The Shardwell Series

Book 4

The Mystic

A. Gerry

C. Hall

Published by Scribes of Shardwell, LLC

Text Copyright 2014 Amanda Gerry and Christy Hall

Cover Art Copyright 2014 Jennifer Reid

All rights reserved

Published by Scribes of Shardwell, LLC.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission of the publisher.

Contents:

Prologue

1: Fade to Black

2: Blaze of Glory

3: Miles Away

4: Walk This Way

5: Hold On Loosely

6: Shout At The Devil

7: Patience

8: Look What The Cat Dragged In

9: Poison

10: Welcome to the Jungle

11: Empty Promises

12: A Lot To Lose

13: Round And Round

14: If I Die Tomorrow

15: White Lightning

16: Everything About You

17: Don't Go Away Mad

18: So Damn Cool

19: Children Of The Night

20: Rock Of Ages

21: Mirror Mirror Look Into My Eyes

22: Master Of Puppets

23: Come To The Everlife

24: No More Tears

25: The Unforgiven

26: Welcome To My Nightmare

27: Hysteria

28: Purple Haze

29: Bad Medicine

30: Wind Of Change

31: What It Takes

32: Theatre Of The Soul

33: Superstitious

34: Victim Of Love

35: Dust 'N Bones

36: Sometimes She Cries

37: Wasted Time

38: Prince Charming

39: All She Wrote

40: No Regrets

41: Two Steps Behind

42: Love Bites

43: Civil War

44: Live And Let Die

45: Creeping Death

46: The Final Countdown

47: Fallen Angel

48: Don't Get Mad Get Even

49: Nobody's Fool

50: Time To Surrender

51: Under My Skin

52: Ride Into The Sun

53: Something To Believe In

Epilogue

About the Authors

Prologue

I have often wondered if disaster is my shadow. My life is merely a steady stream of failures. My stubborn bravado is the shield that masks my shame, the cloak I wear to hide the doubt I feel. I never forget that I am the reason my family has come to ruin.

The secrets I revealed to the traitor, Terail, and the death of my younger brother haunt my every thought. It astounds me that my twin still has faith in me, despite the wake of disappointment I have caused him. My pride yields only pain, bears the fruit of hatred. Raeylan says that my anger is my greatest weakness, yet it is also the source of my strength. The paradox frustrates me.

It is true that my temper breeds salvation in my darkest moments. It led to LAMIE's crash on the planet Danaan, allowing us to discover Chano's artifact. It saved me when Terail nearly killed me during the assault on Viridius Castle—the rage opening a new power within me, an ability which traps a foe in his own mind.

But those are things I cannot control. It was luck that I crashed on the same planet where Raeylan was imprisoned. The Mind Rage ability does not appear at my command. More often than not, my stubbornness leads my friends to harm. I cannot trust myself.

Would my homeland have survived Kirion's invasion if Raeylan had not been preoccupied with untangling the political muddle I caused? Would I have been less hostile to Kyleren if I had not been so careless with my trust in Terail? If I had not defied the Lord of Light, would Shikun still live?

Arahm was right. I am a curse, doomed to hurt everyone I love. Once I thought that if I knew where I came from, I would feel differently—that somehow the answer to that question would explain my flaws. But it doesn't matter anymore.

I do not deserve happiness; I do not deserve my friends.

And I will never forgive myself.

Part 1

1: Fade To Black

Ragnar stared into the thick grey mist that hid his destination, pacing impatiently back and forth. He ground his teeth, mentally cursing the slowness of the sentry. The information he carried was vital, every moment wasted brought the Seven Worlds closer to catastrophe. He made three steps and a turn. Then four steps forward and a tense whirl back to the endless cloud of grey. Eternity seemed to throb around him. By the Mystic's hands, what was taking the blasted guard so long?

After what seemed like hours, though Ragnar knew only minutes had actually passed, Ormyrhaven's gatekeeper materialized out of the barrier, clad in the netted plate armor that signified the city's protectors. His bright, sapphire eyes bored into Ragnar, seeking identification.

"Who is it that calls on Aeron's wisdom?" the soldier called.

"It is I, Ragnar. I bear a message for the Mystic," Ragnar returned with a snarl.

The gatekeeper retreated into the mist without a word. In a twist of crackling static the cloud burst open, revealing the city beyond. Its tumble of lodges knelt at the base of the enormous stairway that spiraled around the Great Tree—the center of Aeron's realm.

Ragnar swept through the village as quickly as possible. He flew by the shops and tanneries without thought, spared no glance for the kinsmen he passed. When he reached the staircase, he leapt down them three at a time, spurred by haste. Soon he reached the two grand doors that were sewn into the roots of the massive tree.

Only the servants of the god could pass this warden. Ragnar calmed his mind and drew a long breath, then exhaled against the metal doors. They parted at his command. The weight of his errand drove him forward, his pace matching the pounding of his heart.

The end of the worlds had come, just as Aeron had foretold.

Large slabs of lead slate paved the atrium within. A jagged statue depicting Aeron's angels battling the forces of chaos dominated the center of the room. Ragnar darted past it, his boots clomping across the floor with just a hint of echo. He chose the widest corridor leading from the atrium, knowing that his god would be mediating in the Great Tree's most important area—the Observatory.

The oak doors were ajar when he arrived. Two distinct voices filtered into the hallway. Ragnar paused to listen, wondering if he should interrupt.

"There is not time, my friend," Aeron was saying. "The Lord of Light has been informed of our plan."

"How?" came a hot-blooded voice Ragnar recognized: Fohtian, god of fire. "We were all bound by secrecy! Bonded by pain of mortality to never reveal our design."

"Except to our celestials," Aeron stated.

"The celestials are essential to our success, Aeron," Fohtian said. "Each of us suffered weakness from their birth. Without their aid, we will perish."

"Our power would have sufficed. Secrecy was our only ally," Aeron said without surprise. "You and the others disregarded my warning."

"Are you saying you knew this would happen?" Fohtian accused heatedly. "You knew the involvement of our angels would result in betrayal? Why did you keep that from us?"

"Knowledge of the future is not for all. Choices are to be made, the consequences tolerated."

"Once again you prattle nonsense," Fohtian seethed. "We could have saved the worlds from Kirion's misguided notions!"

"It is practicality," Aeron argued. "I alone have the skill to interpret prophecy. The future is often fickle. None of you can understand its complexity."

"You could have told us the simple truth," Fohtian shouted.

"There are no simple truths," Aeron countered. "The intricacies of possibility cannot be tamed."

"Then what does the future hold for us now, Aeron?" Fohtian demanded.

"Order will be returned to the Seven Worlds."

Fohtian started to argue, but Aeron interrupted.

"My son has returned. He bears important news. Enter, Ragnar."

Ragnar flinched uncomfortably, realizing that eavesdropping on the Mystic was a foolish action. It was impossible to hide from He who saw all the branches of infinity. Ragnar entered the Observatory as commanded.

Electricity pulsed at the back of his neck, like always when he entered this sacred chamber. Three wide steps descended into the emptiness of space, which glittered with the nebulous light of endless stars. The Seven Worlds hung suspended in their proper places, each a miniature replica, accurate to infinite detail: Thyella with its gem blue shores, Alanis and its white stone mountains, Kharnak dotted by dark obsidian temples, Sarras embraced by its orange-red sky, Eden clothed in many gardens, Origin, center of the immortal and mortal, and Ragnar's home, Yuugrasil where he now stood. Ragnar knew that if he stared closely at the silky grey image he would eventually see the village of Ormyrhaven, then the Great Tree. Those would dissolve into the Observatory and he would see himself looking at himself. Such was the realm of the mind.

Past the tiny duplicate of the worlds, the Observatory extended into the boundless universe, converging the past with the present, the present projecting the immeasurable paths of the future. Only the Mystic could interpret the cacophony of fate, only He could bring balance to the chaos. Anyone else, even the gods, who looked into fate too long would be overwhelmed by its incalculable possibilities.

Shrouded in his silver robes, his bald head reflecting the light of the stars, Aeron stroked his long beard thoughtfully. Fohtian's bronze armor clanked loudly as he circled the room, anxiously running his hands through his thick, curly hair.

"Approach and divulge your tidings," Aeron said, motioning Ragnar forward.

"Aeron, the first sign has come to pass," he reported, kneeling before his master. Ragnar's eyes searched the floor in despair. "All the Erinyes of Fohtian are dead, save one."

"Impossible!" Fohtian exclaimed. "I would have felt their deaths!"

"Not if their power was stolen by one of your own," Aeron corrected. "Their fate was chosen when you entrusted your general with our plans."

"Thanati?" Fohtian gasped, astounded.

"Yes," Aeron said. "She serves only the Lord of Light. For nearly two centuries she has been lost to you, working as Kirion's spy."

The fire god's brows knit together as he fought against the news. Ragnar almost pitied him.

"What do we do, Aeron?" Fohtian finally whispered, his tone laden with sorrow. "Please advise me."

"We continue our design. Gather the others at Origin," Aeron instructed. "We must move quickly to preserve our power. I will follow shortly."

Fohtian nodded and disappeared in a wreath of flame. Aeron turned his gaze to Ragnar.

"My son," he said, a sad smile touching his fathomless eyes, "we must prepare."

"I am at your service, Father. What do you will of me?"

Aeron placed a firm hand on Ragnar's shoulder.

"Do not forget the duty I have charged you. Wait for the second sign."

"How will I know it is her?"

"You will know, Ragnar," was Aeron's only reply. "Come. Our time has passed."

Aeron shifted them to Origin, the heart of the universe, the Seventh World. Each saw the center as he or she would have it. Surrounding what looked to Ragnar as an altar of meditation, were Fohtian, the aged but fluid Nehro, and the child goddess Chano. The lovely Skoh stood slightly apart from the others, tapping her golden armbands that matched her heavy mane of hair.

Fohtian nodded to the pair as they arrived. Aeron stepped forward and spoke to Ragnar over his shoulder quietly.

"Whatever happens, my son, you must not interfere. You are an observer only."

Ragnar swallowed, fear for the future rising within him.

"Yes, Father."

"Is it true?" Skoh asked loudly in her deep throaty voice. "Have we indeed been deceived by Fohtian's erinyes?"

The fire god's jaw tightened. Aeron wagged his head once.

Skoh's chocolate skin flushed with anger, her milky white eyes flashed with displeasure.

"Careless Fohtian," she hissed, "you gave the erinyes too much of yourself, and now we shall all pay the price."

Nehro glided forward, slipping her hand into Fohtian's defensively.

"No more than you, Lady of Darkness," the water goddess countered. "Your celestials breed too rapidly. Your gifts to them diminish with each generation. Soon your sacrifice will have been for nothing."

"This isn't helping," Chano said with a small stamp of her foot. "We have to do something before Mr. 'I'm Better Than Everyone Else' ruins everything."

"Chano is right. We must begin the spell immediately," Aeron said.

Ragnar could sense the taut strings of his father's annoyance.

Skoh struck at the air with a furious gesture. "We have not the time to select an adequate demigod to replace the Lord of Light. Unless you mean to use your son, Mystic. That would throw the power of the worlds to your favor."

Her colorless eyes burned furious violet as they turned to Ragnar.

"I seek only to balance the universe," Aeron replied calmly, "as you very well know. Ragnar's path is not entwined with godhood. But today his destiny must cross ours."

"Twist words all you wish," Skoh spat, "but tell us why he is here."

"To bear witness of our destruction," Aeron answered curtly.

Heavy silence smothered the room. Ragnar held his breath, forced to ward his mind against the black tide of Skoh's fury. When the tension refused to subside, Fohtian directed the gods back to the current crisis.

"Still, we are without a candidate to supplant Kirion when the spell is cast."

"It is of no concern," Aeron soothed the others. "The new Lord of Light will rise of his own accord. He will restore the worlds to equilibrium."

"If Aeron has seen it, then I believe him," Chano squeaked.

"As do I," Nehro decided.

"And I," Fohtian agreed.

Skoh scowled. "Once again I am overruled by this council. Very well. I concede to the Mystic's promise."

"Then let us begin," Aeron announced.

The five gods knelt in a circle, chanting words Ragnar did not recognize—calling on the magical language of the gods. He stepped back as power surged through them, ballooning into a dome of energy that swept through Origin. Lightning struck fire, water drowned stone. The black energy of the Void surrounded all.

As the spell continued, Ragnar's thoughts wandered. He knew his father was incapable of overt deceit, yet how could Aeron tell the council that all would be well, when the Mystic knew that they were all about to die?

The center of Origin burned with a sudden white light. Ragnar shut his eyes and turned away, but the brightness seared through his eye sockets and into his mind. He gagged with pain. Just as he thought the light might burn him away, it disappeared. Ragnar turned back to the circle of gods in a panic.

The Lord of Light had arrived.

He stood in the center of the room, his dark eyes livid with fury. A silver-hilted sword of radiant light glowered in his hand.

"How dare you try to take my power!" Kirion cried.

"Finish the spell," Aeron commanded calmly.

Kirion sucked in an angry breath.

"I see now that you will ever support this demon," he growled, pointing at Skoh.

She only sneered haughtily and continued to chant.

"She should never have been part of the ruling powers," Kirion demanded. "She has corrupted you all!"

The council ignored him. Kirion, shaking with wrath, raised his sword and plunged it through Skoh's chest with such force that Ragnar heard her breastbone snap.

Her horrendous scream of death erupted like a black surge of sand, high-pitched and raw. Gritty claws of negative power exploded from her mouth, eyes, and ears. Aeron bent his head against the onslaught, Fohtian jumped in front of Nehro and Chano to protect them. That was the last thing Ragnar remembered as the Void energy knocked him to the floor.

Ragnar had no idea how long he lay unconscious—hours, months, or maybe years. When he awoke all was dark but for a small dome of light directly in front of him. There Kirion's sword pinned the shriveled husk of Skoh's corpse to the floor.

The rest of the gods were gone.

2: Blaze Of Glory

Kyleren had just stepped off LAMIE when Gene's panicked warning rang through the comm—something about undefined sensor readings. A second later the ground behind Lance shuddered with a wild thud, like a sixty ton Famorian whale-bird hitting the ground. The shockwave threw Esilwen and Margariete off their feet. Raeylan and Tuatha managed to keep their balance and drew their weapons. Instinctively, Kyleren lifted his BT assault rifle and yanked his core drive from the tattoo on his chest—its new permanent home since Chano repaired it back on Athalonde Prime.

In front of him, a colossal lizard with glistening olive-black scales and a wingspan wider than LAMIE clenched the brown grass with talons as thick as Kyleren's torso. Spikes grazed its head in a thorny crest. Its eyes shone deadly sharp in the brightening dawn. A jagged scar, old and long healed, marked its armored breast. Its reptilian head reared back as it inhaled a storm of breath. The air crackled with impregnated static. Kyleren and his companions stared with numb disbelief as the gargantuan monster snapped its fanged jaw open.

It was a fragging dragon.

With a concussive explosion, the dragon vomited a stream of lightning from its mouth that caught Raeylan square in the chest. The Thyellan warrior flew backward a hundred meters before he slammed against the ground. Esilwen and Margariete screamed his name, but Raeylan didn't get up again.

From above, another bolt of lightning struck LAMIE, its hot tip blasting a hole from her top deck to cargo hold. Her living tech skin fluctuated violently as the electricity ripped through her frame. Gene shrieked through the comm before it went suddenly dead. LAMIE fired her engines and crept into the air, but a second dragon dropped from the sky—presumably the one that had hit her with the lightning attack—and its weight forced her back down. Her hull squealed in protest. This dragon, a rusty brown, was only half the size of the first and perched on top of the ship like some kind of cat stalking its prey.

Kyleren unloaded ten rounds at the rusty dragon on LAMIE, but the lizard only grinned as the shots hit its glossy scales. The inflicted damage was almost insignificant.

A chorus of roars announced the arrival of two more of the monsters, moss green and muddy bronze. They soared out of the sky in a dive, one snatching at Esilwen with its huge claws. The thing would have got her had Tuatha not deflected the grab with her feyhammer. The crystalline weapon connected with a satisfying crunch. Moss grunted with pain and veered to the side.

The newcomers were the smallest, but their eyes glowed just as brilliantly as the other two. Kyleren glanced at Scar Lizard, but the big one just watched. Distracted, Kyleren's leg was yanked out from under him by Mud. The dragon flipped him over in the air and tossed him to the ground. Lance hit hard, coughing dirt, but managed to roll onto his back. Before he could get up or aim his rifle, however, Mud clamped down with its foreleg, pinning Lance solidly against the grass. It sucked air, preparing to blast him with an electric bolt.

Kyleren growled and braced for the attack, helpless and unable to dodge. But—quicker than Mud—Margariete appeared, dashing between Lance and the strike. As the arc of lightning hurtled down, she extended her arms, palms upward. She hissed in pain and dropped to her knees when it hit her, though she managed to dissipate the energy in all directions.

At first Kyleren felt a wave of alarm that she might be hurt, but then he remembered she had the ability to disperse energy attacks. Without further thought he pressed his hands against Mud's palm, heaving with all his strength. Mud's eyes widened with shock as Kyleren's strength overcame its own. Lance threw the claw away, making the dragon extend its wings to retain its balance.

By the time Kyleren jumped to his feet, Mud lashed out with its long tail. With super speed Kyleren pushed Margariete out of the way. Planting his feet firmly, he caught Mud's tail as it hit him, wrapping his beefy arms around the thrashing appendage.

With a pleased grin Kyleren spun, squeezing Mud's tail as hard as he could. The dragon squawked in protest and scratched in vain at the grass, but the effort didn't even slow Kyleren down. He twisted a 360 twice to build momentum and then let the dragon fly. The monster smashed into Moss, who hovered in the air above Tuatha and Esilwen. The two dragons tumbled out of the air in a heap of flailing wings and clawing talons.

Tuatha offered Lance a curt nod of gratitude, but Esilwen—finding her enemies entangled and distracted—dashed recklessly to where Raeylan had fallen. Tuatha ordered her to stop, but the determined healer paid no heed. Tuatha started to pursue. From over his shoulder Kyleren heard the sharp intake of breath that came before a dragon's lightning attack. He called out a warning.

But Scar Lizard's breath hit Tuatha directly between the shoulder blades. Electricity surged through her body, causing her to shake uncontrollably. She emitted the high-pitched wail of the shiidh, frenzied with pain. Then the dark-skinned elf crumpled, trails of smoke wafting eerily from her wounded back.

Rusty, the dragon resting on LAMIE's back, flexed to pounce at the exposed Esilwen. Kyleren burst forward, praying he got there first. But the dragon was closer. It dove for the healer, snatching her up in its wicked claws and zooming up into the sky. At the last moment Kyleren leapt after it, bounding fifteen meters upward. But his fingertips only grazed the bottom of Esilwen's shoe.

In moments, Rusty would disappear in the clouds. Kyleren could follow along the ground with his super speed, but that would leave Margariete to defend two injured comrades against three enemies. LAMIE was shot to hell. Across the battlefield, Raeylan grunted and coughed for breath. Tuatha clambered to her feet, despite the blood that trickled from every orifice in her face, and stumbled toward the ship. Margariete—out in the open—stared dumbfounded at the sky where Esilwen had disappeared.

Moss and Mud had finally managed to untangle themselves. Scar Lizard hadn't even been challenged by any of them yet. The colossal dragon just blew lightning at them any time he felt like it.

They were officially fragged.

"Blue Eyes!" Kyleren yelled, rushing to Tuatha and catching her as she nearly toppled over again. He intended on using LAMIE as cover. "Get over here!"

Margariete shook herself, like waking from a bad dream. She looked at Kyleren as Moss and Mud charged her.

With Tuatha balanced over one shoulder, Kyleren lined his weapon sight at one of the on-coming dragons. He wagered the lizard's eyes were not as formidable as the rest of its body. He waited for the shot. Then he fired.

Moss roared, jerking upward and away from the fight as blood spilled down its face and nostrils. Margariete attacked the other, holding out her hand with her face screwed in concentration. Mud was jerked at an odd angle, as if some invisible hand yanked it sideways. One of the dragon's wings caught against a large stone and snapped. Mud howled in pain and retreated.

Knowing that the most dangerous threat had yet to be confronted, Kyleren spun toward Scar Lizard and tried again to take out an eye with his assault rifle. The monster ignored him, gazing with intent at Margariete as she fled toward LAMIE. It launched into the air, knocking away Kyleren's shot with a clawed fist as it rose.

Kyleren's jaw sagged. No one except a GAEL was that fast. The BT round hadn't left so much as a mark. Margariete, sensing attack, turned to face the dragon as it sped toward her, loosing Stardawn to defend herself. Kyleren opened everything he had on the beast, unleashing a barrage of BT energy slugs that should have torn the thing into meat patties. But every single one sizzled into nothing against its scale armor.

How was that even possible? His BT rifle rounds were infused with Chano's magic. They weren't just standard issue metal slugs.

Margariete swung her blade as Scar Lizard reached her, but she might have been hacking with crystasteel for all the good it did. The dragon knocked the strike away with its forelegs and seized her with its hind claws. It rewarded Kyleren with one last look of triumph from its glowing eyes before it shot nearly vertical into the sky, disappearing above the clouds. Then the blind one latched onto its crippled fellow, hoisted into the sky and fled.

Kyleren threw his rifle at the ground and shouted every profane word he knew. In less than twenty seconds, he had lost both the girls.

3: Miles Away

A grunt of pain escaped Raeylan's lips before he managed to control it. He coughed for air, struggling. His chest felt like a boulder had crushed it. Everything in his vision spun sideways. His ears rang with indistinct roars and weapons' fire. He tried to push himself up but nearly blacked out from the strain. Raeylan lay for uncountable moments, unable to measure the passage of time.

Then he felt a sharp pinch in his arm. His head cleared suddenly. Some of the pressure on his lungs lifted and breath came more easily. He opened his eyes. Kyleren crouched over him, an empty nanomite injection pod in his hand.

"You able to walk?" he asked.

"Yes," Raeylan answered, rising as quickly as he dared.

Fighting the vestiges of fog from his mind, Raeylan inspected the battlefield. LAMIE looked severely damaged. A hole gaped through the center of her three decks and her landing gear had buckled. Tuatha's limp body hung unconscious over Kyleren's shoulder, her back scorched and blackened.

"Are we still in danger?" Raeylan croaked, scanning the ground for his sword.

Temperance lay ten or so spans from where he had fallen. Kyleren had converted the blade to living steel from the sword Raeylan had taken from Kirion during their last fight. After the weapon's properties had been modified, Raeylan renamed it, to replace Moonstone Retribution, which had been destroyed in his last fight with Kirion. Perpetually warm to the touch, it thrummed with life, reflecting the dawn light from its golden surface. Raeylan retrieved it and slid it back into its sheath.

"Probably not," Kyleren said. "As long there aren't more of those fraggin' monsters."

"Are Margariete and Esilwen in the ship?" Raeylan asked, heading toward LAMIE's hatch.

The expression on Kyleren's face made Raeylan's insides tighten.

"There were too many of 'em, Raeylan. You and Tuatha got hit hard. My rifle was worth gromm skrit. The dragons took them both."

Fury broke through Raeylan like a storm. Four hundred seasons of searching for Esilwen obsolete in a blink. Seasons of sacrifice for his twin erased by a single battle.

"Where?" Raeylan demanded, searching the skies.

"Won't do any good. They're long gone. Been almost five minutes. Best I can figure is that they went different ways. Gene is tryin' to see if LAMIE's sensors can find anythin'."

As if summoned by name, Gene clambered down the ramp in a frazzle.

"No good," he simpered. "LAMIE is out of commission. She's only on emergency systems."

"What's that mean for us?" Kyleren asked him.

"You won't be in the dark," Gene complained.

"This isn't the time for jokin' around, Gene."

"What do you expect me to do?" Gene exclaimed miserably. "I'm a technobionomist, not an LT ore-machinist! Her hull breach is beyond critical. I can't even talk to her because that electric bolt melted all her proto insulators together! Which is physically impossible, by the way. LT insulators have a reversed, polar electro-fitting that is designed to buffer any acute surge that surpasses her matrix threshold—"

"Frag it Gene, can you fix her or not?"

"I don't know," Gene admitted.

"Calm down," Raeylan instructed, both for himself as well the others. He took a long breath, forcing his shoulders to relax. "Only in darkest night do the stars shine brightest."

"What do we do, then?" Kyleren asked.

"Let us take Tuatha to the medical bay and tend her injuries," Raeylan suggested. "Gene, you should assess LAMIE's damage again before you despair. You have had only a superficial glance. She may not be as lost to us as you think."

"Then what?" Kyleren demanded. "Who knows what those dragons plan to do with Mags and Smiles!"

Raeylan pushed the gruesome possibilities out of thought, focusing instead on one thing.

"The dragons could have easily killed us," he said as they entered LAMIE's ghostly lit corridors, "but they chose to leave us alive. There must be hope in that."

The slanted floor made walking treacherous and they had to pick their way to the medical bay with care. The emergency lights were dim when they arrived.

"Frag it, you're right," Kyleren declared. "Those gromm bastards took LAMIE out first so we couldn't chase 'em down."

"Exactly," Raeylan said, reassured by Kyleren's conclusion. If the dragons wanted Esilwen and Margariete alive, there was a chance for rescue. But why them? Raeylan wondered silently. They had left the rest of the group behind.

"That indicates significant intelligence," Gene piped. "More than your average lizard."

"Yeah, well most lizards don't have wings either," Kyleren added caustically as he laid Tuatha gently on the first medical station. "I already gave her a nanomite jab, but we may want to hit her with another to be safe."

Raeylan nodded and opened a compartment that had been neatly labeled by Esilwen, yanking on it harder than he intended. The nanomite injection tubes scattered everywhere.

"Raeylan?" Kyleren asked.

Raeylan balled his fists again and willed his emotions to quiet. When he turned around the lieutenant was watching with concern. Raeylan gathered the spilled medical equipment and carefully put it away. Then he administered another nanomite dose to the unconscious Tuatha.

"We have to go after them," Kyleren announced.

"How do you propose we do that?" Gene asked in exasperation. "Raeylan is in no condition to teleport and—"

"We go on foot," Raeylan interrupted.

"And just leave LAMIE?" Gene shouted, flabbergasted.

"Nah," Kyleren soothed with a grin, "Raeylan's gonna leave you here to patch her up while we're out savin' the ladies."

Gene made a strangled sound.

"Before the attack, we meant to visit the city LAMIE detected," Raeylan said. "Kyleren and I will start our search there. It is likely that the people of this shard will have information about the dragons we encountered."

"Sounds like a plan," Kyleren said, patting his rifle. "But this time I'll bring my White Lady along. Nothin' stops her."

"I can't fix LAMIE alone," Gene whined.

"I will remain," Tuatha said, her crystal voice weak as she sat up.

"I'm going to need living tech ore, both for the bulkheads and the protos," Gene warned. "But I can't mold it like the lieutenant can. It's not like it grows on trees—well it does on Athalonde Prime but that's beside the point. I don't know how much is in the cargo hold."

"Don't worry, there's enough to patch the outer hull," Kyleren promised. "It'll only take a couple hours for me to mold it. Then we can hit that town."

Kyleren snatched two injection pods to supplement his pack and disappeared through the sliding doors.

"And what do we do if those things come back while you're gone?" Gene fretted.

"I will form a shield to protect LAMIE before we embark, Gene," Raeylan said. "We will not leave you defenseless."

Tuatha pushed herself from the medical station and stood on unsteady legs.

"I need the strength my stone provides. I must return to its embrace."

"Guide her there," Raeylan said to Gene.

The sandy-haired technobionomist nodded and escorted the shiidh from the room.

Once they were gone, Raeylan allowed himself to lean against the counter, concentrating against the pain in his chest. For sure he had broken ribs, possibly internal bleeding. His right leg ached with every step and he wondered if it had been fractured. He gave himself another nanomite injection, to speed the healing process, though he knew it would take a few cycles for the little machines to complete their work. Resting would help, but that was not an option, not with Esilwen and Margariete in danger. He would just have to be careful not to make his injuries worse.

On the way to his quarters, Raeylan paused by the hangar bay to make sure Tuatha had successfully merged with her standing stone. As he arrived, the whole of LAMIE's frame righted suddenly. Kyleren must have started working on the landing gear. Once in his quarters, Raeylan knelt on the floor in a meditative position. A little more than two arcs passed before Kyleren announced he had finished with the superficial hull repairs.

Raeylan took a moment to bid farewell to a frantic Gene—who was working desperately on LAMIE's protoboard—then walked outside. Kyleren was waiting at the base of the ramp, Tuatha's pack at his feet.

"Smiles still has hers," the lieutenant said, "but I dunno about Mags. I didn't see what happened to it."

Raeylan nodded, comforted by that news at least.

"Both Esilwen and Margariete have their teleport stones," Raeylan mentioned.

"If they were gonna use those rocks, they woulda done it by now," Kyleren said. "Those dragons are fraggin' smart. Probably took the stones away."

"We must assume that they need our assistance."

Raeylan lifted his hand, middle fingers curled and thumb extended, and waved it in front of LAMIE. A wall of ice sprang from the ground, crackling as it formed a protective dome around the ship.

"Preparin' for the worst might not be a bad idea either," Kyleren grumbled.

Raeylan ground his teeth. By the grace of Nehro, he vowed to reach them before that happened.

4: Hold On Loosely

Esilwen tried only once to escape the dragon's claws. If she had known just how high the beast had flown in a few short seconds, she might not have used her powers to burn it. Her green flame seared its scaly flesh just as they crested over the clouds. It snarled and let go of her.

The instant plummet stole her scream. Her hair whipped about in a tangle, nearly strangling her. From above, her abductor swooped into a dive and plucked her out of the air like a bug from a pond.

"Do not try that again," the dragon growled, its voice rattling its chest.

The words made Esilwen start. The creature was intelligent. Her heart beat faster. Maybe she could convince it to release her.

"What do you want from me?" she yelled over the wind.

"Silence would be nice," the dragon answered impatiently.

But Esilwen wasn't willing to give up. Her friends needed her. Raeylan had been severely injured. She didn't even know if he was still alive.

"Please let me go back to my friends," she pleaded. "I am their healer."

"Speak again and I will let you fall, elf," the dragon rumbled.

Esilwen meekly complied. Her blood's regeneration properties allowed only a few things to kill her—a blow to the heart, drowning, suffocation, old age. A fall from this height might be enough, but she wasn't sure. Esilwen wasn't willing to risk the possibility of losing her memories again so quickly.

Her only other prospect of escape was the carefully wrapped teleport stone in her pack. She twisted to a better angle as discreetly as possible, sliding her hand under the flap. But the dragon flicked a claw and snatched the pack away, as if it knew she was rummaging for something inside.

They flew for hours as far as Esilwen could tell. Her breath came in icy puffs and she was thankful that the frigid air did not affect her. She tried to get a sense of direction, but was soon lost between lengthy cloudbanks. Briefly she spotted a town, lazy shops and homes clustered at her left, but it quickly disappeared into a sea of grassy hills. She caught a glimpse of an enormous river that cut through the land like a muddy tree, steep, smoking mountains rising along the branches.

Esilwen agonized over the others during the entire journey. Had anyone else been hurt? Tears for Raeylan choked her every few minutes. LAMIE was stocked with nanomite injections. Perhaps one of the others had been able to attend to him in time. Was Margariete okay, or did the dragons overwhelm her? Surely Kyleren's strength had managed to protect everyone.

And what could this dragon want from her? At first she thought it meant to eat her, but the longer they flew, the less likely it seemed. What then?

Suddenly, the dragon dipped through the clouds and she could clearly see the world around her. The monstrous cone of a mountain pierced the horizon, its slopes black with soot, a plume of smoke ringing its crown. A bright blue lake stretched below her like a great dab of ink on parchment, steam hissing off its surface in large tufts of mist. The acrid scent of sulfur burned her nostrils.

They dropped lower and as they approached, Esilwen noticed that the lake, though it seemed blue from high above, was actually ringed with color: blue and green in the center, orange and yellow at the edges. The surface was smooth and unbroken. She had never seen anything quite like it.

When they reached the rich, dark blue center of the lake, the dragon dropped her.

She hit the lake hard, not having realized how fast they were flying. She kicked sharply against the water's density. It was thicker than she expected, but not quite viscous enough to drag her down. Its temperature was uncomfortably warm for Esilwen, which meant it would be scalding for anyone who did not carry Fohtian's Blood.

When she broke the surface, she at once searched the sky for the dragon, but it was nowhere in sight. Her legs already ached from swimming through the unusual water so she chose the closest shoreline, which lay in the direction of the black mountain. It took more than half an hour of stroking to reach it and when she climbed out of the lake her legs and arms shook with exertion.

The rocks on the shore were a strange combination of dark yellow, streaked with black. She settled on one to catch her breath, warily watching the sky in case the dragon returned. The rising mist from the lake's surface coated the landscape with an eerie, alien appearance. Most of the surrounding area was thick with pointy evergreens, which peeked and darted through wafts of mist.

Had the dragon expected her to die in the boiling lake? Is that why it had flown off? It didn't make sense. Why fly her across the shard just to toss her in scalding water? It could have torn her apart at any time with much less effort.

"What should I do?" Esilwen asked timidly of herself.

Only the sour-tasting breeze responded.

The dragon had taken her pack. Her throat was dry from the journey but she didn't want to drink the strange water from the lake. She was tired. The swim through the thick lake had taken too much of her energy—as things seemed to a lot lately—ever since she used Fohtian's power to save Raeylan and Kirion back in Chano's shard six months ago. Physical tasks were harder than they had once been; it took more concentration to use her magic than it should. Esilwen didn't know what spell she had cast during that fight, but the aftereffects troubled her still. She was afraid she had damaged herself permanently.

The sunlight was stretched long against the horizon; she guessed there was little more left of daylight. Who knew what dangers skulked through this shard's night?

"There's no use sitting here waiting for that dragon to come back," Esilwen sighed.

She stood, wondering which direction to go. Finally, she decided it didn't matter. Hopefully, she would discover a road or trail that led to people. Following the perimeter of the lake, unsure whether it was north or south, she encountered a small spring. It was cool and clear, like the streams in her home shard of Alanis. She risked a small drink.

Spirits lifted by its sweet, refreshing taste, she decided to follow the little brook through the forest. She might be lucky enough to find a village or town. As another bonus, the trees were thick and tall, offering cover if the dragon decided to return.

The sun soon disappeared and the sky darkened to dusk. Huge stars sprinkled the sky, most of them white or blue. A bright crimson moon hovered sullenly over the trees, causing everything to reflect its light with a ruddy hue.

Her hunger drove her to forage as she walked. An unfamiliar purple berry beckoned from a spiny bush and she sampled it, grateful that any poisons would be countered by her blood. But nothing happened and the berry was deliciously tart. She gathered several handfuls and munched as she walked.

After a time, the trees broke into a wide meadow. Smoke trails rose from the trees on other side, a sure sign of civilization. The stream dashed through the clearing, leading to whatever village lay in the distance. On the opposite edge of the tree line, a small figure huddled over the water. Esilwen could hear the soft weeping of a child.

She watched the sky cautiously as she hurried across the opening, hoping the dragon did not take the opportunity to appear. The sobbing little girl didn't seem to notice Esilwen's approach. The blond maid spoke softly.

"Whatever is wrong, child?" Esilwen asked.

The girl jumped up and nearly fell into the stream. Her hair was dark, falling nearly to her knees. She looked at Esilwen through eyes the color of chocolate. She couldn't have been older than five or six. Her little body trembled and she sniffled.

"Mama is sick," the girl whimpered as she rubbed her nose.

"Your mother?" Esilwen asked, looking around as if the woman might be hiding in the grass. "Where is she?"

"I don't want her to die," she wept. "Not like Papa."

Esilwen touched the little girl's face with a gentle palm.

"I can help your mother," she offered, her heart heavy for the little girl's sorrow, "if you lead me to her."

Hope shone bright as honey in the child's eyes.

"Really?"

"Yes. Can you tell me your name?"

"Keri," the child hiccupped.

"My name is Esilwen, Keri, and I am a healer. Can you take me to your mother?"

The girl wiped the back of her hand across her leaky nose. She bobbed her head and took Esilwen's hand in hers, leading them both in the direction of the cooking fires.

5: Walk This Way

Margariete sprang up suddenly, surveying her surroundings and taking a defensive posture at the same time. First, she noticed her belongings were missing and her feet were bare. Next, she noted that she was alone.

She was in a small, snug room made of a polished amber wood. The bed—which she had just vacated—was piled with soft animal skins. The walls were empty and the roof supported by open beams. There was no other furniture, nothing she might use as a makeshift weapon. Her boots were across the room by the heavy oak door.

The last thing she remembered was struggling to free herself from the claws of a huge dragon as it flew. Her squirming must have annoyed it, because it flicked her in the head and she had lost consciousness.

Waking up in this cozy room was not what she had expected. A cave gouged into a high cliff, littered with bones, would have been more like it. This room wasn't nearly large enough to hold her dragon captor.

So how did she get in here?

Margariete was less interested in solving that riddle than escape. Cautiously, she crept to her boots, wincing when one of the floorboards creaked. When the sharp noise failed to bring guards running, she hurried to slip her footwear on her feet. Then she pulled the door, cracking it slightly open, surprised to find it unlocked. Only a small portion of the chamber beyond was available to her eyes, so she reached into her periphery sense to search it thoroughly.

It was a large hall lined with long tables designed to hold at least fifty people. Eight carved pillars soared three stories to support the thatched ceiling. In the center, a stone fire pit cradled a sooty pot that bubbled with a thick fluid. The smoke trailed upward through a hole in the ceiling. Across the hall was a set of double doors.

She concentrated on sensing living creatures. Finding none, she slipped into the chamber as quietly as possible, dashing behind the first pillar just to be safe. A waft of spicy steam from the cauldron touched her nose, causing her stomach to growl loudly.

Suddenly, a door on the same wall as her prison swept open. Margariete barely had time to circle around the pillar. Two women, short and stocky, ambled into the room. One carried a tray of bread and cheese to the table, the other a tankard and an empty bowl. Both had their hair parted into long braids that swung heavy to their waists. Their aprons were coarse and smudged.

Dwarves.

Margariete tried to remember the one time she encountered their race: sometime right after the destruction of Thyella, she thought. In most shards the dwarves were isolationists, rarely inviting outsiders into their midst. Even in Chano's shard she had never encountered a dwarf—they called themselves Morrigans there—though their accord had been part of the pact that had plunged all its planets into a galactic war.

The dwarven women bustled about the table, arranging a meal and ladling some of the pot's contents into the empty bowl. Margariete prepared a sprint to the double doors, deciding that her long strides would easily outdistance her abductors. But before she had the opportunity, both women turned toward Margariete's pillar.

"We have prepared your dinner, Daughter Margariete," one of them said.

Margariete was stunned into revealing herself.

"How do you know my name?" she demanded.

"The Ormyr," the first dwarf answered, as if that explained everything. "We were told to provide you with strength. This stew is my great-great grandmother's recipe."

The dwarf beamed with pride. Margariete felt her stomach rumble, but she pushed the need to eat away.

"Where are my things?" she asked, eyeing the dwarves. She wondered how many more would be waiting outside and how battle-trained they might be.

"The Ormyr took them."

"What in the name of the Void is an Ormyr?" Margariete snarled impatiently.

"The Winged Ones," the second woman replied with a shrug. "They will call you when they are ready. For now you must eat."

"No, thank you," Margariete said, folding her arms across her chest with a scowl. Winged ones. Dragons. These dwarves might be their servants.

"You will want your strength, Daughter Margariete," the first dwarf cautioned. "The Ormyr have commanded you be fed."

"Damn the Ormyr to the Void!" she yelled back, taking an aggressive step forward. "Tell me why I'm here or—"

The double oak doors burst open. A hefty dwarf with spiny black hair clomped into the room, his beard a mass of tiny braids. His leather armor creaked as he walked, a hammer the size of Margariete's head swung at his belt. He glanced at the two dwarf women, then stared hard at Margariete.

"You must eat," he rumbled, a sound that seemed to vibrate through his chest.

"No."

The male dwarf's chest swelled with indignity.

"You insult our generosity, Daughter. You have been offered food and shelter."

"I have also been taken against my will," she countered.

"The Ormyr have purpose to every action," he said. "I give you this one choice. Eat or die."

Margariete peeled back the layers of the dwarf's mind, hoping to find answers. Why had they taken her? What did they want from her? But the dwarf knew nothing. He had been ordered to see her fed and then escorted to some kind of shrine.

"How can I trust that the food is not poisoned?" she asked the first female dwarf, probing the woman's mind for deception.

The woman crooked her thick lips into a smirk.

"This one is wise, to be sure," she told her companion. "I shall prove myself to you then."

Margariete approached the table and sat. The female dwarf tasted everything, smacking her lips and crooning over each bite, like a mother trying to get her infant to try something new. The second female dwarf kept her composure, but the male chuckled.

Irritated, Margariete shoved the meal into her mouth, ignoring that it was one of the most delicious concoctions she had ever tasted. The stew was tangy, but sweet like honey, filled with vegetables that she did not recognize. The first dwarf started at her with confidence, as if daring Margariete to insult the flavor.

The second dwarf busied herself with slicing the bread and pouring the ale. Margariete probed the woman's mind while she ate. Though she didn't find answers, the telepath was startled that the woman considered her an honored guest.

Guest? Margariete slowed her breath, controlling a surge of anger. Snatched by a dragon in the middle of battle and knocked in the head? She was not a guest. She was a prisoner.

After Margariete emptied her bowl, she rose. The female dwarves gathered the spent dishes and cleared the table. As they waddled away the first one snorted.

"Told you."

The male shooed her away with a wave of his beefy hand.

"I am Baldr," he said to Margariete. "Come, the Ormyr will speak with you now."

Margariete weighed her options. Without Stardawn or her teleport stone, her chances for escape were slim. Knowing more about these dwarves and why they wanted her might help provide an opportunity. When Baldr opened the double doors, she followed him into the sunlight.

Fresh, pollen-laden air surrounded her as she stepped outside. Towering in front of her was a great tree, so large that Castle Viridius could have filled its trunk at least eight times. It stood high on the mountainside, a steep road leading to a terrace at its base. Stout little houses rolled about it, perching on the forested hill.

She had just left what looked like a meeting house. Once outside, she was greeted with a multitude of stomping feet. Dwarves, old and young, male and female, had gathered just outside the doors. They had left an open path between their bodies, leading directly to the colossal tree.

"Come," Baldr commanded loudly.

Warily, Margariete followed him. As she passed the crowd of dwarves they closed in behind her. The throng practically pushed her forward as she climbed the trail that led to the tree. Margariete searched the mass of minds at random, hoping to discover a hint as to what was happening, but came up empty. All the squat spectators knew was that the Ormyr had called and they were eager to obey.

When they reached the terrace at the base of the enormous tree Baldr stopped and turned. One of the tree's roots pierced the center of the gathering place, arching from the ground like a serpent in the sea. The top of the root had been carved flat, forming a kind of altar. Baldr gestured from Margariete to the root, obviously indicating that she approach.

She obeyed, nerves tingling strangely. Her telekinetic sense buzzed with energy, like the static that teases hair before a raging storm. The strange feeling increased the closer she came to the altar. She practically saw the invisible vibrations of the air that crackled around the root, sending a buzzing zipping up her arms and neck.

Margariete extended her hand, unaware of her actions, and almost touched it. But a loud bellow from a horn interrupted her and she snapped back to herself. She looked at the crowd of dwarves around her. A balding elder had blown a curved horn made of some animal bone. The assembly dropped to their knees.

"Now you shall speak to the Ormyr," Baldr said to her.

6: Shout At The Devil

The great tree creaked and groaned as something large moved within its branches. Leaves rained onto Margariete's head. Her heart pounded frantically. How many Ormyr would come? She could hold her own against one—maybe.

She clenched her hands. Six dragons burst from the canopy above her, circling the tree in a graceful dance. Their scales were earth-toned, ranging from olive black to dusky brown. They landed on the terrace, each shaking the ground as they dropped from the sky. One was missing an eye. A seventh hobbled from behind the tree, its wing angled weirdly. The two injured dragons looked like the ones she had fought outside LAMIE.

Margariete recognized the largest, the dragon with the scar who had abducted her. He thundered onto the ground next to the altar. The others were outside the horde of kneeling dwarves, forming a semicircle. The scarred dragon stared at her, unblinking with its weirdly glowing eyes. Margariete's muscles were so tense, it was a wonder they didn't burst.

She was completely surrounded. Her only choice was to send a telepathic message and hope her brother, Esilwen or one of the others was close enough to hear. She shrieked for help as loudly as possible inside her mind, forcing all her concentration into the call. There was a chance LAMIE could reach her in time, if she could just hold the dragons long enough—

The scarred dragon shook its head and its eyes flared brightly.

"Stop screaming," it rumbled irritably. "I'm not going to eat you."

Margariete stopped, startled more that it heard her silent cry than the fact that it could speak. The dragon flapped its wings, sending a wave of leaves and twigs across the crowd as it settled into a more comfortable position. The dwarves rose to their feet.

Fury burned the fear from her blood. She was tired of waiting. She would make this thing free her.

"You have taken me captive," she accused hotly. "I demand that you release me."

"No," the dragon said simply.

Margariete focused her power, every ounce of strength from her body, and pressed her mind deeply into the dragon's.

"Let me go," she commanded, her voice heavy with sway. "Now."

But the dragon only growled deeply in its scarred chest. It sounded almost like a laugh.

"Your magic is powerful, young one," the dragon said, "but useless against me."

Margariete blinked in surprise. Very few creatures in the shards could resist her mind domination power.

"Why did you take me? Why attack my friends?" she seethed.

She tried to probe the dragon's mind, but encountered a barrier of energy that she could not pierce. She glowered in frustration.

"We did what was necessary," the dragon replied.

"Necessary?" Margariete cried in outrage. "My brother might be dead, you overgrown lizard!"

The dwarves murmured with disapproval and wagged their beards. Some brandished their fists in response to her display of disrespect. Margariete didn't care.

"We do not act without purpose," the dragon growled. "We have brought you here to earn your freedom."

"You kidnapped me so I could earn my freedom?" she fumed.

The dragon lifted a spiny eyebrow.

"You were held captive long before our intervention," it explained.

Margariete snorted, mad with rage. She hated riddles. Bad enough her brother used them all the time. She had reached the edge of her patience.

"What do you want from me?" she spat.

"You will traverse the maze of Aeron and retrieve the object of power at its center."

Aeron? Object of power? The dragon must mean the god's artifact. Of all the gods, she knew the least of Aeron. His scroll was indecipherable. His credo lost in time and logic. Through all their travels, Margariete and Raeylan had never encountered a follower of the Mystic.

But there was no way in the Void she was going to turn an artifact over to these dragons. They could be working for Kirion for all she knew.

"I refuse."

"You cannot," the dragon countered. "Your destiny lies with the Mystic."

"Sink to the Void, lizard."

The dragon's eyes flared and it hissed angrily. Without any spoken order the front line of dwarves swarmed her. Three wrestled her to her knees before she could stop them. For humanoids so small they were incredibly strong. They wrenched her arms behind her and bound them with sharp strips of cord. If she concentrated, she could easily unwind them, but she knew the dwarves would only replace the bindings. She could not hope to resist them all at once, not unarmed.

"It is not a choice," the dragon roared, digging his claws into the grit and extending his wings wide. "You will extract The Mirror for us."

"Get it yourself."

"The maze is wrought with danger. Only those who seek themselves may find the path to Aeron's power."

"I will die before I bring you that artifact."

"You do not have a choice."

A hush fell over the gathering. Margariete and the scarred dragon glared at one another. The air grew thick with tension.

"I say we kill her now," a different dragon suggested in its grainy voice. "It is clear she is unwilling to help us."

"Silence," the scarred dragon bellowed. "I did not ask for your interference, Vior."

The other five dragons shifted, like lions tensing to spring.

"What Vior says has merit," another dragon added, this one from Margariete's left. "An unwilling subject will not survive the tests."

"Do not question me, Tyr," the scarred dragon rebuked, "unless you are ready to face the consequences."

Tyr lowered his eyes in disgruntled obeisance and bowed his head. Vior, however, remained upright and defiant.

"This woman will not help us," Vior argued snappishly. "We must turn our attention to the other."

The scarred dragon reacted so violently that Margariete gasped involuntarily. Vior was flattened to the ground by the larger dragon's body in an instant, the scarred dragon's teeth deeply embedded in Vior's neck. Vior snarled and thrashed. The other dragons did not intervene.

Finally, Vior turned his head and whimpered. Thick blood oozed from the punctures in his neck. Seemly satisfied at the show of submission, the scarred dragon let Vior go.

"It is decided, Vior."

Vior growled resentfully, but he raised no further objections.

Despite the insincere apology, the scarred dragon seemed pleased with this response. Then it turned its attention back to Margariete.

"You will enter the maze," it demanded.

The smaller dragons leapt back into the air—except the one with the broken wing—cyclones of wind battering the assembled dwarves as they disappeared back into the tree's canopy. Vior sullenly lashed his tail as he turned and stomped into the forest, nursing his injured wing and neck. Only the scarred dragon remained.

"Your followers are less than enthusiastic with your orders," Margariete observed.

"They obey my command," the dragon stated confidently.

"You rule by fear," she said with a scowl. "Just another tyrant in the shards."

"Dragons are strong-willed," it said, seemingly unaffected by her insult. "The hierarchy of our kind has always been determined by strength. It is our way."

The dragon dropped its head level with Margariete. Its breath was hot and tasted of electricity as it spoke.

"If you do not retrieve The Mirror, you will never see your companions again."

Baldr stepped forward, a steaming goblet cradled in his hands. Margariete had been so distracted by her conversation with the dragon that she hadn't noticed where the cup had come from. Two of the warriors guarding her held down her shoulders. The other yanked her chin up and clenched her cheeks, forcing her mouth open.

Margariete fought them as Baldr approached. She released her bonds with telekinesis, but one of her captors grabbed her hands. She lost bits of hair from her scalp as another yanked her head back. She tried to bite the one holding her cheeks and received a sharp punch to the stomach.

In the end her efforts proved fruitless. Baldr poured the hot, bitter liquid down her throat. She spit as much as she could. But whatever she drank made her limbs heavy and useless. Her guards let her go and she felt herself fall to the terrace.

And then she didn't remember anything.

7: Patience

Raeylan tried to mask the uneven tempo of his breath to keep the severity of his injuries from Kyleren. The sun dipped to the horizon, streaking the world with a cold, white light. The snowy caps of the northern mountains glinted red, almost as if they were angry. A tall, wild pine forest clotted the south. Tough, grassy hills humped from east to west, the long turf waving absently in the chilly breeze. The cool temperature helped to dull the pain that drove needles into his chest with every stride.

Half a cycle from LAMIE, they had discovered a hard packed road that led toward the city. They hurried along it for several more arcs but the road remained empty. As they reached the crown of a particularly sharp hill, the walls of a town came in to view.

There an odd sound caused Raeylan to stop. It was like the echo of an angry wind shrieking through a rocky shore. He swept the landscape across his gaze, searching for the source, but noticed nothing out of the ordinary.

"Everythin' okay, Raeylan?" Kyleren asked, sounding concerned.

"A strange cry," Raeylan said. "Did you hear anything?"

Kyleren shook his head.

"What'd it sound like?"

"Pain. Fear, perhaps," Raeylan tried to explain, but there seemed no words to accurately describe the sound. "The voice of the wind if it could scream."

"Probably just an animal or somethin'," Kyleren said with a shrug. "Who knows what's on this planet."

Kyleren's suggestion seemed valid, but something made Raeylan feel that the sound had more significance. Unfortunately, there was no indication of its origin. Raeylan frowned. Kyleren's expression showed worry.

"You don't look too good," he pointed out, "ever since you got slammed by that lightnin' bolt. You sure you're okay?"

"A few broken ribs," Raeylan deflected, deciding it was best to push forward as quickly as possible. "I gave myself another dose of nanomites before we left."

"Those tend to work better when you rest," Kyleren remarked as Raeylan resumed their brisk pace.

"Recovering Margariete and Esilwen is more important than my comfort," Raeylan returned almost breathlessly.

He struggled to hide a grimace of pain. The GAEL walking beside him slowed his stride.

"I'm gettin' tired," Kyleren complained suddenly. "We gotta slow down."

Inwardly, Raeylan smiled. He knew the GAEL wasn't even winded. Kyleren could outrun him for an arc at top speed without even sweating.

"Thank you," Raeylan said gratefully. "But only for a few moments."

Kyleren's face broke with a jovial grin. As they descended the hill into a broad plain the road widened, several smaller lanes meeting their own. Bands of travelers appeared in the distance, smaller than insects, trickling to and from the city walls ahead. Kyleren pulled out his LT optics and held them to his eyes.

"We're close," he confirmed, "but won't make it by the time the sun goes down."

"We must hurry," Raeylan said.

Mustering his strength, Raeylan teleported as closely as he dared, just behind a small swell in the plain where unfriendly eyes would not spot his sudden shift. Kyleren caught him moments after, passing in a blur before he managed to stop himself.

"Best walk from here," Kyleren said dubiously. "Don't wanna scare the locals."

Raeylan agreed, lightheaded and dizzy from the use of his powers. Somehow he had just made his injuries worse.

After teleporting, it took a little more than an arc to reach the town. It was built on an assortment of five wide, flat hills. Narrow, thatched buildings climbed the natural contours. From what he could see, Raeylan estimated the town's population to be around ten thousand. That would be good for gathering information. Tall pillars of wood sandwiching slabs of rough stone formed the city's outer wall. Sentries stalked along the top, the planks creaking under their weight. Only one gate led inside. A line of travelers had formed at its threshold.

Three burly human guards dressed in the scaly hide of some animal checked each newcomer to the city, meticulously cataloguing weapons or confiscating illegal goods. A dwarf with a fiery red beard directed them, making sure each entrant was thoroughly searched. Raeylan eyed Kyleren, thinking of the energy pulse weapons and the CC armor the GAEL had hidden under his cloak. The soldiers wore heavy, spiked maces at their belts; the sentries on the wall were armed with wooden crossbows. Kyleren's collection was sure to cause a commotion.

"I do not believe the guards will let us pass," Raeylan said quietly.

"Why can't we ever visit places that have guns in 'em," Kyleren grumbled.

The pair stepped out of line, letting other travelers pass them by. Kyleren creased his brow in thought, staring at the log wall.

"I'll meet you inside the gate, south side," he promised, and dashed around the wall faster than the eye could follow.

Raeylan disliked the necessity of deceiving the guards, of breaking the laws of the city before he even entered. But there was no helping it. Kyleren's powers were rooted in his technology and trying to explain his many BT weapons would cost them precious time.

"Welcome to Snorri," one of the guards muttered impatiently as Raeylan drew close.

The man held a hand, obviously expecting Raeylan to produce his sword for inspection. He handed Temperance over politely. The guard tapped its sheath several times, then drew the blade. His eyes widened as the golden hue of the living ore was revealed. Raeylan kept his expression carefully blank as the guard glared at him suspiciously.

"Got anything else?" the guard barked.

Raeylan shook his head, but the guard searched him twice anyway. When the man failed to find another weapon, he lectured Raeylan quite extensively on exactly how the city punished troublemakers. Dusk had passed by the time Raeylan was finally allowed to enter.

He had just climbed half a cobbled street when Kyleren stepped inconspicuously out of an alleyway to the left.

"Thought they'd never let you through," he said gruffly. "I was waitin' there forever."

Raeylan smiled but didn't reply as they climbed to the first plateau. The street opened into a paved square, merchant stalls dotting its perimeter. A tall wooden statue loomed upward in the center, twenty spans in height, illuminated by torches. It was the rough depiction of a man, pieces of bark still clinging to its carved robes and face. Raeylan could barely make out a circle of intricate symbols that wrapped around the statue's base.

"Shady lookin' fella," Kyleren commented as they moved in for a closer look.

"I think it is an image of the god Aeron," Raeylan surmised. "I have seen those symbols before. Hand me your dataplate please."

Kyleren extracted the device and Raeylan found the holoimprint of the one god scroll he had failed to decipher. He held it next to the statue, comparing the markings. Kyleren took a step forward, looking between the statue and the scroll imprint several times before a glimmer of understanding came to him.

"Well frag me," he said in amazement, "they're the same."

"Perhaps this shard will finally unlock the scroll's puzzle," Raeylan agreed.

"Right. I'll leave that to you thinkin' guys. As for me, just tell me what to hit and how hard. I'm lookin' forward to round two with those gromm lizards."

"We will return later to examine the statue," Raeylan stated, "after Margariete and Esilwen are safe."

"Where the frag are we gonna start?"

Kyleren was examining a nearby building that was obviously a local inn.

"I think we should seek out a house of worship," Raeylan suggested.

"We might get lucky in there," Kyleren returned, pointing at the tavern.

"Maybe we should avoid the taverns if we can," Raeylan said politely, remembering the last time they had tried to gather information at a town inn.

"I swear I won't let the ladies pull me off mission again," Kyleren promised. "Besides, I had no idea that those barmaids were the innkeeper's daughters."

"And betrothed," Raeylan reminded him severely, thinking how hard it had been to resolve the situation. It hadn't helped that the incident had happened only a few weeks after their escape from Chano's shard, and Raeylan had been tense—worried Kirion's agents had managed to find them.

"They didn't tell me 'til after," Kyleren defended. "I'd never have touched 'em if I'd known they were spoken for."

Raeylan remained silent. Kyleren's irresponsible behavior that night had resulted in complicated consequences. The innkeeper had demanded retribution of a most particular variety—he wanted Margariete in exchange—and they had been forced to fight their way out. Afterward, Margariete had insisted on leaving Kyleren on LAMIE forever and was extremely irritated that Raeylan hadn't complied. For the next half season, Raeylan had been forced to mediate arguments between the two of them, exasperated by their childish behavior toward each other. Soon their animosity grew so hostile that LAMIE seemed too small for all of them to live on peacefully.

Raeylan sighed, realizing that time was not on his side. They needed as much information as quickly as possible.

"Very well, Kyleren. You find out what you can at the tavern. I will make my way to a temple."

"Yeah," Kyleren returned happily. "We'll cover more ground that way."

"Be wary," Raeylan warned sternly. "We do not yet know whether these dragons are feared or worshipped in this shard."

"Right. Show respect until told otherwise. Anythin' else?"

"Yes," Raeylan said, feeling a little apprehensive. "Try not to start any fights."

"No promises," Kyleren chuckled.

Raeylan knew Kyleren was joking, but he couldn't help the feeling of unease that crept through him as he watched the GAEL saunter cheerily toward the tavern.

8: Look What The Cat Dragged In

The jolly murmur of a small crowd enjoying food and drink met Kyleren as he stepped into the tavern. A hearty fire crackled in the center of the lodge-like building. The heads of myriad animals hung on the walls. An entertainer in garish costume was belting a tale of a priest called Serapis who nearly took control of the world, but the jovial customers didn't seem to be listening at all. A group by the fire launched into a bawdy drinking song that drowned the entertainer's voice entirely.

In the south corner of the room, shouts and jeers surrounded a pair of arm wrestling men—a burly human against a particularly grizzled looking dwarf. Gold was exchanging hands. Kyleren snorted. It was obvious the dwarf was going to win. To Kyleren's left was the bar where boys with dirty washcloths and maids with long golden braids ran about filling orders. Two bartenders barked orders. The place was incredibly busy.

Everyone in the tavern wore skins and leathers and had furs for cloaks. The men, both human and dwarf, had heavy beards braided in a variety of styles. Kyleren rubbed his shaven jaw circumspectly. He and Raeylan would have a hard time blending in here. Even the young men had wispy growths of hair about their faces. There were a few with smooth faces, but they seemed to be the hired help.

Kyleren shook his head. There was nothing to be done about it. He approached the bar, gaining the attention of the barkeep who was spouting the most instructions, a man with prolific specks of grey in his beard.

"Yer not one of my regulars," the man said with a crease in his brow.

"I'm not from around here," Kyleren said quickly, leaning against the bar.

The barkeep scowled, as if affronted by Kyleren's declaration.

"What'll you be drinkin' then?"

"Strongest you got," Kyleren grinned.

The barkeep put both hands on the bar and leaned forward.

"You got coin?" he growled.

Kyleren reached into his pocket and flicked gold chip onto the bar, hoping Gene's estimation about this place's money system wasn't a bunch of skrit. The barkeep's eyebrows rose and he looked suspicious.

"That there would stock this tavern for more'n a moon cycle, son."

"I got a couple more," Kyleren offered confidentially, "if you're willin' to answer some questions."

"I don't want no trouble with the law," the barkeep replied vehemently as he snatched the coin and filled a mug from a large barrel.

"It's nothin' like that. Just lookin' for some friends," Kyleren clarified.

"They lost or summat?" the bartender asked as he dropped the foaming mug in front of Kyleren.

Kyleren paused. Raeylan had said to be discreet. But they needed information. Quickly, he launched into a modified version of events.

"Yeah," he said. "Before they left, they said somethin' about lookin' for dragons."

The barkeep's eyes narrowed with fear. He glanced around the tavern, presumably looking for guards. Then he leaned in close to whisper.

"I wouldn't go 'round askin' questions 'bout dragons, son. Points you out as a foreigner. Folk here don't like strangers. As fer dragons, nobody but the dwarves dare go lookin' fer 'em."

"Why not?"

"Humans who go after 'em end up dead. Your friends won't be no different."

Kyleren took a swig of the drink, feeling it burn his throat as it went down. The alcohol was so potent he figured it would have made him pass out without his GAEL immunity. The barkeep chuckled, but the lines around his eyes showed he was still guarded.

"That there is dwarven ale. Knocks even the strongest dwarf off his feet."

"Always been a good drinker," Kyleren said dismissively. "You're sure about those dragons?"

The barkeep scowled again.

"You callin' me a liar?"

"Uh, no. But say I wanted to catch up to my friends before it's too late. Where would I start?"

"You must be from some really far off place, son. Them dragons know when yer lookin' fer 'em."

Kyleren gave a start.

"How?" he asked.

"No one knows, but if I were you, I'd let this one go. Yer friends are goners."

"Sorry, can't do that," Kyleren said. "Maybe you could point it out on a map or somethin'?"

"Only thin' worse than a dragon is those dwarven priests up the hill. They find out yer lookin' fer the dragons and that I told ya where to find 'em, they'd skin me. Worship the dragons, they do. I can give you food and room fer yer coin but I ain't answerin' any more questions about dragons."

Kyleren downed the rest of his ale, tapping his fingers as the barkeep refilled the mug. Kyleren held it up and gave the man a nod, trying to keep disappointment from his expression.

"Thanks," he said.

The barkeep scuttled to another customer.

"For nothin'," Kyleren muttered under his breath.

He clomped away from the bar and found an empty table. Hopefully, Raeylan would fare better at the temple, but from the sound of it, the priests were likely to offer even less information. He put his hand to his ear and activated his comm as discreetly as possible.

"Got nothin' so far, Raeylan," he said, then waited for the crackling response.

"I have just reached the temple," Raeylan said. "I will meet you at the tavern when I am finished."

"Copy. And just a word of warnin'. Don't ask about where the dragons are. People are real skittish down here over those priests you're lookin' for."

"That complicates things significantly," Raeylan replied. "Thank you for the warning, Kyleren."

"Tell me about it. Out."

The GAEL sipped his mug, lost in thought. Raeylan was right. Things were getting complicated. It seemed only the dwarves worshipped the dragons, but they had the humans running scared.

Gods were a fragging pain in the ass.

Just then, a wooden plate with sizzling meat, cheese and bread was set in front of him, followed by a bowl of stew. Kyleren looked up, meeting the eyes of a pretty barmaid who smiled sweetly at him. She was nineteen, maybe, with sleek black braided hair. Her simple serving apron clung to her shapely hips.

"Helgen said ta make sure you were comfortable," she said with a knowing wink. "He says you're to get whatever you ask for."

Kyleren's blood burned with the offer. Surely if her employer recommended, bedding her wouldn't likely get him in to trouble. Fully intending to accept her proposition, the answer out of his mouth surprised him.

"Sorry sweetheart, I have a friend comin'. If you could get me a second plate of food and wine or somethin', I'd be grateful."

The girl, slightly disappointed, nodded and left.

Why the frag had he done that? She was attractive and willing. Kyleren grunted in dissatisfaction. Raeylan must be getting to him. He took a long swig of his drink.

"Perhaps you first require a scolding from Margariete," said an amused voice.

Kyleren spewed his ale all over the table. A man was sitting in the chair next to him. Lance hadn't even seen the stranger sit down. A black wool cloak hid the features of his face, silver-grey furs crossed the front of his chest. A saber armed his hip and two jeweled daggers were strapped to his thigh.

How had he known Margariete's name? Kyleren was pretty sure he hadn't mentioned her to the barkeep.

"Who the frag are you?" he demanded.

"I have your answers," the stranger said cryptically.

"Sounds like you nose into other people's concerns."

There was a pause, and Kyleren had the distinct feeling the man was laughing at him.

"It is difficult not to listen when your mind is so easily penetrated."

Kyleren didn't like the sound of that. He only knew one person who could read minds.

"Tell me how you knew Margariete's name," Kyleren growled impatiently, reaching for his sidearm and flicking off the safety.

The man pulled off his hood and Kyleren's jaw hit the table. Olive-toned skin, brightly glittering sapphire eyes, unnatural beauty. He was looking at the male version of Margariete.

"I share a kinship with her. I have the same gifts," the man replied. "It was easy to find you, Lieutenant Lance Kyleren. You make no effort to shield your mind as your companion, Raeylan, does."

Kyleren pointed angrily at the man.

"Have you or Margariete ever considered a mind should be somebody's own fraggin' business? I'm only gonna ask one more time: who are you?"

"I am the only person in this shard who will tell you about the Ormyr."

"I'm not lookin' for any Ormyr," Kyleren protested. "I'm lookin' for dragons."

"They are one and the same."

Kyleren put his hand on his weapon, sizing up the stranger next to him.

"And you're gonna help us, just like that, no questions asked?" Kyleren asked doubtfully. "Why would you do somethin' like that?"

"Because," the stranger answered, his face glowing with intensity, "I am the Viridius twins' father."

9: Poison

Little Keri's village was a collection of twenty huts crowded around a communal water well, their thatched roofs clinging pathetically to the walls. The roads were only grass and mud. The smell of rot and death was so strong that Esilwen's stomach heaved uncomfortably and she quickly covered her nose with her sleeve. Animals roamed free, unchecked by their masters. Feverish moans came from the houses. The village's affliction was obvious.

A plague.

It looked like the disease was in its last phase. This place was large enough to house a hundred people, but the streets were empty except for herself and Keri. A few faces stared at her through the open windows as she passed, but quickly disappeared.

"Hurry," Keri pleaded, leading Esilwen forward even though her tiny body was exhausted.

They arrived at a home at the edge of the village cluster, just across from the well. The smell of sickness became worse when Esilwen stooped over the threshold to Keri's home. A sickly fire smoldered in the central hearth. Thin blankets covered two figures, one male and one female, on the only bed.

Esilwen shivered. The male, probably Keri's father, stared at the ceiling with wide, unblinking eyes. By the state of his body, it seemed he had been dead for several days. The other squirmed and whimpered weakly.

"Please help her," Keri whispered.

"I will do what I can, little one," Esilwen promised with a kindly smile.

Through her many lifetimes, Esilwen had been called to cure an epidemic only once before. The extreme demand for healing had drained her, both of blood and strength. It had taken weeks to eliminate the disease entirely. But in the end, she had been able to save everyone from the crippling sickness. If only a fraction of the people here were still alive, she would be able to heal them in a matter of hours, as long as she didn't collapse from the strain.

Esilwen knelt next to the bed, examining Keri's mother before attempting to cleanse her. The mother's body was discolored, her veins looking black against her skin. Perhaps it was some sort of blood disease. Her breath was short and labored. Her eyes rolled and her limbs shook.

Even though Esilwen was certain her power would effectively kill this infection, she wished she had access to the medical equipment aboard LAMIE. Correctly programmed nanomites would take longer to cure the disease, but would not leave Esilwen weak like her natural healing ability would. LAMIE's sensors could also accurately project how and when the plague had spread, and whether or not other villages in the area were at risk.

The healer drew her knife and turned to Keri.

"I must cut your mother to heal her," she warned the little girl. "Do you understand?"

The girl shook her head up and down.

"Look away if it bothers you," Esilwen instructed gently.

She drew the knife across the woman's blistering hot skin, opening a long gash. Then Esilwen cut herself and let their blood mingle. She waited calmly as the required twelve heartbeats passed.

When her blood erupted into healing fire, Keri's mother screamed in agony. Her body convulsed. The black veins under her skin grew dark, erupting into boils that burst with inky ooze. Her eyes bulged and bled a sickening yellow pus that dribbled down her face like dreadful tears.

"What's wrong with Mama?" Keri cried, panicked.

Horrified, Esilwen tried to break her blood connection but Keri's mother had curled her hands around Esilwen's arms, gouging her nails into the healer's skin like nails. The woman's desperate strength was incredible. Esilwen couldn't release the bond. For unbearable moments Esilwen watched the woman thrash and scream, foam gurgling at her lips as black blood spattered the sheets.

Then Keri's mother slumped suddenly. Her grip relaxed and her arms fell limply to the bed.

Free, Esilwen gagged and vomited all over the floor. Her body trembled.

"What did you do to Mama?" Keri sobbed.

The healer didn't know how to answer. Never before had her power failed. Esilwen pulled herself to her feet and checked the woman's vitals. Keri's mother was definitely dead. A sick realization almost made Esilwen retch a second time. Somehow, Fohtian's Blood had sped the diseases effects. She was directly responsible for this woman's death.

Unable to contain the flood of emotions that overtook her, Esilwen ran to the door, hoping the outside air would clear her head and stomach. But nothing could ease the guilt that clogged her heart. She had killed that woman.

A soft tug at her skirt drew Esilwen's attention back to the child. Keri's sorrow-reddened eyes looked at the healer with confusion.

"You promised you would help," she begged. "Please, Mama—"

Keri fainted. Esilwen caught her small body. The little girl's skin was unnaturally hot, the back of her neck was stained with the claws of blackened veins.

"By Fohtian's Blood," Esilwen cried, "no!"

Esilwen was at a loss. Her throat choked on tears. She should have taken more care, should have tried to analyze the disease more carefully. Her healing was useless—dangerous even—to these people. What should she do?

Maybe she could help in a more traditional manner. She was a trained physician, after all. Most of her skills relied on the nanomites from Chano's shard, but she had to try something. At the very least she could make Keri comfortable and help the fever break naturally, if possible.

There were probably more villagers on the verge of death inside the huts. Most of the buildings were too small for organizing a central healing area, but one just outside the circle of houses looked to be some sort of meeting house. The windows were lighted. In her haste to reach Keri's mother, she hadn't spotted it until now. Maybe survivors were inside.

It took several moments to carry Keri to the building. The doors were open, allowing the chilly air to penetrate the structure. The floor was slatted wood, unlike Keri's hut which had been only packed earth. Two people stumbled around the room, an aging man and a young woman, tending thirteen people who lay on ragged blankets.

"It's no use," the man sighed. "The fever will take Jeran before the night is done."

The man collapsed on the floor and the young woman ran to his side.

"Father!" she cried.

Esilwen stepped into the building. The young woman turned to her.

"Who—" she began to ask.

"I am here to help," the Esilwen announced quickly. "My name is Esilwen. You should rest before your sickness grows worse."

Esilwen laid Keri on an empty blanket. Too weak to argue, the girl sank obediently to the floor. Esilwen scanned the room, trying to evaluate the infected. Some were on the verge of death, especially the old and very young. There were no supplies, no water.

"I'm going to take care of you," Esilwen said, more to herself than anyone.

She trotted back to the well and drew some water. Wondering briefly if the well might be the cause of the plague, she dipped her hand into the bucket and called forth her flame to boil the water, sterilizing it. As she lugged the heavy container back to the meeting house a terrifying thought occurred to her.

If Fohtian's power could not heal the plague, she might not be immune. There was a chance she might die before Raeylan and the others were able to find her.

10: Welcome To The Jungle

"Follow Pilgrim's Road to the highest tier," a guard told Raeylan. "Aeron's Lodge is there. But I wouldn't go up there if I were you. They don't like humans."

"I appreciate the word of caution," Raeylan returned absently.

He bowed and headed up the cobbled road. The towering building was made of a wood similar to cedar, with intricate designs carved on the double doors. Huge crossed beams, impossible for ten men to lift, formed the roof. Four dwarves in dark leather armor guarded the open threshold. They glared at him.

Raeylan was just about to step forward when Kyleren's voice crackled over the comm.

"Got nothin' so far, Raeylan."

"I have just reached the temple," Raeylan replied. "I will meet you at the tavern when I am finished."

"Copy. And just a word of warnin'. Don't ask about where the dragons are. People are real skittish down here over those priests you're lookin' for."

"That complicates things significantly," Raeylan said. "Thank you for the warning, Kyleren."

"Tell me about it. Out."

Raeylan sighed. Between this new information and the irritated expressions of the dwarven guards, he knew the task would be difficult. A meeting with the priests would no doubt test all of his skills of diplomacy. He approached the guards and bowed in the traditional Thyellan gesture of respect.

"You'd best move on, human," growled one, a beefy individual, even for a dwarf.

"I have come seeking the wisdom of Aeron," Raeylan replied confidently.

"Aeron doesn't speak to your kind. Leave now," the dwarf repeated.

"Please reconsider," Raeylan said politely. "I would like to speak to one of his followers."

The dwarf smirked and nudged one of his fellows.

"The man wants a priest, eh? I say we give him one, then."

Raeylan watched them patiently and made no comment.

"Go get Wotan," barked the hefty dwarf to another.

One of the guards scurried into the building. The other three had a gleam of glee in their eyes that Raeylan did not particularly like.

The sentry returned, followed by a dwarf dressed in coarse navy robes roped at the waist. Keys jingled at his hip, a long wooden staff clumped with the rhythm of his strides. His beard was free of braids, but combed neatly to three distinct points. The priest's face was drawn into an ugly scowl, an expression amplified by the empty socket where his left eye should have been.

"Human," he spat rudely at Raeylan, "you have out-stepped your bounds. None but dwarfkind are welcome on Aeron's hallowed ground."

"I do not wish to cause offense," Raeylan apologized, "only to beseech your wisdom."

The dwarf rose to his full height—which was at least three hands shorter than Raeylan—his face purpling.

"I am deep in meditation to the Mystic. I do not have time to waste on you."

The dwarf's mouth clenched into a forced kind of grimace. The guards' expressions turned eager and they chuckled behind their hands, as if they were about to receive a treat. The priest glared hard at Raeylan with his one good eye.

This continued for several moments. Sweat began to bead on the priest's face. The guards' laughter ceased abruptly, replaced by angry mutters. Whatever the priest had tried to do, it hadn't worked.

"What are you?" the dwarf priest demanded.

"One who seeks answers," Raeylan answered cryptically.

"I have made the sacred pilgrimage to the source of the mind's power!" the dwarf roared. "The control of thought was given to me by divine right. How dare you thwart it!"

Though Raeylan didn't know exactly what the priest's sacred pilgrimage might be, he now knew why the dwarf was so upset.

"The powers of the mind have never been able to influence me," Raeylan explained.

The priest narrowed his eyes. The four guards loosed their axes.

"You are a demon sent from the Void, then!" the priest declared, pointing his staff at Raeylan. "Be gone, heathen of the Black Witch!"

"I assure you I am not," Raeylan replied calmly. "My protection comes from another source."

"Lies!" the priest roared. "I give you this one chance to leave and never return."

He spat on the ground and turned away, clomping angrily back into the temple. The guards brandished their axes, waiting for an excuse to strike. Knowing that it was unlikely he would get any information from these people, Raeylan bowed courteously and returned to the road, heading back to where he had left Kyleren.

He wondered if the "Black Witch" meant Skoh, but it was too early in their travels to tell for sure.

"Raeylan, do you copy?" Kyleren suddenly thundered across the comm.

Raeylan didn't respond until he was certain there was enough distance between himself and the temple to assure he wasn't overheard.

"I hear you, Kyleren," Raeylan said.

"You gotta get down here. Now. Meet me upstairs at the inn, there's too many ears on the main floor."

"Has something happened?" Raeylan asked, quickening his pace.

"I think I got the intel we're lookin' for."

*

The landing of the tavern's second floor creaked as Raeylan stepped onto it. There were no chairs, just a wide balcony area. Kyleren was leaning against a wall, looking at the floor. At the sound of Raeylan's footsteps, his head snapped up, hands reaching into his cloak, presumably for his weapon.

"What have you found?" Raeylan asked the GAEL.

"He found me," Kyleren said, relaxing and nodding his head uneasily toward a closed door. "Says he'll tell us whatever we want to know about the dragons."

"You don't trust his word?" Raeylan asked.

Whether it was lucky intuition or another skill from Chano's artifact, the GAEL's hunches usually turned out to be accurate. Raeylan was interested in Kyleren's impression.

"My gut says he's tellin' the truth, but my head thinks he's a gromm liar."

"What makes you say that?"

"The guy claims to be your father."

Rarely did shock render Raeylan speechless, but for once he didn't know what to say. Of course, when he and Margariete had set out on their journey to stop Kirion after the destruction of Thyella, Raeylan wondered if they might encounter their real father. But once he realized the immensity of the shards, he had decided the possibly of finding their father was extremely remote unless they tracked him down by design. To just happen upon him in a random shard seemed too unlikely to be coincidence.

"I would say it's skrit," Kyleren snorted, "but the bastard looks just like Margariete."

Numb with this sudden turn of events, Raeylan stepped to the door and pushed it open. A man with burnt-coffee skin and bright sapphire eyes paused mid-pace. His face was ageless. He was taller than Raeylan, but shorter than the towering GAEL. Lean and agile, he had one hand resting on the saber at his belt. Two dark red jewels winked in its hilt. The other hand he held up in way of greeting.

"I see Anleia in you," the man said as a way of greeting.

"Who's Anleia?" Kyleren asked as he and Raeylan stepped in to the room.

"She was my mother," Raeylan answered with a knot in his throat.

Despite the man's claim, Raeylan remained on his guard. He had just discovered the people of this shard to have mind reading abilities like his sister. Though Raeylan could keep his thoughts his own, Kyleren could not. It would take more than knowing his mother's name to convince Raeylan that this stranger was indeed his father.

"May I ask who you are?" Raeylan inquired formally.

"Thyellans," the man grunted. "Always so courteous. Pushes a man to the drink. I am Ragnar."

"You told my companion that you are my father."

"By blood only," Ragnar replied. "Your rearing was, of course, the work of your mother."

Raeylan stared into Ragnar's face, searching for any sign of duplicity. He sorely missed Margariete, who could have done much to ascertain the truth of the stranger's words.

"And how do I know that you are not an agent of the Lord of Light?"

A gleam of ire flashed through Ragnar's eyes and he curled his lip as if offended.

"Kirion is a slave to his own ambition. None who serve Aeron would bow to the Lord of Light."

"We're gonna need a little more than that to trust you," Kyleren pointed out suspiciously.

"Very well," Ragnar shrugged, meeting Raeylan's scrutiny without flinching. "Your grandmother Kalariel was the keeper of The Glove of Nehro. She also had in her possession six scrolls pertaining to the gods and their artifacts."

"You know about the scrolls?" Kyleren asked.

Ragnar shifted his gaze to the GAEL.

"I was the one who traveled the shards collecting them. I left them in Kalariel's possession for safe-keeping."

Kyleren turned to Raeylan.

"What'd you think?"

Raeylan considered all that Ragnar had said. It was possible the stranger might know one or two of those individual things, but that he knew all of them? Kirion knew of the scrolls, but to Raeylan's knowledge, the Lord of Light did not know of Kalariel, especially her name. And this man knew of Raeylan's mother. But Ragnar hadn't convinced him entirely. This could all be a trap laid by Kirion to gain the artifacts they protected.

Ragnar seemed to notice Raeylan's hesitation.

"I gave your mother a gift," he offered. "An olive-black pendant to pass on to our daughter after The Glove claimed Anleia's life."

"I've seen that pendant," Kyleren said, "when Mags crashed LAMIE on Danaan. I saw her put it on."

Raeylan's heart beat faster. Even Margariete didn't know where that necklace had originated. Anleia had told only her son.

"I believe you," Raeylan said tentatively, watching the man closely.

Ragnar's expression was confident—almost smug, but not quite.

"Great," Kyleren said clapping his hands together loudly. "Now we just have to find Mags and Smiles and we can throw a family party."

Ragnar's demeanor changed and he scowled. Raeylan noticed that his cross expression looked exactly like Margariete's.

"You have more pressing matters," he announced.

"What the frag is more important than the girls?"

"Margariete and Esilwen were taken by the Ormyr for a purpose—"

"Yeah, probably for lizard food," Kyleren interrupted loudly.

Ragnar's impatience was palpable.

"If the Ormyr wanted food, explain why they did not take all of you."

"I don't know," Kyleren snapped. "Maybe women taste better."

Veins on Ragnar's forehead twitched. Raeylan was so reminded of Margariete that he felt a sudden pang of loneliness for his twin.

"The Ormyr protect this shard," Ragnar countered. "They consider themselves defenders and caretakers of the populace."

"How the frag do you know that?" Kyleren said. "I thought these Ormyr things only talked to dwarves. I think you're full of—"

"Why do you think they took our friends?" Raeylan interrupted before things became irreparable. Ragnar's temper seemed to be as short as Margariete's. Though Raeylan wasn't ready to trust this man, his father or no, they needed information, and Ragnar was the only person willing to give any.

"Margariete is what the Ormyr call the Flesh of Aeron. They were in need of her special abilities."

"What's a 'Flesh of Aeron'?" Kyleren growled.

"A direct descendant of the god."

"Descendant?" Kyleren repeated, "As in...?"

Ragnar smiled, but it wasn't friendly. It leaked hubris all over his face.

"I am Aeron's son. Margariete is his granddaughter."

Raeylan frowned. That was a bold claim. He was willing to accept this man was his birth father, but a successor of the gods? Nowhere in his travels had Raeylan found evidence that the gods had children. He had suspected for a long time that Margariete's unique powers had been inherited from their father, but the idea that she was the heir of Aeron was farfetched.

"So Raeylan's one'a these flesh thingys too?" Kyleren asked dubiously.

"No," Ragnar said. "Raeylan, though my son, is not part of Aeron's domain. He bears the talents of his mother's blood. Only Margariete inherited the gifts of my father. We are still angels of the Mystic, but being of His flesh sets us apart."

"What does that mean?" Raeylan asked.

"Aeron's artifact is in Yuugrasil," Ragnar confided. "It is hidden deep inside the god's labyrinth. Only a direct descendant can enter the maze to retrieve it. This is why the Ormyr have taken your sister. They want Aeron's Mirror."

"She'll never agree to it," Kyleren growled, slamming his fist against the wall and leaving a fist-sized hole in the wood. "She probably tell 'em where to stick their scaly pointed tails."

"She will find herself unable to refuse," Ragnar said sharply. "If she wishes to keep Kirion from getting The Mirror, she must enter the maze."

It seemed Ragnar knew a lot about the war for the shards. He knew about the artifacts, that Kirion searched for them. But Raeylan thought he had too much faith in these Ormyr. Ragnar seemed to revere them, or at the very least, approve of their methods. Raeylan could not listen any longer. He was not ready to trust Ragnar with Margariete's life. And there was still no explanation as to why the dragons took Esilwen.

"Angels cannot touch their god's artifacts," Raeylan argued, determined to see just how much Ragnar understood of Shardwell magic. "It ruptures our Soulwells and slowly kills us. By forcing Margariete to retrieve Aeron's Mirror, they condemn her to death."

"What?" Kyleren shouted.

Raeylan turned to the GAEL, making sure Kyleren understood Margariete's dire peril.

"A slow death was my fate for accepting Nehro's Glove. Only by absorbing the goddess's spirit did I halt the damage to my Soulwell."

"Then we need to find her now! Before those bastards stick her in that gromm maze!"

Raeylan didn't respond, but stared at his father uneasily. Ever since Terail's betrayal, the former king was slow to trust. Ragnar's expression was dark, but determined. Raeylan was having difficulty deciding where his father's loyalty lay. Did the dragons send Margariete after The Mirror as a way to keep it from Kirion? Or was it something else, and Ragnar was in league with them?

"Why did the Ormyr not just ask us for our help?" Raeylan demanded.

"The Ormyr don't ask," Ragnar returned haughtily.

Raeylan was starting to lose his patience. Two people he loved dearly were in need of aid, and he was stuck in a tavern evaluating the loyalty of a father who had abandoned him before he was born.

"What of Esilwen? What do the Ormyr have in store for her?"

"There have been reports of a mysterious plague that is ravaging the north. It is likely they took her to heal the sick."

Uneasily, Raeylan wondered how the Ormyr had known Esilwen had the power to heal. Next to him, Kyleren jumped into a decision.

"Sounds like Blue Eyes needs us the most," he recommended. "I say we go after her now."

"Don't be rash," Ragnar interrupted. "Margariete is in danger, but she is not helpless. You do her no favors by rushing in to solve her problems for her."

"Margariete is ruled by her temper," Raeylan said defensively, "and it often clouds her judgment."

Ragnar's face broke into a warm grin.

"She gets that from me."

"So we go after Smiles first?" Kyleren interjected, unsure.

"No," Ragnar said with a short gesture of annoyance. "You should let Margariete and Esilwen tend to themselves for the time being. More important matters demand your attention."

Raeylan eyed his father. Very little was more important to him than his sister and Esilwen. Whatever Ragnar had to say would not sway his intent to rescue them.

Kyleren snorted derisively.

"No way!" he boomed. "Nothin' is more important than gettin' the girls back."

"How linearly you think, Kyleren," Ragnar jabbed. "I happen to know of a weapon that will swing the balance of your war with Kirion to your favor. But we must leave by morning if we are to retrieve it."

Once again, Raeylan deliberated on his father's motives. What could be more powerful than the god artifacts they already sought? If Margariete was already embarking on a quest to recover another artifact, he wanted to be there to help. He was already torn. It sounded like Esilwen was being held captive in an entirely different location than his sister.

And now some unknown weapon to defeat Kirion? Raeylan was slow to accept it.

"When the girls are safe we can talk about that skrit," Kyleren said, "but not 'til we get 'em back."

"Calm down, Kyleren," Raeylan commanded. Then he turned to Ragnar and asked, "What is the nature of this weapon?"

Raeylan didn't like the grin his father gave him.

"The Sword of Light. It holds Kirion's former godhood."

Could it be true? A sixth artifact? He supposed it was possible. As he knew it, the Fracturing had been caused by a spell meant to strip the Lord of Light of his power, not to kill him. Though the gods destroyed themselves, their own power had been saved. It was logical to assume that Kirion's original power might have also been preserved, even in an artifact like the others.

Raeylan swallowed hard. If Kirion managed to regain his ancient power, did it matter how many of the other artifacts they found? Would the Lord of Light rule the shards uncontested? Raeylan didn't know, but the possibility was frightening. If this sword did exist, it put the success of their greater goal at risk. He shouldn't ignore the chance that Ragnar was telling the truth.

But to dismiss that Margariete and Esilwen were in danger was not so easily done.

Raeylan was sure his inner thoughts were splayed about his face because Kyleren jumped to an instant objection.

"No fraggin' way, Raeylan. You can't be considerin' this!"

"I must, Kyleren. I cannot put Margariete and Esilwen's lives above the fate of the shards."

"You're just gonna leave the girls out there with those gromm lizards while we go treasure huntin'?" Kyleren shouted, his hands balling into fists.

Was there really a sword? Or was Ragnar trying to deceive them? And if so, for what purpose?

Raeylan couldn't help imagining the countless lives that would be lost in the wake of Kirion's triumph if Ragnar was right and Kirion found his artifact first: cities burning, civilizations enslaved, the unthinkable suffering. He saw himself facing his sister, trying to justify why he had chosen to save her instead of retrieving The Sword.

"If Margariete and Esilwen were here," Raeylan said with an ache in his heart, "they would tell us to recover The Sword."

"But they're not," Kyleren reasoned.

Bitter regret stabbed at Raeylan. Denying his duty for love of his sister had resulted in the destruction Thyella seasons ago. He would not condemn the shards of the universe to the same end; he refused to make the same mistake twice.

"We will find Margariete and Esilwen after we have investigated the validity of this sword," Raeylan decided reluctantly.

Kyleren's nostrils flared with anger. It seemed to be taking all his self-control not to hit something, and Raeylan wasn't sure that something wasn't him. Finally, with a look of disgust at Ragnar and a clenched jaw, the GAEL stalked out of the room and slammed the door so hard the hinges popped loose.

"He is a strong warrior and obeys orders. That is invaluable," Ragnar observed indifferently.

Raeylan nodded in agreement, but would not have blamed Kyleren for striking.

"We cannot control what is written in the future," Ragnar said, a strange fire burning in the depths of his eyes.

"But we can control what choices we make," Raeylan returned sadly.

Ragnar smiled.

"Exactly."

11: Empty Promises

Margariete opened groggy eyes and lifted herself from the cold stone floor. Dim torchlight barely kept darkness at bay. Her head was heavy, her vision blurry. She had been drugged before, seasons ago by the villagers of Rekkadell. The chemical disorientation brought those unpleasant memories starkly back to the surface: the fear she had felt before she was almost burned alive for the sake of her appearance.

Standing almost made her black out, and she had to remain motionless to allow a wave of dizziness to pass. Margariete blinked rapidly, struggling to control her fear and trying to force the room into better focus. After a few moments, she realized she had been lying at the base of two massive metal doors, like someone had tossed her through them. How long she had lain there, unconscious, could not be determined.

The rest of the room was lopsided and tired, the stone cracked and worn by time. Roughly square, her prison had three exits besides the large double doors behind her. Only the corridor directly ahead was open. Though old, the place was huge: LAMIE would fit inside it comfortably. A crumbling statue of a broken dragon battling headless monsters was the only ornamentation in the chamber. Stardawn and Margariete's pack hung on the tip of the stone dragon's claw.

The effects of whatever the dwarves had given her were subsiding. Margariete rushed forward to snatch her belongings. Relief replaced her rising fear as she wrapped her cold fingers around Stardawn's hilt. She took a quick moment to strap the sword to her hip, then rummaged through her pack to find the teleport stone Raeylan had given her. Only two of the crystals were left, and Raeylan had warned her to use it only in an emergency.

She was sure this qualified.

Margariete quickly uttered the incantation that would key the stone to LAMIE, wondering how much time she had and if the dwarves would rush in to stop her. But they didn't come. When the spell was complete, she smiled with satisfaction and crushed the crystal in her hand.

Nothing happened.

Margariete looked at the stone's remains in dismay. From what she knew, only a mire field was capable of negating its magic. She threw the crushed powder at the dragon statue with a frustrated shout, gripping Stardawn again to prevent herself from succumbing to panic.

Then the ground rumbled behind her. Margariete drew her blade and turned. A ghostly image of the scarred dragon reared in front to the twin metal doors, surging upward from the floor. It flickered as if blown by a hot wind, but Margariete felt no stir of air against her skin. The gargantuan presence blocked the exit.

"No other magicks work in the maze," he announced.

"Is that where I am?" Margariete demanded angrily.

"Yes," the dragon answered.

"You drugged me," she accused.

"The dwarves drugged you," he corrected.

"By your order," she returned.

"By your lack of cooperation."

Margariete lowered Stardawn but did not put her weapon away.

"I will not do as you ask. I will not bring you the artifact."

The dragon laughed, a grating roar that shook its chest.

"You are in the maze, Margariete. The only escape is to retrieve The Mirror."

Margariete lifted her eyebrows in challenge.

"That is a lie," she stated. "I can choose death."

The dragon's expression dropped into anger and he growled.

"You will do as I say."

"I will not."

A vision crackled to life on the dragon's right. Margariete inhaled sharply. She saw Raeylan and Kyleren walking side-by-side in what looked like a city. She felt hope seize her heart. Her brother was alive! And she had absolute faith that he would come for her.

"They are searching for you," the dragon said.

The huge serpentine head blew on the image and Margariete's companions dissolved into nothing.

"When Raeylan finds you, you will wish you had set me free," she boasted.

"He will not find us," the dragon returned with confidence. "Retrieve The Mirror or your friends will die."

A knot closed Margariete's throat. Was the dragon saying he would kill them if she didn't do what he said? The people she loved or the artifact. How could she choose? The dragon obviously knew where Raeylan and Kyleren were. She didn't believe his threat was idle.

"Why do you do this?"

"None but the Flesh of Aeron may enter into the maze," the dragon rumbled.

"I don't understand."

"You are one of Aeron's descendants."

Margariete sucked in a breath. Was she one of Aeron's celestials? She and Raeylan had talked about her magic over the centuries, but everything they came up with was just theory. Kirion had mentioned something about Aeron's servants in the Viridius family shrine, but Margariete had lost its exact meaning in the blood and grief of that cycle. In her travels she had never encountered anyone like herself and she had often wondered why. Raeylan believed that Margariete's powers were connected with the Mystic by default, but they had never been sure. Until now.

That was, if the dragon was telling the truth. Margariete could not read its mind. She didn't know if it was immune to her ability or the fact that it was an incorporeal image.

"What do you know of Aeron's celestials?" she demanded.

"Much."

The dragon said nothing more, however. It stared at her through its glowing ghost eyes. Margariete decided to pursue another line of reasoning, hoping to change the dragon's mind.

"If I am of Aeron's celestials, like you claim, touching the artifact will kill me."

"You speak of Soulwell rupture," the dragon said.

"I have seen it happen before. You send me to my death."

"The Ormyr are willing to make that sacrifice."

"You sacrifice nothing, you overgrown lizard!" Margariete shouted. "I am the one giving up everything for the sake of your greed."

"It is not a matter of greed," the dragon sizzled. "We will protect Aeron's artifact at all costs."

"Then leave it where it is!" Margariete spat. "If only a celestial can retrieve it, then it's safer where it is. I am the only of my kind I have ever met."

"There are others," the dragon said.

"It doesn't matter! Any of Aeron's celestials who tried to take his artifact would die."

"Enough!" the dragon roared, stretching its ghostly wings and rearing on its hind legs. "Down the open corridor is a door. That is the first test of the maze. Survive, or your friends die."

Before Margariete could argue, the dragon disappeared. She was alone.

There wasn't really a choice. She couldn't risk everyone's lives. She would meet the scarred dragon's challenge or die trying. Margariete quickly drew her two combat knives from her pack, weapons she had taken from LAMIE's armory when her own daggers had been broken by Kyleren the first time they met, and attached them to her belt. She slung the bag over her shoulder and shoved her pistol into its hip holster.

Snatching one of the torches from the wall, she pressed forward into the open corridor. Sixty spans ahead she met two heavy oak doors. Margariete touched it with her fingertips and they swung open. Air rushed past her, like the room ahead had been an empty vacuum. The path ahead was dark.

As she stepped into the darkness the room burst into a warm glow. Three wide stone steps led down to a rough wooden floor. There, three tunnels of wood snaked outward in different directions, like the hollowed out roots of a gargantuan tree. Margariete explored each with her mind perception, but found only junctions and turns as far as she could probe.

The oak doors slammed shut behind her, so she carefully walked down the steps. All three tunnels looked the same. With a sigh she drew Stardawn and made a notch on the floor so she would know where she had been if she was forced to turn back.

Then Margariete entered the left tunnel.

12: A Lot To Lose

Kyleren scanned the assortment of weapons in the blacksmith's shop with distaste. The dense scent of smoke, sweat, and scorched metal coated everything. He picked up a thick sword, gave it a swing and then put it back with a displeased grunt. A practice swipe with a mace gave him better satisfaction, but still, it felt weak in his grip. One attack using his full GAEL strength and he was positive the wooden handle would splinter.

"Would be easier if you told me what kind of weapon you favor," the dwarven blacksmith said, obviously annoyed at Kyleren's unhappy scrutiny over everything.

"Just need somethin' with a good kick."

The blacksmith, who was literally dwarfed by Kyleren's extreme height, eyed Kyleren's frame.

"I got just the thing, human."

He trundled to the other side of the shop, skirting around bellows and a large furnace. Kyleren followed. The blacksmith reached under his sooty smock and drew a thick metal key which he used to unlock a metal chest in the corner. He kicked the lid several times and it hit the floor with a heavy clank. The dwarf extracted a lump of leather and string.

"This is my masterwork," he warned Kyleren.

Kyleren nodded to show his respect. Dwarves. Even in his own galaxy they were ridiculously attached to their work, easily offended. It looked like it was a racial trait.

The blacksmith loosened the leather wrappings, revealing an axe with two blades. The head was as long as Kyleren's reach, etched with strange rune markings in some kind of black enamel. Its handle was finely wrapped strips of red dyed leather, riveted with gold. The dwarf handed it over and Kyleren took a practice swing.

"I call her Rend," the blacksmith said fondly. "She'll part the flesh from bone on anything."

Indeed the axe was expertly made; it sang through the air with perfect balance. For a normal human, maybe even a dwarf, it would be extraordinarily heavy and difficult to wield. Kyleren grinned. If he couldn't fight those gromm dragons with his BT weapons, this was exactly what he'd choose instead. It would do just as much bashing damage as slicing. He might even be able to convince Chano to make the blade living metal.

"I'll take her," Kyleren said.

Rend's purchase took the rest of his gold, but he figured it would be worth it. After allowing the dwarf to harness the axe against his back, Kyleren stepped out of the stuffy shop and made his way to a secluded part of the city's wall. Finding something that looked promising, he pulled out his ocular lenses and checked the guard patrols. Locating an appropriate blind spot, he leapt over the wall and sped toward the coordinates Raeylan had given him earlier that morning for their rendezvous.

They had spent the night in the tavern, waking with the dawn. All night, Kyleren had pondered how he was going to convince Raeylan that going after The Sword was a bad idea, but a solution refused to present itself. One thing was for sure: Kyleren had no intention of heading out on some gromm quest for a mythical relic when the girls were in danger. He was going to find them, even if he had to go by himself.

A mile from the town, in a copse of scraggly trees, Kyleren spotted Raeylan, calmly meditating. Two bulging packs hung on a large rock next to him.

"Wanna explain again why I gotta use this axe when I got a perfectly good BT pistol on my belt?" Kyleren complained as he arrived.

"Ragnar said the dragons would be able to track our movements if we used too much magic," Raeylan answered, opening his eyes and rising to his feet.

"If those gromm lizards come to us it'd save us the trouble of lookin' for 'em."

Raeylan's expression tightened. They had spent a half hour arguing over this before they had left the tavern.

"It would be best to avoid the dragons until we have The Sword, Kyleren. Every blast from your weapons requires Chano's power."

Kyleren clenched his jaw, anger burning like a BT slug in his chest. He had to change Raeylan's mind.

"We gonna talk about this, Raeylan?"

"The decision has been made, Kyleren."

"By you," Kyleren growled. "Last I checked, I didn't get a say."

Raeylan had the decency to seem surprised.

"You have never disagreed with my instructions in the past."

Lance's gut clenched. Did Raeylan think that he was nothing more than a mindless soldier?

"Look. You're not my commandin' officer. I usually do what you say 'cause it's not full 'a skrit."

Raeylan seemed to consider the matter, then said, "I apologize, Kyleren, but we must do all we can to stop Kirion from gaining his Sword."

That was it. There were some things more important that Kirion's fragging Sword.

"Even if it means losin' Blue Eyes or Smiles?" he growled.

"If Kirion regains his godhood there will be no safe haven for any of us," Raeylan said, and he looked tired. "Our efforts to rescue Margariete and Esilwen will have been for nothing."

"Last we knew, Kirion was half the fraggin' universe away, puttin' his forces back together!" Kyleren couldn't help but shout. How thick was Raeylan's skull? "It took us six months to get here. There is no way in hell he'd get here before we saved the girls. We should get them back and then chase after his Sword."

"There is always the risk that his agents are nearby," Raeylan said with infuriating calm.

"Yeah," Kyleren bellowed, "and one of 'em could be your pompous-ass dad. He could be leadin' us out there to get The Sword just so he can take it back to his Shiny Lord."

"I do not believe that is my father's intention."

"You don't know that, Raeylan. He could be workin' to get it for the lizards. We're fixin' to get stabbed in the back."

Raeylan remained silent, but Kyleren could tell the teleporter was getting edgy. Probably because Kyleren was bringing up things that already worried Raeylan. Kyleren decided to press the argument.

"You're gonna trust Ragnar just like that? He knows way too fraggin' much. How does he even know we have magic?"

"He can read your mind, Kyleren," Raeylan pointed out sharply.

"But if it's like Margariete, I'd have to be thinkin' about that stuff for him to see it. He's got too many details. With his kinda intel he could've been tailin' us for weeks."

"That is impossible with LAMIE's technology. Ragnar may simply have abilities that Margariete has not yet developed."

"So you'll desert your own sister and lover just 'cause you met some guy who says he's your long lost daddy?"

"My father or not, it is my duty to stop Kirion. I must not fail."

"What about your promise to protect Smiles?"

Raeylan's twilight eyes turned to steel and Kyleren knew he had hit a nerve.

"Yeah, it doesn't matter if she dies," Kyleren continued sarcastically. "She'll just pop up somewhere else. Who cares how much it hurts to have some fraggin' lizard chew you to death? Cuz she won't remember it, right? And Blue Eyes—yeah, I guess there some kind of gromm skrit honor in dyin' for the cause."

"I do not make my decision lightly, Lieutenant Kyleren," Raeylan said through stiff lips.

"I think you need a good punch to the head," Kyleren countered hotly, raising his fist. "Maybe you'd remember what we're fightin' for. You start carin' more about power and magic and you'll be no better than Kirion."

Raeylan went completely rigid.

"Kirion is a murderer. You do me great insult. I am nothing like him."

Kyleren noticed that Raeylan was gripping Temperance so hard his leather glove was on the edge of bursting. The Thyellan's left hand was balled into a tight fist, knuckles turning white.

"You gonna put me in my place, Hopper Boy?"

"Do not insult my honor again."

"Right, 'cause you don't wanna see the truth. If you leave the girls out there to die, you might as well of killed 'em yourself! In my book that puts you and that pansy Lord of Light on the same level."

Temperance left its sheath almost as fast as Kyleren's BT assault rifle came free of its sling, core drive snapping into place. The pair of warriors stood there, sword to throat and rifle to chest, frozen for close to thirty seconds. If a fight went down, one of them was going to get seriously hurt. Kyleren had never seen such fury storming from Raeylan. The guy was usually calm to the point of crazy.

Maybe Kyleren shouldn't have pushed so hard.

Then sudden weariness seemed to overcome Raeylan. He put Temperance away and lowered his head. Guardedly, Kyleren lowered his rifle.

"Please forgive my failure. My weakness left you and Tuatha to defend my sister and Esilwen alone. It is my fault they were lost."

Raeylan bowed. Kyleren lowered his rifle and put it away, unsure what to say. Raeylan continued to stoop apologetically.

"Sometimes—uh—stuff doesn't go our way," Kyleren started, scratching the back of his head. "The lizards got the drop on us."

Raeylan straightened and looked at Kyleren with eyes tormented with guilt.

"I was unable to protect those I am sworn to defend."

Now Kyleren really didn't know what to say. He just wanted to kick the crap out of some lizards. He was positive that would make them both feel better.

"Yet another reason you should retrieve The Sword first, Raeylan," came a confident voice from above them.

Kyleren looked up. Ragnar perched on a branch twenty meters in the air, appearing extremely comfortable.

"How long've you been there?" Kyleren growled.

"Dawn," Ragnar shrugged.

With relaxed ease he threw his legs into the air, landing lightly on the ground beside him.

"What do you mean 'another' reason?" Kyleren asked grumpily.

He didn't like the way Ragnar looked at them. Like he and Raeylan were kids trying to play with their father's shotgun. It was long-suffering, bordering on arrogance.

"How many Ormyr did you face when the others were taken?" Ragnar asked.

"Four," Kyleren answered.

"I know of eight dragons in this shard, double the number that defeated you so easily. You think you will do better a second time?"

"We were ambushed," Kyleren argued defensively.

"A trap you fell into," Ragnar refuted with a smirk.

There it was. That look of superiority. Kyleren cocked his fist. He was going to hit Ragnar so hard his teeth would fly back to Athalonde Prime.

Raeylan stepped between them before Kyleren got the chance.

"What is this other reason you speak of?" he asked.

Ragnar's eyes lingered on Kyleren as if amused before shifting to his son.

"If you wish to save Margariete and Esilwen, you will need more strength. As you are, any battle with the Ormyr will end only in your deaths. Kirion's Sword will give you the power to defeat them all."

Kyleren dropped his fist lamely to his side. The GAEL could not deny the dragons had kicked his ass. Ragnar's argument made tactical sense. Going into a fight when they knew they were overmatched was stupid. He hated the idea of leaving Margariete and Esilwen on their own with the lizards. Especially since he didn't know if they were hurt or even alive. But there was no choice. If they went after the girls now, it might get them all killed.

"Fine, let's go for the gromm Sword," Kyleren surrendered grumpily.

13: Round And Round

The hollowed root corridors were damp and hot. Margariete's blouse stuck uncomfortably to her skin. Arcs and arcs she spent wandering the humid halls. Soon her left hand was scuffed and full of splinters from the rough walls. Her signet glove protected the other from too much damage, so she started to use her right hand the most, saving her left to hold aloft the torch she had scavenged. If she hadn't known better, she would swear she was inside a gigantic tree.

The weird maze twisted and forked. Sometimes the passageways were tall and wide, but often they would narrow suddenly, forcing her to crawl through areas that squeezed against her slender frame. Here she would have to remove both Stardawn and her pack, looping them on an ankle to drag them behind her. The torch was particularly hard to maneuver through the tight spaces.

Margariete was desperate for even a hint of breeze; the stale corridor air choked her with its woody odor. The trail of smoke from the torch didn't help. At times the tree roots swam in her vision, making her feel for a moment that they were shrinking in to crush her. Then she would have to stop, lean against the wall, and clutch Stardawn's hilt tightly.

She had never been so grateful for the weapon. Without Stardawn's unique ability to combat fear, Margariete was sure she would have succumbed to panic in the suffocating environment. She paused to silently thank the blade for its protection.

As she leaned against the wall, waiting for her breathing to slow, she wondered how Stardawn's magical properties could still be working. The dragon had told her that other magicks did not function in Aeron's maze. Stardawn had been forged seasons ago in the City of Blades, by the power of Nehro, the water goddess. All Margariete's other magical equipment was useless: her teleport stone, LT comm, and LT illuminator. Stardawn should have been just an ordinary blade.

At least regular technology seemed to work properly. Her pistol still functioned, though she had limited ammunition.

Margariete's torch flickered tiredly. It was running out of fuel. If she didn't reach the end of the hollow root tunnels soon, she would be trapped in the dark.

She had stopped at yet another junction. One path led forward, while another twisted off to the right. Both looked equally gloomy. Margariete closed her eyes and felt for vibrations in the air, hoping to gain a clue of which path to take. The still air thwarted her powers, however. There was nothing in these tunnels except her. The lack of air movement kept her from sensing forward more than a few spans ahead, no matter how much power she added to try and boost her range.

Margariete wanted to scream. Had she been here arcs or cycles? There was no way to measure. She was getting tired and hungry. She knew she needed rest, but more than that, she wanted to find The Mirror.

That raised a whole other issue. Right now she was being blackmailed into searching for the artifact. But what would she do when she found it? She couldn't just hand it over to the dragons. They weren't trustworthy.

She adjusted the straps of her pack, ignoring the stinging in her left hand. With a grumble she scratched a mark in the wood that indicated the direction she chose next and grudgingly resumed walking.

When she finally found The Mirror, she was going to smash it on the scarred dragon's idiot head.

Her torch finally died, leaving her submerged in darkness. Scratching directions in the wood was no longer of use. If she was forced to backtrack, she wouldn't be able to see them. Margariete cursed.

At least her perception could keep her from slamming into walls as she walked. She wasn't entirely blind. Margariete tried to space out the use of her ability so she wouldn't collapse from exhaustion. But even with the attempt at rationing her magic, the arcs of walking drained her strength and soon she dropped to the floor, too tired to continue.

Just as she considered sinking into sleep, she noticed that the floor was softer than before. The air was richer, more earthy. She felt with her ungloved hand. Something light and springy coated the ground.

Was it moss?

The plant indicated something new, so she decided to press forward, despite her fatigue. She took one step with her right foot, then one with her left. She was too tired to perceive anything with her magic, so when her third step went right through where the floor should have been, she was completely unprepared to react. Her weight threw her forward and she fell. She careened on her side, sliding along a slippery ramp. It bent downward so steeply that she couldn't manage to stop herself. Twice she bounced off a wall as the chute turned sharply.

After the second turn she could see light welling up from the bottom. Hoping to slow her descent, she pulled out a combat knife in each hand. She yelped in pain as her right arm slammed into a wall, ripping a hole in her signet glove and causing her to lose her grip on the knife. She stabbed her remaining blade into the moss-coated wood, halting her forward momentum so sharply that she almost lost her hold on the weapon.

She heard her first knife clang against something hard below her. Her legs dangled freely. With a start, she realized that she had caught herself just before exiting the chute. Margariete could see a stone floor some thirty spans beneath her.

She rolled onto her stomach, wincing when her weight shifted against her right arm. It bled freely. Dredging for the last bit of her magical strength, she wrapped cushions of air under her feet and released her physical hold on the knife. Margariete lowered herself carefully to the ground with telekinesis. In the last ten spans her power failed, and she dropped hard onto the floor.

With a groan she rolled to her feet, checking her surroundings quickly for any threat. The circular room was dimly lit—though Margariete saw no light source—the walls, floor and ceiling were made of stone. A small rock fountain gurgled quietly in the chamber's center. An archway across from it was the only exit.

She removed her pack and approached the fountain. Her own water supply was pathetically low. When Margariete reached the spring she cupped her hand and tested a small amount on her tongue. It seemed clean, but she didn't have a choice if it wasn't. She refilled her water skin, taking a quick swig before she replaced the stopper.

A strange tingling sensation spread through her. At first she was alarmed, wondering if the water had been poisoned. But she dismissed that thought quickly. She felt suddenly rejuvenated. Her fatigue vanished. Her magic returned. Was this Fohtian's healing power?

She looked over her injuries. Her arm still bled and her left hand remained scratched and torn. The water had refreshed her, but only like a good night's sleep. Whatever it was, the water had not mended her body. But she was grateful, nonetheless. She could press on without stopping to regain her strength.

She knelt by her pack and drew out her medical supplies. Gently, she removed her torn signet glove, now a deeper shade of crimson, and cleaned the wound in the spring. The injury was just painful enough to slow her sword use. She slathered quirr ointment on the abrasion before wrapping it with the bandages she had pulled from the pack.

Margariete hadn't needed quirr salve since finding Esilwen in Chano's shard. Esilwen's nanomite injections and healing blood were far more effective. Unfortunately, nanomites were LT technology, made of the living ore only Chano's magic could create. Margariete was sure the two injections she carried in her pack would prove useless. She didn't want to waste them by testing it.

The thought of Esilwen made Margariete jerk the bandages a little harder than she intended. The dragon had threatened to harm Raeylan and Kyleren, but at least Margariete had seen that they had survived the Ormyr's attack. Where was Esilwen? Was she okay? Margariete took a few moments to pull the largest splinters from her left hand and then soothed her palm with more quirr, grateful its properties were alchemic rather than magical. She wrapped her hand with the last of her bandages. Finally, she cleaned her signet glove as best as she could in the fountain and pulled it on.

There was only one way to go. She stuffed her belongings back into her pack, remembering to pick up the combat knife that had fallen out of the chute. Using her mind, she plucked the other from where it was embedded in the wooden shaft above her, glad she hadn't been forced to leave it behind.

The archway led to a stone corridor. She welcomed the cool interior. It was far better than the hot wood tunnels above her. She walked to the end where it turned and was surprised to see openings in the wall, small slits impossible to fit through, but definitely open to the outside. Fresh, damp air seeped through the gaps. She pressed her eye against one, but saw nothing but grey swirls of mist.

The hallway climbed upward along a gentle slope. Margariete followed it around another corner and up a long flight of stairs. When she reached the top, she faced a blank stone wall. In less than a moment, a hidden door slid sideways to allow her passage. The room beyond was rectangular, but smaller than the chamber with the fountain. She drew Stardawn as a precaution as she entered.

The door immediately shut behind her. Strangely, this side of the door looked to be made of wood. Margariete banged it with Stardawn's hilt and was rewarded with a hollow thud instead of the hard ring one would expect from stone. There was no handle to turn, only a hole where it should have been. She used her mind to search for the internal mechanism that would open the door without the handle, but found none.

No way back. She could only move forward.

The room was dimly lit, like the corridors that led to it, but once again Margariete was unable to find a source of light. Across from her on the opposite wall, three identical doors offered a way out. All had ornate silver handles. Written above the doors was an inscription:

The easy path returns no prize

And others vex with unseen lies

The right way leads to mortal strife

So withdraw and keep your life

One of these doors had to lead to The Mirror, probably the one with 'mortal strife.' Margariete chose the middle path without much deliberation. If she chose incorrectly she could always come back and try again.

The silver handle turned easily. The door creaked loudly as she opened it, as if it hadn't been used in a very long time. A dusty hallway stretched before her. At the other end, she could see another door, so she walked toward it.

When she reached the end, she noticed that the door's silver handle was exactly the same as the first three. She opened it with a shrug, wondering what it might mean.

She entered another rectangular room. Across from her was a wooden door with no knob. Behind her were three doors with silver handles. Above the doors was the same inscription as before.

What, by Nehro's Grace? Margariete thought.

This room was identical to the first. Exactly identical. She wondered if it might even be the same room. Margariete used Stardawn to scratch an arrow in the stone. Then she opened the middle door again. The hallway looked the same as before. She walked through it. At the end she reached a wooden door with a silver handle.

It led to a rectangular room with three doors in one wall, a door with no handle on the other, and an arrow scratched into the stone floor.

Margariete's brow creased. This was the same room. The middle door created a never-ending circle. Just to be sure, she walked through it a third time. It returned her to the room where she had started. She did note, however, that though she went through the middle door, she arrived back into the rectangular room through the door on the left.

Clever, she thought. That must mean the correct path is behind the door on the right.

Feeling confident, she opened the correct door, revealing a hallway much like the one she had already traveled three times previous. As she stepped inside, the door slammed behind her. Halfway down the corridor she heard the distinct sound of clicking gears.

She froze. Small round holes appeared in the walls. Margariete barely dodged the first metal bolt that flew past her. More gears clicked.

Margariete decided to run for it.

The hallway sang with the flight of metal darts. There were too many to evade. Soon her arms and legs were scratched, punctured, and bleeding. Even with the help of Stardawn to deflect the projectiles, Margariete was afraid she might not reach the end of the hallway without receiving serious injury. The last twenty spans she reached out with her mind, pressing the air in the corridor hard against the walls to keep the darts from ejecting. It worked somewhat: only three or four managed to fly past her barrier. Reaching the end of the corridor, she threw open the door and dashed through it.

She entered a rectangular chamber with an arrow scratched into the floor.

Margariete howled in frustration and kicked the door she had just walked through. It was the one in the middle.

How could the right door lead to the one in the middle, when the exit to the middle door was the left? Would the left door drive her through the door on the right? Even if that were true, how could she move forward when all of the doors with the silver handles led back to the room where she started?

Margariete's mind crackled with impatience. She had no choice: she had to try the last door, the one on the left. Yanking three darts out of her pants, she wrenched the left door open and looked through it.

It revealed another empty hallway with a door at the end. She started down it carefully, her power ready to push back more darts.

After three steps she slammed into something that she couldn't see. She felt with her hands. A stone wall was in front of her, cunningly built so that looking at it directly made it seem that it wasn't there. It blended into the corridor and even had an opening in the center, so that the door at the far end was visible to anyone walking down the hallway.

An optical illusion. She scanned the wall with her perception, trying to determine a way around it. But her power registered nothing.

That wasn't possible. Only the vacuous cavity of space, where there was no atmosphere, was completely immune to her perception power. There was air in this hallway. She was breathing easily. Her power should be working.

Worried, she tried telekinesis. She strained to lift the knives off her belt. Not only did they refuse to obey, Margariete couldn't even sense them. She sighed. Obviously her magic didn't work in here.

Through touch, she discovered that there was a gap between the barrier and the ceiling. She clambered over it. With her hands extended awkwardly in front of her she stumbled through the rest of the hallway, tripping over unseen obstacles on the floor and bumping into invisible obstructions.

There was even a set of steps that led to a small tube she had to wriggle through near the end. Ten spans above the floor, and so tight that she had no room to maneuver, she had to accept a clumsy fall that left bruises on her arms and shoulders to finally reach the door with the silver handle.

It led, of course, back to the rectangular room through the door on the right.

Bruised and snarling, she threw her pack on the floor and glared at the three doors with the inscription above them. After pacing uselessly, she sat down and pulled a piece of bread from her pack. Margariete nibbled on it while she wondered what to do.

If all three doors led back to the same place, was she supposed to go through them in a certain order, like a combination? That would take forever. Could she go through one of them multiple times? That would be dangerous, especially the dart hallway behind the right door.

She blinked suddenly. Right door, right way. Hadn't the inscription said something like that? She looked at it again.

The right way leads to mortal peril. The first time she read it, Margariete had assumed that "right" meant "correct." But what if it meant "right" as in "direction opposite of left"? Well the right door certainly led to mortal peril; it was full of darts. She looked over the inscription again. The easy path returns no prize. The center door had been the easiest, and had gotten her nowhere. Others vex with unseen lies. That was the left door with the corridor of optical illusions. That left only the last line: So withdraw and keep your life.

But wouldn't that just take her back to the fountain?

There wasn't anything else left to try. Margariete stood and went back to the door with no knob. Earlier she had tried to use telekinesis to open it, but without success. She pushed it, pulled it, and kicked it. Nothing.

Margariete chewed her lip. What if—?

She ran to the wall with the three doors and jiggled all the handles. The left and middle were secure, but the right handle slid off in her hand. With a cry of triumph she returned to the opposite door and shoved the silver handle into the knob hole.

It rang like the wind through the trees. Margariete felt a rush of air dance through her hair. The door opened outward instead of sliding like it had before. The stone corridor she had traversed to get to this room the first time was gone. In its place, Margariete saw a labyrinthine landscape spreading out before her. Miles and miles of tall quartz walls bent and twisted as far as she could see, rows and rows of rolling mist sporadically hiding parts of it from view. Lightning shrieked through the heavy grey sky, making a high-pitched sound Margariete had never heard before.

She didn't care. This was a proper maze. One she felt she could solve. She grabbed her pack from the floor and rushed through the door before the maze changed its mind and decided to send her somewhere else.

14: If I Die Tomorrow

Esilwen rubbed her eyes—which burned with fatigue from a sleepless night—before dabbing a cool rag across Keri's forehead. The pitiful moans of the plague victims tore at the healer as the rays of morning seeped through the windows. Six more villagers had arrived at the meetinghouse in the night, seeking help for their feverish loved ones. Two of Esilwen's original patients had perished since she began her care. Keri's condition grew worse every hour.

Esilwen didn't know what to do.

She had no access to the medical equipment she needed. Her magic made the disease worse. As a stranger in the shard, she couldn't even devise a medicinal remedy made from local fauna to ease the people's suffering because she had no idea which plants were helpful. The black disease seemed unstoppable.

And still, worry for her friends throbbed in the back of her throat. Had Raeylan been treated after the battle? Did Margariete or Kyleren need her? Were they looking for Esilwen right now?

Esilwen wiped her eyes. Methodically, she dipped the grey rag she had been using as a compress back into the bucket, only to find that the water was almost gone. She glanced around the room. Two of the newcomers were still mobile, though just barely, and were tending to as many of their friends and family as they could.

Deciding they would manage for a few minutes without her, Esilwen abandoned her post at Keri's side, picked up the bucket, and walked to the water well in the center of the village. As she lowered the pail into the shaft, she felt a sudden rush of wind and heard a loud thud behind her. She spun around.

Her dragon captor had returned. She was positive it was the same animal that had taken her away from LAMIE. Its rusty brown scales had a particular pattern that she recognized. The crest on its horned head looked familiar.

Esilwen released the well winch, causing the bucket to plummet to the bottom with a splash. She took a step back, clenching her fists at her side. A fight this close to the sick villagers might be their undoing.

"What do you want?" she asked, controlling the quaver in her voice.

"Did your healing work?" the dragon asked, sitting back on its haunches like a cat.

"My healing?" she repeated, confused.

"Yes, elf," the dragon prodded, "did Fohtian's Blood eradicate the infection?"

"How did you know—?"

"Elf, I do not have all day to listen to your prattle. You radiate Fohtian's power like the sun does light. Did the healing save the remaining souls of this village?"

"Is that why you brought me here? To heal these people?" she asked.

"Yes," it answered simply.

Esilwen shook her head in disbelief.

"Then I don't understand," she replied. "Why did you not ask for my help instead of kidnapping me?"

"The Ormyr do not ask," the dragon growled.

"Then you have robbed these people of their best chance for survival!" Esilwen exclaimed. "The technology I brought with me could have saved them. My companions would have gladly assisted. If you take me back, there still might be time to help."

Her thoughts went to little Keri, whose body bristled with fever.

"You are their best chance," it argued, swishing its tail. "Do not avoid my question again. Did your blood heal them?"

Esilwen paused, biting her lip. She didn't want to tell the dragon that she had failed, out of both fear and shame.

"N-no," she finally stammered.

The dragon's expression grew serious as it stared at her.

"Then we are at risk of losing the entire shard. Why did your magic not work?"

"I don't know," Esilwen admitted with a slump of her shoulders. "When I tried to heal one of the villagers, my magic increased the speed of the disease instead."

"What?" the dragon roared in surprise, rearing up suddenly and flapping its wings.

Esilwen backed away another pace before finishing her explanation.

"She was in the final stages of the pathogen's incubation period. After observing the others, I've concluded that she should have had hours before the disease killed her. But when I combined my blood with hers, she died in seconds."

"Then the others were right," the dragon said.

"What others?"

"My kin, elf, who else?" it spat.

The animosity of the dragon's temper caused her to shake, but Esilwen needed answers so she could help both the villagers and find her friends.

"My name is Esilwen," she started politely. "What were the others of your kind right about?"

The dragon's eyes narrowed and it lowered its head even with hers. Its breath was hot as it answered.

"The disease is magical. A natural ailment could not resist Fohtian's purge."

"And you fear it will spread through the whole shard?"

"Yes," the dragon said irritably. "The disease is thus far incurable. No one who contracts the fever has survived. With the trade and commerce that exists between villages and cities, it will undoubtedly kill all in the shard."

"So it cannot be stopped," Esilwen concluded.

"Not by any means we know. Already three villages, including this one, have been destroyed."

"When was the plague discovered?"

"Recently. It started in a small village, Zeuld, near the volcano you see in the distance. It then spread to Yurd, a neighboring settlement. Both rest close to the volcano's base."

"Everyone was dead?"

"And the bodies were taken," the dragon added.

"Taken?" Esilwen asked, her curiosity suddenly overriding her fear of the dragon. "By who? Why?"

"If I had the answers, I would not have needed to bring you here," the dragon huffed.

Esilwen wondered if all the Ormyr were this quick-tempered. She decided the safest course of action was to remain calm and gentle, just in case the dragon changed its mind and decided it wanted to eat her.

"May I have your name?" she asked.

The dragon made an expression that might have been suspicion, if it were human.

"Tosk," it replied.

"Tosk, I ask you to reconsider returning me to my ship. I need to study this sickness and find a treatment."

"There is not time," the dragon said, and it looked tired. "Once infected, even the strongest succumb within four days. The people here have only a few hours at most."

"Then what?" Esilwen asked. "Are we just to give up hope?"

"We must eradicate the source. I have scoured the land in search of the plague's origin, but have found nothing. There is only one place that is out of my reach."

Esilwen wondered with unease what sort of circumstance that might be, as she asked, "Where?"

"Surt: the volcano."

Tosk raised his head, pulling away from her.

"Why can you not enter?" she asked, puzzled.

"Both the extreme heat and poisonous fumes would kill me," he said. "But not you, the carrier of Fohtian's strength."

Esilwen swallowed nervously. She would be immune to both those obstacles, but what else lurked there? She had no warrior to protect her.

"You want me to enter the volcano? Alone?"

"You do not have a choice," Tosk replied. "If you do nothing, more will die. Including yourself. You have been exposed and so you carry it in your blood. Find the source or die."

The thought that she might be infected worried her. Esilwen had never experienced disease, not in all of her lifetimes. But the dragon was right. If Fohtian's magic could not cure the plague, then there was a good chance The Blood would not defend her from it either.

"So I only have three days," she said softly.

"Less," Tosk replied.

"But you said—"

"I am aware of what I have said," he said, pawing at the ground, "but also of the information you gave me. The disease interacts with Fohtian's Blood for the worse. There is no reason not to assume it will kill you faster than it has the others."

Esilwen waited for the dragon's conclusion with a claw of fear squeezing her heart.

"You may have only one day left."

15: White Lightning

Tall, opaque walls loomed into the sky where Margariete stood at the base of the maze. The milky, quartz surface was smooth to the touch, but not glassy. Lightning sizzled through the rolling mists, shrieking like it was alive. It didn't take long for Margariete to find a gap where she could enter. She poked her head inside first. The corridor ran parallel to the outside wall for a hundred spans before veering into the interior.

Was The Mirror at the center, or did she have to make her way to the end of the puzzle? Margariete decided it didn't matter. She could waste weeks lost in there. It would be far easier to levitate to the top of the walls and hop across the whole thing. By cutting through the middle she would know which way ultimately led to her goal.

Margariete supposed she was cheating, but the dragon hadn't mentioned any rules. She rose to the crown of the first wall and jumped over the corridor. Five successful leaps and she was farther into the maze than two arcs of winding along the bottom could have been. After half an arc she developed a rhythm that consumed her attention, so she almost fell when a lightning cry cracked through the air right above her head. Margariete snapped her face toward the sky.

A roll of mist coagulated over her, splitting into five distinct globes. They boiled and churned, transforming into small clumpy cyclones that rushed her. Stardawn was only half out of its sheath before the spinning mist hit Margariete, knocking her to the flagstones paving the ground.

Hisses pulsed from the cyclones as they floated above her, like the sound of wind across sand. One of them zoomed at Margariete, making her roll to dodge, but the corridor was too narrow and she smacked into the wall. She lost her grip on Stardawn and the sword clattered away.

Suspended above her, the hissing increased and the creatures took a recognizable form. Each sprouted two bat-like wings and two hind claws. Next a thin, reptilian head erupted, forming a long neck that ended in a beaked jaw. Their tails were serpent-like, tipped with razor spikes. Margariete had seen similar creatures in other shards: wyverns, except these were much smaller, only the size of a dog. Their skin looked scaled, but there was a hint of the cyclone as they moved, a rippling effect that made the creatures look like they were less than solid, made of rotating wind.

Two of them launched with an electric shriek, diving at her from opposite sides. Margariete evaded one, but was flanked by the other. It dug its claws into her hip, ripping and tearing as it knocked her flat on her back. It flapped its wings and snapped its beak at Margariete's face, trying to get at her eyes. She held it at bay with her left hand while she used her mind to lift Stardawn from where the blade had fallen. The sword zipped forward, piercing the wyvern from behind. The monster burst into mist with a hiss, the wispy tendrils shooting back into the sky where it reformed, looking whole and undamaged.

Margariete rolled and stood, picking up Stardawn in the process. She knew she had struck the wyvern a mortal blow; Stardawn had stabbed completely through its body. Yet it flapped above her, screeching angrily, as if she hadn't even touched it.

She drew her dead tech pistol with her free hand and shot it right between the eyes.

Once again the wyvern exploded into a cyclone of air, then slowly drew back into its reptilian shape. Margariete was at a loss. She had killed the thing twice, but it just kept coming back to life. Her hip was bleeding freely. Her right arm was slow, damaged from her previous fall. There was no way she could dodge in the narrow corridor if all five wyverns attacked her at once.

So she turned and ran.

She heard the wyverns cry in pursuit. Margariete chose the sharpest turns at every junction, hoping to lose them in the maze. Some of the paths she chose had cover, tangles of vines connecting the tops of the walls that hid her from aerial view. In these places, she was able to double back, the wyverns zooming over her without noticing.

Margariete managed to keep her attackers at bay for almost an arc in this manner, but the pain and blood loss in her leg began to take its toll. Her pace slowed. The wyverns were behind her, but not far enough. The quartz walls changed into tall hedges dotted with trees. When she rushed through another junction she found herself out in the open, in a garden of sorts. Mini rows of foliage and tiny trees lined paved walkways.

She couldn't run anymore. Margariete switched Stardawn to her left hand and her pistol to her right. Using telekinesis, she drew her two combat knives and let them dance in the air to protect her injured side. The five cyclone wyverns spun into the courtyard, surrounding her.

And they brought friends.

There were at least eleven. They hissed and clawed at the air, preparing to strike. Margariete's only hope was to hit them hard enough that they would tire and give up. She desperately wished her twin was with her.

The original five dived for the attack. Margariete hit two with her pistol and stabbed one in the throat with her floating knives. They retreated higher in the air to reform. Two wyverns made it into melee range, forcing Margariete to slash at them with Stardawn. She beheaded one with Stardawn's first stroke and hit the second with the back stroke.

The battle paused as the wyverns changed from mist back to corporeal form. Then they rushed her in a pack. Margariete defended herself with all of her weapons, shooting and slashing anything that came in close. But there were too many. One scratched into her calf as another raked her back.

This wasn't the first time Margariete had been forced to fight alone, but she had never been outnumbered by a foe she could not kill. Her allies were far away, possibly with no idea where she was. There was no one to save her.

So Margariete glared at her opponents. If she was going to die, she would do so with Thyellan honor: fighting with her last breath and making her enemies pay for her blood. She holstered her pistol and aimed her palm at the closest creature, commanding the energy in her body to strike her target. A jet of lightning leapt from her hand. The wyvern disintegrated into flecks of ash with a pained screech.

Margariete blinked. The mist reptile did not reform. She had killed it.

Suddenly, everything made sense. The dragon had said that only Aeron's flesh could survive the maze. A servant of the Mystic, someone who could control electricity. Even Raeylan and Kyleren would be helpless against these creatures.

Unfortunately, she could unleash only four or five lightning blasts at most. Ten wyverns hung in the air, preparing to attack. Her temper started to rise. Of all the unfair tricks in this damn maze: to discover the answer to survival, but be too spent to use it.

Margariete would not have it. The maze would not defeat her.

Suffused with determination, Margariete raised her hands to the sky as all ten wyverns charged. She commanded the lightning that rippled through the clouds to come to her. Electric tendrils soared into her hands. It crackled through her hair, shrieking around her in a cone of fury. When her body shook with so much power that she could absorb no more, Margariete released a storm of lightning at her enemies.

White fingers of electricity erupted from her skin like a jagged web of silk, zapping the ten wyverns out of existence. Margariete screamed in pain as the energy took the last of her strength. The air swirled around her in a vortex of black ash. Then she dropped to the ground, a smile of deep satisfaction stretching the whole of her face.

16: Everything About You

The morning arcs slipped away in silence. Raeylan was relieved when they halted at midcycle for a meal. Though only a dull ache throbbed in his ribs, his side was tight with an uncomfortable pinch that made breathing difficult. Despite this, he was sure his injuries were on the mend.

They settled in a clump of dead trees just a few steps from the main road, munching on bread and thick cheese. Kyleren refused to eat, but paced back and forth impatiently before finally offering to scout the road ahead. The GAEL quickly disappeared, not bothering to wait for Raeylan's consent. When Kyleren's heavy footfalls were no longer heard, Ragnar spoke.

"Your soldier has taken a step toward dissension. It would be wise to rein him in."

Raeylan controlled his displeasure at Ragnar's tone and maintained an impassive expression.

"Kyleren is not my disciple," he explained. "He is my comrade."

"Is he?" Ragnar asked with open surprise. "How very much like your mother you are. But this is not Thyella with its never-ending courtesy. Kyleren is the product of strict military indoctrination. When left to his own devices he cannot distinguish between sacrifice and emotion. He was bred to follow commands."

Raeylan frowned. Ragnar was like a stream of water rusting away his calm. It was odd how his father, a total stranger, could put just enough pressure on a sore spot to chafe Raeylan's composure.

"And so you would place him under your boot until he submits?" Raeylan asked with thinly veiled scorn.

"Yes," Ragnar replied firmly. "He finds fault with your decisions. Unless he understands that you are not to be questioned, Kyleren will second guess any command you give."

"Kyleren is my equal. I ask for his loyalty, not obedience."

Ragnar's eyebrows lifted skeptically.

"Your words contradict your actions," Ragnar argued. "You made the decision to find Kirion's Sword before consulting Kyleren and ignored his objections. You carry yourself as a leader, speaking your mind as commands, not searching for opinions. You claim he is your equal, but you rule him like a king."

Raeylan fought a retort, crushing the remainder of his bread in his hands. Before he could refute his father's statement, Kyleren returned.

"There's a bunch of buildings a few kilometers away. We can be there by dark."

Ragnar stood and wiped his hands. They continued onward without conversation. Raeylan's thoughts circled coolly during the journey. He could see nothing of Ragnar in himself. Was this man really his father? He certainly looked like Margariete, but wasn't that possibly coincidence? Kirion might have chosen Ragnar as a spy for that very reason. Suddenly, Ragnar's knowledge about Margariete's necklace seemed inadequate. Maybe Kyleren was right and they had fallen into a trap.

As the cold sun bent behind the mountains, Raeylan threw a side glance at Ragnar. This man required further investigation. If Ragnar was an agent for the Lord of Light, Raeylan intended to find out.

"How did you find us in this shard?"

"What you should ask is how I knew to find you in that tavern," Ragnar smirked, "just when you needed a friendly guide."

Raeylan frowned, not liking the arrogance in Ragnar's demeanor. That was exactly what Raeylan had wanted to know. Had Ragnar known about the dragon attack before it happened?

"I don't need to penetrate your mind to see the concern in you," Ragnar continued. "I am aware that my arrival seems too timely for coincidence."

"Yeah," Kyleren growled. "That's what I said."

Ragnar's sapphire eyes glittered in the evening light.

"I found you because I knew Margariete was coming," he said with a shrug. "Her arrival was foretold eons ago. She is the second sign my father promised."

Far from explanation, this pronouncement only set Raeylan's mind surging in a storm of more questions.

"Margariete comin' to this piece of skrit world was predicted by some psychic guy?" Kyleren asked dubiously.

"No," Ragnar corrected, and Raeylan noticed that his father's eyes flashed with anger, "by Aeron himself. The Mystic. God of the mind and that which is unseen; as mysterious as He was wise. Actuary of the future."

"And where is this prophecy written?" Raeylan asked, unsure he believed Ragnar's explanation.

Ragnar stopped walking and looked at Raeylan.

"It is not written anywhere. The Mystic gave His warning to me Himself."

"Aeron told you," Kyleren scoffed and turned to Raeylan. "Are we swallowin' this skrit, Raeylan? I say he's messin' with us."

For a moment Ragnar looked wild, like someone on the verge of madness. But then his proud smile returned and he glanced at Kyleren.

"I was there. At the Fracturing. I saw the Lord of Light destroy the Seven Worlds."

Kyleren's face went blank with surprise and Raeylan felt his brow crease with doubt. That was impossible.

"How did you survive?" Raeylan asked.

"That I do not know, but I have long supposed it was my father's doing. He entrusted me with the future shortly before Kirion came to stop the gods from taking his power."

"So Aeron just told you everythin'?" Kyleren asked, folding his arms across his chest.

"Only what I needed to know," Ragnar smirked, though there was an air of impatience in his words. "Knowledge of the future brings even gods to destruction. The Mystic's favorite piece of advice."

"Aeron knew of the gods' destruction before it happened?" Raeylan asked. "Why did he not try to prevent it?"

"He told them of their fate. It was because of his prediction that the gods created their celestials in the first place. It was an attempt to protect themselves from Kirion's obsession with power. But in the end, the birth of the celestials led to their ruin."

"And what about Mags? Is she just some pawn in your father's endgame?" Kyleren muttered unhappily.

"Aeron instructed me to prepare his daughter for the final confrontation with Kirion. This was a shock to me; I had no sister that I knew of. He told me that only she could wield The Mirror against the Lord of Light.

"I searched the shards for more than three thousand years after the Fracturing, angry that Aeron had left me so little information on how to find her. But as I travelled, I realized she would need the power of the other artifacts to defeat Kirion. I gathered as much information about them as I could, intending to give it to Margariete when I finally found her."

"The god scrolls," Raeylan said.

Ragnar nodded.

"Yes. I left them in Thyella for her. When I met Anleia, I realized that I was to be Margariete's father, that when Aeron had said to find his daughter, he meant granddaughter."

Ragnar's eyebrows contracted. Raeylan could tell that Ragnar resented Aeron for keeping this vital piece of the puzzle concealed.

"I had previously believed Aeron had hidden her away before the Fracturing, to keep her safe from the other gods. It never occurred to me that she had yet to be born."

"Safe? Why would the other gods have wanted to harm Aeron's child?" Raeylan asked.

"The act of creation requires sacrifice. When the other gods made their angels, they surrendered part of their power—some more than others. Aeron, however, managed to create his celestials without losing any of his strength. None of the others knew how he managed this."

"That doesn't explain why they'd want her dead," Kyleren replied.

"Aeron's celestials were more powerful than they should have been. The other gods were afraid, even to the point of accusing Aeron of working with Kirion. They demanded that Aeron vow never to make more celestials, insisting that he take precautions against allowing the ones he already had to breed. Of course I assumed that Margariete had been created after this ban, and would incur the anger of the other gods if she were discovered."

"What kinda precautions?" Kyleren asked warily.

"We're all male," Aeron stated simply, but there was a glint of humor in his smile that made Raeylan wonder.

"But angels can reproduce with the other races," Raeylan pointed out, "because of their Soulwells. Like my grandmother."

"True. This is why Aeron promised the gods a second provision. I am unique from the others—I am the only of my kind who is attracted to women."

"Come again?" Kyleren asked, completely dumbfounded. "You mean none of them want to frag?"

"No. I mean they don't 'frag' with females."

"So Aeron made you an exception," Raeylan said, cutting off Kyleren who looked as though he wanted to ask more questions about Aeron's celestials, "knowing that you would father Margariete."

"I would not have done so if I were like the others," Ragnar said with a shrug. "After I found out Anleia carried my child, I understood Aeron's plan. I knew Anleia would bear a daughter. Nehro's servants are shapeshifters. Margariete's lorelei blood allowed her to choose to be a woman. She is the only female servant of Aeron in all of creation. I told Anleia what to call our daughter before her birth, then I left the shard."

Ragnar's statements held too many details of the Viridius family for Raeylan to doubt that Ragnar was actually his father, though the man's loyalties still remained in question. But Ragnar's uncaring description regarding Anleia set Raeylan on edge. It seemed that once his business had concluded, Ragnar had just left Anleia to her miserable life. He could have taken her with him, rather than leave her to a man she didn't love.

But there was more. Ragnar was intelligent, wise about the cultures of others. Ragnar would have known that his daughter would look nothing like the Thyellan race. He should have predicted the horrible treatment she had received by the people of the First Kingdom. That Ragnar could be so aloof about Margariete's childhood suffering was an outright betrayal as far as Raeylan was concerned.

"If Margariete was so important, then why did you not stay to protect her?" Raeylan demanded.

"I was banished by your grandmother," Ragnar said lightly. "Though I would have left anyway, to fulfill the promise I made to my father."

"Kalariel banished you?"

At the mention of her name, Ragnar glowered.

"Yes," he said shortly. "The incessant woman bade me leave on pain of death."

"Why'd she want you outta there so bad?" Kyleren asked.

"I complicated her plan to cleanse the Viridius line. I was the scandal she never wanted brought forward."

"Scandal?" Kyleren asked.

Raeylan decided to answer the GAEL's question before Ragnar could.

"My mother, Anleia, was married to King Arahm of the Third Kingdom when Margariete and I were conceived."

"You fragged a married woman?" Kyleren accused.

"She was married in body, not soul," Ragnar defended casually.

"That crosses the line."

"I find it surprising that you—as free as you are with women—find my actions offensive."

"I'm not a bastard makin' wife stealer. No offense," he said, tossing a glance at Raeylan.

"Anleia loved me," Ragnar shrugged. "She could have refused me and I would have let her be."

"She shouldn't have had to make the choice," Kyleren argued.

"So you would rather I had left her to a man who saw her as nothing more than a means to higher social status? I should have let her wither inside the dismal life of Shogan's court, like Kalariel did? I am not so callous. Anleia was hungry for the love that her father and husband denied her. You cannot expect her to refuse her own emotions."

"No, but you coulda kept your hands and—other—body parts to yourself," Kyleren rebuffed.

Raeylan exhaled loudly, drawing the attention of the other two. He was not going to allow Ragnar to discuss the intimate details of Anleia's life. Ragnar had no right.

"My mother chose love over duty. Her indiscretion caused the fall of my kingdom. Arguing over it now will do nothing to repair the pain it has caused."

Ragnar looked at Raeylan, and for the first time, Raeylan saw remorse in his father's eyes.

"Kirion would have destroyed it anyway. Your people were too devoted to Nehro."

"How do you know of Thyella's fate?" Raeylan asked.

"A guess," Ragnar replied with a shrug. "I saw Kirion's release in a dream. I saw the elf girl who freed him. So I travelled to Thyella as quickly as I could to protect Margariete. But I could not reach it. The shardgate would not open to me. So I returned here and waited for her to come to me instead."

"And how did you traverse the shards?" Raeylan challenged. "Only a water angel can open the shardgates."

"And how'd you travel around before that, gettin' all those scrolls?" Kyleren added.

Ragnar's face softened. His answer was relaxed, but Raeylan noticed a suppressed scar of emotion ripple across his father's face.

"I had a companion. Kalariel's younger sister."

"So not only are you a wife stealer, you're a cheater too?" Kyleren accused.

Sudden anger belched from Ragnar, his body shook with it. Raeylan drew his sword, afraid his father would attack.

"Sorien was murdered by one of Kirion's generals," Ragnar rumbled in a voice that echoed around them strangely, "her heart was harvested for Kirion's army!"

Raeylan blinked. The world was growing dark, but not the natural form of night. Shadows crawled up from the ground, blotting out sound and sight. A cyclone of energy wrapped around Ragnar, thrashing wildly in a noncorporeal wind. Their surroundings had vanished into inky nothingness.

Kyleren held his axe in his hands and looked at Raeylan for instruction, but Raeylan motioned for him to wait. Raeylan had experienced something like this before. It happened when Margariete suffered a wave of distressing emotion. She had once used it against the traitor Terail, in the shrine of Viridius Castle. They were not physically here, but trapped within their minds, unable to defend themselves.

But Ragnar did not attack. He stood in the center of an electrical storm, wisps of shadow twisting around him, forming recognizable shapes: a woman, a man, and a clawed woman with wings. The shadows moved like living memory. They danced through the intensity of battle. The man was wounded; raked across the chest. Then the winged one thrust her claws into the woman, who shriveled into granules of salt. The man wailed in agony and crumpled in despair. He managed to rescue a small amount of the salt, fiercely defending himself. The winged shadow disappeared and the man ran through the universe, filled with loss every time he was forced to use the precious salt to open a gate. Time passed in loneliness, the misery consuming. Then he met a new woman, and Raeylan could feel an emotional struggle within the man. The woman looked and moved like the first, but was not truly the one he had loved. The man's joy was laced with regret and sorrow. They embraced. Then the shadows melted and with a jolt like chilled water in the face, Raeylan came back to his surroundings.

He understood. Anleia was Kalariel's daughter, Sorien's niece. Raeylan's mother had reminded Ragnar of the woman he had loved and lost. But Ragnar had not really loved Anleia. She was a substitute for something Ragnar could never recover.

Raeylan knew he should feel pity for his father, but this revelation only increased his anger. Anleia had loved Ragnar without reservation. To know that Ragnar did not return her devotion, that he had so easily abandoned his children, rose up like bile inside Raeylan. He found it hard to breathe.

Ragnar was looking at Kyleren, hatred for Kirion burning in his eyes.

"Kirion is my enemy. He took from me the only soul I ever cherished. By the Winds of Fate, I will see him suffer."

Raeylan swallowed hard and glared at his father. Anger was taking hold within him. This was something Raeylan could not forgive.

"And in the wake of your vengeance, you used my mother to soothe your own pain. You abandoned your children to the indignity of disgrace and left your daughter to Kirion's mercy. She faced the Lord of Light alone—watched as he murdered our younger brother. At the expense of her own heart, she was forced to kill her closest friend to keep Fohtian's Blood from Kirion's grasp!" Somewhere within his accusations, Raeylan had begun to shout. "You could have helped us! Warned us! But instead you ran."

"I had a duty to my patron and father," Ragnar said without remorse.

"But none to your children. You hide behind your devotion like a coward. Aeron is dead!" Raeylan returned harshly.

He turned his back to his father and continued on toward the village, not caring whether or not Ragnar followed.

17: Don't Go Away Mad

Margariete stood stiffly, her battered body protesting the movement. She whimpered as she put weight on her hip, tearing open the temporary clot that had staunched the bleeding while she lay unconscious. She brushed the ashy remains of the mist wyverns off her clothes and hobbled to a nearby bench in the maze garden. She bandaged her new wounds as best she could, ripping the bottom of her shirt into makeshift strips and using the last of the quirr ointment. The effort used more strength than she had anticipated. She was forced to pause before inspecting her waning inventory.

She had managed to recover both her knives, but one was badly chipped. Her medical supplies were completely spent. Her pistol was in working order, but only one ammunition clip remained. She had no food, but plenty of water, though whatever magical restorative properties it had once given was no longer working. It quenched her thirst, nothing more.

Despite the bleak assessment, Margariete couldn't help but feel a surge of pride. She had faced her foes and survived. More importantly, she had defeated this portion of the maze on her own merit. She had depended on her twin most of her life, but Raeylan had not needed to save her. She had saved herself.

Margariete smiled as she stood, despite the pain her body. As she hobbled out of the garden toward an arch that led back into the maze, the ground began to shake. She wobbled on the unsteady ground as the walls of the labyrinth began to sink into the flagstones. When the shaking stopped, she looked around in awe. The labyrinth was completely gone. All that remained was an empty plain that stretched in all directions around her. Far in the distance was the silhouette of a fortress. Thunder cracked across the sky. The clouds opened and rain poured down. Margariete was drenched before she had taken a forward step.

The precipitation was most likely a ploy to force her to the castle at the edge of the plain. Just as she resigned herself to a wet, uncomfortable journey, the ghostly image of the scarred dragon reared beside her.

"What do you want?" Margariete snapped, walking forward.

The dragon strolled beside her, its shape wavering in the rain.

"You have done well, Margariete," it said. "I offer my congratulations."

"I don't want your praise," she spat.

"I do not require your consent to give it," it returned with a laugh.

"You find this amusing?" she asked, raising her eyebrows testily. "I almost died."

"But you didn't," it stated.

Margariete glared at it.

"Why are you here? Have you come to see if I've reached your precious artifact yet?"

"I have been monitoring your progress carefully. You did well in the first trial."

"No thanks to you," she replied angrily, wondering if the dragons were enjoying themselves at the expense of her struggle.

"Or to yourself," it replied.

Margariete stopped.

"If you've been watching, as you say, then you just witnessed me destroy those mist creatures on my own."

The dragon seemed unimpressed.

"You set obstacles in your own path, Margariete, that prevent your escape."

"What obstacles?" she probed, hoping to glean anything she could about what was about to come.

"Fear, anger, impatience," the dragon answered, plopping itself down on its hind legs. "You feed them into the maze."

Margariete felt her mind burn with anger. The dragon was spouting nonsense. She had not conjured those wind wyverns.

"What are you talking about?" she demanded.

The dragon growled with impatience.

"It is a miracle you have even gotten this far, so dim is your wit."

"I wouldn't have to be here at all if it wasn't for you, lizard," she seethed.

They glared at each other. The dragon's eyes narrowed.

"I will give you this warning, Margariete. Aeron's maze will absorb any piece of your soul that you leave unguarded."

Margariete narrowed her eyes, feeling doubt creep into her.

"How?"

"Use your brain, girl," the dragon huffed irately. "Aeron was brilliant. He foresaw all possible futures. His maze, like the future, is moldable. He was both powerful and wise. You must be the same to survive his trials."

Frustration burned in Margariete's chest. The dragon answered her questions with riddles, and her life was depending on it.

"And just how many of these trials will I face?"

"You will face them until you conquer them."

That sounded like a never-ending cycle, like that blasted door trap she had faced earlier.

"So—what? I face trials until I die of starvation?"

"I suggest you heed my warning."

Fury twisted her insides and entangled her limbs.

"What warning? Protecting my soul? Protect it with what? From what!"

The dragon's expression became a mask.

"I have said all I will."

It vanished before Margariete could argue.

She kicked at a puddle angrily as the rain poured onto the ground, yelling profanities at him. As a result, she slipped. Mud squelched beneath her, coating her elbows and pants. She exhaled a resigned, long-suffering sigh as the rain slid down her face like tears.

18: So Damn Cool

The grungy tavern was small and cramped. Six tables crowded so close to each other that a private conversation would be impossible if the common room was full. Kyleren was the only customer. He sipped his drink, grateful for the solitude.

They had reached this "village" about an hour after dark. Kyleren had expected something larger than three buildings and a stable right off the main road. "Way station" would have been a more appropriate description. Ragnar had laughed and pointed at the tavern's wooden sign when Lance complained about the place's small size.

It read: "The Village."

As soon as they ordered food, Raeylan inhaled his meal—which Kyleren had thought tasted like Dagda troll snot—and headed to bed. Ragnar stayed longer and drank almost five pints in two hours, then retired himself.

Finally alone, Kyleren let himself relax. Raeylan's dislike for Ragnar was growing faster than fungus on a Famorian ogre. The GAEL didn't know what it was to have family, not in the sense of a father or mother. He had been raised by doctors and military commanders on Gwydion, like all GAELs. His comrades had been his siblings. But Lance had decided it was time to step out of Raeylan and Ragnar's family troubles. Lance was on Raeylan's side of course—Ragnar had been pretty callous with his remarks about Raeylan's mother—but it was a poor tactic for a unit to be on a mission with this much tension trying to pull it apart. He still wasn't letting go of his objections to this mission—it was stopping them from getting to the girls. But they were here now. It was time to get this side quest over with, and it would be easier if they were less at each other's throats.

Lance couldn't help but wonder what Margariete would think of the pompous jerk that was her father. The thought brought an unintended grin. She'd probably stab Ragnar with something. Thinking of her made Kyleren's stomach feel hard, like someone had punched him with a rifle butt. Was she already lost in that gromm maze, hurt, or worse?

He took a deep swig of his drink, watching the barmaid who was trying to prod the room's feeble fire into something more than smoke. She was pretty, but young—maybe only thirteen. An older woman, probably the girl's mother by the resemblance, swept the floor. The innkeeper cleaned used tankards behind the bar, his face tired and drawn. The only other person Kyleren had noticed was a guard posted as he came in.

He was almost finished with his drink when the muted sound of hooves came from outside. Someone offered a friendly greeting, probably the guard. Harnesses jingled. Lance heard the unmistakable thud of a fist. Raucous laughter followed as the door jerked open, nearly knocked from the hinges. A group of unwashed men tramped inside, clad in mismatched furs and leather armor. Five settled comfortably in chairs, but the other six remained standing at the bar. Their weapons were candidly displayed on their belts.

The innkeeper looked uneasy. The woman with the broom dashed to her daughter and hurried her toward the kitchen, but was intercepted by one of the men as the group's leader strode through the open door. Kyleren reached for his sidearm, but then remembered he wasn't supposed to use it. Instead he picked up Rend, glad he hadn't waited to initiate the eight hour process of turning the axe's molecular structure to living steel. Rend should be fully converted by now.

"Almost lost the entertainment, Mahl," one of the men sniggered while the women tried to wriggle free.

Mahl was easily as tall as Kyleren. He clanked as he walked, a glint of silver chain mail peeking out of his hairy cloak as he moved. A massive bastard sword was sheathed at his hip, his left hand encased in a black metal claw. He took the girl's face with his fingers and drew it slowly from one side to the other. The girl's mother tried harder to free herself.

"How much?" Mahl asked the innkeeper without a glance.

"She's not for sale," the innkeeper said. "You boys better move on, or I'll have to call up the guard."

Mahl's leer was missing a few teeth.

"You mean that skinny guy outside? I don't think he'll be around any time soon."

His horde chuckled as if on cue.

"What's your name innkeep?"

"Vili."

"Well, Vili, my men here have had a long ride down from Billsk. They just want a dance or two with the girl here."

Mahl jerked his head in the direction of the daughter, his men jeering and making significant gestures with their anatomy.

"Please," the mother pleaded, "leave my girl alone!"

"I ain't gonna hurt her, lady," Mahl said jerking the young girl toward the stairs, who had begun to weep and shake.

Kyleren slammed his mug loudly on the table and stood. All twelve men turned to look at him. Rend lay casually against his shoulder.

"Let 'em go," he ordered.

The henchmen seemed too startled to respond, but Mahl pushed the girl against a table and unsheathed his weapon.

"Or what, Horsedung? You think you can take all twelve of us by yourself?"

Kyleren grinned, adrenaline coursing through him like an energy slug.

"Yep."

Kyleren grabbed his vacated chair with his left hand and tossed it at Mahl. The wooden fixture splintered on impact and drove the gang leader to the floor. The others belatedly drew their weapons, but Kyleren was already in their midst. Rend sliced through their armor like an edge laser through tissue. Natural leather was worthless against LT steel. Three henchmen were dead on the floor before Mahl had a chance to shout orders to his gang.

"Take him!" Mahl bellowed as he got to his feet.

Four charged Kyleren on all sides, short swords and daggers jabbing for the kill. Kyleren hurled Rend at the one behind him. The man split at the torso. The force of Kyleren's throw pushed the axe cleanly through the inn's wooden wall and out into the night.

He took the other three out with his fists.

The thirteen-year-old had managed to crawl to her feet. She and the innkeeper freed the mother by bashing her captor simultaneously with tankards. The man crumpled to the floor and they disappeared behind the bar.

Obviously intending to defeat Kyleren while he was without his axe, Mahl lunged forward, scraping his claw down Kyleren's forearm, while two others stabbed with their swords. One sword glanced off Kyleren's armor, the other off his skin. But long bloody trails remained where Mahl's claw had raked Kyleren's arm.

"What the frag?" Kyleren muttered irritably and looked at the damage. Ordinary weapons shouldn't be able to penetrate his GAEL skin.

Mahl had stepped out of Kyleren's threat range, but the other two tried again to stab the GAEL. Kyleren caught one of their swords with his bare hand and yanked them away from his opponents. He folded the blades in half as if they were nothing more than putty.

The two disarmed swordsmen fled through the front door.

Mahl, however, looked triumphant.

"It is your turn to die," he cried. "Vengeance for my men!"

"A tiny scratch like this won't stop me, Skrit Face."

Kyleren was sure that Mahl gave less than a frag for any of his men. Faster than humanly possible, Lance dashed to Mahl and grabbed him by the arm, just above the claw. The gang leader's face exploded with surprise.

"Not possible! The poison should have paralyzed you!"

"Shoulda," Kyleren said. "You picked a fight with the wrong guy."

The GAEL clenched his fingers and felt Mahl's bones crack under the strain. The man howled in pain. Kyleren ripped the claw from the gang leader's arm and turned it over once to examine it. Mahl writhed on the floor.

The last henchmen goggled, too scared to do anything.

"Where'd this come from?" Kyleren asked him.

The man's jaw opened and closed, but no sound came out. Kyleren figured the guy could use a little more motivation. It took barely a flick of his bloody arm to snap Mahl's neck.

"I'm not gonna ask again," Kyleren said to the remaining henchman, letting Mahl's limp form drop to the ground.

"Svartelbode," the man yelped, then retreated out of the tavern.

The name meant nothing to Kyleren. He'd have to ask Ragnar. He stomped outside to retrieve his axe. When he returned, the innkeeper, his wife, and the young girl slowly peeked their heads over the bar. Sensing a gaze at his back, Kyleren turned toward the stairs. Raeylan stood on the last step, surveying the destruction with an expression clearly demanding an explanation.

As Kyleren headed toward the stairs he turned to the innkeeper.

"Sorry about the wall."

*

"They were gonna hurt the girl," Kyleren explained as he and Raeylan walked down the hall.

"I do not begrudge your decision to save that family, but it could have been accomplished with less damage to the innkeeper's establishment. We will need to help repair it."

"What do you fraggin' want from me, Raeylan?" Lance returned. "You guys said no magic and no firearms to keep the lizards off our tails. I coulda stopped those gromm bastards with my sidearm if you woulda let me."

"It is done," Raeylan said with a wave of his hand. His eyes were locked on the black claw Kyleren carried.

"That claw has powerful magic," Raeylan observed.

"Know what it does?" Lance asked.

"Not without further study. Ragnar may know more," Raeylan recommended as he disappeared into his room.

Kyleren decided he didn't want to wait. He walked down the hall and knocked on Ragnar's door, but there was no answer. He waited about two minutes, then kicked it open without invitation. Ragnar sat with crossed legs in the center of the room, hands resting on his knees, thumb and middle fingers touching. His weapons were laid out neatly beside him. His eyes were closed and he made no sign to acknowledge Kyleren's abrupt entrance.

"You missed a good fight," Kyleren said, irritated that Ragnar hadn't even bothered to come downstairs. There was no way he hadn't heard the ruckus.

"You had no need of me," Ragnar stated.

"I coulda," Kyleren growled.

"Against twelve weak humans?"

Kyleren threw the gauntlet on the floor in front of Ragnar. It cracked loudly against the wood, but Ragnar didn't move.

"I am meditating. If you wish to speak with me, you will need to wait until I have finished."

"Fine," Kyleren sighed and leaned against a wall.

Ragnar's meditation lasted another ten minutes before he finally relaxed and opened his eyes. He looked at the black claw contraption with interest.

"Where did you get that?"

"Off the guy who picked a fight with me downstairs," Kyleren said. "One of his men said he found it at Svarten-somethin'."

"Svartelbode?" Ragnar asked.

"That's the one," Kyleren confirmed. "You've seen that thing before, haven't you?"

He pointed at the gauntlet. Ragnar picked it up and examined it. There were five claws, each designed to slip over fingers and thumb. A white translucent jewel was set against the palm. The finger sheaths attached to a triangular plate that went over the back of the hand.

"I have, but it's been centuries. This was a gift from Skoh herself to her most faithful priest, passed down a line of worthy servants ever since. The last to possess it was Serapis."

Lance had heard the name before, but he couldn't recall exactly where.

"Why would Sera-whatever hand this over to a band of thugs?"

Ragnar looked up.

"Serapis was killed over a thousand years ago, when Svartelbode and the Ormyr went to war. But his tomb was never found, and the gauntlet was presumed lost."

"The lizards killed him?"

"According to legend, when the city finally fell, Serapis and his priests sacrificed themselves to seal the temple of Skoh from all outsiders," Ragnar said, "safeguarding their treasures. It is there that Kirion's Sword is imprisoned."

Ragnar handed the gauntlet back to Kyleren.

"You are lucky to have intercepted this weapon. I suggest you keep it safe."

"So you know what it can do?" Kyleren asked.

"Yes," Ragnar said, closing his eyes for another round of meditation.

"What then?" Kyleren asked impatiently.

Ragnar answered without opening his eyes.

"In the hands of a true follower of Skoh, it can rip your soul right out of your body."

19: Children Of The Night

The white sun was high and bright by the time Tosk landed. Black pebbles shook under the dragon's feet as he lowered his front claw, allowing Esilwen to climb out. The volcano was close now, maybe two miles away. She could see its sharp rock formations quite clearly.

All around her, bald trees struggled to grow, looking bent and defeated. A sickly stubble pushed out of the crusty ground. Steam wafted from hidden vents, creating a heavy, noxious haze that sucked the color out of sky. Everything was washed grey.

"I can go no further," the rusty dragon rumbled. "Do you see the glade over there?" He indicated a pitiful twist of trees a hundred yards to her right. "That is where I will await your return."

Esilwen's insides pricked with fear. The forbidding landscape drank her confidence, but she nodded anyway, knowing that so many lives depended on her.

"What if I am unable to complete the task?" Esilwen whispered, more to herself than the dragon.

"Then the rest of the villagers will die. If you cannot eradicate the source of this disease, Esilwen, everything in this shard will perish."

"The Ormyr too?"

"As of yet, none of my kind has contracted the fever. We have some immunity to it, but have not pushed the limits of our fortune. There are precious few of us."

Esilwen's eyes wandered unwillingly to the volcano.

"How will I get in?" she asked, ludicrously imagining herself climbing to the top of the volcano and sliding into the crater.

"That I don't know," he said, turning back toward the trees.

Esilwen watched him go, waiting until the dragon had disappeared into the forest. Then, steeling herself, she turned back to the mountain. The black volcano loomed in the sky, menacing in its majesty. Esilwen felt ill-equipped to face whatever challenges might lie inside its depths. She had never before faced a deadly quest alone. Dirty smoke belched from the mountain's peak, as if daring her to approach. Her feet shuffled forward over uneven beds of lumpy rock, unsure of purpose. There was no path, nothing to guide her steps. Her cloak caught on boney shrubs, and soon the hem was tattered and mangled.

She had walked a little more than half a mile when she noticed a carrion bird circling overhead. It was so high that Esilwen couldn't determine its exact breed, only that the bird had black feathers. It looped around her three times, then sped toward the mountain.

The closer she drew to the volcano's base, the heavier the air became. Esilwen's blood tingled with the constant need to filter the toxins she breathed. By the time she stood inside the mountain's shadow, her lungs heaved with exertion and her limbs were numb. She stared at the rocks, uncertain. The dragon had given her nothing for guidance. Should she attempt a climb to the top? The cone was steep and jagged. It would be deep into the night before she would come even close to the summit.

Deciding that it didn't matter, Esilwen took her first few strides up the mountain. She coughed several times as she did so. Five paces later she coughed again. Esilwen lifted a hand to her chest and fought to breathe. Her blood boiled with icy pricks. Fohtian's power was struggling to counter the poisons entering her body. She closed her eyes and concentrated hard, helping the magic. Her coughing subsided.

When she opened her eyes, she was surprised to see the bird perched a few hundred feet in front of her. It looked like a raven, but something was—off—about it. It moved in a way that seemed unnatural. The deadly fumes exuding from the ground should have driven all living creatures far away, but here was the bird, seemingly unaffected. As Esilwen took a step closer, the raven took to the air, flying further from reach. It settled on a rock and waited.

Every time Esilwen approached, the raven flitted away, but never out of sight. With nothing else to guide her, she followed the bird along the mountain for several hours. When she stumbled on a narrow, but distinct, path, the bird flew into the sky and disappeared.

Suspicious, yet helpless for another course of action, Esilwen followed the trail, wondering nervously what creature might have cause to traverse the fatal landscape often enough to forge a path. Her anxiety renewed her fear of the task that loomed before her. Was the source of the plague inside this mountain? What if she couldn't find it? What if she found it but was unable to destroy it?

Her gloomy thoughts sapped her strength as much as the toxic air. The longer she walked, the more she was forced to stop and help her magic keep her alive. Soon she was pausing every fifteen minutes. But she forced herself forward. Keri and the villagers were counting on her. She had to stop this disease before it claimed more of them.

Two more steps up the path and the cough choked her again. This time her body rejected the fumes so violently that Esilwen collapsed to her knees. Every gulp of air caused her to shake. It took a full five minutes for her magic to cleanse her blood enough for her to rise. Even then she swayed, almost blacking out. Esilwen's head pounded. Her skin burned with unnatural heat, yet her body shivered as if cold. What was happening? As an elf, she should be immune to both the cold and the heat.

She rubbed her hands up and down her arms and discovered the answer. Tiny black veins curled under her skin. The icy power of Fohtian's artifact, which had protected her against disease in all of her lifetimes, could not scour the infection away. She had treated the symptoms of fever in her patients enough times to recognize the signs, but this was the first time she had experienced them herself.

The dragon had given her only one day. It seemed Tosk had been mistaken in his calculations. She might have only hours before the black tendrils claimed her.

Fear of death urged her forward on the mountain path. Ash and smoke stung her eyes as she plodded along, sudden bursts of wind whipped biting clouds of dust around her. Her fever continued to worsen. She didn't know how long she walked, but by the time she reached a ragged archway that burrowed into the side of the volcano, the rocky landscape was sliding sideways in her vision. Thirst ached in her throat.

With receding strength, she peered into the darkness of the cave, grateful that she would not have to scale the entire mountain. She doubted this entrance was even halfway up the volcano's slope.

All was black within.

She commanded a small green flame to dance across her palm as she moved into the cave. It was narrow and turned down sharply at the back. Soon she was in a tunnel that curved and swayed, leading her toward the mountain's core. Her feeble light trembled in the hot, muggy air. Her feet were like lead blocks, forcing her to drag them forward. Once a jet of steam burst in her face, knocking her against the wall where she scraped her arm. It was a mark of her diminishing strength that the abrasion did not repair itself.

The black veins of the plague grew thick on her skin as the disease progressed. It was like a living entity, clawing its way up her chest and neck. It felt slimy inside her, like a hundred leeches wriggling through her blood. What would happen if it killed her? Would she be reborn somewhere else for Raeylan to find, or would the malady interfere with her magic, preventing Fohtian's power from bringing her back to life?

As Esilwen wearily continued, the darkness suddenly blackened against her flame, swallowing the light that held it at bay. The tunnel opened into a vast cavern that stretched before her. It was large enough that her little light did not touch the walls or ceiling. She plodded inside, wondering if there was another tunnel that would lead her deeper into the volcano on the other side. Esilwen had walked fifteen paces, encircled by gloom on all sides when…

...Something hissed.

She stopped abruptly. The sound was not like gas escaping the vents. It was hollow and empty. Aberrant. The sound slid through the darkness like a whip, sparking tremors of fright through Esilwen's spine. Instinctively, she tried to expand her flame. Green light flashed against the walls, illuminating her surroundings for a brief moment—just long enough to reveal hunched shadows approaching.

A rhythmic scraping, like something hard grinding against stone, echoed before her. Reduced to a feeble handful, Esilwen shone her light back the way she came. Her heart pounded frantically as she retreated, back to the tunnel, hoping that the moving shadows had been a trick from her fevered eyes.

The exit was within view when the hiss came again—directly in her ear.

Esilwen whipped around with a scream. Her attacker's eyes reflected the green firelight. Dead, black eyes: empty of human expression. It didn't seem to be looking at her, but stared at some point over her shoulder. The creature was in the shape of a man, swathed in black cloth. Only the eyes were visible.

"Who are you?" she asked, taking a step back.

He didn't answer. His black, dead eyes did not acknowledge her. Standing motionless, only his hands moved, opening and closing methodically.

"I am here to discover the cause of a plague that is killing innocent people," Esilwen announced with more bravado than she felt. "Can you help me?"

Quicker than she could react, the black thing's hand darted to Esilwen's throat. She pulled at his fingers, but his grip was like iron. In her weakened state, she had no time to waste. She slammed her palm of flame against his arm, commanding her power to devour her attacker.

The man did not scream. He did not attempt to thwart the blaze. He held Esilwen tightly as the fire burned away the black cloth, revealing dry, leathered skin held together by thick wire. As his clothes disintegrated, Esilwen could see that his limbs and trunk were sewn together like a sick, corpse doll. He continued to squeeze Esilwen by the throat until his body—skin, bone and all—turned to ash.

Darkness engulfed her as the last of the flame died. Esilwen fell to the ground, gasping. She hadn't the strength to call the flame again. She heard another hiss, more scraping of something on stone. Another hand crushed her windpipe. Esilwen called to Fohtian's power, but the magic was spent. Bereft of breath, she sank into unconsciousness.

20: Rock Of Ages

Tuatha pushed her hand out of her stone, ready for the sharp cold that followed. It bit her granite skin like winter rain. The comforting pulsations of energy that connected her to Danu's power diminished as her heart and head emerged from the rock, as it always did when she left the cocoon of her goddess's influence.

The secret of the stone was a ritual known only by the other shiidh priestesses. It was the means by which a shiidh made herself one with the goddess. Tuatha had been three when her stone first spoke to her. Queen Druantia had brought her to Danu's temple herself. At seventeen, Tuatha sang the Melody of Transformation with her Mother Mentor, claiming the stone completely as her own and becoming a full priestess of Danu. As long as the stone remained intact, Tuatha would not die.

Expecting to be blinded by the lights in the hold after fully separating from the stone, Tuatha was mildly surprised to find the space around her lit by a dim, red light. Able to see in complete darkness, it was not the low light that caused Tuatha sudden distress. The eyes of the shiidh were not limited as those of a regular mortal. A shiidh saw the world through the vibrations of Danu, sensing the life energy of everything around herself in varying shades of gold.

But LAMIE was dark.

As a creation touched by the power of Danu, LAMIE's music entered Tuatha with a force almost equal to the stone. The shiidh should be feeling the pulse of the ship's life beat. But the cargo hold around Tuatha was silent. There was no song of life, only the thin gold thread that tethered Tuatha to her stone.

The last thing Tuatha remembered clearly was being struck by a bolt of electricity during a fight with massive flying lizards. There was a fuzzy memory of herself in the med bay, of asking for her stone, and then the warmth of Danu.

Deciding to find the other members of her company, Tuatha glided to the door. It did not open at her approach, further evidence that something was wrong with LAMIE. Tuatha found the manual override and forced the door to open. The hallway was drenched in more red light, deserted. One corridor had a hole blasted cleanly through the ceiling to floor.

She glanced into several rooms as she walked the hallway—carefully navigating around the hole—but found no one. She wasn't surprised, however. She knew where Gene was likely to be. She didn't see him when she entered his office, but could clearly hear him mumbling from an open door on the other end. Tuatha crossed through the office silently. The door led to a square room of panels, lights, and cables. Gene's back was to her as he fiddled with some gauges with a whining tool.

"Young LAMIE's voice is lost."

Gene gave a wild yelp and turned, slamming his body against the wall panel and pointing the little lighted tool at her like a weapon. When he recognized her, he lowered the implement and rubbed his chest with his free hand.

"Don't do that!" Gene complained. "Why do you always have to creep around?"

"It is my way," she said.

Gene looked away quickly.

"Feeling better, are you?"

"My stone has made me whole once more. With science skill, will LAMIE wake?"

Gene sighed, his face slackening into hopelessness.

"I've replaced her protoinsulators," Gene said, "but her neurocillica pathways refuse to initiate. There's probably some microfracking in the protonodes, but I don't have the right equipment to detect where. There are millions of nodes in her protocore."

"What is a core?"

"Um—"

Gene pointed to the large wall of blinking technology. Tuatha frowned.

"Agrona was my place of birth; your living tech I learned to hate. I know it not."

Tuatha clicked her long nails against the nearest panel, feeling impatient.

"Oh right," Gene said, running his hand nervously through his hair. "I forgot. Wars and all that."

"Explain to me the ship's distress!" Tuatha hissed, showing all her teeth to motivate him.

"The protoboard is basically LAMIE's brain, which has now been fried by dragon's breath. Even if I could replace every protochip—which would take a month by the way—it would be like replacing someone's memories. She would be a different LAMIE."

"So she has died?" Tuatha asked.

Gene looked panicked, as if he hadn't quite thought of it that way. Tuatha felt a pang of sadness. LAMIE was a fellow servant of the goddess, a kindred spirit.

"Ingenious Gene, you can succeed."

"There's nothing! It took me four years of eighteen-hour workdays just to get her to the mental maturity of a fourteen-year-old! All for nothing!"

Gene's breathing was coming in short gasps. His lips started to turn blue. Afraid he was having some sort of spasm, Tuatha stepped forward and slapped him across the cheek.

"Your gloomy fit is not the way to save our friend. By you was LAMIE made; you must repair her."

Gene held his hand against his cheek, shocked by her strike.

"I told you. I can't fix her protoboard without erasing her. I've already exhausted every possibility I can think of."

Tuatha's patience was as thin as the thread that anchored her to her stone. She fingered her hammer, glaring at Gene.

"Look to other knowledge."

"Like what?" Gene scoffed.

"She is more than just machine. She needs to heal."

"Of course!" Gene said, smacking himself in the head. "I can proto the nanomites in the med bay to repair the nodes by fusing with the microfracking. It will take all the mites we have, but I could save most of her!"

Gene held his arms out wide, and for a moment Tuatha thought he might embrace her in that annoying custom of touching that humans called a "hug." She took a step back and ground a warning hiss through her teeth. That brought Gene up short, and he dropped his arms awkwardly before grabbing his dataplate and dashing out of the room. Tuatha stroked LAMIE's bulkhead in comfort, then followed.

21: Mirror, Mirror, Look Into My Eyes

Displeasure bubbled around Margariete like fizz as she trudged through the rain and muck, growing steadily closer to the fortress in the distance, her hip protesting with every step. The scarred dragon's superior attitude rankled inside her. She was tired of this stupid maze and all its riddles. What did it matter if her mind fed its magic? She had fought it and won. This place would not defeat her.

The fortress turned out to be a mass of crumbling walls with a dangerously sagging roof. Margariete stood in the courtyard, eyeing it warily as the rain drizzled around her. She wanted a place to build a fire, but the derelict building looked likely to collapse at any moment. Just as she considered staying the night outside, an unnaturally cold wind cut through her, chilling the rain to white flakes of ice. Her wet hair froze, her soaked clothes hardened with frost. The temperature dropped so suddenly that Margariete's body struggled to compensate. She shook with the sudden cold.

Margariete huffed, not surprised. The maze obviously wanted her to go into the fortress. Despite the dragon's claim of Aeron's superior intellect, the maze seemed predictable. Her choices were to stand her ground in defiance and freeze to death or brave the unstable building.

The doors into the keep had long disappeared, leaving only a dark hole. Her eyes adjusted to the dim interior as she entered. She didn't wander far inside, just into a side chamber off the main room to escape the wind that funneled through the front opening. She gathered as much old wood as she could find and heaped it into a pile. Her hands shook so hard with the cold that it took several tries with her flint and steel to light the wood.

When the flames gave sufficient heat, she stripped off her wet clothing and equipment, laying it around the fire. Mercifully, the thin blanket in her pack was mostly untouched by the rain and she wrapped it around herself as she waited for the rest of her belongings to dry.

The respite reminded Margariete how hungry she was. It had been arcs, perhaps even a full cycle, since she had last eaten. She wasn't sure. For a long while she stared at the fire, grateful for the heat. After some time had passed, Stardawn clenched securely in one hand, she allowed herself a small measure of sleep.

When she woke, she found her clothes were mostly dry. She dressed and added more wood to her fire, which had burned to cinders while she slept. Though still stiff from her injuries, Margariete felt much better. Whatever the maze's next trial might be, she felt strong enough to face it. She was just cinching Stardawn's sheath tightly to her waist when the scratch of boot on stone caught her attention.

Stardawn came free of its sheath and into her hands. Margariete felt the vibrations of the air, searching for the threat. But there seemed to be nothing. Instead of helping her to relax, the discovery made her more alert. She had definitely heard something. Cautiously she crept back into the foyer, only to find it empty. After several moments, she decided to check the courtyard. Light snow drifted from the sky, coating the flagstones with an ankle deep layer of white.

No one was in sight.

With an angry sigh she slammed her weapon back into place. What was the purpose of this? Was her second test simply to survive hypothermia? This whole part of the maze was pointless. She kicked a large tuft of snow.

A footprint materialized within the disturbance she created. Margariete paused, searching through the air for an invisible attacker, but her sense detected only calm. She watched the disembodied footprints crunch through the snow and into the center of the yard. Wary with determination, Margariete prepped her weapon and waited.

A swift cyclone burst around the footprints, churning flakes of ice. The snow spiraled into a distinct humanoid shape. Margariete tensed, ready for more wyverns. As color bled into the details of the figure she gasped in surprise. A tall, olive-skinned woman with deep sapphire eyes glared at her. Margariete was looking at a copy of herself, duplicate Stardawn and all.

The counterfeit stared at her with a mouth curled into a snarl. It held up a hand, pointing. Margariete dived left, back into the keep, just barely dodging a wave of telekinetic power that slammed into the outer wall. Stones trembled. Dust leaked from the ancient structure's mortar. Snow spun dizzily through the air in the blast's wake. A second attack dislodged several bricks and a third caused a portion of the ceiling to collapse.

In moments, the building would crumble on top of her. Margariete used her telekinesis to hold the roof above her at bay until she could dash outside. A cloud of debris followed her into the courtyard. As she took a moment to watch the building sink into piles of stone, she realized most of her belongings were buried inside: her pack, knives, and dead tech firearm. With a curse, she turned to face her adversary: herself.

The counterfeit Margariete had taken the chance to leap forward. It smashed the hilt of its identical Stardawn against Margariete's face, knocking her to her knees. Margariete's impact was softened by the snow, though it was quickly flecked with drops of blood from her broken nose. The imposter growled and dodged Margariete's wild swing as she jumped back to her feet, using telekinesis to balance her ascent.

Counterfeit Margariete snarled with hate and began hacking with its imitation Stardawn, careless and reckless. The real Margariete barely managed to parry the ridiculously wild blows, desperately watching for an opening. She deflected three strikes, then slashed at her double. Stardawn bit deeply into the flesh of the copy, but Margariete's victory was tarnished with instant confusion. Instead of damaging the doppelganger, Margariete felt an angry rip in her own arm, the exact wound that she had inflicted on her enemy.

What in the name of the Void had just happened? Margariete had little time to consider the implications as her copy renewed its assault with another flurry of strikes. Margariete repelled each savage swing, waiting for an inevitable opening. A quick stab at the imposter's shoulder confirmed a disturbing truth.

The fake Margariete sustained no damage from the blow. The wound instead appeared on Margariete's own shoulder.

Alarm zapped through her like hot electricity. Any damage taken by the clone was revisited on herself. But it seemed the copy could inflict injury to Margariete without consequence, as evident by her broken nose. How the hell could she destroy this enemy without killing herself?

Margariete had no choice but to parry every blow, fighting the urge to strike her opponent when its thoughtless swings caused it to drop its guard. At this rate, Margariete knew she would tire quickly, especially since the wounds she had received during the fight with the air wyverns hadn't had time to heal. Bracing herself, she knocked the false Stardawn wide, then connected her boot with the copy's chest. Margariete was ready for the whoosh of air that left her own lungs, but she remained standing as the copy fell to the ground. Using telekinesis, Margariete applied just enough pressure to keep her counterfeit self from standing.

"What are you?" she demanded.

The copy fought against Margariete's thought chains and snarled. Margariete reached down and grabbed a fist full of hair, forcing the doppelganger to look her in the eye.

"Answer me," she demanded, weighting the command with her will.

But the use of her domination did not cause the copy's eyes to glaze over under Margariete's control. Instead, its sapphire irises flooded its entire eyeball with incandescent color. The world around Margariete grew dark, shadows rising from the ground like liquid night. Snow, stones, and sky disappeared into inky blackness, like she was displaced from the setting of the world. The copy vanished from Margariete's hold, reappearing behind her.

"Kneel!" it bellowed, Margariete's own voice pulsing with inhuman power all around her.

The untempered rage from the imposter forced Margariete to comply, despite her effort to fight it. Pain sliced through her body as she suddenly recognized the attack. She had used it only once, when she fought Terail in the Viridius family shrine.

Margariete could not move her body. She stared at the copy, shocked at the hatred oozing from its mind: a reflection of her own. Her sword arm grew hot with pain. Then each bone twisted and snapped of its own accord, Stardawn dropping mournfully to the black ground. Needles of pain travelled through her spine to the base of her skull, but her jaw was locked and she could not scream.

The imposter's face curled into a sickening mask of pleasure.

Margariete fell forward, tears streaming down her face. Stardawn lay only inches away, but she could not make her good arm reach for it. She felt a sharp tug in her hands and face and knew that her skin was starting to peel away.

Suddenly, Stardawn began to glow against the darkness. As she watched, the sword dissolved into water, forming a faceless personage of clear liquid. It reminded Margariete of the statue of Nehro in the private temple of Viridius Castle. When complete, Stardawn knelt at Margariete's side, gently pulling her broken body into its lap. Margariete choked blood in her attempt to speak.

Who are you? her thoughts asked instead.

"You know me well, Princess Margariete. Though you have only seen me as a tool for battle, I have ever been your companion." The personage's voice was like the gurgle of a small stream.

Stardawn? Margariete thought.

"I have long waited for you to acknowledge me."

Margariete could feel herself dying. Her mind was starting to feel soggy. Why do you appear now?

"I will not allow you to kill yourself."

The maze has done this to me.

"No, Margariete," Stardawn said, shaking its faceless head. "What you battle is yourself. It is the wrath in your heart and the fury of your mind. You have fed the labyrinth and now it uses them against you."

The pain burned more fiercely than before. Margariete choked and coughed.

"You must find strength within yourself, Margariete. You must face the hate that stains you."

How?

Stardawn didn't answer, but collapsed back into the shape of a blade. Its glow diminished until it was nothing more than a hard line of silver. Margariete's copy still stood ten spans away, glaring. It turned its head as a figure stepped out of the darkness: a man dressed in black armor, twin blades sheathed at his belt.

Terail Dasklos, before he joined Kirion and took the name Feralblade.

Margariete watched herself bend the darkness around Terail, hatred and fury raging around her like a living thing. Terail was forced to his knees. He screamed as the doppelganger shattered his bones and flayed the skin from his face.

The copy was no imposter. Margariete was witnessing the memory of herself. She had just been the victim of her own hate. Only this time, she had lived through it as Terail had.

So many things rushed through Margariete. The bitterness of regret was hot in her mouth, sour with betrayal. Terail had seen her weakness; she had let him use it to destroy everyone she loved. She had trusted him, adored him. Raeylan's disgrace was Terail's doing. Sometimes when Margariete thought of Terail, the hate came so fast and hard that she had to force vomit back down her throat. She hated him only a little less than she hated herself.

Terail had gotten what he deserved. The suffering she had inflicted on him was penance for all the lives he had stolen in his quest for revenge. For the shame he had caused her twin. And most of all, for the false touch of his fingers across her virgin skin as he loved her, the way she had never let a man love her before. Terail's torture was justified.

Wasn't it?

Margariete watched him writhe and convulse on the ground, helpless in his own body. But the sight did not bring her any feeling of gratification. Instead, she had to turn away, sickened by the expression of satisfaction she saw on the reflection of her own face. She realized with disgust that at that moment, she had become just like him: reveling in the pleasure of inflicted torture, consumed by pleasure of another's suffering.

How had she let that happen?

When the memory of Terail lay on the ground, unmoving, the counterfeit Margariete turned to face the real Margariete, sorrow in its eyes.

Margariete came to understand. Hate could only breed itself; it was a force of destruction greater than Terail could ever be. She had ignored the lessons of her brother: evil could only be stopped by justice. If she couldn't let go of her hate, she would become the same as the demons she sought to defeat.

She had held on to it for so long. She was afraid she would be weak without it. But then she saw Esilwen's face in her mind: her gentle smile, her kind eyes. The strength of her most treasured friend did not come from domination or war. It did not come from punishing the sins of the guilty.

It came from love.

With a thought, Margariete dispelled the darkness, banishing the memory. The snowy courtyard snapped back into focus. The copy was gone, but its footprints remained.

22: Master Of Puppets

Esilwen might have screamed, but she wasn't sure. The black plague wriggled through her veins like mud in a tube. It clogged her chest. She couldn't breathe. Her heart began to slow. Panic burned through her. She wasn't ready to die again.

Then, with a sudden jerk, the feeling of heaviness lifted. Esilwen gasped, tears of relief leaking from her eyes. A hoarse voice whispered through the air, rippling against her cheek. The words were too soft to decipher, but they crawled inside the back of Esilwen's head like maggots. A cold feeling of dread washed over her, a malevolence that throbbed inside her.

Her eyes flared open in alarm. A hooded figure leaned over her, an ugly steel symbol dangling from a chain in his wasted fingers. There was something funny about his eyes, but Esilwen's vision was blurry and she couldn't determine exactly what. By the time she focused properly, the figure had turned away.

She didn't know what he had done, but her fever was gone. Her body felt normal. Toxins still permeated the air, but her blood was filtering them with little effort. She tried to sit up, but discovered her feet and hands were bound to an ivory table with manacles of iron. The memory of black-clothed constructs reared high in her thoughts, causing her heart to pound. Who was this figure to them?

The hooded form walked out of her sight, disappearing into the red glow that stained the room. Sulfur and rot coated the air. A pool of magma bubbled sluggishly at the edge of the cavern—she guessed she must still be inside the volcano. Silhouettes flitted in front of the pool. With a start Esilwen realized they were all constructs, more than a dozen of them. They huddled around a large pile of bodies—obvious victims of the plague.

Revulsion gurgled into Esilwen's throat as she watched the constructs shift and move the bodies, some using blades to hack off the corpses' limbs. The bloody stumps were then hauled out of her view. She squeezed her eyes shut, but she could not block out the dull thud that followed each stroke as the cadavers were dismembered.

A bit squeamish, aren't you? rattled a disembodied voice in Esilwen's head. It was like a hollow, cold wind that slapped her behind the eyes, forcing them open. Hovering over her was a shrunken face, its skin pulled so taut that Esilwen could see the outline of its skull. It had no nose, just a hole where one was supposed to be. The bone of the jaw and left cheek were exposed. Wasted lips rolled back from its teeth, baring their roots. It had no eyes, just fiery, white plumes wriggling in its sockets.

"What are you?" Esilwen whispered.

He smelled like rotten meat. Corruption sifted off his withered fingers as he touched her face. Esilwen almost gagged.

I am the Corpse Crafter. What are you, pretty one?

"How did you—"

The Corpse Crafter made a sound like gravel across a dry river bed. Esilwen had the impression he was laughing, but his boney jaw did not move. She forced herself not to shiver.

"You have powers of the mind," she said.

His eyes flared angry black and red. His words flayed Esilwen's mind like flying sand.

I am no witless servant of the Mystic. I am a disciple of the Void. Its power speaks through the fears in your soul.

Esilwen could feel the Corpse Crafter inside her, raking her terror to the surface. She tried to push it back, but his will quickly overpowered her own. Her limbs began to shake. Laughing again, the Corpse Crafter straightened and drifted away toward a table littered with mucus filled vials and bits of ragged flesh. A black raven—a mismatch of wing, claw and head—launched from the table to rest on the Corpse Crafter's shoulder.

Esilwen glanced quickly back at the constructs sifting through the pile of bodies. This man was evil, there could be no doubt. She wasn't even sure "man" was the right term. Was the Corpse Crafter even alive? His creations certainly weren't. She clearly remembered their dead, black eyes staring at nothing. Soulless.

When she looked back at him, he had mixed several ingredients in a jar. With the gaze of his unnatural, wriggling eyes directed elsewhere, Esilwen felt stronger. Her mind raced to fit her new discoveries together. It couldn't be coincidence that an incurable, magical disease was killing villagers so close to the Corpse Crafter's death vault.

"You sent the plague," she accused. "You murdered all of these people."

The Corpse Crafter rotated his head, his eyes glowing weirdly from his tattered hood. Esilwen shrank from them involuntarily. His jaw didn't move as she heard his answer in her mind.

Murder is a term for mortals. I am everliving. Such laws do not apply to me.

"You had no right to take their lives!"

I require their shells. They are flesh, and have been revived as flesh. Their souls have been sacrificed to the Void, strengthening my power. It is an effective arrangement.

Horror flooded Esilwen.

"You've stolen a gift given to them by the gods. You had no right!"

The strong prevail and the weak fall. Life is earned, not deserved.

The Corpse Crafter walked toward her, a golden knife etched with pictographs glinting in one palm, the jar in the other. Esilwen squirmed in panic, desperate for escape. But the manacles held her fast to the altar.

"If you serve the Void, then Skoh is your mistress," Esilwen said, hoping to delay him while her brain worked frantically for a plan. "Even she valued souls."

I was her student once, in ages past. But Skoh is defeated; her power broken. Only the Void is eternal. Only it can grant power beyond death.

Slowly, the Corpse Crafter lowered the knife to Esilwen's wrist.

"What are you doing?"

You came to me infected with the plague. I have removed it for only one reason. You survived the toxins of the volcano, an impossible thing for any living creature. Even the Ormyr cannot tread here. Your blood will tell me why.

His blade bit into her arm, drawing a stream of crimson. Esilwen barely felt the pain. She was used to drawing her blood for healing. Far more important was keeping the power of Fohtian away from this twisted creature. She called on her flame, but was still too weak to produce an offensive attack. Cries of frustration fled her lips.

After twelve seconds, the blood the Corpse Crafter had gathered burst into flame, shattering his jar. His fleshless face seemed completely astonished as he observed the incision in her wrist mend itself. Esilwen bit her lip as he cut her again. He watched the process intently.

What are you, pretty elf?

The Corpse Crafter ran his skeletal fingers across her newly healed skin with calculating wonder. His touch sent shivers of fear through her nerves.

"I owe you no answers," Esilwen said defiantly.

He snarled and released her wrist impatiently.

Then I must carve my own conclusion from your flesh.

The Corpse Crafter stabbed his blade into Esilwen's thigh so violently, he knocked his raven from its perch on his shoulder. Esilwen sucked in a breath, trying to control the pain as he sliced her from hip to kneecap, pushing so deeply that the knife grated the bone. Blood gushed everywhere, staining the white ivory altar.

Shall we see what your bones look like?

With a skeletal glee he thrust his hands inside her leg, tearing her muscles into globulous chunks with his fingers.

Esilwen screamed. Her body convulsed. When the healing flame finally sparked to life, the Corpse Crafter snatched his hands away, avoiding the flickering green fire. Tears streamed down Esilwen's face and her breath came in great heaving gulps. The moments of healing lasted an icy, agonizing eternity. By the time her leg had fully regenerated, sobs wracked her.

And then the Corpse Crafter moved to her other leg.

She lost count of how many times he opened her. Hours bled into endless pain. The Corpse Crafter seemed incapable of tiring. Each time her power healed her, the process took a little longer. Twice it failed to ignite on the twelfth heartbeat, delayed by fatigue.

When she thought she could bear it no longer and might finally die of pain, the Corpse Crafter paused. He took a step back, watching her blood drip tiredly and burn on the floor. Walking back to his table, he lifted a huge tome and rifled through its pages.

She only briefly wondered why the Corpse Crafter had granted her respite. He obviously knew she had reached her limit. He needed her alive to study her. The torture had stopped so she could regain her strength. Then she was afraid his cruel examination would begin anew.

Esilwen didn't think she could take more. Fear of pain was on the verge of overwhelming her senses. And she was alone. Raeylan and Margariete would not be able to enter the volcano. Kyleren might withstand the poisonous air, but there was no reason to think her friends would find her. This was something she had to face by herself.

But once again she doubted her own strength. This was a battle for a warrior, not a healer. Esilwen believed in compassion. She did not like to fight, but chose to persuade those who disagreed with her, to move them to compromise through mercy and love.

How could she reason with someone completely amoral?

Before her was the source of the plague, a creature incapable of barest humanity. Esilwen could not hope to escape him. She would die here as his prisoner and little Keri would succumb to fever. Her friends would never know her fate. Esilwen's only choice was to make a deal.

"If I give you what you want," she croaked from lips sore from screaming, "will you give me the cure to your disease?"

The Corpse Crafter turned a page.

What do you offer?

"I can show you the power of Fohtian."

He turned his hooded head to her, contemplating.

You are the god's artifact. You will give me that power?

Esilwen licked her dry, salty lips.

"Fohtian's magic is a part of me; I cannot simply hand it over. But I can give you a vial of blood to study, if you promise to stop the plague and let me go."

Your blood disintegrates in flame.

"If I draw it myself, give it to you willingly, it will not ignite," she promised.

It was silent for a few moments as the Corpse Crafter considered her offer. Then his eyes flashed black with something Esilwen could not quite decipher, but it chilled her to the soul.

An effective arrangement. I agree to your terms.

23: Come To The Everlife

Complicated dreams burned away the edges of Raeylan's sleep, rousing him before the sun had risen. He stared through the dark window, a web of residual fear tight around his heart. Concern for Esilwen ached inside him like a blister, threatening to burst. Worry for his twin gnawed at his mind. Rubbing his eyes tiredly, he rose from his bed and moved to the floor, settling onto his knees. His muscles tensed with the need for action, though he knew there was none to take. The weight of duty crushed the breath from him. Fear that he might fail and doom the shards to Kirion's control loomed over Raeylan like a dark cloud. He took several deep breaths to combat his pounding head, preparing himself for meditation.

Raeylan looked inside himself, ready to battle the meaning within his nightmares. Esilwen had been screaming behind a wall he could not breach, no matter how many times he struck at the invisible barrier with Temperance. His teleportation magic had refused to obey him. Then he had seen Margariete running across a wet landscape, blood running freely from many wounds. Kirion appeared and stabbed her through the heart with the broken remnants of Moonstone Retribution. The Lord of Light had distorted, transforming into Margariete. Raeylan's sister stood cackling over her own dead body as the images dissolved into a searing bright light. In the center of the white nothingness was the gleam of shining metal, burning so hot that Raeylan felt his eyes melt into the back of his head. A flash of lightning and a glimpse of glowing blue eyes had jerked Raeylan awake.

Banishing the fear behind the dream was harder than it seemed. Was Esilwen really in mortal peril, or were the Ormyr watching over her? Ragnar had assured Raeylan of the latter, but the former Thyellan king didn't trust his estranged father. Was the nightmare just a product of Raeylan's fear for Esilwen, or was it some kind of premonition? Esilwen was strong, but she was not a fighter, joining a battle only if forced. It was not in Raeylan's nature to leave her undefended.

Margariete was most likely inside Aeron's maze already, searching out the air artifact. As a warrior she was more than capable, but her unruly temper caused her to take dangerous risks. Though he would prefer to be at her side, Raeylan had faith that she could protect herself until he managed to find her—as long as she kept her emotions under control.

Ragnar had berated Raeylan as overprotective to the point of foolhardiness, but Raeylan disagreed. He had a responsibility to the two people he cared for most. He could not abandon them to fate as Ragnar would have it. Esilwen and Margariete needed him. It was not that they were helpless without him, but rather, by standing with them, Raeylan made them stronger.

But he could not forfeit the greater quest for their safety either. The thought that one cycle he might have to choose between saving them or defeating Kirion sat like a cold stone in Raeylan's heart. He had failed that test before, choosing his sister over the ten thousand lives of his kingdom. If faced with the ultimate sacrifice, would he have the strength to face it? Raeylan could only hope that the choice would never surface.

As he worried about what might lay ahead, a comment made by his father sprang to his mind. You made the decision to find Kirion's Sword before consulting Kyleren. You carry yourself as a leader, speaking your mind as commands, not searching for opinions. You claim he is your equal, but you rule him like a king.

The hot sting of anger boiled just below the serenity of Raeylan's meditation. Ragnar seemed to pluck at Raeylan's weaknesses with ease, a fact that Raeylan was beginning to resent. Worse, Raeylan was forced to concede that his father was correct. Though king no longer, Raeylan still found it difficult to ask his companions for advice. He had made the decision to seek The Sword despite Kyleren's objections. Margariete always deferred to him, regardless of her own opinions. He was beginning to think that Esilwen did the same.

As for Ragnar, Raeylan knew he must curtail the increasing disappointment he felt for his father. It was interfering with his task, generating discord where solidarity was needed. Ragnar was rude, condescending, and contentious, seeming to delight in conflict—the opposite of what Raeylan had hoped for. Ragnar's actions had betrayed his character even before Raeylan's birth. Ragnar had seduced Anleia simply to ease the loss of a woman already gone, discarding the children the union had produced.

It was senseless to give in to Ragnar's taunts. Nothing constructive came of animosity, and if Ragnar refused to be civil, it was Raeylan's duty to diffuse the situation, for the sake of the quest. Ragnar was his father in blood only. Anleia was Raeylan's true parent and mentor.

Raeylan breathed in deeply, allowing tranquility to wash through his emotions. A knock on the door caused him to open his eyes. His room was bright with sunlight.

"Raeylan? You awake?" Kyleren asked through the wooden door.

"Yes," Raeylan answered as he stood to gather his things.

*

They set out immediately, traveling with little conversation the entire cycle. Every time Ragnar said something callous or deliberately controversial, Raeylan chose to ignore it. After midcycle they crossed a large bridge, a monolithic structure of tall stone that spanned a wild, wide river. The bank they left was mostly hilly grassland and pine forest, while the landscape on the other side was dry, with sparse vegetation. The gritty soil crunched beneath their feet. The sudden change of vegetation was starling; one side of the river was bright with life while the other seemed to be a wasteland of desert.

They continued their journey, pelted with fine granules of black sand in the wind. Kyleren scouted ahead, intercepting a group of bandits who made the unfortunate choice of ambushing the GAEL around the base of a hill. Raeylan and Ragnar caught up to Kyleren as the last of the assailants was knocked unconscious. Kyleren grinned and they pressed forward.

Two arcs later, as the sun glinted farewell at the horizon, the trio crested a barren hill that overlooked the ruins of a great city. Half buried in the black sand, it sprawled across the dunes in five directions as far as Raeylan could see. At least twice the population of Thyella could have fit snugly within its broken walls. Black sandstone and shale were all but crumbling mounds and pitted hollows of what had obviously been massive structures. The crippled buildings grew in size and grandeur from the outskirts to the city center. Tall obelisks of red glassy stone stood sentry at the gates and served as markers for doorways into larger, wealthier areas of the age-old metropolis.

"Svartelbode," Ragnar said. "Known to the Skohvians as Gerzean, the capital of Kharnak. Long ago, at the height of its power, these lands were once called the Middle Kingdom."

Whatever riches this ancient city had to offer must have been plundered long ago—all except for three massive temples in the heart of the abandoned capital. They stood taller than anything left in the city, a geometric echo of the sand dunes around them. The sharp, crimson surface of the temples reflected the sunlight like fire, gleaming back at Raeylan and his companions with palpable vanity. No sand encroached on the sanctuary's grounds, though it lay in humped piles all around. Each structure wore a bright golden crown at its peak, untouched by time and unspoiled by mortal hands.

Kyleren gave a low whistle.

"Those pyramids look like the fraggin' peaks on Lludd," he said.

Raeylan recognized the name, but it took him a moment to recall where he had encountered it: Lludd was the space station where Gene had received his education as a technobionomist.

"They are the three grand temples of Skoh," Ragnar explained. "It is said that before the Fracturing, Skoh often appeared to her servants here in mortal form. After the gods were destroyed, during the war with the Ormyr, ten of her most powerful priests sealed themselves inside the largest pyramid. That is where your search for Kirion's Sword begins."

"How did Skoh's followers find Kirion's Sword?" Raeylan asked dubiously. "And why did they not use it to win their war with the Ormyr?"

Ragnar shrugged. "As to how The Sword came to be in their possession, I can't say. But the power of The Sword of Light can't be wielded by a Skohvian. One who tried would be consumed by its power."

"But Kirion's evil," Kyleren grunted, "and so was Skoh. Shouldn't they be workin' together?"

"It's not moral allegiance that determines whether someone can wield the blade. Kirion and Skoh were opposites in the hierarchy of gods. His domain was light, law, and protection; she was chaos, illusion, and corruption. Kirion's hatred for Skoh lies buried within The Sword. It targets her followers because they worship her, not because they are evil."

Raeylan's forehead wrinkled in thought. Were the Skohvians simply hiding The Sword to keep it from their enemies? Parts of Ragnar's explanation seemed unclear.

As Ragnar led them into the entombed city, Raeylan asked, "What caused the war?"

"I only know stories. I was already travelling the shards in my search for Margariete and the artifacts when it started. It is said that the Skohvians began to take people from the nearby villages, in secret, for sacrifice to the dark goddess. At first the Ormyr did not notice. But as time passed, the Skohvians' lust for power grew insatiable. Hundreds of innocents were murdered as the Skohvian priests hunted for the secret to eternal life, stealing the life force of others to extend their own. When their armies invaded the rest of the shard, thousands were taken as slaves. The Ormyr had no choice but to defend the people. The Skohvians and their city were destroyed, though their magic still protects the temples."

As Raeylan passed the dry bones of buildings and bazaars, fountains choked with sand and buried streets, his mind's eye filled them with the memories of people long gone. He imagined them fulfilling daily tasks, living lives suddenly interrupted by fear, murder, and war. The winds sang through the barren city, mournful of the heinous tragedy that befell its people. The three pyramids grew closer as they walked; silent and indifferent to the devastation their clerics brought down on their city.

"I don't get these lizards," Kyleren said, kicking a few loose tiles on a corner they passed. "Your stories make 'em sound noble and some skrit."

"In their own way, they are," Ragnar tossed over his shoulder.

"Bunch of ambushin' cowards, more like," Kyleren grumbled.

Ragnar didn't answer, but his shoulders tensed. Raeylan wondered once again where Ragnar's loyalty lay. The olive-skinned man led on in silence until they reached the base of the largest temple.

"How do we enter?" Raeylan asked.

"You will enter at dawn," Ragnar said, unbuckling his sword belt and tossing it in the sand.

"We do not have time to waste," Raeylan argued.

"This is Skoh's grand temple. Entering will be dangerous," Ragnar said, settling into a cross-legged position. "You will need to be completely refreshed to meet the challenges within."

"Great," Kyleren complained, scratching absently at the bandage on his arm. "Why can't all this fraggin' magic stuff be easy?"

As Ragnar closed his eyes and began to meditate, Raeylan stared hard at his father.

"I'm gonna look around," Kyleren finally said, drawing his axe. "See if there's anythin' interestin' out there."

Raeylan nodded as the GAEL sped into the shadowy remains of Svartelbode. The former king of Thyella slid his gaze back to the crimson pyramid. What lurked inside? Would it be worth it, or would he have put his sister and lover in danger for nothing?

He could do nothing but wait until events unfolded, so Raeylan turned his mind to the task of lighting a campfire.

24: No More Tears

Esilwen rushed through the volcano's interior, bursting onto the mountainside so quickly that she stumbled. She ran down the path as fast as she dared, looking back only once to make sure none of the Corpse Crafter's puppets had followed her. Night had fallen, black against the rocks. She pressed forward, clutching the small bundle the Corpse Crafter had given her against her chest. Tears came unbidden to her cheeks, as much over the horrors she had just experienced as because of the deal she had been forced to make.

It didn't matter that it had been her only choice, that so many lives—Keri's life—depended on her. Esilwen had made a deal with one of the greatest evils she had ever encountered.

Would her friends understand? Would they despise her?

She wept as she ran, shame biting into her as deeply as the Corpse Crafter's blade. Margariete would have never compromised. She would have fought for the antidote. So would Raeylan. They would not have become the Corpse Crafter's victim.

By the time she reached the copse of trees where Tosk waited, she had managed to gain control of her tears, though regret burned cold inside her. The dragon had curled around himself on the ground, softly sleeping. He roused and stretched at the sound of her shoes approaching.

"I had thought you dead," he said, "so much time has passed. Did you find the source?"

Esilwen managed to nod, fighting her emotions.

"Was it destroyed?"

She shook her head, lowering her eyes to the ground.

"The plague was conjured by a person," she explained, "only I have never seen anything like him before. His body was dead, made of rotting flesh and skin. He called himself the Corpse Crafter."

Esilwen tried not to stutter as she described the glowing eyes and the way the Corpse Crafter's mouth hadn't moved when he spoke.

"Why did you not destroy him?" Tosk asked when she had finished.

"I couldn't," Esilwen said, the admission squeezing her heart painfully. "I wasn't strong enough. But I traded for the antidote. I have it here."

The dragon's nostrils flared with impatience. "And you trusted him? A creature of such obvious malevolence? Honestly elf, I am surprised you made it out of Surt at all."

A spasm shook Esilwen's hand as the memories of the torture she had suffered surfaced to the forefront of her mind. The dragon eyed her suspiciously, then his expression softened, almost as if he knew the pain she had endured.

"Let me see this cure," he said.

The healer relaxed her iron grip, carefully unwrapping the precious cargo: an ugly, golden cross with a loop at its head and a brittle scroll. Tosk sucked a breath through his teeth as he looked at the medallion.

"That is an ankh," the dragon spat with obvious distaste, "the holy symbol worn by the priests of Skoh at Svartelbode."

"Svartelbode?"

"An ancient city, rotten with corruption. The Ormyr destroyed the Dark City a thousand years ago. What is written upon the scroll?"

"An incantation. The Corpse Crafter told me to hold the amulet above the chest of the afflicted and read the spell."

The dragon stared hard at the antidote, as if the thing might explode at any second.

"I must contact the others of my kin," he said suddenly.

"Why?" Esilwen asked.

"This Corpse Crafter must be destroyed."

"Do you know what he is?"

The dragon shook his head, unnerved. "I have never heard of this type of creature before. Either he is a part of a well hidden race, or he is the first of his kind. But he is of Skoh, that I am certain."

"There was something else," Esilwen said. "I think the Corpse Crafter is dismembering the bodies of the dead plague victims and stitching them back together—like flesh dolls—but somehow he gives them semblance of life."

She described the constructs with the black wrappings and lifeless eyes; how she destroyed one with fire that didn't cause it pain. This alarmed the dragon even further.

"Necromancy," he growled. "It was the pursuit of that practice that escalated the war between the Ormyr and Svartelbode. We feared that an undead army would unbalance the magic of the shards. We believed the priests were destroyed before they managed to make it work. It seems we were mistaken. Come. Time is short."

25: The Unforgiven

Margariete ripped a strip of cloth from her very raggedy shirt and held it to her nose to stem the blood flowing down her face. She stared at the snow caked ruins while she waited for it to clot. Somewhere beneath the debris were her belongings. The blanket she wanted especially. Retrieving them would require an immense amount of telekinetic energy. Even if she managed to find them, it was likely that most would be useless, damaged by the building's collapse. She sighed, resting a free hand on Stardawn.

Her eyes dropped to her blade. It had spoken to her, saved her. In hindsight, it made sense. On many occasions, Stardawn had calmed Margariete's fears, soothed her mind as if it had a will of its own. There was the time she had used Stardawn to chop bamboo during her flight from Castle Viridius. The sword had become dull—almost pouty—as if upset by being used that way. Stardawn had pulled her out of her mind rage the first time she had attacked Terail. All along, the blade had tried to show its personality, but Margariete had brushed the evidence aside as ludicrous. She breathed a whispered thank you, squeezing the hilt. Almost immediately she felt a brush of acknowledgement inside her mind.

When she was sure her nose had stopped bleeding, she threw her makeshift bandage aside. It was time to see if any of her belongings had survived.

"You will not need them," said a familiar voice from behind.

Margariete turned. The scarred dragon towered over her like a specter, the snow falling right through him.

"Have you come to give me more useless advice?" Margariete grumbled.

"You've learned much, Margariete," it replied, "but your tongue is still the sharpest of any Flesh of Aeron."

Margariete rolled her eyes and turned her back on the dragon. She focused her mind on the ruins.

"I wonder at times if you are deaf, or just incredibly foolish," it said. "I have already stated that your possessions will be of no value to you."

Margariete felt her temper stir, so she took a deep breath to force it back. She did not want to face that part of herself again.

"Forgive me if I don't trust your word."

"Have I given you reason not to?" it asked. "Did I not accurately warn you that the maze would use your flaws against you?"

"I'm beginning to think you meant to maintain my anger. Otherwise, I would have had nothing to face in these ruins."

"You accuse me of aiding the maze's architect?" it replied in amusement.

"I accuse you of greed," she clarified. "The faster I complete these trials, the sooner you gain Aeron's Mirror."

"What you say is not incorrect."

"Instead of insulting me, just tell me what you came to say," Margariete suggested. "Then we don't have to pretend that you give a damn about anything other than your own pursuit of power."

A growl rumbled in the dragon's chest. Margariete smirked and faced it again.

"I'm not the only one with a temper, am I?" she goaded.

"You may have begun the path to controlling your rage, Margariete, but now you will face your guilt."

Margariete raised her eyebrows.

"I have nothing to regret," she boasted.

The dragon shook his head and its expression turned grave.

"This will be unlike any trial you have experienced thus far."

The clouds parted suddenly, and the snow melted. The puddles evaporated swiftly, curling up from the ground as steam. The sunlight faded, but not like the sunset of the many worlds she had visited. Margariete looked up into the sky with a quickening pulse. A halo of stars appeared around the black shadow of a moon hiding the sun, the coronal light streaking softy toward the ground.

Thyella's moon.

"You cannot hide the damage of your soul from the maze," the dragon warned.

Margariete's eyes flashed back to the courtyard and the dragon, but neither was there. Instead, she saw the queen's chambers on the sixth floor of Castle Viridius, the moon staring at her through the slated window of her former apartments.

She scanned the room, anxiety pounding through her. The lavender bamboo mats that concealed the secret entrance to the family tunnels were displaced, the hidden door gaped open. Margariete crept toward them, drawing Stardawn for comfort. Guided by the small lamp kept at the bottom of the tunnels, she descended the stairs. She tried to keep calm, but dread was slowly taking over.

She had lied to the dragon. Margariete had plenty of regrets, and most of them had occurred within these castle walls.

The question was, which of them was she about to face?

26: Welcome To My Nightmare

Kyleren eyed the black-veined stone slab that guarded the entrance of the crimson pyramid. There was no handle, merely weird geometric symbols outlined in gold. He stared at them, using the power of his integrated core drive to understand their meaning.

The blessing of the Void is forged in blood.

Under the inscription was the distinct impression of a palm.

"Creepy," Kyleren grunted. "There's no way I'm doin' whatever that means."

"The door slides sideways," Ragnar offered.

Everything on the pyramid's surface was smooth and glossy, as if newly made. Kyleren growled a little, then wedged his fingers into the minuscule crack between wall and door. The stone crumbled in his iron grip, a consequence of his GAEL strength rather than the decay of time.

Stale, dry air blew in their faces as the slab scraped open. Inside was a darkness untouched by the sunlight outside. Kyleren pulled down his CC helmet, which he had pulled from its hiding place inside his pack. Immediately, the corridor shone with eerie hues of green. It ran straight a hundred meters or so into the structure, opening into a larger room beyond.

"Sure you don't wanna come with, Ragnar?" Kyleren asked, stepping inside.

"It is not my task to complete."

Kyleren snorted. His gut never lied, and right now it was telling him that Ragnar was full of gromm skrit. Ragnar was setting them up for something. Lance had no idea how he knew that. Maybe it was Chano's influence. But he didn't like the idea of Ragnar waiting around outside while he and Raeylan did all the work.

Wondering if Raeylan felt the same, the GAEL turned to his companion. The teleporter was staring at Ragnar, his lips in a hard, thin line. That made Kyleren feel better. Raeylan wasn't blindly swallowing Ragnar's skrit either.

Kyleren never thought he'd miss Margariete's prying mind so much.

"The Skohvians were dangerous," Ragnar said, needlessly to Kyleren's mind. No one built gigantic pyramids of death just for the hell of it. "They will have safeguarded the secrets within the temple."

Raeylan nodded, but Kyleren could tell Margariete's brother was hanging on to his cool by threads. Kyleren tossed him an LT lamp—a travel model with a three meter light radius that could be attached to a uniform so that a soldier's hands remained free. Raeylan caught it wordlessly and activated it. Then he stepped into the corridor behind Lance.

Kyleren led the way, leaving Ragnar's smug-ass face far behind. Soon the pair of warriors reached a ten-by-thirty meter room with weird, tight angles. The red walls were splattered with garish gold, which looked green and messy through Kyleren's tech. Sconces lined the walls, probably filled with oil. Five skeletons lay in crumpled heaps on the floor, the rusted remnants of their curved weapons close by. Whatever clothes these soldiers had worn had long turned to dust. In the center of the room stood an oblong pedestal of black stone, displaying a stack of thin, metal sheets held together by three looped clasps.

"Last stand?" Kyleren asked as he poked the bones with his axe.

"Possibly," Raeylan said, inspecting one of the piles more closely, "there are no marks on the bone that indicate their manner of death."

"Huh," Kyleren said. "Wasn't the lizards, though. No way one 'a those bastards made it through that hall."

Raeylan moved to the pedestal, running his finger lightly across it. There was no dust.

"Think they starved?" Kyleren asked.

But Raeylan didn't answer. Instead, he flipped through the thin sheets of metal, looking intently at each one as he turned it over.

"What's that?"

"A ledger of sorts, to keep record of those entering and leaving the temple," Raeylan answered. He paused on a particular page. "It appears the enemy priest Ragnar spoke of was here, but was never noted as leaving."

"Serapis?"

Raeylan nodded, then continued forward. The LT lamp lit the corridor ahead, forcing Lance's CC interface to compensate for the discrepency of light. After another hundred meters, they found themselves in an enormous hall. The ceiling stretched thirty meters high. Kyleren was sure Raeylan's small light couldn't reach that far. The walls were rough cut, gritty sandstone the same color as the pyramid's exterior. Two small archways led to corridors on the left and right, and a monstrous gold-and-black staircase lurched up to the next level of the temple on the other side. A wide platform rose a meter and a half in the center of the room. Six black iron poles marked its perimeter, each branded with a symbol. Kyleren read them silently: darkness, illusion, destruction, chaos, desire, and venom. Not the kind of thing that gave you warm fuzzies at night.

Surrounding the platform in broken heaps were the skeletal remains of more than a thousand people, almost as if in worship. Kyleren whistled.

"Most likely civilian refugees seeking shelter during the last battles of the city," Raeylan presented with the air of one who once led a country. "Many in the shards still believe the gods can save them."

"Can through us, I guess," Kyleren shrugged. "Chano likes poppin' out to cause trouble when she's bored."

Raeylan didn't seem to find the comment funny. He inspected the bones further, kneeling next to the closest one.

"There are marks on these remains," Raeylan said.

Kyleren crouched beside Raeylan. After a quick examination, Kyleren agreed.

"What are they?"

Raeylan picked up a sharp metal object. An arrowhead.

"These people were slaughtered."

"Not by the lizards," Kyleren added. "They couldn't fit through the hallways. How about any armies they might've brought with 'em?"

Raeylan studied the arrowhead with a grim expression.

"What?" Kyleren asked.

"This weapon is embellished with Skohvian writing. Like the walls in the entry chamber."

A few seconds passed while the information sank into Kyleren's head.

"Frag it all," Kyleren growled. "They killed their own people. Why would someone do that?"

Kyleren glanced about, his gaze settling on a set of bones that were smaller than the others, obviously belonging to a child.

"Skoh is the Mistress of the Void," Raeylan said. "Her followers are not known for mercy."

Kyleren shook his head in disgust. The sooner they got out of this fragging pyramid, the better.

"So, what now?" Kyleren asked, trying not to think of the mass murder that had happened all around him.

"We must be thorough," Raeylan said, standing. "The Sword could be hidden anywhere."

"What're you suggestin'?" Kyleren asked.

"We search these two hallways separately, and quickly. We will meet again on the dais in no more than half an arc."

"You don't think we'll find anythin' useful on this floor?"

Raeylan shook his head as he answered.

"It is not likely, but these people are a culture unknown to me. We cannot leave anything to chance."

Kyleren shrugged.

"Let's do this," he said, taking the archway on the right. "Buzz me on the comm if you find somethin' interestin'."

After a few meters, Kyleren's hallway reached a fork, branching to the left and right with a narrow stair descending forward. He investigated the hallways first, finding nothing more interesting than austere living quarters. They seemed to be for the temple's security detail, as each contained six bunks, a handful of trunks, and a weapons rack. One room was obviously an armory, another, the mess hall. He brushed through the armory quickly. He didn't figure the Skohvians were dumb enough to hide a mystical artifact among normal weapons, but it was best to check everything anyway. He picked up every sword and gave it a test swing.

Useless and rusting, the whole lot.

Kyleren decided it was time to check out what lay at the bottom of the stairs. It turned out to be a catacomb of tombs. He counted eighteen ten-by-ten meter rooms, each full of wooden and stone caskets. All were embellished with gold leaf and brilliant turquoise paint, but none seemed to stand out as more grand than another. It was just a big, silent, underground cemetery.

He glanced at the time stamp on his helmet display. His search had taken just under twenty minutes.

So far this temple had been nothing but a vast pile of—well—nothing. Where were the "safeguards" that Ragnar had warned them about?

"Raeylan," Lance spoke into his comm, "I've got nothin' down here. You had any luck?"

He waited for several seconds, but all he heard was static.

"Raeylan, do you copy?" Lance tried again.

Still nothing.

"That can't be good," Kyleren said to himself, turning back.

With GAEL speed, he returned to large room with the dead civilians. Raeylan wasn't waiting on the platform, so Kyleren checked the left arch, the one Raeylan was supposed to search. Again the hallway split and there were several doors in either direction. Kyleren looked into all of them. He saw more living quarters, a kitchen, and a dining hall, but no Raeylan.

Kyleren made his way back to the dais, stepping up onto it. With such a small area to search, Raeylan should have beaten him here.

"Raeylan, do you copy?" he said to his comm, this time more urgently.

No answer.

What kept Raeylan from the rendezvous point? It wasn't like him to go off book, especially since meeting on the platform had been his idea. Lance yanked Rend from his back. No way would Raeylan have left the pyramid without telling him. That left only one option: up the huge staircase.

As soon as Kyleren put his foot on the first step, he heard the distinct click of mechanical gears.

"Fraggin' great," he sighed.

27: Hysteria

Raeylan's search took only a third of a quarter arc. He found nothing more significant than the living chambers of long dead Skohvian priests, so he retraced his steps back to the main worship hall. While he waited for Kyleren's return, he shone his lamp up the huge black-and-gold staircase. It rose up to a landing, then veered in two directions, presumably to the next level of the temple.

A large silver plaque, painted with the image of a sword and claw, hung on the landing's wall. Skohvian words were carved into the silver, under the picture, but Raeylan was too far away to read them. Intrigued—both by the image and the sudden appearance of silver in a temple decorated primarily in gold—Raeylan started up the stairs.

As soon as his boot touched the first step, he heard a pop. He automatically drew Temperance, but had just loosed the blade when a shower of mist blew up from hidden jets on the floor. He immediately teleported to the landing, careful not to breathe in before he moved.

But the substance had beaded onto his clothing and skin. It burned where it touched his face. Raeylan wiped the sticky droplets off with the back of his glove. He felt suddenly dizzy. Roaring swelled inside his ears, like the voice of the sea on the edge of a storm.

Obviously, the mist had been some sort of poison. Raeylan tried to activate his comm, to warn Kyleren, but his hand refused to obey him. His vision blurred and he staggered, almost falling. When he righted himself, his head cleared suddenly. The roaring stopped. He could see normally.

The pyramid had changed.

The sconces on the wall were bright with light. The skeletons on the floor had been replaced with living, breathing people. Humans of all ages with black hair adorned in gold, clad in robes of red and white, swayed in unison around the raised platform at the bottom of the stairs. Symbols were drawn on the bare arms of their skin and foreheads, characters that matched those etched on the iron poles: darkness, illusion, destruction, chaos, desire, and venom. They chanted the words in an eerie round, led by a hooded priest on the dais who held a golden cup above his head. Dark smoke rose from the goblet, and it filled the room with the stench of burning flesh.

Something inside Raeylan told him that this was not right. That what he was seeing was not real, that he was in danger. That something was influencing his mind.

But those feelings were completely overwhelmed by the mad desire to join the ritual.

He stood motionless on the landing in mental conflict. This couldn't be real. It was an illusion, like the one Kirion had used to trick him in the Viridius family shrine the cycle the Lord of Light had taken Nehro's Glove. But the need to join the Skohvians in worship burned inside him like poison.

He fought it, closing his eyes and thinking about the people he loved—Margariete, Esilwen—and those who depended on him—Kyleren, Gene, and Tuatha. He could not succumb to Skoh's tricks. He refused to listen to the chanting horde. He would not let the toxin turn his mind to chaos.

When he opened his eyes the sconces were once again dark. Only bones littered the floor in front of the platform.

But he could still hear the chanting.

He tried again to activate his comm, to reach Kyleren. His hand was halfway to the device when a piercing scream sent shivers of fear through his spine. A woman's scream. One that he recognized.

It had come from upstairs.

Instinct took over. With reckless abandon he dashed up the staircase, forgetting entirely his intent to call his companion.

The chanting grew louder.

When he reached the next level he was completely out of breath, and he paused to let his lungs heave. A golden door branded with a set of balancing scales barred his way. One dish held a silver feather, the other a crimson heart. He felt hot and disoriented. In his smeared vision, the carving of the heart seemed to pulse like it was alive. The woman screamed again, this time a high-pitched wail of extreme pain. Raeylan pushed on the door. It opened easily.

A cacophony of cries met his ears, strangely in tune with the chanting from the worshippers down the stairs. Some were low and grunting, like a man's, others were high and wild, like a child in agony. There were sobs and retches, pleas for mercy. Raeylan knew he should feel sick, but he couldn't. His body was filled with a euphoria he couldn't control, a biting need to inflict all the pain he had ever experienced on another—to purge himself of it.

The room was filled with tables and racks, chains and blood. People of all ages hung from hooks, dangled from spikes, or lay strapped to the tables. Priests leaned over the victims, poking and prodding them with golden implements. Raeylan could see them all, hear them all, but as only indistinct blurs. Their pain pulled his own from his body, created a wall of emotion between him and them. But the process distorted their faces. They didn't seem human; they were a means to bliss.

A single scream drew his attention—the one he had recognized from downstairs. Sickened, exhilarated, Raeylan threaded his way through the torture room, ignoring the appeals for help coming from a line of cells to his right. He passed a priest, who melted the face of a man with a vial of acid, and brushed against the quivering form of a victim full of hot needles.

He reached the table of the screaming woman. A priest was slicing her skin off in thin wafers, slowly to extend the experience. She sobbed and pleaded for him to stop, sick with pain. When she looked at Raeylan, her eyes widened in recognition.

"Your Highness, help me!" she croaked.

Raeylan started. He had known the scream, the voice that made it. He had expected to see his sister, or Esilwen. But instead, he was looking into the pain-filled eyes of Katrina Kotrell, the girl he had been forced to marry.

One hand tightened on the grip of his sword. Raeylan knew he should kill the priest, defend Katrina. Instead, he found his other hand reaching for a wicked looking gold hook, its tip splayed into three razor edges. The urge to rip the skin from Katrina's fingers, to make her scream for him, pounded through his blood.

He managed to stop the hook just before it touched her. This wasn't right. Inflicting torture did not heal his own pain. The hand holding the curved device shook as Raeylan fought himself. Poison scalded his mind, pressured him to give in.

With a howl of rebellion, Raeylan flung the hook across the room where it struck the wall and clattered to the floor. He breathed heavily, sweat beading his forehead and neck. The screams were gone, the chanting a dull hum in the back of his head. He was alone in a room of tables and chains, rusty instruments of torture that had not been used in a thousand seasons littering the benches.

A familiar voice crackled in Raeylan's ear.

"Raeylan, do you copy?"

Raeylan moved to answer, but the light was coming back, the chanting again roaring to life in his ears.

Again Katrina wriggled and screamed on the table. Raeylan looked away, disgusted and delighted at the same time. The other victims in the chamber had changed, their faces no longer blurred. He could see them quite clearly.

Terail Dasklos quivered on a chain, a long open wound slashed across his midsection. A female priest dug her hands into his belly, carefully extracting his organs. Arahm Galenos screamed against the wall as tiny tacks were pushed under his fingernails, hot iron burning black symbols into his flesh. Every lord who had betrayed Raeylan in Thyella lined the walls in the torture chamber, pleading for mercy.

The sound smothered Raeylan with gruesome joy.

"Raeylan!" snapped an intrusive voice from behind.

Raeylan scowled, irritated by the interruption, as the bliss of the traitors' torment ebbed.

Kyleren blinked at him dumbly, his new axe held at the ready.

"You okay?" Kyleren asked guardedly.

"You cannot save them," Raeylan growled, poison burning through him like adrenaline. "This retribution is justly earned."

Kyleren's eyebrows rose in confusion as he looked around.

"Save who, Raeylan? There's no one else here." Kyleren lowered the axe and held up a hand in a gesture of truce. "That mist skrit must've done somethin' to your head."

"I will not allow you to interfere," Raeylan frothed, furious that Kyleren had overstepped his authority.

"There's nothin' here for me to fraggin' interfere with, Raeylan," Kyleren said, reaching slowly into his pouch and pulling out a long, metallic tube. "Just let me give you this injection and everythin'll be clear again."

Raeylan's eyes narrowed, as fury licked his mind into a frenzy. Spittle flew from his lips as he cried, "I knew you would eventually betray me!"

Then he teleported behind Kyleren and thrust Temperance toward Kyleren's heart.

28: Purple Haze

Kyleren held Rend at the ready as he headed toward the second level. Mist hit him in the face as soon as his foot touched the first stair. He took an instinctive inward breath and coughed as it burned the back of his throat. Even though he immediately dashed to the landing, it clung to his CC armor and exposed skin. The stuff smelled like a rotting Taran rat. He wiped the sticky substance off his body as best he could, thankful for his GAEL immunity to toxins. Whatever the mist was, it couldn't be good.

As Lance trotted up the rest of the stairs, he noted that the door on the second floor was open already. He scanned the room carefully before he went in, prepared to meet any possible threat. Raeylan stood stiffly at the far end of the enormous room, his hands balled into fists. Kyleren had seen the teleporter tense and angry before, but something about Raeylan's posture seemed off—unnatural. Kyleren couldn't quite place his unease, but years of soldier training told him something was wrong.

"Raeylan!" Lance called as he weaved around old, rotting tables.

Raeylan whipped around. The wild turmoil raging across his friend's face made Kyleren stop short.

"You okay?" Kyleren asked warily.

"You cannot save them," Raeylan growled viciously. "This retribution is justly earned."

Kyleren looked around in confusion.

"Save who, Raeylan? There's no one else here."

And then it hit him. The crazed look in Raeylan's eyes; the weird body movements. The mist had got Raeylan and was making the teleporter crazy. Kyleren lowered the axe and held up a hand in a gesture of truce.

"That mist skrit on the stairs must've done somethin' to your head."

Raeylan backed away a step and his mouth contorted into a snarl. Temperance was suddenly free of its sheath. The sword glared between them.

"I will not allow you to interfere."

"There's nothin' here for me to fraggin' interfere with, Raeylan," Kyleren said, tentatively reaching into his pack.

He had only one thing that might clear the toxin out of Raeylan's system. As Lance pulled the long tube of a nanomite injection out of a pouch, he took a cautious step toward Raeylan. If Kyleren managed to hit Raeylan right in the jugular, the mites would neutralize the poison before things got violent.

"Just let me give you this injection and everythin'll be clear again."

Raeylan's expression burned with hatred. "I knew you would eventually betray me!" he roared.

Then he disappeared. Kyleren was familiar with Raeylan's abilities, but the GAEL couldn't turn fast enough. In less than a microsecond, Raeylan was behind him, thrusting Temperance toward Kyleren's heart.

Suddenly, the three-point-knot etched into Kyleren's chest flashed brilliant orange under his armor—the tattoo Chano had given him back on Althalonde Prime, his new storage compartment for his core drive. A T-portal yawned open right over his heart. Temperance disappeared into the opening, sinking almost to its hilt. A furry object scampered onto the sword, darting out of the portal. Raeylan was stunned motionless as the creature squeaked at him angrily and shook its little fist in a gesture of anger.

Raeylan yanked Temperance from the glowing orange hole and swung the sword back and forth, trying to dislodge the squirrel. Kyleren took advantage of his companion's distraction and lunged forward, stabbing the needle directly in Raeylan's neck.

The teleporter rumbled with rage and dropped his weapon, squirrel and all. He cupped his hand around the injection site, as if mortally wounded. Then he fell to his knees. His hands shook and his eyes bulged.

Kyleren wondered for a moment if he had done the wrong thing. Were the nanomites helping or killing Raeylan? Chano scampered up the GAEL's leg and as he deliberated. After a nuzzle with her pink nose, she hopped into the portal over his chest. The orange glow shrank into a pinprick of light and disappeared.

Lance heard Raeylan scream. When he looked back, the teleporter had his head in his hands. His breath was coming in loud gasps. Kyleren waited, afraid to touch him. It took a full five minutes for Raeylan to finally stand. He scanned the room, obviously confused.

"Is that you in your head, Raeylan?" Kyleren asked cautiously.

Raeylan stroked his temple gently, swallowing several times.

"What happened?"

"There was a trap on the stairs," Lance explained. "You got hit with one bad gromm skrit drug or somethin'."

Raeylan stared at the ground. He rose to his feet unsteadily, limbs shaking. Raeylan managed a few steps, then was forced to lean against the nearest table for support. Lance didn't know whether his help would be welcome or not, so he just stood there in indecision, feeling awkward. Raeylan closed his eyes and inhaled deeply three times, obviously fighting nausea.

When Raeylan finally opened his eyes, they were ringed with a hollowness that wasn't there before.

"You okay?" Kyleren asked warily.

Raeylan swallowed, looking more vulnerable than Lance had ever seen.

"No," the teleporter answered. It looked like Raeylan was trying hard to decide exactly what to say. It made Lance feel even more uncomfortable. "Whatever toxin I just encountered," he said slowly, "induced visions."

"Yeah, like what?" Lance asked, wondering if he really wanted to know the answer.

Raeylan's face drooped and his body shook with a tremor. For a second, Lance thought the teleporter was going to refuse to share.

"I was here," Raeylan croaked, "in this place at a time when the Skohvians were still practicing their dark ways. I was asked to take part—"

He paused and swallowed, clearly reluctant to continue. Whatever Raeylan had seen had the man spooked.

"The Skohvians were torturing people I knew. Terail—Feralblade, my false father, Arahm, and Katrina. And I—I was thrilled by it."

Lance snorted, not really seeing what was so bad. The way he saw it, Feralblade deserved worse. From what the twins had told him about their stepfather, Lance figured Arahm got what was coming to him, too. But Kyleren had never heard either twin mention a woman named Katrina before.

"Who was the girl?" he asked.

Raeylan glanced at Lance, then away quickly.

"My dead wife."

"Wait, you were married?" Kyleren blurted before thinking. He was immediately sorry and wished he had said something else. When a dead spouse was never mentioned, there was probably a fragging good reason.

But to Lance's surprise, Raeylan actually smiled.

"I was," he admitted, "to the princess of another kingdom." His smile was brief however. "Terail murdered her on our wedding night. He framed Margariete for the deed."

"That's skrit luck," Lance replied. How was it that he was always bringing out the worst bits of the twins' history? "Sorry."

"It is in the past," Raeylan said with a shake of his head. "Though I did not wish Katrina harm, she was a selfish, petty woman."

Lance was surprised for a moment. Raeylan couldn't stand people like that.

"Why'd you marry her?" Lance asked.

"It was an arranged union, meant to secure the safety of my kingdom," Raeylan answered, dismissing it with a wave of his hand, like giving up your life was nothing.

"Politics and drama queens. Glad I wasn't in your shoes," Lance said. Then he abruptly changed the subject. "Still seein' any tortured people?"

"No. The toxin has cleared," Raeylan said, but he closed his eyes and turned his head away. "However, the memories of what I saw are still there."

Lance stared hard at him, then shrugged. "They were just hallucinations, Raeylan. Don't feel bad about shakin' them off."

"They were more, Kyleren. I failed to control myself."

"Either way, it wasn't real," Lance said with a dismissive shake of the head. "It was the drug makin' you do that skrit."

"It felt real," Raeylan replied, clearly still shaken, "and that makes all the difference. There is darkness within me."

Lance bent and picked Raeylan's sword up off the floor. He flipped it over with one hand, holding the blade and offering the hilt to the teleporter.

"I've known a lot guys who think they're somethin', Raeylan. But you're the only who lives up to the hype," Lance said honestly. "You wouldn't stand by and watch anyone be tortured, even your enemies."

Raeylan straightened, seeming to draw strength from Lance's words. He took his sword with both hands and gave Kyleren a short bow.

"Thank you," he said.

"That's what I'm here for, morale boostin'," Kyleren said with a chuckle. He hefted Rend against his shoulder and waved Raeylan forward. "C'mon. Let's go find us a sword so we can get outta this fraggin' place."

29: Bad Medicine

The white sun was just cresting over the northern mountains by the time Tosk landed at the center well in the hamlet of Verdan. Esilwen dashed toward the meeting hall before her feet had even touched the ground. Praying to Fohtian that Keri was alive, she burst through the doors in a flurry.

The acrid scent of sweat and decay hit her like a physical blow. Her patients lay mostly unmoving. Only a faint spasm of the hand or flicker of eyelashes indicated life. Esilwen ran to Keri, checking the little girl first. Her skin was stained with fever, black veins standing out stark against her pale skin. Despite her poor condition, Esilwen breathed a sigh of relief. Keri was still alive.

Esilwen knelt and unwrapped the Corpse Crafter's antidote, the odd golden amulet that he had used on her in the volcano. It was a continuous symbol in the shape of a long, stretched oval that pulled into a straight line at the handle. A small, perpendicular crosspiece in the center made it look like a misshapen outline of a body. Etched into the top arch was a crude image of a bird. Along with the ankh, the Corpse Crafter had given her an incantation. She unrolled the reed parchment, allowing the medallion to dangle over Keri's heart from its silver chain. Esilwen had never before seen the language scrawled across the paper, but Fohtian's artifact translated it for her.

The healer faltered over the words as she read them. They burned her lips. Soon her mouth was coated with the iron tang of blood. Darkness pounded around her with every beat of her heart. The incantation was evil, but it was the language that caused her soul to twist away. She felt the corruption of the Void leap from Keri's body into the amulet, trying to writhe its way into Esilwen's palm.

Keri's skin returned to normal as the black tendrils of the plague receded. She gasped and her eyes drifted open. The ankh glowed white for a moment, forcing Esilwen to avert her gaze. When she could look at it again, she saw a new mark, adjacent the bird. It looked like a feather, or maybe the rough shape of a grain stalk.

Esilwen watched Keri carefully as the child sat up. With practiced ease the former physician checked the girl's vitals. When finished, Esilwen exhaled slowly, unaware she had been holding her breath. Little Keri showed no signs of infection, and other than exhaustion, had made a full recovery.

A smile tugged at Esilwen's lips. Her ordeal in the volcano had been worth it. She could save these people. Ignoring her own fatigue, Esilwen quickly assessed her other patients. Three had perished during her absence, but nineteen were still alive. Two of those, a young boy in his teens and an elderly woman, were only minutes away from death.

Esilwen repeated the incantation for them both as quickly as she could. The medallion successfully removed the disease, though the process seemed an eternity. Two new marks appeared on the ankh, one for each patient. Esilwen scarcely gave herself respite afterward, moving to the youngest uncured villagers. There were two under the age of nine, and the teenage girl Esilwen had met when she arrived at the meeting house the first time.

When Esilwen read from the scroll, she felt darkness claw her spine, as if the words sprang from the depths of the Void. Despite her discomfort, she was relieved that the sick were healing. After the children, she chose her patients non-discriminately. She healed the teenage girl's father, a man in his twenties, and then a woman Esilwen figured was the mother of the two young children she had already saved from the plague.

The tenth villager was a woman in her fifties. Esilwen read the incantation, but nothing happened.

She bit her lip. Maybe she had mispronounced something in her haste. Esilwen spoke the words again, carefully this time. They sounded flat and dull, without life. The amulet dangling from the chain refused to absorb the plague from the woman's body.

Esilwen studied the ankh, wondering what could be wrong. More symbols now ran the length of the stretched oval, ten in all. Some matched, but only the first one, the bird, was unique. There were five that looked like the feather mark that had appeared when she'd healed Keri. Two were wavy, like a crude depiction of water and two others were thick outlines of twin crossed rods.

The pattern was easily discernible: five children, two women, two men, and Esilwen herself, the only elf.

Angry tears stung her eyes. She threw the amulet against the wall in an eruption of frustration. There was no room on the medallion for another symbol. The Corpse Crafter had given her the means to cure only a few. He had deceived her. Esilwen clenched her fists. She had been foolish to trust him. The rest of the people in the meetinghouse were going to die.

There was only one way to save them. She had to go back.

Just the thought of facing those burning white eyes caused an uncontrollable shiver to ripple through her body. She gulped air, because suddenly the world didn't have enough to sustain her. Her skin crawled, like he was touching her again. Whimpers rang in the back of her head, and she wasn't sure if they were real or remembered. A hiss of breath sounded next to her—probably from a sleeping patient—but the sound was so loud in Esilwen's ears that she jumped to her feet and dashed backward, momentarily afraid that the Corpse Crafter's constructs had come for her.

It took almost an hour for her to regain control over herself. Esilwen had to force the memory of her time in the volcano to a deep part inside her, someplace she could hide it for a time. Then she filled her mind with images of Raeylan, how safe she felt every time he held her. How warm it was when he kissed her and ran his fingers through her hair. She thought of Margariete: her friend's iron strength of loyalty and her electrifying defiance. Esilwen even managed a smile when she recalled something funny Kyleren had told her just after they had left Chano's shard.

She retrieved the amulet from the floor, swallowing a lump that appeared in her throat when she touched the thing, and walked outside—back to the well. Tosk lay curled around it, sleeping maybe. The dragon's eyes were closed and his head rocked back and forth slowly, almost as if were in a trance. Esilwen's pack lay by his feet.

"Tosk," Esilwen said tentatively, but he did not respond. She touched him gently on the leg.

"I heard you, elf," he grumbled. "Can you not see that I am occupied?"

"I need to return to the volcano. Will you take me?"

The dragon opened his eyes and they flashed brilliant.

"Why? Are the sick not healed?"

"Some," Esilwen returned. She swallowed hard, guilt and anger swimming in her belly. "But the Corpse Crafter's device only worked on a limited amount of people."

"Then you have failed," the dragon rumbled as he lifted his great bulk from around the well. "You treated with one who was obviously corrupt. Your naivety allowed this to happen."

"Take me back to the volcano, Tosk. I will stop the Corpse Crafter."

"How? Your test is over, Esilwen."

The dragon's tone was sympathetic, almost sad. It surprised her.

"My test?"

"You cannot be trusted," Tosk said shaking his head.

"I will not be deceived again," Esilwen promised.

Tosk reared up and spread his wings. Esilwen's pack hit the well with a dull thud.

"The innocent will die because of your failure. You are thousands of years old, yet your gullibility allows others to use you. You are not worthy of another chance. The Ormyr have agreed. You cannot be permitted to endanger the shards further. You will remain here, in Yuugrasil until the Faithful Legion falls."

"How do you know of Kirion's army?" Esilwen asked in surprise.

What else did the dragon know that he wasn't telling her? Tosk seemed honorable, but—like he had said—had she trusted him too quickly? His concern for the people of this shard had seemed genuine—but he was not exactly innocent. Tosk had kidnapped her and was keeping her from finding her friends. Should she have refused to go in to the volcano in the first place?

She decided it didn't matter. It went against her nature to idly sit by and do nothing while innocents suffered. She had to do what she could to help the plague victims.

"We have deemed that you are not strong enough to battle the Lord of Light. We will keep you here, elf, so that you do not cause greater harm. Make a life for yourself here, with these people. You will only hinder the efforts of your companions. I cannot allow you to rejoin them."

Tosk lifted into the air. The vehemence of his effort knocked Esilwen to the ground.

"Wait!" she called. How did the Ormyr know about Kirion? What right did they have to condemn her to this tiny village?

But Tosk was soon a speck on the horizon, unable to answer any of her questions.

30: Wind Of Change

Margariete's feet crunched on the gravel as she paused at the door that led out of the secret tunnels and into the family shrine. It had been almost half a millennium since she had last been here, since she had experienced the bloody slaughter that had been the end of her world. Four mortal lifetimes of fighting Kirion, of hurtling through the shards, racing him to the artifacts, hoping to find Esilwen first. And still, she hesitated at this door, her heart pounding like it would break.

Her fingers shook as she reached for the handle. Here she had seen her soldiers fall in gory heaps. Here she had heard them scream as they were torn apart beside her. Here she lost belief in herself as a commander, as a monarch. These had been the worst arcs of her life.

This was the night that her little brother had died.

Margariete had to swallow a knot in her throat before it ripped through her mouth as a sob. Her right hand, sheathed in its torn signet glove, clenched into a fist. With a jerk she yanked on the door and stepped into the night.

The shrine looked exactly as she remembered, lovely and lush in the silver coronal light, dappled with the scent of starflowers. The central fountain, a rivulet of the Seven Cascades, fed a pond of translucent kryystil fish. For a moment, Margariete fought to control the swell of regret that filled her as she stood in the heart of Castle Viridius, forgetting that she was trapped in Aeron's maze.

Then she noticed something out of place. A metal object erect in the distance. Relieved to have something to investigate, she limped to the end of the shrine, to the slatted bridge on the south side.

The metal object turned out to be a free-standing door. It reared alone in the moss, leading apparently nowhere. She walked around it. Other than the absence of walls, it appeared normal. Margariete stared at it, chewing her lip in thought. With more than a little trepidation, she reached for the latch and pushed the door.

It opened silently into a plane of unending space, obsidian darkness speckled with streaks of colored stars. The image would have been breathtaking if it hadn't been for the sharp cracks that marred and distorted the sight, like a layer of broken glass lying at the bottom of a pool.

With a start, Margariete realized that she was looking directly into a splintered universe, the whole of the shards.

A nebulous cloud drifted by, causing Margariete to blink rapidly. But it did not dissipate. Instead the haze coalesced into a figure in the distance that began to walk toward her. Margariete watched it grow larger, as if it were approaching through a long corridor. It remained obscured by the cosmic mist, indistinct in feature until it stepped through the door and into the shrine.

Margariete's chest lurched in pain and her eyes burned. Blond hair curled around a young boy's face, his gentle blue eyes sparked with recognition.

"Shikun," she choked.

"Yes, sister," he replied with a customary Thyellan bow.

"How—" she said, reaching to touch him, but holding back at the last moment, afraid.

Shikun gestured to the door with his signet-gloved hand, palm open.

"I have come to show you what you wish see."

"I don't understand."

"You have often wondered, sister, if you could have saved me."

Margariete shook with the effort of holding back a river of tears. Shikun took a step toward her, but didn't touch her.

"You need to see what would have been. There were only two paths for you to walk on the cycle Kirion murdered me. The Lord of Light gave you a choice: watch me die or join him. You now travel the first course. To defeat Aeron's maze, you must live through the second. Are you willing?"

Shikun offered his hand to Margariete. She had only to take it, to discover what might have been. But she hesitated. What if she didn't like what she saw? What if she found out she had made the wrong choice, that she was to blame for Shikun's death as she had feared all this time?

She agonized over the decision for a long while. Finally she took his hand timidly, scraping the bottom of her soul for courage. Shikun led her to the doorway. At the threshold, he paused and turned to her.

"Once you begin your journey, it cannot be stopped until it reaches its end. I must ask one last time, sister. Are you willing?"

Margariete looked down into her brother's eyes. The pale irises seemed sad.

"I need to know."

Shikun squeezed her hand affectionately, and together they stepped into the black cosmos. Margariete felt a zing of electricity snap through her, knocking her backwards.

Then she found herself hanging from her wrists on a long golden chain. Gigantic wolves gnawed on the remains of Captain Hendar and the fallen Knights of the Gem. Her clothes were caked with grime, her skin smeared with blood. Shikun stood before her, brandishing Moonstone Retribution at Kirion. The princeling's body trembled.

"I will let Shikun live if you join me, Margariete," Kirion offered. "Your kind is rare in the shards. None have been seen since the Fracturing. Your cooperation would be well worth his life."

"My sister would never join you!" Shikun shouted. "You are a murdering scum!"

Not again. To remember the horror of what happened next was bad enough—but to actually live it again was too much for Margariete to bear. Kirion was moments away from yanking Shikun's heart from his chest.

"He does not answer for me," Margariete called quickly, hoarse from a dry throat. She could not watch her little brother's heart wither into sickly clumps of salt again. This time she would stop it.

The god of light turned to her, his dark eyes burning with power as he waited for her to continue.

"If you let him live, I will join you. But you must promise that he will not be harmed."

Shikun turned to Margariete, shock on his face.

"No, sister!" he whispered in disbelief. "You cannot!"

Margariete did not take her gaze from Kirion.

"Do we have an agreement?" she asked in desperation.

The edges of Kirion's mouth curved into a smile.

"Swear your loyalty, Margariete. Vow to serve the Faithful Legion. Promise that you will never betray me."

"No, Margariete!" Shikun objected.

"As long as Shikun lives, I swear my loyalty will be yours," Margariete answered steadily.

"Then I accept your allegiance."

With a flick of his fingers Kirion released Margariete from the chain. She collapsed to the ground.

"Sister, what have you done?"

Margariete felt hot shame lick her skin, but she fought it back. Shikun was alive. Raeylan and Esilwen could stop Kirion, she had only to bide her time, keeping the littlest Viridius prince alive until then. With a heavy stone inside her chest, she yanked Moonstone Retribution out of Shikun's hands and threw it to the ground. It clanged against the stone ominously.

Kirion flicked a command at the largest wolf. It roared a telepathic attack at Margariete's unguarded mind and knocked her unconscious. When she woke, a healer stood over her, dressed in the vestments of the Faithful Legion. She was in a room lined with white marble, veined red. The linen stretched over her was scratchy and coarse. She had to squint in the bright light.

Kirion loomed in her vision.

"Where is Shikun? What happened?" she demanded, sitting up too suddenly. Her head swam.

Kirion ran his thumb over his bottom lip, thinking. Then he said, "Your brother, Shikun, has been taken somewhere safe, Margariete, to ensure you do not betray me. I am not yet convinced of your loyalty. You must prove your devotion before I will let you see him again."

Margariete's stomach plummeted. She had not anticipated this. She had assumed she would be with Shikun and keep him safe, maybe even find an opportunity to escape with her brother in tow.

"How can I trust that he will be unharmed?"

"I keep my word, servant of Aeron. He will be well cared for as long as you keep yours. Defy me, and our agreement will come to an end."

Margariete swallowed hard. It seemed she would have to play the part of Kirion's slave after all.

"What of—?" she began to ask, noticing with a stab of fear that Kirion wore The Glove of Nehro on his right hand.

Kirion's eyes followed Margariete's to the artifact.

"Your brother—King Raeylan was it?—escaped with my Esilwen," Kirion answered with a frown. He added, almost as if he was thinking out loud, "He somehow managed to survive when I took Nehro's Glove from his hand."

For the briefest moment, Margariete's pulse quickened with hope. Raeylan was a demigod in this reality, just like before. He would again begin a quest for artifacts, to fight against Kirion, only this time with Esilwen by his side.

"He was justly rewarded with the consequences of his actions, however," Kirion continued. "He will not return to his homeland again. Your people suffered the punishment of Raeylan's defiance."

Margariete's throat tightened. Thyella had still been destroyed. She mourned its loss, but in her heart she knew that fate would not have unfolded any other way. Kirion watched her closely, probably trying to interpret her reaction.

"I know the destruction of your home is difficult to bear, but the worshippers of Nehro would not have joined me. It was for their own good."

Margariete swallowed a ball of disgust as she listened to his words, his rationalization of the murder of innocents. All for his own glory. Her thoughts must have presented as disapproval in her expression, because Kirion's eyes narrowed hotly.

"Do not disappoint me, Margariete," Kirion warned, holding her gaze with his dark eyes. "I have need of water celestials. How I use your younger brother will be determined by your actions."

He turned and left without another word, but his threat clung to Margariete like the cold dew of a winter morning. She had no choice. She held Shikun's life in her hands.

That is how she survived the cycle after cycle of reconditioning Kirion put her through. For an entire season she trained with the Faithful Legion, instructed in the Lord of Light's dogma. Proper battle tactics, expected decorum, how to convert the masses to the forces of light, how to turn civilians into efficient killing machines. She could have lost herself to it all, but one thought kept Margariete grounded to her identity. Shikun was alive. She had saved him, and whatever else she was forced to endure was worth that.

After she had completed her training, she was grouped with Thanati and Feralblade—the former an erinyes of Fohtian and the latter gifted with a new Void Soulwell. At first she was worried that Kirion had rejected her, and he had ordered his generals to execute her. It was only the three of them, with no underling soldiers. But they took Margariete to a newly discovered shard not far from Thyella. Margariete fretted the entire journey, pulling deep inside herself. When she had to speak, she did so only to Thanati. Feralblade seemed amused by Margariete's anxiety. Thanati used salt to open the shardgate. Margariete looked away as the winged woman did so, a silent tribute to the water angel that must have died to allow them passage.

The shardgate opened into a rocky ravine, a thin layer of water parting at their feet. Ahead, the cliffs rose above them thousands of spans into the coral-colored sky, splitting into six wide forks. Hundreds of buildings were carved into the cliffs, linked with wooden bridges spanning the gaps, like a crisscrossed web swinging lazily in the canyon wind. A thin haze shrouded everything, blue-green moss clung wetly to the stone. Flowers and trees sprang from cracks in the rock, giving the illusion that a forest grew around the vertical city. Small terraces, hollowed out of the ravine, burst with gardens. Margariete could sense the native people mulling about, going about their daily lives. Thousands of them.

"This misguided culture has accepted the mutual worship of Fohtian and Nehro," Thanati explained. "They idolize the love the two gods shared for each other and have refused conversion to the Light."

Margariete's gaze snapped to Thanati in alarm as she realized their purpose here. These were nonbelievers, destined for destruction. The terrain was nearly impenetrable for a traditional army. The natives could drop arrows below and remain protected inside the walls of their stone homes. An invading army would be forced to climb the sheer walls of the ravine in order to attack.

So Kirion had sent his three most dangerous servants: three who could fly, shadow-walk, or levitate.

"There are women and children in that city," Margariete blurted, knowing full well that according to Kirion's dogma, souls that refused to convert were better off in the afterlife.

"Misguided fools," Feralblade said with a wicked grin and drew his daggers.

Now that he no longer had the power of Nehro's Soulwell, Margariete could clearly see into Terail's mind. Sickened by his bloodlust, she blocked him out, afraid of what he might make her feel during the battle.

"No," Margariete whispered. "I can't."

Thanati looked at her with displeasure. Her silky voice hummed with warning.

"Lord Kirion has made his wishes clear, Margariete. Should you fail to obey the commands of your one true god, I have been given instructions to execute your brother."

Margariete's eyes fell to the ground. Her mind roiled with conflict. But this was the price. The cost of Shikun's life. She nodded once, submitting to her new purpose, and slowly drew Stardawn.

The sword seemed to complain as Margariete levitated to the first bridge, flanked by a golden-skinned demon and a cloud of shadow, and cut it down. Ten people screamed as they fell with it, silenced only by a sharp crack of wood and bone as the broken bridge hit the stones at the bottom of the ravine. The three of them split away, each taking different targets. Margariete threw her body toward the nearest cliff. Stardawn took its first innocent life with one swipe of Margariete's arm. Blood splattered Margariete's Faithful Legion armor. To combat the revulsion she felt, she pretended it was water, rain dripping from a heavy sky.

Stardawn's gleaming edge soon dimmed as the slaughter continued. Margariete ceased to hear its personified objections. The weapon grew awkward and dull, no better than a blunt club. So Margariete threw the blade away, letting it fall into the pile of dead that gathered at the bottom of the cliffs. Margariete drew a dagger from each of her boots, slashing the throats of men begging her to spare their families, gutting the women who pled for their children's lives. She couldn't bear to cut the children with her blades, so she threw them off the cliffs with her telekinetic powers, tossing them like discarded stalks of bamboo.

When she grew so weary of murder that she thought she might break, she paused, watching her comrades. Feralblade's work was slow, bleeding out his victims as slowly and painfully as possible, presumably gorging himself on their agony. Thanati melted the stone with her green fire, trapping her victims inside the homes that were meant to protect them. Her fiery sword cleanly sliced through others, sending their burning corpses to the ravine below. At one point, the erinyes opened a volcanic hole in the side of the cliff that spewed molten rock into a band of archers that were desperately trying to defend their people.

Two arcs was all it took. A small group had managed to escape along the top of the cliffs, fleeing overland. That's when Feralblade called for the Wolves of Skoh. The hunters dashed away in pursuit. Margariete was sure they would dispatch any survivors within the cycle. Thanati, splattered with blood, held her hands to the heavens and praised her lord, tears streaming down her brassy cheeks.

Margariete looked at the death that surrounded her, ashamed that she didn't even know what these people had called themselves. Shock had left her numb to the horror. She could only stare at the carnage and wonder what Raeylan would think. Were all these worth the life of one prince?

It didn't matter. It was done.

Kirion, pleased with her obedience, sent her on other missions of conversion, adding strength to his forces or destroying those who refused. With every execution, Margariete felt the pieces of her first life disappearing, the memories of who she had been before: her life fighting against the Lord of Light with Raeylan and Esilwen. She ceased to be Margariete, Princess of the Jewel and became an emissary of Light. A murderer. Nothing was left but this reality, her second choice.

Her second chance.

31: What It Takes

Esilwen stood and brushed the dirt from her clothes. Her head was dizzy with questions. Had the Ormyr fabricated everything? Had they set the plague in motion to test her? She felt sick. Innocents had died: Keri's mother, the people she tended. And the grotesque Corpse Crafter had tortured her. It was not her fault he had lied to her, was it?

She blinked quickly and swallowed a hollow ache in her throat. Maybe it was her fault. She had made the deal, traded her blood without first making sure the Corpse Crafter had been telling the truth. But Tosk bore some responsibility—kidnapping her and refusing to let her use her technology, making her face that Void worshipper alone. So much death and pain had been needlessly inflicted.

Esilwen hiccupped and wiped her cheeks. Tosk had accused her of failure, but it wasn't in Esilwen's nature to give up. There was still time to stop the Corpse Crafter. She would need her friends, and especially LAMIE, to find a cure. She picked up her pack and rummaged through it. Her dataplate, survival supplies, med kit, and teleport stone were all snug inside, but for some reason, Tosk had taken her LT communicator.

That was odd. Was he still trying to keep her from reaching her friends? How had he known which item was the correct device? As far as she could tell, this shard was extremely primitive when it came to technology. But the dragon had left her the teleport stone. Had he not known its significance? Or was Tosk still testing her?

She decided it didn't matter. Dwelling was a waste of time. She required samples from the infected villagers and should get back to LAMIE as fast as she could. She was certain her friends were worried about her. And they might need her healing expertise. Raeylan had been on the ground when Tosk carried her off, hit by a lightning bolt. That had been three days ago. There was no telling if he was still alive.

Esilwen forced herself to push that from her mind at the moment. When she teleported back to the ship, she would find out. Right now she needed to get some tissue samples.

She put the teleport stone in her pocket for easy access, then took out her med kit and headed into the village's meeting house. The stench of death was thick. She choked down every breath, reminding herself that she was responsible for much of what had happened. She took blood from the living, skin and hair from the deceased. She left hasty instructions with the people she had cured on how to comfort loved ones who still suffered from the disease. As Esilwen prepared to leave, Keri rushed forward and wrapped her little arms around Esilwen's legs.

"Please don't leave us," the girl begged, her sniffles muffled.

Esilwen crouched next to the child. "I must go, Keri. I don't have the tools I need to help the others of your village."

"Will you come back?"

"I promise," Esilwen said.

Keri sniffed and removed her arms. Esilwen forced herself to turn away. She stepped outside and took the teleport stone in her hand. It had been keyed to LAMIE's position before the dragon attack. Esilwen crushed it and was swept away by the starry breath of teleportation.

When she opened her eyes, she was next to a huge dome of ice. The blurry silhouette of a ship rested inside. Esilwen's heart leapt with relief; ice was one of Raeylan's abilities. That was a good sign that he was still alive. Around her the ground bore the scars of battle: huge gouges of displaced soil, blackened patches of grass, dried smears of blood. Esilwen looked around quickly. There were no dead. That was also encouraging.

Eager to see her friends, she approached the ice barrier. Despite the warmth of the day, the magical ice remained frozen. The breeze that bounced off its surface was cool and inviting. Esilwen smiled and put her palm against the shield. Calling forth her power, she pushed through, melting her way with magic. Inside the shield, the air was cold and crisp. Her breath left her mouth in misty puffs.

LAMIE's loading bay gaped open. Damage to her hull was evidenced everywhere. Esilwen trotted up the ramp, finding only emergency lights guiding her once she was inside. She had to open the cargo bay door manually. Her heart picked up its pace. What if LAMIE was abandoned? Was she still alone?

"Hello?" she called several times on her way to the medical bay.

There was scuffle of feet and Gene's head popped out of his office across the hall.

"Esilwen?" Gene shouted.

He ran forward and embraced her. Surprised by her own emotion, Esilwen hugged him back fiercely, overwhelmed with relief. She wasn't alone anymore.

"You guys are okay," Esilwen exclaimed, spotting Tuatha sliding into the corridor at Gene's heels.

Gene pulled away and rubbed his hair awkwardly, but he was grinning. Esilwen almost put her arms around Tuatha, but the shiidh gave her an eerie expression—a sort-of creepy dare—warning the healer to keep her distance. Esilwen decided to smile at Tuatha instead. The shiidh's eyes sparkled with what might have been amusement.

"Where's Raeylan?" Esilwen asked excitedly, glancing around the corridor as if he might appear at any moment.

"He's not with you?" Gene returned.

"No," Esilwen said, facing him quizzically. "Should he be?"

Gene exchanged a glance with Tuatha.

"He left with Kyleren three days ago, to look for you and Margariete."

So Raeylan wasn't here. Her heart plummeted. She ached to be in his arms, to know that he was safe.

"The dragons took Margariete, too?" she asked, deflated.

"The dragon-kind abducted both, our healer and our telepath," Tuatha inserted with her grating voice. "The rest they left."

Esilwen listened as Tuatha related the rest of what had happened after she had been kidnapped. LAMIE had been disabled in the fight. The largest dragon had flown off with Margariete dangling in its claws. After tending to injuries, Raeylan and Kyleren had set of to gather information, leaving Tuatha behind to heal and Gene to repair the ship. Raeylan had erected the ice shield before he left.

Knowing that Raeylan had survived the dragon attack released a tight knot that had been growing in Esilwen's chest. But it was replaced by another for Margariete. In light of the "test" Tosk had inflicted on her, Esilwen worried what they had done to her dearest friend.

"We need to contact Raeylan," Esilwen said, "so he knows I'm okay."

"We can't reach them," Gene said. "LAMIE's protocore was fried in the fight. I haven't finished her repairs."

"I thought the communications center was a separate system? One that doesn't require LAMIE's control?"

Gene shook his head. "Only the STT drive and med bay are autonomous. Everything else integrates with LAMIE's protoboard to function—including the LT comms."

"What about dead tech comms?"

"Limited range and there's too much interference. The signal will just bounce around the mountains."

"But we've used them before, last time the LT went down."

"We were in orbit then, Esilwen," Gene explained. "There was nothing to block the signal."

"Isn't there anything we can do?" Esilwen said.

"Believe me, I would have thought of it. We can't do anything until I've fixed LAMIE."

Gene explained how he had injected their entire store of nanomites into LAMIE to repair her. It was working beautifully and Gene seemed overly pleased with himself.

"You've used all of the nanomites?" Esilwen asked in a panic. How was she supposed to cure Keri's village if she couldn't use her blood or her nanomites? She was turning out to be as useless as Tosk had said.

"We didn't have a choice. It was that or lose LAMIE."

Esilwen felt tears dissolve her self-control. Haltingly, she explained what had happened to her, barely keeping the sobs at bay as she described the plague, Keri's village, and the Corpse Crafter's deal. She told them how her power increased the speed of the disease, of how she had counted on using nanomites to fight it. She left out only that she had been tortured. She didn't think she had the strength to relive the experience so soon. When she finished, Gene patted her awkwardly on the arm, obviously at a loss as how to console her. Tuatha looked annoyed.

"I'm sorry, Esilwen," Gene apologized. "We don't have the right equipment to make more nanomites. They have to be protoed before they're built. It's tricky. Over time I might be able to engineer something—but it would take months, maybe even years. Kyleren and Raeylan each had some injections in their pack," he added helpfully, "and Margariete too."

Esilwen still had one injection left in her med kit. So she had access to only seven—at the most. There was no guarantee that the others hadn't used theirs already. That wasn't nearly enough to cure Keri's village.

The healer wrested her emotions back under control. Sitting here in the dark wouldn't accomplish anything. Keri was expecting the healer to return. Esilwen would just have to think of something else.

"Can we turn LAMIE back on?" she asked. "At low power or something?"

"Waking her now would be like you rousing a patient mid-surgery," Gene said. "She'd be in so much pain, she might go mad."

Esilwen nodded her understanding.

"When do you think we can have power, then?"

Gene pinched the bridge of his nose. Esilwen noticed that he had dark smudges under his eyes. She wondered when he had last slept.

"Tomorrow morning, at the earliest," he said finally.

Esilwen bit her lip. She could do nothing until then.

"Without the aid of what you know, your heart has fallen to despair," Tuatha hissed. "The answer to the cure you seek is found in Danu's realm."

Tuatha stepped forward and put a hand on the small of Esilwen's back. Chills tingled at the healer's spine at the shiidh woman's touch. Gene disappeared back into his office as Esilwen allowed herself to be led into the medical bay.

"I didn't think you knew anything about medicine," Esilwen said, curious as to why Tuatha had offered her assistance.

"This is not my expertise," she explained in her crystalline voice. "Danu speaks her will to me. Before our world was torn by war, a Vartal healer joined the Kildar, bringing life to they who nev'r were meant to be."

Tuatha's face pulled into a mask of displeasure. Esilwen dissected the meaning of the woman's riddling speech as best she could. Tuatha was referring to the process of blending. Esilwen dug into her memory, dredging the training she had received as Doctor Anya Ninevay at the medical academy on Lludd. Blending had been discovered two thousand years prior to her arrival in Chano's shard. If she remembered correctly, a Vartal scientist had defected from Agrona and joined the Kildar. It was his team that finally made blending possible. Shortly after, the Danaan system had torn itself apart in a civil war. The Vartal scientist—whose name Esilwen couldn't quite recall—had tried to escape to the Coalition worlds, but never made it to the rendezvous point. He was considered lost by the Coalition, his disappearance a mystery within history.

"His act of treason forced the shiidh to bring him to our queen. His sentence was to serve our goddess for all time. The hammer took his soul, so I will summon him for you."

Esilwen recoiled a little as Tuatha freed the crystal feyhammer from her belt. The shiidh held it above her head and lifted her voice in a scraping melody that sounded like vibrating crystal. The hammer pulsed with light.

"Are you saying you can speak with anyone that hammer has killed?" Esilwen whispered, horrified by the thought.

"The Hammer of the Fey confines the soul. Within its crystal depths lie all who died by its fell strike."

Esilwen shuddered. To be trapped inside a hammer forever—it was unthinkable, merciless.

"But that doctor was innocent," Esilwen argued. "Chano approves of blending tech, Tuatha. She told us herself."

"Our queens who came before had not the knowledge now revealed. What has been done cannot unknot, no matter what has come to truth. Will you forgo the fortune loosed before us?"

Esilwen stared at her feet. She needed that doctor's insight.

"All right, Tuatha, bring him out of the hammer."

Tuatha exposed her pointed teeth in a ghastly shiidh smile. She looked like a bloody demon, washed in the red emergency lights.

"Warden of The Blood, meet Daghda Ollhar, traitor to the shiidh."

Tuatha struck the hammer against the floor. A high-pitched sound of cracking glass left an ache behind in Esilwen's ears. A ghostly orange figure climbed out of the floor where the hammer blow had fallen. It was the image of a Vartal elf, his blue skin black in the red emergency lights. When he had fully formed, he scowled at Tuatha.

"You will obey Esilwen in her search to cure this region of its deathly plague," Tuatha commanded.

Esilwen looked at Tuatha and shivered. Tuatha's expression leaked glee. She was enjoying this.

The Vartal doctor turned to Esilwen, as if he had no choice. His translucent eyes glared at her with hatred. Esilwen looked away quickly, focusing on pulling her samples out of her pack as an excuse for not meeting his eyes.

"What do you need of me?" he demanded.

"We must manufacture a cure for a disease without living tech nanomites," Esilwen explained, as she organized her materials on the counter, "and we only have a few hours to do it."

32: Theatre Of The Soul

Margariete rolled off the bed and dressed herself as quickly as she could, keeping her back to the man sprawled over the bedclothes. She pulled a silk blouse over her head and slid tight leggings over her bare legs. Then she strapped on her leather armor, with its glaring emblem of the Faithful burned into the breastplate, just above her heart. Lastly, she put on her signet glove, a reminder of her lost people. When she finished, she glanced back at her consort. She felt nothing as she took in his sharp features, framed by silver hair; not love, not hate, not even disgust. Her heart had long been numbed by his touch. The only thing she felt was a pounding in her head—the aftereffects of too much wine—and a throb in her neck where he had choked her too hard.

Feralblade rolled over in his sleep, presumably exhausted by their night of revelry. Margariete wondered momentarily if she would ever slit his throat while he slept, but the thought passed swiftly. The assassin was one of Kirion's favorites. Killing him would earn her a severe punishment. And she wasn't really sure if Feralblade was sleeping or shamming anyway.

Watching him always reminded her of when she had finally given in to his advances. Fifty seasons of service to the Lord of Light had robbed her of her sense of self. The next hundred, she let the assassin do the same. It didn't matter that Feralblade took her body, or abused it. Margariete didn't complain. Deep inside, she knew she deserved it. It was her penance for the murder she committed in Kirion's name.

It seemed odd, but Feralblade never tired of her; not completely. He strayed—sometimes for decades—but always he came back for her. On rare occasions, he exhibited moments of tenderness, as if a remnant of Terail floated somewhere inside the monster that was Feralblade. But mostly, the assassin took pleasure in torturing her.

Margariete strapped weapons to her belt, securing her sword, Darkfire. The Void blade had been a gift from Kirion himself, for the excellence of her deeds as a commander. Linked to Skoh's magic, it drank the violence of battle, working its wielder into a frenzy of blood thirst. The first time Margariete had used it, Darkfire had consumed her in a cloud of fury. She killed both her enemies and comrades that cycle, not coming back to herself until arcs after the battle, shaking. With practice she wrested the weapon under her control, but every time she drew it, Margariete fought the blade for dominance.

She ducked out of the room and made her way through the fortress, one of the many strongholds that housed a large force of the Faithful. Margariete was technically in charge, though she knew Feralblade made regular reports to Kirion regarding her decisions. The large castle had been her home for almost twenty seasons. She twisted through the corridors with ease, heading to what used to be the throne room.

Once the center of intrigue for a powerful and wealthy sovereign, the huge chamber was now bare, its riches stripped and spent for the advancement of the Faithful. Only the throne remained, stark and cold since the removal of its gildings. The former king, refusing to accept Kirion as his lord, had died in the chair's arms, beheaded by Thanati. His blood still stained the porous stone where he had been sitting, a reminder to those who would not convert to the path.

After the king's death, it had been easy to sway the people of this shard to Kirion's dogma. They had accepted the Lord of Light's teachings with open arms, becoming one of the central bastions for his armies. They tore down their ancient temples and raised new ones dedicated to the one true god.

Margariete snorted. Such fools. They had pledged themselves to Kirion's tyranny of their own volition. At least the dead were free.

That brought her to her current assignment: keeping the masses loyal to Kirion. She had to concede that his worshippers at least lived comfortably. His edicts commanded the people to take care of each other. Each shared his wealth with his neighbor so that there were no poor among them. They were fed and sheltered. Judges dealt with conflict with efficient and fair guidelines. Peace and prosperity blessed the Faithful.

As long as you didn't disagree with the commandments.

So, of course, insurgents arose. One such man was due to arrive in the town square. It was Margariete's responsibility to arrange his public execution. As far as she could tell, his only crime was to like Fohtian better. Though she hated the duty, it wasn't any worse than killing thousands on the battlefield. Besides, if she refused, the deed would fall to Feralblade. At least Margariete's justice would be swift, and spare the man's six children the sight of watching their father tortured for the sake of Feralblade's twisted lust.

"General Margariete!" echoed a voice from the hall's entrance, dragging Margariete from her thoughts.

She turned to see a common soldier at the end of the chamber, paused at the entrance and waiting for permission to approach. Margariete did so with a flick of her fingers. He rushed forward and drew a scroll from his pouch, offering it to her with lowered eyes. She dismissed him before she broke the seal.

It was a new missive from Kirion. Margariete opened it slowly. Inside were orders. She was to take her branch of the Faithful to quash an uprising in a nearby shard immediately. Margariete sent a telepathic message to her captain, instructing him to have the troops mobilized within the arc. Then she sighed. It seemed Feralblade would be charged with the execution after all.

As if thinking about the assassin summoned him, she felt Feralblade materialize in the room with her perception sense. She turned back to the throne. He lounged across it lazily, one leg swung over the chair's arm.

"You were gone by the time I woke," he mentioned with a wicked grin.

"I'm always gone before you wake," Margariete returned absently and turned away.

"That's a pity," Feralblade said, "our mornings could be just as gratifying as our nights."

Margariete ignored him, instead walking into a side chamber, her war room, separated by a heavy door. She approached a table in the center of the room. Maps, troop deployments, and other paraphernalia littered its surface. She selected a document with details about her destination, looking over the up-to-date intel Kirion had included in his missive. It looked like the whole shard had suddenly decided to defect. Odd. According to her information, the shard in question had been mostly subdued. What had caused such a drastic change in so short a time, barely a fortnight? She would have to remember to investigate after the rebellion was heeled.

The shard, called Colchis, was essential to the war. Thanati had discovered a Well of Fohtian there. She had been able to train some acolytes to tap into the magic, making ensorcelled weapons for the Faithful. Colchis had become essential to Kirion's cause.

While she worked, she felt a warm hand find its way to her hip. Another teased her neck. Feralblade's breath rustled loudly in her ear, heavy with longing.

"I'm busy, Feralblade," she snapped coldly. "Go play with someone else."

"I'm bored," he replied as his lips swept over her neck.

She abruptly dropped the scroll she was holding and grabbed at his hands, peeling them off her body. Margariete turned to him sharply. His eyes were laden with expectation.

"I have orders that cannot be delayed, Feralblade," she snapped impatiently.

"This won't take long," he said, yanking her forward and trying to kiss her.

Margariete roughly pushed him away.

"Leave," she commanded.

She could have dominated him, but she could tell by his expression that he wasn't being serious, he was enjoying his attempt to annoy her.

"Very well," he said, feigning dissatisfaction and taking a few steps back. He bowed, mocking Thyellan tradition. "I'm late for an appointment in the town square anyway. The dissenter needs a proper send-off to the Void."

Feralblade exploded into shadowy mist that wafted away. Seasons ago Margariete would have worried that her refusal would cause the assassin to take out his frustration on the prisoner, but now she knew better. Nothing she did could ever sate nor inflame his cruelty. Feralblade was cold, unmoved by anything except his own perverse need to inflict pain.

There was no disgust left in Margariete's heart, just a driving need to please her lord. In their last encounter, Kirion had hinted that her reunion with Shikun would happen soon. She couldn't afford a mistake now, not when her goal was so close. The faster she moved her troops, the higher her chance of success. She chose several important documents and headed to the courtyard where she would meet her soldiers.

*

Margariete's lead forces were ambushed at the shardgate the moment they crossed over. She had superior numbers on her side, and her captain pushed into the opposing ranks, allowing time for the rest of the army to come through. But in the first volley of battle, the Faithful sustained heavy losses. It was a stupid miscalculation on Margariete's part. Luckily, the quick reactions of Margariete's captain managed to turn the tide. The rebel forces were soon outnumbered five to one. Once they realized their predicament, they broke and ran.

Margariete knew something was amiss; how did a culture barely acquainted with magic discover the location of the shardgate? She wanted to wait and gather more information. Her captain disagreed, however, and was anxious to crush the small alliance. Against her better judgment, she commanded her troops to follow the fleeing force.

She followed her ten thousand at the rear, jumping at every small disturbance. As her men marched onward down a grassy slope into a valley, she could see the enemy crossing the river at the bottom, shoring themselves up on the other side. She couldn't shake the feeling that something was about to happen. This was a trap, though she wasn't sure what type.

Moments after the last of the Colchis natives had safely crossed the river, the water began to heave menacingly. The sky darkened with clouds, spinning ominously. Margariete's soldiers had just started to form up along the opposing bank when the telepath realized why she felt so ill at ease. Someone important had shown these people where to find the shardgate. Someone she hadn't seen in one hundred and a half seasons.

An incredible combination of magic blasted into Margariete's army. Lethal spikes of ice rained down from the sky, skewering anyone caught in the hail. A vertical, green vortex of fire slammed into the ranks on the other end, incinerating a whole platoon. Through the wild whipping steam that sizzled around the firestorm, Margariete could see a figure, dressed in customary Thyellan garb, teleporting in and out and around her soldiers, felling them with ease. His blade glinted in the miasmic light as he delivered swift strokes of death. The Viridius family crest gleamed regally from the back of his white coat.

At the bottom of the river, the water lashed out in foamy tendrils, dragging hapless victims under the current. The water avoided a woman standing on the bank, however. Clothed in loose robes, her long, blond hair danced through the steamy wind, revealing the delicate points of her ears.

Margariete stood like stone, awed by the intensity of the magical attacks. Raeylan killed half her army in less than a twelfth of an arc. Though the Faithful still outnumbered the rebels, Raeylan and Esilwen evened the odds. With a cry of triumph the enemy surged forward, the river opening a path for them as they charged.

"General Margariete," came a voice desperate voice to her left, "what are your orders?"

Margariete drew her eyes away from her twin unwillingly, staring dumbly at her captain. Then, as if a spell had been broken, she launched into action. Her soldiers were decimated. She knew she was no match for both Raeylan and Esilwen.

"Pull the men back through the shardgate," Margariete commanded, knowing full well Kirion would be displeased by her decision.

"We are going to run?" the captain asked, stunned.

"Half our number is destroyed," Margariete said. "This foe is beyond our strength. We must escape to warn Lord Kirion. Only he can stand against Raeylan Viridius."

The captain looked as though he was going to argue. But Margariete glared at him, slapping his mind with her own.

"Do as I say," she bellowed.

There was so much power behind her sway that the captain staggered and almost lost his footing. He obeyed her orders, dashing into the battle lines to order the retreat. A collective victory cry rang out from her enemies as the Faithful pulled back toward the shardgate.

But Margariete did not follow her men. She walked proudly forward, to the riverbank, her men parting before her as they cleared the field. Margariete saw Raeylan appear next to Esilwen on the bank. The telepath was too far away to hear Esilwen's gasp of surprise with her ears, but Margariete felt the air tremble around the healer well enough. Raeylan turn to follow Esilwen's gaze.

"Sister?" he whispered in disbelief, lowering Moonstone Retribution.

Margariete nodded once, but did not move closer. Her heart pounded in her ears and her legs shook so violently that she could not move. For a moment, Margariete wondered what was happening to her.

Esilwen broke into a run, heedless of the water that separated them. Raeylan, looking a little startled, parted the water just moments before Esilwen reached it. The healer dashed across the stones at the bottom of the riverbed and hastened up the opposite bank, nearly slipping. When she reached Margariete, Esilwen threw her arms around her.

What was this burning that Margariete suddenly felt? It was heavy in her chest and made it hard to breathe.

"We had thought you dead," Esilwen sobbed, her voice muffled by the embrace.

Margariete held her former friend so tightly that her arms began to ache. It had been so long since she had felt anything, she hardly remembered the names for the emotions surging into the hole that was her heart: loyalty, joy, love.

And shame.

Esilwen pulled away, grasping Margariete's arms and offering a smile polished by tears. Raeylan had appeared at their side. He pulled Margariete close. Though a hundred and fifty seasons separated them, she wilted in his arms. She felt safe, like she had come home. Tears ripped through her, a sorrow so laden with guilt she thought she would die of it. But she didn't let the tears fall. She didn't dare.

How could she tell them what she had become?

When Raeylan released her, she could see doubt lining his eyes. A familiar presence tickled the edge of her mind. She glanced in the direction the call had come. Two hilts were attached to Raeylan's belt. Moonstone Retribution was sheathed on his left, but Stardawn glinted on his right.

Margariete's blood ran cold. Her former sword was not shouting in welcome, but in warning. When she looked back at her brother, Raeylan was looking at Stardawn in concern, his brow furrowed.

"Stardawn has been dormant since we found it a century ago," he said, taking a step back.

Raeylan's hand went to Moonstone Retribution's hilt, his face stiff with calm. Margariete followed suit, resting her own hand on Darkfire. If he drew weapons, should she defend herself? Or would it be better to surrender and atone for the atrocities she had committed?

Raeylan stared at Margariete a long time, both unmoving.

"Raeylan? Margariete?" Esilwen finally asked. "What's wrong?"

He released his sword hilt, but slid Stardawn free. His face broke into an expression of agony.

"Why does this sword fear you, sister?" he asked carefully.

"Fear?" Esilwen repeated in confusion.

Raeylan didn't answer her, but continued to look at Margariete, glancing at the etching of Kirion's symbol on her breastplate. The telepath swallowed a dry ache in her throat, unable to answer.

"Why did we find Stardawn in a pile of bones?" Raeylan demanded then.

"What does it matter?" Esilwen interjected as the tension grew. "We were wrong to think Margariete dead. Obviously she lost Stardawn trying to defend all of those people!"

Raeylan did not seem convinced. Margariete knew now what must have happened. Esilwen and Raeylan had fled Thyella, thinking both Margariete and Shikun killed in the fight. Finding Stardawn must have given them hope that she had survived Thyella's destruction, but led to further grief. The pair had assumed she perished with that civilization, leaving Stardawn to rust in the ruin.

Emotions clashed in Margariete's head. She gasped, suffocating under the weight of her guilt. She could not do this. If she confessed, Raeylan would kill her, and Shikun would die for her failure. But what was the alternative? To fight Raeylan instead? She could not battle one brother for the sake of another. Tremors clenched her body. She started to see spots.

And then it was gone. Margariete pushed everything she felt out of her body, into that hollow place where her humanity had once been. She buried it under Feralblade's abuse, submerged it with commitment to save Shikun. Her expression solidified into an empty mask.

Raeylan watched her struggle, and he seemed all the more ill at ease because of it.

"Why does Stardawn fear you, Margariete?" he asked again, this time softly.

Margariete held his gaze. There was no choice. She had to save Shikun. Otherwise, what had the sacrifice been for?

"I killed those people in Lord Kirion's name," Margariete admitted. "Stardawn was unwilling to serve me after."

Raeylan's grey eyes turned steely.

"No," Esilwen said, her eyes desperate. "I know you, Margariete. You would never take an innocent life."

"I have taken hundreds of thousands," Margariete confessed, feeling the emptiness inside her pinch uncomfortably.

"Why?" Esilwen asked, her face swimming in disbelief.

"It was the deal I made with Kirion. If I serve him, Shikun lives."

"No," Esilwen continued, "I can't believe you capable of that. I won't."

"The Faithful," Margariete said, waving at those fleeing behind her, "are under my command. I came here this cycle to fulfill my duty. To punish those who refuse to serve the Light."

Esilwen sniffled. Raeylan tried to conceal what he was feeling, but Margariete could tell he struggled. Her confession hung between them like a lead stone, crushing the love that had once been their birthright. When he could no longer hold his face impassive, she expected to see anger, betrayal. She assumed her twin would attack and demand her surrender.

Instead, Margariete was stunned to see forgiveness break through his mask. He sheathed Stardawn and extended his hand toward her.

"Leave Kirion's fold, Margariete," Raeylan pleaded. "Come with us."

The emptiness inside her burned like a fire. She had seen this moment in her nightmares, long ago when she had chosen to serve Kirion. But Raeylan had always condemned her after learning what she had become. Margariete had always believed he would execute her for her dreadful crimes.

She ached to join her twin, to feel his love and loyalty once again. But she knew if she did, her youngest brother would die.

"I can't," Margariete said, taking another step back. "I can't abandon Shikun."

"We can find him together, Margariete," Raeylan promised. "Turn your back to this madness. Trust us, please."

Margariete almost choked. Fear burned her. If Raeylan asked again, she knew she could not resist the temptation to go with him. Desperate, she curled her fingers under the edge of the glove she wore on her right hand. With a snarl of pain, agony so deep it ripped a hole inside her, she tore the garment off.

She tossed it a Raeylan's feet. The wind howled mournfully through the trees as the glove fluttered to the ground. When Margariete finally looked at him, there were tears on his face.

Margariete turned on her heel and stomped back to her army. She wished Raeylan would kill her, stab her in the back as she retreated and put her out of her misery. But she knew that he never would.

As she led her soldiers back across the shardgate to their base, the image of Raeylan's grief scalded her memory. Raeylan had never let her see him cry, not even when they had been children.

When Kirion heard of her failure, he was more than displeased. Feralblade was ordered to exact her penance. Though it was long, Margariete didn't feel any of it. In the end, she didn't even regret running from battle, only the words Kirion said to her before she was hauled off to Feralblade's favorite torture chamber.

"It seems you are not ready to reunite with Shikun, Margariete," Kirion had said. "Perhaps in another century, you will be more firm in your loyalty to me."

33: Superstitious

The toxin was almost gone, but Raeylan felt cold, as if the Skohvian poison stubbornly refused to submit to the nanomites that worked to cleanse his blood. He had to grip the hilt of Temperance tight to keep his hands from shaking, so thick were the emotions generated during his hallucinations. Raeylan felt no formal stab of guilt—it was the poison's influence that had allowed him to condone the act of human torture—but it was hard to erase the darkness from his mind completely. He needed time to meditate properly, to expunge the sensations. But that could not be done here, wandering the upper halls of this abandoned pyramid.

There were nearly forty tiny cells scattered in different areas, as well as two larger chambers that were obviously used for sacrifice. Raeylan hoped it had been animals, but the evidence scattered around the altars contradicted that. Human remains were everywhere: at the base of tables, hanging on the walls, and poking out of urns and jars. It left Raeylan with a bad taste in his mouth, like the tang of iron. He was glad Kyleren had been able to heal him so quickly. Under the effect of the toxin, he imagined he would have witnessed the worst of humanity in these rooms.

"Skoh's people were fraggin' messed up," Kyleren complained after their search of the second floor was complete.

At the very end of the wall, they reached a narrow staircase leading upward to another level.

"Better let me go first," Kyleren recommended. "Just in case there are any more surprises waitin' for us."

Raeylan nodded in agreement. The last thing he wanted was another dose of the hallucinogen. He followed the GAEL cautiously, ready to teleport out of harm's way in an instant. But there was no trap.

The walls of the corridor leading off the stairs were tall and slanted, imprinted with gold and red ink. Raeylan's LT light reflected brightly on the metal, momentarily blinding him. He dimmed it so he could study the writing on the walls more closely. The language was a mix of symbol and art, but his magic translated it nonetheless. Kyleren's artifact should be able to do the same, but the GAEL seemed preoccupied with the shadows at the end of the long hall.

"Do you see anything?" Raeylan asked, since his lighting device only travelled so far. With his CC armor helmet, Kyleren could see a greater distance.

"Nothin'," Kyleren returned warily. "And I don't like it."

Raeylan turned back to the hieroglyphs. Maybe they contained a clue as to the location of the object they sought.

"Those walls say anythin'?" Kyleren asked after a moment.

"It's a history—" Raeylan said, beginning to walk the length of the wall, but Kyleren held out a hand to halt Raeylan's forward momentum.

"Let's do this slowly," Kyleren said. "I'll watch for traps. You read."

Raeylan started forward again, this time with Kyleren by his side. The soldier held his axe ready, never taking his eyes off the end of the hallway.

"This is Skoh's history," Raeylan finally said. "About how she attained godhood. Or at least what her followers seemed to believe. It says that Kharnak was once a garden paradise, with a great river running through its center. The people had an easy life, and soon grew arrogant and selfish, fighting over gold. So out of the mighty river a mound rose up and at its center was a wolf the size of a mountain. The people were afraid of this wolf. Some fled, others tried to attack it. The great wolf came upon the people, devouring all those who refused to repent. Then a woman with skin as black as night confronted the beast, offering it her heart in exchange for the lives of the people. It accepted her sacrifice. With its giant maw, the wolf tore out her heart, devouring it. The woman cried out in pain, and her blood flowed out of her chest. The weight of her sacrifice caused the giant wolf to explode, its blood raining black upon the land, withering all. The wide river turned to poison. Kharnak was transformed into a desert.

"The remaining people resented the woman and her sacrifice, blaming her for the barrenness of the land. Thus hated, her body withered into only a husk, but without her heart, her spirit wandered the desert of Kharnak, unable to enter the afterlife. She fed on the hate and pain of the people, gathering strength, turning their fears into a form of magic. When she had harvested enough power, she made her own realm, a place that emulated paradise, yet was not. She cursed Kharnak, and the people with it. She gave them power, but made them pay for it with their souls. Thus the people named her Skoh, Lady of Darkness, and death walked with her."

"She sounds nice," Kyleren said flatly. "A real fraggin' prize. What's the rest say over here?"

Kyleren waved at the wall on the opposite side of the corridor. Skoh's story had only taken up one side of the hallway. They had to backtrack to start at the beginning of the other.

"These are rituals that must be observed by the highest priests of Skoh," Raeylan stated. "It looks quite complicated. Blood rites during the new moon, proper burial techniques, appropriate styles of torture, ways to summon creatures from the Void."

"Right," Kyleren said, maintaining his satirical tone. "Anyone else thinkin' that conversion to Skoh would be a fragged up life?"

Raeylan tore himself away from the information written on the walls. The dark language was beginning to buzz in his head, like it was trying to make him believe its message. He didn't like the feeling. Perhaps the toxin wasn't completely eradicated after all.

"Her ways are quite severe," Raeylan commented. "Without honor or empathy."

"No skrit," Kyleren agreed. "Let's go."

The GAEL inclined his head toward the end of the hall, and advanced. Raeylan followed, his sword held at the ready. Their path turned left, then right, then left again, until finally they reached another set of stairs. As before, Raeylan allowed Kyleren to go first. Their caution was needless, however. They met with no obstacle.

Kyleren stopped abruptly at the top of the staircase, but far enough from the landing to allow Raeylan to join him at the top, so they could embark into the fourth level together. There was another long empty hallway before them, though it was considerably shorter than the last. There were no writings on the walls and doors dotted its length.

Lance began to pace irritably. Knowing that the soldier's instincts usually predicted an attack, Raeylan tensed.

"What is it?" Raeylan asked, glancing in as many directions as he could at once.

The GAEL shook his head and continued to pace. "The last half hour has been too easy. Rag-face made it sound like we'd be runnin' into trouble around every corner in this place."

"Maybe the Skohvians believed the first trap to be sufficient. That only supplicants of Skoh could defeat it," Raeylan offered.

Kyleren replied with a grunt that sounded unconvinced.

"Somethin's off," he complained. "These people don't want their secrets seen by anyone. One poison trap doesn't seem enough."

"In the time of its glory, this temple would have been protected by a host of guards and priests," Raeylan surmised. "Maybe they felt it unnecessary."

Kyleren removed his helmet and leaned in close, whispering as if he was worried someone might hear.

"These people worshipped death," he said. "They had to know they'd end up fragged sometime, even if they did it to themselves. I don't think they'd leave all their favorite magic toys layin' around for just anybody to find."

Despite his arguments, Raeylan felt his companion's apprehension. He had expected more resistance as well. Followers of darkness tended to see the worst in people, and they would have taken measures to protect themselves from intruders, especially in a time of war.

"There's somethin' else," Lance added. "This sword skrit is really botherin' me."

Raeylan became instantly defensive. This was no time to debate a decision that had already been made.

"What worries you?"

"Why would they hide an artifact here? With nothin' but that poison to stop it from bein' raided by bandits?" Kyleren posed.

It must have been the aftereffects of the toxin that had kept the same thought from Raeylan's notice. Now that Kyleren pointed it out, the matter seemed odd. If the Skohvians knew of The Sword's importance, why wasn't it guarded more securely? And they had not come across any information about The Sword itself, the weapon of Skoh's greatest enemy. Was that significant as well, or had Skoh's people simply been too proud to taint their walls with a depiction of an object sacred to the Lord of Light?

"It is possible that we have not yet seen the worst this place has to offer," Raeylan finally decided.

Kyleren replaced his helmet with a nervous shrug.

"Guess we're about to find out."

They slid down the corridor slowly, Kyleren drawing his rifle despite the warning he had received from Ragnar about magic. They checked each door, finding several luxurious bedchambers, supporting the idea that only the higher ranking followers of Skoh had once lived inside the upper levels of the temple. But they were unable to find any magic items, least of all the object they searched for. All they found within the rooms were rotted rags and furniture.

The corridor ended in a gilded gold archway that opened into a worship hall, smaller than the huge chamber on the first floor, but more ornate. Its filigree carvings were blackened with old blood. Ten skeletal remains lay in a semicircle around a gloomy symbol painted on the floor. It had been drawn hastily. Even from the corridor, Raeylan's magic translated it for him. Eternity.

Each body was stripped of clothing and belongings. Raeylan was unable to tell whether they had died in that fashion or the items had been withered away by time. The painted symbol was repeated on the sternum of every skeleton, scratched deeply into the bone. Other, smaller markings decorated the rest of remains, but Raeylan was too far away to tell what they meant. A perfect circle of gold dust girdled the grisly scene.

"Hey, look at this," Kyleren said, stepping gingerly into the room.

Kyleren let his weapon hang loosely in one hand as he pulled out the claw device he had appropriated from the dead mercenary at the "Village" tavern. A snowy gem was inset into area that sheathed the palm, but each of the fingers was etched with symbols.

"The marks on this guy's chest match this claw thing," he said and approached the bodies, obviously intending to take a closer look.

Raeylan moved to follow. There was a scrape of something against stone as Kyleren disturbed the powdered circle on his way to examine the first set of remains.

Without warning, Raeylan's lamp sputtered. A spark of light flashed as the bulb popped and went dead. Seven sconces on the walls then burst into white, searing flame, the light so bright that it distorted Raeylan's eyesight. Shadows flicked weirdly. Everything around him seemed washed out, empty of color.

Magic crackled around the room like static, pelting Raeylan with a storm of tiny granules. It overwhelmed him, warping his own magic sense. He blinked rapidly, trying to restore his sight to normal, and held Temperance in a defensive position. He heard a raspy sound, like wind in the hollow of a cave, and then a weird rattle.

By the time he could see properly, the ten skeletons were already standing, their teeth clacking as their jaws worked up and down. Their bleached bone had turned inky black, and dripped with a gooey substance that sizzled when it hit the floor. They moved spasmodically, lurching instead of walking. Their limbs, fingers, and ribs stuck outward in bizarre angles, white stars burned in their eye sockets.

And when they attacked, they moved faster than a GAEL.

Raeylan teleported to Kyleren's side as fast as he could, but by the time he got there, the solider was under a pile of oozing, dripping bones.

"What the—" he heard Kyleren shout as a barrage of BT rounds pushed several skeletons halfway across the room.

But the bones seemed undamaged by the attack. They simply jumped back to their feet and charged again, this time targeting Raeylan. The former king swung Temperance to meet the first. The blow should have cleaved the monster in two, but instead, the skeleton bent itself at an impossible angle—sideways at the torso—so that its skull scraped the floor. It raked Raeylan with its boney fingers, piercing his leather armor and scouring him deeply from ankle to knee.

Raeylan crashed to the floor. Another skeleton was waiting, its bones arranged into a grotesque, four-legged creature. It scuttled toward him like an insect, lunging. Raeylan was forced to drop Temperance so he could catch the thing's skull before its teeth chewed into his face. He heard Kyleren growl somewhere off to the left, but a loud rattling sound was quickly filling his head, deafening him to everything else. His leg burned where the other skeleton had clawed him, making his stomach knot in the most uncomfortable way. He coughed and spat. His sight elongated unnaturally, then bent askew.

All the while he struggled with the chomping skull, holding it a mere span from his head, his fingers blistering painfully where he touched it.

34: Victim Of Love

"Amongst your kind you are doubly unique," Kirion said to Margariete as she knelt on the hard flagstones in his temple.

"How so, My Lord?" Margariete returned, careful not to look up at him. His displeasure surrounding her army's defeat by Raeylan and Esilwen twelve decades ago had finally ebbed, but Kirion still withheld Shikun from her.

"Aeron's celestials were all male, a precaution taken to prevent them from breeding," Kirion surmised. "But whoever fathered you mixed his blood with that of your mother, who was descendant from the lorelei. It was this blood that allowed you to alter your body. Not only did you choose to be female, but your natural state is opposite of the other Ormyr."

"What are the Ormyr?" Margariete asked, still not raising her eyes.

"They are the Dragons of Aeron, his celestials."

Margariete sucked in a breath. Finally she knew who she was—one of Aeron's angels. She knew better than to contradict Kirion, but some of what he had said perplexed her, so she did it anyway.

"But I am not a dragon, My Lord," she pointed out as humbly as she could manage.

Kirion paused. Margariete wondered if he was trying to assess her attitude. He seemed to dismiss it, for when he continued he sounded more thoughtful than angry.

"That is what I find intriguing. Your lorelei blood allowed you to determine your natural shape. The Ormyr's base form is their dragon body, but—even in the womb—you chose to be human first."

"First?" Margariete asked, deciding it was time to look up.

"Ormyr can take two forms. They are born as dragons, but have the ability to alter themselves into human shape at will. I have wondered for the past two centuries whether you could transform because of your mixed heritage. I have come to the conclusion that with training, your ultimate form may be achieved."

"Are you saying I can turn into a dragon?" Margariete asked, shocked.

"I believe so," Kirion returned. "I am removing you from command to begin the process. The power of a dragon would be a beneficial asset to the Faithful."

"How will I do it?" Margariete wondered aloud. The task seemed insurmountable. How did one just decide to become a dragon?

"That is your task to discover," Kirion said curtly, as if it should have been obvious. "I must leave you now. There is evidence that Chano's artifact may be in a nearby shard. Complete this quickly. I dislike having to wait."

It was a subtle warning, but one that Margariete was too keen to ignore. After a few arcs of thought, she decided to return to the place of her first massacre, where she had truly become one of the Faithful. Kirion had just recently decided to rebuild the city, a place for those displaced by the holy war he waged across the shards. Mostly women, children, and those too weak to fight were housed in the ravine, with just a small contingent of soldiers for protection should the need arise.

What better place to explore herself than the shard where she had become lost? Here there were steep cliffs where she could practice if she were successful. Here she could hide from Feralblade.

The next decades were grueling. She learned about her magical abilities, her endurance, and strength of will. The people of the bridge city were wary of her at first: she was an outsider who often stared into the bottom of the cliffs, counting the bleached skulls at the bottom. But soon she was absorbed into their community, hallowed almost. It was odd how she was welcomed. Margariete had forgotten how to build any relationship with meaning. Most of all, their kindness affected her. She couldn't remember what it felt like.

There was a monastery, transplanted from a fallen shard into this one. The abbot was a gentle man, and reminded her sharply of her old mentor, Malbrin. He painstakingly taught her patience, control, and above all, how to reach her inner self. Through his tutelage, Margariete reached the end of her metaphysical journey.

The cycle came when, standing on the edge of a cliff, Margariete commanded her body to change. She sloughed off her human form. Her arms grew wide and long, her body swelled. Thick corded wings sprang from between her shoulders, razor teeth lined her reptilian jaw. Olive scales coated her body with a thick armor. In an elative state she leapt from the precipice and soared free through the sky.

It took two seasons to track someone who knew Lord Kirion's whereabouts. The Lord of Light had ensconced himself into the political arena of a shard larger than any the Faithful had conquered. He met with her after a rather important meeting with a group called the Round. After a century of training, Margariete stood before him again and demonstrated her newfound talent. Kirion was most pleased.

"Your timing is impeccable," Kirion told her when she returned to human form. "An opportunity for your capabilities has just arisen. Should you succeed, I will grant you an audience with your younger brother."

Margariete's heart skipped forward. She was so close. Finally, her sacrifice would be vindicated. Wouldn't it?

"Anything, My Lord," Margariete replied in haste.

Kirion smiled, looking amused.

"There is an elite squad of soldiers in this shard, code-named Aon. I want you to join them, to ensure their missions prove successful. They are essential to the conversion of this shard."

Margariete accepted humbly. Less than six cycles later she was integrated into the squad. The GAELs were larger than average humans, even the woman. Their skin tones were unlike anything Margariete was used to, with a mixed race look. Kirion did not approve of blending, but it did not stop the Lord of Light from taking advantage of its practice. Margariete knew that the GAEL VIC program was a century's work of political maneuvering, and that it was why he had worked to insert himself as the chancellor of the Coalition.

Her duty was to guide squad Aon in keeping the factions of the Agrona-Morrigan Concord under control. Though their dogma aligned with Kirion's assessment of the blended species, the Agromors were too fanatic in their religious views to another god, preventing the conversion process of the many worlds in their solar systems. If the Agromors won the MetaGalactic War, Kirion's effort to build an army of elite soldiers and magically intelligent space vessels would be disrupted.

It was obvious to Margariete that the GAELs resented her presence, seeing her involvement as an interference to their tactics. Kirion was adamant that no one in the Coalition military know of her true status in the Faithful Legion, or that he had specifically assigned her to Aon squad. But Margariete didn't care. Aon would embrace her once she had proved her worth in battle. Unfortunately, she had to keep many of her capabilities secret, using them only when unobserved because the people's knowledge of magic in this shard was limited to the laws of technobionomy.

Most amusing upon her arrival were the reactions of the two highest ranking GAELs, Captain Reese and his right hand man, Lieutenant Kyleren. They had assessed her from head to toe, nudging each other meaningfully. Margariete had read the files of all her new team members before boarding their ship. The lieutenant—especially—had a reputation with women. She believed the captain had just instigated a new challenge for his comrade.

Margariete inwardly laughed. They had no idea how difficult a conquest she would be. But as the season passed, and she completed mission after mission with Aon, she couldn't help but notice how much she enjoyed Lieutenant Lance Kyleren's easygoing personality and casual humor. Cycle by cycle, their interactions grew more personal, their flirtations bolder. On the occasions she found herself to be alone with him, she was surprised at the passion she felt toward him. It took all her willpower not to surrender to them.

She managed to abstain from his advances for a while, but one cycle she found herself staring out the crystasteel viewport in her small quarters, wondering what she was doing. She knew she wasn't worthy of this, of feeling joy through love. Feralblade's attentions were part of the penance for the monster she had become. She closed her eyes and sighed, wishing she could feel, yet afraid of its toll. She was a murderer, cold-blooded and heartless. Giving in to Kyleren would be undeserved.

But then there was a knock on her door.

"Enter," she called, setting her shoulders.

The door slid open and she could sense who was behind her, the long hard lines of his arms and back, the squareness of his jaw. His mind was open, raw in his need to touch her, to make her his. Margariete turned to him, intending to send him away. But when she saw the expression in his eyes, the playful sway in his swagger as he walked into the room, she couldn't bring herself to do it.

"Can I assist you?" she asked politely, swallowing. She already knew why he was here.

"Maybe," he said, grinning magnetically.

His yellow-hazel eyes were so warm, so inviting. Margariete took a step toward him, as if those eyes were swallowing her whole. She yearned for this: the touch of his lips on her skin, the feel of his hands on her body. But the sharp part of her, the part that was broken by Kirion and Feralblade, believed she had to refuse.

"Lance, I—" she began but he strode forward and held a finger up to her lips.

Margariete's heart pounded so hard she thought it would burst from her chest. It was hard to breathe. Kyleren wrapped his arms around her, caressing her skin as he pulled her forward.

"None of that, Blue Eyes," he murmured softly. "Tonight it's just you and me."

"No Lance, I can't—I—"

"I don't care where you've been, Mags," he said, almost as if he had mind reading abilities, "just that you're here."

Then he kissed her, a slow, pulsating kiss that caused tremors to heave up her body. Margariete's passion ignited, an emotion she had thought lost in the seasons of her torment. Her lips responded in kind, and she kissed him like her life hung in the balance. She felt like a person, with a soul of her own, one that ached to defy Kirion and his Faithful.

What was she doing?

Margariete lay with him that night. His attention was tender, but strong. She had never experienced love like that, without pain. For a while, it was enough.

The next five seasons were happy. Lance had given her purpose, a reason to be alive. She could feel again. More than that, the Coalition stood for things she had once believed in: freedom and the protection of the innocent. It was a cause she could fight for without guilt.

But the more she worked by Kyleren's side, the less Margariete felt inclined to go back to Kirion. Over the seasons she came to a decision. Once Kirion allowed her to see Shikun, she would have Kyleren help her brother escape. Then she could take Raeylan's offer, joining him in the war against the tyrant Lord of Light. She could then regain her honor, and be proud of who she was. For now, she would bide her time, waiting for the opportunity.

*

It was always dark on the Vartal side of Agrona, but for Margariete it wasn't an issue. With her periphery sense she could see everything that happened around her. Right now she was standing in a clearing as Lance and Captain Reese dropped down from a tree.

"It's gotta be a trap," Lance said. "They put the GraEL in the fraggin' open on some altar. No way the Agromors are that dumb."

Margariete scowled. Just a few weeks ago, the Agromors had infiltrated and destroyed Gwydion, much to Kirion's ire. The setback to the Faithful was indeterminable. An entire generation of blended candidates had been lost. Plus, the GraEL—a Well of Life that turned ordinary ore into living metal—had been stolen. The GraEL was key to both creating new technologies and for bonding new GAELs. Without it, Kirion could not enhance his forces.

It came as no surprise that Margariete and squad Aon were ordered to retrieve it quickly. She was given LAMIE, the first ever living technology entity, who could utilize T-portals to travel rapidly through the universe.

That was how the squad ended up here, standing in the dark, deliberating.

"It seems we won't know the trap until we trigger it," Margariete finally decided.

She was right. With no other recourse, she ordered her men to fetch the GraEL from the altar in the center of standing stones, an old temple to Danu. They were ambushed, of course, by a pair of enemy mechs. One of the GAELs—Corporeal Harris Evans—lost his arm in the fray. Captain Wayne Reese was severely injured, forcing Private Gary Thompson to abandon the battle in order to save him. Only Margariete, Lance, Sergeant Trish Reynolds, and Chief Chad Snow made it to the altar after defeating the machines.

They were reaching for the GraEL when Margariete felt the shiidh emerge from their stones. She had been warned about these women, told to avoid them if possible. Kirion had actually appeared to them once, in the guise of Chano, in an effort to sway them to the Faithful, but they had easily seen through his deception. Since then, Kirion had labeled them as expendable, despite their magic from the realm of stone.

The shiidh began to sing, which knocked the GAELs to the ground, entranced. Margariete's magic tried to compensate, attempting to dissipate the women's energy. It only partially worked. She wasn't completely incapacitated, just weakened. Margariete drew Darkfire, intent on defending Lance and the others against the shiidh leader, a Vartal woman wielding a glowing hammer. But as the woman advanced, she suddenly stopped, staring in wonder at something behind Margariete. The telepath glanced quickly over her shoulder, wary that it might be a trick to break her concentration.

Perched on Lance's chest was a golden-brown squirrel, holding up its front paws in a gesture that was unmistakably a command for the shiidh to stop. To Margariete's surprise, the shiidh woman complied and lowered her weapon, even reattaching it to her belt. The squirrel disappeared back into Lance's core drive as the shiidh stopped singing and melted back into their stones.

As the music echoed into silence, the GAELs shook their heads, freed from whatever spell had held them captive. They bombarded Margariete with questions, but she could do nothing except stare at Lance, her heart shriveling into a wasted shell.

It wasn't the first time she had heard the story about the squirrel. It was Reese's favorite incident to cite when the squad was on leave. The animal had saved Lance once, on a failed Agrona mission Aon had run before Margariete had joined them. The story was just a myth, she had thought, something brought out in the chaos of battle.

But now she had seen it herself. It was not just a story. The fact that the squirrel had merged with Lance's core drive meant it was something important.

Margariete damned the gods to the Void. Lance had the stone artifact.

They dusted off Agrona with the GraEL in tow, target achieved. Margariete spoke to no one, not even Lance, lost in misery. She knew Lance had no idea what he carried. Should she try to hide the knowledge from Kirion? Only she had seen it, after all. But what would the Lord of Light do if he discovered Margariete had failed to report it?

Margariete was positive Kirion would consider it treason. The artifacts were his ultimate goal. He might even kill Shikun to teach her a lesson. She had a choice: Lance's life or Shikun's.

As LAMIE jetted back toward Coalition space, Margariete stormed to her quarters. Once there she smashed everything that was even remotely breakable. Why had the gods cursed her? Anything good in her life was always slipping through her fingers.

It was always the same answer. She had traded her life for Shikun's ages ago. Always the same excuse to justify murder.

And this time would be no different.

That night, Margariete let Lance hold her one last time. She let him love her, waiting until he was asleep to give in to despair. She wept, shaking.

When Margariete slipped her finger into the ring on Kyleren's core drive, sliding it out, Lance awoke. He stared at her, confused. He could have stopped her with his GAEL speed, but he didn't. He just looked at her, eyes full of trust.

"I'm sorry, Lance," she sobbed, unleashing a bolt of lightning into the drive before he could answer.

He screamed and convulsed, but Margariete's magic was particularly deadly against living tech. The core drive burned white hot, emitting a high-pitched shriek. When it split open, Lance's body finally relaxed, his yellow-hazel eyes wide open and empty. The broken core drive melted into a thick golden mass that coalesced into an unconscious, fuzzy squirrel.

In that moment, Margariete's heart turned harder than a shiidh's stone. It sat in her chest like a weight that pulled her soul to the Void. She could do nothing but gaze on the face of the man she had loved, dry-eyed and hollow as she felt the beat of life in the little animal she held.

All that was left was Shikun.

It took a blaring alarm from LAMIE to rouse her. Of course her actions would be viewed as subterfuge. She had no choice. LAMIE's halls were soon spattered with the blood of her crew, all but Private Thompson, who she needed to fly the ship, and technobionomist Gene Pecktol, who she needed to open a T-portal to Athalonde Prime, the location of Kirion's temple fortress. Once there, she disposed of Thompson, leaving only Gene alive. He was essential to the interests of the Faithful.

As Margariete boldly entered the grand reception hall, Kirion sat upon his throne, looking intently at a dataplate. He did not look up, but addressed her in a cold, crisp tone.

"Feralblade reports that all of squad Aon is dead," he said. "I hope you have an adequate explanation."

Margariete answered by tossing the comatose squirrel at his feet. Kirion finally looked up. As he stared at the animal his eyes narrowed.

"It was a necessary sacrifice," Margariete replied, refusing to bow. "You will be pleased to know that Gene Pecktol still lives and the GraEL has been recovered."

"Necessary?" Kirion repeated.

The Lord of Light picked up the squirrel almost reverently. The little animal shuddered slightly as he touched it, even though it was still unconscious.

"Bolstered in strength by the presence of Lieutenant Lance Kyleren," Margariete retorted. "Keeper of Chano's artifact. The other members of squad Aon objected when I killed the lieutenant, My Lord. I had no choice but to execute them," Margariete said. "Can you forgive me?"

Margariete bowed and knelt, awaiting his answer. Kirion pushed the squirrel against his chest. A bright orange light flashed, forcing Margariete to look away. When it died away, Kirion was sitting on his throne and the squirrel was nowhere to be seen. She assumed he had absorbed it. Then he smiled and said, "It seems you are ready to meet with your younger brother after all."

35: Dust 'N Bones

Lieutenant Lance Kyleren cursed. How had he managed to get himself in so much skrit? Since joining up with the twins, life had gotten complicated. He longed for the days where an op had a definitive target, something to blow up or someone to capture. Meeting them had given him a long list of things he wished he could forget, like getting his ass kicked by a bunch of lizards or getting fragged over by magic songs.

But right now, being buried alive by sticky, rotten bones made the top of his "What the frag?" register. Gromm skeletons. Gooey, snapping monsters that gnawed on his skin and burned through his CC armor with their gunk.

Unfortunately, the skeletons were just as strong as he was, and as fast. There were too many piled on him to take an accurate count of enemies, stabbing at him with their boney fingers and trying to bite him with their jagged teeth. On the plus side, they didn't seem able to penetrate his GAEL skin. On the fragged side, they had him pinned to the floor and unable to move. They took his weapons one by one, even the claw thing he had confiscated from the brigand at the "Village." Lance wondered briefly how Raeylan was doing against the skeletons, but since even GAEL strength couldn't muscle him out, Kyleren had to leave the teleporter on his own for the moment.

Hold him up, something said.

The phrase rattled through his head, like cold clawing at his mind. Pain lanced through him, a stab that made the back of his skull ache. Were the skeletons talking to him?

There were scraping and clicking sounds as the bones righted themselves, pulling Lance upward with them. He tried to break away, but their grip was too strong. They had him by the wrists, shoulders, and legs. Two had rearranged themselves into a kind of bone chain, covering his chest and torso like a web. Goo coated him, making his armor smoke and pop. It felt hot on his skin, but wasn't strong enough to burn him.

Sounds of battle drew his attention to the right. He turned just in time to see five of the monsters leap as one onto Raeylan, submerging him in a flailing pile. Lance grimaced. He was sure that the teleporter wasn't immune to the skeleton's acid like he was. Kyleren strained again to escape, but couldn't manage to free himself.

Suddenly, ice crackled through Raeylan's enemies and they backed off momentarily. Parts of them were frozen solid, like fish in an iceberg. Raeylan's sword struck, shattering the frozen bones, which scattered every which way. Kyleren allowed himself a smug smile. That was a nice move.

Then Raeylan teleported across the room, appearing near the wall and leaning against it for support. His leg looked badly damaged, bloody and blistered. The skeletons converged on him quickly. Lance was wondering why Raeylan didn't teleport out of their way again, or use his time stop ability, when one of the skeletons stepped into the GAEL's line of sight, cutting Raeylan out of view.

The monster in front of Kyleren was taller than the others, its flame white eyes dancing eerily. It had Skoh's claw on its hand. It made a weird sound as it looked at Kyleren—a grating, low rattle. Lance could have sworn the thing was cackling. The skeleton pointed at him, then began to chant. The jewel on the claw's palm began to glow bright, almost matching the sickly hue of its eyes.

Wake the darkness of illusion

To wield the Void's destruction

Kyleren suddenly felt numb with cold, a rarity for a GAEL. Usually it took the bitter chill of space to do that. He struggled against his captors with renewed ferocity. Whatever that gooey mess of bones was doing to him, he was sure it couldn't be good. What had Ragnar said about the weapon again?

In the hands of a true follower of Skoh, it can rip your soul right out of your body.

A shout of pain came from Raeylan, followed by the clatter of metal on stone. The teleporter wouldn't be able to help him. The skeleton with the claw closed its fist and made a downward jerking motion, like it was yanking hard on something.

Lance's body spasmed strangely. Air rushed out of his lungs and he heaved for breath. There was a rising pressure against his chest. The taste of sand filled his mouth and he choked, gasping. He was suffocating. A haze of darkness yawned before his eyes, and he felt like he was falling into a dark pit.

There were others in the pit with him, ten souls writhing in pain. They rolled over an immense dune of black particles—sharp like glass. The grains flailed the flesh from their bodies in a whirlwind of torture, until all that was left was bleached bone. They gagged—inky ooze bleeding from their mouths and noses.

Everything else around him was washed in white, translucent like the jewel in the center of the claw. And it occurred to Lance: these were the souls of the skeletons attacking him. Someone had sucked them into the claw, and now they were doing the same thing to him.

There was no way he was going to spend eternity as a gooey, gromm slave of Skoh.

Kyleren reached into the depths of his power, deliberately ignoring Ragnar's warning that the dragons of this shard could sense his magic. He opened a T-portal right under his feet, drawing himself into the Chano's orange world of energy. Immediately, the suffocating sensation left him. He felt warm, like he was floating free—until his feet crashed against the ground. Letting his training take over, he immediately tucked into a roll. He had made sure his T-portal exited out in the hallway, behind the archway. As he picked himself up, he counted himself lucky. That had been pretty close.

The skeletons that had been holding him were two piles of bones on either side of him, unmoving. He briefly wondered why they had collapsed, until the piles twitched and began to reassemble. His BT weaponry had barely been able to nick the gromm things, so instead of searching for the weapons that the skeletons had stolen, he instead lunged in with his fists.

As the first skeleton managed to rebuild its torso, Lance punched it in the face with all his strength. The skull shattered, and it made a groaning hissy sound, but it kept trying to assemble itself. He punched twice more, obliterating the collar bone and most of the rib cage. Unfortunately, the bones simply rearranged itself into a spiky, rattling mess.

"Frag," Kyleren cursed.

He dashed back into the room, knowing that travel through a T-portal took time, hoping Raeylan had been able to hold his ground while he was gone. Rend lay on the floor close to where he had opened the T-portal. The remaining eight bone monsters were attacking Raeylan.

Lance must have been in Chano's plane longer than he had thought. Raeylan was wrapped in oozing bone, Temperance useless on the ground at his feet. The skeleton with the claw was chanting at him. Lance expected Raeylan to teleport out of the monster's grasp, but as the seconds ticked by and he didn't, Kyleren started to worry.

Maybe the black goo was stopping him. Maybe Raeylan was too hurt to make it work. Kyleren didn't know. All he knew was that he had to get to Raeylan before they ripped out the teleporter's soul.

Lance jumped to action, but even his GAEL speed might not be fast enough. It would take precious moments to collect Rend from the floor. He slid on his knees and swept up the axe, rotating his body so that he ended up on one knee. Two of the skeletons rushed him. He swept Rend horizontally, cleaving both in two. Some of their damaged pieces flew away, but to his never-ending annoyance, the monsters just reordered their bodies to compensate for the loss. They twisted into four-legged creatures with shorter spines and thicker extremities.

He glanced quickly sideways to see how Raeylan was holding up. The skeleton casting the spell plunged the claw forward and pulled. Raeylan didn't scream, but Lance could see the man's skin turn ashy grey. Bits of his flesh started to dissolve, like what had happened to the souls Kyleren had seen in the pit.

Raeylan didn't have a lot of time.

The two skeletons attacking Lance had come from behind, out in the corridor. They were the same ones that he had tried to smash with his fists. The skull and collar bone of the damaged skeleton hadn't reintegrated, nor had the most recent injuries of either foe. Kyleren flicked his gaze to the bones he had most freshly severed. They had turned white, seemingly inert.

It took Kyleren only a half a second more to notice that the harm Raeylan had done with the ice also looked permanent. Figuring that if he did enough damage at once he could put a couple of them down, he rushed the one that was casting the spell, accepting that the other two would probably flank him. Something white and blue, foggy and indistinct was emanating from Raeylan's chest, being greedily sucked into the claw. Lance could see the flesh on Raeylan's arms disintegrating, leaving only bone.

Lance raised Rend over his head. With a mighty shout he leapt upon the skeleton with the claw, bringing the axe down on its skull with the flat side of the blade. Like a hammer, Rend smashed through the monster, crushing the skull, spine, and pelvis into tiny fragments. The leftover arms and legs rattled like angry children, turning white and crashing into a motionless heap. Bone dust hung in the air as Skoh's claw clattered to the ground.

Raeylan's soul surged back into his body and, to the GAEL's infinite relief, the teleporter's flesh solidified back to normal. Kyleren only spared a moment to check Raeylan's progress, because the two skeletons he had slid past attacked on both sides. He spun, swinging the axe sideways with all his might, bludgeoning his enemies into useless chunks.

Raeylan managed to teleport out of his captivity then, attacking whatever he could. Allowing the teleporter to cover his left, Kyleren focused on the skeletons nearest him. Some of them were partially frozen—evidence that Raeylan hadn't gone down without a fight. These were slower, so Kyleren let them charge him. He hit one of them so hard that it flew across the room, smashing against the opposite wall. Raeylan copied Lance's fighting style as best he could, using the flat of his sword and Temperance's hilt.

But in the end, Kyleren had done most of the smashing, thanks to his superior strength and broad-blade axe. When the last skeleton had been crushed, he was sorely out of breath. He looked at Raeylan, eyeing the other man with concern. The teleporter was acid-burned, but it looked like his leather armor had protected him from the worst of it.

"What was wrong with your magic?" Lance heaved as he watched Raeylan remove the ruined leather.

"Half of my spells failed to manifest," Raeylan explained as he tossed away an arm greave. "The acid of these creatures somehow disrupted my magic."

"Oh," was all Lance could reply. That hadn't happened to him at all. Maybe it was because the sticky substance hadn't been able to penetrate his skin.

They didn't speak for a moment. After a time, Raeylan hobbled over to Lance and bowed.

"What's that for?" Lance said, almost in exasperation. It was the second time Raeylan had done that today. He had taken out his share of the enemies. Lance didn't need any special thanks.

"That is twice this cycle you have saved me. I stand in your debt."

Lance waved his hand.

"You woulda done the same."

"Those abominations almost took my soul."

"Tried the same skrit on me. Did the rottin' flesh thing happen to me too?" Lance asked darkly, trying to make sense of what had happened.

Raeylan nodded. Lance couldn't help releasing a low whistle. It had been gruesome enough to see it happen to his comrade. He didn't like to think of it happening to himself.

"That was way too close."

"I concur," Raeylan replied.

The color still hadn't returned to the teleporter's face. Lance growled as he gathered his BT assault rifle. When he bent to pick up the claw, he paused, not wanting to touch the thing again.

"I saw people in that gem," he said, pointing.

"As did I," Raeylan agreed, picking up the claw when it was clear Lance wasn't going to. He turned it over thoughtfully. "I wonder if they can be freed."

"Won't do them much good," Lance returned with a shrug, "seein' as we smashed their bones. Besides, they had to be Skoh worshippers. I say let them rot."

Raeylan's jaw grew tight.

"We do not know what manner of people they were in life."

"Frag that," Lance said, not backing down. He was tired of all the skrit that went on in this fragging place. "That spell-castin' skeleton had to be a Skoh worshipper. How else could he use that claw?"

Raeylan's eyes flashed, but he didn't argue.

"Whatever they were," Kyleren continued, "we know that claw is bad news. It steals your soul and makes you one 'a these fraggin' things? We should destroy it."

Raeylan offered the claw back to Lance but shook his head.

"That could have unforeseen consequences, Kyleren," Raeylan said. "It was a storm of magic that fractured the worlds into shards."

Lance grimaced as he put the claw back in his pack, wary.

"Yeah, but if Kirion gets his hands on it, he could make an army of these things."

"Then we guard it until we discover a way to dismantle it safely," Raeylan decided.

He indicated the gold dust that Lance had disturbed earlier.

"I think these creatures were bound to this place by someone. This ring kept them dormant."

"Coulda been left as a defense mechanism, too."

Lanced watched Raeylan's expression contort with pain for a second as he bent to dress the wound on his leg. The GAEL hoped that the nanomites he had injected into the teleporter earlier were still working. Raeylan looked tired and withdrawn. It was definitely time to leave this fragging place.

"Then let's get this over with," Lance growled as he opened a door leading deeper into the pyramid. "I can't wait to teleport outta here."

36: Sometimes She Cries

Margariete stepped off the transport into the yellow haze that perpetually clung low on Tarania's surface. The marshy planet was isolated, a part of the untamed Famorian System. Here, Kirion had built secret facilities unbeknownst to the taxpayers of the Blended Coalition. Margariete didn't know what research went on in the sprawling stone complex, only that Shikun was being kept inside.

The outside air was uncomfortable to breathe, with a nasty tang of sulfur. She hurried past the sentries who guarded the landing strip, GAELs in the service of Kirion. They only took a quick look at her, swiping her ident tag with a dataplate. Her anticipation made her pulse race. She needed to know that Lance's death had been worth it.

She had only walked a little way when the paved pathway forked right in front of her, one leading to the entrance of the huge fortress and the other to an electrified paddock. About thirty creatures milled about inside, moaning and growling. It was hard to tell by the sounds, but Margariete could feel their pain in her mind. They had an animalistic intelligence, knowing they were hurt but unable to identify the cause.

Margariete wrinkled her nose. The creatures were misshapen and awkward, lumbering about their cage aimlessly. Most had brutish features that indicated ettin or troll descent, but there was something more about them. Something softer. Like a human or elf.

A sudden rhythmic buzz startled her. Red lights around the paddock fence flashed. At the far end of the cage a gate slid open. That side of the paddock was linked to another building, smaller than the main complex and made of a shiny metal that reflected eerily in the yellow atmosphere.

Six white blurs swept in from the opening, surrounding the creatures. As if they knew what was happening, the misshapen monsters panicked, trying to dash away. But there was nowhere to go. The Wolves of Skoh lashed out at any who tried to break away from the herd. A seventh wolf, the largest of them all, sauntered into the cage and threw back his head, howling loudly. Margariete only just gripped her sword in time for Darkfire to block out most of the Mind Howl's debilitated effects. Despite the defense, she was close enough to receive a barrage of the howl's corruption magic. She winced painfully, fighting to stay standing.

The misshapen were not as lucky. They fell all over each other, crashing to the ground in heaps of limb and torso. To Margariete's disgust, the wolves attacked, feeding on the still living flesh. The killing didn't bother Margariete—she had murdered millions after all—as much as the creature's suffering did. The wolves were capable of killing the monsters before they ate, they had just chosen not to.

"Failed experiments are of no use to the Faithful Legion," said a voice in her ear.

Margariete recognized both his voice and the fact that she hadn't sensed his approach, which meant he had done so as shadow. She took a step away from Feralblade before turning to face him. The assassin was smiling at her, as if pleased to see her. Margariete could imagine he was—it had been a few decades since their last dalliance. This time though, he would be disappointed. Lance had changed her forever. She had no interest in ever letting Feralblade touch her again.

"What is this place?" Margariete asked.

"A breeding facility," Feralblade replied.

"Breeding facility?" Margariete returned, as she raised her eyebrows.

"Yes," Feralblade said silkily, his smile turning vicious.

Margariete was intent on asking more—did this have something to do with Shikun?—but the assassin abruptly changed the subject.

"Can I expect to have you tonight?" he asked, stepping forward and lifting a finger to her face. "You and your brother will be leaving tomorrow on mission. It has been too long since you visited my bed."

Margariete's hand snapped up and grabbed his fingers, forcing them away from her skin.

"Sorry," she said without emotion. "Our former foray was our last."

Feralblade laughed.

"It's never our last, Margariete," he teased.

Margariete refused to reply. Without even a change in expression, she walked around him, heading toward the main complex.

"This doesn't have anything to do with your GAEL lover now dead, does it?" Feralblade growled from behind her.

The door hissed open when Margariete reached it. She glanced back at Feralblade as she stepped over the threshold. The assassin's face was lined with anger and shock. Margariete enjoyed the sight of him as the door closed between them, leaving him without a reply.

That Feralblade knew of her relationship with Lance didn't surprise her. He was an assassin and the best spy in the shards. He claimed ownership over Margariete, so obviously he would have been watching her. Had she not planned to run away with Lance and Shikun, she might have feared Feralblade would have eventually killed Lance.

But that didn't matter now. Lance's death had been her doing. All she had left now was Shikun.

She wandered through the stone hallways for a quarter arc, looking through the windows of lab after lab where the Faithful Legion's greatest atrocities were taking place: the blending of Famorian creatures with unlucky humans, elves, and dwarves. The process was quite horrific. It was hard to block out the subjects' pain as she walked by, even harder to ignore the screams. Some of the subjects were begging to be killed. But the scientists just kept working.

Margariete soon stopped looking through the windows.

Finally, she found the main operating center, full of monitors, displays, and terminals. When she entered, there was only one person there, despite the enormous space. He sat in a chair, hunched over a dataplate. Margariete felt her heart sing.

"Shikun?" she said, unable to keep her voice steady.

The youngest First Kingdom heir raised his head and looked at her. He seemed puzzled at first, but then a smile spread across his face. Margariete could barely contain herself. For the past three centuries she had been holding on to the idea that her brother was still a young boy, though she knew he would be grown by the time she saw him. He had sloughed off his youth, transforming into a handsome man, tall and graceful. At first glance Margariete mistook him for Raeylan, but a slight lengthening of the face and distinct shape of the eye reminded her of King Arahm.

She felt something. A bubble of emotion, real and raw. It pounded with her blood, nearly making her faint. As Shikun stood, Margariete ran to him, holding on to him like breath in her lungs. Shikun held her gently while she wept and stroked her hair.

After she regained control of herself, Margariete pulled away. Up close she noticed something she had missed when she dashed madly to him. He was dressed in combat armor, the emblem of the sword and moon on his chest. The sight made her heart sink. She knew her first words to him in three hundred seasons should have been joyous. But they were instead tainted by the symbol of Kirion that lay between them.

"You serve the Faithful Legion," she stated, feeling her heart shrivel further.

"I have been overseeing these facilities for the sake of the Faithful," Shikun confirmed proudly. "The Famorian hordes are impossible to control because of their chaotic nature, something Chano instilled in them. Lord Kirion deduced that the mixing of human, elven, and dwarven elements would give us the ability to train them."

"But the creatures outside—" Margariete began.

"Those are only failed experiments that have to be disposed of. The successful ones are transported to Cernunnos for training, then to the shardgate for deployment."

Margariete ran her hand through her hair, trying to calm her flustered emotions. Shikun was speaking of these experiments as if they were nothing more than conscription. But he was twisting people into abominations in Kirion's name, without reservation. It made Margariete sick. Where was the young Thyellan prince, eager to honor his family name, to show himself a worthy soul? Where was the boyish innocence that she had loved all this time, the justification for her descent into evil?

Margariete had not anticipated this, and she cursed herself for that. Of course Kirion would have brainwashed Shikun. He was a water angel. Though weakened by human blood, he could probably still open shardgates. The Lord of Light would have never let such a valuable piece escape his arsenal.

Margariete closed her eyes and fought against tears. This man was not the Shikun she had wanted.

"Sister, are you all right?" Shikun asked, placing a hand on her shoulder.

Her eyes fluttered open.

"No," she said. "I'm not."

"You're probably just weary from travel. You should rest. We begin our first venture together on the morrow. I have been waiting for this for such a long time!"

Margariete could only nod in agreement. She wanted nothing more to leave this room, and be alone.

*

Every cycle Margariete woke, she wondered if her life wasn't just some horrible dream. She served with Shikun now, leading an army of misblended creatures. She tried to convince herself that Shikun wasn't a monster, that he was still uncorrupted. But it never worked. Despite her attempts to devise new ways to try and save Shikun's darkened soul, she never succeeded. He grew angry at any mention of their previous life in Thyella, of honor, and most all, of Raeylan, whom Shikun now considered a traitor.

Shikun preferred instead to relive his exploits, narrating his adventures of his service for Kirion. They always ended with Margariete excusing herself so she could deal with the clenching in her stomach. There wasn't a war crime her younger brother hadn't committed. Feralblade had been charged with the prince's training personally, and her brother's ideology mirrored the assassin's completely. Not only that, but Shikun followed Kirion's commands without question, and—to Margariete's dismay—with hard brutality.

The seasons passed. Shikun grew colder toward her every cycle, more ruthless with every kill, more depraved with every abusive torment of the innocent. Margariete wept for what he had become, wishing she had never made her deal with Kirion. She had killed Lance for the sake of this, for Shikun's preservation. It had been such a waste.

Margariete relived Lance's death almost every night. The memory taxed her strength. She barely functioned on the battlefield, victorious only because of her celestial magic rather than by design. She had lost Shikun to misguided devotion. She had lost family and love to a handful of lies. Her sacrifice had been worthless.

There came a time on the frontline where she just gave up, not quite refusing to fight, but just uncaring whether she survived or not. The enemy closed in around her, desperate. They would have killed her had not Shikun arrived to defend her. Her younger brother had been so angry that he locked her in the brig for an entire cycle.

There she made her first good decision in four hundred seasons. Margariete intended to defect at her first opportunity. Kirion hadn't kept his end of the bargain. He had betrayed her. Shikun was dead, replaced by a merciless, malicious creature.

But she had to be careful. She knew she would not survive on her own for very long, and Kirion's forces were far spread throughout the shards. So Margariete delayed her plan, waiting for a time that Raeylan was nearby. When she found him, she would turn against Kirion and join the resistance to the Lord of Light.

One cycle, they invaded a shard called Yuugrasil. Not only had Kirion sent Shikun and Margariete, but bolstered the misblended army with Feralblade and Thanati. Their goal was to eradicate the Dragons of Aeron who inhabited the shard. The wolves had already found and killed several of them. Besides that, Kirion was searching for one in particular: Ragnar. Apparently, this dragon had access to vital information that Kirion required. Their orders were to capture him alive.

They hadn't been out of the shardgate for an arc before they found a man standing in their path. He bore a great resemblance to Margariete.

"Thanati," he greeted with a growl.

"I never thought you would surrender without a fight, Ragnar," Thanati cooed haughtily, "not after I killed your sweet Sorien."

Feralblade chuckled. Shikun's hand was on his weapon. Unbeknownst to them all, Ragnar began a silent conversation with Margariete.

I see the desire to flee this path within you my daughter. I am your father, Ragnar.

Margariete had to hide the surprise from her face. She had considered that one of these dragons could have been her sire, but hadn't cared to pursue it too intently.

What is it you want? she replied as Thanati continued to taunt Ragnar.

Raeylan still wishes to save you.

You have seen him? Margariete returned hopefully. And Esilwen?

Less than a fortnight ago. They left this shard for a new quest.

Margariete fluttered with excitement. This was her chance. The advent of her betrayal.

Fight with me, she begged. Help me stop this madness.

This force you accompany is more than the remaining dragons can face. The Wolves of Skoh have already obliterated half of us. Only six of us remain, including me and you.

Then what do you propose?

That you run and let me be captured. Thanati and the wolves are too powerful. Kirion wants me too much to let me escape this shard.

As if summoned—probably by Feralblade—the Wolves of Skoh rushed from the tree line, surrounding Ragnar in a semicircle.

What makes you think I can escape if you cannot?

Because of who you are, Ragnar returned.

Then in a thought, he sent her instructions on how to find Raeylan, images of the places her twin would go. Outwardly, Ragnar had just refused an offer to join the Faithful.

It was now or never.

Thank you, she sent.

Margariete took her chance and, with it, a bit of revenge. She slipped her sword from its sheath at the same time her comrades drew their weapons. As they went in for the attack, she lopped off Feralblade's head. The assassin's blood spewed everywhere as his body hit the ground. He never even saw it coming.

"Margariete!" Shikun shouted in alarm. "What have you done?"

Margariete turned to the man who had once been her brother as the Pack Sire howled his magic. Margariete didn't know how, but Ragnar resisted the debilitating mind effects and launched a ferocious attack on Thanati. Margariete's Void sword saved her from the brunt of the wolf's howl. With Feralblade dead and Thanati occupied, Margariete took a precious moment to apologize to the brother she had tried so hard to save.

"Forgive me, Shikun. I failed you," she admitted. "It's time that rectify my mistakes."

She forced her body into the form of a dragon and leapt into the air. Shikun attempted to stop her, but his shock caused him to hesitate just an instant too long. His sword bounced uselessly against her heavy scales. She rushed to the shardgate, killing as many of Kirion's host as she could from the air without compromising her own position. The guards at the gate fell by her claws as she sped through.

She had gotten away clean, but knew without a doubt that they would mount a pursuit once they had captured Ragnar. Using her father's instructions, she immediately began the ordeal of tracking her twin. There wasn't time to spare. She had to find Raeylan before Kirion managed to torture the truth out of Ragnar.

37: Wasted Time

There was only one chamber left in the pyramid that they hadn't searched. Raeylan entered with extreme caution, favoring his damaged leg and allowing Kyleren to go first. The GAEL insisted, even though he had cast off his damaged helmet and couldn't see any farther than Raeylan.

Skoh's temple had touched Raeylan to the very core. He had met the darkness within himself, felt the desire for revenge so deeply that he had—for a moment—taken joy in the torture of his enemies. There was a knife of fear buried in there as well, something he had never experienced before. He did not dread death in battle if it meant defending his principles or the people he loved. But to lose himself to the shadows, to have his soul trapped forever in a dark pit of corruption—that was a horror he had never been forced to face. Skoh's claw weapon had taken him close to eternal imprisonment, a tomb of bone and death crafted in the Void's venomous embrace. His mortality suddenly loomed about him, a substantial weakness despite his infinite lifespan. For the first time since he was a child, Raeylan felt unsure of himself, that inside, he might not be who he thought he was.

He agreed with Kyleren that the claw needed to be destroyed. The havoc Kirion could wreak upon the shards if the weapon were in his possession seemed monumental, as well as discouraging. The skeleton warriors had been capable of defeating artifact bearers. Kyleren and Raeylan had barely managed to escape with their souls intact. If the Lord of Light made an army of them—

Raeylan even considered leveling the pyramids with LAMIE's LT cannons, just to eradicate whatever other Skohvian weapons might be buried inside.

"You all right?" Kyleren asked, interrupting Raeylan's silent reverie.

Raeylan glanced at the GAEL, realizing he was still standing at the threshold of the chamber even though Kyleren had already reached the other side of it.

"Yes," Raeylan confirmed, returning to his task. He could decide later. For now, they needed to focus on survival.

"Not much left," Kyleren announced as he scanned the room.

Raeylan concurred. There were empty shelves lining the walls, dust their only occupant. Parchment littered the floor, as if scrolls and tomes had been ravaged. A low, stone table occupied an entire wall, stained with the residue of old experiments, but lacking any substantial equipment. The walls were scorched in many places, but otherwise bare. There were no windows.

Bending to pick up two of the discarded pages, Raeylan examined them. The language matched that he had seen on the walls, but the content was far different. One page seemed to be from a journal detailing the search for a spell of immortality. Out of context, however, Raeylan couldn't tell if the author had discovered such a thing. The other parchment, thicker and sturdier, was a recipe for a potent poison.

Raeylan frowned. Whoever this laboratory had belonged to had been immoral. Perhaps even a little insane. He began to gather all the bits of parchment into a pile on the stone table.

"What're you doin'?" Kyleren asked.

"This information is dangerous. I will not leave it for others to emulate."

Kyleren's face brightened.

"I'll fraggin' agree to that," he said and bent to help.

When all the loose parchments and scrolls had been collected, Raeylan pulled his flint and steel from his pack and used it to light the pages on fire. As he watched them burn, he felt a glint of satisfaction that he had at least done something to control the darkness that was housed in this place. When finished, he glanced around the room.

"There's no fraggin' sword here, Raeylan," Kyleren said. "We've searched the whole place."

Raeylan stared hard at the walls, thinking.

"Perhaps it is not out in the open," Raeylan said.

Kyleren's habit of stating the obvious brought comfort to Raeylan. In a universe where the former king had been wary of trusting anyone but his sister, it was a relief to have found someone so totally honest. Though it had taken a journey to the darkest parts of his mind to see it, Raeylan was grateful to have discovered such a loyal friend.

Raeylan ran his fingers over the walls carefully, looking for anything that seemed out of the ordinary. Kyleren pushed over the bookshelves, searching behind them. Raeylan heard the soldier grunt, then there was a soft click. As he looked over, Raeylan saw a portion of the stone wall slide sideways, revealing a dark room beyond.

"Found somethin'," Kyleren said.

The air inside the chamber was stale and dry. Something about it made the wound in Raeylan's leg burn and the blisters along the back of his hands itch. Raeylan had to force himself not to cough as he entered. The room was tight, with the walls slanting inward from a central point in the ceiling. Inside were twin altars of tarnished silver, painted with symbols. Each bore a stand that was clearly meant to hold something. Between the altars on the floor was what looked like a melted glob of gold.

Kyleren mumbled something as he stooped under the low roof. Raeylan approached the two stands carefully, trying to ignore a disorienting hum that buzzed inside his head. As he drew closer, he could see that the altars were painted with artwork and symbols. One had the depiction of a skeletal hand, a jewel set into the palm. The other was the image of a sword with a black blade, two bloodstones at its hilt. Under each mural was the same incantation Raeylan had heard the skeleton use to activate the claw.

"It's gone," Kyleren grumbled. "That means The Sword could be anywhere."

At first Raeylan had assumed the strange humming sound was emanating from the altars. The longer he stood there, the louder it grew. Then it wasn't a hum anymore. It was the crackle of sand grating against the wind, mingled with screams of agony.

Screams that were cursed. The screams of the damned.

Raeylan rushed out of the alcove as fast as he could, not fully aware of his actions. When he came to himself he was back in the laboratory, leaning against the wall with sweat beading on his face. A slosh of vomit pooled at his feet. It took him a moment to realize that it must have been his.

"You okay, Raeylan?"

Raeylan looked up to see Kyleren by his side, concern plain on his face. Raeylan wiped his mouth and straightened, pushing whatever he was feeling as far away as he could, allowing anger to fill the empty void.

"The Sword of Light was never here," he said.

"What?" Kyleren said loudly, outrage in every syllable. "You mean this skrit really was a complete waste of time?"

"These altars held other weapons, objects holy to Skoh."

"Ragnar knew the whole time, didn't he?" Kyleren spat.

"Yes," Raeylan returned. "I am certain he has been here before."

At that, Kyleren looked surprised.

"How do you know?"

Raeylan pointed to the altars in succession as he explained.

"This one held the claw, but the other stowed the sword Ragnar carries on his belt. See the design?"

Kyleren sucked in a breath. His face contorted.

"I'm gonna break his fraggin' neck," he promised.

"It is important that we discover why he lied."

"Maybe because he's workin' for the lizards and was hopin' we'd die in here?"

Raeylan wasn't sure what to think. He was sure the melted gold on the floor had once been a Well of Skoh. It wasn't open, but had emanated enough residual magic to make him ill. Or perhaps it was a reaction to the poisons that his body and the nanomites were still struggling to purge. Was Ragnar working for the Dragons of Aeron? Or was he a long lost servant of the Void, hoping to destroy the artifacts of the other gods?

At the very least, Ragnar had deceived them. Just like Kyleren had warned.

"I am sorry, Kyleren," he apologized. "I should have trusted you."

"It's done now," Kyleren said, though less angry in tone than Raeylan had expected. "Just teleport us outta here. It's time Ragnar got what's comin' to him."

Raeylan nodded and said, "First, promise to let him live long enough to tell us where Margariete and Esilwen are being held."

Kyleren grinned.

"After that, he's mine."

Raeylan placed a hand on Kyleren's shoulder and felt the world melt into the saline stars of teleportation. When he blinked, he found himself outside the pyramid. Ragnar stood looking at them, as if he had been waiting for their arrival for some time, his sword drawn and ready. The blade was blacker than night, its razor edge glittering silver along the cutting edge. The way the weapon rested so easily in Ragnar's hand told Raeylan that his father was an experienced warrior.

"I'm surprised you were foolish enough to break the circle around the undead," Ragnar said smugly. "Those creatures were so uncontrollable that Serapis himself had no choice but to bind them."

So Ragnar had been following their progress—most likely through Kyleren's thoughts. That was how he knew to be ready for their return.

"You gromm bastard," Kyleren shouted.

He started forward but Raeylan held out his arm, stopping the soldier's advance. Raeylan knew he didn't have much time to extract the truth from his father before the GAEL made his lethal charge.

"Why mislead us? What do you gain?" Raeylan demanded hotly.

"Time," Ragnar stated, as if it should have been obvious. "For Margariete and Esilwen."

"You have left Margariete and Esilwen to face danger alone," Raeylan accused. "I cannot forgive you for this."

"No, Raeylan," Ragnar argued, "it is your lack of trust that has left them to their fate. Esilwen and Margariete are weak because of you."

"You know nothing of us!"

"There you are wrong, my son."

Raeylan lost himself to anger and drew his weapon. There was no sense in this.

"I am not your son," he roared.

Kyleren grunted in approval, drawing Rend.

"Blood is blood," Ragnar grinned.

"I don't get it, Rag Face. Raeylan protects the girls. That's not a weakness," Kyleren said.

"They have become a liability," Ragnar scoffed. "My son is lucky Kirion has not already won the shards. Raeylan wastes his time protecting them when he should be focused on defeating the Lord of Light. He has made his companions helpless for the sake of his own vanity."

"Do not insult them," Raeylan warned, his weapon flying forward. Temperance met Ragnar's black blade in a shower of sparks. "Margariete and Esilwen face our quest with honor, without fear."

"Yet you deny them the opportunity to offer their worth," Ragnar returned, easily turning Temperance away and slicing his own blade across Raeylan's cheek. "You must grant them leave to save themselves."

Ragnar took a step back. Raeylan wiped the blood off his face with the back of his palm. The truth of his father's words stung more painfully than the wound the black sword had inflicted.

"When people are in trouble, you save 'em," Kyleren said, swinging Rend.

The strike was so powerful that Ragnar's sword was swept to the side. Kyleren's fist pounded into Ragnar's cheek, breaking bone. But Ragnar only laughed, causing both Raeylan and Kyleren to hesitate.

"And by doing so, Raeylan has smothered their confidence," Ragnar reproached. "They wait for rescue, instead of thinking for themselves. To be free, they needed to be free of him. The fate of the shards lies with all of you. Each member of your group must be strong in order to defeat Kirion."

Kyleren growled and swept forward. He grabbed Ragnar by the shirt, intending to pull him forward. But Ragnar inexplicably held his position against the GAEL's strength, and instead of yanking the man forward, the shirt tore open.

Raeylan scowled and Kyleren took a step back.

"Frag it all," the soldier whispered.

A cross-shaped scar disfigured Ragnar's chest—the exact pattern as the dragon who had struck Raeylan with a lightning bolt.

"You're a lizard," Kyleren stated.

"A dragon," Ragnar corrected.

Ragnar sheathed his blade. His body shivered and bulged weirdly. Before Raeylan or Kyleren had a chance to attack, Ragnar grew to twice LAMIE's size. Talons ripped from the tips of his fingers and toes. Leathery wings leapt from between his shoulders. His face exploded into a scaly snout of razor sharp teeth. Ragnar's scaly body towered over them.

"If you wish to fight me," Ragnar bellowed in a voice deeper than humanly possible, "I am happy to oblige. I would much prefer, however, that you open your minds to my purpose."

"Then reveal your motives," Raeylan returned.

As the dragon's head tilted toward him, The Guardian of Time tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword.

"It was my intent to test the strength of your company."

"And how'd you test us?" Kyleren demanded. "Besides nearly getting' us killed by those gromm skeletons?"

"Your test was not to face the pyramid. Physical battles do not win wars on their own. No, I meant to uncover your commitment to the quest," Ragnar explained. "Kyleren would have failed if he had not been swayed by you, Raeylan."

"Because I almost refused to go after a made-up sword?" Kyleren shot back hotly.

"How simply you think, soldier. You would have let the shards fall for the sake of your friends."

"But there was no fraggin' sword," Kyleren roared. "You lied."

"The Sword of Light is real," Ragnar returned. "But it is not in this shard. You will need to retrieve it to defeat Kirion."

Raeylan reluctantly lowered his sword. This dragon had bested them once. He was hesitant to fight it a second time. Raeylan swallowed, trying to push away his desire to attack. He needed more answers.

"And what manner of test have you forced on Margariete and Esilwen?" he demanded of his father.

"Esilwen must cure a blight that is killing the people of this shard," Ragnar readily answered. "Margariete must unlock her full potential."

Raeylan paused, feeling himself go cold.

"She is one of you," he said quietly.

"Margariete's one of you gromm lizards?" Kyleren barked out in shock.

"Stop calling us lizards, little human," Ragnar snarled. "It is a great insult to the Ormyr."

"Enough," Raeylan interjected. This arguing was pointless. "Why did you not just ask for our help?"

"Because Kirion is not going to ask you politely for your permission to conquer the shards," Ragnar sneered impatiently. "It was necessary to see how you functioned under duress."

Raeylan tensed, steeling himself against a surge of anger. Though Ragnar had cheated them, Raeylan knew there were more important matters to attend, so he said carefully, "We have passed your test. Now tell us where to find the others."

"I will take you to Margariete myself," Ragnar promised in a relaxed tone."

Kyleren snorted rudely, earning a stare of rebuke from Raeylan.

"Very well," he said to Ragnar, "but know that if you lie to us again, I will show you no pardon."

Even as a dragon, Ragnar managed to smile arrogantly.

"I would expect no less from my son," he said.

38: Prince Charming

Kirion felt lightheaded as power spilled through Nehro's Glove, closing the shardgate behind his ship. GAELs manned each of the six stations on the bridge. Kirion listened to their reports as the surge of Nehro's power ebbed. Everything in the fleet seemed in order.

"Land the ship at the rendezvous coordinates," Kirion ordered when they had finished.

"Touching down now, sir," the pilot said.

Kirion ran his hands across the rolled scroll he held. It was smooth to the touch, the fabric familiar. Its instructions had led him to this shard, to find information on a treasure he thought long lost. Those he prepared to meet had contacted him only a few hours ago, their mission supposedly successful.

After the craft touched down, the Lord of Light made his way out of the ship, ordering his men to remain at their posts. As he opened the outer hatch, two of his most valuable servants were there to greet him.

"My Lord," his assassin welcomed with a drop to his knees.

The wolf beside him growled in its chest and lowered its eyes deferentially.

"Feralblade," Kirion returned as he stepped out of the ship and into the sunlight.

The assassin rose, fingering his scarred ear as he did so.

"You will be pleased with our work, Lord Kirion," Feralblade reported.

The dragons of Aeron are here, the Pack Sire said into Kirion's mind.

"Yes," Kirion said, "Feralblade mentioned that in his report."

"We've had a confirmed sighting."

"Just a sighting?" Kirion mused with lifted eyebrows.

Kirion waited, knowing his assassin's fancy for drama. Feralblade wouldn't have dared to summon the Lord of Light for such a trivial piece of information.

"And taken a prisoner," Feralblade confessed proudly.

The Pack Sire straightened and turned, looking to a group of trees a few miles to the north.

The pack has it subdued within those trees. Follow me, My Lord.

Thirty minutes later Kirion entered the trees. Under their cover he noted seven wolves circling a large creature—almost half the size of his ship—that struggled to stay standing. Its wings hung at odd angles from its back, obviously broken. Blood coated its rusty scales in several places. The dragon hissed at the wolves, but made no move to attack them.

Splintered trunks surrounded the prisoner. Kirion guessed the Pack Sire had used its howl to bring the dragon down during its flight. As he watched, the dragon wobbled unsteadily and crashed to the ground. It roared in pain and anger.

Kirion approached it.

"What is your name, dragon?"

The serpentine head swung in his direction. Eyes of sapphire looked at Kirion in surprise, then flashed in recognition.

"I will give you nothing, Betrayer," the dragon heaved.

The dragon's disrespect teased Kirion's temper. He reached into his plane, retrieving his chains of light and commanded them to bind the creature.

"It is not wise to challenge me," he warned.

"Aeron is my patron. I will never serve the Lord of Light."

Kirion turned to the Pack Sire and gestured. The massive wolf threw his head to the sky and released his howl. Kirion, bearer of Skoh's Earring, stood immune to the attack's effect, watching as the dragon writhed in agony. After a time, Kirion held out his hand, commanding the Pack Sire to stop. The dragon twitched and whined on the ground like a beaten puppy.

"I will ask you only once more, dragon. If you defy me again, I will let the Mind Howl ring until you die."

"Tosk," the dragon grumbled. "My name is Tosk."

"Better," Kirion said. He held up the scroll, but did not unroll it. "Do you recognize this, Tosk?"

"Should I?" Tosk rumbled unhappily.

"It was written by one of your kind," Kirion stated. "The only one who saw the Fracturing and survived."

Tosk only snarled in reply. Kirion was unimpressed.

"Where is he, Tosk? Where is Ragnar?"

"The son of Aeron will not bow to you, Kirion."

Kirion turned to the Pack Sire.

"Howl until he gives you the answers I seek."

Kirion turned his back on the dragon and walked to the end of the tree line, where Feralblade stood watch. The wolf cry wailed through the air.

"Ragnar is here," Kirion said confidently. "We will find him even if the dragon refuses to help us."

"What are your orders, Lord Kirion?"

"Bring in the GAEL factions of the Legion," Kirion said loudly over Tosk's shrieks of pain. "I want them to—"

Kirion stopped speaking suddenly. A prickle of magic had touched his skin, close but faint. It was like a whisper through a silent forest. At first he wasn't sure if he had sensed anything at all, that he was still adjusting to the new sensations of this shard, so he turned in the direction he had felt it. Southwest. He concentrated, trying to measure its flavor.

"My Lord?" Feralblade asked.

A rush of magicks flushed through him. A weak, nearly dead Well of Skoh, far away to the west. Near the Well, the sharp tang of Chano and the salty flow of Nehro. North was a web of the Void—gritty, and covering a large area. Directly south was an eruption of Aeron too powerful to be only dragons. And only a starship's jump from where he stood was the tickle that had alerted him. The warm taste of the Phoenix Angel.

Esilwen was there.

Kirion's heart pounded. They were in this shard, Raeylan's band of would-be heroes. He whipped out his communication stone and prepared a gateslip message.

"Thanati, bring the mobile units of the Faithful Legion to Yuugrasil, immediately. All of them."

Kirion turned to Feralblade.

"Secure the shardgate."

Feralblade looked at him curiously.

"Of course, My Lord," the assassin said. "May I ask why the entire mobile force of the Faithful Legion will be occupying this revolting little shard?"

Kirion dropped the communication stone back into his pouch. He called his power, filling himself with its bright glow.

"It is time I collect what belongs to me."

39: All She Wrote

Margariete sat on a ledge overlooking the newly converted city of Touten. Two seasons ago she had depleted her heart salt rations. Since then, she had been stranded in this little shard. She had hidden in this small city well, finding simple work as a seamstress. The customs of these people mirrored Thyella, but even without that advantage, by reading minds Margariete had never missed a customary step in etiquette. She had no friends, but that was the way she wanted it. She was alive and hoped that Raeylan would find her soon.

Unfortunately, the Faithful had appeared first. All of Touten converted to the path of light inside a fortnight. The rest of the shard followed soon after. Margariete sighed. It wasn't such a large leap for these people. They hadn't had a patron deity from before the Fracturing, and they thirsted for divine guidance. So when several acolytes of the Faithful appeared, showing off with some basic magic, the populace swooned, leaving Margariete without a home again. She knew agents of the Faithful were hunting her. Once the Touten people realized who she was, they would turn her in.

At least the Faithful's presence wasn't wholly debilitating. It offered Margariete an opportunity. Their central command would have access to gate salt that she could steal so that she could resume her search for her twin and Esilwen. The only obstacle was escaping through the shardgate. The guards would force a confrontation and to succeed she would have to use her magic, revealing her identity.

Kirion was looking for her with a fervor that surprised her. Sure she had defected, but he had more important things to search for—the artifacts for one, Esilwen for another. So why was Margariete suddenly so essential? What did the Lord of Light want with her, other than the obvious—he wanted to punish her for her duplicity? Whatever his motives, Margariete decided fleeing was worth the attempt.

Following Ragnar's instructions had not been easy. Though he had set Raeylan on a specific path, her brother must have deviated from the original course at some point. Perhaps he had met with unforeseen Faithful outposts. Margariete herself had been forced into several detours she had not intended, the one that had landed her in Touten included.

She waited for nightfall before slipping into a temple to procure some salt. The moon glowed green, casting everything in a ghostly light. Once the precious substance was in her possession, she made for the shardgate as quickly as she could. It was housed inside an enormous cave punctured by crystals. Five sentries were posted at the entrance, one GAEL and four native foot soldiers. Margariete hid behind a large stone as she crept near, wondering how best to defeat them.

That was when the gate opened. Margariete sucked a breath that hissed between her teeth. Kirion strode through confidently, flanked by Thanati on one side and Shikun on the other. Margariete ducked lower into her hiding place, suppressing any magic she had been using. Hopefully, she had been quick enough to avoid Kirion's keen magic sense.

Kirion stopped just short of her hiding place and addressed his subordinates.

"Where is she?" he demanded.

Margariete's heart grew heavy. They knew she was here, hiding in the shard. This was the only way out. How was she going to escape before they found her?

"We moved her through this gate less than an hour ago," the GAEL commander reported with a stiff salute. "She is secured in the city, under a mire field so we can keep her sedated."

"But no GAEL guards, I assume," Kirion returned, as if this was common knowledge.

Margariete caught her breath. What was going on? At first she had assumed they were speaking about her, but apparently not. Unable to resist, she barged into the GAEL soldier's mind, searching for an answer.

She discovered why GAELs were not allowed near the mire field. It disrupted their bond and caused them to go insane. The field was developed by the Agromors in Chano's shard, an invention Kirion had appropriated and was putting to effective use. Shards with magic were easily subdued with this new power.

But that was only half as worrisome as another piece of information she gleaned. They had Esilwen.

"—and Raeylan?" Kirion was asking.

"We don't where he is, just that he is severely—possibly fatally—wounded."

"Too much to hope," Kirion mumbled irritably, but he was looking around, as if he had heard something the others hadn't.

Margariete snapped off her telepathy, worried he had noticed her.

"We have him on the run, My Lord," Shikun persisted. "But he will be drawn here to rescue our prisoner, I'm sure."

Kirion drew his thumb across his lower lip as he always did when he was deep in thought. Then he smiled and disappeared. Margariete blinked, having momentarily forgotten the Lord of Light's ability to teleport. She jumped from her hiding place, preparing to retreat, but she was too late. Before she even turned around, she felt fingers press against the back of her neck. Void corruptions spilled through her body like blood.

"Hello, Margariete," he said, his face growing blurry in her vision. "How I have missed you."

*

When she woke, she knew Kirion must have removed the Black Touch from her. She had seen him use it before. It was death in twenty arcs unless Kirion halted the destruction. As it was, she felt weak and dizzy.

She analyzed her surroundings quickly. The tiny stone room was obviously a cell, complete with iron rods barring the door. Her arms were bound above her head by a chain hooked to the ceiling such that her feet dangled two spans above the floor. The metal manacles were a simple device, easily manipulated by her telekinesis. Intent on escape, wondering why Kirion had imprisoned her so sloppily, she called on her magic.

But nothing happened. Margariete tried again, but couldn't feel her connection to the plane of air at all. The attempt made her feel sick, like her body was lopsided and unbalanced.

Her arms ached painfully and her hands were numb. That was her only clue as to how long she had hung unconscious. Even if she could somehow free herself, it would be a while before she could use her fingers properly.

"You can't open them," came a voice from outside the cell.

Margariete started. Shikun stood just outside the bars, glaring at her. For an instant she was confused. How had he been able to sneak up on her? Then she remembered the mire field.

"The mire field suppresses all magic, even Kirion's," Shikun continued. "You won't be able to pick those locks with your mind."

"Then why don't you let me out, and save me the trouble," Margariete snapped sardonically.

"I would, but I can't," Shikun said in mock apology. "Our Lord needs you for something important."

"Your lord," Margariete corrected.

Shikun's expression hardened.

"So you have forsaken the path of light."

"The Faithful have no light, Shikun," Margariete argued, knowing she was pressing Shikun into anger. Maybe if she pushed him right, she could get him to present her with an opportunity for escape. "Your dear and evil lord is nothing more than a murderous tyrant."

Shikun clenched his fists. Margariete couldn't read his mind, but knew him well enough to see that he was frustrated by her provocations, rather than the other way around. So he quickly turned the tables.

"We've just had a confirmed sighting of Raeylan two shards over. He's coming for Esilwen."

Margariete tried not to let this affect her calm.

"What have you done with her? Where's Esilwen?" she asked.

"Boringly unconscious," he replied. "It must be driving you crazy, moving through the shards with no purpose. But Kirion is going solve that for you. Ragnar told us just how you can serve our Lord now. Even in death, sister. You should consider yourself lucky. As a betrayer, Kirion owes you nothing, yet he is still offers you a place in his ascension."

Margariete tried not to panic. Kirion wanted her dead. And he usually managed to get what he wanted.

Shikun turned on his heel. Margariete didn't see him for a while. Kirion came, taunting her about the information he had yanked out of Ragnar. Thanati was with him, interrogating Margariete on command. Obviously, Kirion was looking for something, but she didn't know what.

Margariete soon lost her sense of time. She didn't know how long she had been hanging by that chain. Thanati tortured her for arcs on end after Kirion left, until the floor was coated in blood. Margariete never left her cell. The mire field blocked all her defenses.

But one cycle, everything changed. Shikun arrived with a contingent of Faithful guards. He released her from the chain, but bound her hands in front of her.

"It is time to serve again, sister," he cooed with disdain.

Unceremoniously, he threw a noose around her neck, then led her from the prison by its end. She was pulled through several twisting corridors, then up three flights of stairs. She recognized a chamber as the main assembly hall both by its size and by the huge marble statue of Kirion set in the center. Here, Shikun took a sharp turn, leading her to a set of bronze double doors. When the guards yanked them open, Margariete blinked in the bright sunlight as Shikun dragged her outside onto a balcony.

A crowd of spectators had gathered below. When they saw Margariete, they cursed and hissed. Kirion was waving at the crowd, twenty spans from the doors. Thanati stood behind him with golden wings outspread. Esilwen struggled next to them, bound to the railing, tears running freely down her face.

Margariete snorted. No wonder these fools worshipped Kirion as a god. He had his own personal angel.

There was a groan off to her left. When Margariete looked she crumpled, feeling like someone had hit her. Raeylan lay on the white marble floor, beaten. Blood soaked his white coat, obliterating the Viridius crest embroidered on the back. His right hand was missing; there was only a stub at the end of his wrist. Red matted his blond hair.

"Raeylan," Margariete whispered in despair.

Her twin shifted, looking at her through bruised eyes. He struggled then, managing with great effort to climb to his knees. His expression was soft as he gazed on Margariete. Though still without power, Margariete understood what had happened. He had come for Esilwen, oblivious to the effects of the mire field. Against an army of Faithful, unable to call upon Nehro's magic, he had been overwhelmed and captured.

After leading Margariete forward into the sunshine, Shikun kicked the back of her legs, knocking her into a kneeling position in front of Kirion. But she kept her eyes on Raeylan, silently begging for forgiveness.

"Sister," he said quietly, and by his tone, Margariete knew he had already pardoned her.

Margariete choked on a response, unable to say anything. At that moment, Kirion turned and addressed them, loud enough for the mob below to hear.

"The Viridius twins. Traitors to the Faithful Legion and to the path of light. You will be executed for your crimes, to protect the future of the Seven Worlds."

The crowd roared loudly when Shikun yanked Margariete to her feet and pushed her into the hands of the other set of guards. She struggled unsuccessfully against her captors as Shikun unsheathed a long curved sword; her arms still refused to function correctly since she had been suspended for such a long time. Esilwen begged Kirion to show mercy, but other than a hardening of his jaw, Margariete saw no change of expression in the Lord of Light.

"Any last words?" Shikun asked Raeylan as the younger man lifted his sword.

"I forgive you, Shikun," was all Raeylan said, and bowed his head, humbly accepting his fate.

Margariete screamed at Shikun, pleaded herself hoarse. But it was all in vain. Margariete watched her younger brother decapitate her twin with one swipe of his blade.

For a moment, Margariete refused to believe it. Raeylan's head hit the marble with a dull thud. The mob bellowed in mindless approval. Kirion looked satisfied; Esilwen wailed in misery. Shikun faced the crowd with shining eyes, holding up his sword in grisly triumph. Margariete knew tears should have been pouring from her eyes, but instead she stood motionless, dry-eyed and numb with disbelief.

Everything seemed to slow down. Sound seemed small and far away. Her guards were distracted by the people's vehement celebration. Kirion and Thanati were staring at Esilwen. Shikun had his back to her.

A moment of clarity embraced Margariete. This cycle would see the end of the Viridius line.

Two swift movements put both of Margariete's guards on the ground, gasping for breath. Margariete sped forward and threw her chains around Shikun's neck.

"I'm sorry, little brother," she whispered in his ear.

Margariete twisted the chains, crushing Shikun's throat before anyone knew what was happening. The telepath lowered him to the floor gently. She took a moment, kneeling between the bodies of her two brothers. The former Princess of the Jewel touched her twin gently on the shoulder and stroked the golden hair of her littlest sibling, remembering them differently, when they were young and happy in the family shrine of Viridius Castle.

The crowd ebbed into murmurs, causing Margariete to look up. Kirion stared at her, his face nearly purple with rage. He flicked his head at Thanati, who grabbed Margariete and pulled her to her feet. Purposely, he looked at Esilwen, ignoring Margariete entirely.

"You have all betrayed me," he snarled.

Through a veil of tears, Esilwen shook her head from side to side.

"It was you who betrayed all of us, Lord of Light," she returned sadly. "You have led the shards to darkness, a darkness you once pledged to destroy."

His dusky eyes narrowed dangerously.

"Still, you refuse me?" he asked. "You could be my queen, Esilwen."

"I cannot love you, Kirion," she said. "You have chosen your path and I will fight you until the very end."

Kirion's mouth pulled into an angry frown.

"Very well," he said. "I see you will not be swayed."

He turned to Thanati.

"Lower the mire field," he commanded.

Thanati inclined her head, pulling a dead tech communication device out of a pouch at her belt. She gave the instructions. A sudden rush of euphoria knocked Margariete to her hands and knees as magic surged back into her body. Her head spun in circles, like she was intoxicated. By the time she recovered, she could see the other magic users on the balcony had experienced a similar effect.

But Kirion had been restored the fastest. As soon as he was able, he encased both Margariete and Esilwen in warm chains of unbreakable, inescapable golden light. Margariete watched, helpless, as the Lord of Light summoned Chano, forcing the goddess remnant into a replica of Fohtian's Chalice. Then he drew a long knife from his belt.

"I am sorry it has come to this, my dearest Esilwen," Kirion said and lunged forward.

He stabbed Esilwen directly in the heart. She screamed in pain as her blood flowed from the wound, gushing icy green fire into the new Chalice. Margariete wept as Esilwen's eyes glazed over. The healer stretched her hand outward, as if reaching for someone. Then she slumped inside her prison of light.

Margariete didn't watch Kirion drink the blood, but instead looked on Esilwen, her only friend. The healer's face seemed younger in death, more at peace than Margariete had ever seen her in these last centuries of life. She heard Kirion burst into flame, so she looked over at him, ignoring the collective gasp of the crowd.

The Lord of Light had won. He held four of the god artifacts. There would be no stopping him now.

As if on cue to her thoughts, Kirion reappeared, naked and whole where he had exploded into green fire. The people below went mad with frenzied faith, falling to their knees in worship, tears streaming down their faces. All prayed to their one true god. The god of light.

Kirion basked in his new power for a full quarter arc before turning and walking back into the building.

"Bring her," he threw over his shoulder.

Slightly surprised that her pending executing was not to be a public event, she didn't resist as the Faithful guards dragged her into the assembly hall. She might have been terrified by the aura of power that now surrounded her, had she not just suffered the loss of everyone who had ever meant anything to her. Emotion had left her wasted, stretched thin like the tanned skin of an animal. She wished for death, a sweet reprieve from grief and despair.

The guards took her to the platform in the center of the room. Kirion stood there, sliding a robe over himself as he waited for her.

"You have killed two of my generals and robbed yourself as a third," he stated coldly.

"You broke our accord first," Margariete returned in kind. "I will not be deceived again."

Kirion hit her cheek with the back of his hand so hard that her teeth ached.

"I gave Shikun a true purpose."

Margariete spit blood and laughed.

"You turned him into monster. Killing innocents is murder, no matter how you justify it to yourself."

Kirion's face pulled into an ugly mask. His palm grew bright with light and, at last, Margariete knew death was coming.

"You have Aeron's artifact, dear Margariete."

The Lord of Light thrust his hand into her chest, but Margariete was surprised by the lack of pain the attack offered. She felt his hand move inside her. Suddenly, her hands felt warm and sticky.

"You look surprised," Kirion laughed arrogantly. "But it is true. Ragnar told me before he died. You've had Aeron's artifact within you all this time, hidden by the Mystic for safekeeping."

"That's impossible," Margariete countered. "I cannot touch Aeron's artifact. It would kill me."

"I do apologize," Kirion sneered, "but you will be dead before I have a chance to explain it to you."

Kirion ripped his hand free. Then came the pain. Agony rippled through Margariete and she screamed. Margariete felt life draining from her slowly, her own blood warm on her chest. Her vision blurred at the edges, but she could see Kirion holding something in his hands, coated along the edges with her blood. A pane of mist, swirling grey. Inside she saw a reflection of herself, another self, looking out. She held the hand of a young, beautiful blond boy around twelve. With a start, she recognized him: Shikun.

Then she remembered as the darkness closed around her, her mind dissolving into the universe. This was not her real life. This was her second choice. Her second chance.

Part 2

40: No Regrets

When Margariete woke, she was laying in the grass. Her limbs were stiff, as if she had been there a long, long time. Quickly she pushed herself to sitting, looking for Kirion and his guards. But then she remembered: that hadn't really happened.

Pain keened through her body. Her thigh throbbed; her nose was broken. She struggled with two realities, recalling conflicting memories. Were Raeylan and Esilwen dead? Had Kirion won the universe? Or was she still fighting him, racing for the last of the artifacts?

"Margariete," came a young and familiar voice.

She looked up to see Shikun as she had known him, before he was lost. A young boy, barely beginning adolescence. He stood over her, his lips turned in a sweet smile.

"It is time to forgive yourself."

And then she knew. Her choice to join Kirion or not would have never saved her little brother. Shikun would have died either way. It wasn't her fault.

"I do, Shikun," she whispered. "But I miss you."

He tittered lightly.

"And I you, sister," he said. "Have faith. There will come a time when we will meet again."

He took her hand and helped her to her feet. When she was upright, he and the Viridius shrine faded away, like colored paint on the surface of a pond. In its place was a white room, with no obvious light source. She could see three wide steps descending into a grand emptiness that glittered with tiny lights. A man stood at the bottom stair, tall and regal, light reflecting from his shiny, bald head.

"Greetings, daughter of my flesh," he said.

"Who are you?" Margariete asked wincing in pain as she took the first step down. As she did so, electricity buzzed in the back of her head like static.

Her recent battles were blurry in her memory and she had to focus to recall them properly: her tumble through the root chute, the fight with the wind wyverns, and the struggle with the doppelganger. She was back in Aeron's maze. As she stood there, she eyed the man warily, knowing that this was the last fight, knowing that she was in no condition to win. Margariete touched Stardawn's hilt lightly, comforted by its nearness. She felt the sword's intelligence, sensed its faith in her. Darkfire was gone, an aberration left to her alternate life.

The man stroked his long beard and turned, his silver robes glistening with starlight.

"I am not your enemy, daughter," he said. "The wounds you bear are nothing, merely the projection of thought. Cure yourself."

Margariete scowled. That didn't mean anything.

"I am no healer," Margariete returned.

The man smiled, amused. "Your mind is not yet free. Here you are everything. Here you are nothing. Your will is given life. To escape, you must unburden yourself completely."

Irritation pulsed against Margariete's skull. This old man sounded like the scarred dragon, and she had no patience for it.

"You think of my son," the man laughed quietly. "Ormyr can be very temperamental, though that is mostly your doing."

A shiver ran up Margariete's spine.

"How did you—?" Margariete began, but quickly answered her own question. "You can read my mind."

"I do not read thoughts as you and your kin. I breathe thoughts as you do air. I sense their source, their energy. I am their diviner."

Margariete bit her lip, thinking. Finally she said, "You're him: Aeron, god of air."

The Mystic nodded, waiting patiently for her to continue.

"Then I have reached the end of your maze."

"You have journeyed through your own soul, Margariete. The maze was not of my making, but yours."

"I don't understand," Margariete complained.

"The mind is your domain," Aeron said. "Control it, and your injuries will vanish."

Margariete looked at her damaged hip and touched a hand to her broken nose. Feeling ludicrous, and not quite sure what Aeron meant, she thought, Heal!

Nothing happened. Margariete glared at the Mystic, sure he was mocking her.

"Release what you know," Aeron advised, folding his hands into his voluminous sleeves, "and allow what you wish to be."

Margariete tried again, this time with serious concentration. She willed the pain to disappear. Slowly, it subsided. Surprised, she unwrapped the bloody bandages on her body, finding her skin unblemished. Her nose no longer throbbed. She looked on Aeron in wonder.

"How did I do that? Healing is Fohtian's power."

"Consider the world around you," Aeron suggested.

Margariete contemplated. Realization struck her with sudden passion.

"I'm trapped in my mind."

Aeron smiled with approval.

"Then none of this was real," she said, angry.

Had all of her suffering been pointless?

"On the contrary," Aeron said, climbing the rest of the stairs to meet her, "your trek here was more real than anything in the physical world. Every trial was a manifestation of your own weakness, every struggle a path to greater strength."

Margariete shook her head, trying to remember the details of her passage through the maze. In her memory, the first tests had been centuries ago, overshadowed by her second life with Kirion. It took a quarter arc, and a bit of Malbrin's meditation techniques, for it to come back to her.

"The labyrinth of tree roots—," she murmured.

"A manifestation of your unwillingness to lead. You wait always for your brother to guide you, fearful of past mistakes."

"—and the door puzzle," Margariete remembered aloud, but Aeron only looked at her.

Margariete waited, but the god did not explain. Knowing full well that he was listening to everything she thought, the telepath analyzed the experience herself. The three doors had seemed the way forward, but despite her efforts to struggle through each corridor, she was led back to where she started each time. Did it represent her stubbornness? Her resolve to do the impossible when turning back was the wiser choice?

Aeron beamed at her proudly, letting Margariete know that she had arrived at the correct answer. So she continued. The air wyverns had been the next task, but Margariete was unsure whether she wanted to discover the answer. She felt raw and exposed. Her natural response was to hide these feelings, bury them under regret and bitterness. But the explanation came to her despite her reservations.

Inside she had no self-worth. In her mind, her failures overshadowed her triumphs. Often she credited her own successes to her twin, but took the blame of every fall herself, until it had smothered the power inside her. The wyverns taught her confidence in her own strength.

A question occurred to her then.

"When I came into the maze, none of my magical equipment worked, except my sword. Why? Was it random, some kind of trick?"

Aeron circled her. "Not a trick. You only had access to the magic of my domain—air, the mind—inside yourself. The power of Chano, your LT weapons, lay outside that realm. Stardawn, having its own awareness, was an exception. The sword is linked to your mind, so you could use its power."

His explanation made sense. If she was in her own mind, then none of her equipment was actually real, therefore, they didn't possess their regular properties. She returned to her tasks in the maze.

"And my copy, she was my temper?" she offered.

"Yes, Margariete. The rejection of the Thyellan people poisoned you with anger. You allow that emotion to control you. Patience and restraint, however, would serve you more adequately. It was time for you to face it, and acknowledge its weakness. Only then would it become one of your strengths."

Margariete could not bring herself to disagree. Her temper had gotten her into trouble more times then she could count.

"And Shikun? Why did I summon him?"

"Ah," Aeron said, pausing in front of her. "The most difficult test. Your focus dwells so much in what was, floundering in what could have been. But the past cannot be altered; change exists only for the future.

"Some paths of fate have many possibilities. Not so with Shikun. Lose one brother or both: those were your choices. You have seen the outcome of the second course. Kirion possesses the universe. Your guilt has held you hostage for the greater part of your life. Only by forgiving yourself can you truly understand what and who you are."

Margariete expected to feel furious, lashing out at Aeron to hide her inner shame. To her surprise, she instead felt a balm of acceptance. It wasn't quite peace, but it wasn't self-loathing either. She had made the right decision so many seasons ago. Shikun had died with honor, uncorrupted by Kirion's lies.

"And I am one of your dragons," she said.

"More than that," Aeron corrected. "You are my granddaughter."

Margariete's face contorted with astonishment.

"Your granddaughter?"

Her thoughts raced. Ragnar was her father, she knew that from her second life, but she had been thinking of the scarred dragon when Aeron had mentioned his son. Did that mean they were one and the same?

"Yes, Ragnar is the scarred dragon you reference," Aeron confirmed.

"He saved my life," she replied, confused.

The Ragnar who had convinced her to leave Kirion, who sacrificed himself to help her escape, could not possibly be the same condescending dragon who had trapped her in the maze.

"He is much different in this reality."

"Why?" she wondered aloud.

Raeylan had been the same; so had Esilwen.

"Fate is affected by the choices of those who follow it," Aeron said cryptically. "Your path is intertwined especially with Ragnar's. When you changed, so did he."

Margariete bit her lip. Ragnar seemed a better person in the other reality. Was she responsible for that? Not wanting to analyze it too deeply, she pressed another question to her grandfather.

"Your Mirror. How can I possess it without rupturing my Soulwell? It should have killed me."

Margariete had seen Kirion rip it from her chest. She wanted to know how that was possible.

"It would have," Aeron stated in agreement, "if you had a Soulwell. The Mirror closed your Soulwell when it was passed to you. When the artifact leaves your possession, your Soulwell will reopen."

"Passed to me?" Margariete repeated.

"Yes," Aeron said with a nod. "Ragnar carried it before you. But upon your first breath, my Mirror was passed to you."

"But Kirion has seen my Soulwell," Margariete countered.

Aeron smiled, seeming pleased with himself. "The Lord of Light has that ability, but it is flawed. I disguised The Mirror to appear as a normal Soulwell."

Margariete took a deep breath, trying to settle her mind. Her understanding of Soulwells and connections to the gods was not deep. She needed to remember the details so she could pass them the information accurately to Raeylan and Gene.

"Why the riddles and the lies? Why didn't Ragnar just tell me and Raeylan the truth?"

"Because Margariete, you would not have believed him. You are my artifact bearer. It is the purpose of your birth. You are the second sign I told Ragnar to watch for. He sent you here into this maze because of a promise he made to me."

"You made him send me here? Why?"

"Because you have a fate that will help determine the future of the shards. I am not only the ruler of the air, but the interpreter of prophecy."

More mysteries. Margariete was growing weary of them.

"There is just so much I don't understand. Why me? And why Raeylan?"

"The future is paved with infinite possibility," Aeron explained, leading her down the stairs to the shredded remnants of space that stretched into the horizon. "This is my Observatory, where I divined the corridors to the future before the Fracturing."

As he spoke, webs of fate flashed through the universe, though they looked warped, like staring at a reflection in a broken mirror.

"Within these visions I determined only two outcomes for the Seven Worlds. In the first, Kirion ruled all. In the other, balance was restored. Almost all the branches of fate led to Kirion's total domination of the worlds. Only a careful set of choices could defeat him. I took it upon myself to guide the future toward balance."

Aeron waved his hand across the shards, and new images emerged. Margariete saw five beings, Aeron and Chano whom she recognized. She assumed the others were Nehro, Skoh, and Fohtian.

"The Lord of Light saw only one belief for his followers, an ultimate path of good and law that led to him, leaving no room for other ways of thought. He was determined to purge chaos from the hierarchy of gods. Skoh, Mistress of the Void, became his ultimate nemesis, and he demanded that she be destroyed."

The gods in the vision argued amongst themselves, fear and anger plain in their expressions. All except Aeron, who looked on in contemplative silence.

"I warned my counterparts that their response to Kirion would determine the fate of all. But, they were preoccupied with self-preservation. They weakened themselves by birthing the celestials. I was bound by the council to follow their decision, but I was wary of sacrificing too much of my power. That is why, when the other gods created their hosts of angels, I created only one: my son Ragnar."

"You lied," Margariete said, impressed.

"I worked within the measures of what I promised. Fohtian gave half of himself to his erinyes, Chano did the same with her living ore. I lost only what was needed to make Ragnar."

"But what of the other dragons? Are they not also celestials?"

"The Ormyr are constructs from my domain, extensions of myself masquerading as celestials. They have no true individuality or soul. When one dies, he simply dissolves into air and returns to The Mirror. I can see and hear what they do. In that way, I am many places at once."

He paused, his eyes growing distant and said, "Creating the angel races guaranteed the destruction of the divinities and led directly to the Fracturing."

"Could they have stopped Kirion if they hadn't made the angels?"

"Possibly," Aeron mused. "But that path was far less predictable, and therefore, less desirable."

"Why didn't you warn them?"

"As I said, the gods became obsessed with protecting themselves. They were fashioning the chaos that Kirion feared. Those who know too much become enthralled by the knowing."

"I still don't understand."

The images shifted again. One was extremely gruesome: eleven dead, winged women scattered on a stained temple floor. Margariete recognized a single survivor standing tall amidst the carnage: Thanati, emissary of Kirion.

"The council of gods must follow the majority vote to maintain balance. Kirion broke this pact and declared war upon Skoh and her disciples. When the rest of the council decided to craft the angel races to wage this war, I knew that Fohtian would be betrayed by his most treasured erinyes."

"Thanati," Margariete said with a curl in her lip.

Aeron nodded. "Her betrayal was the first sign that the gods' time was nearing an end. Ragnar watched for this event, as I commanded. After she killed her sisters and took their power, Thanati warned Kirion of our intent to strip his godhood, and he came upon us before we were prepared. The clash of powers destroyed us, burying the remains of our magic in our artifacts."

The gods dissolved into a young elven woman touching the face of a handsome, dark-haired youth.

"I foresaw Esilwen's misguided love for Kirion. Knowing that she would free him, I made sure he was imprisoned in Alanis, the world of fire."

Before Margariete could ask why Aeron hadn't just thrown Kirion's worthless carcass into the Void, the image of the two lovers melted into the visage of a woman, smiling down at her infant son and daughter. Margariete felt her throat tighten.

"My actions ensured the birth of a set of twins, one of air and the other of water. Their choices would determine the destiny of the shards."

"You are saying that Raeylan and I control the future?" Margariete gasped.

Aeron turned to her with a blank expression and continued speaking, though Margariete had the distinct impression that he had deliberately ignored her question. The image before her changed to Anleia bidding farewell to Ragnar, sorrow in her eyes. He handed Anleia a necklace with a tear-shaped stone, the one that Margariete now wore around her neck. Unconsciously, she touched it softly.

"Ragnar left you this necklace so when you entered Yuugrasil, he could sense you. It is made from one of his scales."

Margariete's mother disappeared, and the vision rearranged itself into the dragon ambush that had resulted in her capture. She saw herself snatched by dragon claws, then carried by Ragnar to the dwarven settlement where she awoke. Margariete saw the dwarves lead her to the root altar, and watched as they forced a drug down her throat. When she passed out, the dragons returned—in human form this time—and surrounded her. Then they began to chant.

"I instructed my son to use the power of the remaining dragons to bring you to this place. Now that you have defeated the maze—and your own weakness—the full power of The Mirror will open."

"You saw all of this in prophecy," Margariete whispered, feeling dizzy. Aeron was making her life sound like a series of choices that he had determined for her. She was beginning to feel like a puppet.

"Every path, even those untraveled, are written in prophecy."

"So everything that we have suffered—and lost—was foreordained?" Margariete complained, staring into the Observatory and almost losing herself within its infinite images.

Aeron put a hand on her shoulder, drawing her back from the depths of the universe.

"Everything you have achieved is for a purpose. You were always destined to don the mantle of protector."

"Protector?" Margariete wondered.

Aeron must mean Esilwen. They were all—Margariete, her twin, and Kyleren—dedicated to keeping Fohtian's artifact from Kirion's grasp. But Aeron's answer was something Margariete was not expecting.

"You asked me, 'Why Raeylan?' Because Raeylan must never die, daughter of my flesh, or Kirion will regain his godhood as Lord of Light."

Margariete sucked a startled breath. "But—"

Protect Raeylan? He would never allow it.

"How? He's more powerful than any of us."

Aeron took a step back and stared into the Observatory.

"I have shared all I will," he said after a moment, as if he had seen some invisible outcome. "And, Margariete, you are forbidden to tell him this. Prophecy can lead to madness in those who cannot navigate its possibilities."

"So that's it. Raeylan can't die? Nothing that actually helps us to defeat Kirion?" Margariete returned angrily.

No wonder the gods were gone, not one of them she had ever met seemed to possess any humility. Just arrogance.

"I have already warned you about the dangers of knowing too much. The prophecy will be shielded by The Mirror. None, even mind delvers, will be able to extract it from you. Now, I am spent. I must return to The Mirror."

Aeron walked into the vastness of the universe, shrinking as he walked out of sight.

"Why? Why is Raeylan so important?" Margariete called before he vanished completely.

A disembodied voice rang through her, her only answer.

"When your battle has reached its end, you will understand."

Margariete blinked—and then she was looking up at a sky framed by a gigantic tree. She could hear the teasing sound of a breeze as it licked through the leaves. Her back ached against the hard surface of an altar. She was free of the maze, back in her own body. There was a humming that died down around her. She turned to see the Dragons of Aeron—in human form—breaking free from a state of meditation as she woke. Lance's face popped into her line of vision.

"You okay, Blue Eyes?" he asked, his face worried.

Her skin burned as he reached for her, helping her to sit up. Margariete felt warmth in her heart. He was alive. Nehro's Grace, he was alive!

She saw Raeylan next. He pulled Margariete into a tight embrace. She buried her face in his shoulder and wept. They were both here, Lance and Raeylan, unharmed.

"I was worried for your safety, sister."

She hugged him tighter, hardly daring to breathe.

"I'm okay," she said, and meant it.

41: Two Steps Behind

Esilwen turned away from an LT microscope, rubbing her eyes. It had been too long since she had last slept. She had been weak before Tosk even took her, but between mending the sick and her ordeal in the volcano, the last three hours of painstaking research threatened to be too much. She tapped her fingers on the counter, soothing her throbbing head with its rhythmic beat. Her eyelids drooped, but she forced herself to focus.

She feared the dreams that sleep might bring.

"Have you surrendered to this world-ending plague, Esilwen?" Doctor Daghda Ollhar asked, his tone indicating disapproval.

Esilwen turned to his transparent form and watched him input a deluge of data he had garnered from his own research station. It had surprised her the first time he had manipulated something solid. She would have thought a ghost incapable of interacting with real objects. Tuatha had only grinned smugly when Esilwen mentioned how unnerving it was.

"Sorry, doctor," she belatedly apologized.

The healer shook her head to relieve some of the grogginess, grateful for Doctor Ollhar's comment, despite his condescending manner. She needed to stay awake. Who knew how many of the villagers she left behind had already died of the disease while she tried to find a cure? Tuatha stepped to Esilwen's side.

"Do you require rest?" she asked.

"You are a scourge to all, shiidh," Daghda spat hatefully. "Do not encourage your doctor to rest when so many could die while she lays her pretty head on a pillow."

Tuatha's eyes narrowed.

"Of little use is she, if she has not the strength to stand."

"Your kind care for no one, child-killer," he spurted, fingers still zooming over the dataplate. "Do not speak as if you understand such matters."

The hostility between the two had been going on for hours. When Tuatha spoke, Doctor Ollhar responded with aggression. Tuatha seemed to enjoy the man's enmity. Esilwen wondered if the shiidh was provoking him on purpose.

"Can both of you stop it?" Esilwen pleaded in exasperation. "Nothing will get done as long as there is contention among us!"

"You are not on an equal standing with me, Doctor Ninevay," Daghda seethed. "Do not pretend I aid you by choice. The hammer requires my obedience. If I was free to decide, I would not help one who works so intimately with a shiidh."

"The shiidh helped to defeat a tyrant in your home shard," Esilwen argued. "They are heroes."

"They are zealots," Daghda returned angrily, looking up from his work. "They murder in the name of Danu."

"Abundant is your intellect," Tuatha said, "but I prefer your tongue be still."

Immediately, Daghda's mouth closed under Tuatha's command. In her tired state, Esilwen couldn't resist uncovering the nature of Daghda's resentment.

"What did the shiidh do to him, Tuatha?"

"As I told you once before, he was traitor to our kind. Though Danu now has changed our view. His crime is pardoned."

Daghda's spirit wavered with anger. Esilwen bit her lip.

"Please allow him to speak for himself," Esilwen begged.

Surprisingly, Tuatha shrugged. Suddenly freed from silence, Doctor Ollhar's words spilled from his mouth with disdain.

"My actions are no longer treasonous?" he huffed. "Little good it does me now! I spent five years as a captive of the shiidh, tortured daily for my 'sin' of science. Then I was sentenced to the feyhammer. I will never be free to rest in the afterlife. I will never again see my family."

"You had a family?" Esilwen asked sadly.

Daghda's face softened with memory.

"For a short time I was married to one of your kind: a Kildar of great beauty. Danu blessed us with two children. But my family was murdered by an extremist faction of the Vartal military. I have no doubts that the shiidh ordered their execution."

"Tuatha?" Esilwen probed, worried that if the shiidh's people were capable of such a heinous act, Tuatha might be as well.

"At the time, your science was forbidden. Danu's law," Tuatha answered, unmoved by the conversation.

"But now you know that to be false," Esilwen said. "Don't you think an apology is in order?"

"The deeds of past cannot unraveled be. We act on Danu's will. It is our way."

Daghda snorted.

"Do not bother with a shiidh, Doctor Ninevay. Their pride reaches beyond the needs of others. They can never allow themselves to be wrong."

"But—" Esilwen began.

The Vartal doctor interrupted her with an upraised palm.

"I can see that you are not as cold as this woman," he said, pointing at Tuatha. "Greater matters deserve our attention."

Esilwen turned back to examining her samples, but Tuatha's behavior bothered her. How could anyone condone the deaths of children, regardless of their father's actions? True, Tuatha hadn't been directly responsible for the act, but Esilwen had expected a certain amount of compassion, or even remorse, that something so tragic had been the responsibility of Tuatha's people. It suddenly occurred to Esilwen that she didn't really know Tuatha very well. And hadn't that been the mistake she had made with Kirion?

Daghda's dataplate beeped, pulling Esilwen from her internal reverie. The Vartal doctor scanned the plate, his face expressing disbelief.

"What is it?" Esilwen asked.

Daghda said nothing, but handed her the device. Esilwen read the machine's analysis, growing more and more puzzled. The results defied everything she understood about medicine.

"This can't be right," she said, scrutinizing his data to find an error.

Finding nothing wrong, she returned to the results. But they were impossible.

"Discovery of news affects us all," Tuatha said, demanding to be included.

Esilwen looked at Doctor Ollhar, wondering how to proceed.

"The data isn't wrong," he said.

"Our analysis concludes that this disease causes dead cells to replicate," Esilwen explained. "That shouldn't be possible. It challenges our definition of life. The infection also prevents the reproduction of live cells."

Tuatha's eyebrows constricted as if she didn't understand.

"These decaying cells are reproducing, like they're alive. But they're not," Esilwen reiterated.

"Um—that's bad," interjected a new voice.

Esilwen turned, spotting Gene in the doorway. He was holding a dataplate in his hand.

"Very bad," Daghda confirmed. "If these readings are correct, I would also guess that the nerves endings of these 'dead' people are still sending signals."

"What does that mean?" Gene asked.

"Once removed from the body, cells die," Doctor Ollhar explained, "and decay into inert components. But even though these cells are dead, they are not decaying. That means they are still connected in some way with their bodies."

"Wait a minute," Gene said, pinching his nose. "Are we talking like 'zombies' here?"

Esilwen felt horror climb her skin.

"You're saying that if a body part were to be severed from one of the infected bodies—" She couldn't finished the thought, but Daghda completed it for her.

"The brain attached to that limb would continue to feel the severance of that limb. Perhaps indefinitely."

An image of the gory pile of limbs in the Corpse Crafter's lair loomed fresh in Esilwen's mind. The remembered smell was so potent that Esilwen ran to the sink in case retched. When she felt better, she turned back to the others. They were staring at her in concern, especially Gene.

"The Corpse Crafter pieced them together," she whispered, "bodies sewn from corpses. Are they aware, Daghda? The 'dead' or undead, or whatever they are? Do they feel pain?"

"There isn't enough conclusive data to be sure," he replied.

Esilwen's stomach clenched again and she fought against nausea. If Daghda was right, the brains of all the constructs she had destroyed were still feeling the pain of her fire somewhere. What had she done?

A theory donned on her then. Fohtian's Blood had killed Keri's mother, and now she understood. Esilwen waved at Gene, asking for him to come closer.

"I need you to give me a sample of your blood," she said reaching for his arm as he got closer.

"What? Why?" he exclaimed, trying to hide his arm behind his back.

"Gene, I need a sample of non-magical blood," Esilwen said, fully aware of his phobia of needles. "You are the only one here who can provide it for me."

Gene pouted in refusal, but an intimidating step forward by Tuatha made him concede.

"Make it quick," he said, offering his arm and scrunching his eyes shut.

Esilwen took the sample. Then she drew a vial from herself. She had done tests on her own magically enhanced blood before. As far as she understood, Fohtian's power made her blood imitate the healthy cells in the subject she wanted to help, speeding up the healing process. It had been a complete shock to her when her blood killed Keri's mother.

Esilwen quickly started an experiment that would test her hypothesis. Under the microscope, she combined her blood with Gene's sample, then with blood from an infected patient. As she watched the results, her lips pulled into a thoughtful line.

"What?" Gene asked.

"Fohtian's Blood imitates the healthy cells in Gene's blood, like it should. But in the infected sample, it mimics the dead ones. The question is, why?"

She posed the question to the room in general. Tuatha and Daghda looked at her expectantly.

"Magic!" Gene finally said.

Daghda rolled his eyes. Esilwen was about to reply with something uncharacteristically sarcastic—of course it was magic, Tosk had told her that very thing—but Gene's excited epiphany made him dive into a flurry of movement. He scanned the samples with his dataplate and muttered to himself for a few minutes while he manipulated the screen. When he was finished, he displayed the plate to everyone like an excited student presenting an outstanding project to a teacher.

"The infected blood registers the signature linked to Skoh. The disease breaks normal convention because it's magical, but it's a magic we've never really been able to study."

"Illusion, Gene," Esilwen said, "one of the powers of the Void. It's telling the immune system that the dead cells are living, that the living cells are dead. It's powerful enough to convince Fohtian's Blood that the dead cells are the healthy ones."

"That is why the young girl's mother died so quickly," Daghda surmised. "Fohtian's power replicated the diseased cells, speeding up the progression of the infection."

Esilwen felt the weight of her power upon her. She had never considered that Fohtian's Blood could be fooled in such a way.

"So then nanomites wouldn't have helped either," Gene interjected. "They stimulate the immune system to heal injuries and sicknesses the same way."

"Yes," Esilwen said. "It also means we can't synthesize a cure. We have to eradicate the Void magic at its source."

She was now convinced that the only way to stop the deadly disease was to destroy the Corpse Crafter. She needed to find him before anyone else died. And now that the Void worshipper had a vial of her blood, of Fohtian's power, he might be able to combine the magicks in a way that made the plague more deadly. Esilwen couldn't let that happen. She turned to Gene.

"I need you to activate LAMIE so you can take me to the Corpse Crafter's lair."

Gene shook his head vehemently and said, "I can't. She isn't ready."

"Can't we just fly without the LT systems?" she pressed.

"Maybe," he replied hesitantly, "but without LAMIE's shields or camouflage we would be easy targets for the flying-lizard things."

"We must risk it, Gene," Esilwen argued. "We don't know what other villages are infected with the Corpse Crafter's plague. There could be a million lives hanging in the balance."

"We can't face him alone, Esilwen. You said he almost killed you last time," Gene said.

"We won't have to," Esilwen answered hastily. "We'll use your Six Signatures to find Raeylan and Kyleren. We can pick them up first."

"To register those frequencies long-range I need the LT comms. It can't be done."

Esilwen bit her lip in frustration. She could tell Gene wasn't going to budge, but she found an unlooked-for ally in Tuatha.

"You have no need to fear that Anya walks alone. Aboard this ship lie masks that I can use to fill my lungs. My magic will defend her as she undertakes this quest."

Daghda snorted, but Esilwen felt comforted by Tuatha's offer. The Corpse Crafter's hideous face haunted her after what he had done to her last time. The thought of facing him alone caused her whole body to ache.

"Thank you, Tuatha. With your help, we can defeat him."

"Do you even remember where this Corpse Crafter is?" Gene asked in exasperation.

"Somewhere to the north. We'll have to spot it from the air. It's a huge volcano, Gene. How could we miss it?"

"This could be a pointless exposure to LAMIE," Gene argued. "If we don't find—"

Suddenly, Tuatha struck her feyhammer against the floor, causing everyone to jump. Daghda's spectral form was sucked into the weapon unceremoniously.

"This cowardice is insult to my goddess," Tuatha said straightening. "LAMIE faces danger without fear. Our worry stains her with dishonor, Gene."

Esilwen, recovered from the sudden surprise of Tuatha's hammer stroke, nodded her head once in agreement. She logged a mental note to remember to ask Tuatha to bring Daghda back so she could properly thank him for his help.

"And how do you propose we take down Raeylan's ice shield?" Gene whined.

"The same way I got in," Esilwen said determinedly. "I'll melt it."

Gene sighed.

"I still think this is a bad idea. All of us are barely on our feet."

Esilwen stepped forward and put a hand on his shoulder.

"We have to do this."

He sighed.

"I'll get the sublight engines online," he said, heading slowly to the bridge.

Esilwen led Tuatha to the cargo bay and down the ramp, realizing it was prudent not to be alone as she expended the energy it would require to remove the ice shield protecting LAMIE. Just as she lifted her hands to apply herself to the task, the shield began to retreat on its own. The implication struck her with excitement. Raeylan and the others must be back! Only he could control Nehro's power. She looked at Tuatha and gave the shiidh an excited smile.

"They're home!" she squeaked, overwhelmed with joy. She and Tuatha would not have to face the Corpse Crafter alone after all. The relief nearly made Esilwen faint.

The shield retreated. Esilwen's joy turned to a hard stone in her chest. Tuatha hissed and drew her hammer. She had forgotten that there was another in the universe who could use the water goddess's power.

Kirion stood in front of her. Nehro's Glove—a white gauntlet—glittered like frost on his arm. An army of monsters—similar to those they had fought at his fortress on Athalonde Prime—stretched behind him. GAELs stood at attention within the ranks. Esilwen backed closer to Tuatha, but there was nowhere to run.

"Hello, my love," he said with a smile.

He gestured with a hand and the misshapen monsters advanced.

42: Love Bites

Margariete leaned against the door frame of the dwarven lodge, ignoring the raucous laughter coming from the celebration behind her. Dwarves and dragons-in-human-form ate and drank, exchanged stories and chatted excitedly about the future. But Margariete stared up the hill that led to the village—which she now knew was called Glasir—allowing her eyes to linger on the enormous tree where she had been put to the test. The dwarves had told her they believed the tree was the heart of Yuugrasil, their home world.

Raeylan and Ragnar stood at the base of the trunk, engaged in an obvious disagreement. The itch to listen telepathically stroked her with temptation, but she didn't give in.

Instead, she contemplated joining the celebrations, mostly so she could tease Lance for the new ridiculous outfit he wore. It was a gift from the dwarves, to replace the CC armor that had been irreparably damaged in the pyramid temple at Svartelbode. Though only a mesh of fur and leather, Margariete marveled that the dwarves had anything remotely large enough to fit the GAEL. Raeylan, too, had been given a new ensemble, though he had settled for something simpler—a shirt and trousers to replace his wasted leather. Margariete had to whistle a thanks that both men had extra sets of armor back on LAMIE.

Though her test had only lasted a few cycles, in her mind she had lived another life. Four hundred seasons of different choices—a different war—made the memory of the attack that had left her stranded here blurred by time. Her original life seemed surreal to her, a dream. The phantom life she had just lived in Aeron's maze was freshest in her memory. It was hard to separate what was real and what was not.

Some of the obvious things—that she had never killed Shikun for example—were easy to sort. Raeylan was still alive; Kirion did not rule the universe. But emotions were harder. She had faced her guilt—no longer would that eat away at her soul. Her second lifetime had proven to her that Shikun's death was unavoidable. But there were feelings Margariete could no longer hide from herself. Trying to pretend it wasn't real was pointless. It had been real. She had lived it, felt it.

She was in love with Lieutenant Lance Kyleren.

The memory of their lovemaking burned brightly in her mind. The pain of his death when she had been forced to kill him made her want to sink into despair, until she looked over to see him, quite healthy, drinking as much as any dwarf in the lodge behind her. Then she would suck in a breath, realizing that he wasn't dead. She had never killed him. It was all a trick of her second existence.

But here, Lance did not love her back. She had resigned herself to the fact that he would never return her feelings. Lance had made his regard for her quite clear: he hated the sight of her. She couldn't blame him, really. She had stabbed him with Stardawn the first time they met, treating him only with disdain since.

Margariete took a steadying breath. She would have to accept it. Lance was unlikely to change his mind about her, especially since he was not inclined to ever devote himself to one woman.

She closed her eyes, and banished the thought of him, feeling the strength of Aeron's Mirror inside her. The discovery of the hidden artifact heightened her abilities with extra power. Her peripheral sense had doubled in distance. Her ability to control the air currents could now alter the flow of a breeze permanently. Even more terrifying was the new intensity of her telepathy. Ragnar's mind was now like an unfurled scroll. She had seen everything he intended to hide with ease. Emotions of thought were clearer, including the difference that distinguished a lie from the truth.

"They still fightin' up there, Mags?" Lance asked from behind.

Margariete remained unsurprised by his arrival, having sensed his approach. She opened her eyes, but didn't look at him.

"I'm surprised you aren't up there with Raeylan," she said.

"I would've, but I think Raeylan was worried I might shoot Ragnar or somethin' if the lizard didn't give up Esilwen's location. He's fraggin' right of course."

"They hate each other: Raeylan and my father."

"More than you know, Blue Eyes."

Margariete smiled to herself. Had she been the Margariete of four hundred seasons ago, she too would have been up there with her twin, arguing vehemently at her brother's side. Now, however, she felt a sense of calm.

"Things never are what they seem, are they?" she asked, wondering what her mother had ever seen in Ragnar. He was decidedly an arrogant manipulator.

Perhaps Anleia's love had been born of youth, a girl trapped in an empty marriage. Maybe she had simply yearned for the touch of a generous lover. Margariete tried not to blush. She understood that desire all too well. She held that same longing for the man standing next to her.

"Can you read what's happenin' up there?" Lance asked.

"If I wanted," Margariete shrugged.

"What the frag is stoppin' you?"

Margariete pushed away from the door frame and finally turned to face him. She rested her left hand on her sword, the other on her dead tech pistol.

"Because Ragnar—as much as we all hate him—is right. Esilwen and I rely too much on you and Raeylan. It took Aeron's maze to teach me that I wasn't confident in myself. Esilwen deserves the same opportunity."

"Don't tell me you believe that skrit," Lance snorted, folding his arms tightly against his chest.

"I do," Margariete said firmly, glancing between Raeylan on the hill and then back to Lance. "I faced not only enemies in that maze, but also myself. I'm stronger now. Not just because of The Mirror, but because I believe in my own ability."

She didn't expect Lance to understand. Or Raeylan. She hadn't revealed the second half of her experience: the other life or her conversation with Aeron.

Lance shook his head.

"I swear, Mags, you keep talkin' crazy and I'm gonna rip Ragnar's lyin' wings off for ruinin' you."

Warmth drove into her face, so she decided to change the subject.

"Did Ragnar really force Raeylan to look for a fake artifact?"

"Lied his stinkin' tail off," Lance growled. "I knew he was a piece of gromm skrit the second I met him, but Raeylan wouldn't listen."

"Raeylan has a lot on his shoulders," Margariete said, defending her brother. "He's the only one of us powerful enough to fight Kirion and win. He was right to choose the fate of the shards over Esilwen and me."

"You sayin' you would've done the same?" Lance asked with cocked brows.

His statement brought Margariete's other possible life to the forefront of her mind. Her selfish choice to save Shikun had killed Lance, Esilwen, and Raeylan in that reality.

"No," she said, "which is why he is the best of us."

Lance snorted, then mumbled in disagreement.

"Let it go, Lance," Margariete said, resisting the urge to move closer to him.

He looked at her in surprise, but didn't say anything.

"What?" she asked, purposely staying out of his thoughts. She wasn't sure she would ever want to see what he really thought of her ever again.

"In the six months I've known you, Blue Eyes, you've never called me Lance."

She fought hard against a blush, averting her face from Lance to view the conflict between Raeylan and Ragnar. They had stopped arguing and were rushing down the hill. Raeylan's face was wrought with concern.

"What's wrong?" Margariete asked when they were close enough to hear her.

"At your brother's incessant request," Ragnar answered, "I have been trying to contact Esilwen's guardian, Tosk. There is no response."

"Still think she doesn't need our help?" Lance grunted at Margariete.

Margariete's jaw tightened, but she made sure anger did not control her.

"What does that mean? Is everything okay with Esilwen?" she asked, ignoring Lance.

"I speak with Tosk telepathically. His silence means that he is either unconscious or dead."

Margariete's heart danced with sudden worry, the same feeling evident in Raeylan's expression.

"So what do we do? How do we find Esilwen if her guardian is dead?" Margariete asked.

Ragnar stepped forward and put both his hands on Margariete's shoulders.

"The dragons were brought here from Aeron's plane. When they die, they return there."

"Yes, I know," Margariete returned, but didn't say how she knew it.

Ragnar looked at her suspiciously, startled by her knowledge, but was forced to brush it aside due to the urgency of the moment.

"As bearer of The Mirror, you should be able to find Tosk, wherever he is. You can speak with his unconscious mind and see his recent memories."

Margariete shifted her weight nervously. That was a lot of responsibility to bear. But, she reminded herself, Esilwen's life might be in peril.

"Tell me how to do it," she finally decided.

"Close your eyes," Ragnar instructed.

Margariete obeyed.

"Follow the breeze as it teems around you."

Lance snorted somewhere nearby and she heard Ragnar hiss at him to be quiet. Margariete bit her lip in frustration. The hate in the circle was affecting her concentration.

"The air carries all thought to Aeron's domain as it passes into time," Ragnar continued. "But before it reaches Nehro's realm it gathers in the Observatory, waiting—"

"I know that too," Margariete said impatiently, brushing away his explanation. Though she couldn't see it, she was sure her father was looking at her again in surprise. He hesitated, but then returned to his instructions.

"Within it, you must find the presence of a mind much like your own."

It was no easy task and Margariete became frustrated quickly. She could see thousands of minds through the Observatory: human, dwarven, and even elven. She thought for one moment that she might use this new ability to touch Esilwen directly, and forgo locating Tosk. But as she evaluated the first mind she reached, she surmised it would take far too long to search every elven mind for her friend. In the end, she realized she did not have enough experience with this power to do as Ragnar asked. She did not yet have the talent for it, it was too strange.

But there was another way. She connected to Ragnar's mind instead, and used his experience—since he had travelled the minds of his dragon counterparts countless times before—to create a path through the Observatory that linked all of the dragons. Seven were close by. Only one was far away. She supposed that one was Tosk.

"He's not dead," Margariete said, still not opening her eyes. "He's far to the north."

She swept toward him through the plane of air, sifting through his senses.

"Is Esilwen with him?" Raeylan asked.

"Quiet. Do not disrupt her concentration," Ragnar chided.

Margariete felt her focus slip. How did Ragnar not think his scolding was any less distracting?

She pushed them away, returning to Tosk's mind. There, a sudden wave of panic slapped her in the skull. The encounter was disorienting. It took Margariete a few moments to separate her own feelings from Tosk's. Once that was accomplished, she delved into the unconscious dragon's memories. She saw through his eyes as he flew Esilwen toward a volcano. Then he abandoned her in the small village of Verdan. She tasted the wind as he soared south to Glasir and the giant world tree. Then a searing pain sent him crashing to the ground.

Margariete jerked and her eyes flew open.

"Kirion's here in Yuugrasil!" she announced in alarm.

Lance spat on the ground and cursed, but Raeylan didn't even flinch. Her brother was staring behind her, toward the bottom of the hill and the plains that stretched beyond. Margariete turned, following his gaze. An army was approaching, led by Thanati, Feralblade, and the Wolves of Skoh.

"I know," was all he said.

43: Civil War

The crude denizens of warped blending charged, eyes bulging and mouths slavering. It was not the fear of battle that caused Esilwen's hands to shake, but the prospect of becoming Kirion's prisoner again. Her jaw clenched. She could not let that happen.

The route she had taken through naiveté had been long and painful. She could not rely on others to uphold the same measure of honesty that she expected from herself. That was the mistake she had made with the Corpse Crafter, the same error when she had believed the promise made by Kirion when she released him so long ago in Alanis. Her need to find compassion in others was costing lives. It was time to face the truth: Kirion would never change.

Stars were just beginning to appear as the white sun set. Esilwen raised her eyes to the darkening sky. Reaching within herself, she drew upon the magic. Clouds of dark ferocity boiled to life above her, swirling with green miasma. She looked back at the approaching army, the front line less than twenty feet away.

"No more," she whispered, her heart heavy with centuries of lost hope.

The ground shook as a pillar of fire burst to the ground, withering everything it touched. The incinerated creatures did not even have time to scream, so quickly were their bodies consumed by Fohtian's power. The misshapen army hesitated in its mad rush, unsure against this new threat. Kirion, however, merely smiled and shook his head, as if amused by her effort.

He was right of course. She and Tuatha could not hope to win against so many. He had brought more than a thousand monsters, a squad of GAELs, and a dead tech ship.

Despite the odds, Tuatha slipped forward in the wake of the fire pillar, dispatching stragglers that had survived Esilwen's initial strike. The shiidh woman raised her voice in a rattling tune as enemies fell to her hammer. The weapon began to glow as she sang.

Then suddenly, she swung the feyhammer in a wide arc—at nothing. Esilwen saw no evidence that the feyhammer struck anything, but a dozen of Kirion's creatures erupted in screams, their bodies curling in agony. Then they melted into a puddle of goo on the ground.

A wispy copy of each dead misblended leapt from the puddled remains of its body, streaking toward the hammer. The shiidh grinned weirdly and loosed the attack again, taking another ten soldiers down. The hammer had just absorbed their souls.

Looking annoyed, Kirion prodded his army forward into a full attack. As enemies swarmed around them, Tuatha cracked her hammer against the ground, summoning a soul from inside the feyhammer to do her bidding. Its transparent form materialized at Tuatha's side. Esilwen's mouth gaped.

She looked at the ghost of Druantia, former queen of the shiidh.

Esilwen thought Druantia had stayed on Sarras with the other survivors of Danu's cult. So how did the Vartal woman's soul come out of the hammer?

Tuatha closed her eyes and cried, "My queen, the Lord of Light has twisted Danu's will. His wicked deed must be undone."

Druantia swept her eyes across the malformed creatures of the battlefield. The queen stepped toward Tuatha, bearing her teeth in displeasure. She grasped the feyhammer, just above Tuatha's hand. Together they began to chant. Esilwen strained to interpret the meaning of the words. A song of undoing?

Energy arced from the feyhammer in crooked forks, slamming into each of the misblendeds. Tuatha and Druantia gripped the hammer with both hands as it vibrated violently. The ground thrummed with energy, like an earthquake. Soon the orange light became so bright that Esilwen was forced to avert and cover her eyes. But she heard the moans and shrieks of the army in front of her.

The screams and light stopped at the same time. Esilwen looked back.

Each misblended had split into two separate beings, the halves of its linage. Where once had stood a towering mixed creature was instead a Kildar elf and a Famorian troll, looking at each other in confusion. Tiny willisps darted around Morrigan dwarves, ashrays poked at boghags.

Kirion looked at everything, turning to scowl angrily at Tuatha.

Then chaos erupted. Ettins, ogres, and all manner of Famorian monsters attacked indiscriminately. They killed their Kildar, human, and Morrigan halves easily. The GAELs under Kirion's command went berserk, shooting at anything that moved as the violent beasts tried to purge the battlefield. It took only a few seconds for heaps of bodies to pile before LAMIE, blood and gore splattered everywhere.

Tuatha and the ghostly Druantia turned toward Esilwen in unison, their ghastly smiles indicating satisfaction. Esilwen didn't know what to think. The army had been stalled, but a thousand innocent lives now lay shredded across the plain. The healer was just about the rebuke Tuatha when Esilwen saw a sudden flash of metal.

Tuatha's head parted company with her shoulders.

It happened so fast that Esilwen barely registered the event. Tuatha's blood spattered all over Esilwen's blouse. The head bounced dreadfully on the ground and rolled away. The shiidh's body crumpled to the grass. Without a hand to guide the hammer, Druantia's soul evaporated into the night.

Kirion wiped Tuatha's blood from his sword. Esilwen watched him, stunned motionless at the loss of her battle-mate, as he casually picked up the feyhammer from where it had fallen.

"Esilwen, do you copy?" Gene said frantically over her comm.

"Yes," she breathed, her lips stiff and hard.

The monsters on the front line had taken notice of her. A particularly vicious looking group of ettins licked their lips hungrily and made to move forward.

"I'm going to activate LAMIE, but she can only give you a few seconds of cover before I have to shut her back off. Can you make it back to the ship?"

"Tuatha's dead," Esilwen said.

"We have to move while Kirion's forces are occupied, Esilwen," Gene said, matter-of-factly.

"Copy."

Kirion stared at her with an unreadable expression. Esilwen wondered if he could hear what Gene was saying. She figured it probably didn't matter. There was no way she could outrun him.

Kirion shifted his sword for a better grip. With a pang, Esilwen realized she recognized the blade. It was Moonstone Retribution reforged, Raeylan's lost weapon. Kirion glanced at the oncoming hoard. His power rippled through him in a wave of light. Then he looked back at her, his eyes dark.

"Get inside," he demanded. "I will not lose you to death again."

LAMIE's weapons roared to life as Esilwen retreated to the ramp. When the barrage stopped, Kirion rushed into his own army, wreaking havoc on his now uncontrollable monsters in her defense.

*

Kyleren studied the approaching army through his LT ocular sensors. There were at least twelve GAEL transports, identifiably equipped with LT cannons and rail guns. Each vessel would have a six member GAEL squad, plus non-GAEL colonels and majors. At least thirty more GAELs marched on the ground below, behind Thanati. Trotting next to the winged woman was the Pack Sire and ten of his giant wolves, Feralblade flanking them. As if that wasn't enough, Lance counted just over a thousand monstrous blended from the Famorian system, the product of Kirion's breeding experiments.

"Frag, it's Skinny," he complained, speaking of Feralblade.

"Thanati," he heard Ragnar hiss.

Kyleren looked through his scanner, troubled. He had seen Thanati in action before. She had serious tactical advantage from the air. So why would she be walking on the ground instead of leading the troop transports?

Then his answer came. The Pack Sire stepped forward and threw back his head, unleashing a howl. It pierced the air like a living thing. Raeylan and the dwarves held their heads in their hands. They seemed incapacitated, but not in dire need of medical attention. But Margariete and the dragons pressed their hands to their ears, screaming and crumpling to the ground. Blood leaked between their fingers.

Lance was just about to dart to Margariete's side, to see if he could help, when he noticed Ragnar. All the dragon's kin rolled on the ground in helpless agony, but Ragnar remained standing, squinting only slightly. Kyleren studied the man closely, realizing that Ragnar gripped the hilt of his black sword like his life depended on it.

Which it probably did, since he now knew that the weapon had come from Skoh's temple. Lance turned his ocular lens back to the approaching enemy. Sure enough, all the servants of Skoh were left unscathed, Feralblade included. The rest of the monsters were shaking their heads, as if in pain. Even Thanati winced under the corruptive attack.

"Only the Pack Sire can cast the Mind Howl," Ragnar said, shifting into his natural form. "Kill him to release his magic."

Ragnar leapt into the air, recklessly heading for Thanati. The gromm lizard was ignoring the fleet of ships.

Kyleren cursed. The howl had stopped; the approaching army charged in response to Ragnar's brash action. Raeylan and the dwarves looked dazed and unable to focus. Margariete and the dragons lay passed out on the ground.

There was no fragging way Lance and Ragnar could take this army alone. Hoping that Ragnar wasn't messing around, Lance tossed his ocular sensor into a pouch and whipped his White Lady out of its sling. He snapped his core drive, Chano, into the sniper rifle's core interface slot. The little goddess's power poured through him like a spicy drink, almost knocking him off his feet as a jolt of energy locked his consciousness into the heart of his weapon. A giggle slid through him; he had the distinct impression that Chano was anticipating battle almost as much as he was.

White Lady was the most advanced BT sniper rifle in the universe. She could hit a cherry pit at 3,500 meters as long as Lance concentrated hard enough. It took all of three seconds for Kyleren to bring the Pack Sire's head into his scope and fire. White Lady kissed the wolf between the eyes. Through the scope, Kyleren saw the Pack Sire jerk backward and go down.

The other wolves howled in surprise. Lance didn't waste a moment, turning the weapon on Feralblade.

"Dodge this, you gromm bastard."

For a second time, he fired White Lady. Feralblade, clearly anticipating that he was likely the next target, burst into shadow. Kyleren couldn't tell whether the round had made contact before the assassin's transformation. Feralblade bolted for darkness as the sky darkened into evening and Lance lost track of him.

A groan from his left caught his attention. Margariete, with Raeylan's help, was rising to her feet. She looked unsteady.

"You okay, Blue Eyes?" Lance asked.

She nodded, though her face was pale.

"Go," she whispered.

The dwarves expelled a collective battle cry as they started their charge.

"Be careful," Raeylan said, "all of you."

He teleported away. Lance put his hand on Margariete's shoulder, reluctant to leave her.

"I said go," she said in response, knocking his hand away irritably.

"You're not okay, Blue Eyes."

She locked her gaze with his, her face serious.

"We don't have time for this, Lance."

For the second time in the same night, Lance was thrown off guard by Margariete's response. Something about her was different. And why had she started calling him by his first name?

But she was right. There wasn't time to work it out. He turned and sped to a perch at the base of the great tree, where he could see almost everything as it happened on the battlefield. Ragnar and Thanati were already engaged in a ferocious battle. The GAEL ships bore down on the dwarven village. Raeylan stood alone at the base of the cliff, squaring off with the enemy hoard.

Margariete appeared at Lance's side.

"I can coordinate the dragons in a fight with the GAEL ships. Go help Raeylan," she demanded.

He took a skeptical inventory of Margariete and her injuries. She did seem to be recovering quickly.

"You got it," he conceded. "Just don't fraggin' hurt yourself."

She smiled, a look that was genuine.

"I promise."

Kyleren leapt off the cliff, closing on Raeylan's position as quickly as gravity would allow.

44: Live And Let Die

Gene fought against panic when the ice shield dissolved around LAMIE and he saw Chancellor Medrod—now known to the technobionomist as Kirion—through the crystasteel ports of the bridge. A strangled sound emitted out of Gene's throat when he noted the size of the army that stood behind the deposed politician.

The technobionomist burst into a flurry of action as the army of misblended monsters rushed his friends on the ground. He needed to contact LAMIE. If he managed to repair the LT communications array he could hail Raeylan—who could teleport instantly to their aid. Maybe he could bring the LT cannons online just enough to provide cover fire. Maybe both.

Gene dashed to the core drive station—tumbling all over the chair in his haste—and jammed an LT cylinder transponder linking his dataplate directly into LAMIE's protocore. The device had an upgrade template he had built over the last six months since leaving his home shard. His fingers tore across the plate, inputting a buffer code to separate LAMIE's consciousness from her hull. It was a risky move. What if he couldn't reestablish her interface parameter field? LAMIE was an integrated life form; feeling her body gave her a sense of life. Would she go crazy if he separated her from it? Like a disassociated brain?

But it was necessary. The algorithm would keep her from feeling the pain of her damaged body, like anesthesia in an organic life form. Gene started when a pillar of flame lit the viewports. He glanced outside, temporarily distracted. It was the first time he had ever seen Esilwen use her magic offensively.

His dataplate beeped at him, jolting him back to his task. He had just input the last set of instructions when the darkening night outside turned a brilliant orange. His dataplate scrolled a warning—his signature detector. Chano's energy was fluctuating wildly.

The light from outside grew so bright that Gene was forced to hold up his hand to protect his eyes. When it vanished, his jaw hung wide and limp. What he saw defied the laws of technobionomy. Each monster in the army had been split into its two parent species. But instead of two masses of useless flesh, as science dictated should have occurred, the shiidh had somehow ordered the genes to make two whole beings. Gene guessed Chano's magic had filled in the missing DNA structures and altered the biomatter to form missing limbs and organs. Ingenious, really.

He finally remembered to close his mouth.

The Famorian side of the creatures, the deadly side, attacked everything they could see, killing indiscriminately. Kirion's army had turned on itself. Gene thanked the gods—or at least the one squirrel he knew existed—that he was safe inside LAMIE.

"Gene," an unexpected voice said. It sounded weak, like a sleeper roused from deep slumber.

"LAMIE?" Gene called hopefully.

"What's wrong with me, Gene? Has my body been destroyed?"

"I don't have time to explain, LAMIE. You're suffering from an incredible amount of damage. But we need you."

"A mission?"

"I'm going to take down the algorithmic buffer I programmed into your systems and try to reconnect you with your body. Kirion and his army are attacking Esilwen and Tuatha. They need your cannons."

"Will it be painful?"

Gene was afraid to answer. He knew it would be more than anything he would be able to bear himself.

"Yes, LAMIE. But once you've reached your pain threshold, I'll shut you down."

"I need a report of the damage."

Gene tapped the dataplate, all thought of trying to get in contact with Raeylan slipping his mind, as he sent LAMIE a copy of his logs over the past few days. LAMIE paused for a few seconds. Gene knew she was running extensive calculations.

"Once you deactivate the buffer, I will have precisely four-point-six seconds DST before the pain corrupts my systems," she explained.

Gene glanced through the ports one last time as he prepared to lower the buffer, just in time to see Kirion appear out of nowhere and decapitate Tuatha. There wasn't time to mourn her. Esilwen was now fighting alone. LAMIE could create a diversion so the healer could escape.

His fingers flew over his dataplate and he activated his comm.

"Esilwen, do you copy?"

"Yes."

The monsters charged. Kirion was staring at Esilwen, but Gene was too high up to see any details of the Lord of Light's expression.

"I'm going to activate LAMIE, but she can only give you a few seconds of cover before I have to shut her back off. Can you make it back to the ship?"

"Tuatha's dead," Esilwen reported.

Gene took a short, steadying breath. Now wasn't the time to think about that.

"We have to move while Kirion's forces are occupied, Esilwen."

"Copy."

Gene lowered the buffer, giving LAMIE access to all her systems. The ship shuddered like a person with convulsing limbs. In four-point-six seconds, LAMIE burned through sensor and diagnostic algorithms, loading Gene's dataplate with invaluable information. The location of Raeylan's group, and another part of Kirion's army—the greater part—hundreds of kilometers to the south, and what appeared to be the Corpse Crafter's lair compiled in the corner of his screen. A long list of detailed damage reports and errors in repair scrolled down the middle. Her weapons array activated and fired into the enemy ranks.

Gene blinked as pride for his creation swelled inside him. Apparently, he had underestimated LAMIE's abilities. After the time limit, Gene disengaged her protocore, putting her back to sleep. Outside there was no sign of Esilwen, but Kirion had waded into his own army, hacking the monsters to the ground.

"Esilwen, did you make it back on board?"

"Yes," she said, huffing into her comm. She was probably running.

Gene activated LAMIE's dead tech engines and closed the hangar bay doors. Then he started another algorithm, one that would lock Kirion out of LAMIE's systems—just in case the former chancellor caught up to them.

*

Feralblade was thoroughly surprised when an energy round bored into the Pack Sire's head. He had no idea that Raeylan's ragged band of heroes had a rifle with that much range. The enormous wolf collapsed to the ground, dead. The other Wolves of Skoh snapped into a blood frenzy, growling and tearing the grass with their paws, like wounded animals. With the loss of their leader, the wolves would not follow anyone's orders, and would kill ally and foe alike.

If Kyleren could hit the Pack Sire, there was no question who the GAEL would target next. Feralblade burst into shadow just as the lieutenant's second energy blast whizzed by. In shadow form, Chano's magic could not harm him. He was determined not let the squirrel goddess take another piece of his body. The hole in his ear was embarrassment enough.

Raeylan appeared on the front line, wielding a sword that gleamed amber. A hot ripple of annoyance undulated across Feralblade. He had warned Thanati that her plan of attack was too brash, lacking in finesse. She was wasting Kirion's forces. But she refused to listen—the arrogant woman. Now she faced the Guardian of Time. And there was a river at their back.

Feralblade made a dead rush to the nearest shadow, intending to use the new ability he had received from Lord Kirion. He retook solid form and stepped into the shadow of a small dwelling. It was like walking into liquid night. Everything dipped into cool darkness; the sounds of battle echoed like noise in a hollow cave. He merged from shadow to shadow, making his way past the battle and into the forest, never using the same shadow twice. Soon he found his prey: Margariete, standing under the giant tree.

Down below, Raeylan caused the river to overflow its banks and swallow a large portion of ground troops. Ice daggers rained from the sky, slamming into the ranks; dragons downed the GAEL ships.

But defense of Kirion's army was not Feralblade's responsibility. That was Thanati's job.

Feralblade drew Sharpthirst and Bloodstorm, his two red-hilted daggers and stepped out of the shadow behind Margariete. Adrenaline pumped wildly through him as he lunged for the kill. But before his blade slid into his target's liver, it froze in mid-air. He tugged on it, but it refused to move. Margariete turned.

"Always the same trick, Terail," she taunted, with a half-smile. "You're becoming predictable."

Feralblade stared hard into Margariete's deep-blue eyes. Sure, she had the periphery sense, but it only worked if she actively used it. How had she known he was coming? She had never caught him so easily before. The longer he looked at her, the more he recognized that she was different. Margariete's anger was harnessed, her temperament unquestionably controlled.

Feralblade released his frozen dagger. Sharpthirst hung in the air, a captive of his foe's telekinesis.

"I will have to be more careful," he purred acidly.

"You speak as if you assume you will survive this night," she returned, firm and unyielding.

"I always have a trick or two set aside just for you. And you always fall for them. Ungracefully, if I might add."

Margariete's eyebrows rose in challenge. Sharpthirst was thrown aside by an unseen hand.

"You haven't had a new trick in seasons."

Her statement confused him. Only half a season had passed since he ambushed her on Agrona and left her for dead—clearly a tactic that had succeeded.

"Your only strength lies in deceit. Without it, you are nothing," she continued, still calm.

Her confidence threw him off-balance. Normally, Margariete would have already given herself to anger, something that made her sloppy in battle.

"What has constrained the angry, cursed Princess of the Jewel?" he probed.

Margariete's face hardened. She drew Stardawn.

"Experience."

She charged. Feralblade braced for her attack.

"No more suffering," she said, stabbing Stardawn toward him. "Everyone deserves a clean death."

45: Creeping Death

After the elf maid's hasty departure, Serapis perused his ancient collection of tomes until he discovered the information he required. It didn't take him long. His library contained many texts from before the Fracturing, when the old gods had ruled the universe. He licked the remains of his teeth with a bloated tongue.

Fohtian: the Phoenix Angel; god of healing, death, and love.

The elf carried the god's power inside her, though it had done nothing to stop the Void plague. It had, in fact, sped the disease's progression. Many of the elves of this shard had succumbed to Serapis' plague in the usual fashion. The difference must be in the woman's blood.

Serapis would have smiled if his shriveled lips had permitted it. Her blood was the instrument he needed to intensify his plague. He reached for the vial she had left with him.

The Corpse Crafter's bony fingers twitched before he reached it. Serapis felt the call—as always. The shudder that tried to rip his soul from his decaying body, the incessant summons of Death. His spirit yearned to leave the mortal realm, to find rest in the Void, but it was unable to comply. Serapis' spell held himself locked to mortality.

He cursed Skoh, unafraid of blasphemy. He had long ago forsaken the Lady of Darkness. It was the power of immortality he craved. Tremors of pain shook the Corpse Crafter's rotting flesh. Needles pressed into his eye sockets. His bones burned like they were on fire.

It was the worst fit he had experienced since he had first cursed himself with eternal life. When finally the grip of Death released him, he had the clarity of mind to wonder what had brought it on. Was it the elf-maid's doing?

Death had clawed at his soul for ten centuries, but had never managed to break Serapis' self-inflicted curse. He had lived a millennium trapped between the state of life and un-life. In his weaker moments he yearned for the magic to be broken, but that required the Well of Skoh, and that had been lost in the Great War that destroyed Gerzean.

But the last two hundred years or so, he had not been afflicted with such gloomy thoughts. His creation, the plague, was showing promise. If he could collect more infected bodies, study how the Void magic affected them, he could likely cure himself within the century.

Lately, transmission of the disease had been impairing his research. The incubation period was too slow. Entire villages were being quarantined at first signs of his plague. His work was confined to the sparsely populated regions here in the north of the shard. And Serapis could not leave his mountain lair to spread the infection himself. Aeron's dragons were too vigilant. The constructs were too clumsy and slow for such a delicate mission. So he had waited, searching for another way.

Esilwen had presented the answer to his dilemma. The addition of her blood to the pathogen would speed the progression of the deadly disease. He had only to spread it across the shard.

And as always, the Void provided a solution for his needs.

Serapis drew out a forgotten tome that lay discarded at the base of his shelves. The cover was faded, the title unreadable. Only the leather construction had saved the volume from complete deterioration. As a priest of Skoh, the Corpse Crafter had used this book to keep the city of Gerzean under his rule. No one in his lifetime, besides himself, had managed the complex rituals of the Void's power that were inscribed on the manual's pages.

He opened the tome to one of his favorite spells. One that had assisted him greatly in the past, allowing him to dispose of rivals and disbelievers discreetly.

Shadow touch. Its only drawback: the disease could only be transmitted through one complete, unbroken shadow.

His own genius made his insides quiver with glee. Night was falling. Was not darkness simply the shadow left behind the absence of the sun? He called forth power of the Void and unstopped the vial of Esilwen's blood.

*

When Kirion charged, Esilwen dashed into LAMIE's loading bay, not waiting to see how the Lord of Light fared in battle against his own army. She had seen him use his power before. There was no doubt in her mind as to who would be the victor. Her only chance was to escape while Kirion was distracted.

"Esilwen, did you make it back on board?" Gene asked, through the comm, desperation evident in his voice.

"Yes," she said, breathing heavily as she ran.

The mechanical purr of LAMIE's dead tech engines came to life and the hangar bay doors began to close. Esilwen didn't slow her pace, but rushed through LAMIE's interior, up the stairs to the second level, past the mess hall and barracks, sidestepping the giant hole in the floor, and, finally, darted up the bridge stairs. Gene glanced at her as soon as she stepped onto the deck.

"I'm right—" she began, but something forced her to stop. The air vanished from her lungs—not in a whoosh, but as if it disappeared into the emptiness of space. She stumbled, grasping the bulkhead for support.

Her chest burned. She couldn't breathe. She gasped, but could not draw air. Gene stood and approached her as a sudden pain stabbed her heart, like an invisible blade.

"Esilwen?" Gene shouted in a panic as he reached her side.

Esilwen doubled over as the unseen wound spread from her heart into the rest of her body. Pain scorched her from the inside—not the icy power of Fohtian that she was used to, but the boiling heat of real fire. Her muscles tensed. She would have screamed if she could have, but still she could not breathe. She toppled. Gene caught her and inexpertly lowered her to the deck.

Remarkably, the pain felt familiar. She lifted her hands to where she could see them. The veins beneath her skin swirled weirdly, then grew black. The Corpse Crafter's plague.

"Esilwen, what's going on?" Gene asked in alarm.

She could not answer. This was faster than she knew was possible. She would be dead in seconds, consumed by Fohtian's power and sent through the shardgate. She tried to speak, to leave a message with Gene for Raeylan, but only a tight gargle emitted from her throat. Tears leaked from her eyes. It had taken him so long to find her the last time.

Suddenly, the pain stopped. Esilwen pulled oxygen into her lungs, feeling drunk with it after having been robbed of it for so long. Gene was babbling incoherently, begging for answers to a slew of questions that blended together in a mass of confusion.

She wasn't dead. Relief pounded through her so hard that for a moment she could feel nothing else. She wasn't lost. She knew who she was.

Then she looked at her hands. The pain was gone, but the black veins remained.

"What happened?" Gene finally managed to ask, his eyes darting across her face and arms. "Is that the plague? Are you going to die?"

She opened her mouth to answer, but nothing came out. A vision of the Corpse Crafter's burning white eyes leered through her memory, rising from where she had hidden it. Panic swelled behind it. He was up to something. He had used the blood she had given him. Whatever happened next was because of her.

Esilwen sat up, unsure of how to explain her suspicions to Gene. His back was toward LAMIE's nose as he helped her to stand. Consequently, Gene didn't see the shadow leap through the crystasteel viewport as Esilwen did.

"Look out!" she squeaked.

But it was too late. It was as if night had form and will. The shadow slithered across the deck like a creeping swarm of insects, so fast Esilwen didn't have time to blink. When it touched Gene he groaned and collapsed. This time Esilwen caught him instead of the other way around. His body jerked as she set him gently on the floor. His face flamed with fever. Black tendrils awoke underneath his skin.

"What in the name of Fohtian?" Esilwen breathed.

She rushed to the viewport and looked outside. Tendril fingers of night swept through Kirion's dismantled army like the whips of death. Some of the hardier species did not collapse immediately, including the GAELs, but listed side-to-side dangerously, obviously disoriented and weakened. But it took less than minutes for them to fall under the sway of the disease.

Soon, only one figure remained standing on the battlefield. Kirion turned back and forth, and though Esilwen couldn't see his face, she knew he was scanning the combat zone in shock, trying to determine what had just happened.

Esilwen wasn't sure she understood it herself. Night had swallowed them, unnaturally, moving south. Whatever the Corpse Crafter had done, it had been incredibly effective. The plague had taken down even the GAELs, who were immune to every disease Esilwen had ever heard of. The whole shard was probably infected; there was no reason to think that Raeylan, Margariete, and Kyleren had escaped its clutches.

So what had saved her? What had spared Kirion?

She glanced at Gene, then bit her lip as she examined LAMIE's controls. He probably had hours at the most. She didn't know how to fly the ship. She couldn't escape and reach the Corpse Crafter without Gene's help. They were trapped.

Esilwen swallowed hard and touched the controls to release LAMIE's hangar bay ramp. She was going to have to work with Kirion to save the shard. She prayed to Fohtian that he was willing.

46: The Final Countdown

Raeylan focused his mind on casting, forcing himself to stay calm. Esilwen was alone somewhere in this shard, in greater danger than the dragons had intended. Margariete had connected with one of them—Tosk—supposedly Esilwen's guardian. His sister had seen Kirion through Tosk's eyes, but had not had time to elaborate more before the battle. Was Esilwen fighting the Lord of Light at this moment? Was she captured, or had she managed to escape? Raeylan's concern threatened to distract him from the task at hand—defeating the Faithful Legion. It caused him sorrow that, as always, he was required to place duty above love.

A quarter arc into the battle, Raeylan had to cancel two of his large area spells as his dwarven allies dove into the fray. The sky stopped raining knives of ice and the river returned to the confines of its banks. Both attacks had done serious harm to the enemy forces, though it had taken quite a portion of his strength to cast the magic. The nanomites Kyleren had injected had erased all traces of the poison Raeylan had encountered in Skoh's temple, as well as healed his leg. Only a surface wound remained, and a little blistering.

Despite his efforts, a full six score misshapen troops were on the field, as well as the ships in the air. There were also thirty GAELs hunkered at the back of the line, firing their energy weapons into the dwarven ranks. Kyleren guarded Raeylan's right, blasting BT pulses from his assault rifle.

"The GAELs will slaughter the dwarves," Raeylan shouted over the clanking of swords and other weaponry.

Kyleren glanced at the crouching GAELs and pulled out his sniper, but a wave of misblendeds surged toward them. As the lieutenant aimed his first shot, Raeylan prepared to defend him. Temperance rang out with each strike against an enemy's weapon, and Raeylan took the opportunity to use one of the blade's greatest abilities. Every hit sundered its opposing weapon, cleaving it in two or shattering it entirely. Some of the attackers turned and ran, but others stood their ground, meeting their death at Raeylan's hand.

Kyleren's rifle reported many times before he suddenly shouted, "Frag! They dropped low and took cover. I can't get any more clear shots."

Raeylan finished the last foe in melee range, leaving them with a short reprieve. He moved to Kyleren's position.

"Then we must take away their advantage," Raeylan recommended.

The GAEL grinned, return his rifle to its sling and drawing Rend.

"I'm in."

Raeylan clasped Kyleren on the shoulder and teleported into the middle of the opposing group, behind the main line of fighting. A few GAELs around them shouted an alarm and turned their weapons on the two newcomers, but Raeylan engaged one and the lieutenant sliced Rend twice, killing the nearest two GAELs on the right. As Raeylan defeated his chosen target, another GAEL turned her rifle on him and fired. Raeylan slowed time and moved out of the round's path. He touched Kyleren gently, allowing him to move normally.

"Destroy their weapons," Raeylan ordered.

Kyleren grunted in response and followed the command.

When time resumed its regular flow, all of the GAELs jerked their attention to damaged weapons, confused by their ruined state. Raeylan prepared to finish his battle with them, but was interrupted as the Wolves of Skoh bounded into the area, taking several GAELs down in a frenzy of teeth and claw. Raeylan was momentarily stunned: why would the wolves attack their own allies? They seemed crazed—sickened with bloodlust and interested only in killing.

The wolves' actions proved fruitless since their teeth could not penetrate the thick GAEL skin, but it brought an opportunity to Raeylan. Since the soldiers were now weaponless and occupied, Raeylan and Kyleren were free to return to the larger host and defend the dwarves.

As if summoned by thought, an explosion from the front lines drew Raeylan's attention. A GAEL ship had crashed to the ground, burying dwarves and misblendeds alike. Overhead, Ragnar raged in a duel with Thanati while the other dragons hurled bolts of lightning at the ships. Raeylan couldn't see Margariete anywhere, nor Feralblade. He trusted that she was holding her own, and would call for him if she were in mortal peril.

As he gazed across the mayhem of battle, one thought gave Raeylan grave concern.

Where was Kirion?

Though the Faithful Legion had superior numbers and the advantage of technology, the battle had turned ill for them. Whatever strategy they had employed had failed. They had suffered catastrophic losses. These facts alone told Raeylan that Kirion was not the conductor of this battle.

This fight was not about winning. It was a distraction. Kirion's real objective must be Esilwen.

Raeylan teleported with Kyleren back into the middle of the army. Their course was clear: they needed to make sure the dwarves were in a stable position, and then teleport to where the dragons had been keeping Esilwen.

As he thought, a buzzing lanced through the back of Raeylan's head, bringing with it unwanted memories of his trials in the pyramid. An unnatural shadow darkened the twilight sky suddenly. Raeylan paused, watching tendrils of wispy shadow race to the ground. Everyone and everything it touched crumpled into an unmoving heap, including Kyleren. Raeylan teleported out of the shadow's way as a wisp attempted to connect with him, but when he reappeared, another ambushed him from the side. He tasted old metal, raw and tangy, in the back of his throat. His vision elongated and blurred. When he fell, it was as if he was watching himself hit the grass. All the while he heard a humming—high-pitched and screaming—in the back of his head, beckoning his soul into the Void.

*

Margariete swept Stardawn across the shadow that was Feralblade, somewhat amused. Always the same tactic. The master assassin disliked taking a hit, and his shadow walk abilities allowed him to fight without the need to block enemy strikes. He shifted into a dark cloud with every swing of Margariete's blade, reforming momentarily when it was his turn to attack with his daggers.

They danced for several minutes. Margariete was careful not to let down her guard. Feralblade was a deadly enemy, after all. Purposely, Margariete feigned annoyance, letting the assassin believe he had the upper hand. In reality, she was biding her time, forcing him into a rhythm. She even allowed him to score some superficial hits to promote his confidence. Soon he began to laugh.

"You had a newfound self-assurance, Margariete," he cackled as he struck at her face. "Where has it gone?"

Margariete bent back, avoiding the attack. She wondered that Feralblade was not even making an effort to vary his assault—not that he would gain any advantage by it. She had locked on to his mind and knew exactly when he would shift and solidify. That ability was something new—at least in this life. She had not met with him face to face since Thyella and had not had the chance to read his mind. Without the power of Nehro, he could not block his thoughts from her. She soon discovered that she could not find his consciousness while he was a shadow, but as a strategist, he thought out his movements in advance to trap his foe.

He was shadow as Margariete shammed a lunge, then he was real. Margariete quickly adjusted, taking the opportunity to knock him in the face with Stardawn's hilt. He stepped back in surprise, glaring at her as blood dripped from his broken nose. She could see realization dawning in his mind: he knew now that she had been toying with him, allowing him to feel as if he had the advantage. He deduced that she was in his mind—there was a stab of panic, though he didn't show it outwardly.

Margariete held Stardawn at the ready.

"It is you who has lost your confidence, Kahlos Trichanas," Margariete said, purposely using his given name. "Your existence has been one of death—even from birth. You compensate too much of your inadequacy with the pain of others."

"Death is more satisfying than any lover, Margariete," he replied absently.

In his mind, Feralblade was frantically planning, his thoughts in such disarray that Margariete couldn't find any substantial line of attack. So instead, she delved deep, looking for anything in his psyche that she could use.

"Yet somewhere inside, you must yearn for peace," Margariete returned. "That's why you pursued your revenge against my family."

"Is this your new method of defeating an opponent?" Feralblade scoffed. "Appealing to their inner sense of righteousness, hoping I will spare your life?"

"I don't need to charm your nonexistent conscience to get you to behave, Feralblade. I can make you do as I wish easily."

Feralblade grinned, his mind in disbelief.

"Drop your weapon," Margariete commanded, pushing with her will.

Feralblade was a man of wits, and not easily overpowered. But he looked at his hand in surprise as it disobeyed him. His remaining dagger fell from his fingers. He glared at her, his thoughts churning slowly.

"You said I deserve a clean death, princess, yet you play games."

"Games are your favorite battle technique," Margariete shrugged. "That is why you infiltrated our hearts before attempting to destroy the First Kingdom."

"And I succeeded in my revenge," he replied, his mind working to defy her spell.

"You're wrong, Feralblade. Raeylan defeated you. He closed the Well that gave your cursed beasts magic. He took Nehro's power from you."

Feralblade's face twisted into an ugly expression of hate. Margariete sensed his weakness, the bitterness that he had housed for ages.

"The pleasure of revenge was robbed of you. It was Kirion who destroyed our land, not you."

Feralblade snarled and tried to lunge at his captor, but Margariete's magic held him fast. He was conflicted, trying to control his resentment. Kirion was his lord. He desperately clung to his devotion. Without Kirion's interference, Feralblade would be dead. Kirion had made him powerful, linked him to Skoh's magic. No, he would not allow Margariete's mind manipulations set him off guard. He would still have vengeance on the Viridius line. He could still kill the twins and achieve his ultimate goal.

Margariete then felt Feralblade hesitate. He wondered at the new Margariete he faced. She was different, more powerful. He didn't understand how she had managed to change so quickly.

As she held him, Margariete gathered energy in her hand, preparing an attack. As her lightning ejected, he broke through her control, shifting to shadow just in time. He molded his form around the energy so it missed completely. Margariete was unsure if he could be wounded in his incorporeal state. But if shadow made him impervious to damage, why would he bother dodging his opponent's attacks? Maybe she just needed to be faster.

Feralblade made to retreat, so Margariete reached out to the air. She made it swirl around him, growing in speed. Dirt, twigs, and leaves were sucked off the ground in a vortex, making it visible. Shadow Feralblade spun around in a dizzying circle, unable to escape. Margariete forced the cyclone closer to her as she released another jolt of electricity. It whipped and twisted inside her wind tunnel, zapping everything inside it.

Feralblade cried out in pain and he was forced back into physical form. Margariete shifted the path of the wind and slammed him into the ground. His armor sizzled.

"Discovered some new abilities have we?" he moaned.

Margariete chose not to respond. She didn't plan to let Feralblade escape, but just in case he did, she didn't want her new powers blabbed to Kirion. The less the Lord of Light knew about Aeron's Mirror, the better.

"Let you and I meet blades," Margariete recommended suddenly. "No running and no tricks."

Feralblade glared at Margariete with some amusement.

"You mean a duel?" he taunted.

Margariete picked up Feralblade's daggers with her mind and tossed them. He easily snatched them out of the air as he stood.

"If you want to be free of games, then we fight," she said. "No magic."

Feralblade looked genuinely intrigued.

"How can I trust you will not cheat and read my mind?" he asked warily.

Margariete smiled inwardly. She knew he would not hesitate to cheat if it meant victory. But she said, "I give you my word as Princess of Thyella. I will not gaze into your mind to gain advantage."

Feralblade eyed her with a calculating expression, suspicious.

"You were my first teacher," she goaded, "are you afraid that your student has surpassed you?"

His gaze lingered on her a moment longer. Then he bowed in accordance with Thyellan custom.

"Very well," he said.

Margariete could tell by his body language, that he did not intend to follow the rules. Even his bow was somehow a mocking gesture. She shouldn't have been surprised. He was, after all, a trickster and assassin. But instead of angering her, Margariete felt saddened by it. Feralblade was still Thyellan by birthright and deserved and honorable death. It was disappointing that he was choosing to forgo that honor.

They stood facing each other, ready to strike. Suddenly, Feralblade's eyes narrowed as he stared over her shoulder, back toward the battle raging at the base of the mountain. Margariete figured it was a trick until she felt something press against her neck. She swiveled, but met only darkness. Margariete doubled over with pain as it burned through her blood. She saw Feralblade clutch his head and fall to the ground as she surrendered to the pain, her vision lost to darkness.

47: Fallen Angel

Ragnar and Thanati enacted an aerial dance that left both with minor bruises and burns, but nothing serious. Each was an experienced combatant and easily outmaneuvered the other's attacks. Bursts of green fire scorched the sky, bolts of lightning singed the clouds.

The GAEL ships had quickly moved out of their combat zone, looking clumsy and inept next to the grace of the two ancient celestials. The other dragons attacked the vessels. Ragnar could hear their roars fill the air, heard the explosions as one of the silver ships crashed into the ground. But he could not afford to look. Thanati was quick and clever. Ragnar needed to keep his focus on her. The last time they battled, he had come off the worse; the scar on his chest attested to that.

Ragnar fought hard against his nature as his battle with Thanati intensified, curbing his rage. Thanati had robbed him of the one person he had loved most. How could the memory still be so vivid? Eight centuries had not dulled the pain; when he looked at Thanati, he could still see Sorien's blood dripping from the erinyes' brass fingertips, his lover's heart turning into salt in Thanati's palm.

The pain of loss reared up in the back of Ragnar's skull. Rage almost consumed him then. He charged Thanati recklessly, heedless of consequence. He wanted to hurt her; kill her. Inflict the roaring pain he felt onto her body.

Ragnar belched a bolt of lightning, forcing Thanati to the left. As she moved, he raked at her with his spiked tail, but missed by a wide margin. She turned, smiling haughtily at him as she hovered in mid-air.

"You have grown weak in your old age, Ragnar," she taunted. "How disappointing. Or perhaps you still pine for that lorelei I killed? Has her loss addled your wits?"

Ragnar snarled. Foam flecked his lips and Thanati laughed. All that Ragnar saw was a haze of blood—Thanati's blood.

He darted forward, snapping at the winged woman with his teeth. But she only laughed again, diving toward the ground. Her flame sword appeared in her right hand, her deadly whip in the other. The arrival of the weapons was like a dash of cold water to Ragnar's insides. He was being foolish. Obviously she was baiting him, a tactic to make him lose control.

A growl rumbled low in his chest. That is how you lost to her, he reminded himself. That is why Sorien is dead.

He forced his mind to clear. Thanati was directly below him, her sword in a defensive position. Through the power of Aeron, Ragnar pushed into her mind, bypassing her surface thoughts and searching for something he could use against her. He was surprised at how easily he found an insecurity.

"Since we're discussing disappointment, Thanati," he growled, "it must rankle that you betrayed your creator for something you will never have."

"You speak nonsense," she scoffed. "I left Fohtian for the glory of Lord Kirion."

"Yet, as a former servant of the god of love, love itself still evades you. That was, after all, what drove you to murder your erinyes sisters, wasn't it?"

Thanati's smile melted from her face like snow in summer. Her eyes grew steely cold. Ragnar pushed her further.

"But Kirion does not love you. His heart belongs to someone else."

"You know nothing," she hissed.

"I read minds," Ragnar stated with a deft airborne bow. "Your secrets are easy to find. Kirion will always love Esilwen, Thanati, even when it is you who lay in his arms."

Thanati's body tensed as if Ragnar had struck her. She screeched like an angry bird, her ornamented hair seemed to stand out with displeasure. Her face distorted into an angry grimace and she charged him.

Ragnar sensed her thought: forever the lover, but never loved.

"I will send you to meet your useless father!" she screamed in fury.

Still connected to her mind, Ragnar read her intent and swerved left as she struck out with her fire blade. He pushed his claw into her path of flight, catching her. They grappled; Thanati hissed fire from her skin but Ragnar refused to free her, squeezing tightly, despite the pain from her magical green flame. His jaw snaked forward and he clamped his teeth into one of her scarlet wings. She yelped and spat obscenities at him.

When he snapped his neck to the side, he tore Thanati's wing clean off.

The scream that breached the erinyes' lungs drove a thorn of satisfaction into Ragnar's heart. He laughed hard in his throat: a bitter, hate-filled sound. The son of Aeron dropped his foe, knowing full well she could no longer fly.

Ragnar watched Thanati spiral to the ground, beating her remaining wing pitifully as she screamed. Blood spurted from her wound, misting the air. He knew she was not vanquished; even after she struck the ground she would heal herself with Fohtian's power. But could she regenerate her wing?

He didn't think so. But just to be sure, he chewed and swallowed it.

I got her, Sorien! he thought to himself with elation. She will finally pay for your murder!

Thanati slammed into the ground, her body writhing in agony as her magical fire began to heal her. Ragnar landed ten feet away, delighted to note that her wing did not return. He transformed into his human shape and waited. After a few seconds, she staggered to her feet, though she looked unsteady, as if she could not manage to balance herself. She glared at him, tears of pain dripping down her bronzy face.

"You left me to live with my loss, Thanati," Ragnar accused, "an ache that poisoned my soul. Today I will have justice."

Ragnar drew Black Ice from his side, the cursed Void blade he had scavenged from the ruins of Svartelbode. Once drawn in battle, Black Ice had claimed him as its master, and Ragnar had never been able to own another sword afterward. They simply dissolved in his hands, like his palms corroded the metal.

Thanati's eyes grew wide, her mind frantic. She tried to run, but fell instead.

He slashed her once, twice, three times. He screamed as he cut her, losing himself to anger. Four…five…a sixth opened her arm to the bone. Thanati wept, pleading for mercy, but Ragnar missed her heart by design, knowing that her body would try to heal. Ten…fourteen…he started to lose count of his strikes. All he knew was that he wanted to make her feel every lonely moment he had lived since the erinyes had robbed him of his love, wanted Thanati to pay full measure for killing Sorien.

Almost sick with the storm of his rage, Ragnar halted, watching Thanati bleed on the ground. He felt weak. Drained. He looked at Black Ice. The blade was glowing with an absence of light, a dark halo that whispered with malice. He heaved for breath. The sword was sucking in his strength. It had never done that before.

He looked at Thanati, who cowered on the ground, her hands protecting her face from his wrath. He glanced at Black Ice grimly. Had the weapon ensorcelled him with hate, or had he given in to it willingly?

He shook his head. It didn't matter.

"Now, you die," Ragnar said to Thanati, preparing the final strike.

But the falling of a black shadow from the sky stayed the blow. Black Ice rang out in warning, vibrating in his palm like a living thing. He felt the power of the Void close in around him, pricking him. As he watched, Thanati's metallic skin turned black with spiraling veins. She gasped once and fell unconscious.

Silence smothered the battlefield as, one by one, the combats on the ground toppled. Dragons fell from the sky in a whoosh of wind; ships that had been blasting their cannons ceased abruptly and floated aimlessly away. The shadow left none untouched, even the servants of the Void.

Ragnar clutched his sword as the tendrils of dark magic invaded his body. He could feel Black Ice try to push it back. The sensation was strange, like being pelted with sand in a windstorm. Every granule took a bit of him. Whatever had affected the others was attacking him, albeit more slowly. He supposed he had his sword to thank.

Was this Kirion's work? Unlikely, since his entire army seemed incapacitated. It was too much like the plague Ragnar had sent Tosk to research. But somehow, this disease was happening faster. Ragnar looked toward the north. The black shadow stretched across the entire sky.

In an instant, he knew what he had to do. He longed to finish Thanati, but how many strikes of the sword would it take? She was an erinyes, able to regenerate most damage. Kirion's army was disabled. Ragnar hadn't a second to waste.

It was time to escape.

He sheathed Black Ice and sprang back into dragon form. His thought process had happened so quickly that not all his dragonmates had yet hit the ground. Ragnar breathed lightning at Vior as the mud-colored dragon fell through the air. The electricity jolted through the unconscious dragon, shattering his body into bits of glass. As Vior's remains drifted to the ground like crystal rain, Ragnar saw Vior's life pane, the flat, hard sheet of glass that gave Vior sentience. It glinted, then faded into mist.

Ragnar flew across the plain, blasting each unconscious dragon with a bolt of energy: Tyr, Logi, Hoeg, Mryk, and Frey.

Ragnar had told Raeylan earlier that he didn't know how Aeron had created the dragons, but that had been a lie. He knew he was not killing his fellows: the dragons of Aeron were simply a manifestation of the plane of air, fashioned into a solid creature through The Mirror's power. With practice, Margariete could call them back any time she wanted. The only dragon Ragnar could not free was Tosk; he remained Kirion's prisoner.

Once Ragnar had returned all the dragons to their natural home, he scoured the battlefield until he found his children, Raeylan and Margariete, and Chano's Champion. Having collected them all, Ragnar sped back to his son's ship, hoping to Aeron that he reached the vessel before the disease claimed him.

48: Don't Get Mad, Get Even

Kirion stood at the center of his army, half of them unconscious from the shadow's touch, the other half dispatched by him. He sheathed his sword and ran a hand through his raven hair, lost in thought. What in the name of the Seven Worlds had happened?

The demigod examined an elf who had collapsed nearby. Black veins ran along the man's brown skin. His face was flushed, sweat beaded at his temple. Kirion nudged the elf with an armored boot, but the fevered body did not wake.

Perplexed, Kirion walked briskly through the battlefield. Nothing alive had escaped the shadow's touch—except himself. Even the GAEL soldiers, who were supposedly immune to disease and toxin, had fallen. This was a magical malady, something nearly like one of the powers in Skoh's Earring: the Black Touch. But this was on a scale even The Earring couldn't rival.

Kirion teleported next to one of his GAEL captains. He knelt, touching two fingers to the man's neck. Concentrating through The Earring, he commanded the Void magic to recede.

Nothing happened.

How did the magic refuse to obey him? Kirion tried again, this time on a different solider. Still no result.

Anger bubbled inside him. He had The Earring. The power of the Void should be his to command. Who could do this? Skoh had guarded her powers jealously, had only given the barest sliver of her magic to her own celestials. The idea of a mortal with this much influence over the Void was ridiculous. Kirion needed to find the answer. He opened his senses, intent on detecting the direction of the powerful spell.

Void magic hit him so hard that he fell to his knees. Stars burst in his head, blinding his sight. He spat a string of curses against the Mistress of the Void, his enemy of old. Kirion struggled against the power's intensity, trying to overcome it, but in the end, he was forced to release his magic sense completely. He took several large gulps of air to steady himself before he was able to stand.

The disease was definitely of the Void's magic, born of two domains: corruption and illusion, twisted together—a blending Kirion had thought impossible. And there was something else mingled in the mix, a taste both familiar and foreign that he couldn't quite place.

The sky was black with night, stretching in every direction. The entire shard looked to be infected. He slipped a communication gem into his ear, calling to Thanati, then Feralblade. As he suspected, there was no answer.

He replaced the gem in a pouch, then turned to LAMIE, the ship Raeylan had stolen. In the murky distance he could see a figure step tentatively out of the hatchway, wringing her hands. Night's shadow could not veil the identity of the woman he had pursued for millennia: Esilwen.

Kirion teleported in front of her, but his sudden appearance did not alarm her. She seemed to have expected him. A sly remark was on the tip of his tongue, but as she stepped closer, where he could see her clearly, the comment slid back down his throat unuttered. Black veins stained her pale skin, scarring her face and arms with their poison. Panicked, Kirion held his hand against her face, looking for fever, afraid she might drop dead where she stood.

But she was cool to the touch. He expected her to recoil, but she stood her ground, looking at him with an unreadable expression. His concern dissolved into puzzlement. Clearly, even Fohtian's power did not stand immune to the night's Black Touch, but why? Was there a battle raging inside her, against the Void's spell? As Esilwen remained calm, he didn't think so.

He traced one of the black veins on her cheek with his finger. Anger slapped him with a palm of jealousy. Whoever had done this to her would pay, full measure. Esilwen took a step back, out of his reach. The expression in her emerald eyes betrayed her.

"You know what this is, don't you?" he asked smoothly, dropping his hand to his belt.

She nodded.

"Then tell me. I will rectify this blasphemy."

Esilwen swallowed, looking unsure. She brushed at her arms unconsciously, as if she could rub the black stains away.

"There is a—a man—if you could call him that—" Esilwen stammered. "He calls himself the Corpse Crafter. This plague is of his doing."

Fear was so evident in Esilwen's voice at the mention of this creature, that Kirion felt a pressing need to rise to her defense. He could tell that it took most of her force of will to keep herself from shaking.

"For what purpose, Esilwen?"

"I'm not sure of his motives, just the nature of his work."

Kirion waited for her to continue, watching her body language. Her fear changed to something else. Was it guilt?

"I've researched this disease," she continued. "It's magical—"

Kirion listened as she explained this new version of Black Touch, how it tricked the body into replicating infected cells with the power of illusion, how these cells were corrupted by Void magic. But the way Esilwen kept shifting her gaze away told him that she was leaving important details out, like when she had met this Corpse Crafter creature and what had transpired between them.

"And how, my dearest Esilwen, have you escaped the fate of everyone else in this shard?" Kirion asked. "If I understand your explanation, the disease should have affected you even more quickly than it did the others."

Esilwen looked away quickly and said, "Maybe the same way you have."

Kirion narrowed his eyes. She was deflecting.

"Do not play coy, Esilwen. We both know that Skoh's Earring protects me."

He closed the gap between them and took her chin in his hand, forcing her to look at him. He expected her to show sorrow, maybe even fear. But she gazed at him determinedly, as if she had just made an important decision. When she spoke, he heard resignation in her voice.

"I have been infected with the disease before," she said.

"Even I cannot remove this disease," he said, embarrassed by the truth. "How did you manage a cure?"

Esilwen answered every question he put to her. How the disease had almost killed her the first time. How the dragon, Tosk, had sent her into a volcano to find the infection's source so she could save a village. She had been given the cure by the Corpse Crafter, but he had tricked her.

"I know the Lady of Darkness's kind, Esilwen. There is always a price," Kirion finally said. "What did you give him in return?"

"A vial of my blood," she admitted.

That was it. The taste of magic he almost recognized inside the wall of Void magic. This Corpse Crafter was using Fohtian's magic to expand the range of his spell and to accelerate the damage it caused. Kirion swept a gaze across Esilwen. The disease was connected to her, but did not originate from her. Removing the curse on her directly would do nothing to counter the spell. No, Kirion would have to eradicate the source and that was probably the sample of Fohtian's Blood the Corpse Crafter had taken.

"Do you have any idea what kind of weapon you have handed the Corpse Crafter?" Kirion said through a clenched jaw. "Somehow he has discovered how to mix the magicks of the planes, Esilwen. Your blood is the cause of this Corpse Crafter's new power."

Kirion released her and swept his hand angrily across the battlefield of the sick.

"You have run for fear of me, keeping Fohtian's power out of my reach, yet you trust an evil you do not understand with something as powerful as your blood—Fohtian's Blood! How could you be so naïve?"

Esilwen looked at him, unwavering.

"You are worst kind of evil, Kirion, because you truly believe that you are virtuous. And you're right. I have been naïve, both when I gave my blood to the Corpse Crafter, and when I released you from the gods' prison so long ago. But now I understand my weakness. It will not blind me again.

"We are alone in this shard. Both of us stand to lose everything if we can't stop this plague. We must work together."

Kirion was taken aback by Esilwen's proclamation. He wasn't sure if he liked her new self-confidence.

"What can you offer me that I cannot accomplish on my own?" he asked warily.

"I can take you to the Corpse Crafter," Esilwen offered, "if we can get our hands on a map. I know the landmarks."

Kirion's eyebrows rose dubiously.

"After two and half millennia of running from me, you are just going to trust me?"

"I have never known you to go back on your word, Kirion."

"If I refuse, your friends will die. You have little to barter and everything to lose."

A small satisfaction tempted Kirion to let the situation be. If he let this magic run its course, Raeylan and his misguided company would be dead. Chano's artifact would be for the taking and Esilwen would be free of her foolish infatuation for the self-appointed Guardian of Time. Those were things Kirion would gladly celebrate. But if he did nothing, he would lose a sizable portion of his army and the Dragons of Aeron—which was the original purpose of his coming here. He needed to find Ragnar, son of Aeron and author of the scroll of light. Kirion couldn't risk losing the information the Mystic's offspring possessed. Though she didn't know it, Esilwen had him on even footing, and that set him off guard.

"We wouldn't be having conversation if you could track the source of the magic on your own," she challenged. "You can't risk losing your GAELs. You can't create more, Sarras and the GraEL are lost to you. And what about your most important servants: Thanati, the Wolves of Skoh, Feralblade? Can you conquer the shards without their help?"

Kirion glowered. He usually made the deals, not the other way around.

"What is your proposal, then?"

"I will take you to the Corpse Crafter. Together we will stop this plague. Then you will let me, my friends, and LAMIE go. And," she emphasized the word, "you will give us a least at week head start before you try to pursue us."

Kirion smoldered, sure that his anger was plain on his face. But she was right. He needed her. And they were wasting precious time.

"Is that all?" he spat, annoyed at his helplessness to control the situation.

"No trickery. That is a part of the deal. You have to promise you won't try to find a loophole, like tracking us with a hidden tracer or anything."

Kirion had to take a moment to hide his incredulity. Esilwen was serious. And suddenly stubborn.

"I don't know what has happened to you, Esilwen, to evince such a change," he ran his thumb against bottom lip as he thought. He came to a decision quickly.

"I agree to your terms, on one condition."

"What?" she asked suspiciously.

"I decide the fate of this Corpse Crafter."

49: Nobody's Fool

Esilwen waited by the bay door of the GAEL transport ship as Kirion landed it on the outskirts of a town. When the ramp lowered, she practically ran down it, hardly believing her situation. She was willingly working with her greatest enemy. After everything they had been through, would he keep his promise?

Her heart pounded painfully. Kirion had been beautiful to her once—dazzling. His compliments had driven blushes to her cheeks, his kisses tender with hope. When she was young, Esilwen had loved him with everything she had. He had promised her a life of love.

Until it had been dashed to pieces with The Chalice, drowned in the blood of Fohtian's Oracles.

Tosk was right. Esilwen's faith in people let them exploit her. After all, hadn't it been her blind trust that drove her to unleash Kirion on the shards in the first place? She had found him imprisoned. She had barely questioned who had put him there and why. He had been so enchanting, powerless to escape without her help. Esilwen had pitied him, the beautiful boy with dark eyes and raven hair who couldn't remember his past.

Her choices had led directly to Thyella's destruction. Raeylan and Margariete had lost their home because of her. Kyleren as well—though in a different way. If Esilwen had left Kirion in his prison, the shards would not now be in peril.

But, she argued with herself, she couldn't go around the universe doubting the motives of every person she met. Raeylan and Margariete were true to their core. Kyleren was like the brother she never had. Though a little absent-minded, Gene had a good heart. And Tuatha—well, Esilwen hadn't quite decided how much humanity the shiidh had in her, but the woman had given her life in the fight to protect the shards.

The point was: there had to be a balance, a way for her to still believe in the goodness of people without allowing it to put the lives of those she loved at risk. There had to be forgiveness, a path to redemption.

Otherwise, what was the purpose of hope?

But was there a chance Kirion would ever renounce his quest for godhood? She ached inside for that to be true, for him to abandon his terrible ambition. But Esilwen did not dare trust him. He had a way of twisting the truth to justify whatever he wanted. That, more than anything, still hurt her.

After finalizing the landing requirements, Kirion arrived at the ramp. It had taken less than an hour for them to reach this city—giving Esilwen a chance to change her blouse since it was covered in Tuatha's blood—where they might find a map of the shard. Esilwen knew they needed to go north, but there was no telling how far east or west. She tried to ignore the awkward silence that permeated the air. Kirion hadn't spoken since they had agreed to work together.

He walked through the city gate without even a glance at her. Esilwen collected her courage and followed. Runes carved over the archway translated in Esilwen's mind. Snorri, Home of the Five Hills. Guards lay propped against the walls where they had fallen, all dwarves. Once inside the walls, Esilwen saw sick bodies littering the streets. The smell of sweat and fever made her cover her mouth with her sleeve.

"It's large enough that we should be able to find what we are looking for," Kirion surmised.

Esilwen guessed he was talking more to himself than to her, but she answered anyway.

"Yes, but it could take us hours. The people of this shard might not have that much time."

"Maps are an important commodity to a society as primitive as this," Kirion said sharply. "Cartographers should be plentiful."

The town was built on a series of hills, roads, and houses clinging to the slopes. The main street split in three directions before them: forward, right, and left. Kirion decided to go forward, stepping over the human and dwarven flotsam that cluttered the cobblestone. He didn't seem to acknowledge that they were living souls, he just circumvented them like inconvenient debris.

"What were you doing in this shard, Esilwen?" Kirion asked as they walked.

"What do you mean?" she asked, wary of his sudden interest in conversation.

"Your group," Kirion repeated, "what were you doing here?"

His directness made her suspicious, so she turned the question back to him.

"What were you doing here?"

Kirion laughed—a hard sound, like humor washed by pride.

"Looking for the dragons of Aeron, of course. They were the Mystic's celestials. I needed to find one in particular."

"Why?"

Kirion turned and actually smiled. Esilwen was surprised to see a bit of warmth in his expression.

"I will answer your second question if you answer my first."

Esilwen crafted her answer carefully, not wanting to reveal too much, but wanting to appear cooperative.

"We were using Thanati's map to look for artifacts. Gene detected an anomaly and we were investigating."

"With his Six Signatures Theory, I assume," Kirion said, resuming his climb up the road. Before Esilwen could ask how he knew about Gene's theory, Kirion continued. "I chose Doctor Gene Pecktol to design LAMIE because of his work with the Six Signatures. He was ridiculed by others in his field, but I recognized his genius. He was the only technobionomist creative enough to build a living ship. Gene understood magic—although he didn't know that's what it was. I suspect this anomaly he detected was the dragons?"

Esilwen didn't respond, but waited for him to offer an answer to her previous question. She was unnerved by how much Kirion knew.

"As to why I am searching for the dragons: one of them has something I need."

Esilwen would have pressed him further, but the road opened into a flat, paved market. Heaps of customers and merchants lay helpless on the ground, struck with the plague. Judging by the tables of food and décor, they seemed to have been celebrating some sort of festival before the disease got them.

An ugly wave of guilt rose inside her. This was her fault. They could all die because of her mistake. She fought against it, determined not to let it consume her. She would face the Corpse Crafter and make him put these people right.

Kirion walked to the center of the square, approaching a tall, wooden statue. Careful not to step on anyone, Esilwen picked her way through to join him. He was studying the base of the sculpture intently. A scrawl of symbols ran along the hem of its carved robes, but Esilwen could not understand them. That was strange—the only other language she had encountered that could not be translated by Fohtian's power was one of Raeylan's god scrolls. Could this statue have some relation to that? Its face was hidden under its carved hood, features indistinct, like it was keeping secrets.

"Who was he, do you think?" she asked.

"No one of consequence," Kirion answered with a shrug.

He immediately walked away.

"We should split up," he said, not turning back to her. "I will take that street to the left, you head up the one on the right. We can cover more ground that way."

Esilwen bit her lip. She knew he was lying. But did it matter? There were more urgent matters to attend to than the mystery of a statue in a tiny shard. The lives of all these people depended on her.

As she turned to follow Kirion's instructions, she accidentally brushed the statue with the tips of her fingers.

She gasped. Her body stiffened, like lightning had struck her. She stumbled and fell, skinning her palms on the cobblestone. Her mind went blank for a moment. A strange symbol reared in her head, behind her eyes. It was all that she could see, hear, think, and feel.

Then it was gone and Kirion was helping her up, steading her in his arms.

"Are you all right, Esilwen?"

She pushed him away angrily.

"I am centuries old, Kirion, I think I can manage a stumble," she said, exasperated.

The concern on his face made her upset. She had only tripped. What was the pain of skinned palms compared to the love he had thrown away? At least the palms would heal. He had no right to look at her that way anymore.

Esilwen blinked hard and pulled her hand across her eyes. There was something she was looking for. Something important. But she couldn't remember what it was.

Kirion was looking at the statue again, thoughtfully.

"We'll meet back here in half an hour," he finally said. "Let's get that map."

She remembered. Of course. They were looking for a map of the shard. That must be what she had forgotten.

Wasn't it?

"Half an hour," she agreed and stalked off.

Esilwen tried to walk slowly, but anger was pulsing through her like adrenaline. She stomped through the streets, turning into alleys and rounding corners indiscriminately.

Why was she so angry? She still felt the annoying pull that she needed to search for something—but not a map.

Maybe if she knew who the statue represented her thoughts would be clearer. She turned around and doubled back, determined to study the wooden sculpture while Kirion was gone. Maybe she should touch it again.

But when the statue came back into view, the agitation drained from her like cold water. Kirion hadn't taken the left street. He was scanning the statue with a dataplate.

So it was important. Only then did she realize how odd his suggestion to split up had been. Kirion usually didn't let her out of his sight.

Esilwen ducked into a building so she could watch him without being seen. She wondered if he had received a vision as well, but his puzzled behavior toward the effigy made her think he hadn't. Whatever it had done to her, she had to keep it secret from him.

Ten minutes passed and Kirion made no move to scour the city for a map. Until he left, she didn't dare study the statue further. Ignoring the urge to spy a little longer, or find an opportunity to touch the statue again, Esilwen realigned her priorities. The Corpse Crafter needed to be stopped. If Kirion kept his word, she could bring the others back to look at the statue later, after everyone was safe.

She slipped back down the street, making sure Kirion didn't spot her. The alley was shadowy and dark, so Esilwen pulled out her dead tech flashlight to read the shop signs. It didn't take long to find a mapmaker. A tiny bell chimed as she pushed the door open. The sound startled her after the eerie silence of the infected city. Taking a moment to compose herself, she stepped inside. Musty parchment permeated the air, bringing back the fond memory of Malbrin's library in Castle Viridius.

Shelves and shelves of scrolls stretched from floor to ceiling. With an apologetic glance at the human shopkeeper lying behind the counter, Esilwen pulled roll after roll from its neat cubby, discarding them in a mound until she found what she was looking for.

Keri's village was plainly marked: Verdan. The volcano near it was easy to find.

Esilwen took the map and left the shop, wishing she had some currency to leave the shopkeeper for his wares. She supposed it was enough that she was risking her life to eventually save his.

*

The flight took hours, but when the smoky volcano finally reared in the view screen, Kirion heard Esilwen's breath quicken. He glanced over at her. Her lips were bloodless, her hands gripping the back of a chair so hard the knuckles were white. Sweat glistened on the skin just below her throat where her blouse opened, highlighting black veins.

Concerned, Kirion passed over the terrain once, scanning the topography with sensors. Night here was deep: even the stars offered no light; there was only the red glow of the angry mountain. He couldn't help thinking that the Void's power seemed stronger here.

He landed the ship, turning the flight chair so he could see Esilwen more clearly. Her eyes were glassy as she stared out the viewport.

Something terrible had happened to her here.

"Esilwen?" Kirion asked gently.

As if awakened from a trance, Esilwen turned to him, trying in vain to mask her emotions.

He wasn't fooled. She was afraid.

"I can go in alone, Esilwen," he offered, standing. "You can wait for me here."

She shook her head fiercely.

"No, I want to face him."

Kirion bit his lip. His arms ached to soothe her, but he knew that his embrace would be unwelcome. How could he convince her that he wanted to help?

"Did something happen to you in there, Esilwen? Did the Corpse Crafter hurt you?"

After dealing with the new, self-assured Esilwen for the last few hours, Kirion felt a bit unprepared for the resurgence of a panicky, frightened elf-maid. It caused a lash of fury to bubble up inside him.

No one did this to Esilwen and got away with it.

"No," she replied.

Kirion didn't say anything else. If he could not get the truth from her, he would get it from the Corpse Crafter. And whatever the creature had done, he was going to pay for it.

Kirion turned to the sensor console, taking atmospheric readings. Volcanic toxins poisoned the air. He donned an LT oxygen mask before lowering the rear hatch. He went first, Esilwen following without bothering to cover her face.

"I know where to start," she offered once they were out of the ship.

She took the lead. Kirion didn't argue. They walked quietly for a few minutes, along a path of sharp, glassy rock. The wind hissed, aggravated by their presence. Esilwen seemed determined not to look at him.

"Something did happen to you in there," Kirion stated, tired of her silence.

"The Corpse Crafter is a servant of Skoh," she said, trying to be callous. "He is no less cruel than her other followers. But since they now serve you, you know that already."

"I never order more cruelty then necessary," Kirion argued.

Esilwen stopped and spun around, her face incredulous.

"You are just like him, Kirion."

Not this again. The old argument. Why couldn't Esilwen see his vision?

"I do what must be done to restore the Seven Worlds, Esilwen. To end the suffering of mortals everywhere."

"Murder does not end suffering. There will be no one left by the time you complete your subjugation of the shards."

"This is not a conquest, Esilwen. It is a quest to revive what was lost!"

She suddenly looked tired. Tired and laden with sorrow.

"Sometimes things are meant to be lost," she whispered.

Kirion struggled with himself. She needed to understand, to see what he wanted to make of the universe. Yet he hated to see such sadness in her.

"When I return to my place as a god, Esilwen—"

"You have fooled yourself, Kirion," she interrupted. "You once walked the path of light and hope. That's why I fell in love with you. But you changed when Thanati took you away. You lost your compassion."

Kirion's heart started to pound. What was she saying? He treated his followers with respect, he showed mercy when he could. But the universe was more complicated than that. Choices had to be made. Certain compromises could not be avoided.

And he was doing it partly for her. So she could rule with him over worlds made whole again. But she kept refusing to take part in it. Kirion completely lost his patience.

"I have sacrificed everything for the mortals in this plane! My power, my resources, time I could have spent with you! Your friends have turned you against me, Esilwen. That Margariete and Raeylan—" Kirion spat the Guardian of Time's name with hatred that exploded into fury. The very thought that Esilwen might choose Raeylan over him made him suddenly mad with unresolved jealousy—and a deep-seeded fear of losing her forever that Kirion had never dared to face. "They have twisted your love for me into this lie!"

Esilwen almost touched him lightly on his arm, but drew back before doing so. Something deep stirred in her icy green eyes.

"I took Fohtian's power because I loved you. I destroyed The Chalice in the hope that the man I fell in love with would return to me, that you would turn from this senseless violence." She sighed. "But instead you slaughtered my people. In arrogance, you murdered Shikun. I haven't deserted my love for you, Kirion. You've lost sight of yours. You chose to abandon me for your quest. It is you who forsook what we shared."

Kirion was stunned, realizing that the sadness in her eyes was for him.

"Esilwen, I—"

"There will always be a part of me that loves you, Kirion, a hope that you will recommit yourself to a path of light. But I can't let you destroy the lives that stand in your way.

"You and Raeylan are so much alike," she said, turning from Kirion as tears filled her eyes. "Only Raeylan is who you should've been."

50: Time To Surrender

Ragnar crashed into the ground, leaving a trail of blood and scales in the tall grass. He turned into the fall so that his body would take the brunt of the damage, protecting his precious cargo. His children and Kyleren rolled out of his claws, despite his efforts to hold on to them. The fever was taking hold, weakening him. His wings shook and quivered. LAMIE was only a league ahead. He had seen her before losing altitude.

There wasn't much time. He growled with tired pain as he fought against the disease's progress. Bruises and scratches marred his body. Ragnar pushed himself up on to all four claws, stretching his wings for balance. He gathered the three people he had dropped and leapt into the air, though he flew low in case he fell out of the sky again.

He passed over what he presumed was the other half of Kirion's army: elves, humans, and monsters dying in the grass. He paid them little heed. Had Ragnar possessed more strength, he would have paused to destroy some of the ships that hovered just above the ground at the edge of the battlefield. That would slow Kirion's forces down. But the dragon's strength was at its limit. And he still had to wrangle Raeylan's ship to life so they could pass through the shardgate.

Ragnar dropped into an inglorious heap outside her hangar bay, too grateful that the door was open to question why. He passed his three unconscious passengers and their belongings through the hatch before forcing himself into human form, hoping it would hold. If he fainted, he might shift back into his natural dragon shape and rip the ship apart.

There really wasn't enough time to worry about it.

Almost collapsing twice as he stumbled up the ramp, he maneuvered around the others and made for the control room. Ragnar was worried that he wouldn't be able to fly the ship. His experience with technology was extremely limited. But he had to try. The shardgate was several hours away by dragonflight, and he couldn't make it carrying three people. Hopefully, the disease's magical connection could be severed if they left the shard. If not, there was a good chance Kirion was trying to fix the problem—Ragnar doubted the arrogant Lord of Light would allow his army to be destroyed so easily.

All the more reason to escape the shard and get the others safely out of Kirion's reach.

Fighting the urge to lie down and succumb to the fever, Ragnar staggered through the ship's corridors. It took longer than it should have for him to climb the first set of stairs, and after searching the entire second level without finding the bridge, he struggled up the last set of stairs in what seemed to take an eternity.

He found what he was looking for at the top. The room with the machine's controls. Lying comatose on the floor was a youngish human male, sweat drenching his sandy-colored hair. Hope fluttered sluggishly through Ragnar's head. He knelt next to the man and placed a hand on the human's forehead. Closing his eyes, Ragnar concentrated, venturing into the man's mind in search of information. Soon he would have all he needed to fly the ship.

*

Things had been normal at first. Her Mortal had put her into a New Cylinder Thingy to charge his weapons. She had giggled every time he pulled the trigger. It had tickled ever so pleasantly. But she had been in the New Cylinder Thingy for a long time now. At least a whole nap cycle of In Between had passed. Chano couldn't sleep in the New Cylinder Thingy; she needed the energy of In Between. She ruffled her notched tail and scrunched her nose. Her Mortal was making her wait. She didn't like it.

She went to the Door that she could use to return to In Between without Her Mortal's permission. He would have to be punished. She would not go in to the New Cylinder Thingy again until he apologized.

She trotted into In Between.

That's when she knew something was wrong. Chano's instincts told her so. In Between was murky—it had nasty dark magic in it. Something had happened to Her Mortal.

It always made her tired to use the Great Door that took her to the Mortal Place, but it didn't look like she had a choice.

Arriving atop Her Mortal's chest caused her to squeak in surprise. He was sick! Magic was killing him. The Angry Thing and the Water Angel were lying next to him; their bodies were too hot. All of them were dying. She could see the nasty dark magic consuming their life force. And LAMIE. Chano could tell she was broken, her mind in stasis.

Chano chattered impatiently. It seemed the Intelligent Things would never survive without her help.

She crossed the floor to the nearest interface. Touching her nose to it let her meld into Her Ship. Chano swam through LAMIE's memories, searching for answers. Chano saw it all. Kirion, the army, the sickness, and how the dark Singing Lady had lost her head. Then the Pretty Blond Lady had left a message in LAMIE's files. She was with Kirion somewhere.

Chano huffed. Why was everything so messy? Nobody was following the Rules.

Then she saw someone on the bridge, not in LAMIE's memory but something that was happening now. She knew him. Aeron's Son. He was sick too. And he seemed desperate. He was leaning over her Second Favorite Mortal, the one LAMIE liked. After a while, Aeron's Son stood up and moved to the controls. Chano realized then what he was doing. He was going to take the ship away, leaving the headless Singing Lady and the Pretty Blond Lady behind.

Chano wouldn't let that happen. She woke LAMIE up, just a little, and put her own lock on the flying controls. Then Chano let LAMIE go back to sleep. It was ever so convenient that her Second Favorite Mortal had connected the boring metal engine to LAMIE's vibrant, living mind.

Chano extracted herself from LAMIE and scurried back to the Intelligent Things. She poked her head into the Angry One's pack, examining the interesting objects inside. After taking a moment to snack on one of the berries she found in a food pouch, she found Something Useful. A soft cloth bag. Happily, Chano rubbed her face against it, enjoying the smoothness. But then she remembered she was in a hurry. Quickly, she clamped her teeth on her Something Useful and pulled it free. She dragged the Something Useful to the dark Singing Lady's Life Rock.

This would be tricky.

She scratched the Life Rock with her claws, but nothing happened. Chano thought hard. She had made the Life Rocks so long ago. It was hard to remember how they worked.

Then something occurred to her. She rapped on the Life Rock with her tail until a small, pebble-sized piece chipped off. Squeaking in triumph, she scooped up the pebble and secured it safely inside the Something Useful.

She was feeling really tired now. She didn't have much magic left. She needed a long rest in In Between. But she had to fix the mess. It was up to her to save her Intelligent Things.

So she opened a T-Portal and scampered through it, dragging the Something Useful with its pebble behind her.

*

Ragnar cursed loudly as the ship's controls blared loudly and refused to obey. A message popped open on the holoscreen, informing him that the ship was in some kind of lockdown. He walked back to the human, whose name was Gene, to see if he had missed something important—a passcode maybe. But there was nothing. No explanation as to why the ship would not grant him access. Ragnar clenched his fist in frustration, emitting a growl.

A high-pitched squeak from the direction of the stairs captured his attention. Ragnar turned, startled. A squirrel stood on its hind legs by the door, sniffing the air with interest. Its head was tilted to the side, as if it were pondering deep thoughts. A chunk was missing from its tail, like someone had gouged it out.

Ragnar's eyes narrowed. He didn't have time for vermin.

"Be gone, rat," he commanded, waving at it and turning away.

The squirrel's reaction was quite peculiar. It hopped up and down, angrily shaking its little fist at him. This was no ordinary squirrel.

"Who are you?" he grumbled.

There was more squeaking as the squirrel scampered forward, jumping onto a chair on its way to the control board. Before Ragnar could stop it, the animal ducked into a cylindrical hole beside the controls. A bright flash of orange forced Ragnar to cover his eyes. When he could see again, the main holoscreen displayed the image of a small girl child.

"It's not nice to tell people to go away, Aeron's Son," she pouted.

"Chano?" he whispered in awe. "How are you alive?"

"I'm a Special Thingy," she said. "I have a Mortal that works for me."

Ragnar's brows contracted. What was a "Special Thingy"? The answer hit him like a lead block.

"You're the stone artifact!" he exclaimed.

"Duh," she said with a roll of her child eyes. "I already told you that. Stop wasting time. I'm cracking Soulwells by being in here. Tell me why you are taking my LAMIE."

"Because we have to get away from Kirion," he answered.

She pursed her lips defiantly.

"The Pretty Blond Lady said she would come back. She left it in a message for her Water Angel."

Ragnar blinked twice, trying to puzzle out the meaning of Chano's statement. The "Blond Lady" must mean Esilwen; the Water Angel was obvious.

"You mean Raeylan?"

Chano shrugged away the name.

"The Pretty Blond Lady says she's coming back," she repeated.

"Where did she go?"

"With Mister Trying To Take Over Everything," the child goddess said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

"Then we cannot wait for her," Ragnar argued. "If we don't escape, Kirion could take all of us prisoner."

"But the Pretty Blond Lady said he's going to let us go. They made a deal."

Ragnar felt annoyed—mostly with the other gods for trapping Chano's overwhelmingly creative mind in such a childish state, but also because he felt unconsciousness clawing at him. He needed to get the ship started.

"You really believe that Kirion will keep his word?" Ragnar asked. "Chano, two of the artifacts are on board. If we stay, Kirion will take them."

Chano looked suddenly alarmed.

"And with me, he could make me The Chalice! He could get Fohtian's power!"

"We have to leave, for the sake of the shards."

"I wouldn't like him to be my Mortal," she concluded. "He never likes to have fun."

"Can you fly this ship?"

Chano put her hands on her hips, offended.

"LAMIE is my friend. Of course I can fly her. But it will hurt her. I'm a Special Thingy and she's one of my angels."

"We must take that chance."

Chano sniffed a little.

"My Mortal will be sad. So will the Water Angel and the Angry One. The Pretty Blond Lady is their favorite."

"They will have to adapt, as your creations are often forced over time. You should understand that better than anyone," Ragnar reasoned.

Chano sighed.

"Okay."

She disappeared from the holoscreen. The ship's engines roared to life. Ragnar swelled with relief, knowing that convincing Chano to do anything was rare. Even the other gods had been forced to imprison her as a child to control her. As Chano flew the ship toward the shardgate, he felt his mind start to shut down. His body burned. But he had to remain conscious long enough to open the gate with what remained of his precious gate salt. Plus there was one detail he had to address before he could let himself slip into oblivion.

"And Chano—" he started.

"Yes?" she replied.

"It would probably be best for everyone if you erased Esilwen's message."

51: Under My Skin

Esilwen's accusation coursed through Kirion like poison. How could she choose that upstart lorelei over him? Raeylan was incapable of seeing the complexity of the universe; he was only slightly above mortal. He had blinded Esilwen with his single-mindedness, his narrow belief system. Why could Esilwen not see that?

The mortals of the shards were not living. They were simply surviving. They did not know the beauty of the Seven Worlds, could not comprehend their purpose. Each had been a living embodiment of the gods, directly connected to the planes. Their people drank freely of magic, created wonders through the gods. The Seven Cascades of Thyella allowed travel between the worlds. The Diviners of Yuugrasil discerned the secrets of the future, bringing prosperity to all. The miracles of Alanis healed any ailment of the body and the orchards of Eden gave bliss to the soul. Sarras unlocked the mysteries of life through technology; the oases realm of Kharnak taught mortals humility. In Origin, everything was connected: fire to darkness, water to light, and air to life.

How could he expect any mortal to understand? He was tired of trying to convince Esilwen to see the greater purpose of the universe. Her knowledge was limited to only what she had seen and experienced for herself. When he restored the worlds, she would see reason.

Kirion was pulled from his thoughts as Esilwen stopped to look around the blasted landscape.

"What is it?" he asked, following her gaze.

"I'm not sure where the cave entrance is," she replied. "Last time I was led there by a raven. I was sick; disoriented. I'm not even sure that we're on the right side of the mountain."

Kirion looked at her hard, wondering if she was trying to trick him. But the confusion on her face as she bit her lip seemed genuine. He cupped his hands, filling them with light that pushed away the gloom. Esilwen took a tentative step backward. Allowing the magic to flow through him, he commanded the liquid radiance to take form and shape. A small bubble rose from the golden mass, sprouting delicate wings. Nine more followed, until a halo of glowing butterflies danced around him. The light reflected in Esilwen's eyes like stars of wonder. He couldn't help but smile.

"What are those?" Esilwen asked in awe.

"Just a light manipulation spell," Kirion said with a shrug.

He held out his hand. One of the butterflies landed on his palm.

"Find our path," he whispered.

At once, the swarm of glowing insects leapt into the sky, scattering into the hollow wind. Their warm glow vanished from sight, leaving behind only the icy green of Esilwen's fire.

"How long will it take?" Esilwen asked with a shiver.

"Until they find what they are looking for," Kirion stated, reflecting on the limits of the magic. The light creatures couldn't speak. He would have to interpret their behavior upon their return. Butterflies weren't the most effective choice for the spell, but he had selected the shape to please Esilwen.

It took less than an hour. A host of light returned in a mad flutter. Nine circled around him in a muddle, but one flew close and away several times, indicating a direction. Kirion evaporated all but the one trying to get his attention.

"Shall we?" he asked Esilwen.

She swallowed, but nodded. The butterfly flew straight, but there was no path along the ground. Consequently, Kirion and Esilwen had to circumvent large patches of scraggly scrub. Their footing was unsure. Time passed as they climbed, but Kirion was too engrossed in his own thoughts to offer Esilwen conversation.

This Corpse Crafter had compromised Kirion's plans. It had taken almost all of his resources to escape from the Coalition and set up a new center of operations in an unpopulated shard. He had brought most of his tactical forces into Yuugrasil, searching for Ragnar, the author of the most important scroll he had collected from Raeylan. Now his forces were lying comatose on the field of battle, useless. The deal he had made with Esilwen would let two artifacts slip from his grasp. He had been forced to compromise, held at his word.

A squawking drew his gaze upward. Something spiraled above them, but he could not make out its form in the darkness. Kirion spewed needles of light from his fingers without hesitation. Esilwen gasped, startled by the attack. Ahead of them the object fell to the ground with a dull thump.

Kirion approached. His needles had felled a black bird. He commanded his butterfly to circle the corpse, so that he could see it better in the light.

"That's the bird that led me inside the first time," Esilwen exclaimed at his side. "It works for the Corpse Crafter."

Kirion picked it up, examining the remains. It was mostly a crow, or maybe a raven, seemingly built of several different birds. One of the wings was larger than the other. It was sewn together with leather sutras. His attack had destroyed part of the animal's body. Kirion looked through his magic sense, but whatever spell had given the bird life had already faded. Only traces of Void magic remained.

Kirion tossed the bird and redirected his guide. Esilwen didn't say anything as they continued on, but she continually glanced back at the spot where they left the bird, shuddering.

So the Corpse Crafter was aptly named.

Kirion wondered, his mind racing through every possibility. Many of his soldiers had fallen in battle today. Could this Corpse Crafter bring them back?

The butterfly's light went out suddenly. It had entered a dark fissure leading inside the mountain.

"We must have landed much closer than Tosk did," Esilwen offered without taking her eyes off the opening. "It took me almost a whole day to find the cave entrance the first time."

Kirion dispelled the butterfly with a wave of his hand.

"I'll go first," Kirion said, stepping into the darkness.

With a thought he activated his armor of light, letting it shine bright as day. The tunnel was mostly natural, simple with no turns or forks. There were some tool marks in certain places, indicating they had been widened by design. They soon came into a large chamber with craggy walls and ceiling. A small stream carved a path through the floor.

"This is the last place I remember, before the constructs attacked me," Esilwen whispered.

Kirion looked at her. Her eyes were locked on the opposite end of the cavern, staring at the only exit.

There was a hiss, like air rattling out of a corpse. Black-clothed objects dropped from above, curled away from the walls. Kirion glanced around, counting about twenty. They were eerily silent, except for the hissing.

Kirion narrowed his eyes, shifting his vision to reveal their magic. Void energy pulsed through them instead of life, the same texture as the Corpse Crafter's plague. The constructs were connected to each other by this magic, but they were moving too quickly for Kirion to analyze it further. They attacked as one, never quite looking at him.

Esilwen squeaked in warning, but Kirion had already drawn his sword and teleported into the center of the horde. Two swings with Moonstone Retribution and several constructs lost their heads. With his free hand he tossed a prismatic globe through the host, burning holes through the torsos of three more. He dodged their return attacks. Chains of light trapped six more; he used The Glove to pull barbs of ice from the small stream and impaled some against the cavern wall.

The remaining hostiles were felled by his sword. It was over in seconds. Only the six trapped by his chains were upright. He stepped forward, intent on examining the creatures with more care, curious as to how the magic linked them together.

Something grabbed his ankle, knocking him off balance. Caught completely unaware, he slammed to the ground. His sword clanged against the stone, but he managed to hang on to it. Kirion scrambled to look over his shoulder. A headless construct had pulled him down. Twisting awkwardly, Kirion swung Moonstone Retribution. The construct lost its arm at the shoulder, but the hand did not let go of his ankle.

Kirion hurried to stand. All around him the fallen creatures were regaining their feet, slowly, methodically. Those he impaled with ice were pulling their bodies along the frozen spears, tearing their flesh to get free. Hissing surrounded him.

Kirion eyes narrowed. What held these things together?

Behind him, a wall of flame erupted, incinerating some of the constructs. Kirion felt the pressure around his ankle disappear. He looked down. The severed arm lay lifeless on the ground.

Kirion watched Esilwen burn more of their enemies to ash. Each time a construct was destroyed, limbs of others went slack and ceased to function. At first Kirion thought it was happening randomly, but then he changed his mind. Most of the creatures had been defeated by the time he managed to figure out a pattern.

The constructs were obviously pieced together from different corpses. When a head was destroyed, its original body "died" again, even though the parts had been distributed into other creatures. Kirion could see the strings of magic that bound the original segments together, attached to the original brain. When the brain was destroyed, the connection evaporated.

Clever. It made "killing" the creatures impossible unless one understood its weakness. The only way to stop them was to obliterate the brain completely. It made swords useless, most projectile weapons as well. Against mortals, these soldiers could be extremely effective.

Kirion put Moonstone Retribution away, helping Esilwen finish the remaining constructs with explosions of light aimed at their heads. The hissing stopped. Headless torsos, floppy limbs, and floating ash were all that remained. Esilwen looked pale, her breathing raspy. Kirion flicked his gaze up and down her body. She looked to be unhurt.

He ran a hand through his raven locks, thinking hard. If this Corpse Crafter was willing to join him, his army could become nearly unstoppable.

52: Ride Into The Sun

It was after the battle with the constructs that a prickle of unease climbed Esilwen's spine. She knew this feeling well. It meant evil was close. She looked around, breathing hard. But as far as she could tell, it was coming from the man standing beside her.

"Kirion," she probed, "are you all right?"

He only stared at the constructs. She could almost see the scheming burning in his dark eyes. He turned away without a word, pressing forward to the exit. She followed at first. When he disappeared into the tunnel, she lingered a moment at the entry, gazing at the fragments of bodies littered behind them. Doctor Daghda's hypothesis had to be correct. The brain controlled its dismembered limbs. The body could still feel pain, though it was not free to act under its own will. Somehow, the mind was trapped. The dead could not rest.

So what happened when the brain was destroyed? Was the spirit released into the afterlife? Esilwen didn't know and the question troubled her.

She didn't like the way Kirion had looked at the constructs. Like he was sizing up their worth. But even he wouldn't stoop to using Void magic like this, would he? His hatred for Skoh went deep, but Esilwen wasn't sure.

Not wanting Kirion to have to return for her, she ducked hastily into the tunnel to catch him. Adrenaline pumped through her as they delved deeper into the mountain, every step bringing her closer to the Corpse Crafter's lair. Far from giving her strength of mind, Kirion's presence was turning into a liability.

Her predicament was doubly dangerous. Alone she had to face the two most malevolent forces in the shards: the Corpse Crafter and Kirion. The forces of darkness and light. How could she defeat them both?

At least if she survived, she could tell Tosk that she deserved another chance.

Fohtian, hear me, she thought. Give me the strength to persevere.

A strange warmth spread to her fingertips, calming her. Emboldened, she plowed forward. Ahead there was a glow—lurid red and orange—reflecting from the pool of molten rock she had seen in the Corpse Crafter's lair once before. She held her breath, side by side with Kirion as they entered.

An army of two or three hundred constructs barred their way. The figures stood unmoving, staring at nothing, mindless. They hissed, a sound just barely louder than the churning gurgle of the volcanic pool. Their hands opened and closed without purpose. Their dead, black eyes stared at nothing.

Esilwen felt her heart freeze. There were so many. How many innocents had died to create this unnatural horde? How could she free them from their torment?

The black-robed creatures parted as the Corpse Crafter waded through the mob, heading for the intruders. He stopped at the front line, staring through his skeletal face with white-flame eyes. Esilwen thought he looked amused, but it was hard to discern the expression of his horrible visage.

Esilwen flicked a glance at Kirion, her palms sweaty. The Lord of Light had not yet drawn his weapon, but his body was still clad in magical armor. The muscles in his arms were taut, ready to spring if needed. But the look in his eyes was odd, calculating. That, more than anything, made her nervous.

Welcome back, elf. Have you come to treat with me again? the Corpse Crafter rasped.

"I've come to collect what belongs to me," Esilwen declared, facing the Corpse Crafter despite her fear. "You cheated me."

You traded a vial of your blood for a cure, he crackled.

"A remedy that saved only a few," she returned. "It was not what you promised."

You did not specify an unlimited antidote, the Corpse Crafter said, looking pleased with himself.

Hackles rose through Esilwen at the Corpse Crafter's admission of his deception, displacing some of her fear. She opened her mouth to speak, but Kirion held up a hand to silence her.

"A cure for all was implied in the accord," Kirion said. "Inference is just as binding as a spoken condition."

Esilwen looked at Kirion, stunned. The hypocrisy of his statement was just as infuriating as the Corpse Crafter's blatant treachery. Kirion was willing to take advantage of any loophole if it suited his purpose—she had no doubt he would choose to double-cross her if he could—and here he was chastising another for the same behavior.

And who are you? the Corpse Crafter demanded of Kirion.

"I am the Lord of Light," Kirion announced proudly, "rightful sovereign of the shards."

The Corpse Crafter seemed unimpressed.

How has a mere mortal come by this title?

Kirion's eyes tightened with anger. Esilwen had to stifle the urge to laugh—because she was barely hanging on to her stability as it was. There weren't many people in the shards who dared mock Kirion so. He unsheathed Moonstone Retribution and made his armor burst into a sphere of blinding light.

"I am master of the Faithful Legion, the one true god of the Seven Worlds."

The Corpse Crafter only snorted.

The gods are dead. I will not return the vial of blood.

Kirion's light slowly faded back to a glow. Esilwen glanced between them with growing unease. She wondered if she should attack, but there were so many constructs. Could they fight the Corpse Crafter and his army at the same time?

Suddenly, Kirion smiled—a cold thing twisted with arrogance and cruelty. It made her shiver.

"You will, or I will destroy you."

Kirion flicked the index finger of his left hand against Skoh's Earring, as if brushing away a nuisance. The jewel rang harshly against the cavern walls. A burst of pain hit Esilwen in the head, making her dizzy. She blinked hard and tried to rinse her vision of the bright splotches that almost made her sick.

But The Earring did something worse to the Corpse Crafter. He screamed and fell to his knees. As Esilwen regained her balance and her sight cleared, she saw the necromancer's body shift, one instant appearing healthy and whole, the next his usual flesh-rotted self. For agonizing moments he changed back and forth, his pain-filled cries ringing through the chamber. His body convulsed and wriggled. It took Esilwen a moment to realize what was happening.

Kirion was making the Corpse Crafter experience his death, over and over again.

Finally, Kirion released the Corpse Crafter. The undead wizard looked at the Lord of Light with a mixture of hatred and awe. As Kirion stepped forward, Esilwen scanned the army of constructs behind the Corpse Crafter, making sure none of them had moved.

"You seem to like making deals," Kirion said. "I have a proposition for you, but it's a one-time offer, so choose wisely."

Esilwen felt a surge of betrayal. Before he even asked, she knew what Kirion was after. The Corpse Crafter's expression turned shrewd, but he made the only answer that wouldn't end in his destruction.

What is it you want?

"You will return the vial of blood you desecrated," Kirion ordered. "In exchange, I will arrange for you to join the Faithful."

"No!" Esilwen objected. In her mind she saw thousands of undead constructs, victims of the Lord of Light's intolerance, swarming the shards. "You can't mean to use this man's sorcery, Kirion."

"It is a means to an end, Esilwen," Kirion argued, turning to her. "In the right hands, this magic could be used for good."

I do not serve the gods.

Kirion's expression hardened as he turned back to the necromancer.

"Then I will tear the Soulwell tethering you to the Void even deeper."

Kirion tapped The Earring again. A sensation at the base of Esilwen's spine exploded into spiky dread. The Corpse Crafter tensed, holding back his screams. His breath rattled through his teeth. Kirion was tampering with the necromancer's Soulwell, which didn't seem to be working properly in the first place.

How does the Lord of Light control the Void? the Corpse Crafter demanded when Kirion released him.

"Skoh's domain belongs to me," Kirion boasted. "Do we have an agreement?"

The Corpse Crafter scowled ungraciously.

Is there any choice?

"It is good we understand each other. The vial, if you please."

Kirion extended his palm. With obvious loathing, the Corpse Crafter reached deep into his robes, extracting the small bottle. He handed it over. Kirion held it up, examining the thick, black liquid inside.

With a side glance at Esilwen, he popped the stopper. Blue light filled his hand. Slowly, he poured the corrupted blood into his palm. Then he closed his fist around it and squeezed. It sizzled and hissed and leaked between his fingers. But it turned from black to red as it dripped to the floor.

For hours, Esilwen had felt like the blood in her veins was little more than sludge, slowly suffocating her. As Kirion removed the source of the plague, it was like the light in his palm filled her whole body, evaporating the heaviness with a cool breath of wind. Gooseflesh rose along her skin. The release was so complete that she gasped with relief.

Kirion tossed the vial into the magma pool and wiped his hands on his armor. He flashed a dazzling smile at her. He would have seemed beautiful but for the ugly streaks of blood his hands had left across the glow of his armor. Instead, he looked like a tyrant.

"Now," Kirion said, turning to the Corpse Crafter, "swear yourself into my service."

For a moment, Esilwen thought the Corpse Crafter would refuse. His garish face rocked to and fro, as if weighing the strength of his horde of constructs against the two of them. Kirion touched The Earring.

I swear fealty to you, Lord of Light and Master of the Void, the Corpse Crafter said hastily, before Kirion could renew the torture. Kirion frowned at being addressed in such a manner.

Outrage burst through Esilwen, but she knew Kirion hadn't really broken their accord. She had agreed that he would decide the Corpse Crafter's fate, though she had not considered that Kirion would sink so low as to use the very powers he had once sought to destroy. Was it not this kind of twisted magic that had cause the god war in the first place? Kirion was traversing the shards, cursing Skoh's name and converting her followers, and yet here he was willing to ally himself with her magic.

Esilwen had hoped that he would destroy the Corpse Crafter and the Void magic puppets. But he hadn't. He had chosen to use the Corpse Crafter's evil to spread his light to the masses, sacrificing unbelievers to the Void.

She couldn't allow it.

"Kirion," Esilwen warned, "you cannot recruit him. This man murders innocent people."

Kirion's eyes turned so sharp they might have been daggers.

"So you have also said of me," he spat bitterly.

Esilwen swallowed hard, surprised he seemed hurt by her accusation.

"He made the people of this shard into monsters. You should stop him."

"He has repurposed them," Kirion said, dismissing mass murder with a wave of his hand. "A fitting consequence for the faithless. In death, they serve a greater end."

With the depth of sorrow, she acknowledged his intent.

"You're going to replace your misblended armies with constructs, now that the GraEL is beyond your reach. You will slaughter millions of people because you cannot control them. First breeding facilities, and now death camps? That is heinous, Kirion, even for you."

"You have your shiidh friends to thank for this, Esilwen. They robbed me of the resources I needed from the Coalition. You are not as blameless in this turn of events as you pretend to be. I must replenish the Faithful Legion by other means, thanks to your interference."

"Please Kirion," she begged, "don't become this. Let me save you."

"We made a deal," Kirion said through tight lips, obviously out of patience. "The Corpse Crafter's fate is mine to decide."

"But I did not give you leave to take his constructs as slaves to your cause. I would have them released from their torment."

"Don't break the deal, Esilwen," Kirion advised. "Stand in my way and I will consider our agreement breached."

"I will not let you have his army of corpses."

Esilwen closed her eyes, calling to the power inside her, praying to Fohtian for the strength to stop Kirion and to return to the people she loved. Her voice was cold when she spoke.

"So be it, Kirion. I curse you to the Void, because none of the other planes will ever welcome you."

Her eyes opened with a flash of power. Flame surrounded her in an icy-green funnel. A familiar screech met her ears, drowning all other sound. Below her, she could see the plane of fire.

The gargantuan phoenix she had called once before, in the courtyard of Castle Viridius, flew through her. Kirion took a step back, light pulsing from his palms. He looked panicked. Several balls of light ejected from his hands, but they did little to damage the bird. It leapt high in the cavern, skimming the magma pool as it did so. Hot stone splashed everywhere, lighting the constructs on fire. The cavern shuddered and cracked.

Then something opened beneath her feet. Esilwen felt herself fall, slipping through the portal into the ocean of fire beneath. She heard Kirion scream her name. And then the opening closed behind her.

53: Something To Believe In

Raeylan woke to a cool hand pressing against his cheek. His head felt heavy.

"Esilwen?" he murmured softly.

His throat was parched and dry, like he had been unconscious for a long while. He opened his eyes. As they focused, he recognized the dark-haired woman above him. He should have known; Esilwen's hands were always warm.

"No," answered Margariete tiredly. "Drink this," she commanded, putting a hand under his neck and helping him lift his head. Her hands trembled.

Raeylan raised his head, grateful as the cool liquid touched his tongue. He swallowed several gulps before attempting to sit up. The effort drained him more than it should have. He looked around, surprised to find himself in LAMIE's hangar bay, close to Tuatha's stone. Kyleren stood guard at the door, dead tech pistol in hand.

That was odd. Raeylan struggled to his feet, suddenly defensive.

"How did we get here?" he gasped, worried at the weakness that threatened to topple him. What had happened? The last thing he remembered was battling Kirion's forces at Glasir.

"I don't know," Margariete shrugged. "I woke just moments ago. Lance before me."

"Better question is, whose flyin' the gromm ship?" Kyleren growled. "Chano's helping, by the way. I can feel her."

That explained why Kyleren was using the dead tech pistol. He couldn't use a BT weapon without Chano acting as his core drive.

"Not Kirion," Margariete announced, closing her eyes. She was concentrating, her face scrunched with the effort. "Ragnar."

Margariete's eyes snapped open. Kyleren lowered his weapon, relaxing.

"Then let's go ask him what the frag is goin' on," he said, holstering his weapon and stomping out of the cargo hold.

Raeylan followed, still wondering how the battle under the tree had ended. Climbing through the ship was inexplicably difficult for all of them. Raeylan hadn't felt this weak since The Glove had drained his life force when he had closed the Well of Space back on Thyella. When they arrived at the bridge, all three of them were short of breath and shaky.

Ragnar sat in the commander's chair. He looked tired, but stable. Gene lay on the floor, fast asleep.

"How do you feel?" Ragnar asked, turning to them.

"Terrible," Margariete answered. "What happened?"

"We were struck with the Void plague," he said, then pointed to Gene. "Your technobionomist has yet to wake."

"Couldn't be a plague," Kyleren argued. "I'm immune to all that skrit."

Ragnar looked him up and down, smiling wryly. "This was no normal disease. It was born of magic. You have no immunity to that, I presume?"

Kyleren shrugged. "Never been hit with a fraggin' magic plague before, so how could I know?"

"But you can be injured by magical weapons," Ragnar continued. "Logic follows that you would also be susceptible to a magical sickness."

Kyleren only snorted with annoyance, then stepped forward to examine the ship's controls. Raeylan frowned, determined to get answers.

"How did we come to board LAMIE? What has happened to Kirion's army?"

"I brought you here when the plague struck the battle. My sword was forged by Void magic. It gave me enough resistance to reach LAMIE before the disease overtook me. As to Kirion's army: I don't know. I gathered all of you and flew to the ship directly. His forces could have healed as we have, or they may all be dead. There is no way to tell."

"I'm confused," Margariete said, shaking her head as if trying to stave off more weariness. "What was this spell-disease? Was it a weapon of Kirion's?"

"Not likely," Ragnar explained. "It brought down everyone in the shard, including Kirion's army. It must have been sent by the same culprit who ravaged the north of Yuugrasil. It greatly resembled the sickness Esilwen was sent to cure."

Raeylan nodded in agreement. Kirion would never risk his own army in such a way.

"How were we healed?" Raeylan asked.

"I'm not sure. It's probable that Kirion put a stop to it. He stood the most to lose. I hoped that going through the shardgate would sever whatever connected us to the plague. I was able to get us through two shards before I fell unconscious. I only woke a few minutes ago."

Raeylan stiffened, dread clawing at his heart.

"Where are we?" Kyleren demanded in a tone that made Ragnar bristle. It sounded like the GAEL wanted the dragon to confirm something he already suspected.

"Six shards from Yuugrasil; and not far enough to be complacent," Ragnar said. "We must avoid Kirion's clutches."

Before Raeylan could ask the question that was burning a hole in his chest, Chano's voice sang through the overhead comm.

"I must take my nap now," she said tiredly. "I have no magic left."

Through the porthole, Raeylan could see a flat, hard landscape, glittering with some mineral. LAMIE was landing. After touch down, an orange light peeked from the core drive port, cascading into a squirrel. Chano raised her head with much effort, pleading with Kyleren with weary eyes. The GAEL reached down and picked her up. She climbed his arm and disappeared through a small portal that opened and closed on his chest.

Kyleren, Margariete, and Raeylan spoke at the same time.

"How'd you get Chano to fly this ship?"

"How did you get through the shardgate?"

"Where is Esilwen?"

Ragnar sighed. "So many questions, and a total lack of gratitude for saving your sorry lives."

Both Margariete and Kyleren turned to Raeylan, ignoring Ragnar's whining. Fear laced Margariete's eyes, concern framed Kyleren's. Raeylan, however, focused on Ragnar, silently demanding an answer.

"Chano appeared on her own to fly the ship. I don't know why." He pulled out a leather pouch from his belt and held it up. "I used what remained of my beloved Sorien's heart to get us this far. As for Esilwen, she died in Yuugrasil."

Raeylan thought the sadness in Ragnar's expression arrived just a moment too late to be sincere. Raeylan's arms were so tight he thought his bones would snap.

"You witnessed her death?"

Ragnar took his time answering, as if pondering the correct words to say.

"She succumbed to the plague faster than everyone else," he finally said. "She took her last breaths when I arrived. She burst into flame before LAMIE went through the shardgate."

Raeylan couldn't speak. His head pounded.

"He's gotta be lying, Raeylan. Wouldn't be this gromm bastard's first time," Kyleren burst in angrily.

Raeylan glanced at his companions. Kyleren's expression was openly hostile, as if the GAEL wanted to beat a confession out of the dragon. Margariete was staring at Ragnar hard, her expression perplexed.

"Turn the ship around, Ragnar. We are going back to Yuugrasil."

"She's dead, Raeylan," Ragnar repeated, rising from his chair. "I discovered the chain of events that brought her here from your technobionomist's mind. Esilwen returned here to this ship. She researched the plague before it affected the entire shard. I'm sure you'll find her work in the ship's memory store. As it turns out, Esilwen was more susceptible to the plague than anyone else. Going back would only put the rest of us in danger."

"We don't abandon our people," Kyleren inserted.

"You have proven false in the past," Raeylan said, drawing his sword with the last of his strength. "Without your lies, we could have been at Esilwen's side to protect her."

Kyleren lifted his dead tech pistol, leveling it at Ragnar's head. Reckless emotion surged through Raeylan, and he would have attacked Ragnar had Margariete not stepped between them.

"Stop!" Margariete commanded.

"Move, sister," Raeylan demanded. "We cannot trust him."

"We can," Margariete said, looking over her shoulder at Ragnar then back to her twin. "Ragnar's telling the truth. I saw it in his mind, Raeylan. He cannot lie to me."

Was it Raeylan's imagination, or did Ragnar look a bit surprised at Margariete's support? Raeylan refused to lower his weapon.

"It's over," Margariete said gently, "she's gone."

Margariete's haggard expression reflected his own grief. Raeylan looked at his sister and lowered his weapon. She would never lie to him.

After a moment, Kyleren holstered his firearm. Tense silence stretched through the room.

"What about Tuatha?" Kyleren suddenly asked.

"I saw her head," Ragnar said, turning away from them and plopping back into the captain's chair. "As I boarded LAMIE. It was lying in the grass."

Kyleren swore. Margariete's shoulders slumped. Raeylan paused, acknowledging the woman's sacrifice.

"When Gene wakes," Raeylan said after a time, "have him repair what he can of LAMIE. Once that is accomplished, we will search for Esilwen."

Raeylan turned on his heel, not bothering to see if his orders were obeyed. The Void sickness had taken everything; he had nothing more to give. Almost collapsing with exhaustion, he made his way through LAMIE's corridors, finding the quarters he had shared with Esilwen for barely half a season. He knelt next to the bed, trying to calm himself. She would wake, alone, with no memory of who she was, or the people who loved her.

Instead of meditating as he had planned, he bent to the floor and wept.

*

Ragnar found Margariete in the mess hall an hour after LAMIE landed. She was sitting in the pseudo-dark, the only light streaming in from the porthole. On the table before her was a bottle and glass filled with a dark amber liquid, but she seemed to have forgotten they were there. Tears streaked her face.

Ragnar walked to a compartment in the wall and picked up a glass of his own. The noise caused Margariete to start. He slid into the chair opposite her and helped himself to the bottle. Margariete hastily wiped at her face with the edge of her sleeve, glowering.

"Your friend Gene is finally conscious," Ragnar began after taking a sip. "He's working on the ship."

Margariete nodded, then licked her teeth unhappily.

"I'm sure Raeylan will adjust to the—uh—circumstances," Ragnar continued. "I know he loved Esilwen very much. He's going to want to go after her, but right now we have more important things to worry about. I need your help convincing him of that."

Margariete narrowed her eyes at him, obviously angry, but she didn't reply.

"Is something wrong?" he asked, losing his patience. He expected this kind of rebellion from Raeylan—his son's heart was overriding sense—but Margariete had opened The Mirror. She should have her priorities straight.

In a sudden movement, Margariete snatched her glass and downed the entire contents. Then she reached for the bottle and refilled it.

"What really happened to her, Ragnar?" Margariete asked.

"What do you mean?" he asked, trying to arrange his expression into one of surprise.

"Where is Esilwen?"

He took a swig from his glass. Now they were getting somewhere. Ragnar hadn't expected Margariete to side with him earlier. The bond between the twins was deep with trust. He had tried to shield his mind with the most powerful psionics he knew so that Margariete would not discover his deception. He wasn't sure if The Mirror gave her the ability to penetrate his thoughts or not. The best he could have hoped for was a reading of nothing.

"Why did you tell Raeylan Esilwen was dead, when you knew I could see you were lying?" Margariete asked acidly.

Ragnar smiled conspiratorially. So she knew, but hadn't said anything. To see into his mind with all of his magical barriers, she truly was powerful. He returned her question with another.

"Why did you not expose me?"

"Because, you're not a coward, just a jerk," Margariete spat. "You would not have fled Yuugrasil unless you thought there was no other choice."

Ragnar, impressed, chose to be forthright.

"If Raeylan knew that Esilwen was still alive, he never would have left without her. Neither would your soldier friend. Kirion has the upper hand now. We didn't stand a chance. He would have captured and killed all of us if we had been forced to face him."

Margariete just stared for a moment, as if his explanation wasn't good enough. Ragnar watched her closely, even tried to see her thoughts, but her mind was an impenetrable vault.

"Where did you leave her, Ragnar?" she asked, though Ragnar suspected she already knew.

Margariete just wanted to hear it spoken aloud, to make Ragnar own his deception. She was mistaken if she thought he felt any remorse. The elf had failed her test, proven herself a liability rather than a capable participant of the quest. Leaving her behind was an acceptable loss. Kirion could do nothing with her magic until he had Chano.

He decided to humor his daughter and answer her question.

"Esilwen is still in Yuugrasil. She went with Kirion to cure the plague. As we are no longer ill, I assume they were successful."

"How do you know that for certain?"

"She left a message in the ship's memory for Raeylan. Chano erased it."

Ragnar could feel the rage rolling off his daughter. Her hands trembled. But she controlled it.

"Now answer my question. Why did you not reveal my deception to your brother?"

Margariete's aura turned to steely cold.

"That is a matter I swore never to speak of," she replied cryptically.

"Swore to who?"

Margariete actually grinned.

"My grandfather."

The admonition made Ragnar spew his mouthful of drink all over the table. Margariete had spoken to Aeron? How? His father was dead, destroyed during the Fracturing.

"How in the name of the Seven Worlds did you speak with him?"

But Margariete remained silent and refused to answer. If she had spoken to Aeron, then that might be why she knew so much about the Mystic's realm. Frustrated, Ragnar moved to press the issue, but Margariete stood up to leave.

"I need your help convincing Raeylan to abandon his search for Esilwen," Ragnar said, trying to draw her back. Margariete halted just before the door activation scanner.

"Sounds reasonable, since she's not really lost," Margariete replied disdainfully.

"Exactly. We can't let Raeylan waste time searching for her. We must focus on the issue at hand. Kirion has two of the artifacts: Nehro's Glove and Skoh's Earring. And though he cannot retrieve it yet, he might have Fohtian's Blood. We have two: Chano and The Mirror. Only one remains unclaimed and, at all costs, we must be the first to reach it."

"You mean The Sword of Light," Margariete stated.

"Yes."

Margariete's face pulled into a frown.

"Hear me out. I know I lied about it before. But I was there when the Fracturing happened, when all the gods lost their power. I alone know The Sword's location. I know you can see that I speak the truth. Kirion wants it more than all the others. I am convinced this is why he came to Yuugrasil; he knows I am the key to finding it. We must get to it first."

Despite her effort to feign nonchalance, Ragnar could tell that Margariete was interested.

"So you want me to convince Raeylan to seek The Sword instead of chasing after Esilwen? That won't be easy, Ragnar. He believes Esilwen to be alone and without memories. He blames your meaningless quest for her loss. He could have spent the time he wasted with you rescuing her instead. You have poisoned the search for that artifact with your lies. If it isn't close, he won't abandon her again. Tell me where it is, or I will not do as you ask."

"It lies where Kirion stabbed Skoh and fractured the Seven Worlds."

Ragnar saw the reflection of his eyes glittering on one of the glossy bulkheads. He forced his voice not to crack as he revealed the secret he had kept for as long as time had flowed through the shards.

"Kirion's Sword is in the Void."

Epilogue

Raeylan must live or Kirion will rule the shards. That is what the Mystic told me. Every cycle I struggle with these words. I have only met my grandfather once. Should I trust him more than my twin? Do I continue to lie to Raeylan after everything we have been through together?

If I have learned anything from the fallen gods, it is that they always have an ulterior motive. Aeron is not any different. He has a design. But is it best for the shards? How can I be sure?

Despite my doubts, I cannot ignore the prophecy Aeron gave to me.

For hundreds of seasons I tortured myself, tormented with the guilt of the death of a brother. I will not face that again. I will do whatever it takes to protect my twin. I will surrender anything to keep him alive, to stop Kirion.

Even if that means sacrificing my best friend.

I hope every cycle that Esilwen can forgive me—that if we find her again, when she discovers that I was the reason we abandoned her, she will understand. I can only wish for such clemency. Aeron has commanded me to never reveal his prophecy. No one will ever know why I chose to validate Ragnar's lie as a truth.

At least I do. I made the decision because I know Raeylan and Lance—to the bottom of their souls. They would have returned for Esilwen, even if it meant their deaths. LAMIE was too damaged to be of any use. We were still weak from the plague, and two fewer from our company. Kirion had an army at his disposal. Even with the loss of the Pack Sire and the maiming of Thanati, his forces were greater. We would have had to fight our way through Feralblade and the host of GAEL VICs working for Kirion.

The Lord of Light would have defeated us, and all would have been lost.

Still, Raeylan's heart is broken. I am the cause. Some would wonder—Lance especially—how I could live with that knowledge and not hate myself.

The answer is simple. I do not regret my decision. I did what I had to, to defend the shards and my brother's destiny.

My route is clear now: I must protect Raeylan at all costs.

About the Authors

A. Gerry developed an interest in fantasy at a young age. Her fondness for writing comes from many sources, but the most prominent is her devotion to video games. Some of her favorites include Mass Effect, The Elder Scrolls series, and anything that lets her shoot zombies. She received a Bachelor's Degree from Southern Utah University and teaches at a local charter school.

C. Hall has been addicted to the many realms of fantasy and science fiction all her life. A graduate of Southern Utah University, she now teaches at a local charter school. When she isn't busy designing activities for her Mythology class or going on field trips with the Star Wars Club, she is spending time with her sister. C. Hall's favorite authors include J.R.R. Tolkien, J.K. Rowling, and Tracy Hickman.

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