Margrenan Lahktormi brye Rowan, called Margren, younger daughter of the Mar'ajan of Rowanslea, stirred uneasily in her sleep wrapped in coverlets of crimson silk in the depths of her curtained bed. She had slept late into the morning without resting, troubled by a dream that wound again and again through her sleep like an unending echo. Several times in the night she had risen to pace about the room, trying various ways to be freed of it before trying again in vain for true rest. Now a shaft of sunlight lanced between the crimson draperies to graze her dark-skinned oval face, the heavy curling masses of her black hair that fanned across her pillows, and laid a golden glimmering on the long, thick lashes of her large eyes.

She dreamed of her sister again. Margren teetered on the edges of a yawning abyss built of loneliness gaping at her feet like the hungry maw of some incomprehensible demonic beast, waiting to swallow her whole, to crush her fragile security in its teeth and suffocate her feelings of acceptance within the ranks of the Sharani nobility as it sucked her down its throat. She could feel the cold stone beneath her feet, see its gray-black outline, but she knew what it was--it existed both within her and without her, and it mattered not at all whether her body or her psyche fell into it. The result would be the same. She felt abandoned, unwanted, alone, and very lost.

"Step in. Step in," Her sister's voice at her elbow coaxed her toward it. "It's where you belong, isn't it? No one wants you, Margren. No one at all."

Margren turned to protest, her eyes met the dark gray, confident eyes of her sister, and she winced away, causing her foot to miss its step. She fell screaming, "No!" only to wake with a start in her bed, clutching the silken sheets tightly enough for the blood to retreat from her knuckles.

She lay shaking for a long time. Margren used to try and tell people why and how her sister hurt her so, but no one seemed to care. Then, when she would get upset and start crying, they would write her off as overly emotional and tell her to not be so sensitive. She hated that. It put her on the defensive. There was a difference between having passionate feelings and being excessively hysterical. The former was strength, while the latter was weakness. But she had never been able to convince anyone that she was the former. The nobles and retainers at her ma'aram's court kept telling her that she got carried away and did not really see clearly. One day she would fix them all and then they would wish that they had seen clearly!

Her big bed was wedged tightly into a corner, one side and the head pressed solidly against the stone walls, trapping the heavy curtains on those sides. It felt secure and sheltered, like a stolid soldier who could not be moved. The heavy, hard-rock maple bed had required six people to get it into her room.

Magical energies prickled at the edges of Margren's awareness, slowly and insistently drawing her attention from the grip of her dream. She rolled over, pushing herself up on her elbows to gaze expectantly at the head of her bed. When the bed had been placed there, there had been nothing but a solid wall at the head. Margren's lover had changed that. He was the most powerful mage in the Sharani Empire, though no one even knew he was in the realm. The curtains parted as two slender, long-fingered hands slipped through, pushing them further and further apart, revealing the hidden enchantary gate connecting Margren's bedroom to an arcane fortress concealed beneath the ground on a distant bluff crowned by ancient ruins.

"Mephistis?" Margren sat up, crossed her legs, and made more room for the almost gaunt, young mon to emerge at her side. She opened her arms, reaching to draw him into them as she did on their frequent trysting only to draw back again at the grim expression in his eyes.

"Ladonys has sent for your sister," Mephistis whispered softly into her ear.

Margren's large, doe-like eyes widened, "No! She mustn't come back! She mustn't. I'd ... I'd shrivel up and die if she came back..."

"She's sent the one person your sister can't refuse: Brendorn," his voice was soft with a very slight lilt, so unlike the Sharani, Margren's race, seductive even in its seriousness.

Margren sucked in a deep breath, steadying herself, her eyes going suddenly hard as black ice. "Then our agent will have to get there first."

"I've also sent people to stop Brendorn from reaching her."

"Good. What can a silly flower tender do?" she said, anger edging her voice now. "Even if he is her lovemate ... a gardener."

"Don't underestimate him, my love. He may not know how to fight, but he is sylvan. His woodscraft is great."

Margren turned away from Mephistis, folding her arms across her stomach. "First you tell me not to worry, now you tell me to worry."

"Not at all. Just to be very careful." Mephistis wrapped his comforting arms around her, his black goatee tickling her neck as he pressed his face into the back of her cheek. "Besides, the Blade of Nine Souls is nearly done. Not even a paladin of Aroana can fight that."

"Ha'taren," Margren said, supplying the Sharani word for the paladins of the God Aroana. "She got everything I ever wanted handed to her on a platter as if she'd earned it. But she's not ha'taren any longer. She's wallowing in the filthy gutters of Vorgensburg with the rest of the pigs she attracts. Now her filthy lifemates, Ladonys and Brendorn, think they're going to bring her back here to tear up my life ... rip all my plans and dreams to pieces all over again ... For all I know they're bringing her back to rip my heart out despite all the oaths and promises she made not to. Oaths don't mean much to one who abandoned her faith, her god and her family--her small child."

"I won't let her touch you. If she comes, she dies. If she doesn't come, she dies. You are very, very safe, My Love." He felt her trembling with rage as his hands slipped beneath her robe to cup her breasts.

She paused in her rant as if startled, then relaxed against him. "Yes, I am. And no one is ever going to hurt me again."

Mephistis turned her in his arms, kissing her forehead and working his way down to the cleft between her breasts, murmuring between kisses, "Soon there will not be anyone left who can hurt you. Just as I promised."

A strangled sob forced its way past a sudden catch in Margren's throat, "You're the only one who's ever kept their promises to me ... the only one."

"There will be others--others who recognize your worth." Mephistis gently pressed Margren backward onto the bed. "Together ... we will bring this land to heel ... punish those who have caused you so much pain ... so much sorrow and loneliness."

As his body began to move in rhythm atop hers, Margren released herself to pleasure and ceased to think about her sister for the first time in days.

On a rocky beach, curled into a fetal ball around a bottle of whiskey, a drunk woke screaming in a desolation of the soul more deep than death. He had found himself this small corner, little more than a wedge of large stones last night when he realized the drink was close to overcoming him, rather than trying to make it home. Josh often did that. Eventually someone would come looking for him. They always did since Aejys took him in. The Vorgeni called him Josh the Sot, or more often simply The Sot and left it at that. No one else invoked as much contempt in the town as Josh.

Sand crusted his grey-brown hair and untidy beard. The bridge of his nose, crooked from a childhood break, was squarish and his chin was blunt like pushed-in clay. He reeked of whiskey and vomit, yet he pulled the cork and got another drag down, causing his stomach to heave again. Josh slapped at the cobwebs of images still lodged in his half sleeping mind. Demons on thin legs pranced through his thoughts and tore him with knives that left no blood in their wake. He twisted and howled again.

A voice echoed in his mind, "Once there were three brothers, Brandrahoon, Isranon called Dawnhand, and Waejonan the Accursed."

Josh screamed and howled, clutching his bottle, gulping at it. He raised his eyes and stared out at the waters, thinking how easy it would be to simply walk out far enough into the tide to let the undertow catch him, to let the terror end, to let it all be over. He straightened and started toward the water, feeling the fear draining out of him as he listened to the waves. Josh kept swigging from the bottle as he walked into the water. Suddenly, seemingly from out of nowhere, a group of children rushed around him and he hesitated.

"Grandfather is looking for you," shouted a little girl, her black hair in two braids and sand coating her buckskins.

Josh blinked and the lure of the water was broken. Yes, he thought, someone always comes looking. Before Aejys, it had been just Branch and his grandchildren and great grandchildren. The old Kwaklahmyn shaman had befriended him when he was a child. Now there were many watchers, as if they all recognized the despair in his soul. But his despair came from within. He had Aejys and others now who cared. So long as they were around he did not feel that void as keenly and could distract himself from his awareness of it. It was only there, pounding in his awareness, when he found himself alone.

The City-State of Vorgensburg sat on the northernmost point of Sophren Bay, sheltered from the worst of the seasonal storms by the rainshadow of a long, jutting northwestern spur of mountains. The wet temperate region was more suited to fishing than farming with the lush growth of the northern rain forests, pines, fir, evergreen and red oaks covering a rocky soil unfriendly to less substantial flora. The fisher folk lived alongside a growing merchant class who bought furs, herbs and delicately carved cedar boxes, furniture, and basketry from the Kwaklahmyn villages to the north, which they traded in the south for spices, porcelains, incense, and a great variety of drugs and medicines.

The Cock and Boar tavern was fuller than usual, owing to the fact that for the last five days the three o'clock breeze had not come and the weather was unusually hot, which brought folks seeking a satisfying tankard of the good Neridian ale the proprietor had just laid in. All across the city those who could took refuge in the cool shadowed taverns and taprooms of the city where they could comfort themselves with a pint.

Becca deWythe, tavern master of the Cock and Boar and de facto seneschal of Aejys' growing household and expanding properties, emerged from supervising the kitchen, tray in hand. She felt bound and determined to make this a very good day for the tavern. A very important discussion was going on upstairs between the owner and the city-syndics, which could benefit all of them. Becca was one of those folks who tended to jump in when a task needed doing or was not being done to her taste rather than delegating it or brow-beating her employees. That late afternoon, in addition to the over-flow of customers, They short-handed by two: one girl had run off with a sailor and the other had come down ill. Aejys Rowan would not let her people work sick. The gangling youth that had been recently hired was not ready to handle the late afternoon rush that came with the return of the fishing fleet. So Becca pitched in to help.

Until two years ago Becca had been a mere serving woman at the Cock and Boar, waiting tables and occasionally turning tricks to make ends meet. Then her best customer, Aejys Rowan, bought the place and promoted her twice, raising her to heights she never dreamed of reaching. A bosomy woman with a tiny waist and boyish hips, Becca stood five feet six. A wide-necked white blouse discretely covered her high ample breasts. Her burgundy skirt hung to her calves and clung to her legs and a triangle of matching cloth held her chestnut hair back. As she moved from table to table, her hips swayed coquettishly, more out of habit than advertising, though she had done a fair bit of that in less prosperous times. Every man in the room watched her hungrily, wishing they could find themselves between those legs one sweet night. Some remembered the taste of her from earlier days; yet not one made the slightest untoward comment or grab at her, for there was a half-breed ogre living in the inn's stable that would smash the first one to try.

She had just set three tankards down on a table occupied by sailors whose ship had put in that morning and started back for the kitchen when the door opened and three more customers came in. Becca had never seen them before. They stood looking around as if for someone they knew. She measured and weighed them in a single shrewd glance. The male, a half breed sylvan to judge by the breadth of his shoulders and deep ivory tones of his skin, was as fine a piece of manhood as Becca had ever seen. Becca prided herself on having sampled the bedroom artistry of all the races of the coast, but had never tasted the wares of the woodland peoples because of their rarity in the region. Seeing this one triggered a moment of speculation, a wisp of fantasy, and a tingle between her thighs, all of which she shoved away with a toss of her head. "If he's still here when things slow down," she muttered, sweeping her gaze over him once more.

A silver circlet wrought like tiny leaves held the heavy masses of his curling auburn hair in place and, though combed to conceal them, the delicate tips of his pointed ears showed through. He carried a yew bow almost as long as he was tall, a slender sword hung at his hip and he wore the simple rustic green tunic and breeches of the Sharani yeomynry.

Two Sharani women flanked him, dressed and armed as he was; both black-haired and a head taller than the half-breed; both boyishly slender, hard and well muscled, with modest breasts. The older one carried herself with the cool pride of a woman accustomed to command. The burnished bronze of her skin was a shade lighter than Aejys Rowan's. She wore her smoky black hair pulled back in a simple tail. Becca guessed her age at early twenties, then reminded herself that the usual measurements were less than precise when applied to members of the long-lived Sharani race: She could as easily be sixty as twenty. The woman's hands were scarred in the middle as if a narrow blade had been driven through each one. Becca started slightly: hadn't she heard stories during the Great War about a young woman with scarred hands?

The other, who looked to be a girl of sixteen, was an odd shade of walnut that didn't look quite real. Her green eyes drank everything in as if it were all incredibly new to her. Her high cheeks formed a delicate triangle with her small chin. Sensitivity and compassion lay in her glance and mischief in the turn of her mouth.

They drew every eye in the taproom: Sharani were rare along the coast. Becca observed the reactions of her patrons and, not knowing whether that might mean trouble despite the fact that the Cock and Boar was Sharani owned, intercepted the trio heading for the bar.

"Can I help you, sir? I am the tavern master," Becca said with crisp politeness, stepping in front of them.

The half-breed smiled shyly, his large dark green eyes, shaped like sidewise tear drops, shone. "I hope so," he said. "We are looking for Aejys Rowan. I was told we could find her here." As he spoke, his eyes ran with longing toward the stairs leading to the apartments above as if searching for a glimpse of someone very precious.

"Aejys can't be disturbed right now." Becca idly hugged her tray while tallying his physical attributes more closely. The knuckles of her left hand almost touched her chin. "Take a table and I'll let her know you're here as soon as can be."

The half-breed's brow furrowed, his mouth drew together in a worried way. "It is urgent we speak to her without delay," he said with soft insistence.

"No." Becca scowled in irritation, slid the tray onto a nearby table, and assumed a spread legged stance, arms folded. These days, it seemed to her, everyone wanted to see Aejys and wanted to see her now. An unspoken part of her job was keeping them away or at least delayed when more important things were occurring. "There's a deputation from the city syndics up there negotiating to make Aejys lord-mayor. Nothing interrupts this. You hear me? Nothing. Give me any trouble and I'll have Grymlyken put you all out."

"We hear you," said the older woman stepping protectively in front of the half-breed. "Now. You. Hear. Us." Her quiet voice was like a sword sheathed in velvet. "This is a matter of life and death. You will tell Aejys we are here. Immediately."

Becca stared at her a moment, wincing away from the intensity of the Sharani's stare. Her stomach tightened, she recognized the urgency and knew they had come a very long way, months of travel, to get here from Shaurone; yet in spite of that Becca deeply resented being pushed around by anyone, especially now that she finally had some power to back up her resistance. In the few seconds of indecision, her resentments poured lava-like up from her stomach into her throat, overwhelming her reason and intuition.

"Grymlyken!" Becca shouted. Her bouncers, a baker's dozen pixies cast aside their invisibility, appearing seemingly out of the air around Becca with hands resting on the hilts of their tiny swords. Their determined swarming tactics could be worse than getting hit with a hornet's nest while their dense physical structure made them nearly unsquashable.

Cassana Odaren glanced at the pixies from the corner of her eyes without acknowledging them, but her tone grew grim as her voice went softer and lower. "Tell Aejystrys Mohandon brye Rowan that Cassana brye Odaren and Brendorn arn Rowan, are here to see her. And do it now before I decide to pull this place down around your ears!"

Uncertainty entered Becca's face. She had never heard Aejys' formal Sharani name before. It lent a weight and seriousness to the matter. Furthermore she suspected the woman could more than make good on her threat. But the most doubt-stirring thing was Cassana's name. It matched the scars on her hands. Becca remembered the stories now. Although Vorgensburg had been only on the furthermost periphery of the Great War, if this was indeed Cassana Odaren, then Becca knew that she was not one to be trifled with.

Grymlyken stepped forward, a prancing, mincing motion, his head screwed up to see Cassana better. His eyes widened and his lips formed an exaggerated "O" as he murmured "Omagosh!" Grymlyken frantically yanked Becca's apron. "That's her all right. That's her. That's Cassana Odaren. I saw her during the war. You don't want to mess with her, you don't."

That finished off the tavern master. Becca gasped and flushed. Her large eyes went a little wider, "You truly are Cassana Odaren?"

The question was rudely phrased, a mere tavern master did not address the nobility in that way, even someone else's nobility, but Cassana answered politely. "I am. Now please take us to Aejys."

"She ah ... knows you, doesn't she?" Becca's flush deepened.

"I think so," Brendorn answered softly, a small secret smile turning faintly on the edges of his mouth. He could almost feel the touch of her hands, the brush of her lips; see again the strength in her that had always called to him. Even when she had returned home gravely wounded, near death from physical and magical injuries that no one believed could be healed, that same stubborn strength had carried her through. Then before she could recover completely, she had simply fled, leaving behind a note that said it was the best for all of them.

The youngest of Brendorn's companions burst into hearty uncontrolled laughter multiplying Becca's discomfort ten fold and jostling Brendorn out of his moment's reverie.

Becca's eyes slitted sidewise at her, she straightened, took a deep breath, struggled for composure and grimly resisted both an urge to flee and a desire to scream for Clemmerick the ogre stableman to come pound the laughing girl. "Follow me," she said, her voice taking on a prim quality. "You can stand by the door while I announce you, then if Aejys says okay, you can go on in."

They followed Becca up the stairs at the end of the common room, down an oak paneled hall and stopped at an expensively carved mahogany door. All the way up Tamlestari tried to stop laughing, but in spite of everything a tiny snicker or a giggle escaped to plague Becca and draw the disapproving glances of her companions.

Becca glared at the girl, then entered the room.

As soon as the tavern master was out of sight, Brendorn turned and clamped a hand over Tamlestari's mouth. "Try holding your breath," he suggested exasperated. "If Laeoli acted like you I would turn her over my knee and spank her, no matter how old she was."

Tamlestari pried his upper fingers loose and said through the rest of his muffling grip, "Like to see you try." She shifted slightly as if for a hip throw, laughing harder.

Cassana caught the girl by the collar, and then pulled Brendorn's hands away, gently yet firmly. She shook her head at him. Brendorn sighed and stepped back. Cassana took her niece by the shoulders, gave her a small shake. "If you don't stop this," she said severely, "you can spend the rest of the day standing in the Hall while we take care of business. You understand?"

Tamlestari sobered instantly, her eyes dropped, her cheeks grew warm. "I'm sorry, Amita Sana. On my honor, I won't do it again."

"I know you won't," Cassana replied, giving her a hug.

Brendorn stood back, dropping his eyes, and shaking his head at the mercurial young hoyden's sudden change from irritatingly playful to sober and restrained. She had trained heavily as a battlefield chirurgeon during her days in the temple preparing to become ha'taren, one of the consecrated paladins of the God Aroana the Compassionate Defender. Yet, even after her consecration and a series of skirmishes along the border, the young mon remained as unpredictable, headstrong and changeable as ever, childishly playful and impulsive one moment and then mature beyond her years the next. He sighed, reminding himself to be grateful that his own daughter Laeoli had turned out so calm and steady.

He realized suddenly that he had begun to tremble uncontrollably and leaned against the wall to conceal it. Fear that she would simply send them away alternated with a dream vision of finding her in his arms again. He had never been a warrior; never been more than a simple gardener, cherishing his flowers and fruits and he remembered how after coming back from a patrol or fighting she had always looked so happy to just be with him in his gardens--how serene those moments had been and how much he cherished them. And their passion in the night--no, he dared not go down that path until he had seen her; he wanted it too desperately, felt too overwhelmed by need for her.

Aejys, Brendorn murmured silently to himself, maybe we'll finally know why you ran away from us ... O! Lord of Woodlands! Please let her say yes. Let her come home again. Life is so empty without her.

That morning the syndics had come again to petition Aejys Rowan to take the helm of their city because they quite simply did not believe anyone else could handle it. Most of their problems came from outside the city, from the monster haunted wilderness and from monstrous men who preyed on their shipping, raided their city during the spring months and took toll of the caravans and various folks on the highroads. The walls were in disrepair and the guardsmyn who walked them understaffed, under-trained, and poorly led. They could have hired kandoyarin out of Ocealay to the south, mercenaries such as those commanded by Johannes Redbeard, but feared that would be like asking the cat to dine with the mice.

The syndics knew all of the rumors that clung to Aejys Rowan like a spider-web cloak. She was a lapsed paladin who had drifted far from her faith and her people: that much they knew for certain. By most accounts she was a maverick Sharani heir who had renounced her place in the aristocracy by telling her queen and family to go swim in the midden pond over some trifling matter. Some said Aejys had actually thrown the queen in. A very few said she was just another out of work soldier who had drifted into their city and her name wasn't really Aejys Rowan at all.

But as the months had passed they watched the soldier kill a great wyrm for its treasure and with only her own household defeat a raiding ship out of Brunstrat. So they grew more certain with each passing day that she was the Lion of Rowanslea, Aejystrys brye Rowan, who had commanded the Lionhawk's rearguard during the Allied push into Waejontor when the war had finally turned against the Banewitch Realm; and then vanished. However, no one knew for sure and Aejys wasn't telling.

They sat in comfortably padded claw armed chairs around a large horseshoe table set in the middle of a long room. Pastries, fruit, and pitchers of golden Neridian ale sat at intervals around the table. Aejys had lured away Duke Aaron of Beltria's most celebrated baker and rarely let visiting syndics forget it. Most of them were middle-aged men in dark silks and fine hosen. There were only two women in the room besides Aejys: Marya Maryasdottir, a stout matron who ran the weaver's guild; and Tagalong Smith, Aejys' dwarf companion in arms.

Tagalong sat at Aejys' right hand near the head of the table with her legs pulled up into the chair and crossed. A beaded Kwaklahmyn headband attempted to hold in check the unruly mass of shoulder-length crimson hair framing her broad blunt face. Although she did not carry her sword at home, her ever-present war hammer hung from her wide belt.

Opposite Tagalong, at Aejys' left hand, sat the second member of Aejys' inner circle: Josh, who was sober for a change. A neatly-trimmed brown beard that was heavily streaked with grey framed Josh's deeply seamed, battered face, and red abraded complexion. He looked two decades older than his nearly thirty odd years. His forefinger moved in nervous circles, rarely still for long. He never raised his eyes to anyone's face, yet he listened to everyone. Aejys always included him, although no one ever understood why she had adopted the town drunk in the first place. She did a lot of things no one understood, but it had made her rich.

Beside him Thomas Cedarbird, the youngest and richest merchant in the city, son of a Kwaklahmyn father and Vorgeni mother, leaned forward on his elbows to better gauge the woman at the table's head. He held the best trading alliance with the Kwaklahmyn of any in Vorgensburg by way of his father's lineage in the ruling family and a substantial fleet inherited from his maternal grandfather. He was also a legend in local circles for he had been the first to sail round the Cape of Jedrua. Cedarbird spearheaded the effort to draft Aejys. They had now been arguing for over an hour.

"To accept our offer would not only be good for Vorgensburg, it would be beneficial to you," Cedarbird insisted. "We need a warrior at the helm to lead us in defense of the city, to guide us in the ways that will make us safe from the pirates and raiders. You need our contacts, goods, and experience if you want your new merchant fleet to prosper."

"Is that a threat or a bribe?" Aejys Rowan tamped the tobacco down in her pipe, struck a lucifer, and lit it. She drew on the pipe thoughtfully for a moment, letting smoke slide out from the corners of her mouth. Her large steel gray eyes had the look of an old lion, comfortable and secure in its power, in a deceptively young face that was just a little too squared at jaw and too wide at the cheekbones to be called oval; too rounded and long to be called square. Her lips were large, ruddy and, when she let them be, expressive; her skin was a glossy red brown that might almost be called bronze. Her long, thick smoky black hair hung in a leather wrapped tail with a brief tuft of hair showing at the bottom. She wore a short, sleeveless brown silk tunic over a deep-sleeved cream shirt buttoned at the cuff and tight fitting pants, the legs stuffed into knee high boots. A longsword with an intricate golden lion hilt hung at her side next to a pair of soft leather gloves shoved through her belt.

"Neither. We are suggesting an alliance, if you will. You become Lord Mayor of Vorgensburg and protect us. We give you the benefit of our knowledge."

Aejys shook her head slowly. "I regret having to say this once more and it will be the last time I submit to one of these meetings--but I do not wish to rule Vorgensburg." She turned to directly face Thomas. "You're the instigator, Thomas," Aejys said nonchalantly. "Bother me again, and I'll have you banned from my establishments."

The young mon flushed. "But surely the Lion of Rowanslea--"

Tagalong gasped, choked on a mouthful of ale, and spewed it back into her tankard. Then her eyes shot to Aejys'. "There, that's torn it," she muttered darkly. They had finally confronted Aejys with their suspicions; Tagalong suspected that voicing it had been a slip of the tongue; otherwise it was unusually poor judgment on Thomas's part.

The color had risen in Aejys' face, the line of her mouth stiffened, and sudden rage burned in her gray eyes. "Don't ever--you hear me--ever call me that again. The Lion of Rowanslea is dead. She died taking Bucharsa Temple." As she spoke fury mounted in her voice. "Is that what has been going on all these months, Thomas? You think I am the Lion of Rowanslea? You want the Lion of Rowanslea to defend your damned city? To fight all your battles for you?" She rose from her chair and slammed her fists on the table. "Get out! Get out--all of you!"

The syndics rose like a flock of startled pigeons. Several protested, but when Aejys started toward them they decided that discretion was the better part of valor and fled for the door just as Becca opened it. Tagalong grinned, watching them jostle the tavern master. She knew if they shoved her too much the tavern master would haul off and take a poke at one, rank not withstanding. Becca could be a bit spiky and Tagalong had a streak of mischief that liked to see her react.

Tagalong glanced at Aejys and saw that she was cooling down rapidly. The dwarf knew Aejys Rowan as a person who blew up quick and cooled down quicker. Tagalong slid out of her chair and came around behind Thomas who tried to linger. Aejys caught him by the arm and started him toward the door. "Go on, Thomas. We're still friends, but not right now. Go away."

Thomas brushed past Becca with a good deal more dignity than the others. As the door closed behind him, Aejys burst out laughing. She laughed so hard she had to hold her sides. "You think I finally convinced them, Tag?"

"That yer crazy? Probably," Tagalong said, smirking. She loved uproar. "But ya know, Aejys, those that matter have it figured out and losing yer temper confirms it."

"I know. I resigned myself to it weeks ago." Aejys smiled, clapping the sturdy dwarf on the shoulder. "You are not my only source of gossip, Tag."

"I'm not?" Tagalong feigned surprise. "Ya turned them down again, but what are ya going to do next time the town has trouble with Brunstrat?"

Aejys gnawed on her lower lip. "Same thing I did last time..."

"Then yer doin' the job without getting' the title."

"I don't want the responsibility."

"You've already got it."

"Shit."

Tagalong grinned widely, "I'm putting the word on the street yer holding out fer King."

Aejys stared at the ceiling and rolled her eyes.

Then Tagalong remembered Becca, "What's goin' on?"

"Aejys, there's people to see you," Becca looked from one to the other with silent disapproval. She had wanted Aejys to take the position and felt miffed that she clearly had not.

"More people?" Aejys straightened and clapped Becca on the shoulder. "Be a good mon, and tell them to go away. I'm tired of people. I want to be left alone for a while. I haven't had lunch, I'm sick of pastries and my tobacco pouch is empty."

"I can't."

"What?"

Becca winced but stood her ground. And even Aejys knew there were limits to how far you pushed Becca. "They're Cassana brye Odaren and Brendorn arn Rowan."

Aejys stopped in her tracks, her heart skipped a beat at Brendorn's name--she had told no one about her family and almost nothing about her past except for a few carefully phrased and related war stories--and her next words evaporated. She sucked in a long breath, closed her eyes just long enough to rub her hands over them, and then blew the breath out with an odd sigh. "You're certain that's who they are?"

"Grymlyken recognizes the ajan."

Josh sighed, dropped his head, and left through a side door without being asked. An air of panic hung about his folded shoulders as if he knew something no one else did.

Becca ushered them in. Tagalong's whole face brightened with joyous excitement as her friends entered. She gave a loud cry of greeting and leaped at Brendorn, throwing her arms around the slender half-breed's legs and hoisting him off the ground. He kissed the top of the dwarf's head. "I'm happy to see you too, Tag," he said as she set him down.

Tagalong spun around and seized the older mon, lifting her in turn. Then she stood back, rubbing the scarred hands with her thumbs. "Been a long time. They don't hurt anymore?"

"Only in the winter. And when it rains." Cassana smiled quietly.

"That's better than it was."

"Much."

Tagalong nodded. "Good."

Becca watched from the doorway, smiling at their evident joy and remembering her own loved ones left behind many years before when she ran away from her father's farm to find a better life in the city.

Tagalong suddenly remembered the tavern master and, catching Becca by the elbow, propelled her down the hall before she could say anything. "That's Brendorn, her ba'halaef. Let's giv'em some space."

"Ba'halaef?" Becca asked curiously as Tagalong took her arm and walked out with her.

"It's like a husband. Only with less rights than ya folks give'em round here. Functions the same though, if ya get my drift," Tag grinned with lecherous approval as she bubbled over with information while watching closely for Becca's reaction. "Bout time Aejys sent fer him. She needs ta get Laeoli, that's their daughter--Laeolytyn's her formal name, but they call her Laeoli ya understand--and Ladonys, that's Laeoli's womb mother-they call it a ma'aramlasah and the blood mother is the ma'aram--outta there."

"Womb-mother?" Becca's eyebrows quirked, "Then it's true, what they say. One woman conceives and another bears it."

"Sharani are triadic. It's the only way the entire triad becomes its parents. They call it kyndi, but I wouldn't use that word around the Sharani. It's just fer them. Makes fer a lot of twins that way."

"Twins?"

"What else when ya got three in a bed," Tagalong's mouth screwed up in a smug twist as she delivered her coup.

Becca's cheeks warmed and she stammered, "Oh, right. Three in a bed. Of course. Twins." As delicious as Brendorn looked, Becca felt herself rapidly losing interest.

Tagalong did not tell her the whole story of the kyndi, of how the golden banewitch queen of Waejontor had cursed the Sharani more than a millennium ago causing nearly all their male children to be miscarried or still born. They had appealed to Ishla Twice-Gendered, God of Love, Fertility and Technology for aid in removing the curse.

But Ishla was not a remover of curses. Instead she altered their genetics. By enabling a pregnant woman to pass her embryo to another, by way of a magical phenomenon called the kyndi, she made it possible for one woman to bear the children for both. A child then shared the womb mother's genetic inheritance along with the blood mother and sire. That the curse had been ended--by five Sharani heroes, a quest the only survivors of which had been Tamlestari's wombmother and her young sister, Cassana--had done only a little to lift the birth and survival rate of Sharani male infants.

Aejys Rowan stood apart from the joyful scene, her mood gone melancholy. There was a small, almost imperceptibly sad twist to her full lips. Her eyes misted watching Brendorn kiss the top of Tagalong's head. She folded her arms, repressing her desire to join in, holding herself aloof, and wondering whether they would greet her with as much joy or if it would be reproof. She had deserted her family, fleeing a dangerous situation she could not alter. She had no rights to his affection and love, or even his friendship. Yet her arms ached to clasp him. She did not know why they had come, but she suspected, even feared, that it had nothing to do with love. For seven long years she had dreamed of reunion with him and the rest of her small family, even while she rode farther and farther away from them.

She dragged in an uncertain breath as they approached. He had always been the only kind and gentle thing in her rock hard life, the one unmitigated joy. Only in his arms had she ever found true peace, even for a moment, in her troubled, war-torn life. "Brendorn?" Her hands shook. She clasped them together while a roar of emotion--shame, love, pain, filled her mind with confusion. Aejys realized that she was on the edge of losing it as she stammered: "I--I meant to send for you, Brendorn. On my honor." Impulsively her hands came up, reached for him, and drew back.

"Aejys," he spoke her name softly, as hesitant as she, yet longing crept into his tone, "I know you did."

He extended both hands to her. Aejys clasped them and drew him into her arms. She covered his lips with hers, bending a little to reach him. They kissed deeply, hungrily. When Aejys pulled back finally, tears streaked both their faces. "God's heart, I've missed you," she said.

Brendorn nodded. "And I you."

"I just couldn't get the words right."

"You never had to," he said with a small smile. "I always read between your words. You did what you thought best for all of us."

His words, although meant to reassure and comfort, nevertheless, brought a twist of sadness to her heart, making her cling to him all the harder and he to her as if in a single moment they could press all the love from seven absent years into that one embrace.

"Aejys..."

At the sound, she turned from Brendorn to Cassana, embracing the woman warmly, "Old friend."

She stood back, saw then the way they stood together, and suspicion entered her mind. "This looks like a deputation," she said. "If you're asking me to come back, forget it. There's no place for me there."

Cassana's scarred hand touched Aejys' arm. "You must come home! There's trouble."

"It isn't my trouble," Aejys replied, regaining her composure. "I'm sending for my family. They can come out here, but I'm not going back." She looked at Brendorn to confirm this, but he dropped his eyes to stare uncomfortably at the floor. Suddenly she realized how far they had come, a journey of months, whatever was happening had to be crucial, and that roused her old instincts to protect and stand fast at need. "Ma'aram?"

"No. Kaethreyn is fine." Cassana told her. "Can we sit down?"

"Come in to the parlor." Aejys laid her pipe and pouch on top of a bowl of fruit, caught the handle on a pitcher of ale, and, carrying it all, led them into the next room.

Tamlestari tarried long enough to snag a tray of pastries, some extra tankards, and a full pitcher, then followed.

"She turned them down again, didn't she?" Becca stretched her legs and strode along, forcing the dwarf to trot to keep up. Irritation flashed across Tagalong's face. Becca allowed herself a brief smug smile at this. Her glance swept every face as they passed through the common room. Several of Aejys' household cavalry, who guarded her trade wagons in transit, were taking their lunch. "Wagons are in," she observed in passing.

"Yah. If Aejys wanted that kind of responsibility she'd'ave stayed home in Rowanslea. I saw some wagons come in as we went upstairs. Ya got'em unloaded yet?"

"There hasn't been time. I'm short handed in the taproom." Becca poked her head into the kitchen. "Take plates of cold meats, cheese, bread, sauces and a pitcher of each of our best brews up to Lord Aejys' parlor. Enough for four."

A tall mon nodded as he wielded a broad paddle, shoving loaves into the ovens. "I'll start on it now," he told her.

"Good," Becca said, turning toward the back door.

"Well let's get to it," Tagalong said grinning.

Becca spied Zacham sweeping the walk as they emerged from the building into the courtyard quad. The ten-year old's unkempt black hair hung in long tangled ringlets. A spattering of dark freckles made a band across his snub nose and cheeks contrasting sharply with the pale butterscotch complexion. He came to attention when he spied Becca and Tagalong looking at him.

Four wagons with tall sideboards and barrels of provisions piled high stood in the yard. Clemmerick the hostler led two teams to the watering troughs beside the stable. The ogre stood eight feet tall. The big horses he handled were the size of large dogs beside him. His straight, jet black hair parted in the middle hung just past his shoulders; his sloe eyes had a bland expression that concealed a deep philosophical mind and sharp intellect. His complexion rivaled milk in its whiteness and large triangles of bright pink marked his rounded cheeks in an otherwise broad plain face.

"Where are the drivers?" Becca asked.

"Getting a bite, Mistress," said Zacham, nodding politely. "They waited till their stomachs was aching with need."

"Master," Becca corrected him, frowning slightly. "This is a Sharani establishment."

Zacham flushed. "Shall I get them?"

"No. They've earned their bread. Fetch Omer and Raim to unload."

Zacham leaned the broom so quickly against the wall of the building that it slid down as he moved away, darting off to fetch the two myn.

Tag opened a wagon's gate and climbed in. "Show me some muscle, Becca. Ya're always telling me ya got some."

"I've never--"

"Ah, come on, Becca!" Tagalong smiled innocently as she began needling the tavern master. Paybacks are hell. "What happened to that 'anything ya can do, I can do better' ya've been shovin' in my face fer months! Ya just a wussy outlands woman after all?"

Becca twisted inwardly, trying hard not to take the bait. "I'm as good with a scythe and flail as any of my brothers! Always was!"

"Not talkin' about scythes an' flails, Becca. We're talkin' about barrels."

Becca flushed angrily. "Just hand me down the barrels, damn it!"

The stout dwarf lifted a huge barrel of flour easily, giving it to Becca. The tavern master staggered under the weight as Tagalong released it. With every muscle in her arms, back and legs heaving Becca managed to wrestle the barrel to the ground, missing her foot by inches. Then Tagalong seized another and shoved it at her. Becca caught it. She felt as if her arms were going to be wrenched from the sockets and then abruptly the weight was taken from her.

"Let me help you, Becca." Clemmerick towered over the tavern master, setting the barrel down as if it weighed nothing. He was not handsome, yet there was an indefinable quality that made his ugliness appealing.

"Stay out of this, Clemmerick!" Becca cried indignantly. "Tag and I are settling matters."

Clemmerick smiled fondly. "You two are always needling each other. Always challenging ... At least make it fair," said the ogre. "Becca, you climb up on this wagon over here. Each of you hand me a barrel. I'll put Tag's over there and yours here," he indicated the spots with a nod. "First one to unload their wagon completely wins. Without dropping anything. Agreed?"

The two women nodded. Becca hitched up her skirts and climbed into the wagon Clemmerick indicated.

"Ya need pants fer this job, Becca," Tag told her. "Yer gonna step on yer skirts and fall on yer face 'fore yer half finished."

"I don't think so," Becca replied icily. She gave her skirts a twist and tucked the bottom into her belt.

"If she wins, you buy her a pair, Tag," said Clemmerick.

"Ya got it!"

Clemmerick smiled. A crowd gathered as the women worked. Omer and Raim shook their heads in puzzlement at the bosses doing their work, but did not question it aloud. The drivers joined them next, then the caravan guard and the customers. Soon they were laying bets. The general consensus held that few human women were as strong as the sturdy dwarf and Becca was not one of them.

Anger fueled Becca's muscles with greater than usual strength. She worked swiftly, muttering curses under her breath.

Clemmerick, standing between the wagons, made two piles of barrels. A cheer went up from the tiny handful that had placed their bets on the tavern master. Slowly Becca gained on Tagalong, opened a widening lead, and then it was over. Becca finished first.

"Father of Stone crack a mountain! Damn it!" Tagalong shouted, her cheeks burning as bright as her hair. She sprang down and started for the door.

"Hand over some gold, Tag, so she can go for a fitting," Clemmerick said.

"But who'll take care of things? It's nearly dinner!" Tagalong protested, extending a handful of gold and silver coins to the ogre.

Clemmerick smiled, "You've got the entire kitchen staff hard at work. I'm sure you can manage." He pressed the coins into Becca's hands. "Go on, I'll catch up soon as I finish here," he told her.

The ogre worked quickly to remove the evidence before anyone could discover he had given Becca the lighter stuff to unload. Becca, unaccustomed to moving heavy things, would never know the difference, but Tagalong would. Then he strode off whistling merrily down the street to the tailor's shop just so he could walk back with Becca.

Aejys settled her friends on comfortable chairs flanking a modest round table. Tamlestari, clearly tired of trail food, stuffed pastries in her mouth and licked her fingers appreciatively. A knock on the door preceded the entrance of servants with trays of sliced cheese, cold meats and bread; and sauces, pitchers of various brews and tankards. Aejys' eyes dwelled on Brendorn, being near him, knowing he still cared, lit a heat in her veins and a warmth in her heart that burned away a loneliness she had never realized she felt until it was gone. As soon as the servants had departed, she leaned across and kissed him again.

"Well, what's this all about?" Aejys opened her pouch to refill her pipe and remembered that it was empty. Without waiting for an answer she crossed the room and stuffed the pouch full from a jar on a window shelf.

"Margren has hired someone to kill you, and afterwards Laeoli," Cassana said.

Aejys' body straightened, coming to attention, her pulse quickening. Her eyes narrowed to slits and her hand paused for just an instant before replacing the jar lid. She filled her pipe, lit it before responding with an edge sharp enough to flay spirits slid in her voice. "Me, I can understand," she said smoothly, "My sister has always hated me," she returned to the table, no not always, she amended silently, remembering what a sweet child her sister had been. "But why Laeoli? She's just a little girl."

Brendorn took Aejys' hand in both of his. "My love, our daughter isn't little anymore. She's fourteen. She's of age next year."

"Fourteen?" Aejys felt startled for a moment and her voice betrayed her. She had known in her mind how many years had passed, but not in her heart and never considered the implications nor anything else that might have forced her out of her safe emotional exile. "I had not realized how long it has been. I meant to send for you all." Her eyes met Brendorn's pleading for his belief, for his faith in her.

Brendorn gave that faith willingly. "I know," he said, his hand reaching to cover hers as she came to his side.

"Two springs past," Cassana explained, "Around the time you killed the great wyrm, your ma'aram, Kaethreyn named Laeolytyn her heir."

"Damnation under God!" Aejys ground her teeth on the pipe, then pulled it out and rubbed the bowl with her thumb. Everything I retreated from is coming after me again. "All Margren ever wanted was the mar'ajante. She'll kill to have Rowanslea."

"I begged Kaethreyn to give the lands and title to Margren," Brendorn's voice took on a forlorn note. "Kaethreyn said that Margren was unfit to rule. That she would never give it to her, even if Margren were her only living child. But she would not accept that Margren might harm Laeoli. We parted less than friends. She said she would not keep Laeoli from you, but that you would have to ask her for the child face to face."

"We've all tried to get Laeoli out," Cassana said. "But short of kidnapping, which would precipitate a clan war, your mother has blocked our every effort. You are the only one she can't argue with. The only one who can get Laeoli out."

"Do it soon." The young walnut colored girl spoke with a frank openness at once startling and intriguing to Aejys. "I fear for Laeoli. The Ajan Margrenan frightens me."

Aejys looked closely at her for the first time. "Do I know you?"

"This is my niece," Cassana told her, patting the girl's arm fondly. "Tamlestari Odaren Desharen, Geoa and Kalestari's child. Tamlestari and Laeoli are very close."

Aejys sucked on her pipe, scrutinizing the girl carefully. She leaned forward and ran her hand though the girl's hair then checked her fingertips. A black smudge showed on them. "You're a blond, like your ma'aram." Nine years--I still can't believe Kalestari is dead. Always thought she would outlive us all. "She used a better dye. After the first washing it didn't come off on my fingers." She touched the girl's cheek. "And you stain your skin. She didn't." Aejys knew she had struck a nerve when Tamlestari erupted at her.

"So I'm the wrong colors!" she snapped. "From all that I've heard, I thought you at least would not make an issue of it."

Aejys settled back with a deep sigh, wishing she had not spontaneously turned the conversation in this direction. Now that she had, she was committed to finishing it. Aejys had a stubborn streak, which brooked no retreat--from anything: even embarrassment. She smiled with the pipe between her teeth, pulled it out to speak again. "Kalestari was not Sharani born, but she was as Sharani as any of us," she explained patiently. "We didn't know what she was until the end. You're at least half, I'll wager. With two Sharani heroes for ma'arams, you're just as Sharani as any. Anyone says otherwise in my hearing will regret it. I promise you."

The statement took the youth by surprise and Tamlestari's glare softened just a little. "I wish more people felt that way."

"Your sire?"

"Thendaric of the West Temple."

A small sad smile brushed the edges of Aejys' mouth. "He was a fine singer and a gentle soul." Aejys had led the ultimately unsuccessful effort to break the siege of the West Temple. The Waejontori destroyed the temple-city, butchered the inhabitants down to the smallest newborn. That Aejys had afterward destroyed that Waejontori force was small comfort to her. So much of my life died in the war. Then perversely she thought trust Kalestari to prefer a temple stud to a committed relationship with a man.

"Let's get on with it," Aejys said, re-lighting her pipe. "How am I supposed to fall? Do you know?"

"Farendarc," Tamlestari exhaled the name as though it hurt. Youth and innocence faded from her face, replaced by a mature seriousness.

Aejys' stomach tightened, then gave a little queasy roll as if the bottom had just dropped out. She knew his reputation. "One of the best." Why now, God? Just as my life starts to straighten out. Just as I finally have a place to bring my family.

Cassana leaned forward, her elbows planted on the table. "Farendarc took second in swords at the Aroanan Games the last year before the War broke out."

"I no longer recall, is he Sharani or an import?"

"Sharani."

"They banned him from the games two years ago," Tamlestari said. "In the finals Lareth Reslaaren marked his face, a tiny scratch," her voice faltered when she spoke the woman's name as if pain beyond her years lay there. "He became enraged. And when he downed her he moved in and finished her. So they banned him."

"As few males as there are among our people, it's sad that one turned out like him," Cassana murmured, more to herself than her companions.

Aejys' eyes narrowed a little more and she stroked her lower lip with the pipe. "Is he as good as Kalestari was?"

"No," Cassana said. "But he bested Darya of Armaten. She was always better than you."

Another name of the dead. The pipe paused, then started again. "If Laeoli were here, Margren would have to burn six kingdoms to get to her. I don't think she's that crazy."

"You must not fight Farendarc." Brendorn said. "He'll kill you. You're a soldier, not a duelist. You are the only one that your ma'aram will yield Laeoli to."

"She can't avoid him," Tamlestari put in. "I have seen the lengths he will go to ... Farendarc will do anything to force her into a duel. He's done it before. With others. I know his patterns well. I studied him."

"You what?" Cassana's hand closed on Tamlestari's and she leaned nearer the girl. "Why?"

"Because I wanted to kill him. I know you don't like to hear this, Amita Sana, but I don't have a lot of friends. People don't like my color," she raised her eyes to Aejys', "most people that is. Not all. Lareth was my best friend. When I took my vows this past spring I planned to challenge Farendarc, so I tried to learn his weaknesses."

"And did you find any?" Brendorn asked, suddenly keenly interested, almost hopeful.

"I don't think he has any," Tamlestari said, dropping her gaze and folding her left hand over her right fist.

Aejys nodded slowly. "I know his reputation. I can't run, Sana. And I can't hide. I won't hide. It would cost me everything I have built up here. My honor, as muddied as it may look on the surface, is still my life."

"Don't do this, Aejys." Brendorn pleaded. "Please don't fight him."

Aejys stared deep into his anguished face, seeing all the hopes and dreams renewed in their first embrace fading. "Brendorn. You ask me to forsake my honor?"

"I'm asking you to save our daughter."

"Take a contract out on him for god's sake!" exclaimed Cassana, slamming her hands down on the table.

"There may not be time for that," Aejys said slowly. "But I'll have Tag ask around. There's probably a guildhall hidden in Vorgensburg. But you know, all of you, once challenge is issued I cannot refuse it."

"Who will save Laeoli when you are dead?"

"Josh and Tag will. Don't underestimate them. If I can't take Farendarc down, I can take him with me. That will no doubt buy time." Aejys rose. "Now you must be tired and I need to get down to the south docks. They are refitting some ships for me. I'll have Becca show you to rooms. Brendorn, will you share mine?"

"Always."

Josh the Sot sat at a small beer stained table in the far back corner of the taproom, hidden in the shadow of the stairs. He had seen their shadows through the door--Aejys' visitors--known who they would be before Becca even spoke their names. Josh had known for weeks that they had been coming. He had seen them in his dreams when he got drunk enough. He had also seen the black and crimson shadows trailing them, the dangers to Aejys, but he had not spoken of them. It terrified him to speak of the magic. It made him shake and sent him running for the bottle. But the bottle only made it worse. Why, god? Why, when he had finally made peace with the magic's loss, give it back to him--twisted into a thing of horror? It would be so much easier to be dead. To stop feeling. He had tried wading out into waters toward the undertow, but could never quite find the nerve to see it through. And then there was that name that would echo through his drunken mind in the wee hours, "Abelard." A name he had never heard spoken aloud in this life.

His rough, weather-beaten hands framed a whiskey double without quite touching the glass. A bottle with just one drink taken out waited just a few inches north of his fingers. All his muscles seemed to twitch invisibly beneath his skin, every fiber of his body ached. Each morning he started out feeling clear and centered, hopeful and certain that this day he would feel good just being alive; but then he would encounter another person and another, with each meeting his muscles would begin to crawl beneath his skin as he interacted with them, even when it was a very small exchange, nothing more than a brief acknowledgement in passing. It would build like a physical manifestation of some weird psychic hysteria, the burning would start in his nerve endings, in the seared and blackened connections of his withered mage-net. By then Josh wanted to weep with fear and pain, gripped hard in the inescapable, inexorable gauntlet of sheer panic. Relief lay in that tiny glass and no one cared if he drank it. His throat and mouth longed for the smoky taste. The Sot longed for the sudden heat that raced through his veins and nerves when he drank it. Yet he hesitated.

In his youth he had gotten past this deep baffling physical and mental distress by sheer will power. He never asked himself why or where it came from, just knew a grinding need to repress it, shove it far down inside himself where it would never surface again. But it always came back. As he got older he turned more and more to the bottle as his strength of will slid down into a quagmire of terror, nightmares, and flashbacks, especially of the day six years ago that the archenwyrm had sunk his father's ship just off the blowholes. Josh saw it eat his father and brother before he washed up on shore, the only survivor. Since then he had lost his war with the bottle completely: for the last six years he had rarely been sober.

Two years ago Josh showed Aejys Rowan and Tagalong where to find the cave of the giant archenwyrm that had sunk his ship thereby starting his four-year binge. When things went awry, Josh, in an act of booze-born bravery beyond the ken of the sane and sober, finished off the beast. As an accessory, not a partner, he had no part in the treasure, but Aejys Rowan had vowed to provide for him for the rest of his days without judgments or recriminations in whatever way he chose to live those days. If he wished to live out his life in the grip of the bottle she would not refuse him: it was not her life to live, it was his. Aejys Rowan never went back on her word.

Aejys provided him with all that he wanted to drink as well as everything else he needed including two servants to pick him up when he passed out, clean him up, tuck him into bed and care for his hangovers.

Josh's problem began when Aejys dosed him with a sylvan medicinal, holadil, to both get him over his hangover and keep him tractable enough to guide them to the wyrm. In fact, she had dosed him twice since then for particularly bad hangovers. A very few humans were rumored to experience strange side effects and once the holadil got into their system it tended to stay there. For Josh the side effects only showed up when he drank, coming in an unconsciously accessed gallimaufry mess, random and unpredictable, of psychic phenomena and the twisted magic that haunted him. Needless to say, Josh seriously considered giving up drink. But there was always a good reason, he told himself, for snagging that next bottle.

So he sat, his hands hovering around the whiskey and not quite daring to touch it.

"You okay, Josh?" Tagalong Smith settled into a chair across the table from him and drew her legs up so that her knees rested against the table edge. The handle of her hammer thunked the chair seat.

Josh yelped, snatched up the whiskey, glass, and bottle, and fled through the swinging doors into the kitchen. Tagalong stared dumfounded at his retreating back.