The Carnelian Throne<br>

The Carnelian Throne
Silistra, Book 4
Janet Morris
1979
 
ISBN: 0-671-55936-2
 
 
to Perry Knowlton
 
 
THE SPIRIT GATE STOOD SIX TIMES THE HEIGHT OF A MAN
Its bars must have been driven deep in the riverbed itself, into the water far 
be­low the choppy water. Where the shore reared up, the gate was fitted into a 
wall: featureless, towering undulant up the banks, extending undiminished into 
the forest. Thunder roared and rippled to­ward us. Over the gate danced 
lightning.
At that flashing signal the rain stopped. But the sound remained, redoubled. 
With querulous protest, the lower half of the iron gate split, each section 
retreating into its wall of stone.
Chayin, with a grunt: ran. Sereth, mo­tioning me before him, followed. I 
stum­bled in the gaseous mist, broke my fall with outstretched hands.
“Come on,” urged Sereth. “Look!”
I looked. And saw. And heard: the great gate, mysteriously as it had opened, had 
begun to close. We ran, for it.
My numbed fingers grasped the slow-closing iron bars. I grabbed the lattice of 
body-thick, slimy iron and pulled myself through. The gate’s sides rejoined, to 
pres­ent once more an impenetrable barrier.
“Estri, did you open the gate?” asked Chayin, touching my shoulder.
“No. I was going to ask you.”
“If you did not, and Ldid not, then who did?”
 
Also by Janet Morris
The Golden Sword 
High Couch Of Silistra
Contents
I. The Spirit Gate
II. Deilcrit
III. Of Whelts and Wehrs
IV. The Eye of Mnemaat
V. Step-sister’s Embrace
VI. Nothrace By Night
VII. The Bowels of Dey-Ceilneeth
VIII. The Carnelian Throne
IX. Gardens of Othdaliee
X. Imca-Sorr-Aat
Estri’s Epilogue
Glossary
I. The Spirit Gate
“Gate!” he bellowed over the storm, his dripping lips at my ear. The deluge had 
made us sparing of words. Under leathers soaked to thrice their weight, I 
shivered in spasms. Arms clutched to my sides, I stared into the rain. The 
driven sheets slashed me for my audacity. Lightning flared, illuminating the 
riverbank white. A moment later, the bright noise cracked through my head. The 
hillock trembled.
Over the gate danced the lightning. Its crackling fingers quested down 
thick-crossed slabs of iron, seared flesh. Emblazoned as they tumbled were those 
six-legged amphibians, their streamered tails lashing, scaled, fangful heads 
thrown back in dismay. I saw their afterimage: beryl and cinnabar, aglow upon 
the storm. Then their charred remains splashed into oblivion, spun away on the 
fast current.
“Down!” One man shouted, the other shoved me, and as I staggered to kneel in the 
sedges, the god that washed this land shook it, grumbling. I crouched on my 
hands and knees on the bucking sod, between them. Little protection could they 
offer up against shaking earth and searing sky, not even for themselves, without 
divorcing themselves from the reality they had come here to explore. And that 
they would not do.
Somewhere far off the weather struck earth again. We knelt on a fast-declining 
shore. On our right and left, steeps ascended, cresting in a plume of dense rain 
forest. In that moment of illumination the whole river valley and the gate 
set—into the river stood bared of shadow. Six times the height of a man was that 
gate. Its bars must have been driven deep in the riverbed itself, into the rock 
far below the choppy water. Where the shore reared up, the gate was fitted into 
a wall: featureless, towering undulant up the banks, extending undi­minished 
into the forest. For a swath about its base the earth was black and devoid of 
vegetation.
“Did you see that?” I yelled into the wind, which, like a hymn to power in its 
last stanza, trailed off to a murmur as the rains recommenced.
“Higher ground, before any of those six-legged toothfulnesses decide to take a 
stroll!” His roar echoing in the abating gale’s last howls, the cahndor of Nemar 
lifted me bodily to my feet. The other man shaded his eyes with his hand and 
peered up into the enshrouded sky before he abandoned his squat. He has borne 
many names, before that time and since: we will call him Sereth.
“Chayin, I would take a closer look,” Sereth called, wiping his streaming brow. 
Chayin rendi Indue, cahndor of Nemar, co-cahndor of the Taken Lands, Chosen Son 
of Tar-Kesa, and in his own right a god, ceased dragging me across the suck and 
slide of the sedges. The nictitating membranes snapped full over his black eyes. 
For a silent mo­ment the gazes of the two men locked, and the worth of a 
thousand words was exchanged therein. Then Chayin nodded and propelled me’toward 
the gate. Or to where it must be, beyond the sheeting rain, white as if boiled, 
through which little could be seen for farther than a man might extend his hand.
Sereth dropped back behind, blade drawn, si­dling through the grass with his 
eyes turned riverward, that he might see a slither, a shifting of reeds, a 
muck-covered, armored snout before its owner could make a strike.
We had seen few of them, these legged ones. We had seen their larger cousins, 
who have no legs, in the open seas to the north. They were much the same; 
irridescent, scales striped their lengths; their wide-hinged jaws, fringed round 
with glowing streamers ever-changing in hue and deadly with poisonous barbs, 
boasted two rows of blade-sharp teeth; their eyes were bilious, side-set under 
pro­trusions of bone. One of them could doubtless shred a woman-sized carcass 
free from flesh in less time than it takes to realize dreaming in sleep.
Though some might say I am sufficient protec­tion unto myself, I was glad of 
Sereth’s sword behind me, and Chayin’s upon my left, on that shore. I squinted 
into the rain, straining for sight of the sun. Somewhere, unvanquished, it 
lurked behind the black-bellied clouds that had come so fast down from the north 
to envelop us. Beneath my booted feet, the reeds gave way. I lurched, gasped, 
sank ankle-deep into the mush.
Chayin whirled. Then, chuckling, he offered out his free hand. I took it—his, 
deep, rich brown, surrounded mine, copper with a muted tinge of light—and he 
pulled me from the slurping sink. Sereth, brows down-drawn, stepped with care.
Once again the angered giant hurled firebolt to earth. At that flashing signal 
the rain stopped, asudden as if the lightning’s heat had razed all moisture from 
the land. The sedges began to steam, throwing off their putrid perfume.
The sound came, slowly growing, ineluctable as an injured limb reporting its 
message. Renewed, thunder roared and rippled toward us, borne on a wind that 
bent the reeds whooshing flat. Before that wind the clouds took flight. But the 
sound remained, redoubled. Above the gate, daysky crawled shakily upward as the 
thunder, disheartened, slunk away before the other sound: It pealed like some 
mountainous bird screeching to its mate: It made a chalybeate taste come into 
the mouth, and water into the eyes. Might the earth’s bowels scream that 
shrilly? If the continents sob as they pulverize each other beneath the sea, 
might such a sound be their dirge? It sanded nerve and quickened blood, and 
stopped us each in our tracks.
Searching amid the mists for its source, I made it out, even as Sereth’s eyes 
sought Chayin’s for confirmation. Ahead, swathed in dusky green shadows, the 
gate continued to draw itself back. With querulous protest, the lower half of 
that iron lattice split, each section retreating into, its wall of stone.
Chayin, with a grunt, ran. Sereth, motioning me before him, followed. High reeds 
jabbed us. I stum­bled in• the gaseous mist, broke my fall with out­stretched 
hands. My palms, when I raised them, came away speckled with burrs. Chayin 
gained the water’s edge. Sereth, his hand at the small of my back, urged me 
silently.
Running, I scraped the burrs off onto my tunic. Harsh in my ears, my breathing 
and the break and hiss of the marsh grass beat time to my stride, as did the 
ever-welling clouds of insects released by the storm’s retreat. A flying thing 
as large as my hand, vermilion and gold with great staring eyes upon its wings, 
hovered before us. An eager ray of sun struck it bejeweled It passed on The 
ground under my feet had spongy strength. Sereth loped easily at my side, 
accommodating his pace to mine.
“Move!” implored Chayin, half-blended into the dark brown, towering wall before 
him. So skill­fully joined were those blocks that there was no shadow of stone 
upon stone. Nor did mortar show between them. As we quit the last of the rushes 
a silver-winged bird screeched and burst upward, scolding, its curved cobalt 
beak open wide.
“Kreeshkree!” it accused, diving so low I shielded my eyes. A wingtip brushed my 
temple. “Kree­shkreel Breet, breet iyl!” it blared, whirling in midair to hover 
above my head.
In a single motion, Sereth pushed me aside and struck out at it as it dived. His 
blade flickered. The bird (“ Kreesh .”) dropped to the ground, its sev­ered head 
covered by the plummeting body where it fell into a bier of red flowers.
“Come on,” urged Sereth. “Look!”
And I looked. And saw. And heard: the great gate, mysteriously as it had opened, 
had begun to close. Vibration and rumble grew loud, then unbearable. We ran for 
it. Chayin hesitated, poised in the crural water of the wall’s lee edge, 
imploring, body tensed to spring.
“Go on,” urged Sereth. In a handful of bounds, the cahndor had disappeared 
between the gate’s drawn-back portals.
Over the cinder swath that paralleled the wall’s extent, we ran. Sliding down 
the bankside, over the wall’s plinth, we splashed into the water. In moments I 
was hip-deep, slogging with sinking feet through the sediment. As we assayed the 
crossing, the screeching noise began once more: the gate, in stately approach, 
paced us, drawing us with it toward the river’s center.
Sereth’s needless, urgent demand for speed ripped through my mind even as my 
numbed fingers grasped the slow-closing iron bars. I grabbed the lattice of 
body-thick, slimy iron and pulled myself through. The wail of metal was 
deafening. I stood, frozen, gaping at the gate while its sides rejoined, to 
present once more an impenetrable barrier.
Sereth pushed me ungently toward the shore. I stumbled, and cursed him as, 
thoroughly soaked, I waded to the bank. He himself stood up to his hips in the 
water, oblivious of danger, bow and blade held high, staring with narrowed eyes 
at the gate. It was silent, suddenly. No longer did the screams of tortured 
metal ride the wind. The air was still. The water, earlier dark and gray, shone 
warm with the reds of day’s end. The sky was fired green, cloudless.
It was Chayin who called him out from before that gate of iron, latticed like 
some giant’s garden trellis, He came, shaking his head, taking short backward 
glimpses. He joined me where I stood on the plinth and ran his hand over the 
groove where gate met brown stone, then over the woven iron bars, through which 
nothing larger than a hand might pass. There was no sign now that the gate had 
ever opened (save that we were now within whatever this barrier had been 
constructed to protect), nor that it might ever do so again.
With a toss of his head Sereth sheathed his blade, shouldered the bow, and aided 
me up the bank to where Chayin sat amid .a puff of dark-capped weeds on a 
hillock.
My feet sloshed and squished in boots filled with silt and water. I sat beside 
Chayin and emptied them, tearing up handfuls of grass with which to scour the 
muddied-leather clean. In the puddle I poured out from my left boot onto the 
ground, a tiny, red-striped fish flopped, wriggled, then lay still. A tremor, 
then many, coursed over my flesh.
The wall, dour, devoid of feature but for its gate, dwarfed all else. On this 
inner side, extending from its base three man-lengths outward, the turf was 
blackened, free of weed or twig. Everywhere else, the shore was wildly fertile. 
From the dappled forest, gibbering, trilling, came the sunset songs of unnamed 
beasts. Mewling, snorting trebles mixed with deeper; hissing growls as the rain 
forest reaf­firmed its celebration of life. But the wall spoke not of life. In 
the blackened, time-and-again-singed earth were set iron stakes. Not more than a 
pace apart, as high as my knee, they flowered the scathed earth. Like the armies 
of Chayin’s Nemar formed up for review did the black-iron sentinels flank the 
sheer brown wall. As far as my eyes could see ran that wall, and the blackened 
earth, and the sharp, pointed iron stakes.
“Iron rusts,” observed Chayin as I pulled from my boots the last of the muddied, 
sharp-edged gray grass.
“The sun sets,” I snapped, and winced as a thorned weed made its sovereignty 
clear to my right thigh. Carefully I disengaged it from my flesh and continued 
what I had started—the working of wet, muddy feet into wet, muddy boots.
Sereth, who had been doing likewise, gave the task up, as a bad job. Wriggling 
his toes, he leaned back on his elbows and stretched, grinning at me with that 
sly, under-the-brows demeanor that has ever boded ill for the universe at large, 
and forme, especially, has come to signify his readiness to collect that tribute 
which he chooses to call humor. I bristled, like the countless women before me 
subject to the tax imposed by such a man.
“I would not, if I were you.”
“Would not what?” he inquired innocently, while hiding his smile with a hand 
rubbed across his jaw.
I did not answer, but turned to Chayin, who raised up both palms toward me and 
cringed theatrically.
“I was only going to say that it 3eerns we have found some sign of man,” spoke 
Sèreth, not to be denied. We had wagered upon this point.
“Not living man. That,” said I, sweeping my hand over gate and wall, “could well 
be an artifact left from before the rebuilding.” It was a half­hearted 
objection, even to my own ears.
“Iron rusts,” said Chayin again.
“And it is getting dark. I am wet. I am cold. I want a fire.” I sighed. “And 
something to eat—you promised me a local meal.” I had grounds for complaint on 
that score: we had been eating the ship’s stores far too long. Three days past 
we found this river’s mouth and sailed the Aknet up it, as far as Chayin had 
deemed safe. There we left her, and her crew, making a twenty-one-day 
rendezvous. If we did not by then reappear, they were on their own. And the 
ship’s commander had not been happy; but what objections he voiced had only been 
wasted breath. These two men, who between them reigned over all Silistra, 
listened no more to their shipmaster than they had to me. It had made me feel, 
somehow, less useless when they heeded not the sage council of Neshub, the ship 
com­mander. Though I agreed with him, in substance, I was pleased when they 
ignored his demands that we take an armed party—he was a man, one they 
respected, and their heedlessness in his case made stinging their heedlessness 
in mine. It was not that they ignored my advice because I was a woman, but that 
they ignored all advice that did not agree with their plans. And what were, 
those plans? In sum, they were simple; self-indulgent, if any stranger had been 
present who might have dared judge them: we had no purpose there, at that time, 
other than hunting.
Sereth, with a squint at the, sky, notched into his bow one of the arrows he had 
demanded I fletch.
“If your arrow flies, you will have the game meal you crave,” he grunted, 
rising.
“Straight,” Chayin amended. My first attempts had evinced a marked rightward 
propensity. Sereth, soundless, slipped into shadowed trees.
I peered around me, taking stock. The shore on this side of the gate rose less 
steeply. The marsh and riverbed knew no boundaries, but entwined each other’s 
domains. Just north of us, the shore was treed to the waterline and beyond with 
white-barked giants (which we would come to call memnis) whose leaves depended 
in places to trail along the river’s surface. The bend along which we had come, 
the bend that had revealed the gate, continued its twisting course northward.
“Estri, did you open the gate?” asked Chayin, touching my shoulder.
“No. I was going to ask you.” I turned from the river view.
“Sereth surely did not.” No Sereth would not have set his will to opening the 
gate. We had pacted with him to refrain from such activities, that we might calm 
ourselves and the time around us. Nothing was known of this place upon whose 
banks we sat, Perhaps there was nothing to know here. It would have suited me, 
had such been the case.
“If you did not,” Chayin pursued it, stretching out on his side, “and I did not, 
and Sereth did not, then who did?”
“I told you: the wall is doubtless left from before the rebuilding. The 
lightning hit some old mech­anism.”
“Conveniently, just as we happened to be pass­ing by?”
“Coincidence?” I offered.
“Even you know better than that, by now.”
“Make a fire,” I suggested. “No fire, no porten­tous discussions.”
“Without skills? In this all pervasive dampness?” he objected, but rose up with 
mutters about women on hunting trips and stalked about in the bushes. I turned 
away, surreptitiously seeking with mind for intelligence secreted near the gate. 
I found none who might have triggered its opening.
Chayin ‘s voice, out of the rustling leaves, was determined: “Iron rusts. Those 
stakes are in good shape. That ground is kept cleared.”
I suppressed a guilty start, momentarily sure that he had caught me seeking—a 
thing Sereth had forbidden. But Chayin, grunting and cursing as he sought 
materials for fire in the sopping wood, had not noticed. I watched him, pensive. 
It was he whose aegis had underwritten this trip. It was he whose couch-mate, 
Liuma, had been slain by those we hunted. Or would hunt, when spring thaws made 
the northern rivers navigable. This plausible excuse served us, each one for our 
own purpose. True, we all hunted here: peace, and nature, and a respite from our 
concerns. We had left, each of us, all that we had so recently acquired. Or 
tried to: what we had lost could not be regained, and what responsibilities we 
fled trailed determinedly at our heels. As in the mythical book of prophecy to 
which Chayin felt us bound, we had sailed an ocean, bearing with us a sword 
which might—or might not—be Se’keroth, Sword of Severance, and the material sign 
of that long-prophesied age, the com­ing of the divinity of man. Sereth 
subscribed not at all to that belief. So he said, now, though it had been he who 
first voiced the possibility. I was uncommitted. Or rather I did not want to be 
convinced, yet half believed. If the sword that Sereth had acquired with his 
accession to Silistra’s rule was Se’keroth, the blade would be quenched in ice. 
Until that time, I withheld both support and censure. In this place, I thought, 
looking around me, ice might be hard to find.
But then, dry wood should have been hard to find.
Chayin unburdened his arms and arranged brush and branch to his satisfaction. He 
lit it with a flint device, and not his mind, bending low to the piled tinder. 
Though Sereth was not here to see, Chayin honored his will. I might not have 
been so patient. It was the third try with the sparking wheel that caught. He 
blew into cupped hands, cajoling the spark.
By the time I knelt at his side, the spark, judi­ciously nursed, had become a 
flame. Chayin sat back, staring into the fire.
“I am very sure that we are being watched, and not by any artifact. Sit still! 
You might sense it.” Casually, he met my eyes.
“He asked me to forgo such things,” I reminded him, unable to resist. “And you 
also.”
“So scrupulous? This is no time for it. He asked, yes. Whenever possible, and if 
we met no men, and not to any extent that might endanger our lives. , We are 
about to meet men. “ Out of his loam-dark face the fire shone back at me, 
red-gold, from en­larged pupils.
It was then that Sereth, with no more sound than a gust of wind between the 
trees, emerged from the swamp. Over his shoulder were two red-furred, motionless 
animals, lied together by the tails at his shoulder. Their black muzzles dangled 
around his knees. Their staring eyes, even in death, were gentle.
“Local meal,” he announced, dropping the two warm carcasses in my lap. “Your 
arrows are improving.”
I stroked the soft fur of my dinner-to-be. Then I thanked it for its flesh and 
took my knife to it. “What did you see?” Chayin demanded.
“Plants and animals with which I am not familiar. No men. But man-sign,” added 
Sereth, taking one of the carcasses into his own lap.
“It has come to me that we are being observed. What think you?” growled Chayin, 
scratching be­neath his tunic.
“I am sure of it,” said Sereth quietly, and noth­ing more until the little 
animal lay gutted and skinned before him. Then: “There is a path, very straight, 
wide, well-tended. It runs northwest from the wall, just.beyond those trees.” He 
rose, scruti­nized my novice’s butchering, and went to cut a spit pole.
By the time the meat spattered above Chayin’s fire, the constellations were 
beginning to poke their way through the haze. Sereth had helped me with my 
preparation of the meat; patient, soft-voiced as always when concerned with what 
he termed “life-skills.” The more deeply I had involved myself, during that long 
sea voyage, with affairs of mind, the more insistent he had become that I take 
in­struction from him in weaponry, in survival on land and sea, in hunters’ 
lore. I knew, by then, more than I wished of butchering and the catching of 
fish; and less than I had hoped of what lay in his heart. Of his turmoil, I had 
been instructed only by omission: he never spoke of it.
“Why do you think it is that none of these plants • and animals are known to 
you?” I asked him.
“Because I have never been here before,” he answered, hacking off our dinner’s 
left hind leg. “Chayin, take what you will.” He who hunts eats first of the 
kill. They observed the old rules ever more closely, with fervor. Perhaps with 
desperation:
that which is invulnerable is unnatural, and though they were not truly 
immortal, nor as yet all-powerful, they were no longer, even in their own eyes, 
“normal” men. This deeply troubled them, those reluctant, gods. As it had 
troubled me when I first discovered what latitude I might exercise in this that 
we call life. So I said not a word while the cahndor and Sereth ripped bites 
from a steam­ing joint of the nameless meat, but waited until they were 
satisfied that no immediate symptoms of illness developed. For only a quick 
poison, one that could strike in an instant, and catch the vic­tim unawares, 
could incapacitate such strengths as we now possessed. Between thoughts, must a 
crippling blow be landed on an intelligence so highly skilled. I waited, hardly 
tense, sure in my capacity to intervene should the beast-flesh prove deadly. But 
it did not, and soon I was crunching happily the crisped outer flesh of Sereth’s 
kill. The meat did hold one surprise, however: it was nei­ther gamy nor tough, 
but sweet and rich. Even as I thought it, Sereth spoke:
“We may well be expected to pay for this meal when we come upon the owner of 
this preserve.”
“Why wait?” mumbled Chayin around a mouth­ful. He gestured with a greasy 
forefinger. “Our observer still lurks. Let us go greet him. Perhaps we could 
take a live pair home, and breed up a herd ourselves.”
About us, the insect shrills grew strident and rhythmic. I put down the meat and 
lay back, stretching full-length on the alien grass. My mind, denied the search 
of the woods for which it clamored, peopled the forest’s orchestra, gave the 
nascent choir a sinister aspect as it wailed low, ululent homage to the 
darkness. From all around us, even echoing back from the river’s far bank, waxed 
that numinous evening chant. I liked the sound of it not at all.
Further disquieted, I twisted around to face the gate. Thereupon danced a soft 
nimbus, surely marsh gas rising. Over the stakes it flowed, maggot-white, 
sentient. ,I pulled at the clammy straps of my stiff­ening leathers, shivering, 
and shifted my gaze back to the fire.
But the foreboding, the ineffable hostility I sensed from the encroaching 
wilderness, would not be dispersed by that reassuring crackle. Its heat did not 
warm me,, its light could not chase from my flesh the touch of a hundred hidden 
eyes. Sereth’s fingers enclosed mine where I fumbled with my tunic’s closures. 
He shook his head. [let my hand, fall away, and shrugged. Chayin leaned forward, 
stirred the branches. A knot popped, showering sparks. Somewhere inland, a beast 
roared. It was a roar of rage and vengeance, hovering long in the air before it 
tapered to a growl indistinguishable from the forest’s deep-throated mutter.
“Sereth, free me from my vow—let me seek the sense of this place.” My voice, 
calm, unwavering, did not betray me. The principle on which he had based his 
decision of noninterference was right. The decision, ,I had long felt, was 
wrong.
“Not yet. I would explore Khys’s—this land for what it is, not what I might 
assume it is, or want it to be.” I did not miss the stumble of his tongue over 
his predecessor’s name. It was Khys’s work here that he would explore. And 
alter, if he could. Khys, the last dharen, or ruler, of Silistra, had spent long 
periods absent from his capital., None knew where, in those days. He had made 
quite certain that his successor would_ undertake this journey to the east, to 
this shore so long isolate from our own culture. And,, despite himself, the 
inheritor had come to take stock of what had been left to him.
“Chayin, let us toss for watch,” suggested Sereth, his head slightly cocked, 
closing indisputably the subject I had broached. ,A second roar, fainter than 
the first, echoed to us from the far bank.
“I will take it. Sleep is not within my reach,” offered Chayin. Sereth grinned, 
shrugged, sought my side. BefOre he lay down to sleep, he spent a while staring 
around him, though it was mind and not eye that could penetrate the mist and 
darkness and denude them of their menace. But he would not do that. Finally he 
blew a sharp breath through his teeth and stretched out on the damp ground. I 
fit myself to him, my head resting on his arm.
“If those roars get close, wake me,” he rumbled. Chayin chuckled. Sereth’s sleep 
is light as an insert’s wing. The familiar smell of his leathers, as I pressed 
my face to them, almost masked the rank, salt-laden river odor. Almost, I could 
mistake the river sound for his pulse. Almost, I could quiet the whis­pers my 
mind spoke, the oddly framed thoughts that touched mine, timid, and withdrew.
I twitched and tossed beside him, sleepless, un­til he growled and pushed up on 
one elbow. Chayin, ministering to his fire, hummed softly under his breath.
“What troubles you, ci’ves?” Sereth whispered, using the lover’s name he had 
given me, that of a pet kept as talisman in the hills where he was born. In his 
tone was no annoyance that my rest­lessness chased sleep from him.
I thought about it, seeking proper words. I did not find them. At the river, he 
had sought Chayin’s counsel without words. When he sought me that way, I would 
give him what he asked. Now, he was not ready to hear me. So I said instead: 
“Hard ground, a number of itching bites, and the scratch on my thigh.”
I put my arms around his neck and pulled him down beside me, willing my body 
still. It would not be I who mouthed portents. They were surely as clear to 
Sereth as to Chayin ior myself. It would not be I who broke my word, and 
searched owkahen, the time-coming-to-be, accepting and rejecting and thereby 
conditioning what might, in these lands, Occur.
Sereth sought respite’from just such manipula­tions of time by mind, at least 
long enough to determine what forces were at work here. And why, by his 
predecessor’s will, enforced for count­less generations, this land had been a 
shore of which nothing was known, of which none were empowered to speak. By my 
side lay he who might, if he wished, call himself dharen. The dharen be­fore him 
had forbidden all commerce between this land and the one from which we had come. 
The impression had been fostered in the minds of the people of Silistra that 
nothing had survived the holocaust, on this farther shore. Even in the 
“autonomous” southlands ruled over by cahndors such as Chayin, none had 
disobeyed that injunction; or if any had, in silent defiance of the law, made 
the journey, they had not returned to speak the tale; or had, returning, kept 
silent.
As I have said, Sereth might have called himself dharen of Silistra. At that 
time he was not yet willing to do so: he did not wish to bear that burden.
I was—a number of things. Once, keepress of the premier Well on Silistra, with 
seven thousand peo­ple under my care. Later, with Chayin, I held a high 
commission and for a time served as regent in his southern principality. At 
still a later time, I
was dhareness to Silistra’s ruler, when Khys held the title. With all else, I 
passed into Sereth’s hands at his predecessor’s demise—a place I had long 
coveted. I might have called myself dhareness yet or chosen among certain other 
dignities which were mine by right. My left breast hosts a spiral symbol that 
twinkles as if bejeweled. It eloquently be­speaks my Shaper heritage; would that 
it did not. I could rid myself of it, but that I will not do.
Chayin, least changed of us up until that time, sought not forgetfulness, nor 
was his name abra­sive to his own ears. Raised from childhood to believe in his 
personal divinity, he alone was not compromised in spirit by the affairs of the 
preced­ing years. And yet, he had turned away from those lands over which he 
ruled rightfully by blood and birth and effort. He, as Sereth, for the moment 
sought no reign over men. He, as I, ,had looked upon the burdens of his heritage 
and shuddered. With Sereth, he shared in love as fully as I; and between Chayin 
and myself, first cousins, there existed a long-standing intimacy. Let no one 
tell you that such a relationship is easy; and likewise, let none demean it. For 
the three of us, upon any one commission, are as close to a surety as exists in 
this ever-changing universe. And that—the real­ization of the possibilities in 
our merged skills—more than even the multifaceted affection we shared, entitled 
us in our own sight to this recon­naissance of an unknown land. We had come, two 
men and a woman, each divested by their own will of all but each other and those 
skills we had given so much to acquire, to explore the potentials inherent in 
our triune nature. Or so I saw it.
But Sereth, giving scant explanation, would not allow us their use. I sighed, 
and burrowed closer. I would try. I understood his thought. But even Chayin 
chafed under Sereth’s constraint.
It was not far to my father’s house, I thought in the dream, just as the, trees 
bowed down to make of my path a darkened tunnel, and from the tunnel’s end came 
light and a great roaring. I turned and ran, but my feet, after the second step, 
would not be raised up from the soil. Struggling, I fell to the ground. Up 
through wave after wave of dizziness rose my body. Sitting upright, hand to my 
forehead, roars louder in my ears, I made at first no sense of it.
Then the shadows that danced in the low-burning firelight took form. My ears 
sorted sounds. The sounds became voices: Sereth’s, Chayin’s. The flamelight 
flickered off their blades, and out from the eyes of the thing that roared.
Its pale paw flashed out, claws extended. “Estri, stay back!”
I stopped, not recollecting how I had come there, past the fire, to where they 
held, the wounded thing at bay.            —
Its huge jaws gnawed its own chest, where a dark wound gleamed wetly. It 
half-lay, haunches bunched, yet unable to spring. Again it struck; a sideswipe 
at Chayin; near-miss with that massive paw. He vaulted backward in clumsy 
retreat. Sereth, at the beast’s far side, darted in to divert it. His blade 
raised over his head, he brought the full force of that honed edge down upon the 
creature’s extended neck. Still reachinglor Chayin was that immense, clawed 
forepaw as the roaring head struck the turf. The beast convulsed, rolling over, 
legs thrashing the air. Its final shudder, explosive, rent the air. Then, limp, 
it rolled to one side and came to rest, right-side-up, its dead eyes reflecting 
in the firelight. The fanged jaws were closed. Its tongue, half-severed, flapped 
weakly, then lay quiet between knife-long, gory teeth.
I backed away, staring at that head; at the great, furred body, no longer even 
twitching, pale like some mist-spawned apparition in the firelight.
Sereth’s hand touched my arm. “Estri, look at me.”
I tore my attention from the wedge-shaped head, from the dark-tufted ears. Our 
eyes met. The thing on the grass closely resembled our western hulions, but one 
somehow wingless and stunted. Hulions have great intelligence. I would rather 
kill a man than one of those beasts. Sereth knew ....
“It is dead,” I said dumbly.
“It came at us as a predator,” he said, staring into me intently, his grip 
tightening. When my tremors ceased, he released me, crouching to wipe his blade 
clean in the grass.
Chayin, limping slightly, slowly circled the corpse. When he reached us, he 
said: “Had Sereth not awakened when he did, it would likely be me lying there.”
“And it might have been my sudden movement that precipitated its attack.” 
Sereth, in his turn, examined the pale, furred form. When he had finished, he 
gave equal scrutiny to the stars before he spoke.
“Let us build up the fire. It may be a long night. Estri, stay in the light.”
Chayin set about his search for more fuel. I, equally obedient, walked over to 
the fire’s edge, my fingers worrying the thick braid of my hair, wondering if 
the furred beast was the largest pred­ator in this land’s chain; and, if not, 
what might prey upon it.
When the flames burned high, Chayin sought the dead beast. By its tail, he 
dragged it into the firelight.
“What are you doing?” Sereth demanded, judi­ciously poking at the smoking 
branches.
“I thought I might skin it. Such a beast has never been seen in Nemar.”
“Think about it later,” Sereth said sharply. His countenance, grotesqued by the 
flame’s dance, was severe. The light poured molten down the scar that furrowed 
the left side of his face from cheekbone to jaw. Later I asked him, but he would 
admit to no foreknowledge come upon him then, though his eyes met mine and held 
them a long time.
II. Deilcrit
He crouched amid the sedges, in the tufted reeds that banked the salt river. He 
wept, leaning against the root of one of the great trees where it reared up, 
entwining its brothers before diving deep. His clenched fist pummeled the 
fahrass bush which concealed him. The silvered balls of its fruit plum­meted 
downward, plunking in rapid succession upon the pool’s surface around his 
calves, pelting his arms and shoulders. Stepsisters, most called them. He paid 
them no mind; it was not their touch, but their taste that killed. He brushed 
them from his hair, then again buried his head in his arms that he might not see 
the corpse of the sa­cred ptaiss glowing whitely in the firelight.
Within the comfort of his arms’ shelter, he prayed. He did not know what to do. 
First, seeing them, he had been consumed with fear for his mind. Then for his 
life. And then, when they had not detected him, he had waited. A man does not 
hurry to his death. He had been content to sit, then to crouch, finally to stand 
erect in the shore pool, watching. His spear lay close at hand, propped against 
the menmis tree’s white bark, forgotten. Or rather: useless. His hand, feeling 
for it, grasped the famil­iar polished wood. Without raising his head, he curled 
his fingers around the shaft. His terror, by this means, was somewhat eased. The 
spear was a trusted tool, a remnant of his well-ordered world. He blanked his 
mind.
“What, what, what?” he sang to himself under his breath. He had been sent to 
clear the Spirit Gate of the hated guerm; the lightning had done it for him.
He had been late. He had not hurried. It is a risky business, keeping guerm from 
surmounting the gate and infesting the Isanisa River. He had not been afraid, 
then. /slow, tears welled up in his eyes. He shook them fiercely away, averting 
his head from the fire, and those who fed it, and the slain ptaiss, Aama. Though 
he looked into darkness, he saw, with the clarity of long familiarity, all that 
grew on the Isanisa’s shores. As a man facing con­scription might walk one last 
time around his hold­ings in silent farewell, so did the young man, in his 
memory, walk the twists and turns of Benegua. Benegua, Land of the Spirit Gate; 
of the Wall of Mnemaat, the unseen; of the sacred ptaiss; she was all the young 
man had ever known.
In the dark, by his leg, something glided along the pool’s still surface, the 
barely perceptible rip­ples of its passing lapping against his flesh. He waited, 
unmoving, for the swampsnake to pass on. Red-headed, perhaps, and deadly; or 
green-and­black-patterned, and holding within its fangs the most beneficent of 
drugs. With the back of his mind, he followed the snake’s progress, his trained 
ears noting the reeds’ rustle as it slithered away.
Wide-eyed, staring at nothing, housed in the emp­tiness that attends the 
shedding of tears, he waited. What would they want him to do?
Old Parpis—he would have known. The ache of throat that always accompanied his 
thoughts of the old man, now dead,-did not dissuade him: A
ptaiss was slain. A shiver of loss cooled his skin. He thought abstractly that 
if he did not soon quit the pool, he would catch the ague.
“Now, boy,” Parpis would have said, “fear gets you naught but frightened.” The 
young man swallowed, with difficulty. Parpis had taught him all he knew of 
ptaiss, and guerm, and. Mnemaat’s service.
“Deilcrit,” Parpis used to say, before the young man had been entitled to the 
“iyl” before his name, “tend the ptaiss and spit the guerm, and the world will 
take care of itself.” It was Parpis who had taught him to dress an injured paw, 
to strip the white bark of the memnis and extract the healing fluids therefrom. 
But never had Parpis said to him, his wizened old face screwed up, his long 
teeth flashing: “Deilcrit, if the Spirit Gate opens, if light 4 ing chars the 
guerm to ash, if three walk, fearless] the risen Isanisa and set a fire upon her 
banks, here is what you do ... it is a simple matter.” To Parpis, even the most 
complex matters had been simple. But Parpis was dead of age and wisdom, and 
Deilcrit was iyl-Deilcrit, and upon the western shore of the Isanisa sacrilege 
had been heaped atop sacrilege: two quenels had been butchered and eaten; and 
the ptaiss Aama, heavy with child, lay lifeless by her murderers’ fire. And he 
had stood by, helpless, afrighted, witness.
He was no familiar of cowardice. He had not feared, sojourning alone for the 
first time, to at­tend to the guerm that dependably, at the moon’s absence, 
assaulted the Spirit Gate. He loosed his aching fingers from the spear’s shaft, 
flexed them, let them curl once more around its comforting strength. He took a 
deep breath, and then another, forcing his constricted chest to take in air, his 
head to turn, his eyes to rest upon the abomina­tion flame-lit on the bank.
Then he picked up the spear and stepped out of the pool into the thicket. Water 
ran from his laced boots. As he waited for it to, drain, so he might be silent 
in his appmach, he studied them. He had no clear idea of what he would do; only 
that he must do something. They were three, large and oddly dressed. For a 
moment he wondered wildly if they might be guerm, taken man-form, come to avenge 
themselves on Benegua.
He dropped to his knees. Not guermgods, surely, but perhaps gods, come to punish 
him, to show him unfit to bear the “iy1” before his name, to unmask him, 
pretender to Mnemaat’s service. He had had thoughts of the high priestess again, 
only the night before. Dream-thoughts, but thoughts, nevertheless, and as such 
evil. Retribution? He had never heard of offended deities acting so fast, or on 
such a scale. His fingers digging into the spongy grass, he knelt there, staring 
through the leaves. What he saw then, he could not believe. It stopped the 
prayer in his mind as if it had never been.
Hardly knowing what he did, as if it were some other hurtling through the bush, 
he ran, crouched, spear slippery in his sweating hands. The darkest, largest 
intruder looked up from the unspeakable atrocity he was committing with his 
knife on the ptaiss’ corpse.
Deilcrit froze in the rustling brush, suddenly conscious of the tiny stabs of 
jicekak brambles caught in his clothing. The dark face remained fixed in his 
direction; white teeth flashed as he spoke a meaningless garble of sound. The 
other male, a bit smaller, a trifle lighter of skin, an­swered the first in 
kind, rising. Unerring, the paler one walked toward the thicket in which 
Deilcrit crouched.
Time distended: in slow motion, the female drew a blade and joined the dark one 
in armed approach. The weapons gleamed cold and alien in the fire’s light, as 
bronze or iron had never gleamed. The one who stalked him, too, had such a 
knife.
Deilcrit made no noise with which he might betray his position. He ceased 
breathing. His pulse thumped, strangling, in his throat. Along the spear, his 
fingers spread, tensed, burned. The readiness ran tingling up his arm. 
Painstakingly, silent and slow, he rose up amid the jicekak, uncaring of the 
thorns raking his cheek. If he lived, he would find time to dress the itching 
scratches. Soundless, he maneuvered the spear, his forearm aching with 
restraint. Teeth locked, Deilcrit waited, setting and resetting his grip on the 
spear’s shaft.
The foremost intruder was close. His leathers, much-used, were strangely cut, 
matched, once opulent. About his waist was a belt from which unfamiliar shapes 
and a scabbard, too long for a knife and too short for a sword, depended. On his 
legs were boots that reached to his thighs.
Now, surely!
The ptaiss murderer closed, inexorable, as if Deilcrit stood in the open, in 
clearest day. He thrust his arm, decided, forward. But his fingers could not 
release the shaft. The cast, aborted, marked his position beyond hope of escape. 
He stood gasping, rock-still, feeling the slide of the shaft in his slippery 
palms.
The man, close enough now to be completely enshadowed, stopped. He tossed his 
head, and spoke in some unintelligible tongue, staring directly, it seemed, at 
Deilcrit’s benumbed form. Again that man-likeness spoke to him where he hid in 
the thicket. Deilcrit’s guts turned so violently that it was all he could do to 
keep his hold on the spear. With a great effort of will, he kept his body from 
doubling over and tumbling to the ground.
Then, without thought other than the shame upon him, and the ending death would 
put to his pre­tenses and his cowardice, he stepped from the brush.
The creature before him showed no surprise.
Deilcrit, having fought evil and the spirit temp­tations all of his life, laid 
down his spear. It was a simple thing. He pried his fingers from the shaft and 
it fell on the ground between them. That the message be more clear, he followed 
it, his head pressed to the rank, salty earth. For a moment, he had met those 
eyes. There had been no fear, no mortality therein. Freed now of hope, of 
regret, Deilcrit awaited death.
He heard the others join the one before whom he knelt. Under his left knee was a 
stone. It pressed against the nerves there. The red light of his inner lids 
turned grainy.
The three spoke together. Then it seemed to him that his spirit was lifted 
gently from his body; that it was examined, considered. It felt odd, being 
relieved of spirit. A cool touch washed over his empty place, where spirit had 
been, as cool as the grass and earth beneath him. A final shiver of horror shook 
his frame, for it came to him that even death might be denied him, that he might 
be forced to live on, denuded of selfhood, servant to whatever force held him 
entrapped. He sent a plea to Mnemaat the Unseen that he might be allowed to give 
up his life rather than become some mind­less tool of sinister purpose.
Then a voice spoke to him in Beneguan.
“We will not harm you,” said the voice, male and low. He heard it again, and the 
second time the words made sense, poking their meaning out through the 
unfamiliar accent like quenel, their black noses through the foliage at feeding 
time. Then the sense was gone, as the voice spoke to its companions. The female 
said a thing, of which he caught only the tone: concern and relief.
Deilcrit ached to move. He could not. Grass rus­tled as the spear was removed 
from beside him.
“Can you understand me?” came the male voice once more, slow and distinct. “Get 
up!”
He raised his head slightly, enough to see their booted feet—and between them, 
the fire that de­filed the bank and warmed the ptaiss’ corpse.
A hand touched his shoulder. Without volition, his flesh quivered beneath it. 
“Can you understand me?”
“Yes,” came the admission through his gritted teeth. The touch withdrew.
“Stand up. Now!”
Without warning, he was standing, not recollect­ing how he had come erect.
His hand clutched his empty scabbard, forgetful. The knife was lost somewhere 
along the Isanisa, lost when he had fallen, rolling heedless down the bank with 
the screams of the opening Spirit Gate in his ears.
The speaker raised his weapon away from his body. The woman stared at him 
levelly, through eyes the color of smelting copper. In the shadows, they shone 
bright, like the night-stalking eyes of the ptaiss. The male spoke sharply to 
her. She retreated slowly toward the fire. No mortal womb had spawned, those 
eyes, nor skin that glowed like marsh gas.
Only then did he notice the dark one, hovering behind his male companion. By the 
sheathing of his blade, the movement of his form through the night as he turned 
away to purposefully approach the fire and the slaughtered ptaiss, was Deilcrit 
suddenly conscious of his retreating presence.
“No!” It came out of him an inarticulate sob, its  Janet E. Morris tremulous and 
hoarse. Leaping wide of the lighter man, he sprinted toward the ptaiss.
He heard them shouting in his own language as he bounded the hillock. Cutting 
through the edges of his fire itself, he cursed his slowness, his cow­ardice. 
His feet, among the live coals, blistered through his rude boots.
But he reached her before her defiler. Aama, of the silvery, softest fur, whose 
breath smelled of new morning and whose black-tufted ears had al­ways been the 
first to hear him. She would hear no more. How vulnerable is the desolated body 
in death. How empty he felt, kneeling beside her. Her eyes reproached him. Did 
they follow? He touched her muzzle, lifted her head in his arms. Then he saw, 
holding the inert weight against his chest, the extent of her wounds. Above him, 
far off, he heard their footsteps .. Their shadows crowded out the firelight. He 
buried his face in the ptaiss’ fur, to smell one last time of her. The hair, 
loosed in death, came away under his hands. She was still warm. Once more he 
conjured up life in her. Then he laid her head back gently upon the, ground. His 
hands, surely his face, were covered with blood and fur. He tried to close her 
eyes. She would not allow it, but stared mournfully.
The intruders were talking. He heard it as the buzzing of insects, far off. By 
the ptaiss’ belly lay the knife the dark one had used to loosen her hide from 
her flesh. He snatched it up, fingers clumsy on its hilt. Then, taking a deep 
breath, he strad­dled her swollen belly, leaning down.
If it could be, he would ask nothing else, as long as he lived.
As he cut her, deep, he prayed that they would not obstruct him. Then he totally 
forgot them. He was with Parpis. It was not he, but Parpis who . made the 
incision, sure and true, who endured the gush of blood and fluid from her 
ravaged belly, and the smell of preborn life. His eyes watched his hands, sunk 
up to the elbows inside her; but it was his fingers which saw. What he touched 
in that hot,, yielding darkness, moved. He recited the laws beneath his breath, 
but he did not know it. He knew bone sliding in its membranous sac; then the 
beslimed head, then the forequarters—and the cord. The cord, once grasped, must 
be held firmly between the fingers, whispered the shade of Parpis in his ear. 
But alone, he had not enough hands, not for keeping the head down and the cord 
pressed and ... A third hand reached, beside his, attending the umbilical. Both 
his own hands freed, he pulled forth the slippery form. He knew that the other 
cut the bond between dead and living, even as the hindquarters and tail 
appeared.
With his fingers and his lips and tongue, he cleared the mucus from the 
ptaissling’s eyes and nostrils. As he did so, it mewled. Other hands were upon 
it. He paid them no mind. He stroked its matted fur with handfuls of grass. It 
kicked a leg weakly. Its black muzzle sniffed, coughed, began a blind searching. 
He lifted its quaking warmth in his arms, pulled it across his kneeling body. He 
pressed its head against Aama’s cooling teat, aware of the futility in what he 
did. He turned, then, to see if the miracle could be repeated.
The lighter of the two men, arms bloody to the elbows, knelt so close to him 
that their knees touched. He could hear the smacks of the ptaiss­ling’s lips, 
suckling Aama’s fast-cooling milk.
The man, as if Deilcrit’s question had been spo­ken aloud, shook his head, 
spreading his arms wide. They were awful in the firelight. He again shook his 
head, and Deilcrit understood that Aarna’s womb held no more miracles.
Halfheartedly he sluiced the blood and mucus from his own forearms and turned 
away. The ptaissling pumped Aama, making little frustrated sounds. How much milk 
can come from a lifeless breast? He did not know, but sense told him; little. He 
leaned over it, guiding the searching mouth to Aama’s second udder. He blinked 
back tears. In the firelight, the little ‘ one gleamed black. And huge. A young 
male, overyoung, perhaps too young to survive this untimely introduction into 
life. He stroked it, not wanting more than its warmth and to feel the life 
coursing in it.
He shifted, ripping up more grass with which to dry its matted fur. It shivered. 
He murmured to it. Was it for this his life had been spared? He crouched down 
over the shaking form, trying to warm it with his body.
He did not notice the woman until she was on her hands and knees at his side, 
holding out the garment she had worn. He was too stunned to even avert his eyes. 
He took from her the damp, supple leather, and with it rubbed the remaining 
placenta from the ptaissling. Once more he moved its suckling head, to the third 
of Aama’s teats.
It was then that the man’s hand came down upon his shoulder, digging, insistent. 
Man? Not man. He pushed them from his mind. They had murdered Aama, yet one had 
helped him save her only child. What, what, what?
“Who are you?” said the creature, murderer and midwife both .. His head, of its 
own accord, raised up to meet that fearsome, scarred countenance. He wondered 
what kind of spirit could be so marked, and what adversary might have inflicted 
those wounds. Then all rational thought stopped for him. His eyes, once in the 
grasp of the other’s, were entrapped. He could not look away. The power of the 
being was too great. His hand sought the newborn’s head, rested there.
“Come into the light,” the man-fleshed spirit ordered, lifting him up with a 
grip that dug like iron into his arm. The eyes holding him narrowed.
“The ptaissling,” he pleaded. “Do not kill it . you will not kill it?” He knew 
that he weaved in the man-spirit’s grip, and that his voice trembled. The bloody 
hand holding him did not relax. “Please, the ptaissling ...”
“I will watch it,” said the woman, low, hover­ing close. Or at least she seemed 
to say that. Unhanding him, the man-form, with flicks of his gleaming knife, 
repeated his order. Even as the blade disappeared in its scabbard, Deilcrit, 
like one in a dream, complied. His feet were uncertain on the hillock’s slope. 
Weight upon them caused pain, pain caused dizziness, dislocation, disregard of 
all else. He stumbled through a tuft and found himself leaning upon the other 
for support.
Dazzled, this close to the firelight, detached from the blaze of his blistered 
feet by the cocoon of returning fright, he stopped, blinking, at the other’s 
command. His eyes strayed to the disembowled ptaiss, to the woman-form, and to 
the black shadow of the ptaissling.
“Look at me.”
With a strangled sob, he did so, turning to his tormentor, submitting once again 
to that gaze which turned bones to powder, muscle to jelly, mind to prayer. 
Slowly the man wiped his arms of Aama’s blood. Then he nodded at Deilcrit, and 
smiled, and indicated that he should sit.
He collapsed on the ground, as if the other’s will had been all that held him 
upright. He heard a voice, and knew it his: reciting the laws from rote in the 
old tongue.
“Stop,” said the man-form. “I cannot understand that.”
Deilcrit stared. Cannot? If not from the lawgivers, then whence?
“Who are you?” demanded his inquisitor.
He wanted to answer. He meant to answer. He said: “If you have taken life from 
the sacred ptaiss, will you not take mine also?”
The spirit did not take his life, but grinned, revealing white teeth that 
flashed in the firelight. Then he shaded his eyes with, his hand.
“What do you call this, place?”
“Benegua, mumbled Deilcrit, startled. Across the fire, the woman-form ministered 
to the ptaiss­ling. If she intended it harm, he could not help it.
“And this language?”
“Beneguan,” he answered, fear rising to lock his jaw in ice and turn the sweat 
cold as it rolled down his brow. How can language be spoken by one who has no 
name for it? he wondered dully.
“We have come here from Fai Teraer-Moyhe,” explained the man-form. Upon hearing 
that, he understood. Deilcrit, wailing, struck his forehead repeatedly upon the 
grass. From the Dark Land .... Tears of repentance flooded him. Not once had he 
failed, but endlessly. Aama died. He would die. The ptaissling would die. All of 
Benegua might be carried off to eternal penance, because he had not fled with 
word. Over his own moans, he heard nothing. Not until the avenging spirit 
dressed as a man touched him did he realize that it desired to further enlighten 
him.
“Be at ease,” the man-form said. “We have no quarrel with you.”
Could a man be so simply absolved of misdeeds in their sight? He did not think 
so. A torrent of guilt burst within him, until dammed back by the thought of the 
ptaissling. Then he raised his head. Stilling his body’s tremors, he faced the 
spirit of Fai Teraer-Moyhe.
“Sereth,” called the woman, from the ptaissling’s side. “You will kill him with 
fright.” At her first word, Deilcrit leaped to his feet, filled with con­cern 
for the newborn. Even before the hand reached out to stop him, he sank back 
down. The spirit nodded approvingly, manlike. Once more he tried to fit the 
man-mold over this being, that his terror be eased. No amount of trying allowed 
him this grace; what sat before him could not be a man. Even if from its own 
mouth had not come the name of the Abode of the Dead, the other-world­liness of 
his interrogator’s very frame would have made the distinction clear. Men did not 
carry them­selves with such lordly bearing, nor did they wear such garments. Nor 
carry such weapons. Nor speak so to women. But none had ever lived to tell what 
Fai Teraer-Moyhe spawned.
“Will I?” demanded the spirit. “Will you die of fright?”
Deilcrit looked at the ground. “My life is yours,” he whispered.
“I have not asked for it,” said the spirit. “I am Sereth.” And he held out his 
hand.
Deilcrit looked at the hand, brown and sinewey and mottled with Aama’s blood. It 
hovered in his field of vision, palm turned toward him. Then he bent his head 
and kissed it. From under his lips it was jerked away.
He raised his eyes, once more braving that terri­ble scourged visage.
“What is your name?” the spirit Sereth asked. “Iyl-Deilcrit,” he said, not 
vainglorious, but in admission.
“And what do you do, iyl-Deilcrit?”
“I tend the ptaiss, and spit the guerm,” he re­plied through unwieldy lips. Now 
it would come, whatever judgment the spirit had thus far held in abeyance. He 
straightened his shoulders. When it
Janet E. Morris did not come, when those eyes compelled his to speak, he 
repeated what he had said, adding: “Let me do so,” and ripped his glance from 
the other by an effort which left him breathing hard.
“Get up, then. I would keep no man from his calling,” said the grinning spirit 
Sereth, rising.
Dazed, he followed suit, moving slowly so that his legs’ tremors would not throw 
him to the ground.
“That is Chayin,” said Sereth, pointing out the dark one who squatted near the 
ptaissling’s head. “And Estri.” The woman-spirit smiled over her shoulder and 
turned back to the newborn ptaiss. Her naked back gleamed in the firelight, as 
if it bore a fire of its own. “They accompanied me from Fai Teraer-Moyhe, and 
before that, across the western sea.” Deilcrit could not suppress his shudder.
The dark man had something in his hands. Deilcrit could just make it out as it 
flew through the air: the spear, suddenly launthed at him, sideways.
Automatic, was the reaching. Then Deilcrit leaned upon the spear he had caught, 
like an old man on his staff. He was relieved that they were not of Fai 
Teraer-Moyhe. But all knew that there was noth­ing of man across the western 
sea. Ever more man-seeming, they were. But man could not have entered Benegua 
through the Spirit Gate. At least, he did not think so. What, then? The night 
hovered heavy, misting. No stars could be seen, just the dully glowing clouds. 
He shivered. If Parpis leaned upon this spear, he thought, what? The shade of 
Parpis, this time, remained silent.
His eyes fell upon the ptaissling. He would have to find milk for it. Where? He 
shook his head, and leaned it against the cool bronze of the spear’s head. His 
cheek itched with the nagging pulse of the, jicekak poison, and he angled the 
metal out of contact with his scratches.
The one called Sereth spoke: “How long were you watching us, and why?”
His voice snapped Deilcrit’s head around. His body followed. Disoriented, he 
almost fell. Grasp­ing the spear in both hands, he regarded his inquisitor. If 
it had not been somehow useless against them, he was sure that they would not 
have given it back. The act magnified his helpless­ness. As a man rousted out of 
bed in the middle of the night, hustled off by taciturn soldiers, might 
desperately construct excuses for some misdeed unknown to him, so did Deilcrit 
seek some answer that might please these who had entered through the Spirit 
Gate. But he found none.
“I tend the ptaiss,” he mumbled at last. “And spit the guerm.
But the spirit Sereth was not sated.
Writhing as if in physical pain, he fought the impulse to bolt: he could not 
leave the ptaissling.
Sereth fastened him still with eyes that pulled the words from his mouth: “The 
ptaiss ... what you did ... I saw it all,” he blurted out. “I did not know what 
to do. Aama was great with child. This was her first bearing.” The words, slow 
starting, poured out of him, uncheckable. “I was long at her side, soothing her 
ill temper. I was late to the Gate ....
“Listen, you can hear them. They mourn. All of Wehrdom mourns, by now.”
At his words the woman spun around, regarding him across the slain ptaiss. From 
the forest’s depths, even from the far shore, came the wails of grieving ptaiss. 
He stared at her openly. And slowly, feeling with his spear behind him, he 
backed away.
Sereth stood unmoving, silent, hands at his hips as Deilcrit retreated.
The shifting wind brought their scents clear to him; their flesh smelled of 
strange food and sweat.
“Kreeshkree, kreesh; breet iylbreet,” came the cry from above their heads, 
intrusive. The woman looked anxiously above, then down, then sought Sereth and 
touched his arm. It was hard to think of her as a spirit; her life flowed too 
full. Her presence made Sereth loom larger, if possible more forbidding. “Let 
him be until morning,” she said.
“He might not be here in the morning.”
“Let me try,” she spoke again, softly. She was naked to the waist. Sereth 
grunted, and shrugged. Then retreated, ever so slightly.
“Deilcrit, will you stay the night with us?”
Deilcrit laid down the spear and looked at it. Then he crouched beside it in the 
grass, swallowed hard, and said: “Command me, Most High,” while thinking how 
unfair it was of them to use Woman’s Word to imprison him. Something many-legged 
crawled up his hand. He shook it off without, notice, his eyes fastened on her 
as she approached. In some unfathomable way, she brought the flames’ light with 
her. He pondered this, for she stood with the fire at her back, and he could 
imagine no other source whence light might be reflected by her skin. Thus he 
neglected suitable obeisance. And his body, as she came closer, waxed audacious, 
presenting him with one extreme reaction after another. He tore his attention 
from her, setting it instead upon the dark one, Chayin, by the slain ptaiss’ 
head, and on the ptaissling, shadow turned sentient clambering at her belly.
“What is this Wehrdom? And what did you see that so affrighted you? And speak to 
me of the—ptaiss, and why they are sacred,” she commanded him.
Deilcrit nodded dumbly. Miserable in realiza­tion of his insufficiency, he 
studied the grass, and her booted feet. “It is not me you want, Most High. I am 
low in Mnemaat’s service. Only the first ten parables are known to me. And I am 
no wehr­none but the initiated could speak to you of the Way. Ptaiss, I know 
...” He trailed off, spreading his hands wide.
She took no notice that he looked upon her breasts, but smiled encouragingly. 
“Tell me,” she insisted, “what you saw.”
Deilcrit shivered. She would have from his own mouth his death sentence. He 
sensed it. And then there would be none to care for the ptaissling. But she 
knelt down on the grass opposite him, and his resistance was dissolved by her 
proximity. Unable to stop either his staring or his words, he did as she bid 
him: “I saw the Spirit Gate, upon which the guerm climbed, struck by lightning. 
I saw you enter through it. I saw you build a fire. I saw you eat of the flesh 
of quenel, long denied to man. I saw you strike dead a ptaiss, a thing that no 
man could do, which no man has ever done. What more?” Then he lowered his head, 
waiting. When death did not come, he raised it. “Most High, what are you?”
She blew a breath, soft and hissing, through her teeth.
The ptaissling, at that moment, began to whim­per. Its cries tore at his heart. 
In this world into which it had come, those needs for which it moaned could 
never be filled. “The ptaissling, may I see to it?” The audacity escaped his 
lips before thought could intervene. “I ask you, in Mnemaat’s name, to allow 
me.”
In the ensuing silence, his restraint dissolved with the newborn’s 
ever-more-urgent cries. Finally, while he crouched ready to, spring for his 
charge and the forest’s safety, she spoke:
“Do as you will, iyl-Deilcrit.”
He sprang like a loosed arrow to the ptaissling’s side.
“Be assured that your god is not defiled by what we have done.” Her words 
trailed after him, wrapped in a humor that appalled him.
His hands around the ptaissling’s head, he pulled its mouth from Aama’s depleted 
udder. Then, only, he looked over his shoulder at her. Out from her flesh 
gleamed starlight, a patch of it. He had not imagined it. It winked there, 
uncanny, embellish­ing her left breast. The ptaissling whimpered more, 
insistently. He squeezed the last drops of milk onto his fingers and let the 
searching mouth suck them clean. Its teeth, tiny yet sharp, nipped impatiently.
“Estri,” snapped Sereth, and a great deal more in their alien tongue as he led 
her forcibly into the shadows. Deilcrit’s hand sought the ptaissling’s pounding 
heart as it butted its unseeing face against his leg. The Most High’s voice, low 
and musical, made short, conciliatory answers to the other’s anger. He had never 
even imagined such a state of affairs: she did not curse, nor abrade, nor turn 
Sereth’s form to stone, but accepted meekly what­ever chastisement was in 
progress. Even with her body stiffened by the manform s rough treatment, the 
grace of her was astounding. He dragged his gaze away, discomfited at all that 
he saw. Her image danced before his eyes, though he looked upon the black-furred 
newborn, huddling against him for warmth. He lay down and curled his body around 
it, pulling it to him, away from the cold corpse of its mother. The ptaissling 
snuffled its way up to his chest, pushing its wet nose into his armpit. Its body 
was quivering. He drew up his knees so that they touched its hindquarters, and 
threw his arm over it. Even early-born, it was large. On its feet it would stand 
as high as his thigh. A flicker of pride in Aarna’s child came and went, and in 
its wake a sharper awareness of his irrevocable loss. He crooned to the orphan, 
forget­ting all else in that moment of shared grief.
From beside Aama’s head, the dark one, Chayin, chuckled and crawled toward him. 
He tensed, and the ptaissling mewled. He racked his brain to match that name 
with a god from Benegua’s pantheon, but his limited schooling provided no 
correlation. The unfamiliar deity squatted near, staring. He felt compelled to 
stare back.
“She affected me that way, the first time,” Chayin said, the whites of his eyes 
bright.
“Thus it always is, with those that cannot be had. How else?”
“That one,” assured the dark tempter, “can be had.”
Deilcrit sat up. The ptaissling sobbed softly. His hands balled into fists. He 
said nothing. But he felt those eyes, somehow inside of him, weighing his most 
incriminating thoughts, that licentious evil he ever strove to suppress but 
which bubbled un­impeded up from the depths of his sullied soul. If only Aama’s 
corpse did not lie here ... He wondered, wildly, why this had happened to him. 
There were others upon whom life lay easier, others who found no torture in the 
laws. Like the lightning assault­ing the Spirit Gate, it struck him: it was for 
pre­cisely that reason he had been chosen. What profit to them, if man not be 
weak? He put his head in his hands, pressing his palms against his eyelids. The 
ptaissling climbed onto his lap and buried its face between his crossed legs.
He heard the rustle of Chayin’s movement, just before the hand came down on the 
crown of his head.
“Do not fear so,” advised the dark one awkwardly. “Questions beginning with 
‘why’ have no true answers. It is not likely to be as bad as you make it, unless 
you make it that way. I will help you dispose of the ptaiss. I would not have 
sought to make a trophy pelt of her, had I known. I regret your loss. Must you 
inform someone?”
Deilcrit, his head still bowed, pressed his palms more firmly against his lids. 
He nodded.
“I will go, also, and speak for you. You will be back, doing whatever you do, 
before you know it.”
Deilcrit, without raising his head, shook it. Beyond doubt, he knew that it 
could not be true. He was not the same. Nothing was the same. Noth­ing would 
ever be the same again.
“By the Wing of Uritheria,” exploded the dark one. “A man fully grown, in good 
health ... What has you huddled up like some infant, shivering? I have said that 
I will help you.” The hand upon his head, with a desultory shake, withdrew. “I 
have promised you protection, to the extent that I am able, in this land, to 
give it. Though I am as yet unknown here, I assure you that you have received no 
small gift! Whatever befalls, in your need call my name. I will hear you. When 
you are ready, we will see to the ptaiss.”
Upon those amazing statements, the dark one rose up and joined his companions.
Deilcrit, staring after, wondered with what he had just pacted. A part of his 
mind noted the ptaissling, sleeping on his lap; and the ptaiss sounds, coming 
ever closer, in the forest beyond. His ears heard, also, the discussion, 
incomprehen­sible but for its heat, occurring by the fire. He slid his legs out 
from under the newborn, drew up his knees. Over them he crossed his arms and, on 
his crossed arms he rested his chin. He hardly knew that he did these things. 
The ptaissling muttered but did not wake. He regarded it freed of emotion. Could 
he chance its life upon a night hunt? Could he flee with it, despite his vow? 
The last thing he wanted was to stay near Them. What was to be done with Aama’s 
corpse? He could not just leave it. What would he do if he could not find a 
surro­gate mother? He tried to recapture some shadow of Parpis’ wisdom. He 
recollected only what the dark one said. As a man, lost beyond hope of 
re­turning home, stands at a fork in the road, un­decided, waiting for an omen 
to make his choice for him, so stood Deilcrit before the task of assign­ing 
sense and value to what had occurred. He had come too far, he knew, to turn 
back. As fearful as he was of the wrath of Mahrlys-iis-Vahais, twice that 
fearful was he of those ranged around the fire, those who could lift the 
thoughts from his mind and the will from his limbs. Now the dark one had so much 
as designated him a servant. So conscripted, whether for good or evil, into the 
designs of Mnemaat the Unseen, could he do other than obey? A strangely replete 
surrender came over him. Buoyed by its strength, he got to his feet. Slowly he 
approached them, his eyes fixed on the ground, to do as the dark one had bid 
him, and attend the body of Aama. Then, for better or worse, he would lead them 
to Mahrlys: Mahrlys, whose body tor­tured his dreams incessantly; and whose 
eyes, though often upon him, had never seen him. She would see him, soon enough.
Just before he reached them, he turned about once more to reassure himself that 
the ptaissling slept. Wings fluttered above his head.
Automatically, he reached out his arm.
“ICreesh,” said the whelt, flapping wildly, its claws fastening around his 
wrist.
“Kreesh,” he whispered “back to it, bringing his wrist slowly toward his chest. 
The whelt, cobalt crest raised, humped its wings up and sidled to, his shoulder, 
where it perched, silver beak clacking.
“Kreesh, breet,” said the bird dejectedly, and rubbed its head against his. The 
fire crackled. The whelt started, half-spread its wings, and shifted from foot 
to foot.
“Ssh, ssh,” he soothed, reaching up to smooth its crest. The whelt shivered, 
stretching out its neck until one green eye was level with his. The eye blinked.
Among the strange ones, all converse had ceased. The woman half-hid behind the 
lighter man, staring.
Self-consciously, he further quieted the whelt, whose talons still twitched and 
trembled. A big bird, this; not the whelt he had expected, nor any of his. His 
questing fingers found its banded right leg, traced there the sign of the 
Vahais, Benegua’s high council.
“Go on,” he advised softly. “Why get involved?” The whelt, as he, knew better. 
But it only cocked its head.
“Breet, iis,” he accused it. It ruffled its feathers, shifting its weight from 
leg to leg. “Go on,” he advised, pushing his wrist insistently against its 
chest.
Again it stretched its neck and rubbed its head against his cheek. The jicekak 
scrapes, irritated, began itching, The woman hesitantly approached. He closed 
his eyes and took the whelt’s message. Here was his omen, come unasked. Mahrlys’ 
face hovered before him, and from her mouth came the words of death and waiting. 
Of death, the whelt Was better informed than he: ptaiss, quenel, and whelt. 
Whelt?
With a disparaging screech, the whelt took sud­den flight from his, shoulder, 
talons digging, wings battering his head. Reflexively, he ducked down and away. 
It climbed the air, screeching, wingtips nearly brushing the woman’s face. She 
screamed, and threw herself to the ground. The men rushed to her aid, but the 
whelt was gone, heavenward, safe from their blades.
None of his would have behaved so, he thought, fingering his punctured shoulder. 
Under his tunic, the clawed flesh throbbed wetly.
He brought his fingers to his lips, licked the blood. She rose up, slapping 
ashes from her hands, and stood there, at arm’s length, her whole body an 
eloquent demand for explanation.
He raised his head high, under that scrutiny, then grinned uncertainly.
“Whelt. One of Mahrlys-iis-Vahais’.” His whole body turned hot, as if the fire 
had caught his flesh. He could not look away, but he could think of nothing to 
say to her. He merely stared back, with every pore of his body. He was dimly 
aware that the dark one shed his outer garment and then his inner, and replaced 
the outer alone. The inner layer he offered up to her. She, hardly seeming to 
notice, took it and slipped it over her head.
Deilcrit breathed a sigh of relief.
Then she said: “You are hurt,” and he wondered whether anything mortal could 
have voice so soft, as she rolled up the dark sleeves and pulled her thick braid 
over her shoulder. “Take that off, and I will dress it.”
She was pointing at him. He backed away, shak­ing his head, toward the 
ptaissling;surreptitiously chancing a glance at her companions. They leaned 
close together, talking quietly. Thus he stumbled over his own spear. Glad for 
the respite from her flame-colored eyes and his confusion, he reached down to 
retrieve it. He dared not do what she asked. And yet he dared not disobey her. 
Misera­bly he retreated into the cloaking dark beyond the fire’s circle.
“Iyl-Deilcrit”—she laughed, following him—“stop and let me see to your wound.”
He stopped, in the blessed shadows, and leaned his forehead against the flare of 
the spear’s head. His eyes strayed to the ptaissling. He could just make it out. 
There was no question, now of escape: by way of whelt, that had been forbidden 
him. Waiting, he could endure. But the deaths to be met by more of the same ...
At her touch, he jumped as if scalded. It was all he had conjured it to be, that 
touch. Hopeless, at her repeated command, he fumbled at the strap tied about his 
waist, fingers plucking clumsily at the knotted, damp-swollen cord.
“Here,” she murmured, “let me do it.” He stood, not daring to breathe. When the 
knot was freed, the belt, with its pouch and scabbard, fell to the ground.
“Well?” she urged, smiling. He was glad he could not see the starlight on her 
breast through the fine cloth. He peered over her head, at the two loung­ing in 
the fire’s glow. Then he stopped thinking, in response to her stamped foot, and 
pulled the tunic upward quickly, before he could turn and run. And if he ran, he 
would have Mahrlys to face ....
His chin caught in the headhole. He struggled with it. When he could once again 
see, she was searching something from the wide belt she wore. Naked but for a 
strip of cloth—and it old and threadbare—wound around his loins, he crossed his 
arms over his chest and squatted down. Not ever had he been naked before a 
woman. He hoped that the whelt was gone, and not spying on him from the trees.
She, too, crouched in the grass, palm outstretched. Her eyes appraised every 
inch of him, calmly. The tiny smile upon her face fanned bright.
Ptaissling or no ptaissling, Mahrlys’ whelt’s or­ders not-withstanding, he 
almost ran, then. At length, he crouched before her like a man set to jump, 
palms flat to the ground between his feet, weight well forward.
Never afterward, though often he tried to recall the truth, could he determine 
if her touch alone had healed him or if the sticky brown substance she applied 
to the trough the whelt had dug in his shoulder provided the cure. Her palm’s 
proximity caused his flesh to turn cold, then so hotly cold he flinched. Then 
the touch was gone. And back a second time, smoothing the sharp-smelling gel 
into the wound. At that moment, he paid the healing process little mind: her 
gaze had found what he had hoped that she would not see. But when she raised her 
face there was no censure, no fury in it. She merely stretched toward him and 
repeated the same procedure on his right cheek. As the evil-smelling unguent 
began stinging, he tried not to flinch, but his flesh trembled under her hand. 
He studied the ground, biting his lip, so desper­ately did he want to look at 
her.
“I have found another scratch,” she said, touch­ing him upon the, belly. He 
groaned softly. “What did this?” she asked, as if she had not heard.
“Jicekak,” he answered, first knowing he did so when the sound surprised him. 
She stared intently at his scratched cheek, nodding. Then she leaned closer. Her 
thinly clad breast brushed his arm.
“Please, Most High,” he begged, holding the surg­ing inside him. His fingers 
ached in their trenches newly dug among the weeds.
“Does it hurt so much?”
“Yes,” he admitted, very low. He longed to touch that strange, glowing skin, 
unwind the thick braid of copper hair.
She sat back, inspecting him critically. “Let me see the back of you. Go on, 
turn around.”
He was glad to do so, that he could not see her.
“Who is Mahrlys-iis-Vahais?” she asked, her strong fingers rubbing salve into 
his back.
“Mahrlys,” he repeated, pulling away from her. If Mahrlys knew that he had been 
naked before this creature, messenger of Mnemaat or no, the iis’ retribution 
would be terrible. But he remembered the slain quenel and ptaiss, and the 
whelt’s message, and he realized that no worse could befall him.
“Mahrlys-iss-Vahais rules Benegua,” he said simply, when she asked again. 
“Please, do not amuse yourself with me. It is not permitted.” His voice even to 
his own ears, came thick and hoarse. Her hands turned to soothing, to kneading 
the thrice-knotted muscles of his back. “Most High,” he moaned, driven to 
desperation. “No!”
“Turn around.” And when he did not: “Now! Face me!”
Slowly, he obeyed. Her face was unreadable, eyes half-closed.
Implacable, she reached out a hand to him. He squeezed his own eyes shut, kept 
them shut, but he knew what he did. He simply could do no different.
When it was done, when he had committed the final, most heinous sacrilege, he 
groaned softly and pried his lids apart. His fingers, digging into her arms, 
would not at once heed his command that they release her.
He allowed himself the further iniquity of appre­ciating her, as he waited for 
death to come. He had earned it.
She rolled aside, and he felt her finger run the length of, his transgression. 
Pulling her legs under her, she put her finger to her lips and licked it, her 
eyes huge over her hand. Then she laughed and scrambled to her feet. He followed 
suit, naked, his belongings forgotten in the grass.
“Most High, who are you?” he asked, taking her proffered hand. Behind her back, 
the two firelit figures hovered, blades drawn, at either edge of the blaze, 
stone-still, listening.
“Estri,” she replied firmly. “But that is not what you meant. Chayin once 
observed that we, are more than men, yet less than gods, and sometimes used by 
the latter to mold the former. Will that do?” She smiled, touched his lips.
Deilcrit, then, heard what softly rising sounds had so concerned Sereth and 
Chayin. He pushed her toward them awkwardly, unable to answer her bright smile. 
From behind her he said, “In that case, you three may yet survive.” He could 
feel the breeze of them, the restless air that always accom­panied the gathering 
of wehrs in numbers.
“What do you mean?” she demanded, then stopped dead so that he stumbled into 
her. This time, it was she who gripped his shoulders.
“That I did not tell you all that the whelt told me. I was forbidden to. But I 
cannot ... What we have done ... Most High, forgive me, but I am trying to tell 
you that the whelt told me to await the wehrs’ justice, to keep you here. Wehrs’ 
justice is that of death. Can you not hear them? See?” And he pointed to where 
pair upon pair of glowing eyes bestarred the forest’s blackness from ground to 
treetops.
“Deilcrit .” With a shudder she released him°, whirled, and scrambled up the 
hillock in a dash that ended her in Sereth’s arms, babbling urgently.
He turned his eyes from their frantic embrace, and sought the ptaissling, who 
slumbered fitfully now that ptaiss-mutter filled the air. He had to pass by the 
dark one, Chayin, to get there.
That one fixed him with a piercing glare, half-pitying, half-contemptuous, and 
spat in Deilcrit’s direction.
“Well, will you fight, ungrateful whelp? Or will you meet your death like you 
have spent your life, cowering before gods and spirits and even dumb beasts?”
Deilcrit, his face buried in the ptaissling’s neck, felt at last the first spray 
of horror cool his skin. The wave surged close behind. A shuddering racked him. 
When it was gone, he pushed the youngling away, and uncurled himself to stand 
straight be­fore the glowering Chayin, in whose unwavering extended grasp was a 
white-bladed knife.
A ptaiss roared, a cough answered, and a high-pitched cry silenced both.
“I cannot lift weapons against the ptaiss,” Deilcrit got out. “It is not ... not 
possible. Please ...” His arms, of their own accord, stretched out to encom­pass 
the fire, the clearing, the denser shadows of forest cushioning the moonless 
night. “I cannot.”
Chayin, with a shrug, flipped the knife and cast it between Deilcrit’s feet. 
Then he turned his back and joined his companions.
Silently the three walked to a stretch of level ground, and there, halfway 
between fire and slope, formed a triangle, back to back. Their alien weap­ons 
gleamed. Sereth spoke tersely, very low, and Chayin grunted an assent. And then 
they stood like statues, unmoving, for an instant.
Even as Deilcrit bent to still the ptaissling’s sud­den bleat, even as the knife 
jumped of its own accord into his fist and every vestige of his compo­sure fled, 
the black forest exploded. Into the light leaped and bounded and flapped the 
wehrs. Ptaiss predominated, and their roars, deafening, were only a background 
for more terrible cries. A wall of diverse creatures erupted out of the dark.
Deilcrit had no time to survey them, only a mo­ment for the incredulity of, 
their numbers to sink in, and then a spirit-white ptaiss was upon him. Blindly, 
his face contorted so that his teeth lay bare, screaming without knowing that he 
did, Deilcrit stabbed about him. No law, no question of submission stayed his 
furious thrusts, though he had knelt a hundred times while the wehrs passed 
ravening among the folk of Benegua, striking dead whom they chose. This time his 
palms lay not on the ground with his forehead upon them: In one fist he grasped 
a ptaiss’ ear, in the other the blade that tore again and again into the beast’s 
belly. The claws of one forepaw raked the ground by his head as the awful weight 
bore him down; its mates sank deep into his right shoulder and scraped bone. Up 
into its vitals, again and again, did Deilcrit plunge his weapon. His grip on 
the beast’s ear slipped, and the slavering jaws thrust toward him, drenching his 
face in drool and spittle.
With all his strength, he thrust his free arm down the ptaiss’ throat, gouging 
the soft palate with his nails. Halting momentarily in surprise, the suddenly 
choking creature arched its back, threw its head up, and Deilcrit’s knife hand 
was no longer skewered to the ground by the claws in his shoulder. He thrust the 
knife upward, deep into the ptaiss’ jugular, even as those hideous jaws closed 
upon his elbow, and the ptaiss’ frenzied convulsions snapped him up into the 
air. He had only enough time to drop the blade and hug the beast’s neck as it 
reared up, shaking its head. Gorge rose in its throat, spilled from its mouth, 
but the ptaiss would not release Deilcrit’s arm, now torn half from its socket. 
For a moment, swinging free of the ground, the whole clearing was revealed to 
him:
Sereth, Chayin, and Estri, still back to back, stood amid a growing circle of 
corpses, over which new assailants vaulted. He saw the wing-flutter of an 
ossasim, its manlike body strewn uppermost on the pile. Then, as a screaming 
ptaiss launched itself over the barrier, Estri uttered a hoarse cry, she and 
Sereth both threw their weapons—he at the ptaiss and she at a tusked, 
long-bodied campt­and the three joined hands. Then they were gone. The campt, 
with a roar of pain, fell aspraddle where they had just stood; and Deilcrit’s 
vision went red with pain as the ptaiss jerked him to the ground. His lungs 
emptied, his head struck a stone. And while he hung limply, gasping, the ptaiss, 
fangs locked around the limb choking it, blood spurting from the gaping slash in 
its neck, snapped Deilcrit first to the right, then to the left. Then, with a 
growl and a bound, it dashed him to the grass, raking his torso with its hind 
talons. He did not even feel the creature’s grip go slack as it collapsed on top 
of him, nor its huge heart pump­ing out a final jet of blood that spilled over 
his face, into his ears, and from there trickled down upon the sedge grass.
III. Of Whelts and Wehrs
and Imca-Sorr-Aat
I crouched in the sand, gulping great chunks of air out of the moonless night. I 
had brought us into time-space a trifle high, and we had fallen a short distance 
to land in a tangle. I was not displeased—dragging the both of them, the cahndor 
a dead­weight, and Sereth so much heavier that it seemed as if I attempted to 
pull the whole congruence plane out with me onto the sand of the bayshore—I 
counted myself fortunate to have emerged at all. That I had brought them both 
through on my power alone was near miraculous. But desperation is an inspiring 
instructor, and a propitiously timed obviation of space had seemed our only 
alterna­tive to an eventual death atop a mountain of suicidally ferocious 
animals.
Chayin’s voice, cursing monotonously in his na­tive tongue, was the first sound 
I heard over my own pumping lungs. Then, as I struggled to my feet and brushed 
the sand away, I saw Sereth.
He stood at the water’s edge, facing out to sea. Chayin, hunkered down ‘nearby, 
stared straight at the sand between his feet, still excoriating in Parset.
It was not until I saw the severed hand, badly chewed and bearing a ring about 
one swollen finger, that I understood. Then I cursed myself for a fool and 
joined Sereth where he stood looking out at the empty sea.
“Do you think you miscalculated? Are we at the right point in space, but the 
wrong one in time?” he asked, his eyes never leaving the water, voice so soft it 
might have been the lapping of an articulate wave against the shore.
“I am afraid,” said I, “that you overestimate me. I hardly calculate.”
“Estri         . ‘ Even softer.
“No, then. I do not think so, There is no moon. What chance there is that I 
might have acciden­tally landed us here on another moonless night during which a 
severed hand wearing a Parset ring exactly like Neshub’s found its way to the 
shore—that chance is far less than the obvious: the ship is gone, and Chayin has 
lost at least one of his crew.”
He did not acknowledge me, and after a time I said that perhaps the crew had 
mutinied, killed Neshub, and cast off for Menetph, far across the sea.
In answer, he took my arm and pointed, and I saw what nestled against the 
jetty’s rocks, and looked away. I had no desire to closely examine those 
misshapen hulks and shattered timbers.
I shook his hand off and retreated up the beach, until—I found a spot free from 
growths and shadows, where I could not be stealthed upon.
“Come away from there,” I cautioned Sereth, who had not moved. “The wehrs ...” 
And the speaking of that word reminded me of Deilcrit. I saw him as I had last 
seen him, prostrate, while the ptaiss            I covered my eyes with my 
palms, but it did not help.     —
“Estri,” said Chayin in my ear, “do you think you could return us to Port 
Astrin?”
I nodded. “It is no harder than was returning here. There is no distance, just 
the procedure’s of entry and exit, and a choosing, in that cold place.” I 
shivered, recollecting the shriveling agony of the procession of matter through 
the congruences. “But give me some time. And let the sun be risen. Then I will 
be stronger.”
A shadow fell that was not material, and I looked up to see Sereth, all the 
heavens’ fury in his crossed arms and forward-jutting hips. “So, we must sim­ply 
stay alive until sunrising. With one sword and two knives between us. Then we 
will meekly turn our backs on fifty dead men, a gutted vessel, the criminals we 
came to this land seeking, and slink home by the aegis of Estri’s skills, to sit 
and chit-ter and get fat and lazy ruling our various holdings, secure in the 
knowledge that should we ever again find ourselves in difficulties, we need but 
call Estri and she will remove us from the scene.”
Chayin stiffly rose up, kicking me roughly from his path. Standing opposite 
Sereth, he growled, “A man must know when to cut his losses.”
I scrambled to my feet and insinuated myself between them. Sereth shoved me 
aside.
“Do not speak to me of what men must do. You are overqualified. Both of you”—and 
he inclined his head at me, that there might be no mistaking my inclusion in 
Sereth’s “you”—“would do well to keep silent in that regard. Shapers’ blood 
makes for too many disparities. Flee! What of Se’keroth, and your much-vaunted 
‘age of the divinity of man’? For that matter, what of your vow to that pitiful 
savage?”
Chayin had no answer. He merely stared at Sereth’s empty scabbard.
“Call my name and I will aid you,” mimicked Sereth savagely. “A god who can 
offer his followers so little might have trouble retaining them.”
“I did not realize,” said the cahndor, “that you had lost Se’keroth in the 
fray.”
At that, Sereth wheeled around and strode into the surf. Knee-deep in the 
shallows’ froth, he stripped off the chased scabbard and threw it, belt and all, 
out to sea. The spinning sheath flew thrice the distance of a man’s normal cast 
and was lost in the darkness.
“That,” called Sereth, “is what care I have for Se’keroth.” Beside me, I heard 
Chayin’s harsh in­drawn breath. “And for all of Khys’s manipulations, and your 
cursed attempts to follow in his stead.” A waterspout rose in the sea, born of 
Sereth’s rage.
Chayin put his arm around my waist and drew me close.
“I cannot believe,” I whispered through my shock, “that he is saying these 
things to us.” My internals felt as though someone had just removed them, and my 
empty carcass was only momentarily capa­ble of sustaining the fiction of life.
“Be quiet,”. Chayin advised. “It will pass. He is distraught. This has been long 
coming. There are differences ..” And he trailed off, as Sereth approached. But 
I did not miss the unsteadiness in the cahndor’s voice.
We three stood facing each other, only breathing, a long time. I spent that time 
bewailing, in my mind, the impossibility of ever foreseeing what this man, whom 
I loved as much as my next breath, would have me do.
“This serves no one,” said Sereth at last, quietly, but without that deadly edge 
to his tone. Almost shyly he reached out his hand. I took it: It was clammy.
“Sereth, did you mean to start that turbulence?”
“No.”
His reply was almost inaudible. ‘I longed to com­fort him, but I had no comfort 
to give. The bri—
ding of such strengths as he had so recently acquired is an intimate 
undertaking, different for each. But I understood why he had, of late, so 
strictly controlled both his temper, which had never been placid, and those of 
his new skills which dealt with the direct application of mental force.
Chayin, grunting, unhanded me, squatted down, and craned his neck toward the 
sky.
“What is it?” Sereth, suddenly cautious, pulled me down to the sand.
“I heard something, something large flying, per­haps even circling overhead. But 
I cannot see it. And my sensing gives me a presence, though what kind, I do not 
know.”
“Estri, what are the chances of your successfully obviating space again this 
night?” Seretb asked, squinting into the starry evening.
I thought about it. The obviation of space is a painful, draining, and 
ever-uncertain undertaking. Once I was caught for three days in the congruences. 
I shuddered. “Not good. Especially with you both as passive companions. If you 
two tried, perhaps—”
“I have tried,” Chayin cut me off. “With no great success .. This is something I 
know: a time comes when such skills will be within my reach. And this is another 
thing I know: that time is not yet.” He paused, rubbed his right shoulder, and 
continued in a ruminative growl, “You, yourself, have told me that such feats 
remain the most precipitous of all that you attempt. The chance of hindrance by 
our efforts to help is too great to ignore.” He looked at me questioningly. I 
kept silent.
“But you could do it,” pressed Sereth, “if you had to.”
I sighed. “I can try, if I have to, though if it is a choice between dying under 
the teeth and claws of ptaiss and wehrs, or dying lost between the mo—
JO    Janet e. Moms ments in the domain of eternity, I should rather it be the 
ptaiss.”
“Then let us hope,” said Sereth, gently, “that you do not have to try. But we 
must agree: if an insurmountable attack comes, from the forest, from the sea 
behind, that is what we will do. My bow, quiver, and”—Sereth shifted, looking 
pointedly at Chayin—“Se’keroth, and Estri’s blade lie in that clearing. There 
also are a number of dead creatures who possibly could have been dealt with more 
humanely. Do either of you have any ideas ... ?” And he broke off, and 
half-rose, staring upward, then around him at the ground.
“What are you looking for?”
“A good-sized rock. Chayin, I think I see your winged creature.”
“What would you do?” demanded the cahndor, also suddenly searching rocks along 
the beach. Then he cursed, stiffened, and peered out into the sea, which was no 
longer still.
“Estri, watch those guerm, and be ready to get us back to camp if we need you.” 
Like a spring-loaded bolt, he was gone from where his words rode the air; an 
eyeblink later, a star-frosted shadow holding a naked blade loomed atop a jumble 
of rocks fallen sideward from the jetty, cutting off my view of the shore.
Above my, head I could just make out the star-shine on something large that 
soared in slow circles. Its shape was not as easy to define as its mind-touch, 
which I had felt before, ever so softly, when first we entered Benegua.
“Sereth,” I called, as the first of the guerm waddled, deceptively quick, out of 
the surf. Behind it rose another streamered snout, and another, and I knew we 
could not hack them all apart, one by one, even with three swords.
“What, ci’ves?” Sereth said from directly be—
hind me. I jumped, then replied: “I am going to bring down the winged thing for 
you. If I am right, the guerm will—”
“Do not explain. Do what you can do.” And with that he left me, bearing an 
armful of fist-sized rocks, to join Chayin where he awaited the guerm.
It was not until I had seen two of the six-legged amphibians disembowled that I 
managed to gather sufficient concentration. Then I merged with the thing in the 
sky. Its thoughts were soft and layered, like a million far-off voices speaking 
at once, and as it became aware of me it showed no fear. Only my sense of 
numbers diminished. As I struggled to reach a mind with which to reason, a great 
horde fled me, leaving only a tentative intelligence within that body whose 
every wing flap was now so much a part of me that my shoulders ached.
“Come down. Cease this senseless war, be—” Then something that knew no words 
jumped ravening from behind the clouds of animating hosts that seemed to dwell 
in that single brain, and I screamed aloud and found myself flat on my back, my 
hands to my pulsing temples. One quick glance at the shore told me I had no more 
time, that by my clemency I might have lost us all our lives. Then, coldly, with 
no thought of anything but destruction, I constructed a turbulence of my own. 
Wide, I built it, and long, so that it formed a contracting sphere that showed 
as fire clouds in the otherwise clear night. Tighter and tighter I forced the 
sphere, and I could hear the thing within, it scream, as the buffeting storm 
tongues threw it about like an autumn leaf. Screwing my eyes shut against the 
glare, I willed the lightning-charged ball to spin ever faster; to shrink ever 
smaller. A bolt shot through the .clouds, then another, and I cursed, ceased 
struggling to bring the whirlwind to earth. Rather, I dispersed it, and as the 
turbulence turned
JO    Janet, L. morns to mist and the fire of the electrically charged air 
abated, a form plummeted downward, limbs askew, wings inert and wrapped around 
its body.
It fell with a thud between me and the two men, and lay still, one wing jutting 
into the air.
Pulling damp hair from my brow, I ran toward the shore and the streamered guerm 
which rode the incoming tide like a living band of froth across the bay. The 
main body of the school was perhaps twenty man’s lengths out to sea. The 
forerunners, living and dead, littered the surf. In the shallows, Sereth and 
Chayin were but darker shadows from which came an occasional grunt or a syllable 
of warning, punctuated by Chayin’s thwacking blade and the splash of rocks and 
the thrash of silent-dying guerm.
While I squinted past them into the moonless dark, the luminescent band of froth 
which was in reality uncountable surfacing guerm became a dot­ted line. Then 
that line seemed to shudder, then surge raggedly into a circle which immediately 
exploded into a thrashing mass of individuals who turned upon one another in the 
overly close waters. Moment by moment, the disintegration of the school, now 
denied the organizational mind of the winged thing which had deployed them, 
became more pronounced.
Sereth, with a satisfied grunt, threw one last missile into the midst of three 
guerm that were greedily gorging themselves on their dismembered fellows. Then 
he clapped Chayin on the back, and the cahndor’s laughter rang out over the 
still night as they approached.
I nodded to, myself, pleased that my desperate experiment had worked. But I 
wondered, as I turned to the winged corpse, whether even this evidence would be 
adequate to support my conclusions, should I dare present them. I need not have 
wor—
tied on that score. On another, I was disastrously wrong:
The grayish, winged, manlike creature was no corpse. It lived, after a fall that 
shattered half the bones in its body; lived after the application of such force 
as might have sufficed to end ten men.
I knelt beside it, awestruck, and as I did so, fear rode up from the abyss to 
possess me. Not that small fear, a mere breeze, that whispers at the back of 
one’s mind and conjures specters; but that overwash of howling gale force that 
cripples so that all that remains is a deaf-mute, empty of thought, trapped 
nonvolitional in a body seeking to prepare itself for suspended animation. 
Looking down at that gray chest, fine-furred and slabbed with muscle, I could 
not believe that the chest rose and fell, though with every respiration, blood 
that glinted black in the evening monochrome trickled from between two crushed 
ribs. Its right arm was thrown back, twisted at an unlikely angle, or so I 
thought until Sereth, his hand on its right wing, which jutted almost straight 
up into the air, murmured, “Look at this.”
He spread the pinion wide. That arm and the soft-furred, membranous wing 
comprised one limb, inseparable. The very human-looking arm formed the main 
strut of the wing: six-digited hands with webbed, clawed fingers fringed by 
delicate wing edges tipped it; six massive fleshy vessels, each as thick.as a 
human wrist, ran diagonals from shoulder, elbow, mid—and forearm to wingtip, 
branching repeatedly. Even while Sereth held the arm high, the vessels became 
visibly less tumescent as blood seeped out of the creature and its strength 
failed. When Sereth dropped the arm, to the eye no wing rested there, but two 
soft drapes of gray-furred skin that hung like some doubled cloak from the 
creature’s arm and shoulder.
.14.41IG4 L .., /VIVI
“Chayin, give Estri your sword.” And to my hor­rified shudder, Sereth added: 
“Long ago I told you that in future you must dispatch your own wounded. Is there 
not even that much mercy in you, Shapers’ spawn? The thing suffers.”
With downcast eyes I took the weapon from Chayin, but as .I bent close, debating 
whether to slit its throat, lop head from shoulders, or simply drive the sword 
point •into its heart, the creature stirred, and fixed upon me its yellow-eyed 
stare, and its words stayed my hand:
“Woman, wild or no, you should know better than to lift arms against a 
representative of Wehr­dom! Imca-Sorr-Aat’s curse upon you! Upon all your heads, 
it is levied.” The voice was a soughing wind. It came from everywhere, so 
ubiquitous that I thought for a moment that my mind alone had heard, for its 
cartilaginous mouth had not opened. Solicitous, I dropped the sword and raised 
up its head. From that crushed skull out onto my hand oozed spongy, viscous 
pulp.
One look at Sereth and Chayin proved that they also heard the winged wehr, and 
even while its brains and blood ran down my arm, the thing recommenced its 
speech:
“There is no escape! Though you roam the earth entire, the creatures of land and 
air and sea will follow to exact their vengeance. You have defiled the river, 
you have laid about you with all the wantonness of your kind. He who eats our 
flesh will in his own turn be eaten; he who has slaugh­tered ptaiss will end 
under their claws.
“But you”—and the creature lifted its mashed skull from my palm, and thrust its 
gory head so close I could smell the stink of death on its breath­“ you have 
murdered not one wehr-master, but two, and for your crimes, Mahrlys-iis-Vahais’ 
justice would be too merciful. It is Imca-Sorr-Aat himself who will exact from 
you the price of ...” Abruptly the creature sagged in my arms. Then, in a 
racking spasm that spewed blood and bile over us both, it succumbed to its fate.
I laid the corpse back on the sand and made a desultory attempt to sluice the 
foul death fluids from my breasts and arms.
“Well,” said Chayin, wrinkling up his nose in. distaste and lifting me bodily 
from the corpse’s side, “let us get you cleaned up. You may be accursed, but you 
need not smell like it.” And he gave me a broad grin, whose like I had seen 
before, too often.
I twisted in his grasp to confront Sereth, just quitting the wehr-master’s side.
“You are well pleased, are you not?” I accused him.
“I must admit that events have taken an intrigu­ing turn,” he said, tossing his 
head. His temper, so vile earlier, was not at all in evidence. Even the night’s 
mask could not hide the deepened channel where the scar on his cheek brushed his 
mouth. He was eager, now that the enemy had declared himself, for the battle to 
be joined.
“And I would add”—Chayin chortled—“that my mind is greatly eased by the 
revelation that there exists here more than a handful of bronze-age primitives, 
affrighted of their own shadows hud­dled in the ruins of their ancestors’ 
prehistoric technocracy.”
“Thank you, Oh Stoth adept,” I jibed, as I splashed water over my beslimed self, 
keeping a careful eye out for straggling guerm who might be dining in the 
shallows.
“Perhaps it was only boredom that you sought to vanquish here, Estri, but it was 
knowledge of what has so long lain unknowable that called me out from the 
desert,” retorted the cahndor.
“And what of the M’ksakkans that murdered the mother of your son?” I demanded.
The cahndor snorted. “They did me a great service in that. I will admit that 
the, gesture of pur­suit needed to be made. But may I also point out this 
considering that the denizens of this land seem to be actively at war with man, 
little chance would a handful of comfort-bred off-worlders, weaponless, ignorant 
of wilderness skills, have had. No, when the wehrs first attacked us, I had to 
face the fact that searching out M’ksakkan bones would be merely an exercise in 
tracking. But no matter, we have something infinitely more stimulating to do, 
and, I would predict, more demanding. After all, we cannot just go home and wait 
for the curse to strike. My sleep would be marred beyond repair. And I hate, 
above all things, waiting.”
“Indeed,” joined in Sereth as I made my way out of the surf, “in such 
engagements it is better to take the offensive. It might serve us to pool our 
suppositions with an eye’ toward determining what weapons we could most 
profitably bring to bear.” Both Chayin and I knew what arsenal Sereth pro­posed 
to inventory.
And then? Surely neither of you believe in this . this Imca-Sorr-Aat’s curse?”
Sereth snorted softly. Chayin chuckled aloud, and recalled a time he had said to 
me that every curse ever written had been laid upon his head.
“And then;” Sereth replied, “we will collect our belongings from the clearing, 
and travel the road I saw among the trees. At the end of it I suspect we will 
find Mahrlys-iis-Vahais, whose control of these wehrs is far less ephemeral than 
any curse, and from him exact either a suitable vessel and crew to replace that 
which his wehrs destroyed, or suffi­cient satisfaction to convince us to return 
home without a ship. But”—and here he leaned forward, his eyes narrowed, and his 
voice knifed the night—“I am not going to be frightened away, or driven away, by 
either his curses or his wehrs.”
“But you are willing to risk being carried away,” I spat back.
“Estri,” opined Chayin, ‘‘Sereth is right. Neither of us could turn our backs on 
such an open chal­lenge and retain any semblance of self-respect. And if we did 
flee, who is to say that one morning we might not wake up with all of Wehrdom 
encamped upon our doorstep? They know we are here. Doubt­less they have some 
glimmering as to whence we have come. And it is Mahrlys-iis-Vahais that has 
threatened us, wherever we are. Better here, I say, than in Menetph, or Astria, 
or at the Lake of Horns. And that reminds me ...” He turned to Sereth. “Before 
the guerm attack, you accused me of cowardice.”
Sereth started to make some excuse, but Chayin would not allow it: “Let me 
finish. When I asked Estri if she could get us home, it was because I had not, 
in all the probability scans I made for our immediate future, seen a single path 
which led us home from this bayshore, and it occurred to me that the reason I 
had not seen it so was because it was not possible. Now I realize that although 
it is possible, even then it was highly unlikely. Though the question may 
presently seem academic, the procedure is pertinent, even critical: There are a 
number of alternatives in the sort that deserve our attention. Now, Ebvrasea, 
speak your say.” It was by an old nomer, one which Sereth acquired while afoul 
of the law on the other side of this world—our world—that Chayin called him.
Sereth smiled, and tousled the cahndor’s black curls. “I regret, then, that I 
falsely accused you. What do you see in the sort?”
Chayin frowned. “As always, it is more what I
do not see, than what I do .... Estri will support me in the statement that when 
involved with a future in which no constants are known, it is very difficult to 
read any coherent pattern. When first we arrived here, I saw a number of futures 
in which were, a youngish, roughly dressed man whom I think now was Deilcrit. At 
any rate, if aforehand there were differences between Deilcrit and the young 
male in my foresight, those differences have evaporated. Wait.”
Sereth sat back.
“I still see a number of futures, viable deriva­tives of this moment, with a 
Deilcrit very stub­bornly existing therein.”
“In other words, he is not dead?”
“Either that, or a very lively shade. Are you not pleased?” Chayin demanded, 
when I showed no reaction. I shrugged, shielded, and kept silent.
“Next time, I will ask for a synopsis,” Sereth snapped.
“That is a synopsis. Go down that road, and you will find not only 
Mahrlys-iis-Vahais, but Estri’s magnificent savage as well.”
“You have greatly eased my mind,” said Sereth dryly. “Now that the worst of my 
fears have been allayed, may I feel free to call on you for counsel as to what 
owkahen holds when the need strikes me? Good. And will you also, occasionally, 
update my awareness when you feel you have something I should know?”
“I would have, in any—”
“That is enough on that subject. Estri; you look like you have something to 
say.”
“I do. The wehrs are a community of minds. I felt minds in great numbers when I 
touched the thoughts of the wehr-master. The community, as I conceive it, spans 
species lines, which is why
Deilcrit referred to the conglomerate of species that attacked us as wehrs.”
“I had gathered that. Even the guerm, I suppose, are welu-s.”
“But you have not realized the importance of it. That thing, the wehr-master, 
should have been dead when it hit the ground. I poured enough force into that 
turbulence to lay flat’ten of Chayin’s Parsets.” I was leaning forward, 
recalling my fear when I had realized how resilient the wehr-master was.
“That makes good sense. If a hundred minds are linked together, and one applies 
force sufficient to destroy ten, then the hundred minds spread and share thai 
force among their ranks, so that no one entity receives more than a hundredth of 
that force,” reasoned Chayin.
“It is Mahrlys who controls the wehrs, through those winged wehr-masters,” 
Sereth reminded us. “One does not count on matching strength with each foot 
soldier, but seeks to debilitate, the chain of command, as did Estri.”
“Why, then, did we not witness the same effect when Estri killed the other 
winged one in the ptaiss battle?” Chayin pondered.
“Perhaps there was more than one of them,” I hazarded.
“Or perhaps if we had tarried longer, we would have seen it. That was as close 
as I would like to come.’
“I was meaning to ask you,” Chayin picked up the thread, “what possessed you two 
to cast your weapons like that?”
I opened my mouth to protest, but Sereth was faster.
“When three people join hands, only one has his right hand free. And if I had 
not thrown my blade, the ptaiss would have been impaled on it just at the moment 
Estri pulled us into the congruence. I did not want to take a chance on dragging 
a wounded beast with us out of time, nor could I ignore the fact that if I did 
not stop its charge, I would have ended there under its claws.”
“I, too, found myself facing such a choice. And lest we all face it again, let 
us set about consider­ing what weapons your excellencies would judge meet in 
dealing with our foes,” I urged, unable to keep either the sarcasm or the 
concern I felt from sharpening my words. Almost, then, I succumbed and spoke my 
mind; but Chayin jumped eagerly into the breach before Sereth could retort, and 
his proposition of a neutral barrier, a sort of perime­ter to keep us isolate, 
took long enough to explain that I had time to regain my composure. Still, 
Sereth’s harsh words and Deilcrit’s plight rang in my ears and danced before my 
eyes, and I was little aid to them in their planning.
At length we had compiled a list which included a method for reintroducing any 
given signal into the mind-matrix of the wehr-system in such a way as to 
promulgate a disabling feedback; a group of contingency choices based upon the 
utilization of the most fruitful alternatives available from the pmbability 
sort—the propinquitous futures pro­duced by the present moment; an arsenal of 
turbu­lence techniques effective against a conglomerate attack. These last 
Sereth strictly regulated as to what was and was not fit: For the dispatch of 
men in strength we could employ naught but flesh-lock­the removal of a body’s 
control from its owner—and weapons of the most mundane materiality, these to be 
physically wielded.
Through it all I managed to keep silent, passive .. Let Sereth handicap us in 
whatever ways eased his ulcerated sense of propriety: it mattered not to me. I 
had no great trepidation as to how we might fare among the wehrs or the 
Beneguans; Imca­Sorr-Aat’s curse troubled not one whit my mind: I was resigned; 
I knew the signs; by now, how not?
Entrapment is only a state of mind. They, the cahndor and the dharen, felt not 
entrapped. They were better than I at self-deception, and it served them both 
well. They spoke of burying the frag­ments of the Aknet’s crew, or firing the 
few pitiful remains, and I knew it to be Sereth’s way of clos­ing the 
discussion. He looked curiously at me, and then melted into the dark.
I smelled my father’s breath on the land, and the legacy of Sereth’s 
predecessor, Khys, was a tight and obdurate band around my throat. We had come 
hunting a few off-worlders, for sport, for peace and recreation: I had never 
believed that. From the start I had been suspicious, for I had read extensively 
in Khys’s writings, and. I knew Sereth. And Chayin. And Estrazi, my father, I 
knew him, also. He had promised me certain things: rest, respite. But there is 
no fitness of Shapers’ scales that I can comprehend, and Estrazi, like Khys, 
twists truth and in his hands half-truth of­ten takes double seeming. The Spirit 
Gate had opened at lightning’s stroke; we had, in the nor­mal course of our 
camp-making, committed impor­tunate acts against the fitness known in this land. 
By the time the fire was crackling, it was already too late. And I had not been 
unaware. I never am, in retrospect. Instead I am calm and thoughtless of 
consequences, but sure in the singleness of owkahen’s purpose. Wehrs? Doubtless 
we could successfully confront them; and wehr-masters; and Mahrlys-iis-Vahais. 
It was not these things that ‘had kept me presenting an enquieted facade be­fore 
my companions, for in lucid moments even I can take comfort in the fact that 
though the tasks and trials we create for ourselves are oft strenuous and even 
grueling, purpose is served thereby, greater than ours, underlying all our free 
will and choice.
No, it was not Benegua, the Wall of Mnemaat, which would soon again enwrap us in 
others’ dilemmas, nor what I had gleaned from Deilcrit’s memories of the 
exigencies before us in this most singular land, but Deilcrit himself, lying, if 
Chayin’s foresight was accurate, wounded yet alive among the carnage we had 
wrought at the campsite which concerned me. To him, in my sight, we each owed a 
debt. Yet Sereth’s sharp tone at Chayin’s rev­elation, his immediate change of 
subject, had made me quite sure of his feelings. And now he fussed among the 
disemboweled. He would not hasten to reclaim the blades that glittered by the 
dying em­bers at our camp within the Wall of Mnemaat, not with the wounded boy 
there. This I knew surer than my name, yet I did not understand. His 
dis­pleasure at my mode of interrogation of the youth came back to me.
And another thought, fast upon the heels of that one—a thought that seemed 
meaningless at the time and proceeded Chayin’s appearance out of the dark by an 
eye-blink. Once, long ago, when I came to Sereth on Chayin’s arm, Sereth had 
said to me: ’Two men can share anything but the love of a woman.” His face in 
that moment, his voice on that night, burned so brightly as to, obscure my 
vision. And then another moment, seemingly un­related: another speaking: the 
cahndor himself. Then another instance of my past experience burst in on me in a 
new and unsuspected sequence, as is often the way with the sorting talent, and I 
was shown, in a final avalanche of apprehension, one last moment: my father, 
Estrazi. Then that sorting­of-what-is took wings, and it was the future which 
Sereth and Chayin and I would build in this land that unfurled in flashes of 
tableau whose context and cast remained obscure. But the meaning was not 
obscure. Oh, no, the meaning was bright and clear and shivered before me in 
those colors only the prescient mind’s palette can conjure, and I heard my 
throat sigh a groaning sound and be­came aware of my hands, balled into fists, 
support­ing my crouched weight, and the cahndor’s presence close by.
“What did you see?” And a rustle as he crouched. Raising my head, I peered 
through shadow at shadow.
Sereth’s dire olden words threatened to tumble from my mouth. But I withheld 
them, peering toward the scant pile of remains, shoreward, where he yet gathered 
minute fragments of the Aknet’s dead. He had snarled at Chayin, called him no 
judge of what men must do. And me, he had condemned .... So I answered Chayin 
another answer, no less true, from my revelation, that I might not make more 
real what I most feared.
“My father said to me, when I asked him to release us all on our own 
recognizance ... I stumbled, wondering how to phrase this hurtful thing which 
Chayin must know to make use of what I had seen. I leaned close, peering into 
the crimson reflection from his eyes’ pupils. “When I asked him to sanction my 
union with Sereth, to grant us his grace, he said he would as soon not call upon 
us. But he also said: ‘There is no real respite. Your own natures will preclude 
it.’”
Chayin grimaced, a quick flashing in the dark as my eyes drew more from its 
depths. I heard two stones click as he shifted.
“Your Shaper father’s way with words is legend,” he said quietly, not amused at 
his own joke. Modera­tion of tone in the cahndor is a portentous omen.
“Come and give silence to my dead. You may not, cannot, do what you, intend.”
“It is my choice,” I snapped, straightening abruptly, chagrined that he had so 
easily divined my intent. Shields up, mind inviolate, I awaited his retort.
It was slow coming, and when it did, it raised my hackles and set me irrevocably 
upon that path I had so recently glimpsed:
“What is choice? We freely choose to do exactly what owkahen dictates.”
“Am I a schoolgirl in need of lessons? Mi’ysten spawn, you badly underestimate 
your cousin.” That propinquity to which I referred was Chayin’s father’s, who in 
turn was son of my father’s brother. Both races, the Mi’ysten and the Shapers 
them­selves, progenitors of solar systems, of galaxies, of universes and all 
they contain, command powers that in the time-space universes make them gods. 
And so had they been to millions of millions of lesser beings, for a duration of 
aeons. And we, Chayin and I who were their children in flesh as well as spirit, 
had inherited from our paternities some few slivers of those abilities. Sereth, 
too, had come upon the skills of his inheritance: though it was an inheritance 
diverse from ours, he had ac­quired its bequests in a similar fashion.
“Estri, never will I underestimate you.” I could see now the smile that pulled 
at Chayin’s full lower lip. And I shivered, and rubbed my palms along my arms. 
“Come and give silence to my dead. I assure you I am not wrong.”
He reached out, I shook him off. “Not wrong in what, cahndor? You give nothing, 
and expect all in return. What right have you to even conjecture over my 
activities? Or to judge them. I will go where I will and you may not stop me.” 
So soft I spoke to him, he knew that I did not jest. A contest between us two 
might rip the veils asunder, erode the very fabric of reality. He well knew it. 
Thus sobered, perhaps pained (for I could not read him—his skills there exceed 
mine), he still did not go and join Sereth, who must by now be in the 
for­malized grieving aspect, cross-legged, head bowed before the remains of the 
slain. Or so I thought then.
“I need not try to stop you. Owkahen will!” Chayin retorted: “Two things, 
dhareness, and I will depart to my duty. First: You may not. Sereth will not 
allow it. You have seen him. Do not pro­voke the ebvrasea in its nest. It is 
night. At night he will soar, and hunt. His belly is empty.”
I spat a word I had learned among the crew on the Aknet’s decks.
“Estri, you have seen! He grows stranger and stranger, while the weight of 
Silistra upon his shouders grows ever more great. Of more impor­tance than any 
one life is the good that could be done upon all Silistra by the consolidation 
of the northern and southern holdings. And yet reality grows ever more singular 
for him: more and more he is one and we two another. So many have given so much 
that this alliance be made, and it seems that at its very inception it will be 
blighted by doubt and fear.
“What he said to me, to us: it is not untrue. You and I have the Shapers within 
us. We see the results of the action at hand. And from the emo­tions of a 
specific moment, we must often seem removed, cruel, calculating. You thought 
nothing of sending hundreds to their deaths when you bat­tled my father; nor of 
putting the helsar plague upon the land—yes, so do some now call those devices 
of nature which open a man to the power he shares with his universe. I must seem 
to him little better—I do not flinch at what actions my preference for certain 
futures demand of me in the ever-mutable present. And we see no harm, no acts 
lacking in fitness, in what we do. But he does. He takes chaldra very seriously; 
he is the law. Think back. And think of what he is: painstakingly bred mongrel; 
the descendant of all Silistra, the quintes­sence of racial mixing. Yet he is 
trapped by the very society designed to emancipate him: these same 
self-strengths that drove him, that enabled him to become what he is, to possess 
you and freedom from the servitude he so despised appall him. He has broken laws 
that he himself created. And he fears his own nature. In us he sees some­thing 
he conceives as a lack of compassion, a coldness, an inhumanity that, his mind 
cannot accept, because it senses in itself the like. He—”
“Chayin,” I interrupted. “He is more a killer than either of us. And genetic 
mixes like his pro­duce atavists, not moralists. I studied him. You know him. He 
is not one to blanch ‘;e sight of blood, nor to turn from necessities by reason 
of qualms.” I objected, but I recollected Sereth, lean­ing over a wounded girl 
in the battle that had won him the dharen’s sword. And a thousand other 
occasions on which he took extensive care as to the welfare of those he had 
caused to become unfortunates. “I fail to see what bearing this has on my 
tending Deilcrit’s wounds,—I said at last.
“Estri, do not defend yourself to. me. Who is more bloodied among us, is it? 
There is blood aplenty to go around. Or guilt, if any of us should choose to 
drag so weighty a stone into owkahen’s raging torrent. And as for Deilcrit, I 
have told you: he will live, to embroil himself so deeply in our affairs that 
even you will be sated. I have seen it.”
“And of course I am not strong enough to bear whatever foreknowledge your 
forereading has be­queathed you. You have done ill before with such—”
“Have I? I have done what has been needed, as have you. I say to you this: do 
not do more than is needed. And I am telling you, Sereth will kill you both if 
you evince inordinate interest in this jungle boy. After what he has been 
through to claim you and his regency, he will cede neither one light.”
I sat very still, abashed, frightened. Chayin was incensed, and his thick voice 
shook with his at­tempts to keep it to a whisper: “He should not have to. He and 
I should be sufficient, if one man is not.”
“You dare speak so to me?”
“I dare what pleases me. Take heed, Estri. You have suffered before by reason of 
wisdom you would not hear. Be moderate. Be loving. Be a consolation unto him in 
this need. He has seen your father, Estri. He has heard from Estrazi’s own lips 
that he has been manipulated. His hatred for serving another’s purpose knows no 
limits. You cannot take the chance of straying to the wrong side of the boundary 
that defines his sense of fitness; it is clear, stringently defined, and he will 
kill you if you cross it.”
I said nothing. This was not the first time Chayin had warned me of Sereth. 
Though the best of us all at forereading the time-coming-to-be from the 
probabilities owkahen presents to the sorting mind, when concerned with Sereth, 
he was consistently inaccurate. As, I am afraid, was I.
“And now I will tell you why you cannot blithely obviate space, work your 
healing on this Deilcrit, and return by the same method.” Then he pointed, his 
arm a dark shadow against the gray of the sky, and said: “The sun is coming up. 
Therefore, we have lost at least a quarter of the night, perhaps four enths. 
Therefore, to paraphrase your father: the time precludes it.”
I groaned, and slapped my thigh so hard it stung.
/4     Janet E. Morris
But Chayin was inexorable: “In getting here, a good portion of the night’s 
duration slipped from our grasp, =lived. Deikrit lived those hours, as did all 
others in sequential time. But we did not. The last time you obviated space, 
what was it—three days? And the next—you do not know how long you might languish 
between the moments. You cannot, control the effect. How long might it be for 
us, for Deilcrit, while you spend an eyeblink shunting the nonsequential 
circuits? It could be a day, or ten, or a full pass of the moon that goes by. 
Then what might lurk in the clearing you seek? When might you set foot there? 
Making your way back here to us: how long for that? When you arrive here, 
subjectively passing a heartbeat’s time, might it not be three days, or thrice 
that, or a season that has passed for us? What would you expect us to do? Wait 
here until you return at some unspecifiable date? If something went wrong, we 
would have no way of knowing short of fore-reading, which would be difficult in 
the extreme under such conditions. And as for concealing this misplaced mercy 
from Sereth—”
“Stop!” I cursed my arrogance, my stupidity, my shortsightedness. Once having 
conceived the plan, while Chayin first informed us that Deilcrit lived, I had 
been so busy keeping traces of my intent from my mind that I had not come to 
grips with the practicalities. Obviation of space is a little like setting up 
consonance with a congruence plane: one exits sequentiality, which then 
contracts, be­coming so vague and dreamlike that any entrance into it is a good 
entrance’. Or had been, so far, for me, novice in the extreme. It was possible 
that I could make a perfect transition, obviate space be­tween the moments, and 
lose only a breath’s worth of sequential time, but it was not likely. I knew it 
to be true: Chayin was right: I had not yet per­fected my skill.
“Your will is my life.” I sighed bitterly.
His fingers brushed my cheek, traced my lips. “Estri, it could yet go as I long 
ago conceived it. If all else fails, know that between us there can never be 
misunderstandings such as even now bar us both from bim. And know too that Nemar 
and the Taken Lands have not forgotten you. My people would welcome you with 
arms outstretched. ‘
Not, until then did I take my eyes from his and see Sereth, staring down on us, 
limned in the first cloud-split, bloody rays of sun’s raising.
Chayin followed my stricken gaze, and after a moment of dumb silence, scrambled 
to his feet. They stood that way, taking each other’s measure anew, while the 
leaden-clouded sky absorbed the cinnabar light of dawn and then slowly greened 
as the mists of night took flight.
It seemed to me that they might have stood that way, opposed and immobile, 
forever. With con­stricted heart, I insinuated myself between them, pressed 
myself against Sereth. After a time, his arm went around my waist and we sought 
our duty before Chayin’s Parset dead.
But there were no words. Not from any of us. Aghast at what might be the 
consequences of our importunate speech, neither Chayin nor I ventured to break 
peace before him; and he, in whom si­lence bespeaks rage beyond expression and 
volatil­ity in the proximity of which even my father might. tread with care, let 
us suffer therein.
So discomfited, seated before the pitiful remains of the Aknet’s crew—a paltry 
pile scarce the height of my calf containing barely enough chunks of meat and 
limb to construct a single man—I could not give our dead the enquieted mind 
which is their due honorific. No, my thoughts would not be
Janet E. Morris still, but rather raged futile threats and impotent 
denouncements at the time:
Owkahen, thy jest does not amuse me. I will have this man if I must remake the 
whole nature of time to find ys together therein. And if I cannot find it, I 
will construct a moment in which we may live untroubled that life I can conceive 
but cannot see.
So overweening did I dare to be in the face of eternity’s wellspring.
Chayin had made his position clear: He would let Sereth slay me, if it came to 
that: as always, as it had been from the days when we first met, from the 
beginning. He considered the Silistran alliance more valuable than any life; his 
inferno-forged trust with Sereth most sacred: worth any price even if that price 
was my own continued existence. So did
Sometimes, when my mind aches and I am weary, I wonder if any of us will ever 
learn.
IV. The Eye of Mnemaat
The cessation of pain was all the luxury in, the universe: Deilcrit sought it. 
And in the blackness behind closed lids, he found that the pain had an ebb, and 
a flow; and holding his breath through the dizzying combers of agony, he found 
comfort in the receding of sensation that followed every torturous thrill which 
racked him. In those mo­ments, he exhaled, and each exhalaticin brought him a 
whisper of consciousness more. He extracted his body’s assessment of its 
condition from the red-gold nausea that hung like an undulant cur­tain between 
him and his selfness: he was alive, and he hurt. The contours of his wound were 
for a time his total being; his reality a depth and breadth of scourged flesh, 
of scratched bone and severed nerve. The jagged hole was a mountain range in 
which he wandered like some zealous surveyor whose stomach lurched each time he 
raised his eyes and regarded the—vastness of this valley torn from his muscles’ 
contours.
Eventually, as one in mourning overlong, he re­collected his identity, his name, 
his position in time and space, and how he had come to the pain.
Then he reclaimed the rest of his body, which by reason of painlessness seemed 
at first nonexistent,
78  Janet E. Morris then wizened, then only numb and clumsy. Then he began to 
sort out the lesser disebmforts of bruised flesh, torn muscle, scratched skin, 
and the nausea receded. He slipped from under the ptaiss’ foreleg—that ptaiss he 
had slain!
Very slowly, eyes yet closed, he gathered his remembrances about him and with 
his good arm pushed himself to a sitting position.
The world wheeled and he swallowed jet after jet of hot water thrown up by his 
stomach, but he opened his eyes to the new day.
It was a long while before he dared shift his gaze from the patch of bare ground 
beside his thigh, and regard the wound.
He thought, by then, he could be dispassionate. He knew the extent of his left 
arm’s damage, knew when and how it had occurred, how long it had lain open to 
the air. But he then saw the bone gleaming dully back at him from above his 
elbow, and the cavernous hole from which lumps of bloody flesh hung trembling in 
a pool of viscous white and yellow secretions whose edges were crusted with 
dried—blood. The pool’s surface was dott&I with floating bits of dirt, grass, 
and tiny insects whose lucent wings fluttered tremulously with each shiver of 
his flesh. He retched.
He did not again win the battle for conscious­ness until the sun was high, and 
then remained as he had wakened, slumped in a tangle, his head pressed to the 
earth, consumed with the ineffable sadness we feel when we find ourselves 
wounded; a sadness not for the self but for the mangled, recontoured limb. It is 
the body’s emotion, deeper than a mother’s grief for the stillborn, and it racks 
the strongest as completely as the coward. In its grip he was a child.
As a child he looked around him, accepting the death strewn about with no 
understanding. There was .a long-bodied sorrel campt staring unblinking at him, 
its broken tusk of no more moment to its owner. Atop its snakelike back sprawled 
an ossasim: a wehr-master with wings cut to streamers. The significance of this 
was lost upon him.
He collected two thoughts: the pouch about his waist held a needle, and line 
used for fishing. He would ... But it lay not about his waist, and he recalled 
when he had dropped it. The second thought was the proximity of a memnis tree, 
and for that he would need a knife. He had had one .
So the two thoughts became four, and the four cubed, and he began to crawl in 
ever-widening circles about the clearing, detouring carefully around the slain.
It was the knife he found first, but he did not stop: he was afraid that if he 
halted he would not move again. So he crawled farther, noting on his infinitely 
slow journey every detail of what lay in the clearing, as is the way of the mind 
when it is threatened with extinction. So he noted the great green-metaled 
sword, and the smaller one gleam­ing clear as mountain water, though he could 
place no value upon them. Still, he had not looked upon his left arm, nor did he 
until he held the precious pouch and struggled with the shaking fingers of his 
right hand and his teeth to extract the bone needle and the fishing twine from 
within.
Threading the needle was harder. His eyes jumped in his skull, and one hand was 
not sufficient, and he ended with the needle stuck into the sod, he lying with 
his cheek to the ground and his hand propped on a flat rock, that he might drive 
the crimped twine through the needle’s eye.
When this was done, he muttered the Law of Nature’s Compassion under his breath 
and began sewing up as best he could the hand’s breadth hole above his elbow.
?SU    Janet E. Morris
Have you ever done this? Sewing one’s own wound is different from seeing it 
done: as dissimi­lar as the sight of one’s own lesion, from that of another’s.
The punctures were not painful—his flesh was already giving its all in pain, 
could not add more. But the tying, of the knOts, the pulling tight of the twine 
which he accomplished by holding one end in his teeth, broke a cold sweat onto 
his brow. Each time he pulled the flesh together, saw the twine protruding from 
his skin, he was forced to stop, to wait until his stomach ceased bucking. When 
finally all but the round center (and this concerned him: a round wound is the 
hardest healing) had been sewn together with the irregular stitching of an 
apprentice seamstress, he sank back on the ground and let the fit of shivering 
consume him.
The work he had done danced before his eyes, the black twine a crazy quilt, a 
barbaric road map of what had occurred. After a time he forced him­self to 
assess it, its irregular contours, its, length and breadth. He knew the scar 
would look ill, that the flesh would heal with all the humps and bumps it • now 
displayed, but it was an intellectual know­ledge. He uttered an animal growl and 
levered himself up, first securing the knife in his too-small sheath, and sought 
the memnis tree on the clearing’s far side.
When he gained it, he scored the white bark deeply with the white-bladed knife 
Chayin had given him to fight wehrs, the knife he had em­ployed to murder a 
ptaiss. At that thought, he muttered harshly again, and drove the knife more 
strongly into the memnis’ bark. Then he peeled the oblong section of bark from 
the tree and re­peated the process on the moist, greenish inner bark. This 
oblong strip of sticky fiber he wrapped around the wound, binding it there with 
the re­mains of his twine.
Then, with a sigh of satisfaction, he gave up consciousness once more.
The next waking was easier: the memnis was about its work. He dared a testing of 
his left hand. The fingers moved, if stiffly. The lances of agony that ran from 
fingertip to shoulder when he moved them cheered him. He had been afraid the 
hand would remain numb, the fingers useless.
He attempted a squat. Though he swayed, he held it. Using the memnis for 
support, he attained his feet. Then he leaned his head against the vel­vety bark 
and laughed, a slow-starting chuckle that grew until it racked him with shudders 
that threatened to throw him to the ground. When the laughter ceased, he was 
much shaken by its visit, not understanding why it had come. He would not 
understand fora very long time.
Then he shied away from even the direct conse­quences before him. He would do 
something, but he was not yet ready to determine what. He sought a blank mind, 
that comfort he had obtained so dear and which had served him all his life. He 
could not regain it. So he settled for a simulation, and did small things: he 
took steps;, he sought the two swords he had marked in his crawl about the 
clearing. The white blade was lodged in the campt’s breastbone and when he had 
finally tugged it free he was dizzied, panting, ravenously hungry.
And what his mind told him to do affronted his Beneguan soul. So he locked his 
soul in a hastily constructed cage in the back of his mind and slit the campt’s 
belly and ate of what was within.
Almost, he could not retain it, but at length he wiped the blood from his mouth 
and set about finding a way to carry the two weapons of strange metal with him.
At last he lurched into the forest thickets, scorn­ing the path and the 
flesh-scraping jicekak that raked him as he pushed ever deeper. He had bound the 
two blades together with the placenta-stiffened hide which had been the 
spirit-woman Estri’s tunic. This, with a cord he had scavenged from the 
intruders’ camp, he had fashioned into a rude scabbard. Of what else lay there, 
he took nothing: their food was, not recognizable to him as such, and their 
various garments were either too small, too large, or too alien. The bow and 
arrows were splintered, useless.
And he was anxious to quit the clearing. The bushes rustled with life. He heard 
low growls and the pad of feet and the passage of great bodies through the 
trees. But no vengeance descended on him from out of the forest. He was 
breathing easier, and hurting more with the ebb of anesthetizing fear, when the 
whelt suddenly darted down from somewhere in the laced labyrinths of the wood’s 
leafy roof. Twittering softly, it hovered before his face.
“Leave me be, whelt.”
The great-winged whelt pummeled the air, slowly retreating before him. Its size 
and banded leg showed it to be the one which had earlier given him Mahrlys’ 
message. He batted his good hand at it, but it only twittered. The air from its 
wings brushed his face.
“Whelt, go away. I must find some vabillia root—if I do not, I will die. I have 
neither the time nor the strength to be a problem. Spying, upon me will be 
fruitless.”
He stumbled over a protruding root somewhere in the knee-deep brush he trod. 
When he righted himself, the azure and indigo wings still beat an arm’s length 
before his eyes. He well knew whelts, and they no more flew-backward than they 
twit—
tered softly, delicately attentive before one’s face. And, too, this was 
Mahrlys’ creature: no whelt of such grandeur inhabited the seaward forest. The 
band proclaiming this winked balefully at him.
For a while he plowed onward, the whelt ever before. Thrice he stopped, leaning 
faint against tree trunks, and the whelt each time alighted on the closest 
bough, twittering. On the last of these occasions, it reached its head down 
toward him, long neck stretching, silver neckband ruffed.
“Whelt, I can take no message. My mind is fogged. Whelt—”
But its cheek brushed his, and a thousand pairs of eyes regarded him down an 
endless arch of tunnels, and from those depths came the compas­sionate murmur of 
thrice a thousand voices ....
He gasped and pulled away, pressing his throb­bing head against the moss that 
cushioned the tree’s crook. No message from Mahrlys had he received. He 
struggled briefly with the complexity of the experience, then recoiled from it: 
the whelt’s name was something close to Kirelli and through Kirelli Deilcrit had 
glimpsed something of Wehrdom: No man meets Wehrdom face to face and survives! 
Unless ...
He heaved a sigh: he seemed very much alive. Once, while a young boy, he had 
seen a whelt kill a youth with whom he had only moments before been playing at 
bonethrow. The whelt had de­scended in a thunder of wings and rushed at the boy, 
fastened its claws into the child’s eye sockets. It had been a terrifying death 
to witness, and this whelt’s odd behavior had minded him of it.
He heaved himself away from the tree to speak to it.
There was no whelt upon the branch.
He clutched the tree, and his head spun. Could it be that no whelt had ever been 
there?
He staggered, half-running, half-stumbling through the brush. He pushed himself, 
purposefully un­thinking of anything else, until he reached the spring by whose 
rocky basin grew the vabillia, and behind which lay a small cave, hardly longer 
than his body and so low and shallow that it would hold him like a cocoon. There 
he scrabbled among the stones until the yellowish, conical root was torn loose 
from the water-washed rocks to which it clung.
It took time to peel off the woody outer bark, to separate the meat from the 
spiny central core. Then he chewed the bitter pulp until it was dry of juice, 
carefully saving The masticated, fibrous remains. If he lived the night, he 
would try to redress his wound with it. If not, his sleep would be euphoric ....
As the drug reached its downy fingers into his brain, he took the green-bladed 
sword from its makeshift sheath and cut brush, which he arranged on the ledge 
before the shallow cave until the whole of the shelf was blanketed. Then he 
crawled within the rustling sentinel he had created, vabillia pulp in hand, sure 
that nothing could come upon him in the night without him hearing its approach. 
Nothing but a whelt. And assuming that the drug did not send him to that sleep 
from which no creature wakens. Vabillia, most efficacious and poi­sonous of all 
Benegua’s pharmacology, was so po­tent as to be used only when there was nothing 
else ....
Crouched panting at the cave’s mouth, he sur­veyed his work. He grunted, and 
took one last look around him into the waning day. No whelt.
Feeling cheered, he knelt and lowered himself lengthwise into the cave, truly 
little more than a crevice. He had remembered it larger: or had he been smaller 
then? Carefully he eased within, back to the wall, left side uppermost. He had 
made certain that the softest, leafiest branches were those closest to the cave, 
and as he dragged the cuttings toward the cave mouth, covering himself to the 
neck, he had one clear moment of elation, of triumph. Then the vabillia took 
true hold on him and he barely had time to drag close the final, hairy-petaled 
branch and twist himself comfort­able before sleep took him. Thus he missed the 
sunset through the glade’s latticed branches, and the whelt’s return.
He would have sworn to a thousand years be­tween that taking and his next 
wakefulness; he had dreams enough for that many years. Epic dreams, dreams in 
which he wielded the baleful green-metaled sword against an endless multitude 
that would not remain dead, though their blood spouted until it became a rushing 
river that engulfed him. He was swimming for shore against the current when he 
woke.
To find the whelt peering patiently down at him from the branches of a memnis 
that grew at the pool’s edge. Beneath the branch, piled neatly on an arching 
root, was an assortment of fruit.
He did not immediately do more than ascertain this, through the hairy-petaled 
cuttings that pro­tected his face. Unmoving, he was free of pain. (The dull ache 
of flesh pressed the night long against cold stone was hardly worth counting.) 
So, there was a whelt out there. A flare of resentment rose in him, then 
subsided. He put the thought of it away, turned to his body’s needs.
He pushed back the brush and rolled from the shallow cave, each movement 
teaching him new parameters of pain. His whole left side seemed afire. The bands 
of muscle about his chest screamed their definition. He could not straighten his 
left shoulder, and the agony of his left arm swinging was such that he had no 
alternative but to hold it steady with his right hand. Thus he ended scatter­ing 
the brush with his feet. Kneeling to drink was an absorbingly complex affair, 
whose strategem was not wholly successful: he moaned and rocked back and forth 
on his knees, fighting dizziness. But at length he had drunk and relieved 
himself, and even rubbed water over his begrimed face.
“Whelt,” he grunted as he eased his blistered booted feet into the pool. “You 
will have to come to me.”
“Kreesh,” answered the whelt, and came, swoop­ing upon the way to snatch a ripe 
peona melon from the pile at the memnis’ foot.
Deilcrit started to shake his head, gasped in pain, and turned cautiously to 
face the whelt that alighted at his side.
He looked from it, to the glossy black oval of the peona, then back.
“Kirelli,” he ventued, trying what he thought to be the whelt’s name for the 
first time. “You are a wehr, are you not?”
The green eyes regarded him soberly, unblinking. “What does Wehrdom want with 
me?”
The whelt pushed the melon toward him, but­ting it with his cruelly curved beak. 
Then it stretched out its neck, as if with a message.
“No!” he exploded, throwing himself backward, forgetful of his wound.
It was a time before the pain left and vision returned. The soft sobbing sound 
he had been hear­ing ceased when he realized his own throat was its source.
The whelt was perched upon the melon, wings half-unfurled.
He pushed himself up awkwardly. “Go away. Wehr! I ...”
And the soft touch within his mind stopped him witless. Not all whelts are 
wehrs. Nor are all of any species. Not until Wehrdom scythes through the forest, 
leaving all manner of beast dead in its wake, is it known which are wehrs and 
which are not. Then ptaiss turns upon ptaiss and campt upon campt, and all the 
wehr beasts drink the forest’s blood. And when it is over, and the forest is 
calm once more, they graze and nest and burrow beside their prey of only days 
before. Those wehrs that are known are shown deference in the way of their 
species, according to the members’ society. In man, as in beast, the wehr rules. 
And it is either death to taste of Wehrdom, or something most unthink­able, more 
awesome perhaps than death itself: Wehrs speak only to other wehrs and their 
chosen. This latter possibility was one of which he strove not to think at all.
“Wehr, I will be certainly dead by morning. Go tell your mistress—”
The whelt let out an ear-splitting squawk and humped its wings.
“Pardon,” he said automatically. “I assumed ... You do wear Mahrlys’ band.” Most 
whelts are not wehrs at all; these can still carry such a picture as messaging 
requires. None of his whelts had ever been wehrs. He supposed dully that wehrs, 
even be they whelts, might well be touchy as to rank. But he knew nothing of 
Wehrdom. He said this.
The whelt responded by hopping off the melon, neck extended. It did a 
wing-flapping dance in his direction. This time he had not the will to ;rid it. 
And then he understood more than he cared to of Wehrdom. Kirelli, prince of 
wehrs, had chosen him. Against all odds and until his death (privately Deilcrit 
thought that this would not be too long, so the whelt princeling risked little), 
Kirelli would succor and protect him: he was wehr-chosen. He interpreted this 
from a flood of flashing pictures as         Janet E. Morris awash in his mind, 
from the touch of myriad other minds behind the whelt’s, minds that sent homage 
and welcome incomprehensible to him. So spake the whelt? In substance, though 
Deilcrit saw and felt emotion with the seeing, rather than hearing language. And 
then he did hear language, perfect, multitonal, a liquid sound that seemed to 
come from the exact center of the back of his head: “Allow me to guide you; when 
that is past, to accompany you; when that time too is gone, to follow. And but 
recall, in future, that I was first to aid you.”
Deilcrit awkwardly dragged his feet from the pool, thinking that he would not 
much longer re­call anything. “Let me be,” he mumbled blurrily, and heard: “I 
will.”
The wehr Kirelli seldom again spoke to him in this fashion, and for a time he 
tried to believe he had imagined the incident; he was too much a Beneguan to 
think otherwise, to repudiate all he had been. He would not believe until it was 
forced on him, much later. He said: “Let me be, whelt!”
Accepting the command, the wehr burst into flight, and alighted on that same 
tree branch where Deilcrit had first seen him waiting.
Somewhere within him he was glad that the wehr was not going to kill him. But it 
had not told him why it was not going to kill him, and this bothered him: he had 
killed a number of wehrs. Surely Wehrdom would strike him down, not just, as was 
so obviously the case here, monitor him until his death. So he spoke to himself, 
insistent, as if no wehr had just proclaimed fealty.
He decided to eat the fruit, and ignore the whelt. After he had eaten the fruit 
he began to wonder what he would do if he lived. First he considered living the 
day, then the, night, then what he might do if indeed he survived the wehrs and 
his wound.
He tossed off the whelt’s presence: he had always had a way with whelts.
He found it relatively easy to edge his way around the bank to the pile of fruit 
on the memnis’ root. When he had eaten his fill, he slept. He admitted to 
himself, just before dreams took him, as he shifted the makeshift scabbard tied 
around his waist and gently positioned his left arm with his right, that the 
whelt was a wehr. The wehr might be lying. Then he thought that it did not 
really matter, unless he awoke. His last thought, that of having been unable all 
day to walk more than a few steps at a time without rest, led him into dreams of 
interminable trekking.
When he seized consciousness once more, the rain was falling, the midday sky 
sagging with its weight. Through the gentle screen of the steady drizzle he 
could see only a short distance, but he saw well enough to know that there was 
no whelt, wehr or otherwise. He rubbed his forehead. Even slick with rain, he 
could feel his fever. He pushed himself to a sitting position, and with the 
strangers’ knife slit the twine around his memnis-bandaged arm, peeled back the 
softened bark very slowly, biting his lip until it bled. At last, with a rip 
that took half the new scab away with the bark, he stripped it off, washed the 
wound, and examined it.
His critical facility knew that the wound in its present state would drain. But 
he was shivering uncontrollably when he finished.
He retrieved the masticated vabillia from his cave, applied it to the round hole 
in the wound’s center, cut new memnis bark, and repeated the binding process. He 
did it more to keep moving, to still his teeth from chattering, to gather his 
wits, than for hygiene. It was, in the end, a sloppier bandage than the first. 
He shrugged, and winced.
90  Janet E. Morris
Whelt, no whelt, he cared not. No more than he cared about those creatures whose 
weapons he bore upon his person. He would live if he kept moving, this he knew. 
And he would live. He would seek out Mahrlys on his own, and she would see the 
artifacts he carried, and listen, and perhaps give him answers for these events 
and seemings that taxed his mind. The wound was real enough, and the food he 
ate. And if the whelt that was a wehr had not really spoken to him, then at 
least it had not clawed out his eyes. Nor had any other in the night.
He threw down the last rind of the whelt’s gift, and looked once full around the 
clearing, that he might spy Kirelli in hiding. Though he barked in pleasure when 
he determined that no whelt spied on him, it was a false pleasure, and he heard 
it so. Disappointed, he rose up and moved from the dap­pled surface of the pool. 
Without a backward glance, faster than was prudent, he set off down a slight 
trail he followed without thought, from long famil­iarity. The whelt’s 
disappearance followed after him; its image cawed derisively; he had believed, 
he had wanted to believe, that he was wehr-chosen. He had taken up arms against 
them, and now he wanted absolution. A great host of fears dogged his, steps, 
spreading wide and closing like pincers about him in the rain-misted thickets. 
Somehow, the exertion upstepped his disquiet and he fled a phantom Wehrdom 
through the greenlit wood, un­til, lungs pumping, he stumbled once too often.
It was where the trail intersected the Dey­Ceilneeth road that he stumbled. He 
knelt there a long time, gaining breath, supported on his good arm, his bad one 
hanging limp.
It was a sound that forewarned him. He raised his head and peered into the 
abating sun-dazzled drizzle, down the rainbow-arched way that stretched wide and 
straight deep into the bowels of Dey­Ceilneeth. He could have risen. He could 
conceiva­bly have staggered an hour or so more through the worsening tangle, or 
fled back the way he had come.
They approached slowly, with infinite majesty over the steaming turves of the 
great way: a multi­tude of ptaiss, milk-white, churning. Or so it seemed at 
first, until his vision focused. Then he simply sat in the middle of the road 
with his left hand in his lap and waited.
Toward him came a score of ptaiss, flowing like a single drop of water down the 
road’s middle. In their center, robed in white, walked a tall figure with long, 
loose hair black as midnight.
His head lowered, he awaited the priestess of Mnemaat.            —
Waiting, he became aware that he could not have run farther. He began to doubt 
whether or not he could run at all. By the time he could pick out the ptaiss 
coughs, pad-clicks, low growls from the, sounds around him, he was concentrating 
on maintaining a sitting position. His body was free from pain, but numb.
He heard: “Rise up.”
He did that, without distress. Without any feeling. He stood as if on another’s 
feet. He focused his eyes on her face, which loomed close, much closer than the 
ground, much more comforting. Her eyes were green, and all colors danced 
therein. They wid­ened when she spoke:
“Feeling better, my fallen iyl? I would venture to hope so.”
His, peripheral vision was aware of the ptaiss parting, of her stepping down the 
aisle they made, ever closer, but his direct sight was only of her eyes, whose 
size did not vary even as she approached.
Somehow, his consternation never reached his nervous system. He viewed it from a 
distance, coldly; as he noted the whelt which somehow swooped into his sight, 
its green eyes becoming one with the woman’s face, until it was a great whelt’s 
visage that stared at him, looming ever closer upon a woman’s body robed in 
white. He recorded this occult event without bias, sparing it no emotion.
“Come, then, we will help you. When justice is desired by all, it is quickly 
done.” And he took her
_arm and she assisted him, softly but with infinite strength. He saw that the 
ptaiss closed around them. Their backs swayed rhythmically on all sides. He felt 
no surprise, not in that or in the fact that he was able to keep the pace the 
priestess set: when he faltered she would lay her hands upon him and his legs 
would lighten, his left arm would issue only muted screams, his mind would float 
above, alert, impassive. And he would walk on.
She fed him and watered him and allowed him to look upon her without her robe. 
She tended his wound, and the line of her long throat, swooping, gilded his 
sleep. The ptaiss hunted and she fed him from their kill, tiny strips of raw 
meat dain­tily carved. She boiled herbs in an empty gourd over a rock that 
seemed to heat at her low com­mand. She touched his forehead in the night and 
laid soothing cloths upon it. In the morning the ptaiss would form once more 
around them and she would touch him lightly and they would go on. And she would 
smile sometimes; but not until the third day did she again speak.
“Deilcrit,” she murmured, “whatever possessed you not to die?”
“Ipheri?” he managed, for he did not know her name, and that honorific would do 
for the its herself.
“Try not to be afraid. In Dey-Ceilneeth, I will not be with you. If you waste 
your energy in fear, you will heal slowly, and all will be held up just that 
much more.”
Just then the whelt alighted between them, and her face paled, and her eyes 
widened until they consumed the sky.
But the whelt beat its wings and screeched its war cry, and seemed almost to 
dive at her. There was a blur of arms and wings, and the whelt shot into the 
treetops.
The priestess’s white robe was torn at the seam where sleeve met shoulder. The 
shoulder, striped with a thin red line, held his eyes. He felt, as before with 
his fear, only a distant, intellectual realization that something was amiss.
“So, you are other than you appear. Let me apologize,” she whispered.
His arm suddenly began to broadcast its protests, his feet were their own bed of 
hot coals, his stom­ach turned to eating itself.
She traced the scratch with her forefinger. The nail was long, shapely.
“Deilcrit, ignorance is your only salvation. Be ignorant. If you are any part of 
this incursion, even my pity will be insufficient to the plight that must befall 
you in recompense. Be, by all means, a foolish adolescent, made iyl too soon by 
circum­stance ....” She seemed to want to say more.
He peered attentively at her, waiting.
“Call that whelt,” she commanded, and before he realized it, he had done so.
It screeched from its perch, but, did not move. “It will not come.”
“Because of me. Yet it seems to have answered you. How can you, a guerm-tender, 
command such a creature?”
He realized then, what she was saying, and bent his head. For a long time he was 
alone with his pain.
When she chose, she lifted it once more from him.
In the exquisite cessation of discomfort, she asked him for the alien swords he 
wore about his waist. He would have given her anything, his heart, his life, 
whatever she asked. He plucked ineffectually at the hastily tied thong, and she 
slid toward him, and with her own tiny dagger slit the cord. He did not then 
think to wonder why she, did not just take them. Instead, he wondered at the 
fragrance of her hair. He looked upon the part in her hair, lost in the sheen of 
the thick smooth strands.
But when the weight was gone from about his waist, when she stepped back from 
him with a tiny smile of triumph lighting her lips, he was distantly aware that 
something was very wrong, that more had transpired here than he understood, or 
would have agreed to had he been ... otherwise. Then he came to it, what he had 
known but could not feel: that he was in some odd way entrapped; that he must 
remember this above all things. He wished to feel determination, felt instead 
confused.
Having acquired the swords, she retreated to the side of one of the larger 
ptaiss, curling up against the prostrate beast’s belly. Her robe fell in folds 
around her, riding the line of her turned hip.
He thought fiercely that she had not totally bested him, that he had retained 
the knife, also of the strange metal. But a part of him dryly bespoke the truth: 
she did not want the knife. He knew he was going to go to her, but had no idea 
what he was going to do. He never did recall it. She did not wish him to recall 
it. Nor, which is more to the point, did she wish him to forget it: he recalled 
rising, his, detatched concern for his arm as he knelt before her—then nothing 
but a sense of shame, an uneasy wondering, and an indebtedness that crouched in 
his very soul.
He dared not ask her what it was that he had done, nor even make an excuse. Her 
eyes, when later she looked at him, were those of one who has paid a costly 
price and been cheated, one whose trust has been betrayed.
She wore the scabbard he had made from Estri’s tunic around her supple waist. 
His eyes were often upon it in the long days of forced march to which she put 
them.
It was as if the privilege of hearing her voice would be ever denied him, though 
he might accom­pany her and look upon her as he wished, pro­vided he himself did 
not speak. And this he did, because it occurred to him, because it was a way of 
retaining his selfdom, because he knew that he was prejudged: “fallen iyl,” she 
had called him. Whatever he did now could bring upon him no more execrable fate 
than that which already awaited: he enjoyed the blessing of the condemned: 
free­dom from care.
It was the day upon which she removed his stitches, by his reckoning sixteen 
days from that rainy midday she had found him in the road, that they entered the 
maze around Dey-Ceilneeth.
Now, Dey-Ceilneeth is the seat of Law in Benegua; the Temple of Mnemaat, home of 
His Eye and Mouth; and, by these necessities, the abode of women only: no man 
enters Dey-Ceilneeth unac­companied and emerges. From these labyrinthine paths, 
tortuous beyond mortal comprehension, grown up from Benegua’s most poisonous 
hedges so long ago that the maze reaches skyward, tall as any deep-forest 
giants, there is no escape but for the initiate.
He caught himself holding tight to her robe, that he not find himself suddenly 
alone and helpless among the flesh-eating telsodas that framed the maze’s outer 
corridors. As tightly fitted as a wall
Janet C. MOTrIS
of stone, trimmed perpendicular to the ground for twice his height, the 
pink-petaled mouths on their thorny stems smacked a thousand lips together as 
they passed. The sound, sighed around them in the dappled light, filtered down 
toward them from the canopy that grew untrimmed above their heads.
Dangling blossoms writhed from that vaulted ceiling of branches, sometimes idly, 
sometimes striking with such a force that branches rattled about them, but they 
always fell short.
Even knowing this, even beside the priestess, in the, midst of the tightly 
packed ptaiss, he ducked reflexively each time the hungry telsodas sought him.
Once he caught her face from the corner of his eye, freed, as he had never 
before managed to see it, from the veil her eyes threw out. She was most 
certainly laughing at him. This caused him to stiffen, and when they passed 
through one of a myriad identical breaks in the telsoda hedge to be confronted 
by two green-patterned serpents of night­mare proportions, he steeled himself to 
stride un­concerned between those rewound coils, the thin­nest of which was, the 
width of his waist, that slithered restless upon his right and his left.—
Putting one foot mechanically before the other, eyes on the ground, he strode 
right into her, for she had stopped.
Dry-mouthed, trembling with each gust of wind that rattled the fahrass berries 
of the second hedge, he stared openmouthed as the ptaiss split asunder and she 
walked down the aisle they made directly toward the right-hand serpent’s coils.
The musky smell of them was intolerable to his instinct-frayed nerves. He found 
himself pressed closely between two restless ptaiss, leaning upon them for 
support.
She stood wraithlike before the viper, whose wedge-shaped head swayed and 
descended until it was at a level with her own. Its twin, across the path, 
hissed and flickered its black tongue.
She laid her hand on the sinuous neck, and laughed, a low, throaty sound. Then 
the berceide of the second hedge, for such is the name of the great green snakes 
that guard Benegua’s sanctum, began a long series of cadenced hisses and odd 
sibilances which the priestess answered in kind. When their cheeks touched (if 
such a viper, with head long as a man’s torso, can be said to have a cheek), he 
cried out, so clearly did his mind’s eye see those coils unreel, whip around the 
gauze-robed figure, so slight and full of life, and squeeze that life out onto 
the grass.
But nothing untoward occurred, unless it was that the priestess spoke at length 
to the berceide in its own sibilant tongue, turned her back, and rejoined him in 
the midst of the ptaiss.
“All is in readiness for you,” she said to him, and the satisfaction that rode 
her voice was dire with its foreshadowings. He tried to retreat from her, but 
the ptaiss against which he had been leaning stood firm. No longer did he feel 
the de­tachment which had thus far cushioned his re­sponse to all things as they 
occurred.
“That is right,” she said sweetly. “I have no longer the need to render you 
tractable by artifi­cial means: you cannot now do otherwise than follow me. You 
cannot find your way back to the forest, not from within the second hedge.”
The berceides’, both with heads resting on their coils, regarded the ptaiss and 
what stood within patiently, ophidian eyes unblinking.
“No, I cannot. I could not have, in any case,” some part of him said. “And since 
you have won, since I am your prisoner, why do you still hide
JUILGL                      IVIUTTLY
your face? What difference if the captive sees the face of his captor?”
“You have been seeing my face, in your dreams if nowhere else, a long time, 
impertinent one. Dare your posture that, you know me not?”
She stripped off the ensorcelment that had thus far masked all but her eyes in a 
soft haze of light, and he went to his knees among the ptaiss before her.
“Ipheri, forgive me. I—”
“Forgive you? Hardly. But you bear no addi­tional stigma for what has passed 
between us; all of this”—and she waved her hand, as if to, encom­pass not only 
the space around them, but the time he had spent in her presence—“is of my 
design.”
It was then that the whelt, Kirelli, swooped from nowhere, screeching, toward 
Mahrlys’ head. A ptaiss leaped, jaws snapping, claw rending the air. But the 
whelt was gone into the thick-leaved fahrass above their heads.
“For that,” she hissed, “you will suffer. For the loss of Kirelli, I will have 
full recompense. Now, move!”
He scrambled to his feet, full of remonstrations unspoken: he had not sought the 
whelt, nor lost her anything by his will. Or he thought he had not. Once he 
started to speak, but she silenced him angrily and he followed, meek, silent, 
through the seven concentric mazes that remained between them and the inner 
chasm.
Before this, in spite of himself, he halted. It was a sight he had never 
expected to see, nor did he covet its rarity. A great distance below, white 
wa­ter churned and spat and, growled. Across the gorge lay Dey-Ceilneeth 
herself, scintillant and megalithic, like some gemstone wrapped in foliage. But 
he was not awed that he stood before the hallowed retreat, not while he faced 
the chasm and the swaying, lacy bridge that spanned it.
The ptaiss, with uncanny precision, parted, and, taking his hand, she drew him 
onto the pale lattice that spanned the precipitous drop. He stood with one foot 
upon the woven bridge, one upon the solid sod. At her urging he shook his head.
“I can force you,” she reminded him, and at his back he heard a growl, and felt 
a subtle push. There was a stanchion every dozen steps, through which stout rope 
was threaded. He closed his right fist over these and focused his gaze upon 
Mahrlys’ white-robed figure before him. It retreated. He followed, not daring to 
look down, where the white water could be seen between the knotted netting of 
pale rope. He concentrated on trying to deter­mine of what the ropes were woven, 
and on Mahrlys-iis-Vahais, moving surefootedly before him. Somewhere about the 
middle of the expanse, when a cruel gust shook the bridge swaying, he used his 
left hand. He did not realize it until he took a step onto solid ground, until 
he with an effort of will pried his fingers from the guide ropes. Then he 
grinned, and flexed each finger in turn, and per­formed a number of testings 
upon the limb. Ex­cept for a not-unexpected stiffness, and an aching reminder of 
what work still proceeded within the bandage, of memnis, the arm worked 
perfectly. A great weight lifted from him. He turned and stared ruminatively at 
the ptaiss, across the chasm. They were restless, full of coughs and growls; in 
short: ptaisslike. As he watched, the group dispersed, some heading back into 
jicekak of the innermost maze, some leaping the crevice with little concern, 
some wandering along its length.
“Deilcrit,” called the priestess, and it was then that he was struck by her 
beauty. Earlier, when she stripped off her veil of light, it had been her 
revealed identity that had dropped him to his knees. Before that, it had been 
her numinous presence and those very veils that had kept him awed, cowed, 
unthinking—that and her desire. But he recalled her without her robes. He almost 
recollected what had passed between them that night. He had had proscribed 
knowledge of this woman standing be­fore him, of that he was sure. And be’she 
Mahrlys­iis-Vahais or no, she had known him—had tended his wounds, had fed him.
He did not understand the promise made him by Kirelli the wehr; he did not 
understand her fury concerning the bird’s actions; nor why the wehrs had not 
killed him when he had raised arms against their kind; or even what significance 
was to be put upon the swords she now bore slung about her robe and those who 
had once worn them.
But he did know that she had wanted him, and the swords. That she had wanted him 
alive and that she had felt the need to obtain his permission before taking the 
artifacts from him—this he knew. And it was not lost on him that whatever else 
might be said about Kirelli the whelt, he was an emissary of Wehrdom, and no 
small force to have upon one’s side; Mahrlys was incensed at having “lost” him. 
He wondered what she would think if she knew what the power that called itself 
Chayin had promised him. Perhaps he would try speaking that one’s name, as he 
had been counseled, should his need grow great. And then he remembered the 
whelt, spying upon him from the trees, and wa­gered within himself as to whether 
Mahrlys did in truth already know. Since the wager turned out not in his favor, 
he determined to keep his own counsel, and to hold these truths, his only 
possible weapons, sacrosanct against any interrogation. He did not realize how 
difficult this would come to be.
But he realized her beauty; and he had climbed up out of the pit of hopelessness 
with his assess­ment of his position.
He reached out and touched her, drew her to him. Her openhanded slap sent his 
head snapping to one side, but he did not release her.
“There are no ptaiss here to protect you,” he said, looking down into her 
revealed face, contorted with a fury that swelled her lips and colored her 
flaring cheekbones.
“It will take me but a moment to call one;” she grated through bared, even 
teeth, “and then I will have wasted near twenty days in the outer forest and you 
will be the corpse you should have been the night the wehrs raged. Take your 
hands from me, guerm-tender!”
Hurt rather than frightened, he did so. She was so tiny: her arms so slight, his 
hands closed around them; her waist so slim the thong he had worn wrapped twice 
around her. And yet she comiaanded him, and he obeyed.
He looked at her, then at his hands, then mea­sured his desire, then wondered 
how this could be. He could take her, throw her to the grass, have her before 
any ptaiss might intervene. He gauged her labored breathing, the rise and fall 
of her breasts through the thin robe, and knew that this was so, that she 
herself recognized this truth.
“Please, guerm-tender, do your its a service; save yourself for the ajudication. 
Your crimes are far too momentous to be dealt with summarily in the open _air. 
It is the bowels of Dey-Ceilneeth that must receive your repentance, extract 
from you their due. I have brought you this far. Proceed the rest of the way 
under your own will, or die here, now.”
“You cannot make me,” he said, referring equally to both alternatives she 
offered.
“You speak truth, yet you do not even know what you know;” she snapped, backing 
slowly away from him, her eyes fastened on his.
Oblivious to all else, he followed.
So intent on her was he that he did not see the shadows, manlike, flitting at 
the edge of his vision; nor the net, until it fell upon him from midair and he 
fell, thrashing, tangled in its weight.
The four ossasim followed the net to earth, alight­ing easily, spaced around 
their quarry. Even be­fore their wings grew limp they had gathered up the net, 
and him within it, helpless, his weight on his left arm, the arm, twisted under 
him, blazing with pain.
He was twirled and turned in the net until it became a shroud binding him round, 
preventing any movement. Then three of the red-eyed, gray-furred wehr-masters 
held him in midair, while the fourth pressed a cloyingly scented cloth to his 
mouth and nose. He struggled hopelessly, until he could not, until pink stars 
consumed his vision.
The last thing his struggling showed him was her face, green eyes huge, peering 
through the tough netting.    —
“Poor Deilcrit,” she murmured. “There is no place for such as you in the world. 
None at all.”
And he thought that she kissed his forehead, or was about to, as he spun into 
the drug’s domain.
The guards in the subterranean prison were pleas­ant to him, in that they did 
not abuse him, or any of the others in the straw-strewn cage. But then, they 
were not men, nor women, nor any creature he had ever seen. Some said that they 
were off­spring of ossasim and Beneguan females, and mules as a consequence of 
this. They could have been, he supposed, given their lightly furred flesh and 
their horny, lipless jaws; but something told him that more could come from the 
mating of ossasim and woman than these. Privately, he judged them ossasim 
females, a position for which there were no other contenders, and reasoned that 
though it seemed the flat-breasted things were sexless, to an ossasim they might 
be ultimately enticing, with . some other way of procreating than through the 
orifice women use. They did not abuse him, and he did not question them. After 
his initial fright, when one of the red-eyed things appeared, 
characteristi­cally suddenly, through his prison’s door, he took little note of 
them. They were another, feature of his new existence to which heimply adjusted.
He was not fettered, he was not stripped, he was not starved. He was free to 
walk the extent of his rocky prison with its one mirrorlike wall of glazed, 
fused black rock. This one wall was smooth as glass, and perfectly regular. All 
the rest of the cavern was, a gentle circling of seamless, irregular limestone. 
The door slid back from the featureless middle of the black wall, and when it 
was closed there was no sign as to exactly where on the wall it might have been. 
In the cavern’s roof were two barred openings, to which no man could climb. 
There was no reason to restrain any of them within the cave; its security was 
unbreathable.
So believed the nine others who shared the straw with him, two of whom had been 
here so long that they had the teeth of their youth carefully stashed in pockets 
in the rock. These two were naked. Their garments had rotted from their.bodies. 
They did not recall their own names, most times, and only twice while he was 
incarcerated there did he hear them speak at all: one gave a long 
indecipher­able monologue and his companion answered.
There was a man with a broken arm that had healed badly, and who was blind. He 
was taken away not long after Deilcrit arrived, and did not return. That made 
one less sharing the food.
tug. Janet t. Morris
This pleased the three young men who doled out the portions, those who slept 
beneath the openings to the sky, until the next feeding. Then they them­selves 
were taken away.
The two old men could not truly feed themselves. The three remaining younger 
prisoners waited calmly for their portions to be dealt out to them, long after 
it was clear to Deilcrit that the men who had doled out the food would not 
return. Speech was, rare in the cavern: but for the two old seniles, Deilcrit 
had not heard any prisoner speak in more than monosyllables in all the time he 
had been immured.
First, he got up and went and stood over the cooling gruel that a brown-furred 
arm had thrust within the cavern. Then he went for the hundredth time and tried 
to discern the seam of the door that lay directly behind the tray. When he had 
satisfied himself that all eyes were on him, he went and crouched down before 
the three prisoners who sat together.
“Should I feed them?” he asked, pointing to the two elders who huddled together.
One of the three men blinked. They were all black-haired, full-bearded, of 
indeterminate age. They still wore remnants of their clothing, and by it 
Deilcrit determined that one had been a gath­erer and one a weaver and one bore 
a craft device which was strange but for its class. It was to this last, he who 
had blinked, he whose craft badge still dangled from a woven jerkin that had 
once marked him as a deep-forest dweller, a far-ranging taker of risks, that 
Deilcrit spoke.
“Those men are not coming back, we have to feed ourselves. Shall I do it?” 
Softly but insis­tently he sought the other’s attention.
The man, whose eyes seemed wholly black, blinked again. He clawed the tangles 
from his brow
“Do not disturb the old ones. I will talk with you later. Over there.” And it 
seemed that Laonan stared in wonder, sighting down his own pointing hand to the 
other side of the cavern. Then, that same incredulity in his eyes, he clapped 
Deilcrit hard on the left shoulder, grinning.
A rainbow built of pain bedazzled him, and when it was gone, so was the man 
Laonan, scuffling, bowls in hand, across the straw toward the two seniles, 
mewling with impatience.
“Nothing wrong with their noses,” Laonan puffed, returning to where Deilcrit had 
appropriated a portion of gruel for himself. Laonan moved to take bowls to the 
two remaining black-haired men, those with whom he had been sitting.
“No,” ordered Deilcrit. “If they would eat, let them get their own food. They 
are men, are they not?”
Laonan, startled, froze with one thumb in the steaming gruel. Then, slowly, he 
raised it to his
106            Janet E. Morris mouth and sucked it clean. “As you wish.” He 
shrugged, sweeping up the bowl.
Then, for the first time, he straightened to his full height and headed for the 
empty nook of rock he had earlier designated as the spot for their conversation.
Deilcrit, bemused, followed suit.
By the time the two had licked their bowls clean and put them beside them on the 
straw, the black-haired men were beside the tray.
Shaking his head, Deilcrit turned from their crouched forms.
“How long have you been here?” he demanded of Laonan.
“How long? How long is long? You tell me, boy. I have been here since 
Mahrlys-iis-Vahais’ acces­sion.”
Deilcrit let that sink in a moment.
“Twelve years.”
“Is that all? Feels more like twenty.”
“And they?” pointing to the two .sitting cross-legged by the tray.
“They were taken with me. My fault, really. We were running contraband between 
here and Aehre proper.
“What is contraband?”
Laonan snorted. “Any trade is contraband, by Wehrdom’s standard. Weaponry, to be 
specific. They were glad enough to get it in Aehre, lest they go the same way as 
Nothrace. I was off to Kanoss with sulfur from Aehre .... Eh, boy, did it 
happen?”
“What?”
“Did the. Byeks reach an agreement? Is it Aehre­Kanoss or two foredoomed states? 
Or, in point of fact, does either of them exist now? Has Wehrdom eaten all 
without the Wall?”
“I have no idea,” he admitted. “I was an outforest iyl: I tend ptaiss and keep 
the guerm out of the river, and the rest is none of my concern. Or was.”
“Something’s your concern, something that shouldn’t have been, else you wouldn’t 
have ended here.”
“That seems to be the case,” Deilcrit conceded. “Though I am not clear on what 
it was exactly that I did ....”
Laonan guffawed, and the seniles whined and threw their arms about one another. 
“Come, now, boy—what is your name, by, the by?”
“Deilcrit.” He stumbled over it, almost adding his hard-won honorific. Hard-won 
and easily lost.
“Well, Deilcrit, you must know what you did that was wrong. Nobody is casually 
incarcerated in Dey-Ceilneeth. You must have done something?”
“I did a number of things, I suppose. The grin would not be forced back. “But 
which one got me here, I can not ascertain. I am surely guilty of heresy, 
blasphemy, unclean acts of any sort you might care to name.”
“Sounds like you had a real good time. Care to tell me about it?”
When he had finished, the moon Spilled through the ventilators. Rubbing his 
beard, then scratching, then worrying with both hands a foody tangle, Laonan sat 
staring into his empty bowl. Sometime during the evening, the two youngish 
black-haired prisoners had crept up to within ear-shot. Now they ventured close, 
and took the bowls from the conversants, and put them upon the tray near the 
door.
At this, Laonan put his fingers to, his lips and gestured at Deilcrit to take up 
his old solitary corner. Seeing this done, Laonan joined his two companions in 
their previous, passive aspect.
It was not long until the glossy wall opened and the brown-furred creature that 
guarded the cata—
combs entered, glared around, and backed hastily from the cell with the tray.
He would have risen. A glance at Laonan’s cau­tionary face persuaded him 
otherwise, and he sat, head bowed, until he heard a scuffle, and Laonan slid 
along the wall to his side.
“I still am not sure that they cannot see through that,” he confided, indicating 
the black, glossy wall.
“And if they do, what will they see? And what have you to lose that is not lost 
already?”
“While I am alive, boy, I have something to lose.” And he thrust his face close 
to Deilcrit. “Are you a wehr?”
“I   I do not know. I do not think so.”
“It seems that you do think so, when you talk about what happened in the 
forest.”
“No,” said Deilcrit, turning a glance of naked helplessness upon the man, “I do 
not think so. I fear so. What is it, to be a wehr? And what am I, that such a 
thing could happen to me? And if it is so, why must I die for it? What sense is 
there in a gift that exacts death as its consequence? And anyway, I am but 
wehr-chosen.”
“And what that is, is a matter of interpretation. Deilcrit, I cannot answer you 
as to what a wehr is. But let me point out that Mahrlys-iis-Vahais her­self is a 
wehr. And all but two of the rulers of Aehre-Kanoss, at least when I was abroad 
in the land, were wehrs. Wehrs are on the whole very successful individuals and 
do not as a rule die on acquiring whatever it is that makes them wehrs. It seems 
to me that a lot of effort has been put into seeing that you do not die. Mahrlys 
and her wehrs have some use for you. Or maybe just the wehrs do .... Did you 
know that Mahrlys is part ossasim?”
“That cannot be.”
Laonan shrugged. “It is.”
“You are very knowledgeable for a man with a trader’s badge who has been locked 
below the ground in this hole for a dozen years,” he said, suddenly suspicious.
“I have had ... ah ... certain other functions for which trading suits as an 
excuse, at certain times and for the right individuals. Things change slowly in 
the lands of Aehre-Kanoss. Deilcrit, what I really—”
And it was at that moment that Kirelli squeezed his way through the bars to 
swoop in ever-narrowing circles around the confines of the cave.
“Kirelli,” Deilcrit hissed, knowing that the mo­ment had been lost, and whatever 
Laonan was going to say would not for a long while be said. But then, in 
mid-curse, he looked at Laonan’s face and the surprise thereupon was answer 
enough to allay his worst suspicion: this man Was no wehr, planted here to drag 
out what secrets he might hold all unsuspecting. Such a one would be nei­ther 
shocked nor affrighted at Kirelli’s presence.
A thrill of pride buoyed him as the whelt stalked about the straw and clacked 
its viciously curved silver beak. The little old men in the cave’s rear whined 
like babies, and the black-haired pair made themselves small against the rock. 
Laonan, beside him, was stiff and still as a corpse. Though full of words of 
wisdom, when confronted with an agi­tated whelt he was timid as’any Beneguan.
“Sit up, man,” Deilcrit advised him, before his companion melted into that 
submissive posture his look-alikes had already taken, ‘forehead on palms, hands 
pressed to the straw. “You too,” he called to the other men. “Sit up. The whelt 
seeks me. Do not be afraid.”
The only trouble was that, before all these witnesses, he could not very well 
shirk from receiv­ing the whelt’s message.
With a sigh, he extended his good arm. An explo—
sion of wings, and the whelt rode his shoulder, its head pressed to his own.
From it he received a picture of the whelt, and himself, and a dark-haired man, 
standing with a woman whose hair was black and whose face he could not see. They 
stood by a giant throne of carnelian that burned with an internal glow. There 
were three others there: they were shadows before glowing fires, silhouettes in 
the flames.
Then the opening in the obsidian wall drew apart, and the whelt, screeching, 
leaped from his shoul­der to disappear through the barred openings in the cave’s 
roof.
Through that opening stepped three figures: one winged wehr-master; one 
brown-furred, wingless guardian; one woman robed in cobalt who was not 
Mahrlys-iis-Vahais.
This woman beckoned.
He looked at Laonan, who had turned his face away, pressed his forehead to the 
wall.
“Well met, prince of words,” he chided softly as he rose to answer the woman’s 
summons.
She had golden hair and half-lidded eyes he could not read. Her broad forehead 
was banded with gold; gold drew her robe tight at the waist and hemmed its 
edges.
“I am not ready,” he blurted out, though it could surely make no difference to 
her, and he was as ready as he would ever be.
The woman smiled encouragingly, extending her arm. The ossasim behind her 
fluttered half-tumes­cent wings and drummed its taloned fingers on its hips. He 
shuddered under the gaze of those red-in-red eyes, and took the woman’s arm. The 
cobalt material was the softest thing he had ever felt, excepting Mahrlys’ hair.
And it was thoughts of Mahrlys that consumed him as the golden-haired woman led 
him up steps like frozen seawater and the ossasim fell in behind.
He looked around once on the staircase, and saw that the outer side of the black 
wall of his prison was concealed with hangings depicting a convoca­tion of 
Wehrdom near the Isanisa’s bank. He won­dered what the hangings concealed—if 
Laonan was right and they had been watching him. It would explain their timely 
entrance. The brown-furred one had taken up a seat by the entry to the cell.
The stairwell, and the landing, and the quiet rock-hewn halls floored with 
cracked and jagged blocks of the seafoam stone gave way to high-ceilinged 
corridors whose very walls were slabs of angled, tinted transparency. These 
walls through which light came were never perpendicular: all the corridors 
curved inward, toward that sanctu­ary that was Dey-Ceilneeth’s heart.
When they deposited him with two guards at a huge wooden door with brass hinges, 
he had seen such oddities as left his head spinning. On the floor below this 
one, the outer wall had been removed, or broken. Women worked’ there, shap­ing 
bricks of mud and straw, and fitting this ma­sonry into the frame which had once 
held the wonderful transparent wall. On the other side of the same corridor, the 
side made of the black material, bricklayers and painters were also at work. Set 
into one finished portion were torch sconces, filled and blazing. On the floor 
just below, all this work had been earlier completed, and tem­ple scenes brooded 
there, in a darkened hall.
He had seen other doors like this: set into frames of gleaming metal; shimmed 
into place with the clumsy craft of the like that bricked the missing outer 
walls. And yet, such a door as the double one before him, carved with flowers 
intertwined, was no low item of woman’s work. Only when viewed against the 
background of Dey-Ceilneeth did the efforts of her caretakers seem mean, tawdry, 
in­sufficient.
In spite of himself, he craned his neck and stared around as the guards led him 
into the Sanctuary of Mnemaat.
There was a handful of women in that tabernacle, and their number again in 
ossasim, who all crowded around a black-haired woman and an ossasim even 
blacker, whose fur shone blue in the diffused radi­ance entering through the 
varicolored towers which threw long streamers of tinted light about the hall. 
Where three or more rays intersected, misshapen figures seemed to stand, 
shimmering, so real that they moved as he moved, appearing to face him wherever 
he was. He held back in the guard’s grasp, and the ossasim’s wings snapped 
loudly as it pulled him along an aisle marked off in white stone.
Before the raised platform on which the four teen waited, the guard released 
him, brushing at his tunic in disgust. He heard himself announced.
The back of his neck afire, he realized he was supposed to climb those stairs of 
his own will, to meekly ascend to take their ... what? Judgment? He did not 
know.
So he climbed them, glad enough to get to the end of all things mysterious. As 
he ascended each of the twenty steps, he could see more of those atop them: 
sandals gave way to furred, booted legs or long clinging robes, to girded hips 
and armed ones, to a crowd that split to funnel him into place before 
Mahrlys-iis-Vahais and the black ossasim. Both were resplen4nt in black silk and 
silver; each item of his masculine attire, finding its coun­terpart in her 
woman’s wear. She even bore a slim dagger at, her hip, tucked through a loop in 
her belt, its blade and hilt exposed. As he did.
Disconcerted, he looked around him. Six other pairings displayed themselves to 
his eyes. A growl issued from him. So deep was the animal response this state of 
affairs evoked in him, he did not even know he had made a sound until a woman 
tittered. Then he growled a second time, articulately, that there be no mistake.
He had wanted to seek her out. When things had been bleakest, when he had 
cheated death in the forest, he had determined to do so. He took an­other step 
toward her, and the black ossasim, whose right wing was pierced where it fringed 
his bicep by an encircling armlet of silver, stepped forward and laid hand on 
his chest.
A moment they stood so. Then Deilcrit retreated a pace, and the black-furred 
ossasim also stepped back.
He had wanted to seek her, to beg her, aid with his soul’s distress, to pour out 
all that had so confounded him and hear her wisdom make sense of it. He had held 
her of high spirit: she had proved herself less than his faith had pictured her: 
his piety was bitterly disappointed. And his stance echoed his thoughts so 
clearly that the black ossasim tossed back his forewing imperiously, and before 
Deilcrit’s eyes the wings began to stiffen, rustling, until they framed his 
glistening form.
“Eviduey,” said Mahrlys imploringly, and the black ossasim, with a toss of his 
thick-maned head, spoke:
“This is a formal review: let it be so written.” Deilcrit found himself 
fascinated by the ossasim’s black lips, framed in a manlike beard, through which 
red tongue and white teeth peeked with each word. A back of his mind noted a 
silent pro­cession filing along the tabernacle’s walls: priest­esses and ossasim 
and the brown-furred ones and ...
“Kirelli and Ashra, for Wehrdom.” The announce—
ment split silence, and like one being, all on the dais turned:
Through the, double doors, before they had truly swung back, ambled a huge 
ptaiss the color of moonlight, who bore on her back Kirelli the whelt. A murmur 
followed them up onto the dais like a train of fine silk.
Eviduey bowed low, with exaggerated flourish, wings rigid.
The great ptaiss yawned, and sat upon its haunches in the middle of the aisle of 
dignitaries. Kirelli, with great aplomb, hopped from the ptaiss’ back, took air, 
and, amid a growing rumble of conver­sation, alighted on Deilcrit’s shoulder.
Slowly, so as not to unseat the whelt, he turned back to face the 
black-and-silver-silked pair. The ossasim’s eyes gleamed like bloody slits in 
his face, and Mahrlys’ visage was for a moment so con­torted that he flinched, 
seeing what her beauty camouflaged. Then she smoothed it, with an obvi­ous 
effort like the shooing of wrinkles from a gown. The whelt trembled, shifted 
weight, its talons pierc­ing his jerkin to rest against his skin.
A scribe, brown-furred, scuttled to Eviduey’s side and crouched there.
“With your permission, Kirelli?” queried the black ossasim Eviduey in a voice 
like velvet. The whelt humped its wings.
“We are here “ continued the wehr-master reach—
,     , ing beneath the nightfall robe draped over his shoul­ders to bring forth 
a scroll which he unrolled, “to adjudicate the crimes of, one Deilcrit, formerly 
iyl of the Spirit Gate, and determine suitable penance therefore.
“Deilcrit, before the convened wisdom of Dey­Ceilneeth, say truth only, on pain 
of dissolution. Do you agree?”
“I do,” he replied, dry-mouthed, while recollect—
“Mahrlys-iis-Vahais will pose the allegations,” intoned Eviduey. With yet 
another sweeping bow, this time to Mahrlys, he stepped back a pace.
Her lips trembled. She took a breath that quiv­ered her nostrils, and Deilcrit 
tried to squeeze from his inner eyes’ sight those moments he had spent with her 
in the forest. But what lay under her silks had been exposed to him, and a fury 
he did not understand raised bile in his throat, that she had so demeaned them 
both in advance of this moment.
“Allegations!” she spat at last, when all eyes waited upon her words. “These are 
no allegations, but a redundant exposition of facts!” By the shock rippling 
Eviduey’s wings, by the black-pelted arm that reached out, cautionary, and then 
withdrew without having touched her, Deilcrit understood that these words were 
not those she had been expected to speak.
“This is a farce, a joke!” she continued. “Imca­Sorr-Aat demands this offender’s 
life. Will you be the one to deny him? You, Eviduey?” And she spun on her 
consort, who looked then to his feet. “Or you, whelt? Or you? Or you?”
When none of her court made answer to this, somewhat calmed, she continued:
“Not I. Bring it in. Let us have done with this game!” She spoke over her 
shoulder, to someone out of his sight.
As two brown-furred ones wheeled in what seemed to be a caldron, Eviduey 
whispered in Mahrlys’ ear, proffering the scroll. With an angry shake of her 
head, she spat some answer to him in a tongue Deilcrit did not know. Kirelli, on 
his shoulder, cooed reassuringly, tugged at his hair with his beak.
1 16           Janet E. Morris
He was not invited to crowd around the Eye of Mnemaat, which had a rod or handle 
of brass protruding from it. Rather, the ossasim Eviduey himself attended him 
while the twelve paired jury members, and the ptaiss, and even Kirelli filed 
down the dais to join Mahrlys and the two ser­vants by the wheeled basin.
This is a rather sorry introduction to Wehrdom,” said the ossasim, distinctly 
and very low, when all were intent upon the caldron’s contents. Then, when 
Deilcrit made no reply: “Let us hope something in your intent may mitigate.”
Try as he might, he could make nothing of those words, nor the black creature’s 
expressionless face; nothing other than the hostility and wariness in those 
stiffened, ever-fluttering wings.
They filed back, up the far side of the dais they had descended, and every face 
he saw was thought­ful, worry-lined, guarded. The ptaiss fairly slunk, belly 
brushing the ground.
“Proceed, Eviduey,” ordered Mahrlys, becalmed, glowing with a feral 
satisfaction.
Taking up once more his position at her side, the ossasim read from the scroll 
an itemization of Deilcrit’s failures: his failure to stop the intruders from 
lighting fire; his failure to save the pregnant ptaiss; even his failure to die 
under the attacking wehrs’ claws. And his sins of commission, also, were 
chronicled: his raising of arms against wehrs, his prostration before the 
“powers of Evil,” his defilement at the hands of the sorcerous Estri; even his 
admission that he thought himself wehr­chosen, which he had made only to his 
cellmate Laonan, was included, labeled as sedition, among his crimes.
“Do you deny that you did, these things?” asked Eviduey finally.
“No, answered Deilcrit. “But I would have come here. I would have come to you.” 
It was to Mahrlys he spoke, in spite of his design against it. “You asked me for 
the swords. I gave them to you. Ask for my life, I will give you that. But I did 
not mean—”
“Deilcrit,” interrupted Eviduey softly but firmly. “Your life is not yours to 
apportion. Whose it is, we will now determine.”
There was a preemptory casting of lots, pre­ceded by a huddle that included 
Eviduey and the ptaiss, but from which Kirelli and Mahrlys were excluded, as was 
he.
She stared the whole time with venomous eyes at him, and when the jury formed 
its twin lines again and their spokesman proceeded betwixt them to whisper in 
her ear, her face drained white as the ptaiss’ pelt. Then she in turn whispered 
in Eviduey’s ear. It was he who spoke to Dielcrit:
“The Vahais’ of Mnemaat has taken the measure of your transgressions, and its 
mercy proclaims sentencing as follows: Tomorrow you will take the Trial of 
Imca-Sorr-Aat. You will seek him out in Othdaliee and receive from him either 
absolution or death. Should it be absolution, you are free to return to within 
the Wall of Mnemaat. You may have whatever comfort and aid you can request 
before this length of silk touches the floor.”
He had one moment of understanding before the ossasim reached skyward, let go 
the length of black silk, and it fluttered toward the seafoam stone. He saw 
Mahrlys’ face, so suffused with fury that it seemed enshadowed. Kirelli 
screeched and flapped heavenward, and he blurted his answer, Kirelli’s 
mind-picture clear within him:
“The man, Laonan. The green-metaled sword. Mahrlys, this night, to myself.”
And as the jurors buzzed and Kirelli screeched, circling with dizzying speed 
around the tabernacle’s
1 1 8          Janet E. Morris dome, he caught her blank, then stricken, then 
tearful expression.
Though he did not comprehend, he felt elation, and more, as she stepped 
unsteadily backward, shaking her head, and the black ossasim followed, obscuring 
his sight of her. For a long moment there were only those inky spread wings; and 
the disconcerted mutterings of the crowd, and Kirelli’s blaring caw.
From nowhere, brown-furred wingless ones con­verged upon him. As he was hustled 
away he caught scraps of converse from-those who lined the walls.
“So much for her. She will never ...”
“If I were Eviduey, I would kill him myself.” This from an ossasim.
“... so she did not win his heart to lay on Mnemaat’s alter. If ...”
“.. to subvert so eloquent an ally as Kirelli, he must be ...”
“.. as dead as if Eviduey lopped his head off here and now. From the gardens of 
Othdaliee there is no returning. The question is, obviously, why she is not 
content with that. Did you see Eviduey ‘s face? She’ll have trouble ...”
And when the double doors closed out the sounds, and he was alone with the 
brown-furred guards, he was glad of it.
They did not take him back to the cavern cell, but deposited him in a small, 
irregularly shaped chamber walled in the black, glossy stone on three sides. The 
fourth was an outer wall such as he had seen in the corridors. Through it he was 
able to determine the time as near midday, even though vines and high branches 
crawled in profusion upon the outside of the green-tinted transparency that made 
a window twice his height in the otherwise featureless cubicle. He stood for a 
long time with his forehead pressed to the cool slick surface, staring out past 
the overgrowth at Dey-Ceilneeth’s inner­most maze.
He tried not to think of those things he had overheard. He tried not to think of 
the tears he had seen in the eyes of Mahrlys-iis-Vahais. Or of the murderous 
snarl that came from Eviduey as he whirled to comfort her. He did not understand 
what he had done. She had not withheld her per­son in the forest. But that was 
not true: it was an instinctive vengeance he had levied upon her there in the 
tabernacle of Mnemaat, and no part of the whelt’s counsel. The words had sprung 
of their own will from his mouth, spilling out just before the square of 
blacksilk made contact with the seafoam floor. Although much was a blur in his 
memory, this he recalled distinctly: Kirelli’s raucous screeching, and the 
settling of the silk upon the stone.
He sat before the window and drew up his knees and rested his elbows upon them 
and kneaded his left arm with his right, staring unseeing out the window crafted 
by his most remote ancestor.
“Deilcrit,” he said glumly, resting his chin on his crossed arms, “although I 
would not have be­lieved it, you have managed to make a bad situa­tion worse.” 
His self made no retort. He snorted derisively. “Nothing to say? Othdaliee, is 
it? You have about as much business there as in the Tem­ple of Mnemaat, defiled 
as you are. Or in the arms of Mnemaat’s high priestess. You deserve all you get, 
spoiled one.”
And though he fell silent, that part of him which hallowed Mnemaat urged him to 
renege, to beg the priestess’s forgiveness, and permission to enter once more 
Mnemaat’s sanctuary—this time to pray.
To which his emerging self replied that any god who would still hear him after 
all that had oc­curred deserved no man’s homage, and that as for
Mahrlys’ desserts, he himself was going to see that she got them. If he must set 
out on a hopeless journey with only death at its ending by her design, he would 
make sure that she, at least, carried a memory of him that would last the length 
of her soul’s survival.
When two priestesses came to prepare him at the sun’s set, he was still sitting 
there, listening to the dialogue yet raging within.
He let them lead him dumbly into baths and chambers filled with women who fussed 
about him, whispering scandalized incomprehensibles among themselves. He was 
docile while they cut his hair and picked the parasites from it, and redressed 
his arm with foul-smelling unguents and bound it up again with white gauze; and 
when they fed him, giggling, he ate as they demanded, carefully, so as not to 
despoil his anointments or the fine-woven robes they draped around him. The 
robes were cut for ossasim, with great slits where sleeves might have been, 
slits deep enough to accommodate a pair of fine-furred wings.
When he became impatient, demanding his right, the same blue-robed woman who had 
delivered him to the guards appeared, extended her arm to him as she had then, 
and led him to the chamber of Mahrlys-iis-Vahais.
Awaiting in that chamber was not Mahrlys, but the ossasim Eviduey, lounging with 
wings at rest on a caned platform, supported by two whelt-head full-breasted 
female statues as tall as he.
He hesitated at the threshold, but the cobalt-robed woman pushed him inside and 
closed the rushed doors behind his back.
He stood there in consternation, staring about for sight of Mahrlys. No Mahrlys 
did he see, but such grand and gilded lamps and benches and legged cushions as 
befitted a woman of rank. And man-size diorite statues, those of every god in 
Benegua’s pantheon, as befitted Benegua’s high priestess.
The ossasim beckoned him, and lit an oil lamp, then globed it, with a 
translucent amber shade.
Self-consciously, holding his borrowed finery about him, he folded himself onto 
the stool Eviduey chose for him and accepted a goblet full of a dark, sweet 
juice.
The other studied his polished nails, retracting them nervously.
“You are not Mahrlys,” said. Deilcrit when he had gulped the drink, staring into 
the ruddy eyes of the ossasim.
It ran its long fingers through its mane and leaned forward.
“Deilcrit, I am not here because of Mahrlys, but in spite. When she arrives, I 
hope she will not find me. I would like to ask you some questions.”
He tore his eyes away from those all-too-manlike lips.
“I have never seen a wehr-master with bearded lips,” he replied. “Are you . ?” 
And then he could find no way to frame his query as to the ossasim’s nature, 
preferred mate, or feelings for Mahrlys, and said instead: “Are you convinced of 
my guilt?”
The ossasim scratched its beard. “No, I am not. I am convinced of little. I 
would support an indi­vidual such as some ptaiss and whelts feel you to be. I 
will support anything that advances Wehr­dom.” Earnestly, gesticulating so that 
his limp wings rustled about his wrists, the wehr-master laid his case before 
him: “Consider my position. I have no allegiance but Wehrdom, no function other 
than the correlation of such factions as exist within our ranks. Some men are 
not wehrs. Some beasts are not wehrs. All ossasim are wehrs. I voted for the 
trial of Imca-Sorr-Aat, as did the majority of us.”
Deilcrit turned his goblet in his—hands, inclined his head. “So?”
“It has been long since Imca-Sorr-Aat has asked anything of Wehrdom. It is long 
since anything has been heard from Othdaliee, exempting the wehr­rages, which 
grow further and further apart.” ‘
“You do not have to justify yourself to me. It is who wish to justify myself 
before Mnemaat the Unseen,” said Deilcrit softly.
“Mnemaat? Ah, Mnemaat. Better Imca-Sorr-Aat: he is the intermediary between 
mortals and the god. If indeed the god still lives. You are surprised?”
He had made the star sign before his face. “Mnemaat is not dead,” he pronounced.
“You have, not looked into his Eye, then.”
“That is true,” he conceded.
“Well, you saw me look into it, just today. And the others. And know you what we 
saw there? We saw what we wished to see. His Eye shows us whatever we choose. 
Once it commanded us, bade us match our actions to the scenes it displayed. His 
mouth has not spoken to us for generations. You stood upon it! Did the Mouth of 
Mnemaat speak to you?”
“No,” he whispered, agonized, finally realizing that there was no love of the 
Unseen in Dey­Ceilneeth, as there was in the forests.
“Of course it did not. You have been in His most sacred sanctuary. There is 
nothing else. You have seen the unseeable. And, I hope, seen through it. Some 
say the god is dead. Some say another is on the way. Some say the three for whom 
the Spirit Gate opened are that very thing: new gods for a godless age. What say 
you, who have seen them face to face?” And he took Deilcrit’s goblet, refilled 
it, handed it back.
“I asked them that,” he said in answer. “I, too, was concerned that they might 
be gods. But they said that they were not, though one said that if I need him 
...” And he stopped, and thumped the full goblet down resoundingly on the stand, 
so that it slopped over and the red juice crawled along the cane and dropped to 
the stone.
He sat back, but very slowly, and tried to make his ears stop ringing so that he 
could decipher the ossasim s words.
Some while later, when the black-furred one took his leave, it occurred to him 
that he did not recall exactly what had passed between them, though they parted 
on good terms.
Standing by the door of tied rushes, it came to him that the drink had been 
stronger than he anticipated, and that he should drink ono more. But when he 
went to pour out the remaining juice, he found no signs of the pitcher, or the 
goblets either, though a red stain on the caning and a wetness on the floor 
proved that he had not imag­ined it.
He was on his hands and knees by the bench, his finery forgotten, when she 
entered from a cur­tained doorway he had thought to be simply curtains, and drew 
him wordlessly within.
V. Step-sister’s Embrace
We sat in the crotch of a gargantuan tree overlook­ing the maze surrounding 
Dey-Ceilneeth. The an­cient titan was hoary with overgrowth but in places the 
crystal of her cathedrals still shone like jewels in the sun.
I shivered, and wriggled my back more firmly against the forest giant’s bark. 
Sereth sat on a limb wide as I am long, his feet swinging, Chayin between us. 
The cahndor’s arms were folded over his chest.
“You take nature’s whim as a personal affront,” he growled at Sereth, who had 
not spoken since we had seen the children in the forest the day before.
“What affronts me is my own concern.”
“So be it!”
“Stop this!”
Sereth tossed me an indecipherable glance, and came in froin the branch, to 
lounge against its parent trunk. “How long do you propose to sit here?”
I looked at Chayin, who studied the memnis’ bark. I, wished it could be 
otherwise between us. Especially now when we entered what could easily be a 
dangerous situation. So my forereading showed it. Chayin and Sereth were each 
keeping their own counsel. There had been entirely too much of that from all of 
us, but not even I would be the first one to stop it. No, I would not do that. I 
looked at Sereth, and at Chayin, who had not yet replied.
“You know we are going in there,” I implored him. “You will go for Se’keroth. I 
will go for Deilcrit. He will go because he cannot stay away.”
“You are wrong, Estri,” said Chayin. ‘‘Sereth will go for Deilcrit. You go for 
him. And I in one sense for Wehrdom, and another for Mahrlys-iis­Vahais.” The 
veil was heavy, on him. Sereth, en­mity wiped from his frame like dust by the 
wind, crouched down, leaning forward, intent on Chayin’s face.
“When Deilcrit is no longer Deilcrit, and a black­ened Se’keroth lies across the 
arms of a carnelian throne, we will depart this land. Not before; and failing 
that, not at all,” came the cahndor’s sing­song from the far side of the abyss.
“Chayin,” I said softly, “please—”
“Estri, you do not talk to Sereth of Wehrdom. Why? Because he will no more 
accept its hegem­ony than that his own, skills wield over his actions. Truth?”
“Yes,” I admitted, as much to keep him talking as anything else.
“Do not forget that. He is hase-enor, of all men: that, too, recollect.”
“Chayin,” said Sereth evenly. “See your way into the maze, and out safely. See 
the moment of entrance, and its perils.”
“Surely,” said the cahndor in that same bemused voice, and reeled off the 
turnings. After a time, his voice became more normal and his observations more 
tentative.
I studied Sereth covertly. He and Chayin were barely speaking, yet he had not 
wasted this oppor—
tunity to benefit us. Whether Chayin would deem what had just passed an invasion 
of his privacy, a use made of him while he was indisposed, I did not know. It 
seemed likely. They were more and more wary of each other, and as a consequence, 
more wary of me.
Chayin had spoken with me once of Benegua in genetic terms. It is a science of 
which I am not totally ignorant. What he had had to say disturbed me. But I had 
not mentioned it to Sereth. He would not like what Chayin’s theory portended.
As of this sun’s rising, we had been thrashing about in the forest for eighteen 
days. Eighteen days of their growling at each other, of shields snapped tight, 
eighteen days within the wall of Mnemaat. How long we lost in the obviation of 
space that spat us out at a cold campfire strewn with our carnage, I could not 
determine. Long enough for no Deilcrit, no Se’keroth, nor my blade either, to be 
lying there when we arrived.
We had expected nothing different, and so were not disappointed. We spent one 
uneasy night lis­tening to the forest’s mutters: Chayin got very drunk on a 
miraculously spared skin of kifi-a, and said a number of things better left 
unsaid, and he and Sereth did not speak except in monosyllables for three days. 
Hence their pace was hard, and I, too, turned surly trying to keep it.
On the morning of the fourth day since the obviation, which we undertook 
directly after a day-night vigil for Chayin’s dead there by the sea, Sereth came 
to me as I wakened.
I had, since he overheard Chayin offer me asy­lum in Nemar, found it prudent to 
sleep with nei­ther one of them. Prudent but difficult. Abstinence is for me a 
weighty yoke, and I was only too glad to slip into his arms when he extended 
them.
And I was heartened, lying in the grass with him as of old, that so easily might 
I chink the breach growing between us. It had been a couching full of promise 
and promises, one of new beginnings. So I started to speak to him of Chayin and 
the strains I knew lay upon them bath, but he rolled over onto his belly and 
said:
“Watch.” And with a distant little smile on his face, he traced my name with his 
finger in the grass. As his nail moved along the blades they seemed to shrivel, 
then smoke, then the very ground beneath began to run together. Still with that 
far­away little grin, he laid his hand flat beside the letters of my name 
branded a finger’s-joint deep into the earth.
“As easily can I destroy him. And I will, if owkahen serves me up your loss.” 
Sereth always whispers death. “Is that clear?”
And I nodded, for he was watching me out of the corner of his eye.
“Good. Now, look.” And he waved his flat palm over the letters singed deep into 
the turf. His fore­head furrowed, and grass reappeared where my name had been. 
Or rather, other grass appeared: it was of a lighter green, and more densely 
packed, than that around it.
“What did you do?” I queried, hushed.
His eyes flickered sidelong at me; he tucked his chin in and stared at. the. 
lighter-green ESTRI writ­ten in sod among the darker grasses.
“I borrowed it. The first sod, that I burned away, became smoke and ash. This is 
from a year hence. I took it from the same spot.”
“So my name is gouged in the ground a year from now, in this place?”
“Something like that. I thought the technique might help you with your time 
discrepancies. Do you want it?”
“Do I want it,” I echoed dumbly, sufficiently chastised.
“There is a condition,” he said, turning his nar­rowed eyes full upon me. “You 
will teach this to none else.”
I knew whom he meant, but I agreed. So began the taking of sides.
And the nursing of the tension that crackled around us in the tree’s crotch like 
owkahen’s own lightning.
What can I say in excuse for myself? In retro­spect one dredges up alternatives 
that seem more workable than those that have come to be. But only if I were 
other than myself, and they also some other folk, could it have gone 
differently. Chayin alone inherited from our progenitors that talent for 
existing always in the selection of conse­quences some call the sort. Sereth and 
I grit our teeth and wrestle with the moment, drawing (at the best times) a 
sufficiency of what we desire therefrom, so that with the aid of what we have 
already gained we can repeat the process. My forereading is a mass of 
tantalizing obscurity which like some diabolical instructor leads me into truth 
by way of error. From which I emerge, I hope the wiser, and with a wry 
understanding of what my visions earlier portended. The best I can say for 
myself is that I seldom make the same mistake twice. Seldom, but not never ....
The mistake I was then concerned with not mak­ing was of being the last so high 
above the ground in the crotch of the huge rnemnis, as I watched Sereth’s head 
disappear between the branches. He would not wait for Chayin’s indisposition to 
pass, but swung out and down like some sucker-footed tree-kepher, leaving me to 
talk Chayin back from the land of veils.
I sat and fumed and choked back curses, and then, asudden very conscious of the 
winds that blew around the tree and shook its fronds so that they whispered, 
turned to the task at hand.
It had been long since Chayin spoke from beyond the abyss, long since the veils 
held him entrapped. Once he had been sorely afflicted by this mani­festation, 
called by some forereader’s disease, and I had used my skills to ease him out 
from its grasp. It was a measure of owkahen’s tumultuous­ness I saw there in his 
inward-staring eyes, in his boneless form melted against the memnis’ trunk.
I inched toward him, uncertain of my footing though it was more than ample, and 
made the error of peering out into space, where Sereth scram­bled ever downward, 
far below.
Then I put concerted effort into returning the cahndor’s attention to what we 
call the present.
It took some extensive laying-on of hands, there on the swaying branch.
“Dey-Ceilneeth awaits,” I murmured, when his membranes snapped back and forth 
tentatively and he uncrossed his arms and at my urging slid in­ward to the 
safety of the memnis’ cleft.
He looked, for a moment, all of his father’s son, staring at me from across the 
abyss. Then he shook his head and rubbed his eyes with his palms, and said: 
“Now?”
“No time better,” I affirmed.
“That is not strictly true, but”—and he yawned and stretched, and gathered his 
legs under him—“I am anxious to retrieve Se’keroth from that jungle boy of yours 
.... Where is ... ?” And he himself peered between the memnis’ uplifted arms to 
spy Sereth, descending.
“Se’keroth?” I wondered. “Then you do not rec­ollect what you said?”
“No.”
So I told him what he had said to us, and at the retelling’s end, with a wail I 
could not suppress, sought the shelter of his arms. “How has it come to this, 
that we use each other so ill?”
“Ssh, little one. Things are not as they appear. It is Wehrdom whose distrust we 
feel. It is the very air which divided us, the echoes of their converse which 
make us like strangers in our own minds.”
I shivered, my face pressed to his leathers.
“It is as it was with the children: He thinks I obstruct him. But it is not me.”
I nodded. I well recalled the children we had seen in the forest, strewn about 
like discarded rag dolls, their stuffing spilling out onto the ground. And the 
live ones, all huddled in a group that wandered helpless in the wilderness.
They had crossed the road, headed eastward. We had been thrice sickened by dead 
ones we had passed, and we followed. But no attempts to get near the children 
availed us. When we showed ourselves they screamed and the little group of 
thirteen flew apart and disappeared. Sereth had been determined to catch one, if 
only to offer aid. This he did above Chayin’s mysterious and seem­ingly 
arbitrary protestations.
The child we cut from the herd and pursued was fleet. We chased it, circling, 
closing in on the little girl from three sides. When at last the tiny thing 
cringed with its back to a large boulder, weeping, its capture sure, we heard a 
snapping among the trees and something dark and winged swooped straight down. 
There came a moment of shadowed wings and whooshing air, and the child was gone, 
snatched into the air, only to reappear, hurtling groundward. Even as I lunged 
forward, it struck earth with a sickening crash.
We stood over that crushed and broken body, peering up into branches that seemed 
to seek eter­nity somewhere above our heads.
“I told you,” Chayin growled, prodding the child’s corpse with his foot. Indeed, 
he had told us that only death could come from our mixing in these affairs.
“If you had not obstructed me,” spat Sereth, “the child would be alive.”
The cahndor had thrown himself upon. Sereth, dragging him to the ground, when 
the wehr’s shadow first darkened the earth->—
Chayin, breathing hard, grass in his black mane, rubbed a fresh bruise on the 
side of his temple.
“Sereth, I will not tell you again. We have en­tered the wehrs’ domain. Our 
rules do not obtain here. A strong territoriality does. We have twice withstood 
wehr-rages; it is because of this that they no longer attack us. By their own 
ritual, we have won the right to walk these woods. But we stay not still, and 
this makes the wehr-folk uneasy. By the rules of their society, if we rage—if we 
start another bloodletting—they will fight us until ei­ther all of us or all of 
them lie dying. And there are very many of them. We have acted outside their 
conventions. The wehr-mind stretches to accom­modate men who are more than men, 
wehrs who are less than wehrs, creatures who carry their terri­toriality with 
them.”
“How do you know all this?” Sereth demanded, his fingers toying with knife 
sheathed at his hip.
“I have spoken with them. As might you, if you chose.” •
And he would say no more.
So we followed the children in their ragged band, and saw a thing even more 
strange: they came to a widening trail, at the end of which a mud-brick wall 
encircled a score of bent-branch huts on the Isanisa’s bank.
It was getting on to day’s end, and the light grew uncertain. We circled around 
the youngsters and concealed ourselves near the wall, within its very shadow in 
a clump of the silver-berried bushes.
Just when we had done this, two men slipped through a low door in the wall and 
scuttled to obscure themselves in the trees that lined the path.
Sereth laid hand on my shoulder, but I needed no warning. I held my breath and 
stayed very still.
I cannot recall what I expected to see, but—it surely was not what passed before 
my eyes:
The group of children had broken ranks. Two came, almost together, pell-mell 
along the trail, out of sight of the others. One had hair as red as the sun.
The men in the bushes waited until the children were almost parallel to them. 
Then, as one man, they leaped upon the fleet little forms.The redhead, by some 
few feet the straggler, let out a strangled cry and wheeled to run back the way 
she had come. She could not elude her pursuer.
The men secreted the children’s bodies in a pit I must assume they had dug there 
for that purpose, and took up once more their vigilance in the trees.
Sereth hissed articulately, and Chayin warned him, very low, that any overt 
attempt to interfere would bring weighty consequences, that Beneguan ways were 
not Silistran ways, nor his to adjudge.
For a moment I thought they would tear each other to pieces among the silver 
berries. Obviously they did not, but they did sit unspeaking while the rest of 
the children, still bunched together, passed unmolested by the two concealed 
men; sat there until the moon rose and the men, with grumbled laughter, forsook 
their concealment and pounded upon the gate that had opened to admit the 
bal­ance of the children’s band, and were themselves admitted.
It seemed that within the mud-bricked wall a celebration was under way, for the 
silence was
•
eaten up by laughter and the thrumming of drums and the piping of eerie pipes.
On our way back to the great road we had quit to witness this odd and terrible 
scene, we stum­bled over two more slain children.
“It is as it was with children,” had said Chayin. “The very time divides us.” I 
could feel in myself the detached patience I had felt then, that cool 
heedlessness that had saved me from some point­less attempt to intervene in what 
was none of my affair. But this time, my mind told me dryly, every­thing was 
very much my affair.
“Do not withhold your aid from him. For my sake,” I dared to beg. And then he 
did not answer but only pushed me gently away. “Then, if not for me, for 
whatever you hold sacred.” \
“How cometh your obviation of space?” he que­ried bitterly, letting me know that 
he was aware of what Sereth had given me, and the price I had paid. I lowered my 
head. “What I will do is for his sake, not yours. I will get him through the 
maze and pick him up if he falls. But I will not let him die for his ignorance.”
And with that, he made motion that I should descend the tree before him.
Which took most of my concentration. I am no tree-dweller, not like Sereth, who 
spent his youth in forests. My youth was spent upon silken covers, learning my 
womanhood and those joys it can give to a man. I begrudged the loss of those 
days, and the joyous ignorance I then possessed.
It seemed to me that as far as Sereth remained “ignorant,” to that extent was he 
blessed; that we were both in that respect unlike Chayin, who sought knowledge 
for its own sake. And I caught my first glimpse of what Sereth had dubbed the 
“lack of compassion” in us Shapers’ spawn, as I climbed slowly and painstakingly 
down the towering mem­nis and Chayin followed behind.
Another thing that occurred to me as I scratched and scraped and slid my way 
groundward was one which caused me to reach out under my shield, testing as a 
warrior might reach out beyond his shield arm’s defense. I sought Wehrdom. I 
sought the touch that had brushed my sensing and with­drawn when we entered by 
the Spirit Gate; that had nearly drawn me down into its whirling tun­nel when I 
destroyed the wehr-master. I had deval­ued that at the time. I had not wanted to 
think that Wehrdom might be a worthy foe, or even an intelligence whose wishes 
need be considered. A certain smugness comes with successes, such as ours, and 
in that smugness is the most insidious of perils.
So, at the last possible moment, as I joined Sereth where he sat on a flat, 
moss-grown boulder, I con­sidered Wehrdom, and took some care as to my armament 
before it.
It was a soft crowd in my mind, back behind my sensing, cautiously curious like 
untold pairs of round eyes, blinking. I saw it as a curtain through which Sereth 
and the day and Chayin’s approach were not obscured, but intensified with a 
wonder that danced like a multitude of phosphorescent insects in all the air 
about, giving it volume that undulated in a pulsing dance.
f made some affirmative sound to Sereth’s query as to my well-being, though it 
hung long moments in my ears bereft of meaning, as Wehrdom heard it, before my 
habituated understanding precipi­tated a response.
I know Sereth looked at me strangely, for the wehr presence about me made a 
space of two breaths stretch interminably and performed a mi­nute investigation 
of his face therein.
I walked easily; I was aware of all that passed around me with a multiple 
perspective that showed me the wood as a magnificent palatial estate in which 
all things were about a perpetual reordering. There is a joy in wehr-thought 
that is equally from fury and ecstasy, ascendancy and suffering, birth and 
death. They are one and yet all, and from them I could separate the berceides 
who guard the maze whose every hungry mouth and yawning pit and sinksand dead 
end was as familiar to me as to the campt which awaited at the most hideous 
misturn of all; or to the wehr-master even now striding through the jicekak to 
intercept us.
I said this, to Sereth and. Chayin, and cautioned them to tread unerringly the 
very middle of the first corridor, on whose every side pink mouths waited 
gaping.
We did this, and I saw Sereth’s heels before my downcast eyes. Both Chayin and I 
called the turn, together, and my mind slipped out from the wehr­knowing, 
startled, fearful, and I spent long awk­ward moments battening down the cracks 
in my shielding through which Wehrdom’s song yet could be heard.      ,
When I heard it not, I heard another thing: the hissing of the berceides as they 
reared ,upon their coils for a better view. And saw Sereth’s doubtless 
instinctual reaction: like two popping gourds, the berceides’ heads burst apart. 
The steaming ichor splattered, but we three kept very still. The pink mouths of 
the hedge writhed and slurped and strained forward. We stood unmoving, though 
the death throes of the coils whipped around ‘us, safe within the neutral 
barrier we had earlier deter­mined to employ. Neutral, but immobile, sunk into 
the very bedrock of the universe. If Sereth wished, he could have held that 
envelope of space inviolate before a force that would powder the planet. As it 
was, the lashing tails of the dead snakes merely rebounded from any point closer 
than an arm’s length to our bodies.
“That settles that,” growled Chayin, and spat disgustedly. “We are going in 
bloody: what else can follow but more of the same? It is rage for rage, here. 
Why must you do this?”
“Ask your forereading. It tells you all things. If it told you true, you would 
know that two snakes are a cheap price for such an introduction, and will save 
higher blood later on.”
“You persist in this hierarchal. prejudice! This is Wehrdom. No such—”
“Silence!”
And he got it. Total, complete, unbreathing ab­sence of sound.
The hairs on my body rose up, waved in the air, returned to their normal rest. 
The barrier dis­mantled, we proceeded into the second maze.
I wondered if I would dare open my mind again to Wehrdom, after what Sereth had 
done, and then reflected that I, as he, might as well dare what I chose. There 
was precious little from which to choose; it would remain thus for a space. Such 
is owkahen’s price to those who wish to lie with her: she denies us nothing, but 
rather designates that toward which we strive.
The wehr-master met us at the beginning of the innermost maze, though I had 
expected him long since. But when we turned that corner, I under­stood.
He blocked the aisle of silver-berried bushes, wings folded around him like some 
fabulous cape. His loins were bound in black silk as shiny as his coal-dark 
pelt. Behind him were, ten of his kind, all colors, and these had their wings 
stiffened, akimbo.
Besides the tall black-maned wehr stood a woman whose face I had seen in 
Deilcrit’s dreams, a woman whom Sereth yet thought to be a man: 
Mahrlys-iis­Vahais. Something prompted me to glance at Chayin, and the 
expression on his face was an odd mix of assessment and shock. I did not 
sufficiently mark it, for then the black-winged creature stepped forward.
“What in the name of Mnemaat,” it growled throatily in a voice quite 
unexpectedly clear, “do you want here? What further sacrifice could you possibly 
demand? What brings you to war upon us, and from whence? Who are you? What is 
ex­pected of us?” As he spoke, he came ever closer: by the time he had finished 
speaking, he was kneeling at my feet, peering up at me through totally red eyes 
described by two concentric black rings that seemed to be iris and pupil. I 
looked into those blazing fires.
I did not know what to say. I stared down at him, noting that as he waited, his 
wings began to rustle. Sereth, besides reaching behind my back to touch Chayin’s 
arm when the thing approached me, made no move.
Before words came to me, while yet I stared into the red-on-red eyes of Wehrdom, 
the woman whirled on her heels. I heard the scramble of those behind her to move 
out of her way.
“Wait. You have not been dismissed,” Sereth advised, so quietly that I thought 
perhaps the woman did not hear. She took two more steps between her winged 
guardians, then turned stiffly and proceeded to kneel beside the black-winged 
one at my feet. I had seen her eyes, and there was no doubt in me that it was 
Sereth’s will, and not her own, holding her on her knees. And the trem­ors that 
coursed visibly over her flesh an instant later proved me right: such is the 
aftermath of flesh-lock.
I surreptitiously tugged on his tunic. Accidentally, he jostled me. The winged 
creatures, each man-sized or larger, stood very still, watching through their 
red eyes. Some had head ruffs or manes; some had lips, and some did not. A few 
were thick, with wrestlers’ muscles taut amid their wings, so massive that I 
wondered if they could truly fly. Most were lithe as shadows, pale as a young 
moon. But all were formidable, armed only with what nature had provided. I knew 
why they did not speak, but I was not about to open myself to Wehrdom’s thousand 
throats.
Most High,” hissed the woman at my feet, “restrain your servants. I am its of 
this place. Only reveal your desires to me, and they will be sated. But 
please”—and this an agonized whisper—“do not shame me before my wehr-masters.”
I answered her in a deep and formal tone, that all of hers might hear:
“I want a man called Deilcrit, and thoie belong­ings of ours that he has upon 
him. And I want your sage counsel as to how you can make amends for the loss of 
our ship and men.” This last was at Sereth’s rather obvious urging.
The woman put her head in her hands, raised it, and said: “Might I rise?”
I nodded, and they both stood, and I saw from the flames in her green eyes that 
she played a part only, one forced upon her, and that she was con­cerned that I 
realize the fact.
“What in the name of Uritheria is going on here?” exploded Chayin in Parset. 
Sereth silenced him in the same language, while the woman, composed, suggested 
that we accompany her into Dey-Ceilneeth.
When Sereth asked her in her own language whether or not she would accede to our 
demands, the black-winged one answered for her that there would be difficulties 
in granting our requests, but all efforts would be made to satisfy us, if we 
would only follow, and allow them to explain.
The woman stood straight as a rod, as if she had not heard, as if men’s 
converse, whether it be man or wehr-master, was beneath her ears’ concern.
“This is Eviduey, follower of Mnemaat, Third Hand, His Austerity of Wehrdom,” 
said the green-eyed woman. The creature made a deep bow, as if standing in some 
reception hall. I nodded, then introduced Chayin, giving all three of his 
titles; and Sereth, calling him the Ebvrasea, dharen; even ransacking his past 
for two additional honors. As I had expected, when I had announced my 
companions, she then spoke to me of herself:
“I am Mahrlys-iis-Vahais, Daughter of Mnemaat, Keeper of His Eye and Mouth, 
First in Dey­Ceilneeth, Most High.”
That last was, of course, what all this had been leading up to. As slie said it 
her proud carriage drew itself even taller, and with stately grace she extended 
her black-robed arm to me.
I took it and gave some small account of myself in a suitable tone: cihareness 
of all Silistra, high-couch, daughter of my father, etc. It was not im­portant 
what I said: I could have called myself Keeper of the Offal of Apths, for all 
she knew of the western shore. But I observed the form, and took her proffered 
arm, saying sweetly: “And are you not also of Wehrdom, and bound to 
Imca­Sorr-Aat?”
I heard a strange rattling noise that could not have come from a human throat: 
Mahrlys’ face drained pale; I spun on my heel.
They faced each other, Eviduey and Chayin, with Sereth, arms outstretched, a 
living barrier in between. As one woman, she screamed something in a sibilant 
tongue and I in my native one.
There came a rustle behind us from among the creatures I would learn to call 
ossasim, and I dropped pretense and ran to Chayin’s side. I flew against him. I 
shook him by the shoulders. He hardly noticed me, but stood there.
One part of my mind noted Mahrlys unintelligi­bly calming the stiff-winged 
wehr-master; another part felt Sereth press close, heard him whisper: “They just 
backed up and froze. What think you?”
“Some ritual taking of each other’s measure? How would I know?”
“Chayin!”
And then: “Get back.”
“No.” But I did, and Sereth slapped the cahndor, flat-handed, so hard that he 
staggered. But he woke, and caught himself, and snarled something about the 
probable parentage of the wehr-master Eviduey.
Mahrlys leaned on Eviduey’s arm, and from that distance asked me if I thought we 
might now proceed. I looked from her, to her reinforcements, to Sereth warily 
attending Chayin, and nodded. This fracasing in poisonous hedge served no one.
I said as much, and she turned upon her heel and with Eviduey marched through 
her own ranks. The corridor of furred forms stayed open.
We went into it three abreast, me in the middle between them, and when we were 
close upon Mahrlys’ heels, the ossasim followed at a respect­ful distance, 
double file.
“Now what?” asked Sereth, most diffidently, in Parset. “Or should I say, ‘Now 
what, Most High?’”
“I saw no reason to inform you afore the fact. Chayin knew. It was there in the 
sort, in Deilcrit’s memories. Shall I be a Most High for them? Will you continue 
with this charade?” It was Sereth who, grasping all, had knelt Mahrlys at my 
feet rather than his own.
“If it makes them more comfortable. If it gets us what we want .... I do not see 
any reason to dis­abuse them of their misconceptions.”
“It might prove ticklish,” cautioned Chayin. “She just might be, at that.”
Chayin did not find that amusing. “What are you implying?”
“Nothing. What was that with the birdman?” Chayin, this time, said: “Nothing.”
Sereth saw something in that ritual opposition of bodies. So did I. I saw it in 
the luxurious femi­ninity of the woman whose black mane swayed before us, in her 
wide-set eyes that glistened like the ocean in the sun. I knew Chayin and Sereth 
well, knew their tastes: she was a woman neither would push from his couch. But 
I did not put enough concern into this observation: I did not know the 
difference between woman and wehr; or rather, knowing it, did not mark the 
significance of the fact nor how much influence it would come to have upon us 
all.
“I came to greet you myself,” observed Mahrlys, acerbic now that the doors of 
tied rushes were closed and the curtains drawn, over them. Beyond those doors 
awaited Sereth, and Chayin, with Eviduey and another black ossasim, in a long 
nar­row hallway of pieced and colored glass.
“I came to you of myself, and you denigrated me before my own.” All pretense 
cast aside, she glow­ered at me, regal among priceless antiquities in that 
chamber filled with towering plants and stat­ues of, stone carved into creatures 
part-woman, part-beast, who stared from their height down upon us through 
faceted brooding eyes.
I glowered back, and paced off the room in an inventory that was both peremptory 
and unabashed, saying: “You came to me tardy, in self-aggrandize­ment. You knelt 
before us at our will rather than yours, and this offends you? Perhaps you had 
bet—
ter become accustomed to accepting such offense: if you do not quickly and 
completely meet our demands, you will find yourself in receipt of such 
chastisement the like of which this day’s display is only a mild forewarning,” 
And I took seat upon an offering table of black diorite held extended at the 
level of my waist by a muscular, whelt-headed deity.
Mahrlys’ face paled as she strode toward me, her silk robe pulled close by tight 
fists. “Who are you? Who are they? What need was there to slay the berceides, 
and all the other creatures you have wantonly killed?”
“Who I am,” I said softly, judging her ill temper sufficiently worsened, and 
therefore sliding off the statue, “I have already told you. But you do not 
understand. As for my companions, they are each regents in their own right, as 
well as my consorts, and they do not belong waiting in hallways while two women 
prattle over what such men have done.”
“Indeed? And what makes these men qualified to take a hand in the affairs of 
nature, when all know what poison their ilk has perpetrated in the past?” Her 
lips trembled, and her fingers also, and her voice rose toward a shriek.
I threw her a mocking stare from under a slightly raised brow, and made my voice 
low and soft and full of composure, though what she said shook me to my core. 
“Have you no use for men, then? How do you survive?”
“We have use for them.” And with that she pulled hard upon the reins of her 
temper, and ushered me with all decorum to a caned bench supported by two 
whelt-headed female figures carved from black stone. “We have use for all 
creatures. Men till our fields, they give us the craft of their hands, and 
children. But we keep them from the self-destruc­tion that lies within their 
cleverness, and they do penance here for what they have done in the past: it is 
Wehrdom’s way, and the way of nature, that all live together, no one variety of 
the forest’s chil­dren ruling over all the rest. Is it not so in your domain?”
“No, it is not. There is a whole world out there, and beyond its expanse other 
worlds; and upon none of them does one sex count the other so low, instead 
favoring other creatures of diverse heritage.”
It was the winged one to which I referred, and she knew it. “I am wehr first, 
and woman second. Ossasim come from such wombs as mine—speak not of that with 
which you are not familiar. How dare you adjudge nature’s finest fruit, and find 
it lacking?”
I ran my fingers through my hair, found a knot, worried it in a search for some 
suitable answer. She waited upon me, those eyes through which Wehrdom peered 
expressionless fixed upon my face.
“I am only trying to save you grief: my compan­ions are not like the men with 
whom you are familiar; treating them thus can only bring blood­shed and death to 
you all.”
“Then they are just exactly like the men with whom I am familiar, only 
scandalously freed to work their evil wiles.”
I almost lost my temper. “I am telling you, I cannot speak for them, nor make 
agreements in their behalf.”
She looked at me in pity, and offered refreshment. I accepted, and while we 
awaited the menials that entered to the summons of her clapped hands, we spoke 
no words. When the wingless, furred crea­tures had set a tart juice before us 
and departed, I said:
“If all this is true, if men have little worth here, why will you not cede me 
this Deilcrit and let me depart, and save those subjects of yours that you may?”
“Why did you let your creatures, slaughter my berceides? They were among the 
wisest, most val­ued of my—”
“Look you, we are not here to exchange insults, or detail our damages to each 
other, but to reach some kind of understanding between us.”
“I will not treat with men! I would sooner make a bed partner of a guerm!”
“Are guerm, then, less sweet than ossasim? The distinctions, the niceties, 
escape me!”
“You are insufferable!”
“In truth,” I agreed. “And if you continue to devalue my companions, you will 
suffer as you have never dreamed possible. Your only recourse, as I see it, is 
to quickly meet our demands and let us depart, lest you learn obedience knelt at 
their feet.”
“Would that I could!” she spat with shaking voice, and bent her head away to 
pour us new drink and seek composure. “Am I expected to be terrified by that 
sorcery in the hedges? I am horrified, disgusted, appalled. I have powers,” 
af­firmed she, graciously proffering a full cup, “should I need to use them. I 
am no wanton, spilling blood enough to bathe in at my, slightest whim. You have 
slaughtered whelt, ptaiss, quenel, guerm, campt, threfrasil, ossasim.” She 
ticked them off, upon her fingers, and when she looked up, her eyes were filled 
with tears: “Even the berceides of the second hedge. They counseled my mother 
and her mother and her mother before her. Do not threaten me with your men! It 
is you whom I hold responsi­ble for this whole affair. Poor, despoiled Deilcrit! 
It is you with whom I will treat. If necessary, it is you with whom I will 
contend. And when I say ‘I,’
be assured that the whole of Wehrdom will stand behind my words.”
Owkahen showed bright and clear the conse­quences if I dropped her to her knees 
in helpless flesh-lock, went to the doors and admitted Sereth and Chayin, 
consigned her to their mercies. The price was too dear, the repercussions too 
great. Instead I said:
“Mahrlys, if you feel the need of a test of strength with me, I shall not deny 
you. But first, hear me out:’
She inclined her head. Assured of the royal permission, I continued:
“You have reason to be distressed, as have I. I and mine have been set upon by 
this Wehrdom of yours. We emerged unscathed. If you should again come against 
us, we would be forced not to simply beat back your attack, but to make an 
example such as will run your river red with wehr blood.” I said this very 
calmly, leaning back against the sculptured stanchion’s thigh. “Simply call the 
time.” And when she did not call it:
“Then so be it: I will call Sereth and Chayin and we will enter into—”
“No!”
“Mahrlys ...”
“I cannot suffer such a thing to be seen in Dey­Ceilneeth.” She was very 
beautiful, flushed with her pent rage. “I petition you that we instead ex­change 
attendants, as is meet.”
I almost told her that I would not, even that I would not breed down, but it was 
an overture on her part, the only one, excepting pitched battle, she had made.
“Give me Deilcrit.”
“I do not have him.”
I rose up and circled the chamber, readying my stroke, but she continued: “He is 
gone on Imca—
Sorr-Rat’s business.” And my prowling mind told me she spoke the truth, that 
Deilcrit was not in the holding.
“Nor Se’keroth, either; then?”
“I do not understand,” said she, uncertain as to what had gone awry.
“The green metal sword he had.”
“When he left he took all with him.”
“How came he,” queried I, catching the thread, “to leave upon this errand?”
“Imca-Sorr-Aat requested it,” she answered smoothly.
“Did he? And who is Imca-Sorr-Aat?”
At that her eyes widened, and she made a sign before her face. “From what bowel 
of ignorance do you come, woman? Imca-Sorr-Aat is His Spirit abroad upon the 
land. His call was the honor that saved the foul creature from the death he 
earned cavorting with you in the forest.” She actually spat.
“What could there have been about what passed between me and Deilcrit to affront 
one in whose land children are slaughtered not only by beasts but by men, and 
none raise hand to help them?”
“Estri,” said Mahrlys after a long pause, “you do not understand. And I do not 
understand. And I am beginning to doubt that I want to understand. Or should. I 
am sure there are many things as sensible and commonplace to you which would 
sicken me should I look upon them. In point of fact, you have brought two with 
you. If I am will­ing to accept such a creature, even in the search for peace 
between us, then take that as an article of my faith. I cannot give—you Deilcrit 
unless you would wait here until his return. Which you are welcome to do.”
I did not like the way she spoke that last part. “[will tell you tomorrow. I 
repeat, I only speak
For myself.” Though they had said to me that I might play Mahrlys’ game, I had 
been unable. There was too much enmity, born of instinct, be­tween me and this 
not-quite-woman who ruled the shores of which none were empowered to speak.
“If I cannot give you Deilcrit”—Mahrlys smiled warmly—“and I cannot give you the 
weapons you have lost, is there anything I can give you?”
“Have you a ship that will sail an ocean, fit as the one you destroyed?”
“No, I have no such ship.”
“Do you have skilled labor with which to build one?”
“No, I have not that either. Are you then marooned here?” Her upper lip had a 
slight curl to it which became more pronounced when she was pleased, as she was 
then.
“No, only at a loss as to what might be fair reparation for something you have 
not the skill to replace. Can you direct us on the path Deilcrit took?”
“If you wish, though it is no easy trail even for one familiar, which you are 
not. Why not, better, remain with us until he returns? That is, if you can 
control your creatures.” She smirked.
“I do not control them, and they are not creatures. I will ask them, and let you 
know our joint decision.”
“Please do. The duties of a gracious host are much lightened by knowledge of how 
long the guest will abide. I could prepare some wondrous entertainments—”
“I thank you, no.”
“Will you not dine with me this meal, then?”
“I think not. We have had a surfeit of excitement. A meal in our chambers and an 
early rest would suit us all.”
Her brows knitted. “If not a meal, then, we must at least view the rising moon. 
It is customary when exchanging attendants.”
“I am not sure—”
“Please, again I beg your indulgence in what is customary.’
I sipped the drink she had long ago handed me, and, turned the beaten bronze in 
my hands. “Is it that black ossasim you propose to send me?” I asked.
“Eviduey.” Her tone caressed the name, and her arms drew together about her 
breasts. “I do you great honor. Do not reject it. He is more than Third Hand to 
me.”
There was steel in her voice as deadly as the dagger she fingered beneath her 
robe. I had not previously marked it, and I found myself fussing about my boot 
tops, caressing the slender circles nestled there.
“It is the dark one I would prefer,” she breathed on a sigh, and let her hand 
fall to her lap.
“I will ask him.” And though she did not under­stand, she caught my sarcasm and 
gave me, a quiz­zical look, head cocked, that reminded me that wehrs looked 
through her eyes, and I begged exhaustion.
Etiquette ruled in Dey-Ceilneeth. If I had fore­seen the automatic response my 
soft inquiry as to the location of my rooms evoked, I would have done it much 
sooner. Happily, she profusely apolo­gized and then seemed to lapse into the 
familiarity of her ritual. If I had understood the sanctity of form and demeanor 
in that society when first I challenged it, I would have fared better. As it 
was, I followed along dumbstruck as she pulled me to the doors and threw them 
open.
They were faced off in a triangle. By reading Sereth and Chayin’s feigned ease, 
the fight readi­ness in Eviduey screamed at me.
Oblivious, Malwlys strode down the corridor to, as she had said, examine the 
humble quarters her staff had prepared next to her own. Helplessly, drawn in her 
wake, I followed. Sereth and Chayin, and the black wehr-master, after, a 
moment’s mu­tual hesitation, joined us.
None spoke. Breathing sounded loud in my ears. Mahrlys’ back as we proceeded 
along the corridor gradually stiffened until I wondered what such a rapid change 
in bearing might portend, but noth­ing showed when she threw open the door of 
rushes and with a flourish invited me to step in before her.
I thanked her, complimented her on the creamy carpets that lay like foam on the 
emerald stone. The pleasure in her face was not feigned, nor her pride. Only 
when she turned to leave and saw Chayin stripping off his filthy boots did her 
smile freeze stiff on her face.
I caught a glimpse of Eviduey’s wing-cloaked arm wrapping around her shoulders 
as Sereth closed the doors of tied rushes and slid the crude bar across.
The chamber held two huge oblong wooden baskets, a bench or table of stone that 
matched the floor, caned platforms, low, with loose cushions. I sat on one, 
rested my elbows on my knees and chin in my hands.
I had hoped to hear, sitting there, jokes or ban­ter between them, a query as to 
how I had fared—anything that smacked of normalcy, confederation, the three of 
us at work upon the problem at hand. But there were not three there. In that 
room of ancient and dilapidated splendor were three units of one each. Chayin 
pulled off his garments one by one, stuck the sword belt between his mud-caked 
boots, and stretched full out on the carpet with an explosive sigh. Hands under 
his head, eyes closed, his regular breathing might have fooled a stranger: to me 
it said “Do not disturb.”
Neither did Sereth even so much as query me as to my success with Mahrlys. He 
made a thorough circuit of the room, barred a second door he found, and leaned 
for a long time against a hanging pulled back from an overgrown window, staring 
out be­tween the cleaves.
When nothing had changed but day to night, the nearing of moon’s rise made me 
speak. “Ask me how ‘I fared, Sereth,” I suggested. I had hoped he would join me 
on the cushioned platform. He had not previously. He did not then.
“If you have something to say, say it.” He did not even turn from the window.
I wondered what I had done to elicit such cen­sure from him. I can perform 
miraculous feats, wreak carnage, trek continents and the space be­tween the 
moments when in his company, or to serve him, or to make him smile. Ousted so 
arbi­trarily from his grace, I felt unworthy of grace.
My voice shook. “I ended up telling her the truth, but she will have none of it. 
Woman to woman, or not at all. With one exception: she wants Chayin for the 
night.”
That one, who had been pretending sleep, sat up abruptly.
“And she sends me her black and winged friend, in an equal gesture of trust and 
respect:”
Sereth turned from the window, leaned back against the wall, slid down it, and 
crossed his arms. “No.”
“Let me make my own decision, dharen,” said Chayin. There was no veil upon him 
then. “For the good of all, for the equality, trust, and respect between our two 
lands, I will take my chances with Mahrlys-iis-Vahais.”
This was the cahndor whole, decisive, as I had once known him. He dug a pouch 
from his sword belt and touched it to his lips. It was small and held little, 
but that little was a potent drug, used by Parsets in moments of decision or 
stress ..
Sereth tossed his head, stared up at the ceiling. “Chayin, things are less than 
they might be be­tween us. We do a precipitous dance here with the unknowable. 
Owkahen serves itself only. Do not be foolhardy. We can ride out this time and 
things will be as they were before. Or we can act regardless of what might 
change. Do not pursue a course on whim, with no clear end in view. Too much 
depends on us.”
I had thought I was beyond shock, but that from him left me speechless.
Chayin, too, looked long upon, him before he answered: “Sereth, I appreciate 
your concern. I see what you see, and admit the risks. But from my point of view 
there is no other choice. Even Eviduey saw that.”
“I like not this love affair of yours with Wehr­dom.”
“I know,” said Chayin, sadly.
I merely looked between them, castigating my­self for my shallowness. Then 
Chayin asked me when he was to be summoned, and I explained about the 
assignation at moon’s rising, and Sereth rose up and began pacing.
“Estri,” he said as he came abreast of me, “just what would you like me to do 
about this Eviduey?”
“I ... I do not know. Whatever you like.” You may think that a coward’s answer, 
but you did not hear the tone of his question.
He grunted, and began methodically to draw from me all that had been said about 
Deilcrit and Wehrdom’s workings by Mahrlys-iis-Vahais.
He was still about it when a woman came to lead us to her mistress. He was his 
most ingratiate ing self, grinning out from under his hair at her, and asking 
about baths and fresh garments and laundry and what was planned for our meal. 
His eyes danced with humor at her consternation that he would speak to her at 
all. But she rose gamely to the moment, answering his every question, her face 
turned pointedly away and in my direction, as if indeed I had queried her of 
these things.
Now the word that. Mahrlys used, that I have translated as “attendant,” was not 
that at all, but “ipherim,” which means literally “attendant of ipheri,” which 
in turn means “radiant,”
“resplen­dent in the sun’s rays.” The word, as the entire language spoken of as 
Beneguan, is in reality much older than the Benegua, or Wehrdom; old as the 
Darsti tongue from which it devolved, old as the science the Darsti language 
evolved to service; older than Dey-Ceilneeth itself.
Once, in a time hazy in my great-great-grand­mother’s memory, the continent of 
Aehre-Kanoss was a great power, possessed of mighty sciences, bastion of the 
Laonan faith. Near the Fall of Man, at the onset of the mechanist wars, 
Dey-Ceilneeth was constructed, light in the eye of a great nation, to stand 
witness to what majesty had existed therein. Here was enshrined Se’keroth, 
symbol of the Laonan rise—until Khys and some few others stole it back. Those 
tempestuous days have been elsewhere chronicled, but allow me to remind you: it 
was the ideological incompatibilities of Silistra and Aehre-Kanoss that 
precipitated civilization’s fall, and framed by its flaunting thereof the 
ge­netic policies that have since that time obtained on civilized Silistra. 
Staring around, awed, in the fabled tabernacle of Dey-Ceilneeth, I conjectured 
as to what mismatched recombination had cre­ated a climate in which such an 
all-pervasive mu­tation as the communcations gene shared by
Wehrdom could become dominant. I could think of no circumstance which would 
inculcate as bi­zarre a collection of strategies upon a society as had 
stabilized into the tableau before my eyes.
Chayin, himself born of a mother whose genetic strengths had been chosen by man 
and not owk­ahen, seemed to draw about him the very light that inundated the 
temple, though the moon only peaked the hedge. It was a soft light, thrown from 
the six crystal towers that pillared the, hall; a light that threw holographic 
phantoms into each corner. They watched, those mindless light sculptures from 
Dey-Ceilneeth’s past glory, eyes ever upon the viewer, facing always each 
observer as they had for thousands of years. Once hailed as the greatest art 
ever, produced by the technocratic elite, they guarded the temple impassive, 
their nature forgotten, their countenances smooth and unruffled by the 
trage­dies that had made of them deities before whom sacrifices were zealously 
and punctually laid, befit­ting their station as ipherim to Mnemaat the Unseen.
When these ipherim of light were pacified with offerings of fruit and oil and 
grain, two liver-brown ossasim swung their weight against a brass wind­lass and 
without even a single screech of metal a whole section of the temple’s stamped 
metal ceil­ing drew back to admit the light of the rising moon.
Coincidental to this opening of the ceiling, the holographic figures dimmed, and 
into the square of moonlight was rolled a hemispherical basin on casters, from 
which a handle of brass rose a hand’s height, then curved back toward the 
basin’s surface.
It was this handle Mahrlys rubbed repeatedly with her palm after we had all 
filed down the dais to crowd around it. Into the depths of this caldron-like 
affair we stared: myself, Sereth, Chayin,
Eviduey, and an ossasim whose pure white fur and stooped hobbling gait denoted 
advanced age.
So we looked into the Eye of Mnemaat: in the basin, which seemed to be at least 
in part com­posed of a convexly ground crystal, a turbulence began. From Mahrlys 
stroking palm, along the dully glowing brass, circling around and down the 
caldron’s circumference, traveled a pale blue, puls­ing light bright as an 
electric spark. Through squinted eyes I saw the basin’s crystal seem to melt, to 
take chop like a restless sea. And then the glow burned so bright I turned my 
head away. But when Mahrlys breathed a command that we com­mune with Mnemaat, I 
turned back my head and saw within that frothing brightness a massive throne 
hewn of red stone, and a sword set across its arms, and that sword was 
Se’keroth. Then the vision was obscured as if by giant wings and the hook-beaked 
visage of a whelt glared at me from the basin’s depths.
I squeezed my eyes shut. Mahrlys uttered a thin cry and snatched her palm from 
the handle as if burned.
“It is an evil omen,” muttered the aged ossasim on my left, as he peremptorily 
gestured me away from the caldron’s edge.
Not one of us in that hall supposed otherwise.
There was a time of staring around, shattered by the ossasim attending the 
windlass that rolled closed the ceiling to the night.
Mahrlys, white-faced, spoke a benediction in Mnemaat’s name. Then the 
pale-furred one left by one door with his underlings, and we by the great carven 
ones. When they had shut behind us and we stood in the torchlit hall, Sereth 
brazenly de­manded of Mahrlys how long Deilcrit had been gone.
This Eviduey answered smoothly, before Mahrlys could retort, “A day and night 
and half a day again.” His wings were half-raised, his eyes the brighter for the 
uncertain illumination, and he bade us accompany him in the same breath with 
which he answered Sereth.
Inscrutably, Sereth assented, taking me firmly by the arm. I had no idea what 
course he intended to pursue in this affair. Nor had I thought much about it: I 
had been watching Chayin. He in turn was intent upon Mahrlys, every muscle of 
his form dedicated to communicating to her his desire, his desirability, his 
magnificence, and his strength. I found it strange to see these introductory 
intima­cies lavished upon another, the slight brushings of limbs and 
inclinations of head I had previously thought restricted to myself alone. I 
turned from it at Sereth’s urging wearily, not pleased with ti-e dismayed 
rustlings prowling my stomach. I deemed them jealousy, and jealousy they seemed 
to be, and I spent the walk back to our quarters sunk in a self-castigation the 
crueler for my error. It was not jealousy; it was owkahen’s advice and 
assess­ment of what I saw between Chayin and Mahrlys, but I did not trust 
myself. Nor did I trust the Eye of Mnemaat, rather assuming that the psionic 
de­vice had picked Chayin’s prophecy from his mind and displayed it to us all.
How subtle owkahen is, to display before us a raging tornado that it may suck 
unheeded from our path the pearl of knowledge before we stumble upon it. And we 
see the tornado and battle the affront and congratulate ourselves afterward that 
we have triumphed, while we have truly suffered the most ignominious of defeats, 
uncomprehending.
What I could at that time not comprehend was what Sereth intended for me and for 
Eviduey, Third Hand, Follower, of Mnemaat.
Upon our way to our sparsely furnished chamber, the ossasim detailed with 
conciliating candor all that Sereth asked of the trail to Othdaliee, wings 
fluttering relaxed in an easy drape over his arms. I was more conscious than I 
had previously been of the ossasim’s size: he was of Chayin’s stature, car­rying 
perhaps a sixth again Sereth’s weight.
It was to be expected that this painstaking civil­ity between them would wear 
thin, and we had barely chased out the torchlighters with their fire pots and 
closed the doors again when Sereth asked the ossasim point-blank if privacy was 
required to this satisfaction of local mores, and the ossasim answered:
“Yes. Yes, indeed it is, if you feel it is.” He was a splotch of shadow upon the 
pale carpet, wings draped around him. He spoke cautiously, as he did all else, 
his every movement calculated to disarm, to present as little threat as 
possible. “Shall I add,” said he, “that I can provide amply for your amusement, 
or include you herein, or whatever you—’,
“Whatever I want is the freedom to travel this keep at will. It is an old and 
much-storied wonder, and I would explore it.”
Rage, dismay, dumbstruck hurt, understanding, paraded through my mind.
“Sereth,” I murmured, almost in tears.
He was accepting the silver armlet Eviduey un­clasped from about his bicep. His 
thought, clear as speech, slit the shield I had long been keeping against 
Wehrdom as if it were a length of Galeshir silk. “You orchestrated this. Bear 
some of the cost.
need this reconnaissance.”
He had spoken no word. The ossasim gave no sign that he had caught the exchange. 
I sat very still in the aftermath of his skills, making no reply as he clasped 
the armlet about his left arm and wished me tasa and departed, wrapped in his 
wiles.
Said Eviduey to me, as Sereth pulled the door shut: “Ask me anything.”
I went and sat on the low platform, opposite him. I, too, have been long in the 
Parset Lands. There is something satisfyingly fit in opposing your enemy with 
every cell of your body.
“What are these powers of which Mahrlys boasts?”
“Open yourself to Wehrdom, as has Chayin, and see for yourself.”
“You said ask anything.”
“Who can say what power the wehr-spirit will direct us to employ?”
“Is Chayin such a prize, then, that Mahrlys courts him?”
“No more than you would be, to me.”
“To you .... Is it not the whole of Wehrdom which acts through each? Are not 
your actions bent toward the greatest good of the whole?”
“You see your fears. Such shallowness is unwor­thy of you.” He stretched out on 
his side, his bear­ing radiating a forceful composure divested of any threat.
The torch snapped and spit in its sconce. “I see what is.”
“No,” he denied. “It is the individual which serves itself. Wehrdom exists 
thereby; it serves all selves, and its self is complete in the weakest whelt 
fledgling, or in the meanest of campts.”
“I do not understand,” I said softly.
“Open yourself and seek understanding. Let me aid you.” I could not take my eyes 
from him, from the slowly stiffening wings, from the grayish circle on his bicep 
where the armlet had worn away the black fur.
“I thank you, no,” I demurred, beginning to’real­ize the untenability of my 
position. “I am going to explain something to you, about how I feel, about 
Sereth, about what can and cannot pass between us.” And I proceeded to detail 
his deficiencies in regard to any possible compatibility index, and my 
particular xenophobic reaction to creatures whose rating on that scale fell 
below 7.00000, which his most certainly did. I would not have bothered if I had 
understood the stiffening of his wings in the context of his prostrate, waiting 
form. There is with ossasim a ritual of stalking which presup­poses a facing 
off: without this decorous commence­ment there can be no ossasim coupling. When 
his wings were fully erect, he rose from the mat and began slowly and inexorably 
to approach me, chest rising and falling deeply, red eyes so filled with black 
pupil that they seemed almost manlike.
I backed away and pressed against the wall, and, shivering uncontrollably, 
prepared to strike him down. Once I had boasted that there was in the universe 
no being capable of desiring me whom I could not fulfill. I had been 
Well-Keepress; I had given pleasure to thrice a thousand men, given it even to 
those who were not quite men, those from other stars. But this apparition from a 
geneticist’s nightmare that backed me against the unyielding stone was anathema 
to my very flesh. I sought a turbulence of killing force as his taloned hand, 
nails protruding their entire length, sought my breast. I babbled wildly that he 
must let me bathe, that I could not couch anyone so begrimed. He would not hear 
me, and as he touched me all that would be forced awry by my application of 
besting skills to this moment paraded before my inner eye, and I let the 
turbulence, now palpably glittering behind his bent head, disperse.
There, are some couchings in which one can go elsewhere, if the reality does not 
suit. This was not one of those. I could not dream him another, not Sereth, not 
any of my kind. And I could not re­strain my need to bite until I tasted his 
blood, nor to sob epithets in my native tongue; but I did not kill him, nor drop 
him in flesh-lock, nor open my mind to him and Wehrdom that I might do premature 
battle, which was what he desired, more even than my use.
They are creatures and they couch like creatures, with a rut that dissolves self 
and leaves them inarticulate, a mechanism for their own reproduc­tive urge. That 
mechanism used me until I panted exhausted under it, well past the point where I 
could struggle against the strength in those slick, pelted shoulders.
I left him scars he will bear evermore on his hide. I came away with fur and 
flesh under my nails. And with a deep acknowledgment of my kinship to ossasim 
that my brain and my preju­dice would not, indeed still cannot, accept.
“Now, leave me. I have fulfilled your chaldra.”
“What?” growled he, not willing yet to remove his imprisoning weight.
“My apologies: a word from my own language. Get you back to your own kind. Your 
customs can surely demand no more of me!”
Those whiteless red eyes blinked, searched deep, withdrew into a coldness.
“No”—and he sighed and gently rose—“I can demand no more.” He rubbed his 
lacerated shoul­der, flapping his flaccid wing impatiently to one side. Then he 
put his fingers to his mouth, licked the nails free of blood. am ... sorry ... 
that this”—and he gestured aimlessly—“that I was not for you what I intended. 
Often, these things ... succeed. There is too much lost in time between us.” The 
hurt in his tone metamorphosed, hard­ened as he spoke.
Unable to stop myself, I asked him again if he would depart. He did not move.
I could not resist it. If he had left when I asked him, what other tale might I 
be telling now? But he did not. My guts churned with horror long restrained, and 
in one flashing moment i took that precipitous leap in the abyss, knowing full 
well what owkahen would pay me for my moment of spite, and willing to bear all I 
could not dare to accept when first his taloned nails touched my breast. Then, I 
had not known him. Then, I had not endured his use.
I threw off that blockade that battened down my mind in the face of Wehrdorn’s 
storm. Into their composite will I sent greetings, and even as he backed away 
with stiffened wings, disbelief in his eyes, I called back the greeting I had 
sent, and set it spinning back upon itself with all of Wehrdom’s reply whipping 
in its wake.
How Wehrdom howled! The sound shook the very walls of Dey-Ceilneeth as savagely 
as the arm-long, spinning turbulence I wielded struck the ossasim Eviduey. He 
flew sideways, as if thrown, which indeed he was. I recollect standing over him 
while he lay dazed and helpless, my skills reach­ing into his sensory network 
and twisting, until his body doubled up at my feet and shuddered in its pain. 
After a while, as the howls grew louder, I regained my temper, put sleep upon 
him, and ran from the chamber calling Sereth’s name.
And collided with him, unseeing, in the torchlit hall. I struggled wildly until 
his identity seeped through my terror, by which time he had us before Mahrlys’ 
door.
“Stand back “ he ordered loudly, for the keening of the wehrs drew ever closer.
The door dissolved in a snowfall of splintered rushes before Sereth’s onslaught. 
But I had ceased to wonder at Sereth’s developing skills, and merely leaped with 
him through the doorway as the tread of Wehrdom became a thumping of many bodies 
running.
Perhaps if he had blasted the door to component atoms, or razed it with heat, we 
might have no­ticed the soft powder that drifted down on our heads as we crossed 
that threshold.
But Chayin lay motionless at Mahrlys’ feet, and we skidded to a stop before the 
cahndor’s still form and the black-silked woman who held a sword by the hilt. 
The blade of that sword lay across Chayin’s throat.
“I thought,” said she, “that this might be some­thing you would understand.” 
There was an infi­nite satisfaction in her voice, one not clear to me until 
everything else became unclear, until between breaths all the room undulated as 
if seen through deep water and my knees quaked beneath my weight and I slumped 
forward, my hand out­stretched to Sereth, a warning unspeakable on my lips. As I 
fell groggy to may hands and knees, I heard her further remark: “Yes, you 
understand steel, and it seems you understand fahrass. Go, then, to the 
step-sisters’ embrace.”
I went, only at the last understanding the signifi­cance of the powder that had 
fallen upon our heads and made its way into our lungs, unnoticed, mo­ments 
before.
VI. Nothrace By Night
“Let me assure you,” grunted Laonan, swinging the sword scythelike, “that I 
appreciate ...” The fhrefrasil, squealing, fell, holding its entrails. An­other 
manlike, agile combatant leaped toward Laonan, slavering jaws wide.
“... that I appreciate ...” Laonan grated again, kicking a severed arm from 
between his feet. ‘... your having freed me from Dey-Ceil ... My mother!” 
Another score of the shoulder-high, rust-pelted fhrefrasil dropped from the 
trees.
“Watch,” advised Deilcrit, and slashed behind Laonan, even as he turned, to 
skewer a bludgeon-wielding beast who dropped silent from an over­hanging branch.
Laonan sidestepped and grimly halved another as it charged. “Like I was saying,” 
he rasped, paused on the balls of his feet while the howling fhrefrasil hopped 
up and down, brandishing staves and clubs and vine-tailed stones for throwing. 
“I do not mean to sound ungrateful, but how long do you think we can stand 
against these odds?”
Deilcrit grimly surveyed the thirty-two fhrefrasil, wiped his brow with a gory 
forearm. “I had not thought about it at all You will doubtless outlast me. It is 
I who am in your debt, for leading you into this. If I were you, I would not 
appreciate me—.”
“Death is better than bondage. Watch—they’ll come now.”
The fhrefrasil spread in a half-circle, two deep, about them. Some searched the 
ground and re­armed themselves. Others waited, yellow eyes blinking.
It was quite plain to both of them that they could not survive a rush by all 
that massed against them.
“One thing pleases,” spat Laonan in a snarl as the fhrefrasil continued to 
hesitate, motionless, like a single being.
“What is that?” grunted Deilcrit, easing himself sideward, shifting the jeweled 
hilt in hands whose blisters had already bled.
“You’re no wehr. Or wehr-pawn, either. That had me worried.”
“And I ...”
The fhrefrasil lunged forward in a wave. The green sword sang and thwacked, and 
blood spat­tered his eyes and he screamed words whose mean­ing he did not know 
as a stave caught him across the temple. Reeling into Laonan, he heard his own 
bellowed demand: “Stop!”
The ground rushed toward him. He grabbed Laonan s waist, expecting momentarily 
the rip of demon claws, the fire of teeth biting deep, the explosion of bludgeon 
shattering his skull.
He staggered, released Laonan, regained his feet.
The fhrefrasil, each and all, stood poised. From their midst came a whine, slow 
at first and then growing.
Laonan cast him a wary, wild-eyed look that brought them shoulder to shoulder, 
blades at ready.
The fhrefrasil, hunched and crying, backed step by step toward the trees.
He could feel the thrill run through his com­panion’s flesh.
“What in the name of Fai Teraer-Moyhe  ?”
hissed Laonan.
Deilcrit took one step, then another, in the direc­tion of the retreating 
fhrefrasil. The whine changed to a hiss that susurrused among the trees.
“No! Stay still,” pleaded Laonan. An iron grip closed on Deilcrit’s shoulder. He 
shook it off, but he did not advance any farther toward the fhrefrasil 
disappearing among the trees.
He turned to Laonan, and with a voice naked and hopeless, in which rode all his 
tortures • and his fears, said: “Tell me again that I am not a wehr.” And he 
threw the green sword to the forest’s floor, and knelt down, staring blankly at 
the in­scription which slithered indecipherable along its cutting edge.
They were barely a half-day’s journey north of Mnemaat’s Wall.
He heard Laonan crouching beside, felt the rough pinch of the man’s fingers once 
more on his arm. “Deilcrit, man, this is no time to get superstitious. It was 
great fortune we had, that was all.” And, in response to Deilcrit’s negation, 
And if it was not that, we will figure upon it. By a nice fire in a good brick 
holding with some soup in our bellies. I have friends. It grows late. We should 
waste no light—here, but strike out. If we leave now, we could be in Northrace 
by night.”
“We? Have you not, had enough of my troubles?”
“Boy, I would have sat in that damnable hole until my teeth fell out. I can 
spare you my sword arm on as hard a journey as Othdaliee. I’ve been twelve years 
in retirement; my own business is going to take a bit of resurrection. Come on. 
Nothrace awaits.”
As Laonan shook his shoulder, something oc—
cuffed to him: “I was born in Nothrace. Eviduey told me.”
“Shan’t be much of a homecoming. Those that live there now—if they still do ... 
it’s twelve years, remember-2-moved in after the wehr-rage killed the Nothrace 
to a man. How came you to escape it?” This was suddenly very cool, and slow, and 
as he spoke Laonan took his hands from Deilcrit’s shoulders and began to trace 
the writing on the green sword’s blade. Something flared in Deilcrit: outrage, 
indignity. It took great effort for him not to snatch the sword from under 
Laonan’s hand. But he did not, only unconcernedly stretched out his raw palm to 
ease it up from the sod.
“How, I do not know, except that I was dedi­cated to Benegua and delivered there 
shortly be­fore the Nothrace tragedy. I would not recognize kin there, if they 
all lived yet: I do not know my mother’s name, I have no memories before 
Benegua. But I would still like to see it ....” Holding the sword, he felt 
somehow in command of more than a weapon. “No man has ever returned from 
Oth­daliee. I am going to.” Deilcrit rose and sheathed the blade in a single 
motion, jostling Laonan as he did so. “And when I return from there, do you know 
what I will do?” Their eyes locked, and each saw truth in the other’s.
“No,” said Laonan very softly. “What will you do?”
“I will put Mahrlys-iis-Vahais at my feet.”
“Will you, now?” The voice was warm, thought­ful. Laonan stroked his burred 
beard. “I believe you just might. Eviduey, Third Hand, Follower of Mnernaat”—and 
he spat those words with a venom that made Deilcrit examine his companion 
anew—“will not like that at all. In fact, he might not live through it .... 
Deilcrit?”
“I care not for Eviduey. I will make a drum from the stretched hide of his 
wings, and use it to call my children.” That voice, choked with fury, he hardly 
knew as his own.
“Deilcrit,” repeated Laonan. If indeed that is what you are about, I can promise 
you my own sword and some few others. How few, I cannot say. But many I knew 
twelve years ago would have hewn their way through thrice that many fhrefrasil 
to win a place on such a battle line.”
Deilcrit turned away, walked among the memnis, ran a hand over the silvery bark.
“Are you saying you could not use my aid?” demanded Laonan, behind him.
“No, I am not saying that. I am saying only this: you speak of blood to fill 
buckets, and it would be bloodier than even you can conceive. I spoke in haste, 
in battle heat. Let us first return from Othdaliee; then if you still wish to 
offer yourself further, offer. We may neither be in the position to offer 
anything to anyone.”
“You will accept my sword, then, until we have quit Othdaliee?”
“I will welcome it. How not?” But he said it absently, for he heard again the 
whelt’s words in his mind: “Allow me to guide you, when that is past, to 
accompany you, when that, too, is gone, to follow.”
The trail to Nothrace is hard. She lies at Mt. Imnetosh’s foot, in the splay 
between the giantess’s big toe and her long one, on a coastal cliff so 
precipitous that she could never make use of the fingers encroaching from the 
sea. The tide is fierce and the spume breeds fog; and Nothrace’s bare bones 
gleamed muzzily through her cold, wet shroud.
He was past wonder at his acceptance of Laonan’s aid. He had added the man to 
his soul’s burden. The matter was a fact, and by the law to which he yet 
subscribed, immutable. But the rest; his gran—
diose boasting; his communion with the jewel-hilted sword; his exhilaration in 
his slaughter! And worse: the creature he sensed himself becoming; he who yet 
stood at the horizon of his mental line of sight. It was he who had spoken of 
blood in overslopping panniers and of vengeance man must never dream.
He was wet and he was tired and he was hungry and he was numb from flogging 
himself with his crimes. He said: “And tomorrow you will accept them, as you did 
the ravishment of women, as you have all else. You are sinking, but into what?”
“I did not hear,” said Laonan, relieved at what seemed the end of Deilcrit’s 
long withdrawal.
“You were not meant to. I spoke to myself. I am used to being alone. What is 
that?” He pointed to a more brightly lit patch of fog than that about them.
“Nothrace.” They saw each other by eye-white’s flash and silvered shadow in the 
gibbous moon’s glow. In that glow Laonan’s teeth glimmered as he grinned and 
clapped Deilcrit on his left shoulder. Deilcrit winced, and growled at his 
companion to take care of the arm.
To which Laonan replied that it had not notice­ably impeded him in the fighting. 
“Where did you learn to use a sword like that? Not in Benegua, surely. I have 
heard and seen that none are al­lowed there.” The implication was that this was 
the truth whose difficult lesson he had learned in the bowels of Dey-Ceilneeth.
“I do not know,” said Deilcrit shortly, and an­swered no further query until 
Laonan bade him wait in the shelter of the undergrowth while Laonan alone 
knocked upon the planks of the hut’s door, through which light streamed to slat 
the dark.
To this Deilcrit would not agree, and after a protracted quarrel in whispers as 
to whose respon—
sibility to whom entailed what, the door opened on its own.
A hunched figure stood there, backlit, a poker or thin staff in its hand.
“Laonan?” she called softly, as if blessed with night vision.
“Laore’s child. Do your ears hear?” Laonan re­plied in a singsong.
“I have cut them off and laid them upon the sand,” she shot back without a 
hesitation.
He whom Deilcrit had known as Laonan heaved a mighty, satisfied sigh. “Blessed 
be He, some things never change. It’s safe. We can go in.”
“How do you know, after twelve years?” hissed Deilcrit, setting his heels like a 
recalcitrant draft beast, ready to take up the argument once more.
“She told me: Identification: response. Query for shelter; acceptance thereof.”
He waited a time wherein Deilcrit only breathed and regarded him steadily.
“Come, now Deilcrit. Two and two are four, so they say. You’ve surely got me 
figured out by now. I’m surprised you think I’m this stupid.”
And with that he strode out into the square of light and stood talking with the 
woman on her thmshold.
The two went in, leaving the doorway wide, and soon he smelled a savory broth on 
the fire, and his stomach pleaded in low churning rumbles.
He ignored his hunger as long as he could. For a while it was overpowered by his 
fear of the un­known, a fear that seeped back whenever the com­manding assurance 
that more and more frequently swept him was gone. He had been less than thirty 
days out of his swath of forest near the Spirit Gate. He fought homesickness 
like quicksand. Almost, he tore headlong through the woods for his bower. But 
the impossibility of taking up that life ever again hit him like a cold slap of 
seawater and left him once more hungry, disfranchised, alone.
With a growl and a mumbled prayer that Parpis’ ghost attend him, he walked into 
the but of the woman of Nothrace.
Actually, it was women, for there were three. They were all of the same family, 
three genera­tions of a beauty that slipped almost unchanged from granddam to 
mother to child. But the child was no child in fleshly measuring, and he steeled 
himself, lest the lust that had thrice overtaken him catch him up and he 
dishonor himself and spill his pollution on this house that succored him.
The girl’s name was Heicrey. She had sunset hair and an aristocratic nose and 
thighs like a young memnis.
Her mother was Lohr-Ememna, and he truly believed the woman to be what her name 
declared: Vessel of Faith. She was enraptured, transfixed with hopeless hope 
fulfilled, there with Laonan beside her after an absence most had sworn meant 
death. The Spirit was in her and she hummed in a soft low voice as her mate told 
his tale to them, rock­ing back and forth at his, feet, her head against his 
knee.
The third woman, Amnidia, was aged as Dey­Ceilneeth’s towers, with a face that 
had been re­folded by Mnemaat’s artistry into a Wisdom Mask the glory of which 
none possessed in the most orthodox of temples. From hollows deep as the night 
sky her bright eyes peered out, missing nothing. She rocked back and forth by 
the hearth on the room’s only padded stool, carding wool and subjecting Deilcrit 
to a straightforward scrutiny that made him sure to close his mouth as he ate, 
careful not to slurp.
The lithe Heicrey collected the meal’s remains, preparing to take the bowls 
outside to wash. He
1 70           Janet E. Morris rose to go with her, offering himself. She 
smiled, and let her eyes flicker against his.
“You will not!” aspirated the old woman for the first time that evening, in a 
voice firm and queru­lous and clipped. “Sit down, Deilcrit, and talk to me. 
Quendros, walk your daughter to the well.” And the man whom Deilcrit had known 
as Laonan slid the bar back from the door and pulled it open. Then with a low 
bow and his daughter’s answer­ing giggle, the two melted into the night.
“Lohr-Ememna, see if you can card wool in the dark,” commanded the hunched and 
ancient woman.
“Mother!” objected Quendros’ woman, but she took from her dam the raw wool and 
the started card and pulled the door shut behind her.
“Deilcrit, come closer.” He did, and sat upon the edge of the hearth with his 
back to the whispering coals, attentive.
Her skin was a chronicle of her days, and he found the settlings of her face 
majestic. In the dignity of her, he read wisdom. In the sharpness of her, he 
read knowledge. In the set of her words, he read revelation. And he did not like 
it.
“Deilcrit, lay hand upon my grandchild, and though you have saved Quendros, I 
will slit your throat with my own hands. I will ...” And he stared at that 
gnarled and clawed curl of fingers that shook before his face.
“Old woman—”
“That is right!” She grabbed him by the tunic and pulled him against her sharp 
knee. “I am an old woman, and I was a Wise Woman once. Do you know what that 
means, heathen?”
He stammered that he did not.
“It means that I know about you. And I know what kind of living death you have 
granted my daughter’s mate.” She let go of him. He crumpled into a heap at her 
feet, stunned.
“Woman, why do you say these things to me?”
“Because you will feed my Quendros to Wehrdom, and plant its awful stigma in 
poor Heicrey’s belly, if I let you.”
“No!”
“I was there when Imca-Sorr ordered the destruc­tion of every child, woman, and 
man in Nothrace. I was on Mt. Imnetosh with two others. I was a Wise Woman. I 
tried with all my might to save what hope we could. Do you know what hope I 
mean?”
“No.’’
“Imca-Sorr saw dire threat in Nothrace. We sup­posed it a human nemesis. We 
tried to save that child whose birth had been foretold, that changer of 
destinies, unheedful of the warnings that, as seeking became reality, the omens 
began to provide. But you see, we were very wrong in our inter­pretation.” She 
rose, trembling visibly, and got wine from the sideboard.
She allowed him to pour it for her, and the normalcy of the action helped him 
ease the dizzi­ness he felt. His mouth was very dry, and the wine slid down his 
aching throat like salvation. He took only a taste, remembering his previous 
faring with wine, but it warmed.
She, too, seemed bettered when she had drunk.
“Ah,” she whistled and laid the diminutive cup on the hearth, “things will right 
themselves. To each comes one chance to erase an error, repair a fault, pay a 
debt.” Her eyes seemed to wander, and her breathing quickened.
“Ipheri, explain to me how you were wrong, what interpretation I should see for 
these facts that yield no knowledge. Please.” He pressed her hand, hearing the 
chatter of Heicrey and her father’s maundering tones and the musical one of his 
mate.
“Please,” he begged as the door scraped slowly, cautiously open.
“What interpretation, wehr? Even on the door­step of your death you jest with 
me? Do you not seek Othdaliee and the carnelian throne? I—”
“Mother, this is enough!” announced Lohr­Emernna, sticking head and shoulders 
through the doorway. “You are ... Mother?”
Deilcrit, black lights obscuring his vision, tried to stop the old woman’s 
body’s insensible fall. Then he tried to stop his own. Then he only lis­tened 
from a great distance.
“Quendros, that vial there, quickly!” Sobs. “What possessed her?”
“Hush your tears, Lohr. She felt no pain. She chose her own time. Be as brave. 
Here, open his mouth, quickly. He is breathing. He is large and strong.” He felt 
his head lifted, something poured between his teeth, choking him with its dry 
powder. It was bitter. Water followed. He swallowed eagerly, glad to wash the 
salty sludge down.
When he could see again, the insect buzz in his ears resolved into a grieving 
Lohr-Ememna and Quendros’ low service over a shrouded corpse that took up most 
of the hut’s floor.
That was when it hit him: Quendros was not Laonan, but a Laonan; an infidel; 
devil-demon; a mage. But as the antidote took hold and he strug­gled erect in 
Heicrey s solicitous arms, he rea­soned that the man was no more threat then he 
had been before. The Laonan sect was so long ago swallowed in the mists of time 
that even faced with a household of them, he could not recall its tenets.
The body was buried, in its own faith, out beside the hut.
He enjoyed the digging; it was thoughtless, heal­ing work, good for his arm. In 
that thoughtlessness he felt elation that the woman was dead and he lived. He 
felt no sorrow, no distress over what she had done and said. She was a demented 
crone who sought suicide. Nor would he let Quendros—he struggled over attaching 
this new and foreign name to his cellmate—slip from his service. He coveted 
Quendros’ usefulness too much to balk at the man’s religion. Then he heard 
himself, that cold and ut­terly capable self with whom he battled, and grated 
aloud: “Quendros, I need help.”
“I had thought you might,” rejoined that one in a hoarsened voice from the 
pearly mist across the grave, “but I had not figured the cost this high.”
Deilcrit did not immediately answer. He looked at the two women strewn like 
leaves upon the new-turned mound, weeping. “It is not fitting to grieve so for 
the dead,” he said very softly.
“I will tell them,” snapped Quendros, and threw down his pick. “You are at times 
a difficult man to like,” he added, and motioned Deilcrit toward the hut.
“I am not in any way admirable,” Deilcrit agreed. “I would not say that,” 
demurred Quendros. “You are an admirable tactician, a good fighter, charmed 
beyond belief. I said you are difficult to like.”
“I am sorry.”
“You would be.”
“What of the women?”
“They have fended well enough for twelve years. Shall I now insult them with my 
pretense that their survival was only luck? Or are we expecting something, say, 
a wehr-rage?” He thrust his face toward Deilcrit’s. Mist swirled between them, 
lit by the hut’s door. “Are we?”
“No,” said Deilcrit with utter and complete certainty. And: “Why do you not kill 
me?” The miserable bleat sprang out of him, unsummoned.
“Over Amnidia? Only one who has never been espoused could ask such a question.” 
Quendros chuckled, shoving the door closed until only a crack admitted the 
night’s moist mist. He fussed with the fish-oil lamp, refilled it, then set to 
stirring the fire’s embers. “Deilcrit, what did you mean? Just what kind of help 
do you think you need?” And when that elicited no reply, he twisted around, 
hunkered down on the balls of his feet, saying, “I can help you fight Wehrdom: I 
know that battle well. But sometimes you look to me to be fighting for it. In 
that I will not, indeed cannot, aid you. If in truth you are fighting to 
extricate your soul from Wehrdom’s grasp ... ?” And he let the ques­tion hang 
unfinished, as if, having voiced the horror, he regretted it.
Deilcrit picked a hangnail until it bled, and the blood ran along the course of 
dirt that blackened his cuticle. He sucked at it, pondering a way to begin, 
regretful that he, had spoken of his distress. But once started, it poured out 
of him like a flash flood. Somewhere in that telling the two women entered and 
set about boiling a brew of steeped leaves. He hardly noticed them. He told of 
his youth in the forest: when about the Children’s Trial, in his tenth year, he 
had been separated from the children’s band and first to approach the gates of 
Nehedra to claim his manhood. As he had come tearing down the path, heart and 
lungs pounding, a huge form had jumped upon him from the trees. Rolling on the 
ground; he had found a rock. When he rose and realized that he had smashed the 
skull of a grown man, he had been terrified. Looking.ever and again over his 
shoulder, alert for the pounding of feet that would be the balance of the 
children’s band, he had rolled the body (for it was too weighty for his 
youngster’s strength to lift or even drag) toward the leaves. When with a final 
breathless grunt he pushed it once more, it fell into the leaves and disappeared 
with a crash of broken sticks into a pit that the piled leaves had obscured. He 
stared at the body in the pit, long uncomprehending, until a growl signified 
ptaiss about, and he raised his tear-streaked face to his death.
But the ptaiss was growling over a man-size corpse which it worried in the 
brush, and he stag­gered backward, away from it, toward the trail, his eyes 
fastened on Nehedra’s mud-brick wall, so close and yet so far ...
Then, when he had gained the road’s middle, the group of which he was member 
broke from the thickets, all wild-eyed and running pell-mell toward Nehedra and 
the maturity that lay ‘beyond the tight-shut gates. It was the only Children’s 
Trial of which he had ever heard during which no children were struck dead by 
Mnemaat’s henchmen.
“So what?” demanded Quendros. “With the ex­clusion of Beneguan children, all 
know how Mne­maat’s culling takes place. There is nothing super­natural about 
it. So you killed a man who would have killed not only you but also the first 
three or four children to complete the course. Good luck and good riddance, is 
all.”
“But you do not see: I was this big!” He laid his hand on the air at about his 
waist’s height. “And the ptaiss killed the other man, while I struggled with the 
first. And meekly sat there gnawing while all of us ran by .... I have been 
saved from death six ... no, seven times by wehrs; and that exempts all of this 
insanity that has come to pass since the Spirit Gate opened.”
“What other evidence do you have of wehr-favor?”
Then he told all, and as he confessed his conjec­tures and his fears, his heart 
lightened. Somewhere in that exposition the women joined the exchange, first 
offering gourd cups asteam with a sweet infusion, then adding soundly thought 
postulations as to what Deilcrit’s brushes with Wehrdom and its inarguable 
predisposition to him might portend. What might in the end be gained concerned 
them. What risk he ran, what could become of him if Wehrdom’s soft touch in his 
mind became a stri­dent command which he could not disobey, did not: they 
sighted his strength of character and his very nature as protection enough.
But Quendros did not add to this lighthearted comfort they offered. His former 
cellmate grew contemplative and somber. He picked his teeth with a charred 
splinter and scratched himself, and occasionally his mouth twitched in a grimace 
whose meaning Deilcrit could not read.
When his words grew bleary and the conversa­tion dribbled to a halt, Quendros 
supposed that Deilcrit might have the just-departed Amnidia’s bed, a straw heap 
under a blanket near the hearth. They, Quendros and Lohr-Ememna, made exit 
through a low, curtained doorway that was set in the hearthside wall, beyond 
which lay a shallow dormered eave.
Heicrey fussed over the low, banked blaze, her curtate brown robe gathered 
close, her unbound hair a cascade about her hips.
He looked at the curtain still swaying slightly, behind which her father and 
mother lay, and softly denied the cup she held out to him almost shyly. Her eyes 
were, deep and dark as new-turned earth, like ancient Amnidia’s.
He shifted uncomfortably and started to pull off the crude canvas boots given 
him in Dey-Ceilneeth. Astoundingly, she moved to aid him Not knowing how to stop 
her, he allowed it, thinking of what the old woman had said to him in her dying 
breaths.
“Have I taken your bed?” he asked when he could stand the awkward silence no 
longer.
“No,” breathed she, who scraped with her finger at the mud which caked his 
boots. “I sleep there.” And she pointed to a second waist-high door, this one of 
ill-fitting planks, on the hearth’s far side.
“Then you had better do so,” he growled roughly.
With downcast eyes she turned and rose from her knee’s and banked the fire as 
suits for an easy rest, and rustled wraithlike past him in the gloom. There was 
a creak from the darkness as she pulled open her dormer’s low door, and then 
nothing.
He sighed and lay back, hands under his head, and closed his eyes. After much 
tossing and turning, he sat bolt upright and stripped off the rough sword belt 
which insisted on jabbing him, and the binding, ill-fitting tunic, then took the 
rolled blan­ket at the pallet’s head and spread it over himself.
He was at dream’s elusive gate when a swishing noise resounded in that echo 
chamber on sleep’s threshold.
He held very still, wishing the embers threw light. Then the blanket was lifted 
and her firm little breasts burned against his chest. He turned his head 
slightly and she froze immobile. So did he. After a dozen breaths she eased her 
length against him and glided one thigh over his own.
It occurred to him that she yet might leave if he pretended not to wake, but he 
could not suppress the smile that touched him. Unmoving, his hands under his 
head, lying on his back with her bent leg thrown over him, he awaited what would 
develop, his eyes wide to the darkness.
She was delicate, persuasive, her movements eloquent. After a time he drew his 
right hand from under him and wound it in her hair.
Later, he chased her back to her own straw, when the dawn birds whispered their 
sleepy tenta­tive songs. He slept then deeply, dreamlessly, and awakened to 
scents of boiling grain and Quendros’ homely banter.
He rose and pulled on his garments amid jibes as to the, lateness of the hour, 
all the while wonder­ing how Quendros’ rawboned, lumbering mass could have 
spawned anything as delicate and sup­ple as the girl-child Heicrey. Then, only, 
he remem­bered to be embarrassed by his near-nakedness before that one’s mother, 
and abashed at his cozen­ing abuse of the pair’s hospitality.
But it lasted only a moment before the well­being he felt, and when Heicrey 
herself entered, rubbing sleep from her eyes, it was as if a ray of sun had 
struck him in the face.
Her discreetness shamed him, and he struggled to emulate it, but his eyes 
repossessed her and he resented with all his heart the knowledge of her that 
darkness had veiled from him.
It was not long after the meal that he contrived to speak with Quendros alone.
“Tell me about the Laonan faith,” he began awkwardly.
“Which facet?” Quendros teased. They were chop­ping kindling. Deilcrit 
attributed the other’s bared teeth and squinting eyes to the sun’s bright rays. 
In the daylight the hovel was poor, flaking, cracked, a three-humped overturned 
piece of pottery bak­ing in the sun. Thunk! went Quendros’ huge bronze ax. 
“Thunk!” replied his own.
“What are your betrothal vows?” he blurted out.
“Son,” grunted Quendros between strokes that would have felled whole trees, 
“you’re a miserable risk, not much in the way of temptation to a woman’s eye. 
What have you?” He leaned upon the ax and wiped his sweat-soaked hair from his 
eyes. “Not even your life’s sure. You’d have her to ask,’ y’know. ’Tis not my 
place to intervene. But these battle-brink couplings are often born of 
desperation. Nothing comes of them but grief. If I were her, I’d not hear you 
till you’re back from Othdaliee. And then maybe I’d not.” He snorted, hawked. 
“But I’m no woman.”
“And it would not anger you?”
Quendros regarded him narrowly, stroked his just-shaven chin reflectively. “Now, 
that’s up to you, isn’t it? What you make of it, I mean. If you’re not out to 
harm her, and if you’d be to her what a woman requires of a man, who am Ito 
object? But if you’re deceiving me ...” He leaned close, so close Deilcrit could 
gauge the procession of rot in his front tooth. “Then I would ... do whatever 
seems just. I’m no Wise Woman, to read the future. It’s on you, to read your 
intent.”
Deilcrit drew in the dust with his booted foot, then met Quendros’ glare once 
more. “I cannot say what I will do. That is what I have been trying to tell you 
.... Things are happening to me that I cannot control. I want a thing, and it 
occurs and brings great trials, and then I must want some­thing else to survive 
the trial, and then I am in worse straits than before. I cannot say ....”
“Why not wait and see?”
“I cannot.” It was wrenched from him through clenched teeth. “I must either have 
her, or leave this night.”
“That bad, eh?”
Deilcrit grunted an affirmation.
“Well, ask her mother, boy, is all I can suggest ...” But Kirelli’s abrupt 
descent wiped the rapine grin from the big black-haired man as if it had never 
been.
“Oh, Kirelli,” Deilcrit pleaded silently, “please, not now.” And with a soft 
“Kreesh, breet,” the whelt circled once about his head and was gone heavenward.
Filled with thanksgiving, he squinted after the receding dot until it was lost 
in the greening sky. Then he turned from Quendros, who again chopped wood with a 
fervor that spat chips, and hurried to the hut, that he might speak with 
Heicrey’s mother before his courage left him or Quendros changed his mind.
Lohr-Ememna dashed his hopes into sharp, glit­tering shards, and as if she 
sensed this, she was excruciatingly careful as to where her words trod: 
“Deilcrit, I cannot, as a Wise Woman, condone this match. It is to be hoped that 
you will under­stand that Laonan vows are sacred vows, and that if you later 
care to take up the study, things might change.”
They both knew this to be an excuse. Her tired countenance pleaded with him not 
to press the matter.
He retired to ponder whether Woman’s Word could be binding upon him if the Woman 
herself was not bound by his laws.
Then, decided, he chased down Quendros, who wandered by the cliff’s edge where 
crumbled Nothrace overlooked the sea.
There were tumbled buildings once tall as the maze around Dey-Ceilneeth, great 
ways of rubble among which quenel and roema,, their smaller, scavenging cousins, 
hissed and spat and slunk. _There was a spray salty in his nostrils, a drizzle 
blown inward from the sea that intensified as mid­day and its rain, approached.
When Deilcrit came upon him, around the twist­ing of a hovel’s one remaining 
angled wall, Quendros was seated on a heap of clay bricks, listening to the, 
thunder of the waves as they sought to climb the cliff’s face.
To his right and rear, Othdaliee squatted, as always enwrapped in mist and 
cloud. She is not high when judged from land’s height, but at the Northrace 
ledge, where her skirts drop sheer to the sea, her true proportions are 
revealed.
He sat by Quendros’ side. His face must have bespoken his disappointment.
“We will leave soon, then?” ventured Quendros, scanning the choppy waves far 
below.
“We, or I.”
“We, lad. You have my word. But the day is half-spent. Rest another night.”
He squeezed his eye shut upon hearing that, and knew he did not have the 
strength to refuse.
“If you must,” he acquiesced without emotion, suddenly very tired.
Quendros clapped him upon the back and rubbed his shoulderblades. “That’s a good 
one; it never pays to fight fate.”
“Are you sure?” he retorted, somber.
“No,” murmured Quendros, rising abruptly to stretch. “I am not sure. I am sure 
of less and less the longer I live. But of one thing I am sure: even one woman 
cannot flaunt another in matters Of the heart. And speaking of matters of the 
heart, I have some deep matters to discuss with Lohr­Ememna before I take the 
trail. She is a difficult taskmistress, but her touch fortifies.” And he 
stretched a stretch that creaked bone, and set off down the ruin-strewn street.
He spent the midday there wandering among Nothrace’s ghosts, turning a chunk of 
rubble here, a bleached bone there, seeking some feeling that might tell him he 
was home. He peered in twice a score of empty doorways, even three which were 
not empty. In one of these the door was slammed in his face. At the lintel of 
two others he was forced to explain his presence. Each time, he used the 
Laonan/Laore exchange formula he had heard Quendros use with Amnidia.
Only later it occurred to him that he might have been endangered. At the time, 
he was calm and secure and unconcerned.
He unearthed a verdigris-eaten knife hilt in an empty, three-windowed but of 
stones calked with clay. Its floor was three concentric sunken ledges, and it 
was in the bottommost of these that he was kneeling, scratching among the soft, 
loose dirt. The top half of a skull and some far-scattered hu­man bones told him 
how the occupant had died: the skull casing was shattered, bones cracked for 
marrow. He lounged easy under its mournful stare, digging in the cool sand with 
the ancient knife.
Outside, the steady drum of afternoon rain commenced, and all around him the 
shadows, lost definition. But he was dry and warm within the hut, which leaked 
in only four places. He spent a long time watching the water drip from among the 
ceiling stones, wondering how the rocks could have been cajoled into assuming 
the arch of, an inverted bowl.
She tinkled: “Deilcrit, I have searched every­where,” and ran lightly down the 
stepped flooring.
Her red-gold hair was darkened, plastered to her head with rain. Water streamed 
from the end of her braid. She reminded him, in that moment, her face alight 
with joy and dappled with raindrops, of the spirit power Estri. He shook the 
specter aside, reached up, and sluiced a drop from her nose. “How dare you chase 
after me in the rain? Your mother will have both our hides.”
She blinked at his severity, and crouched beside him, pressing her head to his 
chest. He took her tiny, icy hands, both of hers in one of his own.
“Please do not send me away,” she pleaded, her lips finding his throat.
“In daylight? Never.” He chuckled, and set about extricating her from her 
sopping robes.
She was not the fine-honed Estri, nor the soul-sating cup that was Mahrlys, but 
her slim thighs hugged him and her shapely arms wrapped him around and her hard 
little belly heaved with her abandon.
Mindful of his predicament, he sent her home and waited a suitable interval, 
hoping that she obeyed him and bathed before entering her mother’s presence.
He was lying back, counting the moments’ pas­sage and enduring his arm’s 
complaint of the dampness, when the whelt alighted in one of the three 
shutterless windows.
“I have been expecting, you,” he said, almost relieved. “Was it you who routed 
the fhrefrasil just beyond Mnemaat’s Wall?” Three more whelts ap­peared in the 
window just left of Kirelli’s perch.
Deilcrit ignored them. “Was it?” he demanded, and opened his mind to Kirelli as 
if he did it thrice a day before meals.
A whisper sounded within his inner ear, and though he looked upon the 
silver-beaked whelt in the window, a flowing mass of visions passed lei­surely 
across his sight, each one somehow filled with enlightenment that came in great 
reams enwrapped in single words.
The whelt touch whispered “no” and he was inundated with a whelt’s-eye view of 
what had transpired in the battle with the fhrefrasil. And the respect with 
which the whelt viewed him, the patience with which it awaited his awakening, 
told him more than a hundred parables.
He saw the Eye of Mnemaat, and the carnelian throne pictured therein. “Take it 
up, for yourself, for your destined conscription into Mnemaat’s service, for us 
all,” sighed Kirelli’s thought astride a low twittering that filled his ears.
And he saw Mahrlys, and Eviduey, and what else opposed him. And in an unreeling 
of the years gone by, he saw what factions dwelt in Wehrdom, what perversions of 
its strength the Dey-Ceilneeth coterie expounded; what Kirelli’s folk decried 
and obstructed: “Such determination by the few for the good of the many only 
services the few. Wehrdom cracks asunder like a melon overripe, and only a 
digging out of the putrefaction will keep the whole fruit from rotting away.” 
Thus did he hear the prince of wehrs; but it was what he saw chroni­cled of that 
long struggle which cried out to him that here was no choice but a duty.
Or was it the part of him that had been readying itself for this moment since 
his birth?
This final horror, the fear of losing self that had crippled him thus far in his 
journey, having gasped out its ultimate defense, slunk away before Kirelli’s 
desperate fury.
The whelt hopped to the earthen floor and danced upon it, wings outstretched, 
kreeshing. Behind, oth­ers filled its vacated perch, and in the third win­dow 
the paws and slitted eyes and tiny black fingers of quenel and roema and even a 
ptaiss’ twitching ears could be seen.
But Deilcrit saw only the whelt Khali, who had so long sought his bond.
And through those squawks and squeaks and the mind-touch that deciphered them he 
heard the tenets of those of Wehrdom who sought him, and found them to be 
acceptable, conversant with his own. The blur that was Kirelli’s wings aflutter 
showed him a great.maw yawning amid the sharp-spired gardens of Othdaliee, and 
he heard tell of the wonderful creations housed within. And the danger. And the 
death that was not ‘death, but a different sort of life.
And he shuddered then, and unconsciously drew his limbs about him, as the whelt 
danced the de—
tails of his days in the packed earth of a Nothrace ruin.
But the whelt’s intelligence spoke on: of the shad­owy unknowables, of might-be 
and must-not-be, of the unalterable limits within which all to follow must take 
place, or die stillborn.
“Some have flown by and seen that the portals are still open, but all haste! 
Soon Othdaliee will be impassable, closed up for a thousand years.”
“And what if the doors should close?” He formed the wehr-thought hesitantly, 
discomfited by the easy proficiency his mind displayed.
“If the door should close,” twittered the whelt, its head cocked, green eyes 
blinking, “then Mahrlys and Eviduey and theirs will triumph and you and I and 
all who oppose them shall perish in the greatest wehr-rage Aehre-Kanoss has ever 
suffered. Wehrdom shall be only one-sided, and that dedi­cated to the endurance 
of the group who will then rule her.”
“And what,” stormed Deilcrit’s wehr-voice, ring­ing in all their inner ears so 
that Kirelli hopped backward and squawked in alarm, “of Imca-Sorr­Aat? Has not 
Mnemaat a hand to lend?”
“Mnemaat is no more. Imca-Sorr is an empty title, a vacant throne with no 
presence worthy of the honorific ‘Aat’ to guide it.”
“I see,” said the wehr-voice of Deilcrit, and he did.
There passed between them then some assess­ment of dangers awaiting, and all the 
while the wehrs gathered, until when at last he extended his arm to Kirelli and 
the whelt flapped to his right shoulder, the windows were black with them.
Careful of the whelt riding him, he walked up the ledges to the hovel’s door. 
Around the stone but they crowded, ptaiss and fhrefrasil and campt and berceide 
and even ossasim and guenel and roema. He heard the far-off wailing of fear from 
the but whose door had been shut in his face, and he grinned without humor and 
reached up and smoothed Kirelli’s raised crest.
He halted for a moment before those gathered to pay him homage, then made his 
way through them to the over-look where he had previously sat by Quendros and 
pondered questions whose answers had not been in man’s ken.
Those adherents of Kirelli, those wehrs who were also his, followed after like 
the white wake of a bark.
At the very edge of the precipitous drop he halted. A thousand lengths below, 
guerm churned the water, phosphorescent, wriggling like snakes in a basket, 
slithering on one another’s backs, leaping from the surf that they might better 
see what scanned them from the cliff’s height.
After a time, ‘he waved his hand and the sea subsided. He turned to the gathered 
wehrs, dis­missed them, and they were gone.
Then he strode through the rubble of Nothrace, with Kirelli on his right 
shoulder, toward the but wherein awaited his human ally, Quendros.
But when almost upon it he slowed, and spoke gentle commands to Kirelli, and 
sent the whelt to wait in the trees that circled the hovel round.
The reason that he did this was a portent in the form of shrill and angry 
voices, that split the air of the waning day.
It was Lohr-Ememna’s voice that was the loudest, and hence her tirade which 
first made sense to him: “... And if you want to succor some red-eyed hairy 
bastard, you go ahead! But not in this house! I will not have it. The shame! I—”
Then Heicrey’s falsetto bleat: “Father, do not let her make me do this. I beg 
you. Please!”
And Quendros at the same time: “Silence, the both! Let me think!”
And though there was not silence, there was moderation of tone, and he could 
make out no more words, just voices and Heicrey’s sobbing wail.
With a curse upon the sharp noses of women and their power, he sneaked to the 
hut’s door and flattened himself beside it, attempting to sort mat­ters out in 
the light of what Wehrdom had revealed. Mahrlys’ face came to him as if her very 
presence hovered beside. At length, not pleased with what he had discovered, and 
not knowing what he would do, he took advantage of a break in Lohr-Ememna’s 
marginally lessened ranting and shoved open the door.
The three froze, thhr-Ememna with her mouth open.
Heicrey’s shivering form was huddled in a corner, her whole countenance red and 
swollen, hands balled into fists, hugging herself,
Lohr-Ememna wrung her fingers and closed her mouth.
Quendros looked very slowly over his shoulder, as if to make sure he in the 
doorway was really Deilcrit. Then, his lips twisted in disgust, he raked his 
hand through his hair, ordered Deilcrit to shut the door, and strode to the 
sideboard, where he uncorked a large day rhyton and drank deeply from it.
Deilcrit leaned against the door he had closed, arms folded, his eyes flitting 
from Heicrey, who had her fist stuffed into her mouth in an effort to check her 
hysteria; to Lohr-Ememna, who seemed about to attack with tooth and nail; to 
Quendros, who had not yet fallen down dead from the stuff he had drunk.
Instead, Quendros drew near, pushing Lohr­Ememna roughly toward a corner. The 
woman, with a ptaisslike hiss, sank down there, her face covered by her hands.
Deilcrit shook his head mutely to the earthen vessel Quendros extended.
“Drink it, idiot. It’s not poison. You’re going to need it.”
Deilcrit did that under the pitying, exasperated scrutiny of Quendros, whose 
great frame rocked with suppressed emotion. “Wise as a guerm’s anus, aren’t 
you?” he rumbled, low.
And when Deilcrit only returned his glare with a stricken blink, he ordered him 
to sit down and have another drink.
This, too, Deilcrit did, settling self-consciously down cross-legged before the 
hearth.
Quendros pulled the padded stool under him, and summoned his daughter with a 
resounding snarl. Hiccuping, the girl swayed before her father, at his order 
took seat on the cold hearth’s edge.
Quenros looked from one to the other and rubbed his face with his palms. “Well, 
you two, you’ve done it for good and fair. Now I’m going to tell you both some 
things I maybe should, have told you before, but—”
“Quendros, you cannot allow this disgrace—”
“Woman,” snarled Quendros at his spouse, “I will shut you up if you make me. 
They don’t understand .... He certainly didn’t know, and you’re deep in this 
yourself from having kept silent. Now, repeat the tactic, and you just might 
equalize things.”
Deilcrit, amazed, twisted around to see what the woman would do, But she was no 
Beneguan woman: she muttered, only, and obeyed.
“Now, my spouse is not unjustly upset—”
“Father!’
“You, too, amorous one. If you had paid more attention to your studies and less 
to your puberty, you’d have had enough sense to know without being told, after 
all that has occurred.”
The girl started to cry, fat tears racing down her cheeks.
“All right, that’s not wholly fair, but—”
“Quendros,” interrupted Deilcrit, fortified by the drink, which with each 
swallow eased him more, “you know how I feel ..” And he let it hang, because he 
did not really feel that way at all; not now.
But, even if a half-truth, it was the right thing to say.
Quendros smiled glumly. “Yes, son, I know. And it’s a pity, but ... Look: did 
you know Amnidia was the woman who diapered you cross-country to Benegua? 
Neither did I. Lohr-Ememna knew, though, and to her that explains why Amnidia 
sought your death with her own.”
Deilcrit had that piece of the puzzle: the Laonans esteemed the race of man 
above all others, and had misconstrued him as its instrument. But he did not say 
that, or anything. The creature he had been long becoming was wiser than that. 
It kept silent.
“Lohr-Ememna couldn’t help overhearing what passed between you two: Amnidia 
called you-wehr, and worse. Do you, as she accused, seek the carne­lian throne?”
—
Only the day before, he would have been at a loss to answer. He said: “Yes.”
Quendros hunched over on the stool, elbows on his knees, hands clasped. “You say 
that, under­standing that no human, no man, can ever reign from Othdaliee?”
He shrugged.
“I told you!” screamed Lohr-Ememna, charging toward him.
As Deilcrit scrambled back, Quendros caught his woman and held her until her 
struggles subsided and she leaned against him in a paroxysm of grief.
Heicrey, chin on her drawn-up knees, looked on Deilcrit from out of the shock of 
betrayal. “I thought she was wrong,” the girl whispered, while he won­dered 
where all the water that sprang from: her eyes could have been stored.
“She is wrong,” he mumbled helplessly, and spread his hands against the urge to 
hold the wounded girl close.
“Is she? Will I bear a baby, or a winged wehr?”
“I do not know that,” he admitted gently.
She reacted as if she had been struck in the stomach. She doubled over and began 
in earnest to weep.
He got to his feet and went to where he had safed the makeshift sword belt in 
his straw and strapped it about his waist, staring at the wall’s mud bricks.
Heicrey lunged at him and wrapped her arms around his legs, moaning his name.
He knelt down carefully and extricated himself, holding her by the arms, forcing 
her to look at him. But he could think of nothing to say to her, and they still 
huddled thus when Quendros stooped out from under the curtains that separated 
his sleeping chamber from the main room of the hut.
“Come on, you two he said in a lowered voice from under raised brows. “Deilcrit, 
what’s this about?” It was the binding on of sword that Quendros meant.
“I thought ... I have to make Othdaliee before ...” And he could not tell them 
more than that.
“Sit down, the both. Good. Now, Deilcrit, first, and to make matters most clear, 
I’m not sure I give a damn about all this”—and Quendros mo­tioned around—“but I 
told you I would not fight for Wehrdom, and if you’re seeking not only 
Imca­Sorr-Aat but other things there, I just don’t know ...
“One thing at a time. First, the question of the child.”
“Is there to be one?” he wondered, not knowing how they could all be so sure.
“Yes, that’s the question, but not the way you meant it. The question is whether 
man should suffer a wehr to live, most especially if it comes out of woman’s 
belly. We’d been arguing that ques­tion so long after Wehrdom proved that we 
should have acted at the outset that it seems, to Laonans, academic. We don’t 
tend to speak of it: it sub­sumes all we do.”
“You mean you would kill the child?” he dis­believed, outraged.
“If it’s an ossasim, most certainly. The question is whether to abort it in her 
womb.”
Heicrey wailed, and tugged pathetically at his sleeve.
“What sets you up as executioner of unborn children?”
Quendros hawked and spit and growled for the drink to be passed him.
“Look, son. You’re a Beneguan and I’m a Laonan, and there’s no getting around 
that. Outside the Wall of Mnemaat, men don’t farm fields expressly for campts to 
trample. We’re hunters, gatherers—not draft beasts for Wehrdom. We eat what we 
can catch, and not just an occasional fish. And women don’t call the shots, nor 
are we forbidden what tools our resources can provide. Understand? Those are the 
pathetic remnants of our old ways, the ways from which you and I and Heicrey and 
Eviduey and Mahrlys-iis-Vahais are sprung.
“So?” He feigned unconcern, reminding himself that he had eaten campt liver and 
the kills of Mahrlys’ ptaiss.
“So, those are the ways of man, the ways such as built Dey-Ceilneeth and the 
gardens of Othdaliee in which you’re so anxious to test your mettle.”
“And those ways failed them, and they fail you,” observed Deilcrit. “They almost 
wiped life from the world. If man is no longer the most successful, be 
comforted: some men are wehrs.”
“You’re really gone, now, aren’t you?”
And Deilcrit wished he could speak to Quendros alone, of all Kirelli had 
revealed, but this was not the time or the place.
“I am Beneguan.”
“That’s right: a man who would not slay a ptaiss for its hide if he’d freeze to 
death without it but rather bend down with his head to the ground and let the 
ptaiss eat him.”
Quendros stared long and piercingly at Deilcrit.
“Boy, I can’t tell how much you’re going to comprehend, but I think I’m 
beginning to see my part in this. If I’m wrong, that’s my problem. But I ask 
you, by reason of all that has passed between us, to listen, and open your mind 
and try to understand.”
In that pause cut to fit his assent, he allowed that he would do those things. 
Heicrey edged closer to him, and he put his arms around her and she laid her 
head in his lap.
“Once there was a man called Laore, and he taught, wisdom and grace in a time so 
far gone as not to matter, except for the irrevocable changes that have come to 
pass from out of what he wrought. It was a light of learning, a way for man to 
become more godlike, that he taught my ances­tors, and from him sprang a sect, 
and then another, whose revelations were scientific and whose bless­ings unto 
the race of man were material as well as spiritual.
“As with all sweeping changes, some acceded, some obstnicted, and some led 
revolution. It was a long and tumultuous reign that knowledge had, and then man 
proved himself too shortsighted to deal with the power he, had come to wield.”
Deilcrit saw the room anew. His awareness mul­tiplied and came back on him from 
all sides, and he knew that Kirelli and some few others looked through his eyes.
“The green sword you got from these folk at the Spirit Gate: it comes from that 
age.”
That startling bit of information jerked his atten­tion back from the new 
perspective Wehrdom offered.
“It is said that the blade is unsheathed anew at every change of ages; long it 
was thought lost to us, the property of Mnemaat, who reclaimed it at the Fall of 
Man. But you have come to possess it, and for that reason alone I think I might 
have to aid you .... But I digress. I was trying to explain to you both why 
Heicrey’s mother was so upset, and rightly.
“Just prior to the Fall, man could work some godlike wonders. Dey-Ceilneeth is 
one. The Eye of Mnemaat, which works by mind’s power but with­out magic, is 
another. Even greater wonders did they create in the realm of medical science, 
and they turned their skills to the eradication of death itself, and to the 
perfection of the race of man. This is where the Laonan faith split in two.” 
Quendros coughed.
Heicrey nodded. Deilcrit wondered what possi­ble significance this might have 
upon the present.
“Who precipitated the war, we will never know: too much was lost. But in the 
aftermath, two things became increasingly clear: first, that war had so 
despoiled the land that man as he had evolved might not survive; and second: 
that many of his experimental creatures, once useful in the search for a 
stronger race of man, were not experimental anymore. Do you understand?”
“Nd,” said Deilcrit, “I do not.”
Quendros sighed. “I cannot teach you enough science to enable you to comprehend 
the process, but I can make it very simple: Wehrdom is man’s creature. Man and 
evolution’s. Certain genetic predispositions were injected into the gene pool in 
the hopes that in the metamorphosis from the old evolutionarily stable niche, by 
then obviously untenable, to the new stable state that might ob­tain when nature 
sorted out which of her creatures might live and adjust, and which could not and 
would perish, man might win a place. And if not man, then his stepchild, the 
ossassim ....
“But none had reckoned on the communications ability mutating on its own among 
all the recombi­nants and artifically structured genes and the cata­lysts the 
added radioactivity provided .... Wehrdom began as a stopgap measure, in case 
man did not survive. Some say Imca-Sorr-Aat was Mnemaat’s agent,, oversaw 
Wehrdom’s development. I’d like to ask him ....”
“The child, Father!” Heicrey sniffed impatiently.
“Right,, the child. Well, what we now know as ossasim was a last-ditch attempt, 
and those who could work such miracles did not survive the birth of their last 
creation. So when it became dear that ossasim come in only one sex, and only 
from hu­man wombs, it was too late. And when, even later, it became likely that 
man per se would also survive, the particular ability to produce ossasim either 
by breeding with one, or by breeding to a human whose grandparents had those 
particular ..,latents in their history, was well-seated in the race. As my 
ancestors would have said Ossasirn have a set of evolutionarily stable 
strategies the highest paying of which is coupling across species lines.”
“That is impossible. You cannot mate a ptaiss with a quenel.”
“You can mate two varieties of any breed. And I’m not talking about what we can 
do; I’m talking about what our forebears could do. They could take apart the 
tiny particles, like beads strung on a string, that make you the person you are, 
and rearrange them in any order they pleased. They could even split each bead in 
half, and attach disparate halves. They had not only the choice of which bead 
lay next to which, but of what each bead itself was composed.”
“But they could not make ossasim females?” Deilcrit disbelieved, hard-pressed to 
imagine beings that put other beings together with strings and beads.
“They might have erased the imperfection if they had survived. But they did not, 
and we are the people we appear as a result of what they did.”
“You are telling me that Heicrey is a wehr?” Deilcrit hazarded.
“No, I am telling you that you are one, even though you do not look like one, 
and that a child resulting from your union with one of Heicrey’s descent will 
have only one chance in three of being a true man or woman.”
“You said that before you told me all this.”
“I know, Deilcrit, but I thought it might help you if you understood why the 
child must die.”
“I do not understand it yet. If it is lucky, by your standards, it will be 
human. If it is not, it will be an ossasim. What is its third choice?”
“It will be like you,” said Quendros softly.
“I see nothing so terrible in that,” Deilcrit replied. Heicrey did, and she 
commenced weeping once more.
Try as he might, he could not understand why Quendros thought it better to be a 
“true man or woman” than a man of whatever kind he himself was, or than an 
ossasim.
But when Quendros stared steadily into him, he said: “I have listened, and I 
have tried to under­stand. If by calling me other than a man you feel you can 
absolve your obligation to attend me, I hope you have succeeded in your own 
sight. In mine, you need not have bothered. Stay or come as you please. These 
distinctions are too subtle, between kinds of men. There is a saying that man 
has not long to live in Wehrdom. Perhaps the truth of the saying is rooted 
somewhere in what you have just told me.” He stood, hitched the sword belt up on 
his hips. “You may keep the sword of white metal. Stay here with your family and 
adju­dicate these weighty decisions. You neither want nor, need my 
interference.” He reached down and ruffled Heicrey’s hair as she pressed against 
him, arms thrown around his waist. “I offered to be whatever your customs 
demanded, but what I lack is suitable blood, and I cannot change that. So I will 
leave you to do as your conscience thinks best.” The wehr-call was strong in 
him, so strong he heard his words over its cooing.
“I do not understand how you can be so dense,” snarled Quendros, snapping to his 
feet. “I told you, I’m coming. And I told you, I just wanted you to understand 
Lohr-Ememna’s grief, and Heicrey’s decision, when she makes it. It is not up to 
you or me, but the two women, and I’m damn ready to be quit of women’s troubles 
myself.” With that he went and got the white-metaled blade, mumbling: “Be thrice 
cursed if I were fool enough to stay here when I have a chance of laying eyes of 
the bearers of Se’keroth, or even regaining her.”
But Deilcrit heard no more over Heicrey’s heart­broken snuffling. Even if he 
had, he did not know the name of the green-bladed weapon he bore, over which so 
many before him had died.
It was no easy leavetaking. He promised a multi­tude of promises which he 
doubted his ability to fulfill, even if he had so intended, in order to ease 
Heicrey’s pain.
When they were quit of the but and Lohr­Ememna’s imprecations upon both their 
heads, he heaved a sigh of relief that made Quendros chuckle, and that one 
remarked that he, himself, felt rather like he had when they first stood beyond 
the Wall of Mnemaat and watched the Northern Gate close slowly amid the creak of 
winches, and knew free­dom once more.
Deilcrit took a deep breath, and agreed that there was no freedom that’he could 
see within Quendros’ hut.
Quendros advised him to take his own wisdom to heart, and stay out from between 
the clutches of the ladies from that moment on.
Then Kirelli joined them, flapping with one small joyous cry to land on 
Deilcrit’s right shoulder.
“Kirelli, this is Quendros, my ally among men,” said Deikrit.
Kirelli’s polite “Breet” was not answered by Quendros, who became of a sudden 
immersed in a study of the ground they trod and the vagaries of the trail ahead. 
When pressed, the Laonan mut­tered about whelts’ legendary treachery.
Deilcrit, as the wehr pressed’ its, beak against his cheek, found that he had 
become possessed of a thousand eyes through which his progress could be seen: 
from above; from every side; even from so great a height and distance that he 
was only a possibility sliding through the dark, as if he stood on the pinnacle 
of Othdaliee and awaited himself.
Quendros indicated a right-hand turning, and as they took the fork, Deilcrit 
queried the whelt of
19S  Janet E. Morris ossasim. Some short while later he said to Quen­dros, “You 
are not wholly right about Wehrdom. Kirelli says that you are wrong about 
ossasim. Those women who look, human, but are wehrs, are ossasim, not women.”
Quendros shook his head, saying, “Go on.”
“Ossasim have no interest in the blind, deaf-and-dumb females we call truly 
human. But between the, manlike wehr and the ossasim wehr there is competition 
for human wehr females. Ossasim can become, if they wish and if there is a need, 
female for a season, and procreate. Human wehrs cannot.”
He waited to see if Quendros would speak. Deilcrit wanted him very much to 
speak. But he did not, and Deilcrit—said: “From the wombs of both ossasim and 
human wehr females have be­gun to come spawn which are wingless and oftimes 
infertile, but some show themselves capable of playing female to a winged 
ossasim.”
“It is long overdue.” Quendros grunted. “Nature heals all wounds.”
“Does she? I think that the end of the ossasim’s dependence upon mankind is an 
awful omen. Once there is no need for man, then what? We receive from ossasim a 
certain favoritism: most ossasim suckle at woman’s breast. Though the 
competition for females between man wehr and ossasim is strong, Kirelli says it 
is a mere foreshadowing of doom. Once ossasim are secure as a species, the man 
who is not a wehr will perish.”
And the man, who is?” growled Quendros in an uneasy tone.
“Ah,” said Deilcrit, “now, that is what remains to be seen.”
Both fell then into their own thoughts. All that could be heard was the cough of 
ptaiss and the slither of berceide and the low bark of the quenel who were also 
a part of the unseen entourage ranged around them in the wood. So did they trek 
untroubled out of Nothrace by night, in the safe­keeping of the prince of wehrs.
VII. The Bowels of Dey-Ceilneeth
I recall a number of their miscalculations: occa­sions on which I was too 
besotted by the drug to even realize that the man strung by his manacled wrists 
before me was Sereth; occasions upon which they would remind me of that fact, 
and of who I myself was. And I would strive to hold some elu­sive significance 
that I might attach to his identity and my own, succeed therein; but by that 
time have forgotten why I struggled so against blind existence; and fall into 
the difficulties of recollect­ing myself once more. I have thought that if they 
had known me, known my history and what previ­ous experience I had had with 
living bereft of self, they might have tried some other tack. As it happened, I 
was the wrong woman on which to try that sort of interrogation, and they got 
nothing from me in that manner.
Which I suppose led them to gradually decrease the amount of drug in my system, 
a process which I recall as a gradually coalescing dream which slid into reality 
so subtly that I. cannot remember ex­actly when I lay in the straw of our cell 
and real­ized that I was deep in some soporific’s embrace. There was a long 
period of struggle with this con­cept during which I seemed to sit within my 
body’s cavity, my own ribs a white framework sprung amid orange-brown, pulsing 
flesh. And I wrote thereupon my plight in huge red letters that glowed when I 
looked at them. Which I did, bereft of relevance so completely that I would 
spell out the letters slowly, puzzlingly, but by the time I had reached the 
last, forgetful of what letter the first had been.
I was starting once more at the first letter of the first word scrawled on my 
inner eye’s lid when. I felt rough hands lift me up, and a sharp liquid forced 
down my throat, and an interminable jour­neying that must have covered all of 
three man-lengths.
They snapped my wrists into close fetters high above my head, and I dangled, 
slowly swinging. Whether it was the dank liquid or the kiss of metal bracelets 
that brought me to, I would not wager. I tried to lift my head. That first time, 
it fell back against my raised arm, but I had realized that I was chained, 
strung, and I began a desperate search for the present and cognizance that 
yielded adrena­line which buoyed, me further until I could force open my eyes. I 
did that, and sought more. I called up my mind’s skills but could not marshal 
them—the effort of raising head cost too much.
So I waited, and held my eyelids apart and tried to make sense of the blurs I 
was seeing.
It was Mahrlys’ figure I first discerned, robed in black, her green eyes 
swimming above in a pale oval face.
“So, we have you at last conscious. How does it feel to hang helpless in 
Dey-Ceilneeth knowing that your sorcery will not avail you?” And she leaned so 
close her spittle sprayed my cheek. “You see, we have had experience with 
sorcery before. I told you I had powers ....”
And she nodded to someone I did not yet see.
But I recognized Eviduey’s touch as he spun me around. And I saw Sereth, head 
lolling, strung as was I on a chain from the ceiling.
“What think you now of your most formidable companion?” Mahrlys hissed from 
beside my ear.
“I think,” I croaked, then spoke clearly, “that you had best kill us both 
quickly.”
“Kill you?” She chortled. “I have promised you to Eviduey. And besides, I have 
only started amus­ing myself with him.”
I squinted through the drug’s haze and saw what amusement she meant. And the 
fury and doubt that assailed me brought me new clarity: “You have disastrously 
overreached yourself, saiisa,” I snarled, not caring that she could not know the 
word’s meaning. “If he should wake, even as much as I, he will bring this 
dungeon down upon your head.”
She laughed a barbed laugh, and even Eviduey chuckled.
“Do you think”—she leered—“I did that to him while he slept? What satisfaction, 
if he had not the Anse to struggle? What value pain, if its recipient i not 
conscious to endure it?”
It was then I realized that Mahrlys was not woman, but wehr. No woman would have 
ordered those weals and bruises, not upon such as Sereth.
“Wake him, Eviduey.” And the winged one, like a shadow, did as she bid. Then I 
realized what had ravaged Sereth: the like of the ossasim standing beside. There 
came from Sereth, as Eviduey’s claws raked out, in answer to Mahrlys’ command, a 
low groan. A shudder racked him, and his head swung slowly upward.
I watched him swim up through the drug, as I had done, and sort the sights 
before him. “Again,” spat Mahrlys.
His eyes shut momentarily, his nostrils flared, and he leaned his head against 
his upstretched arm. Only that.
We hung there, for an interminable moment alone, our antagonists forgotten, 
staring across the man’s-length gulf that separated us, through the miasmic mist 
the drug threw out.
“Estri. Good,” he whispered.
I tried to make him know, with my eyes, that I also was heartened that he lived, 
for my voice would never have held. When he fell limp in his chains, as the 
undertow of the drug reclaimed him, I hissed a prayer to my father, Estrazi, 
that I would endure long enough to see Dey-Ceilneeth a smoking pile of rubble in 
which no thing lived.
This from me caused Mahrlys to command Eviduey’s violence upon Sereth anew. The 
pain woke him, and sweat broke on his brow and dripped down his corded frame.
She asked me many questions, most concerned with Chayin and our respective 
origins, all of which I answered with some degree of truth that I might save 
Sereth what I could.
Once when Eviduey came close, I spat upon him, and he, rather than strike me, 
took vengeance upon my couchmate. I did not again show temper, but answered 
numbly all that Mahrlys asked. In me was the surety that if indeed Wehrdom could 
triumph over us three, the fate of Silistra was sealed. I cared little. The 
kindness I did Sereth mattered more to me than the fate of a thousand worlds.
When Mahrlys tired of the sport of posing ques­tions, she departed, and there 
were only Eviduey, and Sereth, who seemed barely conscious, and I, in that small 
cavelike prison cell.
He studied me in the torchlight, walking around me where I dangled, suspended. 
Then he gave Sereth a drink of the bitter liquid, holding his head up by the 
hair. And me also he watered, gifting me with the slight increase in the clarity 
of perception the drink provided.
I found I could almost taste his thoughts, almost gather my wits, almost seek 
action upon the time. But hesting, that alteration of what exists by mind’s 
command, eluded me in the thick drug, mist, and after a while I realized Eviduey 
yet loitered, limp wings draping him like a cloak, long-taloned nails gleaming 
against his biceps, and that our chains had been winched downward so that my 
feet rested upon the straw.
It was a dangerous game he played, restoring me sufficiently that I might 
understand what he did and be responsive to him before Sereth’s eyes. But he 
seemed not to care, and I was not the one to caution him.
I begged him to release me from my fetters, when all else was passed.
He laughed softly in answer, ran his sharp nail down me from throat to belly, 
took the torch, and left us in the darkness.
“Sereth?”
“Ci’ves, try to rest,” he advised, his voice low as straw rustle in the utter 
blackness of the cell. “Sereth .”
“When I have decided on a moment, little one, you will be the first to know.” I 
could hear his pain.
“What of Chayin?” I blurted.
“If we live, and he lives, we will ...” He stopped midway, and I heard the chain 
rattle, and a grat­ing as of teeth. “... consider ourselves anew. Now, let me 
gather my wits, and you try the same.”
I was a long time doing his bidding. I was close, so close that I was on the 
verge of speaking of it, when a wingless ossasim shone a blinding torch in our 
dark-accustomed eyes and pried apart my clenched teeth and thrust something 
chalky and gagging into my mouth and I lost, all I had gained.
How many days passed thus, I can only vaguely calculate. Once Sereth hissed an 
oath at Eviduey, and I thought he would die as the consequence thereof. Once 
Mahrlys tortured us both. Once, when Sereth could not respond to her, she flew 
into a rage that brought me for the first time truly under the claws and teeth 
of an ossasim. They must toy with their kill in the wild; they are cruel beyond 
mortal conception and inventive beyond mere hu­man skill.
I fastened my eyes upon those red fires that were Eviduey’s, and at first my 
silent pleading weakened him, but the heat of the game won him back. I was not 
so brave as Sereth: the fiery scourg­ing of my flesh, coming ever dreaded from 
behind, from my side, from before me, divested me of all pride.
It was my lesson at the ossasim’s hands that raised my pulse and sharpened my 
mind so that I could again, as I had not since my first recollec­tion in the 
cell, plunge through the stepsisters’ mists in search of my skills.
When I had found them, and begun to test the time, the hinges had not yet 
creaked, the cell had not yet flooded with torchlight as it did once “nightly” 
when some one of Mahrlys’ servitors ap­peared to give us our food and then more 
of the drug.
“Estri,” he said to me, just as I was about to speak, “I want you to try to 
reach Chayin’s mind.”
“And you?” I talked to the dark.
“I am going to see what might be done to unlock these fetters.” In his tone I 
could hear that grim humor which signifies a chancy venture. But previously, I 
had heard only drawled queries as to my faring, and softer comforts when I 
whimpered in the night.
I wondered if my arms would still function if indeed he was, successful, if they 
could ever recol­lect their former function. They had been held above my head so 
long that they had ceased to ache.
Then, as he requested, I fixed my attention in­ward and sought Chayin’s thoughts 
through the corridors of Dey-Ceilneeth ranged above my head.
It was not long until I located him, and thus verified what I had not 
wholeheartedly believed: that he lived and had not moved to aid us. My mind 
sniffed around the chamber first, in search of evidence of incarceration; then 
around the edges of the cahndor’s awareness. I had thought that if he lived he 
might be sedated, as were we. Even when first I caught his accents upon the 
wehr­wind, I presumed that he was acting under pressure, constrained. With a 
troubled mind, I withdrew, and said only, “I have him. What would you like me to 
say?” into the utter darkness of our cell.
It was a moment before he husked an answer, long enough for my heart to leap and 
thump about my ribs. But he was not dead or unconscious, only deeply absorbed: 
“Determine his location, his condition. Do not let him sense you. More, do not 
let Wehrdom catch your thoughts.”
I nodded, and tried once more for Chayin. Then I told Sereth what I had seen 
there.
Even as I did so there was a blaze of agonizing heat at my wrists, and I was 
falling. Arms caught me in the pitch dark, eased me to the straw.
I gibbered against Sereth’s chest, hysterical with relief, entreating him to 
leave then with me and forget Chayin and Se’keroth and all else but ourselves.
“Ci’ves, quiet, be quiet. It is all over. I was not about to go through that 
again.” He made refer­ence to an earlier captivity we had shared. “It was just 
awaiting the moment. Now it is here.” And I could feel his probing attention 
invading me, aid­ing my system’s attempt to throw off the effects of the 
fahrass.
When I felt more myself, I felt pain. He moved to untangle us, but I gripped him 
tight, lips pressed to his throat in the darkness. “I did this,” I con­fessed 
dully. “I could not control my temper. Wehrdom .” And I shivered, then started 
again: “I saw the result, but I did not care. Please, do not hate me.”
“Estri .” His fingers gripped my shoulders, pushing me back. I knew what look he 
must bear, beyond the dark. “Why do you always gather up everyone’s blame and 
try to heft it? I was on the brink of something similar myself. It might have 
happened from my slaying her berceides. Better thus ...” And he fell silent.
And continued again: “Wehrdom makes my guts crawl, and I cannot deny it. See to 
your body, as I must to mine. There is much to do.”
“Chayin?”
“At the very least. I cannot do less than confront him, after all we have 
shared. There is a testing in this for him. We must be most tolerant.”
“Ebvrasea, however you want it,” I whispered, and he drew me against him and we 
shared strength further, until he tossed his head and whispered: “Someone comes. 
Be ready to relocate to Mnemaat’s hall.”
“Sereth .”
“I will do it. Just allow me.” His fingers ex­plored the lacerations on my, 
back.
“You?”
“If we need it. The flaw in your method might complicate things. We cannot 
afford to be sepa—
208            , Janet E. Morris rated by time. I am untried, but conversant 
with the procedure.” And I heard in his voice that deter­mination before which 
no words have worth.
“If we do not need it?”
“Then we are going to walk Dey-Ceilneeth and gather up a little satisfaction on 
the way.”
“Restrictions?” I queried him, beginning to feel the agony in my arms.  —
“None at all, although I may ask you for some snychronization.”
“None at all?”
“That is right. We are going to kill some wehrs.”
I must confess I felt nothing but eagerness, and a weary, wise joy that 
adversity had built a bridge over the growing chasm between us. I sought his 
hand in the dark. He enclosed my fingers in his fist and I drew it to my lips 
and kissed it, even as the door opened in a blinding spill of light.
When I could see, I saw the wingless ossasim, choking, torch in mid-drop toward 
the floor. Its hands were around its throat and it gagged and heaved, falling to 
its knees and then to the straw, retching blood.
“What did you do?” I gasped, lunging upright. Staggering, I almost fell. I had a 
difficult time making my limbs obey me, and only half-heard his reply:
“I threw an envelope around it and sucked out all the air. No one argues long 
with a vacuum.” He said it in a clipped, hard way that made me know that he 
considered any weapon meet, and every­thing he had a weapon.
The torch was guttering. He knelt to retrieve it: slowly, very cautiously, 
weaving on his feet. His scabbed, scored back betrayed little of the pecu­liar 
alert ease with which his body responds to battle. And when he turned, one hand 
on the stones to steady himself, I knew that the drug still held him in its 
fervent embrace; that he, as I, was in little shape for what lay before us. And 
I saw how much the simple envelope he had cast about the ossasim had cost him. 
But I saw a thing I had not expected, also: that inward, death-dealing laugh­ter 
behind his eyes that had been the last earthly sight of so many adversaires.
“You will bear some scars this time, ci’ves,” he assessed, half-staggering to 
his feet, torch in hand, and leaned against the wall for support.
I think I said: “It is no matter,” but the drug lay like new snowfall in my 
ears, and I am not sure. I recollect realizing that he was right, that I had not 
the energy to spare upon the half-healed wounds Eviduey s claws had dealt me. I 
sought his side over a distance that was mere lengths, but seemed to stretch 
ever longer with each step I took to close it. I noted the wingless ossasim, for 
I stepped care­fully over its outstretched arm; but I gave it little more 
importance than my own befouled state, or Sereth’s, or the two chains that hung 
swinging from the cell’s high ceiling. The manacles that had once depended from 
them were no more: their molecular structure, by Sereth’s will, had become 
volatile in the air about them: they no longer existed. All that remained was a 
slagged link at the, end of the chain; and long, risen blisters encir­cling my 
wrists, and his.
He took me under his arm, and though he was greatly weakened, I felt a share of 
his strength come into me.
“Chayin,” he muttered. His body was stiff against mine as we sought the 
corridor. There he threw the bar on our prison’s door, that door like a score of 
others in the vault.
Even while he hesitated before the cell next to ours, as if he might open it and 
free the occupant, a low growling rose in the back of my mind. My ears did not 
hear it, for it was Wehrdom’s growl: they acknowledged their dead.
All the hairs on my body stood away from my skin. My heart pounded loudly, and 
by its efforts chased back the drug mist until it was a shroud wrapped about 
owkahen’s disclosures. Under my shield, awkwardly, I reached out and tried to 
disperse the mist. I had foreseen this moment: the stone like frozen ocean deeps 
and the straw-strewn corridor and the two of us, naked, weaponless hips 
brushing, his arm about my shoulders, as we assayed the climb out of the bowels 
of Dey-Ceilneeth. But I had not seen the “how” of it: owkahen shows me only 
fragments of what is coming to be, not al­ways how the thing takes shape. What 
it showed me then by way of the wraithlike mist wrapped around the schematic of 
my days caused me to shiver and pull him closer.
“The wehr-rage. Sereth, do you feel it?”
He nodded. “It is a pity the guard had no weapon. I would rather fight my 
battles with sword. It is less taxing. Perhaps the next ....”
The next was not, long coming, but yielded no weapons to us, for the ossasim and 
their wingless siblings are well-armed by nature and only strap blades about 
them when in ceremonies concerning their human kin. Three ossasim, two wingless, 
skidded down the tall, narrow staircase, to fall lifeless at our feet.
It had been so smoothly done that I had not noted them until they had started to 
tumble, but Sereth sank down on the stairs, shaking his head savagely. His chest 
was heaving, and the hand that held the torch shook. “Curse this drug, and these 
... things,” he muttered.
I blinked back tears.
“Sereth, there must be hundreds of wehrs in Dey-Ceilneeth. We cannot fight them 
all. Please ..”
He glared up at me. “Please what, Estri? Leave Chayin sunk in Wehrdom’s slime? 
We owe him more than that, no matter what he has come to feel about us. If by 
our actions we have driven him to seek elsewhere for what comfort we could not 
provide; then whose fault is that? I told you, long ago, that we would one day 
come to contest over you.”
“Over me? Sereth, you do not understand.”
“I understand what he wants with Mahrlys, what he sought in her arms.”
“It is not just that.” I stepped over the tangled corpses and sat beside him on 
the narrow stair, though every nerve in my body pleaded with me to flee, though 
my hands shook and my mouth was dry as the Parset Desert.
“Sereth, you lump us together; Chayin and me, and call us lacking in compassion 
and ascribe that trait to the Shapers who sired us; but when it counts, you do 
not see. He is his father’s son: Raet was a ... being to whom Wherdom would have 
been irresistible. He and. I are cousins, it is true, but my father’s folk would 
not condone such as this.”
He snorted, and pushed to his feet. “Estri, some intelligence has been at work 
here, and what it has wrought sickens me. I could not care less whose hand was 
turned to the task, but you can be sure your father and my predecessor did not 
raise a hand against it.”
“And you will?”
“Watch me.” His breathing was regular. His eyes were clear. I did not doubt him, 
but only matched him up that odd staircase, which could be best climbed 
diagonally, for the height of each step was uncomfortable to the stride and the 
breadth would not support a human foot other than lengthwise.
“Sereth ...”
“Estri, I know what I can do and what I cannot. I am not unaware of what the 
time will and will not provide. Down!”
And I threw myself upon the stairs as a wind ruffled my tangles and with a 
rushing noise a winged wehr dived feet first, talons gleaming, at Sereth from 
the vaulted dark above. He cast the torch. It rolled down a dozen steps, the 
light from it dancing crazily.
He had no footing there, on those stairs barely the width of my hand. He pressed 
back against the wall, and the dark shadow whirled and dived again, but he was 
rolling upon the steps when the wehr ‘ struck the wall, and on the thing’s back 
before it recovered from the concussion of striking unyield­ing stone.
Mind skills take, a moment, or two, or three, to bring to bear. He had, not had 
them. They;grappled, rolling down the sheer staircase. I heard the whooshing 
sound, even as I leaped to follow, and reached without looking up into the 
wehr-awareness that hunted me, not caring that all of Wehrdom might enter into 
battle with me through that door I had opened. No, I did not care, only assayed 
my descent, searching my pursuer’s nature. Then I saw through its eyes, saw my 
flight, sensed its dive, talons, extended ready to plunge into my back and dash 
me against the wall. I felt its urge to gut me. Then I severed its optic nerves, 
and threw myself left.
My shoulder hit the leftward wall of the stair­well with a crunch, echoed almost 
immediately by the thud of the blind wehr striking the stair headfirst.
I rubbed my shoulder, shaking, deep in the wehr­thought, and threw a blast of 
outrage into that buzzing network that stopped the wehr-converse as if it had 
never been. In that silence, I could not promulgate the deafening effect I had 
used previously.
So I withdrew from the quiet, disturbed that Wehrdom had so easily come upon a 
counter­measure.
“Estri,” rasped Sereth, reclaiming the torch, “you are going to have to kill 
swiftly. There is no sub­tlety in war. There is sometimes quarter, but not this 
day.”
“Have we declared war?” I panted, taking his hand and by it gaining my feet.
“We are considering it.” He grinned, a grim and momentary flashing of teeth.
It was then, while still the edges of my mind brushed Wehrdom, that I heard the 
other sound, the trumpeting that echoed through Wehrdom’s ranks, but I knew not 
what to make of it, and had many other more pressing concerns ....
When we had gained the entrance to Dey-Ceilneeth proper, eleven ossasim and 
fifteen of their wing­less kin lay dead in the lower dark.
“This way,” grunted Sereth, and I recalled that while I lay with Eviduey he had 
walked Dey­Ceilneeth.
We did not speak upon the way to Chayin, did not exchange even conjectures as to 
where he might be found. That was as clear to Sereth as to myself. Owkahen 
offered up that information with a glib smile and unmistakable anticipation.
Upon the way to Mahrlys’ chamber we killed a black ossasim, but it was not 
Eviduey. That was all, though Wehrdom growled so deep and loud I felt it through 
all my shields, as one might feel a motor humming beneath one’s feet.
What we did see, however, was two groups of ossasim fighting among themselves.
“What think you?” I hissed the query.
“Quiet!” said Sereth, flattened against the wall where the corridor branched. 
Then: “Now.” And we slid past the corridor’s entrance unseen.
“I would give this whole continent for a sharp blade,” he grated, glowering back 
the way he had come, at the corridor down whose length lay those quarters we had 
been assigned.
I wondered what the chances were of our belong­ings remaining in that chamber, 
then dismissed it, thinking that I could soon attempt to shape him a 
blade—manifest one from its molecular constit­uents. But in my heart I knew I 
would not, that this was no battle to be won by steel or stra, the green metal 
from which Se’keroth had been forged. And suddenly I saw the blade, and its 
bearer, and the blade exploded into light, and fell spinning down a sheer’cliff 
face. Then a whelt’s visage peered at me, silver beak aclack, and I snapped my 
mind shut and faced what lay before us: the rushed door leading to the keep of 
IVIahrlys-iis-Vahais. We had been immured long enough for it to be replaced.
I touched his arm, cautioning. Under his shad­owed cheekbones, a muscle 
twitched. The sound of his teeth grinding whispered in the’corridor.
With his hand upon the wood frame of the door, he hesitated, and drew back, and 
stood very still, his eyes upon his feet. Then he ran his hand over his brow, 
and tossed his hair back from it, and turned upon me a look of such 
self-consuming ag­ony that tears filled my eyes and my vision swam.
“Ci’ves, you are free with—advice. Give me some now.”
I thought of what lay before him. I searched for encouragement, but my mind was 
as empty as a tidal pool when its sea has become only a memory scoured on the 
rocks.
They had been of one flesh for years. Between them lay such blood debts as, 
could hardly be counted. I said only: “I, too, love Chayin.”
And he nodded and tried the door, which gave to his touch.
The cahndor lay with a red robe draped over his shoulders, and 
Mahrlys-iis-Vahais hunkered down between his legs, her head on his thigh. About 
lay the remains of a feast, the silver dishes glowing soft in the oil lamp’s 
light.
As we slid within and closed the door behind us, he looked up, his hand on 
Mahrlys’ black-haired head.
Sereth slammed the wooden bar into place. Mahrlys-iis-Vahais sobbed, raised her 
head, bared her teeth, and growled, her eyes rolling.
My flesh-lock froze her. I could not take a chance that through her linkage 
Wehrdom might converge upon us before we were ready. In her terror at finding 
herself imprisoned in her own body, un­able even to blink her eyes, was a 
warning for Wehrdom which I wished them to receive. I gam­bled that her plight 
would stay them. But I won­dered, as Chayin unsteadily rose and faced Sereth, 
who leaned, arms folded, against the door, whether danger to any individual 
might constrain such a whole as Wehrdom showed itself to be. Up from the floors 
below, and through the windows and riding the air and by way of my sensing, I 
chroni­cled the wehr-rage. From all about I sensed things dying: within the 
forests and in the maze and in the sky and all through Dey-Ceilneeth the 
inelucta­ble massacre we had triggered by slaying the guard wehrs waxed, 
screeching. Once started, the wehr­rage would continue until the wehrs lay 
exhausted. This I knew. Chayin had eloquently warned us previously. But we had, 
not heeded him. Behind my eyes hung a film of blood lust that threatened, even 
though I was its quarry, to enlist me. I looked at the cahndor through that red 
haze, and all traces of compassion, of love, were burned from my heart.
I only noted his uncertain steps and his faraway, inward sight as he struggled 
to make sense of what he saw in the face of the wehr-wind.
The membranes cloaked his eye, unmoving, protective. He looked at us, at our 
bruises, our lacerations, Weaponless, naked, befouled, we faced him, and he 
blinked, and rubbed his right shoulder, and croaked:
“Sereth. I thought ... She said ...” Then he ceased, and his fingers found his 
chald belt and toyed there, and he seemed to shrink smaller.
The silence made my ears ache. They measured each other.
“Release her,” growled the cahndor at last, of Mahrlys.
“Chayin,” Sereth murmured. “Tell me what you thought. Say something, anything, 
that will ab­solve you, of blame.” He was calm, laconic. I found need to sit, 
and sank to the floor. My legs would not hold me.
“Release her. She is mine.” Chayin glowered.
“Chayin, I would hear what owkahen has been whispering in your ear, and what you 
make of it.”
“Then release her. I have taken her in couchbond. You have Estri ....” And he 
blinked, and looked away, and it seemed that he shuddered.
“Estri, do it,” said Sereth to me, pushing away from the door to ease his way 
warily toward Chayin.
I did, but only after I crawled over to her and made it very clear in a whisper 
what I would do to her if she so much as coughed.
“Where were you?” Chayin roared suddenly. “Why do you not bear Se’keroth if you 
went to reclaim it?”
“I come to you dressed only in my own filth, bearing heavy wounds, and you talk 
to me of fantasy. How is it that your sensing has so utterly failed you? Or is 
it that you would prefer not to believe that your couch-mate has deceived you?” 
Sereth spat that term, which is one not bandied lightly about on our western 
shore. “Your couch-mate, ‘ he continued, while, amazingly, from Mahrlys’ huge 
green eyes silent tears ran in a steady stream, “drugged us, immured us in those 
dun­geons beneath, and worked this art upon us.”
And very slowly, arms held away from, his body, Sereth turned full around. When 
he again faced Chayin, he added: “Is Wehrdom’s wine, so heady, are her thighs so 
soft, that you and I will enter the circle over it?”
It is a rhetorical cirlce, that of which he spoke, and its meaning is a flight 
to the death.
“Say something, wehr,” I hissed. But she only sat with those silent tears.
Chayin wheeled on his heels and strode to the wall and slammed his fist into the 
ruby hangings there. From without came a howl, and then another, and the sounds 
of flight and pursuit.
“Do you not realize what you obstruct?” came Chayin ‘s tortured query. The 
bunched muscles slid on his back, his hands crumpled the hanging, and with a 
vicious yank and he wrenched it from its hooks, unveiling a window that 
overlooked Dey­Ceilneeth’s maze.
“No, I do not,” said Sereth and I together.
Mahrlys then attempted to rise. I cautioned her as to the inadvisiability of 
such a move, and she sank back.
But Chayin had seen, and he strode to stand between us.
“No, you do not,” he mimicked savagely. “What powers here contest, what might be 
gained, does not at all concern you. The wehrs offend you. That is enough for 
you both. I can smell the death on you. You have judged and now would mete out 
their fate. Little is it to you that this culture, as
118            Janet E. Morris old as that we call Silistran, fights its own 
battle to survive.
“We came here, we upset a balance, we must restore it.”
“Are you telling me,” said Sereth, “that you can excuse what your . creature has 
done to us with her own hands? On what scales are you weighing us, that after 
all we have shared, Estri and I sum less than this saiisa whose legs you will 
split a few times and then discard her as you have all others?”
“No, by Uritheria, under whose wing I yet stand, no! Sereth”—and he stepped 
close, and I saw tears of frustration there—“I tried to tell you. Sereth, there 
is a thing here that must be done, and that thing has determinedly sought me. 
There is a schism in Wehrdom. Curse your unwillingness to hear what does not 
suit you: there is a struggle here, and it is one best viewed from the distance 
of evolution, and you will not hear that! Wehrdom seeks renewal before the doors 
of Othdaliee close for a thousand years. It was that reason that Wehrdom courted 
me—”
“You are right, I will not hear that,” said Sereth. “Not because I do not 
believe it, because it does not matter.”
“But it is all that does matter,” decried Chayin.
was approached, and I accepted. And certain things I will do for them, as will 
we all—”
Sereth spat a word I have never heard fiim use. His hands were on his hips, and 
though his fists were clenched, they shook.
It was then that Mahrlys spoke, when I thought they would summarily destroy each 
other while Wehrdom howled about us:
“No, Chayin, you will do no more. Or you will do little else than what you have 
done.” With a fluid grace she rose. I allowed it. She sought the cahndor’s side, 
and he took her in under his arm.
“You did not abrade me for deceiving you, and I thank you,” she said to him, and 
then to us: “Chayin knew nothing of what I did. And I do not regret it. I sought 
to kill you in such a way as he might never know. I failed in that, and then was 
wooed by what you might be able to tell me .... and I lost. But only partly. I 
needed time, and time I gained.” She bit her lip, and took a deep breath. I knew 
she held back still additional tears. “All gamble; sometimes, the best of us 
lose.”
Chayin growled.
“No, beloved, I have lost. You can hear them: Wehrdom fights Wehrdom, and it 
will not cease until one faction or the other no longer exists. Our only hope 
now, is what might occur at Othdaliee.”
“I could—” started the cahndor hesitantly, but she cut him off.
“No, brave one, the time is both too late and too early for that.” Sereth looked 
at me, but I only shnigged. I could make no more than he from that exchange. “I 
have lost, and I must flee Dey­Ceilneeth. I am unfit to guide her; what you will 
see when the run rises will attest to that. Nor would I be allowed. Death is my 
society’s answer for what misjudgments I have made, and death is the only flight 
at whose end I might find amnesty. I ...”
Chayin whispered in her ear, and she sagged against him and began weeping in 
earnest.
He looked at Sereth with such an abject plea for understanding that I rose and 
sought the dharen and ran my hand along his back. His thought touched mine, and 
it was a thought of what could be lost here and what might be saved.
Sereth said: “Keep your life, woman. Give us our clothes and our weapons and we 
will go our way. Chayin, you can come or stay, as you please.”
The cahndor’s brow furrowed. “It is to Othdaliee we must go.”
“No!”
“For Se’keroth, Sereth. And for Deilcrit, and for an easy night’s sleep at the 
Lake of Horns. Owkahen shows it clearly. You do not have to believe me. Look 
yourself.”
And Sereth squeezed his eyes shut, and expelled a deep breath and said: “Estri?”
“Your will, as ever,” I replied.
“Chayin, if I must, I will accompany you to death’s door in search of an 
explanation for what you are doing.” The flat, cold words hit the cahndor like a 
backhanded slap. “But I will have one. And I will have it before either of us 
sleeps again. I have had about all the temporization and forereader’s gibberish 
that I am willing to take. Now, get us our belongings, and out of here.”
Chayin, in a thick voice, mumbled to Mahrlys to return us our things if she had 
them. Which she did, in that very chamber. And that led me to ponder how Chayin 
could have been so completely fooled by her, and even if he was fooled. And 
con­sideration of foolishness led me to mark the abrupt change in 
Mahrlys-iis-Vahais since last she and I had talked, when she had so demeaned 
such men as Chayin and everything for which they stood.
We used her bath and excused ourselves from her ministrations. I would rather 
bear my scars than chance some new acquaintance with the drugs of Benegua.
During that time Chayin announced that Mahrlys must accompany us. Sereth 
objected, and I thought they would, after all, end their lives trying each 
other’s strength when the black-haired girl herself entered the conversation.
“I cannot go through the forest. The whelts are supreme there right now, and may 
hold it indef—
initely. My enemies—Kirelli—would spend a thou­sand lives to make me spend mine. 
I cannot, should not leave Dey-Ceilneeth. My death awaits me here.”
So I glimpsed what forces Mahrlys found herself ranged against, or thought I 
did, as she pulled a white robe about her and girded it with a child’s dagger 
and slipped her feet into rope sandals.
“You must go through there,” she said, and pointed to a hanging that could have 
concealed a doorway. “It is the quickest way to Othdaliee. Indeed, the only way 
you might survive the journey. And thence, there is no returning.” And she took 
a slow and wistful tour of her chamber, stroking the bosom of the whelt-headed 
deity on whose tray I had once sat.
“You must go,” repeated Chayin. Mahrlys made a motion of denial.
“My very thought,” agreed Sereth. “If nothing else, she will make a good 
hostage.”
At this Mahrlys, whose circuit of the chambers had drawn her near the outer 
door, dashed for it. Sereth, who was closer, dived after her, and .I heard a 
muffled scream and in a moment she was stum­bling toward the cahndor, lips drawn 
back from clenched teeth.
“You want her. She is your problem,” said Sereth, giving Mahrlys a final push 
that sent her sprawl­ing against Chayin’s chest.
We withdrew then, to arm ourselves in what we had reclaimed and leave them to 
their muttered argument.
I was much strengthened by the simple act of pulling on my boots, in whose tops 
eight razor-moons nestled, and my belt, which held, beside the empty scabbard, a 
knife in sheath. Sereth had the twin of it. We have had them a very long time. 
They are talismans, the manifestation of our bond, and though occasionally we 
have lost them, each time they have been returned to us. Stroking the single red 
jewel set in the knife’s hilt, I was greatly eased.
There are many truths that elude me, but the truths of that day, life or death, 
are those with which I am most comfortable. It is the decision to do battle 
which is hard. The battle, seemingly, would come to us, which suited me. I 
readied myself and took stock of my internal strengths as the drug residue faded 
away.
I was not wrong. Neither was I so innocent as to imagine that Sereth did not 
know what approached while we lingered there, dressing at our ease, and Mahrlys 
engaged Chayin in an interminable alter­cation. If Sereth had wanted to avoid 
what then occurred, we would have forced an earlier exit. As it was, he leaned 
against the jamb of the arch that divid Ed Mahrlys’ inner, less formal chamber 
from the outer, statued room of ruby and purple while Mahrlys detained Chayin 
most artfully. He even went so far as to whisper me to silence when I proposed 
to him that we hurry them. It is possible that he wanted Mahrlys to reveal 
herself, or that he sought to determine how deeply enwrapped in Wehrdom’s mists 
Chayin really was, or even only whether Chayin was a party to this delaying 
action. Sereth keeps his own counsel, still, upon those affairs.
Then, he only stiffened slightly against the jamb as the wehr-howl rose and the 
door, battered, re­verberated and burst inward, sending debris flying, and 
Mahrlys in a wondrous imitation of surprise froze as Chayin dived for his 
sivord.
Inward burst the slavering throng, and Sereth grunted and the oncoming wave of 
fang and claw and-six-fingered hand flowed around the edges of the hemispherical 
barrier that they could not see, but against which they bludgeoned and clawed 
and bit and butted in vain.
I heard a moan within Sereth’s periphery’s si­lent center, and I saw Mahrlys: no 
longer did she dissemble calm. She took upon her knees. Her nails clawed the 
carpet. Her eyes rolled.
She spat and hissed in some sibilant tongue and threw her head savagely. I 
almost softened to her then, as she fought so valiantly to shake off the 
wehr-rage all around. Louder and louder ululated the shrieks of the wehr-wind. 
She held her ears. Sereth dragged her rudely to her feet and slapped her thrice, 
and shoved her stumbling before him toward the hanging-obscured wall she had 
earlier indicated. The noise of the frustrated wehrs was deafening, half a 
thousand throats crying. And sud­denly I was alone, facing a crowd of creatures 
who climbed the invisible barrier, their bodies describ­ing its dimensions. 
Mouths pressed against it, dis­torted as if by glass. I turned once, full 
circle, and then fled to Chayin; who was himself swaying, transfixed, near the 
inner door.
I pulled him by the arm, and he snarled. I dropped my grip and stepped back.
“Chayin?”
Slowly, from a long distance, his taut stance loosened and he unclenched his 
fists. Behind his back a red-eyed ossasim leered at me
And fell inward, along with a score of others, as Sereth’s barrier flickered. 
And died in that instant, severed exactly in half, as Sereth regained his hold 
upon the molecular construct that served him,
Chayin and I stumbled through a rain of append­ages and body fluids, and then we 
saw why Sereth’s field had flickered:
The hanging at the chamber’s back wall con­cealed a featureless door of black 
metal, which even as we spied it drew up into itself.
Sereth held a key of black metal in one hand and Mahrlys-iis-Vahais at arm’s 
length with the other. She struggled vainly, furiously, and I made sense of 
their interchange only briefly above the wehr-rage. It seemed Mahrlys had 
succumbed to her fellow creatures’ influence at last.
And then Chayin urged me within and Sereth dragged Mahrlys by the hair. With a 
soft hum the metal slab began its descent. When it was half down, the wehrs 
surged inward, no longer im­peded by Sereth’s will. But none reached the 
de­scending iron slab but one, and he left his hand within, only.
I saw the ossasim hand severed; heard the scream, and then all was silent and 
dark as the space between the worlds.
I picked out Mahrlys’ ragged breathing, heard a rustle that clanked and by that 
identified Chayin. I was on the verge of speech, having decided that we must 
make our own light, when Mahrlys’ laugh, throaty, triumphant, rang in the dark 
space.
“Now it is done,” she chortled. “There is no way out of here, save Othdaliee. I 
have died, but Dey­Ceilneeth might yet live.”
I reflected that had we not been able to obviate space we might indeed be 
concerned by whatever unknown danger lay ahead.
There came to me in the dark a feral snarl, and a scratching sound like chalk on 
slate, followed by the sound of bodies grappling.
I did not ask, but closed my eyes and concen­trated on enclosing some suitable 
constituents of the air in a circular pocket I conceived above my head. In 
making a miniature sun such as the one I constructed there, one utilizes 
emotion, almost as if thought were the catalyst for the controlled 
in­candescence which technically is achieved by split­ting a paired particle and 
not allowing the halves to form another pair by the spinning motion that the 
particle-pair conceives as balance. Instead, the halved particle rotates more 
and more frantically in its space, striving in vain to throw off a replace­ment 
twin. But instead of allowing the recreative force to culminate, we drain ,it 
off, and use the energy we thus milk for our purposes. This is the Shaper way.
The miniature sun, bobbing calmly above my head, twinkled brightly in the 
square, regular tun­nel whose angle led downward and whose end was not in sight.
Mahrlys, crouched against the wall, had her face buried in her hands.
Chayin stood over her, nursing a bloody arm.
Sereth looked at them, shook his head, and ges­tured that we should continue 
down the corridor.
Chayin started to speak, thought better of it, and raised the girl. The corners 
of her mouth were dotted with froth.
I sidled past them in that corridor barely wide enough for three to stand 
abreast. My minuscule inferno bobbled behind me, throwing long distorted shadows 
down that rectangular channel driven deep into the earth.
I was just about to say that it seemed not a fearsome place to me, only dull, 
when on Chayin’s very heels a second rectangular slab thundered downward. When 
it hit the stone, the ground quivered.
Mahrlys, leaning heavily on Chayin’s arms, giggled.
“Cahndor, before I walk another step into this, I would hear some answers,” said 
Sereth. In his anger, he seemed to loom huge against the green-black stone. The 
tiny sun drifted toward him and rose to the ceiling behind his head.
“As you wish, Sereth,” said Chayin stiffly, dis—
tracted, his attention and concern upon Mahrlys, who drew away from him and 
turned her face to the stone.
“Wehrdom,” said Chayin, “is a society whose price of admission is first the 
ability to perform as a wehr, and second the severance of all other ties. A wehr 
who is a ptaiss has no kin altruism for other ptaiss, but for Wehrkin.”
“Chayin,” Sereth said warningly. “I am no supporter of Khys’s catalysis 
genetics.”
“Nor of Wehrdom. I can excuse the one no more than the other. You are catalysis 
genetics. Estri called you an atavist. That is true, in part. You are an 
altruistic atavist, so admixed that kin altruism predisposes you to all men; 
since few hold stronger relatedness to you than a total stranger. But you are 
deaf to truth. The catalysis cycle hinges upon the concept that man becomes 
progressively more gregarious until he has outstripped evolution s abil­ity to 
suit him for living with the restriction of such an altruistic overload. Then he 
either destroys that culture or leaves it by means of more acceler­ated 
technology that he may satisfy his mounting xenophobia, his territoriality, and 
the need to own and dominate which is ever paired with the genes which 
predispose to creativity. In a society of warriors, the pacifist may become for 
a time successful, for he will not be killed by the warrior by reason of his 
very reluctance to fight. Thus he will be evolutionarily successful in that he 
will reproduce. More and more the pacifists enter that society, until they 
outnumber the warriors and begin to constrain the very making of war. But when 
this happens, the warriors resurge, because in any fight they will triumph over 
the pacifist, who is neither disposed to fight nor very good at it. When the 
warrior is threatened, he fights; in fighting, he culls the pacifists. Only the 
most ata—
vistically oriented, war-capable pacifists remain. The warriors become dominant 
in the gene pool, and the cycle starts again. It is vastly more com­plicated, of 
course. One must take into account what predispositions each group has in 
breeding, and the individuals capable of deception to the extent that they can 
for a short time triumph and them­selves become dominant, until they are found 
out, at which time they recede—”
“Chayin!”
“Learning lessens no man,” retorted the cahndor, to Sereth’s exasperation.
“I want to know why you were willing to let us rot in Dey-Ceilneeth and why you 
are dragging us to Othdaliee. I could care less about what offal you learned 
from those old ladies at the Lake of Horns.”
I had learned the same offal. Though I thought Chayin had not studied Sereth’s 
inversions, in my opinion he was not too far off in the rest of it. So I said:
“He is trying to tell you that Wehrdom is in a strategic flux; it is 
experiencing something akin to the passing of power that occurred when you took 
the Lake of Horns. There is sometimes a violent flipping between 
opposite-seeming but equally sta­ble hierarchies. Violent when viewed in 
evolution­ary time. But what exactly does that have to do with us?”
“It is the Curse of Imca-Sorr-Aat.” Chayin grinned. Sereth stared.
“No, truly. Once in a thousand years the inter­face called Imca-Sorr-Aat 
changes. Which creature holds that position determines how the next mil­lenium 
will develop; what strategies, even what factions of Wehrdom will be dominant. 
Man has done poorly here this last thousand years. In fact, he is nearly 
extinct. He is merely food for Wehrdom, and his artifacts are but curiosities. 
In another
Imca-Sorr-Aat’s rule they might have provided him a secure place. The manlike 
wehrs, because of a drastically limited gene pool, make fewer and fewer 
appearances. And the ossasim, who provided the last Imca-Sorr-Aat, have almost 
succeeded in es­tablishing themselves as a species. If an ossasim should again 
hold the interface known as Imca­Sorr-Aat, the rnan-wehr will certainly become 
extinct.
“What men are left will be like those we saw when we watched adults kill their 
own children. That place is called Nehedra, and its folk provide not only fields 
to be grazed and stores of grain for droughts, but fresh meat and a good chase. 
And they cull not only their weakest in those forest trials the children take, 
but their strongest as well: any child who precedes the bulk of them, and all 
who reach the town’s gates before sunset, are slain. So it has been under the 
last Imca-Sorr-Aat, and so it will be under the next, if he be ossasim, or 
ptaiss, or any other creature but man himself. You see, the creature of Wehrdom 
recall what man did to, them, and they would not risk a recurrence. Their 
methods are, I suppose, resonable coming from species who witnessed the pinnacle 
of technologi­cal man, and fear his works.” And the cahndor leaned forward and 
wet his lips.
“But it does not sit well with me. And I was given a chance to better the 
fortunes of those whom I call kin here. Could you, Sereth have resisted such a 
call?”
Sereth blew out his breath, and did not answer, but instead crouched down before 
Mahrlys.
“He has told us what he thinks is happening, and how you enlisted him. Now you 
tell me the truth. You think you have us trapped; it should not matter to you if 
we know, your designs.”
“Aah, you are a quick one, manling,” she said on a shuddering breath. Her eyes 
were no longer wild, though triumph gleamed therein. “All he thinks is true, as 
far as it goes. It is a difficult thing to lie in the wehr-wind.”
“But it can be done.”
“Indeed, Sereth crill Tyris, it can be done. But there was no need to lie, only 
to be circumspect with what information we made available. I did not tell him 
that Imca-Sorr-Aat decreed this flight of yours to Othdaliee, if I could not 
kill you. Die here, die there, it is no different to me.”
“Mahrlys!” exploded Chayin.
“Chayin, I told you they would die chasing that stupid sword, and they will. And 
you will live to make Wehrdom safe for another thousand years.”
There was something in the way she said it which made me know that what Chayin 
expected to do and what she had in mind for him to do were two different things. 
The key and the answer were there, in what she said, but they did not see. 
Per­haps only another woman could have marked it. And yet, even knowing, I could 
not pierce the wehr­veil and determine how the thing would fall out. I saw what 
I had seen in the Eye of Mnemaat, and tried a wild guess: “What has Deilcrit to 
do with all this?”
“Nothing, nothing at all,” said Mahrlys sweetly. “He was given the trial of 
Imca-Sorr-Aat that he might die mercifully. You will doubtless reclaim your 
sticker from his corpse. In all the days of my reign, none have ever completed 
the trial and returned.” We have a creature, in the west, like a ptaiss but 
winged. It is called a hulion, and with her green eyes shining yellow in the 
miniature sun’s glow and that puff-cheeked smirk on her face, she reminded me of 
one, when the kill is sure and the hulion can take time to batter its prey.
“You predict, then, that I might live long enough to see Othdaliee,” I replied 
in the same sweet tone.
She shrugged delicatedly. “Let me rephrase that: Chayin will reclaim it.”
“You would do well as a forereader, with that tongue,” said, Sereth. His fingers 
toyed with the hilt of his knife. His eyes measured Chayin’s concern. Then he 
rose and stretched and said, “I gave you your life once. Do not make me take it 
back.”
And he motioned that Mahrlys and Chayin should precede us down the featureless, 
sloping corridor into the dark.
“What think you?” Sereth subvocalized, while in front of us Chayin took up a low 
dialogue with Mahrlys and their backs receded before us down the steady incline 
of green stone.
“I think,” I replied, my lips at his ear, “that things are not so simple as the 
‘man-wehr-facing­extinction’ story. How does Chayin’s visit to Oth­daliee make 
Wehrdom safe for a thousand years? And why is Mahrlys so anxious to help the 
reins of power change hands when she stands so high in the present hierarchy? 
And if kin altruism is in effect between those sharing the communications gene, 
why is there strife in Wehrdom?”
The miniature sun sent dizzying shadows danc­ing across the low ceiling. I 
steadied it.
Sereth’s gaze searched the crannies in the stone. “I know nothing of 
communications genes and kin altruism, and care less. But I know women. Her plan 
was that we enter this passage without her. She objected quite strongly to being 
dragged down here. If she could have convinced me that her own creatures sought 
her death, so that I left her to their mercies, she would have been much 
pleased. She says she is ,dead, yet she walks before us. She celebrates our 
demise—I feel very much alive. And
I intend to stay that way. She calls on Chayin to make Wehrdom safe for a 
thousand years; he could not keep himself safe from her clutches.
“I will hazard that she has not yet drawn back for the kill. All this has been 
foreplay.”
“She fought realistically enough when we changed her plan.”
“And yet she did not break. She is too haughty for one who faces death. Real 
satisfaction is a difficult emotion to conceal.”
“My reading, of her agrees with that”
He looked at me askance. “What do you draw from Wehrdom? All I can dredge out of 
those mists are wordless songs and clicks and whistles and the taste of warm 
blood. I come away feeling like I want to eat something raw.”
“The Stoth priests maintained that all of time, owkahen’s entire extent, is but 
a function of volitional consciousnesses. Wehrdom is a multifac­eted unit: one 
consciousness. Thus Wehrdom is not really volitional individuals interacting in 
owkahen as possible futures.”
“Which means you get nothing from it either,”
“That is what ‘I just said.”
“Estri, does all this lead you to conjecture anything?”
“What?”
“I read Wehrdom only when it brushes events in which I am physically concerned. 
The same must be true of you. And yet it is out there, wrapped around the 
time-coming-to-be. The woman flaunts us, admits she has lied, chortles over the 
fact that her attempts to kill us have, to her mind, succeeded. And my reading 
gives me nothing but some splin­ters floating on the top of Wehrdom’s fog.”
“You see those? Deilcrit, and Se’keroth, and Chayin?”
“Yes, but over what, I cannot ascertain. It is not knowing enough to deduce a 
motive from a dis­played moment of culmination that is the problem. Wehrdom is 
there, but its methods of symbolizing and its concerns are different from ours. 
It makes them dangerous. Their machinations do not show on owkahen’s face.”
“As if they were not creatures of time. The Shap­ers and the Mi’ysten race have 
that exemption. But Wehrdom is composed of time-space creatures. They, too, must 
inhabit owkahen.”
“Our owkahen? Or a part of it not natural to our use? Wehrdom is concerned with 
things that do not concern owkahen as we know it. They have not yet the capacity 
to inject their will into that arena in which all intelligent beings contest. 
Which means, obviously, that they are a greater threat than they would otherwise 
be because we cannot preguess them; and, not so obviously,’that they may be a 
self-extinguishing threat. If owkahen does not acknowledge them, it may be that 
they will not survive long enough to be acknowledged.”
I murmured a noncommittal reply, thinking that Sereth was reading his preference 
into the time; that he, himself, was the most likely reason Wehr­dom might not 
survive long enough to be acknowl­edged by owkahen. It rode his words, sat 
behind his tight, jaw. I knew then that if he lost Chayin to Wehrdom it would 
not be Chayin whom Sereth would blame. Weludom would feel for his grief in a 
rage the like of which they had never dreamed.
I was about to comment that even Khys, who had ruled previous to Sereth, had had 
the grace to let this shore go its own way, when Mahrlys and Chayin, with an 
exclamation of surprise, suddenly dropped from sight. The cahndor’s grunt hung 
mo­mentarily in the air; then it too disappeared.
Slowly, cautiously, we approached the edge, wholly invisible in the uncertain 
light, over which they had plunged.
Sereth crouched down, a hand on my arm. “I should not have let them go so far 
ahead. Send your sun down there.”
And I did, into that sudden fifty-five-degree an­gle of descent. Sereth, most 
carefully, for the floor on which we squatted was itself angled downward, called 
Chayin s name, leaning over the steepened incline. When no anser drifted up from 
the dark, he ran his palm along the stone floor where it abruptly changed to a 
black glassy material. ‘‘Frictionless,” he pronounced. “The Beneguans no more 
built this than Dey-Ceilneeth. See if you can drop the light lower.”
So I did, and my little fireball hovered ever farther down that corridor that 
plummeted into the depths of the earth. We saw the walls and floor and ceiling 
converge in a trick of perspective. All we could determine was that the passage 
kept the same relative dimensions but for the steepening of its angle.
“Well?” I asked when he had been long silent. “Take my hand.”
I did that.
“We are just going to slide down it. Under no circumstances tense up. Try to 
keep your head uppermost, but do not stiffen your legs. It should be a fast 
descent, and if at the bottom the rock continues, you could break a limb on 
impact if you are not very careful.”
“Sereth!”
“Now, you are not afraid of a little slide like that, are you?”
And his tone told me that there was no arguing, so I said that I was not afraid 
and sat back on my haunches and extended my legs and muttered a quick prayer to 
my father, who had certainly not
134            Janet E. Morris put me on Silistra to have me end in a pulped 
mass of flesh and bone in the well-forgotten belly of Dey-Ceilneeth.
Then I thrust my little sun downward, and Sereth said “ready?” and I nodded and 
we slipped down into Dey-Ceilneeth’s well.
There was a rising of my stomach, a hissing of wind in my ears. My eyes watered 
and burned and saw only a blur of stone. Then blackness: we passed the miniature 
sun as if it were hovering unmoving, and plummeted on into the darkness.
The feel of the black, frictionless material was like liquid ice, a strip of 
cold under me, and yet there was no sensation of weight, as if our speed had 
outstripped gravity itself.
Sereth, drawing me closer by his arm wrapped around my waist, shouted in my ear: 
“Get your light down here:’
I closed my tearing eyes and called it, trying not to think of how long we had 
been falling, nor how fast we must be traveling to have so quickly over­taken 
the little sun.
“I used to kite-jump off the Nin-Sihaen ridge,” he confided loudly, as my hair 
whipped around me and the rushing pursuit by my miniature star made it seem that 
we were rising and my stomach threatened to leap out of my mouth.
I was still thinking of a reply when Sereth rumbled: “Look!”
And I did, and remedied myself for whatever glowed with its own light up through 
the dark beneath us.
Closer and closer came the other light, until the glow rushing toward us showed 
itself white water and the light of the little star was swallowed in a dull 
luminescence and I braced for the concussion.
“Relax,” he ordered as we began perceptibly to slow. I looked at his face in the 
bleaching light that seeped up from below, and knew from his expression that he 
sought to break our fall with mind.
So I relaxed and concerned myself with aiding him, and when we hit the white 
frothing water it only knocked my breath away for a moment.—
Then the warmish water closed over my head and I concerned myself with not 
drowning in my entangling hair and kicking my way surfaceward.
Gasping, I broke into the air. My little star hovered, uncertain, where the 
stone chute’s ceiling arched up into a .cavern from whose dome hung gigantic 
stalactites that glowed whitish, and silver, and green.
Sereth’s head erupted from the choppy water on my right. He surveyed the 
ceiling, and the ledges that edged the fast-rushing subterranean river. Then he 
indicated. Mahrlys and Chayin, huddled drenched and exhausted and tiny at a 
stalagmite’s base, and bade me swim toward a promontory jutting out into the 
stream. His shout, swallowed in the echoing river roar, did not reach the 
cahn­dor’s ears.
Spitting out the tepid, mineral-tasting water, I swam until my stroke brought me 
close enough to grabe the iregular rock and cling to it. Still, my feet had not 
touched bottom.
Sereth hauled himself along the froth-slicked jetty, hand over hand, to my side, 
and boosted me roughly upward.
We lay there a time, facedown on the half-submerged ledge, listening to the 
muted cacoph­ony of the water’s slap and our own breathing. The rock under me 
was not cold, but tepid, as the water had been. I wondered how deep into the 
earth we were, and my geological knowledge told me that this particular kind of 
cave, at this depth, with such a river whose course was so rapid, was as 
anomalous as the fact that fresh air brushed my cheek and dried the droplets on 
it.
Sereth tousled my drenched locks, and motioned me up, and we emptied our boots 
and took stock of our weapons, which had, by reason of sheath guards, not been 
lost in the river. Then, with a grin and a tucking in of his chin, he suggested 
we join Chayin and Mahrlys, somewhere downstream to our left amid the forest of 
stone.
We wandered between spires that were thick as Benegua’s memnis, and some taller, 
and came af­ter a time upon Mahrlys and Chayin, who leaned back against the 
bone-white stone, eyes closed, in a pool of his drippings.         .
She had disrobed and spread her garment on the stone to dry. She watched us 
approach, with a widening smirk.
When we stood above her, she touched Chayin, rose, and said: “Welcome to the 
outer gardens of Othdaliee. Beyond this cavern”—and she gestured upstream—“ends 
Nothrace and begin the gardens proper. In them we shall find my triumph and your 
demise.”
Chayin grabbed her ankle, and she fell roughly. His face was so contorted that I 
stepped backward and Sereth drew a sibilant breath. But Mahrlys only laughed a 
laugh that, ripped her belly. It mul­tiplied in the cavern, coming back on us 
from all sides. She reached for her robe, slipped it about her.
I followed her gaze and hissed Sereth’s name, and he, too, turned to look at 
what Mahrlys-iis­Vahais had found so amusing.
Up from the depths of the river rose the majestic heads of two of the most 
gargantuan guerm I had ever seen. They looked about them, blinking coal-black 
eyes and tossing their creamy, streamered manes, and, made directly for us.
“No!” wailed Mahrlys, as from Sereth’s stance and mine she divined our intent. 
“These are not such guerm as you slew at the bayside. They will bear us into 
Othdaliee! They are elder creatures, with great—”
“Fangs,” Sereth interrupted. “If you think I am going to get on the back of one 
those poisonous monsters, you have been taking too many of your own drugs. ‘
I was very glad he had said that. I hugged him and nuzzled his neck.
“Those streamers are not poisonous. These are the creatures from which the 
savage ocean guerm evolved. They are not ... ah, I care not. Walk!”
That seemed like a perfectly good idea to me. Another good idea seemed to me to 
be halting the sea beasts who slithered toward us through the white water. I was 
about this, only flesh-locking them that they would drown on their own, when 
Sereth bade me cease.
I looked at him, unbelieving. Chayin had whis­pered something in his ear while I 
had been busy ascertaining the mammalian nature of the guerm and exploring their 
nervous systems. I did not immediately release my hold on the guerm. Water 
flooded their lungs.
They stood closer together, Mahrlys hanging on Chayin’s arm, Sereth with my 
miniature sun bob­bling behind his right shoulder, illuminating his displeasure.
I dropped the flesh-lock, and the water before me erupted in coughing, writhing 
paroxysms as the guerm sought to save themselves.
“You certainly are not going to change your mind,” I pleaded, backing away from 
them. “Sereth, I am not going to get on one of those things ....”
I knew better than that. One does not say “I will not” to Sereth.
Dismally, as the huge snakelike, finned monsters came abreast of the 
promonotory, I mounted. Awk­wardly clasping my knees around its muscular barrel, 
I wondered if guerm held grudges. Sereth slipped on behind me, and the guerm 
with an undulating surge headed off upstream. I wound my hands in the streamers 
of my beast’s crest, and Sereth put his arms around my waist. And I reflected, 
as the beast moved easily beneath me and the waves lapped my hips and the 
stalagmites whipped by in a blur, that if we were not killed, this manner of 
conveyance had much to say for itself.
VIII. The Carnelian Throne
Deilcrit,, in hopes of shaking the burning cold away with movement, crawled to 
the edge of the ledge and stared down the way he had come. He crouched there, 
slapping himself, his breath streaming white as the mantle that draped the 
Isanisa River far below.
Kirelli, stiff-legged on the cold, joined him. Together, to the rhythmic buzz of 
Quendros’ snor­ing, they stared down at the cloud mantle through which they 
fought their way the day before.
He could not seer Dey-Ceilneeth, nestled in the shelter of Benegua s northern 
gate. Nor the Wall of Mnemaat, occluded by the forest and the mists and the 
thick icy clouds that girdled Mt. Imnetosh’s hips.
Winter or no, it was too cold. The savage chill had ridden the white clouds down 
the mountain to plague them. It had frosted the rocks with ice and numbed their 
fingers and slowed their sword arms, as if in league with the wehrs who had 
harried them. From out of those clouds the wehr-rage had come, while they 
stumbled, climbing blindly up­ward. It had been Deilcrit’s bad footing that sent 
him skidding into the shallow cave. He had not seen it, only the ice mist 
swirling around.
And they had made a stand there, their backs against the lichen-covered 
mountainside. Long into the night they had hewn and cleaved and rived what came 
out of the mists at them. Even in the weak morning light the corpses were easily 
chronic­led: at his feet lay two ossasim; a fhrefrasil, gutted, made a pillow 
for Quendros’ head; whelt feathers decorated the shallow ledge, glittering with 
frost; and below on the jagged slope sprawled a score of unmoving black shapes, 
casualties of the wehr-rage.
Squinting at the leaden sky which lowered ever blacker, he wondered if the wehrs 
would come again, out of the rain the sky promised.
He had never heard of a wehr-rage lasting so long.         .           .
His left arm ached, and he rubbed it, knowing he should wake the exhausted 
Quendros, but unwilling.
Kirelli butted his side, hopping about from foot to foot. The whelt was 
shivering. He squirmed back from the rocky shelf’s edge and offered the whelt 
his right arm. Gladly, with a little squawk, Kirelli took perch on his shoulder, 
and then moved higher,, so that a clawed foot clung either side of his neck. The 
whelt’s breast pressed against the back of his head and its pulse and its 
tremors came clear to him. He reached up and stroked the half-raised crest, 
trying to share his warmth.
They had shared many things since leaving Quendros’ hut. They had shared even 
the wehr­rage. He muttered to. himself, trying to push the memory away, but it 
displayed itself stubbornly to his mind’s eye:
They had been climbing the slope of Imnetosh where the trees begin to thin and 
the shale lies treacherous on the Nothrace ridge.
It was the rage itself that first came over him, so that his heart beat fast and 
his mouth turned dry, and he had been hard-put to conceal it from Quendros.
Then Kirelli took flight, screaming, from his shoulder, leaving him to wrestle 
with the whelt’s message and its implications:
“Eviduey’s flock and mine do battle, manling. Choose what side you may.”
And then there was no choice, nor need to con­ceal his lust for blood from 
Quendros, for the wher­rage overtook them in a tidal wave.
First came the non-wehrs: animals of every spe­cies fleeing blindly, screeching 
and trampling one another in their fear. He saw a wild-eyed berceide swallow a 
quenel whole, and head straight for him.
In the loose shale they had no footing, could not have hoped to elude the 
oncoming stampede.
Quendros shouted a farewell, and wagered as to how many beasts he might take 
with him out of life, and then the great berceide, to avoid the feel of the 
shale or Kirelli’s screeching dive, veered eastward, dragging the non-wehrs in 
its wake. Straight for far Kanoss, rampaged the non-wehrs.
Quendros muttered a prayer and chuckled uncer­tainly, and the pointed, 
openmouthed, upward: the sky was black with whelts.
Kirelli, among his own, wheeled and dived and squawked.
And then he had no more attention for that. From out the forest crashed the 
first wave of wehrs.
Not until it was all around him and the cloud of whelts dived screeching into 
the fray did he make sense of what he saw: wehr fought wehr, ptaiss tore ptaiss, 
berceide enwrapped ossasim in its coils. Death rattles from every throat in 
Benegua’s na­ture filled the air. Creatures he had never even seen before 
churned around him.
And he found himself hewing about him with the green-metaled sword, knowing with 
certainty who was friend and who was foe as easily as did the battling wehrs 
themselves.
Ossasim shadows filled the sky. Manlike bodies dived, howling war cries, taloned 
feet extended. He thrust upward without thought. And freed his blade just soon 
enough to behead a campt who charged with lowered tusks, upon whose hide was a 
breast-wide slash that only a sword could have made.
So did he come to realize that Quendros fought beside him, striking dead all 
that entered the range of the white metal sword.
Kirelli’s soft voice rang in his inner ear, and he worked his way toward 
Quendros, who did not know enemy from ally, but hacked, grunting and heaving, at 
any creature that came near.
It was as he was attempting to close the dis­tance between them, his feet 
sliding in the treach­erous shale, that a whelt dived at him. He threw himself 
down to avoid it, and rolled to his back in time to see Eviduey’s black form 
hovering above the dust cloud in which the wehrs battled.
Then that one was gone, and he gained his knees and then Quendros’ side, and 
shouted to the man to have a care as to what he slew.
But Quendros only growled and lay more deter­minedly about him, lips’ rawn back 
from his teeth, eyes wild in a blood-splattered face.
So Deilcrit stayed with him, and fought there, until the wehrs that were 
Kirelli’s encircled them completely, a buffer through which the battle could not 
penetrate. Then, as Quendros sank to his knees in that bloodbath’s peaceful 
center, Deilcrit, with an animal noise he could not suppress, turned himself 
full over to his ‘Wehrkin. He leaped, scream­ing wordlessly, to the battle’s 
outer edge, where combatants yet clawed and charged and gutted and gnawed one 
another, and there he stayed until nothing moved on the field but Kirelli’s 
wehrs; until he lay unable to raise his leaden sword arm one more time, sprawled 
across the long, warm corpse of a campt who in turn lay upon an ossasim’s 
crushed form.
Paralyzed with exhaustion, lungs burning, through sweat-stung eyes he watched 
Kirelli dance his dance upon the shale carpeted with Wehrdom’s dead. He knew 
that the triumph was his also, that all who licked wounds and limped slowly 
forestward were his.
And when Kirelli alighted, beside him, a long chunk of some beast’s heart in its 
beak, he re­ceived the offering without qualm.
It was as he feasted there with Kirelli’s wehrs among the vanquished that 
Quendros limped over to him and sat heavily upon the campt’s carcass and buried 
his head in his hands.
“Deilcrit,” he said, “what in the name of Laore is going on here?”
Deilcrit licked his fingers and looked up at Quendros’ face, hidden behind his 
fists, and said: “I am a wehr. You know all about wehrs. And wehr-rages. What 
you do not know is that Kirelli’s wehrs and Eviduey’s wehrs have a bone to 
pick.”
“And what is that?” Slowly his eyes appeared over his hands.
“Me. I am Kirelli’s candidate for the carnelian throne. Eviduey’s wehrs will do 
all they can to stop us.”
“Thanks for telling me.”
“I did not know of this. I catch little wehr­thought.”
“Well, all I can say is, when Mahrlys said ‘trial,’ she was .. not jesting.
“Did you think then that I could pursue the carnelian throne without 
obstruction?”
“No, I suppose I did not think that. But I did not
L44  Janet E. Morris think that you were so much a wehr as to wade knee-deep in 
gore with them long after a man would have fallen dead from the effort.”
“You yourself said to me that wehrs were very successful individuals.” He 
grinned at Quendros. But Quendros did not grin back.
“Deilcrit, I’m getting worried. Before, I was just disquieted. You don’t have 
any idea what you’re doing. You, don’t really know what the carnelian throne is, 
or what you might have to do to sit in it. All you know is what the whelt has 
been telling you. Whelts are, not the most trustworthy of crea­tures. What if 
this linca-Sorr-Aat does not want to be superseded?”
“Eviduey said to me, when. I was awaiting Mahryls in her chamber the night 
before we left Benegua by the Northern Gate, that Imca-Sorr-Aat is the 
intermediary between mortals and the god. If the god still lives. And Kirelli 
said to me that Mnemaat is no more; that Imca-Son—is an empty title, a vacant 
throne with no presence worthy of the name ‘Aat’ to guide it. Kirelli says that 
we can change all that, together. I am inclined to believe him. At the very 
least, I should find out if Mnemaat is truly alive or dead. And that is 
something I need to know.”
“Damn pious Beneguan, for one who just slew half an ecology.”
“Quendros, you have known since we, spoke in your hut that I sought the 
carnelain throne.”
“But how do you know you’ll want it when you get It You don’t know what it 
means, what re­sponsibilities are entailed.”
“What choice, have I?” demanded Deilcrit hotly, all facade falling away. “I am 
so much a wehr that I had no choice this day. I hardly remembered that you 
existed until Kirelli reminded me. Yes, I did this ....” And he waved a hand 
around the battlefield. “And I am eating of my kill and I like it. It feels 
good. I could no more turn from Kirelli than I could reenter Benegua without 
having been absolved by Imca-Sorr-Aat. The wehrs would cer­tainly kill me.”
“We could try,” said Quendros, looking behind him for Kirelli. “Or not reenter—”
“I do not want to try. This is what I am sup­posed to do. I know it. Are you so 
afraid? We have the wehrs. Their strength is ours until we enter the gardens. 
And Kirelli—”
“I am not afraid!” bellowed Quendros.
“Well, then, let us fill our bellies, and seek a high spot for the night, and 
when all this is over and I have Mahrlys at my feet, I will share her with you.”
“I would rather beat the drum you plan to make of Eviduey’s hide,” Quendros 
quipped. Then he hawked and took his white-bladed sword and cut himself a thick 
strip of campt haunch.
“I will give the drum to you!” cried Deilcrit, glad that he had found something 
that might please Quendros.
“Let’s get it first, man-wehr,” said Quendros around a mouthful. “This thing 
looks to me to be one more easily said’ than done.”
And so, when they had eaten their fill, they be­gan to scale Imnetosh in 
earnest. When the day was nearly spent, the clouds had begun to roll down from 
the mountain’s peak. All until the at­tack on the ledge that night was a blur in 
his memory. There was climbing, and the cold like knives in his lungs, and 
Kirelli’s warm breast against his neck.
Until they had found the ledge, until the wehrs of Eviduey had attacked once 
more. Well into the dawn they had fought them. And now Quendros slept like a 
baby.
He peered into the darkening thunderheads, sur­veyed the carcass-strewn ledge, 
and shooed Kirelli from his shoulder. Then he busied himself rolling the dead 
from their refuge, in case the wehrs came again to besiege them.
The noise woke Quendros, who groaned and stag­gered erect and emptied his 
waterskin, casting it aside in disgust.
Deilcrit wished that he too had water, and then wished it no more as the icy 
rain began.
Hailstones pelted him as the sky came alight with jagged brightness; thunder 
clapped its palms over his ears so that they rang.
Kirelli squawked into the rising wind that drove the sleet and hail into their 
eyes, and scuttled into a cranny in the shallow cave’s rear.
Ouendros, with a bellow about folk that had not the sense to seek shelter in the 
rain, followed suit.
They sat long, shivering, in the dreary dark. Kirelli ‘s feathers were dotted 
with icy balls, and his own teeth were chattering, when the whelt screeched and 
humped its wings and took flight, bursting out of the cave.
He jerked to his feet, slid on the icy stone, and skidded nearly to ledge’s lip, 
over which peeked the red-in-red eyes of three ossasim.
One grabbed him by the ankle before he could stop himself. Together they tumbled 
into, space.
He grabbed the wehr’s wings, hugging it to him, and when they landed on an 
outcropping of rock it was the ossasim who was underneath.
He disengaged himself from the corpse, stagger­ing to his feet just in time to 
draw his blade as the two other ossasim plummeted down toward him through the 
fiercely gusting rain.
Lightning exploded in the sky. He raised the blade. The ossasim pair folded 
their wings and dived after him.
He swung the sword blindly above his head, catching one ossasim’s wing and 
slicing it through. There was a scream, a rush of air as the ossasim lost 
control and crashed into the mountainside. Then the other ossasim hit him, feet 
first, in the chest. As its talons raked him and he went down beneath its 
onslaught, the blade flew spinning from his grasp. Lightning blew the sky apart 
once more, caught the spinning sword in its blue-white fingers, caressed it. Its 
length enflamed, it tum­bled groundward.
Then the ossasin’s fangs snapped near his throat and the rock came up under him 
with concussive force and he wrapped his legs around the ossasim’s trunk and 
shoved back on that mighty jaw with both hands. Grimly, red lights crowding his 
vision, he dug his fingers into the spittly chin, thrusting forward with his 
arms while pulling inward with his legs. There was a loud snap, and the ossasim 
lay quiet on him.
It was some time before he pushed it off. It was even longer before his lungs 
ceased gulping air. Then he sat, shakily, to consider his wounds. Through the 
coarsely woven jerkin his chest and belly were scored in twelve diagonal lines. 
But for his clothing’s protection, the thing would have laid open his belly.
Something within his right hip twinged. His left arm was badly scratched where 
it had only been half-healed, and the sleeve of the tunic was torn away. He 
ripped off the rest of the flap in disgust, and used it to bind up the arm.
Then he assayed the climb down to where the sword lay in a narrow crevice ringed 
with ice.
He squatted down there, studying the blade that lay in a pool of slush. The 
metal shone dull, grayish, but otherwise seemed intact. The gemstone hilt was 
not even scratched. Even as he watched, the slush that had been melted by the 
hot metal began to crust. Satisfied that any heat the blade retained must by now 
be dissipated, he picked it up, dried it as well as he could in the continuing 
sleet, and thrust it in the makeshift scabbard.
He was just rising, cautiously, intent upon the throbbing twinge in his hip, 
when Quendros joined him, blowing loudly.
“You are by far the most charmed man I have ever met. That lightning was meant 
for you. I yelled. Did you hear me? No. Well, I did. Lightning loves nothing 
like the taste of metal. You are be­witched. Anyone else would have been fried.”
“Is that why you climbed all the way down here, to tell me that?” He kneaded his 
hip tenderly with his fingers, but found no spot where external pres­sure caused 
pain.
“No,” said Quendros brusquely. “How’d the blade fare?”
“Well enough,” he replied, looking curiously at Quendros’ drenched face, which 
bore an expres­sion he could not name.
“Well, son. Let’s go get you installed in that carnelian throne of yours. 
Nothing is going to stop us now.”
“That is not wholly true. Kirelli says we must fear Wehrdom until we make that 
first ridge.” And he pointed upward, to where he thought that ridge might be, 
hiding behind the storm.
“Ignorant savage,” Quendros chided, offering Deilcrit a countenance pursed like 
a closed fist and kicking desultorily at the dead ossasim. “Se’keroth is like a 
weathervane. It does not create a climatic change, but it does indicate one.”
It took Deilcrit a moment to realize that Se’keroth was the name Quendros had 
given to the sword he bore. Then he gave Quendros a blank stare.
Quendros, upon recept of this, grumbled that they had best be making for the 
ridge hidden, be­hind the midday dark, if they would face the real dark safely.
Deilcrit craned his neck in vain for sight of Kirelli, then agreed that they had 
better start climbing. Hitching himself up between two rocks, he asked Quendros 
what he meant about, the sword being a weathervane.
Quendros asked him if he could read. To which he answered no, and Quendros 
pronounced that in that case it was no use trying to explain.
But he knew that something in the morning’s occurrences had greatly heartened 
Quendros, and if it was the dunking of the, sword in a slushy puddle that had 
caused the change in Quendros’ manner (and he strongly suspected that it was), 
the change was still to his benefit. And he re­spected Quendros’ knowledge. So 
he decided that if the sword would in some way aid him, he would let it though 
he did not believe in material things such as swords having desires or goals or 
significance of the like with which Quendros seemed to credit the strange blade.
When, they had gained the ledge once more, Deilcrit asked Quendros if he did, 
not believe in Mnemaat the Unseen. And Quendros replied quite solemnly: “Not 
only do I believe in him, I have seen him.”
At which Deilcrit made a sign to ward off blas­phemy, and Quendros laughed and 
said, “It is true. Fifteen, no, sixteen years ago. I can’t tell you on what 
errand—gave my word, y’know—but he’s magnificent, a great golden thing with the 
face everyone’s father should have had.”
“In the flesh?” said Deilcrit as Kirelli’s wings beat around his head, and with 
a deep sigh he extended his arm to the whelt.
“In the flesh; clasped his hand.”
“But Mnemaat is the Unseen!”
“Now he is, and that’s a fact. Look, Deilcrit, when you’re in a position, you 
hire me and I’ll tutor you in history.”
“Do you know something about Imca-Sorr-Aat that I do not?” asked Deilcrit, 
bending his head away from Kirelli’s insistent attempts to give him a message.
“Nothing that will help you. If I were to think of something, you would be the 
very person I’d tell.” There was something icy and deliberating in his tone that 
Deilcrit had never before heard there.
His feelings hurt by he knew not what, he took the message from Kirelli, who 
urged all speed, and with a curt word to Quendros started up the boulder-strewn 
ridge.
The rock and dirt and weeds blurred by. He climbed mechanically, surely, though 
he had never before been on Mt. Imnetosh, did not know her. When he had climbed 
with great attention, in the beginning, he had been dizzied and fearful. So he 
rested his attention elsewhere, and Kirelli some­times rode his shoulder and 
sometimes flew around his head, and he thought of Mahrlys-iis-Vahais and what 
had passed between them.
The swoop of her white throat, her soft curves along which the light rode as he 
stripped her of her veils, the surrender he had not expected, that which his 
lengthy exploration of her had precipitated, all proceeded before his inner 
sight as he climbed. The dreams of her that had tortured his youth had not 
prepared him for the reality. Nor for the questions she had asked, or the rare 
pleasures, of which he had been previously ignorant, she demanded from him. And 
she had bade him kneel down before her, saying “Do you not show respect before 
her to whom you are sworn?”
A cold had chilled him then, causing his passion to shrink and then blow away on 
the wind of her words. It was while she interrogated him that he determined that 
the day would come when their posi­tions would reverse. She had cheated him of 
his dream, cheapened it. She had drained from him his strength. He grunted and 
pulled himself by the arms over a chasm between two boulders, and up onto the 
shelf above.
There he rested, swinging his legs, while he awaited Quendros, looking into the 
receding storm clouds pushed eastward by the ocean winds. It was because of 
Mahrlys, more than any other thing, that he had accepted Kirelli’s proposal. All 
his life, those above him had asked him to do nothing, to be quiet, to be 
passive and follow orders and live the life he had stolen from Mnemaat’s 
henchman without letting on that he truly should have died in Nehedra’s dirt. 
Within him burned proscribed fires, needs which his station in life could not 
fill. Kirelli had held out to him a purpose, a striving, something more than the 
spitting of an occasional guerm. Kirelli had something to gain that was not yet 
revealed, he was sure; but the whelt had pro­posed that they do something, that 
thing for which, said Kirelli, only Deilcrit was fit. He mattered to the whelt. 
He had never mattered to anyone but Parpis, and to Parpis he had been a child to 
be protected, even when he stood twice the old man’s height.
He did not matter to Mahrlys yet.
Then he thought of Mahrlys’ tears, and Heicrey’s, and reflected that his touch 
always seemed to bring women tears. All but the spirit power Estri, who was not 
a woman.
And thinking of women brought him to Amnidia, and her pronouncement that he 
would feed Quen­dros to Wehrdom if she let him. The ancient crone’s face hovered 
before him. He shook it away and extended his hand to Quendros, just levering 
him­self over the canted boulders.
He had thought Quendros might care for him. Now he was not so sure. But he 
resolved that the older man would not end in a wehr’s belly upon his account.
“Why so solemn, Deilcrit? Lose your whelt? Sun’s about due. We’ll both feel 
better with the ice melted off our bones.”
“Did you see Eviduey leading the wehrs who attacked us on the shale?”
“No,” grunted Quendros, shifting until his legs, too, dangled off the shelf’s 
overhung edge. “But I don’t doubt that he’s about.” Quendros peered upward, 
around his head. “Most wehr-masters who’ve become high as the Third Hand tend to 
stay pretty much in council. Eviduey has always been out in the field, himself. 
He likes it, I guess. The Byeks—the human ones, that is—all met in Bachryse the 
year before Nothrace was razed, and they put a price on his black head that 
would set a man and his children and their children free from drudgery.”
“Are the human rulers of the outer provinces those for whom you work?”
“On occasion. I try to stay self-employed, on the whole. There’s plenty for a 
man to do, if injustice concerns him.” Quendros gave Deilcrit a sidelong glance.
“It is revolution, then, that you are about.”
“Survival, more truly. There are not enough men left to launch a successful 
revolt.”
The way he said it made Deilcrit know that he had well studied the question, and 
also that he did not believe the answer.
He said slowly, “If I am successful ... I would do what I could for your folk.”
At that Quendros did not laugh, but only locked eyes with him and nodded 
gravely, telling Deilcrit more than he wanted to know about Quendros thereby.
Then the soft touch of Kirelli’s wehr-thought brushed him, and without another 
word he scram­bled to his feet and began the difficult ascent to the ridge top.
The boulders were loose and the vegetation sparse and the rock iced slippery. 
When he could finally lie prone upon the ridge’s summit, he rested, eyes closed, 
until Quendros’ muttered exclamation made him lift his head and peer through his 
tangles at what lay enfolded in Imnetosh’s skirts.
Othdaliee gleamed sullenly in the thin air. She was hewn into the V where 
Imnetosh’s final sheer ascent met the _ridge’s lee. Through her middle a river 
ran silver, and in the middle of the river was a gigantic amber bubble, 
dark-centered, like the eye of a dead fish. Around this bubble, on either side 
of the river, rose squat rectangular towers of shiny black, like the glassy 
stuff he had seen in Dey-Ceilneeth. Each of the twelve towers was con­nected by 
an elevated, enclosed span that arched over the river and the amber. bubble set 
into it.
In the whole city of Othdaliee, nothing Moved.
“By Laore’s eyeteeth,” said Quendros on an in­drawn breath. “All men should see 
this before they die.” The reverence that choked his voice was in­comprehensible 
to Deilcrit, for it was a reverence of man’s art.
They descended the ledge in a shower of tum­bling rocks until they reached a 
staircase, invisible from above, cut into the stone. The stairs were very wide 
and fanned out from the mountain. The steps were worn round and slick with the 
years, and in their corners fat black spiders spun elegant webs.
The wind with its icy chill howled over the ridge, but its claws could not touch 
them in the sheltered ravine.
Where the green rock stopped and the black slick stuff began, Kirelli waited. He 
sat upon the head of a statue whose whelt’s visage rested upon a woman’s body. 
It was one of the first pair of many enshadowed by the overhanging staircase by 
way of which they had descended.
When they walked between them and Deilcrit extended his arm for Kirelli, a 
humming sound cut through the faraway whine of the wind over the ridge, and sent 
Deilcrit hastily retreating, until he was stopped by Quendros’ arm.
“What’s the matter, boy? Don’t like your palace?”
Deilcrit was struck speechless by what he saw between the two statues, and did 
not answer.
The apparition stood in a bath of light converg­ing from the eyes of the 
whelt-headed statues.
Then Quendros’ arm was on his shoulders, and the older man’s reassuring voice 
whispered in his ear that the thing that approached them, through which the 
black paves could be dimly seen, whose head was like a whelt and whose body was 
like a woman’s, was a projection of light, a thing of man’s elder science, and 
told him not to be afraid. His mind heard, but his body did not. It shook like a 
leaf, until Kirelli straddled his shoulders and pressed cheek to his and gave 
him wehr-comfort.
So fortified by the confidence of both his allies, he neither fainted nor 
dropped to his knees before the glowing, flesh-toned apparition with its silver 
beak and cobalt crest.
This vision, which in Benegua’s mythology was that of Imca-Sorr-Aat’s female 
attribute, beckoned them, whelt-head cocked. Then it turned and floated down the 
middle of the black way along which sixteen identical statues stood guard.
Deilcrit’s teeth chattered loudly, and he clamped his jaws together until they 
ached. Quendros, be­side him, gawked right and left, but when Deilcrit asked him 
how the light-thing could move away from the statues that Quendros said created 
it, the older man opened his mouth, closed it, and said: “Never mind,”
Before a gaping portal thrice his height and wide enough to hold the men 
standing abreast, the im­age flickered, faded, and from within another, 
seem­ingly identical, beckoned out of the dim.
Quendros strode across the threshold. Deilcrit’s legs were rooted to the back 
steps. Kirelli nudged him, cooed softly, then tugged at his hair.
Quendros, within, shouted: “Look, Deilcrit,” and thrust his hand through the 
substance of the whelt­headed deity and waved the hand around.
Deilcrit squinted above, at the sky, at the last pair of black whelt-headed 
statues with their beaks turned toward him, staring down reproachfully; at the 
huge obsidian tower within which Quendros already stood.
There was a soft kissing sound. Kirelli squawked, took leave of his shoulder, 
and darted through the mighty portal. Deilcrit hesitated another moment, 
realized that the portal was indeed closing, and bounded through in three leaps. 
To find himself pulled up short by the slamming together of the glassy slabs 
upon the tail of his ragged shirt.
He lunged against the thing that restrained him, unthinking, and the ill-used 
tunic ripped from his shoulders and he stumbled into Quendros’ arms.
“Easy there, Deilcrit, it’s only a door. You made it. We made it. We’re in 
Othdaliee.”
Embarrassed, Deilcrit pulled away and stared at the glassy black portal from 
whose mouth dangled his garment, and at the patiently waiting appa­rition. Then 
he craned his neck and followed the black walls up into the dark. At about eye 
level on one of the walls was a large oval in which bricks of colored light were 
stacked. As he watched, the bricks flickered, changed color, ceased to exist. 
Quendros was peering—intently at the oval. So, apparently, was the apparition, 
which stood by Quendros with raised arm.
As he joined them and Kirelli alighted on his shoulder, he realized that the 
apparition would point to a brick and then Quendros would touch it and then the, 
color would change and they would repeat the process.
When Quendros did not answer his query as to what he was doing, Deilcrit turned 
around and stared at the black doors, closed up for a thousand years.
Then Kirelli nudged him and he turned back to where a rainbow display now filled 
the oval and the wall was drawing back into itself to expose a corridor lit with 
a dancing red glow. The whelt shivered and made an agitated little noise.
So he thought calm thoughts to it, reminding the whelt that soon they would both 
have their freedom, one way or the other, while he hissed at Quendros: “What did 
you do?” once again.
“Pressed what buttons were indicated. You want to go home, this is a little 
late.” And he bowed low and sweepingly to Deilcrit, and indicated the corri­dor 
wherein danced the red light.
Then. Kirelli humped up his wings and shook off his fear and flew first into—the 
corridor of reddish mist. He could do no other than to follow. He was just 
turning to reassure Quendros when the wall through which he had entered closed 
upon itself.
He pounded on the wall and yelled Quendros’ name until he realized the futility 
of what he did, then sat at its foot and closed his eyes and took stock of 
himself, searching out that purpose which he had thought he had here.
Even through his closed eyelids he was dizzied by the lights pulsing. He 
fingered the hilt of the sword he bore, and-spoke harshly to himself and dredged 
up Mahrlys’ face. But it was a long while before his legs would hold him and he 
rose up in the narrow, low corridor to take Kirelli onto his shoulder and walk 
the length of it, looking betimes at his feet, which seemed to sink into webs of 
flame that splashed and clung to his ankles. The farther he proceeded down the 
corridor, the deeper the sticky webs became, until he slogged through them 
rather than raising his feet so that he could see them between steps. By the 
time the strangely liquid filaments had reached his thighs, both he and the 
whelt knew that this was what they had come so far to find, and their cheeks 
were pressed together and their minds embraced more tightly than ever he had 
allowed himself to be enfolded by Wehrdom’s caress. So tightly that Kirelli 
heard his’ every fear and he himself was inundated with wheltly trepidation, and 
all of Kirelli’s conjecture as to what strength they might throw into that 
consuming red glitter that threatened to wipe from them all cognizance of 
individuality came clear to him.
Tightly held the whelt to his mind. Brightly burned its claws in his shoulder, 
and he was glad of the pain as the red stuff through which he walked congealed 
thicker and lapped about his chest. He felt little stingings, like insect bites, 
from the fila­ments the stuff threw up, but once his skin was immersed in it he 
felt nothing. It was not a physi­cal danger, in truth, he faced there, but one 
of mind. When Kirelli’s claws and his chin were be­neath the surface and the 
salty taste of it lapped against his lips, he felt terror that even their 
com­bined strengths would not be enough; that the inundation of knowledge to 
which their linked minds were being subjected would prove too great; that their 
conjectures were unfounded and they would lose remembrance of their purpose 
before the moment at which they must act to save them­selves came. And then the 
sparkling red mist was in his mouth and his eyes and he felt Kirelli shiver 
against him and, closed his lips and lids and tried to breathe the stuff in and 
his lungs exploded and he did indeed forget who he was.
But Kirelli did not, and he was conscious of raising his arm slowly through the 
viscous stuff, around him to steady the whelt on his shoulder. He wanted to 
stop, to cease the senseless pushing, but the whelt urged him on. He plodded 
sightless through the blood-warm sea for eternity. Eternity consisted of 
Kirelli’s •vehr-voice cooing his name and the whelt’s claws in his shoulder and 
at its end lay the dreaming mind of Imca-Sorr-Aat.
“Deilcrit.”
—Kire ... I cannot think .... What is it l must not forget?”
“Imca-Sorr-Aat lives in dreams. He kills for dreams. We must not let him .... 
Deilcrit, do not sleep .... If you cannot hold, open your mind to Wehrdom ..”
And then he heard the whelt no more, but only faced that, which rose out of the 
mist at him: a muscular ossasim thrice the size of any he had seen, talons 
extended. He tensed to throw himself aside, upon the boulder-strewn ground, then 
re­called there were no boulders in the corridor of red mist. There was red 
mist: it seemed that the whole ossasim, was comprised of red mist, and when he 
grappled with it his arms would not obey him and his hands closed, upon empty 
air. Yet he felt its teeth in his neck and then its great weight pinning him 
down as it poured into his defenseless mind all of the burden of knowledge that 
had been Imca-Sorr-Aat’s for twenty-five thousand years. And he screamed, and 
gurgled, and drowned in what no man should hear. Insanity beckoned, mindlessness 
a cool dark refuge with a lovely woman at its gate, yet he could not even 
surrender, for he lay helpless in the clutches of Imca-Sorr-Aat. The mad red 
eyes burned into him every knowledge forgotten and damned, and the lives of the 
billions it held chroni­cled within were his lives, and he lived them each and 
all. And at the end of them trailed his own, and he recognized all that he had 
been, and recol­lected his purpose, and tasted of his own strength. Then did he 
open his mind to Wehrdom and let the crushing weight of the years flood through 
him and out into the mind of every wehr who lived. And there came a great 
sighing, and a wailing shook the ground under him, and it cracked asun­der, and 
the red mist that was Imca-Sorr-Aat be­gan to discorporate before his eyes.
A terrible urgency filled him, that Imca-Sorr-Aat might escape and leave him 
trapped in the shud­dering dreamscape. With all his determination he called on 
those wails as his own, willing the most palpable. Slowly, the thing that was 
Imca-Sorr­Aat took shape once more, and as it did, he grabbed its neck in both 
his hands and dug in his thumbs. For a score of heartbeats there existed only 
his straining fingers and the jaws seeking his throat.
Then he was coughing paroxysmatically, on his hands and knees, before an open 
doorway. Kirelli the whelt lay motionless by his right hand. By his left 
glittered oasasim feet through which the floor could be seen. Still choking, his 
eyes streaming tears, he gathered up the whelt and held it to his ear .. A heart 
beat, weak but clear, within the feath­ered breast. He pressed the whelt against 
him and rocked slowly back and forth on his knees, not knowing what else to do 
for it, though within him rustled something which knew more than he ever dreamed 
possible. He did not prod that nightmare, quiescent. What lapped around the 
edges of his conscious mind told him more than enough. He knew for what the 
whelt-headed attendant waited, knew what yet lay between him and the carnelian 
throne.
But he sang wordlessly to the whelt, limp in his arms, content to wait.
This was their journey, together. He thought, inundated by grief, that though it 
was but a few steps more, he could not make it alone.
“You promised me, whelt, that .you would fol­low me one day. That day has not 
come. Live!” And he pressed his head to the whelt’s, and sent himself within its 
mind.
A soft, frightened thing curled there, whimpering. He reached with comfort, with 
success, with love, into the whelt mind. But the crying thing would not come 
forth.
Wordlessly he entered his despair, his own fear, his need, into that empty 
space, and Kirelli came to fill it.
The limp whelt body stirred, fluttered, grew ani­mated in his arms. He sat back 
on his haunches and laid Kirelli on his thighs and stroked the co­balt crest. 
There was an explosion of wings, and an irritable “Breet,’’ and the whelt stood 
uncer­tainly on the floor by his knee, shifting from foot to foot.
Deilcrit rubbed his eyes and snorted and growled menacingly to the whelt that 
their host awaited them. Then, trying hard not to grin, he extended his arm.
As the age-old guardian of light preceded them down innumerable corridors that 
lit when they entered and darkened when they left, he allowed himself the first 
small thrill of triumph. He had not been consumed by the trial of Imca-Sorr-Aat.
The corridor had not judged him fit only to end as fodder for Othdaliee’s fire. 
And his mind had not turned to curd ....
But then the light figure winked out abruptly, and all about him the 
illumination dimmed, and the walls drew back to admit him into the pres­ence of 
Imca-Sorr-Aat.
Here were corporeal attendants, ossasim in re­splendent cinnabar robes who stood 
rigid about the octagonal chamber’s walls, staring straight ahead of them. These 
were the servants of Imca­Sorr-Aat’s flesh, deployed around their master, who 
slumped as if sleeping in his carnelian throne.
With a whisper to Kirelli to take wing, Deilcrit approached the throne alone.
None among the ossasim lining the walls moved. Their eyes did not follow him. It 
was possible those eyes did not see, that they saw only Imca­Sorr-Aat, that they 
had seen nothing else for a thousand years. He did not fear them. They would not 
move to stop him. They were disfrancished with their sleeping regent.
He climbed the three steps slowly, heavily. He had won this right, and none 
would stop him, but as he faced his last grisly task, he faltered.
He looked down into the peaceful, sleeping face of the snow-white ossasim whose 
dreams had ruled Wehrdom for the last millenium. His hands clenched convulsively 
on the sword he bore at his hip. For a thousand years the interface that 
coordinated Wehrdom had been this ossasim, kept alive by Othdaliee’s elder 
knowledge. Yet and still did the burden of that correlative function lay upon 
the brain whose projection had battled him in a dream­land of its construction. 
What would be left of Deilcrit as he knew himself when he alone bore Wehrdom’s 
weight? Not for ten thousand years had he who bore the title Imca-Sorr-Aat been 
more than an idiot-savant. This the thing which lay in the back of his mind told 
him smugly.
Upon an instant, before the thing that dwelt in him could weaken him further, he 
drew the sword and mounted the final step and lopped off the head of the ossasim 
who had been Irnca-Sorr-Aat.
Then did he feel the full weight of what resided in Othdaliee.
IX. Gardens of Othdaliee
Twice since entering the gardens of Othdaliee had we been beset by creatures 
intent on turning Mahrlys’ prophecy of our deaths into truth. First, the guerm 
attacked upon putting us ashore at a flight of hand-hewn steps leading toward a 
crevice from.which spilled amber light. And we had killed the guerm, and Mahrlys 
had wept, and Chayin had growled, and Sereth warned them both that he was near 
the end of his patience.
The second time had been at the stairs’ head as we peered about us into a 
silent, petrified forest under an arching dome. From their perches in those 
leafless giants whose wood had ages ago been replaced with scintillant silicates 
they attacked: strange creatures, angular and gnarled as the limbs from which 
they descended, on us. The sandy ground was littered with them, as if with dead 
branches after an electrical storm.
Sereth leaned against one of the great tree bolls. His chest was heaving and 
sweat gleamed on him. Through the trees at his back I could see the curve of-the 
amber dome riverward, toward the place where the narrow island met the water.
“Chayin, I would speak with you alone,” he said, wiping his eyes with the back 
of his hand. I, too, was perspiring freely. The air within the dome was close 
and moist and stale.
Chayin left Mahrlys’ side and approached him.
For prudence’s sake, I sidled close to her. She was staring, back turned to the 
men, through the trees of stone toward the little isle’s center, where something 
gleamed as warmly as the dome above, as if a second hemisphere of amber rested 
there.
I said, “What is that?”
And she answered: “The heart of this garden’s rarest flower: the recollections 
of Othdaliee.”
And then she shuddered as if struck from behind, raked her fingers through her 
black hair, uttered a little scream, and fainted dead away.
I heard: “How dare you vent your wrath on her?” And whirled in time to see 
Sereth push Chayin from him with the flat of his hand. The cahndor staggered 
back a pace, then another, then slipped in some white slime puddled near a 
tree-thing’s corpse.
Sereth, a smile on him, waited patiently while the cahndor recovered.
The two cirlced each, other.
Numbly I sank down beside Mahrlys, and closed my eyes: owkahen sprang clear and 
bright into my sensing, all wraiths of the wehr-mist ripped away.
And I screamed: “Chayin, Sereth did not do this. Look. Look at owkahen,” and by 
then I found my­self between them, my fists pounding the cahndor’s chest.
Chayin imprisoned my wrists in one hand, snarled, and by that grip pulled me 
from between them. Then he hesitated, asking Sereth: “Is this true?” And his 
membranes snapped as he sought confor­mation from the time.
“It is. You did not ask me. I think you and I need wait, upon excuses no longer. 
One reason is as good as another.”
“No, Sereth, no,” I blurted. “Please, seek owkahen. Something has happened. 
Wehrdom stands clear and revealed.” And then Chayin shoved me toward Mahrlys and 
I crouched there, shaking, staring sightlessly at her chest rising and falling 
under the thin white robe.
I did not watch: I read death in that silence broken only by a foot sliding in 
the sand and a rustle as they circled each other. No, I did not look, only 
shuffled through the enlightenment the time held out. And then moaned, struck my 
fore­head with the flat of my hand, and shouldered my way into Mahrlys’ 
unconscious mind.
Ah, I could not have done it sooner, no more than I could refrain from it then. 
Therein I found the nature of her designs, the awful fate she had orchestrated 
for Chayin. I saw what reality was called Imca-Sorr-Aat. And I saw what had 
dropped her senseless and chased her mind into the corner where it cowered: 
linca-Sorr-Aat no longer dreamed. Thereupon I did not need her further, for 
owkahen showed me why: It showed me what responsibility was Chayin’s, in what 
way he had betrayed us. But I cared not, for all else was shown me, and in that 
larger context all things are fit.
So I turned from her, opening my eyes, and watched carefully as they closed, 
grappled, fell together in a heap. For a moment I thought I could do no good, 
that they would never break apart; but Chayin’s grip on Sereth’s neck slipped. 
They separated. I found an opening, in that tangle of limbs and I flesh-locked 
them both so neatly that my father, were he watching, would have been proud of 
me.
I knew what I did, how great the risk of apply­ing physical force to Sereth, but 
I did not really consider it.
Unsteadily, my steps slow and careful, T went and knelt down between them, my 
eyes on my own knees that I not see Sereth’s face and lose hold on them. Then I 
said: “Give me long enough to explain, and do what you will,” and dropped the 
hold, far becoming untenable as Sereth’s fury sought to breach my defenses.
I had a few moments, while the tremors atten­dant on flesh-lock rolled over 
them, and I used them well:
I told Chayin what life Mahrlys had planned for him, that of a semisentient 
vegetable who would dream Wehrdom’s dreams a thousand years and never wake; and 
I remanded him to owkahen for instructions as to what punishment might fit such 
crimes as hers.
And I told Sereth to look there also: for Chayin’s crimes, if crimes Sereth 
judged them after seeking counsel in the time, were no more than hesting 
Se’keroth’s legend into fact without heed to con­sequence. And then I brought 
both their attention to the designs of Wehrdom newly etched on owkahen’s face, 
and said:
“It is not any of us whose minds will be turned to jelly by Wehrdom. Though it 
seems to me late, it might be fit of us to attend him who took Chayin’s place on 
Wehrdom’s altar. Perhaps we can, offer him an easy death.”
I broke it off, eyes still lowered, waiting for Sereth’s revenge: I had raised 
Shaper skills against him. But it did not come. When I looked up I saw that they 
sat regarding each other, as if they had not heard.
“Chayin, you promised Deilcrit your aid. Mahrlys lies unconscious in but the 
reflection of his need. Can you sit and pick an old bone with Sereth, knowing 
that Deilcrit suffers the very agonies she meant for you?”
“If Sereth agrees,” said Chayin stiffly, “we will continue this at a later 
date.”
“Gladly. But on one condition: I will do what I please to that saiisa of yours, 
and we will worry about reparations later.”
Chayin’s mouth tightened. He looked at me pleadingly. I only shook my head. Even 
if I wanted to use it, I had not enough influence on Sereth to lift the murder 
from his demeanor. And I did not want to. I almost asked Chayin whether he would 
have slain Deilcrit for Mahrlys, but bit my tongue, and rose stiffly and brushed 
the sand from my knees instead.
Chayin gathered up the unconscious Mahrlys in his arms and brought her to where 
Sereth quietly explained to me how we were going to obviate four people into a 
place we had never been, on the strength of the image of that room owkahen held 
out to us. I did not disbelieve him, only followed his terse instructions and 
added my strength to his own, while a part of me ruffled all the pages of 
owkahen seeking some probability in which Deilcrit was not a mindless hulk, 
sacrificed to the time. And I thought I might have found one, in the very 
presence of Wehrdom’s web about owkahen, when Sereth said, “Ready?” and I nodded 
and took his hand and Chayin’s and the three of us put our combined strengths 
into the obviation of space for the first time.
There was the golden glow of nonspace, and the cold that nibbled at my 
substance; but there was no pain, only a gathering as if to spring, and a 
sucking in of the flow we rode. And when I let go Sereth’s hand and blinked away 
the vertigo as my substance repaired to its accustomed form, I saw the carnelian 
throne I had viewed in the Eye of Mnemaat, and upon owkahen’s face.
It centered a featureless octagonal chamber of black glass, bathed in a pool of 
amber light of the same sort as poured in through the wide-open door at our 
backs.
In it slumped a battered figure, one rag wrapped about its loins and another 
about its left arm. His belly and shoulders were scored with clawmarks, his chin 
rested on his chest. And above, perched on the throne’s unornamented back, 
poised a huge whelt. Across the throne’s arms rested a gray-bladed sword with a 
jeweled hilt.
The battered chest rose and fell very slowly. He did not stir. The whelt humped 
its wings and gave a forlorn cry.
I looked at the figure, and tears blurred my vision. I whispered Deilcrit’s 
name, and Sereth gave me shelter under his arm. Without a look at Chayin or 
Mahrlys, we approached the throne and what rested therein.
“There—must be something we can do,” I qua­vered to Sereth as the whelt took 
screeching flight and from behind us came a bellow:
“Stop right there.”
As one we turned, looking past Chayin, who crouched over Mahrlys’ just-stirring 
form, and saw a huge, blackhaired, ragged man striding toward us brandishing a 
steel sword. As he came upon us I recognized it as the sword I had lost in the 
forest, and whispered that to Sereth.
“Who are you?” demanded the man. Giving us a wide berth, he circled until he 
stood between us and the motionless figure on the carnelian throne.
The whelt, squawling loudly, dived toward us, veered at the last instant, to 
take perch again on the throne’s back.
The man waggled my sword, repeating his query. His eyes were red and his cheeks 
bore clean white tracks among the dirt and stubble.
“Perhaps we should ask the questions,” Sereth said, letting go his grip on me 
and stepping a, pace closer to the man. That weapon you hold—”
“Quendros, stand aside,” came a voice, deep and distant, from behind the hulking 
giant. That one, with a grunt of surprise, stumbled backward down the steps.
“Deilcrit!” I cried, and ran toward him. Sereth caught my arm roughly and pulled 
me up short.
The face looking down on me was sheened with strain. Under sheltering brows, 
long brown eyes flickered back and forth across us; touched Chayin, and Mahrlys, 
and Quendros, and then returned to me. The chiseled, ascetic features remained 
un­marred by emotion. The luminous eyes held no hint of recognition.
“Imca-Sorr-Aat,” he corrected, and then leaned back and seemed to fall asleep. 
The whelt bent its head to his, and cooed softly,
X. Imca-Sorr-Aat
He dreamed a dream of life behind locked lids whose key he had misplaced. In the 
dream the presence called Imca-Sorr-Aat spoke through his mouth, and the 
growling sound echoed back in his emptiness and disturbed him. So he went to the 
pool of recollection and stared long therein, listen­ing to the lullaby 
Imca-Sorr-Aa.t sang in his inner ear, that he might dream of man-wehrs 
undis­turbed while that which dwelt within him held audience with what dwelt 
without.
But they were his eyes which Imca-Sorr-Aat opened, and what they saw belonged to 
him also. Three creatures like shadows before flame, the eyes had seen, and the 
vision triggered another vision that had been Deilcrit’s when he alone commanded 
the flesh in which he rode. In the vision there had been himself, and the three 
combusting silhouettes, and a black-haired woman and a man. Such was the ladder 
of recollection Deilcrit climbed while Imca-Sorr-Aat hung to his legs and 
whispered sweet songs. And when he had pulled himself up that great distance he 
had no strength left to say whatever it was he had wanted to say.
So Imca-Sorr-Aat, who had held a hundred thou­sand audiences and partaken of the 
strength of those who had come to him, spoke through his mouth as it had through 
a quarter-hundred mouths before. The ritual of audience was one of the oldest of 
Imca-Sorr-Aat’s memories. It prepared to lure the creatures it saw into the 
chamber of its desires, where it might, as it had countless times, claim the 
memories of those before it and add them to its own, strengthening Wehrdom 
thereby.
But Deilcrit had heard and seen and stood help­lessly by in his own temple while 
a foreign priest oblated therein. When his eyes opened by Imca­Sorr-Aat’s will 
and that name came from lips which were once his own, he screamed and thrashed 
in the tiny prison left to him and battered his iden­tity like a great pointed 
stake against the walls Imca-Sorr-Aat had constructed to hold him.
Wehrdom dreams the dreams of all its children. Through the child whose flesh 
becomes both termi­nal and interface to that biologic correlative func­tion 
fashioned by the sum of ,knowledge within it, Imca-Sorr-Aat rules Wehrdom. Had 
it been other­wise once? The Imca-Sorr-Aat presence recollected, reluctantly, 
that it had.
And Deilcrit, dangling from his life’s visions over the dreamscape which sang so 
softly songs of enchantment, drove his identity like a wedge into that 
hesitation and reclaimed the volition of the body in which they both dwelt.
And for the fourth time since he had stumbled over the slain ossasim and sunk 
into the carnelian throne, his eyes opened.
The first time had been in the shock of inun­dation, when every light in 
Othdaliee had blinked on and every way but the way out had opened wide, and he 
had sent the disfrancished ossasim with their decapitated lord on their last 
journey: by now servants and the past-master trod the sands of Othdaliee’s 
heart; soon they would exist in the kiss of memory only, their substance gone to 
make broader the recollections of Imca-Sorr-Aat.
The second time had been at the moment the flame-figures disturbed Imca-Sorr-Aa 
t’s cogitations and called traces of Deilcrit up from where he languished 
imbound.
The third time he had watched in horror as Imca-Sorr-Aat made use of him, and 
felt ICirelli’s mourning mind’s touch, and even supplied the pres­ence with 
Quendros’ name. And therein lay the key to his success—there and in the fate 
Imca-Sorr­Aat held out to those who sought wisdom in Othdaliee. For 
Imca-Sorr-Aat sought wisdom also, and any receptacle thereof was to its 
ever-ravenous belly the most delectable of morsels.
Deilcrit, thrOugh waves of nausea, forced the numbness from his limbs and pushed 
away the bricks Imca-Sorr-Aat had placed upon his lids and upon his shoulders 
and mortared like a sarcophagus around his limbs, and thrust his body upward 
with all his might as sight came to him. Not be­cause of him would Quendros end 
in Wehrdom’s belly! Nor Mahrlys!
That which was Imca-Sorr-Aat sighed, com­menced a dirge within his inner ear.
But he stood upright, on trembling knees, braced on the arms of the carnelian 
throne. His ears heard the sound as Se’keroth clattered to the steps at his 
feet.
Having heard it, he sought the sight. When the sword swam on the step before his 
eyes and he was sure that he did not yet dream, he raised his head to those who 
awaited him.
The cords stood out in his neck and perspiration rolled like rain down him, but 
he managed to retrieve the blade. Legs braced wide ipart, swaying, he turned his 
head slowly from figure to figure, wait­ing until each one bore a name in his 
mind.
Then, heavily, he descended the steps until he was eye to eye with those who 
stood on the bottom one, and held out the blade to the dark power Chayin, beside 
whom was Mahrlys-iis-Vahais, her hand pressed to her mouth and her eyes wide 
above it.
He was conscious of Quendros, suddenly at his side, offering aid.
With a savage shake of his head, he refused. Not before Mahrlys would he be 
supported by another man.
There was an unbearable interval within which he chased the gift of speech, 
while they waited, the spirit powers and Quendros and Mahrlys. Shame flooded 
him, that he could not speak but only stare dumbly, and upon its heels came rage 
that he would be cheated of even this small triumph, and then Kirelli landed 
upon his shoulder and he almost fell.
The whelt’s claws dug into him, its head, pressed against his. With a wracking 
sob that echoed through the great hall, he gave over the blade to the dark power 
Chayin, and called that one’s name, as he had been instructed, in his need.
He knew that he was falling forward, felt Chayin’s arms about him, and a sharp 
light like a length of steel pierced the shroud through which he saw the world.
Those filmed eyes searched deep in his, and when he pulled back, the skin 
against which his own had rested glittered with moisture.
“Deilcrit?” said Chayin.
Deilcrit? “Yes,” he said, and heard “yesssss.”
Fortified by that success and what seemed like a great light coming from the 
spirit powers, he said to Mahrlys what he had long wanted to say, what he had 
longed to say since she had told him there was no place for such as he in the 
world, what he had needed to say since she had stolen from him the beauty in 
which his mind had long enwrapped her. He said:_
“Mahrlys-iis-Vahais. You are my priestess and my betrothed. Do you not kneel 
before that power to which you are sworn?”
She seemed to melt rather than kneel. He stared at the black cascade of her hair 
upon the steps, and thought that now he might sleep content.
“No!” came an irresistible command like dry twigs rustling in his mind, forcing 
the presence of Imca-Sorr-Aat which had crept up on him dis­guised as his own 
will to shrink back. “Speak,” commanded that voice, this time in his ears. He 
turned his head to follow the sound and beheld the scarred countenance of the 
spirit power Sereth. Those slitted eyes impaled him where he stood, holding him 
upright. At the periphery of his vision he glimpsed Quendros’ agitated attempts 
to get his attention. But he could not turn from the power’s grasp.
“I ... we ... Kirelli and I ... though that to­gether ... we sent the truth 
throughout . all the minds .... If—the remembrances that lurk under the amber 
dome ... could be ... silenced ... it would be as it was meant ....”
“Thank you,” said the spirit power Sereth, nodding.
He had done well. The spirit had asked him questions, and he had answered them. 
He, Deilcrit, had answered, against all of Imca-Sorr-Aat’s pro­testations.
Within him, Imca-Sorr-Aat wailed, and took thought to its own safety, a thought 
it had never had to think in all the years of its cogitation. Des­perately it 
struggled to retake the instrument through which it affected life, for without 
the mind’s will to which it was bound, it could not initiate any action.
But Deilcrit was leaning upon the spirit power Sereth. That one held Deilcrit’s 
arm across his own broad shoulders, and his whispered queries ripped answers 
Deilcrit did not understand from the memories of Imca-Sorr-Aat.
Out through the gaping portal into that hallway where the great doors still 
clamped shut upon the shirt Mahrlys had given him in Dey-Ceilneeth, Sereth 
propelled him, while Imca-Sorr-Aat bab­bled to him of Mnemaat and what glories 
for man­wehrs they might together attain.
And they stopped before the glowing oval within which rested colored bricks. But 
they were not colored bricks. With Imca-Sorr-Aat looking out through his eyes, 
screaming in horror a hundred bribes and offers and imprecations, he gritted out 
the sequence long ago entered into the organic memory, discorporate, that was 
Imca-Sorr-Aat. And that intelligence faced oblivion, as for the first time in 
all that time the biophysical interface pro­grammed itself: by invoking its own 
accession, it remanded Imca-Sorr-Aat into the prison of eternal dreaming whence 
it had come.
It was Sereth’s fingers which did the work, for Deilcrit claimed only half those 
moments as his own, and when Imca-Sorr-Aat spoke through him he murmured and 
pleaded and cried ancient tears and toward the last both Quendros and Chayin 
held him.
There was a pride in him, a joy though he ex­pected death, that Kirelli had sat 
on his shoulder, that at last they had managed to complete what it was that they 
had started. And a pleasure, too, that Mahrlys was not there to hear 
Imca-Sorr-Aat squeal­ing through his mouth nor see them wrestle him to the 
ground.
The oval before his eyes swam close, brightening unbearably. Across its face 
shot red lines, then yellow, the white, while under his body, pinned by Chayin 
and Quendros to the stone, the whole uni­verse heaved and quaked.
He saw blackness, unutterably complete, heard the screaming recede from his 
inner ear. After a time he felt emptied and crawled around within himself 
seeking any traces of the red mist, but there were none.
Deilcrit opened his eyes. Chayin’s, and Quendros’, peered into him.
‘‘Deilcrit?” demanded Chayin.
“Deilcrit,” he said, a hoarse rasp, hardly intel­ligible. But Chayin removed his 
weight, and Quendros also.
He sat, rubbing his left arm, and felt his skin pimple as the sweat began to 
dry. Chilled, he rose to his knees. Dizziness assailed him. But they only 
waited, to see what he would do.
In his mind was a soreness and an ache and a rubbish pile of knowledge he knew 
would take him a lifetime to sort and arrange.
It, was Kirelli who attended him, while he hud­dled there, head hanging, seeking 
the strengh to rise.
The whelt alighted before him, thrust its beak into his face, and inspected him 
closely. Then it cooed and tugged on his hair.
A hand was extended. He ignored it. Clumsily but under his own power he gained 
his feet and held out his arm to Kirelli.
As the whelt sidled up to his shoulder, he sur­veyed the entrance hall, of 
Othdaliee: The light, soft amber, still’came from the arched ceiling. The outer 
doors were still locked tight. The oval still gleamed, but with three pinkish 
bricks only.
Otherwise, everything was changed.
The corridor in which he had taken the trial, where the red mist had inundated 
the substance of his body, lay open, and there was no mist therein. All along 
the hall’s expanse were similar passages, each attended by two whelt-headed 
creatures spun from light.
Sereth obscured his view. The assessing look upon the spirit power faded. He 
extended his hand, palm up, to Deilcrit.
Wishing that his limbs did not shake so, he met it with his own.
“This had needed doing a long time. Errors of copying fidelity in any organic 
system cannot be avoided. You have not lost. You are still Imca-Sorr­Aat; what 
that one was supposed to be. Rule well, and stay out of dreamscapes.” He was 
grinning.
Deilcrit felt his face pull up in an echo of Sereth’s grimace. It felt strange 
and stiff and the muscles in his face hurt.
“I know,” he said. “When we sent the call of Imca-Sorr-Aat throughout Wehrdom, 
we ensured that nothing would be lost. I think we all know. And for some, it was 
the first time that such knowl­edge was presented. You might say Wehrdom has 
been introduced to itself, at last.”
“To its selves,” corrected the spirit power Sereth.
From out of the pile of years in his mind came an understanding, a surety based 
upon the audi­ence Imca-Sorr-Aat had once held with a glowing creature whose 
strength was unassailable and who had arrived, like this one, in a shadow form 
black before flame.
“You are Mnemaat’s successor, are you not?” he asked of Sereth, and that one, 
suddenly unsmiling, inclined his head.
“If you will refrain from called me Mnemaat, I will refrain from calling you 
Imca-Sorr-Aat. And I promise you, I will be Unseen soon enough. I am not one to 
take a hand in others’ affairs unless invited. Or forced.”
There was a remonstration there that Deilcrit did not misconstrue. But also 
there was a con­firmation, a promise of aid should the occasion arise.
“Imca-Sorr-Aat means ‘he who came into being out of many,’” replied Deilcrit. “I 
would., not be that, even in name. I will be Aat-Deilcrit, the self-begotten, 
for I am he who came into being out of Deilcrit.”
Sereth laughed softly. “Then might we not be Aat-Sereth, Aat-Chayin, and 
Aat-Estri? It suits me better than Mnemaat. I am not so holy as all that.”
Kirelli leaned forward and rubbed his cheek. He sensed. the whelt’s concern, and 
fingered its banded leg. “Kirelli wants to know if this means that you will not, 
after all, remain Unseen? The whelts liked not the banded servitude that the 
ossasim Imca­Sorr-Aat imposed on them.”
“You tell your co-regent that it is a long journey to the Lake of Horns, and 
that neither I, nor any of mine will again make this trek unless you or he 
should call upon us for aid. I am not in, favor of opening these shores to 
my’own kind.”
Kirelli made a small and regently “Breet” and inclined his beak majestically.
“I must go collect my woman: the time for me to become Unseen fast approaches. 
Chayin?”
But neither Aat-Chayin nor Quendros followed Aat-Sereth into the octagonal 
chamber where waited Mahrlys and Estri in the crowd of light-forms who attend 
the wants of the master of Othdaliee.
Chayin had the grayed blade in his hands, scrap­ing at it with a fingernail. 
Where his nail scratched, the gray came away, and the green metal shone through.
Quendros, a little behind him, merely stared after Sereth’s retreating back, 
incredulity doubling the size of his eyes, which seemed to want to-hop from his 
head and follow the successor of Mnemaat.
“How did Se’keroth get like this?” asked Chayin without preamble. Quendros 
jumped as if struck, and turned his gaze upon the cahndor’s massive litheness as 
if seeing it for the first time.
“Aat-Chayin, I beg your forgiveness. I was fight­ing ossasim, and it flew from 
my grasp, and light­ning struck it, and it fell down the slope,” said Deilcrit.
The cahndor’s right eyebrow lifted high. He squinted at the sword, once more 
digging at it with his nail.
“Go on, you ...” And then Quendros seemed to remember to whom he was speaking. 
“Go on, Aar­Deilcrit, finish it: the blade fell down the mountain­side and 
landed in a pocket of ice.”
A shrill ululating cry pierced his ears and echoed around the hall. Sereth came 
running to the doorway. The whelt screeched and beat the air, claws digging his 
shoulder.
Chayin held the sword high, and again the Parset victory cry blared from him.
Sereth advised something in a tongue even Imca­Sorr-Aat had not known, and 
Chayin lowered the sword and slipped it through a loop on his belt and studied 
Deilcrit for a time, during which Quendros fidgeted around with pursed lips as 
if what he waited to say would burst from him against his will.
Deilcrit stroked Kirelli’s crest and shifted from foot to foot, wishing one of 
them would speak of what concerned them.
He was about to seek Mahrlys in the throne room when they both blurted out, 
together: “I would speak with you alone.h
“Cannot the spirit power Aat-Chayin speak freely before the Minister of 
Histories, Third Hand of Othdaliee?” asked Deilcrit somberly, and then could not 
suppress his own grin at Quendros’ shocked expression.
Chayin took no notice of Quendros’ shy shuffling of feet, ludicrous as it was on 
a man of such bulk, but, ground out: “What would you say if I asked you for 
Mahrlys’ life?”
Deilcrit, misunderstanding, said: “She is in no danger from me. I have loved her 
in my dreams for years. All who erred under the sway of Imca­Sorr-Aat’s 
nightmares will receive absolution. We have all learned a great deal. We may 
have even learned how to be ourselves. But were I not giving mercy as it was 
given to me, I would still sprare her. It will be a wondrous thing to have her 
at my feet. In a sense she is what I have achieved.”
He spied Quendros’ troubled face, and thought of Heicrey, and quickly added: 
“Surely Imca-Sorr­Aat’s successor may have more than one consort, after so many 
Imca-Sorr-Aats have been abstinent. I will bring Heicrey here too. They will 
learn to love each other.”
“Boy, you know nothing of women,” Quendros burst out. “They will kill each 
other.”
“It is true that I know nothing of women, but there is only one way to learn. 
And Kirelli well knows Mahrlys ....”
Then he looked at Chayin’s face, whose expres­sion he could not name, whose hand 
clenched, un­clenched upon Se’keroth’s hilt. There was a snapping of membranes 
and behind them, a drawing back.
“You have done me great services. You quenched Se’keroth in ice for me, 
something perhaps only you could have done. You preceded me into the maw of 
Imca-Sorr-Aat. You invoked my word upon me when Mahrlys urged me to slay you, 
and thus kept me from a folly I would later have regretted. But I wonder if I do 
you any service? I,, myself, know more of women than most men, and she worked 
such wiles upon me as I have never before seen but for Estri’s.”
“She is mine,” said Deilcrit, folding his arms over his chest, wincing as they 
pressed against the deep, scores Eviduey’s ossasim had dealt him.
Aat-Chayin growled, and spat upon the tile. “She is that. But if you find you 
cannot handle her, bring her to Nemar, and I will instruct you.” From the 
thickening of Aat-Chayin’s voice, by the dig­nity of his bearing as he wheeled 
and strode to­ward the carnelian throne, did Deilcrit, at last understand that 
Chayin, too, felt love for Mahrlys.
And he inspected his feet, thinking that he had two women and the splendorous 
spirit power had none, until Quendros clapped him square upon his bandaged left 
arm and he yelped.
“Remember, you’re going to share her with me,” Quendros grinned lasciviously. 
Deilcrit, recollect­ing the boast he had made to Quendros, nodded rather 
stiffly, stumbled over this ossasim passed out full length in the corridor. Must 
have been the same thing that knocked Mal-n-lys senseless.
“Anyhow, I’m not the one to turn down an unexpected gift, so I wrapped him for 
you ....” And they turned a bend in the corridor.
There lay Eviduey, trussed with strips of Quendros’ tunic, propped against the 
glassy black wall. Kirelli humped his wings and uttered a soft cry.
The red-in-red eyes stared defiantly at them.
Quendros halted. Deilcrit did not, but strode to stand over the huge ossasim, 
whose muscles swelled in vain against the stout bindings.
“You said once that you would support anything that bettered Wehrdom. I have 
bettered Wehrdom,” said Deilcrit very quietly, as he had heard Aat­Sereth do. 
“And you said that you might support a creature such as Kirelli and some others 
thought me to be I have proved myself that thing. I claim the function that was 
Imca-Sorr-Aat’s. I am Aat­Deilcrit and I will rule from Othdaliee. And I will do 
it with Mahrlys at my side. Will you support me?” Quendros, behind him, growled.
The ossasim hissed and took a deep breath and closed its eyes. He knew what 
considerations went through Eviduey’s mind by way of wehr-thought, but he did 
not probe there.
After a time the ossasim opened its eye and said: “Aat-Deilcrit, you leave me 
little choice. Kirelli, prince of wehrs, you have acknowledgment from me. But 
let me leave Aehre-Kanoss, and roam where I will. I cannot in any conscience 
serve you. There are too many conflicts in my heart.”
“As you will, Eviduey. Under those terms, keep your life. Enter my domain 
thereafter, however, and you will lose it.”
And he motioned to Quendros to unbind the ossasim and made hurriedly from the 
scene, before the Laonan could protest.
As he wandered among the whelt-headed women and the newly opened corridors, he 
reflected that he had broken one promise to Quendros, and would possibly break a 
second—he had no intention of lending out Mahrlys. But the other, that of aid to 
the Laonans—that, he would keep.
He felt his ordeal. It weighed down the aching muscles of his arms and 
shoulders; cuts and bruises stiffened his walk. But he hummed to himself, 
stroking Kirelli’s crest, and did not hurry back to the carnelian throne. It 
would await him as long as he pleased. He peered into a chamber that was 
unmistakably one for sleeping, and reflected that he would have to recruit real 
attendants, the kind who could not be seen through. Those ossasim who served 
that function had gone into the memo­ries of Imca-Sorr-Aat, with their master’s 
flesh. And he smiled to himslef, leaning against the doorjamb, looking at the 
richly adorned pallet with its legs of wrought gold, and thought what a 
plea­sure it would be to have Mahrlys tend his wounds. “What, what, what?” he 
sang to himself, but he knew the answer. Parpis would have been proud to see how 
far the guerm-tender had come, Mahrlys had been wrong—there had been a place for 
him in the world, after all.
Thereupon the master of Othdaliee put aside his weariness, and passed with new 
surety through his halls, stopping only briefly, to query his whelt­headed women 
of light as to how he might best make welcome the first guests of his reign.
This he did by means of his voice, not Wehrdom’s network, which to his mind’s 
eye lay greatly changed. He did not fear the whelt-headed ones: their nature lay 
clear among the mountain of knowl­edge he had received from Imca-Sorr-Aat. Nor 
did the splendors so long locked away in a quiescent Othdaliee amaze him. They 
had waited, with all else, for one to come and call them up to life by 
vanquishing the monitoring system called Imca­Sorr-Aat. So had the creators of 
Othdaliee designed it, and so had it come to pass. Othdaliee was open to him, 
all her power and her beauty. The black glass walls had forsaken the shadows of 
sleep: Othdaliee was alive with color and masterworks of forgotten art.
Before one he paused, and stared into golden eyes so real-seeming that he 
shivered. Kirelli touched him through the altered wehr-thought, no longer 
wraithlike, but a multitude of varicolored points of light, each marking an 
intelligence active in the circuit.
“Deilcrit,” said Kirelli’s thought, “do not fear.”
But he did fear. Warped or no, Imca-Sorr-Aat had guided Wehrdom for thousands of 
years. “Who am I to aspire to such a role?” he answered the whelt.
“Who are we? We are the best that could be had. We are sufficient by our 
success. Mnemaat’s cho­sen acknowledge us. We will do better for Wehrdom than 
even they might, for we are of it.”
“Kirelli, I am so tired ....”
And the wehr-thought showed him Mahrlys and the spirit powers who awaited by the 
carnelian throne. He grunted, and they made their way into his throne room.
All eyes followed him across that threshold. Their touch made walking a 
treacherous undertaking.
The whelt-headed light-forms hovered unobtru­sively in the octagonal hall’s 
angles. Three angles were no longer black, but clear, open to the ridge side. 
One looked over its spine, westward toward the sea.
As he sought the nature of his domain’s view, Kirelli forsook him for the 
throne.
He joined Aat-Estri there, though Mahrlys still knelt in a puddle before the 
carnelian dais, Sereth and Chayin on either side. He took the spirit power’s 
copper hands in his own and kissed them, and said: “Most High, allow me to serve 
you.”
Her hair glistened like melted bronze. She stood on her tiptoes to kiss him, and 
laughing; replied: “Lift from me the curse of Imca-Sorr-Aat.”
He felt Mahrlys’ eyes boring into his back, and Sereth’s also. He released her, 
taking his hands from the cascade of silken hair, on her hips. The pressure of 
her breasts was gone from against him, and he could only look, and remember that 
time she had touched him in the forest, and grin.
When Aat-Sereth joined them, Deilcrit offered the hospitality of Othdaliee to 
Mnemaat’s successor, who accepted without a smile, on the condition that 
Deilcrit view the rising moon with him, and then said:
“Chayin feels I have taken too much on myself in what I have done here. He says 
that we have interfered, and that you have lost more than you have gained. Do 
you feel this?”
“Oh, no,” he said, and whirled to where Chayin sat lowering upon one of his 
throne’s steps. And then he understood how such a one might think that, if 
looking through Mahrlys’ eyes. Her Wehr­dom was largely decimated. She found no 
friends among the remaining wehrs. Kirelli, with a deri­sive caw, took flight 
and soared in circles near the chamber’s roof.
“It was my solution, one I could not implement, that Sereth aided me with. You 
saw—you held me—you heard Imca-Sorr-Aat speak through my mouth. Seek Wehrdom’s 
flow; it is different, weak­ened; but it is not decimated. And if I am not much, 
Kirelli is more, and together I am sure we will manage.”
Aat-Chayin’s face showed him that what he had guessed concerning the spirit 
power’s feelings was not far from the truth. And he added, very low: “I had some 
doubts myself. But I have put them away. If, as you said before, I have aided 
you, do me the honor of the benefit of your doubt.”
And the spirit power muttered someting, and looked away, and allowed that he 
would give any man that.
It was then Quendros returned from setting Eviduey upon his freedom, while still 
Deilcrit pon­dered a way to delicately extricate himself and Mahrlys from their 
guests. He had things to say to her that could not be said in others’ presence.
So he called to Quendros, intending to assign him the task of seeing to the 
spirit powers, and began to introduce each power by name.
But Quendros interrupted, saying: “I am Laonan,” and holding out his hand to 
Aat-Estri.
“Indeed?” murmured she. “Laore’s child?”
“Once and always,” stammered Quendros, mak­ing a sign with his outstretched 
hand, which she-echoed. Sereth leaned back against the wall, arms folded over 
his chest. Chayin strode toward Quen­dros and clapped, him upon the back.
“It is good to know that something of civilized man remains here,” the spirit 
power boomed.
“Truth.” Estxi smiled warmly. “Priest, were we not needed here? Did we merely 
snatch from you the moment of your triumph?”
“No, no.” The Laonan Quendros scowled. “I was, I am afraid, insufficient to the 
task. But as Minis­ter of Histories and Third Hand of Othdaliee”—and here he 
moved awayfrom her to Deilcrit, and clasped the youth warmly about the 
shoulders—“I
am sure I can put my small familiarity with all that has gone before to good 
use.”
There was something Deilcrit did not like in the relief he saw upon all their 
faces, something that chiseled away at the foundations of his triumph. But he 
said only what he had intended, asking Quendros to take charge of his guests and 
see what could be found among the ossasim’s stores to eat. Kirelli swooped low, 
showing the way out. And then, magically, they were alone.
He stared out through the wall that had once been blackened glass, but now 
showed him the cruel, icy ridge slope and the sun blazing low over the western 
sea.
He did not move, but bespoke the doors. He heard the hiss as they closed, and 
knew satisfaction: he could command what he willed in Othdaliee.
He said, still watching the sun drip flame upon the ocean, “I would have 
preferred that you come to me willingly, but we all take what we can get. I 
spared Eviduey, if it is any comfort to you, though he tried determinedly to 
slay me.”
“Thank you,” she said evenly.
“I will try my best to make you content,” he said, while before his eyes a tiny 
bird chased a whelt who soared on the air currents, caught it, and rode its 
back.
“I would not bother, were I you,” she replied.
His hands played with the thong that bound the empty scabbard he had made so 
long ago from Aat-Estri’s discarded tunic, that she had used to clean the mucus 
from the newborn ptaissling. He would see about the ptaissling, perhaps invite 
it to Othdaliee. And he would see about carting up some small trees that thrived 
in shade. It was not only Kirelli who would be uncomfortable living in this bare 
and unyielding forest of glass and stone, which smelled of metal. And the whelt 
had few places to perch in the throne room, and none at all in the empty 
corridors. He looked up at the domed ceiling, measuring it with his eye. A 
sizable memnis could be moved in, were its pot ample enough.
“This place will be better with some green around. You will come to like it. It, 
is not dead like Dey-Ceilneeth. The very walls will do your bidding.” Then he 
heard her sob, and he did turn around.
She huddled before his throne in her ragged robe, once white, elegant, but now 
ripped away at mid-thigh and begrimed. Her face was buried in her hands. Her 
shoulders shook. He longed to go to her. He said, Instead:
“You always cry. You cried when I claimed you in Dey-Ceilneeth. I command you to 
cease.”
And when she did not, he did go to her and take her by the shoulders and shake 
her, very gently, while the thrill of touching her once more threat­ened to 
consume his sense. Not yet he told himself fiercely.
“Why did you cry then, Mahrlys? Why do you cry now?”
“Mine have died by the thousands, and you ask me why I cry,” she said, her green 
eyes swimming in, tears. “I cried in Dey-Ceilneeth when I realized what you 
were, and saw all tumbling about me in ruins. And now it has tumbled. Let me go 
and join my dead, where I belong.”
‘No,” he said, and then it was time. He set about convincing her, there on the 
steps of the carnelian throne, that she might find life under his rule 
preferable to death.
At length he lay exhausted and unsure that he had done so; but when he pushed up 
and regarded her, and saw the sweat beading her upper lip and the smile that 
tugged at it, he was greatly eased. She ran a finger down his cheek and touched 
his lips with it, and said: “Man-wehr, if you can keep that whelt of yours from 
clawing out my eyes, I might bear you an heir.”
And he wondered, then, if the spawn of their union would be winged, with 
red-in-red eyes, but did not have the heart to ask her. He said, instead: “Not 
yet, woman. Do what you must, but see to it.”
And she lowered her eyes and said, “Yes, my lord,” and pressed her forehead 
against his shoulder, and he had not the heart to tell her of Heicrey, either.
He sat full upright and peered at the sky, dull green and darkening, and pulled 
her onto his lap. She did not resist. He looked at the softness that resided in 
her face, a softness he had never before seen, and regretted that his next words 
would drive it from her green eyes like night drove color from the sea.
“We must go attend our guests, and see why it is Aat-Sereth required our 
presence at the rising of the moon.”
“Deilcrit, I have a confession to make,” she breathed, pulling the torn robe so 
pitifully around her that he cast about his new memories franti­cally for 
something in which to clothe her.
“So?” he prompted, and lifted her to her feet.
“I saw you kill the henchman of Mnemaat when we took the children’s trial in 
Nehedra.”
He had never dreamed she even recollected him. He blinked, and mumbled a 
wordless sound, and bade the doors make way for them.
The spirit powers were housed in the chamber Mnemaat had used when he rested in 
Othdaliee, the one whose pallet stood on golden legs and whose hangings were all 
shades of gray, like pol­ished slate.
Quendros’ raid on the kitchens of Othdaliee had yielded up a sideboard full of 
carnivore’s delights.
Deilcrit squeezed his eyes shut, then opened them, reminding himself of the 
grisly feast he and Kirelli had shared on the shale of Mt. Imnetosh’s slopes. As 
he had then, the great whelt flew from his perch on a haunch of meat toward 
Deilcrit, a bloody strip in his beak.
Mahrlys hid her head in his armpit and pressed her body to his.
“Kirelli,” said Deilcrit aloud, “tell Mahrlys you mean her no, ill.”
But Kirelli only squawked, dropping the meat by Deilcrit’s foot, and raced about 
the plushly ap­pointed chamber.
He urged Mahrlys forward, finally realizing the tension that held_the spirit 
powers all wordless.
Aat-Estri lay upon the silken coverlet, her boots kicked off, toying with her 
hair, her eyes on the pattern worked into the spread.
The dark power leaned_against a chest bespangled with inlays of bone. Beside him 
lounged Quendros, his ragged tunic discarded, wet hair dripping.
Sereth sat half upon the massive table that cen­tered the room, cleaning his 
nails with a knife. He, too, was stripped down to breech, his hair and skin 
gleaming wetly. As Deilcrit and Mahrlys en­tered he put the weapon by Se’keroth, 
amid his gear which strewed the tabletop, and came to meet him.
“You should not have waited for us to eat,” Deilcrit said mechanically, trying 
to pinpoint what was wrong in the room.
“We find ourselves concerned with things other than our bellies,” said Sereth. 
As Mahrlys qua­vered Chayin’s name, stiffened in Deilcrit’s graps, he looked 
more closely and saw the dark power’s foreboding demeanor. Then he looked back 
at Aat­Sereth and said that he did not understand.
“It is customary here, as we learned in Dey—
Ceilneeth,” said Sereth easily, disarmingly, with a comradely smile, “to 
exchange ipherim. So we thought, Estri and I, how fitting it would be to 
celebrate your accession in that manner.”
Mahrlys whole form quaked, and she moaned. Deilcrit looked from her to the 
spirit power Estri, and then at Aaat-Sereth. He dropped his arms from Harlys’ 
shoulders.
“So be it,” said Deilcrit, watching Mahrlys closely.
She stood like a statue.
But the cahndor pushed himself away from the inlaid chest and struck an 
eloquently threatening pose.
“As you can see,” continued Sereth blithely. “Chayin has some small objection to 
this, which if we ignore I am sure—”
“Sereth,” growled Chayin.
“Yes, cahndor?” Sereth grinned, sliding off the table.
“There can be only one ending to this.”
“So I, myself, have surmised. Let us commence. The food grows cold.”
“You need not worry. You are not going to be eating it, but will be instead cold 
as any carcass on that sideboard.”
Deilcrit flicked a glance at Quendros, whose hand scratched his new beard and 
whose eyes were hooded.
Then Sereth asked for Deilcrit’s help with the table, and they moved it to the 
side of the room.
Exposed thus was a circular rug the color of mist.
Estri had taken leave of the couch. She saun—
tered leisurely to the center of the gray circle and said, “Well, is this not 
apt? I see only one problem.”
“What is that?” asked Deilcrit, when no one else did, as he instructed the doors 
to, close and took Mahrlys under his arm.
Quendros, upon. Chayin’s request, unstrapped the white-bladed sword and handed 
it to him.
“The problem is,” said Estri quite calmly, run­ning her toe through the fleece 
of the rug and watching the track it made, “that there are not two chalded 
witnesses. Not even the Laonan priest would be acceptable to our authorities as 
.witness in a death match when both men’s holdings com­prise a continent.” And 
she wet her lips, and ex­pelled a shuddering breath, and continued less calmly: 
“So, since we cannot have, a death within the circle, even though we have a 
circle, both of you put those weapons down! I will not stand for it! As the only 
ranking neutral party, I demand hands only, full conventions, permanent injury 
penalized.”
Eyes flashing, she tossed her head. “Deilcrit!”
“Most High?”
“You are going to see something few have wit­nessed: the dharen of Silistra and 
the cahndor of Nemar scuffling on the mat like apprentice Slayers! So goes it 
with these highly skilled, intelligent scions of the most evolved-race yet 
produced among all the worlds of creations. So goes it with a Mi’ysten child 
whose father was a god before whom Mnemaat quailed; and with Hase-Enor, our 
long-awaited pinnacle of genetics, he who is kin to all men. I tell you, 
Deilcrit,” she continued in a slightly lowered tone, “my father would not—”
“That is enough, Estri,” snapped Sereth. “You are right about convention, but I 
need no lectures from you. Get out of the way and keep quiet.”
She did that, and Deilcrit was glad that Mahrlys watched.
“Chayin, what would you fight for?”
“For the love of seeing you at my feet.”
“Estri, do we have your august permission to fight with no prize?”
“No,” said Estri, “Use Se’keroth, and all that accompanies it. I have had, as 
you say, about all of this I am willing to take.”
And Deilcrit was then not glad at all that Mahrlys’ head swayed from side to 
side as she followed the discussion. He pulled her nails from between her teeth, 
and wondered as he held her wrist what Jay between her and the cahndor.
The two spirit powers stepped onto the gray, fluffy mat and Estri came around it 
to stand by Deilcrit’s side. Her arms were crossed over her breasts. He could 
see her pulse jump in her throat.
“The cahndor,” said Estri quietly, “will take the offensive, try to get Sereth 
in close, if ....” And then she fell silent as the dark power, crouched over, 
suddenly unwound and his long arms lashed out.
Sereth ducked under them, his hands moving in toward the darker man’s throat, 
and at the last moment dropping down.
Chayin straightened suddenly, throwing his torso back, and Sereth, from out of 
Chayin’s reach, stepped one step in and his hands left his hips to deliver two 
simultaneous blows to Chayin’s neck with the inner sides of his hands. Struck a 
nerve-debilitating blow by the short bones below Sereth’s thumbs, Chayin dropped 
to the rug without even a groan.
Estri expelled a breath, muttered a curse, and took a step forward.
“That is a four on the pain chart. You could have killed him,” she said very 
softly.
Sereth stirred Chayin’s crumpled form with his toe. “You underestimate me, 
Estri. Chayin did the same. You see the results. Now, call it!”
“You have it: Se’keroth and a new enemy, and twice the trouble you had before.”
“Thank you, neutral witness.”
Flushed, Estri bit her lip. He heard her mutter something about knowing better. 
Then she went up to Sereth and said soft things and he took her in his arms and 
Deilcrit was reminded that he, too, held such a woman, and pulled close Mahrlys.
After a time he heard s raucous squawking, the thunder of wings above his head, 
but he did not look up.
When later he walked them to the ridgetop, alone, he marveled at the clearness 
of the night air, at the tiny crescent of a moon, and at the dimmed amber dome 
that had once housed the memories of Imca-Sorr-Aat.
The cahndor, as the spirit powers called him, had taken his defeat better than 
Deilcrit could imagine he might have done, were the positions reversed.
Doubtless Chayin would have acquitted himself better with Aat-Estri if he had 
been included in the spirit powers’ version of the exchanging of ipherim. Which 
he was not. He was in another chamber, under Quendros’ care.
This had been of great concern to Deilcrit, for he knew himself no match for 
even the loser of the contest he had beheld.
So he had bid Quendros minister to the dark power, while he himself was taken 
deeper into Estri and Sereth’s company than he had ever ex­pected to be.
And it had greatly constrained him, to use a woman with another man.
He felt like a thief, a masquerader, an imperson­ator about to be unmasked. He 
still felt so, carry­ing visions in his head which shattered the Beneguan law 
into fragments too tiny ever to be reclaimed. He recollected the softenss of 
Estri, and stole a sidelong glance in the moonlight.
As if hearing his thoughts, she turned to him and said that if ever he found the 
sheath of Se’keroth, which Sereth had cast into the bay, he should return it to 
her.
He promised that he would look for it,
Long after they had disappeared, leaving behind little wisps of flame that 
danced in the air, he sat on the ridgetop and stared down at Othdaliee, at the 
browned globe on the little island in the stream, at the twelve black towers 
waiting for him to explore. Mahrlys was down there. He conjured sight of her 
ivory throat, arched back in passion. Quen­dros awaited him with all the 
education and guid­ance he could desire. Kirelli swooped along the corridors, 
gloating, his “Kreesh, breet, kreesh” echo­ing in the halls of their freedom.
Why was it, then, that he felt so lonely?
He rested his elbow on his knee and his chin in his palm, and thought that he 
would look very hard for the green sword’s sheath.
Estri’s Epilogue
Chayin left us; courteously and with a small show of affection, at the Lake of 
Horns. It had been Sereth’s obviation. He had asked me the date on Which I would 
like to return, and I had told him what my own estimate of the actual date was, 
and he had brought us all into the seven-cornered hall without even a shiver of 
cold touching my sensing.
Which startled our faithful Carth, who was hold­ing a meeting there.
Of Carth we asked the date and found it to be Cal first first, which pleased 
Sereth, so that, the corner of his mouth, where the scar runs-by it, pulled 
inward.
The cahndor went to Carth, and pulled him away abruptly; and Sereth sought a 
tatooed Menetpher, gathered him up.
While I• played hostess to the high dhareners of Silistra, smelly and ragged in 
Chayin’s undertunic and hardwom leathers, Sereth and Chayin bespoke their 
unification agreement to Carth and to the ranking dharener of the Parset Lands, 
who was also there, he whose cheeks bear green bolts of lightning, three on a 
side.
So, it was done. I watched them together and breathed a sigh that caused one of 
the lakeborn dhareners to raise a golden eyebrow. I ignored him, staring above 
me at the ceiling with its ruddy gold scales, then down at my feet where the 
Shapers’ Seal, sign of my father’s people, glows eternally up from the floor. It 
is that of a universal order not completed, but one in which each of us have a 
part.
We have come a long way since joining forces. They will mend their differences. 
Or they will not. What matters is that for a time they shared love, and during 
that time they created out of their love a lasting monument to those times. My 
whole world will benefit from what union the cahndor and dharen have bestowed on 
Silistra: a change in the viewpoint of a few individuals that indeed affects the 
fortunes of all the individuals who consider themselves, part of the whole 
called Silistra; a suc­cinct summation of catalysis genetics; a monu­ment to 
Khys, Sereth’s predecessor, that he built in spite of his own intent, by acting 
according to his sense of fitness.
I remember the thrill that went through me as I watched Carth and the Menetpher 
witness Sereth and Chayin’s pact. And all that had almost been lost on the 
shores of Aehre-Kanoss paraded by my sensing, and I wondered why Chayin had 
risked it.
I thought of how early he had been intent on his course, recalling that it was 
he who was first through the gate, and he who bound us to Deilcrit by his word. 
And when it was done and Chayin came toward me, I knew that he would leave.
He hugged me, and kissed my neck, and told me to come with Sereth in summer to 
Nemar North and look over the yearling threx, and I found my­self near tears, 
though I saw his father’s stamp on him, and it chilled me.
As I told him how much I regretted what had come to pass, my voice betrayed me, 
and he and I
stood awhile unheedful of all else. When he re­leased me and wished me tasa and 
strode away through the dhareners into the outer hall, Sereth was nowhere in 
sight.
So I bade Carth have a meal placed in the dharen’s keep, and sought my 
couch-mate in the baths.
Glossary
(B) = Beneguan
(P) = Parset
(S) = Silistran
(St) = Stothric
(M) = Mi ‘ysten
Aat: (B) To come into being.
Aehre: (B) The eastermost country that comprises half of the continental 
aggregate termed Aehre­Kanoss; the city-state Aehre, on the inland Imaen Sea. 
Continental Aehre contains Benegua, Neh­edra, Bachryse, Fhrelatiadek, Aehre 
proper, and Othdaliee. It is bordered on the north by the Rosharlcand Mountains 
and Fai Teraer-Moyhe; on the east by the Valsima River, Piyah-Ptesh, and the 
Imaen Sea; on the south by Kanoss and the Embrodming Sea; on the west by the tip 
of the Rosharkands and the Embrodming.
Aehre-Kanoss: (B) Designation for the inhabited areas of the continent that 
dominates Silistra’s eastern hemisphere, including the islands east of Kanoss, 
whose shores none were empowered to speak of the lands ruled over by Wehrdorn.
Bachryse: (B) A Laonan town on the Isanisa River in the Rosharkand Valley; one 
of the six remaining strongholds of man in continental Aehre-Kanoss, Bachryse is 
administrated by an elected male Byek.
Benegua: (B) Those lands within the Wall of. Mnemaat; the stronghold of the 
Vahais of Mne­maat, Aehre-Kanoss’ ruling body; the spiritual, sanctuary of 
Wehrdom.
berceide: (B) J-qrge, constrictor-type serpent.
Byek: (B) Any of the local administrators of Aehre-Kanoss; a Byek may be male or 
female, man or wehr, though this is regulated by the traditions of each 
city-state. All Byeks are sub­ject to the Vahais of Mnemaat, but to no secular 
authority. They rule supreme and unmolested in their various preserves, subject 
only to the Beneguan mandate, the whims of Wehrdom, and the aggressions of their 
fellow Byeks.
cahndor: (P) “Will of the sand”; warlord of a Parset tribe; in usage, one who 
commands the speaker’s allegiance and respect.
campt: (B) A long-bodied, tusked carnivore whose average length and weight are 
thrice a large man’s; the campt has four legs, a tail one thrid its own length, 
a hairless hide usually russet in color.
catalysis genetics: (St) The catalysis cycle (see the writings of the dharen 
Khys, Silistra, hide-years sixty-three through sixty-five); the refer­ence 
formulae upon which the science of societal engineering was based. In outline: a 
proposed genetic cycle based in sociogenetics stating that atavism resurges at 
intervals made opportune by the manifestation of psychosocial triggers pro­vided 
by inbreeding individuals with strong pre­dispositions for agricultural 
gregariousness, cre­ating a technological burst which undermines any existing 
feudal power structure and allows for the reassertion of individual 
aggressiveness.
This balance, sought repeatedly in rising civil­izations, must be exact, or 
collapse of civiliza­tion follows. Hence the cycle: gregarious strate­gies 
create agricultural societies at the beginning of technological surges, curve 
produces progres­sively more altruistic, then atavistic individuals at moments 
of technological, ascendancy; culling between groups commences; precipitates a 
fall back to basic agricultural grouping; cycle pro­ceeds in increasingly 
pronounced curves until unstable level of advanced technology triggers 
manipulations of societal stable strategies in an attempt to preserve the race 
as atavism physi­cally assaults existing morality and survival rate lowers. 
Prevalent correlates on Aehre-Kanoss show an attempt to hold to a 
pretechnological culture by culling both the most and the least survival-suited 
individuals, in an obvious ploy to show the progress of the genetic curve and 
hold it at agri-man, against evolution’s ever-more—
—energetic efforts to inject atavistic catalysts into a gene pool so stagnant 
that it, of itself, demands and produces them.
ci’ves: (S) A small, furred predator common in the Sihaen-Istet hills.
couch-mate: (S) Persons bound together by love and/or issue; in usage, those in 
extended couch-bond, those who consider their relationship more binding than 
simple couchbond.
couchbond: (S) A companionship agreement be­tween two consenting adults.
Dey-Ceilneeth: (B) The Brinjiiri Laonan Museum, once a part of the Laonan cult’s 
capital city, around which was built the Wall of Mnemaat, later appropriated by 
Wehrdom.
dharen: (St) The spiritual and secular ruler of civilized Silistra; the supreme 
authority of the Day-Keeper hierarchy; planetary potentate.
dharertess: (St) A word coined for Estri Hadrath diet Estrazi when she became 
couch-mate of the dharen Khys; this position has no formal duties or dignities 
attached to it as yet.
Fai Teraer-Moyhe: (St) The derivation of “Fai Teraer-Mohye” is Strothric; this 
brings us to the problem of crediting words as “Beneguan” or “Darsti,” when both 
languages devolved from Stothric. In Strothric the term means “Cove of 
Resurrection.” In modern Beneguan its has come to mean the “Dark Land.” Fai 
Teraer-Moyhe is the fabled spot upon which the adept Laore was disembowled after 
being convicted of netaomancy, heresy, and sedition; and from which he rose 
whole of form seven days later to begin the dia­logues with his waiting 
adherents which were to form the bases of Stothric thought in the ages to come. 
(See Laonan.) In present Beneguan soci­ety it is a land of banishment, of death, 
from which no living being returns.
fahrass: (B) A highly poisonous silver-berried plant; the berries are called 
stepsisters by Bene­guans. The ingestion of one fingernail-sized berry may cause 
death by oversexlation of the auto­nomic nervous system.
fhrefrasil: (B) A large, carnivorous primate with opposing thumbs, generally 
manlike, but possesed of a prehensile tail and long, silky sorrel fur.
guerm: (B) An amphibious mammal found along the shores of Aehre-Kanoss. There 
seem to be a number of varieties of guerm, and as all else in this glossary, any 
definition .I might give is lim­ited to what I learned in our short 
reconnais­sance and what matches I can make with know­ledge I already possess. 
In this case I have very little, and leave the detailing of the spawning, 
feeding, and mating habits of guerm to those who will give Benegua the detailed 
biological study it deserves.
hase-enor: (St) Of all flesh; the purported goal of Silistra’s long-standing 
policy of genetic mixing; one whose genealogy includes all blood­lines; a 
thoroughly admixed individual.
hest: (S) To bend or twist natural law to serve the will; to command by mind; to 
cause a proba­bility not inherent in the time to manifest.
high-couch: (S) A Well-Keepress; any woman able to demand over thirty gold 
pieces per couching; formally: the hereditary head of Sil­istra’s Well System.
hulion: (S) A large, ptaisslike, highly intelli­gent winged carnivore prevalent 
on continental Silistra.
iis: (B) Priestess; literally: “austere.” In use with another title, as 
iis-Vahais, it denotes ascendancy: high priestess of the Vahais.
Imca-Sorr-Aat: (B) “One who came into being out of many”; Wehrdom’s organic 
memory storage; the corporeal interface which implements the cogitations of that 
memory.
Imnetosh: (B) The mountain upon whose slope lies Othdaliee.
ipheri: (B) Literally: “resplendent in the sun’s rays”; an honorific address.
ipherim: (B) Attendant of ipheri; a consort or couchmate.
Isanisa: (B) The Isanisa River, whose sources are both the subterranean river 
that winds through Othdaliee and down Imnetosh’s slope, and the Bachryse Falls 
in the Rosharkand Valley.
iyl: (B) Literally: “eyes.” A male honorific re­stricted to those employed by 
the Vahais of Mnemaat.
jicekak: (B) A thorned, lanceolate bush ubiqui­tous in the Beneguan valley’s 
rain forests; the itching, weeping syndrome resulting from jicekak scratches in 
allergic individuals ranges widely in severity, though some irritant effect is 
visible on any skin scratched by jicekak thorns.
Khys: (St) The dharen Khys, now deceased. Let me refer you to Wind from The 
Abyss, wherein Khys is well-delineated, both by myself and by Carth; or, better, 
to his own writings: Ors Yris­Tera; Se’keroth, the Motif of Catalysis; Nesting, 
the Primal Prerogative; to name but a few. Khys Enmies, molecular biologist, 
genetic and soci­etal engineer, Stoth adept, Laonan priest, Shaper’s son, dharen 
of Silistra, can hardly be reduced to a dozen lines, in anyone’s glossary. What 
might be most pertinent to say about him here is that, in good Darsti fashion, 
having experi­mented extensively with western Silistra, he let the east go its 
own way. The lands of Aehre­lCanoss were those shores of which none were 
empowered to speak by his command. However, the longevity of humans and wehrs 
seems to indicate either the introduction of Silistran se­rums into the gene 
pool of evolution’s commen­surate action: although those of Aehre-Kanoss are not 
long-lived by Silistran standards, we saw no evidence of later-life lethals such 
as debilitat­ing diseases in the mature, and this has led me to conjecture that 
though Khys’ hand is not in evidence, it nevertheless has touched Aehre­Kanoss.
Laonan: (St) The Laonan faith; proselytizers of Laore’s life and work; precursor 
to the Stothric church; the mystical society founded by Laore and based upon his 
life’s teachings, most nota­bly the two-volume Forewarnings and Se’keroth, Sword 
of Severence, a four-volume prophetic allegory; anyone practicing Laore’s 
disciplines.
Laore: (St) The founder of the Laonan faith, from which sprang the Stoth 
disciplines and later the Day-Keepers’ hierarchy that yet holds sway over 
civilized Silistra.
lake of Horns: (S) The Day-Keepers’ city, capi­tal of the dharen Sereth, located 
at the Lake of Horns, from which it takes it name.
memnis: (B) A large, white-barked tree that pre­fers a riparian environment, the 
memnis has long frondlike leaves that may depend to touch the ground, of a 
yellow or yellow-greenish color; its inner bark is ascribed great medicinal 
power and is the main ingredient of most Beneguan poultices.
Menetph: (P) The southermmost of the Parset Lands; a desert principality 
recently come un­der the co-regency of Jaheil of Dordassa and Chayin of Nemar; 
one of the Taken Lands, Menetph has the best seaport and shipwrights of any 
state in the new Parset conglomerate and is also the site of the co-cahndors’ 
winter capital.
Mi’ysten: (M) The world Mi’ysten; the race of the same name; experimental sphere 
of the Shapers.
Mnemaat: (St) The corruption of Laore’s postu­lated “Differentiating Unfixed”; 
the personaliza­tion of the Unseen into which the Laonans fell in the Late 
Mechanist Age. Some factions believe that the creation of the Wall of Mnemaat 
around the Laonan Museum was a contributing factor to the schism that split the 
Loanan faith in twain and spawned the Stoths as we now conceive them. That Khys 
encouraged the use of that nomer for himself in the minds of Wehrdom must, I 
feel, be an expression of his humor:, and not, as Sereth has postulated, an 
indicator by which we may judge the depth and strength of his hatred for his 
ancient enemy, Aehre-Kanoss, and the Laonans who once ruled supreme there.
Mnemaat’s henchemen: (B) Those who implement the strict culling of over—and 
undersuccessful individuals during the Children’s Trial.
Nehedra: (B) A town within the Wall of Mnemaat, Nehedra lies on a small 
tributary of the Isanisa just east of Dey-Ceilneeth Road. She is concerned 
primarily with the maintenance of the Beneguan preserve, and takes charge of all 
children conse­crated into Wehrdom’s service. From all of Aehre are the children 
gathered into Nehedra, some once in their lives to take the Children’s Trial, 
some for long periods of time to study the para­bles of Beneguan law and become 
fit to serve Wehrdom. Whether consecrated to Mnemaat the Unseen, Imca-Sorr-Aat, 
or directly to Wehrdom, all children’s instruction and all Benegua’s com­merce 
is handled in Nehedra.
Nemar: (P) One of western Silistra’s Parset Des­ert Lands; birthplace of Chayin 
rendi Inekte, and his hereditary kingdom; now the winter capi­tal of the 
co-cahndor’s reign.
Nothrace: (B) The razed town on Nothrace ridge; the shelflike ridge at Mt. 
Imnetosh’s foot. Noth­race, like most of the eastern coast of Aehre, has no 
slope gentle enough to provide a harbor, but rises in a sheer cliff face to more 
than ten thou­sand (B.S. Standard) feet above the sea; the purported birthplace 
of Aat-Deilcrit. •
obviation of space: (S) The Shaper mode of travel, only now coming into use on 
Silistra; the trans­portation of matter around distance by making use of the 
nonsequential circuits that exist out of time: it is said that from the place 
called the domain of the Seventh Sorter all destinations are equidistant in that 
they exist coeval with the point of immutable now.
ossasim: (B) The man-derived, winged creatures to whose advantage Wehrdom was 
designed and has since evolved.
Othdaliee: (B) The capital “city” of Imca-Sorr­Aat, Othdaliee is a living relic 
from Aehre-Kanoss’ Mechanist past. I can find no mention of it in any of our 
records and must assume that it was, even then, of a most secret nature, to have 
housed such experiments as Imca-Sorr-Aat:
owkahen: (St) “The time coming to be”; those probabilities among all the 
available futures that will manifest as reality.
Parset: (P) An individual of any one of the five Parset Lands, the desert 
regions held by the co-cahndors. The Parset Lands still maintain their autonomy, 
notwithstanding the alliance formed between the co-cahndors and the dharen of 
Silistra.
peona: (B) A pink-fleshed, black-skinned melon that grows wild in the Isanisa 
river valley.
Port Astrin: (S) Well Astria’s dependent city; the Liaison’s Port, that is, the 
only facility on Silistra for starships. Estri diet Hadrath Estrazi’s 
heredi­tary holdings included both Port Astrin and Well Astria; the port from 
which the expedition to Aehre-Kanoss was mounted.
ptaiss: (B) An eight—to twelve-hundred-pound, wedge-headed carnivorous mammal 
with slit­pupiled eyes and a tufted tail, in size and shape resembling the 
Silistran dorkat, but with the mental skills and intelligence of a hulion.
quenel: (B) A small, bushy-tailed carnivore, with a long, tapering snout, 
markedly rounded cra­nium, and paws with opposing-thumbed, five­digited 
“fingers.”
razor-moon: (S) A sharpened disk of steel or the green metal stra; a casting 
weapon with several varieties; the boot-sheathed razor-moons I favor
3Uti           Janet E. Morris are the one-way, nonreturning sort whose 
diam­eter is about that of a woman’s hand.
roema: (B) A smaller cousin, seemingly, of the quenel, with the difference that 
while the quenel’s eyes are round-pupiled, the roema’s are slit. It is a 
burrower and a stalker, and makes no sound other than a sibilant hiss.
saiisa: (S) A Silistran term of disrespect usually applied to coin girls of 
questionable cleanliness.
Se’keroth: (St) The legendary blade of which Laore wrote, and with which, by all 
accounts, he was slain. “The blade itself. Se’keroth of the fire-gemmed hilt, 
was reclaimed by Khys at great personal peril in the last pass before the onset 
of the Fall of Man. With six lesser priests he crossed the Embrodming and 
liberated the sword from the Brinjiiri Loanan Museum, in the midst of that 
enemy’s capital ....”
“... Se’keroth’s magi­cal nature ensures its possession by those catalytic 
personalities that shape each ensuing age, all of whom undergo rigorous 
purification before the sword falls into their hands ....”
“He who wields Se’keroth is himself that weapon, is himself wielded by that same 
which transmutes the gross into fine ....”—the dharener Car’. “.. The legend 
inscribed on the blade, ‘Se’keroth, direel b’estet Se’keroth,’ literally: 
‘Se’keroth, light from out of darkness by the sword of severance,’ is ostensibly 
a simplification of the aphorism ‘re­duction/resolution’ that pervaded early 
Stothric attempts to deduce the relationship of substance to matter.”—E.H.d.E., 
Wind from the Abyss.
Shaper: (S) One who can control the constitu­ents of matter and form them to his 
will; Shaper designates not so much a race or bloodline as an ability; Estrazi, 
forebear to many races, is a Shaper, as are those he calls brothers, though even 
in that small circle not all actually shape;
Chayin carries Shaper blood through his Mi’ysten father, Raet, though not all 
Mi’ystens shape. Khys had the skill from his father, Kystrai, who was Chayin’s 
grandsire; and Sereth has come to his ability through a series of genetic 
inversions which brought his own traces of Shaper heritage into contact with the 
beneficial mutations Silis­tran evolution so frequently provides, causing 
totally new configurations of interacting predis­positions to appear than have 
been previously encountered.
sort: (S) (n.) The probabilities inherent in a spe­cific moment of time; those 
alternate future avail­able to one trained to seek them; the display mode of 
probability.
sort: (S) (v.) To “sort” probability; to determine in advance the resultant 
probabilities from pos­tulated actions.
stepsisters: (B) A colloquialism for fahrass berries. telsodas: (B) A pinkish, 
carnivorous plant with reddish-brown leaves that depends upon flesh to stave off 
indehiscence.
threx: (S) The preferred riding beast of western Silistra.
Uritheria: (P) A beast from the Parsets’ Tar­Kesian mythology, said to have 
ignited the sun in the sky; a gigantic winged and clawed serpent-like beast that 
is the cahndor of Nemar’s tradi­tional protector.
vabillia: (B) A strongly revivifying root when taken in small doses, vabillia 
grows submerged around the edges of shallow pools.
wehr: (B) Any mind capable of entering into the community of minds called 
Wehrdom; an indi­vidual possessing the pan-species communica­tion gene.
Wehrdom: (B) The hierarchal organizations of wehrs.
31U Janet E. Morris wehr-master: (B) Colloquial phylum name for ossasim; any 
coordinator of wehrs for the bene­fit of Wehrdom.
wehr-wind: (B) The circuit by which Wehrdom communicates; th-6 network of joined 
minds of Wehrdom; any communication by way of that network.
Wisdom Mask:       (B) A mask like that of an aged woman, used in Beneguan 
mystical rites.