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Wind in the Stone by Andre Norton
 
 
1
Among these high and narrow mountain valleys, the past winter had been a cruel 
one. Supplies carefully harvested and gathered during the short summer had 
shrunk. There were tightly pulled in belts and children who sometimes whimpered 
in their sleep, sucking with cracked lips on the edge of thin blankets during 
frost-filled nights. Even the carefully selected breeding stock for the next 
season had been twice more culled and slaughtered. It seemed as if the world was 
passing into a punishing grip of cold.
Now there was sluggish stirring suggesting the belated coming of spring. The 
first trader's caravan of the season had set out, though other merchants had 
shaken their heads at such recklessness.
Not only the traders ventured so: a handful of other travelers always joined 
such trains, either paying a few coins or offering to help with the animals. No 
one wanted to risk the early spring trails alone — all too often, deadly 
rockfalls occurred.
So it was with the young man who had drifted slowly to the end of the train of 
pack ponies. He was mounted on a horse so bony that its joints seemed to crack 
with every step it took. Now he edged himself and that sorry steed into the 
shadow of a rock spur as the others plodded by. Though it was still only 
mid-morning, men and beasts alike looked as if they'd been on the trail for 
hours.
The rider did not turn his head to view the trail back, but his attitude was 
that of one listening; and he was muttering almost at a whisper — a gabble of 
sounds that bore little resemblance to human speech. He pulled his riding cloak 
tighter against the probing finger of a sharp breeze, though he had lived long 
enough in the heart of the heights to accept the dreary cold.
Of course, he had been well housed. His thin lips curved in a smile that was 
half sneer, for, behind him there still showed the towers and walls of Valarian, 
the Place of Learning, where he had been a novice — whether or no in good 
standing — until a day ago.
That sprawl of buildings, which had been added to until it choked a valley and 
the mountains refused it any expansion, was so old that its core might have been 
wrought from the very bones of the earth. Among all the scholars, who blinked in 
their study cubicles like distempered, disturbed owls, there was probably not 
one who was interested enough in the past so lost in time — the era when the 
first stones of the first wall had been fitted together.
In years agone, the Place of Learning had housed many more seekers of knowledge 
than the shrunken number who used the nearly deserted halls today. There were 
names out of legend connected with it; but nowadays those gathered there were 
like the froth floating on a jack of ale — bubbles that never sank below the 
surface.
Each scholar had long since settled into a chosen area of study. His or her 
learning might be deep and authoritative, yet the subject would be nearly 
meaningless to a neighbor. Had anything really useful come out of there, even in 
the generation immediately past?
The rider's head snapped to the left as he caught a faint sound from the rocks. 
His lips pursed, and he loosed a chitter that sounded much like the complaint of 
a rockrat finding its home territory invaded. Listening, he waited; however, 
there was no movement in the brush, no misshapen shadow flitting from one rock 
cover to the next. Irasmus, fourth son of a border warden by his third wife, 
smiled again. He dug his heel into the mount's tough hide, and the horse 
shambled on.
He had come this way — how many years ago? Season ran into season in the Place 
of Learning; they spoke there of eons rather than days, months, or years. His 
mother who had sent him to Valarian after seeing him engaged in one of his 
secretive games in their neglected garden. He had expected punishment; but 
instead, when he had followed her obediently to her bower, his real life had 
begun.
Mind talents were largely a matter for bards and ballad makers now; once, 
however, those fortunate enough to have such had ruled without putting hand to 
sword hilt. On that long-past afternoon, the shy youth had been encouraged to 
try things that had never occurred to him.
Irasmus's mother had been a scrawny, gaunt-faced female very sparing of words, 
yet one who could, with a single glance, set a servant — or a child — quaking. 
He never remembered her showing any approbation of his efforts to please her; 
and his failures were made doubly sour by her set face, just as the weapon 
trials with his brothers in the arms yard had gained nothing but jeers from them 
and his father. Still, he had known he possessed innate skills; and some of the 
trials his mother had set him did end in triumph. In that hour, Irasmus had also 
understood that such gifts were a private thing, not to be discussed openly. He 
was not to astound his brothers by performing some of the odd tricks that 
appeared to come naturally to him, nor let his bear-strong father guess he had 
any more talents than the woefully few he had shown so far.
Being the youngest, the slightest of body, and — apparently — the 
least-competent member of a fighting clan, the boy had early learned to efface 
himself as much as possible. He had approached happiness for the first time in 
his life when his mother had informed him that he was to go into exile from his 
unloved and unloving home. Then the future had been up to him, to make his way 
in the outer world.
These days, there were few students applying to the Place of Learning. If 
children were born with the right mind power they were not encouraged to enhance 
a native gift by any manner of study. Irasmus owed a great deal to his mother — 
she had sent him to Valarian.
Being used to practicing unobtrusive spying on members of the barony from which 
he had come, the new scholar soon learned the advantage of becoming two persons 
in his new surroundings. One was the soft-spoken, nearly ineffectual youngster 
who was hardly able to carry through the simplest experiment without a senior at 
hand to make sure that he did not loose something he could not control. But his 
other self became an avid explorer, not only of the permitted portions of the 
ancient pile of buildings but particularly of those parts, mainly lying deep 
underground, where the dangerous or even forbidden knowledge had been hidden to 
molder away.
The boy had met his first wandering wraith in those corridors and had stood up 
to it valiantly, controlling his fear with iron will. It was fairly easy to 
discover that the ancient seals on half-seen portals could be broken. What lay 
within engaged his curiosity and desire to know more, rather than frightening 
him with evidences of ancient horrors left to warn off invaders.
Under tutorship, Irasmus had steeled himself not to show any signs of his 
growing mastery. His first concrete plan had been laid after he discovered that 
it was possible to draw secretly upon the talents, or even vestiges of talents, 
others possessed and to use the stolen power to strengthen his own.
The fledgling mage considered that he was succeeding very well. However, 
unfortunately for all his feigned dullness, the time soon approached when he had 
to pass the first of the tests which would either make him an inmate of the 
Place of Learning for the rest of his natural life or betray him utterly for 
what he was. He was still unsure of what power he could control.
It was then that he redoubled his secret searching. What he chanced upon had 
brought him out into the world this day, equipped as few men had been since the 
long-ago war between the Dark of Chaos and the Covenant of Light, that was 
supposed to tie the hands and tangle the thoughts of any who would break it. His 
discovery had also given him enough arrogant self-confidence to believe he had 
sufficient learning to further an ambition, vague at first but now grown 
brighter than the sun on the rock wall in the morning.
One last visit to a certain corridor, a speaking of words, the burning of 
certain herbs, and a well-practiced bit of ritual had made Irasmus sure he was 
now invincible.
It had been easy enough, then, to let the success of that attempt to tap the 
forbidden give him the courage to go before Yost and admit, with mock humility, 
that he was not the stuff of which a scholar was made. Nor had the arch-mage 
objected to his withdrawal from the school.
Now Irasmus had no wish to return to the barony where he had been born. The few 
scores he had once nursed in his mind to be settled there were trivial when 
placed against what he could now accomplish. He was riding on a path he had 
studied well ahead of time, and he knew exactly where he was going.
At night, when the traders gathered around the camp-fires, Irasmus hunkered down 
to listen. The talk he overheard confirmed his plan of action.
There was one last matter to be accomplished before he could part company with 
the caravan. In assuming power, he had also assumed responsibilities, and he 
could not put off much longer what must be done. Should he act tonight, he 
wondered, or were they still too close to the Place of Learning that he dared 
not take the next step?
By listening, he had learned of the way ahead. Tomorrow in the late afternoon 
they would come to a place where an ancient trail branched. That, he decided, 
was his goal for the present.

* * *

Habits of mind acquired early in the Place of Learning now led Irasmus to close 
his thoughts tightly on his plans for the future. The new mage might sneer at 
the petty preoccupations of those who presided over the hoary hall of lore, but 
he was also aware that they had wards and guards beyond telling; and he was 
certain he was not yet beyond those long ago set to ensure against any escape of 
things of the shadows or invasions of the Dark.
The symbol under which the former student had spent his past days developing 
mind and body was that of a scale. There was a mighty one of burnished metal set 
in the main hall at Valarian. The top arm supported chains from which depended 
to hold level, shallow pans. One shone brightly enough to light the hall, while 
the other held an inky pool that swallowed up any light which might so much as 
touch its surface. So did the masters hold ever before them the balance of the 
world. This device also had its wards, and it was rumored to give forth an alarm 
if its two pans did not continue to hang always in even balance.
Though — Irasmus was near open laughter now, his expectations bubbling within 
him — when had the Dark ever threatened in these later years? Those who had 
devised that artifact were long since gone. Could their lost knowledge be 
counted upon to give warning? He himself — poor, small, and still nearly 
negligible as he was — was proof that a crack in the ancient shields gaped and 
could be put to good use by any stouthearted enough to dare.
Now he called up a mental picture of a very old map and scanned it as he urged 
his horse on. The beast snorted, rolled its eyes, and sweated, as if it were 
possessed by fear —  as well it might be, though its time had not yet come.
Yes, the mage's delving had given him the proper stage for the beginning of his 
conquest: Styrmir, a wide valley, rich even after the bad weather of this past 
cold season. Its stupid land grubbers were complaisant and actually held 
themselves aloof from any use of the talent: still, they came from a people who 
had once been possessed in such ability. That these earth-lovers had foolishly 
chosen to allow their gifts to lie uncultivated would be their downfall.
Much had been said at the Place of Learning of the Covenant; and its words were 
still solemnly intoned every tenth day in meetings that were now only empty 
formalities. There had been an ancient war, resulting in the devastation of half 
the world — or perhaps more. Traders did not travel far, even in these days; and 
there were strange and mighty ruins rumored to exist in places now so difficult 
to reach that no one wasted time trying to find them. Some great lord of the 
Dark — Irasmus now inclined his head slightly to right and left as if giving 
deference where it was due — had led a bloody wash of terror and death across 
more lands than one. However, he did not succeed in his purpose, since the 
forces of Light had arisen in close alliance to do battle.
There were conflicting accounts of what had ensued at the final confrontation, 
but most of the legends told of a windstorm of such awesome proportions that the 
very mountains had yielded slides of rock to its fury — a description that was 
undoubtedly a countryman's metaphor for some extreme release of power.
Unfortunately, though the Dark had been defeated, this destructive wrath had 
also smitten the redoubts of the Light. Those surviving leaders of the Light had 
sworn an oath that such a weapon would never be used again. The world, rent and 
torn, had settled back into what must at first have been sheer fatigue, which 
then dwindled through the years into an indifference and at last a half 
forgetting.
Again, Irasmus heard a squeak from the boulders that fringed the trail. The dank 
smell of horse sweat was heavy on the air, and his mount trembled under him. The 
sorcerer scowled. The creatures skulking out there were his, bought by him to be 
used as he would. Let them continue this kind of protest, and he would mete out 
punishment! His hand went to his belt and what was sheathed there. Not a sword — 
in fact, anything wrought of iron could well defeat the purpose for which the 
artifact had been made — but a wand, something he had not dared to gird on until 
he was some distance from the Place of Learning.
"Ssssaaaa—" The sound he uttered was a warning hiss. Now there was another taint 
beside the strong horse scent in the air here between the two heights where the 
very clouds hung dankly heavy.
Irasmus wrinkled his nose and drew forth from the front of his shabby doublet a 
small bag which, when squeezed tightly, gave off a spice scent. Raising it to 
his nose he sniffed deeply. He only needed to put up with his otherworldly 
recruits for a short time; once in Styrmir, he would have servants of another 
kind in plenty.
Styrmir — and the tower of Ronunce. There could not be much left of that 
fortress after all these years; however, it had been a stronghold for the valley 
lordling. Irasmus intended it to be refurbished to form his own headquarters. It 
was well known that sites that had been used for trials of strength, where 
emotions had been fired to great heights, held locked within them the remnants 
of much energy and needed only one who knew how to harvest such. There was a 
tale or two of Ronunce; and Irasmus had tried to hunt those out without arousing 
the suspicion of the archivist. Unfortunately, for all his calm and placid 
exterior, Mage Gifford seemed to possess some wards his pupil had never been 
able to identify, and he had been wary enough to evade Gifford's notice.
Irasmus chewed his lower lip and frowned. It seemed all too easy. By his 
planning, the people of Styrmir were asking to be delivered into his hands like 
fowls to a cook whose pot was heating. After whatever had struck at the end of 
that long-ago war, their dun Elders had taken an oath to set aside any use of 
the talent from that time forth. None of the valley's youths had ever come to 
the Place of Learning. They seemed one with their land — heavy and awaiting 
harvest.
Harvest, yes — the sorcerer's momentary annoyance was forgotten — the harvesting 
would be his and his alone. The idea reminded him of the coming action. The 
caravan was perhaps three quarters of a day's ride from the Pass of the Hawk, 
which was now the only doorway into Styrmir. Yes, why wait until the morrow? Let 
these clods bed down early for the night, as they had been doing. His own 
venture could well begin!
 
2
In Styrmir, Sulerna of Firthdun straightened up from the washboard in order to, 
as Grandmam always said, "take the crick" out of her back. The strong odor of 
the soap made her sneeze, her hands were red and wrinkled, and she was inclined 
to believe that only magic such as spiced up the old tales could actually drive 
the grime out of men's work smocks. But Grandmam had a saying for that also: 
"Put a good hard elbow bend into it, girl, and keep at it!"
The taller of the bushes in first leaf around her had already been draped with 
the fruits of her "elbow bending," and she hoped the breeze was doing its best 
to roughly dry them. However, there were still two heaped baskets of dirty 
clothes awaiting her attention, and Jacklyn was dawdling somewhere. He should 
have been back with filled water buckets some time ago.
The young woman could not blame her young nephew too much. The winter had been a 
hard one, and these first days of real spring urged one out and away from the 
dun, to roam greening fields, sniff the scents of bloom in the orchard, drift 
awhile to let the sun sink into long-chilled skin and, as Mam would say, just 
"fritter away time."
Firthdun was one of the oldest, as well as the largest and best kept, of the 
Styrmir valley holdings. The Elders, during their infrequent conferences, always 
honored Grand-sire with the first speaking on any problem, though such 
discussions dealt mainly with matters connected with the land and its tending 
and thus were the common knowledge to them all.
Sulerna raised a soapy hand, gave it a quick wipe on her wide apron, brushed the 
sweaty hair out of her eyes, and retied the string which was supposed to hold 
her hair in place.
Then —
It had come as the softest of touches such as might have been delivered by a 
fingertip as impalpable as smoke. The girl's hand flew to her cheek over the 
spot.
The Wind!
Sulerna was as sure she had felt its wandering touch as if she possessed the 
very ancient powers and could see the heart of that force which could both save 
and smite. But the Wind had gone long ago, and many felt themselves the poorer 
for that.
Those of Firthdun held more tightly to the old faith and belief than most of 
their neighbors. However, only Widow Larlarn, who had turned her small nearby 
holding into a nursery for healing herbs, joined now with the dun kin at certain 
times to listen to the reading from a wood-backed book so old its hard surface 
was cracked and gouged by time.
No, those of Firthdun never scoffed at the old tales. How could they? Once the 
Wind had visited here, even as in the grove at full moon each month the 
womenfolk gathered to do homage to the Caller, She who was the only mistress the 
Wind had companied with when it had been free of the bonds laid upon it by the 
Covenant.
A sudden surge of a strange life-not-life coursed through the young dunswoman as 
she stood, still shielding her cheek where it had been touched. For a moment or 
two, all living beings about her, even the bird soaring high above as well as 
the earth under her muddy clogs — everything that was vibrant with life had been 
a part of her or, rather, she of it.
"Well, this be the last of it — thank the moon!"
Another girl, a wide and high-heaped washing basket tightly clasped in her hold, 
came up beside Sulerna. Dumping the basket onto the ground, she woofed forth a 
noise combining equal parts of relief and exasperation.
"One would think" — the newcomer had stooped to pick up a smock, which she held 
an arm's length away and frowned at — "that they slid around on their bellies 
out in the fields. I swear your brother Elias can stand there while dirt wraps 
itself around him!"
Sulerna paid no attention to her sister-in-law's complaint. She held her head 
high, turning it slowly from side to side. Surely there would be no more than 
just that one touch!
"Aaagreee!" It was neither a true word nor a whistle she uttered but a sound not 
akin to the world she knew.
"Sulerna!" The other young woman stared at her open-mouthed, then laid a hand on 
her shoulder and gave her an impatient shake. "What would you do? Have them all 
down upon you for kin judging?"
Few threats were more dire, but the new-wakened one showed only a joyous face in 
answer. "Ethera, I swear by the moon, I felt it — the Wind! It touched me here — 
" She put a finger back on her cheek. "The Wind, Ethera — think of it! What if 
the old wards be broke, and it comes to us again? It will bring us the whole of 
the world, even as the old tales tell…"
"Sulerna — " Now both Ethera's hands were on her shoulders, and the bemused 
Sulerna was being shaken in their strong grip. "The Wind is gone; that is all 
old babble from the past. Let Grandmam hear you spouting such nonsense — !"
The light faded from Sulerna's face. "Haraska is a dreamer," she said with the 
beginning of a sullen note in her voice.
"And how many times since you were first frocked and set on your feet has 
Haraska true-dreamed?" Ethera demanded. "There are none to spin dreams now. The 
mountains are bare, and even the traders come our way no more than once a season 
or so. You know that the forest is warded. All heed the Covenant — even the 
Wind!"
The dunsgirl turned to her scrub board in fury. Everything the other said was 
true, and she knew it well. Still — she wanted once more to touch her cheek. 
Instead, she got her hands resolutely busy in the soapy water again.

* * *

No branch swung, no leaf rustled in that dark rim of trees that was the final 
end of the known world as far as those of Styrmir were concerned. The Forest 
loomed like a dark curtain, and there was nothing on the other side of which the 
inhabitants of the valley knew enough to draw them.
But the Forest held its own world. Life and death were known to it; but, more 
than that, here blew the Wind, uniting all. It bore messages of import for each 
kind of being it reached. Seeds stirred in the ground under its probing; animals 
mated, produced their young, and fared forth to live. And there were also the 
Great Ones, who made no attempt to rule within the tree bounds but were all 
sworn to the service of Her Who Could Call.
Mighty among the Forest's children were the Sasqua. These were not of the human 
kind. In fact, so unlike were they that men or women meeting them might at first 
feel terror, unless the Wind had made it plain there was nothing to fear from 
those tall, furred bodies whose muscular strength was apparent in their every 
move.
There was no power in the Forest greater than the Sasqua except the Wind, and 
they were also a part of that. They owed no allegiance to any save Her of legend 
who could — and had — called the Wind, but they visited Her shrine only when Her 
silent summons went forth.
This morning, a number of them were down by one of the Forest streams, 
harvesting a fresh-grown reed that they had discovered long ago was of 
usefulness manyfold. Not only were its roots sweet to the taste, but the reeds 
themselves, when rolled back and forth between the huge hairy hands of the 
Sasqua until the fibers were pulped, could be woven into nets for the taking of 
fish and the carrying of tubers and fruits.
Hansa squatted beside a pile of the stuff she had pulled and now and then sent a 
wistful glance at her neighbor, whose guttural laughter was quick to bubble 
forth and who had one cubling at breast and another playing beside her, striving 
to pull apart one of the tough reed stems. Grapea always had strong cubs, and 
she could take pride in remembering them even after they had struck out on their 
own. Hansa wrapped her arms about herself and squeezed. She had not had her 
first bearing season yet, but she hoped with all her heart that, when a little 
one came, it would be like Grapea's get.
Hansa fell to twisting reeds, hardly knowing what she was doing; rather, her 
mind was full of the joys of a cubling to be and what it would mean to share a 
night nest with a small being.
At that moment, the Wind sang in her ear, and the Sasqua female sat gape mouthed 
at its touch. Cubling to come, yes, but more — something so strange that Hansa 
could not sort it out before that fleeting message had vanished. She was to be 
given — she could not be sure what but a gift of great importance. However, this 
was not a thing to be spoken of among her kind; and there was a time between the 
present and its arrival which she could not reckon.

* * *

Up on the mountain trail, it had begun to rain; and the handlers of the pack 
animals cursed bitterly. It was too easy here for the footing to turn to 
slippery mud; and there were places not far ahead now where the trail dwindled 
to a mere thread, to be followed by only a very surefooted man or animal.
Well, thought Irasmus, trying to make his cloak cover him as much as possible, 
the weather had given him his answer. Tonight he would make his move. That stout 
fellow there, tugging at the hackamore of a reluctant pony, would not have much 
longer to damn the day, these reluctant animals, or his own mistaken choice of 
employment.
The pack train had coiled down into a fairly level cup where a spring fed a 
pond. Pretus, the caravan master, gave the signal to camp, and his men were 
happy enough to obey. Irasmus had held his horse to a much slower pace and had 
stopped well behind the now-rising tents.
The mage gave once more that cricking, rockrat cry and was not surprised to hear 
it answered from almost immediately behind him. Rain was not favored by his 
present servants, and their tempers had not improved during the last half hour's 
travel. He swung out of the saddle and allowed his horse to back into a crevice 
between two rocks. The beast certainly wanted no meeting with those now flitting 
out of cover, and he did not blame it.
The creatures were a motley lot, with only one thing in common — excessive 
ugliness of body and feature. Green-yellow skin, much disfigured by warts and 
pits, certainly gave them no countenance a man would enjoy facing. Their eyes 
shone with a peculiar red-gold fire in the fast-falling dusk; and their 
slavering mouths gaped, showing discolored fangs. They boasted no hair on their 
elongated heads, which were mainly lumps, now slick with rain.
Though their joints sometimes protruded at what seemed almost impossible angles, 
the beings scuttled forward rapidly. In size, if they stood upright (their usual 
stance was a stoop), they could match Irasmus in height. Their clothing was 
rudimentary — either bits of hide crudely laced together or cloth that looked as 
if it had reached the state of rot that would lead it to fall speedily from an 
energetic body. From them arose a thick miasma of foul odor.
Their leader, Karsh, shambled forward. Spittle shot forth from his wide mouth 
along with his words as he addressed his would-be master.
"Hungry!" The nightmare raised one huge and long-taloned paw and slashed it 
through the air not far from the young man, who showed no sign of any emotion 
but complete disdain. "Eat," Karsh added.
"As you shall," Irasmus replied. "But these have weapons — "
Karsh's mouth sprayed froth even farther, and he held up his clawed hand yet 
higher. "So also we!"
"But not," the sorcerer returned calmly, "iron ones."
Karsh's jaws came together with a snap. "Gobbes kill from shadows. No time 
those" — he indicated the busy camp below — "have for weapons drawing."
Irasmus shrugged. "Warning; take it for what it is worth. But listen well, for 
you are bound to me by blood, and my orders shall be obeyed. I will go down to 
the camp. We will wait until they build their cook fire. What they have to cook 
will not altogether agree with the eaters." He did not know how much of what he 
said could be understood by the out-world creature, but he drew as sharp a 
mental picture as he could of men clutching their throats and reeling back from 
the fire. "It is for you," he continued, "to take out the sentries and so make 
sure there is no alarm."
Those bulbous eyes the color of swamp slime stared at him for a long moment. The 
mage waited but refused to believe that all would not happen as he had ordered. 
He had deliberately called these things into his service, and the spell that 
held them was a potent one none of them could break. The gobbes were very 
low-grade demons, and any powers they might try to raise could not stand against 
what he had learned.
Karsh apparently accepted the situation. "We do," he gabbled.
Two under the creature's command slipped back into the shadows, and Irasmus did 
not doubt they were about to do as they had been ordered — to remove 
expeditiously and noiselessly any watchers Master Pretus had assigned to guard.
Remounting, the sorcerer began the slow ride down into the valley. This time he 
did draw his wand from its sheath and held it ready. The confusion at the camp 
was his aid, for no one paid any attention to him. He did not add his mount to 
the horse line but fastened it some distance away before he walked among the 
others.
Gaszeb, the cook — if making the sorry concoctions the travelers had been forced 
to stomach could be called "cooking" — had already set up the stout rod that 
held his all-purpose pot over the fire and was busy tossing into it, with more 
or less accurate aim, handfuls of the dried lizard flesh that were all the meat 
left after the winter.
When Irasmus approached, the cook had turned to grab at a too-limp sack that 
held some undoubtedly now-moldy barley to be added to the mess beginning to 
bubble in the pot. A single glance around assured the mage that he was under no 
observation, and his wand moved, its tip aimed at the pot. A thin thread of dull 
red snaked into the stew, and for a moment he moved the thread back and forth as 
if from a distance stirring the kettle.
"So, young sir." Irasmus instantly whipped the wand into hiding as Master Pretus 
came closer. "Slim fare for active men. Better if we could eat like the beasts 
and so find us grazing! We be still three days from Ostermur, and that is a 
port, so they have foodstuffs from overseas to make up for this we gag down 
now."
"The trail runs straight to Ostermur?" Irasmus asked as if he had never seen a 
map.
"There be a side path down to Styrmir, but after such a winter the folk of that 
valley will have nothing worth trading for. Ostermur is more promising."
"Come along! Come along!" Gaszeb waved a great ladle to direct their attention 
to the pot as a young boy trooped over balancing a tower of bowls. Most of the 
men had already finished their immediate tasks and were able to line up for a 
well-filled bowl. Irasmus himself accepted one but did not raise it to his lips, 
making signs that he wished it to cool first.
A moment or so later, the sorcerer was not disappointed by the results of his 
own addition to the meal. With a whoop of pain and rage, one of the horse 
handlers spewed out — unfortunately across the feet of the man next to him — the 
mouthful he had taken. And he was not the last to be so stricken.
The saboteur emptied his portion quietly onto the ground. That action might have 
been a signal, for out of the night there came, sending both men and animals 
screaming in pain and terror, such an attack as their world had not seen for a 
thousand years or more. The gobbes were hungry; and the feast, to their minds, 
was ready. Shrieks of torment were stilled. Those who attempted to run were 
dragged down and suffered the fate of their comrades. The reek of blood was as 
strong as the stench of fear and pain. And the sounds —
The Wind might have been forbidden to course the outer world but, during the 
years since its binding by the Covenant, it had ventured forth a little, 
curious, seeking what it had once had — communication with all. What it gathered 
now, its innermost heart shrank from in horror. Then, very distantly, anger 
awoke, and power was shaken out of slumber.
 
3
It had been a night of storm, lightning lashed around the ancient towers and 
walls; yet all wards had held. Only, just after dawn, there had been one 
occurrence which for he who had witnessed it had seemed ominous.
Unable to sleep, his drowsy thoughts presenting him in broken images such 
pictures as he never had any intention of drawing, Harwice had arisen when the 
sky was hardly more than gray.
As always after he had dressed, the artist mage sought the table on which he had 
left the sketches done yesterday. A new cover was needed for one of the Covenant 
missals, and he had been trying one design after another, attempting to find or 
achieve a motif that carried more meaning than these scrawls which had been his 
latest efforts.
Now the seer stopped short, and the candlestick he held shook a little so that 
the flame danced. The light was feeble, but it was enough to make plain what lay 
there: a depiction of the huge scale which was the ward and the heart of the 
Covenant.
But…
The table must have been jarred. Harwice put out a hand now to test its 
steadiness, but it stood solid and unmoving even when he increased his grip and 
shoved. Yet somehow, during the fury of the night just past, one of his small 
paint pots had been overset; and a dribble of murky red, like clotted blood, had 
fallen directly onto his sketch, blotting out the standard of the scale and 
leaving only the pans loose from any support and ready to spill all they had.
A warning — an omen — a matter he must speak about in open council? Sometime 
during this day, the dream painter would at least share this incident with 
Gifford, who had forgotten more about omens than any one man could ever hope to 
learn.
However, when he went searching for the archivist, Gifford was not, as 
customarily, in his stuffy room, a spider in a web of books. It appeared that he 
had been summoned elsewhere; Harwice's strange experience would have to wait for 
the telling.

* * *

The chamber was very old. Time itself had welded one great collection of wall 
blocks to another until they stood, and would stand, intact through the passing 
years which were no longer counted here. Yet there was color to temper the 
somberness of the room: richly brocaded cushions on the chairs and panels of 
fabric that rippled like wind-touched pools on the walls.
Archivist Gifford, who had just entered this room to make a report, paused 
before one of those panels and, as if his gaze had commanded obedience, the 
ripples gathered and began to form shapes. These sharpened and separated until 
it was as if the mage looked out a window down a long stretch of countryside 
that wore the bright-green livery of spring, with flowering bush and tree to set 
the season's seal firmly upon it.
"Styrmir?"
The single-word question from someone entering after him broke the spell. That 
expanse of land, rich in peace and plenty, disappeared, its colorful components 
dispersing to match the shaded bands on the other hangings. The archivist, who 
had been watching, turned to face the speaker.
Both scholars wore breeches and doublets of muted purple with loose robes the 
hue of sword-blade steel. The plainness of those garments was broken by a 
twisting of embroidered runes, which differed in tint and design on each of the 
two men. The men varied slightly in size also, the newcomer, with his thick 
crest of white hair, topping his fellow by several inches. Gifford was more full 
of body and face, with a splotch of ink on one cheek where a writing finger had 
been absentmindedly wiped. His hair was much more sparse and was held down by a 
round cap, as if the thinness of that natural covering brought a chill to his 
nearly bare scalp.
"One can remember even through the veil of years," Gifford said slowly. "Do you 
never regret the Withdrawing, Yost? Happiness and peace are reckoned to be the 
innermost desire of all our kind. Those of Styrmir have held that belief for 
centuries, and they raise no temples to any gods while the winds blow free."
Archmage Yost seated himself in one of the chairs that stood with its back to 
the banners on the walls. His features were sharply chiseled, and he had none of 
the lines of laughter, such as his companion displayed, bracketing his eyes 
beneath their bushy overhangs of white bristles.
"We did not meet" — his tone was close to a snap — "to exchange platitudes about 
our inner strivings, Gifford. What do you have to tell me, in truth?"
"This." Gifford raised his left hand and opened fingers which had been clenched 
in a tight fist to keep what they held safe. He did not glance down at the thing 
he bore but rather proffered it to Yost.
On the ink-stained palm rested a seal bearing marks from so far in the past that 
either man, for all his deep learning, would have had trouble extracting from 
them an intelligible meaning. This was all the more true as the seal had been 
broken, and its jagged edges were crumbling a little as the protecting flesh was 
withdrawn.
'"Where?" The question came in a single word but one uttered with the force of a 
war captain's order.
"At the lowest level, midway among the sealed chambers. And this was not done 
recently, Yost. As you know, we inspect all seals in order, and have since, by 
the vote of the entire brotherhood, they were first set. I was last in that 
passage to check six tens of days ago — just before the testing."
The sparks that appeared to form the pupils of the arch-mage's eyes grew 
brighter. His thin lips tightened into a straight line before he said 
colorlessly, "The testing. And before that — a departure."
Gifford let the seal fall to the surface of a table nearby. "Surely we of the 
Old Knowledge should be able to judge one of our own kind who has taken the Path 
of Dark — ?"
Yost shook his head. "Not of our kind; white does not brother with black. He is 
one who early learned to hide his true self and be to all men what each believed 
him to be, which means he was — and is — far more than we reckoned."
"Never has there been such treachery before," the archivist said heavily. "What 
would lead him to this path? Surely the selectors of the youth would not have 
sent us any who could not touch the True Flame without hurt!"
"On a journey, a man may choose to change paths. There is this about power: it 
grows from native talent. But with some — remember the days of the Covenant — it 
can change a man as a smith shapes iron upon an anvil."
"His later studies," Gifford persisted. "How was it he was able to hide for so 
long where he searched? Did none suspect?"
Again a head shake. "We have grown slack, woefully slack over the years. 
Sentries forget to faithfully pace boundaries when there is no dispute 
concerning them. What lies behind that seal?" He nodded at the disc on the 
table.
"Speculations — largely those of Arbobis."
"Speculations? Well, then he may have skimmed off a degree of knowledge 
presently denied us, yes. But he would not have dared to put such discoveries 
into practice here! Arbobis…" The archmage's eyes flared again. He tensed in his 
seat, and his tongue swept over his pale lips. "You have the records, brother — 
see what you can learn from them. Arbobis was one far too entwined with the 
search for the forbidden. However, any of his finished spells would be far too 
intricate to be within the reach of young Irasmus, no matter how eager."
"That one is clever, though not as much as he believes," Gifford assented. "But 
where has he gone, and what lies in his mind to do with what he has stolen?"
Yost was out of his chair with an agility that sent his outer cloak into a 
swirl.
"He went meekly enough with that trader's caravan, seeming downcast that he now 
carries only the right to say he has studied here but attained no mage standing. 
Yet have we not wrought well in the past? There is the sweeping of the mind as 
one goes through Claw Pass. Unless — " The archmage strode to the table and 
thumped its surface until half the broken seal spun to the floor, " — unless we 
have forgotten something we should have remembered, and that eater of forbidden 
fruit found the key to it. If so" — the sharp features were bleak — "what has 
our carelessness unleashed upon the world?"

* * *

Irasmus — had certainly never impressed any of the inner circle of mages enough 
that any could bring him readily to mind. He was a thin young man with a taste 
for drab-colored clothing. From time to time he had played with the melding of 
scents; which experimentation had earned him nothing but chaffing from the two 
others who had entered here as students at the same time. Still, his manners had 
always been above the slightest reproach — too much so at times, thought 
Gifford, grimacing at the memory. However, the youth had also presented the 
outward appearance of one who did not follow any study to great depth but rather 
flittered across surfaces, though he had been very ready with questions.
The archivist pursed his lips. Looking back, he winced. Some of those inquiries 
had been respectfully directed toward him, and he could not honestly be sure 
just how discreet he had been in their answering. The lad had seemed so little 
suited to residence here that the impatience of his tutors may well have been of 
secret value to him.
Now the old mage hurried along the deepest hall of the record house, his way lit 
by one of the sparkling balls that any occupant of Valarian could summon without 
thinking. For all Gifford's love of ancient lore — its reading being his true 
inborn talent — this section of his own domain had always cast a shadow upon him 
when he was forced to enter it.
All knowledge had two sides: one to help and one to harm. Neither could work, 
save for a man or woman trained to its use. But it was also true that a person 
born with even a nearly insignificant talent should instinctively shrink from 
the Dark Path, for he or she would be far too aware of the perils of loosing 
what could not be readily bound again. That long-ago time of the Covenant, when 
the Dark had been barely defeated and which had ended in an unspeakable period 
of chaos during which the whole world had shuddered — that grim history was too 
well known to any who delved into the Place of Learning.
Yet here and now, in the Hall of the Nine Doors, where the fireball awoke sparks 
from the protection seals, was much more of evil than a man of the loremaster's 
own time could conceive had once existed.
Gifford stopped before the door he sought. Though he has hastened to report his 
discovery to Yost, he had not left the portal unguarded — two bars of green 
light crisscrossed the unlocked entryway. He could dismiss those more easily 
than he had summoned them, but then he must needs step inside, to face — what?
The archivist unbuttoned the throat closure of his tunic and drew out an 
irregular crystal that instantly caught the rays of the fiery sphere and turned 
them into a blaze. All thoughts or deeds dedicated to the use of power caused 
energy to gather within such amulets through the years, and every one fed the 
talisman's initial hunger. He had worn this crystal through three lifetimes of 
ordinary mortals, and he hoped now that what it had amassed through his own past 
actions would be enough to form a shield. The arch-mage knew where he had gone 
and would learn instantly if his brother were attacked by a thrust from the 
Dark; still, Gifford might lose his life in trying to do his duty, though he 
could not lose that which was in his core to evil.
A quick movement of his fingers, and the bars across the entrance disappeared. 
The archivist felt more than just the usual dank chill of the passage as he 
passed through the doorway and stepped into long-forbidden territory.
The light bobbed and wavered back and forth, but it did not pass the threshold. 
Gifford would have been completely in the dark if it had not been for his 
crystal, though its glow was now greatly dimmed.
As in any of the storage compartments of the place, the walls here were lined 
with shelves that seemed to shimmer a little. As with all such repositories, 
whether of good or ill, the spell of preservation remained.
The record keeper's attention was directed to the thick dust of years that 
carpeted the floor, which bore signs of recent disturbance. The mage stood 
quietly by the door tracing those tracks. There were certainly a number of them, 
and, while one or two trails led to side shelves, the majority pointed straight 
ahead.
The chamber was longer than he had expected, and one of the hardest things he 
had ever forced himself to face made Gifford add his own prints to the betraying 
spoor and follow its maker.
There came a whiff as if some unseen monstrosity had puffed out a putrid gust of 
breath. For putrid it was — so foul that the mage nearly choked, grasping 
quickly at the crystal to hold it to his nose for relief. Even the light of that 
amulet flickered; and when it gained full power again, held a dirty reddish 
tinge. Its wielder had once more to summon up all the courage a quiet scholar 
could accumulate in a sheltered life to go on.
He had reached the very end of the room, and here the dust on the floor had been 
overlaid by a dried skim of ichor. Gifford had no desire to look at what lay at 
stiff angles there; the creature had come to such a death as its kind knew, and 
not easily. Also, without having to go any closer, he could identify the corpse 
— not by name (such entities never served within these walls) but by species. It 
was a gobbe — born of tainted earth and an ancient, now near-forgotten will. So 
unnatural a being had no place in any dwelling used by humankind. Unless —
But the thing was dead. If it had been summoned to serve, surely it would not 
have ended thus. The loremaster pressed his crystal to lips suddenly gone dry 
and repeated within his mind a pattern of words no longer used by any race in 
his world.
There rose a shimmer, akin to that which curtained the shelves; within it 
followed the movement of slightly less-opaque substances. Gifford did not need 
to strain to identify the shadow he had summoned out of the past, which stood 
spear straight and motionless by the wall. He was only too sure he could give a 
name to that half-seen stranger: Irasmus.
The murk, which had gradually dulled even his talisman, was hard to pierce for 
clear sight. At length he touched the crystal against his forehead just above 
and between his eyes.
There was a sudden intensity in the dead and polluted air of this place. The 
mage recognized the forerunner of power, and he was forced to abandon his 
earlier belief that he had come upon the reckless dabbling of some overambitious 
amateur; Irasmus had known exactly what he had been about.
The outline of a hand arose, in it a rod that glowed with the deadly rotten-red 
light the crystal had picked up. Now there was no longer a body on the floor; 
instead, the shadow figure of Irasmus was drawing precise and well-calculated 
symbols in the dust, in the air above, and then in the dust once again. Over the 
vision's shoulder, the archivist could see one of the shelves. Its protective 
veiling had vanished, revealing an empty space where there must have once been 
stored the books or tube rolls that were now piled into an awkward tower that 
stood nearly knee-high to the illusory youth.
Thus, and thus — and thus! The loremaster knew he could not alter what had 
already happened here, perhaps days ago; he could only bear witness to these 
actions from the past.
A whirlpool of dust was rising from the floor, and out of that shambled — a 
gobbe. It was nearly the height of a tall man, but had the misshapen body, warty 
skin, and green-stained fangs peculiar to its kind. One taloned paw gripped a 
war axe, and a light of greedy anticipation shone in its red-lit eyes. The diet 
preferred by such spawn of evil was no secret, nor could it ever be forgotten 
that they were constantly on the alert to fill their potbellies.
However, the axe had no time to move. There was a flick of the wand from the 
shadow Irasmus, and the creature convulsed and collapsed. But already a second 
of its kind was materializing, and then a third, their ungainly bodies tense as 
though ready to drag down some prey — until the sight of their fellow on the 
floor sent them statue still.
Faintly, very faintly, and only through the aid of the crystal, could Gifford 
catch now and then a word; and some of those made him ill. Irasmus had not been 
the lightweight failure they had so mistakenly turned away from the Place of 
Learning!
A dozen of the gobbes were present now, all alike in monstrousness of feature — 
the Dark personified. Irasmus waved his wand, and one of the gobbes scuttled 
forward, cringing, to bag and shoulder those tomes of stolen knowledge.
The old scholar dropped the crystal from his forehead. He had seen enough — 
enough to utterly destroy the complacency of his fellow mages. Nor did he, at 
that moment, believe the ancient spell of forgetfulness in the Pass of the Claw 
would work against such hell-drawn might as this.
What had they loosed on the world — or, at least, on a part of it? Power — even 
though Irasmus had been only an illusion, Gifford had felt the crackle of 
released power, strong enough that its emanations still lingered days later.
The slain gobbe was undoubtedly a warning — one that such creatures could 
readily understand. But that their summoner would restrain them from their 
nauseating food quest in the future he did not believe.
The loremaster took cautious steps to avoid the rotting carcass on the floor. 
Gobbes were of the Dark; some said they were the offspring of Vastor the Ghoul. 
This time, at least, that paramount demon had done nothing to save one of them; 
they were, instead, now plainly bound to Irasmus. And there were very few in 
this world who could withstand their attacks.
Gifford looked at the plundered shelf. There would be, of course, some reference 
in the general files — probably very slight — to what had stood there. He could 
only search that out and report to the assembly. However, this was no news any 
of the human kind could receive without a foreshadowing of fear.
 
4
The Forest was awakening to spring. Some of the flowers that gave the first 
announcement of the season were, indeed, already faded, busy with building a new 
seed, while the green lace of first leaf buds was afroth on trees so huge they 
had nearly outlasted Time itself.
Over all sang the Wind. Deep within, at one end of its scale of song, rang the 
speech of stones and earth; at the other lilted the twitter of birds and the 
faint, ephemeral patter of flower thought. For the Wind was the keeper and the 
sharer; and every life that dwelt within reach of its inner voice knew — even as 
the Wind itself learned — what passed in the world.
Perhaps the Forest was not the "world" as most men would reckon it. However, it 
kept secret its own mysteries and those of its children; and there had been no 
intruder within for many seasons. Men forgot, but the Wind and the trees and the 
earth did not.
That vast tract of woods had its heart. This was no temple raised by those 
unaware of the singing of the Wind; though there were places where giant blocks 
of moss-garnished stone lay to mark the dire days when the Dark had massed its 
battalions, the Light had gathered its forces, and warfare had been waged of a 
sort no creature now living would give credence to.
That heart was a single Stone, rooted as deeply as any of the trees which ringed 
the glade that held it and nearly as tall. The Stone bore none of the lichenous 
blotching that defiled the dead and forgotten shrines; instead, it appeared, at 
first regard, to be an unbroken dull gray. However, sparks of light flowed over 
its surface. These followed no pattern, save at intervals, when they ringed 
themselves about a perfectly rounded hole in its middle. The core of that hole 
held the utter gray of thick fog, and through it the Wind sang. Sometimes other 
beings of the Forest gathered to learn what it was needful that they should 
know.
Once the Wind had ranged far more widely. At a time of great peril, it had been 
loosed to its full strength, and parts of the earth had been swept clear of that 
which should not exist. Then the Covenant had been sworn, and the Wind was 
bound, in its uttermost might, to keep within the borders of the Forest. Yet 
such force could not be wholly subdued.
There was also the valley. Styrmir was its ancient name, one without meaning 
now. It sheltered its own people, many of whom, at the swearing of the Covenant, 
had stood aside, not because of any allegiance to the Dark but rather because 
their sufferings during the days of the war had been such that they never again 
wished to use any power.
Though the folk of Styrmir were of mankind, they could not root out of 
themselves the talent. Ever and again, the Wind sent its questing breath to 
them; and then, like their ancestors, they would become for a space at one with 
all that was good in the life of the world. Yet still they held stubbornly 
apart, forgoing all chance of honing their gifts into tools or weapons, but 
living perhaps more content than any of their ancestors had done. Here, now, was 
neither lord nor serf. All shared in the common good; and none ever visited the 
roofless tower that had once been their rallying place in times of danger.
The inhabitants of the valley saw very few from the lands beyond the Forest, 
though remnants survived of a road leading down from a pass in the heights 
above. Several times in the year, those of Styrmir might be visited by wandering 
merchants to exchange the clippings from their flocks and other common things 
the outsiders found interesting enough to acquire. For the most part, however, 
these people of determined peace took no interest in anything beyond their 
sheltered vale.
Yet there was one clan that still kept the records. Such accounts had become 
monotonous over the years and contained little to stir the blood, but the lines 
of family births must be honorably preserved. This kindred were also rumored to 
have dealings with the Wind, whenever it came visiting, and to treasure scraps 
of ancient learning about which none of them ever spoke.
Thus was Styrmir, defenseless, yet even so long past the days of the Covenant 
giving root to talents that could be used if a man were clever — or vicious — 
enough to try.

* * *

It was the quiet harmony of Styrmir that those of the Valarian looked upon on 
this spring morning. Of the twelve chairs, only eight were occupied — that was 
another matter wherein they had been lax, as Yost was now forced to make himself 
face. Few entered as novices these days, for the focus of interest in the wide 
world had moved on to other ways. Now only those young people, whose thoughts 
were made restless by too generous a gift of the talent, sought out what was 
certainly an ambience lacking in action, as far as those still favored by the 
strength of youth were concerned.
Many beginning students also split away before they finished learning. The last 
full brother the mages had welcomed among them was just now hurrying into the 
council chamber, his cloak, splotched with dabs of color, bundled awkwardly 
about his shoulders. Pausing just within the doorway, he smoothed one of the 
wall banners into more even folds. Harwice's talent used tools: his large, 
long-fingered hands were always itching for a brush. For it was he who could 
bring into mind a picture and then transfer it to just such a background as he 
wished to illuminate. Yet it had been twenty-five seasons since the artist had 
taken the Covenant oath to don his cloak, Gifford recalled.
Since Harwice — oh, there had been a trickle of others, both men and women, as 
the talent seemed unaware of gender when it made itself manifest. Some had been 
drawn to healing and, having learned all they could absorb, had gone out to 
restore such of the shrines as had crumbled nearly away. In only three courts, 
halfway across the world, were there still chapter houses which were listening, 
feeling, and dreaming posts, though those who served within them had little 
enough to communicate.
At the sound of his name, Gifford came to attention with a start he trusted none 
had noticed. These few moments of withdrawal had, he hoped, given him strength 
to resist any force of the Dark that still lingered in that accursed, 
now-resealed cell below.
Yost was watching him keenly, and the librarian-archivist saw that this was the 
time to make known to his fellows the breach in their defenses. He knew he was 
overfond of dressing any speech in a festival robe of words, so now he made an 
effort to tell his story as starkly as a sentry's formal report. From somewhere 
to his right, he heard a breath deeply drawn, though there had been no ripple of 
movement in all that seated company.
"So — Irasmus —" Yost was far from the oldest member of that assemblage, but the 
woman whose white hair was as neatly bound to her head as his waved free seldom 
raised her voice in council. However, it was to Dreamgate Yvori that the seers 
turned when they needed fragments of far-off history such as might take Gifford 
days to uncover, for all his excellent keeping of the files.
"He is" — the aged sorceress's speech still held steady against the flow of time 
— "of the House of Gorgaris through his mother's inheritance, though it has been 
four generations since Gorgaris has been even faintly remembered. Irasmus came 
to us through the urging of Kristanis, presented as close kinsman to the Banner 
of the Red Boar. The Boar has ever stood on the right flank of any force that 
moved against the Dark; yet that, too, may also be forgotten today."
Yost leaned forward a little in his chair. "No one can question the path those 
of the Boar have always trodden. But in one of Gorgaris's get — How came such a 
mixture of spirit?"
Yvori spoke again. "How often it is seen that, the brighter the light in a man 
or his line, the deeper of dye is the darkness when they fall into evil! With 
time, all houses may sink into decay; and Gorgaris and his hero ilk are now long 
gone from any rulership."
"But if the idea of rulership has not gone from his line?" Gifford queried. "We 
might hold here a key to the knowledge we seek. Irasmus is gone — where?"
The painter with the color-splashed cloak seemed genuinely interested for the 
first time. "When one would draw true strength, he had best look first to his 
masters, and then — to his roots."
Gifford tensed, his head turned a fraction so he could see again that banner 
which had enchanted him earlier in this day now overshadowed by horror. However, 
Harwice, who could translate beauty from dream to reality, had already advanced, 
not to precisely the hanging Gifford had admired but to one at its side.
Harwice stared, and colors rose and flowed and solidified. The brotherhood were 
all used to the manifesting that followed his concentration — it was as though a 
slice of earth had been rendered immaterial enough to swim the air above, 
summoned to give up knowledge. There, unmistakably, appeared the vestiges of the 
old road the traders still cherished. What those in the chamber now saw 
distinctly was a party of plodding pack ponies and figures moving to keep them 
closely herded.
The animals moved awkwardly and needed that guidance, as it was plain they could 
no longer see where they were going. What were those creatures shambling about 
nearby to keep them in tight order? The loremaster wet suddenly dry lips with 
his tongue. Gobbes! — monster things never meant to scuttle under the light of 
day.
All those horrors had eyeholed hoods pulled tightly over their heads to protect 
them from the fierce rays of the sun, which offered a serious threat. Among them 
rode an un-hooded man, who guided with skill a bony horse. He never looked 
behind him at the motley crew, seeming very sure that none of them would stray 
from the direction he set. His thin, beak-nosed face carried a mocking smile 
which was close to a jeer.
"The Claw —" Someone among the viewers breathed, as if summoning a defense.
"We have slept!" The archmage's voice rang out until, Gifford thought, it might 
almost reach the ears of those on the road. "The years have tamed and drained 
us! That is a trader's train — with certain embellishments, to be sure. But, 
brothers, do you see Master Pretus or one of his choosing among — those!" He 
nearly spat that last word.
It was the woman Yvori who gave him an answer of a sort. "This noontide, we 
shall say power words for Master Pretus and those of his party, for I do not 
think any of them still walks his well-known road. Pretus was bound for the 
Court of Gris. A strong comrade of ours dwells there — Mage Rosamatter, who is 
not to be thought of lightly in the matter of talent."
"No — our renegade heads to Styrmir," Yost said in a voice heavy-freighted with 
the emotions he must always control. "Gorgaris held sway there until the Wind 
sweep. What better place could Irasmus now look for to plant roots?"
The limner-of-dreams took one step to the right and now faced a second fabric 
panel — the one Gifford had renewed his spirit by watching earlier.
Once again, they beheld the valley, peaceful with the spring, yet bursting with 
the force of new life. No clouds hung in the sky whose dullness might set a 
smudging finger on what lay before them. Only, to the far right of that view of 
the old road, there stood what looked like the jagged fang of some great beast 
but which was, in fact, a roofless half-ruined tower.
"The Wind —" Those words came shakily, almost as if the speaker suggested 
something he knew held no truth.
"Yes, the Wind," Yost repeated, his eyes blazing, the faintest of flushes 
tinting his pale face. "It plays in Styrmir — but only the smallest part of it, 
and that now and again. The Covenant did not altogether forbid its dance there; 
yet those who chose to hold that land were talent born, even though they have 
steadfastly refused to draw upon power. Doubtless there are dreamers among them, 
and the Covenant does not forbid warnings to be delivered to the innocent. But, 
more — ?" He shook his head, and his upstanding white crest of hair licked the 
air. "What more can we do? We are sworn —"
A chair scraped across the floor. One who had sat silently on the very edge of 
the company now stood straight and tall. Though he wore the livery of the place, 
there was a fraction of difference, as if he had been wont to go clad in another 
fashion.
"Those unwitting folk will be gobbled up, even as a ver-hawk snatches a lamb 
from the side of a shepherd's hound. Send your dreams! These soft ones have been 
ten generations or more steeped in peace. Can you conjure the spirit that could 
make them erect a wall of defense about Styrmir? Our brother is right — the 
message gusts once borne by the Wind are all but gone. We are not the only ones 
held by oaths; what you see —" he gestured toward that view of the valley " — 
already bares its throat to the knife.
"It remains that we were the ones who loosed Irasmus. How do you answer that?"
The flush on the archmage's cheeks deepened. "We seek now to find what was taken 
from the vault of Arbobis. You were once a man of war, Fanquer. What came of 
that long-ago conflict that none on the Path of Light wish even to name? Half a 
world and the life it contained scoured away! The Wind is bound, and so are we."
"There is this." Oddly enough, it was Yvori who confronted the erstwhile 
soldier. "Does not the Covenant have an answer of its own?"
Fanquer scowled. "Dreamer, look upon heaven — you shall see it become hell. 
Think of those fields you see after the hunger of the gobbes has been sated! As 
for the Covenant, the ones to loose the string of its binding must needs be 
those with their roots in a corner of the world the Dark once smirched. What 
have we here? Farmers and herdsmen! Save for one family line, the valley 
dwellers have deafened their inner ears to the talent as well as they could and 
abandoned all that might serve them now. Can any of you promise me that some 
hero will rise to summon an army of Light?"
Yost raised his hand, and the gesture was emphatic enough to bring the company 
to attention. "Irasmus rides, and with him goes the filth of the Dark. Just what 
damage can he do with his stolen learning, Gifford?"
"No one can guess the reach of another's full talent," replied the loremaster 
bleakly. "That he brought gobbes to heel says he is far in advance of any novice 
— even of some journeymen and women who have served their time with us. What can 
we do? Will She Who Strides the Wind come at the call of any?"
"Does that One now even take an interest in the things of this earth?" Fanquer 
added a more troubling question. "She viewed as an insult the plea we made once 
before that She lend her powers to the aid of the Light. Who of our blood has 
ventured to seek out any of Her servants in the Forest for twice a hundred 
years? And do not those of Styrmir come into this world having, from the very 
wombs of their mothers, a barrier set within them against any encroachment upon 
the place of trees?"
"Dreams have no barriers," the old sorceress responded. "Warnings can be sent —"
There came a lightening on the faces of all those assembled, as if a measure of 
their burden had been lifted from them. Only the warrior laughed sourly. "Send 
your night messengers, if you will, but they are a feeble answer to what now 
descends upon Styrmir."
Fanquer was regarding the wall hanging with narrowed eyes. "Those complacent 
fools have no time left to beat reaping hooks into spears. This I say, and say 
it plainly: those of the Right Path will hold it against us that it was one 
claiming to be of our craft who now goes forth as a bringer of death. There 
remains only a single clan that can be warned by a dream-sending, and they are 
not more than a handful with no Wind Caller among them. We must fight a battle 
lost before the banners meet upon the field where steel strikes steel!"
Gifford's eyebrows rose and his lips pursed before he answered. "You would have 
us on the move?"
A stir rippled the ranks of the councillors, and a murmur of voices arose. The 
archmage brought them again to order with a gesture.
"Nothing, Light Seekers, has ever been accomplished by arguments not founded on 
well-based facts. Shall we now propose to follow the custom once used before? 
Those who can —" he glanced first at Gifford, then at Yvori " — must look 
backward in time. You, Fanquer, should study well the Covenant, since words of 
yours were used to frame it. We all have our talents, and, by the will of Light 
over Dark, let us hasten to use them, for sometimes even a fraying thread may 
bring down an empire."
With that final admonition, the mages dispersed, save for Harwice, who still 
stood before the banner's window into Styrmir. Suddenly, the scene of peace and 
plenty pictured there changed, darkening and closing in to show a road upon 
which dusk was descending curtainwise and where an ugly, monstrous crew padded 
purposefully forward. The artist raised his hand, but the archivist's own 
fingers flashed out to imprison the other's wrist.
"Would you warn them?" he demanded sharply. "I tell you that he who can command 
gobbes cannot be turned from his chosen way except by a far greater spell!"
Harwice glanced at the keeper of records, and a half smile gave a hint of 
satisfaction to his smooth and seemingly youthful face.
"How well do you know what now lies in the outer world, Brother Gifford? How 
long has it been since you brushed the dust of moldering books and scrolls from 
your sleeves and ventured forth further than the outermost gardens? Not only the 
actions bred by mankind may change the paths of life; sometimes, as Mage Yost 
has said, a single worn thread can turn their course.
"That one" — the dream painter waved at the image of Irasmus — "sniffs for power 
of a sort; but his nose has not yet sharpened into that of a hound! We shall 
call upon time, even if we cannot summon the Wind to stand as shield comrade."
Harwice reached into a pocket in his robe and brought out a tiny pot that fit 
easily on the palm of his hand. One stride brought him within reach of the wall 
hanging. He dipped his forefinger into the pot, to bring it forth colored dark 
green. At the same time, he began to hum. Gifford found himself caught up in 
that sound — a Wind song, though the scholars seldom heard such here.
Quickly the finger moved and, at some distance before Irasmus and his train, 
there sprouted up a hedge, most branches of which were scarcely shorter than a 
belt knife and twice as sharp with thorns.
Harwice thrust home his creation with the tip of his finger, and the last of the 
color bled from his flesh onto the fabric of the banner. He laughed softly. 
"Wind talent, Brother. Even if your dreamers cannot arouse Her, the use of green 
magic without Her choice will still give the alarm. And there is nothing in the 
Covenant to say that a man may not sound a warning horn when the Dark begins to 
waken."
 
5
Haraska stopped suddenly in the middle of the homely task of kneading the bread 
dough. She stared down at the thick paste as though she had never seen its like 
before, and her tensely held body was stiff as a harvest corn dolly enlarged to 
human size.
"Grandmam, those blue-winged thieves have taken more than half the fruit from 
the ground trees." A high-pitched young voice announced the coming of a girl, 
who shook a basket which lacked several finger's depths of being full. She was 
trailed by two other children, each of whom wore a betraying mustache of berry 
juice.
Sulerna of Firthdun had nearly reached the table when she realized that all was 
certainly not well with Haraska. Her grandmother's hands were still deep in the 
dough she had been vigorously pummeling, but she was staring straight ahead. 
Staring? No, not quite that, for her yellow-green eyes were almost half closed, 
as if she longed for sleep.
"Grandmam!" Sulerna called urgently, but she knew better than to touch the 
well-loved elder of the clan. The younger woman turned to her nephew and his 
sister, who had edged backward toward the door, the small girl pulling on the 
wide sleeve of the boy's work smock. Yes, it was also so — Cathrina, being 
female, would be first to catch the faint touch of — Only this was not any 
vagrant breeze skipping out for the forest.
"Get you Mam and Grandsire!" Sulerna ordered Cathrina. The girl dropped her 
basket on the table and ran to obey.
Sulerna now moved to stand directly in her grandmother's line of sight, but 
still the elder made no stir. Chilled, the young woman shivered and gave a quick 
glance into each corner of the kitchen, which was the heart of the clan; but 
there was nothing. The Wind she would have been able to detect herself — though 
her talent was not as great as some — but this had nothing to do with the Forest 
or such encounters as she had known before, of that she was sure.
"Now, now — what's to do, girl?" Fatha, her mother, a freshly pulled carrot in 
one earthy hand and impatience plain on her face, came in the door. Behind her, 
supported on the two sticks he had spent most of the winter carving to his 
liking, stumped Firthdun's present master, her grandfather. Sulerna could only 
point to Haraska, for she had certainly never witnessed such behavior from her 
bustling and ever-efficient grandmam before.
"Ach!" The carrot struck the floor as Fatha gripped her father's arm, nearly 
oversetting him. "Girl" — she swung next upon Sulerna — "open the cupboard bed. 
Cathrina, run for Mistress Larlarn! Father — ?" Some of the authority went out 
of her voice as she looked now to the dunmaster.
"It is so." The old man might have been answering some unasked question. "Do 
what is necessary." He made no attempt to approach his statue-frozen wife but 
dropped onto the settle by the low fire, his eyes fastened on her.
"Sulerna!" The snap in her mother's voice brought the girl into action. "Free 
her hands from the dough, but gently; she must not yet be roused."
While Sulerna obeyed, her mother went to a nearby cupboard and, from its topmost 
shelf, brought out a small bottle.
Its top was sealed with thick wax, and this she attacked swiftly.
It was very quiet in the kitchen now — the girl could hear her grandmother's 
heavy breathing, as if the old woman strove to climb a hill in a battering wind. 
She helped her mother to support Haraska to the cupboard bed. The bottle had 
been given to the old man, and he was carefully shaking a drift of what looked 
to be leaves long dried to powder onto the blade of a small fire shovel.
They made no attempt to undress Haraska but settled her onto the bedding, 
drawing up over her the patchwork quilt which was usually kept rolled at the 
bottom of the bed. To Sulerna, that quilt had always seemed strange, for she 
could make no sense of its patterns.
Then a newcomer entered — Mistress Larlarn who, of all the clan, had the final 
word on illnesses. She came leaning forward a little, with one gnarled hand on 
Cathrina's shoulder, as if the child now aided her as Grandsire's sticks served 
him.
However, in spite of her need of assistance — for she did require such — the old 
healer crossed the kitchen quickly. She surveyed Haraska for a long moment 
before she spoke in that soft voice which always sounded to Sulerna like the 
Wind sighing.
"This one obeys a dream-call — yes. Such a summons comes not by day unless the 
need is great. Light the strengthfire."
Grandsire had thrust the small shovel closer to the hearth, and now there curled 
out smoke. It bore both the rich aroma of leaves being burnt in the fall and the 
faint perfume of wildflowers ablow in the spring, but it also held a third attar 
which seemed to be the breath of the Wind itself which none could ever set name 
to.
As Grandsire released it to her, the girl accepted the shovel and returned with 
it and its burden to the cupboard bed. There Larlarn received the smoking 
implement and began passing it up and down over the inert woman, head to foot 
and foot to head, while her lips moved in words never spoken aloud in the 
company of the uninitiated.
"Yaaahh!" Haraska gave a cry of horror, such as might be born when sighting a 
peril from which there was no escape. The healer thrust the shovel with its 
now-depleted dusting of burnt herbs toward the stricken woman's daughter to be 
set aside, and both her hands vanished under the overhang of the cupboard. 
Slowly she began to stroke the forehead of the clan mistress, whose face was now 
knotted in terror. From the still-open door behind them came a breeze that blew 
into the wall bed, and Haraska's contorted features relaxed. Yet the old woman's 
eyes still remained open, focused on something that drained the vibrant, happy 
life from her face and left a mask of growing despair.
Larlarn's hands cupped over those open eyes, not touching the skin underneath.
"Let the Wind sweep," she commanded. Others of the homestead were now crowded 
about the doorway of the kitchen. One or two of the women had edged inside, but 
none of the men intruded. The Wind had chosen its voice; they had only to 
listen.
"The Shadow rides, the Dark rises." Haraska's voice was the monotone of one 
reciting a well-learned message. "Styrmir will be the abiding place of all evil, 
and we" — now her speech held a broken note — "shall serve one such as none of 
humankind have bowed to for near a hundred hundred seasons. There comes a lord 
for the tower; and his power — aaghha!" Again her cry rang out. "His power shall 
be rooted within us of peace, from the babe new-born to the great-grandmam. The 
Covenant be broke!" Haraska reached up one hand now and clutched at Larlarn's 
sleeve. "We took not the Oath of Watch, and so we shall be the first of the 
prey. He comes down the Lost Road, no honest trader, but — a ruler of demons!"
Haraska gave a sigh, and her body relaxed, leaving her limp. When the healer 
lifted her hands, Haraska's eyes were closed, and her breath came fast and with 
a force that shook her whole body. Larlarn held out a hand and had pressed into 
it an oddly shaped cup, whose edge was pulled forward in one place to form a 
spout; then she gave a quiet nod to Sulerna. The girl held her grandmother's 
head steady while Larlarn worked the spout into the clan mistress's mouth, at 
the same time stroking her corded throat so they could see the old woman 
swallow. When that was done, Larlarn pulled the doors of the cupboard bed nearly 
shut and turned to face those of the clan who had gathered.
"This was a sending," the healer told them with authority, "by its strength 
from, I think, one of Those Who Dwell Apart."
None of the dunsfolk answered, but a hum arose.
"What have they to do with us?" asked a man who stood close to the door, a 
branch-cutting tool in his hand.
"The Light must always warn, Geroge!" Larlarn returned sharply. "It would seem 
the world has turned too many times, and we are about to witness a return of 
what we have nigh forgotten. Who has flock duty in the eastern meadows this 
day?"
"Yurgy," Geroge replied. For a moment, the husbandman twisted the reaping hook 
in calloused hands; then he burst out, "Mistress, does it matter who stands 
where this day? Do we not call — "
A large hand on his shoulder shook the youth warningly. "Where learned you what 
each Styrmir man born must know, boy? The Wind is not ours to summon, though it 
helped to carry this warning."
"We deal not with the Forest — and we have no truck with the ones who chose to 
stand apart!" Geroge refused to be silenced. "Where are our weapons?" His glance 
swept the chamber, resting for an instant on each face turned toward him. "Do we 
just stand, doing nothing to defend ourselves and what was always accounted 
ours?"
Mistress Larlarn turned away from the sleeping Haraska. "There were always 
those, and of our own clan blood, who had a foreboding that this day might 
sometime come. Go out that door, Geroge. Run to the duns of Ithcan, of Brandt, 
of Katha, and call up an army. No? Then listen! Within our line, we have taught 
the children the wisdom that others have not dealt out in generations. Yet, even 
in the days of the Last Battle, what we had to offer was too thin a talent to 
count much. Death and worse comes upon us now, and none will be left to hold a 
taper against the fall of night. Those Who Dwell Apart may well believe that 
they have done their duty by this sending. They are great cherishers of 
traditions and oaths, and they will stand by the Covenant. And think not that 
the Forest will take heed of our plight. We shall, indeed, be sheep — bound and 
delivered to the slaughter!"
The youth brought his hook down against the back of a chair, hacking a grievous 
gouge in the flawless, brightly rubbed wood. His face was flushed, and his mouth 
was flattened into a tight line to lock unseemly words within. The healer 
regarded him for a moment, then turned to the oldfather of the dun. When she 
spoke, her voice as freighted with the heaviness of one about to shoulder a 
great burden and already nearing the end of her strength.
"Though it will do us little good, Grandsire, someone should ride for Yurgy. 
Should the innocent young of a neighbor be the first to feed the enemy?"

* * *

Though the day had started out clear, a spiderweb of fog now appeared to be 
clinging to the heights of the bare mountainside eastward. That precipice was 
not of the Forest, nor did any of the valley venture there; but men had and did, 
for the traders who came twice a year still used the pass above. On their last 
visit, however, these chapmen had reported a dangerous overhang that might in 
time close off the narrow passage.
It was warm enough that Yurgy had discarded his outer coat and now, in his 
jerkin, he sat on a rock, very still. He was engaged in something exciting — a 
trick of Power he was not sure he could do.
The stout reed he had harvested this morning with dew still beading it lay on 
the ground, twisting now and again until it seemed about to spin over. Within 
it, a grub was very busy, eating out the sweet pith and leaving in its wake a 
smoothed tube. The young herdsman had concentrated on summoning that voracious 
small worker, and his delight that the worm had appeared and the work was being 
done was almost more than he could contain.
So the old stories were right! One who surrendered his own will to the Wind 
could hope to become a part of all the world in a new way. The boy watched the 
grub's blunt, brownish head emerge from the far end of the reed, and he wanted 
to shout; instead, he held his body moveless and let the Wind carry his thanks 
to the little borer of cores.
Then came a sharp interruption. The wiry-coated bas-hound gave tongue at the 
side of the flock nearest the old road — and the dog's ululating howl was picked 
up and echoed by his two half-grown sons.
The boy was on his feet instantly, leaving his coat and food pouch where they 
lay, and heading down from the rock. The sheep were milling about, and the 
shrillness of the new lambs' bleats and the ewes' anxious cries made a clamor 
that broke the usual quiet with a hint of worse to come.
A scream rent the air — not from any living throat, but as if the Wind itself 
had uttered a cry that was half pain, half promise of peril. And then, where 
those webs of mist had been gathering on the heights, a spear of light flashed 
forth, so bright that even the sun could not hide it. Not honest sun glare or 
the softer beaming of the moon, not true fire flame — that brilliance was 
nothing of Yurgy's world to which he could give name.
Nor was the light all. There followed an instant of dead silence. The young 
herdsman, no longer even aware of his flock, wrapped his arms around his 
suddenly shivering body. The Wind — that low-voiced being that had encircled him 
so comfortingly through the morning — was gone!
Sound came again: a crackling — the earth itself might be splitting apart. That 
dangerous rock in the pass — had it yielded to some force, falling and walling 
off Styrmir from every other land?
Now birds climbed the sky, black of wing, their hairless heads mere puffed sacs 
of scarlet skin — such pollution as neither the valley nor the Forest had ever 
vomited into the air. There was a breathless feeling, as if both the land and 
the trees… waited.
The fragments of talent, which were the Wind's remaining gift, whirled abruptly 
in a wild dance about and above the flock, for there were calls even the earth 
itself could be summoned to answer. Yurgy swayed. His hounds — ! Tusker, the 
sire, was walking stiff-legged down the road, leaving the flock and his duty 
behind him; while his sons followed, nearly on their bellies as if crushed down 
by fear.
A sudden movement showed ahead in the fringe of old gnarled trees bordering the 
curve of the road where it entered the valley: a pack train. But the boy knew, 
from his first sight of it, that this was no trader such as had ever before 
visited Styrmir.
Bile rose in Yurgy's throat, but he could not move so much as a finger. Though 
the mist web did not enwrap him, he was still trapped — trapped!
The fear rising from the animals, by now running back and forth across his path, 
fed his own growing horror. In the past, strange creatures had sometimes come to 
the edge of the Forest to be sighted by those of humankind; but the woods 
children had been merely different, not — not — evil.
The huge bas-hound had come to a halt, his offspring behind him. As, in a 
happier time, he might have saluted the moon, he now threw back his head and 
bayed — not in warning but rather as if he faced now what neither fang nor claw 
could bring down. That howl rang so ear-numbingly through the windless world of 
the pastureland that it shook Yurgy partway free.
The panicked sheep were beginning to collapse here and there; some ewes had even 
crushed their lambs. Now the young herdsman could feel the force that had 
kindled the tinder of their fears into a mad flame. This was no Wind, caressing 
and healing — it was a power arising from the earth and gathering to itself 
parts of life which none could see. Unable to stand against that, Yurgy moved 
forward, stiff-legged and helpless as his own hound. And what he saw, through 
staring eyes he could not close, was so sickeningly unbelievable that his whole 
inner being was wrenched with revulsion.
Things — things no mortal, even one twisted of mind, might put name to — led the 
head-drooping pack animals. Then, as if they, too, were hounds, albeit of 
hellish breed, the creatures launched themselves forward, bore the herd dog to 
the ground, and ripped the living flesh from the screaming animal. And the 
bas-hound was not alone in his torment. Several of the horrors raced down the 
road and, even as had their sire, the two whelps ceased, in a rain of blood, to 
be.
The sheep had subsided; perhaps the death of their guardians had touched them in 
passing. Those monstrous butchers had begun to move purposefully in the 
direction of the flock itself when, as though heeding a silent command, they 
suddenly stopped and swiveled their heads in the direction of an approaching 
figure.
The rider who led this demonic crew urged his trembling, sweating horse forward, 
skirting fastidiously the fouled places where his minions still fought over the 
scraps of their feast. So great was his contrast to those beings that it could 
almost make Yurgy believe the events of the moments just past to be those of a 
troubled night vision.
This was a man, slender of body and bravely dressed in a jerkin from which 
dangled chains, each supporting a winking jewel. He wore no head covering, but 
his waves of thick reddish brown hair were kept in place by a wide metal band 
which, though bare of any ornament, somehow drew the eye. He was clean-shaven — 
in fact, his skin gave the appearance of having never supported hair. Thus, he 
seemed young — until one saw the feral yellow eyes beneath his smooth brows. Had 
it not been for those eyes, and for the cruel curl to his lips, the stranger 
might have been judged as handsome as a lord's son from one of the old tales.
Now the coldly compelling gaze was bent upon Yurgy. The horseman raised his arm 
and beckoned with a graceful sweep of a gauntleted hand. In spite of every 
instinct against it aroused in him by the night, the boy obeyed.
Goaded by fear, Yurgy did next what he was, by the most binding rule of the 
valley, never to attempt — he strove to reach the Wind. But there was no Wind — 
only an eerie emptiness and that pull of power he had felt from the herd and its 
hounds on the first appearance of this man.
Then he was standing at the side of the windblown horse — and its master.
"Greetings — Yurgy."
The soft voice seemed, in an odd way, to deaden the nightmare about the boy. But 
how did this stranger know his name?
"Who is your headman?"
Did he mean the oldfather of the dun? Yurgy wondered. Guessing that that might 
be so, he answered hoarsely, "Racal the Sixth of our dun here."
"Excellent." He of the catlike eyes fairly purred. "And now you shall lead me to 
him."
It felt to the young herdsman as though a haze had risen all about him. He was 
not even aware that he trod right through the bloody puddle which was all that 
was left of his youngest dogs; still less did he know that he led the grasping 
hand of the Dark itself into his beloved valley.
 
6
There was silence in the Forest. Perhaps some of the very oldest of the huge 
trees could recall its like, or the toss of ruin stones here and there; but 
there were no others to remember a time when the Wind was stilled — utterly 
stilled. It might have balled inward upon itself, solidified, and then departed 
all the dimensions, worldwide, in which it once had life. As for the Valley 
which had been encompassed by it for so long, this was like the setting of the 
sun at midday, the shattering of the full moon's glory.
Small creatures ran madly for their burrows or crouched beneath the nearest 
shelter they could see. Birds sat claw to claw, wing tip to wing tip on 
branches, enough of them so gathered as to bend stiff wood earthward.
Those glittering motes, which made outward glory for the great Stone, swarmed 
until they made a thick mass about the hole that pierced the rock. There they 
pulsed, dimming and then flaring up, as if to offer protest and, perhaps, futile 
battle.
From the earth below the north side of the pillar came a stirring, a faint scent 
of long-settled soil reluctantly yielding place to life. Upward thrust a sheath 
of rolled green leaves, taller and taller, as if here was bursting into the 
outer world a plant to rival the rise of the trees themselves. Just short of the 
top of the monolith, the green blade came to a halt.
Sound arose now — not the soothing of Wind song but rather a drumming, an 
ear-numbing boom that seemed to issue out of the ground itself. The curl of the 
leaves began to loosen, but there was movement along the living wall of the 
glade, as well.
Here came one, then another, three, and four beings, all as alike to the 
untutored eye as if they had been hewn from logs. Their powerful, uncovered 
bodies were also the color of polished wood, and heavy fur with a sheen like the 
finest of satin cloaked each. Though they strode on hind legs in humanoid 
fashion, these were not men and women but creatures of a race the Forest itself 
had bred and nurtured.
Some of them had twisted a garland of flowered vines about their shoulders or 
thighs, and the perfume of those adornments mingled with a musky body smell 
which was not unpleasant. A number of them carried huge clubs — weapons such as 
might bring an ox to its knees with one well-aimed blow.
Yet their furred faces were not masks of malice. Rather, as they came on, they 
looked at the leaf sheath by the Stone and then to their nearest neighbors, and 
their uneasiness was plain.
Once the Forest's children had circled the waiting Stone, those with clubs held 
them high, then brought down to earth in unison the thick butts of those 
weapons; and the dull booming echoed again. Others began to sway their 
well-muscled bodies from side to side so that their vine-twinings were set in 
motion. They opened their heavy jaws, and there came forth, as if in a single 
voice, a call that was also a name.
"Theeossa — Ever-Living One — She Who Can Command the Storm Winds — " They 
added, to that first hailing, title after formal title.
The leaf continued to unfurl, until it spread wide, as might a wing. Then She 
who had been reborn again after generations of sleep stepped forth and, leaning 
back against the great rock, ran Her hands up and down it as one might stroke a 
beloved beast.
No more than the beings who stood in a silent ring about the place of rebirth 
might She be named human, but in a far-off mountain refuge She was known — 
known, yes, and now being watched by those gathered there to put to use a 
weaving of their own talents.
Though Her figure was feminine, showing the proper curves, Her smooth skin was 
pale green. Her dress was sleeveless and only half thigh in length, and it was 
girded by a wide belt that might have been fashioned from vine flowers stripped 
of their leaves and tucked tightly together. She held her head high, and Her 
hair was so bright a silver that the band holding it back from Her face looked 
dull and almost tarnished.
And Her face… But to those who had come at Her call, She had no true face. 
Between chin and brow, there was only a greenish mist no eye could penetrate.
"Sasqua." Because the Wind had deserted them, the earthborn could not speak in 
Her private voice, but in Her tone was the warmth of friend meeting friend. 
"Daughters, sons, who serve well this world of ours — greeting! You have been 
summoned as witnesses so that no one can ever afterward say a warning was not 
delivered."
Before Her, the air seemed to flicker. A section of it became opaque — and not 
only opaque, but occupied. Another stood there, matching the woman in height. 
His cockscomb of hair was nearly as silver as her own locks, but his features 
were not veiled.
The newcomer raised a long-fingered, pale-skinned hand to the Green One as if in 
greeting; but She, standing with Her hands planted against the Stone, made no 
answering move. The voice which issued from behind Her masking oval of mist no 
longer held a soft and welcoming note.
"Evil has rooted itself well within your company — deny it not!"
The man bowed his head in assent, and it was evident that he accepted Her anger 
as just.
"And yet you sit at your ease," She continued relentlessly, "making no move to 
finish that which should never have been allowed to begin!"
Now there was a slight change in the other's face. "Final judgment is not for 
either of us to utter." He answered as one who has long wielded authority.
"This scum, who gathered what he would of your learning, now takes elsewhere 
what pleases him — and takes it harshly, in blood and death. Yost, he and his 
works are a seeping sore open at your very border! You may well guess what he 
would have for himself — your place. Would you have him open one of the Great 
Doors — call up what he cannot control? How could even so learned a one as you 
hope to stand against such a loosing? You and your kind helped forge the seal of 
the Covenant — surely you know what lies behind it, ever waiting?"
The archmage's eyes flashed gold fire. "If we break the Covenant, are we any 
less guilty than he?"
"It is no one wrapped in Wind who does this thing. Caution has always ruled your 
kind. You depend upon the sanctity of locks — thus, what is prisoned by one man 
may be freed by another. Long ago, the Wind I call was made to swear away its 
full power, and that bargain has been kept. Now this Son of Dark prepares to 
ravish a whole land whose people have some kinship with us, for does not the 
Wander Wind visit them? And this evil came from your domain, Yost."
"He is not of us! And there is only one way we can strike back and still remain 
within the Covenant — "
"The old belief that the defense of a land must be rooted among its own people? 
Faugh! If you have chosen your army so, they shall die in their first 
engagement. That one seeks to open a door, and there will be none left to stand 
against him, not in that stricken land. Yost, I call upon you against all your 
oaths, your laws — I summon you now to stand against the Dark!"
As the earthborn uttered these last words, a shimmering played about the man; 
and he and that which had contained him wavered and were gone.
She who had thrown that challenge did not step away from the Stone more than 
half a pace or so; Her hands could still rest easily upon it. Now they moved up 
and down, stroking the surface, and in this manner She made her way completely 
around it. Still came no sound of the Wind; rather, there remained a silence so 
steady that the breathing of those watching could be heard.
When She had again reached the place from which She had started, She stood yet 
further back. The points of glitter that had gathered about the dark-filled hole 
now scattered up and down the length of the rough pillar. As they moved, they 
gathered here, fled apart there, until they had outlined two figures on the 
Stone as plainly as if nature herself had painted them on its face.
"See, daughters and sons?" The Green One looked over Her shoulder at the nearest 
grouping of the Forest people. "Once I might have called, and the Death Wind 
itself would have swept this filth from the surface of the clean earth. Oaths 
hold — but changes may also be made so that they will serve our purposes.
"Listen now to the word I lay upon you. Death stalks the land before our tree 
borders, and it will…" The woman hesitated for a long moment; then she stepped 
forward once more and laid a forefinger to the head of each of those outlined 
figures of light.
"Keep the bonds until the day that will come for their breaking. Unfortunately, 
the mage Yost has the right of it — I could not wield what I now hold to break 
the shackles of the Covenant — even our Mother Wind will not be able to do more 
than bear a faint dream of green-knowing. But, mark you this, Sasqua of the True 
Blood — there shall come those who can fashion other and greater clubs than your 
own! Set your watch upon the Wind Stone; at its call, answer. Go not beyond the 
shadow of the fringe trees about the bounds of the valley, no matter what ill 
you may witness inflicted on the innocent there. It is not our choice, yet we 
must, as the mages, now stand apart."
For a last time, She touched those two figures sketched on the Stone. So 
indefinite of shape were they that one could only be sure they represented 
bipeds. This time, it was not their heads she sought but that ambiguous portion 
of their sticklike bodies which might, in a living creature, enfold the heart.
Once more, the heavy clubs struck the ground about the Green One, and this time 
the females also crooned what might have been a lullaby. Three times they did 
so, pausing after each repetition, though the woman did not make them any sign.
"Thrice called — " Now Her words were absorbed into the rising of a breeze and, 
around the Stone, the land came once more to life. Those of the Forest knew the 
lift of fear. Some of them, for whom the past was swallowed up by every sunset, 
could never keep in their small heads the memory of what had happened here; but 
the Wind would hold what must be learned again and, perhaps, relearned many 
times.
The body of the earthborn now touched, then closed over, those pictures; and, as 
if the Stone had returned Her embrace, She seemed to melt into the rock face 
itself. As Her children drew a long breath of awe, the light patterns dissolved 
into the motes of which they had been shaped, to resume their dance again over 
the gray surface like dust in a shaft of sunlight.
One of the most massive of the Sasqua raised his head, his broad nostrils 
expanding as if, against his will, he was catching some foul scent — a rank reek 
no waft of the Wind would carry.
"The dark one has come — " His message mingled as always with the voice of the 
Wind, and his face was now a fearsome mask promising ill to what must be met. 
"We hold the woods — we go not into the accursed land. But" — he had come 
forward to stand by the Stone, being careful that he did not touch it — "let it 
be known that, if any true of heart comes seeking shelter under the Wind's wide 
wings, such a one comes in safety. This She has not forbidden, and it is, this 
one thinks, such action as might be a part of what She would do."
Swingers of clubs, singers of Wind, trickle of cublings, the children of the 
Forest split apart, and the glade was left to quiet and — for the time — peace.

* * *

There was, however, no peace for Styrmir. Irasmus and his straggling caravan had 
made straight for the broken fang of the tower that rose stark against a dusky 
sky. Clouds were gathering there, though those were not driven by any natural 
force. Flowers, which had showed bright as lanterns in fields and hedges, now 
paled and drooped, their ash-gray petals falling earthward as if an early frost 
had cut them down.
Time and again, Yurgy half raised his hands as if to touch the ears that no 
longer served him. No birdcall, not even the frenzied bleating of his plundered 
flock, were to be heard any longer; but he could catch — and would, had he been 
able, have shuddered away from — the growled gabble that served for speech to 
the gobbes about him. Like one held by chains, he paced beside the mage's 
shambling horse. No longer could he pick up the pain and terror which beat the 
beast along the path his rider would follow; nor did he try to look up at the 
man in the saddle. From that direction flowed a monotonous murmur of words that 
meant nothing to the young herdsman but that seemed to change in tone from plea 
through excitement and on to triumph.
For Irasmus, this ride down his newly claimed land was an intoxicating 
experience. He had never doubted — at least, not for the past half year — that 
he would do just as he was now doing. Still, he found its accomplishment as 
heady a draft to his spirit as might be apple cider to the parched throat of a 
worker who had spent the morning swinging a scythe.
This young lout who had been taken so easily — a good rich drink the mage had 
taken from him, who was young and had the full strength of untroubled innocence 
in him. There would be more such — many more — for his quaffing. But he must not 
be impatient. The one who practiced the most efficient craft was not always the 
first runner in the field.

* * *

Nor, after he had reached the tower, did the others who were brought to him, so 
rightly named by the Forest Lady the Son of Darkness, prove to have any 
defenses. There had to be examples, of course, such as would never fade from 
memory, and the gobbes were excellent tools with which to mete out punishment, 
always hungry as they were in this world not their own.
Thus Styrmir became a place of the living dead — not all at once, however, for 
it amused Irasmus to spin out his pleasure. He could afford to move slowly, as 
there had been no whisper of opposition. In fact, upon occasion he wished that 
he might suck out all the gifts at once from these land grubbers, make them 
watch the devastation of everything that made up their lives. There were times 
when his talent leaching became as dull as having to sit in the Place of 
Learning and listen to one of those prosy lore lovers dissect this and that 
facet of the power, when all knew that full control of it lay within their 
touch. Old men, they had lived too long and clung too much to the ancient 
legends; and no spirit or ambition was left in them. Nonetheless, Irasmus had 
been careful so far not to attempt any of the various methods he knew that would 
allow him to spy on Yost and his ancient flock. Slow and sure, slow and sure — 
he had to keep reminding himself.
At first, the Forest held no interest for the new ruler of Styrmir, who was too 
intent upon gathering from his unwilling captives — and from what they planted, 
tilled, and cherished — the major portion of the power he continued to store so 
carefully. But, as his demon servants drove the valley people to repair the 
tower to be a fit place for their master, he sometimes rode out a little way 
from that central point of the land he claimed.
The wizard had made some useful discoveries on a number of those occasions when 
he had thought to enlarge his knowledge of the land. There was one dun — kin, 
clan, whatever these clods called them — that appeared to possess a greater 
measure of talent than the others. He had so far left that particular holding 
alone, not even allowing the gobbes their clamored demand for a share of its 
flocks. If there were any truth in the rumors that some of these earthworms had 
any unusual talents, he wanted to make very sure of their nature before he took 
them.
Irasmus had come to drain, not to be drained. It was a laughable thought that 
any in Styrmir could stand against the knowledge he had so carefully garnered, 
so warily tested. Still, Firthdun and its folk stayed unharmed within his net. 
And perhaps they did possess some instinct keener than their fellows' for, from 
the day of his coming, they had shut themselves away from even their neighbors 
in the valley.
At its homestead, that clan went about its usual round of tasks as though 
nothing else mattered and Styrmir remained as it had always been. He who 
observed them with such interest had some of them listed. Seven males — one very 
elderly; another well past the prime of life; several youths of little power, 
and children.
Then there were the females. No one who had studied at the Place of Learning was 
stupid enough not to know that there was woman talent that both stood apart from 
that of males and sometimes was superior to it. Of womenfolk, Firthdun held an 
ancient of whom his spy birds saw little, as she remained in the house; one of 
middle years; two of budding youth; and a child. There was, moreover, another 
female who had taken up residence with them, and she was a point to be carefully 
considered. What had brought her there on what must have been the very day 
Irasmus had come into the valley — and what held her there? Of course, as of 
this day she had no home to return to, because the gobbes had made one of their 
belly-filling raids and had left the woman's homestead a smoldering ruin behind 
them.
Yes, in spite of the new ruler's confidence and success, Firthdun remained in 
his mind like an itch between the shoulders. The sooner he had to do away with 
it — holding and holders — the better.
Why did his thoughts keep returning to the younger of the two girls? It was as 
if something he had forgotten pricked at his memory now and again. Very well — 
tonight he would be back at those books which had been arranged with such 
scrupulous care in his chosen tower room. From that sealed chamber in the Place 
of Learning, the supposed scholar had taken, on general principles, the full 
contents of a shelf but had so far been able to adequately decipher only four 
volumes. Well, they were enough for his present situation.
His curiosity oddly aroused now, Irasmus turned his mount back toward his 
stronghold. Turning, he caught an unusually sharply focused view of the Forest 
edge. His distance from it was such that he could not be truly sure he saw — 
what? A tree walking, retreating further into the gloom?
Utter nonsense, of course.
 
7
AS THE FLOWERS WITHERED, SO DID ANY COLOR OF CHEER FADE
from the land itself. Men and women now plodded leaden footed to the fields, 
dull-faced children with them; but that which possessed them now brought all to 
work only to feed its own ravening hunger. Even the crops had a grayish look, 
and many of the heads of the upward-pushing grain showed the spotting of decay 
before they even had a chance to ripen.
Yurgy no longer had a flock to urge to the uplands — what remained of that 
pitiful herd was the sport of the gobbes. He did not have a home, and deep in 
him that loss was an abiding pain which ate at him night and day. He had not 
been born of Firthdun; however, the law of fosterage had brought him there when 
he was barely able to set one foot firmly before the other. The tie was a very 
distant one but strong enough so that that clan had taken in the orphan.
Other duns in the valley were reduced to ruins. For some reason no ordinary 
human could possibly guess, the master had not yet sent his force upon Firthdun, 
almost as though he savored the fear his continued failure to attack must be 
breeding there. The numb emptiness in Yurgy's mind — for it would seem that he 
was now brain deafened, even as he had been ear deafened — only let him wonder 
vaguely at times what kept Irasmus's hand from squeezing the life from the boy's 
foster dun as he had wrung dry all others.
Yurgy slopped water from the ill-smelling well they had reopened in the 
courtyard of the stronghold. Perhaps because he was the first one Irasmus had 
taken into bond, he had remained a member of that crew the mage led.
Now he was aware that the demons' master — and his — had come riding back into 
the area that ringed the base of the tower, but Yurgy did not raise his eyes 
from his task. It was only when the crooked, taloned fingers of Karsh, the 
leader of the gobbes, closed in deliberate torment on his shoulder that he 
looked up. Distantly, he noticed that even his lord's brilliant richness of 
clothing was dimmed by these walls that the men and women labored each day to 
raise higher, set firmer in their ancient pattern.
"Slug." The master's finger crooked. Yurgy could not have disobeyed that summons 
had he wished to do so — not with the gobbe chief's hold upon him. Somehow, he 
found himself able to look into the face of the man who was regarding him as a 
reader might turn upon an open page.
"How many seasons have you?" came the next demand.
It had become harder and harder to summon words — for little had those of 
Styrmir now to speak of, as the Dark had well nigh swallowed them up. Only now, 
for a moment or so, it seemed that Yurgy was thinking more clearly than he had 
for days, and with that sensation came a new surge of fear. The boy coughed, 
nearly choking, as if a puff of dust had caught him full in his face, but he 
answered as quickly as he could.
"I was counted scythe-worthy last harvest." He found those words almost 
meaningless.
The master was smiling. "Not too old, and not too young to delay us much," he 
commented, though the sense of this remark escaped his listeners. "It does not 
become any man to waste a tool. Get you to the kitchen, slug, doff those rags of 
yours, and scrub your noisome body." He raised his hand and pinched his nostrils 
together to make very clear his opinion of this son of the soil. "Then come with 
Karsh. You may" — he nodded his head at his own thoughts — "be what I need."
Still bearing the now-full buckets, the chief gobbe keeping shadow close at his 
shoulder, Yurgy entered the lowest room of the tower. The greasy smell of an 
ill-kept kitchen was strong, and that reek was laced with the stench that was 
ever a near fog about the demons. Two women of the valley were busied there 
already, the first at the fireplace, the other chopping gory meat on the table. 
The one performing the latter task bore a bruise on her cheek and over her chin, 
and blood had trickled in a thin stream from the corner of her mouth, leaving a 
stain she had made no attempt to wipe away.
The workers spared only a quick glance for those who had entered, but the 
bruised woman gestured to put the pails under the table. Karsh favored her with 
a horrific grin.
"This one" — early on, the master had somehow made it possible for the two 
different species to understand a common speech — "he washes and goes aloft." 
The gobbe jerked his thumb at the nearby staircase. "Let him go bare — the lord 
has no liking for rags too close to him."
The woman carving the meat jerked the last bucket back out from under the table, 
not looking at the boy. The other scrabbled with already-grimy fingers in a 
scorched bowl, then slapped a lump of lardy soap into his hand. This done, they 
turned resolutely back to their labors and ignored him. Karsh, however, lounged 
at the foot of the steps, staring at Yurgy's bared flesh as if it suggested some 
table dainty.
When the youth was as clean as his crude efforts would allow, he tipped the 
bucket into the sour-smelling drain. A chill struck at him as, though the fire 
burned well and there was heat in the room, he felt a kind of shame he had never 
known in his lifetime before.
"Up!" his gobbe guard commanded impatiently, as Yurgy's feet found the steps 
even colder. There was a small landing at the end of that short flight and a 
closed door to the right; but the stairway continued, and Karsh signified that 
he should do the same.
There was an odd change here. The stink of the kitchen was gone, and for one 
moment of excited hope, Yurgy thought that the Wind had sent a messenger down 
from the next level in welcome and protection. However, just as quickly, he 
realized that, while the scents intermingled now to form a cloud which 
apparently shut away the rot-tainted realities of darksome living, this was not 
woven of the freshness of flowers or growing things, and it carried no lightness 
to the heart, no joy for the mind.
The next floor of the tower also had a shut door awaiting; and the steps did not 
end but were much rougher, newer work that narrowed until the gobbe would have 
had a hard time forcing his way above. However, the creature made no attempt to 
do so but only brought his fist down with a drum note against the door, holding 
the boy at the same time in the grasp of his other hand.
No sound came from beyond the portal; instead, it swung open, and Yurgy faced an 
inner curtain of black, so dark as to suggest that there was nothing behind it. 
Karsh allowed the youth no hesitation but shoved him through an almost-invisible 
opening in that barrier — and into such light and color as he had almost 
forgotten could exist.
Irasmus sat at ease in a high-backed chair that was curiously assembled from 
what seemed the crooked bones of some great animal. But it was also cushioned in 
scarlet, and certainly the sitter could rest in comfort.
A table stood within reach. Placed for easy touching was a round globe of 
polished crystal upon a smoke-colored stone that looked almost as if it might be 
a bowl of sorts, for within it whirled and twisted a whisper of color only a 
little darker than what held it. There were also two tall candlebranches and, 
catching sight of those, Yurgy stiffened.
Those lifters-of-light had been made for Year's End candles and were to be used 
only for that short hour and after proper ritual; at all other times, they were 
kept in the great chest of the tenthman of Well-Watered Lea. But, of course, 
that dun was long since gone; and the boy himself had seen the tenthman torn 
apart by whooping gobbes. In the holders now were no candles of the finest and 
clearest beeswax, as was fitting, but rather crooked, greenish stalks of a stuff 
that burned clearer than any of the candles or lamps Yurgy knew in the clan 
homesteads.
Flanking the candles at one end of the table was a pile of books — old ones with 
wooden covers and tarnished metal hinges. There were, in addition, several 
parchment scrolls. On the other side were more records, and these were also 
known to Yurgy — they were the tallies submitted each season to the Harvest 
Assembly. Two copies were always made, one kept with the candles and the other 
stored in Firthdun.
The candles, that loaded table, and the presence of the master at ease held the 
valley youth's attention for longer than anything had done since the mind-drain 
had caught him. Could Irasmus be in some way releasing that hold? But why?
"Hither — into the light." Irasmus beckoned. Again the boy felt that warm wash 
of shame. He could not read anything in the mage's expression; still, he had a 
feeling that he was being thrust facedown into the dirt by something that lay at 
the far back of the other's yellow eyes.
"Turn — slowly," came the next command. Yurgy tried to fasten his thoughts on 
what lay in the room as he obeyed. There was a richness here, though all the 
colors were muted. He saw a shelf on which rested bowls and stoppered bottles; 
another bore books and rolls of such accounts as were done quickly for shorter 
record-keeping. Two braziers rested on high stands; from them coiled those 
threads of smoke which he thought changed the scent of this level of the 
stronghold. Against the far wall stood a luxurious bed (one taken from Gotthley 
of Sanzondun), piled high with coverlets and a couple of furred rugs. Then the 
boy had finished his circle and once more faced Irasmus, to discover that the 
master had opened one of the Styrmir record rolls.
"You are of Firthdun?"
Yurgy shook his head. "I was but fostered there."
The mage studied him. "Fosterage is given only when there is kinship," he 
commented. "Where, then, were you birthed, and why did you come to fosterage?"
"I was son to Yetta of the mill; my sire was Ovan. In my first year, there was a 
storm, and the river took the mill and most of those within it. My mother was 
second granddaughter to the Firthdun line, and my father's kin already had sons 
in many. It was arranged for me then."
Again there was a short silence, as if Irasmus were considering something which 
might or might not be of importance.
"But the truth is," he said slowly, "that you have in you some kin blood. How 
well do you know her whom they call Sulerna?"
The youth was astounded at the sudden change in subject. "As well as sister kin. 
I was fostered, but they believed that the blood held true in me — "
"Blood?" The mage leaned forward, his interest fully caught now. "Blood, or — 
talent?"
Yurgy shook his head, confused, but the master was smiling again. "You may find 
your way to being a hand of mine."
"Like Karsh?" The boy somehow found the freedom — and the boldness — to demand.
"Not so — look around you, slug. Once I was as soft brained and slave intended 
as you. There are many ways in which the talent can serve, and others by which 
it may be summoned. Get you down now to the chamber below this; bid the door 
open, and it will obey. What you find there is yours for a space — perhaps 
forever, if you are clever enough."
The head demon was not waiting outside, a fact for which Yurgy was thoroughly 
grateful. He did as he had been ordered — retraced his steps downward, to pause 
before the other door, clear his throat, and manage to get out a single word: 
"Open."
Surprise stirred in him a little when the portal swung smoothly inward. Here was 
no heavy curtain of dark but, rather, light which was stronger than any finding 
its way through the narrow window slits of the tower.
The boy took several steps forward and then glanced down at the soft floor 
covering which soothed his bare feet. This was no lately mown grass, for all 
that it was dull yellow and seemed as thickly bladed as turf.
Behind him, the door glided closed again. Yurgy spun around, ready to burst out 
once more if he could; but, to his startlement, he saw that, though the door 
itself was a barrier against intrusion, there were also two bars on this side — 
one near the top and one close to the floor. He guessed shrewdly that any 
attempt at defiance might well be turned against him to seal the room in some 
fashion, but still he attempted to push those bars into a defense; however, they 
were immovable, and, though uneasy, he at last gave up the struggle.
The carpeting, which was so like the browned ground growth of autumn, covered 
the entire floor except for three places where there stood lamp standards as 
tall as himself. There was a low trundle bed, which might have been taken from 
under the rich four-poster in the upper chamber, and a table on which perched a 
small lamp which appeared so far turned down that its flame did not do much 
against the gloom. A chair was drawn up to the table. At the far side, opposite 
the bed, was a curtained niche. The boy advanced warily to this area, only to 
find that it hid a garderobe, as well as a very small ledge on which stood a jug 
and an empty basin.
The last of the furnishings that he had been carefully avoiding was a chest so 
heavily carven that, in the uncertain light, grotesque faces and monstrous forms 
appeared to shift of their own accord, while bulbous, slit-pupiled eyes leered 
at him.
The hasp bore no lock. Yurgy hated to touch that wood, which he believed very 
old and which, though well-polished, was overscored with a multitude of 
leprous-looking patches, more virulent than any mold designed by nature. 
However, the chest opened easily enough, and the boy looked down at such 
clothing as one of the far-traveling traders might have owned, different by far 
in cut from either the smocks and breeches he had been used to all his life or 
from the color-flashing garments the master affected.
This chamber possessed no mirror to reveal his nudity, nor did he any longer 
feel chilled. Yet, Yurgy was very reluctant as he drew forth those garments one 
by one.
He who once must have owned them had been about Yurgy's height, but his girth 
had been greater, so that the boy had to fold in the clothing and make very sure 
the belt, which was a part of this hoard, was tightly drawn. The chest yielded 
boots also but, regretfully, Yurgy had to set those aside, since they were at 
least a size too small for his bare field-worker's bony feet.
As he fastened the last clasp of the jerkin (which did not hold well because of 
the width of the garment), he once again gave searching survey to the room and 
all it held. The wits, which had been so dulled, were surfacing in him again 
with a keenness he had not known for days.
One thing, Yurgy knew, was clear: this room might have the luxuriousness of a 
dun leader's, but he did not think he was going to be able to leave it at his 
own desire. There were the door bolts, to be sure; however, there was also the 
matter of food and drink — supplies he had certainly not come across in his 
exploration. He was as much a captive here as he had been since his first 
meeting with Irasmus.
Once more, the boy made a circuit of the room, ending to stare down at the 
chest. That coffer was now empty, save for the useless boots he had dropped back 
into it before he'd closed the lid. Save for the lamp standards, which would 
unfortunately afford only the clumsiest of weapons, no arms were to be found.
It was the book on the table that caught Yurgy's attention at last. He was 
aware, from his visit to the master's quarters, that books were treasures. As 
were all the dun young, Yurgy had been early taught his letters and simple sums 
but, beyond that, no book knowledge but only the long-gathered wisdom of his 
elders.
For lack of any other occupation, he started for the table and the book that lay 
so close to the source of light, beckoning to him. But he had taken only a few 
steps when emptiness of mind descended on him once more.
It was not the table and the book that drew the boy so strongly now but rather 
the trundle bed with its smoothly pulled covers. Not waiting to strip off his 
new clothing, he stretched out upon it and straightway had the feeling that he 
was in the soft embrace of something — the Wind? Deep-buried memory stirred even 
as his eyes closed. The Wind — Where had the Wind gone?

* * *

Gifford, Yost, and Harwice sat close together at the table, none of them moving, 
and stared at the oblong of light hanging at eye level before them.
Pictured there was a crude bed and on it a flush-faced boy lying as stiffly as a 
statue.
"Seek." The archmage did not speak aloud, but his lips formed the word. And seek 
they did. What they wrought then was not a thing forbidden to their kind, but it 
could only be called upon for service in the direst of perils.
The mages no longer saw the sleeping boy; rather, they viewed the rich and weird 
new furnishings of the chamber above his. And there, indeed, was Irasmus, busily 
referring from book to script-roll, then to a second book. The smoke of burning 
herbs was so thick that they who watched felt they should have been able to pick 
up the scent themselves.
"He prepares a tool," Harwice stated. "Should we move?"
"He has already begun his ensorcellment, and to interfere now would be beyond 
the talents of even all of us assembled in high council," Yost returned.
"But there must be something we can do!" The artist continued to protest, for he 
had never ere brushed more than the edge of so potent a dealing with the Dark.
"Death would answer," his superior said slowly. "We could reach out and stop the 
heart of that sleeper. Or — what is planned might be turned against the planner. 
We cannot, perhaps, influence those Irasmus intends to set about his filthy 
business now; but we may be able to twist his desires to bring him down in the 
end."
"But those whom he would make use of — what can we do for them?" Harwice had 
gripped the edge of the table and was holding it so tightly his nails bit into 
its substance.
"There is this," Gifford said. "Death is not an end — do we ourselves not know 
that also? And the evil born within one which is forced upon another is not 
wrongdoing that the tool must, in the end, pay for."
"The — the realization of this thing" — the painter's voice sank — "that is to 
be laid upon me."
"Yes; that will be a heavy burden. However, there is deep strength in this boy, 
and he shall leave that as heritage to those coming after. He shall die — but to 
live in the arms of the Wind!"
Yurgy turned his head, and now the mages could see him better. Coursing down his 
cheeks were silver streaks of tears, tears from closed and dreaming eyes.
 
8
Those within Firthdun now always gathered at sundown in the great kitchen, where 
the rich smells of the even meal still lingered to lighten hearts a little — at 
least, those of the younglings. But now there was neither telling of tales nor 
roasting of apples on the hearth; the dunspeople did not know how much longer it 
might be before the new master struck and all would be gone forever.
The younger men made regular rounds at night. They could not walk the outermost 
boundaries of the dun, but they made as sure as possible that their animals 
rested in safety. And since neither man nor beast stepped beyond those 
boundaries, both seemed to be free from attack, though no one was sure of the 
reason for that.
Theirs was not the richest dun in the valley — those had gone easily and early. 
It was certain — the Firth folk were all sure in their hearts — that their 
escape so far was because Haraska was dunmistress here, along with dunsire. He 
had never spoken much of his past, but it was well known that, in years gone by, 
both had ventured into the Forest at the Wind's call, returning to become 
pillars of strength against evil.
Long days of nursing and nights of careful watching had been needed to return 
Haraska to the woman she had been on that morning when the sending had brought 
its warning. She, who had always been joyful of heart, full of stories to keep 
the children amused, and clever and diligent with her old hands, no longer spoke 
much, and then only of very common things. The dunmistress laughed no more with 
the little ones but rather studied them from time to time and sighed until they, 
sensing that something was wrong, kept their distance from her. Above all, she 
clung to Sulerna, fretting if the girl were not in her sight and making her 
promise over and over again that she would venture no farther than the orchard. 
Yet, Haraska admitted freely when the others questioned her, she had not truly 
foreseen any especial evil for her granddaughter but only feared for the young 
woman in her heart.
Most of all, the dunsfolk missed the Wind. Hans brought out his pipe now and 
then and awoke trills of sound, the tunes they had danced to at the harvest 
feasting; and there was a vague comfort in those songs, as if a ghost of a 
breath of the Wind did still reach them.
Time passed as the people lived in this fashion on the edge of darkness. That 
Yurgy was lost to them they knew, for he had been seen at hard labor with the 
men and women dispossessed of their duns, but the Firth folk dared make no 
attempt to bring him to what now seemed their place of safety.
With the help of Mistress Larlarn and those of the strongest talent, Haraska had 
twice tried to reach forth for communication with something which was of the 
Light. However, she struggled to no purpose, and, at last, Mistress Larlarn 
declared that the oldmother must not use up her precious energy so.
Of an evening, the household had gotten used to sitting in a dimness broken only 
by the small fire on the hearth. Children rested in their parents' arms watching 
the flames, while the elders reported each day the amount of work that had been 
achieved. None spoke of what all knew — that just beyond their holding lay 
fields of stunted and fungus-fouled grains, choked by fearsome growths of new 
weeds that gave off vile odors and left stinging blisters on the flesh of any 
who touched them.
Their flocks were gone and had been since the day Yurgy had walked down the 
valley at the side of the master's horse. However, they still had two milk cows, 
a sty of pigs, and a goodly flock of fowls, all of which were kept well within 
the dun boundaries. Moreover, the kitchen garden, with its wealth of vegetables, 
throve, and the fruit trees promised a high basket-heaping to come.
But this island of peace and plenty lay only within the borders of Firthdun — 
and how long would it last?
This night, Haraska sat in her usual chair. A knitting bag lay beside her seat, 
but she made no effort to reach for needles and wool. Instead, while Sulerna sat 
on the floor before her, the dunmistress had captured both the girl's hands and 
was stroking the smooth flesh. The fire flared suddenly as a new piece of wood 
caught flame, and Sulerna could see the tears drop from her grandmother's eyes 
as the old woman made no attempt to sweep them away.
"Grandmam," she said hesitatingly, wanting to bring comfort, but how — and for 
what?
Haraska's clutch on her tightened, as if she believed she must keep that hold on 
the girl for the sake of Sulerna's life. Those who sat about them had begun to 
watch the two, and it was Mistress Larlarn who rose up behind Haraska's chair to 
rest her hands on the oldmother's bent shoulders.
"Sister," she said. She spoke softly, yet so quiet was the room that all within 
it heard her. "Is it a sending again?"
The dunmistress gave a great wrenching sob. "Wind — !" The sob scaled up to a 
high cry, near a scream, for aid. Leaning further forward, she caught Sulerna 
into a tight grip, no longer looking down at the girl but rather into an 
emptiness beyond, which was being filled by something she fought to escape.
"No!" Again came that shout of denial. "No! Even the Dark cannot move so — "
Slowly her grip on Sulerna loosened, and it was the young woman who had to brace 
herself to keep the weight of that old body from sliding onto the floor. But 
Mistress Larlarn and several others moved swiftly to gather their old-mother up. 
She lay limp, with eyes closed; however, her face on the left was savagely 
twisted to one side, and her left arm swung as if all control of muscle had 
gone.
"What — what is it!" Sulerna cried.
Mistress Larlarn shook her head. Fatha put down her young daughter and hastened 
to open the cupboard bed; her face was also drawn, and her breath came in gusts. 
Marah tried to hold to her mother's skirts, only to be shaken loose.
There was a sudden voice from one of the men: "Like the second of Wiftdun! We 
were just sitting, eating our meat at the Midwinter Feast, and he was taken so — 
but he was none that dealt in dreams. Four months he was as a babe and could not 
talk, sit, or stand; only his poor, tired eyes followed any who came near him, 
asking for aid. And we never knew what or who had struck him down."
But Haraska looked for no help from those now tending her. Instead, her eyes 
remained tightly closed, as if all her will centered now in refusing to look.
Fatha drew the quilt up about her mother's body. All the light and the usual 
kindliness had fled from her face as she spoke directly to the healing woman.
"Is this some stroke from that death maker who would be our master? Wind Caller 
she was in her youth, and dreamer for all of us who still held to the old ways. 
When one would kill a plant past reviving, one destroys a root — "
"Of a certainty, there was a sending," Mistress Larlarn replied slowly, "but I 
do not think it was aimed at her in direct attack. Rather, what she saw aroused 
great fear in her for another — " She nodded toward Sulerna.
"But — but I am not a dreamer," faltered the girl. "Why should the one in the 
tower think me prey worthy his notice?"
"If he does, he need count his thoughts again!" The well-muscled arm of her 
eldest brother Elias gathered her close against the strength of his supporting 
body.
Grandsire, who had been sitting and stroking the nerveless hand of his wife, now 
turned to stare at the healer. "Mistress" — his strong voice seemed to have lost 
half its wonted resonance — "there are ills of the body to which all of us can 
be subject. Think you that an interrupted sending might well bring on what we 
have seen this night?"
"Fear," the woman answered him straightly, "can harm past healing — twice in my 
lifetime I have seen it so. What Haraska saw twisted her spirit and drove her 
near to an end. Look upon her now, Oldfather — see how her eyes strain? She does 
not lie in any dream. No, she denies with all that is in her what she saw or 
still sees. This was not a sending such as we welcome; it was — perhaps yet is — 
a foreseeing."
A murmur arose in the room. One of the smaller children, frightened by the 
emotions of its elders, began to cry, and its mother made haste to hush it.
"There has not been a true foreseeing," Grandsire said heavily, almost to 
himself, "within three generations of the dun, nor has my wife ever shown such a 
talent. Mistress" — he spoke again directly to Larlarn — "can you mind-touch — 
if such a talent exists — and tell us what ill befalling holds her thus?"
Slowly the healing-woman shook her head. "With the Wind gone from us, that is 
impossible. I cannot learn what it might know, for it has left our land. Do you 
not understand?" There was a kind of fierceness about her now. "This monstrous 
lordling drains us — and sucks life from the waters, the clouds, the very earth! 
So he fills a well of power that puffs him ever greater.
"Once" — Larlarn's hands arose into the full light of the fire so that all might 
see them as they moved, though the gestures were without meaning to those now 
gathered — "some elders of my kin — my dun — dealt more openly with the Wind 
Stone: that which anchors the Wind to our world. But the Stone is no longer 
yours to seek — "
From the cupboard bed came a gasp which drew their attention. Haraska's body 
writhed. Plainly she no longer had the use of either her left arm or leg, and 
spittle ran from the corner of her distorted mouth. But her eyes were open, and 
her spirit raged in them, trying to force some communication. Her struggles from 
the frustration of her inability to do as she wished brought Fatha, Sulerna, and 
Larlarn to hold her in the bed, for it seemed she might throw herself upon the 
floor.
Twice the old mother gabbled sounds that were far from words; then she shuddered 
and grew still. It was apparent that the folk of Firthdun could not hope for any 
swift recovery, if recovery at all, from this blow of fate.

* * *

The twisted, ever-burning candles in Irasmus's chamber flickered once, and the 
dark lord's hands closed tightly on the record-roll he had been studying — a 
listing of duns on which there were also some newer runic settings of names. 
Then he threw back his head with a hearty laugh and reached for the goblet 
waiting to hand. Holding it first aloft as if he gave a toast to — something, he 
then drained it, even though it was the last of his bruwine, brought with him to 
celebrate some momentous event. What greater knowledge could he have at present 
than the discovery that his growing suspicions were true?
Setting aside the goblet, the wizard took up a pen and, dipping it carefully 
into the last of the wine, drew on that genealogical roll a line that connected 
two names set some distance apart. Chuckling, he found the midpoint of that line 
and proceeded to set below it a short pattern of vertical dots, scoring the pen 
into the parchment at the base of the bar with vigor enough to break the point.
Then that roll was pushed aside, and Irasmus took up one of the books he had 
brought with him. This was a slender volume, bound in a strange hide with short, 
bristly hair. The pages within were few, and only a sprinkling of them bore 
lines of cramped writing. The mage had no difficulty in discovering what he 
sought: three such scribblings, hard to read, but not when he held the book so 
that the page in question faced the smoky globe that seemed the center of all he 
thought important.
Once more, the flames of the crooked candles flickered, though there was no 
breath of air entering the room. Irasmus ran his fingernail under one of those 
strange inscriptions, as if such a gesture would enable him to get its meaning 
exactly correct.
Twice, three times, the lights of the tapers wavered. However, Irasmus kept to 
his task; and the flames flared high and burned clear again. Only then did his 
head come up and, with care, as if he might be drawing some information from 
every wall about him, he made a slow and painstaking inspection of his quarters.
This web of his was protected by every defensive spell he had hoarded over the 
years. Nothing could — or had — dared even to try the strength of its armor. Yet 
somewhere there had been a stir of talent — and one which was not answerable to 
him.
Firthdun! But who there? It was the females of the line who carried the talent 
most strongly. Once more, the dark lord opened the scroll on which he had made 
the entry and rubbed a forefinger across one of the names he had selected, his 
body tensed with strain to pick up even the faintest suggestion of power.
The old hag! Irasmus switched his gaze suddenly to the globe on the table, and 
what he appeared to see instead of its ever-swirling mist made his mouth curve 
in a cruel smirk. So — she knew… or thought she did. However, in the end, her 
old body was betraying her, making it impossible for her to give any warning. He 
would keep watch on her, of course, as well as on that other one of a descent 
inimical to his plans: she whom they called Mistress Larlarn. His prize in that 
place must have not the slightest inkling of what was intended for her.
Now it was but a matter of time, because part of this wreaking must be done with 
the aid of nature, or it would fail. A man could — with a great deal of trouble 
and danger — call up a demon, but he could not physically control time in such a 
case. And all the necessary preparations were yet to be made, the events 
arranged in their proper order.
The mage could crush Firthdun and all those it held with no more difficulty than 
rising from his chair and walking across the room. But that homestead must lie 
for a while yet in its imagined safety, until — He licked his lips, as if he 
could envision a banquet table spread before him. Talent… With the taking of 
that dun — No, he had enough slaves, and none others would be so rich to the 
taste or so bountiful in supply. When he was through with that holding, it would 
be utterly erased, down to the last shriveled blade of grass — in his own time, 
not theirs. Those sniveling earth grubbers had chosen this fate, or one like it, 
long ago.
Irasmus was aware now — and the knowledge added savor to his enjoyment of this 
moment — that his defenses were at last under test. Let Yost or Gifford or both 
of them with all the rest try to learn what he would do!
The master of Styrmir rerolled the record sheet and again took up the strange 
book, muttering certain words as he closed it. At present, his most needful tool 
lay but one floor beneath him in deep, drugged sleep; and there was, moreover, 
the matter of Firthdun to muse on now and then.

* * *

Wind does not die — it withdraws, comes with teasing puff or hammering blow, 
then retreats once more. Who can harness the Wind of Deep Hearing to one's will? 
No power known in this world.
Yet oaths can also bind…
None knew whether the Wind was a living entity with purposes wholly of its own 
devising. But, at this hour, all that listened and added to its strength were 
suddenly uncertain. They well understood, within the extent of their reasoning 
power, that the Wind was not only thoroughly awake but perhaps also ready to go 
seeking peril in spite of the bonds once laid upon it.
A young Sasqua, who had been intent upon reaching a certain place, hungry for 
what awaited her there, turned, she did not know why, aside from her straight 
path. Then before her opened the glade of the rock, its Stone aglitter with 
flecks of light as the brilliant bits held within its surface appeared to swirl 
restlessly.
Hansa made the hands-up awe sign of her species, even though she knew that she 
had, indeed, been summoned. Striding forward, she brushed through the ferns, 
while jeweled insects arose to dance in the air around her. She laid both her 
broad hands flat to the Stone and, in herself, listened. Twice she nodded: yes, 
yes — but not yet — the time was not yet. Then that which had drawn her was 
gone. In her mind a memory door closed, and she went on about the business which 
was so important to her this night.
 
9
There was another dreamer that night; perhaps Irasmus's wards were not as secure 
as he believed. What ventured into a sleeping mind in the dark lord's tower was 
a complete dream, set in each small detail in the receiver's unconscious, so 
that by his command — or another's — it might be brought into sharp focus again.
Color came first. To the one touched by the vision, the very appearance of those 
soft, rich hues was soothing — if the Wind ever appeared visibly to human eyes, 
this was certainly that Breath of Life in its most comforting aspect, seeking 
out its own.
No, not Wind — that was a denial so sharp and sudden as to shake the dreamer 
from his blissful content. This force might serve in its way, as did the Wind, 
but it was not that power.
Yurgy could not see clearly, for swathes and ribbons of the color wrapped him, 
held him for an instant, then swept away to make room for others of their kind. 
Yet, like a landsman who sowing rare and precious seeds on a waiting bed, each 
left something behind. Mist-masked faces hung suspended over him as if he lay at 
the feet of their wearers. They offered no outright threat, but they were of 
importance; and the fact that he could not see them clearly began to erode his 
sense of well-being. Each who wore such a featureless face also brought with him 
— or her or it — a growing need to know!
Now the colors wisped away, and only the hazy, masked faces remained; then, far 
in the distance, someone called his name. Yurgy would have answered with relief, 
but the summons was gone as quickly as it had come — thin and frail as a Wind 
touch, yet heavy with such a weight of pleading that he wanted nothing more than 
to go in search — to aid — 
"Evil done must bring full payment, even if the doer does not plan the foulness 
wrought." Those words were not faint, like the call of his name, but seemed 
rather to strike straight into his ears.
"Remember, at what seems to be the end for you, that in this matter you were but 
a tool and not what Irasmus shall try to make you. Let the knife come cleanly to 
your throat, and be free — the Wind awaits. For this is a vile deed, and from it 
will issue what will draw the dark one to his fate, even though you shall then 
be long gone into…"
Once more, the colors ribboned about the boy. This time, the soothing they 
brought was very faint, yet to the rags of that he desperately clung.
Though he had never dreamed true before and had no way of understanding, Yurgy 
knew that, though his eyes were still closed, he was now fully awake. He — he 
was Yurgy, fosterling of Firthdun. And where he lay… The boy opened his eyes. 
This was certainly not the half-ruined hut that had been his main shelter since 
that day of all disasters when he had answered Irasmus's beckoning and had been 
conscripted into the service of the Dark.
Anger, such as the valley youth had forgotten could exist stirred in him, and 
the growing fire of his ever-strengthening emotion seemed to clear his mind. To 
his sorrow, he knew he had not been Wind-touched, no; but that those who had 
looked upon him were skilled in dreaming he was sure.
Certainly, they were not of this place, nor of its deeds or thoughts.
Slowly Yurgy sat up and looked about him. No window broke these walls; it could 
be day or night. But there was light — the dull glow of candle lamps. He stared 
at those almost stupidly before memory returned.
He was in the tower! And he did not doubt for an instant that he was there by 
the will of Irasmus and would remain as long as the master had use for him. Why 
would a slave be sheltered in what was now luxury for any born of Styrmir? The 
boy held up his wrists — no metal bands, no chains.
Warily, he got up, expecting at any moment to have the gobbes break into the 
room and beat him for some task he had forgotten or otherwise amuse themselves 
with visiting small torments on him. He looked more closely at the nearest lamp; 
it was equipped with a standard about the length of his arm and formed of a dull 
metal.
Feeling as if any sudden movement might send him back once more into 
helplessness, Yurgy carefully approached the table on which stood the pair of 
candleholders. Then, for the first time, he noted the other objects there: a 
bowl of tarnished metal, a round of bread that looked more like human food than 
the half-chaff-and-straw cakes of the usual slave fare, and a tall cup.
Food! The sight of it gave him the power of rising hunger, and he was around the 
table in an instant and reaching for a share. This was one meal that would not 
be snatched from him by a gobbe and deliberately trampled, leaving him to pick 
broken bits of crust out of the mire.
At first, Yurgy tore at that round of bread as might one starving, cramming his 
mouth so full, lest the feast vanish, that he could not even chew. He coughed 
and sputtered, spraying crumbs about, then grabbed for the cup and drank so that 
the lumps in his throat were carried down. What the bowl held was cold, dotted 
with lumps of grease. But it was truly meat, and he disciplined himself to small 
bites and long periods of chewing to savor a near-forgotten taste.
The first flurry of eating behind, the boy realized there was also a book on the 
table. His forehead wrinkled; swimming bits of memory made his head ache. 
Another room, another table, books — more of them — and recorders' rolls.
When the boy had eaten all he could find — to the last crumb of bread, glob of 
turgid gravy, and sip of watery juice — his curiosity was awakened, and his eyes 
kept returning to the book. It must have been left for him, but to what end? 
True, he could read the Valley script although slowly and with effort. Once 
again his forehead creased, and he caught at a fragment of praise that floated 
in his seeking thoughts — he had been skilled at his studies.
Yurgy flinched. Master of such learning as Irasmus kept on his shelves? No! No 
clean-souled human would take pride in such vile achievement.
Nevertheless, he knew that, sooner or later, he must reach for the book, must 
open it, must discover what lay between its covers. It had been placed there for 
that purpose, and a compulsion not to be denied or defied urged him to action, 
even as tall grass bent before the flow of the Wind.
In appearance, it was not like the books he had seen in the mage's chamber. 
Those had been dull and dark, many of them covered by heavy slabs of wood 
possessing metal locks; there had also been one with the noxious-looking hide 
cover, as well as some with lighter backs and lines of lettering to identify 
them. This volume was larger than any of those. Plainly, it was a book that 
could not be comfortably held in the hand for reading but must rather be laid on 
a flat surface. Moreover, the cover was of brocaded stuff, dark red in color but 
fully as luxurious looking as the scarves the traders sometimes brought. Haraska 
had one such, of dawn rose with flowers picked out in silver thread, which she 
loaned to dunmaidens who asked to wear it at their weddings.
Haraska! The hand Yurgy had reached out to pull the book closer to him slapped 
the tabletop instead. To think here of the Oldmother was like spitting on the 
floor!
Still, the rich crimson of the volume's cover drew his attention more strongly 
with every passing moment. Its color was not the maidenly blush of the early 
morning sky, matching Haraska's scarf — it was brighter; even to stare down at 
it began to excite him in a way he had never experienced before.
At length, curiosity won over wariness. Brushing the table-top carefully, lest 
an overlooked crumb of bread or dollop of gravy spot that deep-red fineness, 
Yurgy reached forth both hands and drew the volume directly before him.
The lamp must have flared up a fraction, for the boy had a feeling that, at his 
movement, the light in the room had increased. Slowly he lifted the cover, to 
display a page that felt, to his rough fingers, most like stiffened linen of the 
finest weaving. There was writing there, surely enough, but using no symbols 
that had any meaning for him. And so it continued as four pages were turned to 
join the first. Now his interest was made more intense by frustration. He had 
been meant to find — and read — this book; therefore, he must puzzle out its 
secrets.
As the fourth page turned, Yurgy simply stared. Each of the sheets now was half 
occupied by a picture, depicted clearly and with a lecherous skill. The youth's 
face flushed, and his hands quivered as if to clap shut the cover, sealing each 
clever and vicious painting away. Only he could not. Nor would whomever had 
drawn him into this action in the first place allow him to raise his eyes until 
every detail seemed to have entered his head like a nail pounded in.
Nor was that the only picture; there were more. With the revealing of each, the 
lamps flared higher and the details demanded to be studied with ever greater 
care. Never had he seen nakedness so vilely aggressive. And, what was worse, a 
part of him was beginning to answer — to — to relish what he looked upon! His 
body felt as hot as if he worked, sans smock, under the heaviest smite of the 
summer sun.
No! one part of him continued to protest, but that was being overborne by this 
new and shameless eagerness to see what more could be disclosed when the next 
page was turned.
Yurgy had no memories of his life before he had been taken into fosterage, and 
any boy working on a farm comes early to certain knowledge. Only, that awareness 
was a knowing of life as it was — while this was the normal order of things 
twisted by evil into a hideous mockery to be rightly rejected.
The youth did not know when he began to notice the one girl who, by the artist's 
skill, was shown surrendering to the lusts of a creature he knew to be of an 
even more hellish nature than the gobbes. He found himself looking for her now 
in every illustration he uncovered. Then — and, with the one part of his mind 
that yet seemed his, he knew he had not willed it — his fingertip touched the 
small, childish breast so blatantly displayed…
And felt warm, living flesh beneath his own.
"Yaggha!" The sound came from the wrong side of him, but it signified his 
disgust. He caught the guilty hand with his other and held it in a tight grip, 
lest it master him again and — do what? This was only a picture in a book, and a 
book can be closed.
Using both hands, Yurgy slammed the cover and sank back into the chair. Sweat 
stood in beads on his forehead; his whole body seemed afire in a way he could 
not understand. And there was no Wind to calm and cool. Bits of those paintings 
danced alluringly even yet through his mind, in spite of all he could do.

* * *

Mage Gifford sat in his desk chair, also with a book on his knees; however, he 
was staring down as if the page lay by the toes of his boots. His round face 
seemed to have lost flesh in the past few days; new lines were etched there, and 
his lips had a downward droop.
"Do we then have to make this innocent pay for the ills we ourselves fostered by 
neglect?" That question was fired with a sharper crack than anyone in the Place 
of Learning had heard from the archivist in years.
Harwice, on his left, uttered a small sound that was only the ghost of a sigh. A 
sketch block on his knee, he set crayon to paper with a hand that appeared to 
move of its own accord, limning in swift, clear lines an object or scene; he 
immediately crumpled the page, and uttered an oath.
No change was evident in Archmage Yost's expression or bearing; yet it might 
well have been that the fires in his eyes were near to being quenched.
"The valley folk are — were — kin of ours once, not subjects of the Forest, 
though the Wind they could truly hear." Harwice hurled another ball of paper 
from him. "Thus it is one of our own whom we leave in the grasp of evil — an 
evil bred within our walls."
"Yes." A single word of agreement from Yost, spoken flatly, and with no emotion. 
"It is the price to be paid for freedom, for, as is known, a people are only 
free who fight for themselves and a just cause.
"You have read the runes as well as I. This monstrous act will, in time, bring 
forth that to which Irasmus shall cling and which will, at last, deliver him 
into the embrace of the shadow lord for whom he longs. Not that that will bring 
him any of the power he seeks! We have nigh spent ourselves this night to catch 
a dreamer who is not trained to the talent. The wise one who might have stood 
guard with him is dumb and as a child who must be cared for. Also — "
Gifford nodded, his distress even more visible. "She also — "
"The Caller?" Harwice's crayon was suddenly still, and his hands rose, molding 
the air as the stuff of his art. This time he outlined a woman, about whose 
slender body flowed nearly invisible drapery — the evidence of those powers She 
could command.
"No!" Yost was as emphatic with his denial as he had been earlier with his 
assent. "We but prepare now for what She has already urged upon us. Although" — 
he paused for a long moment — "She heeds, and I do not think that, in the end, 
She will refrain from taking a hand — a year or so from now."
"When it is too late!" Harwice snarled. "She was never one to partner another."
The loremaster placed the book on the carpet by his feet. "So be it. But what we 
have taken upon ourselves must be paid for, and it would be wise to look forward 
to that day and be prepared."

* * *

Yurgy stood up and backed away from the table and book. He had a feeling that he 
must not take his eyes from it, lest it open again and spill out the foulness it 
held.
The boy bumped against the trundle bed from which he had arisen such a short 
time before and fell back upon it. His hands rubbed back and forth across his 
eyes, though what he saw now was not through them; just as the jingle, clamor, 
and seductive crooning which circled him struck deeper than by the ears clean 
nature had given him.
Sulerna… The youth hunched his shoulders as if he took a storm of blows he could 
not escape. She — she had been foster sister… as much his kin, in his belief, as 
a womb sister could be! He wanted to tear from his mind the thought he was 
fighting now.
"Wind?" In the heart of Irasmus's own domain, Yurgy dared to try and reach for 
that which was gone forever. But there could be no aid from that source — not 
here!
In spite of the boy's great turmoil of spirit, his eyes, his hands still pressed 
tightly over them, closed, and out of nowhere there came at last blessed peace.

* * *

"Think you this act well done?" Yost asked. He did not turn his head toward 
Gifford, and there was a chill in his question.
"Brother, though we cannot break his chains, we can give him at least some 
relief from the pinch of them. And we know that Irasmus will not guess what we 
do."
"Not yet!" The crayon Harwice held snapped. "This I say: let the full strength 
come soon, brothers. These torments are of the Dark, and no true one among us 
wants such trials of the spirit to last."

* * *

The moon was full tonight. The sparks on the Stone shone with a silver fire as 
their interweaving grew faster and more agitated. About those swirls of colored 
motes was something that hinted for the first time of menace. Above them was the 
hole, tight-curtained by darkness; while down from the sky whistled the Wind, to 
search out that entrance, twist through it, and be swallowed up by the unlight 
as if it so attacked a bitter enemy.
Hansa emerged from among the trees, her large feet moving with a grace unusual 
for one so large and bulky. Her furred shoulders were wreathed in heavy circlets 
of flowers, whose scent filled the air as she moved. She was smiling dreamily, 
as her kind knew smiles, and she hummed; so it seemed as if even the fury of the 
Wind about the Stone was stilled a little.
Straight up to the Stone she came; and her hum of contented joy grew louder. The 
mad dash of the light specks slowed, changing pace; and they began to cluster 
into thicker lines and bands and rose to frame the dark hole.
So tall was the Sasqua female that she had to stoop a fraction until her thick 
lips could come into line with that shadow-centered disc.
"Awee, awee-ee." Hansa's hum had become a song. Her arms lifted as if she now 
held a precious bundle against her breast. "Awee-ee, awee." It was a lullaby she 
voiced, the oldest song known to her species; and it held more than a little of 
the talent that was theirs alone.
The hole changed. Its dark veil disappeared, and the Forest's daughter was 
looking at the face of a human woman whose countenance was twisted with fear and 
stained with blood, yet whose eyes held a determination that held off even 
death.
The Sasqua showed no surprise. Instead she sang again, "Awee-ee!" in triumph and 
joy. The woman's bruised and swollen lips moved, but no sound issued from them. 
Only her eyes met Hansa's; and present and future touched for a breath's space 
out of real time. Then the curtain fell once more.
But Hansa still stood before the Stone, drawing her fingertips lovingly down its 
surface and singing, softly now "Awee — " for a cubling not yet born.
 
10
YURGY CROUCHED IN THE CHAIR BY THE SMALL TABLE, EVEN AS AN
animal might strive to squeeze its bulk into a hole too narrow to hold it. His 
hands still blindfolded his eyes, until the pressure against his closed lids was 
enough to cause real pain. But the book remained closed — truly closed. If only 
what lay within it did not continue to leak into his thoughts, spreading a 
poison he could not escape!
There was no night or day in this windowless tower chamber for, by some use of 
power he did not understand, the lamps flamed always, seeming never to exhaust 
their oil. He could but stumble across to his bed and throw himself down with 
eyes sealed tight, sometimes biting at the fingers that wished to busy 
themselves turning those foully ornamented pages. Lately — he could no longer 
keep any tale of time — he found that the scrambled script at the fore of the 
volume made sense in places. Nor could he banish from his mind the vile 
suggestions made by the pictures.
He tried — oh, Wind, how he tried! Yet never but once had he tried the way 
which, he inwardly believed, might help him the most: to picture the kitchen at 
Firthdun, Haraska at her baking, others of the kin busy here and there. That 
longed for safety had been so divided from him now that it had nearly become a 
fragment of a dream.
After only a moment of his continued struggle, the boy had become aware he was 
not alone. Someone had been waiting for just such a chance to read his home 
memories — and for a purpose wholly evil. He fought fiercely to forget what he 
had once been and how he had so peacefully lived amid kin goodwill. Sometimes, 
instead, he tried to recall the fields in which he had helped with both sowing 
and reaping, to catch and hold with all his mind strength the brilliant passage 
of bird or butterfly, avowing aloud as he did so, "This is real!"
However, even if they were real, such memories brought him no strength. He 
returned to the Styrmir that had been, only to have it almost immediately 
vanish. In place of the heart-lifting vision of home, he beheld forms and 
witnessed actions that made his body heat, twist, and turn on his bed until he 
had to stuff a thick corner of the coverlet into his mouth to keep from crying 
out.
Yurgy might well have lost all control over both mind and body, except that 
surcease did come at intervals, in a sleep born of the drain of all energy.

* * *

Sulerna sat beside Haraska, tenderly wiping, from time to time, the drool that 
threaded from the crooked corner of the old woman's mouth. Always the young 
woman was aware that, if her grandmother's eyes were open at all, they fastened 
only on her. Sometimes her jaw worked, splutters of saliva flying, and it was 
plain that Grandmam would speak but that some barrier kept her dumb.
More and more, Sulerna came to believe that Haraska was trying to deliver some 
sort of warning. She said as much to Mistress Larlarn, only to be secretly 
daunted when the healer agreed with her.
"Yes, that could well be it. If she is permitted to do so by the Great Power, 
she may yet be enabled to give you her message." Thus the girl became as careful 
a nurse as possible and seldom left her patient's side.
Though the kitchen was now part sickroom, the dun kin still gathered there of an 
evening to share the small scraps of rumor or knowledge they had managed to 
gather. They were careful not to openly stray beyond the boundary marks of 
Firthdun or try to contact such pitiful near ghosts of those they had known as 
might plod along the roads, hauling a wobble-wheeled wagon that held all that 
was left of lost prosperity. Still, no matter how dull brained and listless 
those of Styrmir had become, it did seem that, when not being herded by gobbes, 
they sometimes commented on events concerning the master and his tower. Not that 
any obviously believed matters as they now stood would ever change again; yet at 
whiles they would pass on cautions as to this or that action or attitude which 
was better avoided.
It was young Jacklyn who, having kept hidden from sight in one of the berry 
bushes which hedged the lane, brought home a piece of news that did have meaning 
for those of Firthdun.
" 'Twas Oblee as said it," the boy announced with importance. "He and Jannot was 
told to bring in the fowl from far side, nigh the forest edge. The dark lord did 
send one o' the demon faces with 'em, but them gobbes — it seems they be a right 
lazy lot and, when the master's eyes be not upon 'em, they takes it as easy as 
pleases 'em. Well, this day there were another party of gobbes — hunters. And 
they was carryin' somethin' —
"Grandsire" — he turned to the man who now stood for the dun in assembly, even 
if none such still existed — "two o' them demonish things had 'em a head, 
swingin' from a pole they carried between 'em! 'Twarn't any head of folk like 
us, neither. 'Twas big and hairy all over, with teeth as long as a double barn 
nail — leastways, that's what Oblee said. The gobbes was a-laughin' in their 
nasty way — even jumpin' like they was tryin' to dance. When they seen the other 
gobbes with Oblee and Jannot, they yelled somethin' in that snarled-up talk o' 
theirs — they never talk straight — and they all started for the tower.
"Somehow, He knew they was a-comin' — like he always seems to. They puts the 
head down before him and waits, teeth a-grinnin' like they thought he'd be 
a-passin' out sweeties. But he didn't be takin' their gift kindly at all — He 
points that there wand at 'em, and they scream and twist and roll on the ground 
yammerin'. All the rest of their kind backs off, lookin' like they expects to 
get some o' the same.
"Then" — Jacklyn reached what seemed to him to be the main point of his report — 
"that One, he twirls his wand, and out of the tower comes — Yurgy!" The boy 
paused for effect, enjoying the complete attention he was receiving.
"Yurgy!" echoed several voices.
"Aye!" Jacklyn confirmed with relish. "And he weren't dressed in no rags, 
neither. He had on good cloth breeches and a jerkin.
"Not a look he spares Oblee or Jannot or the wizard's pets, mind you. He just 
stoops and picks up that head by its hair — has to use both hands, he does, like 
it be main heavy. Then he just turns 'round and goes back into the tower. The 
master follows — and now he does be lookin' pleased."
"Yurgy serves — him!" Sulerna could not suppress her doubt of that portion of 
the boy's tale. Haraska's good hand suddenly caught at the girl's apron, keeping 
her from getting to her feet. The Oldmother's watching eyes seemed to have a 
leap of life flame in them.
" 'Twas him as brought that black one down on the valley," commented Elias, the 
brother closest to Sulerna in age. His body might be almost whip slender, but it 
was well known to all that he possessed not only a quick and easily roused 
temper but was a master of wrestling tricks and one not to be rashly challenged 
except by the ignorant. Elias himself had never favored Yurgy; the foster 
brothers were close together in age but in all else as separate as day from 
night.
His sister turned on him quickly. "Yurgy is no gobbe!"
"It may be" — Elias watched her with a slightly malicious expression — "that the 
master likes someone bowing and scraping around him as is not a twisted monster 
— "
"Say penance for your words, youngling!" Grandsire seldom raised his voice; 
however, when he did, all within hearing listened. "Has there been any hint that 
anyone of the valley serves this raiser of demons willingly? Belike Yurgy met 
him first and was seized upon because the dark lord could wring out of him what 
he would know."
"He should long ago be questioned out by now," muttered Sulerna's brother, not 
to be silenced till he had spoken his mind. "They said he came from the tower 
and took the head within, nor did he look on any others there — they might have 
been naught. Is that not as you told it, Jacklyn?"
The younger boy nodded vigorously. "Oblee, he said as how it was told that Yurgy 
be never seen save together with the master, and for days he be not seen at all. 
Always, when he comes among others, he stares ahead as if he sees what other men 
do not. Dorata had it from her sister that he has a room of his own within the 
tower and is served with decent food, such as be set before the lord himself. 
She had so much to say about it all, when she got started, her man had to give 
her a swat to shut her up when a gobbe came near."
Mistress Larlarn pulled her shawl tightly about her shoulders, as if she had 
been touched by a chill. "This night, dun kin, do we speak power words for 
Yurgy. Do not think he is gone from us by his own will, for he is Light born, 
and thus perhaps his fate is far worse than that of the ones who have been set 
to building or field grubbing. He comes of the true Old Blood and, in his 
childhood, the Wind once touched him fully; though none knew it then, not even 
himself, save — "
She paused, and Grandsire nodded gravely. "We stand as strong as we can for the 
Wind, Mistress. Always have we had truedreamers in each line of birthing; but, 
at one time, your kin were greater still — Forest born!" He saluted her 
reverently, and she acknowledged his gesture with one of her own.
"The head — " The healer who now changed the subject. "It would seem that the 
gobbes may have broken the Forest barriers." She smiled a little; then her face 
assumed an almost sly look, as if she were about to enjoy some action those 
about her could not guess.
At that moment, an incoherent cry drew their attention elsewhere. Haraska, free 
of close watch, had sought to sit up and had nearly fallen to the floor. 
Mistress Larlarn and Sulerna waved the others back and, together, they once more 
settled their charge in as much comfort as possible. The kin drew away toward 
the fire, but not until Sulerna caught the name "Sasqua." She then remembered 
Haraska's tales of the older days when men and women, and children as well, 
sometimes ventured safely within the Forest and there met the Wind in all its 
splendor with nothing to fear from its strange servitors.

* * *

Meanwhile, a good distance from the threatened dun the Wind lifted years-laid 
leaf carpets, ripping roughly through the branches of great trees and nearly 
snapping tender saplings. It sang no longer of content and well-being; instead, 
its voice resembled a beast's snarl of ever-growing fury. Still, there was that 
which kept the mighty power from its desire — old bonds, wards centered in the 
Stone of the glade. In that place, the sparks of light would this night remind 
none of the moon's touch. Rather, they darkened and, if they did not truly drip, 
they yet showed the glisten of splotches of newly shed blood.
The Stone remained the anchor, and the bonds held. Even in anger, its full force 
could not turn against its own kind — that side of life of which it was keeper, 
not killer. Thus, its first burst of rage quieted, and all aspects of the land 
that had felt it knew relief — for now.
Yet blood called payment for blood. Threading through the lessened voice of the 
Wind came the heavy beat of clubs drumming against earth, rock, or any surface 
near those who held the weapons. The drummers, also, the Stone held — but not 
the being who came in a kind of dancelike motion over the uneven Forest floor.
If a living leaf, or even a tree-high pile of such fall castings, could produce 
the faintest of greenish ghosts, so might this night walker be described. It had 
no true form, unless one could picture a well-leaved branch that could bend 
hither and thither. All growths rooted in reality appeared to draw back and away 
from the entity, much as they might seek distance from a flame that threatened 
them.
Once in the glade, the ghost fire did not approach the Stone straightaway; 
rather, its swinging dance led it in an ever-narrowing spiral toward the gray 
pillar, on whose surface the sparks now glowed fiercely bright. Three times the 
wood-bred creature circled that which it did not try to touch. In the hole, 
there was a riffling of the sight-barring stuff that kept out the world beyond. 
Shadows touched shadows, and nothing would have been clear to a watching eye, 
had there been any to witness that ritual. As the ghost whirled, another sound 
arose in the Wind, seemingly born of the dancer's erratic movements and matching 
its actions.
Often the Wind carried tatters of voices. Sometimes, such were messages meant 
only for certain ears; others were either spoken out of memory or had not yet 
been uttered anywhere, save in the future the Life Breath foresaw.
"Blood will be paid — " The glistening droplets on the Stone's side spattered, 
and their angry hue began to fade. But the fire dancer became taller and taller, 
thinner, until it was the girth of a war-spear's shaft. The lower end snapped 
off the ground, moving upward until it formed a horizontal bar; still its 
substance grew no thicker than the mist of its first forming.
The shaft appeared to balance, as if it were now indeed gripped in the hold of a 
battle-seasoned warrior, a weapon that he knew well would not fail him. Then it 
hurtled through the air, and one point of it pierced the hole. The rest of the 
shaft followed; and the Wind gave a single great howl, such as might have been a 
screamed demand. If demand it was, however, no answer came.

* * *

"What does this fool? Evil I will grant him, and perhaps more of the Dark 
Knowledge than any of our caste, even back in the old days before the Covenant, 
ever drew upon. But — now he rouses the Wind, and blood has been shed within its 
own sacred place!" Gifford's troubled face was that of a man who had lost all 
the good cheer meant to be his birthright.
"Foolish or evil ruled, he follows a plan." Yost did not turn from the window 
panel of the hall to face his companion. "You saw how deep is his entanglement 
in that. Yet one can become so set in a single chosen path as to be unaware of 
any others. This act was not of his ordering, nor" — the archmage hesitated — 
"would it be the command of any in the dimensions of this world. But Irasmus 
seeks to open other doors. Has he not already drawn upon another level in 
bringing the gobbes to his service?"
"That hell crew!" Gifford sat straighter in his chair. "Brother, we have thought 
much upon what we may or may not do in this; but have we forgotten that the Dark 
also schemes and plans in its shadowy halls? The gobbes were raised by demonic 
ritual of Irasmus's performing, true; yet one was dead when they entered our 
sphere. Can it be hoped that, in drawing them hither, our would-be dark lord 
greatly overestimated his powers? Or has he brought in other players about whom 
we know nothing… and he less than he believes?
"Those ghoul's get were able to enter the Forest past its wards — at least to 
the outer fringes of it — deeply enough to strike a grievous blow there. Did we 
not believe that those guard spells were beyond any breakage?"
"We assumed that would be so — given her temper," Yost answered dryly. "Still, 
those creatures of the utter foulness did enter there, and killed — and 
certainly not by the command of their present lord." Now the archmage did swing 
away from the window. "Brother, all things age and lessen with time. Could it 
not be that, even though Irasmus might become what he has long desired — a mage 
of mages — there are forces, whereof we may know nothing at all, that are using 
him to further their own plans?"
Yost grasped the back of the chair that faced the archivist's, his knuckles 
standing out like hard knobs of skinless bone with the force of his grip.
"We deal with vicious phantoms now, Gifford, and hope alone can help us. Already 
lives are being interwoven that will bring changes past reckoning — my own, at 
least."
Gifford's face displayed his inner misery: that which had been eating at him 
since the first of their discoveries.
"Why have we kept aloof here, and what have we allowed to be planned?"
"What fate has forced upon us," Yost returned. "Thus, when payment is demanded 
of our brotherhood, none can deny the justice."

* * *

"Grandmam — " The old woman's hold on Sulerna with her good hand was painful, 
more so than any the girl had known before. Sulerna tried to catch and hold 
those staring eyes. More and more, she had a feeling that Haraska was indeed a 
prisoner in her wrecked body — though one aware of her plight — and that, 
through her ever-pleading gazes, she fought valiantly to give some vital 
message. For that her grandmother had a message — a warning — Sulerna was 
convinced; however, apart from her private speech with Mistress Larlarn, she had 
not mentioned what she believed to the others. What was more, her remnants of 
talent assured her that the message was meant for her.
Haraska's struggles were dying away; and she was relaxing, despite the torment 
the girl could read in that fixed gaze. Once — once a touch of Wind breath might 
have made all clear; but now the Wind was gone from Styrmir forever.
Her eyes closed at last, and the old woman's breathing became more even. She had 
worn herself out by that last effort and was no longer conscious now. Sulerna 
dared to loosen the hand which had so branded her upper arm, freeing herself 
from its fingers, one by one, as gently as she could.
Someone came up behind her; and she felt the pressure of another grip, this one 
laid insistently on her shoulder. When she looked around, it was to see her 
older brother Elias, his expression troubled.
"We must be doubly careful now," he stated. "If it is true that Yurgy is bound 
closer to that one than the rest of his slaves — well, this dun is his home, and 
he knows every possible door, so there are no secrets left to aid us."
Sulerna shook her head firmly. "Yurgy will never turn on us," she declared. 
"Never he! Think of how the story was told — that he moved all but witlessly at 
the master's command, looking neither right nor left. The dark lord has slaves 
aplenty; perhaps now he needs such who are more than the dull-minded things our 
people have become. Do you not wonder if, mayhap, there is some reason why we 
yet remain free — "
"Yurgy?" Her brother's laugh was ugly. "He has not even a breath of the talent, 
nor ever did! Listen to me, Sulerna: keep close to the dun; be ever near one of 
the elders. I am not one to welcome a sending, but this lies heavy in my mind."
"I shall do so, of course," the girl replied, somewhat coldly, "but, as you 
know, as I seldom leave the side of our grandmam, there is little need for me 
ever to go outdoors."
 
11
YURGY LAY SPRAWLED ACROSS HIS PALLET, STARING WITHOUT purpose into the 
nothingness that appeared ever, these days, to roof his chamber. He could hear 
no movement from above or without, and he might almost believe that the tower, 
holding himself alone within, was otherwise deserted once more and left to the 
ravages of time and weather. He never saw who — or what — delivered his food; 
however, when he would rouse at intervals and look at the table (in spite of all 
his efforts not to do so), he would see a filled bowl and cup, with perhaps a 
half-loaf twist of bread. And hunger would not allow him the strength or courage 
to refuse what was meant to keep him alive.
Nonetheless, he did shrink from laying hand to that food, for eating seemed to 
lead always to his taking up the book once again and leafing slowly through it. 
What was worse, he could now, by some chance or design, read all of what was 
written in those outer pages.
Only once had the boy been freed from this prison that gnawed away at his 
spirit. That was when — he only dimly remembered now — he had gone down the 
tower stairs, to become aware of a mass of people, of screeching gobbes, but, 
most strongly, of the master.
There had been a thing, not unlike a great ball dribbling blood, that had lain 
nearly at the dark one's feet. Without an order being spoken, Yurgy knew what 
was to be done. He picked up that gory trophy and found he was holding a head — 
not of either man or gobbe, but still a head, hacked off at the neck and freshly 
killed.
Later, the youth came to believe his wits had been overlaid with some illusion, 
for he had not been at all curious as to what he carried back into the tower and 
up to Irasmus's chamber. The master had followed closely and pointed with his 
wand at the table, which then was clear of all the tools of his unnatural work 
except candles.
By that light, his mind having cleared to some extent, Yurgy might at first have 
thought he had brought in the head of an animal. But he could see now that, in 
spite of furred skin, its countenance was more akin to that of humankind's than 
to that of the gobbes or any beast.
The sorcerer's eyes were alight with interest. Out of a small chest, he brought 
the globe he so cherished and set it to face the slack features of the dead.
The valley youth was loosed into further freedom from the daze that had held him 
as solemn words rang through the room. As Irasmus spoke, he emphasized each word 
with a tap of his wand's tip on the table.
"Sasqua!" There was a note of contempt in that address. "Woods animal! What were 
you called?"
Faintly and from far away came a whisper of a name.
"Lacar."
"There is no Wind here to whirl you away, Lacar. Where is She who is supposed to 
call you Her child in your time of need?" He laughed. "Well, you will serve 
someone's purpose this day — mine."
The mage did not even turn to look in Yurgy's direction, but the boy moved under 
a control he could not break. From one of the shelves on the nearest wall, he 
selected a plate as large as a platter. Having set this on the table, he grasped 
the clotted hair of the head and placed the grisly object upon it. Its eyes were 
wide open, and Yurgy could believe that death had not fully claimed this 
creature — that it still possessed a fraction of both sight and mind.
Irasmus drew both candelabra closer to the plate. Once more, Yurgy obeyed 
unspoken orders and fetched a number of small boxes he had difficulty in 
carrying all at once, though that seemed to be the master's need.
Carefully, the youth set these containers in a row, while Irasmus, keeping his 
hands well away from the table and what it bore, pointed with his wand to the 
first, then to its neighbor, and so on down the line. The lid of each box 
snapped up in turn. A fine dustlike film rose in the air, though there was a 
difference in the shading of colors as the motes gathered into a multicolored 
cloud that formed above the severed head and began to spin.
Whatever the Dark Lord had thought to achieve, however, he was not to finish it. 
Though the candle flames had brightened when he had begun to chant, there now 
came from nowhere, to strike through that glow and dim it again to near 
nothingness, a thrust of raw radiance so terrible that Yurgy cried out, his 
hands going up to shield his eyes. He heard another scream, perhaps uttered by 
Irasmus.
Then around the boy roared an arm of Wind, to strike at him, almost bearing him 
from his feet. With it came a piercing howl that filled his head with a pain he 
thought would burst his skull.
Mercifully, that assault on the ears ceased nearly as quickly as it had struck. 
The brilliance that had heralded that sound also subsided; and only the subdued 
glow of the candles remained.
Yurgy found himself lying on the floor. Irasmus still stood by the table, and 
his malignant smile widened even as the boy caught sight of him.
On the table, there was nothing left. Not only had the head vanished, but the 
row of boxes had disappeared as well, leaving behind only blackened smears. And 
the wand the dark lord so cherished that it was never far from his reach had 
diminished by half its length.
At that point, the sorcerer did something odd: he turned away a little from the 
table and bowed — some person of note might have been standing there against the 
far wall.
"Most impressive!" The mage used the silky voice Yurgy had long ago come to 
fear. "That which is Yours lies once more in Your hold; but I do not think such 
would have had much worth my hearing. The Sasqua are Your faithful beasts, Lady, 
and they serve in death as well as life. Accept my apologies for requiring 
action that must have sore taxed Your strength." Irasmus inhaled deeply. "Ah, 
one can smell such power — "
Yurgy could scent it also — a metallic odor in the air.
"To waste force," the Dark Lord continued in a conversational tone, "is it ever 
wise? However, be assured Your fosterling did not die by any order of mine. I 
merely thought that even the smallest scrap of knowledge can often be garnered 
to future profit. You have bound the Forest against us, Lady — which suggests 
another problem. Had You a wish for gobbes so that, this day, there was no 
barrier against them?"
Much of the mage's malicious humor vanished. His lifted lip might still have 
been meant to suggest a smile, but now the sharp-pointed teeth of a predator 
showed.
"If You did not summon my servants, then I suggest, Lady, that You study well 
what has happened. I do not believe that Yost plays tricks with You or those You 
claim as Your children; therefore — who does?"
Yurgy had learned that anger from Irasmus could produce an almost-palpable 
feeling in the air. What he caught a suggestion of now, however, came from a 
vastly different source and one even farther removed from his kind. Then it was 
gone, and he realized that they two mortals were now alone.
The sorcerer reached out as if to take up his wand, but he did not quite touch 
flesh to the wood. He crooked a finger at the boy.
"Take that to the fire; it is worth nothing now." Irasmus watched carefully as 
Yurgy did as he was told; then he centered his attention fully on his captive.
"Time, perhaps, will no longer serve us. So be it! You shall do what you shall 
do."

* * *

There was still a Wind of rage — albeit rage kept in tight bonds — alive in the 
Forest. The drumming of clubs continued as if to feed that ire, and the Sasqua 
gathered.
The Forest's children were no longer the amiable creatures they had been for the 
numberless generations their kind had walked the woods. For the first time, they 
felt a new emotion: an anger as deep and devouring as that which the Wind itself 
could summon from its inmost being.
Through its fosterlings, the Forest listened, seeking as one with the Wind. 
Almost nothing remained, save a body just within the tree wall and the stench of 
evil from the Valley. Ill will was a feeling unfamiliar to the gentle giants 
and, after it had come to nest with them, it brought them disturbing dreams at 
night and made them restless and aggressive by day. Often, some would seek out 
the Stone in the glade and sit before it, watching; yet they knew no way of 
calling or asking — they could only wait.

* * *

Once more dismissed from the Dark Lord's chamber, Yurgy rested on his pallet 
that night, fighting sleep as if to yield to it meant death itself. He sensed 
that the master was alert and that perhaps the fate of the head had caused him 
to speed up some plan.
The boy at last closed his eyes, though he struggled against it, sure now that 
some talent not unlike dreaming pulled him deeper under Irasmus's control when 
he dared even to drowse.
It was always then that he saw the faces.
The horror of those was the worst, for they were connected with the bodies in 
the book's vile pictures. By an obscene coupling, the countenances of those he 
loved with all his heart were paired with the forms of the humans shown 
surrendering themselves joyfully to utter depravity.
But sleep could not be forever denied, any more than the boy could refuse the 
food that appeared out of nowhere. At first, he would sit apart and gaze at that 
unwonted bounty, and the emptiness in him was a pain. But what if it were by the 
means of those meals that Irasmus controlled him? He could not be sure.
At last, the youth was driven to take a drink. And once the watered juice was in 
his mouth, easing his thirst, he could not hold back his hand from the bowl, 
then from the bread… So he cleared away all to the last crumb, cramming the food 
into his mouth and swallowing it as speedily as he could, ashamed of his lack of 
self-control.
However, he would not open the book — he would not! Perhaps, at that moment, 
Irasmus's will was busy in another direction, for Yurgy was able to rise, 
stumble across the small room once again to the pallet, and throw himself onto 
it, breathing as heavily as if he had run the length of Long Field. Still, he 
had not touched the lust-inflaming volume. Nor did he dream again.
The boy could not be aware that, far from putting him out of mind, Irasmus was 
now concentrating on him. Preparations had to be made in the room above, and the 
faint uneasiness the master had known since his experiment with the Sasqua head 
had failed so dramatically kept him busy throughout that afternoon, night, and 
the following day. Now the second dawn was drawing near.
The mage had checked everything twice over. This was his own private matter, 
having nothing to do with the Forest or what might have been awakened there. He 
uttered a last incantation, caressing the ball with both hands as he did so. His 
will might have been feeding what lay within, and that power, in turn, 
strengthening him. Now he spoke with the authority of one who could not be 
disobeyed.
"Journey forth, youngling. You are not altogether what I would have to serve me 
in this, but you have been tutored, and you are now geas bound to what must be 
done. Go!"
The pallet in the room below held a mass of twisted covers, but nobody rested 
there any longer.

* * *

For a wonder, during these past ten days and more, Haraska had not roused during 
the night. Yet Sulerna's sleep had hardly been deeper than a doze — she might 
have been waiting for a call from the old woman.
Yawning, the girl slipped away to the far side of the room where she could wash 
face and hands in the waiting basin, then unbraided her hair that she might 
brush those wavy lengths. No real light burned here to show the glints of russet 
shot through the darker-brown locks; and the girl did not look into the square 
of mirror fastened to the wall above the washstand — she knew well the face that 
would look back at her.
Sulerna was also aware that her skin had lost its tan because she had been kept 
so strictly indoors. In her now, there burst a longing for the dawn, for the 
right to run barefooted through dew-pearled grass and drink in the fresh air 
outside. Even if the Wind were gone and the land dead or dying beyond the 
boundaries of the dun, the girl felt drugged by the many potions that shared 
cooking-space on the hearth and by the herb-scented wood smoke of Mistress 
Larlarn's twig fire. This chamber served as both kitchen and sickroom these 
days, and all its odors were strong.
The girl did not reach for the hairbrush; instead, feeling with a new intensity 
the unfreshness of one who has slept too long in shift and petticoat, she 
bypassed the heavy clogs set by the door. But — her hand had risen to the door 
bar, which was not in its proper place. Startled, she eased the door open, and 
it yielded to her without a creak. No one roused to challenge her going. Before 
her lay a patch of mud where the water bucket had slopped over. Impressed there 
was a single footprint with one toe enlarged. She recognized the shape of a 
bandage — one she had fastened herself to ease a bruise for Jacklyn. Why had he 
ventured so? Unease gripped her now.
The household had carefully set out the protection patterns they knew, so she 
need have no fear of anything crouched in wait nearby. All such wards were 
attuned to the kin of the dun, and no alarm would be raised by her passing 
unless early warnings had already sounded an alert.
The gravel of the path was sharp to the girl's bare feet; still, the feeling of 
freedom though now touched with rising concern, which had enveloped her since 
she had slipped through the half-open door kept her moving, until she chose to 
tread instead on the plants framing the way. Their mingled fragrances, and the 
sharper scents of their crushed leaves, banished for her the last of the close 
house smells.
Sulerna reached the end of the garden and turned there quickly to avoid the gate 
that led to the now-blighted outer world, for to pass that boundary would 
trigger the wards.
The men of Firthdun had been plowing yesterday, for every palm-sized piece of 
land must be used to raise food — as long as their enemy did not stamp them out 
of life itself. Ground doves, already awake nearly an hour before sunrise, had 
found a hole in the hedge large enough to let them in and were fluttering fast 
over the freshly turned earth. It was Jacklyn's duty — his and Marita's — to 
keep the birds from pecking up the precious seed.
Sulerna grinned and flapped her skirt, whose edge was already damp with dew. 
Knowing Jacklyn well, she could guess that perhaps he had been out on some 
business of his own the night before. From his birthing, her older sister's 
first son had had something in him which the night called. It might be the 
shadow of a talent, Mistress Larlarn had suggested at last, although not even 
the healer could guess the reason for the boy's need to ever be seeking 
moonlight. The kin had never been able to teach him to control his strange urge, 
but they had made him aware — when the Wind still came — that he must keep 
within the boundaries they set.
Until now — Sulerna looked out over the recently plowed field. For the present, 
the thieving fowl had not worked their way far from the hole they had found. 
However, leading away beyond them, pressed clearly into the newly broken soil, 
were footprints. The girl was startled. Her nephew well knew the ways of the 
dun, and to cut across a just-sown acre was the mischief of a much younger and 
less-well-taught child.
Frowning, she scrambled over the gate, climbing its bars instead of trying to 
open it. The cloud that hung ever over Firthdun darkened in her mind, if not 
before her eyes. She hurried to follow the boldly marked trail. Uneasiness 
stirred again in her and fed the beginning of fear.
Jacklyn had crossed only a corner of the field, and his tracks vanished into a 
barrier of thornbushes through whose forbidding tangle she knew better than to 
try and push herself.
"Jackie," Sulerna called. "Jackie, where are you?"
Seeing that bramble barrier, the girl felt increasing fear. Soon the gangs of 
slaves would come, herded to the nearly sterile fields that had been the pride 
of once-prosperous neighbors. She remembered the child's tale of hiding in just 
this hedge to listen to any who passed. Having obtained one exciting piece of 
news to offer his elders, and make himself the center of attention thereby, 
Jacklyn, his aunt could well believe, was trying the same trick again.
Sulerna stood very still, listening with all her might. There were always sounds 
aplenty when the gobbes drove their captives to some nearly always unprofitable 
labor. She heard nothing, but didn't dare call out again. Only one chance was 
left her: to somehow trip the nearest-set ward and so arouse the dun. However, 
her work had always been in the house garden and the dun itself. She knew, as 
did all the kin, the whereabouts of the major wards, but she knew, too, that the 
men who had to risk their lives in the fields had others known only to 
themselves.
As the girl stared ahead at the thorn-studded brush wall before her, she tried 
to imagine just where such a ward could have been set. Plainly, from what 
Jacklyn had said, he had had no fear of those alarms when he had eavesdropped on 
the work gang. Too, he had had a reasonable excuse for hedge diving: he had been 
harvesting berries and, though the season was early, the dun could use every 
possible foodstuff.
Slowly Sulerna began to ease along the hedge, sure she was heading in the right 
direction. Then she saw the half print of a foot pointing reassuringly ahead. 
However, such marks were moving further and further from the dun itself, and 
that she liked less and less.
She was thus almost prepared for the sudden shriek of pain and terror that arose 
from nearly in front of her. She caught at the brush, paying no heed to the 
thorns, and staggered back as a section wider than her own body came free from 
its roots — recently hacked so and then set once more into place.
The girl plunged forward as a second cry became a piteous whimper. Scratched and 
torn by what remained of the barrier, she stumbled out where the old trader road 
made a loop. Jacklyn was there, lying very still, and Sulerna was sure she saw a 
splotch of blood staining his coarse smock. Forgetting all else, she made for 
the boy.
Then out of nowhere came those arms. The flat of a hand slapped the girl's face 
on one side so that her head whirled. She tried to struggle, but she might as 
well have already been bound, helpless and unable to defend herself, as hands 
tore savagely at her few garments.
Now she could see the face of her attacker. Beastly, misshapen, gobbe-fashioned 
as she expected, it was not. She tried to scream, "Yurgy!" as he gave her a 
second vicious blow across her mouth and knelt over her downed body.
 
12
Dull gray sky hung over Yurgy. The boy lay dazed, staring up into the bowl that 
held a sun always pale these days. But the tower — where — how — ?
Then his whole body jerked in sympathy with a sound, a desolate gasping cry such 
as fitted the bleak world about him. Awkwardly, as if his muscles had forgotten 
how to obey his will, he levered himself up.
No! This was part of a nightmare born of one of the pictures in that book!
Only, the terrible image did not fade, as was usual with any dark dream upon 
one's awakening. The youth could see the girl, hear the faint, bubbling moan 
that rose on the trickle of blood washing from between her swollen lips. Against 
his will, his eyes moved, but with pitiless slowness, as if what they allowed 
him to see must be seared into his memory forever. Her white body, bloody, 
bruised — this was his doing — his!
Still, in a sheltered corner of his awareness, Yurgy faintly knew he did not 
bear the rotten heart and mind that would lead to such a deed as this. He was 
Yurgy — and, in that moment, all the entanglement of illusion and domination was 
swept away. There was no Wind, but also no Irasmus or pictures; there were only 
he and — she —
On hands and knees, for he did not have the strength to stand upright, the boy 
crawled to the girl's side. Her eyes were open, seemingly fastened on something 
no one else could see high above them. Her head did not turn at his coming.
"Sulerna?" Her name was a whisper, when he wanted to shout to awaken her — and 
himself — and to let him know that this could not be the truth for either of 
them.
His foster sister only moaned and continued to stare at nothing. Her body was so 
slender, those now clawed and bruised breasts so small — hardly more than a girl 
child would show before her first moon time. And below those —
Yurgy raised his head as high as one of the forest wolves and, like them, 
howled, but for shame — a shame that could never now be riven from any mind.
Thus, just as Sulerna had not been aware of his attack, so Yurgy in his turn 
knew naught of the one moving in behind him, until a painful yank on his 
sweat-matted hair brought his head further back.
A face hovered above his, one so twisted with rage that the boy's wits seemed 
too dim to set name to it. Then came the downward flash of a sickle. Yurgy did 
not try to offer any defense — there was no other answer but this for what he 
had done — and he was hardly aware of the bite of the blade through his throat 
or the gush of hot blood that followed. Though he heard, dimly, through the mad 
cursing of his executioner, something else… a ghost of a breath… yet, still, 
somewhere — 
The Wind.
Elias kicked the body away from his sister.
"Sulerna — Sulerna!" His first calling of her name sounded too vigorous, too 
loud, and he feared he might, with the lash of a harsh voice, drive her into 
further withdrawal.
But the girl's first reaction was fear as she tried to slide away from her 
brother across the brittle, broken grass, throwing up an arm in a vain attempt 
at self-defense. Elias did not try to touch her — perhaps she would shrink in 
pain from any man, now, no matter what kin he was or what aid he wished to 
offer.
"Sulerna" — he lowered his voice to near a whisper — "it is Elias; let me help 
you."
Fright still lingered on her battered face, and she edged even farther from him. 
He had to get her back to the dun — what had happened here might be the 
beginning of the end for all of them. But he dared not attempt to touch her. 
Instead, he gathered up the rags of what had been her clothing and gently 
covered her body. That much, it seemed, she would allow him.
"Is — is she — dead?" asked a child's voice, high and cracking with fear. Elias 
had forgotten Jacklyn, but now his nephew, a smear of blood along his head, ran 
across the field to hold to him fiercely, gabbling in terror.
"No," Elias answered shortly.
"But Yurgy" — the boy had come forward and looked beyond his kin — "he is?"
"There is no more Yurgy to be remembered among the kin." Elias's rage made an 
oath of that. "Jacklyn, get you Mistress Larlarn, and Ethera" — he named his own 
wife — "and Grandsire."
It was the women who seemed able to tend to Sulerna — and to break through the 
horror that had frozen the girl — so that she could be laid on pole-stiffened 
blankets and taken back to the dun.
Elias and the eldest of his line remained, and Rush and Vors joined them. The 
four men half encircled that other body, and Grandsire dropped a roll of 
earth-stained blanketing he had been holding.
"Leave him to be found and, if what has happened here is not already known to 
the Dark Lord, it certainly will be. If that one moves now to wipe out the dun, 
we are already too late. Yet there is always hope.
"We have kept to ourselves," the Oldfather continued, "yet still he has found a 
way to pluck one of us out of safety. Let the body of this — thing, which he has 
so corrupted, be taken and, if the work can be done well out of sight, thrown 
into the root cellar beneath Mistress Larlarn's holding. Then cast down upon it 
any covering that may long endure!"

* * *

In the dunhold, the children had been brushed out of the way and, about that 
improvised stretcher, the women of the household gathered. Sulerna had returned 
to them now — she repeated their names in a whisper one by one, then sighed, and 
her eyes had closed. It would seem that warm and comforting darkness had at last 
claimed her.
"Sulerna?" As one, the women turned. Haraska was sitting up in the cupboard bed. 
No longer was her face drawn to one side, and she helped herself rise using the 
arm that had lately failed her.
"Grandmam!" Ethera was the closest and hurried to support her. "You — you are 
healed!"
The strangeness of it all held them: fear, pain, and deep wounding had stricken 
Sulerna down, while Grandmam had risen from the near dead.
"No!" Haraska made a negating motion with that long-paralyzed hand as the 
injured girl's mother opened the door of the cupboard where, on the top shelf at 
the far back, were kept certain mixtures known to the women alone.
"No!" The Oldmother ordered again. She had reached the edge of the bed now and 
held its quilt about her as a cape. "Not the black drink!"
The bottle was already in Fatha's hands. "Sulerna has been" — she paused as if 
the next word was beyond her ability to utter until she nerved herself to the 
task — "taken. It is not right that she be forced to bear the fruit of 
ravishment if means are at hand to rid her body of such a monstrous thing."
Mistress Larlarn moved beside Haraska, and they clasped hands as might war women 
shouldering together to face a skirmish.
"There is a reason." The old woman's voice had weakened a little from her 
unwonted exertion. "That sending which left me unable to warn — Did you never 
wonder whence it came?"
"You foresaw — this?" Sulerna's mother still held tightly to the bottle as she 
nodded her head toward her unconscious daughter.
"Why think you I rebelled against such knowledge until my body broke?" 
questioned Haraska. "Now listen and heed well. We are women here together, and 
the worst of all men's vileness has been wreaked upon one who is dear kin. 
However, I swear, by the Moon of my First Offering" — she spoke very slowly, and 
her words entered deeply into the minds of all who heard her — "that what 
Sulerna bears now within her body will not, in the end, be for evil but for 
good. That much was promised me this very night by a truedream. Thus, tonight, 
when the moon shines full, we shall take our loved one to the Women's Place 
where we spend the night of our first moon gift each month. There we shall place 
her in the light — "
"But she is no longer virgin," objected Ethera.
"She will be what the Wind Caller determines she will be. We are near the end, 
kin-daughter, of our safety here — this thing was done as part of malicious 
planning. But this I have also come to believe: we shall raise up champions such 
as rode with the Wind in the ancient days, and for such aid, payment there must 
always be. Blood has already been shed; it may be that all Firthdun shall cease 
to be.
"Ethera!" Such was the force of her name being called by the old woman that 
Elias's wife was startled. "Ethera, you are also with child."
"Am — am I so?" The young woman flushed. "I was not yet sure — "
"You may be sure. You shall call the daughter who comes at the proper time 
Cerlyn. She will live surrounded by fear in her first days, thus training her 
talent the stronger, but the Wind shall favor her. I was not shown the end, 
kin-daughter, but we are all part of something being built stone by stone, even 
as was that accursed tower down Valley — save that the Light, not the Dark, 
shall be with us in the end."
Suddenly she collapsed, as if a strength, which had been loaned for a mere 
moment, had been withdrawn. Mistress Larlarn eased the frail old body down upon 
the bed once again. Sulerna's mother continued to hold the bottle, looking from 
it to her daughter; then, as her gaze moved on to Haraska, some of the 
stubbornness leached out of her grim face. She must accept that what they had 
heard was dreamer's truth and that they would have to face a daunting future.
It was decided among them hastily that, if the men of the dun were to learn of 
Haraska's words, it would be by her telling and not theirs. Mistress Larlarn 
suggested that they say the Black Drink was too strong for Sulerna in her 
present state and that they must follow the Oldmother's instructions and seek 
strength from the moon — matters that had been, from the beginning, purely 
women's affairs.

* * *

No mention had been made of Yurgy when Grandsire returned with only two of the 
men. The rest had been sent to make a show of their usual daily tasks, for all 
of them suspected they were being spied upon. Jacklyn crept away to the darkest 
stall in the stable and there cried until he could hardly see. The heaviness of 
his guilt in that hour put an end to all his joyous innocence — and to his 
boyhood itself.

* * *

"So be it." Yost looked into the hanging panel of fabric, that was again a 
window showing the events of this day just passed.
"So be it!" Harwice struck his fist against the wall until blood marked the 
stone he pummeled.
"The dream" — Gifford might not have heard either of them — "that was no sending 
of mine."
"I think there will be very little dreaming for a space." The archmage spoke 
heavily. "Irasmus believes his plan safely under way; at present, he is perhaps 
more interested in the connection of the gobbes with the Forest.
"You say you sent no dream, brother." The misery on the old archivist's face was 
as real as any flow of tears. "Think: to whom do these Firthdun women now appear 
to turn? Each to her own, Gifford."
"But She," protested the loremaster, "She has always kept Herself aloof and has 
ruled the Forest, never the Valley — though, by Her power, the Wind blew there 
once."
As he replied, Yost fixed his gaze on the bloody splotch left by Harwice's 
impassioned blow to the stone as the painter spoke his oath. "Irasmus has dared 
use his strength to force his will upon a woman — obliquely, to be sure, but the 
ravishment came by his desire.
"Yes, She has ever claimed the Forest and not the Valley; still, She also 
commands the Wind, and that force blew there at its strongest when She did call. 
Firthdun was once Her shrine — or have you forgotten what lies so many years 
behind us? Now, with or without our renegade's orders, his creatures have taken 
the life of one of Her chosen — and he himself has moved against a human whom 
She might well hold in favor. We can only wait and see — Time can be both an 
enemy and a friend.
"Meanwhile" — the archmage now touched the wall stain, as a warrior might make 
blood oath to seal his purpose — "we must continue to search our most ancient 
records to discover who — or what — moves Irasmus now, perhaps completely 
without his knowing. One cannot fight an enemy until one knows his name, face, 
or kind."
Gifford drew his cloak closer about his shoulders. He had lost more flesh of 
body, as well as pleasure in living, and he always felt cold now.
"I search; so do we all. We dare to break seals on the forbidden chambers, 
endangering our beings by such probing. If we could achieve only a single crumb 
of enlightenment, it would be worth the effort and peril.
"The Dark — " the loremaster shivered visibly, in spite of his close-drawn cape" 
— sometimes I think I hear it chuckling in the corners of the rooms I comb. 
Others have reported hearing voices speaking in unknown tongues. We have tried 
very hard not to release anything, though we do not even use the permitted 
search spells anymore. Yet I can offer nothing that is meaningful."
Harwice looked down at his battered knuckles. "You search the records. I and my 
two novices have opened lofts in which paintings lie in dust so thick we must 
fight through what is very like a sandstorm to see clearly. I — "
"Brothers!" The three men turned. Behind them, the panel was once more innocent 
embroidery. Danful, now the youngest of the novices, stood there in his 
shirtsleeves, which were nearly as black with grime as his face.
"In the room of Archmage Khanga" — the youth was all but spluttering — "Brother 
Rees has found a Dam Seal!"
In a moment, the mages were all on the move, following their young guide to see 
for themselves the most potent seal of spells ever known to their kind.

* * *

The search for the power interfering with Irasmus's plans had not been confined 
to the Place of Learning. Though Irasmus had read only the smallest fraction of 
the books and scrolls he had stolen, he had been studying those assiduously 
through many nights. His ploy with Yurgy had helped to bolster his belief in 
himself, and he had watched in his seeing globe with avid attention not only 
Sulerna's taking but what happened afterward.
That those dolts had thought to throw the boy's body into the root cellar the 
Dark Lord found amusing. It was already carrion and, as such, would draw not 
only his watch birds but also any gobbes within sniffing distance. A slave 
burial for a slave!
All these things had unfolded in the globe which, as had been promised, had 
served him well. Indeed, the only desired image the sphere seemed unable to 
reveal to him was the answer to what was still only half a question: why had the 
gobbes invaded the Forest and thereby, at least in part, endangered his schemes? 
Irasmus still blinked when he remembered that light, which had either destroyed 
the severed head entirely or taken it where even his own enlarged and 
ever-expanding talent could not find it.
Now he stacked and restacked his oldest books (though setting apart the one 
which was nastily hair covered), calling precisely to mind a scrap of spell 
here, a bit of ritual there, and refusing to be frustrated.
An hour — even two in certain corridors in the Place of Learning! The rogue mage 
would give much for that; but merely to seriously consider ways of performing 
such exploration could threaten his most carefully stored power. In those halls, 
now forgotten even by those who had concealed it, lay such a wealth of lore that 
the thought of it made him feel a nearly physical ache of hunger.
So much could be lost, falling between cracks of years… From the tentative 
fingers of seeking he had dared to put forth, Irasmus was sure that this very 
tower had once housed more power than he had managed to discover in the 
rebuilding. Only, he could not now risk any interference with the dun and its 
people. Nature had a power of her own, and he must wait out the months until his 
plan in that direction would be complete.
Last of all, there remained the gobbes who had invaded the Forest. The Dark Lord 
had purposely remitted none of the torment he had visited upon them on their 
return here; thus, relief at hand from pain now might be of more importance to 
them than some later nebulous punishment — or even reward — offered by an 
unknown.
Though he had not yet had time to fashion a new wand and imbue it with power, he 
had the globe. Making up his mind, Irasmus picked it up and set about carrying 
out what might, or might not, be a very necessary action.
 
13
Perhaps, Gifford thought as he entered the lower levels of the ancient edifice, 
which descended by one curl of stairs to another, a building could become too 
old — cunning and reclusive in its own way, as if it took on, year by passing 
dusty year, an awareness of sorts. Working in squads, the scholars had begun 
their search, starting from the sections they all knew well and working their 
way into those which had been most deserted, save by any of their number 
striving to follow a trail of learning across far centuries. After the past 
days, when the brothers had delved and probed here, the loremaster, who had once 
complacently believed that the archives were his own particular territory, had 
made such discoveries as set his tired mind abuzz when he tried to record them 
in order.
How old was the Place of Learning? Gifford had never been able to find any 
record concerning its foundation. Perhaps that account had been concealed during 
the Days of Chaos before the Covenant. However, on the seals of doors the mages 
had read names that had long ago passed beyond history into the realm of legend.
Even now, one group of the seekers approached such a lore hoard: the sealed 
archive of Archmage Khanga. Reputable scholars had more or less agreed that that 
name was not a true one but rather a lost password of sorts.
A number of lightballs gave full luminence where the rest of the brothers 
gathered with those who had made the discovery. What those spheres shone upon 
was no door — not even the outline of a portal was traced on the web-hung wall. 
In the center of that space was something wrought by human hands as a warning.
The Dam Seal itself was known — at least the representation of it was, as 
Gifford knew, listed in the more ancient accounts. But its actual appearance 
differed greatly in detail from any drawing on the page of a book.
A skull was a common enough symbol for death. But this grim object bore fangs 
and horns, showed an unnatural arrangement of bones, and even suggested — if one 
continued to look at it — that it had never worn flesh at all. Moreover, its 
dome was perhaps a third larger than any human braincase would normally be.
Forming a frame around the skull image was a maze of intertwined runic 
characters of ancient mode. Directly above it were engraved the warning 
characters by which the reporter of this find had identified it: the personal 
insignia of the myth-shrouded archmage.
The present explorers formed a half circle, none of them approaching the device. 
Though draped with a curtain of webs spun by the eyeless spiders of the lower 
ways, the seal itself was as clean as if just polished by some dutiful hand.
Even a mage could be touched by the chill of fear — if he or she were a true 
holder of talent. The archivist wanted none of this thing. Nonetheless, it was 
part of his domain, and to leave investigating to another was a weakness of 
character which did not lie in him.
The rest withdrew a little as Gifford approached it. A Dam Seal was set only to 
restrain some entity that was too potent to be allowed loose. In this place, 
that being must have been a major power of the Dark.
"Back with you all!" Gifford commanded. The loremaster heard the shuffling of 
feet and guessed that he was being speedily obeyed.
Three of the traveling globes of light swooped down to ring him in an aura of 
blue radiance. There was no door — there was only the seal… The archivist wiped 
his sweating hands down his cloak, then unhooked the clasp and let the cloak 
fall, wanting all the freedom of body he could obtain.
Three was one of the numbers of power, as even a novice knew. Jutting from the 
skull were three massive horns, the middle one directly above a hollow that 
might have grounded a nose, the other two each overhanging a bottomless pit of 
darkness that could have housed an eye.
Three — no, so easy an answer could not possibly exist. Then followed nine: 
three upon three upon three. Yet how could a man with only two hands deal with 
such a series?
Horns, eye sockets, nose pit. But what if — ? Gifford's head rose higher. This 
monster had been set here by a man — that he must believe. And what remained of 
the man? Only a diamond shape above, divided down the middle and bearing what he 
recognized with a small shock as the representation of a Sasqua's head. The 
lorekeeper felt oddly reassured at the sight, for the portrait of the gentle 
Forest giant tempered the sinister otherness of that eerie skull.
In the old days, of course, there had been no barriers such as now divided the 
realms of the modern world; and the Forest might well have shared its wisdom 
with the Place of Learning.
"By the Great Powers," Gifford intoned slowly. "By the will of — " Three names 
he repeated; then he was on the edge of boundaries he himself could not pass.
The echo of the last name was still sounding. The lore-master raised hands in 
patterned gestures, using all the force of his will to keep from trembling. Only 
then did he dare to press a forefinger on each of those horns and, after a 
moment's hesitation, to touch the representation of the furred head above.
He was concentrating hard, yet he could still hear the sound of soft chanting 
behind him. Once — once someone might have called so upon — the Wind?
Even as the archivist's thought turned in that direction, Gifford heard — it! 
Not the powerful thrust of its preparation for battle, no; rather a thin, 
strained effort, as if it had to fight hard to reach into these depths at all. 
But it was the Wind, and it carried with it scraps of knowledge.
The Dam Seal shivered, bits of it flaking away as if Gifford had clawed at it 
with his fingers; then it shattered and was gone. However, there was no opening 
behind but merely a second seal — one which brought a moan from those gathered 
about.
The Wind was gone, as swiftly as it had come. The mages had learned the answer 
for which they had been searching. Now the second seal was, in its turn, fading 
very fast. The loremaster knew terror then. Was the power it represented at this 
very moment seeking anchors among those assembled here, just over the threshold 
that the Light had set uncounted years ago?
That was one name Gifford would never say. Anyone who dared call upon that force 
aloud placed himself and all the world about him in deadly peril of a fate worse 
than the finality of death.
So the scholars stood waiting, and each strove to call upon their talent, summon 
each defense ever learned. Fortunately, it seemed they were, for the present, 
witnesses only; they would not be swept up to serve all that was most abhorrent 
to them.
"There came Wind." Gifford broke the silence first. "It was with me — "
But Yost, seemingly unheeding, cut across his brother's speech. "So now we 
know," he announced. "Perhaps it is better to know, though I think that, for us, 
knowing will not bring instant surrender! Also, if Irasmus thinks to call upon 
That, he is a fool beyond all fools. As yet, it cannot break through. It can 
only feel for crevices in the barrier, venturing forth to catch what it may 
against the day of its own triumph.
"Yes, Loremaster" — now the archmage acknowledged Gifford's words — "you felt 
the Wind. Even She, in Her own place, keeps watch upon Her own; and the safety 
of Her woodland has already been broken. Give me room."
The archivist stepped aside, and Yost drew his wand from its pocket in his 
cloak. The crystal that formed its point flashed fire drawn from the globes — 
liquid light that could be ink of a sort. Then, as the mages began chanting 
again, their leader drew another sign on the wall — one which was right and 
proper for this place.

* * *

The women of the dun had faced down the men, and since this was a matter in 
which from of old they had had the sentencing, the choosing, none of the men had 
approached Sulerna. Instead, they had busied their hands fashioning crude 
weapons from their farm implements. Almost all under the clan roof seemed 
certain that they would not have long to wait before Irasmus struck with all his 
followers to beat the folk of Firthdun into the dust, as he had all their 
neighbors.
Now the women — even the girl children who had only recently paid their first 
Moon Due — took turns carrying the stretcher on which Sulerna lay, still drowned 
in terror and despair.
The moon was very bright, and the sanctuary was wreathed in the moonflowers 
whose fragrance soothed, seeming to heal a little their sorrow of mind. In the 
middle of the hollow that lay open to the sky and the Threefold Lady's symbol, 
the dunswomen set down their burden. Haraska took her place at the head of the 
stretcher. The old-mother had insisted she must come with them, though Mistress 
Larlarn and Sulerna's mother had had to support her between them for most of the 
short way.
The ravished girl's mother gently withdrew the coverlet so that her daughter's 
body, now washed and treated as best could be, lay nude, nearly as white as the 
blossoms nodding over her.
The women sang no song of welcome, nor did they give the death wail. No maiden 
came tonight to be accepted, nor did a woman full of years depart. Never had 
they so served any of their kind, but they could believe there was good reason 
to do so now.
Sulerna opened her eyes. Her hands moved slowly into the moonlight, as if, by 
some favor of Her Above, the girl could draw about her a covering fashioned both 
of the moon's rays and the blooms around her.
For the first time, the girl spoke clearly. "Yours, Treader of the Far Skies — 
what I bear within me, let it be wholly Yours." Her hands smoothed over her 
still-flat belly. "I yield this new life freely to bring about that which must 
be done so that the Light will not flicker and die forever from these, my kin."
Wind swung those vines on which the flowers grew. It brought only comfort; it 
did not speak with the inner voice, and it promised nothing; yet they all raised 
their heads and felt its gentle touch on their cheeks.
But Sulerna seemed to be listening to something the rest could not hear. Her 
expression was that of one who was giving heed to a lesson, and the hands lying 
over her womb tightened protectingly; then the faint murmurs that spoke in her 
ear alone were gone. Turning her head, she closed her eyes, and over her Haraska 
drew the coverlet once more.
Silently as they had come, the women of the dun departed the moon shrine. Yet 
this time, as they took the road, they seemed to feel on their heads like a 
caress the tingling touch of the Wind.

* * *

None of their fellow fiends had laid hands on the two gobbes Irasmus had 
disciplined since his wand had struck them down; but several of the demons had 
taken stakes and pushed the writhing bodies to one side of the courtyard, where 
they had lain night and day. If such creatures could know hope, these must have 
lost it long since, just as they had forfeited the power of speech through 
endless wailing.
Some of the human slaves paused from time to time in their duties to glance 
surreptitiously in the direction of the luckless pair, but those of their own 
kind dared give them no notice.
As the Dark Lord emerged from the tower, every creature in sight scattered. With 
an uplifted hand, he beckoned to Karsh, the leader of this squad of hell spawn; 
and the gobbe chief came toward him with what was plainly the utmost reluctance.
In spite of the nearly exhausted twistings of their bodies, the two monsters on 
the ground somehow held their heads now so that they could watch their master.
Or was he? Swiftly Irasmus put high guard on that thought.
No human could produce the guttural sounds of the gobbes' own language. Irasmus 
balanced the globe carefully between his palms so it was visible to his slaves.
"You are mine," the dark mage said with very little emotion. "You were bought 
with blood, as was demanded by the archdemon who sends those of your kind to 
serve elsewhere."
He paused, as if expecting some answer from the pair under his spell. Both of 
them showed opened mouths, one of which was now leaking greenish spittle, but 
neither uttered a sound.
"You are mine, sealed so. Yet you have done that which I did not order. Had you 
served Him from whom I bought you in such fashion, what would have been your 
fate?"
Only the creatures' bulbous eyes moved, rolling in their misshapen skulls. 
Irasmus did not stoop, but he lowered the globe, at the same time taking a 
stride or so closer.
"You went to the Forest." The Dark Lord spoke simply now, as one might to 
slow-witted children. "You dared force the barrier of the Wind, or — " he 
paused, to continue with a question " — was that shield in some manner opened 
for you?
Then you slew one who serves a greater power than perhaps even your master would 
dare face." Now his lips twisted, as if he could not repeat a name he knew well. 
Karsh, still behind him, coughed, and the two gobbes on the ground rolled their 
heads wildly from side to side.
Irasmus's gaze was on the murky depths of the crystal; however, nothing therein 
changed. Well, he could hardly expect a quick or easy answer.
"Perhaps the Wind drove you into its outer hold. But you had time to take a 
trophy. Was that intended as a gift for me?" No answer came from the captives. 
"No — better as a warning or, most likely, as bait such as a fisherman impales 
on his hook. It remains that you did this because of orders, and" — he swung the 
globe closer, from one contorted body to the other — "not any orders of mine."
He began to chant in sharply clipped words like oaths strung together.
Now an answer came for him — not from the two creatures weeping bloody tears but 
from the sphere he held. At first, it seemed that he saw a tangle of threads 
there; then that mass displayed purposeful movement.
The would-be master looked down upon a symbol, and only all the power he could 
call upon kept him from dropping the sphere. Nearly the full sum of the power he 
had husbanded so jealously was required for him to stand against the will of the 
Dark entity whose sign he saw for a brief instant or two before it tore itself 
free and was gone.
The dark mage had dealt with minor Dark Powers for years, secretly at first and 
then openly. From this land and its people, he had drawn the talent and inner 
strength, as one might suck milk from a woman's breast.
Why! Why! The word hammered in his head. This Presence had no dealings with the 
Wind or Her who called it; perhaps it harbored contempt for both those powers. 
And certainly no one in the Place of Learning could have sealed a pact without 
all those mages of the highest talent being made instantly aware of the ripples 
ringing out from such a confrontation.
The bodies of the two offenders he had come to question jerked in one last 
convulsion, and then they began to shrink. Pools of stinking ichor ran from 
beneath their crumbling carcasses. Irasmus stepped hastily back, but Karsh cried 
out wildly. His cry became a weird lament that resounded from every direction as 
the other gobbes picked up the sound and added their own wails.
Why? The reverberation of the question in his mind deafened Irasmus to what was 
taking place. Unless…
His usually half-lidded eyes snapped fully open, and his mouth became a circle 
of wonder at the thought. The Dark Ones had been defeated long ago, the greater 
Powers having been driven into another world and time when the Covenant was 
sworn. But he also knew there had always been others like him who were able to 
claim kinship with the unhuman. Perhaps his own actions since he had come to 
Styrmir had attracted the attention of such an Overlord.
Very well — with most of the Dark Ones, bargains could be made — and such a pact 
could raise a human to the ruler-ship of a world.
This breakage of the Forest wards could have been willed, not as an act 
threatening him but rather as an experiment. For the moment, he could only watch 
and wait.
 
14
The group of five standing moss-stained, tall rocks looked like a giant hand 
lifted skyward, fingers apart, leaving a nearly level hollow between that might 
be the palm of an appendage so huge it could well represent a petition addressed 
to the sky above.
Other stones also stood here — rows of hewn blocks that must have once been 
fitted smoothly together into walls. Only the green moss showed life and growth; 
no forest creatures — no animals or birds intruded. Silence was complete.
Beyond the crumbling walls, a party was assembling. Male Sasquas were now 
hesitating restlessly beneath the shelter of the last fringe of trees. Unease 
notwithstanding, they remained. Now females, some bearing cublings, joined them.
Neither lord nor inferiors were known to the Forest's children, nor even kin 
such as existed for the humans. The Sasqua were a fiercely independent, 
almost-reclusive people, each of whom kept within his or her own chosen section 
of the trees unless some occasion such as this drew them together. Usually they 
were also mild of temper, for their great strength was enough to overawe most 
other creatures who shared this land. However, their gentleness was sometimes 
but a mask — as was true this day.
Two of the most powerful males shared the weight of a stretcher made of vines 
lashed between good-sized saplings. The form borne on this litter was covered 
with a woven blanket thickly studded with white and scarlet flowers that were 
opened wide to the sun.
While most of the Sasqua now squatted down, the two bearers continued along a 
wall until they passed between two of the fingerlike rocks. There, with a 
tenderness they might have used to a wounded comrade, they drew away the 
bloom-studded coverlet and shifted the corpse of one of their own to the palm of 
the stone hand.
Not the complete body, for above a mangled, blood-clotted neck no head showed. 
The escorts arranged their charge until the deceased rested, almost lovingly 
clasped, in the hand; then, as they withdrew, a pair of the females advanced in 
their place. Both the she-Sasqua bore reed baskets heaped high with blossoms, 
the fragrance of which arose like the smoke of a smoldering fire into the air. 
The females, in turn, stood aside while the males used their offerings to once 
more blanket the body, avoiding with care that ragged stump of neck. Thereafter, 
more flower bearers approached, and the he-Sasqua retreated.
Their aim directed toward the hand, the flower bringers tossed their harvest 
into the air. A soft keening arose, scaled upward, and died away. A breath or 
two later, that sound was succeeded by a vast sigh that might well have been the 
lament of the Forest itself.
As the woodland's tribute faded, some of the Sasqua left their places. One of 
the two who had helped carry the stretcher now raised a mighty club.
With all the force of his mighty arm, the Forest's son brought the crude weapon 
down upon one of the blocks near him. A deep boom sounded, like the single note 
from a great drum.
They remained in silence, plainly waiting. A second blow was struck, and joining 
it rose a shrill fifelike note. Far in the past, the peace of the wood kin had 
once been shattered, and they were returning resolutely now to actions buried 
deep in racial memory.
And they were answered, for the Wind arose, whirling the strewn flowers into a 
disguising cloud until the palm and its pitiful burden were hidden. Overhead, 
the brightness of the day was fast fading.
A brilliant beam of light flashed with lightning force from one of the tall 
stones near the hand. As if that monolith were a portal into another time and 
place, a woman stepped forth from its radiance to join them.
She wore no rich robes, and Her face was veiled by a green mist, but they knew 
Her. The stones echoed back the Sasquas' hail: "Theeossa!"
The Sasqua knelt, reaching hands out to Her. However, while She inclined her 
head in acknowledgment, Her first business was with that which lay on the palm 
of the hand. Gravely She saluted its burden. Above the assembly, a gust of the 
Life Breath paid tribute.
So! The Lady's Wind-borne thought came to them, more sharply than any speech 
might sound. So — already the evil strikes — and at us!
Now She shifted position, no longer viewing either the dead or the living as She 
raised her arms high. She brought her palms together above Her head in a loud 
clap.
Other noises answered Her, rising from the glade and those in it. The topmost 
branches of the walling trees shook under the buffeting of the Wind.
"Seek," the Earthborn commanded. "Seek — and find!"
With a roar, the Wind obeyed. Then She once more turned Her attention to the 
body.
The Covenant has been broken — blood broken, my children. Raise your wards and 
hold them well, for who knows what comes with tomorrow or the days beyond?
One of the nearby females who had been among those scattering the flowers had 
remained on her feet. She faced the Wind Caller, eye to eye and chin up, all awe 
— for that space of time — lost.
"It has been said" — the Forest's daughter spoke as one whom some truth now used 
as a mouthpiece — "that refuge in the Forest may be offered — sanctuary — for 
any fleeing the Dark. This was once so; do we now depart that custom?"
Slowly the Lady shook her head. "You remember well, Hansa. And this do I now say 
to all of you: give haven to any who need it. Accept what comes in fear and 
pain, for it has greater worth than even we can foresee; and it may bring down 
the Dark Lord."
Wild Wind whirled, swooping over the highest branches of the trees. Its thoughts 
were its own now; perhaps She who had summoned it knew them, but the rest of the 
Forest waited. The skin of the Sasqua tingled. Once — oh, once — it had often 
been so. Was it to be thus again? Their great clubs thumped on stone and earth, 
driven into motion by the excitement racing through their veins.
The Wind returned. Leaves were whipped from the trees; the blossoms about the 
body were sucked up, swirled in a mad dance about, then released again. And he 
who lay there in the hand of mercy was now complete, his head resting where it 
should. The Sasqua's deep-chested cries vied with the withdrawing Breath of Life 
to do full honor to their own.
There yet remained a task to be done. The woman spread Her arms wide once again. 
About Her thundered the Wind, its shouting voice enough to deafen all in the 
Forest. Gusts broke away to form separate currents.
Though they were now silent, the Sasqua waited, for the death they mourned was 
only the beginning. As a spot of blight could spread to consume a leaf, so had 
the serenity of the Realm of Trees been shattered. Oaths long sworn had been 
broken; Lacar had died at the hands of the Misshapen Ones. And who had brought 
them into their homeland?
Somehow, even eluding the direct gaze of Her children, Theeossa moved Her hand, 
and She suddenly stood upon a pinnacle of stone. Clubs swung and thudded in 
salute. The cudgels moved as one and seemed to possess a life of their own, 
though in the outer world they were considered but lifeless wood and no match 
for superior weapons.
With a final howl, the Wind contained its power. Theeossa laughed and allowed 
Her arms to fall limply to Her sides.
"Watch and ward must be kept," She enjoined, Her manner abruptly as stern and 
cold as the rock on which She stood. "There has been a stirring beyond the Dark 
Barrier." To the surprise of Her listeners, the Lady laughed again. "When fools 
play with fire, they often find themselves cinders! He, whom our present 
dealer-in-evil would call, has other — and what he considers greater — matters 
to concern him. He also has a long memory, and he well recalls what befell 
before the Covenant. Let this man-child, who plays so blindly with forces he 
cannot begin to know, beware: a Great One of the Dark is not disturbed without 
consequence!
"The monsters came here" — the last word was expelled as forcibly as if She had 
spat it — "seeking not such a Great One but their own petty lord. Some quirk led 
them to believe they could free themselves from bondage with a blood price, even 
as they were bought…
"I say it clearly: the Forest bears no taint for this killing. But remember you 
— watch and ward!"
Once more, an eddy of Wind looped about its Caller. Her body did not yield to 
its touch, but Her hair waved banner bright. Mist streamed from Her figure, 
enveloping Her, and She was gone.

* * *

In his cluttered studio, Harwice sat on his favorite stool. Within reach lay a 
length of smoothly planed silvery wood, while a row of paint pots sat uncapped 
and ready, their colors glowing. Yet the hands of the artist mage rested on his 
knees, and he stared at the wood and the gem-bright pots as if he had never used 
such tools or tried to produce a painting before.
Suddenly he uttered a furious oath, and the shaft of the brush he held snapped. 
He threw the fragments onto the floor, and his scowl of frustration deepened.
The plank waiting before him bore a half dozen faint lines, a sketch Harwice had 
drawn at dawn.
It was bright enough now, by the Power. But the painting… This was his talent, 
and it had never failed him before. He shivered at the thought of any 
seeping-away of what he had commanded for so long.
In Harwice's mind's eye he could discern two youthful faces — indeed he could 
see them clearly — but he had somehow lost the precious power that, by his 
colors and brushes, would make them live. A boy and a girl, they did not exactly 
mirror each other; still, there was such a close likeness that any viewer would 
say they shared the same bloodline.
Frustratingly, he had not been able to endow the pair with the likeness he 
wanted. Here he wanted no flattering fairness of countenance; rather, they were 
marked by the lines of harsh life, a grinding existence. But their eyes held a 
keen and brooding intelligence. Whether they knew it or not, their birthright 
was certainly talent.
They were of Styrmir, those two; but they displayed none of the satisfaction 
with life, the belief in the future, which had once been known there.
"Harwice?"
The voice startled him, breaking his intense concentration. He did not turn to 
face the speaker, but his expression was close to a grimace of pain.
As his visitor moved closer, the edge of his cloak brushed against the array of 
paint pots, jarring one from its stand and sending it to the edge of the small 
table. With an exclamation, the newcomer pointed a finger at the teetering jar, 
whose contents were threatening to slop over its rim. Straightway it settled 
into security again.
Gifford gave a sigh of relief. The room was already growing dim — as Harwice had 
not bestirred himself to light any lamp — but the archivist walked close enough 
to the board so he could inspect the sketch. He turned at last to his frowning 
brother.
"So you have dreamed," he commented softly, clearing his throat as if some 
emotion pinched there.
The painter scowled at him, though that obvious displeasure did not disconcert 
Gifford.
"Why do you ask? Are dreams not within the bounds of your talent also?"
The loremaster closed his eyes for a moment. His face showed an expression of 
weary sadness that had quite banished the glow of content it had once worn.
"You have seen them plain." Gifford's voice was low but intense. "Their birth 
shall be heralded by kin death and evil, and they shall be brought forth in 
darkness; yet still the promise of Light to come lies about them both."
The archivist's hand, stained with ink where the other's was daubed with paint, 
did not quite touch the surface whereon was depicted the face of the maiden.
"Falice, who shall walk in beauty, sing with the Wind — and be what none of 
humankind could aspire to be since the earliest days of all."
Harwice no longer regarded the drawing, for his face was buried in his hands. "I 
do no more — let it rest as it is." He spoke with harsh finality. "The shaping 
of those lives shall lie within themselves; I meddle not with such power."
"You have not meddled," Gifford reassured him quietly.
"I have dreamed, and then I wanted to bring my vision to life, though I was not 
permitted to carry it through."
"The Light decides in the end," said the lorekeeper. "If the curtain is lifted 
for you to see a glimpse of the future, do not deny it, brother." He sighed. 
"Did you not also foresee the downfall of the Great Scale? The pans are now down 
at hand level for any to tamper with."
Again Gifford raised a hand toward the double portrait, but this time his finger 
indicated the youth. "Fogar — who from his birth will be given over to the 
fosterage of evil and who shall know temptation thereby. Yet I say to you, 
Harwice, he bears that within him which shall hold steady at the end."
The artist might not have heard this heartening prophecy, for he arose, picked 
up the slab of wood, and strode to the far side of the chamber. There he set the 
painting to face the wall, and he turned his back upon it with grim 
determination.

* * *

Sulerna's knitting needles flashed skillfully. They had been carved from bone 
until they were so smooth and slender that the finest yarn could be used — 
carved by Elias, who since her ravishment had kept apart from her. Her brother 
seemed these days to be ever hurrying elsewhere when she would speak with him. 
Indeed, his eyes would not meet hers even now, though he sat only across the 
hearth from her.
The young woman's needles were being plied with housewifely craft, yet what they 
had to work with was but the ravelings from worn garments. In a similar effort 
to repair what could no longer be replaced, her brother was striving to mend a 
broken harness strap.
The folk of Firthdun had to make do with very little these days; yet Irasmus had 
made no move toward destroying them. Fear had become a member of the dun kin and 
sat always, a ghostly guest, with all of them.
Sulerna dropped the knitting on her knee and her hands covered her belly that 
was swelling — unnaturally large, she had heard whispered. In spite of her 
condition, she had taken her place in the fields with all the women. Moreover, 
she had gone with them on nights when the moon was full to the White Lady's 
grove to offer petitions for the safety of the dun and those within.
The girl's feet swelled, and her back ached, despite the potions Mistress 
Larlarn forced upon her. Resolutely, she had barred from memory the act which 
had so altered her life. To her former playfellows, it was as though she had 
become a stranger from whom they shrank. And lowness of spirit was harder for 
her than the pains of hunger that pinched them all at times. She, who had been 
a-dance with life, crouched now beside the hearth, always feeling a chill, as 
she strove to contrive small garments from the rags Haraska had collected. And 
Sulerna danced no more.
It was not so for Ethera, her cousin, who was also carrying, but who bore her 
discomfort with pride. Watching her, Sulerna wondered at times by what whim of 
an unknown power their lives had been set in these allotted patterns.
The great looms had been dismantled and set aside, and the same had been done 
with the linen-break and spinning wheel; for, despite all the efforts of the 
men, lambs were born dead, and the flax stalks were soggy with black rot.
Irasmus was at the bottom of it — of that everyone was sure. Why he waited, 
unless he derived some twisted pleasure from watching their struggle and 
decline, none could say. But Firthdun was dying, slowly and painfully, and, with 
it, all hope of any help to come. Did any of its people, Sulerna wondered, 
really expect the Wind to return?
 
15
A PARCHED SPRING PASSED INTO A SEARING SUMMER IN STYRMIR.
Though most of the beasts had long since vanished, there was a crop of sorts to 
be harvested. However, those things that did grow in what had been fields of 
grain were now strange root things, thick and solid as wood.
Such growths could be eaten, and they were; but their eaters grew more and more 
stooped, lank, and vacant eyed. Children — and there were very few of them — 
showed the blown bellies of ones who had never had enough to eat, and they dug 
ravenously in the dark sod for grubs and worms until those, too, vanished.
Yet Firthdun stood. At first, the dunsfolk had seen the enemy as Him in the 
Tower. These days, though, they were kept awake many hours at night when one or 
another of their guards summoned their aid to face, not gobbes under the orders 
of their bloodthirsty master, but the skeletal beings who had once been friends 
and kin.
When those of the dun could, they tried to share, only to realize that such 
giving would make them the target of their own people and that those, in the 
end, would show no more mercy than the wizard's demons.
"It may be that he sees this as an easy way to bring us down," said the 
Oldfather, as they gathered one night. The kitchen, which had once been the warm 
center of their lives, now felt like a last refuge held against a powerful 
enemy.
Elias and his field partner nodded their heads; they were wearied to the point 
that not even anger could rouse them any longer. There seemed nothing to talk 
about save their situation; mostly, when they gathered at night, there was no 
talk at all. The women sat with their children in their arms or else with empty 
hands, for there was very little to be done, save to spend each waking hour from 
dawn to dusk with the men in the fields, giving all the encouragement they could 
to crops that were hopelessly stunted.
This day, the laborers had found another break in the hedge along the road, but 
one which had plainly not been made by human hands. A plant had grown without 
their noticing — sheltered by the briars and reaching long roots under their 
defenses — and had discharged a poison so that the wholesome vegetation withered 
and died.
Such was the plant's tenacity that the field-workers had had to change partners 
several times as they had struggled with it. The result was that some now bore 
bandaged hands covering skin blistered by its acid sap. Yes, Sulerna thought 
dully, it could well be that Irasmus had no reason to destroy them himself. He 
had only to wait until the country the dunsfolk had served so long did it for 
him. Even their kin might bring fire at night and, using crude weapons, drag 
them down.
Tired — the girl was always tired. She knew, and could no longer refuse it, that 
often what was best for eating that day found its way into her bowl. Her hands 
supported her fast-growing belly, and the weight of it seemed to drag her ever 
forward. Ethera displayed a similar shape, but perhaps she was more strong of 
bone, for she did not appear to be so heavily freighted.
Both of them drank the brews Haraska and Larlarn prepared. Such potions did, 
indeed, relieve the aches in the back and the bouts of nausea that had earlier 
wracked them both but that had wrung Sulerna out into a week of near collapse.
What hurt Sulerna most, was that, when she took her place among the workmen in 
the fields or helped with a task that needed more than one pair of hands, the 
others held aloof.
Jacklyn avoided her as much as possible. He was no longer a heedless little boy, 
and, even as time had added inches to his height, so had lines graven themselves 
around his mouth and eyes such as should never mar the face of any youth. His 
aunt had spoken of this to Grandmam, and she had been honestly answered.
"He feels that he owes a kin debt, Sulerna, and at his age he knows not how to 
repay it. He will not talk to the Oldfather, nor to his own father, and to speak 
to women is less possible, for he believes he has lost the right to approach 
them."
The girl was truly roused, then, to think of something beyond her own condition. 
"But no fault in this was his! How could Jacklyn stand against — against a man 
who had already knocked him senseless at the first blow? He carries no debt — "
"Save," Haraska reminded her, "he was where he should not have been, and you 
were drawn after him. Do not try to argue with him, girl. Jacklyn may be only a 
youth in years, but it is a man's pride that keeps him going through adversity. 
And he may yet have another — and braver — part to play"
So the days passed leadenly. Sulerna tried to continue working with her needle, 
as did Ethera, on tiny clothing cut out of what material could be spared. Yet 
between them stood a wall, for her sister-in-law was free and happy — while she 
was chained by a Dark will. And now she had ill dreams, at times, to torment her 
at night.
Then one night she crept out by herself, urged by a call she could not 
understand, to the Moon's shrine. There — under the waxing light — she lay down, 
and she dreamed.
Fire and darkness were all about her, and pain was within, but through it there 
came the Wind's own command: Run! Run! And Sulerna could see the goal that had 
been set her: the edge of the Forest beyond. She thought she could not keep to 
her feet, such agony lanced through her, yet somehow, though the Breath of Life 
did not support her, she ran. She fell, just where the trees rose about her. 
Ahead, a tongue of green light stood upward. Then she was on her knees, while 
branches beat against her bare buttocks and the pangs continued to wrack her.
Where she sank to the ground at last she could not tell, save that about her was 
something of the White Lady who walked the skies. And she knew that all would be 
well for more than Sulerna alone, whose great fatigue would be gone forever.

* * *

There was another bearer of burdens in Styrmir — one whose patience grew thin as 
he sought along strange paths for that portal he must have.
The book with its bristle-hide cover was much in his hands, for most of that 
lore Irasmus had stolen from the Place of Learning was of neither use nor 
interest in a quest like this.
In those days, he lived for nights when the thunder rolled and the lightning 
flashed, darting livid fingers out of the air over the Forest and reaching for 
the valley. Strangely, however, when those flashes beat around the nearly barren 
land, it seemed that they were lessened, vanquished.
Irasmus was certainly not disturbed by such petty expressions of spite, as he 
deemed them. But the gobbes could not be urged out of shelter. He had, at 
present, no reason to see how far he was able to assert his authority over them. 
His trust in their attachment to him, though, was now always in question at the 
back of his mind.
During the storms he chose to ride toward the Forest. Like ashes swept aloft by 
the heat from a roaring fire, small flakes of power were borne by those 
tempests. Irasmus had early created a system within himself to draw in any 
power, making it his own — or so he believed.
To the Dark Lord, the howling of the Wind carried no message save, perhaps, for 
a frustration that he himself was not its prey. However, the Forest held a 
strange wildness.
Irasmus bit his lip as he rode. During the past summer, he had, with infinite 
care, fashioned another wand, and wore it belted on as a soldier would bear a 
sword.
But he did not draw the wand forth on these night rides. Instead, at intervals, 
he reined in his frightened horse and tried to draw a greater measure of power 
to himself by force of will, attempting to see into that dark mass which might 
hold — anything.
It was on the third such excursion that he brought himself to dare what he had 
long thought of but had not been able to force himself to try. He drew the wand, 
and the rain slid along it in a strangely thickened flow as if it had attracted 
the notice of the storm.
He waited until the dying away of the last bout of lightning. Then, as one might 
employ an outsized brush, he used the wand to draw in the air. Thus — and thus — 
and thus —
His mount had stopped its fidgeting and stood as still as a statue. Irasmus's 
own body, however, was so tense with a mixture of boldness and fear that he felt 
nothing at that moment but the wand, keeping all his concentration on what that 
opened in his mind.
The answer he expected came only in part and raggedly, as if it lacked the force 
to manifest as he would have it: an anchorage to a source of power greater than 
he had ever hoped to contact. The wand wavered in his grip, and at last he 
either had to sheath it or drop it. But the last glimmer of power radiance was 
gone.
The mage sat hunched in his saddle. No, he dared not give way to disappointment 
— he still had his resources. The lightning cracked one last great bolt as if to 
strike him down; then it was gone, but it seemed for an instant to leave the 
faintest trace in the night, pointing in his direction.
It could well be a warning but, even more, it might just be the goad to his 
memory, the guide to his way of thought. Where could such a signal lead him?
The wizard's horse came to shivering life under him, and he swung back toward 
the tower, unaware of a snap-light glow near the ground as he cantered past a 
thick clump of rusberries.

* * *

"He is gone." The fury of the storm easily covered that whisper.
Five of them, stinking wet, were huddling together for meager protection from 
the rain. This was not too daring a meeting. It had been learned some time ago 
that, since the invasion of the Forest, the gobbes were no longer so brisk about 
their master's business. Certainly the apparently mindless service rendered by 
the land grubbers might have led their overseers to believe there was no reason 
that their charges need be watched too strictly. Not, however, that any of the 
Valley folk gathered there this night did not hold his or her life in both hands 
for such recklessness, as they well knew.
The meeting was not one of tightly bound kin from a single dun. As the 
farmsteads had been driven into the earth, so had their members' identities 
themselves cracked and broken. Those who had once been looked upon with respect 
might no longer hold any positions but, rather, listen to the suggestions of 
herders or harvest hands. The scales which held the old life had become 
completely unbalanced.
"Why did he come?" The voice was that of a young woman. "Has he been hunting?"
"He would have those demons of his on our trail," growled her neighbor in the 
darkened hollow which hid but did not shelter them.
"What he seeks lies in the Forest. He did not send those misbegotten monsters 
there — that we all know — but they have followed his will since then. The 
Forest — "
"The Forest" — this was a much older voice, that of a man who paused to vent a 
hacking cough before he could continue — "there dwells the Wind. Would you say 
that such a man-beast as he of the tower has dealings with the Great Breath?"
The Wind! Instinctively, from what had been learned in early childhood, their 
heads came up, hoping for that light touch on cheek or brow or the warm rapture 
of being, out of their many separate entities, gathered into a complete living 
whole.
But there came no Wind — only the slanting squalls of rain and the fury which 
raged over the Forest and was all too readily heard.
"Who called the Wind?" Once again the man with the cough posed a question. "Well 
you know who keeps green growth in their fields, food on their table. There has 
been no treading to the nothingness we know done to them!"
"If" — now the young woman spoke once more — "they have some pact with him, then 
why would he strike the maid Sulerna?"
There was a bark of harsh sound, very far from laughter. "Are you, indeed, a 
believer of that tale, sister? We all knew who led evil in upon us. And did not 
that same power take him up and make of him cupbearer and close servant? Yurgy 
is of their blood, and undoubtedly now also of the wizard's. How do we know that 
that boy has not been many times a messenger, offering this term and that to 
tempt the folk of his foster dun? And who dares to swear that Sulerna did not 
look upon him warmly so that he acted as the Dark Ones always do?"
"None has seen him since," suggested another male voice.
The cougher hacked again, then spat. "Perhaps he had served his turn and has 
been sent hence, even as were those gobbes. Motram, here, saw what became of 
them — "
"I saw." The answer was stark, and the memory it evoked was enough to silence 
them for a moment.
Then another spoke. "This asking and not-answering does not get us to what has 
brought us here. Jadgon, why the summons?"
"Are we humans, or are we the spineless worms who bear allegiance to him? Winter 
lies before us! The last of the herds have been slaughtered, and three quarters 
of the smoked meat taken by the gobbes. The devils rake from our baskets the 
long roots and the ball ones, too, which are the best we can harvest now. The 
bushes have been stripped — once again, under the gobbes' watch — and then the 
berry baskets have been taken. Even our dogs have been eaten by those horrors, 
and when has anyone seen a bird — save those raw-headed death eaters that serve 
him? We cannot live on this sick soil and nothing else — unless we are worms, in 
very truth!"
A murmur of agreement rose from all around him.
"Do we then," Jadgon pressed on, fired by the passion of youth and a just cause, 
"go up against him with such weapons as we can shape from flail or scythe?"
"You forget — the Forest." The woman who spoke did so quietly, almost in 
reproof.
"What of the barrier there?" snapped one of her hearers.
"Garstra brought back a full branch of gold plums she found lying within her own 
land, as if borne there by no chance but on purpose. Little Zein came upon a 
pile of more cones than he could carry, though the other boys brought them all 
in. The gobbes entered the Forest to kill, but we have kept the old peace as 
best we can. Who knows what may have noticed that?"
"Do not pin your hopes on Wind swings now! We are lost to the Wind. Or" — and 
now this voice came close to the snarl of one of the long-lost dogs — "perhaps 
it is one more pleasure of the Dark One to tempt us. No, we keep to our plans."
"But who will be holding MidWinter this year?" questioned the woman who had 
spoken of the Forest.
The one afflicted with the cough gave his harsh bark.
"Who? Why, them as had a harvest — that's your answer, Rasmine. And all know who 
that may be!"
"They had to kill most of their herds — "
"Smoked the meat, they did, though — and I didn't see none of it going to the 
Tower as tribute, neither! They picked their fruit clean, and be sure that's 
well put away, too. The wheat fared not so well — but they've had a harvest, 
yes, they have. And 'tis only right that they share it with their neighbors, all 
square and proper. Or maybe we can move them, like, to just give us the whole. 
Now, spread the word — we've plans to be made!" And the disposed scattered to 
carry the word.
 
16
Though the Place of Learning was wrought of very ancient stone, and, outside on 
the mountain peaks, winter raged, there was always warmth in the rooms most 
used, just as provisions seemed to ever be stretched so that no one went 
underfed from the table. Yet this stronghold was not the serene place for study 
and service of the Light that it had been built to be those nigh-uncountable 
centuries ago.
Certainly there was no peace for those who went about their tasks with 
determined energy. From novice to arch-mage, the brothers were still searching, 
but their seeking now lay in a different direction.
Gifford had lost more weight, and his once well-fitted clothing was belted in in 
rolls and creases about him. He had also developed a nervous habit with his 
right hand when he sat, as if he were quickly turning the pages of an unseen 
book.
"They move." The terse statement was made by Fanquer, who had seemed, during 
these past months, to become once more the fighting man he had been in his 
far-off youth — even though he wore no mail nor belted on any sword.
"Yes." That single monosyllable came from Archmage Yost, who had appeared to 
take on something of the stiff negativity of a phantom.
Gifford lifted his head. The seeds of tears were planted in his eyes, and he did 
not try to look straight upon any now gathered there.
"No choice." The old archivist's voice was as broken as if he stood by the death 
stone of all he had cherished most. "He has tried — through the Night Steps — to 
invade us three times. Now he returns to his earliest plan, which was hardly 
more than an idle fancy when first he thought of it. It must have come home to 
him that Styrmir, in the end, may answer only to those of its oldest breed. 
Thus, he has determined to have one such to stand at his right hand."
"Only there shall be two," corrected the woman Yvori. "I say to you now, sisters 
and brothers in the Light, that if one of the twain be taken by Irasmus, the 
second must go free — and that means only to the Forest."
Harwice was pacing back and forth along the wide stone hearth. "The Forest may 
not welcome — "
"Painter," Yvori interrupted him with a smile, "do not let your fears color you 
a picture of the future in the somber tones of the storm cloud, without a thread 
of gold from the returning sun! We of this place have pursued the nurturing of 
our talents through instruction. However, there are those, and always have been, 
who are born with the gifts we must strive hard to develop. I say this: the time 
of death and blight has run too long. We were told by Her Who Calls the Wind 
that only a people can produce those of their own kind to save them. Now the day 
arrives when Irasmus will act — but we, also, shall be ready. We cannot save the 
boy child — the dark mage has woven his web too well. But for a girl child, 
there is the Moon Gift."
Gifford's sorrow still filled his eyes. "Sister, it is well understood that, at 
times, your own powers wax in a different fashion from that which is taught 
here. What do you plan?"
She who was known as the Dreamgate, did not answer him — rather, she asked him a 
question. "Can dreaming still reach into that place?"
The loremaster lifted his hands in a gesture of despair. "I have tried — "
"You have tried, but what we would do is of women's secrets, and for that I call 
upon my sisters here." Four of the cloaked figures moved silently forward. "When 
the time comes, Gifford, you shall dream, for that is your talent, but power 
shall be added. It would seem, from what we have heard, that these poor wretches 
of the valley plan a MidWinter feast. Irasmus allows this because he is aware 
that, at such a time, the remnants of the valley folk's powers are stronger, and 
he can milk them for himself. Now he wants all the power he can summon; also, 
his slaves have played into his hands — "
"You mean this plan of theirs to sack Firthdun during the feasting?" Fanquer 
asked. "Irasmus would allow that — yes, I can see why. For, with them under his 
hand at last, he can get this unfortunate whom he will fashion into being his 
shadow and his lesser self."
"They move in two days' time." Yost broke his silence.
"And together we shall be ready to do what must be done," returned Yvori calmly. 
"Remember you: two deaths will pay, but that which is so dearly bought shall be 
hallowed by the Light."
Thus the scholars agreed, prepared — and waited.

* * *

The Wind had not yet driven snow to blanket the countryside, yet the frozen 
earth mounted a chill assault against all who moved. And tonight there were many 
who tramped stolidly across the ravaged and befrosted land. Man, woman, and 
child, each carried armloads of wood and baskets of now-edible dried grass. This 
year, they bore no sheaves of wheat, nor any other stuff which had once 
represented Styrmir's wealth. But what they could bring, they did.
However, there was another group, made up of men and a woman or two who had been 
so hardened by the death of loved ones that pity had leached out of them. These, 
too, headed for Firthdun, committed to what they would do there.
The grim party had the weapons its members had labored on in secret. These were 
borne openly, since the gobbes, who hated the cold, would be huddling around the 
fire in the tower courtyard. The creatures would be holding a feast of their 
own. Those who moved against the hated dun had already put on the spit there a 
surly old boar, last of its species, that they had tracked, caught, and found 
rations for a week.

* * *

In Firthdun, Grandsire and Haraska stood together. They looked carefully into 
every face, not only to make sure that all the kin would understand what was 
said but also in order that each countenance would linger in memory if, after 
tonight, it was seen among the clan no more.
Sulerna, her burden now almost more than she could bear, did not watch the two 
elders. Her sister-in-law Ethera's time was not yet by a week or so more, the 
women guessed; but Sulerna's pains had started in the late afternoon. Though, 
when each struck, the girl chewed a rag that had been steeped in an herbal 
potion, she felt with each passing hour as if a giant hand had picked her up and 
was striving to tear her apart.
"They come to kill." It was Elias who broke the silence. "Have they not said it, 
even to our faces, that we shall not prosper while they die from want? Our women 
— "
"Elias," Haraska remonstrated, "remember, your hate, much less the shedding of 
blood, feeds that fiend who has lived off us for so long. Even now he squats in 
his web, thinking how he will use this time — and us — to foster greater and 
longer-lasting violence. We have had the dream-send, distorted and broken though 
that was." The old woman paused and pressed her hands to her breast.
"If blood there be" — now those hands clenched themselves into fists — "then He 
shall win, and the Light here may go out forever."
Such a warning was not well received; the young men stirred but did not hasten 
to perform their usual patrol. White-faced, Jacklyn moved for the first time in 
months toward Sulerna. For a time, he neither touched her nor looked at her, 
but, when she haltingly arose, he was there, his shoulder under her hand to 
steady her. So thin had the boy become that she could feel his bones. Jacklyn 
was a stranger, she thought sadly, yet she would accept all he had to give.
The ragged crew of attackers broke through the slight defenses of the dun. 
Grandsire gave the signal, and even the smallest of the children made no sound 
as they passed through the wide door into the open. Several invaders — those 
with the best weapons — hurried to ring the little ones and to threaten them 
with gestures and shouts. Meanwhile, the rest of the contingent found and 
brought forth the one farm cart for which the clan still had a horse and quickly 
harnessed the frightened beast. Then, keeping the captives under guard, their 
fellow sufferers raided Firthdun, as quickly and expertly as the gobbes had 
stripped their own homes of every stalk of wheat and curl of wool.
Those of the homestead saw the cart roll off, while behind it trudged the women 
and the older men, laden down with all they could heap into the sacks they had 
brought. It was only then that the leader of the raiding party gave his orders.
"MidWinter, neighbor Firth Mother," he sneered. "Surely you do not hold apart 
from us on this night. We are all your kin, near or far born — and this is the 
time when kin gather!"
"That is so." The very quietness of Haraska's reply daunted the mocker into 
momentary silence. "But, Goodman Viras, we have among us one who cannot march to 
any man's orders." She pointed to Sulerna. The gesture was easily seen, for 
already torches had been lit to make sure that all in Styrmir did at last suffer 
alike.
"She carries Yurgy's get!" The man was bold again. "The Dark Lord had some use 
for him in his time; perhaps such will also be true for her. Jansaw" — he 
addressed a young lout who looked burly enough to have pulled the cart and all 
its stolen goods by himself — "get you that barrower, dump the slut in, and 
we'll be off."
Jacklyn cried out and tried to stand between Sulerna and the men but was 
battered aside. She, doubled in pain and refusing to utter any sound before 
these worse than gobbes, did not see him again.
This year, the MidWinter celebration was not, it appeared, to be held near the 
ominous tower. For some reason not known to the celebrants, the flames of the 
great fire were rising not far from the edge of the Forest as the party with 
their captives reached the milling crowd.
Sulerna roused enough to realize where she lay. Haraska had told of broken 
dreams, and the girl herself had had one which she knew she must not share but 
obey as if it were an order. Perhaps it was one — a command from Her who Rode 
the Clouds.
The revelers had smashed open the casks from the dun and were busy dipping out, 
even with bare hands, the last of the strong cider. Meanwhile, another group had 
gathered about the cart, and now there came a scream from the horse as the beast 
went down under a lightning storm of badly sharpened knives.
Those raiders who had constituted themselves guards began to slip away to join 
the mass about the wagon and to help in butchering the luckless occupant of its 
shafts.
Sulerna could no longer stifle a small cry. Then she realized that she lay on 
two of the blankets from Haraska's bed and that her mother and Widow Larlarn 
were kneeling beside her.
So caught up was the girl in the blasting onset of the worst pangs she had yet 
felt that she was unaware the tumult of the nightmarish merrymaking was dying 
down. Harsh growls from gobbes were answered by cries of pain, and straight to 
the knot of women gathered about the girl in labor came Irasmus.
Sulerna's mother cried out and strove to place her body between him and her 
helpless daughter, to no avail. The dark mage gave the merest flick of his wand 
in the woman's direction, and, as if struck by an immense fist, she was smashed 
to the ground.
Sulerna cried out again, partly from pain, but more from knowing what now lay 
before her. Widow Larlarn was busy over her, but the agony was such that Sulerna 
was aware of nothing but its red horror. Then, seemingly from far off, she heard 
a squalling cry, and a terrible silence enfolded her.
She opened her eyes. The fire was blazing high, and the gobbes were leaping 
around it; but Irasmus had moved closer. In his hands he held what he had seized 
from Widow Larlarn, and now he shouted. "See what I hold, all of you? This one 
shall be as my shadow, holding fast to my every wish. You shall look upon him as 
if he were my son, indeed — "
Now — oh, now! Thank the Moon, whose beauteous face, though tarnished by the 
smoke from the fire, was yet bright beyond, they had set her down in this, the 
very edge of the White Lady's light. Haraska leaned close over her, and the old 
woman's breath was warm on her face.
"Get you gone, heart-daughter. We shall do what we can to cover you."
Sulerna was still encased in pain, and she well knew that she had lost a great 
amount of blood. But there was still hope left — and life. Then hands raised her 
and, though she had to bend half over, she could stumble. Jacklyn — only his 
small, hunger-bitten body was enough to keep her moving.
Irasmus — in the distance, she could hear his voice, and he was chanting now, 
intoning over the newborn child.
On, with the blood drabbling her legs, and pain, always pain. Then — the loom of 
the tree fringe. In that moment, a hunting howl broke from the demons behind. 
Blood! The girl knew only too well that the liquid life drew them more quickly — 
and implacably — than any other spoor.
She staggered at a push from Jacklyn. "On!" the boy urged. "On!"
But his support was no longer her aid, for he was gone from her side. Sulerna 
fell to her knees. On — yes, even if she must crawl! And crawl she did. She was 
in the edge of the Forest itself when she heard her nephew cry out, "By the Wind 
— !"
Then came a scream so wrenching that it somehow gave the girl the impetus to 
worm her way between the vast trees, striving to protect what still rested in 
her belly from any harm.
Time was one for her; the past was gone. Only purpose was left, and that drove 
her fiercely among bushes, around the trunks of trees. The girl held to some of 
this forest growth when the birth pangs began to strike hard again.
Light showed ahead — not the hot wicked caper of flame but cool as the gliding 
footsteps of the moon. Moaning, Sulerna drew herself into an opening which 
circled about a great Stone — a Stone which beckoned, beckoned. Somehow the girl 
pushed and pulled her unwieldy body almost to its base.
Then came the Wind, and the pain lessened as if it were now walled away from 
her. But she was feeling once again the tearing coming of another new life, and 
this time she could not even raise her hands in futile aid for herself.
Another cry sounded, small, alone. Sulerna's hand was able at last to find the 
birth-slick body and try to hold it to her breast, but the effort was too great. 
In that moment, the baby's hand moved, and tiny fingers grazed the rock.
The Wind — the blessed Wind — greater, more wonderful than the girl had ever 
dreamed it could be — curved around her exhausted, dying body…
A tall shadow moved into the glade, and the Wind welcomed — welcomed and gifted 
— its owner. And Hansa, holding her own small son on her hip, reached down a 
great fur-covered hand and lifted the crying human infant to rest against one of 
her ample breasts.
For a moment, the Sasqua female stood staring at the Stone. The body at her 
feet… well, when this child of strange birth grew, she would pay the rites for 
her mother who was. But now the Forest's daughter was the baby's mother who is — 
and would continue to be.
 
 
17
"Sassie — Sassie! One of the night wolves has been teaching you tricks again!" 
Hands on hips, the girl stood looking around, though there was little to be seen 
but the boles of trees, which towered to the skies, and, here and there, a 
moss-grown rock protruding from the earth.
"Sassieeee — " Purposefully, the seeker caught Wind tone in that call. She knew 
that the small Sasqua female could not defy one who was ready to use Wind search 
for her, even though to do so was cheating in the game they played so often.
Reluctantly, the she-cub crawled out of a really perfect hiding place, where the 
brown of her fur had blended so completely with the tree bark as to seem a part 
of it. She dragged her feet as she came, and her brows were drawn together in a 
Sasqua scowl of pettishness.
The young woman held out her arms. Sassie lost her touch of temper, coming 
eagerly to be hugged and petted and told that she was a fine big girl but that 
it was not right to run and hide from Falice, who had been hunting her nearly 
half the morning.
"Sassie hide — you hunt." The cubling grinned. "You no hide good" — here she 
laid her hand on the girl's bare arm and smoothed it — "skin too white, too easy 
see. Need fur, you!"
Falice laughed. "Fur would feel good when the winter comes," she admitted. 
During the years she had spent with Hansa, she had, after much experimentation, 
learned to cover at least part of her slender form after a fashion. She now wore 
a kilt of twisted and tied grasses, trimmed here and there with a purple flower; 
but the rest of her body only the Wind warmed or cooled.
Her hair was dark here in the shadow of the trees but apt, in the few patches of 
glade-sun, to show a gleam of lighter, near-golden strands. Its waist-falling 
length had also been interwoven and tied, that she might not be scalped by the 
reach of any low-hanging tree limb or high-growing bush.
A garland of the pale-lavender flowers, which were to be found at this season 
alone, swung about her neck, just low enough to cover her high, small breasts. 
As she stood, clad so and holding the true child of the Forest in her arms, she 
looked half woods-possessed herself.
The Sasqua kept no records of the passing years. When Falice could hardly keep 
to her feet and would cry for Hansa if a bush or tree trunk came between them, 
there had been Peeper to share her life. But he grew much faster than she, and 
the day had come when he had gone off to join the other young males. However, 
when his roster sister saw him at intervals, their bond of shared childhood 
still held.
Then Ophan had arrived, but, by that time, Hansa's human foundling was a big 
girl — one at least large and mature enough to help care for the Sasqua female's 
second son. Again, the seasons had flowed swiftly until he, also, went to seek 
his own kind after the way of the Forest's sons. And now Sassie was here — when 
not in hiding!
Falice herself had no desire to go too far from the temporary camps the 
she-Sasqua constructed, perhaps for the use of a night or sometimes for more 
days than the girl had fingers. She could not imagine a world in which her 
foster mother did not exist. Hansa had cuddled her smooth-skinned cubling when 
small, praised her when larger for learning the lore of the Forest (Falice drank 
in such so quickly, the Woodswoman was certain the girl was favored by the very 
Wind), and taught her the ways of the Folk, both the right and not right.
Each Sasqua (Falice had never tried to count how many of them she had known in 
her season-circles in the Forest) had a certain portion of the woodland for his 
or her own. None intruded upon another's holding without a sending through the 
Wind — and then only for a special purpose. That the human continued to share 
Hansa's territory was strange, but she herself was stranger, though all the 
woods kin had accepted her peaceably from the first.
Some boundaries she never crossed. In one direction, the trees appeared to thin, 
and the Wind warning against going that way had been very sharp and clear the 
one time she had thought to explore westward. The Forest held other strange 
places, too. The girl had been shown one long ago by Peeper where the rocks did 
not lie scattered but were rather set to rub sides with one another, leaving 
only a hole for an opening. A sense of unease had kept her from going further, 
though Peeper had stepped boldly into that gap and snarled a mock challenge into 
the darkness beyond. This stone stack was not a thing of his people, and whoever 
had fitted it together was long gone.
However, when Falice had grown taller and her breasts curved enough to be seen, 
there had come a night when Hansa had stroked and petted her as if the human 
girl were still a cub. Then the Forest woman had used Wind speech, carefully, so 
she would be understood.
"You are no longer a little one, my fosterling. I have seen you this day wash 
yourself at the spring, and there was fear in you. But that is not needful. 
There has been a change in your body that all of us who can bear cublings know. 
It would seem that this time is now also upon you. Therefore, you must go apart, 
for you are not of the Sasqua, and our ways are not the ways of all the world. 
This night, you must go to the Wind Stone and there be accepted by the Great One 
as full woman — for such is the custom of your people, Falice."
The girl had twisted her hands together. Yes, she had known fear that morning 
when she had gone to bathe at the spring and had found that which was evidence — 
or so she thought — of a hurt she had not been aware she suffered.
Even as Hansa had finished speaking, the Wind had closed about the girl as 
support and guide, and she had had no chance to ask once more the two questions 
she had posed so many times, to have only evasive answers from her foster 
mother: Who were her people, and from whence had she come?
But, just as the Wind caught her in a closer embrace, the knowledge she had long 
sought began to unfold in her mind. This did not take the form of a memory. 
Instead, she was being shown a picture, and, watching that image instead of her 
path, Falice went steadily forward.
A land without trees, except for a few here and there; open spaces; strange 
pilings of stones, not unlike the one to which Peeper had led her, set amid 
those cleared patches. The girl could not see clearly — it was as if she looked 
through a space of time (that was an odd thought) — but she did view people who 
were like her, save that they covered their bodies with clothing that looked 
much better made than anything she had been able to construct. There were also 
brightness, flowers, and the song of the Wind, so clear and joyous that she 
longed to run forward into that different, though beautiful, world. Instead, the 
Breath of Life brought her to a glade.
Many clusters of rocks were to be found in the Forest: some standing, others 
lying, a rare few containing many stones. But none of the groupings Falice had 
seen was kin to the one that faced her here.
The Stone was taller than she — perhaps only the tallest of the Sasqua could 
have ever stood equal to it. Partway up the side was a round hole nearly as big 
as Hansa's two sturdy fists clasped together. The rock was light gray and 
strangely bare of any crust of moss or trail of vine. The most curious thing 
about it was the sparks of light — of every color she had ever seen in bush, 
flower, tree, or beast — that bespangled its surface. And these were in motion, 
as if they were fireflies that used the Stone as a hive.
The Wind, which had brought her here, withdrew. She felt its presence; but it 
had ceased all sending to her, for what she would learn here would not be of its 
teaching.
Slowly Falice went forward. Twilight was gathering fast, and the sparks on the 
rock face appeared to adjust themselves, becoming brighter. The hole in the 
center remained dead black, as though a tight cover had been fitted over it.
At last, feeling a little dazzled by the constant play of the lights, the girl 
dared to raise her hand warily and touch the Stone. It was warm under her 
fingers, almost as if it were the living flesh of a hand that had been reached 
forward to draw her closer.
The hole held her now. She wanted to see what lay hidden within its miniature 
night. Placing both palms flat against the Stone, the girl pressed herself yet 
higher. There came more warmth.
She rose on tiptoe, her right hand moving toward that shutter of darkness. Now 
the Wind rose again, enfolding her yet not forbidding her to do what she wished.
Falice rested her forehead against the top edge of the hole and stared into its 
depths.

* * *

In his cell-like room, the youth stretched his arms, then winced. Irasmus never 
used the power of the wand on him; however, the wizard had a cane capable of 
raising wheals that sometimes took days to fade. Two candles stood sentinel at 
either side of the narrow table at which the boy sat, and they burnt with the 
unusual brilliance of all those the Master dealt out to him. Between the 
candlesticks lay a book, opened to a page whereon diagrams were drawn in red and 
black. These figures were also emphasized at their points of meetings by 
lettering the youth could read but which made no sense.
In fact, very little of the life within the Dark Lord's stronghold made much 
sense to Fogar. The youth was not slow of wit; at times, he believed he 
understood more than the mage guessed. Though of land-grubber origin, he was not 
sent out to labor in the nearly barren fields. Instead, Irasmus had early taught 
the boy his letters and continued his education — sometimes driving home key 
concepts with the cane — to this day. However, as Fogar had become inescapably 
aware (though he kept his insight a secret), the Master was deliberately 
blocking him from understanding the various spells contained in the sorcerous 
books and rites. The unwilling apprentice saw patterns drawn on the floor and 
heard arcane mutterings, but, for all he could comprehend, Irasmus might have 
been one of his own raw-headed birds cawing in place of speech.
The gobbes were no more stupid than the boy, though Irasmus seemed to look upon 
them as tools and weapons. Certainly they never took part in the curiously 
aborted ceremonies Fogar was called upon to attend. But there was no way to 
learn from them, either, except by the same means he had learned with the 
Master: watching, slyly and carefully, while guarding against any self-betrayal.
Fogar despised the demon slaves, whose appearance, smell, and behavior were 
revolting, though his earliest memory was of being fostered by them. But their 
constant threats of ill usage had long ago taught him to play the 
broken-spirited yokel with them.
The Valley folk, who seemed even more like mindless beasts than the gobbes, 
appeared to be afraid of him. No reason existed for such fear that he had ever 
been able to discover, but then this tower was entirely too full of secrets. 
Thus, though he was always surrounded, Fogar was alone — except for the dreams.
Hastily the boy damped down memory. When the Master sat before his dusky globe, 
he might well believe he had the whole of the land and the lives of all who 
lived therein spread out like a map for his inspection. But Fogar alone had the 
dreams!
Again his mind nearly betrayed him. Bringing to its fore the action of which he 
had dreamed last night, he concentrated deeply — to no avail. Fiercely he 
refused to be distracted, and again he looked down at the page of the book.
Only — the youth licked his lips nervously — was Irasmus again playing some 
trick to test his so-called apprentice? Perhaps he knew the boy had tested him 
from time to time in small ways! Slowly Fogar tapped the nail of his forefinger 
on the tabletop in a certain pattern, which to the uninformed might express 
nothing more than impatience.
No — he could not sense the darkness that always clung about Irasmus and, to a 
lesser extent, to the gobbes. Taking the chance that he was not under 
observation, Fogar bent his head a little to translate the crabbed printing on a 
portion of the drawing. Yes! It was so, and it was like opening a door — if only 
to a crack's width for an instant. Irasmus had, indeed, deliberately garbled the 
writing on this diagram when he had directed his pupil's attention to it two 
days ago — a typical ploy in the mage's learn-this-but-no-more method of 
teaching.
The boy's discovery was like thirsting and being offered a full cup of clean 
water. Still, he kept up his pretense, frowning and muttering as if totally 
perplexed. However, having seen to the true heart of this spell, Fogar felt like 
a mason who had been given a pile of perfectly squared stones and an order to 
build.
That rush of enthusiasm lasted but a moment. He did not jerk up his head, as his 
body desired, for he had no reason to stare at the wall above his pallet. But he 
felt a — presence — its attention centered upon him.
Games — always playing games! The youth had seated himself here deliberately 
some hours ago; no one would wonder that he was now ready for bed. Blowing out 
every light on the first set of candlebranches and all but one of the flames on 
the second, Fogar undressed. He then washed at the large bowl of water, though 
his attention was always seeking the intruder. Finally, knowing no way to make 
that shadow reveal itself, he lay down and pulled the coarse sheet up over him. 
His last act, which he dreaded but which he knew had to be done, was to blow out 
the final candle. Then he waited. He had no idea what sort of attacker lurked, 
but he had certain skills he could call upon in self-defense — or so he hoped.

* * *
The sparkles in the Stone were flashing as they raced to outline the hole, and 
Falice saw that she was the object of their actions. However, they did not aid 
in lifting the barrier against her sight. Instead, they formed a thick border 
around the opening, and the girl did not really need the Wind to tell her that 
this circle was being drawn for her protection.
Inside the hole there was a vague stirring, though more than movement could not 
be seen. The girl had the sensation that her vision was being drawn out and out, 
as though whatever lay within that opening — or on its other side — was a great 
distance away.
Then the curtain dropped, and Falice saw a building of stone blocks nearly as 
tall as one of the Forest trees. This was remarkable enough, but it was 
encompassed by a land such as she would not have believed existed. The ground 
was sour and held little life; here and there a misshapen plant showed but no 
trees. It looked full of unclean death.
Mercifully, her glimpse of that accursed place did not last long. She had a 
moment of light-headedness, such as might have come from being whirled about by 
the Wind in one of its less-generous moods. Then she was being drawn toward that 
high-reaching building and to one window in which showed a faint but beckoning 
gleam of light. She found herself in a room, small and harsh with its bare stone 
walls and scanty furniture — but also occupied.
Falice's view closed in on a table whereon lay a square object. This she did not 
recognize until her attendant Wind supplied the word "book," with the 
explanation that in such a form were records kept in this land which knew not 
the Wind, with its all-holding memory.
A being (man, said the Wind in her mind) sat looking at that book. The girl drew 
a deep breath of wonder. She knew Hansa and the deer folk, night wolves, and 
tree cats, as well as the trees themselves; but here was one who was like 
herself! Had she, at long last, found her people? Her lips parted, but she did 
not utter the sound she wanted to make. For, almost as quickly as she had 
realized her kinship to this stranger, was she aware of a creeping evil that 
seemed to ooze from the walls of his room, carpet the bare floor, taint the very 
air he breathed. This was a place to which the Wind could not reach — a cursed 
place, like the land outside.
The man was, she believed, a youth — perhaps close to herself in years. When he 
stripped off his garments, she thought that at least two of his wiry, slender 
body would be needed to match the bulk of Peeper. Cautiously, she cast forth a 
tendril of the Wind sense that had been hers almost from birth.
This dwelling was evil, but the man she watched — no, he was not truly a part of 
that darkness, not yet. She sensed that the time might come when he would make a 
choice and perhaps turn, of his own will, to the Dark. At the same time she 
realized this, a fierce denial arose in her that such might be so.
The girl could not send this kin the Wind to strengthen and cleanse him of any 
shadow of evil. In any event, the final choice must be his alone. Yet there were 
ways of freshening his world with the Breath of Life, even if its full power 
could not reach him. She knew his face now, as well as Hansa's, and she could 
wish him well each day; for so did the Wind carry comfort to those who were 
troubled. At last the stranger put out the thing that made light (another 
wonder), and his room was in night. Falice, a faint ache between her eyes, drew 
back from the hole, which was now black once more.
Taking a step backward, the girl suddenly stumbled and fell. Her approach to the 
Stone had uncovered part of what lay there. Twice she had served with Hansa when 
they had come across one of her foster mother's kind, long dead, in the Forest. 
The bones were laid, to the smallest bits, in their proper places; then the doer 
of honor called down the Wind's protection.
Why so much had come upon her this night Falice could not have said. However, 
she gathered the bones and laid them straight and, as she worked, she became 
aware that the frame she put into order was like her own — it had belonged to no 
Sasqua.
Carefully she set the bones in their places, then stood while the Wind whirled 
about her and the sparks of light on the face of the Stone flashed.
"Go with the Wind, stranger." Falice repeated the proper words. "Let your way be 
ever that of the summer breeze, and gather you what you will of the Light."

* * *
Each full moon time thereafter, Falice found her way back to the Stone. Some 
nights it had scenes for her to see, and many were sickening in what they 
showed. But she understood it was needful for her to view such horrors, in order 
to know the nature of the enemy.
This day was Sassie's now, and the two of them were playing the cubling's 
favorite game. However, tonight the moon would rise full, and once again Falice 
might go adventuring.
 
18
The council room was untouched by the passing years, but those gathered in that 
chamber — all their arts of energy hoarding notwithstanding — showed differences 
in both condition of body and level of vitality.
The change was most apparent in Gifford. His scholar's stoop was more marked, 
the wisps of hair escaping from beneath his cap were faded and thinned, and any 
hint of the wonted good humor and satisfaction with life had been wiped away 
from his now down-drawn features.
"How long?" The archivist's voice, once so assured, revealed a loss of vibrancy.
The archmage did not look up from the invisible lines he was sketching on the 
tabletop with his forefinger.
"Who can tell? How long does it take to corrupt a man?" Now — or so it seemed to 
Harwice the artist — the figure traced by Yost on the dark surface suggested a 
tower. "That he has held out so long — indeed, from childhood — against 
absorption argues a strong inner core, or — "
"Aid of a sort, yet not from us!" flashed Fanquer. Of all the mages, the former 
soldier betrayed the least change. "Brother" — he spoke directly to Gifford — 
"did any of your surest-sent dreams arrive unmangled by Irasmus's wards?
Have any of us taken a further hand in the game? No, I think that someone else 
is making his move — or hers. It was never well to try the temper of that one 
who commands the forest Wind."
"She has her own ways," stated Gertta. "Remember, though — it was through Her we 
were assured that the second of the Old Blood reached safety. The maid is 
untaught, as we would reckon teaching, but she has lived freely in the arms of 
the Wind, hearing always its voice.
"You spoke of dreams. The Wind deals with visions also, and Falice dreams 
without knowing why. Fogar, for his part, is crammed with knowledge — perhaps 
too full crammed, as the Dark One may discover! The boy's learning is like our 
own; while his sister's knowing is the memory of the Wind, for she rides the 
Breath of the World, and it remembers, always and all things."
"Why does Irasmus persist in his dealings with the unholy?" one of the others 
ventured. "He still tries, now and again, to break through our barriers and 
rummage among the forbidden levels."
"Because, I think," the archmage answered, "that that yet-Darker One, who might 
wish to use him, has either been busied elsewhere or is playing with him, 
testing to see how strong a talent has been shadow snared."
"There is also the matter of the hidden ones." Gertta, spoke again. "The Power 
that dwells in the Lightless Land is mighty, but have we not all known from of 
old that a single small error in laying a spell will not only break it but 
perhaps also rebound to the discomfort of the caster?
"Our rogue mage is aware that he has still within his slave hold another of the 
talent-blessed Old Blood. That he has not sought her out is possibly because he 
thinks to keep her in reserve for some final purpose. He is puffed up with all 
he withdrew from the land; but he was too impetuous at first, greedily seizing 
all he could summon near him.
"Do not forget" — Gertta paused for emphasis, her dark eyes sweeping the 
assembled scholars — "that, half a season ago, the gobbe Karsh was struck down 
and his broken body left just outside the Forest. A force that can destroy a 
demon is not to be overlooked! Irasmus felt so, too; and he made a great issue 
of that slaying, beating the countryside to bring out any unknown foes who might 
still lie hidden, though he found nothing but the ever-thinning ranks of his 
slaves. He did not attempt the Forest — and we all know why."
Fanquer sat back a little in his chair, and his lips twitched. "The Shadow Lord 
flinched from a shadow," the old soldier remarked with some complacency.
"He will find Her no shadow, but a too solid wall of defense about Her Forest 
and its people, if he hurls himself once more against Her power!" snapped 
Harwice.
While this debate was in progress, Gifford had seemed not to be listening. 
Instead, he had drawn from one of his cloak pockets a roll of parchment he now 
opened with care, for it was crumbling at the edges.
"Two have talked of dreams." The loremaster spoke as if he voiced his thoughts 
aloud, but his words revealed he had heard his fellows' discussion. "There will 
be a new dreaming. We have striven, over the years, to reach Fogar, and we have 
managed this much — he inwardly shrinks from what he might become. Moreover, 
Irasmus, ever jealous of his own, does not share knowledge easily. Now we shall 
awaken in his captive a new talent. And wherefore?"
Gifford pulled from another pocket a stylus that he now brandished as if it were 
a wand to rival Irasmus's own. "Because our one-time brother, while he has 
seemed a patient man, will not settle for less than all: a full confrontation 
with That which he serves. He believes the Great Dark One to be generous to its 
servants — though he does not see himself as a minion but, rather, as companion 
or even master of the Nether Lord he thinks to call up. It has been a long time 
since he made any move toward that goal, but we shall touch him with a spark 
that will set his ardor once more alight."
Yost had leaned forward a little, his attention centered upon the outspread 
roll. "The script of Jastor!" the archmage exclaimed, his voice deep with 
reverence. All around the council chamber, indrawn breaths of wonder greeted his 
revelation.
"Our tireless searching" — the archivist gently used the stylus to smooth the 
scroll flatter — "has at last brought us a key which, if we can employ it 
properly, will open a new door for Fogar — and stir Irasmus into action. This 
knowledge shall be used tonight by all of us in concert, for our dreaming must 
be powered by the strength of our united brotherhood to breach the deadening 
barrier about Styrmir."

* * *
Fogar set aside the goblet that had been brought to him by a slave. He also 
cleaned the plate that had been left with it, but his eyes were still occupied 
with the cup and the liquor that swirled darkly within it. He smiled inwardly, 
so that his understanding could not be detected by any who spied on him. Ten 
days ago Irasmus had ordered this particular beverage be served to him… The boy 
frowned. Why had he been then — and why was he still — so sure that this new 
addition to his board meant no good?
He caught at an elusive wisp of memory — of a moon-silver shape standing beside 
his pallet, a form he could only "see" when his eyes were closed. Hard upon its 
appearance, a strange scent had swept into his nostrils, growing fouler, as if 
putrid ichor were being forced under his very nose.
The night following these phenomena, the goblet had been newly included with his 
evening meal. It had at first, as he had raised it to his lips, smelled of a 
mild herb. Then, all at once, the boy had nearly strangled at the corpse-rot 
stench rising from the cup.
He had accepted the warning — why, he was still not completely sure. Yet the 
silver one who had come to him had radiated an aura of peace and goodwill, even 
personal concern, for him, Fogar, Demon-Son.
What Irasmus had intended the murky drink to do to him his apprentice could not 
guess. However, the next day he had carefully assumed the fear and befuddlement 
of one hardly above a valley clod in learning when he was ordered to assist in a 
minor spell, and he understood very well that the wizard was frustrated by his 
awkwardness. Irasmus had stopped the boy's recital of the incantation less than 
halfway through and had, instead, set him to work with the gobbes. The creatures 
were overseeing the digging, by the former farmers, of a large hole in the side 
of a hill — a business that had begun two days previously. The Master had given 
no reason for this occupation; but the demons, plying their ever-ready lashes, 
had kept the wraithlike Valley folk — men, women (and Fogar) — steadily at work. 
Nor had Irasmus summoned him that night for any obscure instruction.
Twice more the goblet had appeared with its ill-smelling drink, and each time 
the youth had managed to feed its contents to the one gullet in the room 
guaranteed to relish a foul feast — the garderobe.
Now, as Fogar retired to his pallet, his head was full of questions; yet he knew 
no one he could trust to answer them with the truth. A long time had passed — a 
number of seasons, really — since the Dark Lord had shown interest or enthusiasm 
for any project as he had for this delving into the ground. He was like a man 
seeking a fabled treasure, sure he was on the verge of its discovery.
When the first layer of soil had been listlessly shoveled away by the feeble 
laborers, a section of earth had been revealed in which were imbedded a number 
of stones, some cemented by clay to each other. These the gobbes ordered to be 
sorted out from the loads of earth and placed to one side. The only feature that 
distinguished them from ordinary stones, as far as Fogar could see, was that 
these rocks were flat as plates and generally all of a size.
Irsamus had actually ridden out to view this labor late on the third day, 
spending some time at the pile of stones but neither dismounting to examine them 
closely nor having any held up for his inspection. The boy noticed that the 
gobbes did not touch the rock discs either, and that they inspected their 
carefully raised pile only from a distance.
Fogar smiled. Very well — Irasmus had his secrets, a number of which his 
apprentice had quietly uncovered over the years. The boy knew that, for all his 
discoveries — and these were not a few — he could never confront the dark mage 
openly. Still, he took a certain pride each time he managed to acquire another 
piece of the puzzle. This game of stones certainly had a very important meaning 
for Irasmus; thus, it must be Fogar's part to listen, look — and learn.
He stretched out, weary from the steady labor the gobbes had commanded that he 
alone do — picking of the rock discs out of the earth-winnowing basket and 
delivering them to the mound of their fellows.
His arms cramping at the memory, Fogar gave a final stretch to ease his 
still-taut muscles. For a moment, as he raised his hands — why did he still have 
the feeling of hefting weight even when he no longer sorted the strange stones? 
But he was too tired to wonder long as sleep came quickly.

* * *
It was moon night. Silently as one of the White Lady's own beams, Falice slipped 
into the glade and, parting the ferns at its base, faced the Stone. She wondered 
if this would be a "seeing night"; however, of that the Wind never advised her. 
Still, she went determinedly to the monolith, laid her hands against its warmth 
and comfort, and looked once more at the curtained hole. Excitement caught her — 
yes, the sparks of light were gathering to form the frame. She might see again, 
only — ah, Wind, let the vision not be some horror such as she had been forced 
to witness before! The girl knew the evil master of the tower very well — not 
only by sight but also by spirit — for his thoughts as well as his actions were 
borne to her in snatches by the Wind.
The young man interested her the most. She knew that she had once been sent to 
warn him by revealing the nature of the vile and dangerous mixture she had seen 
the mage concoct; she was aware, too, that the youth had seen her — at least in 
part — on that occasion. Then, twice more, at the Wind's bidding, she had 
pointed her will toward certain books and planted in his mind the need for 
seeking those volumes out.
Tonight? This was different! Falice tried to pull herself back from the Stone 
and discovered that it would not let her go. Instantly she knew, as the 
captive's tower chamber was revealed to her, that she was not the only visitor 
this night. A person? Some shadow of the Dark sent to keep watch on him? No, 
this guest was an extension of power, such as the Forest's fosterling knew the 
Wind could produce. Slowly it came, not in full gust as the True Breath, and it 
seemed to find some obstruction to its entry. But — Falice drew a deep breath of 
wonder — about that force clung such an aura of Tightness, of Light, and of the 
answering of a need, that feeling it was like meeting the Wind in another guise.
Straightway, without thinking, the girl gathered of the Wind about her what it 
would allow and mind-hurled herself through the Stone's window.
Falice experienced a strange shock of contact, as if two things, different in 
themselves but sprung from the same rooting, had met. Then a glow of light 
appeared above the sleeping youth. His arms had lain limply across his body, but 
now as she watched, though she was sure he still slept, they arose.
The hands of the dreamer came together to form a cup and, out of the air from no 
source the girl could see, there poured, as if it were falling water, a 
blue-green light. Though this liquid luminescence cascaded into the boy's palms, 
his wrists were also braceleted by glowing rings of the same force; then the 
radiance appeared to sink into his flesh and vanish. At that instant, her slight 
link with the other power was broken. The Wind whistled about her, and she knew 
that what had been worked for here had been wrought: into the hands of that one 
who was like her, yet unlike, had been placed either a gift or a weapon.
* * *
Irasmus had been staring at the murky globe before him, but his real attention 
was elsewhere. From his coming to Styrmir, he had laid down defenses. Some of 
those tactics he had acquired in the Place of Learning; though these were not to 
be trusted, since they had been shaped with the mental tools honed in the 
storehouse of the scholars. However, the talents of the valley folk upon which 
he had been battening so long now made Irasmus feel that his own powers were far 
greater than those of most of the mages under Yost.
He had also continued his probings to penetrate the forbidden levels in the 
archives; though these attempts had been baffled, so that all he had managed to 
garner were bits and pieces of knowledge he had spent long hours attempting to 
fit together. Despite the vigilance of his former brothers, he had learned; but 
he had been able to trust none of his discoveries until now.
This night, however — the Dark Lord's hands, resting on either side of the 
sphere, curled into fists — his fortress had been invaded, by what? He had been 
aware of slight intrusions in the past, and there had certainly been traces of a 
determined picking at his locks by the archmage and his fellows. Now, it 
appeared, a new player had entered the game. Once more the sorcerer scowled at 
the seeing-stone, which had shown him nothing but confusion — a whirling storm 
of flakes of Light like the palm-sized blizzard captive in a child's snow 
sphere. And that cloud of whiteness — conjured by what talent? — had enclosed 
Fogar.
As Irasmus thought that name, the face of his apprentice appeared in the globe 
in full detail. There was no sign that his heavily drugged sleep had been 
disturbed. The master had not been able to use that rein on his chosen servant 
too often; for the draught left the boy dull witted in the morning and apt to 
make errors, some of which might be dangerous, in his studies. Perhaps — but no! 
Irasmus was very sure that the child he had chosen at its birth — one uniting in 
himself two lines of ancient talents that only one family still held — could not 
have been a mistaken selection.
Firthdun… The men of that line had been disposed of on that wild Midwinter night 
by the gobbes. Two of the women now labored in his tower and, though he had 
tested them over and over, neither appeared to be mentally above the level of 
idiots. There had been a second pregnant female in the dun; however, she, too, 
had seemed a lackwit since witnessing how Karsh had amused himself in his own 
unique way with the male who had sired her get. The Forest had been close by at 
the time, but Irasmus was certain that the girl had had neither the strength nor 
the opportunity to slip away there.
The wizard arose and went to the dun rolls, which he had inexplicably kept even 
after all the holdings had at last been wiped from the land. Unrolling the 
history of Firthdun, he found the scroll had been nearly destroyed by time and 
knew that its writing could not be read much longer.
Except by such steps as he could take.
Placing the globe atop the roll, Irasmus spoke aloud the Order for Reporting. It 
was not names that appeared one by one in the ball, but rather faces, to be 
dismissed with the flick of a finger. Dead, dead, dead; in the slave pens; dead, 
dead…
Still he continued to watch. There came Fogar, right enough, but after him more 
dead. The other once-pregnant female swam into view, her face, wiped clean of 
wit, turned up as she slept with mouth open. She was old before her time, sapped 
and sere, and she differed very little from those truly dead save that she yet 
walked.
Her child? Irasmus concentrated more deeply now. A scrawny girl. Talent? He sent 
forth a questing thought — and was startled for the first time in years. Had he, 
indeed, chosen the wrong child? But how? All his careful plans for breeding the 
tool he wanted had been carried through, even as he had laid them!
Where is this one? His question was quick.
The picture that came in answer showed one of the hovels where the miners 
sheltered. There!
Well, he had not been able to experiment with Fogar as he might have done, for — 
at least until his long-term plans were brought to fruition — the boy was needed 
living, intelligent, and able. But here was a game piece whose existence on his 
board he had not guessed: another child born at the propitious hour. Not of the 
proper parents, to be sure, but one who still had a spark within her. He would, 
of course, take no chances that he would not be in complete control of this one, 
and as soon as possible.
Once again, the sorcerer asked for the globe to show him the child's face, and 
he studied it, a slight frown between his eyes. The longer he looked, the more 
some deep-buried memory fought to reach the surface of his mind. All the folk of 
Firthdun bore a certain resemblance to one another; his records had told him 
that there had been inbreeding by choice, unless one of their males had been 
especially set upon bringing fresh blood into the line.
Yes, he had certainly seen that face before, and not when dulled and glazed of 
eye. Eyes — 
Irasmus all but started up from his chair. Four seasons back, the gobbes had 
been ordered to beat the bounds. He was sure he had all the human slaves under 
his control, but it was always prudent to check now and then.
Those demons had found two ancient crones hiding near the road leading to the 
pass that he himself had closed. A pair of old women — but they had stood off 
the gobbes, who had actually seemed to fear them. The wizard had been summoned 
(now he shook his head from side to side — how could he have forgotten this?); 
yet the women had been rendered helpless with one sweep of his wand. The gobbes, 
frustrated by their inability to act, had been particularly vicious.
Only when the half-grown girl had come running from between the rocks had he 
realized there had been three people here. Pointing his wand had reduced the 
girl to slave material, and she had been dispatched to the nearest camp of such 
human drudges.
So — at least he had learned; but he was angry. It was not fitting that an adept 
at his level of mastery would fail to recall a matter of such importance. 
Irasmus turned to the globe and began a series of passes and ritual phrases. The 
revelation of the child's existence and ability had not been a deliberate breach 
in his defenses, but it was a warning, and one he would not let lapse from 
memory again.
 
19
FOGAR AWOKE BUT DID NOT IMMEDIATELY OPEN HIS EYES. HE
could hear the gabble of the gobbes rising to his second-story room from the 
courtyard below. Such a gathering usually preceded a hunt, but where was there 
prey for the ever-hungry horrors now? All spirit had been crushed from the 
humans; certainly none of them could even have thought of attempting escape.
Now the boy did open his eyes and sit up, determined to find out what had roused 
the demons to such a pitch of excitement so early in the morning — the light 
seeping through a narrow, once-blocked wall slit high above his head was the 
faint gray of just-disappearing dawn.
His eyes were drawn to his hands. He had washed them the night before, laving 
away all the dust and earth of his day's labor with the stones. Not many of the 
rock discs were being found anymore, and consequently the gobbes were urging 
their excavators to great efforts.
Now Fogar spread his fingers wide and turned the palms first up, then down. 
Among the stones he had stacked in the days since Irasmus had set him to the 
labor, there had been a very few, widely scattered, that had felt warm to the 
touch. That rocks so well hidden from the weak sun should hold any heat 
surprised him, but he had certainly not reported his discovery to the sorcerer. 
Master and apprentice had begun their hidden combat slowly, but Fogar was by 
this time accustomed to playing a role and keeping any secrets he might chance 
upon locked as tightly and deeply in his mind as he could.
His hands — there was something — 
Forehead wrinkled, the youth crooked each finger in turn, bringing them closer 
to his eyes, yet he could see nothing except several bruises and a half-healed 
scratch or two. Then why did this sensation persist that, drawn over the flesh 
were flesh-tight coverings? He scraped with a nail at the invisible coating, 
with no change in the feeling. Had the Dark Lord managed after all to enthrall 
him so completely as to have made a change in his physical body? And for what 
purpose?
The clamor of the gobbes, scaling higher in pitch, set him to dressing and 
washing briefly. As usual, the dishes and that telltale goblet had been removed 
sometime during the night, and in their place had been set a twist of dry, 
gritty bread. Still, no kind of food was ever to be refused in Styrmir these 
lean days.
This meager meal in hand, Fogar headed down the flight of stairs and came out 
into the courtyard. The wizard's creatures were gathered there. Their making of 
faces even more monstrous than they usually wore, as well as the shaking of a 
weapon by one or two, suggested they were, in truth, preparing for a hunt.
Sometimes one could pick up bits of knowledge from the gobbes. He stood to one 
side, watching their self-exciting capers, and chewed doggedly on his crust of 
bread.
As Fogar had expected, Irasmus came down to join them, appearing just as one of 
the former dunsfolk led forth a head-drooping horse — the only mount left in the 
Valley. The mage was smiling — a faint, menacing curve of lips — that meant he 
was, for the moment, in good humor; and he had already beckoned to his 
apprentice before he was in the saddle.
Master and servants took the familiar road to the hill that had been worn almost 
level by constant digging. The onetime farmers were lined up, prepared once more 
to winnow gravel instead of grain, their crude wooden tools and baskets in a row 
at their feet. None of those human wraiths, Fogar thought, showed any interest 
in the newcomers.
Then, by chance alone, Fogar caught a sidewise look from one of the work-hunched 
slaves. Though quickly hidden once more beneath drooping lids, those eyes were 
not dull and flat, at least not for the instant when he had accidentally met the 
girl's gaze.
Oddly enough, his hands stirred, though he had made no conscious effort to reach 
out to her. Why should he? The land grubbers, as he knew only too well from past 
encounters, hated him nearly as much as they abominated the gobbes. To the folk 
of Styrmir, the boy was what Irasmus had declared him to be — Demon's Get.
There was nothing unusual about this valley maid, save that she was younger than 
most of the work detail assembled here this morning; she was just as thin and as 
dirt begrimed and snarl haired as all her kind. Still —  But Fogar had no time 
to continue his study of the girl, for Irasmus raised his wand and pointed it 
straight at her.
Her body shook visibly, as if its owner's will tried to fight against some 
compelling force. At last, with obvious reluctance, the girl shambled forward. 
Two of the gobbes moved in from left and right and draped chains about her, 
pinning her arms to her sides with the rusty metal but leaving her hands free. 
Only when they had immobilized her did the wizard ride up, to gaze steadily down 
at her.
Though captive now, the dun daughter no longer stood with lowered head; and 
again the boy caught a hot gleam in her eyes. He was only too aware of how the 
clan members could hate, but he had certainly never seen such ill will so 
blatantly displayed to the Dark Lord.
Irasmus spoke first, his voice almost caressing, as if he wished, for some 
sinister reason of his own, to reassure her.
"You are Cerlyn of the dun of Firth."
Fogar started slightly, but not enough to draw any attention. He, also, as had 
been whispered spitefully to him, could have claimed Firth as his clan, had not 
the mage stated him to be of demonic descent. The youth had long thought that 
all his true kin, save for a handful of slave women, were dead; assuredly the 
men had been wiped out on the night of his birth, or shortly thereafter.
"I am Cerlyn." The girl spoke clearly, with none of the muffled speech usual 
with the numb-souled slaves. She stood steady, staring up at Irasmus.
The sorcerer's earlier good humor seemed to have evaporated; now the faintest 
trace of a frown shadowed his face. This brazen chit, he felt, presented a 
puzzle — one which, when solved, would prove to be a problem that had crossed 
his path before.
He spoke an order to the gobbes, who moved away, keeping at a prudent distance 
from the horseman and jerking the girl with them. Irasmus's smile returned as he 
watched them go; then he turned to Fogar.
"Hither." He snapped his fingers at the youth, who moved to his side. "Catch 
this, and do not let it fall or you will greatly rue it!"
From the breast of his doublet, the wizard brought forth what his apprentice had 
never before seen anyone but its owner lay hand upon — that murk-hearted ball. 
The thing had always seemed his most prized possession, yet now he tossed it to 
Fogar.
Evidently, the sphere itself had enough power to make the boy respond as 
desired, for such a state of surprise was he in that he had only half raised one 
hand, yet the globe settled into it.
The Dark Lord was watching him closely, but Fogar had been warned enough by the 
unexpected action on the part of his master to be able to control his own 
startled reaction.
This was no small task, however, for what he held might have been a glob of 
frozen slime, whose foul feel seemed to creep outward from his palm to encase 
his hand.
Irasmus nodded. "Neatly done. Now — " He held out his right hand, his reins 
gathered into the left, and, without any movement on the part of the boy, the 
globe arose into the air and swept back to its owner.
"You have never been overbright or clever at your studies" — the sorcerer's 
smile was still in evidence — "so I have granted you a gift that will help you 
now. Go and sort out yonder pile of stones, using the hand in which you held my 
seeing-glass, and place those that answer to your touch in a separate pile. At 
least you can do this much — and see that you do it at a good pace, for time is 
now of importance."
With that command, he turned and rode away. Two of the gobbes edged nearer and 
snarled at Fogar, but he, accustomed from of old to their game of "making like 
master," refused to pay any notice to their threats and set to work.

* * *

Cerlyn trudged forward as if she were being taken to any ordinary task it might 
suit the demons and their overlord to assign her. The role of lack wit and broke 
soul that she had been taught to assume — her teachers having impressed upon her 
from the first the need for keeping any act of hers from arousing interest in 
those around her — was as convincing as she could make it.
Death, and torment worse than a clean departure from life, had surrounded the 
girl ever since she could remember. The most appalling event had been the 
frightful attack on Mam Haraska and Widow Larlarn. In some manner — she had 
never learned the details of that act of superb bravery — she had been saved 
from the fate of most of her kin. That the hag who was her mother still lived 
Cerlyn knew, but it was Firthdun's Oldmother and Loremistress who had taken her 
almost from her birth hour into the brush about the Forest. There the three had 
lived, more wretchedly than any animals as to food and shelter, but lived they 
had.
From the first signs of awakening intelligence in her, Mam Haraska and Widow 
Larlarn had been her teachers as well as her guardians. Twice they had tried to 
win deeper into the Forest, but always there had been a barrier set by Irasmus 
at the Forest's edge to deny them any safety. All the women had was their inbred 
talent; and that they exercised, sharpening it and sharing it with the child's 
own awakening powers, small as those were.
Then the two old ones had made their supreme effort — to gain the closed pass 
and somehow work their way across it — only to be discovered and slain. The 
young girl had been considered a thing of no account — merely another slave to 
be added to the workforce. Since that time, it had been her hope to labor within 
the tower itself and thus learn more — though of what she could not have clearly 
explained, even to herself.
There was only one of human sort — or human seeming, at least — who was free to 
come and go as he wished from the dark wizard's stronghold; and he was nearly as 
great an enemy as the master himself. It was well known that, at his birth, the 
boy had been hailed as a demon's son and given a Netherworldly naming. It had 
also been no secret that, through all these years, he had been apprenticed to 
Irasmus and schooled in shadow magic (though he had never used such magery 
openly), and that he was doubtless a well-trained assistant for any evil action. 
Until this day, however, Cerlyn had never seen him close by.
As the girl was marched along by the gobbes, she wondered about one thing. Even 
given the scantiness of her training, she was aware that any with the true 
talent could detect the Dark. To this inner sense, Irasmus appeared a monster. 
She well knew that, could his true self be seen by the eyes of the body as well 
as the mind, he would wear an even more twisted form and distorted countenance 
than his hellish minions.
The gobbes — the stench of them alone betrayed their origin in the Black Land. 
Her own people… With lowered eyes and studiedly blank face, the girl considered 
the farm folk among whom she had labored now for many seasons. Where lay the 
evil in them?
They were like hollow gourds, she thought, feeling no pity for their miserable 
condition but only impatience that they had slid into it so easily. None of 
those two-legged sheep could be hoped for as a helpmate for her! After all, as 
Mam Haraska had told her many times over in warning, they had given their aid to 
the destruction of her kin, and their hands had not been clean of blood from 
that night after. Not wicked, perhaps, but the valley people had been weak, 
which was worse; for that quality in the soul let down the drawbridge and 
admitted the enemy into the castle.
Why had Irasmus suddenly appeared in Cerlyn's life? There was only one answer 
she could give: because, in spite of all his power and learning, the mage wanted 
something of her.
But why? All she had was a talent that had never been either truly trained or 
honed. Her two guardians, certain that in her veins ran the Old Blood, had 
called the Wind once; they had also dreamed in quest of insight. The girl 
herself could do neither. However, she was uncomfortably aware that the wizard 
might think she could and attempt to extract the knowledge by his many 
creatively cruel methods. Far better if she had died under the gobbes' talons 
back at the pass with those who had rescued her. It would have been an agonizing 
way to depart this life, but it would have been swift. And Irasmus was a very 
patient man in his pursuit of a thing wanted.
Cerlyn had known from the start of their mining the hill that those stones — 
some of them, at least — had significance. Yet she had not dared to test what 
they might be. The demons were always on watch, and then had come this vile 
traitor to his kind, this Fogar and the order that he and he alone was to handle 
the stones.
No, there was no reason to weary her mind with guessing what might lie before 
her. To keep up what courage she had might make great demands on her, once she 
entered the tower and was placed at the dubious mercy of its master. She knew 
certain mental exercises — words not to be uttered aloud — that she had been 
taught. These were all the weapons she had to defend herself, and she would have 
to use them as best she could.
Cerlyn went docilely into the tower as Irasmus caught up with her and her 
guards. The gobbes yanked her painfully to a halt with the chains, and their 
smell was augmented by a gust of evil nearly as palpable as that stench when the 
Dark Lord came up beside her.
His hand flicked out, and he caught her chin, tipping back her head so he could 
scan her face. That study awoke a shame-tainted fear Cerlyn had never felt 
before, for it was as if not only her face but all her thin, wasted body was 
bare to his scrutiny.
Irasmus released his hold on her. "Faugh!" he commented, with a contempt she was 
sure was meant to flay her as much as if he had laid his riding whip about her 
shoulders. "Filthy slut. Dirt you were born, and dirt you shall die, though how 
is a matter on which I must think awhile." The wizard turned his head and 
gabbled an order at his creatures. Pulling the girl along to a well-like opening 
close to the wall of the tower, with little care whether she would stumble and 
have to be dragged, they made her descend into its gaping mouth.

* * *
Fogar, looking at the pile of waiting stones, flexed his fingers. He longed to 
draw them across a tuft of grass, even bury them in the dusty soil, in order to 
rid himself of the sensation that now seemed half ingrained in his skin. There 
was no chance of doing so, however, with those around him watching.
He advanced to the pile and reluctantly reached forward to pick up the nearest 
stone. He did not know what he would find when he touched it; but he felt only 
rough rock and tossed it aside. However, on the second try, the stone fairly 
stuck to his skin — he could almost believe it was some creature hardly yet 
awake but quickly rousing to awareness. Accordingly, he started his second pile.
He had added four and discarded as many more when rock apparently no different 
than any of the others shot into him a sensation as if a small thread of 
lightning had touched him in warning. To show his reaction to that was, he 
believed, dangerous. He compromised by laying it with his other choices, near 
but not quite touching the pile of stones that felt like frozen ooze.

* * *
Sassie had gone with Peeper this morning. It was seldom that Hansa's first son 
visited his mother's chosen refuge, but, each time he did, his small sister 
became — as far as Falice was concerned — nearly unmanageable. However, Peeper 
had assured the girl that he would carefully watch over the cubling. He had 
little choice, really, for Sassie had clung tightly to his leg until he had 
assured her that she could come with him.
Yet Falice felt an inexplicable need to keep an eye on her charge, and Peeper 
made no protest as she followed the two of them, Sassie riding his broad 
shoulder, onto a trail which seemed familiar to the Sasqua but which Falice had 
never had reason to tread before.
She noted that the trees here appeared to be shorter; that they stood farther 
apart, so that more sun reached in; and that there was a suggestion of freedom, 
with vines and brush in place of centuries-grown boles to wall them about. 
Suddenly the girl realized just where they were bound. From the first, Hansa had 
impressed upon her that she must never venture in this direction; Hansa's son, 
however, apparently had no such qualms. Now she was determined to catch up with 
him and take back her sister in fur.
Oddly enough, the Wind, of which Falice was always aware, seemed to die away, 
leaving a curious silence. No bird sang; not even an insect chittered. Peeper 
had stopped and put Sassie down. Now he beckoned impatiently to Falice.
"Come — see what those of the Dark do." The male Sasqua's Wind speech urged her 
on, and she went forward, to have him pull her hastily down behind a thick bush. 
There he bent a branch a little back so the girl could look.
 


20
It was cold, but Cerlyn had mostly been cold ever since she could remember. The 
cell stank, not only of ancient waste but also of very present evil, for she now 
lay in the heart of Irasmus's domain.
The girl sat with her back to the wall, knees drawn up and arms wrapped about 
them so she could conserve what little body heat she had.
There was, of course, no light, and she had not even bothered to try to explore 
this hole after the gobbes had clipped one end of her chain to a wall ring and 
had gone out, making gestures toward her she tried to ignore. The creatures had 
taken the only lantern with them, and now the dark was so thick she felt she 
could gather it up in her hands and shape it.
She was also hungry, her scant morning ration eaten hours ago; but hunger was 
nothing new, either. Now, trying to forget the pinching in her stomach, Cerlyn 
thought paradoxically of past sowings and harvests, and she suddenly recalled 
the far planting.
At first, all the dunsfolk had thought it some trick of the gobbes, for the 
demons had always been allowed a certain amount of freedom to make the valley 
slaves miserable. But the handful of children who had been chosen arbitrarily 
from the slave sheds had returned that night wearied to utter exhaustion, 
telling a common tale: they had been out all day "planting."
Planting — what? None of the youngsters had recognized any relationship between 
the large, hard, oval seeds they had had counted out to them, with threats of 
what would happen if each were not put in the proper place, to the seeds they 
had, for seasons now, tried to coax into lackluster life.
And the place for that seeding had also been strangely chosen — in a strip of 
tillage hard by the Forest, though well away from any shadow the trees might 
cast. The children described how they had each grubbed out a hole with their 
hands, placed a seed carefully within, and gone on to dig another hole. They did 
not cover any seeds until one of the gobbes came with a water skin and dribbled 
into the hole a trickle of a strange liquid that had a reddish gleam. Then, said 
the youngsters, they had gone back to cover the holes and start another section 
of the line that paralleled the Forest reaches.
Questioning the small sowers produced no other information, and at last the 
proceeding had been stolidly accepted as some new trick without a purpose they 
could understand of the master's. Yet, as Cerlyn knew, Irasmus wasted no time on 
any action that did not in some way serve a purpose he thought important.
Actions such as bringing her here.
Shivering, the girl thought with resentment of the hope-sugared promise of Mam 
Haraska and Widow Larlarn — that against the Dark moved always the forces of 
Light. But it certainly seemed that the three women had been abandoned by all 
they had been taught to believe in: the touch of the Wind — even the woman power 
of She Who Walks the Clouds.
They had sworn that a day would come when she could claim the aid of both powers 
— and be answered. And what had come of all such assurances? For her elders, a 
frightful death; for herself, slavery.
Not even the Great Lamp of the High Lady could send its rays through these 
walls, and the Wind had long been stilled in the valley. Why dwell on the 
impossible? Because one could now look for nothing else…
Cerlyn leaned her head forward to rest on her folded arms, tightening herself 
even more. Why should she fight the drowsiness that weighed her down now? It was 
enough that the wizard and his minions had left her here alone for a while — 
short though that might be.
She did not sleep at once, but her eyes closed. Then, as she had done for almost 
every night since she had learned to talk and walk and understand, she sought 
for the patterns she could see, as though imprinted there, on the inside of her 
lids. At the same time, her lips silently shaped Names, though the notion that 
anything might come of such a calling was a delusion no one with firm hold on 
her five wits could believe.

* * *
Three women stood around a waist-high brazier. Now that their heavy cloaks of 
office had been discarded over a nearby chair, the trio were revealed as nearly 
alike in height, though differing in age. It was commonly known to all of their 
world that the learning of the Wise preserved life until the owner of a tired 
body, having trained another in his or her skills, chose to abandon that earthly 
vessel. As it happened, however, for many seasons past no girl had come seeking 
the old knowledge. The number of the mages was dwindling — another indication, 
perhaps, of the present restlessness and outreaching threat of the Dark.
Two of the Wisewomen, though they stood straight and watched the fire bowl with 
clear eyes, showed signs of age whose onslaught was controlled by will alone. 
The third was younger but still past the middle of human life.
It was the eldest of that company who dropped into the low flame, twig by twig 
from a bundle in her hand, short pieces of dried wood long parted from their 
parent tree or bush. Sparks caught and held that kindling; then a thin spinning 
of smoke arose, and all three lowered their heads a fraction to breathe deeply 
the heavy scent.
All her branchlets gone, the senior mage held out her hands to both of her 
companions, and they in turn grasped hands so that all were linked. Their eyes 
were closed now, and each swayed slightly. Then the feeder of the flame spoke 
aloud.
"If this be of women's power — then let us go!"

* * *
No moon shone into the forest this night, and the standing Stone did not show 
any of its dancing jewels except as the faintest dots of light. But the Wind was 
rising — first rearing up as might a stallion determined to protect his herd of 
mares, then suddenly stayed in that defensive posture.
Shadows moved through shadows, though neither human nor Sasqua could have 
perceived them. The Wind stirred restlessly but kept its distance from those 
seekers, who stood now before the monolith, studying it as if it held a great 
puzzle that must be solved. Nebulous forms shifted, as if hands were raised in 
respectful greeting and petition, as well.
Though those light flecks on the Stone glowed no brighter, they did move until 
they faintly outlined a woman's body, whose head remained a clouded mask.
"You call upon that which no longer exists." To the distant listening minds, 
that statement sounded like cold denial.
"There were those who served You to their deaths." The answerer did not seem 
overawed but — quite the contrary — braced to pursue an argument. "This one who 
concerns us is of their blood and bone."
"The one of My blood and bone is housed in this, My place, in all safety." That 
chill iced the first voice yet more thickly. "The mortal maid for whom you speak 
was not even first blooded in My service."
"And was that her fault, Great One? All things — past, present, and future — are 
known to You. Do You say You know nothing of what has happened? This one is the 
last of the Valley dwellers (save him upon whom Irasmus plays his endless 
tricks) to come of the kin dun who kept the Inner Shrine when careless — or 
overconfident — folk forgot. The seed of the talent lies in her, but only the 
first green shoot of knowing has thrust forth from the dark ground of ignorance. 
Would You have the Son of Darkness snuff out this girl, the single small spark 
of Light that remains?"
Silence, except for the fretting of the Wind still held in check.
"This much for you, then." The invisible onlookers saw that veil-obscured face 
turn, in a near-grudging gesture, to the human maid's bold defender. "It has 
been said that the people of Styrmir must win their freedom on their own. The 
girl is bound as much by that geas as all her fellows. If she can face the Night 
and force a path for the Day, then I shall claim her. But to promise more than 
that — " Then the shape outlined on the Stone was gone, and, a moment later, Her 
companion shadows had also vanished.
Leagues away, in the chamber of Mage Westra, three women opened their eyes.
The youngest spoke first. "Dreams — this daughter of the valley must be 
strengthened and guided by dreams, and not those chosen by any man, Light-filled 
though he may be; this is women's work. To enable any vision to win into that 
tower needs a battle of wills, as we fully know; thus she may only receive, as 
does Fogar, jangled fragments. But we have the tutoring of Haraska and Larlarn 
to build upon — let us see how we acquit ourselves as masons!"

* * *
Strangely, on this night the patterns that painted themselves behind Cerlyn's 
eyelids seemed more sharply focused, firmer; twice the girl caught the meaning 
of a bit of spell she had never understood before. However, this increased 
knowledge would place her in even greater peril, were Irasmus to guess it. The 
dark mage would wring her first dry, then dead, for any particle of power he 
could use. A fearful prospect — but then, Cerlyn had lived with fear so long 
that it had become almost a companion.
Companion…
Abruptly Cerlyn stiffened. She had been told so often of the Wind and all it 
bore — was it only a wish that, for an instant just now, she had felt its caress 
on her skin, smelled the stench of this hole yielding to something else, clean 
and bracing, to succor body and mind?
"Wind?" Greatly daring, she whispered that Name, but she was not answered. Of 
course, arousing false hope might be only a further torment devised by the 
master here.
Talent — even that born of and sworn to the Light — could feed upon hatred. 
Certainly, Cerlyn's heart was a hot coal of the stuff which, if loosed, could 
burn this sorcerer's foul den to ashes, as the farmers used to clear a field of 
choking weeds! But those same husbandmen also had a saying the girl thought well 
to remember now: "You cannot enter the cow yard without soiling your clogs." To 
fight Irasmus with his own weapons would be to enter into, and thereby aid, his 
evil. She must be very cautious, taking more care than she had ever done in her 
life, as she joined battle with him and his darkness, lest it overshadow what 
she possessed of the Light — little though that might be.
The girl's resolve made her lift her head and open her eyes on the night that 
filled her cell. Un-Light might indeed lie about her, but she would not invite 
it within. She had only herself and her broken bits of talent to call upon, but 
if that was the way it was, so let it be — on her terms, not his. The ruins of 
Firthdun might lie beneath the soil its folk once tilled, but she was of that 
blood still, Cerlyn, and so would she be until the end.

* * *
Irasmus's latest captive had not closed her eyes again, for she did not want to 
invite any more visions that led nowhere useful and left her with nothing of 
value. Yet now it seemed that the murk about her was broken by shadows.
Cerlyn's first fear of some torture contrived by the Dark Lord was quickly 
dispelled, but she did know that it was by his will that this barrier rose 
between her and what reached to meet her with aid.
The chain rattled against the wall as the girl straightened her body, rising to 
her feet. Her mind stumbled as she sought to recall patterns of power she had 
long carefully repressed and used only with the two she had once trusted.
"Who are you?"
She spoke the question, then shook her head in frustration and anger, realizing 
that the sorcerous shield that darkened her sight also deafened her ears and 
mind.
The shades wavered and flickered, now nearly solid, now mere wisps. However, as 
Cerlyn watched them, it became evident that, though unable to communicate by the 
ways she knew, they were fighting — yes, struggling fiercely — to come to her, 
and that they were of the Light no one talent-born could fail to know.
Suddenly she saw two faces, not connected with the shadows themselves but rather 
projected by some magical art. One belonged to a girl, perhaps her own age but 
certainly no daughter of this stricken land.
The face of this stranger bore no marks of privation, fear, or hatred. Instead, 
there was a kind of ecstasy welling up in those large eyes, as if they beheld 
some wonder they welcomed with joy.
But — the face beside it! Cerlyn snarled. The traitor, the betrayer of his own 
kin, the shadow of Irasmus — he whom she had seen all too clearly only a short 
time ago. This was Fogar Demon-Son, and truly he was worthy of that name —
Or was he?
His face, like the unknown girl's, was also serene, and — But this could not be 
so! Light did not join hands with Dark. It could not, for then nothing would 
exist. Still, as Cerlyn looked upon the features of the boy, she did not see the 
taint she fully expected. And, strangest of all, his countenance — which lay 
open to her now as though they were, indeed, kin to trust one another — 
resembled that of the girl, and closely.
She who, even as a shadow here, seemed the very symbol of freedom, might have 
been a cherished one of Fogar's own blood; however, such happy kinship did not 
exist — not in the clanless world Cerlyn had known from birth. And, though this 
vision had stretched her talent sorely thin, the wisewomen's fosterling was sure 
that she could reach out her hand and touch the cheek nearest her. Somewhere, 
its owner did have life, and now, at this time, if not this place.
The faces began to waver and ripple; then, with the suddenness of a knife 
falling to cut a cord, they vanished. Yet in their place for an instant was… 
something else. Cerlyn's hand, still half lifted to reach for the now-vanished 
girl, flew to her lips to stifle any sound. She recognized the symbol of Her Who 
Walks the Clouds, and it could only be summoned by one who gave her full 
allegiance.
Then it was all gone — the Dark's force wall, the Light's shadow play and what 
it had shown her. Cerlyn swayed back against the rough stone, letting her 
shaking body be supported by its solidity. She felt as if all of her small power 
had been drawn from her for that shaping.
As she sank into sleep, however, she was granted one final insight: the 
certainty that a pattern was being woven here, and that she was to be a part of 
it — if Irasmus did not dispose of her first.

* * *
The tower's master, in a chamber well above Cerlyn's cell, had not attempted to 
delve into her mind this night, though the tabletop before him was covered with 
pieces of parchment on which were inked spells, descriptions of rituals, and 
other arcane formulae. Frustration gnawed him. In all these seasons, he had not 
been able in any way to penetrate the Forest — there had always been a barrier 
that had swallowed up every attempt at drawing forth power. And now, since the 
shocking death of the Forest beast man and the later but equally violent end of 
Karsh, Irasmus had no mind to send even the gobbes near the place.
Not that he had dispatched the head of his band of horrors to the woods, which 
strongly suggested the gobbe's death and the subsequent return of his mutilated 
body to the Valley were in the nature of another warning. The mage thought he 
had an idea of who might be lurking there among the trees; yet how could the 
arch-fiend lords he knew of strike any bargain with the Wind?
The wizard needed eyes and ears to enter where all his present skills could not 
penetrate. Perhaps he had made a good beginning in that direction now. Only time 
would tell — and time might be far from a friendly ally. He was sure that the 
mages in the Place of Learning strove to monitor his every act and could not 
help picking up the energy emanations from some of his sorceries. They were not 
dullards, save inasmuch as they were content to observe but not to react. Yet 
might there not come a day, if the Wise felt the threat to be sufficient, when 
they would take their power in hand and come forth, as they had done once so 
many generations ago?
Resolutely pushing that thought away, Irasmus reached out and pulled one of the 
papers to him. It bore no words but only a column of small signs and a sprawling 
line along the right side that might be compared, with some imagination, to the 
eastern ridge of the Valley rising toward the Forest. Along the line was set a 
series of yellow dots, and these had been impressed on the page so deeply that 
the point of the drawing tool had driven into the surface.
As yet, according to the gobbes who were overseeing this planting, no sign had 
been given that those of the Forest noted how close the seeders had approached 
their own territory. This reassurance notwithstanding, Irasmus had raised all 
the wards that could be erected.
Pushing aside the scrap of map, he stared down at a second strip of notes. On 
this paper was carefully depicted a plant — one with a huge bulbous root. Its 
growth followed a fanwise pattern, with other tough stems appearing along the 
ribs to break ground. Plainly, it both sprouted and spread in a way that made it 
difficult to control. Good enough — one must never overlook any weapon, no 
matter how humble or seemingly insignificant.
The Dark Lord's irritation was somewhat soothed by future visions of just what 
would come of his planting, once its green phalanx truly attacked the Forest. At 
last he yawned and rose to retire; tomorrow, he would have other and more 
important matters to deal with.
The sorcerer had slipped into his bed when, in spite of its ample fur robes, he 
felt a chill. Quickly he made mental rounds of the wards but could find no 
evidence that any had been breached. Using talent… power… Drifting into sleep, 
Irasmus thought of him who might (or might not) be approached. He encouraged 
himself once more with the conviction that That One would look so favorably upon 
any who unlocked the gate between their worlds that the opener could expect more 
power flowing to him than he had ever believed it possible to command.

* * *
Fogar lay on his pallet. Piling stones was not the easiest of occupations on the 
muscles, nor did the fact that he must keep the discovery he had made today 
strictly to himself bring any sleep-coaxing ease to his mind.
Over and over tonight the boy had washed his hands and arms, as well as any 
other portion of his flesh that had chanced to touch those rocks having the feel 
of slime, before he could bring himself to touch food; and still he 
unconsciously rubbed his fingers back and forth across the bedcovering.
The master, he knew, had been hunting those same foul-feeling stones; but what 
of the two others the apprentice had uncovered during the day's work — those 
which had seemed energized by the very substance of the Light? He was certain 
that the dark mage was not aware of their existence, or else they would surely 
have been detected. Fogar's eyes gleamed in the dark like a tree cat's about to 
leap onto the back of an unsuspecting prey. He had found a weapon, and he had 
only to learn when to use it, where — and how.
 
21
Falice tried to fit herself into an angle from which she could see as much as 
possible through the rough window Peeper had made for her. Sassie was pressed 
tightly against her and was being unusually quiet. She seemed as eager as her 
furless sister to see what lay beyond; yet instinct triumphed over impulse, and 
the cubling remained carefully hidden.
Some distance from the brush that rimmed the Forest's edge, the valley began. 
Hansa's fosterling had been shown by the Wind in the Stone enough to recognize 
that blighted land in all its dreariness. The broad expanses before her were 
barren, not only of trees but of all other vegetation save a short grass — a 
rank growth having an unhealthy yellow shade that Falice, used to the lushly 
fertile Forest land, found very distasteful.
This coarse stuff was being torn from resisting roots by workers who crawled on 
calloused knees like drought-enfeebled herd beasts. But —
The human girl caught at the small Sasqua as if her discovery might cause Sassie 
to be snatched from her hands and thrust into that sorry company. For the 
laborers were children, a little older than mere cublings but not yet 
approaching their time of full youth.
Both males and females toiled in that band, for their worn single garments, 
ash-brown as the soil being uncovered by their efforts, hardly covered their 
bodies; and they often had to pause and pull those shifts up, exposing skin as 
brown and rough as tree bark.
No talking could be heard, nor did they even give signs from one to another that 
they knew their laboring neighbors. For this, Falice saw a good reason.
These slaves had a driver in control. The girl shivered. His kind she had been 
shown by virtue of the Stone's window, and nothing existed in all the Forest as 
monstrously shaped, or mindlessly cruel, as this — thing. Fighting nausea when a 
vagrant breeze brought a puff of its stink and wondering that even the Wind 
could bear to touch that carcass, the Forest girl forced herself to look at the 
creature closely. It walked like a man, but its shoulders were a little hunched 
so that its long arms hung to a point where talons, each as long as her own 
fingers, now and then brushed the upturned earth. The skin was a sickly 
yellow-green and dotted with huge warts. Hair appeared only as an unkempt snarl 
of locks nearly as thick as choke-vine tendrils and standing stiffly from the 
all but neckless head. The lower jaw and its portion of the face presented an 
outline like the muzzle of no natural animal. This was a gobbe, one of the 
servants of him who had poisoned the valley land.
Its sole clothing was a wide belt, crudely patched in places, to which was 
strapped a long-bladed knife in a stained sheath. But now the nightmare also 
went armed with a lash it wielded with vigor, snapping at first one, then 
another of its charges, while whistling and gibbering to itself. Behind it in 
the field stood a rude cart, a mere platform on wheels, on which had been piled 
some lumpy bags.
Now it stamped along that section of the ground where the grass had already been 
rooted up and the clumps thrown aside. Partway down that march, it stopped 
suddenly, its beast snout swinging as though it saw easily through the brush and 
knew it was being watched.
Falice's grasp of Sassie tightened; but the cubling made no move, nor did her 
brother. The monster had raised one of its dangling paws and was stretching it 
toward the Forest, its head cocked on one side. It might be gauging a distance — 
or narrowing the range of its search.
After a few moments, either frustrated in its efforts to locate its would-be 
prey or postponing the pleasure of pursuit for the time being, it gave a throaty 
growl. This noise appeared to be a signal, for now, of all the children who had 
dropped where they stood for a rare space of rest when their overseer's back was 
turned, two struggled back to their feet and hurried into action, as if they 
feared at every step that the lash would fall. It took their combined strengths 
to tumble one of the sacks from the cart, and they had to unite to pull the 
crude bag back to their labor area.
The gobbe waved the workers back, and they obeyed hastily. Thrusting a talon 
into a loop of the bag's string, he broke it in two. Out of that sack rolled a 
smaller one, that the demon lifted to his mouth and used his fangs to tear open.
Falice could not be sure what he held. From this distance, it looked like small 
stones of a uniform size. The pebbly things also bore a polish, as if they had 
been fingered for seasons by the silver hands of a river, for the girl could 
distinguish a faint shine about the heap.
As Irasmus's creature picked the first of these stones from the pile, the Wind 
returned — not in wild gusts but scarcely forceful enough to make the leaves 
shiver. Yet what it bore and poured into the minds of the three hidden watchers 
was a sight so alien to any natural life they knew that they could only watch 
dumbly as the Breath displayed a living weapon that was meant to strike against 
their very refuge.
Those things were — seeds! Planted and nourished by the liquid the gobbe had 
begun to sprinkle from the skin bag handed to him by another child slave, they 
would dig themselves in, putting forth not one root but a nest of them. Out from 
each of those roots would, in turn, rise spikes of growth. Under the tutelage of 
the Wind, Falice learned that the army of plants would creep forward, through 
the bordering brush, meant first to protect the Valley from any attack by the 
Forest and then to invade the Green Realm and make that country its own. Let any 
attempt to cut or tear one of the plants from the earth when it was thoroughly 
entrenched, and its touch would rust metal, flay skin from the hand that touched 
it.
The creepers in the soil, those worms and beetles whose small lives had their 
place in the order of the world, would swiftly die. And any healthy greenery the 
hell-sprung growth could touch would rot and crumble into nothingness — perhaps 
even the giants among the Forest trees. Truly, thought the girl as she watched 
in amazement and fear, such seeds had been garnered from the deepest storehouses 
of the Dark!
Emboldened by the enormity of their threat, Falice dared mind-touch the Life 
Breath. What do we against such a peril, Wind?
The answer came straightaway. Let warning be given; let our furred children know 
that their minds will be touched, so the years flee and they remember an earlier 
time; and let this death sowing here and now be stopped!
It was Peeper who moved first. Throwing back his head, Hansa's son gave a cry 
such as his human sister had never before heard; then, using a weak spot in the 
brush which he had apparently noted, he leaped forward.
The gobbe went into a half crouch, spilling the seeds broadcast, its wide mouth 
suddenly lipless as great fangs appeared. It tried to unsheathe the knife it 
wore, but Peeper was already on it. His mighty club sounded a loud crack as it 
met the monster's skull, sending the demon flying backward to strike the cart. 
The rickety transport crashed to the ground, and the slave driver lay still, a 
ruin among the ruins.
Thin, shrill cries arose from the children; and they would have fled had not 
Falice, accompanied by Sassie, emerged through the brush broken by Peeper. Once 
more the girl called upon the Wind. About the fast-scattering youngsters arose a 
breeze, far from as strong as it would have been in the Forest, yet enough to 
quiet the little ones' fears until the girl could reach them herself.
They stood staring at her now, coming slowly together until they were huddled 
once more in a group, as if they needed the nearness of their own kind. Used as 
she was to the exuberance of Sassie and the other Sasqua cubs, Falice could feel 
the terror of the valley children smite her like a blow across the face.
She could never have calmed and collected them without the Life Breath, but now 
there was a warning in its voice: its powers, for this time, were rapidly being 
exhausted. The girl and her Sasqua sister circled in behind the half-dozen small 
bodies as, upon those same ravaged slopes in a time long gone, dogs had 
skillfully herded sheep.
The starveling waifs retreated before their strange new keepers, heading toward 
the rim of the Forest. Almost as soon as the two had gotten their charges safely 
under the trees, they spied Hansa and three of the Forest's other children 
coming to meet them.

* * *
Fogar was listening intently to what Irasmus was saying the next morning as the 
sorcerer pointed out a design inked on a square of parchment large enough to 
accommodate a far-traveler's map.
"The stones you feel" — the mage paused, and his eyes were very intent on his 
apprentice, watching for any reaction to that phrase — "must be placed so, the 
space of two hands apart and in a line marching the guide. This you will do 
alone, and you will be as quick as possible about it. More other stones will be 
brought, for it is doubtful" — he glanced at the boy's pile — "that these will 
be enough to trace the inner path as well. Now — get you to it!"
Despite this final exhortation, Irasmus did not ride off at once but rather sat 
as Fogar, suppressing his disgust at what he handled, set the first and then the 
second of the rock discs into place. The result was not unlike the beginning of 
a walk of stepping-stones. Certainly the sketch from which he worked was plain 
enough: the discs were to be placed spiral-fashion, curving inward and around 
several times until they reached a certain point.
Those land grubbers, who had been busy since before dawn clearing this space 
just outside the tower's courtyard wall, hunkered down unnoticed now and 
prepared to watch, as if Fogar were on the verge of performing an intricate 
spell.
However, the gobbes, who had driven them all hither and now prowled about their 
company on guard, were not so eagerly anticipating the action ahead. The boy was 
familiar enough with the demons' behavior to realize they were showing signs of 
uneasiness. They had drawn into a knot of their kind, and the gaze of their 
bulbous eyes swung from their master to his apprentice and back again. Still, if 
the creatures felt inclined to dispute this path building, none did so.
Fogar worked with elaborate care. In order to make sure each stone was in its 
proper place, he measured with a stick, then dug its point into the soil to mark 
where the next stone must be set. His body might be laboring like any of the 
folk of duns, but his mind was alert. His sadly fragmentary dreams not far in 
the past had shown him a portion of the very work in which he now found himself 
engaged; and within those visions had lain answers he must now force out of 
hiding. To search so was like walking down a long corridor where many doors lay 
on either hand. Each was closed, its surface blank of any hint of what lay 
within, yet still he must go seeking the right one.
Having decided that his somewhat mentally limited pupil could be trusted to do 
as directed, the mage turned to the gobbes and rasped out some orders in their 
own harsh tongue. Half the creatures reluctantly approached him, then fanned out 
to form a line beside the slaves. Grunting what were obviously threats, they 
kicked the humans to their feet.
Then, driving them back to the remains of the mound being mined, they lashed 
their charges once again to the same work.
Having made sure that his orders were being carried out, Irasmus wheeled his 
mount. To Fogar's surprise, the Dark Lord was not heading back to the tower but 
rather riding, at a pace hardly faster than a walk, eastward toward the Forest. 
The boy had known for several days now that the wizard was engaged there in 
another bit of business — one that also demanded a crew of workers with demon 
overseers to keep them busy. It had, however, puzzled him to learn that all the 
workers chosen for that mysterious labor had been the youngest and frailest from 
the slave pens.
Certainly, Fogar was curious, but the master would undoubtedly return the same 
way he had gone; and it would be best for his apprentice to keep steadily at his 
own task and have no eye for anything else.
The slimy feel of the stones was a constant irritation. He might be heaving 
rotting bodies onto a charnel heap. But Irasmus believed Fogar was totally under 
his control; now was not yet the time to test the tool? — weapon? — that had 
come into his keeping.
A small flare of excitement — almost as sharp as the flash of energy that had 
alerted him to the difference in the two Light-charged stones — kindled within 
him at the thought of them and grew as the morning passed. The feeling was faint 
but right. Somehow the four gobbes who had been left, undoubtedly to keep watch 
over him, suddenly wheeled about and started at a shambling trot in the 
direction of their vanished master.
The valley was not all flat land; in the expanse that began close to the tower 
and ran to the now-blocked pass, it rose in a series of gentle, low hills, 
though the Forest's threat could always be seen beyond. However, anyone 
traveling in the gaps between those hills would be out of sight at ground level.
The laboring youth paused and straightened, rubbing his hands across the small 
of his back. He was attempting to cleanse them of the slimy feeling left by the 
rocks, but he hoped he might be thought to be relieving some stiffness left by 
repeated stooping and standing again.
Abruptly, air was pierced by a screeching, and the remaining gobbes plunged away 
to answer what was either a vehement order or a cry for aid. In that same 
moment, Fogar felt the slightest of touches on his sweat-beaded forehead. It was 
not even strong enough to stir one of the hairs plastered there, and it was gone 
again as quickly as it had come, only — he knew. Somewhere, Power stirred, and 
its farthest-flung reach had found him. Warning? He thought not; rather, an 
alert.
He had a good portion of the rock spiral finished, using only the evil-tainted 
rocks. Already the slaves were straggling back from the hill with the morning's 
harvest of rocks, but none of their baskets were full, and one or two held only 
a single stone.
As he had done ever since the mage had set him to this task, the boy began to 
sort the discs. Three of those were besmirched by the Dark, but there was also a 
single one of the Light-conducting rounds that made his whole body tingle as he 
laid it carefully aside.
Two of the kitchen slatterns now lugged out a steaming pot, set it lurchingly 
down, and dropped by it a basket of bread nearly as hard as the rocks. Fogar, 
though, was apparently deemed worthy of better food, for a greasy basin holding 
stew and a slightly less-hard half loaf were brought to him where he sat in the 
nearly finished spiral. He expected that, as usual, the slave would pay him no 
real attention, but he caught a glance from her half-lidded eyes. They were not 
as keen and all-seeing as the eyes of the Firthdun girl had been; still, they 
showed more alertness than was usual among the slaves.
The girl. Fogar thought about her as he swabbed the bread around the bowl. That 
she lay in the dungeon he was sure. He wondered if she had been fed; however, 
since Irasmus wanted her enough to bring her in as a special prisoner, it 
followed that her jailors would keep her alive.
Back he went to his building, if this stone setting could be dignified by such a 
name. But continued comparison of his spiral with the sketch the master had 
given him had pried open one of those locked doors in his mind. Yes, he was 
building — a road! He had never seen its like depicted in any of the sorcerer's 
scrolls, but such paths of power had been described there. From those writings, 
he also knew that, once the road was built, Irasmus would add an element that 
would form his own gate, then force it wide if he could.
The boy was considering how he might best act to prevent the success of this 
dire plan when the Dark Lord came into view. A good distance behind his mount 
followed the ragtag squadron of gobbes. Fogar sensed that, at that moment, for 
whatever reason, the monsters wanted to be no closer to their leader.
Their gibbering was not loud, but it sounded excited; and — to judge by the 
wizard's bleak countenance — something had gone very wrong. It was into the 
direction from which the hell crew was now approaching that the children and 
their overseer had gone this morning — but there were no children in this 
company. Feeling sick, but forcing himself to search for evidence he loathed, 
Fogar looked as closely as he dared at the talons and fangs of the demons for 
any telltale stains of blood. Mercifully, there were none. Yet neither were 
there any children, and, as the boy counted the rabble, the slave driver was 
missing, too.
The mage had nearly passed the spiral of rocks when he pulled his mount up 
short. His frown diminished as he took in the serpentine enfoldings, his head 
moving to trace the pattern from stone to stone. Then the frown returned as a 
scowl — the spiral lacked three rocks near its very heart.
"Finish!" Irasmus's command was a snarl. "Have this complete before sunset. The 
Dark may love the darkness, but night may also conceal peril for a worker, and I 
would not have you come to grief — yet." His voice rose to a shout. "Do it — 
now!"
The sorcerer rode on. The gobbes were left to mill around at the gate of the 
courtyard, where some of them took out their anger — and, perhaps, fear — by 
kicking the laborers to hustle them back to their pen.
Fogar continued his task at the same speed he had maintained all day. Three 
rocks were lacking, yes — but he no longer doubted what he was to do. He smiled 
tightly as, into those last three places, he carefully set the stones that held 
within them the fire of the Light.
 
22
All the stones were in place before sundown, and the final three were of Fogar's 
secret choosing: those that made his flesh tingle with power — surely their 
thrilling sensation must be power. At the completion of his task, he stood, 
surveying his work and checking it against the drawing Irasmus had left with 
him. Yes — what he had done had reproduced that pattern exactly.
Dusk was gathering in, as if the Dark itself were being bidden to this 
unhallowed work. The boy had the disquieting feeling that, if he turned his head 
suddenly, he would catch sight of a shadow that was no true shadow scuttling 
away just at the edge of his vision — or perhaps he "saw" this apparition with 
other-than-bodily eyes.
Taking great care not to step onto any of the Dark-allied discs, he made his way 
out of the spiral and became aware, for the first time, that the gobbes — all of 
them — had emerged from their reeking barracks. From every creature's throat now 
rose a sequence of guttural tones, the sounds of each matching those of his 
fellows. The raucous noise was far from singing, farther still from Wind-message 
touch, yet it was clearly a ritual chant. A — a summoning! As soon as his mind 
had put this name to the demons' discord, Fogar was certain he was correct.
Others had come to attend whatever would transpire here, as well: human slaves, 
who stood further away from the spiral path than the gobbes, nearly melting into 
the earth in this light because of the soil on their skins and clothing. Most of 
the life remaining in Styrmir, it seemed, was gathering in this place.
Torches flared, restoring clearer sight; then the Dark Lord came walking from 
his tower. The torchlight formed an aura about him, its brightest point centered 
on what he bore, almost reverently, in his two hands. He took short, slow steps 
as if to make sure no unevenness of the ground would disturb his balance and 
shift, for the slightest fraction, that globe of murkiness that had been for so 
long the very heart of his chamber.
The dark mage set foot carefully on the first stone on the spiral path. 
Excitement and triumph surrounded him in an almost-visible cloak. Fogar did not 
know what was happening to his own mind; but he was sure that he now possessed a 
heightened awareness to see and feel things he had never perceived before.
On the final stone, Irasmus halted. He had not appeared to note the difference 
his apprentice's touch had read in the last three discs. Yet behind him swept, 
like a second cloak, a trailing robe of shadow that had grown thicker with every 
stone he passed and that now fluttered from side to side as if it were being 
repulsed. The wizard, however, did not notice that either.
In both hands, he now raised the globe well above his head and deliberately, 
forcibly, hurled it into the open space at the end of the spiral. Then, raising 
his wand, he pointed at the sphere.
Both the night and the world came apart — or so Fogar thought. The boy was 
thrown to his knees by a blast of power that bewildered his wits; then he was — 
where? His mind could not tell him as consciousness faded.
* * *
Cerlyn hunched in a corner of the cell, blinking and blinking again. Sometimes 
it was hard to know what was real and what was dream — for dreams had crowded 
thickly upon her of late.
Color had not been known in Styrmir for a long time — no flowers, no blue sky, 
no bright-winged birds could the girl remember. Yet a rich play of hues was part 
of her vision, or visions — perhaps one had slid so seamlessly into another that 
she had not been aware of any separation.
She might still be hedged about by stone walls, but now those barriers were 
hidden by strips of cloth patterned in tints that fed her color-starved sight. 
Illuminating those hues shone light born not of any torch or taper but rather 
from floating bubbles of wondrous rainbow sheen.
Was this beauty some glamourie sent by Irasmus — and was she seeing what was 
true or only what she hungered to see? She must be wary.
"Cerlyn."
Quickly the girl turned. Who, even in a dream of hers, would call her so? 
Dream-caught she must be!
She saw very little, at first, of the one who had addressed her, for he sat 
behind a table so high-heaped with wooden-covered books and rolls of parchment 
that they towered about him like a barricade (and a most unstable one). But the 
man himself…
Cerlyn met his gaze, and her first fear melted away. This was not her captor 
playing a cruel trick. The man she saw wore a cloak of shining cloth across 
which played lines of vivid color that added to his greater bulk. This man had 
never eaten grass roots, much less gone empty of belly! His hair was dusty brown 
and thin, and he might have been running his hands through it, for its limp 
strands were mused. His round face was pale, as if he seldom saw the sun, but 
his generous mouth was curved upward in a smile the girl found her own lips 
echoing.
Caution forgotten, she responded, "Master — "
"Do not give me such a title, child!" The stranger raised large but 
sensitive-looking hands in a gesture of horror. "My name is Gifford. For my 
fault of being born with a seeking mind, I am Keeper of the Records in this 
place. We have no masters here; for all talents are unique, and who can say that 
one is better than another?"
Treading carefully once more, Cerlyn asked, "Where is this place? It looks not 
unlike where Master Irasmus spends his days, with all those" — she gestured to 
the books and scrolls — "evil things."
The archivist shook his head. "Not so! Evil comes from wrong choices." For the 
first time, he frowned slightly. "You, child, were born with talent you have not 
been trained to use, so you must add learning." He nodded at the uptowering 
records. "However, after that, it shall be your choice as to which path you will 
walk."
The girl wet dry lips with the tip of her tongue. "Irasmus has such — choice — 
and no good comes from him."
Gifford nodded again. "Irasmus has chosen, yes. Now he delves deeply into 
Darkness, and he will choose again. But let us speak of you. You are Cerlyn, 
granddaughter to Haraska, who was daughter in turn to Inssanta, Mistress of the 
Winds… Oh, I could go on for quite some time naming the generations behind you, 
but they do not matter. This is here and now; yet you hold the talent, though it 
lies in your mind and spirit still asleep."
"Haraska — " She choked on her beloved grandmam's name. "The gobbes tore her to 
pieces by His orders. I seek no such end if I can help it."
"You would be safer if you were willing to learn, Cerlyn."
The girl's trust was not so easily captured a second time. "Fogar — The Dark One 
claims he has talent and has made him study for years, yet we have never 
witnessed a single spell of his casting. So what good has come of his studies?"
"Child, that young man has his own part in what we all must do, and, when the 
time comes, he will be ready — though not as Irasmus would have him!"
Suddenly the girl felt a stab of fear. "Will you, indeed, make me safe from — 
him?"
Gifford's smile faded. "That you must discover for yourself. However, this much 
I can promise: you shall find a task before you, as Fogar will; but, by all the 
power of the Light, you shall also learn that it brings deliverance and not 
despair.
"Although" — the lorekeeper rested his plump chin thoughtfully on his hand — 
"the temptation sometimes arises for an overeager scholar to experiment. I warn 
you, Cerlyn, casting forth one's line into forbidden waters brings up monsters 
instead of respectable fish! You must also keep hard hold upon your trust. 
Nothing in this world is exactly what it seems, for we each view any action 
according to who — or where — we are.
"But you do not stand alone. Aόeee" — Gifford sang that last word — "we have 
dealt together in the far past, your breed and mine, for the keeping of the 
Light! It was into Styrmir that those folk retreated who had been dealt the 
hardest blows of that war. There, they found the Wind — and the Wind blows fresh 
and clear when put to the proper purpose; thus the fostering of talent 
prospered.
"However, as the years pass, those who remember rightly grow fewer and fewer. 
Folk no longer think of the Wind as a weapon of great fury, the Fist of Death; 
rather, they conceive of it as a soother, a mere carrier of messages — the 
Breath of Life.
"Unused, Cerlyn, talent lessens. Thus, when Irasmus struck at Styrmir, he was 
able to bend the valley born to his purpose: to suck forth their talents and 
banish their ally, the Wind. The people had grown dull eared to the voice of the 
Light. They also believed that peace once won is won for all time, and they 
abandoned their vigilance and thus lost the battle before it had ever begun.
"However, through a few of your people the old strain yet runs true — with or 
without their awareness. You say that Fogar fails at the tasks Irasmus sets him. 
Yet that very lack of success is his salvation in two ways: it has prevented him 
from falling into complete bondage, and it has awakened in him the beginnings of 
talent. The Dark Lord is aware that the boy has power and keeps that ability 
locked, as one locks a coffer — but a seal set on talent cannot hold forever."
The mage's expression softened, and again Cerlyn felt the lump rising in her 
throat as it had when he had talked of Mam Haraska. It had been so long since 
any had spoken to her with kindness; but she would not cry in front of this 
stranger — she would not! Fiercely she swallowed as Gifford continued.
"Child, you think of your dun kin who were slain, yet you must remember that 
they were vessels that had weakened. You were saved by chance because, when you 
were a child, Irasmus could detect no power in you. But now he dares ever 
greater evil, and against this you must be armored — aye, and armed as well — by 
learning, which has always been a weapon greater than a sword.
"So let me bid you welcome to Valarian, the Place of Learning. You have already 
heard your first lecture" — here the lorekeeper laughed, seemingly at his own 
tendency to let his tongue run on — "and now you must have your first lesson. 
Come!"
He beckoned with his finger, and, unthinkingly, the girl obeyed. She did not 
believe that she walked forward in the body; rather, her essence approached her 
new teacher. As she "arrived" at his worktable, the mage opened a massive book. 
The novice student saw lines of writing rendered in blue and gold, as freshly 
colored as if they had just been drawn there. At first, they seemed mere 
gibberish, but then the archivist ordered her to read the passage aloud. She did 
so, slowly sounding out each of those sky- and sun-painted words, yet still they 
made no sense to her.
Only, when she repeated them, Gifford correcting her now and then, she began to 
feel a throbbing in her ears. This sensation moved into her brain, frightening 
her at first but then bringing with it a new confidence.
The girl came to the end of the passage, but the lore-keeper did not turn the 
leaf to continue.
"Your first lesson," he commented. "Let us see how well it has settled into your 
memory."
Cerlyn discovered, upon closing her eyes and concentrating, that she could 
clearly reconstruct the whole page in her mind. What was more, in this mental 
"viewing," the writing was even brighter than it had been to her physical sight!
Gifford nodded, smiling broadly. "So — in you the Old Blood, indeed, runs true." 
Abruptly his approving expression turned sober. "Now — a warning. The dark mage 
has leached from your people the strength of their inborn talent. He has also 
mined the awareness out of the earth, torn it from the fields — even snatched it 
from the sky. You are now in his power, and if he should guess that you are even 
more than he suspected — " The lorekeeper paused.
"The Wind should be your armor; however, your weapon of words can allow only a 
trickle of Its power to force a way through the many guards Irasmus has set. If 
not for those barriers, you could call upon It, and It would answer. Did they 
not exist, the land would be clear, and you would be one with It forever.
"Only now, in the Forest, does the Wind range free — but there, also, One rules 
who may be difficult to convince of your right to treat with It as well."
"Fogar is of the dun kin," she said slowly. "But since he has struck hands with 
that one — does the Wind…" Her speech faltered into silence.
"The boy has not yet been corrupted, as you believe, Cerlyn — not yet; although, 
as I have told you, choices still lie before him. You would ask, does the Great 
Breath touch him where he now dwells? Let your heart be eased. If he does as 
little ill as he can — and that with an unwilling spirit — then be sure that the 
Wind caresses his brow at the day's end as tenderly as a mother sends her child 
off to its pallet at night.
"And now you must go, or Irasmus may become aware that you are more than he 
thinks. Fare you well, daughter of many Wind Callers!" The mage raised a hand, 
but the gesture he made was not quite the customary one of farewell, and —
Cerlyn lay on the stinking straw of her cell once more. As she moved one leg to 
ease long-tensed muscles, the chain about her ankle pinched. Iron. What was the 
old legend? Yes — that that metal provided, in part, a shield against some forms 
of power. Perhaps, then, she had been chained so that any slight talent she 
possessed would be damped down — even defeated utterly.

* * *
Fogar was moving, but in an unthinking, uncaring daze. Something that had nearly 
blasted his world to pieces lay behind him — what, he could not remember. He 
shook his head in an effort to clear it, and memory obliged by stirring dimly. 
This was the tower, and he was being hustled along by two gobbes…
The spiral he had set into place, Irasmus with his globe, and the rest of the 
events that had led up to the end of everything — the jagged bits of the memory 
picture began to fit together once again. Yet, somehow, it all seemed a dream, a 
vision being forced upon him from somewhere outside himself. Had it really 
happened?
Irasmus awaited him, seated, as was nearly always his custom, in the thronelike 
chair. But on the table before him stood no globe; no, that — that was gone. The 
boy could not tell how much the Dark Lord might have divined of his apprentice's 
part in the failure of whatever mighty ritual had been attempted.
The demons who had delivered Fogar scuttled away. Then Irasmus spoke with the 
kind of deadly calm that very great anger will produce in some men.
"What does a workman do with a tool that turns in his hand and sets its blade in 
his flesh? He recasts it, or — he casts it away."
Fogar still felt as though a fog enwrapped him, entrapping him to be used as his 
master desired. The suffocating stuff seemed also to touch him now and then, as 
though with slime-slick fingers. Loathing gagged him.
"You have failed me once — " The sorcerer's voice was deepened by menace. Then 
he snapped his fingers, and two of the gobbes shambled in from the gloom of the 
doorway. The creatures shoved Fogar forward until he was jammed against the edge 
of the table. Then Irasmus began to stare into the youth's eyes. One's very 
brain could be invaded so, as the apprentice had learned…
Suddenly, in a blessed instant, the sense of the violation of his inmost self 
ceased. Fogar drew a deep breath and knew that, in some way, the mage had 
failed.
On the bare tabletop, Irasmus now began to swiftly draw lines with a fingertip 
he dipped into a pannikin of red fluid. A few of those symbols the boy knew 
vaguely. However, as he watched the bespelling, unable to tear his eyes away, 
more and more of his abortive studies returned, now clear and comprehensible, to 
his mind. He would attempt to fight back — only this was not the time; he needed 
more — more —
From the surface of the table the red traceries flung themselves forth. The 
gobbes scrambled back and away, lest they also be snared. The blood-hued netting 
en webbed Fogar's legs, body, arms, and neck. But this shroud did not cover him 
fully. There was yet a space free about his head — his ears —
Faint, very faint, was that sound; still, he heard it — and knew it, too — as he 
waited for the Dark Lord to complete the binding. However, to the boy's 
amazement, Irasmus suddenly seemed satisfied, and those torturing cords 
dissolved, leaving the erstwhile captive weak and wavering.
"Because I still have use for you, you shall continue to serve me." The mage 
ground out the words as if the admission of his need for another (or — the youth 
dared to frame the thought — his defeat here?) were a bitter substance he would 
spit forth. "Be sure, however, that there will come a time of reckoning between 
us when you shall be of even greater service to me." A clap of his hands brought 
the demons at a run. "Take him below," Irasmus ordered, "and see him… well 
kept."
 
23
"Hither! Hither!" Falice sang, her voice carried and magnified by the Wind. They 
were following her, round-eyed with wonder, that pack of ragged, near-starved 
children — and not only following but showing no signs of fear of Hansa and the 
two other Sasqua females who had come with her.
The human maid caught hands with one of the little ones, while Sassie accepted 
gently into a strong leathery paw the bony, scar-scored fingers of another. To 
Hansa's daughter the Wind also spoke — beckoning, promising, soothing, healing — 
and the young Sasqua sensed It was binding this humble company into a force that 
was far more powerful than Irasmus and his army of demons.
Hansa led the way, one child borne in the crook of each elbow, and Falice saw 
small hands venture forth to stroke the great furred arms that supported them. 
The other Forest's daughters had likewise taken up the youngest and weakest of 
the band. Birds dipped and lilted about them, making music for a march of 
triumph, and within her own mind Falice could feel in the Valley's children an 
opening, a budding, a growth, like that of young green things spiring toward the 
sun after a years-long drought. The heritage, which had been denied to those 
born in the valley since the descent of the nightmare blighting, was at last 
being bestowed.
So they came to a Forest pool that was open to a sunlit sky. Deer drank there, 
lifting gracefully sculpted heads to stare at the newcomers. At a signal from 
their leader, they faded silently back into the enringing trees, leaving the 
water untroubled —
But not for long! From hunger-pinched bodies, discolored with old bruises as 
well as fresher stripes and scratches, rags, soil-colored and coated, were 
stripped away. Sassie, laughing in Wind sound, leaped into the water with a 
splash. One of the older boys jumped after her without hesitation, and the rest 
of the children, some with a bit more wariness, followed.
Her hands full of thick leaves, which she crushed together as she came, Falice 
waded after them. By the time she reached the children, the pulp had acquired a 
soapy feel and released a fresh, nose-tingling scent. She went to work on first 
the body and then the matted hair of the nearest girl, watched closely by the 
Sasqua. Then Hansa and one of the other Sasqua females entered the pool and took 
their cue from her; and the youngsters (between splashes but during shouts) 
allowed themselves to be scrubbed from head to foot as they had never been 
before.
The misery maps of their skins were brown — as much with soil as sun — and lines 
of grime creased them in places, but the lather of the leaves cleaned every 
inch. And the former slaves had begun to laugh, then play, some chasing a 
neighbor to catch and dunk him or her. Such freedom was restoring to them the 
birthright of all children: innocence and joy.
When the happily tired troop at last emerged from the water, Falice was ready to 
demonstrate how handsful of noon-warmed grasses could be used to dry small 
persons. The Sasqua had left; but they soon returned with the nets they had 
knotted, and those bags were bulging with fruit and edible plants.
The little ones ate so ravenously in the beginning that Hansa made sure the 
first portions proffered were of modest size. She then allowed them to 
concentrate on this or that particular viand that proved the most to their 
liking.
They were sitting at peace with their world, one of the young humans leaning 
back against Hansa and smiling up with a berry-stained mouth at the large, kind 
eyes regarding her. Around them, the Wind sang softly to provide a lullaby for 
several of the waifs, who had curled up in a contented doze. It was, in fact, 
lulling them all with its murmurous voice…
Then it screamed.
In an instant, the serene scene was rent, like a curtain of the Forest's vines 
torn asunder by the wrath of a storm. Power — raw power — had been unleashed, 
but it had not been directed against the Green Realm — that much Falice knew. 
This was a backlash from some other outpouring — a disturbance against which the 
Wind rallied immediately in defense.
The girl could no longer hear the drowsy voices of an untroubled land, for the 
war cry of the Great Breath drowned out all lesser songs, scaling at last far 
higher than her talent could follow. She could only open her arms to the two 
nearest children and hold close their shuddering bodies, hoping that such 
contact might give them some measure of reassurance, if not safety.
And then the Wind was gone — to do battle? to raise defenses? She could only 
guess. Even the Sasqua were holding their powerful bodies tense, although, like 
their human sister, they strove to comfort the children about them. Falice could 
hear the little ones crying, for, with the Wind's disappearance, all their fears 
had returned. The child whom Falice held pushed away and actually tried to 
strike her rescuer's face.
Now there came a sound that even the absence of the all-telling Breath would not 
have kept from the Forest's myriad ears: the drumming — so deep that the earth 
about the little company seemed to beat like a giant heart.
Drumming — yes, Falice could envision what caused that: a forest of huge Sasqua 
clubs striking the ground in a fierce and fearsome rhythm.
"Aieeweee — Wind!" she called, both in her mind and aloud.
Now there was movement across the water, as if that which was approaching must 
keep a certain distance from them. No, not "that" — whom. And Her, Falice knew.
There was the green tunic, clothing the Earth's power bodied forth in womanly 
form, though the face, as always, was veiled. Such was the awe that vision 
inspired in her that Falice wanted to bury her face in her hands to hide her 
eyes, but she could not.
Lady — the little ones. Hansa's mind-speech could still reach Falice.
"It has been said," replied the Earthborn in a voice all present could hear, 
"that those who claim refuge here are accepted by the Wind. No harm is meant to 
them. What has happened lies at a distance; still, it has now become a matter 
for the Forest."
She raised her long-fingered hands and moved them in a pattern the human girl 
suddenly realized was a summoning.
A second blaze of color expanded out of the air. This new-come figure wavered, 
as if it held its place only by a high expenditure of energy.
This was a man, but, like the Earthborn, a member of another race. Perhaps he 
had stepped from another time, as well, for, though he looked like one in middle 
life, his eyes, which were more visible than the rest of him, held no hint of 
age.
The Lady in Green spoke first.
"Look you, Archmage." The slightest movement of Her hand indicated the children. 
"These were they who drudged for your former scholar. And, by him, only a few 
breaths ago, such power was sought as could have challenged even the Wind — had 
the Door been opened, as he desired."
"We seek — "
"You 'seek' " — she mimicked his tone — "but do you act?
Oh, you will say you have been honing your weapon — but now full battle comes."
"It was that 'weapon' you make light of that held fast shut the gate!" the chief 
wizard flashed.
"For this time," conceded the lady. "He of the tower has, perhaps, been halted 
for a time, but not for good. Irasmus is a far more dangerous opponent than you 
think. He works magicks, some small and some great (as the one this day), but he 
is not defeated — nay, nor even more than slightly troubled — by what has 
happened. I call upon you, Yost, and your company of fellow 'seekers,' to turn 
your knowledge into power. I summon you to stand against the Dark with every 
weapon you can raise!"
The figure She addressed flickered and then was gone. A moment later, the Lady 
Herself followed.
The sense of awe, which had held the onlookers respectfully silent, evaporated 
also, and the Wind — the soft Wind of the Breath, not the Fist — returned. Under 
its comforting touch the children's fear dwindled and was gone.
Falice, however, had a question, and it was of Hansa that she asked it. "I am 
not truly of the Forest, am I, mother one? I am — " she hesitated, swallowed, 
and then continued as though she must speak a painful truth before her courage 
failed " — of the same kind as these we have brought this day to safety. One 
need only look upon us all to know."
"You are of the Wind Stone's holding." Hansa's touch on her fosterling's mind 
was as tender as any embrace she had given when the girl had been her small 
furless cubling. "It was at that place I found you with your mother of the body. 
Her spirit had gone to the Wind, for she had been hard used."
Falice had never felt such depths of wrath as came welling up to fill her at 
those words. So — chance alone had saved her from the same fate as these little 
ones. Would that the Dark might feel in its neck the sword of the Light, and 
that speedily!
The Forest's foster daughter was no warrior, but she knew at that moment that 
there was in her the stuff from which weapon wielders — or weapons — were made. 
Perhaps, she thought with grim pleasure, the Dark Lord had by his own actions 
shaped her so, to be an agent of his final destruction.
Then Falice's elation vanished as swiftly as it had come. She had the Wind to 
call upon for war gear, yes — but to realize her wish she must learn more — much 
more.

* * *
How would it sound if earth and sky, like two vast hands, were to come together 
in one tremendous clap? Much, doubtless, as what Fogar had just heard, who was 
now on his knees, hands tight over his ears. Within him, pain and terror warred 
for domination; around him, unconscious, the gobbes lay limply sprawled. Was 
this a dream — or no? Had he suffered this hell before, then been made to 
forget?
Irasmus stood on the last stone of the spiral, as motionless as if the life had 
gone out of him. He was almost hidden by a cloud of dust. As the cloud cleared 
slightly, the apprentice could see his master's hand unclose and drop the 
precious wand to shatter on the stone.
The mage turned, his gray face like a thin layer of ash over a barely banked 
fire, his eyes like burnt-out coals. Perhaps it was only a guess, but Fogar, 
watching, believed that Irasmus was no longer equipped with normal sight.
"By blood and binding — to me, Demon Son!" Power enough resounded to bring the 
boy, dazed as he was, to his feet. (Again — what was real and what, dream? Where 
was the tower — and why did he remember having once before faced the Dark Lord's 
promise of torment?)
Fogar obeyed, but he felt led to do so by a power he knew was none of his 
master's. He paused for a breath or two by the last of the stones and held out 
one hand as if asking aid. As he picked his way among the gobbes, they stirred 
uneasily, like dead beings roused from the sleep of the grave by a necromancer's 
call.
Irasmus's dark hollows of eyes remained fixed on him. Were they still organs of 
sight, the boy wondered, or was Irasmus merely feigning the ability to see what 
lay before and about him? Or — and this was the worst possibility — had his 
master, after so many years ot ingathering power, developed an inward vision 
that might see further than physical eyes?
"To my chamber!" the sorcerer commanded. He took a step in his pupil's 
direction, and his booted heel came down on the broken shards of his wand. He 
flinched but said nothing, only groping ahead with the hand that had held his 
rod of power. Fogar did not — dared not — dodge the grip, predatory as the talon 
of one of the raw-headed rot eaters, that closed on his arm. The two did not now 
follow the spiral of stones but headed straight for the tower instead. (Only — 
had the gobbes not taken him there before? Could time twist in this unnatural 
fashion?)
The Dark Lord appeared to be totally blind, but the youth refused to place any 
trust in that hope. Thus he must act, and continue to act, as one left 
bewildered and powerless by the recent cataclysm.
The apprentice guided his master back to that ever-twilit tower room and thence 
to the vast chair. Irasmus sank back, and the ebbing of tension from his body 
spoke with mute eloquence of his reaction to that abortive use of power.
"The bottle corked with the head of a drackling" — his voice was studiedly calm, 
as if he strove to keep it from shaking — "pour from it one measure, no more and 
no less, into my marked cup."
A cold chill, knifelike as a fang of ice, struck through Fogar. Irasmus had 
never permitted him to touch this flask, having always ere this reserved its 
handling to himself. But the boy knew only too well what it contained — a potion 
that altered, even damaged, the mind. He knew of two gobbes, subcaptains under 
the late Karsh, who had been forced to drink a draught of this stuff for some 
act of supposed insubordination. The creatures had emerged from this chamber 
dull eyed and shuffling, with drops of spittle beading on their warty chins. 
Ever after, they were capable only of the simplest tasks under supervision. Was 
the Dark Lord, having learned the truth about the reason for his failure at the 
spiral, now about to make Fogar quaff the quasi-poison?
Concealing a terror greater than he had ever known before, the boy set about his 
task. One of the things he had learned early was precise measurement. For this 
purpose, there was a row of all sizes of cups. These the apprentice had learned 
to both use and cleanse, washing them in various brews when he had finished, 
because water did not suffice.
Despite his fear, however, as he searched for the marked cup, his newly awakened 
inner sense was also viewing the measures in another way. Scraps of knowledge 
gleaned from dozens of rituals in which he had aided with these tools drew 
together as they never had before. (Yes, but what of that other memory — the one 
of Irasmus, still normally sighted, subjecting Fogar to punishment? Should — 
could — there be two kinds of time?)
Silent, though shouting questions in his mind, the youth did as he was bidden, 
setting a small cup — hardly larger than two thimbles together — on the table, 
then filling it to the brim from the bottle Irasmus had requested. He nearly 
choked as he replaced the stopper, so strong and acrid were the fumes that smote 
his nostrils from both flask and cup.
"To me, sluggard!" The Dark Lord's voice rose a tone higher in his annoyance. 
(But which Irasmus did Fogar face? Would the two time streams blend now?)
The boy pushed the cup carefully forward until it rested between the sorcerer's 
hands, which lay on the edge of the table, unconsciously curved toward each 
other as if to enclose the globe no longer there. But even this final touch was 
not to be the end of Fogar's service.
"Now." The mage bent his head once, deeply, as he spoke the word, less (Fogar 
thought) in acknowledgment of himself than in a seldom-rendered obeisance to the 
Dark Powers. "Bring from the fourth shelf the volume bound in scaled skin — the 
Book of Azhur-ben-M'pal."
The youth now moved toward the chamber's high bookshelves and took down the 
called-for tome. He had handled this book on numerous occasions, but an infinity 
of uses would never, he knew, accustom him to the disquieting way in which the 
volume seemed to fit itself into his hand. Hurriedly, for fear he would drop the 
thing, he bore it back to Irasmus.
"Now you will display your learning, though you have ever been thick of wit. 
Look for the Third Saying of Elptus — and do not play the dolt with me, for you 
have conned that page often enough in the past, though that mutton brain of 
yours never let you guess the power of what you mouthed."
The youth set the book on the table, where it obliged him further by opening of 
its own accord precisely to the page the sorcerer had specified. Fogar tensed, 
then forced himself to relax. Should his master's blindness be only a ruse 
whereby to test him, an expression that could be interpreted as reluctance to 
serve could earn him the living-death sentence meted out to the hapless gobbes.
"Read!" Irasmus commanded.
Fogar shaped words whose meaning he had never known. Now, however, they 
resounded so painfully in his ears that they pierced into his very brain.
"Assua den ulit." It seemed to him that the acid tang of the liquid in the cup 
leaped up into his nose, then hurled itself down his throat and into his lungs. 
Were these words, then, so deep-dark-drawn that honest air could not be used to 
move them into speech? "Salossa." He nearly gasped aloud, so agonizingly did 
that sound stab his brain. (But now he knew the truth, having seen far deeper 
into arcane knowledge than Irasmus had ever expected him to do. His recollection 
of an earlier visit to this room had been the false one — this was the memory to 
be kept!)
The Dark Lord's hand moved with extreme care. When his fingers closed about the 
tiny vessel, he did not raise it to his lips (nor, for which Fogar thanked the 
Wind, thrust it at him) but rather drew it, by minuscule measures, across the 
table until it occupied the space the murky ball had rested.
"Revaer," the boy finished, then began what appeared to be a new sentence. 
"Appolenecter!" Marginal notes on the page indicated that these syllables formed 
either a command or a name, and the apprentice uttered them accordingly.
"Appolenecter!" he repeated. And, in that moment, he had a flash of intuition 
about what he was reading. This was a calling; however, it could only be for one 
of the very minor demons, for the high Lords of Power demanded more pomp and the 
blood payment of an animal sacrifice (or worse) before they would deign to 
answer.
A stirring curdled the air, and, between Irasmus's hands, a small rodlike pillar 
of black smoke, with a dull redness smoldering in its grim heart, arose from the 
surface of the table.
Moments later, a thing — Fogar could put no more accurate name to it than that, 
though it made him think of the stone monsters who leered from the corners of 
the tower — sat there cross-legged. The being was equipped with ash-gray wings 
that it clapped together in greeting, perhaps, above its round, hairless head. 
Though as grotesque as the gobbes, it displayed none of the demons' servility, 
but rather bore itself with easy assurance.
A mouth that ran nearly from one earlobe to the other opened, and the sound that 
issued was a taunting chuckle. To Fogar's surprise, the words it uttered were in 
the common speech of the valley. Did the creature do so in order that he, too, 
would understand any answer it would give — or did it seek thereby to put 
Irasmus in his place?
"Thought you were a Third-Degree Master, did you?" the gargoyle jeered at the 
sorcerer. "Able to call up one of the Great Greats? Foolish man! Do you truly 
believe that, because you have harnessed a people to your will, you can now 
speak face-to-face with — " the imp touched a horned forehead with a taloned paw 
in a gesture of evident reverence " — Zaasbeen?"
Irasmus's hand balled into a fist. "Silence, nightling, or you will discover 
that I have claws longer than yours! Perhaps you would care to be pinned here 
for my pleasure?" Smiling meaningfully and raising the forefingers of both 
hands, the Dark Lord described in the still-hovering cloud two circles and 
connected them by a line. The resultant image, which hovered for a few seconds, 
glowing red, unmistakably suggested a pair of shackles.
The creature was no longer grinning, and, when it spoke again, its voice was 
sullen. "Truth comes hard to your kind — yet still it exists. You have been 
challenged, yes, but not seriously enough — "
"Challenged?" Irasmus said so softly that he was half whispering, and it was to 
himself that he spoke. "Who has challenged me? Those of the order are held by 
the bones of the Covenant, even as is the Power from the Forest — "
"But with proper help," chirped the small demon, "you seek now to invade that 
country — to pry at the very door of the Wind! Threaten as you like, rash mortal 
— the pits are already dug that will entrap your feet, for the talent of the 
Forest is many times greater than that which you have already encountered."
"I want but one truth from you, misbegotten imp," the Dark Lord ground out 
between clenched teeth. "Where lies my weakness?"
The fiendling's head turned a fraction, allowing its gaze to flit over Fogar. 
The boy felt sure it was about to start spouting something that could prove very 
dangerous to him, and his fear returned. Fortunately, the thing, for reasons of 
its own, thought better of its impulse. Grinning again, it turned back to 
Irasmus, and its purple tongue thrust forth at the wizard in a rude gesture.
"Look to — what lies behind you, mortal, for there lie the roots of what will 
grow into a mighty hedge of menace that will march toward you like those upa 
plants you sought to seed.
"Oh, by the way" — the imp cocked its head on one side and assumed a politely 
conversational tone — "have you had any message from Yost lately?" It might have 
been inquiring about the weather.
A flush rose to stain Irasmus's thin cheeks. "The Covenant binds — " he began.
"So it does," the creature interrupted, "but it binds you, too. Ha! ha! Now let 
us to business." The thing straightened a long neck and shrugged stone-colored 
shoulders as if impatient for this interview to be concluded. "You have one 
request — state it. There is that" — its wide nostrils expanded in distaste — 
"about this den of yours that does not encourage long visits."
If the small demon had hoped by that taunt to sting Irasmus into a rash reply, 
it failed. Instead, the mage pushed the cup wordlessly toward his guest. The 
creature sniffed; then it smirked again.
"Do not treat your toys so carelessly next time, wizard, for we do not have them 
in abundance." Reaching forward, it closed tiny fingers about the vessel and, 
tilting the cup forward, spilled the contents onto the tabletop. Both the 
sense-smiting odor and an oily smoke arose.
The little fiend scooped up the stuff as if it were clay. Rolling this substance 
between its hands, it set the resultant mass back on the table. With a blow from 
its fist, it struck the upper end. The lump spun madly about, then took on a 
spherical shape.
The imp laughed for the last time. "Make the most of this, man, for you shall 
not get another, no matter whom you cry to. And I wouldn't be too quick, now, to 
call upon any from Beyond, if I were you!" With that, the imp vanished, as 
swiftly as it had come.
 
24
Ever since the sorcerer had been led back to the tower by his apprentice, the 
gobbes had jabbered among themselves. In one of their rare cooperative efforts 
not brought about by Irasmus's whip or words, they drove the slaves back to the 
pen, even though it was long till night. Then, once the bar was slammed into 
place at the stockade gate, the creatures gathered in a group, muttering 
fearfully, their attention fixed on the tower. Within their prison, the human 
slaves also joined together, the men and boys encircling the women in a vain 
attempt to convey a promise of protection to those who were wailing for vanished 
children.
"The Forest beasts — they stole 'em!" The woman who cried out was rocking back 
and forth in an age-old expression of grief. Her cheeks were streaked with 
tears, but, though the eyes from which those had fallen were still brimming, 
they no longer showed the flat dullness set there by her hard and wanhope life. 
"They have taken my Solvage, my little Lenny — "
As the grieving mother lapsed into sobbing, another of the women spoke. Her lank 
hair hung about a face touched by a frost of premature age. "The Forest…" she 
said slowly, then halted and began again. "Kin of the duns, have none of you 
dreamed?" She twisted her body about, trying to catch the eyes of everyone 
assembled there.
"Dreams mean nothing," sneered one of the men.
The woman swung to face him squarely. "So, Numor — you have dreamed!"
The farmer scowled, then shrugged. "What mean sleep seeings that come in bits 
and pieces but can never be drawn together when one wakes? Yes, Alantra" — he 
raised both hands to fend off an interruption — "I know the old tales that 
dreams were once speech, and learning, and freedom. But they were brought by the 
Wind — and does that still blow here, I ask you?"
"But you have dreamed," insisted Alantra. "And you, Ganda," — here she bespoke a 
third woman — "you were kin, though by a lesser bloodline, to Widow Larlarn."
Ganda seemed to draw in upon herself, hunching her shoulders as if she were 
being accused of some fault with punishing wrath to follow. Yet Alantra did not 
have long to wait for her answer. "So little have we become" — Ganda's voice was 
a whip of scorn — "that there remains but one of the Old Blood — "
"True!" broke in Numor triumphantly, as though Ganda's words had proved his 
point. "And where lies she now, Alantra? In the very hands of that devil in the 
tower! Oh, we all heard the talk from old Haraska and Larlarn about the girl's 
talent. Talent — pah!" He spat the word, then spat in truth. "Any talent we ever 
had has long since been leached out of us — "
Destin, an older man, interrupted. "You bewail bitterly enough the loss of those 
who could speak so the Wind would listen. Yet who" — he stabbed out an accusing 
finger — "is the one with the blood of the Firthdun on his hands? Who was it, 
Numor, who raised his voice to say, 'Our neighbors prosper while we wither,' and 
'Sharing of goods must be equal'?"
The farmer's scowl grew deeper. "You swung a well-sharpened scythe that night 
also, Destin!"
The older man nodded solemnly. "Yes, I also have my blood debt to be paid. But" 
— he squared his shoulders, accepting his folly and fate, and the years seemed 
to weigh less heavily on him for the taking up of that burden — "I shall pay it 
like a man, as I would advise you to do. If we have signed our death writ by 
slaying those very folk who might have saved us, then we must either save 
ourselves or die trying!"
At those words, another mother raised a bleary-eyed face to the speaker and 
seized a fold of his ragged tabard as though clutching at hope. "But the 
children" — she looked about her wildly, as if by the very force of her will she 
could summon a missing small one to her — "must they, will they, too — "
The answer that came was far from the one the beseeching woman was seeking; even 
more startling was its deliverer.
"Dream," said Antha, the mother who had first mourned. Her quavering voice 
firmed to a tone of near command as she realized the wisdom of her own words. 
"Dream, I tell you! For it is in our dreams, broken though they may be, that 
help lies — for both ourselves and our little ones. Now is the time for us to 
use what is left of our gifts, for the Dark One has had one of his own spells 
turn against him. Have we not seen this and felt the power that was loosed, 
though it did not blot us out? He has sucked us, over the years, yet he had 
still not might enough to achieve what he would!
"Also" — Antha brushed sodden locks from her tear-trenched face and actually 
smiled — "the Forest has not moved against us to slay. You, Evlyn — you were 
close to the master when he and his pack returned. Did they wear any sign of the 
death of others upon them?"
A murmur of beginning excitement ran through the group.
"The gobbe work driver was not with them," the young man, Evlyn, answered. "No 
sense can be made of their gabble, but they were angry — and what would fan 
their wrath higher than to have prey slip through their paws? The children had 
been sent almost to the verge of the Forest, the closest any of us have ventured 
since — " he bit his lip, as if he must speak in blood the next words " — that 
night of madness that set the stain of kin slaying upon us all.
"You, Numor, have said that the Wind does not blow here. That may be so, since 
we raised our hands against one another; yet does that mean It breathes no more 
in any place? Whence came It of old, say the stories? From the Forest! Maybe, 
then, if our little ones reached the Green Country, they have found there a 
power that will welcome and ward them. At least they are free of this prison!
"Yes." Evlyn, like Destin, now stood up straighter as if reclaiming a role in 
his clan too long forgotten. "Antha is right. I will say it to all of you. I, 
too, have dreamed. Broken visions can be pieced together, if the dreamers work 
one with others, and perhaps each of us has some part of knowledge to be fitted 
to another. Think you of those scrapwork covers our women made in the duns. None 
of their cloth bits alone had value, but set edge to edge, they made a thing of 
use and beauty.
"Surely some of us remember the old dream summonings, however vaguely; so let us 
throw open our minds and call — now, tonight! The master believes us fully 
drained, and, besides, he will be busy striving to recover what he has lost. 
What is more, that ball, through which he could spy out every part of our world, 
and that wand, with which he could blast us with his dark lightnings, are gone — 
at least for a time."
Agreeing with these words, those of the scattered homesteads drew together, 
moving toward one another. Thus, all who were left of Styrmir's people sought 
sleep that night with every group of kinfolk linked by touch of mind with their 
own blood; while some of the women also held their arms as if encircling small 
persons not with them in the body. As they began to shape their quilt, albeit of 
dreams, they felt like a family huddled beneath such a coverlet, united in 
comfort shared despite a world grown cold.

* * *
This was a night of the full moon. It shone on the Stone which, under its beams, 
was now afire with more of the rainbow-hued sparks than Falice had ever seen. 
So, she thought, remembering, she belonged to the Stone; for Hansa had found her 
here — Hansa, the nurturing one who, when death had striven to take her into its 
arms, had caught the girl up into her own. Thus the Sasqua female had sustained 
her life, and was that not what made a mother? Yet — those delicate bones to 
which Falice had paid proper respect were those of her mother of the body.
Pensively, she went to stand at the head of that hidden resting place. What had 
she been like, that other life giver? And why — here came a Wind question, blown 
into her mind — why did the boy who answered Irasmus's orders look like her? Was 
he kin? Perhaps, then, there were some among the children now sleeping in Sasqua 
nests who were also of her blood. She knew so little; she would learn more.
Raw force had been unleashed in the world this day. It had been triggered by an 
act of evil, she knew; however, it was also true that the use of talent draws 
power, both of Dark and Light. Certainly it had not been Falice's imagination 
that she had, since that outpouring of might, sensed more purpose in the Wind's 
song or been urged here this night.
To make use of the Stone was why she had been summoned — she knew that as surely 
as if the Breath now shouted it aloud. Once again she closed in on the monolith, 
putting out her hands as if to reach through its surface to touch those visions 
drawn from another time and place.
The window hole was open, and the girl could see through. She supposed that, as 
usual, she would have to wait for its choice of scene, for she had never had the 
power to decide what was to be viewed. Or — did she? Deciding to essay a trial, 
she concentrated on the face of that male who puzzled her so — the one she could 
never quite forget.
Falice felt a flash of triumph as she found herself looking at precisely whom 
she wished to see. There was the young man, but he seemed drained of all energy 
and appeared to keep to his feet only because several of those warty monsters 
were giving him rough support as they dragged him down a flight of stairs. The 
creature to the fore of the group carried something that held light, dim but 
sufficient to show that the steps ended at an opening.
A maw of blackness gaped beyond and, into that, the horrors threw their captive. 
Despite the dark, by the power of the monolith Falice was able to see that the 
prisoner was not alone in this hole. Against the wall huddled a girl who was 
chained to a bolt in the stone. She was certainly of the same race as the boy 
and the Forest's foster daughter, though ill kempt and emaciated. However, 
though her posture bespoke wariness, she did not hunch herself into the slaves' 
habitual cringe. Far otherwise — her eyes seemed to send out very faint rays of 
light, and her whole bearing spoke unmistakably to Falice of power.

* * *
At last the fierce battery of curses (of several sorts) to which Fogar had been 
subjected by Irasmus after the imp had shown such scorn had ended. Well aware 
that the master was far from finished with him, he now lay unmoving, bound by 
the shackles of a spell, in this dark cell. Cell? There had been a girl, also a 
captive, and she had been thrust into such a hole as this…
He heard a small rustling sound. Laboriously, he turned his head, though any 
attempt at action instantly tightened the bonds that had been put upon him — he 
had been placed under a constraint to act only as the mage directed. But in a 
small corner of his will that still belonged to him, Fogar thought: That one may 
have bound my body, but he can place no manacles on my mind!
From the direction of the rustling sound now came definite movement, which the 
boy could sense but not truly see — save for two glowing eyes. Those orbs were 
unsettling, but they did not belong to an animal, nor to any creature that ran 
the Dark Paths, of that he was certain. It was, rather, himself who had had the 
compulsion to set evil upon him.
The youth suddenly found himself moving stiffly, and by no urge of his own. 
Somehow, in spite of the gloom, he could now see his cell mate — enough, at 
least, to know where she stood. She had risen to her feet, but she made no 
effort to elude him as, step by agonized step, he drew ever nearer, fighting the 
compulsion spell that had invaded his mind, as it intended his body to invade —
No — such an appalling act could not be forced upon him! Until this moment, 
Fogar had felt as helpless to control his own limbs as one of those bird-begones 
the land grubbers placed in the fields, whipped into antic dance by autumn 
winds. Now, however, his head came up higher, and he managed — though it took 
every ounce of his strength — to hold his foot still. The reason Irasmus wished 
so vile a deed done he could not guess, but Fogar remembered the sorcerer's 
analogy of the tool that turned in the workman's hand. Well, he thought with 
grim joy, the master was about to feel the bite of his apprentice's edge in his 
soft palm, for this was one work that would be — in every sense — undone!
In some way, Fogar believed, his fellow captive sensed what he had been sent to 
do — the hellish impulse planted in him by the new tool of murk the little demon 
had made. He heard a rattle of chain. Was the girl readying herself to met him 
with the only weapon she had?
Instead of acting, however, she began to speak in words which quickly flowed 
into a chant:

  "By Wind Ever-Breathing, 
  By Law of Orvas, 
  Desire of Vagen, 
  Ever victorious, 
  Judging, holding — "
Fogar knew those Names, though they were used only as blasphemies by most within 
these walls. What knowledge had this one gained before being taken in Irasmus's 
net to speak with such assurance — even authority — of the Great Powers? Her 
words seemed to touch him lightly, like fingertips lifted in an instant, and he 
echoed, "By the Wind…"
All the myriad bits of knowledge he had been able to assemble through the past 
years, and the many images from dreams — yes, dreams — came crowding into his 
mind, forming more distinct patterns than he had ever seen before. His tone this 
time an answer, not a question, the boy repeated again, "The Wind!"
In the body of the valley, the Dark Lord was an ever eating disease, but, at 
least for this time, his cancerous spread had been halted: he had been balked in 
one of his longest-laid plans.
"Who are you?" Fogar asked.
Movement again, certain in the uncertain light of the shadows — she had drawn 
herself up proudly. "I am Cerlyn, daughter to Ethera of Firthdun. Do you not 
know the ending of our clan, and, after, the torture death of Oldmother Haraska 
and Widow Larlarn — the last who could claim touch with the Wind? It was they 
who saved me from the slaughter of our kin, then hid me and taught me. And you" 
— the girl put out a hand as she said this, not in accusation but invitation to 
tell his part in the tale — "they name you Demon's Son. But what are you besides 
what he has called you?"
"I know not, in full," Fogar replied in a low voice. "I only know that that name 
is not truly mine, for, though Irasmus has tutored me in knowledge of the Dark 
Path, he never allowed me to understand what I conned. He thinks of me as a 
tool, a weapon; and he has used me when and where he could as both. It is as if 
he hones and holds me against a day when, he believes, I will be able to deliver 
some additional strength for his need.
"This night, he sent my body to try a hideous thing. My flesh and bones moved by 
his steering, but — maiden, I speak the truth: by some great fortune, that 
within me — that which was really me — could not be so controlled." The 
apprentice stumbled to a halt, unsure he could make this Cerlyn understand.
As before, she sang her answer.
"Aiieee — ears wait: 
      The Life Wind blows — "
"Stop!" Fogar's voice in their tiny cell was nearly a shout. Then, more quietly 
but no less urgently, "Listen!" he entreated her. "If you can call upon some 
Power to free you, then summon it now. That one has ways of turning minds inside 
out like a sower's seed bag, searching for some fact, or memory, or thought he 
can use. He has made me live in two different times only to disprove a suspicion 
of treachery! His power may have failed this day, but I cannot believe he would 
fail to sense that tonight, in the very center of his stronghold, a Power stirs 
that is his mortal enemy. I warn you, do not attract his attention unless you 
are sure your talent is much the greater."
Fogar had moved nearer to the girl as he spoke, caught up in his need to 
convince her of her peril. As he stopped speaking, he realized he was now close 
enough to touch her. Fearing a return of Irasmus's filthy compulsion, he forced 
himself to step backward until he felt the dank wall of the cell against his 
shoulders. From this position, he concluded, "If you can cause the Wind to come 
to your aid, I beseech you — do so at once. Irasmus has many wards, and he will 
be tightening them all as swiftly as he can."
"I am no Caller." For the first time, Cerlyn's voice was uncertain. "What came 
was by the sending of another."
"Then summon him — or her!" Fogar urged.
"I have no such power," she replied bleakly. "Whence the Wind comes and why, I 
do not know; only, this night, it moved to save us."
The youth was thankful for her use of the word "us"; perhaps he had won the 
trust of this Wind-kissed girl. He must not try to ally with her here — to do so 
would alert Irasmus in an instant. Yet fear for her safety still drove him to 
try to warn her. "Then you must do all you can to play the slow-witted land 
grubber — "
Once more an assured motion in the shifting shadows, but this time a negative 
one — Cerlyn shook her head. "The time is long past for such feigning," she 
replied. "Irasmus already suspects I have the talent. What he tried to force you 
to do tonight is proof."
"How so?" asked Fogar in bewilderment. "In what manner would my — attack — on 
you have struck against your gift?"
"You have not lived among the people," Cerlyn explained, "and the Dark One has 
seen to it that you know but little of us and our ways. There is a long-held 
belief that, if a woman who holds any talent is ravished, she is thereafter no 
longer a fit vessel for power." The girl laughed suddenly. "You have never had 
bodily knowledge of another, either — such information would have been current 
coin. Thus," she concluded, her mood once more grim, "Irasmus planned to draw 
from your action strength twofold."
As before, Fogar felt oddly heartened by this stranger's concern for his 
welfare, and he was seeking the words to tell her so (for he also felt strangely 
tongue-tied in her presence) when the door of the cell opened, and the gobbes 
were back. Their leader, its lantern lighting its face from below to a harvest 
scare-gourd, shambled in and seized the boy's arm. As he was jerked away, he 
caught a clear glimpse of his fellow captive — enough to see that, though she 
was clad in rags and her skin was mottled with dirt, her head was held high. He 
did not — dared not — look back as they hustled him from the cell.

* * *
Falice leaned her head against the Stone, grateful for its support. She could 
hardly believe she had been able to make contact — even though they did not 
realize it — with those two, much less that her thrust of power, weak as it had 
been, had helped give Fogar the strength to withstand the abominable urge 
implanted by Irasmus. She knew she could never have stopped the boy had his own 
will chimed with that of his master. However, it seemed that, despite the 
youth's years-long submersion in the Dark, the Light in his heart yet burned 
clear, like a candle in the murk of that benighted tower. He, Falice felt sure, 
could help himself; but Cerlyn — who would hear the Wind more clearly — she was, 
indeed, one to be saved but Falice have aid. Yet how was such a rescue to be 
accomplished, and when?
The Forest's fosterling closed her eyes and tried to think, only to realize she 
was so weak she must cling to the Stone. At last, as the first gray suggestion 
of dawn lightened the sky, she slipped down its length to lie on the ground. 
Though she tried to fight off sleep, her eyes closed; and, beneath the monolith, 
whose myriad twinkling lights kept a night of miniature stars above her, Falice 
lay alone in the growing light, deeply asleep in the glade.
 
25
Cerlyn was in a place she had come to know well — as well, in fact, as if she 
had lived there most of her life. However, she faced the one who had summoned 
her there with a frown and a less-than-respectful tone. "You call me, and I 
come, as a child set to learn. But, teacher, can you answer this question? 
Irasmus strove to play some high-magic trick, and it turned on him. How and 
why?"
"The Dark Lord's sorcery did not 'turn.' Say, rather, it was turned — on him," 
Gifford replied calmly. "The Lady of the Forest no longer strives to suppress 
Her power, for She has in Her service a maiden through whom she can speak — and 
summon a Power we both know. That girl is kin-linked to both you and Fogar. She 
may not have had access to all this" — a wave of his hand indicated the shelves 
of stored wisdom in his chamber — " but she has had the favor and aid of one of 
the very Oldest Ones. It was Her Wind-calling that helped break the compulsion 
laid upon Irasmus's apprentice to dishonor you by force."
"But," Cerlyn said in surprise, "there were only two of us in that cell, and he 
was tightly held by his master…"
The lorekeeper was shaking his head before she faltered to a halt. " 'Master' no 
longer, Cerlyn. What Fogar holds — though partly unaware of it as yet — would 
place him on the level of any of our scholars, even if he does not choose in the 
end to come to Valarian. This is the truth! The boy has been forced to read 
those forbidden tomes Irasmus stole from us, yes; and what was taken has led to 
dark doings and dealings alike.
"However, as I have said" — Gifford paused and raised a finger in the classic 
gesture of teachers everywhere — "no knowledge is evil in and of itself but only 
according to how it is used. The warrior and the healer both have an edge on 
their tools, but would you wish all blades dull because one is used to bring 
death? I tell you, girl, that when the moment comes, Fogar will be equipped far 
better for that encounter than he could now ever guess, and that he whom Irasmus 
has named 'demon's son' will make that one wish he were confronting only 
fiends!"
"What moment?" Cerlyn asked irritably. "Where — and when? I am tired of being 
given only snippets of information!"
"The hour we cannot foresee, for the Dark Lord has bought a breathing space by 
trading once more with the under realm. Only" — Gifford's usual smile here 
widened to the grin of one relishing a fine jest — "his bargain was not struck 
with the One he sought. Thus, for what he has purchased — as well as from whom — 
he shall pay the price.
"We are divided from the Dark, Cerlyn, by a wall pierced by crevices — and 
sometimes even windows and gates — none of which are made fast but can be used 
by either side under certain conditions. Years ago, Irasmus made, as he 
believed, a pact with one of the Dwellers in the Dark, and thereafter set 
himself up as a worthy agent for that being. However" — once more came a 
teacherly motion as Gifford held out his hand, palm down and fingers straight — 
"think of this as a bridge of rope that must be walked, with yourself wearing a 
pack to weigh you down. As you advance one way, the bridge dips — " he tilted 
his fingertips down and his wrist up " — but when you do that, the opposite end 
rises. It is thus with more powers than the pull of the earth: when one exerts 
force on an object in front of him, that whereon he has just turned his back may 
be lifting itself to overthrow him.
"There are certainly those of the Shadow Lands who harbor vast hatred for us of 
the Light and for all we are, do, and would achieve. Generations ago, a war was 
fought against them, and at its ending was forged the Covenant. Unfortunately, 
when the years pass, bringing no challenge, men forget, and they come to believe 
that peace and prosperity are rights rather than privileges hard won that must 
be vigilantly warded. Then one such as Irasmus arises and begins to pick at the 
seals of their safety. Power, to him, is as a great jar of wine with whose heady 
draughts he would ever wax more drunken." The lorekeeper paused, then shook his 
head and made a dismissive motion with his hand, a gesture Cerlyn had come to 
know as one of self-deprecation for a tendency to run on or digress.
"To return to that Dark-warding wall: on its other side are creatures who are 
likewise impatient. However, those of the dark who possess the mightiest talents 
remember only too well what happened before their exile. Here in the Place of 
Learning, we have delved into the annals of that age, and we now know the nature 
of the Being with whom the dark mage sought to make contact but who prudently 
remains beyond his reach; and since we have discovered whom he would invoke, we 
have been making ready. That entity, though, is not one of the Great Powers, as 
your would-be master thought — he calls potent names in his rituals, but those 
who answer him bear other titles." The girl's teacher bent his head for a moment 
over fingers interlaced on the tabletop. Possibly he was doing no more than 
collecting his thoughts for the summing up of her lesson, but perhaps he was 
raising a silent plea to the powers of Light for his aid — and hers. Drawing a 
deep breath, Gifford resumed.
"Now — listen well, Cerlyn, for we are come very near to the end of this play 
with Irasmus. From the beginning, your line has served the Light, and great 
heroines and heroes were numbered among them in the days before the Covenant. I 
cannot promise you a triumph to equal theirs, for defeat can be the prize for 
one small error. But, even as Fogar now dreams of what must be done, so I shall 
tell you that which will prepare you.
"Child, you have been marked by Irasmus as a gift to be handed beyond the Wall 
into Darkness and thus secure favor for him. I shall give you certain words, but 
the finding of the proper time to use them — and the courage to do so — will 
rest upon you alone; for each warrior must choose not only the manner of her 
weapons but the moment in the war at which to wield them."

* * *
Her chain rattled against the wall as Cerlyn sat up and opened her eyes. Fogar 
was gone — she had watched the sorcerer's hellhounds drag him out — but there 
was no breaking the bonds that held her. In her mind, however, those three names 
the mage had repeated to her so slowly and intently fairly burned, and she knew 
she would never forget them.
But something else had come here while she had lain entranced. The new presence 
was, without doubt, a force of the Light, and the very air of this noisome box 
smelled the fresher for its arrival. It seemed to Cerlyn that the Wind was still 
there, either having remained after it had freed Fogar of the ugly compulsion 
laid upon him, or returning. Now, there was also a pale glow suspended in the 
air above her at what would be head height if she were standing. Rising to her 
feet, she stepped before it.
The light came from no torch or lamp; instead, it looked like the gray of early 
dawn shining through a small window. Remembering Gifford's talk of the piercings 
in the Wall of the Dark into which, at times, the Light might enter, she moved 
closer to the opening and saw — through.
Before her was another face — the apprentice's again? No, this countenance was 
that of a girl probably of her own age; yet the resemblance of the stranger to 
Fogar was very strong.
Cerlyn wondered if her dreaming had touched her mind so deeply that, waking, she 
would see his image in any who were tied to him — no, she corrected herself — to 
them both by blood.
Obviously the girl on the other side of that window could see her in return, and 
it was she who spoke first.
"You are Cerlyn, of what was once the dun of Firth."
"Yes." Cerlyn was still bemused. "But you — you have the look of him the valley 
folk name Demon Son — Fogar — "
"Why should I not?" the other returned, almost proudly. "Long ago, Mam Hansa had 
learned from Wind Song that two babes were born to my mother on the night that 
saw most of our kin slain. Irasmus took only one; my mother fled to the forest, 
where she bore me, then died. I am Falice, and I am a Wind Caller, as is the 
birthright of our blood.
"However, that is of little moment now. The Dark Lord is putting forth his power 
once again — and this time, kin sister, you are to be his offering to the Under 
Ones. The Wind has sung it, and always the Wind knows. Yet this I now swear to 
you: the Forest will move, at long last. The Great Breath gathers itself to 
deliver a blast against the forces of the Dark; and, when the bonds that 
restrain it are broken, we, its children, shall come forth to do its desire. You 
and my brother kin will not stand alone in the final hour!"
The light which had painted that speaking portrait on the gloom winked out, as 
though the spot were, indeed, a window that had been abruptly curtained, and 
Cerlyn could no longer feel the touch of the Wind. Yes, what the vision visitor 
had said was true — at least as far as the part of her story that Fogar might 
have a twin. Grandmam Haraska had once let fall the revelation that Fogar's 
mother had been heavy with twins but, after Irasmus had snatched the child first 
to appear, she had been aided to escape by the women who were huddled beyond the 
firelight and so out of the sorcerer's view. That brave life bearer might well 
have sought the Forest as a refuge.
Cerlyn sank down into the sour straw, feeling suddenly weak, for the buoying 
energy of this latest vision had vanished with the going of the light. Now, she 
supposed, all that remained was to wait for the dark mage to move; for it was by 
his actions that all within the range of his much-desired mastery would either 
be freed, or — But she refused to follow that fearful thought, which was a 
temptation to despair, born of the Dark to drain her confidence and, thus, her 
strength.

* * *
The gobbes had again thrust Fogar into Irasmus's chamber. Once more, the wizard 
had his hands curved about the globe the imp had fashioned — though this new 
sphere was smaller and more sullenly murky than the first — and he did not look 
up as the demons shambled out, leaving their charge behind. The apprentice could 
not be sure, even now, how keen was his master's sight, for his eyes still bore 
that shuttered appearance they had shown since the explosion at the spiral. The 
boy, for his part, was scarcely anxious to attract the mage's attention, 
remembering what he — or that shadow of the shadow lord in the other-time place 
— had warned him about tools which twice failed. In Irasmus's view, Fogar 
thought grimly, he could certainly be deemed such a worthless — and dangerous — 
thing.
Hunching before the table, the sorcerer had bent his head to bring his eyes very 
close to the cloud-cored ball. Moisture trickled from beneath the outer edges of 
his lids, as though he were putting his physical sight to a tremendous strain. 
It looked very likely to the youth that the would-be power-summoner still 
suffered from some degree of blindness. Yet the Dark Lord's injury, whatever it 
might be, apparently meant nothing to him as he stared into that sphere, for he 
plainly perceived therein something that was both a cause for fury — and for 
fear.
Then he began to draw on the wood, inches from where the globe rested, a series 
of runes. Fogar was too far away to recognize any of them, but he somehow knew 
that Irasmus, concentrating all the talent he possessed, was reaching further 
than he ever had before, both down into himself and into — The Place Not Named. 
He next commenced muttering to himself, or perhaps only his lips moved, for no 
sound reached the youth.
The actions of the mage absorbed Fogar's attention fully at first, but gradually 
he became aware of power rising within himself. The gobbes had left him neither 
chained nor bound, and he suddenly recalled that they had seemed almost 
reluctant to touch him when they had dragged him from Cerlyn's cell. Thus his 
hands were free, and now the tips of his fingers began to tingle, the itch 
rising up his palms to his wrists. He recognized it as the same feeling that had 
reached him from some of the stones during those hours he had labored to build 
the spiral. This sensation was not that born of the loathsome aura of those 
Dark-hearted discs he had handled but was, instead, a warm, invigorating flow of 
force — not strong, yet steady. The apprentice was sure it was not caused by his 
master's activities but that, quite the contrary, it ran counter to them.
Suddenly Irasmus jerked up his head, and his still-crooked forefinger froze, 
leaving a rune partway sketched. The darkness in the globe had thickened, but 
not enough to conceal the lines of red that had begun to form at its top and 
spread downward, evenly spaced, until they covered the upper half of the sphere 
with a glowing web.
Now the wizard did look at Fogar, though his captive could not see even a 
suggestion of true eyes in the sockets turned toward him but only the emptiness 
of twin pits. His lips shaped a snarl, and the hand, which had rested nearest 
the globe, arose from the table, in the swift motion of one who hurled an 
object, straight at his student. The luminescent lines broke from the ball to 
cleave to Irasmus's gray flesh, clinging so only for a moment, then spinning out 
through the air toward Fogar.
The youth had no idea of proper defense. He could only raise both hands in front 
of him. It was at that moment, however, that the tingling faded, and he tasted 
defeat before he had ever had a chance to essay his strength. The blood-colored 
strands enlarged as they sped, assuming the likeness of a net. He tried to shift 
his feet, to turn, to run, only to find himself fast rooted until those 
filaments lashed themselves about him, their ends weaving over and around. When 
they touched their intended victim, he could no longer see them but only feel 
the bonds they now laid upon him.
Irasmus's predatory smile looked well sated. "You will keep, dirt spawn. You 
hold yet within yourself that which I would learn; however, if I do not — why, 
who would be a more fit offering to the Great Dark One than his chosen son?"
Abruptly, as if Fogar had ceased to exist, the mage turned back to study the 
sphere and to trace occult symbols around it.
The boy made no attempt, as yet, to struggle against the invisible netting that 
held him. He was becoming more convinced by the moment that he had not been 
brought to this chamber solely by the whim of his master but rather by the 
workings of some other Power for whom he had a mission to perform. A high, 
distant drone hummed in his head — speech? The sound of an animal? No — a 
summons to those with ears to hear. Fogar struggled to listen as he never had 
before.
He did not even have to close his eyes to see two faces he had often glimpsed, 
though indistinctly, in the broken dreams that had so frustrated him. Now, 
however, those countenances were not misty and ill defined. Their eyes, in 
especial, were bright, so bright they transfixed his own with their beams…
Memory showed Fogar mind pictures of pages of Irasmus's arcane texts he had once 
conned without understanding. The boy began to comprehend exactly what purpose 
drove his master now; and he perceived, as well, that through him two others 
were reading and learning in turn.
Of them, however, he had no fear; for now he also knew this: he had been born 
with a gift that could always distinguish the Light from the Dark.
As those pages fluttered by his inner sight, he, too, read — and understood. His 
body grew taut as he was made inexorably aware of the battle that must come soon 
— and the world-altering power of such a clash.
At this realization, Fogar began to breathe in short gasps. Irasmus's ball-spun 
bonds were drawing tighter as if they would squeeze the life from him even as 
they forced him to yield up the modest knowledge he possessed.
The boy ran a tongue tip over fear-dried lips. He could not speak aloud, for the 
web that cocooned him would not permit speech. However, he might — 
No words Fogar had ever learned could explain the instinct that led him to 
attempt what he now tried, but he read in the two intent faces before him an 
urging, a virtual commanding, that he do this thing. Then those twin watchers 
were gone. In their place was left the mind picture of a mighty tree, wide 
boled, thick leaved; and within him sounded, silent except to his own ears and 
every cell of his body, the singing of the Wind among its branches.
The youth was now a part of that vast growth, for the Breath opened the way for 
him. Watching below those swaying branches — for his awareness radiated into 
them from the trunk of the tree like spokes from a central hub — he saw 
movement, a passing cavalcade of the inhabitants of the Green Realm.
To its fore strode the great Forest beasts, marching nearly as one; behind them 
followed other creatures, even beings no thicker than shadows; and all were 
heading in one direction. At the head of the company, far more diminutive than 
those she led, danced a girl. She was girdled with trailing vines and crowned by 
a circlet of flowers, and about her played a glow of green light the color of 
new leaves.
Only for an instant was Fogar able to hold that unity with the Forest, that 
vision of its children and their — guardian? goddess? That moment, however, was 
long enough for him to understand that he would not fight alone when the Dark 
and the Light crossed swords, for, though he did not know the ones he had just 
beheld, he would swear they were allies.
"Sooo — " The apprentice was brought rudely back to the reality of the wizard's 
chamber and his own immobility therein by Irasmus's drawing out of that word. 
The master's tone held not only satisfaction but triumph. "So shall it be!"
He arose from his chair, stretching as might any man who has sat overlong; then 
he laughed openly and patted the tabletop not far from the globe (though not, 
the boy observed, quite touching the thing). His mouth gaped in an undignified 
yawn, which he strove to stifle with one hand; with the other on the table, 
either to support or guide himself, he came to stand in front of his prisoner.
"Demon's Son!" Irasmus laughed again. "Well did I name you! I trust your 
illustrious father will find you a suitable gift." His predatory smile was back 
— and hungry once more.
Fogar nearly reeled, for, again, it was as if those cords that seemed to have 
melded themselves to his flesh were closing on his heart. Yet the Power that 
held him would not let him fall.
"Young fool, you might have been among the great, had not the seeds of the Old 
Knowledge been brought to flower within you. Yet I must say you make a tidy 
package, and here you shall await your — delivery — at the meeting arranged."
With this final threat, Irasmus left the room, walking with such care that the 
boy was now sure the sorcerer had suffered some impairment to his sight. The 
intended present from the lesser Dark Lord to the Greater, tied with a most 
unusual ribbon, was left where he had first been bound.
However, though the master might believe so, he was not this time abandoning a 
helpless prisoner. Deliberately, Fogar closed his eyes. He did not try to summon 
from memory those dream faces but instead concentrated with all the energy he 
could bring to bear on that vision of the Wind-tossed tree. It was — must be — a 
guide. Even as he had blended his awareness with that of the Forest patriarch, 
so had the Wind once merged with all the life of this land, its very Breath. So 
it would be again! he thought with the forcefulness of a vow. What aid he, 
captive as he was in this web of sorcery, might bring to the fulfillment of that 
oath, Fogar did not know, yet swear he did.
Holding that image of the Wind-made-visible, the Breath-stirred tree, as clearly 
in his mind as he could, the youth began to trace the lacing of those invisible 
bonds and try to loosen them. As he did so, that droning hum that had heralded 
the vision thrummed once more in his ears, growing steadily deeper and stronger, 
until he knew that he would never again be without its song.

* * *
It was done. Gifford let his head fall forward to rest between his hands. As far 
as those in the Place of Learning could reach, it was done.
"The boy is more than we believed." Yost sounded almost awed. "Irasmus shaped 
him — or strove to — but the strength of spirit that was his birthright would 
not let him yield to the Dark." Then, feeling like a tactician shifting his 
skill at strategy from a field where victory seemed sure to one on which battle 
was yet to be joined (and where, what was more, the very identity of the enemy 
was in doubt), the archmage addressed the other matter that had long perplexed 
the scholars. "Loremaster, perhaps He whom the dark mage strives to summon is 
not any of Those we guessed; for the Light has revealed that none within the 
First Hierarchy of the Dark have been on the move."
"Whether that be truth or not," the archivist replied in a voice ragged with 
fatigue, "our hell-bent one will use the door-opening spell. The burden of 
battle will rest most with those two of the Old Blood who are his captives and 
upon her whom the Wind Wakener has chosen. To us is left only the watching. We 
can interfere no further, for by the Covenant these three are in the right: they 
strive to defend what is their Spirit-given own."
Overcome by exhaustion, the archivist slumped forward, his head dropping onto 
the crossed arms which rested on his ever-overflowing desk, and was asleep. His 
superior, nearly as weary, did not rise from his chair. This would be the 
reckoning; for the mortals upon whom they had gifted powers now stood at the 
crossroads of destiny and would have to set foot down either the Path of Light 
or the Path of Darkness.
However, thought Yost as his own eyelids began to droop, even if the Light 
prevailed in the coming conflict, the mages themselves would have a heavy price 
to pay for the lapse in vigilance that had allowed evil to creep in among them. 
It had fed at their board, lain in their beds, and — worst of all — taken their 
learning, which was intended to heal, and turned it to the hurt of the world. 
The old innocence had been violated beyond return or repair, and Valarian, so 
long wrapped in the soft robe of peace, must now resume its war gear and mount 
stronger wards and guards. Such suspicion would be torment to live with, a bird 
of ill omen croaking from the battlements at all hours of the day and night. The 
archmage breathed a sigh from his heart for all that had been lost as he slipped 
into sleep.
 
26
Falice stood before the Stone. The time, to judge by the slant of what little 
sunlight could reach this glade, was at least midday, and she had slept only a 
short while after her vicarious visit to the tower. Yet she felt neither fatigue 
nor — oddly enough — either hunger or thirst. It was rather as if, during that 
brief rest, she had been fed in body and spirit and thereby renewed — no, more 
than renewed, reborn in some strange way.
As the Forest girl had arisen from her nest at the base of the monolith, she had 
unconsciously closed her fingers around and brought up a straight stick. This 
object was not brittle or brown like a dead branch but supple as a living tree 
limb; and it bore a green cast on its surface. As Falice turned it wonderingly 
to and fro in the light, she noticed that it seemed to drink in the rays that 
touched it, becoming a more intense green, like a young plant thirsting for the 
golden rain of the sun. When an especially bright shaft of sunlight struck the 
branch, so vivid was the answering flare of color that she seemed to hold a 
spindle of green fire. The wand was a gift — yes, she was sure of that — but 
from whom? She might never know, but she was certain of something else: this was 
a symbol of the power of the Light, as well as a weapon she must be prepared to 
use against the Dark.
Huge furred forms were squatting on their heels with the patience of those other 
Forest giants, the trees, about her. The glade could hold only a few of the 
creatures' massive bodies, and the company stretched back and away behind the 
curtains of the branches. The human girl was seeing gathered here more Sasqua 
than she had ever dreamed existed. As she stood, holding the branch radiating 
its green glow, their clubs struck the ground until the earth throbbed like a 
mighty heart, and the Wind arose to whistle around the Stone, passing in its 
path across her shoulders to form an invisible cloak.
Falice could think of but one reason for such an assembly, and she asked the 
Breath to carry her question to her foster sisters and brothers: "Does the Evil 
Lord move?"
It was Hansa, appearing almost immediately before her, who answered with Wind 
touch.
"He moves, yes, because fear drives him. He does not wish to lose all he has 
gathered, so he will strive to draw more strength to himself — from the 
lightless land. We are the Forest Born, and it has been given to us to bear the 
Wind through those walls and wards the Dark One has set. But it is you, my 
heart's cubling, who are to lead; for you are of the valley, and his barriers 
were not reared to repel your kind. Following you, we shall feed our gifts to 
the strengthening of your talent — you, who now hold a thing of power that will 
open the path for us all.
"And these" — the Forest's daughter waved a generous hand, and small pale faces, 
belonging to the children who had been rescued, popped up here and there, 
looking like sudden mushrooms sprouting from the dark loam of Sasqua fur about 
them — "these little ones shall seek out their kin. They, too, are now the 
children of the Wind, and they can carry much of its power back to their own 
people, breathing its life into what talent remains among them."
Thus they went forth, slipping between the trees Sasqua fashion, in no straight 
line. It was well into the afternoon when they reached that torn-up stretch of 
tillage where the youngsters had labored to seed the hell-rooted plants. Even in 
so short a time, one noisome knob of stalk had appeared, but this was promptly 
crushed by club blows.
Out into the dead valley of Styrmir strode Falice. She felt resistance for a 
moment, as if she had come up against an invisible wall. Like a warrior hacking 
his way through the press of the enemy, the girl used the branch wand she 
carried to slash the air up, down, and across, calling the Wind with confidence 
as she did so. From the blighted land about them came the faintest of answers, 
which grew in strength as those from the Forest moved forward.
Now the youngsters, their bodies wreathed with vines and flowers, raced ahead of 
her, their goal the distant staked walls which contained the slave huts. 
Movement already showed among the hovels, as the valley folk hastened forth to 
meet their children and — a blessing even more unlooked for — the Wind, and to 
be refreshed and replenished, even as the drought-cracked countryside around 
them swallowed thirstily what it had so long been denied. Of the gobbes there 
was no sign, and the people were taking advantage of their overseers' absence to 
arm themselves, albeit crudely, with the same tools they had been forced to use 
in labor.
The tower, however, still stood, a black curse shouted into a sky which was, for 
the first time in the living memory of many thereunder, beginning to clear. 
Around the fortress wheeled the wizard's pet carrion birds, screeching loudly. A 
sudden commotion below made them break their circling pattern to string out 
behind the band of demons that now emerged in tight formation from the gate. The 
creatures prodded along two prisoners in their midst, but even from a distance 
Falice could see that the pair held their heads high as they were driven and 
seemed to wear their chains as threads to be broken. At the head of this macabre 
march rode Irasmus on his rawboned mount, cherishing close to his breast that 
second murky globe.
The Forest's fosterling quickened pace, and her furred brothers pounded behind 
her. She knew what the sorcerer was planning to do now: he intended to spend 
blood from his captives to tempt the appetite of the Great Dark One he wished to 
summon. And his choice for that abominable ritual was the very ground of the 
MidWinter Feasting where, so long ago, those of Firthdun had been slain by their 
own kin.
None of the troop from the tower either turned head or appeared in any other way 
to note the coming of the Forest army. Nor did the Wind now blow before Falice 
and her foster folk but rather ensphered them, bearing them forward within 
itself like reflections on a bubble and evidently thus offering concealment.
Fogar could hardly hold back, match his pace to that of the Dark Lord's company. 
No one in his right mind would hasten toward such a dire destiny as would likely 
be his; yet he found it hard to restrain the excitement rising ever higher 
within him — the knowledge that they marched toward what might well be the last 
struggle against Irasmus's evil, at least for himself and his companion in 
misfortune.
Every so often, the boy glanced quickly toward her, then away again. Her bearing 
intrigued him, and not merely because it embodied a calm and courageous 
acceptance of her own fate. Cerlyn held her hands, wrists trailing chains looped 
inward, cupped at the height of her waist. Just as the mage nursed his 
seeing-stone against him, she might also be bearing some treasure, but if so, it 
was not to be seen by him.
Something else was curious, too. Twice, it seemed as if an insect buzzed within 
his ears and must be sent on its way with a shake of his head; then, for a 
second or two, a message that had been striving to find its way to him was made 
nearly plain.
The apprentice found he could also sense, more clearly than ever before, the 
temper of the gobbes about him. The monsters were not forgetful of their charges 
— indeed, they crowded in far more tightly than was necessary to make sure of 
those two — but they were so absorbed in some concern of their own that they 
were in constant communication among themselves on a level the boy could neither 
hear nor guess. Their movements were restless, as well. Watching them carefully, 
he became aware that their attention was fixed upon the Forest, though that 
realm remained as much an unbroken wall as ever.
The place toward which the sorcerer and his slaves were now bound had been 
avoided for as long as Fogar could remember, although, in a peculiar way, it was 
his own because he had been born there. Their destination was that ill-fated 
site where Irasmus had claimed him, still wet from the womb, as a "demon's son," 
and where those of his own blood had been overrun by their formerly friendly 
neighbors in an attack that had equaled the worst frenzy of the gobbes. The 
youth often wondered what had set the valley folk against their own kind. Had it 
been more of the master's dealings with the Dark? Whatever the cause, outside 
the tower, at least, that spot, whose soil had drunk the blood of kin slain by 
kin, was by far the most evil-soaked area within the boundaries of Styrmir. What 
better location, Fogar thought grimly, for another gory slaying?
Without warning, that inner excitement he had been feeling came to a head in a 
real thrust of pain, as though some message which must not go unheeded was about 
to be delivered. So sudden was its onset that he swayed, then fell, dragging 
Cerlyn down with him. Seemingly by chance, the girl's hands, which she still 
held cupped, brushed his cheek, and he jerked his head to one side, in time to 
see a pale lump in the soil at his feet. Before he hit the ground, he strained 
with all his might to twist one arm under him and was quickly rewarded by a 
sharp prod against his skin. His fingers scrabbled vainly for a moment as he 
felt his hands caught up short by the wrist chain; then he had it — something 
smooth and solid. Luckily, the object was small enough for him to hide in his 
palm as their guards, the pattern of their sullen tramping interrupted by the 
misstep of their captives, stumped over to get them once more on their feet. The 
head slave driver raised his weapon while he pulled their chains taut once more, 
but in the end he contented himself with a snarled warning.
Irasmus paid no heed to the slight commotion behind him; his focus was turned 
deep within his own mind as he studied each phase of the ritual he must perform, 
and he could not afford to spare attention elsewhere. His sorry horse plodded 
on, heavy footed, and its rider did not look over his shoulder; yet still Fogar 
dared not glance down at what he had in his grip.
He did know he held a stone, a smooth rock that issued the same tingling alert 
to his nerves as had emanated from the last three rocks he had set in the 
spiral. This — he was so certain that he could have shouted it aloud — was of 
the Light! What good so small a fragment might do for his cause and Cerlyn's in 
the battle to be he did not know. Only, as he continued to hold it, he could 
hear — not with his ears but with a sense for which he had no name — a breeze, 
such as might ruffle playfully the meadow grass.
By touch alone, not yet able to risk a look at his prize, the boy tried to 
identify this find. Like the much-larger discs from which he had built the 
spiral, it was nearly flat, but its outline was oval rather than round. And the 
longer he continued to clutch it tightly, the stronger grew the sensation of — 
of life, sparking and sparkling through it. Fogar would not have been surprised 
had the rock suddenly split open and sent forth a green shoot to reach for the 
sun. This feeling of imminent rebirth expanded outward from the rock until he 
perceived that the whole valley was being freed, to cringe no more beneath the 
iron mace of the Winter King but rise and kiss the flowering scepter of the 
Spring Queen (would She truly come again?). The youth had, he now knew with a 
leap of the heart, a weapon. Of its nature and use he was still ignorant, but he 
would learn — yes, he would learn!
In the irregular circle to which Irasmus led them, what vegetation contrived to 
grow looked unhealthy; all bushes and plants Fogar could see were wizened and 
shrunken. Considering that the soil had been watered with blood, the boy 
thought, it was a wonder that anything natural could rise in such a place. What 
should have clawed their way up were growths of the Dark.
His examination of what might well be the place of his death, as it was of his 
birth, was interrupted when the gobbe nearest him seized him roughly by his arm, 
with a pull that almost overset him once more. The creature then freed his 
ankles, while another monster, he was pleased to see, did the same for his 
companion. As the rusty loops fell heavily to the ground, a thought flashed 
through Fogar's mind. The demons used iron, it was true, forging ugly weapons 
for themselves and shackles for their slaves; yet what did all the old tales 
say? Iron and magic did not mix. Even the blades of ancient heroes, though 
wrought by gods, had been fashioned of other metal.
However, though the dark mage had supplied his soldiery with that metal for 
daily use, the gobbes now tossed not only their prisoners' chains from them but 
also cast down their axes and such other weapons as they normally bore. Only 
Fogar and Cerlyn were left touching iron — their wrist chains, which had not 
been loosed — as the demons scuttled away.
With ill grace, the creatures heeded the orders that now issued from their 
master. They chopped and pulled at the plants which had dared to root at the old 
feasting site until they had cleared a space fully the size of the Dark Lord's 
tower room. However, the apprentice noted that they kept well to the outside of 
this "chamber" area, though they sometimes bent their bodies at strange angles 
to seize upon some vagrant tuft of vegetation that lay within the circle.
Irasmus did not seem over anxious about the quality of their work. He still 
hunched in his saddle cradling the sphere, head bent, as if he could, in fact, 
only see clearly if that seeing-stone was able to pick up what lay around him — 
or below.

* * *
The afternoon was well gone. The Wind was no longer urging forward those from 
the Forest but rather slowing their advance, as if the time of meeting with the 
wizard's army was not yet. However, Falice was now close enough to clearly see 
the two captives. The cupping gesture of the girl's hands kept her watchful — 
certainly their position signified Cerlyn carried something, yet nothing was 
visible — to physical eyes, at any rate. But to the inward sight — ? The 
Forest's daughter cast forth a questing tendril of Wind — and then she "saw"!
Even as the mage husbanded his globe, so did the valley maid hold what was 
assuredly a goblet, though so faint was the outline Falice could discern that 
perhaps not even the power of the Wind could bring that cup into full 
visibility. However, the force that flowed back along her inquiring thread was a 
surge of power that held in it a lift of the heart such as the Stone imparted to 
her at times. This was not born of the Breath, but it was of the Light; and each 
power was aware of the other.
Something was closed in one of Fogar's hands, as well; yet his burden must have 
substance, for his fingers were curled about it in a screen against prying eyes. 
Again the Forest girl probed, but this time she was answered by a familiar 
energy song. The boy held a stone, which, small as it must be, was as awake — 
and ready for action — as its great counterpart in the glade. Yet, vital as 
seemed the strength of both objects, Falice could not foresee the use of either 
as a weapon. To her Wind-enhanced sight, the chalice Cerlyn cupped showed empty, 
while the stone Fogar kept was small enough to be curtained by a closed hand.
However, that ball thing which Irasmus fairly worshipped, lifting it directly 
before his sharp, sour features, was now close enough for the Forest maiden to 
see plainly, identify — and know for a peril of the most potent. The Wind 
tightened about her for an instant, shaping phantom armor against the conflict 
to come and also sharing this knowledge: the Dark Lord held a key, and he was 
now seeking a gate to be unlocked.
A sudden movement of the sorcerer's hand sent the gobbes to seize the prisoners 
and push them forward into the circle. Then the monsters took positions around 
that ring just within its boundary, facing the two who had been forced on into 
its very heart.
Falice tried to advance with the Sasqua, but it would seem that the Wind would 
deny them, for they could not lift feet far enough to move forward. Once more 
the girl wielded her wand, as she had done to dissolve that other barrier, but 
the branch merely swung through the air and did not open a way for the Forest 
force. Yet surely they were here for a reason!
Irasmus now climbed awkwardly down from his saddle and passed into the circle. 
He began a measured pacing around its circumference, just a little inward from 
the gobbes, who stirred and showed their fangs. The creatures were afraid — 
Falice did not need the Wind to translate those grimaces. A thick, musky scent 
was also rising from them, yet their fear went unnoticed — or ignored — by their 
master.
Returning at the same stately pace to the center of the ring, the mage now 
turned to face outward. With one hand gripping the globe, he fronted the 
deepening dusk beyond. Twilight was falling — or perhaps the forerunner of the 
Nether Night — but it was gathering fast.
For the first time, a sound arose other than the whispering of the Wind: the 
sorcerer had commenced a chant. He had also begun to move, swinging the sphere, 
still tight in his hold, first toward Cerlyn and then to empty space, and 
repeating the same gestures with Fogar. Again, the Forest girl needed no 
Breath-borne explanation: this was a preparation for the offering.
Falice signaled with her wand, and this time the Wind did not stay the Forest 
folk. They marched. The ponderous strides of the Sasqua woke a ringing echo from 
the earth, yet none of those within the circle appeared to hear their advance, 
for not one turned to witness their coming.
Fogar had been exerting a steady pull on the end of the chain which bound the 
wrist of his stone-holding hand. The iron links were loosening — he was certain 
now. He dared to tug a little more. Yes, the bond no longer bit into his flesh! 
Carefully, he slid a finger around the metal loops to keep them from falling 
away. He was tense, his every sense alert. Gone was the time for recalling dream 
memories and striving to learn from a patchwork pieced of their facts. He now 
knew what was going to happen, and, if the Light was with him, he held a weapon 
allied to it.
"Arshabentoth, Mighty One, Eater of Souls — come to your feasting!" Irasmus's 
voice rang out. Above his head he elevated the globe, no color swirling through 
it any longer; it held only a solid clot of darkness.
Outside the ring, true night had closed in. Under its cover, those from the 
Forest posted themselves about the outer rim of the clearing at the ready.
And, though they might not be seen, others were forming another circle beyond 
the Sasqua. Hope-starved men, women who had lost the gift of tears — all 
strained forward, reaching, calling without words, not to the evil Irasmus would 
summon but to its opposite. The people of Styrmir, reclaiming a fraction of 
their old life were gathering.
Though most of the valley had been blanketed by night, a glow of light remained 
within the circle. Falice could not be sure of the source of that pale gray 
luminescence, but the rising stench was enough to let every being present know 
what must also be approaching — there!
"Arshabentoth!" Irasmus repeated his entreaty. His voice sounded hoarse, as if 
to speak that Name even a second time put a strain on his throat.
Fogar let the last segment of useless chain clank to the ground, hearing an echo 
of the sound from where Cerlyn stood. She, too, was free. Perhaps, if the two of 
them could not fight, they would be able to flee — 
But in front of Irasmus, in that wide space that had been left vacant and from 
whose boundary even the gobbes had been quick to edge away, the pale light 
brightened. No longer the hue of a haunt's grave robe, it was now shot with 
fiery lines of red that looped up and over the intended sacrifices and bound 
them in a cage of force.
And then That Which had been summoned… came.
 
27
"Arshabentoth!"
Irasmus staggered forward a step or so toward the form slowly materializing in 
the center of the circle. It was —
Cerlyn stared at the thing, unable to summon any words to describe what she saw 
there (or did she see it? Could a human mind truly perceive such a shape?). 
Still, ill-defined as it was, it broadcast waves of evil as powerful as if they 
defied the very Wind at its worst fury.
The monstrosity towered as tall as one of the Forest people now. Its body, 
however, was still evolving and apparently not to any definite pattern of 
development, for its appendages changed constantly, one type of supposed hand or 
foot melting into another, then yet a third. Evidently, either the creature 
could not control its physical form while entering this new dimension, or else 
it was, in some fashion, trying on various shapings to test their effects.
This Being was of the Dark; that could not be denied. But there was something 
else about it which was — wrong. Gifford's young scholar refused to allow what 
she saw before her to distract her from remembering past lessons about such 
entities. Knowing whom Irasmus planned to invoke when he had amassed sufficient 
power, her teacher had searched old records and even combed legends for 
information on the Great Dark One's appearance. The loremaster had not expected 
such a manifestation as this, and even Cerlyn, after what he had told her, had 
been awaiting something quite different.
The girl had learned that, in the days before the Covenant, when such 
Underdwellers had been free to come and go without open challenge, most of the 
High Ones of the Dark had assumed near-human guise when on her world's level. 
She recalled all too clearly the descriptions of that dark master, who would 
answer to the name Irasmus had just spoken — and it bore no likeness to this.
More stirring in that central place, but human movement this time. The Mage, his 
globe now held before his face as if he used it to aid eyes that had indeed been 
deprived of a measure of sight, stood very close to his female prisoner — so 
near that she could see a spasm of feeling akin to pain twist his thin features. 
He raised the seeing-stone yet closer to his eyes as he called once more: 
"Arshabentoth!"
"Your longed-for Lord seems to have altered somewhat." The girl was startled to 
hear those words from Fogar. She had never truly believed that, when the end 
came, he could stand forth like this and speak almost as dryly as Gifford 
correcting her for some error of lesson recitation.
Irasmus did not appear to hear him at first, but, a moment later, he spun to 
face Fogar, the ball whirling in his hands.
"This — slug — is the first dainty I offer you, Mighty One," he said 
expansively, in a mockery of merchant's patter, "and this is the second." 
Releasing the globe with one hand, he reached out as if to grasp the chains that 
no longer bound the girl and so hurl her forward, but his fingers passed through 
empty space. Cerlyn, sensing that her moment in this conflict was near, raised 
the all-but-invisible bowl to lip level.
I — am — summoned —
As with the Wind's touch, the Dark Thing's message entered its listeners' minds 
more powerfully than words spoken aloud.
"Eater of souls — feast upon this, my bounty!" Irasmus's gesturing hand struck 
the girl's shoulder, almost sending her off balance and into those appendages 
the creature seemed to have at last decided would be arms, with huge talons 
sprouting from what were, by its present whim, hands.
"This one is not He whom you call." Fogar offered an insolent comment again. As 
he spoke, he slid an arm about Cerlyn's waist, steadying her against him, and 
she felt a sudden shock of energy at his touch.
The would-be master held the ball so close to his face that it rubbed the tip of 
his nose. His features twisted in rage — which was fast becoming fear.
The two in the circle were dimly aware that the gobbes on watch were moving in 
closer to their leader and his prisoners. No longer silent, the horrors were 
gabbling as if to attract the attention of the newcomer.
"I did not summon you!" The wizard might be amazed at the result of his dabbling 
in hell spells, but his sinewy body straightened, and he seemed to be getting 
his fear under control.
Fogar and Cerlyn were not the only ones to feel a sudden nearly irresistible 
pull — one that actually drew them closer to Irasmus; all others present were 
similarly drawn. The Forest folk howled and pounded their clubs against the 
earth, as if by clamor and drumming they could break what seemed to them an 
unseen bind-vine. Falice described a circle in the air with her wand, pointing 
its tip directly toward the man who still faced the under one with confidence.
"Ayyheee!" Her voice fitted into Wind's, and quickly enough so that the ragged 
mob of land grubbers, who had begun to run toward their master, slowed at once. 
Under the calming touch of the Breath, the valley people stood fast again, and 
their anger raised a barrier to his efforts to draw energy from their awakening 
talents.
The gibbering of the gobbes fought the song of the Wind until the thing before 
the sorcerer held up a hand as though hushing — children?
"Irasmus!" It was the Nether Being who spoke — and not merely spoke, but nearly 
whooped with laughter. "So you still believe you can call up one of the Dread 
Lords? Stupid, you are, as well as blind! He whom you would have stand before 
you is no longer concerned with this world. Why should He be, when He holds half 
a hundred such poor pickings in His hand?" The creature thrust forth a taloned 
paw in cup shape, then lifted it to its maw, showing how its own master — and, 
doubtless, itself as well — could scoop up all before it, suck the life juice 
out of them, and toss their husks away.
"Vastor!" The wizard still stood tall and defiant. "We have dealt together 
before. Only look upon these I have to offer now" — he indicated his two 
captives — "are they not far sweeter morsels, truly fit to your tooth?"
The Being snorted, a sound Cerlyn thought was meant either for mirth — or 
mockery.
"Last time you set my table," it replied, "the 'morsels' were two merchants with 
no talent — a meager meal, indeed, and hardly an even exchange for what you 
asked from me." The Thing turned its head a fraction to regard the gobbes. Most 
of those creatures had fallen to their knees and were holding out misshapen 
hands toward Vastor. As the great ghoul's eyes swept over them, they raised a 
long, low wail.
Again the newcomer laughed. "It would seem that my dear offspring find but scant 
good in your service, little man. And if you cannot persuade my get to serve you 
as you wish, how dared you believe that one of the Great Dark Lords would come 
at a crook of your finger?
"You would give me these" — a flick of talon acknowledged the offering of Fogar 
and the girl, who now stood together, his arm still about her waist. "You would 
need to have one of the Great Ones of the Light pinioned here to bring Him whom 
you just invoked! Well, perhaps for a brief time, they can serve me — if you 
will bargain again — "
The fearful moaning of the gobbes arose higher; it was plain that such a 
transaction was one they wanted none of. Their sire made a warning gesture, and 
their voices fell silent. Now Vastor's burning gaze began to survey his two 
tidbits more closely, critically.
Cerlyn felt Fogar's inner excitement. What, she wondered, would he do if that 
Thing, so much greater than the gobbes, did accept the proffered sacrifice? 
Suddenly she mind-spoke, clearly and loudly, at a range only the Wind could give 
her.
"Our weapons, together — " She shifted position a little. What "weapon" her 
companion might actually bear she could not guess, but she was aware that he had 
come here armed in some fashion.
Cerlyn balanced that bowl of green which was and yet was not on her two hands, 
well within the boy's reach. In turn, his right hand moved, lifting into the 
weird light of the cup a smoothed round of rock on which blazed a coating of 
colored sparks. Bringing the stone down swiftly, he thrust one end into her 
bowl.
At the same instant, in from beyond the circle shot a swift spear of green 
light, more vivid and visible than the hue of the girl's half-unseen cuplet. 
Once more Falice cried aloud, "Ayyheeel" —
— to have her call met and melt into a similar invocation, then mingle with the 
sudden Wind that whipped up from that meeting of bowl and rock.
Irasmus backed away, half turning his back upon the monster that had come to his 
summoning. His eyes were mere slits, as if he must strain to the utmost to see.
"Take them!" he almost shrieked. "Are they not ripe with talent you can savor?"
His servants, meanwhile, had edged away from the two captives, some of them 
crawling almost on their bellies in an effort to wind around the three and reach 
the dimen-sional opening before their fearsome father. One of the demons 
screeched aloud a command or battle cry in his own tongue and, catching up a 
length of the prisoners' discarded chains from the ground, swung it like a lash.
Beyond the edge of the unlight cast by the Great Ghoul, and behind the Forest 
people and Falice, the valley folk, who had once bent beneath other lashes 
wielded by the gobbes, began to circle. Their wheeling movement drew and 
strengthened the Wind. However, its full force did not reach those within the 
circle. What they felt was a breeze, not a blast.
The sorcerer's features were twisted into a mask nearly as monstrous as the face 
of any of his servant fiends.
He shouted: "Blood and power — blood and power! Yours — for the taking!"
"Mine?" The ghoul's disbelief was evident. "But you did not summon me. You 
impudently — and imprudently — sought to raise one of the Great Old Ones! If you 
cannot control your own spells, how can I know this is not a trap?"
Moisture — red moisture — had gathered in the corners of the mage's eyes, and 
bloody droplets now trickled down his skull-tight cheeks. To all who beheld him, 
his struggle was plain to read.
"You wish more of my little ones?" Vastor gestured with a casual paw at the 
groveling gobbes. From close to the ground, where those miniatures of his 
awesome self were abasing themselves, rose a piteous whine, as the creatures 
protested his disposal of their persons.
Irasmus held out his hand, on which the black-hearted ball still rested at eye 
level. That taunting question from a being so much less than the One he had 
summoned awoke in him a rage great enough that his body shook with the effort to 
contain its force. His mouth opened, and he stuttered out a Word that rang like 
a thunderclap through the close air.
Falice was keeping a careful eye upon the demons. Most of them lay still now, 
their warty hands pressed over their outsized ears. Their sire, however, 
remained calm enough, viewing the Dark Lord's performance with the air of one 
enjoying a show in which he had no part. The wizard spluttered and started to 
shake as he called up from their depths all the power he had gathered and 
guarded so jealously — the talent he had leached from those he considered 
helpless.
Now Falice could, with the aid of the Wind, see the two sacrifices standing 
shoulder to shoulder. Fogar grasped one end of the sparkling stone as he might a 
dagger; and, though its moon shape was awkward, he had no difficulty in aiming 
it toward the sorcerer. Cerlyn still held the half-seen cup; but, even as the 
Forest girl watched, the apprentice's fellow prisoner suddenly clapped her hands 
together, and the phantom bowl vanished, to be marked now only by specks of 
green light that floated out over the gobbes.
Whether or not those sparks had any power in themselves, they appeared to move 
with purpose toward the cowering ghoul brood. Three of the creatures tried to 
throw themselves backward, and there was a rise and fall of the relentless 
Sasqua clubs. At this skirmish, the Wind began to whirl in near-shrieking gusts 
about the circle. Under the goad of that Voice they feared even more than they 
once had their master's, the demons drew together, crouched, and made a rush at 
the three standing before their true lord, Vastor. Their crook-fingered claws 
could close on neither Fogar nor Cerlyn but only slash the air impotently.
Then they aimed for Irasmus. Struggling to see more clearly, he held the globe 
as a man benighted might raise a lantern; but the first of the rabble he had 
called out of the Dark years ago were upon him.
Vastor stood watching, fairly licking his thick lips. Irasmus had offered him a 
banquet, and here was a most appealing appetizer, which his children — who had 
always had the lamentable habit of playing with food — must not be allowed to 
damage. The ghoul squalled forth a single word: "Bring!"
And bring the mage they did, "serving" their false master for the last time. The 
sheer weight of their foul bodies carried him off his feet and bore him to 
Vastor, who put out a casual hand and clutched him by the throat. The gobbes' 
sire gave a vigorous shake, and the wizard went limp. The dusky sphere spun out 
of his hand, but it did not go far; for those light flecks from Cerlyn's cup, 
aided by a second shaft of green radiance that shot toward the ball from behind 
the group, caught, held, and crushed that window on hell all in a moment.
Taking advantage of the confusion, the demons had worked their way around behind 
their true lord and there seemed to regain courage once more. The stench of evil 
was chokingly heavy.
Still grasping the lax body of Irasmus, which looked somehow shrunken as if much 
of the life force had gone out of it in its owner's last desperate dredging-up 
of his power, the Great Ghoul now began a leisurely inspection of Fogar and 
Cerlyn. He swung his first trophy to and fro as he did idly, as a child might 
swing a puppet, but his calculating attention was fully focused on the two young 
people. A purplish tongue emerged from his massive jaws, long as a snake, and 
its tip wriggled as a true serpent would test for scent.
"This presumptuous one" — the monster again shook the limp body of the sorcerer 
— "had the truth of the matter, in part. You are a fit sacrifice, though perhaps 
not strong enough in the power to tempt the Great One this offal wished to woo. 
No, you are more to my strength — "
Abruptly Vastor's eyes narrowed to slits, and he started in such astonishment 
that he nearly dropped his trophy. The demon had to shake his head from side to 
side to make sure he really saw what he thought he did.
Over the cleared earth of the circle came flitting a newcomer, a third human to 
stand with the other two. As if the Wind itself had borne her here to stand 
beside Cerlyn and Fogar, the girl moved with feet hardly touching the ground. 
The perfume of her garment of vines interwoven with flowers cut across the 
charnel reek of the Nether Ones like a breath of spring. Now Fogar stood flanked 
by the two maidens, one of the valley and the other of the Forest, and something 
inside him said that this was right and proper. Kin the trio were, and as kin 
they should — and would — stand against their common enemy.
Irasmus chose that moment to wriggle feebly; and Vastor, with careless force, 
threw the mage behind him. The slack-muscled body did not touch the ground but 
simply vanished, as if it had fallen through a — door?
The ghoul parted his lips hungrily again. "Three of you —more sweets for the 
feasting." He raised a paw to reach out for Cerlyn, who stood the closest. 
"Perhaps that sniveling fool was not so wrong, after all. A master is needed 
here, and — " the thing jerked its head in the direction the sorcerer had 
vanished " — the gate has been well opened."
The gobbes were on their feet again, massing at their sire's back and screeching 
a phrase in their own tongue over and over again like a slogan to underscore his 
speech.
Fogar swung Cerlyn closer and a little behind him. One could not stifle all fear 
of the Dark — one could only hope to stand firmly against it. His right arm went 
back and, with all the precision he could manage, he hurled that piece of 
star-studded stone.
His aim was good — the missile struck against Vastor's wide chest. The rock did 
no visible damage and left no sign of any wound, but the Dark One gave forth a 
great roar. However, he did not spring to attack, as Fogar had expected, but 
rather retreated a step.
Meanwhile, Falice had brought her branch to the fore, and she now sent it 
whistling through the air in a whiplike slash. Cerlyn, watching that flashing 
arc of green, sensed that that wand was slicing into strips some unseen ward. 
However, the onlookers were able to watch the Forest girl's actions for only a 
moment — because the Wind returned.
Yes, it came — this time not to shield, not to save, but as a battle weapon, 
once more well-nigh the Fist of Death it had been before its binding by the 
Covenant. Odors of rock, tree, earth — all the myriad scents of daily life 
filled the surrounding air. Hansa's foster daughter dropped her wand at last. 
She had opened the way, and the Light must meet the Dark, as was always destined 
to be.
The Dark, in its turn, was rising; coils of oily vapor already hid the gobbes. 
Vastor had retreated to the place where he had first appeared and was half 
crouching there, snarling. As the greasy fog wreathed about him, at his feet, 
where Fogar's stone had come to rest, silver flame sprouted up in licking 
tongues.
Not even the roar of the Wind could drown out the ghoul's single cry of 
frustrated evil rage. The creature blazed in the heart of that white light for 
an instant like a lightning-struck tree, and then he was gone.
The Wind swirled around the circle, and now the three who were cloaked by it 
could hear sounds like an army of voices raised in a song of triumph — such 
music as lightened even the true night, which was all that lay now about the 
beings gathered here. The door Irasmus had opened was closed, locked — perhaps 
even destroyed forever.
The remnants of the people of Styrmir came forward with dancing steps, weaving 
in and out among the Forest's folk — neither fear nor awe stayed them in their 
desire to reach the trio who still stood in the circle's core, now linked by 
hands as well as minds. For that which the valley dwellers had abandoned in the 
past had not forsaken them, or at least not those three. Ears never opened to 
the mysteries and marvels of the Speech of the World knew, in that moment, the 
Hearing to which their forefathers and mothers had had the right. And yet, 
though they had advanced so eagerly, they still did not quite dare to approach 
Fogar, Cerlyn, or Falice.
Were their labors ended? Fogar wondered. But, even as he framed the question, 
the Wind gave him the answer: a new era and world must be born here, in this 
very place where he had been ruthlessly seized from his mother's womb.
Then he heard speech which was not borne by the Breath but rather framed by 
human lips. "I, too, entered life on that night, brother," said Falice, as her 
hand touched his shoulder. The all-holding memory of the Wind confirmed her 
words. She was, indeed, blood of his blood; closer kin none could know.
"Lord — " This was another voice, timid but managing to speak. One of the men of 
Styrmir took a small step forward. "What is your will, you of the Light?"
It was Cerlyn who answered then. "Take again your land, clan kin, for this 
awakened earth shall bear fruit once more, as of old. Rebuild what was torn and 
destroyed. Let in the Light, and never fail to remember that you yourselves are 
the lamps in its shrine; therefore, keep the shrine in repair and the lamps well 
trimmed. Forgetting was the sin of our people, and we must remain ever alert and 
ready to maintain and defend what we have come to hold anew."
While the girl from the Valley had been speaking, the daughter of the Forest had 
drawn away from those other two. The light of the moon, which had just emerged 
from a shadowing bank of cloud, seemed to wrap itself about her as a cloak, and 
then the Wind also drew in upon her.
"Sister — " Fogar extended a hand warmly in her direction, but Falice eluded 
him.
"Kin I am, yet not of the duns," she replied sadly, "for my path is laid by the 
Wind, and I must follow it." She gazed intently upon him while she spoke, as 
though she would etch into memory every line of his face, so like hers and yet 
unlike, shaped by a life she sensed she would never know. She felt the wetness 
of tears on her own cheeks as she did so, shed for that blood binding her heart 
had leaped to acknowledge and that, no sooner than found, was about to be lost.
"Walk well with the Wind," she managed to say, speaking now to both her brother 
and Cerlyn, "for it has broken all barriers this night, and henceforth we shall 
no longer be Valley and Forest, but one body given life by its Breath."
"Please — stay — " Cerlyn made the last plea. But Falice dared not allow herself 
another moment in this place, lest her strength waver as she went forth to the 
fate decreed for her by the Great Powers.
Then, as she had come to join them, borne by the Wind and bearing the power of 
her talent, so did she leave. Even the kin in fur, whom she had led, could only 
sense the swiftness of her passing. The wand had fallen from her grasp, for she 
suspected — her belief growing stronger every moment — what destiny awaited her; 
and that being so, she needed no weapon beyond her own self. What work was set 
for her, she was not yet sure, though perhaps her future would prove as 
demanding as this confrontation had been.
Falice did not even appear to be running any longer — the Wind bore her, softly 
cradled, at a speed that outran any living thing from either Valley or Forest. 
The moonlight showed her the Green Realm ahead, and its trees parted in answer 
to the force that carried her.
Then a tall white glow rose before her: the Stone. Those sparks that played 
across its surface grew larger as the girl entered the glade; and now they 
whirled more riotously than she had ever seen them move, in a glory of light 
that outshone even the moon above.
She had been gently lowered to stand just in front of the glittering pillar, 
facing the window hole. Like the rest of the monolith, that opening was brightly 
lit, yet it was not now, she felt, for her use as a viewing place. The light 
that filled it was green, and it spilled forth and ran down over the flashing 
rock face to form what was at first the mere outline of a figure and then the 
full impression of a woman's form.
Out from the surface that Being stepped. Her features were hidden, as always, by 
a veil of mist, but Her arms were opened wide. Even as Falice had, years before, 
embraced the Stone itself, so was she wafted forward into that hold which 
matched body to body. The two made one melted, melded, and reformed. Once more 
the Green Lady stood in the Forest; now, however, She wore a face.
Falice-Theeossa was filled with such power and purpose as she had not known even 
when she entered the battle with Vastor. Her arms were still outheld to enring 
the Forest Guardian, but that One had chosen. The girl's hands dropped down to 
smooth her slender body, and she saw that the soft greenish radiance of the 
Ever-Living seemed to cling to her more closely than moss could clothe the trunk 
of a tree.
So — this was to be her path. She who had been born and fostered here was truly 
of the Forest now, and her future would be to serve, watch, and ward, upheld by 
a Spirit which seemed too potent to be housed in any frail mortal form. But she 
was yet, in a way, human, and thus kin to those of the dun of Firth she had 
never known. So the Power of the Forest was wedded to that of the valley, and 
all the land would be one. Still a single tear was wet on her cheek, for with 
any gain, no matter how great, there was always a matching loss; and she now 
could never again be the innocent maid who had run free through this realm, for 
she had bound to it forever.

* * *
The mages in the Place of Learning had assembled before the seeing panel.
"They are more than we thought." Gifford broke the silence first.
"They are the roots from which new growth will rise," said one of the women.
"The honors of battle are theirs," commented Fanquer, with the envy of an old 
soldier for a rousing conflict missed. "We did little enough."
"In the sense of giving aid, perhaps not." Yost sounded soul weary, as if wrung 
dry of all energy. "But it was we who loosed the Shadow. So, brothers and 
sisters, look well into your hearts, for we, too, must guard against complacency 
and overmuch trust. There will be a new Covenant — "
Then the archmage's speech was drowned out by another Voice, raised in a song at 
once otherworldly and thoroughly earthly. Those assembled felt the Wind enter 
into the age-old hall, touching the hangings and setting each a-quiver as it 
passed. Once more the scholars listened to the near-forgotten voices of life, 
hailing the return of the Light and the hearing that bound all things together.
Yost raised his hand as if in salute. "So be it," he said, and his tone now held 
peace, "so be it. We, too, have slept — but at last we wake."

* * *
In Styrmir, the moonlight continued, bright almost as the coming dawn of a new 
day. Only Irasmus's tower stained that brilliance with darkness, rising like a 
finger of menace pointing skyward.
Even as the Sasqua silently withdrew to the Forest and Her who waited for them 
there, so the people of the valley followed Fogar and Cerlyn back into their 
long-barren heartland.
As the group neared the sorcerer's stronghold, the Wind wrapped itself about 
that fortress and, like a giant hand, closed into a fist to crush what it held. 
The outline of the tower blurred; stones thundered to the ground, falling with 
enough force to bring those who watched to their knees.
Only Fogar and Cerlyn remained standing, the two steadying each other with their 
arms, and looked their last upon the site of their imprisonment — and meeting. 
As the echoes of that mighty crash died away, they turned to face their own 
path: the place where Firthdun had once stood. After a little while, the rest of 
the people rose, to take likewise the old, remembered roads through the land 
where they would root again.