* * *

"Hey, give me that; you're going to eat them all."

"What, you wanted to set them in store for winter? Besides, I've been sharing."

"Right. One for me, six for you, one for me, four for you—"

"Well, you're a tiny little runt. You need less food."

"Watch it," Rhapsody said, trying to look stern and failing miserably. "We'll go ten rounds with mace and chain and we'll see who's a tiny little runt."

Jo swallowed the bonbon and made a face. "Mace and chain?" she said in mock disgust, wiping the chocolate smear from her face with the back of her hand and snatching another sweet from the tin. "Firbolg toys. Give me a dagger any day." Rhapsody smiled and made a grab for the last chocolate on the top layer. Jo snagged it and popped it into her mouth, grinning.

"Dagger is a weapon with more finesse, I agree," Rhapsody said, settling for a dried apple. "But it won't do you much good if you need to maintain some distance. What do you think of this candy?"

"Sss mgooddd," Jo answered, her mouth full. She swallowed and pulled out the empty divider, opening another layer of the box for exploration. She dove in, scattering comfits and sweetmeats onto the bed and floor around her, hooting with delight as she discovered more of her favorites, with an expression so gleeful that Rhapsody could not help but laugh in pleasure at the sight of her. "But I can still taste that shit you fed me to ward off poison. Honestly, who would put poison in a gift meant to curry favor with a king?"

Rhapsody gave her an amused look of disbelief. "This is Achmed we're talking about here. I'm amazed it wasn't full of acid."

"Is that the reason you refused to wear the lovely garnet earrings sent by the benison of Avonderre-Navarne?"

"No, I was afraid those would turn my ears green, the tawdry things. I have to admit I'm a jewelry snob. I don't wear much of it, but I like it to be nice."

Jo took a bite of another candy. "Except that one day in Bethe Corbair, I don't think I've ever seen you wear anything but that locket," she said, pointing to the gold lavaliere that dangled from Rhapsody's neck on its thin chain. Rhapsody took it in her hand and looked at it for a moment, but said nothing.

"Anyway, whoever this Lord MacAlwaen is, he has good taste in things that taste good," Jo said, unwrapping some caramelized nuts.

"He's a western baron; his lands are a little to the south of Sepulvarta," Rhapsody said, stretching out on the floor. "Be careful; those are harder than they look. I would guess his gifts are purely a courtesy; he's not particularly vulnerable to Ylorc."

"As if Achmed could be bought off with candy."

"Well, that's not all he sent. It's actually a pretty clever gift, because it tacitly recognizes that there is a new sophistication in the leadership of the Firbolg."

"Tacitly? I guess that sophistication doesn't include me. What in hairy balls is tacitly !"

"Sorry; it means basically, naturally, silently. Are there any more nougats?"

"Not anymore," Jo giggled, tossing the last in the air and catching it in her mouth. "They are tacitly gone."

"Wench." Rhapsody smiled at Jo; it was good to see her laugh. "I think I'm going to keep your present after all."

Jo rubbed her mouth with the back of her sleeve and sat up in interest. "Present? What present?"

"Well, I just thought with all these gifts of state pouring in for Achmed that you deserved a little something, too. But you've been such an unbelievable hog with that box of sweetmeats that—"

Jo's eyes widened. She quickly grabbed the first thing she could find in the box and offered it to Rhapsody with a comic sincerity. Rhapsody looked down; it was a prune. The two burst into gales of laughter.

"All right, all right," Rhapsody said, rising and shaking the chocolate crumbs off the long skirt of her nightgown. She went to the high wardrobe, brought by cart from Bethany, and hauled out a large wooden crate. She dragged it across to the bed, and with an elaborate curtsy presented it to Jo, who grabbed it and pulled the top off, spilling the wood chips used for packing all over Rhapsody's chamber.

Jo unwrapped the stiff paper at top of the box to find many small flat disks with metal spikes in the center. She looked at Rhapsody quizzically. "Oh, thank you," she said sweetly, "just what I wanted—cockroach traps."

Rhapsody laughed. "Keep going." She watched as Jo dug further and brought out a handful of candle tapers, both tall and short in multicolor hues. "I thought since you didn't have a fireplace in your room, you might like to have some warmth and light at night."

Jo looked amazed. "There must be a thousand in here." she said, examining one closely. "In all my life I only ever had one, and it was for emergency use only. Got it off a dead soldier." She carefully returned it to the box and looked up, a strange look in her eyes. "Thanks, Rhaps."

"You're more than welcome," Rhapsody said, touched by the expression on her face. It was like looking at herself a few years back. "Don't hoard them, use them. We can always get more. I mean to make your life a brighter place than it used to be."

"Which is why you brought me to live under a mountain surrounded by Firbolg." Jo smiled. "Let's go try them out." She pulled herself off the bed and lifted the large crate. Rhapsody opened the door, and they scurried across the hall to Jo's room, lugging the heavy box.

Rhapsody let out a little shriek as Jo opened the door. "Gods, what happened in here?" she said, surveying the mess. "Your room has been ransacked. I'll go tell Achmed and have him get the guards."

"What are you talking about?" Jo asked incredulously. "It's fine—it's just the way I left it."

"You're kidding," said Rhapsody, looking at the clutter in bewilderment. "You did this on purpose?"

"Of course," answered Jo indignantly. "Don't you know anything about hiding stuff?"

"Apparently not."

"You've gotta do it in plain sight," said Jo, wading through the litter, pulling the crate with her. She sat down on the rumpled blankets of her unkempt bed. "That way nobody can find anything." She rummaged through the box again and pulled out a variety of candles, then began spearing them onto the metal candleholders.

"Including you," said Rhapsody, observing the disorder with a mixture of horror and amusement on her face. "You could get lost in here yourself, and we'd never find you, Jo." Gingerly she stepped over a pile of dirty clothes and around some debris from an in-room snack, to a small wooden chair onto which several pairs of shoes had been thrown. She removed the footwear and sat down cautiously.

"Don't be ridiculous," Jo retorted, tossing a few of the tapers at Rhapsody along with some of the disks. "I know where absolutely every last thing is. I'll prove it. Give me an example."

"Oh, Jo, I'd be afraid to ask."

"Go on, name something, and I'll tell you where it is."

Rhapsody cast a glance around the room, then set to work on the candles, hiding her smile. "All right, where are your wrist sheaths?"

Jo gave her a disgusted look and held up her wrists. "Ahem."

"You wear your daggers to bed?" Rhapsody asked in astonishment.

"Only two," Jo answered defensively, covering the sheaths with the sleeves of her nightgown again. "The rest I keep under the pillow."

"Gods. All right, where do you keep your money?"

Jo glared at her suspiciously.

"Never mind, bad choice. Let's see, how about that book I gave you to practice your letters in?"

"Ah-ha!" Jo crowed triumphantly. She shot out of the bed and bustled over to an enormous stack of crates, cloaks, and tins of dried meat. After shifting the equivalent of her own weight in garbage and rummaging through several cloth sacks, she finally held up a tattered bound manuscript. She blew the dust off and dropped it in Rhapsody's lap, a smug look of victory on her face.

"I can see you're studying hard," Rhapsody said in dismay.

"One more. Ask me another one."

"No, that's not necessary, Jo, I believe you."

"Come on, Rhaps. This was just getting good. Ask me another."

"Well, where do you keep your clean undergarments?"

Jo looked uncomfortable. "Define clean."

"Eweeeyuuu." Rhapsody looked sick. "What do you mean, define clean? There's clean; there's not clean. What else is there?"

"Well, there's sort of clean," Jo said, looking sheepish. "You know, stuff that's only been worn this month or last."

"Please, I beg you, don't tell me any more," Rhapsody said seriously. "You win, Jo. As soon as I go back to my room, I'll adopt your system. Just please, don't make me ask you anything else."

"Oh, who are you kidding?" Jo retorted, standing up with the candles in her hands. "If you don't have your clothes organized in order by color of the rainbow with matching accessories stored in attached bags you go into an apoplectic fit. Where do you think we should put these?"

Rhapsody looked around the room. "Didn't you use to have a dresser in here somewhere?"

Jo brightened. "Good idea," she said, and navigated over to an enormous mound decorated with clothes in all different states of soil. With a sweeping motion she shoved the clothing onto the floor, revealing the dresser, and began setting the candles carefully on it.

Rhapsody shuddered, lifted the hem of her nightgown, and picked her way through Jo's treasures until she made it to the other side of the room. She began surreptitiously straightening some of the area under the guise of setting up her candles on a large trunk.

"I'm not sure this is such a good idea, Jo. I would hate to see a fire in here."

"Don't worry," Jo said, rummaging through the dresser. "I'll move everything into one or two big piles in the middle of the floor; that ought to do it."

"Only if you then set them ablaze," said Rhapsody. She touched each taper and concentrated on the fire within her soul. The wicks glowed, then snapped with flame.

"Whoa," said Jo, watching from the other side of the room. "That's impressive. Where's your flint? I can't find my tinder-box."

Rhapsody rose and crossed the room again and stood next to Jo. Despite the girl's greater height she wrapped an arm around her shoulder and touched the second group of candles, setting each of them alight as before. Jo continued staring for a moment, then sat down on the bed once more.

The glow from the candles settled over the room, bringing a warmth and heat to the musty air. The mess retreated into the darkness and the chamber assumed a friendlier, more comfortable atmosphere. Rhapsody pulled her knees up in front of her on the chair, smiling at Jo from across the room.

"Well, how do you like it?" she asked, watching Jo's eyes in the candlelight.

Jo was silent for a moment, looking all around her in amazement.

"It's marvelous," she said, the hard edges of her face receding in the dark. "Light at night. I've never seen anything like this before, except where they light the lamps in Quimsley Garden, the rich section of Navarne. I tried to sleep there one night, but after the lamplighters make their rounds the town guard make theirs, and when they find you they make you more than willing to return to the darkness of the friendlier streets. Anyway, it really makes the room look nice."

"My mother used to say that the simplest house was a palace in candlelight," Rhapsody said, looking thoughtful. "Now I see what she meant."

"I'll bet she never imagined your house would be like this," Jo said, stretching out on the bed, her arms beneath her head. "She probably would have a fit if she saw you here."

"You'd be surprised," Rhapsody smiled. "My mother was hard to rattle. She lived through a lot of ugliness, but she never let it touch her. It was like she carried candles in her eyes that could weather anything without blowing out."

Jo was quiet again. Finally she pulled a dagger out from beneath her pillow and began balancing it, tip first, on the fingers of her outstretched hand. "You must have loved her a lot."

Rhapsody looked into the candles burning brightly near her. "Yes."

"And she probably loved you too, right? Well, didn't you just have the nicest life."

Rhapsody made note of the bitterness in her voice, and took no offense at her words. "Yes, Jo, I guess I did. But that didn't stop me from throwing it all away."

"Yeah? That sounds pretty stupid."

"It was," Rhapsody agreed.

"Then why did you?"

Rhapsody's hand came to rest on the locket at her throat again. She stared into the light of the new candles, trying to force the words out that had never been spoken to another soul.

"It was for a boy."

"Oh." Jo switched hands. "Was he your first?"

"Yes. And my last. I've never loved anyone like that since. I never will."

The dagger whirled between her fingers. "And you ran away with him?"

Rhapsody wrapped her arms more tightly around her knees, the shadows from the firelight dimming. "No. I ran away to find him. Never did. He got what he wanted from me, and then he was gone."

"Why didn't you just go back home?"

"That's a question I ask myself every day."

"And now you can't?"

"No. Now I can't."

Jo listened in silence, but her sister said nothing more. Rhapsody continued to watch the candle-flames, lost in memory. Finally Jo sat up and began running the dagger along the edge of her boot.

"So what's it like? You know, the mother thing."

"Hmm? Oh. Wonderful. At least mine was. Some of my friends and their mothers hated each other; I'm convinced that was why so many of them married early, just to get away from home. But my mother was extraordinary. She had to be; she was the only one of her kind in the whole village."

"Kind?"

"Yes; she was Lirin, the only survivor of the destruction of her longhouse. When she first married my father I'm sure she had to put up with a lot of nonsense, but she undoubtedly bore it as she did everything, with gentility and grace. I don't believe I ever heard her say anything unkind about anyone, even those who had been unkind to her. Indeed, when people were cruel to my brothers, she never let them give in to anger over it. By the time I came along—I was the sixth child and the only girl—everyone in the village loved her."

"She sounds special." Jo's voice was noncommittal.

"She was to me. The favorite memories of my whole life are of how we would sit, after dinner, in front of the fire, just she and I. She would brush my hair and sing me the old Lirin songs, and tell me the old tales so they wouldn't be forgotten when she was gone. We could talk about anything. I think of her now every time I sit in front of a fire; in a way, it comforts me. Of all the things I miss in my life, I think I miss her the most." Rhapsody fell silent, and around the room the candles flickered for a moment.

Jo stared at the wavering shadows on the ceiling. "Well, at least you had a mother who wanted you. It could have been worse."

Rhapsody came out of her reverie. "Tell me about your mother, Jo," she said gently.

"What's to tell? I never knew her." Jo manipulated the dagger over the back of the knuckles of one hand, then the other.

"So how do you know she didn't want you?"

Jo dropped the dagger on the floor, then bent to retrieve it.

"Is this a trick question? If she had wanted me, if she had loved me at all, don't you think I would at least be able to look all weepy like you and say nice things about her? Don't you think I'd at least be able to remember what she looked like?" With an angry stabbing motion she slid the dagger back under the pillow and lay down again, hands beneath her head once more.

Rhapsody rose and came across the room. She sat down on the bed at Jo's feet. "Not necessarily," she said, trying not to catch Jo's eye. "You have no idea why you were separated. Maybe she had no choice."

Jo sat bolt upright. "Or maybe I was more trouble than I was worth to her; maybe she couldn't wait to be rid of me. You have no idea either, Rhapsody. It's great that you had a wonderful mother who loved you; I'm happy for you. But do me a favor—spare me the nice thoughts, all right? It doesn't help."

"Besides, it's easier to believe she didn't love me; then I can just hate her and not feel bad about it. What's the point of believing otherwise? One way or the other I've been alone as long as I can remember, and it's not going to change. In the end it doesn't make any difference whether she loved me or not." Angry tears spilled out of her eyes.

Rhapsody took Jo into her arms and cradled her as she wept, shuddering with painful, ugly sobs. She caressed her sister's hair as she cried, whispering a song of comfort so low that Jo couldn't hear it above the sound of her own misery.

After a moment the tune had its effect and Jo grew calm, but she left her face buried in Rhapsody's shoulder until the Singer pulled her away gently, and took her tearstained face in her hands.

"Now you listen to me, Josephine the Unnamed. It has changed; you are not alone, and you never will be again. I love you. We belong to each other now, and I am here to make it better for you."

Jo sniffed. "Make what better?"

"Anything. Everything. Whatever needs to be made better. And it does make a difference. Your mother loved you; how could she possibly help it? Who wouldn't? Go ahead, give me all the nasty faces you want; it doesn't change the truth. I can't explain it to you, but I am sure of it. She loved you. Now she's not the only one anymore."

Jo watched her a moment more, then smiled. She pulled Rhapsody's hands from her face and pushed back on the bed.

"Well, you certainly have a good opinion of yourself," she said jokingly. "I never said nobody loved me." A wicked smile crept over her face.

Interest came into Rhapsody's eyes. "Oh? And who might we be referring to, hmm? Is there something you haven't told me?"

"No," said Jo, sighing. "Not yet, at least. I'm hoping, though."

"And who might this lucky person be?"

Jo sat cross-legged, picked up a cushion and held it tight to her stomach. "Ashe."

"Who?"

"Ashe. You know. Ashe."

"Who's Ashe?"

"Gods, Rhapsody, are you dead or something? Ashe. You know, the one with the beautiful hair, from Bethe Corbair."

Rhapsody was utterly perplexed. "Jo, I have literally no idea who, or what, you're talking about. Who is Ashe?"

Jo rolled her eyes. "You know; the guy with the—well, you know—" Her face turned red with embarrassment.

Rhapsody looked at her quizzically again, and then the memory returned of their encounter with the cloaked stranger in the street market.

"Oh! Him." Amusement began to sparkle in her eyes, and she leaned forward and whispered in a conspiratorial tone. "Jo, I have it on pretty good authority that just about every man has 'you know.'"

"Brat." Jo belted her with the cushion, laughing, but still looking embarrassed. Rhapsody saw her begin to turn self-conscious, and she artlessly changed her tone from teasing to encouraging.

"How do you know he has beautiful hair?" she asked. "If I recall correctly, we didn't see his face at all; he had a hood on."

"You didn't see his face," Jo corrected. "My angle was a little different—"

"I'll say," laughed Rhapsody, earning herself another belt with the cushion.

"I caught a glimpse of him under his hood when he lifted me off the ground. His hair is the color of copper; not dull like copper coins, but like the shiny pots that hang in the tinker's booth in the market. And his eyes are the most incredible shade of blue. That's about all I saw, coppery hair and crystal-blue eyes, but it was enough." She let out an exaggerated sigh.

"Gods, Jo, what if that's all of him there is?" Rhapsody said in mock concern. "I mean, what if that's all there is under there—hair and eyes and nothing else? Bbbrrrrrr. Not a pleasant thought. Don't you think you ought to at least see all of him before you pick out your wedding china?"

Jo crossed her arms in annoyance and fell into a petulant silence. Rhapsody hastened to make peace.

"I'm sorry, Jo; I'm being ridiculous. I'm glad you met someone you like. But if I recall, wasn't he trying to cut your hand off?"

"No, you were trying to cut his hand off," Jo said, still annoyed. "He was nice to me, that's all. Let's just forget it, all right?"

Rhapsody sighed. "You really have been ill-used, my girl, if that's what you call someone being nice to you. But who knows; sometimes first impressions are the most accurate. So what do you think your chances are of ever meeting up with him again?"

"Probably none," said Jo, uncrossing her legs and putting her feet on the floor. "He did say he'd come to visit, though." She reached under the bed for the chamber pot.

Rhapsody took her cue. "We'll see," she said, rising from the bed and heading for the door. "You never know, Jo; stranger things have happened. In the meantime, get some sleep. Maybe this time if you're more rested you can actually pick his pocket successfully." She gave Jo a playful wink and opened the door.

"Good night, sis," Jo answered, laughing.

Rhapsody smiled and Jo felt warmth surround her, like an embrace. "Good night, Jo." She closed the door quietly, and leaned up against the wall, hugging herself with joy. After a moment, she returned to the darkness of her own chamber, made somehow brighter now.

 * * *

They're coming.

"I know."

Saltar rose from his stone chair, running his fingers over the granite arms, worn smooth by centuries of hands other than his own gripping them. It was one of the treasures from the old time, grabbed when the great Willum village-beneath-the-ground had been conquered, along with other relics that remained locked within the depths of the Hidden Realm. But it was not the most significant one.

His army comes, but the one I seek is not with them.

Fire-Eye swallowed but said nothing. The Spirit had been of great assistance, had given him a terrifying invulnerability, an invaluable asset in his rise to power, but it was obsessed, not easily distracted.

He took the chain from around his neck, staring absently into the eye amid the golden fire, the symbol that had given him his shaman name. Fire-Eye. It was the name by which the Bolg called him, generally whispered when spoken.

The fire-eye had lain in the bottom of a great chest for centuries before him, the Bolg of the Hidden Realm too frightened to touch it, let alone put it on. Even the fiercest hunters in the Fist-and-Fire, his own clan, had shied away from it. Only he had been able to summon the courage to lift the golden symbol from its casket, to wear it on his chest. He reveled in watching the other Bolg of his clan recoil in abject fear.

It had never occurred to him to wonder why the Willums would have buried such a powerful item away, had left it under a pile of rags along with a small pair of alabaster lions and a brooch made of mother-of-pearl, baubles that no one had wanted to touch but that had instantly disappeared once he took the fire-eye out of the crate. Twenty season-cycles had passed since that day.

The Spirit had made itself known to him almost immediately. It had come to him in darkness, reflecting his own image back to him, frightening him into shaking fits. When it spoke its words were hard to hear clearly, though he had gotten more used to the silent voice over time. It had given him his name, Saltar.

Saltar?

Fire-Eye looked up again, searching the darkness for the all-but-invisible Ghost. That was what the other clans called the Spirit. They were almost as terrified of it as he was. It spoke to him now, just as it had then. A thought occurred to him.

"I know how to draw him out," he said to the air around him.

Silence.

"You must fight this time," Saltar said, fingering the fire-eye, then slipping the chain around his neck again. "Then he will come."

The air bristled, a whiff of heat rising in Saltar's dismal chamber.

Yes.

* * *

Emmy.

Tears welled beneath Rhapsody's eyelids at the sound of her mother's voice, a voice she heard in her heart. Dreaming, but still clinging to the last fragments of awareness, she struggled to keep the vision at bay. Too often the nightmares began like this, catching her off-guard and vulnerable.

"No," she whispered in her sleep. "Please."

A gentle hand came to rest on her head.

Don't cry, Emmy. Her mother's smiling face, swimming before her, blurred by her own tears.

She surrendered to sleep with one last sigh. "Mama."

I like your house, Emmy, especially the candles. Her mother's eyes cast an appreciative glance around at the tiny glimmering lights that appeared, as she spoke, in the darkness. Even the simplest house is a palace in candlelight. "Mama—"

Come over here and let me brush your hair by the fire the way we once did.

Rhapsody felt the heat radiate over her face. She rose and followed her mother to the hearth. Flames twisted and danced, burning insistently.

The caress of smooth hands running down her hair, the bite of the comb.

Do you remember this, child?

"Yes," she whispered, choking on the tears. "Mama—" Shhh. Her mother reached into the fire. Here, child, put your hand in; I can't get it for you. It won't let me pick it up. You'll have to do it.

She reached into the roaring flames, feeling their heat but no pain. Her hand grasped something smooth and cold, and she drew it forth from the fire. Instantly all the flames died away except for the ones licking up the blade of the sword in her hand.

"Daystar Clarion," she murmured.

As it was in the Past, before it was taken from our land, away from the light of Seren. See how it looked then.

Rhapsody turned the weapon over in her hands, running her fingers along the silvery blade. "It looks the same." Look harder.

She turned it over again. In the hilt, just above the tang, a small light burned blue-white, more brilliant than the sun, held in place by silvery prongs.

"This light isn't there anymore," Rhapsody said. "The prongs are empty now. What was it?"

It was a piece of the star, of Seren. A source of great power, of elemental magic, from the Before-Time. Your star, Emmy.

"Aria, " she whispered. My guiding star. Yes, her mother said. She pointed into the darkness above, where Seren gleamed, as it once had. I told you this long ago, child: if you can find your guiding star, you will never be lost. You have forgotten this.

"No, Mama, no. I remember." It was becoming difficult to breathe.

Then why are you lost?

"I—I lost the star, Mama. I lost Seren; Serendair is gone, dead a thousand years."

The land is gone, the star remains.

"Mama—"

Watch, child. Her mother pointed skyward. From Seren, high in the darkness above, a tiny piece broke off and streaked across the sky, an infinitesimal falling star. In her hand, the light in the sword's hilt winked out, its prongs empty once more.

Rhapsody followed her mother's finger; it almost seemed to be guiding the star in its descent.

In the darkness ahead of her she could see a table, or an altar of some kind, on which the body of a man rested. The figure was wreathed in darkness; she could see nothing but his outline. The tiny star fell onto the body, causing it to shine incandescently. The intense brightness gleamed for a moment, then resolved into a dim glow. Rhapsody went cold, remembering the vision from the House of Remembrance.

That is where the piece of your star went, child, for good, or ill. If you can find your guiding star, you will never be lost. Never.

Even in her sleep, Rhapsody could tell that something about the vision was not right. Generally the lore related to her in her dreams by her parents or people from her past were tied to her memories, things that had happened while they were still alive. Visions of the Future were usually unconnected to anyone she loved who had died in the cataclysm. But here her mother was, imparting things that she could not possibly have known in her lifetime.

"How can you tell me these things, Mama?"

She felt the warmth of her mother's arms encircle her.

I can tell you because, just as I am, these are memories of yours. You just don't know them yet. If you can find your guiding star, you will never be lost. Never.

The glowing body on the altar faded into darkness and disappeared.

"I can't see him anymore, Mama. Why can't I see him?"

It's not what he is, it's what he wears.

Rhapsody turned over, tangling herself in the blankets. "I don't understand."

Look over your shoulder.

Rhapsody turned. Hovering in the darkness were three eyes. Two were placed in an otherwise dark face, their edges rimmed in the color of blood. The third hung suspended below them, set in the center of a blazing ball of flame. She began to tremble.

"Mama?"

Remember what I said, Emmy: It's not what he is, it's what he wears.

The flames from the ball began to expand until they filled all of her view. She looked back to see her mother, engulfed in the inferno. Rhapsody reached out her arms as horror swept through her.

"Mama!"

Her mother continued to smile as she withered to a dark ember, then was swallowed up in the flames.

Your family was destroyed in fire, Emmy.

"Mama!"

Fire is strong. But starfire was born first; it is the more powerful element. Use the fire of the stars to cleanse yourself, and the world of the hatred that took us. Then I will rest in peace until you see me again.

"Mama, no! Please come back!"

It's not what he is, it's what he wears. The voice echoed softly as it died away.

"Rhaps?"

"No," Rhapsody moaned, reaching into the darkness, clawing desperately as the dream evaporated. Mama.

"Rhaps, are you all right?"

She sat up in bed, wiping away the tears that were pouring down her face with the sleeve of her nightgown. Jo's silhouette lingered in the doorway, casting a long shadow.

"Yes," she said quickly. "I'm sorry, honey; did I wake you?"

Jo came into the room and sat on her bed, giving her a quick hug.

"No, Grunthor did. They need you down at the hospital."

* * *

The Bolg medics were still bringing in the wounded when Rhapsody arrived with her medical bag, still in her dressing gown, her hair loose and wild around her shoulders. She ran to Grunthor, who was carrying one of his soldiers to a cot.

"Grunthor, are you all right? What happened?"

The Sergeant stripped off the leather breastplate, exposing a gruesome chest wound that bisected the man from his throat to his waist.

"Oi'm fine, darlin', but ol' Warty 'ere is in bad shape." The Sergeant's voice was anxious.

They switched places smoothly as Rhapsody opened her bag. This drill was becoming routine. There had never been such a tremendous number of casualties at once, however. Something must have gone terribly wrong.

"Clean compresses and pipsissewa, please," she said to Krinsel, a midwife hovering nearby, who nodded and disappeared.

Grunthor's face fell at her words. He recognized the herb she had asked for, used to ease the pain of the dying.

"'E's a goner, then, Duchess?"

Rhapsody smiled at her friend sadly. "I'm afraid so, Grunthor, he's taken damage to his heart." She took the cloths the midwife handed her and tried to stanch the bleeding. "We'll try to make him comfortable while we're tending to the others."

"First Woman?" the Bolg lieutenant whispered.

Rhapsody ran her hand gently down the side of his face. "Yes?"

"Fire-Eye and his clan it was."

Rhapsody's eyes filled with sympathy, though she didn't comprehend what he meant. "Rest now," she said gently.

The dying Bolg blinked rapidly, trying to focus on her face. "Fire-Eye—Bolg—call him, but—Saltar his—name is."

She took the pipsissewa from the midwife. "I'll tell the king."

"First—Woman?"

She applied the herb. "Yes?" she said softly, watching the life begin to leave his face.

"Like—the sunrise—are you." The lieutenant's eyes went glassy.

Rhapsody's throat tightened. She leaned forward and kissed the sweaty forehead, feeling the contorted wrinkles ease a little. In his ear she softly sang the beginning of the Lirin Song of Passage, the traditional dirge sung at a funeral pyre, meant to loose the bonds of Earth and ease the journey of a soul to the light.

A violent swell of noise and screaming broke off her song in mid-note. The hospital corridor burst into chaos as soldiers and medics swarmed in, dragging the wounded in a seemingly endless caravan, a ghastly parade of the dead and dying.

"Dear gods," Rhapsody gasped. There were hundreds, their life's blood gushing onto the floor, the hideous smell of burning flesh fouling the air. She leapt from the cot and ran into the center of the fray.

Achmed stood in the hallway, directing the still-ambulatory soldiers into the areas where the medics were caring for the worst injuries, checking each injured Bolg they carried to ascertain if he was still alive or not, and sending those with corpses out of the hospital area. The expression on his face was grim; he had not been at the scene of the battle.

Rhapsody took a badly injured Claw soldier out of the shaking grasp of another, also wounded, and pulled his arm around her neck. She dragged him to a clear area of the floor, out of the way of the roiling cacophony, signaling Grunthor to help his companion.

"What happened?" she asked the Sergeant again as she removed the Bolg's armor, wincing at the sight of what remained beneath it.

"We was on peaceful maneuvers," the giant Firbolg said, tying a tourniquet around his patient's leg.

"So I see."

"Oi'm serious, Duchess," the Sergeant snapped. "Standard procedure: recruit first, sack second. We was deep in the Hidden Realm. Warty and Ringram took a party and went on ahead. You should o' seen the ones we couldn't get out o' there; this is just a few by comparison."

Rhapsody shuddered as she tied off the bandages.

"Rapzdee?"

She looked up to see Krinsel standing over her, trembling. The sight caused her to go numb; Krinsel was one of the most stern-faced and unflappable of the midwives. Rhapsody had never seen a flicker of emotion on her face before. Now she was struggling to keep from dissolving into panic.

"Krinsel?" she asked, standing quickly, and taking her arm.

"Come."

Rhapsody and Grunthor followed her through the windstorm of casualties, stepping gingerly over the bodies of the wounded and the dead.

Krinsel led them to another group of bodies tucked away in a corner of the hospital. The reek of burning flesh was overpowering, and Rhapsody covered her face to shield her lungs from the stench.

Each victim had slashes, deep as sword wounds, scarring their torsos and abdomens, and occasionally their faces. Rhapsody eyes opened wide as she saw them.

"Achmed!" she shouted as she bent down, checking for heartbeats. Only one was alive, clinging to consciousness by a thread.

A moment later the king was beside her, watching as Grunthor turned the victims over, examining their injuries.

"Look at this," Rhapsody said, pointing to a gruesome gash across the back of the last living victim. Gently she traced the wound with a healing solution of thyme and clarified water. It was deep and wide, but limited by bloodless edges, as if it had been cauterized with a sharp branding iron. The wound was still smoldering.

Achmed bent down beside her. "What do you think did this?"

"I don't know, but this is what the wounds made by Daystar Clarion look like," she said, applying pressure elsewhere as the man began to gasp.

"Only deeper, and not as narrow," Achmed agreed.

"Looks like claws ta me," said Grunthor.

Rhapsody glanced up at Krinsel, who looked as if she was about to faint.

"Krinsel, what did this? Do you recognize what made these wounds?"

The Bolg woman nodded, her arms wrapped tightly around herself.

"Ghost it was. Fire-Eye's Ghost."

 

Rhapsody finally left the hospital at sunset the following day. By then the bodies had been removed and taken to the crypt near the great forges, beds found for the wounded, all their injuries treated and bound at last. The Firbolg medics and the midwives moved silently among the victims, tending to them as ably as the Filids in Khaddyr's hospice at the Circle.

She had left Jo with Grunthor, who had lapsed into silence, refusing to leave his injured men. There was a look in the Sergeant's eye that she had seen before, although never so intensely, an expression that crept over his face when he used to speak of his troops long ago in the old world. She had tried to comfort him to no avail; the giant Bolg had only grown more somber and distant beneath her ministrations. At last she determined what he needed most was to be allowed to sit vigil, and so she gave him his solitude after asking Jo to keep an eye on him.

Though what she longed for more than anything was an extended soak in Anwyn's bathtub, she cinched the tie of her gore-soiled dressing gown tighter and headed for the tunnel that led to the Blasted Heath.

The night was coming. Darkness was encroaching on the pale sky, stained with fingers of red and crimson. The clouds swirled in a deepening spiral toward the horizon, mirroring the topsy-turvy angle that the world had assumed since she last slept. She sang her vespers woodenly, finding no solace in the ritual, trying to keep the anguish that she felt at bay. The Bolg had suffered so terribly.

Achmed was sitting exactly where she had expected to find him, at the mouth of the tunnel that overlooked the canyon and the heath beyond, the place he had first stood to face his subjects, where he had claimed dominion over them. His legs hung off the edge, dangling above the vast crevice a thousand feet below, his eyes fixed across the canyon and beyond the Blasted Heath.

Rhapsody sat down beside him and stared silently into the approaching darkness. They watched the sun as it slipped quickly over the edge of the world, as if ashamed to remain in the sky a moment longer than proscribed. With the onset of darkness came a chill wind, and it blew across their faces and through their hair as it shrieked and moaned through the canyon below.

Finally, when the shadows had reached completely across the vast Firbolg realm, Achmed spoke.

"Thank you for not trying to fill up the silence with well-meant words," he said. Rhapsody smiled slightly but said nothing. The Warlord let loose a deep, painful sigh. "Has Grunthor said anything yet?"

"No, not yet."

Achmed nodded distantly, his mind on the other side of Time. "He's been through this before, and much worse. He'll be all right."

"No doubt," Rhapsody agreed. She watched his face, reading plainly on it deep concern and sorrow. And possibly even fear, though she wouldn't recognize it on him. "I was told something by one of his lieutenants before he died."

Achmed turned to hear what she had to say. "What was it?"

She brushed back a strand of hair that the moaning wind had swept into her eyes. "He told me Fire-Eye's name, his real name, I think." Achmed's glance became more piercing, but he said nothing. She coughed, and glanced around nervously. "He said his name is Saltar."

"Yes, I know."

"And does that sound in any way familiar to you, like any other name you've ever heard?"

"Yes. Tsoltan."

Rhapsody exhaled, her nervous excitement deflated. "All right, I guess I'm not surprised you knew."

"I didn't, not really. I've just been expecting it. I've been waiting for this day since we crawled out of the Root." He looked out over the heath, watching the distant meadow scrub bowing in the breeze. "The irony of the universe never fails to amaze me," he said, almost to himself. There was none of his customary sarcasm in his voice. He picked up a pebble from the tunnel floor and ran it absently between his fingers.

"Tell me what you mean," Rhapsody said gently.

Achmed looked into the distance again, as if trying to see into the Past.

"All my adult life I have been a predator, and a good one at that. I was raised as the answer to the relentless campaign of genocide the F'dor waged against my people, so I in turn by nature was relentless."

"I was given a gift at birth, a tie to blood that allowed me to be the Brother to all men. I used that gift in the name of Death, to walk alone and let that blood, rather than tie myself to others with it, to seek and find any heartbeat in our land and follow it, unerringly, until I found my prey. I was as unstoppable as the passage of time, Rhapsody. Unless my victims chose to hide in the sea, there was nowhere I couldn't find them. No one could run away from me forever."

"And now, here I am, on the other side of Time. I gave all that up, everything, every natural weapon I had, and ran, futilely trying to escape the one pursuer that I had no chance against—myself. Because that was what I was trying to outrun. It had my name. I was his accomplice in the hunt for me."

"Just as I never lost a quarry, the F'dor never loses, either. It will win the battle, or, in losing, take over the victor, making him its new host. So either way, it will win. The far better choice is to die at its hands than have it live on through you, but I'm not sure that I'm not already bound to it in either case. I should have known that this world was not a big enough place to hide from it, from myself. The avalanche is coming, and there is nothing I can do to stop it."

Rhapsody said nothing, but gently ran her fingers up his forearm until her hand came to rest in his. Achmed stared down at their joined hands.

"And then, Rhapsody, you came along and changed everything, addled my brain with your incessant babble, distracted me into believing that the F'dor's leash on me was broken, that I could somehow escape it, when I should have known better, having been myself the deliverer of the inescapable. It was only a matter of time before it found me again." He tossed the pebble into the canyon below.

"You don't know that it has," Rhapsody said quietly. "And perhaps you have it backward. Maybe you're still the predator, Achmed. Maybe you are destined to face it, and kill it. Perhaps it will be your final victim. But you're right about one thing: you can't run away anymore. If you do, it will find you sooner or later. If I were you I'd rather not have my back to it."

"The sanctimonious words of someone who has no idea what the consequences are for me," he scowled, snatching his hand away.

"Perhaps not. But I know what they are for me. I could lose the only family I have left in the world, in particular my irritating brother who is the opposite side of my coin." She saw his glare temper into something deeper. "You cannot possibly understand how deeply I fear that happening again. But whatever those consequences are, I will be facing them with you, as Grunthor has. That's what families do." She smiled, and Achmed felt his heart rise against his best effort to remain morose.

"Have you heard the Bolg talking about Fire-Eye's Ghost?" she asked.

"Yes."

"What do you suppose that is all about? If this is Tsoltan's demon-spirit, if it escaped from the destruction of Serendair and came here, clinging to one of the Cymrians on the last ship out, could they see it?"

Achmed shook his head. "I doubt it, though perhaps the first step in our plan is to acknowledge that the rules have changed, and what we knew for certain in the old life may not apply anymore. F'dor are generally indistinguishable when they are bound to a human host, though once in a great while you can catch a whiff of their putrid odor. But not often. That's what makes them so damned dangerous."

"Then what do you think it is?"

Achmed stood and brushed the sand of the tunnel out of his robes. "I've no idea. Whatever it is, it wields dark fire like a weapon; that's where those burn wounds came from. The Bolg think the Ghost is part of Saltar's magic, a mysterious defense that makes him indestructible, that always gives him the upper hand."

"Can we kill it, then? Are we fighting a man possessed by a demon?"

"I don't know." Achmed took her hand and helped her rise. "I don't plan to take any chances. I need to face Fire-Eye myself, Rhapsody. There is an ancient Dhracian ritual called the Thrall that holds the demon-spirit in place, prevents it from leaving its human host. That way, if Fire-Eye is the host of the F'dor, both man and demon will die. The tricky part is not killing him unless he is in Thrall. But if he's not the host of the F'dor, then obviously the ritual won't work."

"And can you find him?"

Achmed leaned against the tunnel wall and closed his eyes. His vision centered on the deep canyon below, and the wide space of air between the crag they sat within and the Heath on the other side. And then his second sight was off, racing over the crevice, speeding over the wide Heath, past the rock walls of Kraldurge and the wide fields, waiting the plantings of spring.

It was a journey he knew well, having traveled extensively with Grunthor on the campaigns to recruit and subdue the Bolg. These lands were his now, were under his domain and subject to his will.

The vision flew over the ancient vineyards, wide slanted hills with a river between them, lined on both sides with vines awaiting the warmth of spring, tended carefully by the Bolg Rhapsody had trained as farmers. Through forest lands and the openings in the hillsides that had once been the realm of the Nain and Gwadd, the Cymrian races that had chosen to live within the Earth, he followed the path at a sickening rate of speed, past the deep woods where the Lirin loyal to Gwylliam had once built their homes.

Then into the Hidden Realm, past the decaying remains of Cymrian villages and cities, outposts that were now no more than stains on the ground and stone wreckage. The land here was rich, dark and undisturbed, its populace hidden within the labyrinthine network of tunnels stretching out endlessly within the far mountains.

His path lore sped between the mountain passes and into the tunnels, following their twists and turns into a colossal cavern with a large cave at its far end. His distant sight came to an abrupt halt before a Bolg figure, sleeping on a wide stone bed, the mattress gone for centuries. In the dark, the Bolg shaman's eyes opened and stared at him, rimmed in the color of blood. Then the vision faded and disappeared.

Achmed exhaled as the vision left and looked back at Rhapsody. He smiled involuntarily at the expression of anticipation on her face, her deep green eyes gleaming in the dark.

"I know exactly where he is," he said. "And now he can say the same thing about me."

* * *

"Did she give you any trouble, Yer Ladyship?"

Rhapsody struggled with the vambraces of the armor Achmed had given her.

"Not a bit," she said, twisting her arm around to try and cinch the closures, finally giving up and turning to Grunthor for help. "I made sure she got a good look at the bodies of the worst victims of Fire-Eye's Ghost. Jo was more than happy to stay behind and help in the hospital. In fact, she even volunteered to watch my grandchildren."

Grunthor smiled, his eyes absent of their normal sparkle of humor.

"Good. At least she'll be safe. Oi don't suppose you might change your mind as well, Duchess?"

She patted his arm, satisfied with the fit of the vambraces. "No."

"Well, then, Oi'll be grateful to have you along. Just remember what Oi taught ya."

"Of course. And Achmed's sage advice as well: tuck your chin, you're going to get hurt, so expect it and be ready, you may as well see it coming."

The Firbolg king smiled behind his veils. "Are you ready, then?"

Rhapsody came to the mouth of the tunnel and stood next to him. She looked down over the sea of Bolg that swelled in the canyon below. Tens of thousands of them, itching with anger, bristling to wreak vengeance. The noise was deafening.

The black mass of soldiers roiled with their martial preparations, their ugly shouts and outbreaks of violence audible even from a thousand feet below. The size of the convocation continued to grow as more fighters, men and women, joined with each passing moment.

"Are you sure they're going to remain in control?" she asked nervously.

"Nope," Grunthor replied, almost cheerfully. "But at least Oi know 'oo they'll take it out on if they lose it."

* * *

The horses were dancing in place, the nervousness rippling through their muscles. Rhapsody imagined she had the same wild look in her eyes as the animals did.

It had been frightening enough to observe the Bolg from the ledge a thousand feet above. Now, here in the belly of the canyon, it was like being in the unstable eye of a hurricane.

All around her was writhing humanity, or demi-humanity, muscular movement laced with the stench of sweat and the excitement of war. She could see the battle frenzy building, glittering in tens of thousands of eyes, and it terrified her.

"Any sign of the Hill-Eye?" Achmed asked Grunthor, who was giving commands atop Rockslide, the massive warhorse that Lord Stephen had given him.

"Nope. Oi don't think even they would be stupid enough to attack now." Grunthor cast a satisfied glance around the canyon, teeming from rim to rim with his army.

Rhapsody moved her leg out of the way of the Bolg quartermaster, who was checking her mare's barding.

"Are the Fist-and-Fire an Eye clan, or Guts?" she asked.

"Guts," Achmed and Grunthor answered in unison.

"Then why is their leader called Fire-Eye? Don't Bolg chieftains usually put their clan type into their own name?"

Achmed dismounted and came to the mare's side, rather than shout over the cacophony that blared all around them. She leaned down to hear him.

"Virtually every clan in the Hidden Realm is a Guts clan. This shaman's name undoubtedly refers to the bloody edges around his eyes. Occasionally you can catch a glimpse of a F'dor like that, but it's fleeting. You've seen them in your visions sometimes, haven't you?" Rhapsody nodded. "And it's also possible that it is using the same holy, er, unholy symbol, the representation we saw in the basilica at Bethany. That was Tsoltan's sign."

Rhapsody thought back to the vision of her mother, the last nightmare she had before reality turned into one. "I think he does; I believe I saw it in a vision."

"Well, I didn't when I looked, but he didn't have it embroidered on his blankets. Whether or not it is displayed on his ceremonial robes, if he even has any, I have no idea."

Achmed grabbed her bridle and dodged out of the way of a scuffle between three Bolg crossbowmen. Grunthor cuffed one and barked an order at the others, and they quickly moved back into the chaotic ranks.

"Remember what I said about the Thrall ritual. Don't strike him until you're sure he's entranced."

The noise was too loud to be heard, even if she shouted, so Rhapsody just nodded. Achmed patted her leg and went back to his mount.

* * *

The long ride to the Hidden Realm was harrowing. Rhapsody struggled to remain in her seat, gripping the horse with her knees and hanging on for her life.

They rode at the head of an endless column of Firbolg, their ranks expanding to the sides as well as behind them. From every hillside and crag of the deepest Teeth came more clans and families, hunters alone and soldiers in groups, fathers with one or more of their sons, swelling the horde until it seemed as if the mountains themselves were following Achmed. In her memory she heard his voice, brimming with excited energy, addressing his new subjects for the first time on a dark ledge overlooking the smoke from the bonfires in the canyon below him.

Whatever you are now, you are but the splinters of a bone, perhaps once of one blood, but now without strength. When you move it causes pain, but comes to no purpose. Join me, and we will be as the mountain itself moving.

It was coming to pass, just as he predicted.

To her left she heard the Sergeant's ringing bass begin a marching cadence.

Revenge I am told

Is a dish eaten cold

But me, I prefer my food warm

So when I come for you

The first thing I will do

Is to rip off and chew on your arm.

Thousands of voices immediately picked up the next verse, croaking in rasping tones.

From your head to your feet I'll devour the meat

But your bones I will just toss away

And with any luck then

Your kin and your friend

Will pick someone else to betray.

Rhapsody clung to the saddle, struggling to remain upright in the vibrations of the echo that resounded off the Teeth. It was a ferocious sound, low and mighty, despite the ridiculous words. There was depth to the voices, pain still hovering at the surface, and she could feel the energy in it, bristling in the sound issuing forth from the throats of the Bolg.

She added her own voice to it, concentrating on amplifying the sound. Suddenly the song was even louder, and many more voices joined in, chanting their vengeance in march time.

A shiver of fear mingled with excitement ran through her, tingling from the base of her spine to her scalp. She glanced over at Achmed, who smiled at her, then back to Grunthor. The Sergeant was shifting into another song, this one a gruesome battle ode, his face intent, without the joy that singing cadences usually brought to it. He had taken the slaughter of his men very seriously, she knew, and planned to avenge them in ways she might be horrified by. She steeled herself for what was to come.

* * *

For the first three days of the journey the army continued to swell, new members joining as the colossal column marched by. From the fields and forests a sizable number had come, Claw and Eyes and even a few Guts clans eager to join once they determined that the shaking of the ground was the army passing, and not an earthquake.

They camped at night, those sitting watch tending massive bonfires, still singing the martial hymns. Rhapsody watched the enormous shadows from the fires light the hills at the edge of her vision, clouds of smoke billowing across the dark sky where it hovered among the stars.

Toward the end of the fourth day a few skirmishes had broken out. The Bolg now dashing from the hills or emerging from the broken ruins of abandoned Cymrian settlements were not intending to enlist, but rather to take out the fringes of the royal troops. Any such attempts didn't even make a ripple through the column, and were quashed without missing a note in the cadences.

On the fifth day everything changed.

Achmed had warned her the night before, in the light of the blazing bonfires, that they were now within the territory of the Fist-and-Fire. Though he suspected they would not be a match for an army of this size, they were a vast and vicious tribe, with an impressive ability to ambush.

They demonstrated that ability as the sun was rising. Achmed's troops, now fed a steady diet of roots and organ meat to improve their night vision, saw them coming, charging out of the foredawn mist, gray and lightless. Aligned in two waves, the outer force formed a wide ring around Achmed's army, stretching from end to end of what had once been a large city, now crumbled and decaying. The inner wave swarmed from all sides, emerging from tunnels throughout the ruin, swinging torches that burned with caustic fire.

"Enfilade!" roared Grunthor. Rhapsody reined her mare to a halt in horror as Achmed's forces split down the center and turned, firing their crossbows at the charging Fists. Up and down the charging line they sprayed, loosing bolts methodically into the oncoming attack.

From all around them flames roared skyward. The outer circle of enemy troops had set great fields of oil and pitch alight, clogging the air with rancid smoke and cutting off escape on all sides.

Grunthor turned to Rhapsody. "Sing!" he shouted.

Waving the fumes away, she began the war chant they had practiced, a song written to match the rhythms of Bolg hearts, enflaming their blood. A savage roar echoed across the plain, undulating through the dirty black smoke and the blinding heat. The royal forces, enraged and invigorated by the chant, fired again and then waded into the fray.

A patch of heavy vapor wafted near her knee and Achmed appeared at her side, his hands outstretched.

"Come on; leave the horse. We have to get into the cave before the fire sings us and the smoke cuts off our exit."

He pulled Rhapsody down and seized her hand. Together they ran through the melee, dodging the blows and bodies that were falling all around. A moment later Grunthor appeared, his nostrils flaring in fury, tossing soldiers of the Fist-and-Fire out of his way, slicing a path with Sal, his beloved poleax. He came alongside his companions and stopped, his weapon shielding Rhapsody from the blows falling around her.

"We goin' in now?" he panted.

Achmed pointed to a hole past the billowing inferno. "Over there. That's the entrance," he said.

* * *

Saltar's eyes were closed, but his hands twitched nervously.

"They're coming," he said.

The hall of the dark cave echoed his words, and then there was silence.

His red-rimmed eyes broke open in alarm.

"Did you hear me? I said they're coming."

A cold mist dampened his face, though he wasn't sure if it was from the Spirit or from his own sweat, now pouring from him.

He is not with them.

Fire-Eye grabbed the Willum sword that was his second greatest treasure. He had not expected to need it.

"What do you mean? Of course he is! They're here, they're coming."

I do not see him. He I seek is not with them.

A string of curses, foul even by Bolg standards, roared forth from Saltar's mouth.

"You must help me," he said, his breath coming out rapidly. "You must fight."

Only the echo answered him.

* * *

Achmed stopped at the fire's edge. Just past the conflagration a jagged line of Fist Bolg leered back at them, the vanguard left to protect the entrance. He pulled Rhapsody up to the boundary of flame.

Rhapsody took a deep breath and drew her sword. Daystar Clarion swept forth from its scabbard, a ringing call blasting across the tumult. She held the blade in front of her face. The last image she saw before she closed her eyes was the shocked panic that had replaced the cocky expressions the Fist had worn a moment earlier.

"Slypka, "she said. Extinguish.

In a twinkling the wall of flame before them disappeared. With a bellow Grunthor charged through, swinging Sal in broad, slashing blows in front of him. He made contact with a few of the unfortunates too slow to dash out of the way, screaming at the top of his lungs. The path to the entrance cleared immediately. Grunthor stopped long enough to extricate Sal's spearhead from the Bolg he had skewered on its point, then ran into the passageway, Achmed and Rhapsody close behind him.

Rhapsody slowed long enough to sheathe her sword. Behind her she could hear the echoing of feet pounding, soldiers following them into the cavern. She had no time to determine whether they were Bolg loyal to Achmed or not.

Before them was a cadre of guards, Fist Bolg armed with ancient swords and spears with antique heads. Achmed drew the long thin sword she had seen him use in the House of Remembrance. Rhapsody glanced behind her.

The tunnel was erupting now in hand-to-hand combat, Bolg against Bolg, their blood indistinguishable as it splattered the floor. When she looked back, the cadre of guards was on the floor, efficiently dispatched.

"Come on," Achmed said, grabbing her hand again. They ran, Grunthor in the lead, deeper into the cavern, a place that had once been a city for the Cymrian earth dwellers. The pounding of their feet matched the pounding of her heart. Her breath was coming in short gasps from the smoke she had inhaled and the pace they were setting.

Her arm stung suddenly as Achmed jolted to a halt. Standing before them was a Bolg of unimpressive size, about as tall as Achmed, a Cymrian sword in one long gangly arm.

He was swathed in tattered robes, with hair as wild as if he had been standing in a high wind. From beneath his wrinkled brow, eyes rimmed in red stared at them. Rhapsody was convinced that in them she saw stark fear.

Achmed was standing directly in front of him. He closed his eyes and opened his mouth slightly. Rhapsody put her hand on the hilt of Daystar Clarion, while Grunthor dropped Sal and pulled out Lopper. Achmed was beginning the Thrall ritual.

From deep within Achmed's throat came four separate notes, held in a monotone; a fifth was channeled through his sinuses and nose. It sounded as if five different singers had simultaneously begun a chant. Then his tongue began to click rhythmically.

Fire-Eye blinked in amazement.

Achmed raised his right hand, palm open and rigid, a signal of halting. His left hand moved slowly out to his side and up, his fingers pulsing gently, seeking the strands of the F'dor's vibration, the ancient practice of the Dhracians. Then his eyes snapped open.

He felt nothing. There was nothing within the air. Not even a hint of F'dor.

Saltar's eyes cleared and his face contorted in fury. With a murderous snarl he leapt forward and swung the sword, a blow aimed directly at Achmed's unprotected neck. As the blow fell, Grunthor loosed a howl that sent waves of shock rippling over Rhapsody's skin. He shoved his king and dearest friend out of the way, the impact throwing Achmed to the ground, then interposed himself, catching Saltar's blow in the chest. Rhapsody gasped and drew her sword.

Saltar sliced again, then spun out of the way of Grunthor's return blow. The Sergeant's mouth dropped open. Fire-Eye had anticipated his move, one that should have been totally unexpected.

"Hold still, ya lit'le shit," he muttered, and swung again.

Saltar dodged and glanced another blow off the giant Bolg. Sweat poured from his face, mixing with bloody tears of exertion that were trickling from his eyes. He leapt back, foreseeing Grunthor's double-fisted pummel.

Grunthor snorted in rage. "The bastard knows what Oi'm gonna do before Oi do," he growled. He lifted his sword, knowing that Saltar would parry, then summoned all of his strength, bringing Lopper down on Saltar's blade. The weapon snapped under the impact. Saltar's red-rimmed eyes widened as the blade cleaved his head from his neck, sending it spinning onto the floor of the cavern.

Rhapsody stepped back, aghast. Saltar's body pitched forward, hitting the floor with a strange clanging sound. The head rolled a few times, then came to a stop. Its lifeless eyes, now absent their red tinge, stared blindly at the ceiling of the cavern, the light from Daystar Clarion flickering in their glassy lenses.

Achmed bent over the head. "Strange; the red is gone from his eyes."

Rhapsody was trembling. "The demon-spirit; where is it? Did you hold it in thrall?"

"There was nothing there, nothing I could grasp," Achmed said, studying the corpse's eyes.

Rhapsody looked down at her feet. From beneath the headless body's robes had fallen a gold talisman on a heavy-linked chain. She stooped to pick it up.

"Don't touch that!" Achmed shouted, his voice coming out in a shriek.

Grunthor gingerly slid the tip of Lopper under the talisman and flipped it over. The gold circle was licked by metal tongues of fire, wrought an Age ago to look like the Earth in flames. In the center of the circle a spiral of red stones traced down, ending in the center with one solitary eye. It glittered in the reflected flames from the sword.

Grunthor recoiled in horror. "That's it, sir! It's the one!"

Achmed took a further step away. Rhapsody looked quickly around, but saw nothing in the cavernous darkness. The Bolg in the entranceway still fought on, oblivious of the death of the shaman. Within the vast cave a cold mist descended, chilling the skin of their faces.

Suddenly Grunthor screamed, sending a bolt of terror through Rhapsody. It was not his war scream, the sound he made to frighten horses and men, or the uproarious laugh that issued forth when he was enjoying the mayhem he was wreaking.

It was a scream of agony.

He spun away from where he had been standing, a brutal, smoking slash across his eyes, delivered as if from the air itself. Rhapsody leapt to his aid and was hurled backward, as if by the force of the wind. "Grunthor!"

The Sergeant lurched blindly backward, blood pouring from his eyes, his chest and shoulder bearing two more deep slashes. His cloak ignited, ripping into flame.

Achmed seized his friend's shoulders and pushed him to the ground, rolling him to snuff the flames as once Grunthor had done at the Earth's core for him. The Dhracian's neck snapped back with the force of the invisible blow that slashed across his chin, as the fire began to consume Grunthor.

Rhapsody struggled to her knees and held the sword before her, panting. She took in a deep breath and cleared her mind, then concentrated on making the fire vanish.

"Slypka," she whispered.

The flames disappeared. Grunthor's charred body, face down on the cavern floor, jerked again. A cruel wound ripped his back open from his waist to his neck. Rhapsody, staring in horror, gasped aloud.

"Achmed, look!"

In the light of the sword they could make out the shadow of something bending over Grunthor. All but invisible, it hovered above him, vaporous hooded robes hanging on skeletal arms with fiery claws at the ends. The silhouette glimmered in the darkness, barely there, whispering between the world of living men one moment and the spirit world the next. Within its hood was total darkness, glinting momentarily when it caught the light of the sword. Then it was gone.

Grunthor's body pulsed once more, then lay still. The flames from Daystar Clarion caught a shadow moving away, turning toward them.

"Shing," Achmed whispered, his voice choked. "Gods."

"Shing? What's that?" Rhapsody asked, her voice barely audible.

"An eye of the F'dor. And it's coming this way. Parry if you can. Back up slowly, then run. I'll hold it off as long as I can."

Still crouched, Rhapsody backed up. "The F'dor? You said there was nothing there."

"I couldn't find the vibration on him," Achmed muttered furiously, his eyes glancing around in panic. "But it's here. It's Tsoltan's servant. Saltar must have been the host; it must have been him."

It's not what he is, it's what he wears.

Rhapsody's back straightened. She could hear the words in her mind as clearly as if her mother had been standing beside her. She repeated them again.

"It's not what he is, it's what he wears." Achmed's head snapped back, his shoulder slashed open, on fire. Grunthor moaned as his friend stumbled backward and fell, his huge hand flexing in agitation. It was the only movement he made.

It's not what he is, it's what he wears.

Her eyes went instantly to the amulet. Rhapsody reached out a trembling hand and grabbed the talisman.

"No," Achmed gasped, clutching his shoulder. "Don't touch it!"

Grunthor's body was flipped onto its back. "Stop!" Rhapsody commanded, holding the amulet aloft. From across the room, she heard the word in her mind. It was muffled, muted. Tsoltan?

Rhapsody shook her head, trying to break free from the feeling that her mind was being prodded, violated. Achmed raised himself up as much as he could. "Rhapsody, run," he choked. "It will kill Grunthor, then start on me; it won't be diverted until it's sure its victim is dead. Get out of here." His face went slack with horror. "Gods, Rhapsody, your eyes!"

In the reflection of the amulet eye she could see her own green ones, now rimmed in the color of blood. It's not what he is, it's what he wears.

"It's the amulet," she said softly. She turned and held it up again, looking in Grunthor's direction. "The Shing is not bound to the shaman. It's bound to the amulet."

She turned back to the hovering shadow, flitting from moment to moment in the darkness. "Get away from him," she ordered. A faint glimmer appeared above Grunthor's body. "What do you want?" I seek the Brother.

"Did you hear that?" Rhapsody turned to Achmed, still propped on his elbow on the floor. He shook his head. "It seeks the Brother."

Shakily Achmed rose to a stand and picked up his sword. "Tell it," he said softly in Bolgish.

"No. It can't see you. You're Achmed the Snake now."

"Tell it," he repeated. "It'll return to Grunthor if you don't. It will kill you. Tell it."

"No."

Achmed clutched his shoulder and stumbled forward.

"I'm the Brother!" he screamed. "Me! I'm who you seek! Take me!"

"Achmed, no!"

Achmed's back straightened, his arms tight against his sides. Rhapsody watched in horror as he jolted, writhing in the grip of a glimmering shadow with flaming claws. The specter clutched him, pulling him off the ground. His body was lifted, then dragged, twitching, over to her, where it fell at her feet. Achmed lay there, not moving.

The Shing hovered in the air before her. Deep in her brain she could hear it speak again.

I have found the Brother. I have delivered him as commanded. Release me now.

Rhapsody clutched the chain of the amulet, the sweat from her hands making it slippery.

"Where are the other eyes? The rest of the Thousand?"

Gone, long dissipated on the wind in the heat of the Sleeping Child. I alone remained, having crossed the wide ocean in search of him. I alone succeeded. Release me now.

Achmed stirred, but didn't sit up. "Ask it about its Master."

"And he who called you forth? Where is he now?"

He is dead, man and spirit, his name all but forgotten. I was the last of his essence, of his fire. He is dead. Release me now. The voice was growing fainter.

Rhapsody looked down at Achmed. "It demands release." Achmed nodded. She looked back to where she had seen it last.

"Show yourself fully, and I will release you."

A faint glimmer appeared. Rhapsody could see the outline of the hood and robes, its frail clawlike hands glowing feebly, no longer burning. The frame on which the robes hung was skeletal, brittle. No light at all was visible within the hood.

"Are there any other demon-spirits? Any other F'dor?"

The Shing grew fainter, its voice silent.

"Slypka,"she said. Extinguish. The shimmering apparition vanished.

She bent and summarily checked Achmed, who waved her away, then ran to Grunthor. Tears poured down her cheeks, unnoticed, as she saw the hideous wounds that had mutilated his face and body. He was breathing shallowly, his tattered eyes glassy, staring at the ceiling above. The pallor of death was in his cheeks.

In a faltering voice she began to sing the difficult Bolgish name, with its whistling snarls and glottal stop. Child of sand and open sky, son of the caves and lands of darkness, she sang. Grunthor didn't move.

Bengard, Firbolg. The Sergeant Major. My trainer, my protector. The Lord of Deadly Weapons. She was starting to weep uncontrollably. The Ultimate Authority, to Be Obeyed at All Costs. Grunthor, strong and reliable as the Earth itself. My friend; my dear, dear friend.

Outside the cave, the sun was setting.

* * *

"Yer Ladyship?"

Throbbing pain across her eyes, a familiar voice in her ears. Swimming white circles in the blackness.

Rhapsody struggled to waken, but slipped instead back into the dream, a place where she could believe Grunthor was not dead. He smiled down at her, jostling her into awareness after a nightmare on the Root, comforting her as he had so many times.

"Take your time, darlin'." The gray-green face in her memory, grinning down at her. How many times had he said that to her, wanting her to be sure of her footing, not to fall? He had been so patient.

The voices seemed distant, hovering over her head.

"'Ow long she been down?"

"Since dawn. She sang through the night until the sun came up; then she collapsed." Achmed's sandy voice was more brittle than last she had heard.

Her throat was full of pain. Grunthor, she whispered. The word was spoken in another's voice, the voice of an ancient man, a withered crone, a Firbolg.

"Oi'm 'ere, miss. Good as new."

Rhapsody fought to open her eyes, and succeeded with one. Swimming above her was the gray-green face, and it was grinning. She tried to speak, but only managed to move her lips soundlessly.

"Don't talk, Duchess. You fixed me up right nice, you did. Oi look a lot better than you do, you can be sure."

She swiveled her head to see what the pressure was beside her. Achmed sat next to her, bandaged and patched, but whole. From what little she could see, there was not a scratch on Grunthor.

From across the room she could hear Jo exhale in relief.

"She's awake? She's all right? Let me see her."

A moment later the teenager's tearstained face appeared, hovering above her, her expression giddy and furious at the same time.

"Listen, you little runt—next time you go off on a fun expedition and leave me behind with your little brat grandchildren, I can guarantee you a severe thrashing when you get back. The little bastards tied me up and stole my stuff. If you hadn't come back when you did, I would have been the first human to practice cannibalism on a Bolg."

Rhapsody loosed a deep sigh, feeling the painful tightness in her chest ease a little.

"You're really—all right—Grun—"

"Stop," the Bolg commanded in a tone charged with ringing authority. "Don't speak, miss. Oi told you, Oi'm just ducky. Oi am most assuredly grateful, Oi 'ope you know. Oi guess you must know me pretty well, bringin' me back with a song, and me in such bad shape." A smile cracked his otherwise solemn expression.

"Well, I should hope I do, we been sleeping together and all," she rasped, then fell back into sleep to the sound of their laughter.

* * *

The wind whistled over the Blasted Heath, snapping their cloaks and hoods like sails on the high seas. Achmed and Grunthor were standing vigil in the wide field, waiting for Rhapsody to finish her study of the amulet. She had burned off an area of highgrass in a sheltered place, a rocky dell in which no wind was noticeable. The golden symbol lay on a slab of shale, its eye staring toward the dark sky.

The music she was humming had a high-pitched, fluctuating melody, a sound that set Achmed's teeth on edge.

"Grunthor, I've found a new method of torture," he said through gritted teeth. "No one could withstand that noise without cracking under the pressure. They'd tell even their deepest secret just to make her stop."

The giant Bolg laughed. "Oi think that's the idea, sir. She's gettin' the amulet to cough up its story."

The golden hair caught the light of the moon, turning it a pale silver. She had been at the task now for more than an hour, approaching two, singing into the windless dell. Finally she stood up, brushing her skirts clean, and returned to them, taking Achmed's arm as she walked.

"All right, this is the best I can determine. I've gleaned as many images as I can, using the musical vibrations of the amulet's lore, its story. It has seen some grisly things, believe me, and I have chosen not to go too far back into the Past. Aside from the time that I don't want to spend witnessing hideous memories, I'm not sure it wouldn't eventually have a detrimental effect on me."

"The amulet itself has no life of its own. It's just an object that once belonged to someone very powerful, with ties to the spirit world, so some vestigial power remains, linked to his memory, nothing more."

"Apparently what the Shing said was true. Tsoltan summoned the Thousand Eyes, a tremendous undertaking, and, in doing so, divided his demonic life force among them. They each took a little of his power, of his soul, if you will, with them. It was the energy that sustained them as they set out with one unwavering mission: to find the Brother, and bring him back."

"Because you had successfully escaped, the Shing continued to roam the world, searching for you. The one we encountered was the only survivor because, unlike the others, it left the Island and crossed the sea to find you. The others never returned to Tsoltan, still obsessed with their directive. They combed the world, looking for someone who was no longer there, at least not on its surface. Even if they had found you, they would not have recognized you any more than the one we met did, because you were renamed."

"So Tsoltan didn't have you captured and returned, and he couldn't recall the Shing. He lost the gamble. It left him weak, his demon side dissipated and committed elsewhere."

"When MacQuieth finally met up with him, it was really only the human side that remained. The power of the F'dor had been split up into a thousand pieces, all of them gone. So when MacQuieth killed the human host, there was nothing much left of the demon. It died with its host."

She began to shiver in the stiff wind, and Grunthor opened his greatcoat, wrapping it around her. Rhapsody chuckled from inside the deep garment.

"It's very strange to be interviewing a piece of jewelry; its perspective on life is a little skewed, to say the least. At any rate, it seems MacQuieth tore the amulet from the dying priest's neck and took it back to Elysian—the real one, the palace—with him, and presented it to the king as a trophy. I don't know which king that was, the amulet can't understand such things."

"For generations it hung on display in the royal museum. And like many relics and artifacts put on display, gradually people forgot its origin and its meaning, until it was just another gallery piece."

"Eventually the evacuation came, and when the Cymrians left, they packed the amulet in a box with other decorative treasures and carried it with them, as part of their cultural heritage. The box made it safely to Canrif, but never really was unpacked, its items left undisplayed. I guess there was more than enough grandeur and challenge in Gwylliam's life and the lives of his subjects not to need a forgotten symbol of a forgotten lore. And a rather ugly one at that, if I do say so; it didn't even have decorative value."

"So it lay in a box, gathering dust. Eventually the war began, and when Gwylliam died, the Bolg overran the mountain. They found the amulet in the ruins of a village, probably Lirin or Gwadd, deep within the Hidden Realm. But they were afraid of it, and left it to rot in the box until Saltar, or whatever his name was before he touched it, came along."

"Once the shaman worked up the courage to wear it, he found that it gave him power. I think initially that power was merely the fear the 'fire-eye' inspired in the other Bolg clans, and even among the Fist-and-Fire."

"But not long after he began wearing it, the Shing showed up. It had been searching for the Brother, but once the call of the amulet from which it had been originally summoned was on the wind, it came looking for Tsoltan, or whoever had replaced him. The Shing told Saltar how to use the eye to see at great distances, and how to foresee another's actions, like he did with you, Grunthor."

"Puny lit'le shit," the Sergeant muttered. "Oi would o' cleaved 'im right down the middle if he'd been without it."

"Undoubtedly. The amulet imparted that gift of sight, which caused the red eyes that Saltar had when he wore it, and I experienced when I was holding it. Anyway, I think that's the entire story, or at least as much of it as I was able to discern. There is one more interesting aspect, however, and it has to do with your name, Achmed—your old one, that is."

"Oh?"

Rhapsody fumbled in her pack and dug out a scrap of oilcloth with a smudged charcoal rubbing.

"Do you remember this?"

"Indeed." His strange eyes gleamed with intensity in the dark.

"You said the plaque you took this off of was adhered to a block of obsidian."

"Yeah, that's right," Grunthor interjected.

"And we postulated that it might be the altar stone of the All-God's temple that the inscription refers to."

"Yes."

"The altar stone was captured when Tsoltan destroyed that temple in the name of his goddess, the Devourer, the deity of Void, long before he captured your name. He used the stone as an altar of blood sacrifice." Rhapsody examined his face, looking for indications of emotion, but none were apparent. "I believe it was within that stone that your name was once imprisoned."

"Makes sense."

"I assume this means that the victorious forces in the Seren War reclaimed the stone, and rededicated it to the God of Life, which I think was an earlier name of the All-God, though of course the amulet has no recollection of that. I did get a clear image of Tsoltan's panic when he discovered you had slipped the lead. I'm sorry I couldn't have shown it to you; it would have been a source of great amusement for you, I'm sure. Maybe someday I will write a comic ode about it. So, are we ready, then?"

The king and the Sergeant looked at each other, then nodded. Together the three walked back to the windy meadow where the amulet lay, staring blindly at the stars.

* * *

"Do you know what you're doin', Duchess?" Grunthor asked.

"Nope."

The giant Bolg blinked. "All right; Oi suppose there's somethin' to be said for wingin' it."

The Singer smiled. "I thought you might see it that way." As the wind settled on her she closed her eyes, then drew the sword from her belted scabbard, a steel sheath wrought in Achmed's forges and lined with the black stone stalactite in which she had found it. As Daystar Clarion came forth it sang with life, a sound that sent silver chills down each of their spines.

Rhapsody stood in the reflection of the flames licking the blade, gleaming below the fire with an ethereal light. She let its heat wash over her face, illuminating her hair until she glowed like a beacon in the dark meadow, shining at the crest of the mountains.

She matched her Naming note to the song of the sword and felt its power fill her, rumbling through her soul like a glorious symphony. As the power of the fire rose in crescendo, she opened her eyes and searched the sky for the star she had found. It was the sailor's star, Maurinia, small and intensely blue, hovering above the Prime Meridian.

Once again as she had in her dream, she heard her mother's voice in her mind.

Fire is strong. But starfire was born first; it is the more powerful element. Use the fire of the stars to cleanse yourself, and the world, of the hatred that took us.

Rhapsody took a deep breath and raised her sword to the stars. She felt its music surge, ringing through her soul. She pointed the sword at Maurinia, and felt the voice of the star answer back, singing in exquisite harmony. She closed her eyes once more and called its name.

The crags of the mountains above and around them were suddenly illuminated by an ethereal light. It bathed the fields and canyon with silver splendor, making the darkness of night appear as bright as midday. Their three tiny shadows flickered black in the brilliance, then were utterly swallowed, making their bodies shine with a translucent radiance.

With an earsplitting roar, a searing flame descended, hotter than the fires from the Earth's core. It struck the golden amulet and the slab it lay upon, blasting the enormous rock into fragments of molten dust. The three shielded their eyes from the blinding light as it consumed the dell and everything within it.

A moment later, it was gone, leaving nothing but the finest ash on the ground in the hidden place where the symbol had been.

Grunthor took hold of Rhapsody's shoulders.

"Ya all right, darlin'?"

She nodded imperceptibly. She was staring intently ahead, trying to capture the voice in her mind. It wafted on the wind, traveling away from her, whispering as it left.

Then I will rest in peace until you see me again.

"Rhapsody?"

She continued to watch, to listen with every fiber of her soul, until she could hear the voice no longer.

Grunthor's massive arms pulled her against him, wrapping comfortingly around her shoulders. Rhapsody blinked. It was as if she was saying goodbye to the last vestige of her dead family in the presence of the living one she still was part of. In the aftermath of the star-fire she felt morose, lost, as if the grief she was now left with was threatening to consume her. And it was held at bay only by the strong arms, and the comforting words, of her friends, these two she had adopted as brothers in a back alley a lifetime ago.

Rhapsody cleared her lungs with a deep, cleansing breath. Then she turned to the two Bolg, who were watching her with varying degrees of anxiety.

"Well, that's done. Now what?"

Beneath his hood, Achmed smiled.

"Back to work. Grunthor and I have a lot of clean-up in the wake of our little excursion to the Hidden Realm. With the exception of the Hill-Eye, all the mountain clans, the clans of the Heath, and everyone throughout the Outer Teeth is united. Now it's just a matter of implementing the plan. Oh, and a rather large funeral."

She nodded. "Have you dug the graves?"

The king blinked. "I assumed we were going to commit them to the forge." He flinched at the look of revulsion that swept over her face.

"No. Definitely not," she said, shuddering. "With the exception of the Nain that died there, the bodies we found when we first discovered the forges, it's not suitable for any future cremations to take place there."

"Why not?"

"First, it's a place of building and creation now, and that would be an act of destruction, however necessary an act it may be. Second, and far more important, whereas Lirin commit the bodies of their race to the wind and stars through the fire of the funeral pyre, the Bolg are children of the Earth, not the sky. It is proper to bury them within the Earth that was their home in their lifetimes."

Achmed shrugged. "All right, I'll yield to your vastly superior knowledge of death rituals. The Bolg are lucky to have a Singer of their own to sing their dirges." He watched the clouds come back into her eyes again. "What's the matter?"

When she didn't answer, he took her by the arm.

"We're safe, Rhapsody. The amulet's gone, along with the last of the Shing. We know that Tsoltan is dead, and it seems certain the F'dor spirit died with him after all. We can now go about the process of building up Ylorc without delay. The challenge stretches out before us, well within our grasp. We don't have to hide anymore, don't need to mourn. It's time to move on."

She looked up at him and smiled, a shadow of sadness unmistakable in her eyes.

"Perhaps for you," she said.