The Door Into Shadow

valley, the tiny combined force of the Arlenes and Darthenes nadone thousand years before — been hunted up against the cliffs of Britfell's inner side by Fyrd. Seeing them trapped there, the Shadow had taken a hand, climbing down out of the Peaks in the shape of the Gnorn, a form so fearsome that just the sight of it would kill.

Earn and Healhra, trapped together on a height near Brit-fell's end, faced with the slaughter of all their people, took the option offered them by the Goddess. They sacrificed their mortality to undergo that Transformation by which mortals become gods. Together, as White Eagle and White Lion, they attacked the Gnorn and destroyed it — slaying the Shadow and being slain, and leaving their people free to move north and found Arlen and Darthen.

There was hardly a child in the Kingdoms who hadn't played at Lion-and-Eagle and fought that battle in dusty vil-lage streets or empty fields. Segnbora had done it herself, usually insisting (for loyalty's sake) on being the Eagle to someone else's Lion. For Freelorn and Herewiss it must have been a little different, of course. The inventors of the game < had been the founders of their houses; their Fathers many times removed.

"Goddess help us if the Reavers are holding the mouth of the valley!" Freelorn said. "Probably they are."

He looked sidewise at his loved. "You should have let me buy those mercenaries, dammit."

"Lorn, the point of this excursion is winning back your throne, not having battles. And buying yourself mercenaries guarantees you'll have battles. Everybody in the neighborhood assumes you're going to start something with them, and so they start something first. Besides," he said, smiling wryly at Freelorn's exasperated look, "it seems there aren't enough mercenaries available right now to make a difference. Some-one else has been hiring. Cillmod."

Freelorn shrugged, still chewing his mustache. "You miss my point. What I mean is, I'm going to have a hard time getting into the valley to do the Royal Binding; that is, unless we try something obvious, like using Sunspark." "Where did you have in mind to do it?"

"Lionheugh."

That was the little island-height at the end of BritfelFs curve, well inside the valley's mouth,

"Since the Transformation took place there, it's favorable ground. Every place else has too much blood."

Herewiss looked grimly amused. "So all we have to do is get you past a whole army of Reavers, and probably Fyrd," he said. And keep you alive afterward.

Segnbora caught his worried thought, but Freelom merely raised his eyebrows. "Problems?"

"I think we'll work something out," Herewiss said in his lazy northern drawl. Under his hands Khavrinen swirled mo-mentarily with a confident brilliance of Flame, then died down again.

A hot whirlpool of air set dried grass smoldering on the ridge. The vortex darkened as if with smoke, spread horizon-tally and solidified into Sunspark's blood-roan shape. Here-wiss reached up to lay a hand against its cheek. "Well?"

(I found Eftgan's soldiers busy with more of those Reaver-folk we had trouble with at Barachael,) it said, pawing the ground modestly, and leaving a scorched place. (They're busy no more. I drove them back down into the valley to play with the rest of their people.) "Oh, no!" Herewiss covered his face with one hand. "Loved, I thought I told you to be circumspect!"

Its burning eyes were merry. (So I was. I don't need to show fire to burn something. Things just became, should I say, too hot for them?)

Segnbora couldn't suppress a chuckle, at which Sunspark beamed.

"Don't encourage him,"Herewiss said as he bent to pick up the saddle again.

(I did have a little trouble,) Sunspark added, in a tone of thought that said it was making light of the problem. (For some reason I wasn't able to make things burn as easily as usual. Something there was slowing one clown.)

Herewiss nodded, and kept his voice equally light. "We'll keep an eye on it. Well done, loved. Did the Queen have any word for me?"

(Yes indeed,) Sunspark replied, and said one. Segnbora exchanged amused glances with Lang, who stood beside her. It was not a word one usually associated with Queens.

Herewiss looked sternly at Sunspark. "Did you burn her?" (oh. . just a little. .)

Fastening the girths of the saddle, Herewiss kneed the ele-mental good-naturedly in the belly. It developed a surprised look, then a searing hot breath went out of it — whoof! Here-wiss pulled the girth tight.

"You and I," he said, "are going to have a talk later. Mean-while," he mounted up, "let's join Eftgan before the Reavers figure out that the, ah, heat's off.

The camp seen from above looked like any other bivouac that Segnbora had ever seen: squares set out with tents at their centers, picket lines of horses tethered nearby, men and women sprawled around campfires tending to their weapons or their dinners.

Britfell rose up a mile south, a looming blackness from which the occasional hunting owl came floating down in search of small game disturbed by the activity thereabouts. The owls weren't getting much business, though. It was a quieter camp than most Segnbora remembered. Evidently the Darthenesi, too, realized that there were forces about that it would be better not to disturb.

They passed the outer sentries and shortly thereafter were met by a dark-haired rider on a Steldene dun gelding, bearing a torch, the light of which danced off the bright chain of a.major,

"Torve!" Freelom said, pleasantly surprised. "Well met. You seem to have made better time than we did from Bara-chael."

"Barachaet's secure," Torve said with his usual calm cheer-fulness. "The Queen's grace wanted me here, so here I am. She asked me to bring'

you in."

"She felt us coming?" Herewiss said, sounding somewhat relieved.

"You were close," Torve said, his unassailable calm strained a little. "there have been problems with scrying of late." "We noticed."

The Queen's tent was little different from those that the rest of the army used — slightly larger, perhaps, but of the same patched canvas. All

that identified it as hers was the Eagle banner on its pole outside the door. On the other side of the doorway, however, the diamond— studded haft of Sar-sweng was thrust into the ground up to its hook. Its diamonds glittered restlessly in the torchlight. Eftgan was sitting in shirt and britches on a low folding chair, surrounded by a scatter of maps and parchments and papers. She was tapping one map idly with her Rod while talking to a man who squatted beside her chair.

She rose to greet Herewiss and Freelorn and the others, tossing her Rod aside. "I'm glad to see you," she said, sound-ing as if she meant it. "Come in and be comfortable. Every-body, this is my husband Wyn—"

The group murmured greetings. Segnbora caught Wyn's eye and traded smiles with him. It had been ten years since she had last seen him, and (as she had suspected) the years had left no sign of their passing. Short and compact, Wyn s'Heleth was in his early fifties and looked perhaps thirty. His face was like a handsome hawk's. His eyes were so merrily threatening it was sometimes a strain to meet them. Segnbora had herself introduced Wyn to Eftgan back in Darthis, when the old King had been looking for a wine mer-chant who wouldn't charge him exorbitant prices. Not too long thereafter the Darthene Court had found itself with not only good wine at reasonable prices, but with a future Prince Consort. Connoisseurs were still talking about the rare vin-tages that had been uncorked for Eftgan's wedding. "There's stew in the pot and dishes beside it," the Queen said, sitting down. "Wine and water in the jugs. Sit, friends. We have trouble." She dug about in the welter of maps and pulled out a large one of the whole Bluepeak area.

Trouble's a gentle word for it, Segnbora thought as Eftgan talked and pointed. The Reavers had a considerable start on the Darthenes, and there had been nothing the Queen could do about it. Worldgating would have been impossible, when so many people were involved. Eftgan had therefore been forced to march westward from Orsvier slowly enough to allow for musters and pick-up levies along the way. The Reav-ers seemed to have handled all such matters a long time before, on the other side of the mountains, for here they were, four thousand strong, arrayed in siege around Bluepeak town and holding the mouth of the valley from Nomion's flank to Britfell's outer curve. Lionheugh, as Freelorn had feared, was well inside their lines.

"They have three thousand foot and a thousand horse," Eftgan said, "and the fact that they got here first gives them the advantage of the ground, too. They've taken stand on both sides of the Arlid, and to dislodge them we're going to have to attack uphill. I don't like that …"

"How do you stand?" Herewiss said. "Fifteen hundred horse and four thousand foot," Wyn said in his sharp voice. "Eighty sorcerers, fourteen Rodmistress-es—" "Fifteen," Eftgan said. "You always forget to count me. However, sorcery hasn't worked since yesterday — or, when it does work, you don't want to be anywhere near the conse-quences. As ranking Mistress here, I've advised my sisters to keep their Fire to themselves unless I — or you, Herewiss— order otherwise. By the by, have you heard anything from the Precincts?" "No."

"Neither have I. It's disturbing. I asked them for advice on this matter two weeks ago, while it was still possible to be-speak as far as the Brightwood. I suppose the Wardresses started debating the subject and are taking too long about it, as usual." She sighed. "It's too late now; we'll have to make do with our own advice. Meanwhile," she said to Freelorn, "there's the business of the Royal Bindings to consider. I brought the Regalia." Freelorn nodded. "I know the ritual. But the Arlene Regalia

is in Prydon … all of it but Herg6tha, anyway." He looked annoyed as he said it. Herg6tha the Great — Healhra's ancient sword — had been missing since Freelorn's father died. If there was anything Lorn wanted back as much as the Arlene kingship, it was that sword. "And I remind you, I'm not an Initiate. My father never took me on the Nightwalk into Lion-hall."

Eftgan nodded. "We'll take our chances, Lorn. You're the Lion's Child, and Healhra's blood is what's required here. The problem is," and she pushed at the map of Bluepeak with one booted toe, "I'm reluctant to do even so minor a Gating as would put us down on the

Heugh — that was the spot you were thinking of, wasn't it? The Shadow's influence is build-ing by the minute. Any use of Power from now on could be terribly warped." She frowned. "Did I tell you that the valley is crawling with Fyrd? A new kind—" "Thinkers?" Dritt guessed. The Queen looked at him glumly. "Yes." Freelorn reached for the map and pulled it closer to where he sat cross-legged on the floor. He studied it for a few breaths, then indicated the mouth of the valley. "The Reavers are drawn up here, under several of Cillmod's mercenary— captains."

"A little more north," Wyn said. "About a quarter-mile north of the Heugh, stretching right across to the Spine." "Uh-huh. They're on the other side of the Spine too?" "It seems a safe assumption, though we haven't confirmed it. They've got a small force at the Spine's northern end; we've left it alone."

Freelorn nodded, leaning over the map. "I doubt they're paying much attention to their rear, then, since the besieging force is holding it secure, and the Fyrd are back there too. I suspect no one will notice if we go in the pantry door instead of the great-hall entrance." He pointed at Britfell, indicating a spot near where the fell joined the northern massif of Kemana. "Here."

Now it was Wyn's turn to look shocked. "You're crazy! There's no going up Britfell, it's too sheer! Maybe a climber could do it in a day or so, if there were time …"

Herewiss was looking at Freelorn with an expression com-pounded of worry and dawning hope. For once, Segnbora thought, anticipation rising in her, maybe one of Freelorn's crazy strategies is going to pay off—

"I've done it on horseback," Freelorn said. "With my fa-ther. There's a path. We went up the north side and down the south in about six hours, coming out on the far side of the curve about a half mile north of the Heugh. And if two people did it, so can ten." He glanced around at his own group. "Or a hundred," he said to the Queen. "Or five hundred."

"That path must not be very visible from either side," Eft-gan said, sounding uncertain, "which suggests it will be rough to ride." "If the Shadow had built it, it could hardly be worse. But it's a way over. And everybody, even the Reavers, knows there's no way over the fell. That's what brought our ances-tors to grief." Freelorn tapped the map again. "So. We take a few hundred of your horse — Why be stingy? Make it five hundred — and go over." He scrunched up his forehead in thought. "Allow sixteen hours for the whole passage. You order your main force to draw up north of the valley's mouth. The Reavers won't move; they're not such idiots as to attack downhill and give up the advantage of the ground. If they draw back and try to tempt your forces to come after them, fine. Meanwhile, you and I and five hundred horse are here" — he tapped the inside of Britfell's curve—"where we can't possibly be. We come down around the Heugh and do our binding there, while the cavalry takes the Reavers in their unsuspecting flank and rear, attacking downhill and driving them against your main force to the south. Hammer and anvil." He grinned.

Wyn was beginning to look interested despite his doubts. "That still leaves the cavalry with an unfought force at its back: the besieging force. If they leave the city and come down on you—" "How many are holding the siege?" "About a thousand foot."

Freelorn shrugged. "If they send enough people to make a difference, won't the garrison inside try a sally?" "So they've said,"Eftgan said. "That'll make no difference to the cavalry, though."

"So." Freelorn tapped the Spine. "Once your main force engages the Reaver force, you send a good-sized party to secure the ground between the Spine and N6mion and clear the Reavers off that side of the river. There's our bolt-hole. We ford the river and go up behind the Spine, then rejoin the main force."

Eftgan sat silent for a little while, studying the map. "We're fifty-five hundred to their four thousand," she said at last. "I don't have the leisure for strategic victories. I need conclusive ones. This at least gives us a chance to do what we have to without using Power and risking a

disaster. And the surprise of taking them from the rear would be tremendous. It should disorganize them wonderfully. And, since organization was never their strong point anyway …"

Eftgan glanced over at Wyn for his opinion. He nodded at her. She paused to give the map one more long look. "The last scrying I managed," she said, "gave a hint of something that might be coming from the northwest, from upper Arlen. Help or hindrance, I couldn't tell. And I don't dare delay to find out. The Bindings must be reinforced soon. A delay could turn loose forces I don't care to contemplate."

Standing, she bent to pick up her Rod from among the papers on the floor. "No matter. We'll work with what infor-mation we have. Freelorn, I'll ride with you regardless of the uncertainty. Wyn will handle the main force in my absence. Meanwhile—"

The tent flap was thrust aside. In peered a tall, rawboned woman in the Darthene royal blue, with somewhat disordered dark hair and a captain's chain around her neck. "Ma'am," she said, breathless, "the Reavers are attacking the north side of the camp again. Maybe a hundred or so."

"Oh, damn," the Queen said. She tossed her Rod away and reached to the side of the tent, where F6rlennh BrokenBlade lay sheathed. "They love trying to draw us out," she said, buckling on the scabbard. "Any trouble handling it, Kesri?" "Not really."

"Good. Of your courtesy, go call the other captains and the

captains-major. I have something to tell them." The captain vanished and the tentflap fell. Eftgan turned to Freelorn and Herewiss. "Midnight's coming on. We'll start an hour after midnight, and give the Reavers a surprise tomorrow after-noon."

Lorn and his people began heading out of the tent to see to the horses and to their own bedrolls. Eftgan flicked a wry glance at Segnbora, an outward indication of mixed concern and anticipation. "Just like old times, 'Berend."

Segnbora thought of Etachne and other such fields that lay behind the two of them, victories and defeats equally fright-ful. "Not just like, I hope."

"No," Eftgan said, looking thoughtfully at Skadhwe in its scabbard, and at Segnbora's odd shadow on the floor. "I suppose it won't be."

Fifteen

Mn 'An'dzat kchren "rae ehwiss thaa' seth:

Stihe tw-stihe. Stihti he-stihe. Whm'thae najh'stih&h. Ousskh'thae najh'stih&h. Mda't'dae bvh-sda't'dae mnok-A Rui'i'rae-sta foaa'aei

THE DOOR INTO SHADOW (The Five Truths, terrible and joyous:

What is, is. What was, is. Matter is an illusion. Meaning is an illusion. The Door opens both ways. Believe none of these!)

Ehh'ne IhhwTae (What Dragons Say), vii, 14

257

THE DOOR INTO SHADOW

Full night, when it came, was starless. A heavy overcast hung like a roof just above the highest peaks: Nornion and Kerana. In that stifling silent darkness, a long column of riders picked its way to the foot of Britfell's northern slope and came to a halt.

The prospect was daunting. Sheer walls of cracked cliff-face rose up uninvitingly. Around them were strewn rubble and boulders brought down by the annual flux of heat and cold. Eftgan, on her tall bay gelding Scoundrel, shook her head as she looked upward. "Lorn, if the road isn't still there—" "Then we're no worse off than you were before," Lorn said. Ahead of Segnbora and the others, he, Herewiss, and the Queen were shadows among shadows. Everyone in that riding had made sure there was nothing bright about their gear; faces and hands and buckles and swordhilts were smeared with a mixture of grease and soot. Even so, Segnbora's Drag-on-sharpened vision saw movements and expressions clearly enough.

Freelorn pulled up Blackmane's head and headed him off to the left. "Let's take the adventure the Goddess sends us," he said, "and go as far as we can."

He urged his dun straight at the cliffside. Blackmane snorted mild protest but went where his rider directed him, climbing a slope of talus and scree and not stopping until they reached a narrow ledge fifty feet or so above the cliffs foot. "This way," Lorn called softly to the riders waiting below, and put his heels to Blackmane again. The horse took him left-ward past a rounded outcropping of stone, and out of sight.

"This is crazy," Lang said, beside Segnbora.

"Maiden's madness, I hope," Eftgan said, and shook Scoundrel's reins. He stalled, snorting, until Eftgan laid her crop gently below his left ear and touched him with heels again. Up Scoundrel went in a nervous rush, scattering peb-bles and small stones. One by one they followed him, reining their horses in to keep them stepping lightly and minimize the damage done to the path.

The ride was like something out of an old tale or a bad dream, full of long terrifying pauses during which Freelorn lost the way and found it again, dismounted to heave fallen boulders off the narrow track or to lead Blackmane where he thought it too dangerous to burden a horse with a rider's weight-The path, if it could be dignified with such a name, wound back and forth along the face of the cliff, switching back at wildly irregular intervals, the switches often barely enough for one horse to negotiate. Always there were heartstopping drops below. Segnbora kept her elbows in as she rode, once again very glad of Steelsheen's breed. Steldenes were bred in mountain-ous country and were frequently accused of being part goat. The mare picked her way delicately along ledges of rotten, sliding stone with only an occasional snort of protest at the poor quality of the trail. Other horses behind, flatland breeds, weren't doing as well. The sound of whispered swearing came drifting up from riders down below.

As they climbed, the night got blacker, if that were possible. A feeling began to grow among the riders that Something with no good intent was watching the silent climb. Tense minutes stretched into an hour, then two and three. Segnbora began to feel as if she had been climbing up this miserable wall forever, as if her whole life had been spent fighting with eggshell-fragile stone, squinting at it, terrified of every step.

At the same time, she had to admit that this feat would be sung of for years, if any of them finished the climb and sur-vived the battle that waited just the other side of Britfell. She maneuvered Steelsheen cautiously around another treacher-ous, switchback, not looking down,

Inside her, in their own darkness that now seemed bright by comparison, Hasai and the mdeiha hissed laughter at her fear of heights, and then began singing (in sixteen-part har-mony of the kind Dragons used when feeling playful) their memory of the ballad which the bards would indeed later write for Freelorn: When Fyrd came over the Darthme border / and Reavers moved at the Shadow's order. . Segnbora almost felt like smiling, until she remembered that just because her mddhm had a memory of the ballad, that was still no guarantee that any of them would survive this venture.

One of Sheen's hooves slipped, and Segnbora's heart seized as she leaned with the mare so she could regain her balance. For an instant they came close to a perilous drop, but Steelsheen recovered and went on, sweating and trembling, but knowing what her mistress wanted. Unconcerned, the mdeihei were singing in unison now, a calm chorus. They climbed the Fell and they crossed the water, the Lion's Son and the Eagle's Daughter—

Several hours before dawn it began to snow, The wind rose, and became a howling blast. Snow that grew blizzard-fine drove stinging into faces, numbing hands on the reins. The horses whickered in complaint and tried to walk with eyes averted toward the cliff, which only caused them to miss their footing all the more. Forewarned, their riders muffled them-selves up as best they could. Even in Midsummer snow often fell in the high South, though usually more lightly than this. The sky got infinitesimally lighter as day broke above the storm, though not enough to lighten anyone's spirits.

There's will behind this weather, Herewiss had said. That will could be felt watching them more strongly every minute. The head of the column was fairly close to the top of the fell now, but that was no comfort. The thought of having to take a similar path downhill, on an icy trail, was on everyone's mind, The storm was blowing from the south, and had been abated somewhat by striking the fell and having to pour over it, Matters would be much worse on the other side.

The trail leveled so abruptly that Segnbora was taken com-pletely by surprise. It led westward here, going around the edge of a west— pointing backbone of the fell A pause to look

west would have been pleasant, but there was no time for it — the column was still coming up the far side of the fell, and there was little standing room. Besides, they had entered the cloud cover, and visibility was low. Even so, Eftgan dis-mounted long enough to stretch her cramped arms and legs and look ahead hopefully.

Herewiss, beside her, looked unhappy. "Can you feel any-thing?" he said.

Eftgan shook her head. "I can hardly hear myself think in this wind, let alone anyone else. That one" — she glanced upward at the slate-dark cloud cover—"has settled Itself down snug. It's muffling all thought but Its owr n. The main force is going to have to rely on riders for messages, and there'll be no way for us to know what's going on until we rejoin it." "Sunspark can assist,"Herewiss said. But he sounded un-certain, "When will they move?"

"Noon. We should be well finished with our business at the Heugh by then, and they can go ahead and have a battle without worrying about what it might raise." She bit her lip, a sign of hidden fright that Segnbora recognized.

Segnbora had no time to indulge her own nervousness, however. There was barely enough time to dismount and feed Steelsheen some grain. By the time she got back in the saddle, Lorn was already picking his way down the trail on the other side, with Eftgan in back of him and Herewiss behind her.

"Let's move, slowcoach,"Lang said as he nudged his dap-plegray, Gyrfalcon, past her. "Going to lose your place up front,"' Dubious honor that it is, she thought, swinging up into the saddle and following him.

Now the pace of the climb slowed to an agonized creep, for the stone was not only iced, it was rotten. Rock crumbled maddeningly under foot, and the horses rebelled — shaking their heads, snorting, testing the footing at every step. The blinding cold snow turned the world into a featureless gray room, through which vaguely seen, figures led the way. The ordeal was endless. In front of her, Gyrfalcon shied, and then Steelsheen did

too. Segnbora had another of those terrifying long looks down. Ice and darkness. Oh, damn! The mare recovered her balance. Segnbora squinted at Lang's shadowy back and then squeezed her eyes shut for just a moment, looking down among the mdeihei for an answer to her growing terror.

The cave was full of memories, much easier of access than they had been before the evening with the nightmare. Over-laid on her perception of the trail as it was now she saw Bluepeak valley as it would look from Britfell on a clear day toward sunset. The season was fall, not summer, and some of the fields below, yellow with wheat, stirred in the south wind. Other fields burned, and the black smoke was carried north, occa-sionally obscuring the bodies of the slain, and the trampled, bloody ground.

High in the surrounding peaks, on scarps and steeples of rock, winged figures watched, frozen with horror, as the frightful dark shape of the Gnorn went tottering about the battlefield, killing with Its look, Scrabbling Fyrd came after It in hungry terror to devour the dead. Behind It, Bluepeak town was burning. And westward on a lone height at Britfell's far end, two men with drawn swords stood watching the terror with tears running down their faces. A Dragon's eyes, keener than any hawk's, could make them out plainly: One man was huge and broad as a bear, with a shaggy mane of fair hair, hazel eyes, and Freelorn's prominent nose. The other was tall and angular, with dark hair threaded with silver, and kind downturned eyes as blue as Herewiss's, blue as Fire.

She saw them throw down their swords at practically the same moment, desperately making the Choice; saw them take hands there, while the Gnorn came weaving toward them through the screams and death of Bluepeak; saw them give up what they had been and gaze into one another's eyes to find out what they could be—

saddle to look at her.

*' 'Berend?" he called anxiously through the screaming wind. Their eyes met.

She saw him. . saw Her. Lang looked no different. His voice still came out in a drawl. She could still underhear his mind lurching back and forth between indecision and placid acceptance. He still hated some things without reason, and loved others unreasonably. He still judged and criticized by provincial standards. He still smelled from not washing enough. . yet he was She, The One. And when Segnbora looked ahead at Herewiss or Eftgan, or back at any of the nameless five hundred following behind, or even at their horses, the result was the same, All &f them, everyone who lives. Every one: the Goddess—

"Lang," she said. It was almost a whisper, for she had little breath to spare' in. the grip of this painful ecstasy, This was the man whom she had used with casual cruelty, to whom she had

refused intimacy when she felt disinclined to it. Yet there within him the Goddess looked out at her — not judging, as She certainly had the right to do, and not angry, either— simply loving her totally, without hesitation. She had always known that the Goddess indwelt io every man and woman, but experiencing it this way, now, was something else again.

Joy, laced with bitterness at her years of callous disregard of the One she loved, rose until it choked her. Tears spilled over and froze on her face in the icy wind. Her voice wouldn't work anymore. Knowing it was useless, and driven by an overwhelming need to communicate somehow, she bespoke him. (Lang!)

He stared at her in sheer disbelief. "'* 'Berend?" He had heard her! The pain fell away from her joy like a cast-off cloak. Segn-bora sobbed, sagging in her saddle, and drew in a long breath. She had a great deal to tell him. (Loved—)

It took two more hours to complete the rest of the ride down. The slope grew gradually less steep, and the ledges a bit wider, but the snow continued. Lang was not the only rider who was lost. Just minutes after his death, another horse and rider came plummeting down past Segnbora. The falling rider's glance locked with Segnbora1 s in the second of her passing. Still weeping, Segnbora could do nothing but pour herself into the look, see Who was falling, and aid Her in accepting what was happening. In that second, the woman's fear-twisted face calmed. Then she was gone. Segnbora rode on, trembling. She turned a switchback and suddenly found herself at the top of a long skirt of scree and rough stones, which lead down to a slope carpeted in snow-covered grass. Glancing at the sky, Segnbora knew the storm wasn't going to let up. In front of her, Eftgan was checking her saddlebags to make sure the Regalia were safe. Herewiss had drawn Khavrinen and was pointing at the snow. There were prints in it: the big splayed tracks of a horwolf, and a keplian's pad-and-claw set. Both trails were only minutes old. Both led to the cliffs foot and away again, westward.

"We're expected," Herewiss said. "I'm done with being circumspect, Queen." Fire flowed down Khavrinen's blade in defiant brilliance. "We've got to stay alive. Meantime, we had better get to the Heugh fast. The Bindings are slipping from the pressure of so many beings in this area."

Eftgan nodded. ""Can you shore up the Bindings until we complete the ritual?"

"I can," Herewiss said. "I've been doing it for several hours. But its* tiring. How long I can hold out, I've no idea." "Once we begin, the blood-binding won't take long," Eft-gan reassured him. Thumping Scoundrel's sides, she wheeled westward. "The ground between here and the Heugh is smooth. Let's 'make time." They had to go slowly at first, so that the Darthene riders

still on the slope would have time to catch up. It was about fifteen minutes into this process thai the first cohort of Fyrd found them. There were only twenty or thirty: horwolves and keplian who had been patrolling the heights and thought it wise to attack before the main force was down off the Fell. It was a mistake. Like lightning dancing a death-dance, Khavrinen rose and fell in the forefront of the skirmish. What its blade didn't slay, Herewiss's Fire did. Sunspark was in-censed; any Fyrd at which it looked became ashes in seconds, F6rlennh and Suthan flickered red and blue in Firelight and flamelight. Segnbora swept Skadhwe's blackness about her in an utter calm that felt very strange. Shortly, nothing moved but Darthenes and the wind. Drifts began forming around the bodies in the snow. The Darthenes had a few wounded, none seriously, and none lost — a small miracle for which everyone was thankful. "What's the time?" Freelorn said.

"Three hours past noon.*' Eftgan looked around and saw the last of her riders corning down off Britfell. " Wyn will be moving the forces forward at four. Let's get up that Heugh." It was only a mile to Lionheugh, but they bought every furlong of the distance dearly. The fourth cohort of Fyrd was the biggest, some three hundred of the creatures. There were not many nadders, because of the coldness of the weather, There were, unfortunately, many maws and keplian, the worst Fyrd breeds for riders to handle. There were also four death-jaws, three of which Herewiss dealt with, and one of which Eftgan destroyed with an astonishing blast of blue Fire. By the time this attack was over, no one was quite as lively as they had been. Nearly everyone had a, wound of one type or another.

Eftgan and Freelorn were unhurt, but Herewiss had a long set of slashes from, a keplian *s claws, and Mods and Dritt and Harald all had maw bites. But no Fyrd had been allowed to get away and warn others of what had happened. "You and I were lucky," Freelorn said to Eftgan. "Luck has nothing to do with it. If our blood falls on this land and we have the brains to do a binding right away, that One would lose a great deal of its Power." Eftgan. whipped blood off Forlennh. "Herewiss?"

He was sitting astride Sunspark with a look on his face that was either annoyance or strain. Khavrinen in his hand was flaring with a wild glory of Fire as he healed himself. "It's putting on pressure," he said. "Things are trying to return to the way they were before the Binding, and this Fyrd blood isn't helping matters."

"Let's go. 'Berend?" She glanced at Segnbora as they began to move through the blinding snow. "You all right?"

"Fine." Segnbora held Skadhwe over her knee at the ready. "You always used to be so noisy in battles! I keep looking around to see if something got you."

"My lodgers are doing my hollering for me," she said. The Dragons didn't care for Fyrd, and her mdeihei had been sing-ing martial musics laced with Dragonfire ever since she came down from Britfell. Battlecries seemed superfluous with that inner thunder going on. Eftgan met her glance with an odd expression, as if seeing some stranger who was Segnbora's twin. " 'Berend, you've become more than your lodgers, somehow. What happened up there?"

It was a poor time to explain. "I'm not sure," Segnbora said. "Nothing of the Dark One's doing, that's certain." She knew it to be true as she said it.

If there was anything the Shadow didn't want mortals to know, it was what Segnbora had learned. Once one knew Who one was, It lost Its power over that person. She shook her head and kicked Steels been into a gallop, getting Skadhwe ready. The realizations were coming too close together. The hugeness of them was dazzling her. She needed something concrete upon, which to fasten her mind. . Unfortunately, she got it. To their right, the crest of Britfell had been getting lower as they headed west. With little warn-ing the fell simply stopped in a sheer cliff. Out of the falling snow their destination loomed: Lionheugh.

To the west, not even the snow could muffle a great con-fused roaring — shouts and battlecries, the bray of Reaver war-horns and the thin silver cries of trumpets. As they drew rein under the shadow of the Heugh, Eftgan waved Torve over, putting up Forlennh and unsheathing her Rod.

"Leave me fifty," she said. "Take the rest and hit them hard wherever it seems best. My compliments to my Consort when you see him, and tell Wyn I'm sorry we're late, but we were detained. Ride!"

"Madam!" Torve said, and rode offhard with four hundred fifty of the Darthene cavalry behind him. The snow swallowed them. Freelorn rode up to join the Queen, with Moris and Dritt and Harald close behind.

"I have to do something about this weather, even if it's only temporary," said Eftgan, shaking the Fire down her Rod. "Then we'll do our business. Herewiss, how are you doing?" He was holding Khavrinen before him in both hands, his eyes fixed on it. A frightening brilliance of Fire streamed about man and sword. "I'll hold/' he said, but there was strain in his voice, and the feeling of malicious intent in the air hung closer than it had before. "The Shadow's pressing, though. There's much bloodshed going on and It's feeding on that. I daren't be distracted long—" "Up with us," Eftgan said.

Punching Scoundrel, she rode at a gallop up the path to the Heugh. No one was surprised by the Fyrd, waiting for them there. They dropped from rocks and leaped up under the horses' hooves. Eftgan's Rod crackled with Fire as she laid it about her like a whip. Whatever she struck didn't move again. Segnbora and Freelorn galloped behind her, watching the Queen's back, slicing down with Skadhwe and

THE DOOR INTO SHADOW

Suthan. Behind them came Herewiss, with Moris and Dritt and Harald about him as guard.

Very quickly, it seemed, they made the top of the Heugh and gathered there on the level ground, the Queen's riders and Freelorn's followers circling around in case any more Fyrd should attack uphill.

"No Reavers yet, and none of Cillmod's people," Eftgan said, dismounting hurriedly and raising her Rod. "That's a mercy; maybe they don't know we're here. E'kstirre na lai'tehen dndrastiw vhai!"

Eftgan cried into the wind in Nhaired, lifting her Rod. two-handed and pointing it at the roiling sky. She sighted along

the Rod's length as if along the stock of a crossbow. At the last word of her wreaking, another piercing line of blue Fire lanced upward and struck into the underbelly of the cloud above them.

The wind screamed, the cloud tore away from the ravening Fire like flesh from a wound. It tore, and tore — ripping back-ward and dissolving, revealing blue sky and afternoon sun-light. The snow stopped as the clouds retreated, until a great patch of sky the width of Bluepeak valley was clear.

Standing on that height, for the first time they could see what was happening. The Reavers and the main Darthene force were locked in battle in the pass, and the Darthenes were already well ahead of the position at which Eftgan had intended them to start. Even as they watched, the Reavers lost some ground, pushed uphill by heartened Darthenes who knew why the weather had suddenly cleared up. A sudden blot of darkness from the east — the riders who had followed Eft-gan over the fell — smote into the Reavers' uneven right flank and scattered it.

"The clearing won't last," Eftgan said, breathing hard and leaning against Scoundrel. "I have to save some Power for the binding. Lorn, the Regalia, quickly!"

Freelorn had already undone Eftgan's saddle-roll, and now unrolled it before her. It contained an odd assortment: an old knife of very plain make, black of hilt and blade, and a rough circlet of gold that looked as if it had been hammered out by an amateur. It had, Segnbora knew, for this was Dekorsir, the Queen's Gold — the crown that each Darthene ruler ham-mered out unguarded in the open marketplace, once a year, to give the people a. chance to dispose of an unfit ruler if there was need. There was also another circlet, this one of exquisite workmanship, woven as it was of strands of linked and braided silver.

Freelorn lifted the circlet up with a blaze of angry delight in his eyes. It was Laeran's Band, the crown of the kings and queens of Arlen. "Where did you get this!"

"1 had it stolen several days ago,"' Eftgan said, kneeling down beside the saddle-roll, "In the middle of last week, when. Citlmod took it out of Lionhall."

Freelorn stopped still as death and stared at Eftgan. "When he what …?" he said.

His voice failed him. No one but the members of the royal line of Arlen could set foot in Lionhall and come out alive. And Freelorn was an only child. Or had thought he was.

"It occurs to me that your father may have had a sharing-child he didn't know about," Eftgan said, setting Dek6rsir on her head. "Or one he didn't

care to legitimize. No matter right now. I'm just sorry we couldn't find Herg6tha."

Freelorn turned the supple strip of metal over in his hands. "The thought of Cillmod wearing this—"

"I couldn't stand it either. Shut up and put it on, Lorn. Herewiss can't hold the Binding by himself much longer." It was true. Herewiss had dismounted from Sunspark, una-ble to spare even the small amount of concentration needed to stay astride, and was sitting with his back against a rock. KhЈvrinen lay across his lap, clutched in both hands. He had begun to shine, growing almost translucent, as he had at Barachael, and the stones of the Heugh sang with the Power that was poured out of him. He was holding his own, but just barely. Segnbora looked around her and found that under-hearing was no longer necessary to feel the strain in the earth and the air.

Eftgan's riders and Freelorn's followers were all looking over their shoulders, hunting the source of the strange feel-ings inside them. Herewiss's will could clearly be felt battling with the One that poured Its rage into the valley. He was keeping away the ancient reality, as if he had his back braced against a closed door. But the pounding on the other side, the rhythmic throb of rage and hatred, was getting stronger—

"We are the land," Eftgan and Freelorn were saying in unison. They knelt before one another, knee to knee, holding the black knife together, Lorn wearing the strip of silver, Eftgan the circlet of gold. Their joined voices — Freelorn speaking the ritual in Arlene and Eftgan in Darthene — made an uncanny music. The hair on Segnbora*s neck rose at it, hearing in human voices an echo of the mdeikri. "Its earth is our flesh; its water our blood; its well-being our joy; its illness our pain … "

The ritual continued, speaking of mysteries particular to the royal priesthood. Many of the riders turned away, trying not to listen to a ceremony that no one of common blood had heard since the founding of the Kingdoms. Segnbora stood by with Skadhwe in her hand and listened fearlessly, in won-der, hearing once again the Goddess speaking to Herself: one Lover speaking to the Other in solemn celebration of Their eternal relationship.

She saw Lorn take the knife and cut Eftgan's upheld left wrist with it, crosswise and careful. Both of them paused a moment, trembling. At the stroke of the ritual wounding the hammering of hatred in the air grew more savage. It was almost physically perceptible. Eftgan took the knife from Freelorn and reached for his left wrist—

sparks.

The riders went up the scarp like a breaking wave, the horses stumbling, foundering, finding the path by luck or Goddess's love. The way up was none too1 wide and could easily be kept clean of Reavers — for a while. Behind Freelorn and the Queen, the others closed ranks. Overhead, the daunt-ing blows of the Shadow's hatred, became1 suddenly audible, There was thunder in the snow clouds, and the wind shrieked, furiously around the steeples of the cliff-wall behind them..

Freelorn threw himself out of the saddle, pulled Eftgan, down and helped her over to shelter behind a rock, at the foot of the cliff. He pulled, out the knife, put it into her clutching, shaking hand. Crying with the effort, she braced herself against the stone and reached up to cut— Shouts and the clash of steel rang out on the plain, where some of the Darthenes were holding the approach to the path up the cliff. Sunspark, who had been bending over Herewiss

in concern, jerked its head up and stared down at the Reavers and Fyrd in rage.

(This is your fault!!) it cried in a thought that not even the smothering darkness could muffle.

It leaped like a skyrocket down to the foot of the scarp, reared, and brought down its forefeet with a crash that split stones. Wildfire burst up from where its hooves struck, and ran madly to either side in front of the scarp. The fire ignored the Darthenes, but any Reaver or Fyrd it touched blazed like tinder and was blown away across the snow, ashes, a breath later. The Reavers drew back in panic from the apparition that suddenly stood between them and the scarp: a huge, crouch-ing cat of swirling fire that stalked forward with blazing eyes, pausing to raise one flaming paw. — the blood ran down Freelorn's arm, and he pressed it to Eftgan's wound. "And we who are One — come on, Eftgan! — One and not-One say to the land which is us, and of us, be not—'"

The earth began to tremble. From the south, visible in this unnatural black as something blacker yet, a great wave of dark Power rose and rose above the mountains, leaned, and fell with a crash that couldn't be heard, only felt. Like death, like drowning, it rolled over them, past them, and in that wave's wake ten or twelve Darthenes dropped and Sunspark's fire went. out.

Even Herewiss's blaze dimmed and shrank, failing like a candle placed under a cup. But he did not surrender. When the snuffed-out stallion clambered up the rocks to his side, it found him clutching Khavrinen. He was forcing it to burn, pouring out everything he had. It was not enough. In the darkness where the blade's Firelight didn't reach, forms moved and grew solid. Eagerly they lifted long-rusted swords, bared long-rotted fangs, and looked hungrily up toward the little shelf where the Darthenes stood. (I can't change, I can't burn,) Sunspark cried in anguish, (what do I do now?)

Segnbora could feel it straining mightily, trying even to trigger that last burning in which a fire elemental ends its

existence as an individual… anything to hold the threat away from its loved. He can't hold off the Shadow alone, Segnbora thought, almost choking with the sheer hate that filled the air. There was nothing the Shadow hated so much as the Fire, except perhaps those who wielded it. Herewiss couldn't last forever, and when his reserves gave out, he would simply be dead.

The first rnan in a thousand years to have the Fire, the Queen of Darthen, the rightful King of Arlen, most of the forces that Darthen could field — all dead at once. The Shadow, imagining a world all to Itself, darkened.

Inside Segnbora the mdeiha were rumbling deadly threats that seemed absolutely empty to her. What can they do? They 're dead! DeathFire—

When someone with the Fire died, regardless of whether they had ever been focused during their life, their death focused the Fire for one final moment. Even those with just the spark of Flame that most men and women have managed to focus then. That was what gave one's deathword its power.

Segnbora stared with sudden cold purpose at the rising tide of dark malice. Suddenly she understood why Lang had died when he did, and why her parents were murdered. The Shadow had wanted to stop her before this moment, this realization. She held up Skadhwe and

looked at it. One life it will demand of you, Efmaer had said, and now Segnbora was sure which life the dead Queen had meant. The Shadow was betting she wouldn't dare kill herself.

A lethal wound would be enough. She could add enough Fire to what Herewiss had to aid him. in holding the Shadow off until the Binding was done1. And afterward, he'd heal her — or not —

It was a terrible chance she'd be taking. She' didn't want to die. But if the Fire she' had trapped inside.her could be ofu.se here, then. . Behind her Freelorn held up one' bleeding arm and with his free hand reached into the unwrapped saddle-roll for what

she had seen him grab before: a fistful of stones and dirt from Lionheugh. He held it to Eftgan's arm; her blood trickled down.

A crash like sudden thunder rocked the scarp and sent men and horses sprawling. Freelorn and the Queen fell apart. Herewiss pitched forward on his face, his Fire all but dark-ened. More than just hatred pressed down on them from the darkness now. The Shadow was invoking the worst fears of Its enemies, and on all sides men and women screamed and cowered from painful deaths suddenly lived in their own flesh, losses of loved ones, shames that formed darkly in the influence-ridden air. The Dark One still didn't walk among them openly, but was having no trouble driving the defenders to death or madness, one by one.

Out in the darkness, Segnbora saw the hralcins rear up. Ugly unearthly shapes lurched across the scarp at her, singing hungrily and reaching out at her as they had in the Hold. Crabbed claws sought to tear, but Segnbora's screams were frozen in her throat. Only escape was left. Frantically, looking around for a route, she saw Freelorn stand up, cursing with fear and shaking his wounded arm. It wasn't wr ounded any-more: the cut made by the sacral knife was just a white seam of scar. The Shadow could heal for Its own purposes. Leaving Eftgan, Lorn stumbled over to Herewiss and shook him conscious with savage efficiency. Segnbora stared at him, confused. He wasn't the same Lorn. There was purpose in those eyes. When she met them, Segnbora saw Her in them as she had been seeing Her in everything today. But there was a difference. There was knowledge, foresight. Freelorn knew now what Herewiss had dreamed in the Hold. He had seen the arrow in his back, and had seen himself turn toward death's Door…,

Stunned, Segnbora watched him turn away from her with awesome1 purpose; watched him turn, away from the gasping, shaken Herewiss, and rise out of his crouch. The hiss of an arrow whispered through the screaming wind. Slowly, slowly Freelorn sat down with the barbed Reaver shaft standing out from behind his right lung, and pressed a fistful of dirt already

276

DIANE D'UANE

stained with Eftgan's blood to the entry point. Then he fell back against Herewiss, and slapped the blood and dirt against the ground— The terrible pressure of hatred grew suddenly much less as the Royal Binding took hold on the land, quieting the unquiet ghosts, banishing the phantoms of Fyrd and slain Reavers and hralcins. Herewiss's Fire blazed up again as if someone had taken the cup off the candle. But now his mind wasn't on the battle.

"LORN!!" Herewiss cried, and without hesitation went limp and fell over again. He had gone out-of-body, gone after his loved to catch him at the last Door, and to prevent him from passing it.

Off on the southern horizon, another darkness began to take shape. This was a more solid one, a heaving black shape that Segnbora had seen before, but didn't dare look upon now, being in a human body. The Shadow had become en-raged enough to take on a physical shape and come after them Itself. And It had adopted a form It knew, from past history, to be very effective.

"Don't look!!" she cried to the Darthenes. They hardly needed the warning. Those still alive and con-scious after the assault by their worst fears were already hid-ing their faces from the hideous prospect.

THE DOOR INTO SHADOW

No time to wait for Herewiss to come back, Segnbora thought, shaking all over. Just have to do it myself— Hurriedly she knelt and took Skadhwe two-handed, resting the point a shade to the left of her breastbone. Mda'ha, she said, and in that mo-ment was informed by her ahead-memory that Herewiss was not going to be healing her. . Oh wonderful! Sithes&sch! Sdaha— Sehe'rae!

She pushed the sword in, hard. The' greedy shadowblade slid into her with shocking' ease. At last she found out what. it was like to be run through, and tried to scream past the terrible feeling of her heart fibrillaiing around the intruding blade, trying to beat, trying to beat, failing.. All that came' out of her throat was a choked cough.

Inside, she felt her Fire leap together with her heart's blood and burst outward. Blind with pain, she groped for support, willing herself to stand and do what she had to. But she found no support. The darkness went red, and then black, and she fell forward. .

… a long fall, the longest one, but it had an end. There was a voice crying Get up! Get up! the voice of someone famil-iar. Her mother perhaps, or Eftgan. Had she overslept again? The Wardress would be furious—

She was lying on something hard. She rolled over to push herself up on her hands and knees, feeling the sword in her fist. Probably one of those rocks the Dragon's thrashing had dislodged had hit her in the head. She felt weak and stumbly. She pushed upward, shook her head to clear the daze out of it, looked up.

A pang of terror twisted in her heart like a knife of ice. This was no cave. True, there was empty darkness all around, but before her stood two doorposts blacker than any night, going up and up forever, out of sight. Between them stars blazed. Endless depths of them, a patient silent glory she had seen before in dreams and visions, but never for real. This was the last Door, the Door into Starlight. No, I'm not ready! she cried, staggering to her feet. But her protests made no difference to the insistent forces shoving at her back. They were stronger than she. They impelled her, whispering to her that it was over, that her struggles were done.

Thi Store/ she thought with longing. Mother and Father. Lang! Tears rose at the thought of him, at the image of his last confused grab for the ledge, Loved, I have a great deal to tell you. Maybe it's no!' too tote. There was a great silence in her mind that shouldn't have been there.

"Hasm?" she said, letting herself be pushed toward the Door as she searched in mind for him. You're dead. Are you there too? No answer.

I'm not going! Segnbora thought, on the very threshold. But

she had no way to stop herself. She was being pushed too hard, and she was holding something in one of her hands. A darkness. . Swift as thought she used the last-chance block that Shihan had taught her was for emergency use only. One hand on the hilt, the other bracing the steel from behind.

She screamed with agony in that eternal silence as Skadhwe, ramming against the impermeable blackness from which it had been torn, sliced deep into her hands. The dark-ness shoving at her back was merciless, and cared nothing about her anguish. Through her sick pain, Segnbora realized who was pushing her closer to the Door. She fought back, feeling her blood flow from hands and heart. There was something she needed to remember. Something— / am Who I am. And knowing that, It has no power over me.

Dismay ran through the force that urged her forward. She forced it back, and back, arching herself, and then fell back-wards, gasping. Skadhwe fell soundlessly to the invisible floor. Slowly and painfully, she got to her knees, picked Skadhwe up, and stood. It might indeed be her fate to die after she had finished what she had to do.

She turned. Had she been breathing, the breath would have caught in her throat. He was huge, looming above her, dressed in the old clothes he wore while gardening. The big hard hands stained with leaf-mold and rough with calluses reached out to her. "No!" she whispered, and almost turned to flee. But there was only one way to run — through the Door and out of life.

That terrible smile leaned closer. "No!" she said. It was a squeaked word. A little girl's voice, terrified, but still defiant. The smile lost some of its assuredness. "No," she said again, more strongly, her voice sounding strange in the utter silence. She raised her head, met those hungry eyes, held them. . held them. .

He was not as large as he had been. Certainly he was no larger than any other man. He was smaller, in fact, than many she had killed at one time or another. Raising Skadhwe, she took a step forward and watched the

fear spread across his face. Balen had used brute strength to overwhelm the child she had been, but she was a child no longer. He was unarmed, and she was armed with a weapon against which there was no defense. Another step she took, and he backed away. She almost took the final step, but paused. It would be easy to kill him, yes. Possibly enjoyable.

But for how long? Would this be just another form of run-ning away? If she should she instead accept him—

Kill him! her heart said to her. / give him into your hands, her heart said to her. Do with him what you will. The great silence on this side of the Door surrounded her. Even he didn't kill me, she thought.

She lifted her eyes to Balen again. Trembling, he shot her a terrified glance. In that blunt and brutal face, she saw again what she had seen in Lang, and Herewiss, and Freelorn, and even the Fyrd. Her. HerSelf. She tossed Skadhwe" away.

Very slowly, even with fear, she went to the man, reached out to touch his shoulders. He winced at the touch, as if gentleness burned him.

"Goddess," she said. "Shadow. I know Who You are." Balen looked at her face, and then looked away again in anguish. Segnbora couldn't bear such terror. She reached out to take his face in her hands.

"Balen," she said, speaking the name aloud for the first time' in her life. He blinked in confusion.

"I seem to be getting a lot of practice at being others, these days," she said. "First Dragons. Then. . Myself. I see that this is what the practice was for. To see You for what You are. Just Her, in another suit. A tool to make me what I am, no less than the beautiful face and the ever-filled cup were tools. You were a little rougher on me than you might have been, per-haps. You were the sword. But my hand was on the hilt. / destroy. And I create. ." She gulped, feeling tears start. "Time I got started. I've bound you into my life all this time, my poor 'rapist.' Enough of it. Go free."

He squinted at her in terrified disbelief.

THE DOOR INTO SHADOW

"Beloved," she said. "Go free."

Drawing him close, shaking all over, she laid her lips on his, once and gently. Then she hugged him tight. When she opened her arms, he was gone.

Weak from the sudden release of so much emotion, she sat down hard on the invisible surface and wiped her eyes, then realized that the wetness on her hands was more than tears. The weakness, too, probably had something to do with her heart's blood running down her surcoat.

Oh Goddess, I forgot, she thought, getting dizzier by the mo-ment. Blood loss. I have to get back there. Where's Skadhwe, I can't leave it.

Fumbling, falling to hands and knees again, she began feel-ing around for the blade. Against the dark floor, this was rather like looking for clear glass in water. The dizziness got worse. She reeled; her sight forsook her. Perhaps she was starting to die.

The sudden pain, an infinitesimally thin line of it, told her she had found Skadhwe again. Grateful for the hint, she grabbed it hard, using the pain to shock herself awake, al-though she was half dead already. She pushed herself upright. .

… on the cold snow, and opened her eyes. All around her men and women were covering their faces in horror of some-thing that was coming. She had to get up. Where was Skadhwe?. . still sheathed. Good.

Left-handed she fumbled for something with which to sup-port herself, and found a stone. She levered herself up to her knees and managed to stand, though a wobbly stance it was, and probably very temporary. She drew Skadhwe, and saw with dismay that it was covered with blood. Shihan, were he here, would be scandalized! Never go out with an unclean blade, he had taught her. She whipped the blood off the blade in a quick downward slash, third move of the edelle maneuver — and Fire whipped down after it.

/ am dead, she thought in absolute disbelief, and lifted the sword to stare at it. Fire, raging blue and as impossible to look at as sunlight, trickled down Skadhwe's black edge. Just a

double-thread at first, and then more. It grew quickly, a torch's worth of Fire, a Firebrand's worth, a lightningbolt in her hands, burning like a star, throwing her shadow long and black against the cliff.

/ have it! she thought in fierce joy, for that one mad moment not caring that she was about to die. She stared backwards at her shadow, the proof of the light — shortlegged, long of neck, wings where she had arms. 7*m whole, she thought, and laughed, raising the hand that held Skadhwe. The right wing stretched upward, huge. No! We're whole! The left arm up now; the wing reached up in response. Sithessch, we'll die, but we'll do it together!

The second wing tore free, another pain. She saw webs that gleamed like polished onyx and struts rough with black sap-phires. Then came the terrible length of tail, the deadly spine at the end of it whipping free, lashing outward, poised above her to protect. And after the tail, the taloned forelimbs, their diamonds flashing in the blinding Firelight. A neck, the great head, glowing eyes burning not silver now but blue, lean-ing down over her and glaring past her with impartial chal-lenge at Reavers and Fyrd and the dark something that ap-proached— "Hhnr ae mrin'hen," said the voice of wind and storm from right above her. "Whole at last, yes!"

She stared up at Hasai, so torn between wonder and terror that she couldn't tell anymore whether her weakness came from impending death or sheer astonishment. Her mdaha gazed down at her, lilting his head in a gesture of greeting, and turned his attention again to the field and the forces attacking the scarp.

She had heard Dragons roar In her mind. But in the open it was something else. Rocks fell down from the cliff, and the ground shook

almost as hard as It had before. Not just one voice roared, but two, ten, a score, a hundred. The mdeihei were there too, not as solidly as Hasai, but present enough to be a host of shifting wings and deadly razor-barbs and

glowing, glaring eyes, ail looking down at the attackers. They sang of a solution to this problem, one that was not to be feared. Death. Death. Death. Hasai reared his head back, bared the diamond fangs that few had ever survived seeing, and flamed. The Reavers fled, panicked. Hasai's blast of Dragonfire melted the ground where they had been standing. Even the slow-stalking shadow at the southern edge of the field halted at that, as if stunned. Fyrd scattered in all directions but eastward, where the Sun seemed to be coming up.

The scarp was fenced with fire again, but this time the consuming white of Dragonfire, with a tinge of blue to it; and inside the circle a tremendous shape with wings like thunder-clouds was rearing up against the cliff, burning in iron and diamond, ineluctably real. And down by one of his hind ta-lons, hanging onto it for support, a tiny figure bleeding Fire from a wound in the heart stared up and up at what had been, and now was.

Segnbora thanked him politely for her defense — then she turned to look with grim, delighted purpose out at the field, at the fleeing Reavers and Fyrd, and down at the thing in her hand that burned with Fire.

"Sithessch 'tdae," she sang to Hasai and the other mdeihei who stirred in shadow along the ledge, "untidy to leave them running around like this, don't you think?"

The mdeihei sang angry assent in a thunder thai echoed from the surrounding mountains, causing a bass obbligato of avalanches to follow. "Must we send them rdahaihf" Hasai said in an ominous baritone solo.

Segnbora stepped forward to the edge of the shelf where they stood, only partially aware of Herewiss's and Freelorn's prone forms. Breathing or not, they'd have to wait until later. "I don't know," she said, and raised Skadhwe*, thinking hard.

It can't be done, they say — a gating for more than fifty. However. . She closed her eyes, not needing the physical ones to see at the moment, and drew up a. great flood of Power from the tremendous supply they had always told her she'd have. In mind she saw them, every Fyrd, in the valley and for miles around. She hated them, and loved them, and did what, was

necessary. She poured the Flame out of her as if opening a floodgate, until the valley was awash with it.

It was simple to gather up the minds of every Fyrd in the area and hold them all under the surface of that Flame until they drowned. Stop showing off, she told herself severely. You may drop dead in a moment, and there's business to be done here. Yet she laughed in pleasure as she thought it, and Hasai and the mdeihei went off in a thunderous accompaniment of hissing Dracon laughter. Whether she lived or died, she was going to enjoy this. She had waited a lifetime for it.

The Reavers and the Arlene mercenaries at the other side of the field were fleeing, and she stared across at them, angry and pleased. She could easily kill them all, but she knew Someone Who would prefer it otherwise, if at all possible.

So; she thought, and reached out in heart to feel them all, every last one, mind and soul together. The Rodmistresses had said it was impossible, but behind her she had a support-ing multitude who would testify otherwise if she asked them to. She was that multitude. She could contain universes.

Immersing herself in the minds of her enemies, she became them. Before they had a chance to recover from being her, she stepped to the cliff's edge and lifted Skadhwe. With it she drew four great slashing lines of Flame that fell onto the darkened field, and grew, and grew— Suddenly the ground within the lines was missing, replaced by five thousand different images blurred together — some of them of the Arlene countryside, or of Prydon city, some of them of the strange cold country beyond the mountains from which the Reavers came. Into the crammed-together vistas fell men and women who cried out in terror and were gone. She closed the door behind them with a word and a sweep of Skadhwe, and glanced up in thanks at the glowing eyes that hung over her. Then she turned south.

There, something dark stirred in its mantle of blackness and glared utter hatred at her. She looked back at It calmly, having loved It before, and unafraid to do once more what was necessary, She reached out to grasp the forces that Drag-ons could manipulate, and took one more step forward, right off the edge of the cliff. There she stood on empty air. "Come out and mmt us t/" you dare!" she cried, The song

winding around the words held in it the ultimate challenge: inescapable love. Behind her the mdeihei echoed the song in perilous harmonies. Trembling, Segnbora stood there while the darkness gathered Itself up into that terrible crushing wave she had seen before, full of screams and blood and ancient death. It rose higher and higher above her. She lifted up Skadhwe" s flaming length and stood her ground, letting her eyes sink into the Shadow's darkness, becoming It, accepting It for her own, her dark side, Her other Shadow. It trembled toward her — then gathered Itself down into a shuddering ball of fear and thwarted hatred, and vanished. The wind died abruptly, and the sky began to clear. Four thousand Darthenes stood in an empty field with no one left to fight. Segnbora took a last gasp of breath and walked back onto the cliff, beginning to feel mortal again for the first time since she had turned Skadhwe against herself. Behind a rock Eftgan lay breathing shallowly. Beside her, two forms struggled to sit up, helping each other. One of them had an arrow in him, but it didn't seem to be paining him much. As Segnbora came up to them, the taller of the two reached out to his loved and touched the arrow's protruding shaft. It vanished in a flicker of Fire, as did the place where it had gone in. She knelt beside them and laid Skadhwe over her knees— a burning shadow, a piece of the night set on Fire. They stared at it. "You did it," Freelorn whispered. "You did it!" She smiled at him. "All your fault, my liege." "But what did you do?" Herewiss was looking at her with such a mixture of joy and perplexity that she could have both laughed and cried at once. "I saw what you did to yourself," he said. "Why aren't you dead? And where did Cillmod and all those Reavers go?" "I sent them home, for the time being." She looked down at her surcoat, brushed at it. There was a neat tear where Skadhwe had gone in through cloth and mail, but that was all. The scar was a faint white seam just to one side of the night-mare's bite.

"I told you," said a great voice above her. "Dragons are quick to heal"

Silver-blue light fell about her as someone else bent low to look curiously at the place where the shadowblade had gone in. She gazed up at him — her shadow casting a shadow of his own now — and at last, the tears came. She reached up to the tremendous jaw as it dropped open, and very gently laid her hand in the Dragon's mouth, as she had feared to do, as she would never fear to do again. The jaws closed, and self joined with self.

"Now what, sda'sithesssck?"

"Now, mda'stihesssck," she said, gathering him close and laughing through the tears that fell on the sapphire hide, "there's a King to escort to his throne. Let's get busy!"

Sixteen

Some gilts are so great that the only way the recipient can express his gratitude is to immediately give the gift to some-one else. A dangerous business, this, among fickle human-kind, who often see such generosity as indicative of a

thoughtless heart. But in such a matter, do as your heart directs you. In the last reckoning, She is both giver and re-ceiver, acting both parts to increase the joy of both — and if humankind doesn't understand, She does.

(Charestics, 118)

They leaned on the walls and looked down into the dark streets of Darthis. No light burned anywhere — not so much as a hearthfire or candle or lamp. Below them the city dreamed in a silver pallor of moonlight, though there was a shifting and stirring in the Square under the walls of the Black Palace.

A few thousand people stood down there, quiet or murmur-ing, waiting for the Queen to strike the first sparks of the Midsummer needfire and distribute it among them. Most of those waiting were only concerned with their part in the festi-val — lighting the candles and lamps they carried from the new fire and racing through the city with it, spreading luck and laughter. But a few looked up toward the palace walls and stared fascinated at something strange.

Blue Fire flickered there, dancing about a long slender shape that seemed to be too dark to be a Rod. And there was another light there, a pair of silver-blue globes that looked uncannily like eyes staring downward. The more perceptive in the crowd had even noticed that the moonlight didn't fall on them. It was blocked away by a huge winged shape that seemed there when one looked away from it, and not there when one looked at it straight.

Whatever they saw, no one seemed particularly bothered by any of these oddnesses. This was, after all, Midsummer's Eve, when magic was loose in the world.

Down in the square, flint struck steel, and a spark nested in tinder and began to grow into flames. The cheering began. Viols and trumpets and kettledrums struck up a jubilant music that echoed off the walls, and effectively drowned out a

deeper music several stories up. "Hn'aa'se sithesssch mnek-kej-std untuhe au'lkhw't'dae," the music said, a voice like a trio of bass instruments playing a lazy, cheerful processional.

"Ae, mdaka'esssch," sang a softer voice, in a raspy alto. "We may as well enjoy the rest while we can. ."

"There won't be much of it," Hasai said, unfolding and folding his wings in resignation. He spoke in precognitive tense, but with good humor; the melody woven about his words said plainly that he preferred action to peace and quiet. "Arlen will be astir like thunderstorm air for months. If Gill— mod doesn't already know who was responsible for what hap-pened at Bluepeak, he will very shortly. The war with Darthen will soon open." "And the Queen forges her new crown tomorrow," Segn-bora groaned. A formal occasion first thing in the morning was the last thing she needed. "All I want is to sleep late."

"You may, if you please. I will teach you how, now that you have a sdaha's proper timesense. Will a month or so be enough, sitkesssch? *' The steps on the battlement were no surprise. Two hours ago Segnbora had remembered hearing them, and she had been waiting for them ever since. "If he did know," the shorter of the two approaching men said on reaching the top of the stairs, "it explains why he made the bastard Chancellor of the Exchequer." "To keep an eye on him?"

"Sounds like something my father might have done. This also explains how he managed to get the backing of the High Houses. But even if he can go into Lionhall, he doesn't know the Ritual, he's no Initiate — or if he is, he's messing up. Arlen is ready for rue now." Freelom and Herewiss looked strange out of surcoats and mail They leaned on the wall, one on either side of her, in softboots and britches and shirts. Herewiss looked up at the dark shape that blocked-but-didn't-block the Moon away. "How much are you there, Ihhw'Hasai?" "As much as my sdaha needs me to be. Or as I need to be. Since we're one, there's little difference. ."

"Where were you an hour or so ago?" Herewiss said to Segnbora. "Eftgan was looking for you. Wanted your help with the needfire, or something."

"I was flying," Segnbora said, nodding at the sky, Herewiss nodded soberly. She shared a gentle look with him, understanding now from her own experience how com-plete his underhearing must be, reaching even to others' most private thoughts. "I have to thank you," she said.

"You don't have to anything. You did it yourself." "So I did. And you mediated some of that doing with me, saw me into the situations I'd need to get where I am. You had little reason to give me such a gift, either," Segnbora said. "I tried to move in between you and your loved, a while back. You must have noticed." Herewiss nodded, looking grave. But not too much so, "These days, I don't let old reasons interfere with what I want to do. And maybe, even when I was angriest at you, maybe I saw something. ." "Who I was?" she said.

"Yes. A liaison. There's a whole race sharing the Kingdoms with us that not even the human Marchwarders understand properly — they have the language, but not the body that forms it. But there was more. You were a catalyst. And will continue to be. Things will be happening that need me— things I couldn't do without you and your Dragons. Likewise there are things you couldn't manage without me. I'm part of a solution. And more—"

She fell silent, nodding, already having hints of what the "more" was. This was a small problem. Sometimes the ahead-memories came too

THE DOOR INTO SHADOW

fast, and she had trouble deciding what to share, what to keep to herself.

She shrugged. The future was merely another kind of pre-sent to a Dragon, malleable as the past, part of the game. What mattered was what the player intended to be.

In one word, her newfound Name, she told them, "We'll keep your secret," Freelorn said just above a whis-per.

Segnbora smiled at them, knowing that the One she meant to hear her Name had heard it through them, then waved

ffood night, and headed for the stairs. Along the upper para-pet, Hasai lazily put out a single forefoot — all he needed to do to keep up with

her.

"No more words?" he said. "What should I say?"

Slowly Segnbora lowered her head to gaze back down the parapet; where Freelorn took back from Herewiss the lovers cup she had left them, and drained it-and found it still full. "That,"Hasai said. "Forever."

Lost between laughter and tears of joy, Segnbora nodded, reached out to her mdaha, and led him off into their future, and to bed. T/ME, CALENDARS, AND RELATED SUBJECTS

moftorw o/i/iDMiddle Kingdoms' world around its Sun match those of Earth around Sol (except for negligible variations, such as those caused by sister planets missing in their solar system and present in ours). Their year is therefore the same length as ours—365 days, 5 hours, 48 minutes, 48-odd seconds. Though in Segnbora's time clocks still have only hour hands, the astronomers of the Kingdoms have evolved their own methods of handling the year, and the little pieces of it that tend to pile up as time passes and throw calendars out of alignment with the seasons.

Both Arlen and Darthen use a 360-day "year" of four 90-day "seasons" that correspond to our winter, spring, summer, and fall. Days are counted straight

file:///G|/rah/Diane%20Duane%20-%20Tales%20Of%20The%20Five%2002%20-%20The%20Door%20Into%20Shadow.htm (152 of 155) note 21

through each season, and spoken of as "the fifth of Winter," "the thirty-eighth of Summer, " and so forth. In addition, the First of each season is always a major holiday, tied to solstice or equinox — Opening Night for Winter (the only one of the holidays that doesn't fall directly on solstice or equinox), Maiden's Day for Spring, Midyear's Day for Summer, and the Harvest Festival (either Lion's Day or Eagle's Day) for Fall. The five remain-ing days are intercalated and belong to no season: they are placed between the end of Fall and the beginning of Winter, and during these cold days at the bottom of the year, the Dreadnights as they 're called, no enterprise is begun, no childnaming or marriage celebrated. They are the Shadow's nights, and unlucky. Every fourth year a sixth intercalary day (in Arlen Endethne, "Lady's Day," in Darthen AerrudЈj, "the Goddess 'Joke") is added between the Dreadnights and Opening Night, to deal with the need for a leap-year day.

However, this still leaves a significant fraction of time out of the reckoning. The addition of the leap-day to compensate for the 5h-48m-48s leftover at year's end is in fact an overcompensation. If left uncorrected, each year will be 11.2 minutes short. This may not sound like much, but in our world in the past has led to awful misalignment of the calendar year with the seasons — the fint day of spring falling in December, for example. But this backward drift of dates is preventable by any number of methods. The astronomers of the Kingdoms found that the eleven-minute deficit will amount to a full day's error

in 128y-208d-13h-38m-21.125s. Therefore, once every 128 years, that 208th day (which by our calendar would be July 19th) is dropped from the year entirely, or rather converted to July 20th; that date in turn becomes the 29th of Summer rather than the 28th, and is called the Festival of the Lost Day. (Thefestival is devoted to pranks, pratfalls, drinking sprees, and attempts to lose things, usually unwanted ones. There are also lying contests, with prizes for the best explanation of where the Lost Day went.) This system of adjustment runs independently of that for leap-year days. Though it would probably be more efficient to combine the adjustment systems, as our culture does, the Kingdoms' astronomers are quick to point out that this would mean one less holiday.

It is quite true that even this adjustment is not totally sufficient to keep the calendar in line with the seasons and the Sun. There is still an unadjusted error that makes the year too long 631 0.0003 day, which will pile up to three days in each 10,000 years. However, in the words of Talia d' Calath, the Grand Royal Astronomer to King Berad ofDarthen, "It is possible to worry too much, too far in advance. " The Dragons have promised to remind human beings to insert another one-day intercalary day every 3300 years — though there is still disagreement over why they laughed so hard when they promised. There are of course many minor local holidays not mentioned here. But neither Arlene nor Darthene calendars include anything like weeks or months. One may indicate a given day by season and number: or say "four days ago," or' 'six days from now," or "a month and three days," etc. ' 'Months" (actually the word is isten in both languages, very like the Greek Af Kafiacr which we translate as "lichtgang" or "Moonreturn") are sometimes broken down to 29 days for counting purposes, but this is rare. Mostly a month is reckoned from a phase of the Moon to its next occurrence, most frequently full to full. This might be expected in a largely agrarian culture, where the times of planting are important. But to the people of the Kingdoms, the Moon is the living vigil of the Goddess, mirroring Her changes in its own as it slides from Maiden's slim crescent to Bride's and Mother's white full to Crone's waning sickle to Moon-dark perilous and hidden; and for the most part people have a fondness for the Moon and enjoy reckoning by it, without resource to numbers.

Astronomers — and, of course, sorcerers and people with the blue Fire — are cognizant of such lunar functions as node crossings and regression of nodes, apogee and perigee and advance of the perigee point, librations and nutations, and eclipses both lunar and solar, such being important to their work. But (and very sensibly) no one has ever particularly cared about what the lunar calendar does in relation to the solar one. The only real notice taken of alignment between the two is in mention of Nineteen-Years' Night, when the Moon is full on Opening Night and wreaking with sorcery or Fire is particularly potent.

There is a tendency for Moon cycles to be referred to by name, the names

j fiering from area to area. For example, the first full Moon of Spring, and the days following it from waning to dark to new crescent to full again, is ually called the "Song Moon" in Arlen, while some Darthenes call it the лUnicorn's Moon," and some others, the "Maiden's Moon" or the "Mad Moon " Special note is taken of the Harvest Moon in most places, both because fthe shortening of its rising time and in memory of the bloody harvest cut at Bluepeak during one of its risings an age ago; the full Moon that follows the file:///G|/rah/Diane%20Duane%20-%20Tales%20Of%20The%20Five%2002%20-%20The%20Door%20Into%20Shadow.htm (153 of 155) note 22

Harvest Moon is always the Lion's or Eagle's Moon, in Earn's and Healhra 's memory.

Since the memory of the times before the Catastrophe has largely been lost, years are counted from the coming of the Dragons and the destruction of the Dark, and noted by number and the abbreviation for pai Ajnedare deruwin, "after the Arrival." Example: Segnbora's birthday is Spring the 57th, 2098 p.a.d.

ON DRAGON ANATOMY AND PHYSIOLOGY

The Dragons are perhaps purposely vague about their very beginnings. "Thinking about a time before their own consciousness," d 'Welcaen reports, "makes them nervous." But the earliest Dracon memories recall a time when the Homeworld was populated by plant-analogs and other life forms. There was a food chain, and Dragons had use for the internal organs which now exist only in extremely debased vestigial forms. Somewhere along the line — possibly due to changes in the Homeworld's orbit, or in its star's characteristics — the planet's seas began to evaporate, and its atmosphere to strip off. The Dragons report this as taking many thousands of their lifetimes. Converting this time to human standards is difficult, and gives answers ranging from one to six million years. This may seem like quite a while, but it isn't really, for an organism whose average generation is from four to six thousand years. The Dragons had to adapt in a hurry to the changes in

their environment.

Already silicon-boron based — and what their atmosphere and "seas" con-sisted of is still a matter for conjecture — the Dragons' evolution went in the most efficient possible direction. Their anatomy began adjusting itself toward extreme lightness, for maximum efficiency in soaring in search of food. As food got scarcer due to increased irradiation, wild mutations got more com-mon — including one that became most successful: the alteration of silane rings in the black wing-membranes, so that they became in effect giant solar cells, using the already-existing neural pathways for conduction of generated bioelectricity. Dragons born with this mutation, needing no normal food, thrived and multiplied, and soared further and further sunward for food. The increased irradiation induced more gene changes and mutations in brain physiology, so that the "highflyers" found themselves able to manipulate "force" — magnetic fields, gravity wave-Jields, and other instrumentalities less classifiable to humans. Organs used for digestion, respiration, and elimina-tion slowly went vestigial, until finally the "late model" Dragon was left— an efficient, flying energy-storage machine, spaceworthy, tolerant of extreme high and low temperatures (as had become commonplace on the Homeworld),

and able to express that energy as Dragon/ire and use it as tool and wea-pon.

The reasons for that particular manifestation are debatable, but dWelcaen suggests that Dragons feel about their mouths as humans feel about their hands. Dracon psychology says that language is the primary means of effective sur-vival: which perhaps explains why, even after their development of under-speech, the Dragons never gave up communication by way of vocal speech. Even their tongues still work after all these centuries — though they're not necessary: Dracon sound generation long ago went over to non-acoustic mech-anisms like those of whales. Fluid-Jilled or stressed-solid-Jilled cavities stimu-lated by "muscle" contraction, or catalytic chemical reactions, or neural/mem-brane synergies, or all three, allow Dragons to communicate with precision and stunning variation in almost any medium except empty space, and also permit the super-prolonged hisses, three— to eighteen-tone chords, and choral-verbal speech for which they 're best known.

Dragonfire, according to dWelcaen, is strictly a "psi" phenomenon allied to "manipulation of force, " and as complicated for a Dragon as breathing for a human — a Dragonet can flame before it can talk. The skill is almost wholly a constructive one these days; the times when a Dragon would have to melt several tons of lead-bearing stone over itself to protect it from a stars term, or blast its way out of the covering again, are long past. A. Dracon name for the Sun that shines on the Middle Kingdoms is hfa-Aass'te're, "the Shallows" — a pale, cozy little star, tame and safe compared to the mad fire of the Homestar in its last days. These days Drag&nfire is for show, and for nn's'hraile, in a particularly heated argument; for imilding; and, when words fail at last, for mating fights, when hottest Jire decides who will reproduce, and who will go very suddenly mdahaih.