A’stoc pulled off his cloak and tossed it onto the cot. Underneath, he wore a faded robe which might have been silk. It had been sky blue once, but now was stained and worn nearly to rags. He had no leggings or trousers, and his long feet were protected only by leather-and-rope sandals.

  He slid the bed over to the end of the table and sat down on its edge. “So tell me your message, elf girl,” he said.

  Chentelle studied the man who sat before her. She knew that wizards used their power to prolong their lives, but A’stoc seemed both ancient and young, both proud and defeated. His tanned skin was unlined save for the deep crease of his perpetual frown, but his unkempt hair was the color of sun-bleached bone. There was fire in his pale gray eyes, but there was also the look of a caged animal. He was definitely the man in her dream, but there was something else. She felt as if she had known him long before that.

  Then it came to her. After the war, a human had come to Lone Valley, seeking Wizard A’mond. He had been a pitiful creature, consumed by pain and despair. His emotions called out to Chentelle, to the grief she felt at her father’s passing. She had never spoken to him, but somehow touching his sorrow had helped her deal with her own. This was that man, different but unchanged.

  “Well,” said A’stoc, “are you going to tell me the message, or did you come all this way just to stare?”

  “Sorry,” Chentelle said. “I’ll give you the message. But first you should know how I came to bear it. I intercepted a dove sent to Wizard A’mond. The High Bishop was unaware that the wizard had died during the winter.”

  A’stoc closed his eyes and rested his head on long fingers. “A’mond,” he whispered, “I remember him. A master of Wood Lore. I went to him after the war, looking for knowledge or perhaps comfort. He was ancient, even then. You bear sad news, elf girl.”

  “And there is more. The High Bishop wanted A’mond to seek you out. You are supposed to take the Staff to the Holy City of Norivika. And on the way here, Sulmar and I encountered an Ill-creature. It is clear that the High Bishop needs your help to deal with their threat.”

  “No!” A’stoc slammed his palms against the table and lurched to his feet.

  The movement startled Chentelle and caused Sulmar to jump to his own feet, hand resting on the hilt of his sword. But the wizard only stalked off into the kitchen area.

  “I cannot help you,” he said. “There is nothing I can do for the High Bishop. Nothing.”

  “I—I don’t understand,” Chentelle said. “You are going to ignore the message?”

  “There is nothing to understand, elf girl. I cannot go, and the two of you must leave.”

  A’stoc turned his back, dismissing them. He pulled open the large cupboard and grabbed a wine flask and a clay goblet. He sucked a large swallow directly from the flask and then filled the goblet, simultaneously wiping his chin clean against his sleeve.

  “He is a coward, mistress,” Sulmar said, not taking his eyes off the wizard. “He would hide in a wine bottle rather than take a stand against evil.”

  A’stoc pulled himself to his full height and glared at Sulmar. The wine flask trembled as his grip tightened. The tension between the two men was palpable, but then the wizard laughed and took another swallow of wine. “Bloodthirsty Tengarian!” he said. “You are Tengarian, aren’t you?”

  Sulmar’s posture remained rigid. “No,” he said, “though I was once.”

  A’stoc continued as if he hadn’t heard the response. “I know your people: barbarous savages. You spend your lives looking for an opportunity to die, for a hopeless cause to make your own. And now you’ve found one, haven’t you?”

  He pointed at Chentelle. “Look at her, Tengarian. She wants us to fight the Dark One. And you stand by her side like a loyal puppy, wagging your tail at her folly. I’m sure it will be a glorious death. You are welcome to it.”

  Sulmar’s knuckles grew white on the pommel of his sword, but his voice remained even. “My mistress sets her own path. I stand beside her, as is my duty. When I see evil, I fight against it. When I see something precious, I strive to protect it. I do not know what you do.” He turned his back to the wizard and returned to his seat.

  A’stoc turned to Chentelle. “Listen to me. There is no use in me going. Tell the Bishop that the power he searches for is lost. Tell him, elf girl, that I do not have what he seeks.” He drained the goblet in one smooth motion and started to fill it again.

  “But my mission was merely to inform you of your mission,” she protested. “I have nothing to tell anyone else. I shall be going home.”

  He peered sourly at her with some discomfiting insight. “I think not.”

  “But—”

  “No! We do not talk. We eat, we drink, we sleep, and then you leave.”

  So his dismissal had become a surly invitation. “Thank you, wizard,” Chentelle said politely.

  A’stoc started to say something, but stifled it. He grabbed two more goblets and set them on the table along with the flask. Then he started chopping vegetables into a large stew pot. He went up the stairs and came back with an already slaughtered and cleaned chicken. He roasted this separately from the stew and finished the meal preparations by warming some hard biscuits over the fire.

  Chentelle was famished, but the smell of roasting flesh was making her ill. She understood that humans felt the need to eat animals, but her empty stomach could not bear the stench. A few sips of the strong wine only made her queasiness worse. She got up and wandered away from the table.

  What did A’stoc mean by negating her intention to return home now? He had magical sources of information, but he obviously did not care about her. What did he know?

  Huge stalactites were hanging from the cave’s ceiling, glittering like a beetle’s wings. She went to one and brushed her fingers against a shard of shining crystal, reaching out with her Gift. The adartak glowed with power. It was a web of fire running through the cold strength of the stone. And at the center of the web, there was something else, another power. But it was shielded from her. She reached for it with her Gift but felt only a cold, hard wall.

  Chentelle pulled back into herself, keeping only a hint of the extended awareness that was her Gift. The pool—the power she felt was centered at the pool.

  She walked down the stairs to the third tier. This was apparently A’stoc’s workshop. The large stone tables and desk were covered with scrolls and experimental apparatus. Long bookshelves rested awkwardly against the curved walls, and the floor was littered with glass shards and loose parchments. In the center of the workshop, the silvery surface of the pool was surrounded by a ring of rune-carved stones.

  Drops of fluid fell from stalactites thirty cubits above, striking the pool with a muffled plunk, plunk, plunk. It didn’t sound like water, and the surface remained absolutely still. Not a single ripple marked where the drops passed. Chentelle moved to the pool’s edge and peered in, but she saw only her own somewhat disheveled image reflected in the water. Whatever lay below the surface was hidden.

  She knelt down and touched the surface, searching with her Gift. Shallow ripples marked the passage of her hand. It was water, cool and pure but unnaturally still. Fields of power hummed through it, pulling it taut. And there, below the tension of the surface waters, was the other power she had felt. It pulsed with vitality, a core of fire burning in an ocean of ice. Chentelle reached for it with her Gift.

  An electric shock coursed through her fingers, knocking her back from the water. The pool began churning violently, as if it were boiling. Streamers of mist poured from the surface, swirling about in a wind which seemed to spring from nowhere.

  Chentelle turned to flee, but a gust of wind blasted her to the floor. The gale twisted around her, pressing her against the rough stone and then changing direction, forcing her back toward the pool. Her finger tore at the rock, trying to find purchase, but it was no use. The wind was too strong.

  The mists coalesced above the water, taking form. A thick, sinuous body ended in a massive, square-jawed head. Long forelimbs led to wicked claws of vapor. The thing reached for Chentelle, opening its jaws to reveal a pit of absolute darkness within.

  She screamed.

  Suddenly, Sulmar was there, his black sword striking at the mists. The blade seemed to pass harmlessly through the vapor, but the thing shied away from the attack.

  “Nalchea! Mig Noka!”

  A’stoc’s shout brought instant calm. The wind died, the water quieted, the mist faded to nothingness.

  The mage stood rigidly, glaring at Chentelle. He said nothing for a long moment. Then, with a visible effort, he turned away and walked back up the stairs.

  “Dinner is ready,” he called contemptuously over his shoulder.

  Sulmar appeared, reaching down to help her to her feet. “Are you all right, my liege?”

  “Fine,” she said, trembling. “Thank you for your help.”

  “I did only my duty, liege,” he said. “I should have been here in time to prevent the threat.”

  “And I expressed only my feelings,” Chentelle replied. “I should not have interfered in what was not my business. Now let’s go eat. I’m famished.”

  They ate in silence. A’stoc drained his wine goblet with amazing frequency and refused all openings to conversation. The stew was bland, but filling. And Sulmar seemed to be enjoying his roast chicken.

  Once Chentelle’s belly was full, her mind started racing. Why did A’stoc refuse to go to Norivika? And what was it she had sensed in the water? The wizard said he did not have the power to help the High Bishop, but there was something puissant in that pool. A’stoc was hiding something.

  Chentelle inhaled slowly, steeling herself to face the mage’s anger. “Wizard, what was it I disturbed in the pool?”

  A’stoc glared at her over the rim of his goblet. “Do you know anything about wizardry?” he asked, with particular calmness.

  Chentelle shook her head.

  “No?” he said. “I suppose there are not many who do. That is a magepool, elf girl. You must never disturb the surface of such a pool. Wizards are notoriously paranoid about such things, they protect them with powerful wards.”

  He put a strange inflection on the word ‘wizards.’ Chentelle could not tell if it was mockery or awe.

  “But, wizard,” she said, trying to guide him back to the subject, “I sensed another power in the well. Something separate from the spells on the water. You said that you did not have the power the High Bishop seeks, but what I felt was great power. Why is it that you refuse the High Bishop’s call?”

  A’stoc drained his goblet and slammed it against the table. “Jester tricks! The power you felt is nothing compared to the power of the Dark One. I told you—”

  The mage cut himself off. A thoughtful look passed over his face and he turned to face Chentelle. “How did you close my doorway?” he asked quietly.

  “It is my Gift,” she said. “I am an enchantress. I can sense the forces of life and magic that—”

  “I know what an enchantress is, elf girl,” he said sharply. He upended the flask over his cup, but no wine poured out. He set the empty flask on the floor and started to rise, but he lurched unsteadily and fell back in his seat.

  “I will get it for you,” Chentelle said. She did not approve of the way he was imbibing, but she knew that it was pointless to aggravate him further. She went to the cupboard and found two shelves full of bottled wine. She selected a dark burgundy that seemed identical to what they had been drinking and brought it back to the table. She filled A’stoc’s glass and set the flask down within his reach. Then she returned to her chair.

  A’stoc said nothing.

  “Wizard,” she said, laying a hand on his wrist.

  He jerked his arm away from her, nearly toppling the wine flask in the process. She realized that while touching was natural to her, it was not necessarily so to humans. “You want to know why I don’t jump at the High Bishop’s call?” he asked.

  “Please,” she said. “I need to understand.”

  “Then you have to understand the Wizards’ War,” he said, reaching out and sandwiching her hand between both of his own. “Use your Gift, little enchantress. I have something to show you.”

  Chentelle’s hand felt tiny in his grasp. Now he was touching her, and that was perhaps good. The intensity of his need struck her even before she called on her power. Part of her wanted to recoil from him, but she knew that she could not. She would not, even if she were capable. She had to understand. She opened herself to the Gift.

  A’stoc was a wall, a barrier that resisted all attempts at penetration. Then the shield dissolved, lowered from within, and Chentelle sensed a diamond-hard core of power: shining, multifaceted, sharp-edged.

  Then the emotions hit her. She tossed in a maelstrom of bitterness and despair, of suffering and sadness. The power, the depth of the feelings overwhelmed her. It was too strong to fight. She surrendered, letting the current of anguish wash over her, through her. A’stoc’s pain, A’stoc’s memories, became hers. Slowly, the tide of emotions resolved itself into a progression of images.

  She watched the Dark One emerge from the Abyss, building his strength for the assault. He seduced the trolls with promises of power and wealth. Then he created an army of Ill-creatures, breeding them in foul pits deep beneath the surface. As his power grew, others flocked to his banner: first the gnomes, then the goblins.

  In Norivika, the High Bishop moved to counter the threat. He called upon the separate kingdoms of human, elf, and dwarf to unite their forces under one command. And he summoned the Lore Masters of the Collegium. A’pon Boemarre answered that call. And Chentelle—A’stoc—had followed her master.

  Some wizards joined in battle against the Ill-creatures, others worked in laboratories, filling volumes with mystic rune-writing. A’pon Boemarre locked himself away in Norivika. Chentelle waited impotently while her master studied in seclusion. Then after more than a year, A’pon Boemarre emerged bearing the mightiest weapon ever known: the Thunderwood Staff. He had created it from the Tree of Life—the Tree which binds the Earth and Sky. And it frightened him.

  She had seen his fear, though he hid it from all others. The Thunderwood Staff held power over life itself. Its power was unimaginable, perhaps uncontrollable. But that power was needed.

  The forces of evil slowly crushed the Legion armies. The power of the Ill-creatures was too great. Slowly, inexorably the Dark One advanced into the Realm. Then A’pon Boemarre took the field. The Thunderwood Staff was in his hand, and she was at his side.

  Chentelle recoiled as memories of blood and death filled her mind. Battle after battle played out in her thoughts as the war continued. For four years, the tide of war swept across the Realm. Thousands died; even the giants were caught up in the struggle as their homeland became a center for the conflict. Again and again, the armies clashed. Again and again, the Staff proved too much for the Ill-creatures. And victory increased the confidence of A’pon Boemarre.

  The Legion pressed its attack to the heart of the Dark One’s power, the breeding pits where he spawned his Ill-creatures. The armies met in the Western Mountains, near the homelands of the giants and the trolls. Neither side held back its reserves; everyone knew the war would be decided here. War banners covered a dozen mountainsides, but the true battle took place beneath their feet.

  In a cave under the mountains, beside molten pits that led to the Abyss, A’pon Boemarre confronted the Dark One. He raised the Thunderwood Staff and summoned its power, surrounding himself with a corona of green flame.

  The Dark One emerged from the pit. Shadows danced around his body, obscuring him from sight, but slowly a face became clear: her face, A’stoc’s face. The face smiled and paralysis gripped her. She was unable to speak, unable to move, unable even to look away.

  Boemarre lashed out with the power of the Staff. Green flames enveloped the Dark One, burning brighter than the Golden Sun. But they could not penetrate his shield of shadow.

  The Dark One moved forward, grabbing at the Staff. Bolts of emerald and ebony shot through the cavern as he tried to wrestle it away from the wizard. Power throbbed around the battling figures. The ground trembled, and deep cracks appeared in the floor. The fire pits erupted in molten geysers. A fireball began forming around the staff: not green, not black, but pure white. The intensity of the light was too much too bear. It burned her eyes, blinding her, but somehow she could still see.

  A crevice opened up beneath Boemarre and the Dark One. They dropped through the crack, and the Thunderwood Staff flew from their hands. It fell in Chentelle’s direction. One end landed in her palm; the other struck against the stone floor. The fireball exploded.

  The Earth screamed in her mind. The wall of flames expanded outward, leaving destruction in its wake. Every blade of grass, every shrub, every insect, every being in its path caught fire. The flames passed through the assembled armies. Elves burst into flames; knights burned inside their armor; goblins were reduced to piles of ash; and the fire kept going. Village after village of peace-loving giants were consumed by flame, and the fire kept going. The entire race of trolls died as their marshes boiled around them, and still the fire kept going. The Earth itself burned and twisted in the conflagration. Then, at last, the holocaust stopped.

  Only she was left alive. The wasteland stretched around her as far as she could see, a vast panorama of death. And she walked. She walked through fields littered with the corpses of men she might once have known. She walked over twisted landscapes of dust and rock and soot. She walked until she couldn’t walk anymore. Then she slept. And all the while she never let go of the Thunderwood Staff.

  When she woke, she started walking again. She came across the corpse of an animal that still had some flesh on its bones, and she attacked it in hunger. The burned meat made her thirsty, but there was no water. She walked. At some point it rained, and then she could catch water in her mouth or lick it from depressions in the rock. And she walked.

  She walked for leagues. She walked for days. But the wasteland kept going. It stretched before her, vast, seemingly without end. But she couldn’t stop. She kept walk—