'm rather attached to my life. It has certain quirks, like breathing."

 Pip eyed him, her face sceptical. "Fine. Live a quiet life, Neal, don't die a hero's death."

 He shrugged. "I think I'm in the wrong vocation for that."

 A new voice cut across them. "Neal!" It was the quick, hard tones of the Lioness, magnificent in her golden armour. A nod of her head acknowledged Pip; the curl of her lip, the other ladies. "I was talking to Jon," she explained. "Phillippa, Thayet wants to talk to you later. She's going to organise the defence of the city, and as most of the men who can fight have been conscripted by the lords, it's a case of ladies first."

 He saw his friend's eyes blaze with an unholy green light. "Good."

 "It's time we left, squire," the Lioness said. Her face was set, severe in her armour and a saddlebag in one hand. She cast a half-amused glance at Pip. "Keep your goodbyes brief."

 Pip glowered after the departing, stocky form of the Champion. "She thinks we're..." she muttered furiously. "Honestly, why is the whole castle determined to think the worst?"

 "Well," Neal said cheerfully, "it's always better to be pessimistic and wrong than optimistic and wrong."

 "I suppose," the noblewoman said glumly. The breeze fluttered her hair up again and Neal noticed something shiny tucked at the nape of her neck. It couldn't be...her hair moved aside again and Neal was sure.

 "You're wearing a knife, you untrusting fiend!" he said, shocked.
 
 Pip blinked then shrugged. "I didn't trust that-" She said a word that made one of the noble ladies take a step away, looking alarmed. "-Vinson."
 
 Neal sighed, raking a hand through his hair. "It's probably a good idea."

 They were both side-stepping, he knew. Neal had never been particularly good with goodbyes, and Pip was like one of his family.

 "I'd better go," he said uneasily. It was strange, he thought, how everything could change so quickly. An hour ago, they had been dancing to violins and harps...now, they stood on the battlements, with a cold wind blowing from the north, a wind carrying tidings of battle and blood.

 "You had," she said solemnly. Her eyes flicked away from him, down to the outpouring of people. Then she said, "Oh!" in an exasperated tone, and kissed him on the cheek. "Goodbye," she told him firmly, her voice cool and clear. "There, I've said it. Now go, for Mithros' sake, or the battle'll be fought without you."

 "You sound just like my older sister," he commented sourly. That, he was beginning to realise, was what she had become. She was fun to be with, and a challenge to talk to at the best of times, but she didn't make his heart pound or his breath catch... not the way there had been with...well, this was no time for that.

 "Good luck," she said. "Give my best wishes to the others."

 Neal couldn't stop the wicked grin that crept over his face. "Any others in particular?" He had noticed her deep in discussion with the Prince often. And she didn't seem to punch him as often as everyone else.

 She swatted him on the head, starting to blush a little. "Shut up, Neal."

 "My lady," he said courteously, executing a sweeping bow, for which he was promptly hit on the head. "Hey!"

 "If you can't stop sweet, innocent little me," she pointed out, "what hope do you have against anyone else?"

 Before she even knew what he was doing, Neal had moved, a flash of silver, and flipped her onto the ground. For a moment, her face was shocked (the nobles around them gasped in horror, no doubt thinking he had gone quite mad), then Pip began to laugh, her eyes sparkling with mirth.

 Neal of Queenscove grinned down at her. "I'll cope," he said, and strode off to battle.

~*~

 Numair Salmalin opened heavy eyelids to see only a blurred haze of blue. As he blinked, trying to clear his vision, he realised his entire body felt unaccountably heavy, as though every limb had been turned to stone. A dull, sinking feeling began in his stomach. He knew this spell; Ozorne had tried it on him once, long ago at the university as a 'joke'. Some joke...he had been unable to move until the Mithran master managed to untangle the spell; Ozorne had swanned off to hunt with his friends, laughing all the way, no doubt.

 He tried to speak, but all that came out was a garbled moan.

 "Arram?" The voice was a soft hiss. He recognised it from somewhere...the knowledge scuttled around the edge of his mind. "Blink if you can hear me."

 He blinked. The haze above him was beginning to recede a little, and there was just enough feeling left in his body to tell him he was lying down.

 "I don't suppose you remember me," the low voice went on. A flash of red slipped over his vision, like a rose of stained glass. "Laird y Sanra?"

 Mithros, Mynoss and Shakith! How could he forget?

 As he vision cleared, he saw the pale oriental face with its slanting cheekbones and impassive expression. Only the eyes gave her away; the darkness of them was brimming with fear, but unless he had known her as well as he did, Numair wouldn't have realised anything was wrong.

 "You've done well for yourself, Arram," she said dryly. Her voice was rich, bleak as the desert horizon. "I wish I could say the same."

 He tried to speak again, but there was only the strangulated gasp that passed for his voice.

 The girl - though she wasn't of course, she was a woman grown now, but to Numair she would always be the streetrat he had travelled with in those grim years after he fled from Carthak, moving from town to town with their paltry show of illusions and tricks - sketched in the air with her white fingers, her lips moving silently.

 The weight lifted, leaving him light as a feather. Numair sat up gingerly, wincing as nerves sprung into tingling life. "What-" he began, before she clapped a hand over his mouth, shaking her head.

 "Hush!" Laird hissed. "If it knows you're awake, we're both dead!"

 "It?" he said, keeping his voice low. A swift glance around did not reassure him. This looked like some kind of cell, clearly a laboratory from the scrolls scattered about and the metal instruments that were neatly lined up on a stone slab. "Would you care to elaborate?"

 Laird stepped back cautiously. "Are you going to keep quiet?" she whispered. He nodded, taking note of the red robe that she wore, the scarlet a leaping flame in the dim light.

 "You're a mage?" When he had known Laird, she had been a fire-eating girl, a tumbler, nothing more. An eastern delight to the crowd with her long-legged grace and satiric, flashing smile that seemed full of mystery.

 She nodded her head sharply, the silver rods holding her hair in an intricate twist gleaming. "Seems like it's catching, Arram."

 He smiled, delighted despite the gravity of the situation. "Congratulations."

 "Only a red robe though," she murmured wistfully. "Not quite your level. Really, Arram, you never said you were that Gifted."

 He shrugged. He didn't look the part of the mighty mage now, in his travel-stained clothes, his grimy face and the sheer exhaustion he felt. "This 'it', Laird?"

 She shifted uneasily, the scarlet robe rippling. Her dark eyes met his squarely. "Do you know what an Arachon is?" She spat the name, as if it was something tainted.

 Numair blinked. Another immortal sprung to life? How many of these fabled beings lay hidden in their land? He had thought many were extinct, or locked in the Divine Realms. "Part spider, part dragon. Of legend, notoriously unstable. Three eyes, the third said to be the seat of power-"

 "Still sound like you swallowed the scroll," the woman remarked with half a smile.

 "But why come here of all places?" he said irritably. "The north has very little land or protection. The coasts or the sea would be better - I believe it is aqueous by nature...and what on earth are you doing in the, the-" He trailed off, unable to voice his thought.
 
"The employment of one," Laird finished. Her face was bitter. "I was foolish, Arram. That was all. I stumbled across it one night and was fool enough to think I might capture it and take it back to Corus. In the midst of the War, I was convinced they would pay me for such a prize. I would be famous...living from charms and talismans is no way to make a living."

 He smiled grimly, remembering the days when they both had lived just that way. Often they had gone hungry, or frozen sleeping on the streets because the inns were too costly.  "But still, an Arachon?"

 Her eyebrows arched. "Alas, I didn't have your education. I didn't know how powerful the wretched creature was. It enslaved me...and I am the lucky one, Arram. It has others here, prisoners. All mages, all with power."

 "Solely mages?" He frowned. It niggled at him...that was important somehow. Laird must have seen his confusion.

"Do you know what they feed upon, Arram?"

 "I believe they feed upon...oh." he stopped. Enlightenment dawned. "Magic," he said softly. "It feeds on magic."

 She gave him a thin-lipped smile. "Clever as ever. Yes, when the men began to take the magic here, the Arachon felt it. We came for a girl originally, some little Gifted creature that caused quite a stir in the magical world. But it has decided to stay - there is food enough for its lifetime running about."

 "I know," he answered mildly. "We were seeking her."

 Laird stared at him. "She is here," she murmured. "We caught her one even...sleeping out in the open." The dark eyes flickered. "The Arachon wants information from her - the whereabouts of the boy."

 Numair made his face a perfectly blank mask. "What boy?" he said as innocently as he dared. For all he knew, Laird was in league with this creature, not merely enslaved by it.

 Her brow furrowed. "I can't believe you don't know. The girl is bound to a boy, equally powerful. The Arachon wants them both..." her eyes slid away from his. "She wants you too," Laird said so softly he had to strain to hear her.

 He looked at her. "And why did you wake me, Laird?"  Numair thought he knew the answer but he wanted confirmation.

 His childhood friend, a girl who had discovered magical powers of her own, lifted that proud head and the fire in her eyes heartened him. "I want out of this," she said. "I can't spend my life paying for one mistake, being at its beck and call." She held up her arms, so the billowing sleeves of the robe fell back and he saw the weals along her arms. "I cannot take any more pain. I want it dead, and I need your help to do it."

 He gave a little bow. "Agreed."
                        
For the first time, he saw that wonderful genuine smile of hers, flicking white in the shadows. "Good," she said. "We must-"

 She froze, like a deer in front of the hunters, her dark eyes deepening like two wells. "it's coming," she hissed. "Lie down, I must put the spell back on. I will tell it you are unconscious."

 Hastily, he did as she asked and resigned himself to the slow, cold feeling that stole over him.

~*~

 Their first meeting, face to face. Andrea stared at the boy, the boy who had risked his life for hers and paid the highest price of all.

 He looked the same. The gentle dove-grey eyes, with a steeliness behind them echoed in the sharp-cut features and coolly confident voice. Tousled dark hair that fell into his eyes, a wide mouth with a humorous tilt and tan skin. He could have passed for a noble, if not for the grubby clothes and rough voice.

 "Hello." His stare was frankly startled. "What are you doin' here?"

 Andrea swallowed. "I came looking for you," she answered.

 He shrugged, sorrow stealing into his face. "I'm dead. Ain't no use lookin' for me now. I can't help." His smile was crooked, sweet as honey. "I'm sorry I let you down. I should a' helped you."

 "You're not dead," she pointed out. She glanced at the boy he was talking to. Another streetrat, with a wolfish appraising grin, and green eyes fresh as spring. "Who're you?"

 "'M Quicksilver," he said, holding out a calloused hand. "Got knifed yesterday. I'm a-waitin' for the bastard what got me to show up." Sharp teeth gleamed. "Then I'm goin' to teach him not to hurt kids."

 "This isn't the Realms of the Dead," Andrea told Ryan. He shrugged slightly. "What are you waiting for?"

 "Homage an' power," he drawled. "I ain't got no idea. Guess I am waitin', now you mention it. But I'm dead, Andrea...that's your name, ain't it?"

 She nodded.

 "It's pretty," he said mildly, and carried on. "I'm gone, an' I may be a streetrat but even I know that once you're gone, ain't no goin' back."

 "I'm here." Her gold eyes met his defiantly. "I'm going back and you're coming with me, whether you want to or not."

 The grey eyes widened, a smile curling up his mouth with breathtaking slowness. "Goin' to argue with the gods, are ye?"

 "I already have," she snapped back.

 Ryan stared at her closely. She stared back, hoping he would see the truth in her eyes. "You serious?"

 "I walked this way to find you." Her voice was soft as ever, but ice lay under it like a sheathed sword. "You can at least give me some company on the way back." His face became uncertain; Andrea pressed her advantage. "Aren't there people you're going to miss? Do you want to leave everything behind for this?" She gestured disdainfully at the plain room.

 She saw it in his eyes, a kind of growing wonder that changed them from misty into that pure, blazing turquoise of summer skies and knew she had won.

 "How do I go back?" he said finally.

 She beamed. "Hold on to me, I suppose." She held out her hand, small and delicate.

 It was the first time they had ever touched...and neither could have predicted what happened as lightning splintered the world.

 Sunlight, blasting through Andrea's shut eyelids in painful golden beams. She clung onto Ryan as the closest thing she had to a friend right now, heard him curse in a soft voice.

 "Children. Welcome."

 The voice had a ring to it like a hammer striking an anvil, like the clash of a thousand swords in battle. Under it, Andrea thought she could hear the screams of the dying. Slowly, the blinding light dimmed.

 "Oh, hell in a handbasket," Ryan muttered darkly. "It's the gods again."

 "That attitude will not win you favour," the voice barked and Andrea recognised it. Mithros.

 Beside her, she felt Ryan snort. "You know what I've noticed?" he whispered in her ear.

 "What?" Andrea found the courage to whisper back.

 "I am your god," Mithros declared. She squinted at him from her watering eyes. He still glowed like the sun, his dark eyes piercing. His armour shone dazzlingly, sending sparks of light jumping around this...hall they appeared to be in. "I can smite you into a thousand pieces."

 "They moan," the streetboy said fervently. "Never shut up about the fact they're gods. You'd think they were..." He paused, obviously at a loss for words.
 
 "Gods?" Andrea offered, the starts of a smile curving her mouth.

 A lightning bolt cracked by their feet. Startled, Andrea leapt back, seeing her shock reflected in Ryan's grey eyes. And then something that surprised her. Not fear...but anger. He wasn't at all scared of the god.

 "You will listen to me when I talk!" the sun-god bellowed furiously. Andrea clamped her hands over her ears, and she swore that the earth trembled under her feet. Or...the tiled floor, anyway. The hall was an iridescent marble delight, carven from glossy white and grey stone. Slender pillars stretched up to an arching ceiling covered in paintings of famous myths, while tapestries fluttered on the walls.

 "Like anyone can avoid it," a sleek voice purred. Andrea looked down. A small black cat had wrapped itself around her legs, and stared up at her with extraordinary purple eyes. "Not exactly the shy and retiring type, is he? Well, pick me up, mortal, and scratch my ears."

 Startled, she obeyed, the cat a warm purring mass as it wriggled in her arms.

 Mithros looked like he was about rupture something. Andrea looked around nervously for a place that might offer some sort of refuge from any stray thunderbolts he decided to fling and came up empty.

 "Hush, Fidelis," a smooth voice said. A woman came walking out form behind one of the pillars, her black hair a wavy mass that cascaded down to her feet and her eyes as green as spring. A simple white shift only enhanced her beauty. "Calm yourself, brother." Her intense stared fixed on Andrea, who clutched the cat more tightly. Surely this was the great Goddess who ruled over all women.

 She curtsied nervously, holding onto the cat. "My lady..."

 The Goddess waved a languid hand. "You needn't bother, child." Her attention flicked between the pair of them. Ryan stared back coolly - didn't anything faze him? "So you have finally met."

 Andrea glanced at Ryan, saw him grin faintly. She looked back at the goddess, a little of the awe dimming from the silken gold of her eyes. "We have, my lady."

 "Not wantin' to offend an' all," Ryan put in helpfully, "But did you want somethin'?"

 The Goddess raised one slender black eyebrow. "Child, it is strange how without wanting to offend, you manage it marvellously every time."

 "'M a thief, not a noble," the boy said with a shrug. "An' a dead thief at that. What else can anyone do to me?"

 "I can be very creative," Mithros said darkly.

 "Oh hush, brother," the Goddess said dismissively. "You're all thunder and no lightning."

 The storm god looked...sulky. Andrea blinked. But gods didn't look sullen. They were supposed to be wise, and venerable, and...

 "He's only behaving because last time he fought the Goddess, she won," the cat whispered in her ear.

 ...more human than she had thought.

 "As for what we want..." The woman smiled, and it was as if the sun had plummeted into the room. "Look after each other, children. You are surrounded by danger."

 Ryan didn't look impressed by this piece of divine wisdom. "My, how do you work these things out?"

 "Girl...you must wrench free of the creature that holds you." The woman moved towards her in a swish of silken shift, the scent of summer. One cool perfect hand lifted her chin up and Andrea quailed inwardly at the face. "You are so afraid of everything, child. They have treated you badly...yet you had the courage to escape."

 "I only escaped because I was afeared, my lady," she whispered, hoping the Goddess would not be angry with her.

 "Do not be ashamed of your Gift," the woman said solemnly. "It is a thing of beauty and splendour. And it is no bad thing to fear. It keeps you alert, and it has kept you alive. But be aware there are those who will never harm you. You rescued one of them from the Realms of the Dead. You must protect Ryan, as surely as he must protect you."

 "But why?" the streetboy said. For the first time, a hint of bewilderment crept into the rough velvet of his voice.

 The Goddess's stunning cat eyes narrowed. "Life has plans for you, children. I fear peacetime will not be long. New gods are coming from across the sea, and they are cold and cruel. It is not only mortals who will have a war upon their hands. Together, you will be stronger. We cannot help you much...but we have given you each other. Treasure the opportunity. It has saved you both already."

 The woman let go of Andrea, and spun sharply. "Thief, you can steal nothing from this place."

 "Just lookin'," Ryan muttered. He put down a silver icon he had been holding, looking sheepish.

 "I have a suggestion, if I might?" the cat purred from her shoulder. "If Grumpy over there isn't planning on objecting."

 Mithros's mouth was curled in annoyance. "They say curiosity killed the cat. They may be about to change it to incivility."

 "Cats answer to no one," the creature declared, and leapt from Andrea's shoulder to the ground, landing light and sure. "This child is covered in injuries. Expending magic like she has will only further weaken her. Might I recommend you make yourself useful for once, heal her, and give her a better chance of escape?"

 "You certainly are uncivil," the Goddess remarked. But there was humour in her eyes. "However, you are also right. And no doubt you will be insufferably smug about this for weeks."

 The cat washed an ear laconically, giving no answer but the merry twitch of its tail.

 "That is my duty," Mithros declared. "My chosen are known for their fortitude."

 "And their big heads," Andrea heard the cat mew.

 The Sun-God beckoned her over imperiously, and feeling nervous, Andrea obeyed. She was wringing her hands, she realised, and tried to stop. He put one huge hand over both her small ones, and sighed. "That wretched stray is right," he said flatly. "Your body is beginning to fail you, child."

 She had thought he might apologise for shouting at her so often. But gods didn't apologise.

 He murmured a word, and she felt a strange vitality seep into her body, down to her very bones.

 "Be brave, chosen," he ordered. "The road is long, the night is dark and the time is short."

 The cat arched its back. "I bet he spent ages thinking that quote up."

 "And you, thief," Mithros rapped. "Guard my chosen one well. Or you will not find your next death as short-lived as the first."

 Ryan gave Andrea a bright, startlingly sweet smile. "She's got to look after me too," he protested. "I'm just a poor, innocent little lamb, followin' the instructions of my gods..."

 She had to smile. From what little she had seen of him, innocent was a word that could in no way be applied.

 "Now begone from my home," Mithros snapped. "I grow tried of mortals cluttering it up."

 The world winked out.

~*~

 "He's not awake, master."

 Numair prayed silently as Laird lied to the creature. Her voice was rock-steady, cool as ice. His eyes were open, fixed by the spell. Above him, a rocky ceiling and in the corner of his eyes, a flash of something scaled and clawed, a repulsive shadow the in the half-light of the cave

 "You're lying to me, slave."

 He heard a crack and a faint cry. Laird was in trouble. Damn. But this spell...

 She's a red robe, he told himself. You're a black robe. You should be able to unpick this spell easily. Why are you still lying here?

 He reached out with his magical senses, testing the bindings around him. They were strong, yes, and neatly woven but...there. A tiny flaw in the pattern. He drew up his magic like the head of a spear, glitteringly black and sleek, and smashed the spell into pieces.

  Numair slid off the stone onto his feet in time to see a narrow head snap towards him, then a clawed foot knocked him into the air and onto his back.

 He hit the ground with a painful crunch, cursing every god existing. Curse the creature, he would-

 Its tail lashed down and he rolled sideways, under the scant shelter of the table. Spell, spell, spell...

 "Come out, mage," it screamed. He saw its head bob down to glare at him with its three eyes. "I can seeeee you!"

 Great. Not only all-powerful but totally insane too. Ozorne with scales.

 Fire exploded from his hands, flicking out at the creature like shining whips. It screamed and recoiled, one eye gone.

 He could just see Laird, a slumped heap on the floor. He black hair was sprawled over her face like a mourning shroud. A shroud...that was what they would both be wearing if he didn't get rid of this creature. But he couldn't try any titanic spells, not in this space, not with other mages imprisoned who knew where.

 He edged out from the stone table, over to Laird and shook her. She moaned softly, and sat up, her face a mess. Its claws had raked her from temple to chin, narrowly missing her eyes. "Can you fight?"

 She didn't answer but looked over his shoulder and in her black eyes, he saw the answer...

 The Arachon, leaping like a cat with its talons outstretched and ready to rip the life from them both-

 She moved faster than his eye could catch, pushing him sideways and following in one of the acrobatic leaps she had begged for coin with when they had both been surviving on the streets.

 It had been intending them to land on them. But with nothing to grab hold of, the Arachon missed the floor completely and hit the opposite wall with a resounding crack.

 "Goddess, Goddess, Goddess," Laird kept saying under her breath. She was rubbing at the mess of her face abstractedly. "it's going to kill me, Arram, it will."

 It was beginning to pick itself up, long slender legs pushing up the weight.

 "Not if we kill it first," he said tightly, running through the spells he could use. No point in turning it into a tree. The spell needed soil to work. Opening the ground might drop them into the chasm too. Calling down a firestorm...no, he had no urge to be a tasty char-grilled mage. Damn, damn, damn!

 "How?" Laird hissed hysterically. "Turn it into a pumpkin?"

 Its head was lifting, the remaining two eyes fixing on them with a crazed glare. It had begun chittering like a cricket, slowly standing. One clawed foot moving forward. The next. Step after step, getting faster and faster, slinking forward like a dragon...

 And it hit him.

 Numair pointed at it and screamed the words which flew into his head.

 There was a dazzling flash of black fire shot with silver, and a sound like thousand glasses smashing against a wall.

 When the sunspots had disappeared from his eyes, the Arachon was gone. And in its place...

 A very surprised dragon.

 "Numair?" Laird said in a hushed voice, clinging onto his arm. "What did you do?"

 The dragon looked at him, its vast turquoise eyes sparkling. My question exactly.

~*~

 Andrea looked around. Still the same carnage, the soft and shocked silence of the people who wandered among the bodies of the dead. She saw one girl turn her face away as she glimpsed a child cut near in two. Children and wives and fathers, all made equal by the slice of a sword.

 "Well," she said calmly, looking down at the body by her feet. "That's you."

 Ryan glanced down too, as his own lifeless form. "Aye." Andrea wondered how his own face looked to him; even in repose, there was an aristocratic tilt to his features, the shock of dark hair stark against his too-pale skin. The scar that had once cut across his face was gone somehow, and the vivid eyes were hidden.

 "So much for restin' in peace," he said ruefully. He scuffed his feet, though they left no mark on the ground. "Well...I guess I'll be seein' you."

 "I hope so," she said with a sigh. She knew what she had to go back to; pain, and torture, and the lizard face of a monster with three eyes and no heart. She put a hand on his arm, startled at herself. "Please...come and help me. I don't think I can get out of there on my own."

 The grey eyes met hers, clear and full of faith. "I will, lass. I owe you."

 There was a shimmering silver cord attached from his foot to his body. Ryan glanced at it then reached down and wrapped a hand around the cord. It seemed more instinct than anything.

 He disappeared.

 Alarmed, Andrea looked around. "Ryan?"

 Then below, she saw his hand twitch, saw him take a deep breath and then his eyelids lifted slowly. She knew he couldn't see her, but she heard the cool wind of his voice.

  Thanks.

~*~

A scant half hour after Neal had left, evening found Pip on the castle parapets with a bow in her hand and a quiver slung across her back, out of the impractical dress and in shirt and breeches. Other women lined the walls, but to Pip's surprise, few nobles among them.

 "We're lonely up here, ma'am," she remarked to the Queen, who looked forbidding with her black hair drawn back and a sword slung over her hip. Her bow rested on the walls.

 Thayet's hazel eyes twinkled gently. "The blue blood seems to be too weak for fighting, Pip. And you don't need to call me ma'am - we're informal up here."

 Pip snorted, keeping her eyes to the sky. With so many knights flooding from the castle, immortals would soon be pouring in. "You mean those idiots are too afraid."

 "They haven't had the training we have. You forget, most families prefer their daughters to be gentle, fragile creatures."

 She had to grin. Her father had put a bow in her hand at five, a knife at eight and she had been fortunate enough to meet a Shang Master for a brief two weeks at the age of twelve. "Useless."

 "For anything but marriage, alas," the Queen agreed. She sighed. "Ever since Jon told Kally she couldn't be a page, she's gone down that road."

 Sure enough, Princess Kalasin was nowhere to be seen. "Why?"

 Thayet arched her black eyebrows. "Oh, she's as stubborn as Jon. Wretched child, why couldn't she have had his face and my temperament?"

 Privately Pip thought that the result would have been the same. King and Queen were equally stubborn.

 "She's decided that if she makes herself into one of those cloying, revolting courtiers who flutter around like headless chickens, he'll give in and let her learn. It's not that she isn't prepared to marry, she just wants to fill up the time usefully until she does so."

 "Sounds sensible to me," Pip said. Was that a dot in the sky? She narrowed her eyes, leaning out over the wall.

 "It is," Thayet agreed abstractedly. She too had spotted the moving black spot. "But it is not practical for her to train as a knight! She would be eighteen before she was done, and then bound to the realm. Her marriage is planned for her sixteenth birthday."

 Pip flinched inwardly. Her father had planned her marriage for sixteen, but in the end her betrothed had refused her because she was too 'unladylike'. Still, he had regretted that when she blacked his eye for it.

 As the black circle loomed, she forgot that. It was not one speck, but many.

 Thayet straightened, her face paling. "Hurroks!" she cried. "Archers ready!"

 There was frantic activity as Riders and nobles alike fitted arrows to their bows, mages muttered the first words of spells and rainbow fires leapt up all around.

 Pip waited.

~*~

 Ryan blinked sleepily. Moaning Mithros, his head hurt. With a groan, he sat up, rubbing at his temples.

 Someone screamed.

 He looked up, and there was a girl, an archer from the guards on her wrist, staring at him and shrieking fit to wake the dead. He grinned at the thought.

 "You...you..." she babbled. Her doe-brown eyes were huge with fear.

 "Vanya?" another voice said. It was a young woman he didn't know, with sea-green eyes and freckles dusting her elfin face. "What are you yowling about?"

 The archer pointed a shaking finger at Ryan. "He...he was dead."

 The woman followed her hand. Ryan smiled sheepishly at her and got to his feet lightly, wincing as muscles complained. "He looks quite lively to me."

 "No, she's right," he put in, before the red-headed archer fired an arrow at him to prove her point. Though her hands were shaking so much, he doubted it would hit him. "I was dead. I got a reprieve."

 "Hmmm." The woman eyed him suspiciously. "Do you have a name, boy?"

 "Yes." If she wanted his name, she could damn well ask. And where was Kel? Ryan remembered her fighting right beside him, and then there had been the pain of the axe and...nothing.

 The woman's voice sharpened. "And it is?"

 "Ryan Talver." He eyed her impassive face. "Thief an' mage apprentice at your service. An' who are you?"

 The woman blinked, startled at the question. "Miri, commander of the Fifth Riders. Are you one of Master Salmalin's?"

 "Aye," he said. "I was travellin' with some people...a squire, Kel...I mean, Keladry of Mindelan. An' some Court bint."

 Miri's face became grave. "Keladry was injured. I'm afraid she-"

 His heart went cold. Kel? Hurt? He looked around frantically, scanning the scene. The road, strewn with bodies, and the woodland thick and green all around, but all so still. Then he saw the healer, sitting with blue fire smouldering around, futilely trying to heal a girl whose face he knew far too well.

 Miri was left gaping as the streetboy strode past her, a curious kind of pain in his face.

~*~

 "He's obviously not here," Joren finally observed lazily. The blond boy cast a languid eye about the spot where they had met Numair Salmalin. "As far as I know, he's not known for playing hide-and-seek. Or shall I count to ten in a loud voice and hope?"

 Cleon was counting to ten under his breath to try and restrain himself from hitting Joren. His snide comments were getting on his sole remaining nerve.

 "Well, where can he have gone?" he demanded. Empty road, empty sky, only the chill of winter beating down on them. "He's a mage!"

 Joren shrugged. "Mindelan," he pointed out coolly. "Is supposed to be a squire. Look what happened to her."

 Cleon glared at him fiercely, starting to see red as his hair. "They don't train us to fight rabid shapeshifters."

 "Oh, I don't know," Joren mused. "Lord Wyldon certainly comes close. He goes quite apoplectic if you miss a strike." He yawned. "Should we wend our way back, then? Break the news that the realm's greatest mage seems to have all the directional ability of a dead snail?"

 "Something might have happened to him," Cleon said anxiously. There wasn't even a trace of footsteps. But...he stepped over to the thin grass of the verge and stared at the marks there.

 "Well," Joren continued blithely, dusting off his finery, "I would have thought that was fairly obvious. Or perhaps he's just spotted another promising mage to take advantage of."

 Cleon hunkered down to examine them. They looked like bird's steps...if the bird had feet a foot and a half long. Frowning, he followed them into the woods, leaving Joren's arrogant voice far behind.

 The woods were cool and dark, branches brushing his faces like Stormwing feathers. Normally he would have been on his guard for spidrens...but there were no immortals here. There was nothing, not even the thin flute of birdsong. Only a patient silence.

 Someone had flattened a path through the shrubs and trees he saw. A wide path. Whatever it was, was at least five feet wide, and strong enough to fell a tree. And tall too. Cleon was starting to get worried...this was nothing natural. Only the grey creatures of Carthak - the elephants - measured up to this.

 And suddenly, the trail stopped, in front of a sheer rock face.

 Cleon frowned. Mountains were common enough in the North, but not like this. The rock was a perfectly smooth, flat grey, with only a single arch of a hairline crack running along it. No jagged edges, no overhangs, no slope. Just vertical cliff.

 He stood back to look better. Behind him, he heard Joren's grumbling cultured voice floating nearer. This was weird.

 "What have you stopped here for?" a disgusted Joren said when he finally arrived. "Don't tell me I just dragged myself through three hundred yards of mud and trees to stare at a piece of rock."

 "The path led here," he answered absently. That arch-shaped crack...could it be the outline of a doorway? He reached out and pushed the section of rock to see if it would swing open, like they always did in the old fairytales. Nothing.

 "Oh good," Joren drawled acerbically. "And are we going to stand here waiting for enlightenment or turn around and explain that Master Salmalin has decided to do a rather convincing vanishing trick?"

 Cleon turned to glare at him. "Do you ever shut up?"

 Joren's blue eyes were cool as ice-comets. "Not when I have good reason to complain." He reached out and slapped the rockface. "Look. It's stone. It's not going anywhere-"

 But Cleon wasn't listening. He could see a faint indentation in the rock now, just to the left of the arch. It looked like a hand. Very faint, you wouldn't notice it if you weren't looking closely. Cautiously, he placed his palm in the indentation and-

 The arch swung inwards silently.

 For the first time in two hours, Joren shut up.

~*~

 She looked so small.

 That was all Ryan could think, and it just kept spinning round and round and round his head. This was Kel, who fought spidrens and noblewomen with equal vigour, who was fierce without cruelty and no, not perfect but still...somehow his.

 "It's no use," the healer was saying to a tall, gaunt man. He had to be a relative of Kel's; though his face was older and harder, the pensive eyes were the same, and the determined mouth. "I'm sorry, Sir Inness..."

 The man turned away sharply, putting a hand over his eyes.

 "Can I try?" Ryan asked quietly. He wouldn't give up. Andrea had brought him back from the dead.

 The healer's look had a touch of scorn, though his voice was sad. "You're just a boy. Lad, I'm telling you, we've lost this one. It...it happens."

 "Not to my friends," Ryan snapped angrily. The healer opened his mouth to say something, but then the Rider girl, Miri, called to him.

 "Curio, he's one of Numair's. Let him try." There the ghost of a smile of her face. "After all, he's just come back from the dead."

 Bemused, the healer obeyed. Ryan knelt down, putting his hands to Kel's temples as he had seen the healers do so often.

 He didn't know how to heal. But he knew someone who did.

  Andrea? he called in his mind. He could feel the power that bound them; it was as though they were two people on either side of a door. All he had to do was open it. Are you there? Are you okay?

  I'm here. He could sense her beyond that door, a soft golden presence. The Arachon gave up on me. Threw me back in the cells. Concern...he could sense what she was feeling, and she had to be able to do the same. You need help?

  I need to heal, he said hopelessly. My friend, she's hurt. Can you tell me how?

Your power isn't meant for healing, but...but I could funnel my magic through you. That might work.

 He listened to her sunlit voice, a reassuring warmth in the bleakness of his situation, and felt her magic gush through him into Kel, searching for the flicker of fire inside her that would mean she was alive. Around him, her blood swishing weakly, the slowing thud of her heartbeat...and then he saw it.

 Just a glint of copper, same as the highlights in her hair and the flecks in her eyes, but it was there. He flooded magic and energy into that spark until it flared up, and like a flower unfolding, he could hear scraps of Kel's thoughts as she woke back up.

  She'll be fine now, Andrea said, satisfied. But there was sadness in her voice too.

 You sound upset, he remarked.

 Her embarrassment, like a deer frozen in firelight. Oh...you just seem so close. I've...never had a friend.

  We're friends! he said indignantly.

 We are?

 I don't save just anybody's life. An' I certainly don't have magical chats with everyone I meet.

  But we're bound, she said feebly.

 Half his mind on healing, Ryan snorted. Don't go all noble-witted on me, girl. You ain't ever had much chance to make friends. But you'll see...it'll be different from now. You ain't goin' to be alone.

 He heard her laugh, and wondered at her next words. I'm not alone now...I think...maybe I do have friends. I just didn't know.

 But he forgot all of it as Kel opened her eyes.

~*~

 "Ah," Numair said weakly. "Hello."

 The dragon glared. What do you mean 'hello'? Mortal, I was in the middle of an exquisite meal in the Dragonrealms. Why did you bring me here?

 The mage squirmed. "I didn't so much...bring you here, as send something else there. I just didn't anticipate I'd bring back anything living."

  Oh didn't you? the reptile said icily. It was at least thirty feet long, much larger than the Arachon, and in the narrow cave it was, to say the least, snug. Its scales were a deep shade of green, catching blue highlights in the sole unscathed torch. Well, I'm alive, mage!

 "I can see that," he answered, trying to think of any spells that could give the dragon more room.

  What did you send back? Insolent wretch, it muttered resentfully, stretching out.

 He wasn't sure he wanted to tell it. Dragons and Arachons were notorious for their hatred of one another, despite the fact the Arachon was part-dragon. "An Arachon."

  Ah. Dessert. Very nice those, just a touch crunchy. Its nostrils flared as the head snaked forward to sniff at them. You're lucky. Jewelclaw was next to me and he has far less patience with you fumbling magic-wielders. If you'd got him, you'd be seeing the business end of a massacre right about now.

 "I know." He remembered the tetchy dragon. "I've met him."

  Oh, you're that mage. The dragon flicked its tail and the wall crumbled into powder. That's better. So cramped in here. And what about you, little red robe? I see you have that monster's marks on you.

 "I was its slave," Laird said in a small voice. She had backed away from the dragon, ignoring her bleeding face. "My own fault. Are you...going to eat us?"

 There was still a lot of the scared commoner in her, Numair realised. She might have aged, and changed her clothes from filthy to scarlet, but underneath, she was still Laird y Sanra.

 The dragon gave a snort of amusement. I like mortals, it declared, then its head darted forward on the long neck. In gravy.

 Laird gasped and leapt back.

  Sorry, the dragon added. Just my little joke.

 "I haven't met many dragons that joke," Numair murmured.

 It rattled its claws on the stone. I'm unique. That's why they named me Jademirth. If you don't mind, I shall wait outside of these dingy caves. And then, mage, we shall discuss etiquette. Specifically when it is considered sporting to remove a dragon from his homeland.

 "Certainly," Numair said politely. "And perhaps we shall also discuss when it is appropriate to make jokes about devouring people."

 He fancied he heard a touch of respect in the dragon's voice before it rippled out. Hmmph.

~*~

 Cleon crept quietly down the passageway, each step slow and sure. He and Joren had decided not to take a light; although they couldn't see anything, it meant no one could see them either.

 They had argued for near an hour over whether to go back and get help or not. But the others were a half hour's ride back to the village on their weary horses, and double that walking. So in the end, curiosity and valour had won out.

 The passageway was twisting and turning, just large enough for a man, but not for the thing which had wrenched its way through the forest. The light of the doorway was far behind now as they moved deeper into the black heart of the caves. They could have walked past a thousand turnings for all he knew.

 A sound from behind, like a hammer on stone.

"What was that?" Joren hissed.

 "How am I supposed to know?"

 "Women's intuition?" the squire suggested coolly.

 Cleon decided not to warn him about the jagged rock he had so nearly tripped over. There was an 'oomph' behind him, and Joren saying words which were certainly not going to win him favour with any of the Court ladies he was so often ringed by.

 He turned a tight corner and had to shield his eyes as daylight dazzled him. He blinked, waiting for his vision to clear, and found himself in a vaguely rectangular room with doors on the other three sides and two torches at the sides of each. Above, no ceiling but the sky, endlessly azure, and the surrounding mountains like jagged grey teeth.

 "What's this then?" Joren remarked idly as he strolled in.

 Cleon shrugged and examined the closest door. Nothing magical about it, just a sturdy bar over the door and the usual runes that meant while anyone could open the door from the outside, from the inside nothing could pass.

 He opened it.

 He wasn't prepared for what that lay within.

It was the stench that got to him.

 Cleon wanted to vomit. It was rank, a sickly sweet scent that he knew too well, and wished he didn't. The room was dark lit, and for that he was glad. He knew what it was; a torture chamber. He had heard of them - supposedly, there had been one in the palace once, in the reign of Francis the Cruel - but never thought he'd live to see one.

 He had been wrong.

 "Hello?" he called, surprised at how his voice quivered. "Is anyone...alive in there?"

 Don't let there be, he prayed. Don't make me go down in there. Some things should remain locked in darkness.

 There was only silence. He saw no movement from the figures - some only skeletons - chained to the wall, to the strange devices, scattered on the floor.

 He slammed the door shut and leaned back against it.

 "What was it?" Joren inquired coolly. "Was there a mirror in there?"

 "It was a torture chamber," Cleon said hollowly. He didn't even have the energy to be annoyed by Joren's sarcasm. "A used one."

 A second miracle; Joren held his peace, and his mouth narrowed into the stubborn lines that usually meant someone was about to get a good kicking. "We'd better check the others then," he said with more determination than Cleon would have credited him with.

 "Yeah," he echoed, and made himself walk over to the next door as Joren pulled it open, squinting down into the darkness. I'm a knight, he told himself. Or...I will be. I'll see worse than this.

 There was movement.

 His heart went stone cold inside his chest, and Cleon swallowed hard. He didn't pray much, but over the last day, he had seemed to do nothing else.

 "Hello?" he called into the shadowy mass. One step in, and the icy shell around his heart seemed to shrink and contract until he could barely breathe.

 Something ran out of the darkness at him, and Cleon nearly yelled and leapt back, until he realised the creature was only a few feet high, and before it reached him, it stumbled and fell, and then cried out in a voice that was sweet and childlike.

 Cleon instinctively picked the beastling up - he'd five brothers and sisters back home, and he had gotten used to comforting them - and discovered it was a child, a dirt-smeared, sniffling girl who stared at him like he was a dragon or a unicorn.

 "Gods be good," Joren drawled, stepping delicately into the room. "Don't they believe in soap? Or light?"

 "It's a dungeon," a dry voice said. It sounded vaguely familiar to Cleon...but he dismissed it as the child suddenly squirmed and yowled to be put down. "They tend to go heavy on the stone and dark."

 Joren blinked, clearly startled. He looked utterly out of place in his fine clothes, clean and cool as a sculpture cut from sapphire. "Are you planning to skulk in the shadows forever?"

 Cleon found his eyes adjusting to the dark, and he could see a shape huddled in one corner. The little girl had run over to it - no, he corrected, the voice had been masculine, him - and was curled protectively in the boy's arms, her eyes doe-brown, soft and wary.

 "My skulking days are long gone," the boy said, but there was no trace of self-pity in his voice, simply factual acceptance. "I'm a cripple, I'm afraid. I suppose you were hoping for a fair and scantily clad maiden, but I'll have to do. O wise and handsome rescuers etcetera, etcetera."

 Joren scowled, his full mouth quivering dangerously near a pout. "You could be a bit more polite. Do you have a name?"

 "Yes."

 Joren went an interesting shade of purple as the boy didn't offer any more information. It was clear he had expected a little more fawning, gratitude and general showering of praises.

 Cleon cut in before Joren started being petty. "I'm Cleon of Kennan, and this is Joren of Stone Mountain. We're squires of Tortall. We stumbled in here by accident."

 "Cleon of Kennan?" There was sudden sharp interest in the boy's voice. There was an odd scraping sound, and then Cleon realised the boy was dragging himself into the thin grey rectangle of light that the sole window - though it was more a gaping hole - threw onto the floor.

 The boy, he realised, looked somehow scarily familiar. But his eyes chilled Cleon. They were black as the secret depths of night, falling away into infinity like dual wells, and haunted.

 "Yes," he said finally. "It's a western barony...do you know it?"

 The boy gave a short, husky laugh. "Know it? I was born there."

 Suddenly the odd sense of déjà vu fell into place. The slanting cheekbones, they were the inheritance of his mother that Cleon alone of the family seemed to have missed. The arching nose, the proud set of the face that meant stubbornness to the bone. And of course, the famous Kennan hair, red as sunset and with a temper to shatter worlds.

 "I'm Marcus of Kennan," the boy murmured.

 "Oh gods," Joren moaned. The blond squire looked disgusted. "I feel a tender reconciliation coming on."

~*~

 Kel felt the odd drowsiness that had overtaken her recede slowly, like water draining into the ground. When she opened her eyes, the light shredded her vision into golden strips, making her wince and shield her eyes.

 The first thing she saw was Ryan.

 Well, that was a good start. His eyes were the soft, pure colour of silver silk, and peering down at her with worry. That was his hands, gentle on her temples, moving to lift her to a sitting position.

 "Why was I lying down?" she asked, startled at how rusty her voice sounded. She couldn't have been out more than a minute or two.

 "You were takin' a short rest," he said quietly. "In peace."

 "Eh?" It wasn't the most intelligent response ever, but it was all she could manage. Was he saying she'd died? "Let me up," Kel insisted. The world would be a saner place once she was standing again, once she had weapons.

 "You might be a bit unsteady," the streetboy warned, but there was relief written all over him. She let him support her, help she probably wouldn't have accepted from many other people. "Death really takes it out of you."

 Kel snorted, her face focused on ignoring the watery weakness in her body. "It's a rare day when it gives anything back."

 "Well, ain't you lucky I was here?" he said brightly, letting go off her. "Reckon your brother might be glad to see you."

 Her brother? Conal? Anders? Inness? Why would any of them be here?

 Her memories of the moments before she had collapsed flooded back. Of course. The shapeshifters. The creatures who had stolen wild magic...

 She looked around her then, and was horrified by what she saw. Bodies. There had obviously been am massive fight and this was the result. Kel looked at Ryan, aghast, and saw the answer in his pale face.

 "Not all of 'em," he said. "I heard them Riders talkin', an' they said the main one...Bruna's da, he escaped."

 "Kel?"

 She turned and saw Inness, his eyes wide and for once, lacking the dreaminess they usually had. "You're...all right?" he asked doubtfully.

 "Well, you don't have to sound so pleased about it," she said dryly. The look on his face said that she most definitely had been dead. This was...unnerving. She didn't know if the Yamanis had any method for dealing with this kind of thing.

 He began to smile slowly, but she still saw fear in his eyes. That hurt. Her brother, the glorious knight, was afraid of her. His kid sister. "I am," he said, but sounded uncertain. "It's just..."

 She tried to look impassive. Ryan was a reassuring presence nearby, and one swift glance over her shoulder showed the usual wicked sparkle in his eyes. Some things didn't change.

 "No one could survive a blow like that," her brother muttered. He bit his lip, looking anywhere but at her. Even looking at those poor pitiful bodies. "Kel...I don't know how that streetboy brought you back but...I don't know if was white magic."

 "It was," Ryan said shortly. "You got a problem with it, you can go an' take it up with the Goddess an' Mithros. An' they can be tetchy."

 "You spoke to the gods?" her brother said, his hazel eyes widening so she could see the tiny flecks of gold in them, like honey had spattered into his irises.

 "Argued, more like," Ryan agreed.

 Inness opened and closed his mouth a few times, apparently lost for words.

 "There's a river nearby if you want to carry on doing a fish impression, Inness," the amused voice of a young woman said. Kel recognised her as the captain of the Fifth Riders, Miri. "Well, Squire Keladry, it's good to see you up and about. I hope you're completely healed because we've got problems ahead."

 "Problems?" she echoed, feeling rather lost. She had been...gone...a couple of hours, and it seemed like the world had been toppled onto its side.

 "The leader of these creatures got away," the woman explained briskly. A few cuts marred her freckled skin.

 The leader...a silver slice of memory leapt into her head. The man, with his cold and barren voice, the voice of a noble.

 Bruna's father.

 "I know who he is," she said.

 The reaction was electric. Heads snapped round, and Miri's eyes lit up like a pair of stars burning green. "Who?"

 "He's Lady Bruna of Farbrook's father." She looked around for the noblewoman and saw her, a huddle of silk and blood on the floor. She swallowed. "Is she...?"

 "Unconscious," the healer by her answered, his hands to her temples. "Lord Vernon of Farbrook? I'd heard, but..."

 "We've all heard about him," Inness stated flatly. His shock was replaced by a hardness Kel didn't like. There was a very empty coldness in his eyes...would she be like that one day? Was that what being a knight truly meant? "None of us believed the rumours."

 "More fool us," Miri murmured. "Riders, we're splitting in two." Her sea-green eyes fixed Kel, flecks of turquoise swimming in their depths. "Keladry, you and your friends will remain here - if you feel up to it, set up a camp. We've been told the King is riding to meet us, with as many knights as he can summon. They will be here in a matter of days. Our healers will stay with you."

 She turned back to the rest of her company. "We'll start sweeping the area," she said clearly. "Stay in pairs, don't go off alone. We do know what's out there, and you can all see how dangerous it is. I can't ask our streetboy here to bring you all back from the dead. Sir Inness, Sir Paxton, will you ride with us?"

 Her brother nodded and the elderly knight who had been stranded off to one side gave a short bark of an affirmative

 "Kel, if you see Joren and Cleon, let them know where we've gone," her brother said. His gaze was affectionate. "Try not to die again. I've had enough shocks for one day."

 Cleon was here? Kel felt much better knowing that - and she wanted her big friend to meet Ryan. She felt sure they'd get on. But as for Joren...well, if she had to put up with him to talk to Cleon - someone else who knew what being a squire meant - she could live with it.

 And she could live, more importantly.

~*~

 As soon as the cry came, Pip was drawing back her bow, sighting along the arrow at the dots growing bigger. A cold mass quivered in her stomach, but she ignored it. She would not go to pieces. That was not the ha Minch way.

 The hurroks loomed, closer and closer, until she saw the sunlight flashing silver off their claws, sliding along their matted coats, saw the glint of teeth.

 "Archers!" the Queen shouted beside Pip, her own bow drawn and her face fierce, "Loose on my word!"

 They waited, waited, waited, Pip wanting to scream with the fear. The Queen was leaving this lethally late; the shrill battlecry of the hurroks pierced her ears as they blocked out the blue sky-

 "Fire!"

 The rain of arrows was fatally close. Hurroks crashed onto the battlements below with a volley of resounding thumps as Pip frantically restrung her bow and spun, seeking a new target. There were too many to choose from - she hadn't even known this many hurroks existed in the Mortal Realms, had the gods somehow missed them?

 Then she saw something drop from a hurrok's back, something squat and man-shaped. It wore rusted armour, and as it spun, its eyes fixed on Pip. She felt her face go cold, and she began to unconsciously back away.

 It followed, oddly graceful for something so stocky. Long dirty-grey hair trailed from its head and back, and as Pip stared at it, she realised it was moving of its own accord.

No. The creature's hair was made of snakes.

A gorgon.

It was chattering something strange, sounding like a thousand angry crickets, and walking towards Pip with its eyes fixed on her. It could have been human, if not for the hair. She felt a tingle up her spine, the tingle that meant magic.

 "Leave me alone!" she screamed and loosed the arrow. Behind it, she saw more gorgons spring from the back of the winged horses as archers fought to defend themselves.

 The arrow bounced off the creature like it was made of stone.

 "That's not the way to handle 'em, girl!" a forceful voice bellowed in her ear. A small, wiry woman slipped past her. She must have been over forty with her curling grey hair.

 "What are you doing?" Pip cried, trying to grab her arm as the woman started towards the creature. She was going to be slaughtered!

 But somehow, the woman slithered from her grasp like smoke, running towards the gorgon. "Keep the hurroks off me!" the woman called back urgently, and as Pip watched, she jumped into the air, one foot uncoiling from her body as she flew towards the creature.

 She's going to die, Pip thought numbly even as she reached for another arrow, fired blindly at the off-white mass of beating wings and claws that filled the stinking air.

 The woman's foot hit the gorgon right between the eyes, flinging it backwards. And while Pip strung, aimed, loosed, strung, aimed, loosed, one among dozens in the crowded press of mortal and immortal on the battlements, the small woman slammed her fist down and through its unprotected throat. When she ripped her hand free, it was covered in silver blood.

 She's a Shang, Pip realised, unaware of how pale and set her face was, her eyes glowing like two green fires.

She stopped for a second and stared disbelievingly at the woman. Yes, her dusty jacket had faded globes on it, and she moved with the easy, fearless glide of a predator.

 Pip was struck by an envy so sharp it nearly took her breath away. That was what she wanted to be. Not some unmarriageable, useless noble, but a fighter. Someone who could topple immortals.

 The woman's mouth was wide, shouting words that came through to Pip dimly. "Behind you!" And she was running, but the look on her face said it was too late...

 A rush of air to her left and Pip threw herself flat, tucking into a ball like Neal had taught her, rolling to her feet. She spun. Not a gorgon, but a hurrok swooping angrily. Its claws brushed the air where she had been, but murder in its wild eyes, it flew at her.

 Pip didn't know what took over her. But she wasn't panicking, time had seemed to slow as if the hurrok was flying through water, and she had forever to make her decision.

 Step sideways, like this, and as it slid past, catch its mane, like this, and push against the ground, feel the air skimming coldly over her skin for a moment, then pulling herself up onto its back, her arms screaming with the effort.

 The world slammed back in on her.

 I'm on a hurrok.

 The immortal screamed furiously and tried to turn its head to snap at her. She punched it between the eyes.

 I've gone insane, Pip thought. Completely, terminally crazy.

 Because she wasn't afraid, or worried, or any of the things she should be. Her mind was calm, even enjoying the sensation of the wind, of being in control, of fighting this savage beast that swung its body left and right in an effort to throw her off.

 One of the first stunts that had landed Pip in trouble was learning to ride bareback. The hurrok was thrashing about like a stranded fish, true, but it was nothing compared to Viper, her first horse.

 It was flying higher and higher in an effort to throw her off, until they were soaring above the battle. From above, the clash looked like a sea of swirling grey, mixed with flashes of colour that had to be mages, swamping the immortals with waves of fire.

 "You can't get rid of me," Pip shouted at it, not knowing if it could understand.

 She had to be able to do something from up here. Anything.

That odd tingle again, that warned her of magic and then a voice was shouting at her furiously. Phillippa ha Minch! Phillippa!

 The speaking spell was right by her ear. She winced at the frantic voice. It was Harailt of Alii, the head mage.

 "I'm fine," she yelled as the wind snatched her words. She couldn't keep the elation out of her voice. "It's behaving."

 She heard the mage take a deep breath. What in the name of all gods were you thinking of? Do you have any plans on how to get down?

 "Plummet five hundred feet to an almost certain death on the stones?" she snapped back. But a little thread of concern was working its way into her mind. "No. Listen, Master Harailt...I can see the battle, don't try and get me down just yet."

 I'm too busy to rescue over-ambitious noblewomen! the mage shouted at her furiously. She wondered if that vein was throbbing in his forehead like Neal had said it did when he got angry. The Queen ordered me to check on your health and since you are plainly fine, despite having lost all of your mental faculties-

 She cut him off quickly, not wanting to hear the rest of the tirade as the hurrok went into a lethal plummet and her stomach dropped away. Her voice was a near shriek. "Master Harailt, in the north-west corner of the battlements, two hurroks and a gorgon have cornered a group of the trainee Riders, they've run out of arrows..."

 The hurrok pulled out of the lunge and Pip sat forward so sharply she hit her head on its neck. The creature screamed, its claws slashing dangerously close to her.

 Finally it settled, and breathless, she carried on. "The Queen's got trouble, a group of hurroks about to charge her, but you've killed most of them, there's only about thirty left..."

  I'll kill you when I get my hands on you, Harailt muttered, but she could hear him calling out instructions to other mages. And so will the Queen.

 "At least she'll be alive to," Pip retorted, watching as green and yellow flares destroyed the group of hurroks.

 The hurrok nearly threw her, and she half-slid off, hanging a hundred feet above the battlements. She clung to its mane, making the immortal yowl with pain. "I go, you go with me," she screamed as she hauled herself back onto its back desperately. "If you want to get rid of me that badly, just fly down to the damn walls and I'll jump off!"

 She was surprised when it suddenly dropped towards the walls, looming nearer and nearer until they were feet above the grey stone.

 Disbelieving, Pip slid from its back. "Thank you," she said shakily.

 The claws slashed towards her head and she threw herself backwards, but it was far faster and it would surely-

 An arrow sprouted between its eyes and with one final cry, the creature fell backwards.

 "Phillippa..." The Queen's voice told her she was in for it. And as she turned and saw the hazel eyes simmering, and her mouth pressed tight with rage, she wished she was anywhere else. "What. On. Earth. Were. You. Thinking?"

 "Not much," she said weakly.

 A dry laugh interrupted them. It was the Shang woman, with her hazel eyes darting with amusement. "You've the best reflexes I've seen in a while," she remarked. "If you were common-born, I'd be packing you off to study. Despite your age."

 Pip flushed with pleasure. "Thank you," she said, and added wistfully, "but I don't think I could do half of what you did."

 Queen Thayet was giving her an unnervingly keen glare. "Maybe it's time you did," she said thoughtfully. A wicked smile began to curl up her mouth. "Yes...I think that would curb your ability to get into such trouble. Eda?"

 The Wildcat seemed to know what the Queen was talking about, though Pip was completely clueless. "I think Hakuin and I can manage an hour or two a day," she said cheerfully, looking Pip up and down. "You're not quite strong enough yet...but we'll soon cure that, girl! Hakuin!"

 A short, dark-haired man approached. "What is it now, Eda?" he demanded cheerfully. A few scrapes adorned his face, but aside from that, he was untouched. This had to be the Shang Horse that Neal had pointed out to her once.
 
 "This young lady just tamed a hurrok," the Wildcat said. The Horse's dark eyes swung to her, his eyebrows arching into the hanks of black hair that hung over his face. "She's fast, Hakuin, and fairly strong. And this is the one our squires have been teaching - and learning - moves."

 She hadn't known the entire palace knew about that. Pip wondered what other rumours were flying round the castle about her, then put that thought away as too ridiculous to be even contemplated. Last week, rumour had said that Prince Roald was in love with a peasant girl, and that Neal and his best friend - that girl squire, Keladry - were a little more than friends, which since the girl wasn't even in the palace, was patently false.

 "Are you betrothed, girl?" Hakuin said.

 Thayet snorted.

 "No, then," the Shang muttered. "Well...her majesty would like us to begin teaching young noblewomen some of the basic moves, to occupy their time."

 Thayet absently restrung her bow, scanning the sky for any further attacks. "I think my exact words were to stop them running about like headless chickens when this sort of situation occurs. Do you know, there's a good fifty young women cowering in the depths of the castle, being no good to anyone."

 "But the rest of us are doing a good job!" a new voice said. Uline of Hasselhof approached, one arm in a sling and a bright smile on her face. "Pippa, were you scared? I saw you on that hurrok and my heart was in my mouth!"

 Pip smiled at her brother's fiancé. "I didn't have time to be terrified."

 "You should make time," the Wildcat said coolly. "Fear stops us acting rashly. Your scheme will be useful for the over-adventurous as well as the under-adventurous, Thayet."

 "What's this?" Uline looked from one face to the other. "Your majesty, may I go along too? I'm sure Pippa would like the company."

 Thayet shook her dark head. "Uline, I intended this as punishment for Phillippa. But you may certainly join the Shangs for training once they have worked out a suitable routine with Lady ha Minch."

 As Pip looked at the wicked smile of Hakuin, and the stern twinkle in the Wildcat's eyes, she knew this was going to be a painful experience.

~*~

The fire glowing above Laird and Numair's heads lit their way as they crept from the shattered remains of what Laird referred as the torture room, in her hushed voice.

 "Where are the prisoners kept?" he asked, giving the light-spell a little nudge to keep it floating ahead of them. "How many are there?"

 The woman beside him shivered. He noticed now how pinched and gaunt her face was, as if she hadn't changed at all from that skinny street girl he had first encountered years ago. A red robe covered her physical scars, but her suffering stood out in her slanted black eyes.

 "Three now," she said quietly. "Not including myself. Your girl...she needs a healer, Arram. It tore her to pieces last time. I'm powerful, but my magic is useless to heal. The other two - a boy named Marcus. He was noble, afore it took him."

 "What province?" Numair asked, racking his brains to think of any nobles who had been kidnapped.

 "Kennan."

 Ah. He remembered now. It had been shortly after he first came to Tortall: the child had been a horror, what Jonathan had dryly described as Roger of Conte on something highly unlawful. He had stormed off one day, and never returned.

 "Marcus of Kennan?" he inquired.

 "The same."

 Well, he hoped the attitude had changed. Laird took him down a long, twisting tunnel, and the tall mage cracked his head on the ceiling several times, usually just after Laird told him to mind his head. Finally, they came out into a long rectangular room.

 Laird gasped, and he saw why at once. The central door was open, and Numair hastily called a spell to mind, ready to incinerate anyone who even thought about attacking him. "Who goes there?" he shouted.

 From in the dark deeps, he heard a witheringly scathing voice. "Queen Thayet and her Court, who do you think?"

 "Shut up, Joren," he heard another voice say, and a face appeared. It was Cleon of Kennan, and he was rather pale. "Master Salmalin? Sorry...Joren didn't know it was you. We found some prisoners..."

 "Three?" Laird asked urgently, her black eyes leaping.

 The boy nodded.

 She sighed in relief. "They're all safe. Gods be blessed." She clutched at Numair's arm. "Arram, the girl is in there. And there's a child too, belonged to some gypsies that the Arachon...disposed of."

 He nodded, thoroughly relieved. They had found the girl...the boy was safe.

 Two weeks and everything had changed beyond Kel's grasp.

 Enjoying the sun, mortaling? a lazy voice said.

 Kel turned and jumped. Somehow, the forty foot dragon had managed to sneak up on her.

There was one huge change. Master Salmalin had brought Jademirth over from the Dragon Realms by mistake, and now he didn't seem inclined to leave. The elegant, gorgeously beautiful collection of green leanness with eyes that shone like turquoise in the sun winked at her.

 It winked. Dragons, she was sure, shouldn't do that. She couldn't get used to the fact that Jademirth wasn't quite like other dragons. Don't worry, I won't tell them you're shirking your duties.

 "I've had enough of washing bandages," she said tiredly. "It's women's work."

 It arched its long neck until the triangular head came close to sniff at her. Its breath smelled of pine and sap. Jademirth, it had turned out, was the Immortal Realms' only vegetarian dragon. Correct me if I'm wrong, but aren't you a female?

 "Yes," she said grumpily, "but I'm a knight."

 Ah. I thought mortal women couldn't be knights? Or have things changed since I was last here?

 "They've changed," she answered. Then, piqued by curiosity, she added, "When were you last here?"

 The bass voice rumbled. Three thousand years ago, give or take. And in three thousand years, I didn't see as much excitement as I did in one day here. Times have changed! It grinned, showing dozens of pearled spiky teeth. Why are you so miserable, mortaling?

 She shrugged. "I don't know. Everything's changed all of a sudden."

 She remembered a week ago, when the enormous dragon had walked into the camp with Master Salmalin and a strange lady mage at his side. She had later been introduced as Laird, a red-robed mage and former prisoner of a magical beast called an Arachon. Flanking them had been Cleon - who Kel was delighted to see - and Joren - who Kel was less than delighted to see. And on the dragon's back had been a crippled boy introduced as Marcus of Kennan, Cleon's brother (apparently this had been as much news to Cleon as to her), and a little girl who said nothing but stared at everyone with big, dark eyes.

 And of course, Andrea.

She was comatose. In seven days, she hadn't stirred from the deep still slumber she had fallen into after helping Ryan. The healers said it was exhaustion, nothing more, after too many days of beatings, torture and overwork. Now, they were starting to look uneasy.

 Most of the Riders were gone to meet the King, who was riding up to meet them with an armed force that hadn't been seen since the War.

 Change is unavoidable, the dragon murmured. Usually, you mortals thrive on it. He had sunk onto his side, the long neck stretched out on the warm ground, glistening in the sun.

 "Kel?"

 She half-smiled at Ryan as he approached. The streetboy grinned at her, and dumped the basket he was carrying. "More of them damn bandages. Healer's have told me I'm to help ye." His smile dimmed. "Andrea still ain't awake." His soft grey eyes hardened to flint. "If I ever meet that monster that put all them cuts on her, I'll kick it from Midwinter to Mithros, an' let him fry it."

 "I know," she said. "I'm sorry about that."

 "Ain't your fault, Kel," he sighed and sat down to dangle his feet in the stream. "King's men have just arrived, by the way. I'm supposed to tell ye, you're to go-"

 Kel was a disappearing blur in the distance.

 Ryan blinked, and smiled. "-meet them," he finished softly. "Hey, lizard, you look after the laundry? I want t'go an' see this."

 I'm not a lizard, Jademirth retorted. But run along, mortaling. I think I'll catch up on my sunbathing.

 Ryan snapped him a cheeky salute. The dragon swished its tail at him half-heartedly, and sprawled in the light.

~*~

 Kel skidded into the main camp as the hordes of armoured knights poured in, trailing banners and squires and laden saddlebags. Her breath caught in her throat at the sheer magnificence of it, and for a moment, she was intensely proud to be Tortallan.

 "-dozens of places like this on the way up," she could hear the cool tones of the King saying to her brother. "We passed through entire villages of people who had barricaded themselves in their homes. And there were some Stormwings who actually asked us for sanctuary." He grimaced. "I suppose this means long sweeps across country in the hope we can flush these creatures out of their homes."

 "Not at all, sire," Inness said. His eyes noted Kel, waiting unobtrusively to one side. He nodded curtly. "Their leader is the father of the Lady Bruna. You might remember her, sire."

 "I do." The King's pained tones left no doubt as to just what he thought of Bruna. "Lord Farbrook? As far as I am aware, he is utterly against magic."

 "From what Lady Bruna says," Inness answered, grimacing, "he is against magic, but entirely for power."

 "I see. Would it be possible to talk to Lady Bruna?"

 Her brother sighed heavily. "Lady Bruna is not...herself."

 How true that was! When the girl had awoken from her healing, Kel had expected her to be her usual scything self. But instead, it was as if all her life and cruelty had been drained from her and left only a semblance of a person who flinched at every shadow, who said not a word and stared as vacantly at Jademirth as at Kel.

 There was, to put it kindly, no one home.

 "Kel?" The voice froze her solid for a moment.

 She turned around slowly, feeling a knot of emotion surging in her stomach and spreading across her body like a cascade of boiling water.

 Those green eyes...they had been far gentler when she looked at them last, and the smile hadn't been quite so hesitant, and he hadn't been wearing the gleaming plate armour.

 She had thought that her feelings for Neal had been a phase. Out of sight, out of mind, she had thought, and enjoyed the quiet company of a streetboy who was a mage in muddy disguise.

 Wrong.

 "Neal?" she managed to get out, completely thrown.

 Her first thought was: he's even more handsome

 Her second was: oh Goddess, Ryan.

 Her third was: aaargh!

 "You look like I just rose from the dead!" he said brightly, blissfully unaware of the fact she had been dead a scant fortnight ago. Then he stopped, and hesitated.

 Dozens of silent words hung between them, as she looked in the depths of his emerald eyes, as elusive as a jungle, and wished she had the courage to say some of them aloud. She was torn again; here was Neal, the dream, the fantasy, the chimera. And there was Ryan, the surprisingly sweet reality.

 "How have you been?" was all she did say.

 He shrugged. "Not too bad. The Lioness is working me in to the ground, as ever." His smile, as startling as sunlight hitting a cobweb, flashed. "Life was quiet without you around...everyone missed you. I missed you."

 He said the last more quietly, as though he didn't want anyone else to hear.

 The words made her both glad and sad. "Me too." Only half a lie; she had missed him, but not in the same way she once would have.

 Silence again, quivering like a hummingbird.

 Neal sighed suddenly and then stepped forward and gave her a hug. She clung onto him briefly, her stomach churning with too many feelings. "Dear girl, we have got to talk when this is all over."

 "We will," she promised. She couldn't read the look in his eyes, and it worried her. What if he wanted...things from her? She couldn't give herself to him now, and Kel wasn't even sure if she wanted to. At least, not in the same way.

 "For now..." he put one hand to his forehead theatrically and proclaimed, "I must seek out the traitors and punish them! As is the calling of a young and fearless squire such as myself," he added loftily.

 Kel snorted with laughter. Some things about Neal would never change.

 "This from the person who can't stand spiders?" Cleon demanded, joining them. He was dressed for battle too, she noticed wistfully. The healers had banned her from fighting for a month, until they were certain she had suffered no ill-effects from her little...sortie into death. "The only way you'd catch them is because they were laughing too hard to move!"

 "Better show them your face then," Neal countered. "I hear you've been having adventurous fun with our friend Joren?"

 "I've spent most of the last couple of weeks wanting to throttle him if that's what you mean," Cleon admitted. "And...I've found my brother."

 "So I hear," Neal said. "Your parents went home with him last week, didn't they?"

 "We're not far from home here," the redhead admitted. "it's strange though - I don't know him at all. And my parents seemed so...hesitant. Like they didn't expect him to react how he did."

 She remembered the day Marcus had left. The little girl, Shari, had gone with them too.. Cleon definitely had his father's build, but his smile was all his mother's, a tiny delicate woman who had smacked Cleon around the head when she saw him and demanded to know why he hadn't written in half a year.

 But Marcus had simply stared at them, his eyes too old and too wary for someone of his age. Shari, the child who looked like an angel with her masses of white-blond hair and pale, supple skin, had buried her head in his chest and clung to him.

 "Marc?" Yvette Kennan had asked softly, swallowing hard. She had stepped forward, and then stopped, as if she wasn't quite sure what to expect.

 "Mother," he had said. His voice cool and almost emotionless. Then he had bowed his head and said. "I'm sorry."

 She had run over then, and embraced her missing son, while Cleon's father had added in his gruff voice, "What happened to you, son?"

 He had pushed away his mother - for a moment, Kel had thought him cruel and cold, but then she had realised just how incredibly damaged he had to be. He had survived nearly ten years of torture and loneliness, having no one but himself and a few other mad or hopeless prisoners. He had been beaten, crippled, left to die.

 He didn't know how to act with people.

 "It's a long story," he muttered, then patted Shari reassuringly. "Mother...this is Shari. She was a prisoner in the same place I was. I'm all the family she has. Do you think she...?"

 That day, the Kennans gained a son and a daughter. It was obvious Shari regarded Marcus as her protector, and would only be prised away from him when he told her quietly that no one would hurt her, and that he wasn't going anywhere.

 Kel had to wonder what on earth his future could hold. He was a mage, but an untrained mage who had had his power devoured by a monster for years.

 She had the feeling though, from the determined look in his eyes, Marcus of Kennan would leave an impact on the world somehow.

"Still," Cleon continued now, "I suppose after what he's been though." His face hardened slightly. "That place was...dreadful. I don't know how anyone could survive."

 "Luck, probably," Neal said solemnly. "Any idea what's going to happen here?"

 Cleon shrugged. "They're sending that girl - Andrea - back to the palace. The healers here think Duke Baird might be able to wake her up. And the mage Master Salmalin found...Laird? For the university magi to talk to." He gave Neal a sly look. "You university people. You're not happy unless you can dissect everything."

 "That's because we have inquiring minds," Neal declared haughtily. "Unlike you hopeless ruffians."

 "That's why you talk so much rubbish," Kel put in, grinning at him.

 His eyebrows arched, a smile playing about his mouth. "I resent that bitterly, my dear. Don't discount my higher ideals just because you can't understand them-"

 "Neal," she said sweetly, "Do you want me to break your nose?"

"-though of course," he said with hardly a pause for breath, "I don't really know what I'm talking about."

 "Neither does anyone else," Cleon muttered, shaking his head.

 For a moment, Kel caught Neal's eyes and the emotions swirling in them made her breath catch. Her dilemma crashed back on her with a resounding thump. What was she going to do about this?

~*~

 Ryan Talver had watched Kel while she talked to the tall boy. When he asked Miri, all too casually, who he was, she had told him that was Nealan of Queenscove.

 Nealan. Ryan stored the name away, and watched them a little longer.

 It had dawned on him over the last two weeks, when he spent so much time with Kel, laughing and joking, and when evening drew dark and close, talking of more serious matters, that she was probably his best friend.

 His best friend. And his sweetheart. The most important person to him.

 When Kel went back towards the stream, he followed her on light feet, silent as a ghost. "Kel," he said, when they were far enough from the camp.

 She spun around, her hazel eyes alarmed until she recognised him. "You have got to stop doing that. One day I'm going to drop dead of fright."

 "Can't have that, can we?" he said, grinning. "Look, I want to talk to ye about somethin'."

 Uneasiness flashed in her eyes. "What?"

 So there was some truth to the rumours. "I've been hearin' things, lass," he said quietly. "'Bout you an' Nealan of Queenscove. An'..I know I'm just some streetrat, an' I ain't at all suitable for you, so if you...want to end it, I ain't goin' to kick up a fuss."

 There was silence, and the gold flecks in her eyes seemed to spread and swell like butter melting.

 "Sometimes, Ryan Talver," she said slowly, "you're incredibly stupid."

 He blinked. "Huh?"

 "Rumour's...rumour. There was...something," she said, and gave a little shrug. "And he's still my friend, and I don't think that'll change. But he's not you."

 He could feel a wild joy beginning to sizzle inside him, but Ryan kept his expression carefully controlled. "Lass, I saw your face when you were talkin' to him-"

 "I was shocked," Kel said bluntly. "I thought I would still feel something. And maybe I do, just a little, because liking Neal is a habit I got into." She smiled faintly. "It's a hard one to break. But I don't feel the same way about him as I do about you. I just...don't know how to tell him."

 By now, she was a deep, and rather touching, scarlet.

 "I hate emotional things," she said. "Fighting is so much easier."

 "If you think you're pummellin' me to work out your problems, think again!" he said, finally letting his smile appear. "Really?"

 He didn't like sounding so insecure, but he couldn't help it. Almost everyone he had known hadn't wanted him, one way or another. It was hard to believe Kel would be any different.

 Kel rolled her eyes exasperatedly, but it was softened by the hug she gave him. "Really, you idiot."

 "By the way," Ryan murmured into her ear, taking the opportunity to hold her close a little longer in one of the few moments of privacy they had had lately, "I can't help but notice that ye've got pine needles in your hair, lass."

 "Oh," she said, and submitted as he picked them out. "That's...observant of you."

 "I'm a thief," he said dryly. "I have to be observant. An'..." He left one arm around her waist, and tilted her chin up. "Ye've somethin' on your mouth, lass."

 She frowned. He adored the way it made lines at the corners of her eyes and mouth. I'm obsessed, Ryan thought ruefully. I notice the most insanely stupid things about her. "What?"

 He couldn't stop his smile as he leaned in and kissed her, delighted at her startled breath, and then the way she melted into him. He drew his head back finally. "That," he said, and would have said more if she hadn't kissed him.

 They ended up sitting at the base of a tree, hidden by the screen of trees and plants from the occasional person, with her coiled comfortably into his arms. Ryan sighed contentedly, all his worries about Nealan of Queenscove vanished, and closed his eyes against the spattered green light slipping through the leaves.

 Kel tilted her head on one side, twisting to look at him. She would, he thought absently, be a stunner with the right style of hair and some of the face-paints Hana had in such abundance. "I've been meaning to ask you something."

 "Aye?" he said, wondering what it could be

 "Joren keeps finding things of his go missing, and then turn up in strange places," Kel said sweetly. He couldn't stop the wide, feline smile that curled over his face. "I couldn't help but notice that it began the day after you overheard him calling you a common peasant pretending to be a mage."

 "He must just be forgetful," Ryan said innocently. "I'm always pickin' things up an' forgettin' where I put them down."

 "I doubt he put all his clothes in the centre of the stream," Kel remarked. But he could see she was struggling not to smile. "You're irrepressible!"

 "I don't even know what that means," he said cheerfully. "So I'll take your word for it. Don't tell me you didn't think it was funny."

 She nodded, then blinked. "I did, true." She chuckled, a rich earthy sound that grazed his ears like raw silk. "His face...and speaking of problems, have you thought about trying to heal Andrea? Did you tell me you two were bonded?"

 He made a face. "Aye, lass, but she's the healer, not me. I tried to reach the Goddess, but she ain't answerin' right now. Probably found some poor devil to send on an impossible quest."

 "It wasn't impossible," Kel protested. "You found her, didn't you?"
 
 "Well, actually, Stone Mountain's first troll an' your mate Cleon did," Ryan said glumly. "But it ain't right, Kel. I could always feel her before, you know, in my head, like. Nothin' now."

 "Why don't you try waking her with a kiss?" she suggested lightly. The poisonous look she got as an answer would have killed bears at fifty paces. "Have you tried praying?"

 "Prayin'?" His eyes narrowed. Really, Kel thought with an inner sigh, he should have been born noble. There were going to be a lot of court women hunting him down until he opened his mouth and they realised he wasn't as pureblooded as he looked.

 "It is the method of choice to commune with your gods," she pointed out. "It helps if you beg and plead a bit, too."

 "Beg?" Just as she had thought. Ryan's method of talking to the Goddess had probably involved shouting and swearing at her very loudly in the privacy of his mind. "That work?"

 "Sometimes," she said. "Maybe you just need to be a bit more polite."

 "Well..." he said dubiously. "I'll give it a try. Ain't anythin' else left."

~*~

 The inside of the tent was light and cool, but it made no difference to the girl huddled in a corner, shaking. She might have been plunged back into the pitch darkness that so much of her life had been spent in.

 No one who had known Lady Bruna of Farbrook would have recognised her. The features were the same, but the expression was filled with a slack terror, and shadows flitted about her eyes like ghosts of yesterday.

 She could only remember the dreadful, gripping fear of seeing her father there. Her father, the executioner of the Gifted, with his black, black eyes that were like falling into two pits, and the light playing across them was like the sweep of a blade towards her. Her father, with his handsome face and his empty smile. With a voice like honey and a soul like rotting flesh.

 He used to lock her in the cellar, for hours and hours on end, screaming at her that her Gift was nothing but a blight that would be cut out of her if she did not control it. She had always hated the dank, dripping sounds that rattled about the place, where the rats that were big enough and fearless enough to come and nip at her.

 Every morning, he would drag her from there, and every evening, when her Gift was still there, he would throw her back. Fling her, like a piece of trash.

 It might have been different if her mother had lived. But she had died giving birth to Bruna, to this cursed creature.

 And 'might have' had made no difference to the bleak existence that had dragged out for years until finally, her father could send her away to a convent, where she hid her powers from the priests, terrified that they would treat her the same.

 It had been years before she discovered that the Gift was something to be proud of.

 She had been able to hide her fear under a pretty smile, and her lack of confidence under coldness and cruelty. It had been easy; she had made herself a shining, beautiful court creature and no one had seen through to the ugly, shattered thing she was.

 For a while, she had even thought that those black memories were fading. She lost herself in a world of riches and romance, flirting with men and snubbing women, and the cellar seemed an illusion she had once had.

Until this trip. Until she had seen her father again.

 Part of her whispered that he had stolen magic himself, that everything he had preached to her was a lie. The other part whispered that what her father had could not be true magic; he would never stoop to that. He was not cursed by the gods as she was.

 Logic told her he loved power more than ethics.

 Fear told her that he was right and she was just a filthy, tainted monster.

 She no longer knew what to think, so she let her mind drift through waking dreams of the court, of the cellar, until she didn't know where reality ended and memory began.

 When hands nudged at her, and pulled her, she let them, unknowing of how wide and blank her eyes remained, and how they would sometimes spill tears down her smooth face. She didn't care how she would sometimes scream, and sometimes lie unmoving, or how she was scratching her hands into pieces.

 She only knew that the mask she had built up so carefully had fallen away, and however she tried, she was still that ugly, vile monster that her father had beaten.

 That was all.

~*~

 "Well, well, Lady ha Minch," Hakuin Seastone said gleefully, as she strode into the practice room of the Palace, feeling very apprehensive. Unbeknown to anyone, she had spent an hour doing the stretches and flexes that Neal and his friends had taught her over the past weeks in the faint hope she'd withstand this hour of gruelling punishment with the Shang.

 "At least you've dressed appropriately," the Wildcat remarked, her hands on her hips. She examined Pip with sharp grey eyes. "We had to teach some of the wretched creatures basic exercises and they all turned up in their nicest dresses and make-up, determined to outdo each other."

 "Now…" The Shang Horse rubbed his palms together. "What shall we start with, Eda? The Queen wants us to make sure you work today."

 "No gallivanting off on hurroks," the Wildcat put in sternly. "Let's start with what we taught those overdressed idiots. Some stretches." Her heartless smile warned Pip she was in for trouble. "Right girl, by the end of a few lessons, we'll have you doing this."

 The Wildcat slid into graceful splits, then stretched forward until her upper body was flat along her leg.

 Pip gave her a sweet, naïve smile then copied the movement perfectly. She remembered the year when her parents had hired a tumbler in the hope he could keep Pip out of trouble. He had...only instead of watching him, Pip had made the poor young man teach her acrobatics. He had quit a year later, saying there was no point in him staying, much to the bafflement of her parents.

 Both Shangs stared. Then the Wildcat flashed a cool, slightly startled smile. "Well...how about this?"

 She sat up again, then put her hands behind her. A lift of her legs brought them together, then with sheer upper body strength, the Wildcat turned her body over into a backflip.

 It was a move Pip had spent hours practising, and it was ridiculously easy. Especially after she had taught - or tried to teach - Neal and Seaver. Her muscles moved smoothly under her, and then she was upright and looking at the respectful expression of the Wildcat.

 "My," the woman said. "Hakuin, I think we have a trapeze artist here."

 "Hmm..." The Shang Horse circled Pip, eyebrows drawn together and his forehead knotted. "All right, girl, what Shang moves do you know?"

 Pip shrugged. "Not many. Only what the boys showed me."

 "They shouldn't be teaching," the Wildcat muttered. "Half of them can't even get the moves right." She nodded. "Show me all the punches you know."

 All? Maybe it would just be easier to show them the routine she did every night. Her parents her had given her a music-orb for her birthday; it was a crystal that a mage had trapped a song in, and Pip danced to it. She loved dancing - though she never ever danced in public - and it was an easy way to tire herself out so much that she fell asleep before the dreadful snores of Lady Faline down the corridor kept her awake.

 Here the opening bars, she told herself, imagining the light, merry sound of the violin opening the dance. One-two-three, one-two-three...

 The steps fell into her head easily, and she began to move through the sequence of stretches, punches, kicks, pirouettes and acrobatics that made the two Shangs exchange a meaningful glance. In her head, the music sped up, and she with it, as the flute and pipes accompanied the strings. Faster and faster and fater, until the final kick that spun her around and brought her back to face the pair.

 Silence. Resounding, complete silence.

 It must have been wrong, Pip realised, feeling a flush creep over her face.

 "Mithros defend us," the Horse said weakly. "Eda, do you think...?"

 "You're good," the Wildcat said crisply, and flashed a toothy grin. "Very good. How would you like to become a student?"

 "Be a Shang warrior?" Pip squeaked, her eyes widening.

 The woman shook her head vigorously. "No! Nobles can't be Shang. But we'd like to teach you. Maybe you won't be Shang, but you'll be nearly as good. If you'd like the lessons."

 "I'd love them!" Pip said enthusiastically. Finally! Something to do in the Palace apart from sit around and watch the other girls gawp at the men passing through. "When can I start?"

 The Horse snorted with laughter. "Will now do?"

~*~

 Evening found the knights, Riders and rest of the camp sprawled out around where the King was standing, looking stern and grave. Kel looked around at the bristling weapons, the serious faces and the dozens of banners, and realised she had never appreciated just how many people it took to defend the kingdom.

 The King held up a hand for silence, and the babble died away.

 "Welcome to all of you," he called. His voice carried easily, deep and resounding. "Thank you - I know you have been riding for some days now. But I have good news. We know who the leader of these...magical thieves is."

 A startled murmur washed around the gathered knights.

 "We will ride to Fief Farbrook now," King Jonathan said, his eyes like sapphire stars, twisting and glittering brilliantly. "We will attack under cover of darkness; Master Salmalin will search out the way for us. I must also caution you not to fire at anything on the way. No deer, no animals, especially not birds. You will be divided into groups of eight by My Lord Commander."

 Kel grinned as she saw Sir Raoul lift a hand so everyone could see him, off to one side. He must have seen her because he nodded in her direction.

 "There will be at least one mage with each group," the King continued. "We will reach the Fief before nightfall, but the attack will begin under cover of darkness - so if it has human form, don't shoot. Chances are you might be hitting on of our own. Once the attack is underway, our mages will provide light. These...people have magic, but they can be killed like you or I." He went on to outline the finer detail of the plan, describing routes and the best weapons, as well as cautioning everyone to move within pairs once the attack began.

 "Questions?" he said finally.

 Lord Wyldon, looking as wiry and formidable as ever, stood stood. "Sire, how many are we fighting?"

 "Hopefully," the low, quiet voice of Master Salmalin cut in, "I will find that out. All information will be relayed back to your mages."

 "What happens if we're bitten?" her former teacher demanded. "Will it have any effect?"

 The mage smiled grimly. "We have several people who were bitten by the creatures. All are fine."

 "I heard that a girl went mad," a man called from the back of the crowd. "How do you know that wasn't from the beasts?"

 The mage's dark eyes sought the man out. "Rumour runs ahead of the truth again," he said gently. "The girl in question recognised one of the people who attacked her. She was...extremely upset."

 More questions came, and the sun was beginning to into the skyline before they were ended, and the knights and Riders sorted into groups. As people began to drift away to saddle mounts and ride out, Kel made her way over to her knightmaster.

 "No, you are not coming," he said before she even opened her mouth. "Over my dead body."

 Before she could turn to Lord Wyldon in mute appeal (after all, he had fought with a broken arm), her former teaching master smiled grimly. "And I'll be using his body as a barricade."

 "But-"

 "Youngling," Sir Raoul said, frowning, "the healers want you here and I agree with them. There will be other fights."

 She held her tongue after that. She knew the stubborn look on his face all too well.

 It was with a heavy heart she watched the train of men ride into the distance.

~*~

 Numair soared over the forbidding ramparts of Fief Farbrook, his hawk's eyes sharp even in the dim light. Moonlight spilled over the stone building like water, throwing a silvery light across the statues that lined the roofs. Statues of wolves, Numair noticed darkly, like the monstrous creature that had attacked them.

 It froze his heart to think how close the three children - children who were his responsibility - had come to dying.

 Dipping now, folding his wings to plummet into the courtyard and note the unearthly silence that lay over the place like a blanket. Where were the torches that should have been burning? The odd sound of the few people still awake?

 He saw a heap of strange objects in one corner, and swooped to land above it.

 The smell of blood hit him.

 Oh god, he thought, as the heap separated into shapes, his brain making sense of the mess. That's where those people are. Bones, and hanks of things he didn't want to think about, flung together like waste.

 Monster. Lord Farbrook was a monster.

 He left the courtyard, winging through a slit of a window and praying that the same sight was not repeated everywhere. It was only a small fief; around a hundred people lived there, and surely they could not all be dead?

 He searched for what seemed like hours through musty hallways and deserted rooms, until he came to the Great Hall.

 There, and only there, he found the misshapen, distorted life he sought. Creatures were slumped before a roaring, crackling fire that threw hot orange light across their clawed, deformed bodies. Half in, half out of any recognisable shape; in their sleep, they could no longer control the magic.

 How many there? Perhaps a score, no more. Others, no doubt, roamed the land, but Numair knew that with spells like this, removing the head of the magic would destroying the links of all the weaker creatures.

 Kill the lord, and the others would become human.

 They would face trial, he had no doubt. What else was there to do with them? They had killed - no, slaughtered - and they would face the consequences of it.

 Among the sleeping shapes, he saw the one he wanted; an enormous black wolf, twice the size of any normal creature, that slept alone. The others huddled together, as if seeking warmth in the cold dark night of their souls, but this one was alone by choice.

 I have found them, Numair thought. And now they shall see the King's justice.

He left, a shadow among shadows.

~*~

 The road was long and dusty, and the weapons weighed Neal down. The rhythmic crash of hundreds of horses' hooves hitting the path had become a dreary sea echoing  in his mind. Although they had left the horses a mile or two back and now advanced on stealthy feet, he could still hear the phantom sound of their hooves. He had to fight to keep himself alert.

 Above, the moon glided smoothly through the scudding clouds, graceful and distant, throwing a pale ivory light across the earth. Ahead, Neal could see the spiky turrets of Fief Farbrook, and he felt an inadvertent chill shiver through him. Something here felt wrong, so wrong, but he couldn't pinpoint it.

 "It's so silent," the Crown Prince murmured close by, his eyes two black pools. Lord Imrah hushed him with a sharp word.

 "Nothing alive here," the Lioness said gruffly. She was a dim, short silhouette before Neal, picking her way over the bumpy ground. "Gods curse it," she hissed, tripping. Neal steadied her. "I can't see a damn thing in this helmet."

 A sapphire blue flame flared near her, and the Lioness cursed again. "What is it now?"

 Neal watched, fascinated as she drew her hands together, and then apart. Between them, a globe of violet fire swelled, and in it was cage the face of King Jonathan, grim and satisfied.

 "We've found him," he reported with a note of triumph in his voice. "Alanna, Numair is going to meet you at the castle gate. He'll direct you...your group are going in first. Wyldon is going in through the eastern gate, Raoul by the northern and myself by the west. The remainder of the knights will follow us if needs be. Good luck to you, Champion."

 "Sire," the Lioness said, a wild grin flashing. The globe snapped out, and she turned to Neal, her smile gleaming in the gloom. "Well, Squire, you're going to see some excitement!"

 "Oh, yay," Neal said glumly. "Just what I wanted."

~*~

 The alicorn stopped, and flicked her mane back, knocking away the flies.

 So this was Tortall. This was the haven that the mortal boy had spoken of. It was a city like any other; there was no purity or beauty surrounding it, only the same mass of buildings you would find in any place. It had it slums, and its filth, and its scum...but out of this, the castle rose like a great white unicorn.

 This was where she must go.

 There was a woman here that she has glimpsed in the thoughts of the mortal boy who had saved her. He had not asked for Chantevol's help, but she would give it to him anyway, Kindness was a great rarity in this changing world, one to be treasured and cherished, and repaid where possible.

 She had given the boy a vial, a magical talisman that would call her to him if ever he needed aid; but she would help in another, smaller way too; the horn of an alicorn had fabulous healing power, and there was one the boy had hurt terribly without meaning to.

 She cast an enchantment as she entered the city, so no mortal would see her; instead, they moved from her way without appearing to realise, rolling back like some swollen sea. The squalor, the narrow streets filled with dirt, the sly whispers and crimes that evolved around her sickened the alicorn. How could mortals live this way, hemmed in day by day?

She passed through them like a ghost, until she reached the towering grandeur of the palace. And here, finally, she let her magic slide away like water until she stood before these strange uniformed and bedecked humans in all her immortal glory.

 They gaped, and stared at her, and finally, when she asked them in the earthy richness of her voice, called a mage to see this fantastic being.

 "I have come to heal," she explained simply, looking at this man who called himself Lindhall Reed, and whose dreamy eyes held a calm intelligence. "There is a mortal who rescued me, and it is to him I repay my debt."

 "Who do you wish to heal?" the man asked curiously. She could see he was itching to ask her questions, but refrained. "I'm afraid there have been several attacks by immortals and I have to be sure that you mean us no harm." A cursory glance at the claws upon her hands.

 "We are only the creation of mortals," she sent tranquilly. "Your Alissa Shandori made me with claws, and so claws I bear, but look..."  And she bared her teeth; the flat, wide teeth of the herbivore. "I have no need to use them."

 The mage thought for a long time, while she shuffled her long, shining hooves and flicked her tail. Then he nodded. "Very well, but I will accompany you."

 She nodded, and the inky black wash of her hair shimmered. "Where is the mortal you call Hana Dharaz?"

 "Ah, the...lady of leisure...that Numair's protégée blinded!" the mage said, and nodded eagerly. "You can really heal her?"

 "Our horns are renowned for their healing power." Her eyes darkened. "Many mortals have killed us for them."

 He glanced at her as she walked beside him, through the arching halls. "Not here."

 "No," she agreed placidly. Minutes passed in silence, while Chantevol ignored the stares and gawping of the palace mortals, moving lightly as a summer breeze through their cold, harsh building. All the white marble in the world could not hold the life of a clean glade, or the laughter of a stream. This was not her world, but she would suffer it to end her obligation.

 They found the woman sat in a corner, trying to sew old fabrics under the stern eye of a palace woman. She winced often as she stabbed the sliver of metal...a needle, the mortal name...into her hand by mistake. The alicorn could not help but notice how many of the other mortal woman sneered at her, while the men's hungry eyes fell on her lovely face and the lazy curls of red hair.

 "Jenna?" the mage asked softly. The overseer stopped watching Hana with her hawk's eyes. She blinked as she saw the alicorn, and her hand rose to her mouth.

 "Master Reed," she said, awed, "what be that?"

 Hana stopped her sewing, and looked in the direction of Jenna's voice.

 "I," Chantevol said sharply, "am an alicorn, and I am not a 'that'." She moved forwards, hooves clicking on the flagstones until she stood before Hana. "And I have come to heal you."

 "Me?" Hana said, the milky orbs of her eyes gazing in Chantevol's direction. "Why?" Her voice was bitter. "I'm just a prostitute. Who cares about me?"

 "Your Ryan cares," she said. "Your mortal youngling? He saved me, and now I will do something to help him, by helping you."

 "Ryan?" the woman said, a faint smile touching her lips. "Is he gettin' into trouble again?"

 "You mortals are always in trouble," Chantevol said. "Hold still."

 The woman froze where she was, quivering slightly as the alicorn lowered her golden, glowing horn to touch Hana's eyelids, first one, then the other, a soft light haloed about her. Slowly, the milky white of her eyes thinned, became translucent, and then an emerald green circle appeared in the centre, a black dot sprouting from that, until Hana's eyes were whole and bright.

 She raised her hands to her face, waving them as if she could believe it. And then hse saw Chantevol, and gave a little cry of shock.

 The alicorn stepped back.

 "Thank you," Hana said shakily.

 She shrugged. What did she care for mortal thanks? "The debt is done," she said firmly, and left.

~*~

 It was all so fast, Neal could hardly comprehend it. One moment, pushing open the doors of the great hall and seeing the savannah idleness of the creatures spread carelessly about the floor.

 And the next, that great black wolf raised its sleek head, its eyes flashing ember-red, and it howled.
 
 The creatures were upon them so fast, Neal almost forgot what to do. Fight his way through them, battering them away with his shield, stabbing, swiping, chopping with his sword.

 Before him, he saw the Lioness charge, a battle cry wild and fierce in her throat as the wolf sprang at her.

 They met in a tangle of mortal and magic, metal flickering in the hellish firelight, teeth snapping. The Lioness rolled and twisted, incredibly fast and the wolf snarled, bit, attacked.

 Hurry up, hurry up, Neal thought as the weight of bloodthirsty, enraged creatures pressed in on him. He heard the doors crash open as the other parties of knights entered the hall, and joined the fast and furious fighting.

 The Lioness went flying, knocked backwards by the weight of the wolf. It crouched low, muscles bunching to spring, a shuddering mass of black-pelted venom. Muscles tensing, jaws opening, it sprang.

 It didn't see Raoul of Goldenlake step into its path and swing the mighty axe he carried in one clean stroke.

 But everyone saw the head roll to the ground.

 The other creatures screamed suddenly, and curled in on themselves, writhing, screeching as their bodies began to contort and change. Neal was very close to retching as he saw the horrible mutations, and had to look away, though the sound of popping joints and creaking bones would haunt him for years to come.

 With their leader dead, their ties to their stolen magic were severed.

 It was ended.

~*~

Ryan heard Hana's voice in his head, Hana telling him stories when he had been a child to lull him to sleep.

 Once upon a time, the ghost of her voice whispered in his head, there was a princess. And she had hair like the sun trapped in cobwebs, and a smile to split the world asunder. She was lovely, perfect, dazzling.

 He had only seen Andrea's smile once or twice, but it had hung like a glittering crystal chandelier in his mind. He was supposed to protect her, the Goddess had told him that, and she couldn't be wrong all the time. 'Sides, he didn't mind looking after her. She had saved him, and she just an ordinary kid messed up in magic and madness, like him.

 Her hair, that glossy golden hair was fanned out on the pillow, and her eyelashes fluttered now and again. Ryan had always thought that sleeping people were still, but pale though she was, Andrea twisted and turned, and sometimes moans escaped her.

 Not years, only days, but it felt strange not being able to sense her. Before, she had always been there, a tiny moth-like presence deep in his mind. He had known if he desperately needed, she was there to reach out to. But now, a hush that made him feel choked and alone.

 Poison plants? Only the poison of an Arachon monster, only the poison of being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

 That's what we all do, Ryan thought, balancing on the side of the bed so he could see her small, pale face fully, with the dark eyelashes lying on her face like two charcoal crescent moons. Just try and survive as best as we can. Some of us turn into heroes on the way, like Kel, but most of us are just people.

  A storm had arisen, and it drove him to find shelter. He wandered deeper and deeper into the wood, hearing the howls of wolves behind him, shivering and miserable, and then he saw the thicket. It looked sturdy, he thought, and might be dry, so he crawled within to shelter, not minding the cuts that laddered his hand and the nettles that stung him terribly, he was so desperate to be dry.  

 And this storm had been worse than many. A storm of people searching for ordinary, thieving Ryan Talver and this sweet, innocent girl. A storm of magical creatures that killed, of knights to chop them down.

 He smoothed a hand over her forehead, surprised at how soft her skin was, downy as rose petals. "Wake up," he whispered, as he so often had, but she remained locked in slumber. "Wake up, lass. There's people here who want to meet ye."

 He remembered that first moment, being hurled into Andrea's world. Seeing her surrounded by enemies - a girl he didn't even know - and being furious at how callously they treated her. Meeting those extraordinary hawk-golden eyes, and hearing the first delicate chime of her voice. He had been so shocked, and so amazed and even - even - a little afraid at this unknown new bond between them.

 He called to her again, and then he called to his magic, and let it ripple over her. Trying to find the same spark of life he had found in Kel, and finding only an impossible slick wall that he couldn't break through.

 Ryan had never prayed. He didn't know how. But he looked at her face, and shut his eyes and thought simply, please, I need your help.

 "My help?" The voice rang like a screaming osprey, harsh and hungry. "I am your Goddess, and you turn to me only when you want something? Where is your respect?"

 Respect has to be earned, Ryan thought. All you have done is send me on a quest. You let Kel die. You let all those poor people die who didn't know any better, all they wanted was to feel magic.

 Silence, but Hana's phantom voice filled it.

 "Fairy stories do not occur in real life," the voice of the Goddess said. He couldn't see her, but he could smell the incense of a temple, and the air was unbearably cold. "But...I will help you. You are rude, Ryan Talver, and you are impudent and young and foolish. Yet for all that, you are my Chosen, and you have finally asked for my help. I will wake her."

 Then she was gone, and warmth seeped into his bones again. He opened his eyes, looking at her face.

 "Wake up," he muttered, but she remained still and waxen. "Wake up, lass, you got to finish the story."

 Hana had never finished that story. He had fallen asleep.

 So what, he wondered, half-afraid, would happen? Andrea's eyelashes lifted smoothly, slowly, and the blurred liquid of her golden eyes swirled hazily.

 What if she didn't want him? He was only a streetrat, he had caused her so much trouble-

 "Ryan?"

 Her voice was rusty, but still sweet.

 His grey eyes lit up. "Hello Andrea."

 She sat up with a moan, blinking. "Is it you?"

 "Aye, it is." He saw her look around, and smiled gladly. "You're safe now, lass. We're all safe."

 She looked at him, a kind of shattering disbelief in her eyes. A long pause and then an incredulous, shy smile curled over her mouth. "You found me."

 He laughed. "I had help."

 She reached out one pale hand, and cautiously, he put his on top of it.

 Fire blazed around them, an incredible emerald fire that was their two magics merging, and Ryan felt the world at his fingertips, waiting for them to reach out and take it.

 "We're here," she said, looking at him steadfastly. "At last. Thank you, Ryan Talver."

 "Thank you, Andrea Kirisra," he said solemnly, and they grinned at each other.

 He wondered if she heard the voice that whispered once before she arose, before she went out to meet the people who would never lead her to the gallows or hunt her into hell. Andrea was Tortallan now.

 But he didn't know what the thunderstorm voice was that echoed faintly in his ears.