One of the centaurs, a cream-colored mare with dark hair on her woman's head, spoke to him in words Anna could not understand. Still he did not move, although he was surrounded.

'They told you to let us go!" shouted Blessing indignantly, squirming in his grasp. "I hate you, you smelly bag of grease!"

He released her. The centaurs backed up, still with their arrows trained on him, but they did not move as he bolted away Upri running east toward the crags.

'I told you something was coming, Anna! No one ever belie me!"

Anna staggered. The sun made the swaying grass into a green-gold haze, impossible to focus on. A cloud of white butterflies ro up from the shoreline of the river, light winking with each beat o their dazzling wings. A distant call rose, high-pitched, melding with the song of the river. Far above, a graceful shape emerged out of the vanguard of the new storm sweeping in from the east.

'Look!" shrieked Blessing. "Look there!"

Its iron wings flashed and glittered, catching the sun's light. It wore an eagle's proud head and a lion's strong body, with a snake's tail lashing as it flew. If it saw them, it ignored them; perhaps they were beneath its notice. Certainly it was too far away for any of the centaur women to shoot at it.

'I knew we'd reached the hunting grounds! Now we can hunt!"

Anna's knees gave out, but she did not hit the ground. Strong arms caught her, and she was lifted as easily as a grown woman hoists a weary infant and thrown across the back of the cream-colored mare.

She clutched at the creature's mane to drag herself upright. This was neither mare nor woman. Creatures out of legend had rescued them. Bulkezu had not raped and murdered them. They were free. Laughing, crying, she could not speak to thank them, but she had no need to do so since Blessing had already begun asking questions, demanding to know more about the griffins and the river and the storm of butterflies.

Someday Anna would go home to Gent and tell the tale of her adventures. Matthias would never believe her.

That thought only made her cry more.

'CENTAURS!" breathed Captain Fulk. Like the rest of the men, he stared in astonishment at the inhuman army-perhaps five hundred strong-that approached their hastily-drawn line.

'Let the men remain in formation," said Sanglant, "but do not act unless I give you a signal. Or if I fall." "My lord prince!"

'I know what I'm doing. Breschius, accompany me." He sheathed his sword and stepped out in front of the line of soldiers drawn up along the slope with the camp behind them. They had a terrible position, downslope, where the weight of the centaur charge would press them backward into the wreckage of their camp, scattered, frightened horses, tangled ropes, twisted and fallen canvas everywhere... yet such a ruin gave dismounted soldiers an advantage over four-legged opponents.

Breschius and Hathui fell in behind him as he trudged up the slope toward the creatures advancing at a walk over the crest. Behind, men called out, calming horses, seeking armor, trading weapons, strengthening their line in case the worst happened. He had only his red cloak to shield him should they attack-that, and his mother's curse. "Are these the sorcerers we seek, Breschius?"

'We must hope so, my lord prince. The Bwr people have little mercy for our kind."

'Be sure I am remembering the history of the Dariyan Empire and their fate at the hands of a Bwr army so long ago. Yet in the old tales it is always said that the Bwr people came not only to plunder and capture slaves, but because they hated the empire itself. Why would the centaur people hate the Dariyans so much?"

'Poets entertain by embroidering fancy patterns on plain cloth. I think bloodlust and greed suffice to explain the Bwr invasion that destroyed the Dariyan Empire. After all, they are more like to the beasts than we are. Yet if these meant to attack, they could have done so under cover of the storm when we were helpless."

'So I am also thinking." Grass whispered against his legs as he followed the scars left by Bulkezu's passage up the hill, pockets of snow melting into slush that made for slippery going. "Do you think there are weather witches among them who brought the storm?"

'Truly, it is said the centaurs of old taught weather magic to the Kerayit shamans, my lord prince. They might have sent the blizzard before them, or overwhelmed it with this spring wind."

'The Quman are retreating, my lord prince," said Hathui. "They are abandoning their tents and fleeing."

'Keep your eye on them in case they attack us from the rear." He dared not shift his attention away from his new adversaries as he and his companions came into bow range. He had to try to turn these inhuman creatures into his allies, but he wasn't at all sure they would believe his stories of distant conspiracies and a vast cataclysm And what of Blessing? What she might suffer at the Quman chieftain's hands... He dared not think of her if he was to command effectively.

Although it was hot only in contrast to the appalling cold they had just suffered, Sanglant sweated under the blaze of an unexpectedly bright sun. He paused to catch his breath and wipe his brow. Ahead the massed line of the centaurs came to a halt. He noticed for the first time that although they carried bows and wicked-looking spears they wore no armor.

'God help us," he breathed, half laughing, "can it be that they are all females? Are there no stallions among them? Nor even geldings?"

'Beware, my lord prince," said Breschius. "One comes to meet us."

'What of the Quman, Hathui?" He kept his gaze fixed on the silver-gray centaur now picking her way down the slope, stepping with precise neatness through pale winter grass.

'They seem truly to be running, my lord prince. I would guess that they did not expect to meet up with the ones we face now."

'They are wise to be fearful," commented Breschius, but his voice seemed steady enough for a man approaching, unarmed, an army that might prove foe as easily as friend. Sanglant glanced at the fra-ter's right arm, which ended in a stump, but although Breschius, too, was sweating, he did not seem afraid. Sanglant waited, more impressed than he cared to admit, as the centaur halted a body's length from him, surveying him as closely as he examined her.

She was old. Strands of glossy black hid within her fine silver coat and the coarse braids of her human hair, which fell past her hips. She wore no clothing of any kind except a quiver across her back and a leather glove covering one hand and wrist. Once all her coat and her woman's hair had been black, a fine contrast to the creamy color of her woman's skin. Now faded green-and-gold paint striped her human torso, even her breasts, which sagged as did those of crones well past their childbearing years. It was hard to read age on her face, for she did not possess the exact lineaments of a human face but something like and yet unlike, kin to him and yet utterly different. The expression of her eyes seemed touched by ancient pain and hard-won wisdom. Like a virtuous biscop, she wore holiness like a mantle on her shoulders. She looked older than any creature, human or otherwise, he had ever seen.

He inclined his head respectfully. "I give you greetings, Holy One," he said, using the Kerayit title which, Breschius had taught him, was used to address the most senior of their shamans.

She returned his scrutiny with her own appraisal. "I do not know you, although you have the look of my old enemy. Yet you are not the one I seek, the one I hoped for. Has he not returned?"

'I do not know what person you speak of."

'Do you not? Is he not known in your country?"

Already she had lost him. "Who is your old enemy, Holy One?"

'Humankind once called them the Cursed Ones, but the language you speak now is different from the language you spoke when you were young."

'I have always spoken Wendish, even as a child," he began, but he faltered. "You are not speaking of me." When who was young? He felt as though he teetered on the edge of an abyss whose depths he could not plumb. "How old are you, Holy One?"

She smiled, something of warmth and blessed approval in her expression. "You see keenly, you who are son of two bloods, for I smell both humankind and the blood of my old enemy in you. What are you called?"

'I am Sanglant, son of Henry, king of Wendar and Varre."

'This 'Henry' is your mother? Is king among her people?"

'Henry is my father."

Her surprise startled him. Although he could not be sure that he could interpret her expressions as though she were a human woman, she seemed taken aback at the word "father," as though it were ill-mannered or even a little coarse to mention such a word. But she recovered quickly.

'You are bred out of a stallion of the human line, then. Who is your mother?"

'My mother no longer walks on Earth. She is one of the Aoi, the Lost Ones."

'You have more the look of the Ashioi than of humankind. You are therefore a prince twice over in the manner of your people, for your mother must be a shaman of great power. I have seen her-or the one who must be her, since in all the time of their exile only one among them has negotiated the crossroads where worlds and time meet. She alone has set foot upon the earth they yearn for."

'You know of their exile?"

Her smile now was less friendly, even bitter. "I helped bring it about, Prince Sanglant. Do you not know the story?"

'I know no story of the Aoi exile that includes mention of your people, Holy One. I would gladly hear your tale."

'So you may, in time."

A spike of anger kicked through him; he was not accustomed to being spoken to so dismissively. She seemed unaware of his annoyance, however, and continued talking.

'First I need to understand what has brought you here, in the company of those vermin who call themselves children of the griffin."

He looked over his shoulder. The Quman had fled, leaving their tents and half their wagons, but none of their horses. The dust of their passage formed a cloud that obscured their flight, or perhaps that was only one of their shamans raising a veil to hide them.

He turned back. "How is it you speak Wendish, Holy One? Have you met one among my people before?"

'I survived the bite of a snake and now carry its magic in my blood." She tossed her head as might a restless horse. "Such things are not important. If you were come to attack us, surely you would have done so by now, Prince Sanglant. Nor would you have approached us alone, with these two unarmed companions, if you did not wish to speak with us. What do you want? Why have you traveled so far?"

'To meet you," he said, "for it is known that among the Kerayit tribe, who are your allies, there live powerful sorcerers. I seek powerful sorcerers and the feathers of griffins."

'You have ridden a long way, seeking that which you are unlikely to obtain. What is your ambition, Prince Sanglant? What manner of man are you, who desires what he cannot have?"

He laughed, because the pain never left him and now had scarred him afresh. "I have already lost what I cared most for. Twice over. What I seek now I do not desire for my own use, but only for duty's sake-that duty which I was born to because I am the son of the king. I owe my people protection and well-being. Do not believe, I pray you, that because you live so very far from the cities and lands ruled by my people that you are therefore safe from those among them who can work magic."

'The seven died, and their line died out too quickly. Only the Kerayit remember the ancient knowledge."

'Do you mean the Seven Sleepers? They live still, and they have uncovered a working of great power which they mean to weave again in order to cast the Lost Ones back into the aether." Was that jmpatience in her expression? She stamped her back leg, and he had an odd instinct that, had she been able to, she would have lain her ears back in annoyance and snapped at him as does a mare bored with a stallion who is bothering her. "If you would only let me explain the story to you in full, I pray you- 'I know the story, as you cannot. I know what is coming, Prince Sanglant, as you cannot."

'Many will die- 'Yes. Many will die. They always do. The Ashioi were our enemies once. We banded together with humankind to war against them. But in the end it is your people who crippled us and brought us low. It is your people who threaten us now, the Quman, the Sazdakh, the Jinna, the Arethousans, these Daisanites who bring their words that make us sick. We chose the wrong enemy. Or perhaps our fate was already sealed."

'I am not your enemy!"

'I could argue that you are my enemy twice over. Still, I will be willing to speak with you as if you were a female, Prince Sanglant, but only when you have proved your fitness to lead."

The words angered him, but he replied as evenly as he could. "How may I do that?"

'Have you not already spoken of it? Males prove their fitness in the same fashion, whether human or horse. They exist to breed,and to protect the herd when brute force is needed. There is a beast loose in the grass-"

'You have seen him?" Hope shone briefly. Anger sparked, blazing hot and strong. "He has taken my daughter captive!"

'Destroy the beast that stalks in the grass," she repeated. "Then I will speak to you again."

'Will you not help me save my daughter?"

She raised an arm. A huge owl glided in to perch on the centaur's glove. Breschius gasped out loud. The centaur leaned closer to the owl, but even with his keen hearing, Sanglant made out only a rustling as soft as downy feathers rubbed together. She launched the owl back into the air, and it flew away over the ranks of the centaurs, quickly lost to sight.

She examined Sanglant again. "Hunt, Prince Sanglant. If you return, then we will negotiate."

With a flick of her tail, she sidestepped, turned, and walked up the hill to her army.

Hathui had got a spear from Captain Fulk and now hastened up the slope to bring it to Sanglant. He unfastened his cloak and tu it inside out, hiding the bright red cloth and exposing the pale f! fur lining, which blended better with the grass.

'My lord prince." Hathui handed him the spear, the best balanc of those he possessed. Fulk had chosen well, of course. "I beg my lord prince, go carefully. We are all of us-all of Wendar a Varre-lost if you are lost to us."

'I am lost if I let a man like that kidnap and despoil my daughter "

'He wants you to follow him. Surely he must kill another griffin and defeat you, in order to restore his honor and position. Princess Blessing is merely bait."

'So I hope," said Sanglant as he surveyed the sky and the slope of the hill. "That will make it easier to find him."

'Shall I attend you, my lord prince?"

'Nay. Repair camp. Find a more sheltered spot, if you can. Fortify yourselves against unexpected attack, from whatever quarter. Take what you need from what the Quman abandoned. Do not forget that they may creep back and ambush you, but I think that Gyasi can warn you if they approach."

'If we can trust him," said Hathui.

'I trust that he seeks revenge against those who wronged him. Watch him, but do not ignore what he has to say."

'As you wish, my lord prince," said Breschius.

'What if Bulkezu's tribe claims him?" asked Hathui.

'They fled before they could collect on their bargain, taking my sister with them. No matter."

He hefted the spear. Storm clouds piled up to the east where a line of crags erupted out of the high plateau. He smelled the tempest on the west wind. Out in the grasslands, up in the highest lands beyond the reach of the centaur witch, winter still ruled.

Its chilly blast could not possibly be as savage as his anger.

'Bulkezu is a dead man now." a moment only, as she crossed through the heart of the burning stone, she kept hold of Alain and his hounds. Then the weight of the world below ripped them out of her grasp, and she spun, between the worlds, balance lost, the Earth turning beneath her as she fell back into the world she had left behind days ago. She glimpsed the winking glimmer of the crown of stars, laid out across the land, but the turning spheres caught her in their rotation, propelling her away from the lands she knew. The heavy elements of earth and water dragged her down as her wings disintegrated, their aetherical substance too fragile to exist in the world below.

As she passed from the aether into the net of the solid world, she fell through a nether world, betwixt and between, neither grounded in the world below nor afloat in the aether like the Ashioi homeland. She glimpsed a band of shadowy figures on the march, outfitted with spears and bows, children and dogs, both male and females armed and ready. They wore clothing like to that worn by the Lost Ones, and the young man leading them looked strangely familiar to her although she knew she had never seen him before. He looked a little like Sanglant.

He glanced up, sensing her, but he could not see her. "Soon!" he called to the people following him. "We have not much longer to wait. Make haste! Make ready!"

She reached for him, seeking an answer to this mystery, but tumbled past, drawn by a force she could not measure and could not see. Eastward as the land lay, as the world spun, helpless against that great dragging weight, she was pulled far off course as by a grasping hand. What linked her to Earth, calling her back?

Was it Sanglant? The baby?

An instant she had to pray before she fell into a screaming blizzard, the cold so bitter that she could not take in a breath of air because her lungs froze and her face burned and her courage splintered, cracked, and shattered.

Cold.

She was numb with cold. She would never be warm again. Hugh would come, with his lamp, and lead her back into the church where he had made her his slave. She whimpered. God Above, let her imprisonment not happen again.

All this passed through her mind as swiftly as a rock drops from hand to ground. Then, as stinging snow bit into her skin and the wind screamed against her, she fought up to her knees, defying the storm.

She was not that girl any longer. She was no longer defenseless and alone. She had walked the spheres. She had found her mother's kin. She had made peace with her father's memory and his struggles. She had unlocked the door behind which Da had sealed her power.

Hugh no longer ruled her.

But cold could still kill.

The howl of the storm deafened her and she could not see more than a stone's toss in any direction, blinded by snow. She knelt in grass bent earthward by the wind's force; it, too, gave no shelter, but within its fibrous stems lived fire.

Downwind, she called fire out of the grass. Flames licked upward, burning fiercely in an arc of brightness, and she pressed as close to the fire as she dared, careful of her cloak and clothing. The blaze warmed her for a time, difficult to count how long she stood there shivering, but the blizzard beat against fire and bit by bit smothered the flames until they wavered, receded, and died.

The wind screamed, scattering the ashes. She tugged her cloak more tightly around her shoulders. Already, through her gloves, her fingers grew numb. Her ears hurt. Cold seared her.

Again she called fire, this time in a wider swath.