“Mistress, you are my liege,” he said. “I divulge no information unless you express otherwise.”

  Chentelle understood. The Tengarian’s Oath of Discipline apparently had little room for ambiguities. He was an instrument of her will. He did nothing without her consent. She was a little intimidated. Such service was a frightful responsibility.

  “Sulmar,” she said. “These men are here for the same reason that we are. Please speak freely with them.” She turned to the others. “Do not be offended. It is his way.”

  Captain Rone spoke quickly. “Oh, we weren’t offended, fair lady. We understand the need for discipline and secrecy. Why, I remember once when I was sailing off the—”

  The captain’s story was interrupted by the sound of Brother Ethnan clearing his throat. “Forgive the intrusion. But if you have all finished eating, the High Bishop would like to speak with you all in the meeting hall. If everyone—” He stopped and looked about. “Where is the Bearer?”

  Chentelle looked at the still-closed door to the mage’s sleeping room. “I will get him,” she said, rising from the table.

  The heavy crystal door swung open easily at her touch. Curtains were drawn across the chamber’s window, and the screening tapestries blocked out the light which suffused the Cathedral. A’stoc lay fully clothed on the bed, clutching the Staff to his chest. He stared in dread at the darkened ceiling, as if the building were about to collapse and crush them all.

  “A’stoc,” she called softly.

  He snapped his head around, glaring at her as if she had struck him. But he did not speak.

  “The High Bishop wants to see us,” she said.

  “Of course,” he said. “We might as well get this over with.” He jumped quickly to his feet and followed Chentelle back to the assembly chamber.

  Brother Ethnan spoke to A’stoc as they entered. “If you wish to break fast before the meeting, Bearer, we will wait.”

  “No. I have no wish to delay.”

  The acolyte bowed and indicated that they should follow. A’stoc and the others did, but Chentelle, and therefore Sulmar, held back.

  A’stoc paused. “What’s the matter?”

  “I am not part of this meeting,” Chentelle said. “I came only to see you here. I do not wish to intrude where I do not belong.”

  He snorted. “You aren’t done yet, lady elf. I can still balk.”

  “But—”

  Brother Ethnan smiled. “You are on the list, Lady Chentelle. Please do accompany us, with your liegeman.”

  She was supposed to join the meeting? This was a courtesy she could not decline. She nodded acquiescently.

  He led them through the outer hall to the stairs of the central spire. They ascended several levels and then followed a corridor which curved along the outer wall of the tower. The busy streets of the Holy City were clearly visible far below them.

  Chentelle felt a twinge of dizziness and eased away from the transparent outer wall. She looked down at the floor, hoping to steady herself. There was nothing there. A hundred cubits below her feet, the ground beckoned to her. “Oh, no!” she cried, stumbling in vertigo. Only Sulmar’s supporting arm kept her from falling.

  “Thank you,” she said. “This walking on air takes some getting used to.”

  Brother Ethnan laughed gently. “I know what you mean. It took me several weeks to stop bumping into walls, and even longer to walk without my hands spread in front of me. I look upon it as an act of faith.”

  They continued down the corridor until it ended in a huge set of crystal doors. Brother Ethnan threw these open and led them into a vast hall, filled with hundreds of paintings and sculptures. All of the artworks were dedicated to the Creation and the Time of Perfection. A huge table commanded the center of the room, surrounded by chairs for at least fifty people.

  “Please make yourselves comfortable,” the acolyte said. “The High Bishop will be here in a moment.”

  Chentelle ran her hand over the smooth surface of the table, feeling the love and care that went into its crafting. It was obviously the product of rillandef. The wood from a dozen oaks had been seamlessly blended by a true master of the art. No carvings decorated the table, but the natural grains of the wood had been highlighted and enhanced. The graceful swirls hinted at a dozen designs and elegantly evoked the flowing harmony of the Creation.

  The company seated themselves around the table. Almost immediately, the doors opened again, and two figures came striding through. The first was an elderly human wearing a white robe identical to Brother Ethnan’s. The other was shorter, the size of a dwarf or a small elf. He, or she, was completely masked by a voluminous, cowled white robe. Even the hands were hidden inside long, bell-shaped sleeves.

  Both figures marched quickly to the head of the table, and the human spoke. “Greeting to you all. I am Father Marcus Alanda, High Bishop of the Holy Order in Talan.”

  Everyone stood and bowed their heads in respect.

  “Please join hands,” the High Bishop said. “I would like to call the Creator’s blessing to our gathering.”

  The company linked hands, except for the cowled figure, who extended the folds of its robe in lieu of them. Chentelle wondered at this, but obligingly took a fold in her hand, as did the person on the other side. In this manner they formed the circle, which represented the Sphere. But there was a problem. The table was too wide for the members on the end to reach across. Brother Ethnan overcame the difficulty smoothly, climbing onto the polished surface and sitting respectfully with crossed legs. From there, he could easily grasp hands with the people on either side.

  When the circle was whole, the High Bishop spoke. “In the name of the Creator, I called for you to come. In your love of the Creation, you answered that call. In the circle of worship, we come together. In the circle of worship, we create the Perfection of the Sphere. In the circle of worship, we find harmony with Creation. In the harmony of Creation, we find all. The Creator blesses us with this gift.”

  “Bless the Creator,” they responded.

  The High Bishop motioned for them to sit. “To start with, I think some brief introductions would be helpful.” He nodded toward A’stoc. “Wizard, will you begin?”

  A’stoc stood. “I am A’stoc, apprentice to A’pon Boemarre, Bearer of the Thunderwood Staff.” Then he sat.

  Now, it was Chentelle’s turn, but she wasn’t really sure how to announce herself. Finally, she decided on the title that A’stoc had given her at the gate. “I am Chentelle, the Messenger. And this is my liegeman, Sulmar.”

  Thildemar went next, naming himself and his homeland. Then each of the Legionnaires declared himself by name and regiment. Finally, Captain Rone introduced himself and his two crewmen, Zubec and Pardec.

  The High Bishop listened to them all. Then he turned to Chentelle. “I am curious. You announced yourself as the Messenger. What became of the Wizard A’mond?”

  “Your Eminence, he died during the winter,” Chentelle said. “The dove you sent came to me, and I carried your message to A’stoc.”

  The High Bishop made the sign of harmony and closed his eyes in prayer. “A’mond, yours was a brave and gentle soul. Your passing leaves us all poorer for your absence. I will pray that you find peace with the Creator. But in my heart, in my faith, I know that you have already done so. Be whole in the Creation, my friend. When the time comes, we will be together again.”

  The words were charged with a power of faith and reverence that called to something deep within Chentelle’s spirit. Tears rolled down her face as she was overcome by a grief she hadn’t realized was still within her. The pain of A’mond’s death came upon her anew. Then it faded into nothingness as the grief was lifted from her. Joy and understanding filled her, for as she let go of A’mond in death, her heart sang with memories of A’mond in life.

  Suddenly, Chentelle realized that the High Bishop had spoken to her again. He looked at her expectantly, as if waiting for an answer. “Um, I’m sorry, Your Eminence. What did you say?”

  He smiled reassuringly. “Please, call me Father Marcus. ‘Eminence’ is too proud a title, especially for this brave company. I asked how it was the dove came to you. Are you a student of the High Lore?”

  Chentelle tried not to blush. There was nothing intimidating about Father Marcus’ manner. But he had such a serenity about him, such a sense of presence, that she was nervous anyway. “No, Your E—no, Father Marcus. I think the dove came to me because of my Gift. I am an enchantress.”

  Amazement showed on his face. “You surprise me, my dear. I did not know an enchantress existed in the Realm. Why did you not introduce yourself with the title?”

  Chentelle shrugged, embarrassed at her mistake. “I am not used to announcing myself as one. And in any event, I do not belong in this company. I merely sought to deliver the message, because A’mond could not, and—”

  A’stoc broke in. “She is young, for an elf, High Bishop, and unfamiliar with the protocol for meetings such as this. But if not for her Gift, your message would never have reached me. And if not for her passion and persistence, I would never have been persuaded to come.”

  “Then all of Norivika owes her a great debt,” Father Marcus said gravely.

  Chentelle released a tense breath, grateful that the mage was speaking for her. And he was saying such kind things. Maybe Father Marcus’ blessing had affected A’stoc, too. Maybe it had allowed him to release some of his own grief. She looked at the mage, letting herself see him with the vision of the Holy Land.

  There was a calmness about him, now. A sense of acceptance and forgiveness that softened his thorny nature. But she realized that the hard core of anger remained. The deep pit of bitterness and self-doubt which plagued A’stoc still resisted the peace of the Holy Order.

  She turned back to the High Bishop. “Father Marcus, did the dove ever return to you?”

  “No,” he answered. “It has not returned. Do you know what has become of her?”

  Chentelle remembered her vivid dream of the Ill-creature dropping the lifeless bird at her feet. Sadly, she nodded her head. “She is dead.”

  The High Bishop’s face seemed to mirror her own pain. Tears welled in his clear blue eyes as he whispered a quiet prayer. Then he looked up and spoke to the company. “I know of the evil that roams beyond the Barrier, but I would hear also of your own experiences. Lord Gemine, will you share your tale first?”

  “As you will, High Bishop.” The human lord stood and drew in a deep breath, and a remarkable change moved through him. Deep, almost uncontrollable energy filled his body. His face and hands seemed to animate of their own accord. His eyes reached out to his audience, and he began to speak, pulling them into his tale with subtle gestures of hand and expression. His rough voice turned every word into a rasp, which he used to carve out the fine details of his saga.

  Chentelle realized that Dacius’ earlier telling, for all its power, had been restrained. He had a flair for telling that ever Willow would envy. Though scarcely an hour had passed since Chentelle last heard the story, it hit her with undiminished force. She felt herself carried along with the joy of the human’s reunion with Alka Shara, and her tears fell again at the telling of his valiant sacrifice. Finally, the tale brought them back to the Holy Land. Lord Gemine stopped speaking, his gruff tones deepening slowly into silence. But it was not an empty silence. The charge of battle, the pain of lost comrades, the determination and courage of the Legionnaires, these things and more echoed through the quiet hall.

  Dacius spoke again. His voice was steady, forceful, but empty now of the rough power that had driven his narrative. “High Bishop, I understand that you have called on the Legion to counter this threat, and we stand ready to answer that call. But you see how many men are here. We do not even fill this table. Without more weapons, I do not see how we can stem the Dark One’s tide.”

  “Patience, Lord Gemine,” Father Marcus answered softly. “I will answer your concerns, but first I would hear the wizard’s tale. If you would be so kind, Wizard A’stoc.”

  A’stoc shrugged and then spoke without rising. “The enchantress brought me your summons. I decided to answer it. Ill-creatures attacked us on the way here. We escaped.”

  Father Marcus waited, but A’stoc said no more. The priest gave a soft sigh and turned to face the company. “I have called you here for a purpose, but perhaps not for the one which you expect. The Dark One and his minions are a grave threat to the Realm, but they are not the only threat. There is another evil loose on Infinitera, a power more terrible than the Dark One himself, one that threatens to destroy the Creation. That is the reason I have brought you all here.”

  “But I am here only incidentally,” Chentelle protested. “Because the dove found me instead of the one it sought. Now I must return home.”

  Father Marcus paused, seeming surprised. He glanced at A’stoc.

  “She is a truly innocent creature,” A’stoc said dryly.

  Father Marcus smiled. “So I see.” He turned to Chentelle. “My dear, you greatly underestimate your importance. The dove sought not merely a person, but a figure of power sufficient to do the necessary job. You were that figure, and you confirmed it by forcing the attendance of this curmudgeon.” His gaze flicked to A’stoc, who grimaced. “Your potency is great, enchantress, though subtle, and we do need your participation in this most vital mission. I beg you not to desert us in this critical hour.”

  Chentelle was astounded. “But I’m only an elf girl who—”

  “Have you not seen signs? Dreams? Signals that this is your destiny?”

  There he had her. “I have dreamed,” she agreed. “If it is truly your wish—”

  “It truly is my wish, enchantress,” he agreed. “For the sake of the salvation of our Realm.”

  She was overwhelmed. “Then of course I agree.”

  Father Marcus nodded, as if she had just confirmed the obvious. Then he addressed the full group. “Before I continue, I must make one thing clear. In this matter, I do not act as an official of the Realm. No oath or onus of duty compels any of you to join my quest. Any man, or woman, who wishes may leave now without bearing dishonor. I ask only that you remain in the Holy Land and speak to no one of what you have learned until the quest has been completed.”

  As the High Bishop paused to examine the faces of his company, Chentelle felt the weight behind his words. An evil more terrible than the Dark One, it was almost beyond belief. She felt suddenly small and insignificant. What could she do? She had been helpless even against the foul power of the vikhors. How could she fight a power greater than the mightiest of Ill-creatures? But how could she not? The Creation needed her, and she could not refuse. When Father Marcus’ gaze fell on her, she just smiled and tried to nod resolutely. After all, she had just agreed.

  Then the High Bishop’s eyes turned to A’stoc. “I will wait to decide until I hear the object of this quest,” the mage said.

  He was not yet committed? And they expected her to see that he did commit. Chentelle sighed inwardly.

  “Very well,” Father Marcus said, turning back to face the company. “We will sail south, deep into the reaches of the Great Sea. There is an island there, the remnant of a lost continent. In the eleven thousand years of elven history, no mention is made of this land, but it exists. On the island is a second Atablicryon, a companion to our own Holy Temple. And in this temple we will find an artifact to aid us in our mission, the Sphere of Ohnn.”

  “The Sphere of Ohnn,” A’stoc exclaimed, a look of amazement on his face.

  “Do you know of the Sphere?” Father Marcus asked him.

  A’stoc shook his head in confusion. “Yes—I mean no. I mean, the Sphere of Ohnn is a theoretical construct. My master and some of his colleagues speculated that an artifact might exist which served as a gateway to Earthpower through the inanimate, just as the Tree of Life functioned as a bridge through the living. But it was only a conjecture.”

  “It is more than conjecture,” Marcus said. “The Sphere of Ohnn holds a fragment of pure Earthpower, the primal force which binds the Creation. Retrieving the Sphere is the first step of our quest.” He paused, waiting patiently for A’stoc to speak.

  Chentelle could feel the mage’s excitement. His curiosity was aroused by the prospect of finding an object his master had only imagined. But something within the man held back. Years of bitterness and disappointment refused to release him from their grip.

  “I am intrigued,” he said. “Please continue.”

  The High Bishop nodded. “First, I would like to introduce my companion, Gorin, another follower of the Holy Order.”

  The cowled figure walked to Father Marcus’ side and pulled back his cowl, revealing a pale round head, devoid of hair and far too large for his small body. Large black pupils floated in bloodred eyeballs, covered occasionally by a transparent lid that did nothing to interrupt his eerie stare. The ears were catlike and perched far back on the skull, and the pointed nose was partly covered by two flaps of skin which opened and closed in rhythm to his breathing. The thin black lips parted, revealing multiple rows of teeth. “Greetings.”

  “RRRAAAHHHH!”

  Chentelle snapped her head around at the incoherent growl of rage. She saw Dacius jumping to his feet and reaching for his sword. Anger poured from the man in hot waves. His hand closed around the hilt of his weapon, and a bout of terrible trembling seized his body. A look of confusion crossed his face as he realized that he could not draw the blade.

  “It—it’s a goblin,” he said, struggling to regain control of his voice.

  Chentelle saw that several of the other Legionnaires had also gotten to their feet. They, too, were staring at the goblin as if ready for violence.

  “Peace,” said Father Marcus softly. “There will be no fighting here. Nor is there any need.”

  He was right, of course. The aura of the Holy Land made violence impossible. And it was equally impossible for the goblin to pose any threat to them here. Quickly, the Legionnaires returned to their seats, looking almost embarrassed for their reaction. Only Dacius remained standing.