And it was answered. Thousands of butterflies came flocking to Chentelle’s call. They filled the air around her with motion and color. She started dancing, twirling to the music of her song. And the butterflies danced with her. She felt the feather touches of a thousand wings brushing her face, her arms, her lips. Some of the insects landed in her hair, forming a jewel-colored crown. The rest formed currents of color that flowed through the breeze, keeping perfect time with her song and her movements.

  She let the music grow, expanding the dance until it encompassed A’stoc and Sulmar too. The butterflies swirled happily within the shape of her song, circling around her companions and bringing them into the dance. Sulmar swayed slowly back and forth, letting his body drift to the music’s rhythm. A’stoc sat motionlessly, slack-jawed, shifting only to brush away one insect that was crawling toward his mouth.

  Chentelle let her song come to an end. Gradually, the butterflies drifted away, returning to the pursuits from which she called them. Soon, only one was left: the orange butterfly that had first come to rest on her hand. It spun excitedly before her face, wings glittering in Ellistar’s light.

  Chentelle smiled and nodded. “You are quite welcome.”

  The insect came to rest lightly on her lips, then fluttered away.

  A’stoc had gotten to his feet. He and Sulmar just stared at her from under the shade of the tree, looks of awe and wonder on their faces.

  “I have never seen—never felt anything so beautiful, any magic so graceful,” A’stoc said.

  She felt so happy, so proud of the beauty she had helped create. But something in the way they looked at her made her feel self-conscious, and she turned her eyes shyly to the ground. “Are we ready to go on?”

  A’stoc nodded absently, handing her the water bag and picking up his pack. He started walking, leading the party directly south, now.

  They walked until the red light of Deneob sank below the horizon, leaving Ellistar alone in the sky to cast her long shadows. The flowered meadows gave way to grassy hills decorated sporadically with clusters of oak and cottonwood. As Ellistar, too, began to set in the west, they passed into a narrow valley formed by a small stream.

  A’stoc came to a halt, leaning heavily on the Staff. “We will stop here for the night,” he said, indicating a circular clearing within a copse of trees.

  The mage did not look well. He wheezed with every breath and his legs trembled, even with the support of the Staff. Chentelle and Sulmar took his arm and helped him get settled against a tree. It was a measure of A’stoc’s exhaustion that he did not protest their help. Once A’stoc was settled, Sulmar left to inspect the area around their camp.

  “You need rest and warm food,” she said. “I will heat up the rest of the stew you brought.”

  His hand shot out to catch her wrist as she turned to leave. “No,” he said weakly. “No fire.”

  Of course, the servants of the Dark One moved freely at night. If they were being sought, a fire would betray their presence. Chentelle remembered her dream of the Ill-creature. She was embarrassed to have forgotten such an obvious precaution.

  A’stoc stared at the lengthening shadows. “I had forgotten what it was like.”

  A glance at his face told Chentelle what he meant. Fear. He was remembering the terrors brought on by darkness. Images flashed through her mind, grotesque shapes materializing out of the night, tearing at her with hideous fangs and malformed claws. No not her, A’stoc, it was A’stoc’s memory she was reliving. It must be something she retained from their moment of communion.

  She peered into the twilight. The hills around their clearing were still plain to her eyes, as was the slender creek to the west. She could see nothing threatening, but she was unsure. She had heard tales of Ill-creatures that could fool even elven vision.

  When Sulmar returned, he reported finding nothing to threaten them in the immediate area. They unpacked rations and the three of them shared a cold supper of stew, cheese, dried fruit, and the remaining bread. By silent agreement, Chentelle and Sulmar gave A’stoc the lion’s portion of the food, and he pretended not to notice.

  The mage looked better by the time they had finished their meal. He rummaged through his pack and brought out the orb that he had retrieved from his laboratory. He set the melon-sized crystal in a depression at the center of the clearing and pulled the mandril wand from the folds of his cloak. Then he walked around the perimeter of the camp, gesturing with the wand.

  Chentelle felt the threads of power A’stoc was weaving into his spell. He anchored each strand to the orb, and spread the other end through the surrounding terrain. He built a balanced web covering the camp and everything within a hundred cubits, including Chentelle and Sulmar.

  As A’stoc moved around the camp, a pinpoint of light started growing inside the orb. He completed his circle and returned to the clearing. Still chanting, he passed the wand around Chentelle’s head, and she felt the strands fall away from her. Then he repeated the procedure with Sulmar.

  The crystal sphere glowed, now, with the strength of a small candle, though the light was mostly shielded within the depression. A’stoc tapped the orb once with his wand, sending a quiver of tension through his spell. “Now we can sleep in peace. Anything larger than a raccoon that enters the detection spell will trigger the orb-light.”

  They spread their bedding under the trees and settled down for the night, serenaded by the rhythmic songs of crickets and nightbirds. Chentelle was spent from the long hike. She knew that as soon as she closed her eyes and relaxed she would fall asleep. But her mind refused to quiet down. She glanced at her companions.

  Sulmar was on his back, sleeping easily. His sword rested across his belly and both arms were outside the covering of his blanket: one on the hilt of the weapon, the other on its sheath.

  A’stoc seemed to be asleep, but he was tossing fitfully. As Chentelle watched, his eyes snapped open, and he sat bolt upright. His breathing was heavy and sweat covered his face. After a moment, he realized that Chentelle was awake, too. He met her gaze and spoke to her in near whisper. “You said that you saw the threat of the Ill-creatures in your dreams. What else can your Gift show you?”

  “I can sometimes see hints about the future,” she answered. “Usually my dreams are of good things, not evil. Like the time my friend Erina fell in love with—”

  “I get the idea,” A’stoc interrupted, “but what about the past? Do you ever see into the past?”

  It was nice to have him ask her questions for a change. “Well, when I touch an object that belonged to someone, I can sometimes get a sense of occurrences with strong emotional content. But most of the time what I discover is not very helpful.”

  A’stoc nodded thoughtfully, but did not speak. He seemed to be waging a silent debate with himself. Finally, he turned back to Chentelle. Slowly, he lifted the Thunderwood Staff and extended it to her. “Perhaps you can help me, enchantress. I must know whether you can unlock the Staff’s power.”

  Chentelle was amazed. That A’stoc would allow her to touch it showed how much his trust, and his desperation, had grown. She could not refuse such a gesture.

  She took the Staff in her hands, cradling it carefully. The wood felt warm to her touch, and she could almost swear she felt a pulse. She met A’stoc’s eyes, seeing the mix of yearning and despair that warred on his face. “I will try.”

  She ran her hands along the Staff, introducing her fingers to the wood. Even without her Gift, the power of the Staff was obvious. It was solid in her hands yet somehow yielding, as if it were at one time both harder than rock and softer than her own skin. The carved runes blended perfectly with the natural curves of the timber, forming an impossibly smooth surface. Closing her eyes and taking a deep breath, Chentelle reached into the wood with her Gift.

  Instantly, a barrage of emotions swept over her: hope, anger, frustration, despair. The feeling had the taste of A’stoc about them. In the long years he had possessed the Staff, his presence had become strong within it. Images formed, visions of bitterness and hopelessness. A’stoc spent all his energy studying the Staff, at first with A’mond and then alone. She felt the anguish of decades of failure.

  She had to go further back. She pushed through the long period of frustration, reaching for the feelings below. Jealousy, anger, mistrust, betrayal. She saw A’stoc at the Collegium of Tel Adartak-Skysoar. The Councilors there refused to help him, fearing his power if he gained control of the Staff. He felt the covetousness of their concern and left the crystal tower in secret. He soon learned that his mistrust was well placed. Assassins followed him from the Collegium, trying to kill him and steal the Staff. They failed, but the attempt left him deeply scarred.

  The memories were still too recent. She went deeper, past the wall of numbness that she knew represented A’stoc’s time in the wasteland. She sought the core of power deep inside the wood, the essence shaped by A’pon Boemarre.

  Suddenly agony shot through her soul, pain more terrible than she had ever imagined. She screamed, and the Thunderwood Staff fell from her lifeless fingers.

  Cold. That was the first thing she felt, cold that issued from somewhere deep inside of her. She couldn’t stop shivering. Gradually, she became aware of other things. She was crying. Tears ran uncontrollably down her face, forming tiny pools in the earth. People were shouting in the distance. No, not in the distance, right above her. It was Sulmar.

  “…do not know what you have done, apprentice, but you will follow her into death.”

  Death? But she wasn’t dead. Was she?

  “It wasn’t me,” another voice said. A’stoc. It was A’stoc’s voice, but it sounded strange, vulnerable. “Let me go. I may be able to help her.”

  Suddenly Chentelle remembered. She had been examining the Staff, trying to unlock its secrets, and she had felt—By the Creator, so much pain!

  “Sulmar.” Her voice sounded weak, impossibly faint, but she had to make him hear. “Sulmar, it’s all right. Don’t hurt him.”

  The Tengarian was at her side in an instant, cradling her in his arms. “Mistress, you are alive! But how? I saw the way you lay. There was no life in your body.”

  His body was warm and Chentelle huddled against it, trembling. She tried to answer him, but she could not. Her tears came with renewed vigor, choking off her voice.

  She was dimly aware of A’stoc rising to his feet and retrieving the Staff. “Enchantress?” he said.

  She forced her body to unclench, releasing her death grip on Sulmar’s warmth. But she couldn’t make herself leave the comfort of his strength and surety. She wiped her eyes clear with his shirt and turned to face the mage. “I—I touched the spirit of A’pon Boemarre. I felt him unleash the Desecration. Oh, A’stoc, I felt his death. I am sorry. I can’t find what you need. I can’t reach past that wall of agony.”

  “No, enchantress, it is I who am sorry. Once again I let myself fall into the trap of hope, and this time it was you who paid the price.” He turned to Sulmar. “I am going to sleep, now. If anything trips the orb-light, I trust that you will respond with your usual brutality and thoroughness.”

  Sulmar’s body tensed at A’stoc’s insult, but he did not respond. Instead he settled himself on the ground next to Chentelle, resheathing his sword. He seemed so strong, though she knew he was still recovering from his injuries. He wrapped his warmth gently around her, and they drifted into sleep.

  Chentelle woke with a sense of wrongness. She lay still, listening, but she heard nothing. Then she understood. She heard nothing, not even the sound of insects. She called upon her Gift, stretching her awareness. A’stoc’s spell still covered the camp, so she reached out to the hills farther away. Her mind felt the cool presence of the river and the quiet life of the grass and something else, something cold and terrible.

  She sat up, waking Sulmar with her movement. She warned him to silence with a gentle finger on his lips, then slid quietly over to A’stoc’s bedroll. She shook the mage gently by the shoulder and whispered into his ear. “A’stoc.”

  As soon as her hand touched him, she felt herself pulled into a dream.

  A’stoc is surrounded. Gnarled hands grapple with him, trying to wrest the Thunderwood Staff from his grip. Desperately, he pulls the Staff free from his attackers, but the wood shrivels and dies. Finally, it snaps like kindling in his hands. The world begins to wither all around him. Every creature calls his name with its last breath. “A’stoc. A’stoc. A’stoc!”

  The mage started, breaking contact with Chentelle. He blinked and rubbed his eyes in confusion. “What—?”

  Chentelle placed her fingers over his lips. She put her own lips very close to his ear, so that they touched it when she spoke. “We must be quiet,” she whispered. “Something comes.”

  She pointed across the river. A hunched figure could be seen silhouetted against the waning moon. It shambled down the hillside toward the water. At first, she thought it might be a misshapen old man, but the arms were too long, hanging nearly to the ground. The head was wrong, too, with brutish jaws and a squat, thick skull. The figure was naked but covered all over with coarse reddish hair.

  “Hel’s Pits,” A’stoc muttered tersely. “A vikhor.”

  He rolled silently to his feet and started to gather up his things. “Hurry. Their senses are not sharp. We may be able to hide from it.”

  Chentelle and Sulmar quickly moved to help him. They removed everything from the clearing and hid behind the shelter of the trees.

  “What did you call it?” Chentelle whispered softly.

  “A vikhor. Animated flesh without a true soul. When vikhors kill, they take a fraction of that person’s spirit for their own. If they kill enough to gain a soul, then they leave their bodies behind, becoming wraiths. So they have a nigh insatiable appetite for mayhem.”

  Chentelle started to ask what a wraith was, for she was not versed in the Lore of Ill-creatures, but stopped herself at the sound of splashing water.

  The vikhor was crossing the river, padding easily through the shallow current. It emerged downstream of them, ambling along sometimes on two legs, or on three, or four. On occasion it even seemed to use its head as an appendage. No natural creature, certainly. It picked up speed scurrying into the east at an impressive pace.

  “Thank the Creator,” Chentelle whispered. She turned back to A’stoc and froze. The wizard stared past her shoulder, his face twisted into a mask of rage. She spun back around and had to stifle the urge to scream.

  The vikhor had stopped running. It paused, cocking its head and looking about. Then it started walking directly toward their camp.

  But why? How did it know where they were? Then Chentelle saw it, the orb-light. “A’stoc,” she whispered frantically, “the crystal.”

  “I know,” he said, barely managing to keep his voice to a whisper. “But I cannot deactivate the spell from here, and if I move into the clearing the vikhor will spot me anyway.”

  Chentelle wanted to cry out, to jump up and run, to do anything other than just sit there as the Ill-creature moved closer. Her body quivered with fear and blood hammered in her ears as the glowing yellow eyes approached the limit of A’stoc’s wards.

  Brilliant light flashed through the clearing. The vikhor yelped in pain, covering its eyes and shaking its head in surprise.

  A’stoc leaped to his feet, aimed the mandril wand and shouted a spell. The wand flared, and a magic fireball flew from its tip. Flames engulfed the Ill-creature before it could react.

  The vikhor vanished into a pile of ash, but in its death it gave a sudden, ferocious roar. The sound was horrible, deafening. It echoed through the narrow valley before fading into the distance.

  Then it was answered. A chorus of howls came from the low hills on the other side of the river.

  A’stoc raced into the clearing and grabbed the crystal sphere. He slipped it into his pack and hefted the weight onto his back. He looked at the sky for a moment, then turned to Chentelle. “We cannot risk a light. You will have to guide us to the high hills east of here.”

  Chentelle hesitated, unsure of what the mage wanted.

  “Hurry,” he growled. “If we keep moving we have a chance.”

  Chentelle scooped up her pack and started running east, staying close to the cover of trees whenever possible. She kept her pace slow and tried to use the most even paths, but still the humans had difficulty keeping up. A’stoc’s labored wheezing was loud in her ears, and even Sulmar stumbled occasionally in the dim light. She eased her pace slightly so her companions would not hurt themselves.

  “No,” A’stoc gasped. “Do not slow. We will keep up.”

  As they moved away from the riverbed, the terrain became rougher and there were fewer trees to provide concealment. The hills were still half a league away, and they were all weakening. She pulled to a halt near the final cluster of trees. “A’stoc, we will lose our cover if we continue.”

  The mage did not stop running. He grabbed her pack as he passed, forcing her to stumble along with him. “Do as I say, elf girl! Make for the top of the nearest hill.”

  Chentelle pulled herself loose, fighting to keep her balance. “Fine,” she said, but she felt terribly exposed as she led the way onto the open plain. As they neared the foot of the hill, she suddenly realized the mage’s plan. A faint red glow in the sky promised that first-light was not far off. They scrambled up the hill.

  It seemed more like a mountain. The slope was steep and the surface wet with dew, making purchase difficult. But they crawled with ragged determination, digging fingers into the hard dirt to pull themselves up the hillside. Finally, they reached the top. Staggering with exhaustion, they discarded their packs and faced back to check their trail.

  At first, Chentelle thought maybe they had escaped detection. But then she saw a half-dozen riders emerge from the trees. For a moment she thought they might be a Legion patrol, but as they neared she saw that their armor was completely black, even to the horse’s barding. No, not horses, the rhythm of their gallop was wrong—the beasts had too many legs. By the Creator, they weren’t riding the beasts; they were a part of them!