"Oh, dear." Mother touched his forehead, and the pain stopped. Instantly. The trembling did. Mother tipped her head to one side, lifted a graceful shoulder in a lopsided shrug. "Sorry."

Mother. Deymorin's shapeshifter; Nikki's Tamshi.

His . . . savior.

"Yes-s-s-s. Keep remembering, darling. Remember for us both . . ."

He drifted, then, in a sea of memory, of childhood and on, of Deymorin and Nikki, Anheliaa, and finally, those months leading to the Boreton Firestorm.

"Yes-s-s-s..."

But the events after he'd fallen from the sky were bro- ken, shattered sensation. His eyes (he suspected, and Moth- er's thought confirmed) had been sealed shut in that burning transfer.

And Mother supplied images then, of himself on the ground, of Deymorin and Nikki and Kiyrstin, and a slender humanlike creature spreading an oil over his repulsive burns, burns that vanished with the oil's passing.

And he sensed excitement, an eagerness for the rest of the story, for what had happened since that time of healing.

And his mind carried them both, moment by moment, through his life, from then to the present, including what he understood about the state of the web, and Khoratum's line and Rhomatum and Anheliaa. . . .

f Thank you, my darling child,} and the touch on his fore- head slipped away.

"Why?" he whispered, "What happened to you?"

She seemed . . . different now. Vitalized.

"I was tired, child."

Her speech and thought crisp and focused.

"Very, very tired. Had I known at the time how fractured the web had become, I'd never have healed you."

"Forgive me if I don't say I'm sorry."

Her laughter filled the chamber with music. "You'd be a fool, darling. And that, obviously, you are not. No, it would have been . . . irresponsible of me, had I known. It weak- ened me, at a moment in the course of time that I would most have desired to be strong. I transferred back to my source, and I've drifted here ever since, renewing my essence."

"And are you . . .?"

"Quite well, darling, thank you, and thanks to you.

I'd . . . lost touch with my surface world. You have helped me to regain it. But there were others . . ."

Her voice faded, her eyes closed, and her head rolled back. Her seated figure seemed to dissipate, and to float.

"Ah, child," she whispered, but not, he thought, to him- self. And when she opened her eyes, it was as if she'd never drifted off.

"So, where were you headed, child of Mheric?"

"I'd prefer it if you don't call me that."

"And do you prefer child of Darius?"

"I prefer my name, madam."

"And I prefer mine."

"Mother?"

"Quite. Mikhyel?"

"Quite."

"Not a common name."

"My mother chose it."

"Of course. Mothers always name their children."

"Mheric chose Deymorin. And Nikaenor."

"Only because your mother agreed."

He laughed and threw up his hands in defeat, and her delight with his impertinence filled that under-sense.

"So, Mikhyel-darling-child, where are you headed?"

"You already know that."

"Of course, but conversation is such fun, and how am I to offer to help you if we don't know what I'm talking about?"

Even repeated in his head several times, he wasn't cer- tain that made much sense; however, there seemed no rea- son not to admit: he answered, "Khoratum."

"Of course. Where? The Tower?"

"Why?"

"I'll send you there."

"Like this?"

"Well, if you're that bashful . . ." She flourished a hand, and a green-blue glow hazed the air about him, solidified into the clothing he'd been wearing before she transferred him here.

"You must be feeling better," he commented.

"The least you can say is thank you."

"Thank you."

"You're welcome. So, where in Khoratum?"

"Thank you, no. The room you pulled me from will be fine. I'm going to have enough explaining to do."

"Explaining? Why? They've already left, you know."

"Who? Left where?"

"Those silly humans who think you're not-Mikhyel."

"Left? How do you know?"

A floating shrug. "Mother knows."

His heart raced, then stopped. He thought of tales of people disappearing . . . for years at a time, to appear again, unchanged. And he thought of Deymorin, who had simply . . . lost half a year.

"How long have I been here?" he whispered.

"Long enough. Not too long."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You can still beat the post to Khoratum."

"How can you be certain?"

"Mother never loses."

He clamped his lips on the retort that rose; Mother grinned, a very sharp-toothed stretch of scaled lips.

"Tell me, Mikhyel-child, why are you pretending to be someone you're not?"

"Because I" Feel like it, he almost said, then he sighed, and resigned himself to his fate. "Because there are those who won't speak honestly to Mikhyel dunMheric."

"Oh." Her eyes glowed with excitement. "Have you a good story to tell?"

"You sound like Ganfrion."

"Mother sounds like no one. Others may sound like Mother. Have you a good story?"

"Sufficiently so."

She fluffed out her leythium skirts and wiggled down- ward, as if preparing a nest. And indeed, the leythium be- neath her molded upward into at least the appearance of comfortable pillows. "Let me hear it."

"Don't be ridiculous. I must get back. I've had no sleep"

"Plenty of time." She waved a hand airily. "I'll deposit you inside."

"Inside? Inside what?"

"The town. The Tower. The public bath . . . How about a brothel? Wherever you like, Mikhyel-child. It's just overhead, you know. It'll be fine. I want to hear your story."

He made a final attempt: "What about my baggage?"

"What do you need baggage for?"

"My razor, among other things!"

"I told you, I can take care of that for you."

"You and Anheliaa."

"Oo-oo, how disgusting. Keep the fur, then, by all means.

Now, about that story . . ."

Chapter Two.

There was a commotion outside in the Riverview Inn's sta- bleyard: a large entourage arriving. Little doubting who it was, Deymorin descended the stairs to greet them. Kiyrstin was already in the front parlor, waiting for him and her dinner.

Kiyrstin had insisted on coming along. Kiyrstin had said Nethaalye needed an ally. Kiyrstin had said the drive back to Rhomatum would give her and Nethaalye time to get to know one another.

Kiyrstin had come because Kiyrstin wanted out of Rho- matum, even for just a day or two.

He rounded the final corner just as the front door opened. Nethaalye dunErrif entered first, laughing and shaking her hair free of a spattering of raindrops. Behind her "What the hell are you doing here?" Deymorin barked, and the smile vanished from Nethaalye's companion's face.

Dark, deep-set eyes lifted slowly to meet Deymorin's.

"Hello there, unfriend," Ganfrion said without the least hint of confusion. He shifted position, but only giving to pressure from those behind him wanting inside. His eyes never dropped from Deymorin.

"Deymorin!" Nethaalye moved to the bottom step and smiled up at him. "Have you come to meet me? How kind of you."

"Nethaalye," he acknowledged, and dipped his head po- litely, but his gaze, likewise, never left the scar-faced in- mate. "Where's my brother?"

"The fop? Why? Have you lost him?"

"Gan," Nethaalye said, and placed a hand on the prison scut's arm. "What's going on?"

Ganfrion shifted again, as more rain-spattered bodies de- manded entrance. The servants pressed past him, then squeezed past Deymorin, hauling luggage up the narrow staircase, muttering obscenities to large fools who clogged the passageway.

"For the love of Maurii, Rhomandi, don't just stand there like a lordish lump." That was Kiyrstin, coming out of the parlor. And Kiyrstin's bright, canny gaze seemed to take in the situation at a glance. "Lady Nethaalye?" she said, "I'm Kiyrstine romGaretti. I don't believe we've met, but I've heard a great deal about you."

"A-and I you, madam," Nethaalye said, obviously, con- fused and quite out of her depth.