3

Opening Night is not so much a time of year as it is a state of mind. It can be invited, by no more difficult a measure than keeping one’s eyes and heart open all the time. There are Rodmistresses who could not share in the Opening if they stood at the Heart of the World on Nineteen-Years’ Night; and there are children, and the eager of heart, who can break the walls between the Worlds in broad day, and call the wonders through. Those who do not close their hearts to Possibility soon find their lives full of it.

The next day was gray and overcast, threatening rain. Herewiss left early, having been awakened by the impending light of dawn despite the fact that there was no sunrise to be seen. He didn’t stop for breakfast—partly from a desire to hurry, and partly to avoid running into the innkeeper’s daughter again. He felt a little guilty for laying as restrictive a spell on her as he had. But then again, she had been messing with his private property—and her actions had hardly been intended in benevolence.

“Aah, the Dark with it,” he said to himself as the inn receded behind him. He was heading south again; Dapple was trotting along briskly and needing little encouragement to hurry.

Doors into Otherwheres. Such doors were legendary—they might open on to other times, like the Éorlhowe Door hidden in the mazes beneath the melted stones of the Howe in North Arlen; or other places, like the old King’s Door in the Black Palace in Darthis; or other worlds entirely, as does the Morrowfane Gate beneath the waters of Lake Rilthor in southern Darthen. There were not many permanent doors, and they tended to be difficult of access and dangerous to use, because of time limits or unpredictable behavior. One of the Queens of Darthen acquired the sobriquet One-Hand when she crossed through the King’s Door and it closed unexpectedly.

Out in the Waste? Well, it would be a good place to put them if there are time-gates. At least the Dragons would think so—they won’t let anyone but Marchwarders near the Éorlhowe Door, and the human Marchwarders won’t go near it themselves for fear of changing the past.

Herewiss sighed. He would have given almost anything to go through a time-door, or just look through one, to find out if things really happened as the histories said they had. Or to see the great days of the past happen again—to see Earn and Héalhra take the Power upon Themselves at Bluepeak, to see the terrible Gnorn come tottering over the mountains and go up in a blaze of the blue Fire as the Lion and Eagle gave Themselves for the destruction of that last menace. Or to see the founding of the Brightwood, or of Prydon city, or Darthis. To watch the last stone being set into the paving of the Great Road, and watch the Oath of Lion and Eagle being sworn for the first time by Earn’s and Héalhra’s grandchildren. Maybe even to see what no man had seen, the Worldwinning, as the Dragons dropped out of the darkness and the Messenger in Her glory drove the Dark away—

I’m getting carried away with this, he told himself severely.

And you’re enjoying it, another part of him answered him back. Well, why not? Dreaming was free. Consider this: how about going back to the day Freelorn’s father died, and finding out where old Hergótha had been hidden? That would certainly make Freelorn happy. True, Freelorn had Súthan now, and that was not exactly a sword without lineage—the princes of Arlen had been carrying it since the time that Ánmod had used it to kill the Coldwyrm lairing in the fords of Arlid. But it was just that, a prince’s sword, and Freelorn was king, if not in name, at least by right. Herewiss didn’t need his underhearing to detect Freelorn’s dissatisfaction with Súthan. Lorn wanted Hergótha, which was the King’s sword; he lusted after it the way some people lust after others’ bodies and desire to possess them.

Hergótha, though, had gone missing after Ferrant’s death—he had not been wearing it on the day his heart stopped, and it had never been found in the palace. Perhaps he had taken it with him past the Door into Starlight, and walked the shore of the final Sea with it slung over his back, the kingliest of the shadows that dwelt there. Or perhaps the Lion had taken it back into His keeping again, maybe to return it to the rightful wielder one day, if one of the Line ever came back to claim the throne. Herewiss doubted that Freelorn would have the patience.

To find Hergótha, bring it back to Freelorn—

This is ridiculous, Herewiss thought. I don’t know for sure that this place has time-doors in it—or any doors, for that matter—and if it does, there’s no guarantee that I’ll be able to get through them. Or even make them serve my purpose.

He sighed. It was still nice to think about. To look back in time. To see his mother. To see Herelaf—

Or to look forward in time, perhaps, and see how he would finally forge the sword that would work for him, then do it.

Yes. And if those doors looked out into other worlds, mightn’t there be one world somewhere much like this one, except that both men and women had the Flame? Or maybe there would be a door into that long-past time before the Catastrophe, when everyone could use the Power—

Dapple stopped abruptly, and Herewiss looked up in confusion. About a hundred yards away, at the foot of a little hill that rose suddenly from the grassland, stood a small building.

It was built of logs stood up on end and bound together. The roof was thatched, and there was one door, and a window on the side that faced him. It wasn’t a house—there was no sign of a garden, or even a cow. A shrine, perhaps?

His curiosity nudged him, and he pulled on Dapple’s reins and rode up to the place. He dismounted before the open doorway. “Hello—?” he called. No-one answered.

There was a wooden plaque fastened next to the door, and though it was weathered, the runes were deeply scratched and easy to read: of our lady of liberations—use, clean, bless, and go safely.

Herewiss stepped in and looked around. The inner walls were plastered, and there were scenes painted on them in a primitive and vigorous style, the colors bright, the figures stylized, stark and clean. In the middle of the room was a rough offering table. Dead leaves and bits of grass were scattered about on the table and floor. Something made an irritated twitter, and Herewiss, looking up, saw a sparrow’s nest high in the corner, where the plaster had fallen away and left an opening to the outside.

He smiled at the appropriateness of the place, for there was one aspect of his personality sorely in need of liberation. The few minutes it would take to clean and reconsecrate the shrine wouldn’t be wasted. Besides, if the Goddess were to come to his house when he wasn’t there, and if it were full of leaves and such, She would certainly clean it up.

For a moment he grinned at the image of the Tripartite Lady busy in the Woodward with a broom. But the Goddess had never been known for standing on ceremony. On Her travels through the world She tended to leave home Her Cloak which is the night sky, and the Robe glorious as Moonlight, in favor of plainer and more utilitarian clothes. Even at that most sublime and beautiful of times, when She comes to share Herself in love—as She comes to every man and woman born—even then She rarely appears in any of the forms or manifestations attributed to Her by legend. Once in a lifetime, a person will know the joy of being held in the Goddess’ arms. She comes as just another person, with human quirks and wrinkles; sometimes She comes in the form of someone you know—perhaps even your own loved, by way of an affectionate joke. But She never comes when or where you expect Her. As the proverb says, “The Goddess is as likely to come in the window as through the door.”

Herewiss found a broom in one corner, not much more than a mildewed bunch of birch twigs, and did his best to sweep up all the detritus on the floor. As he swept, he looked at the figures painted on the plaster. One wall depicted the Triad in its first form—Maiden, Mother and Wise Woman, Their hands joined to show that They were One: and then underneath that, the Maiden with Her hands full of stars, busy with creation. But her back was turned to the other Two, illustrating the Error. Behind the Three of Them hung the symbol for the Great Death, the downpointing Arrow, and only the Eldest of the Three saw it. Her hand was outstretched to Her younger self, but the Maiden ignored the Eldest and went on creating as if her works would last forever.

In the next panel the Maiden stood in Her sorrow, Her hands covering Her face, as She realized the nature of Her error: She had forgotten about Death. And now that She had spoken the Final Word that set the Universe on its way, Death was trapped inside it. This whole Universe would have to run down and die itself before She could make it perfect. The Mother and the Wise Woman stood beside the Maiden, trying to console Her; but for some things there is no consolation.

The following panel showed the Maiden’s solution for Her own grief and guilt. She knew Her other selves in the manner of woman with woman, and became with child. Now she sat on the birthing-stool, and was no more Maiden, but Mother. The children She bore were twin sons, and She suckled Them one at each breast with a smile of maternal joy. The panel below showed the Twins grown already, beautiful young men, Her Lovers, and She stood between Them and They all three embraced one another. Then came the New Love, and the Lovers knew Each Other and found yet another joy. In the painting, Their mouths touched with almost ritual solemnity, even as Their strong arms strained about each other and They strove to be one.

But then the great Death entered in, casting the Shadow over the Lovers, filling Them with jealousy, each desiring to alone know the other Lover to the Mother’s exclusion. The Lovers’ hands went about each other’s throats, and They choked the lives out of each other. The Triad stood above them in sorrow, and together They lifted up the dead, and with Them entered into that Sea of which the Starlight is a faint intimation, therein to be renewed and reborn, to close the circle and make all things whole again.

The last panel, near the door, showed why the shrine had been built. There was a sorrowing mother with her four dead children in her arms, three little girls and a boy; and the inscription, my children. the plague came in the night. having pronounced, she sets free. may i meet them on the shore.

Herewiss stopped there, leaning on the broom, saddened. He thought how it must have been for that poor mother, building this place with her own two hands, most likely, hard by that little hill which probably housed her children’s bodies; painting those scenes, slowly and with care, and trying to find some sense in the deaths of her little ones. Probably there wasn’t any; but at least she had left something beautiful behind in their memory, and it may have been that having something to do had brought her at least partway through her grief.

He swept the last of the leaves out the door. The sparrow chittered faintly in its nest, and Herewiss looked at it with affection. Another mother, and her children, safe and comfortable. The nameless lady who built this place would probably be pleased.

He went out to where Dapple stood grazing, and rummaged around in the left-hand saddlebag until he found what he wanted, his lovers’-cup. Herelaf had made it for him, a long time ago. It was of white oak, simply carved and stained, with a border of leaves running around the outside just under the lip, and Herewiss’s name scratched under the foot. He could remember watching Herelaf carve it. “When it’s finished,” his brother had said, “take good care of it and it’ll last you a long time—”

It certainly had. Fourteen years. Herelaf had been dead for twelve of them.

Herewiss took a waterbag out of the pannier, and filled the cup with it. Carefully, so as not to spill any, he carried the old brown cup into the shrine, and set it on the altar.

“Mother of Days,” he said softly, looking for the right words, “Mother of Stars—bless the lady who built this place, and her children, whether they’re reborn or not—may she find love again, and may they too. Take care of the people who pass here; keep the Fyrd off them, and the terrors of night, and save them from loneliness. And take care of Freelorn for me, until I get there, and afterwards too.” He paused, swallowed the lump that was filling his throat. The hurt was twelve years gone, it was silly to be still crying about it. “And take care of Herelaf—let him come out of the Sea and find joy—”

He picked up the cup, drank quickly. It was harder to cry with his head tilted back and his eyes squeezed shut. By the time he had drained the cup, he was back in control again.

“—and help me find my Power when I get back home,” he said. “In Your name, Who are our beginnings and our endings—”

He went out of there in a hurry. Dapple had stopped grazing, and was looking at him inquisitively. It had begun to rain. “Let’s go,” Herewiss said. “Freelorn is waiting.” He undid his rolled-up cloak from the back of his saddle and swung it around him. The rain began in earnest then, pelting down hard. Herewiss made as if to mount, and to his utter surprise Dapple reared up and danced away from him, whickering.

“What?” he said. “What’s the matter?”

The horse’s eyes were calm, but when Herewiss reached for the reins, Dapple backed away again. “What, then?” said Herewiss. “Am I supposed to stay here?”

Dapple took a step backward and gazed at him.

“Dammit, when Dareth made your family smart, I wish she’d made you a little more verbal! All right, let’s see what I can find—”

Herewiss pulled his cloak more tightly around him and slipped the hood over his head, then leaned up against the wall of the shrine and closed his eyes. He tried to put his underhearing out around him like a net. It was a fickle talent, one which often refused to manifest itself when it was needed, and for a moment or so he couldn’t find it at all. He concentrated, and tried to listen—

—tried—

Warmth?

—he listened harder—

Very faint warmth. A banked fire. No, more like a fire being rained on, going out gradually. The first drops splattering into the flames, and the fire in panic, seeing its own destruction.

What in the world is that? Not a human reading, no-one I ever read felt anything like this. It feels so dry, and I can hear the heat—

Fire in the rain. The fire in terror, the flames being beaten down, steam rising—

Somewhere over to the west—

—coming this way—

Herewiss opened his eyes and looked westward. The rain was making it difficult to see clearly. It was coming down hard, a silver-white rushing wall, the typical spring cloudburst that seemed to beat the air right into the ground. If there was something out there, it would have to come a lot closer before he would be able to see it.

Fire, dwindling, dying out—Whatever it was, the source of the feeling was coming closer: the image had intruded on Herewiss’s underhearing that time without his having to listen for it—

Herewiss pulled his hood further down over his face and took a few steps into the rain, following the feeling. It wavered, grew a little stronger. Possibly it was sensing him too. Herewiss squished along for several minutes, shivering as the rain soaked through his cloak.

A shadow loomed suddenly behind the gray rain curtain, and Herewiss slowed down a little. It was bigger than he was—

(—fire in the rain—)

He went closer to it.

A horse?

It staggered toward him. A horse indeed; but a miserable sickly-looking thing, wobbling along on spindly legs. Its mane and tail were plastered to it, skin scalloped deep beneath its ribs, drawn drum-tight over its sunken belly. The horse’s eyes bulged out of their sockets, staring horribly. It looked as if it had been starved and abused by a whole town full of people, one after another. It looked ready to die.

Herewiss reached out with his underhearing again, to make certain. He got the same feeling: a fire, going out, almost too tired and weak now to be afraid any more. Steam rising, flames dying—and indeed there was steam wavering about the horse’s hide, as if it had been ridden hard on a cold day.

He went over to the poor stumbling thing, took its head and stopped it. It regarded him dully from glazed eyes, taking a long long moment to realize what he was. And a feeling stirred in his head. The horse was bespeaking him.

(Help . . . ) it said. (Dry . . . )

It collapsed to its knees.

Herewiss was utterly amazed. No-one had ever bespoken him but his mother, who had had the talent as a result of her training in the Fire; they had used it so commonly between them while she was alive that some of his more remote relatives in the Ward used to accuse him of disliking her, since when together they rarely spoke aloud. But after her death he had hardly ever used the talent again. There were no others in the Wood who had it, not even Herelaf; and after numerous disagreements with the Wardresses of the Forest Altars, Herewiss had little to say to them.

But a horse?

Then again, something in a horse’s shape could very well have the bespeaking ability. Rodmistresses sometimes took beast-shapes. If that was the case, though, why the distress—and why the strange underheard reading like none he had ever experienced?

(Dry!) the horse-thing said again, more weakly.

Herewiss bent over and grabbed the horse by the nose. Had it been in any better shape, it would certainly have bitten him; but now as he pulled at it the horse moaned pitifully and struggled to its feet again. Herewiss pulled it, step by trembling step, back toward the shrine.

(It hurts,) the creature said, bespeaking him piteously. (It hurts!)

(I know. Come on.)

This close to it, touching it, Herewiss’s underhearing was coming much more fiercely alive. He could feel the creature’s terror as if it were his own, and moreover he could feel its agony, for with every drop of rain that touched it the horse was seared as if by hot iron. Abruptly it collapsed in front of him, and then screamed, both out loud and within, trying to flinch away from the wet ground on which it had fallen.

Herewiss was shaken to the heart by the sound of its terror. I can’t carry it or drag it—

It screamed again, thrashing helplessly on the ground.

Oh, damn, damn, dammit to Darkness! Herewiss thought. He bent down, put his arms around the barrel of its ribs just behind the forelegs, and began to pull. It was terribly heavy, but nowhere near as heavy as a real horse would have been, even one as emaciated as this creature seemed to be. It was wheezing with pain as he got its forequarters a little way clear of the wet grass and dragged it along. Herewiss wanted desperately to drop the horse, just for a moment’s rest, but he was also deadly afraid of hearing that terrible lost scream again. He kept pulling, pulling, cast a look over his shoulder. The shrine was a dark shadow through the rain, not too far away. And another shadow was approaching with a sound of wet squishing footfalls. Dapple came up through the rain, looked at Herewiss, and then turned sideways to him, facing him with the saddlebag in which the rope was coiled.

“Thanks!” Herewiss said, reaching up with one arm to get the rope out. He uncoiled it, wound a bight around the strange horse’s chest behind the legs, knotted it, and tied the other end to Dapple’s saddlehorn. Dapple began backing steadily toward the shrine, and with Herewiss holding the horse partly clear of the ground, they got it to the door of the shrine quickly. There was a slight problem with getting the horse through the door—Herewiss had to drop the horse on the floor halfway in and go around to push its hind legs inside. When he had managed that, he undid the rope, coiled it, stowed it, and went back into the shrine. He dropped to his knees beside the horse’s head, gasping for breath and rubbing at his outraged abdominal muscles.

“Well,” he said. “Now what?”

The horse lay there with its sides still heaving, its breath rasping in and out, harsh with pain, as if it had been ridden to the point of foundering. Herewiss looked at it through the odd detachment that sometimes accompanies great exertion. In color the horse was a brilliant bay, almost blood-color, and its stringy, wet mane and tail were pale enough to be golden when they were dry. Under the taut-drawn skin, it had a beautiful head, fine-boned like that of a racehorse.

But racehorses don’t bespeak people, Herewiss thought. And the way the rain was hurting it. Water . . . Could this be a fire elemental, then? People meet them so rarely, the stories say. But the reading I got from it—

Herewiss closed his eyes and listened again. A feeling like fire, still, but not being rained on any more. Gathering strength, burning a little hotter, growing—

He bespoke it, making the thoughts as clear as he could. (What happened?)

(Don’t shout,) it answered faintly.

(Sorry. What happened?)

Its thought was weak, but had an ironic tone. (I didn’t know enough to come in out of the rain. Get out of me for a little, will you?)

Herewiss did, and pushed himself over to where he could lean against the wall. The horse was still steaming slightly. He reached out a hand to touch one of its legs, and then jerked it away again, sucking in breath between his teeth. His fingers were scalded.

A fire elemental. I’m in trouble.

The legends were fairly explicit about elementals of any kind being capricious, dangerous, tricky. Some elementals were death just to see. Flame would be a protection, but a lot of good that did him. Sorcery was almost useless. Herewiss’s Great-great-great-great-aunt Ferrigan was supposed to have had dealings with some of them, water and air elementals mostly, and she had survived to tell about it, but no-one was sure how . . . 

Herewiss looked at the horse with apprehension. Its breathing was slowing, and it looked less emaciated than it had before. Herewiss shrugged his cloak back, and then realized that the air in the shrine was getting much warmer. And the blood-bay ‘horse’ seemed to be drying out as he watched. In fact, it was becoming better fleshed out. The horse lay there, growing sleek, growing whole—

(What are you called?) Herewiss asked.

It bespoke its Name to him, and Herewiss reflexively started back and shielded his eyes. The elemental showed him a terrible blazing globe of fire—the Sun close up, it seemed to be saying—and out of that blinding disc a sudden immense fountain of flame leaped up, streamed outward like a burning veil blown in a fierce wind. Then it bent back on itself with an awful arching grace, and fell or was drawn back into the vast sphere of flame below. That single pillar of fire would have been sufficient to burn away all the forests of the world in a moment; but the creature bespoke the concept casually, as a small everyday kind of thing, not a terribly special Name. And—he shuddered—it made free with its inner Name as if it had nothing to fear from anything—

(Sunspark,) Herewiss said. (Would that be it?)

(That’s fairly close.) It looked up at him from the floor. Its voice was sharp and bright, and currents of humor wafted around it as if the elemental balanced eternally on the edge of a joke. (What’s your name?)

(I’m called Herewiss, Hearn’s son.)

(That’s not your Name,) it said, both slightly amused and slightly scornful. (That’s just a calling, a use-name. What is your Name?)

(You mean my inner Name?) Herewiss said, shocked and terrified.

The elemental was confused by his fear. (‘Inner’? How can a Name be ‘inner’ or ‘outer’? You are what you are, and there’s no concealing it. Don’t you know what you are?)

(No . . . )

More confusion. (They told me this was a strange place! How can you be alive, and thinking, and able to talk to me, and not know?)

(How can you be so sure?) Herewiss said. (And if this is ‘here’, where’s ‘there’?)

It showed him, and he had to hold his head in his hands for fear it would burst open from the immensities it suddenly contained. ‘There’, it seemed, was the totality of existence. Not the little world he had always known, bounded by mountains and the Sea; but his world and all the others that were, all of them at once, a frightful complexity of being and emptiness, and other conditions that he could not classify.

Herewiss knew that there were other planes of existence—everyone knew that—but he tended to think of them as being separated from the world of the Kingdoms by distance as well as by worldwalls, and accessible only by special doors such as the ones he was looking for. Sunspark, though, had more than an abstract conception. He had breached those walls under his own power, had made his own doors and walked among the worlds. Herewiss, seeing as if through Sunspark’s mind, could actually perceive the way they were arranged. The worlds all overlapped somehow, each of them coexisting in some impossible fashion with every other one, a myriad of planes arranged on the apparent surface of a sphere that could not possibly be real, since all of its points were coterminous with all of the others. Still, all the countless places held distinct positions in relation to one another. Each of them was a thread in the pattern—a Pattern past his understanding, or anyone’s, actually, though some few by much travel might get to know small parts of it, or might come to understand the spatial relationships on a limited scale. It could be traveled, but the order and position of the worlds within it changed constantly, from moment to moment. The important thing was to know what the Pattern was going to do next.

During the brief flickering moment when Herewiss tried to perceive the thought in its entirety, he knew with miserable certainty that he stood, or sat, right then, upon an uncountable number of locked doors. If he only had the key, he could step through and be anywhere, anywhere he could possibly imagine. Sunspark had the key. The hope and jealousy that ran through Herewiss in that one bare moment were terrible, but they didn’t last long; they dwindled and fragmented as the thought did when Sunspark finally pulled away from the contact. Herewiss found himself left with a few pallid shreds of the original concept. I’m not big enough of soul to hold so much at once, he said to himself when he could think clearly again.

(That’s where you come from?) he said.

(Somewhere there. I’ve forgotten exactly where. I’ve been so many places.)

(Can you take other people into those—those places?)

(No. It’s a skill that each must learn for himself.)

(Oh . . . ) Herewiss sighed, shook his head. (Well. You’re a fire elemental, aren’t you?)

(I am fire, certainly,) it said.

(How did it happen that you got caught out in the rain?)

(I was eating,) it said, and Herewiss thought of the distant brushfire he had seen. (I was careless, perhaps—I knew the storm was coming, but I thought I could elude it just before it started to rain. However, the rain came very suddenly, and very hard, so that the shock weakened me—and then it wouldn’t let up. I thought I would go mad or mindless—we do that when too much water touches us. It is a terrible thing.)

Herewiss nodded.

(You saved me,) the elemental said, almost reluctantly, and there was something in its tone that made Herewiss regard it with a sudden suspicion. (I—) It cut itself off. Herewiss’s underhearing caught a faint overtone of concealment, fear, artifice. (—thank you,) it finished, a little lamely.

The hesitation made it almost too plain. The old legends said that elementals and creatures from other planes respected nothing in the worlds but their own ethic. That ethic, called the Pact, stated that travelers-between-worlds must help one another when need arose, and return favor for favor, lest the overwhelming strangeness and dangers of the many worlds should wipe out the worldwall-breaching ability and all its practitioners forever.

(Sunspark,) Herewiss said, doing his best to mask his slight uncertainty with a feeling of conviction. (You would have been left mad and in horrible pain if I hadn’t helped you.)

It looked at him, no emotion showing it its eyes or its tone of thought. It moved its legs experimentally. (I think I could stand up now—)

(Sunspark. You owe me your well-being at this moment. Otherwise you would be out there still, in the rain.)

It shuddered all over, so that its nonchalance of thought did not quite convince him. (What of it?)

(A favor for a favor, Sunspark. Until the End.)

He held his breath, and held its eyes and mind with his, and waited to see whether the line that appeared again and again in Ferrigan’s old tale would work.

Sunspark looked at him, its eyes distraught, his underhearing catching its consternation and unease, its desire to be out of there, away from this horrid narrow little creature who knew of the Pact but didn’t even know what its own self was—

(Sunspark,) Herewiss said again, this time letting his thought show his disgust at the elemental’s trying to slip out of an obligation by concealment. (A favor for a favor.)

It closed its eyes. (What do you want?)

(You know very well!)

It sighed inwardly. (A favor for a favor,) it said. (Until the End. What do you want of me?)

Herewiss paused for a long moment. (I’m not really sure yet. Get up, if you think you can, and we’ll discuss it.)

Sunspark struggled a little and then heaved itself all at once to its feet. It stood there for a moment swaying uncertainly, like a new foal. (That’s better,) it said. (You know, I am likely to be a lot of trouble to you—)

Herewiss stood up too. It was distinctly unnerving to have something the size of a horse looking down on you and talking to you, especially when it wasn’t really a horse. (You’re trying to frighten me,) Herewiss said. (The stories are true, it seems. If you refuse to aid me, you’re forsworn, outside the Pact, outside the help of any of the other peoples who walk the worlds. No traveler survives long under such conditions. You owe me a favor, a large one, and you will repay it.)

The elemental looked at him with grudging respect. (I will. You understand, though, why I did not—)

(Of course. You weren’t sure whether I lay within the Pact or not, and who wants to be bound when it’s not necessary? But I’m within it, by intention at least; and if that’s not enough, there’s ancestry.)

(Oh?) It understood him, but there was some slight confusion about some of the nuances he had applied to the thought, and Herewiss didn’t know which ones.

(Yes. I am descended from Ferrigan Halmer’s daughter of the Brightwood Line; she walked between the worlds, or so our traditions say. My father is presently Lord of the Brightwood—)

Sunspark stared at Herewiss, and emitted a wave of total shock and incredulity. (Your progenitor is still alive??)

(Uh—yes. My mother is dead, though—)

(Well, of course. Why two different concepts for your progenitors, though?)

Herewiss was becoming more than slightly confused himself. (One of them is a man, and the other was a woman—)

There was a brief silence. (You are a hybrid? Well, such matings aren’t unheard of in parts of the Pattern—)

(Uhh—no. ‘Man’ and ‘woman’ are different forms of the same creature.)

(Oh. Like larval and pupal?)

Herewiss was shaking his head in amazement. (Well, uh, not really—)

The elemental was bewildered, but still intrigued. (This is too hard for me,) it said finally. (I cannot understand how your ‘father’ is still extant after union. But whatever—there are patterns within the Pattern, and no way to understand them all. No matter. Your ‘father’ was a master of energies, you said—)

(I did? Well, yes, you could say that, though how you mean it and how I mean it is—)

(Later. What does his mastery have to do with you?)

(Well, among other things, when he dies, I’ll inherit the Wood—)

(Well, of course. How can it be otherwise, but that progeny shall take their progenitors’ energy unto them?)

(Uh—right.)

(I think I see. Are you seeking to bring your progenitor to his ending that you may have his energies?)

(!!!) Herewiss said, too puzzled to be angry. (No. I am traveling to find a friend who is being held against his will, and to release him.) Herewiss kept the thought as simple as possible, feeling that this was no time to go into the political ramifications.

He could feel Sunspark pondering the whole thought curiously, taking it apart. (Oh. This person is your mate?)

Herewiss said, (Uh—my loved, yes.)

Sunspark looked with interest at the concept ‘loved’. (Your mate. And you will unite and engender progeny? You seem a little young for it . . . )

(It, ah, it doesn’t quite work that way. You see, we are both men . . . )

(Yes?) It waited politely for the explanation. Herewiss sagged against the wall, looking for the right words.

(Well—see, Sunspark, in this world, ‘progeny’ are—well, there are many ways to achieve union, but there is only one way to have a child. The women bear the children, always; and though men may know men in, uh, union, and women may lie with women, a child only happens if a man lies with a woman. There have been times when babies were supposed to have happened when women lay together—but it’s hard to say, because men had been sleeping with the women too.) Herewiss, to his utter surprise, was becoming embarrassed. Even Halwerd at four years of age had not been as completely confused about sex as Sunspark obviously was. (My loved and I are both males and cannot have ‘progeny’ of our own.)

Sunspark digested this. (Yours is not a fruitful union? Yet you pursue it? Such behavior is not survival-oriented for a species.)

Herewiss laughed. (No, it isn’t really. That is why the Goddess gave our kind the Responsibility. When we come of age—)

(Oh. You come into heat too? Well, there is one similarity, anyway.)

(Uh, not really, I think. But. When we come of age, or soon after, we must have union in such a manner as to reproduce ourselves at least once—one union for a man, two bearings for a woman. After that, union is our own business, and we may love whom we please.)

The roan stallion stood there and mused over this. Sunspark was fully recovered now, and it looked truly magnificent, like the mount of a king—its hide was a true deep crimson, bright as blood, and its mane and tail glittered like wrought gold even in the subdued light from the door.

(How very strange,) it said. (Union again and again, it seems, without consummation. And even without progeny!—So your ‘loved’ is in durance?)

(Yes.)

(And you are going to free it?)

(Him. Yes, and then go back to my work.)

(This is definitely too much for me,) Sunspark said. (You will go to your mate—and not unite—and then go do something else?)

(Well, we may, uh, unite, but—yes.)

(What else could you possibly want to do?)

Herewiss sighed. (I have, mmm, a certain kind of Fire within me—)

(Yes: that’s why I was heading in this direction, as well as because the rain felt less over here. I could feel the fire, and I thought we might be related—though I didn’t understand how you could not be distressed by the water. I see that we aren’t relatives, though, except in a rather superficial manner.)

(That’s for sure,) Herewiss said. (At any rate, I have this Fire—but not control of it. With the Flame, one must have a tool, a focus with which to dissociate it from one’s self, or it won’t work. I’m looking for such a focus. It would be a shame to die of old age and never have had use of the Flame at all . . . )

(Excuse me. ‘Die’?)

(Uh . . . cease to exist?) Herewiss said, and Sunspark jumped a little from the suddenness of the thought.

(That is an impossible concept.)

( . . . pass on? Go through the Door into Starlight?)

(Oh, you mean leave your present form,) Sunspark said. (I see. Why the time limit, though? Is it a game?)

Herewiss shook his head slowly, not knowing what to say. Sunspark sensed his bemusement, and fell silent.

(Where are you headed?) Herewiss asked.

(I have been roaming—like all the rest of my kind. I am condemned to restlessness. But you have bound me to you by the Pact, and I must pay back your favor in kind.)

Herewiss thought for a moment. (Well enough, then. If you’ll keep company with me until you have opportunity to save my life, I’ll consider the favor paid. With the things I’m going to be doing, it shouldn’t be too long . . . )

(Done, and done,) Sunspark said. (Shall we match off energies to bind the agreement? It is in the nature of my kind,) Sunspark continued, (to match off energies whenever possible. The loser’s energies are bound to the winner’s, so that when the winners come to mate, their progeny are more powerful than the parents. I think you would probably consider it as something of a social exchange. Like—) it slipped a little further into his mind to find an analogue—(like clasping hands?)

(With a little knuckle-work,) Herewiss said, grinning. (I hear a certain air of permanence in the thought, Sunspark. Are you looking for a way to make an end of me accidentally, and so be free of our agreement?)

(Make an end? Oh, I see, force you to change form.) Sunspark chuckled softly, with innocent savagery. (I told you I was probably going to be trouble for you,) it said.

(Yes,) Herewiss said, laughing himself. (Trouble indeed. Sunspark, I am minded to try my strength with you. I would like to engage in a social exchange with you; I’d sooner have a friend than someone whom I could never trust, and that’s what you’d most likely be without this—)

It looked askance at the concept ‘friend’. (You want to mate with me?) it said incredulously. (How perverse. And how very interesting—)

There was a sudden smile in its voice that made Herewiss wary. (I didn’t say that,) he said. (Never mind it now, Spark, there seem to be differences in our ways of looking at things, and with a little luck we’ll have leisure to discuss them later—How are these matches usually handled?)

(Best two fights out of three.)

(So be it. I have certain limitations that you haven’t, though, and I will ask that you take them into consideration so that the match will be a fair one.)

(Who ever said anything was fair?) said the elemental in surprise.

(True, but it behooves us to try to make it that way,) Herewiss said. (Will you agree not to burn me up, or otherwise kill me?)

(‘Kill’? Oh, form-change. My, you have a lot of ways to say it. What a shame, that is one of the best ways to win a match. Why should I refrain?)

(I don’t want to leave this form yet.)

(Is it that comely? You can always get another, can’t you?)

(Not just like this one, certainly; the process isn’t under my control at all. And besides, I would no longer be able to reach my loved if I left it.)

(That would be tragic,) Sunspark said, (but then, all union is tragic, when you come right down to it . . . Oh, very well. There is something here that I don’t understand, and since you keep insisting, it must be important. I won’t ‘kill’ you. Shall we begin?)

(Right here??)

(Where better?) said Sunspark, and then the change came upon him, and Herewiss had no time to think about anything.

The creature that leaped at his throat had many of the worst characteristics of Fyrd—a nadder’s coily, scaled body walking on the ugly hairy legs of a bellwether, and the knife-sharp legs of a keplian at the ends of those legs. Herewiss wrestled wildly with it, trying to get some kind of decent hold, but there were too many legs, and the thing seemed to weigh as much as he did. The fact that he was braced against the wall helped him somewhat, but Sunspark had perceived that. There were legs pushing at his own, trying to knock him off-balance.

Herewiss spread his legs wider, strove to feel the balance flowing through them, the upflowing power of the earth, as Mard, his weapons instructor, had taught him. After a few straining moments the power began to come. Sunspark, though, feeling the change in the tension of its opponent’s muscles, shifted its attack toward Herewiss’s head. Herewiss was confused, for the form Sunspark had taken seemed to have no real head, nothing in which he in turn could attack—the top half ended in a blunt place where the serpent-like body came to an end, and talons erupted from it in a clutching rosette like some malignant flower. They grabbed and slashed at him, and it was all Herewiss could do to hold the thing at a distance.

For a long moment their respective positions did not change. Then Herewiss found a fraction more leverage than he’d thought he had, and slung the creature away from him, halfway across the room. The nadder-creature cracked into the offering table and lay still for a moment.

(First fall,) said Sunspark. (Not bad. Are you ready?)

He sucked in a few deep breaths. (Come ahead—)

It flashed a bright, edged feeling like a sharpened smile at him, and changed again. A sudden hot wind began to fill the room as its physical form dwindled away, and Herewiss suddenly had a hunch that it would be wiser not to breathe for the rest of this bout. He sucked in one last gulp of air before Sunspark had time to finish the change—and then found himself being pressed brutally from all sides, his muscles being painfully squeezed, his eyes smashed back in their sockets, his joints being broken open, his skull being crushed by something that clothed him all around like a stormwind turned in on itself. Herewiss held on to his lungful of air, but then it too was pressed out of him, and white lights danced behind his closed eyes as the awful pressure began crushing him down into unconsciousness—

He slapped the ground to which he had fallen, hoping that Sunspark would understand the gesture. Immediately the pressure let up, and he lay there for a few seconds, at least until the lights went away. He felt as if he had been run over by a cart.

(That one was mine, I think,) came the quiet voice. (Shall we take the third?)

(Go ahead,) Herewiss said. He dragged himself to his feet, and braced himself once more against the wall.

The air swirled, coalesced, and Sunspark stood before him in the red roan form again. But it did not move, just looked at Herewiss.

—and then it was inside Herewiss’s head, and Herewiss began to understand the elemental’s statement that he was fire. The quiet, familiar confines of Herewiss’s mind went up in a terrible conflagration. His brain and body burned inside, thoughts and emotions threatening to drown in heat and pain. But Herewiss held on, held part of himself away from the burning, concentrated on survival, on the help that this creature could be to him if he could bind it. He was not as afraid of fire as most people might be—fire was his companion at work, his old familiar friend. He bore the marks of his acquaintance with it all over his arms, pink places where blisters had been. This fire, a fire of the mind, was no different, really. He withstood the flames for a long few moments, making sure of his control. Then, (Two can play at this,) he said—

—and thought of water: storms of it, deluges of it, cold and free-running; the shaded place in the Wood where the Darst runs through, widening out into the pool he and Lorn used to swim in during the summers. The leap out from the green bank, and the splash, first too cold, then just right, cool clear liquid softness covering all the body, sliding, surrounding—

He heard Sunspark scream.

—the Sea, the northern Darthene coast in late summer, waves crashing and spray flying cold and salty, a blue infinity of water that could swallow an elemental without even noticing—

The contact broke. Herewiss stood there, sweating and trembling, and saw that Sunspark was doing the same. It looked at him, pleased and irritated both.

(You have nothing to fear from me,) it said, (I am bound to your will until you see fit to release me. I should have let the Pact-oath be the term of our agreement—)

(Maybe you should have,) Herewiss said, (but I for one have no need to keep you past the time of the original agreement.)

(You can afford to be generous,) Sunspark said grumpily. (I’ve never lost a match before. Shows you what comes of being fair.)

(Sometimes,) Herewiss agreed. (Come on, Sunspark, let’s go; the rain’s stopped.)

They walked out of the shrine. Above them the clouds were moving eastward before a brisk wind. (One thing I will require of you,) Sunspark said, (and that is that you keep water off me.)

(That’s easily done; there are spells—)

Dapple was grazing again; as Herewiss approached him he looked up placidly, as if to ask what would happen now.

(Hmm. Sunspark, will you mind if I ride you?)

(It’s a binding of energies, is it not? It seems appropriate.)

He transferred his gear to Sunspark’s back, piece by piece, and finally took the bridle off Dapple and rubbed the horse’s nose. “It’s a long way back home for you,” he said, “but you can’t help but find your way there. Though they might be confused to see you without me. Here—”

He put the bridle on Sunspark and then went to rummage in the saddlebag, finally finding the little steel message-capsule from Freelorn’s pigeon, along with the scrap of parchment it had contained. Inkstick and brush were further down in the bag. Herewiss wet the brush from his mouth, scrabbled it against the inkstick, and paused for a moment. Should I—? Oh, why the Dark not, he loves riddles!

“From Herewiss Hearn’s son to his sire,” he wrote,

Then he enclosed the note in the capsule and tied it around Dapple’s neck with some cord from the saddlebag.

“Have a safe trip home,” he said. “And thanks.”

Dapple nuzzled him in the chest, turned, and trotted off.

Herewiss swung up into the saddle, intrigued to feel Sunspark’s heat seeping up through it. (I hope the leather doesn’t crack,) he said. (We’re heading south. The place where Freelorn is stuck is about a five days’ ride from here—)

(For a horse,) Sunspark said with an inward smile. (We’ll go faster; I’m curious to see this ‘loved’ of yours. You’d better hold on tight.)

Several times that night and the next day, the country people of southern Darthen and northern Steldin pointed and wondered at the sudden meteor that blazed across their skies and did not strike the ground anywhere.