STEPPING from the darkness that lives between one place and another, Nagarath fingered the scarf at his neck. Wobbly stitches. Mismatched colors. It was hers. It had once been his, until a full-moon night not even three months prior.

Every limb of his body shook. The magickal strain of repeatedly traveling in this manner could very well tear him apart. Nagarath was willing to take that risk. It didn't matter what happened to him if Liara was lost. He had nothing left.

Two days, and this was the closest he'd come. It was worth burning up all the power in the world on this, his latest, and potentially only, chance. Scrying spells. Finding spells. Linking spells. All had failed. Wherever Liara had betaken herself, it was somewhere beyond the reach of his Art—until just now.

"I'shor." He whispered the spell a second time. Reverent. Hopeful. Almost immediately, a responding glimmer kindled in the scarf at his neck. Following the pull of the magickal thread against the well of his power, he strode forward, seeking the other end.

"Liara?" Cracking but functional, his voice returned to him, only to echo futilely in the snow-swept wood. And then the tendril wrenched away again, fast as thought.

With a grimace, Nagarath made the sign that would transport him once more, not caring that the pattern of movement made little sense. It was a chance. He had to follow it. Even if . . .

Materializing in a new section of the wood, Nagarath pitched forward, leaning heavily on his staff. A rustle in the branches of the tree above him started him into action, instinct taking over.

"Her'ah." He gasped as the command of revelation pulled on his Art, emptying him further. "Atsmi'i, yal'ad ata."

A scream sounded in his ear. For a moment, his heart squeezed, then stilled as a power—familiar, haunting, yet evasive—buffeted against his own.

"Liara!" A glimpse of gray and brown flashed in his vision and he ducked, shouting the word that would send him after his only lead through the forest. He swayed as the trees wavered, then straightened, his magick warping the world around him for one brief and terrifying moment.

"All worth it, so long as she's safe," he wheezed, stomping forward as the spell released its hold. Here were unfamiliar woods. How far had he traveled? No matter. He reached again for the scarf at his neck, finding it unwound and trailing on the forest floor. Stooping to catch the free end, he froze as a movement of gray and brown caught his eye once more.

A wolf.

The realization calmed him. The wolf was one of his own. Far-ranging and better than some at telling one human from another, he'd employed a number of them soon after discovering Liara's flight to—and subsequent disappearance from—Dvigrad.

Again leaning heavily on his staff, Nagarath coaxed the wolf the last several feet towards him. With slow, steady movements, he gently placed his hands on the creature's muzzle. He laughed mirthlessly at himself. Wizard or no, this is not something anyone ought to be doing with a wolf. Even so, he had to know if there was any more news of Liara. Forest knew, he was out of options.

Gazing into the wolf's eyes, Nagarath linked minds and provided any information he could, explaining the scarf and the connections to its owner, his own wild tear through the woods. It was a wonder the creature tolerated his presence, smelling of magick as he did.

Certainly, he could have merely rooted around the wolf's memory for any reference to the girl, but this was an invasive process to begin with, and Nagarath preferred to ask. He gently prodded for information—sight, sound, rumor. . . . Sitting back, he waited. Impatience, he'd learned, never sat well with wolves. The seconds ticked by, maddening moments in which he strove to keep his mind from racing. It helped to focus instead on steadying the tormented waters of his magick. He might well need it again, after all.

And then the wolf blinked, remembering. There was something. A female. Long-haired—tall, skinny, pale, smelling of berries and sparkly fire, like the wizard. The wolf had stayed far off when he spotted her. After all, this rare instance excepted, he generally avoided those who smelled of magick.

The wolf whined anxiously, eager to be off. His linked mind gave Nagarath pictures of the woods—trees were of no help to the man, but the approximation of the sun and river in the wolf's memories helped him to make a good guess as to where Liara might now be. It appeared she'd stuck to the main road, at least. How had he missed her up until now? Was she, perhaps, returning to him, her little sulk over?

Relieved beyond measure, Nagarath thanked the wolf and broke the link.

Rising, he dusted off his knees and peered north, the direction Liara had last been seen. Then he spoke the word of power that would bring him to her.

Oh gods, let nothing have happened to her, he pleaded, fearing the most disastrous of outcomes. Bandits, soldiers, and worse haunted him as he materialized on the edge of her shabby little camp. There, at last: Liara, his joy and delight, sleeping in a cold cave in the middle of winter. His heart went out to her.

"Ah, little magpie, have you so little regard for your own safety?" he murmured, turning to build the fire, glad beyond measure that he'd be there for her upon her waking.

The sleeping form shifted, then settled again, her breath rising and falling at regular intervals. Nagarath froze, waiting. The breathing stopped for a moment, and then the girl sat up to look at the newcomer.

"Now, Liara, I—"

Nagarath stopped. Something was wrong. He felt a chill as the girl moved not a muscle—all semblance of humanity temporarily suspended.

Then the marble-like visage smiled. "Hello, Nagarath."

Not smiled. Grinned. And in such a way as to mock any real expression of mirth.

"You're not her. Who—what—are you?" Nagarath barely managed the words, his hand grasping for his staff. The Liara-like puppet shrugged, giving him nothing. Recoiling, the wizard reached out with his aura . . . and shuddered. The magickal signature was tangibly Liara's, and yet seemed diminished—more so than would make the maintenance of such an illusion feasible. Anger and fear on the rise, Nagarath stripped away the masking aura of the puppet, revealing a subtle shift in spectrum and a much stronger force. An aura Nagarath had hoped never to see again.

"Hello, Nagarath," the puppet said again, this time in a voice nothing like the girl's. A warm, soft, male voice that, for all its soothing pleasantness, made Nagarath's blood run cold.

"Anisthe!" Nagarath lashed out in a rage, lifting his staff and blasting the Liara-puppet backwards into a tree. "You snake! You fiend! You—BRING HER BACK!" Nagarath throttled the creature in his helpless rage, tears streaming down his cheeks.

Dissolving into the morning fog, the puppet chuckled, final words hanging in the air like mist: "Tut, tut, Nagarath. Share and share alike. For your sake, I'll ask which of us she'd prefer, but do remember, I offer more than you ever could with your magick of twigs and rocks. And you know Liara . . ."

The sound of his own screams woke him. How long had he lain there? Struggling to hands and knees, Nagarath shut his eyes against the slow turn of the earth, gingerly shaking the snow from him. Memories of another such blackout returned to haunt him.

Only this time, I have no Liara to see me well again. Too much magick. He'd used too much when he'd—when he'd what? Where am I? Do I still have the Art? Oh, gods! Nagarath scrambled for his staff. Burning hot, it lay on a sodden section of forest floor, the spent power having melted through the thin layer of snow.

Solid and steady, the sight of the familiar object still proved insufficient at driving the nightmare from him. Anisthe. The very thought of his old adversary brought Nagarath's strength blazing back.

Memories, fractured and incomplete, slid into place as his fingers dove into the soft wool of the scarf bundled beneath his chin: A frantic search. A thread of magick, leading out into the darkness. The glimpse of an owl winging its way through the wood.

"I'shor." No trace of breathlessness now. At his neck, the uneven stitches of Liara's scarf glowed faintly, that which tied the article to its last owner thin but steady. His chase through the woods, at least, had been real, then; had been what had caused his fall. I hope.

And the wolf? Nagarath looked to the ground around him, trying to gauge whether this patch of woods was at all familiar. Which was real? Which was dream? And which is foolish hope?

No animal tracks marred the snow. Again, his eyes fell upon his staff. Next to it? A single gray feather.

Reaching out, he again felt the rebuff against his magick. Not one of mine, then. Anisthe sprang anew into his thoughts, menacing, mocking. Was this his only hint, then? A feather? Was he to burn out the rest of his magicks chasing ghosts?

A tremor rippled through his magick, one unconnected with the burning of so much of his power.

Someone had gained access to Parentino. That was what had woken him. Rising to his feet, Nagarath grasped his staff, praying he had enough strength to see him home.

It was either her or it wasn't . . . If it's her, it's worth burning all the magick in the world.

And if it isn't?

Then it didn't matter whether or not he had the power to stop them.

~*~

The sunlight streaming onto the tapestry that concealed Parentino's library door wavered and then dimmed, a shadow coalescing across its faded embroidered surface.

Stumbling as the spell let her loose from its power, Liara leaned forward, her hand falling atop Saint Jerome's own, the man forever arrested in the act of aiding the lion. Having observed the scene hundreds of times in her months at Parentino, Liara let her eyes follow the familiar threads, a wave of homesickness rising in her. She shoved the feeling down with a frown, pulling her hand from the wall-covering as if it were a snake.

Panic lodged in her throat as she realized she'd not felt the entrance to the library through the cloth. But no, the thick tapestry had but masked the contours of the door hidden at its back. The way was still available to her. As she wrested the heavy cloth aside and tumbled into the library, she held her breath lest she be discovered by the wizard.

The room lay in darkness, its master absent. With a sigh of relief, Liara whispered her magelight into existence, blinking as Nagarath's library was thrown into sharp relief. Deep shadows played over the contours of the tall bookshelves and squat, comfortable chairs preferred by Parentino's mage. From their corner, the chained books snarled their warning.

"Hush," Liara shushed them, striding to the catalogue book that still lay in state upon its heavy wooden lectern in the room's center. Distracted, she flicked her magelight upwards, leaving it to hover by her shoulder. Yet another thing Anisthe taught me that you refused to, Nagarath.

Liara hoisted open the cover of the massive book, noting the fine coating of dust across its surface. Has Nagarath not been using his library? Strange. With yet another pang of regret, Liara struggled to calm her churning mind. She had to work fast. Anisthe had warned her that the magick he'd employed to get her to Parentino would reverse its course quickly, calling her back to Vrsar as swiftly as she'd come. If she should return empty-handed . . . Shivering, Liara tried not to think about it.

Taking a deep breath and closing her eyes, Liara placed her trembling fingers on the open page and tried to recall Anisthe's description of the book. The war mage had gone into great detail. More original than the commonplace, the stories in this book had their birth in real accounts. Recent and popular tellings of the stories called them fairy tales. There was more history than happily-ever-after. Anisthe's face had grown dreamy as he'd recounted the contents. Having seen Nagarath fall into equal rapture over a rare magickal tome, Liara could finally see how the two men might once have been friends.

The catalogue's tingling under Liara's fingers recalled her thoughts to the present. She gazed intently as a location and shelf number bled into existence, the black ink spidering onto the parchment. It seemed an odd thing now for her to view her own handwriting. Since Anisthe's pronouncement to her that morning, Parentino had seemed but a bad dream.

Liara rushed from the wooden pedestal, intent on finding the book and fleeing before she was tested further. What if she encountered Nagarath after all? Words of spells hastily learned sprang to mind, defenses drilled into her by an anxious Anisthe in the hours before she left Vrsar, whisked east on his borrowed power. Could she use them on her progenaurae, on Nagarath who had been kind in spite of his lies?

She didn't want to find out. In the time since her tears had dried, Liara had found that her heart was empty. As barren as it was of love, so did it also lack the desire for revenge, now that the shock had worn off. She had her answers—answers she had sought as far back as she could remember. The missing pieces of herself had come together, and while the discovery hadn't been as pleasing to her as she'd long hoped, Liara found that she simply didn't care anymore about the past. It is the future that I now desire.

She found what she sought, high on a darkened corner shelf. The book was old and careworn, but not broken as most other volumes in Nagarath's possession. Liara flipped to the frontispiece, noting the woodcut exactly as Anisthe had described it, the title and dedication painstakingly hand-lettered.

Setting her jaw, Liara turned to leave, some instinct in her yelling to run, to flee before the master of the castle returned to find her there. She had the book. That would simply have to be enough.

Liara padded across the library, her swift steps drawing little whispers from the gray stones. Intent on the door, she clutched Anisthe's book, wondering what else Nagarath would have taken from the war mage.

'I, too, have been where you now stand.'

'You were caught stealing?'

'Goodness, no.'

With a shake of her head, Liara cleared the memory. Another lie, Nagarath?

Recalling Nagarath's books of notes, scrawls and jottings from his time as apprentice, Liara felt her curiosity swell again. Answers. Confirmation of Anisthe's claims. For though it all added up now, her heart kept whispering its doubts, pleading for there to be some mistake in Anisthe's understanding of events. She knelt by the low bookshelf kept near the door for Nagarath's personal use, pawing through the thin notebooks, hoping and dreading.

Nagarath's pointed longhand danced across the pages as Liara skimmed first one, then another of the booklets. Throwing them down and selecting another handful, she flipped through, finding nothing but evidence of Nagarath's studies.

And then disaster—confirmation!—as Liara's eyes snagged on writing in a different hand. Rounder, blacker, the strings of letters marched upon her brain as coldly as Anisthe's words had in the streets of Vrsar that morning. A signature, one she hadn't really understood back when she'd catalogued the material, glared accusingly from the yellowing page.

Anisthe, magus, 1660.

She let the book drop from her hand, emitting a strangled sob. It was true. Everything Anisthe had said was true. Nagarath, a liar and a thief. Much like his daughter-in-magick. It was a jarring revelation, how similar they were to one another. Rising to her feet, Liara whispered, "Nagarath, how could you?"

Even in the midst of the ground falling out from beneath her—again—there was something comforting, righting her swiftly tilting world. An ugly truth was much better than endless lies.

She looked to the fairy stories in her hand. Was there such thing as righteous thievery? She'd grown up believing so. Now . . . she wasn't quite as sure. Even her fresh start would be tainted—begun with a dishonest act, the creeping of a criminal.

Standing rooted amongst the archival autumn of scattered books and scrolls, her brain screamed at her to run. Run like Anisthe, a powerful mage who still felt the need to hide from the likes of his enemy. Scatterbrained or not, Nagarath was a formidable opponent. Far worse than silly old Babić. Far more dangerous to steal from . . .

What if he followed her? Terror raced to outpace guilt. Nagarath would know what she'd done. Would know that she'd come back, stolen the book. And with the catalogue, he'd even know which book she'd stolen, where she'd run off to.

'Had he been able to keep you with him, far from me, I have no doubt he would have.'

Anisthe's enchantment would reverse at any moment . . .

No. She would not lead him to Vrsar.

He will not use my magick against me again.

Rage gripped her, unstoppable and fierce. She crossed the room to the podium in three short strides, eyes on the catalogue book lying open. Seizing a corner of the topmost page, she tore down, first feeling a resistance, then satisfying give. The library echoed with the sound of one long ripping noise, the paper coming loose from its binding. Setting down Anisthe's book, she crumpled the torn page, tossing it angrily into a dark corner of the room.

"Let him try to use the catalogue now," Liara cursed, picking up Anisthe's book and turning to the door. It opened, even as Nagarath froze, his hand on the knob, his lanky frame silhouetted in the doorway.

"Liara."

Her heart stopped at the hoarse and broken sound. Her witchlight flickered as Nagarath stumbled into the room, his eyes bright in a gaunt and haggard face. He looked hopeful, fearful, seemingly as worried that Liara might be a dream as she'd hoped Parentino had been. The two of them stood unmoving, each at a loss for words, regarding the other in shock.

Now or never. Wincing—for in spite of her reluctance, she had to know—Liara lifted her free hand and dove deep within herself for her Art, the words of Anisthe's spell cutting cleanly through her turbulent mind.

"Atsmi'i, yal'ad ata me-ata. Her'ah sh'lemull hikir nif'tach." Magick ripped out of her, gouging her heart, searing her eyes, pouring as liquid lightning from her outstretched hand. Liara gasped, doubling over, even as she saw what she had feared.

Nagarath's magickal signature glowed under the application of the spell, a twin to her own.