"Your friends found me, Osseion and Tallia and Pender, and got me free. You are the luckiest girl in the world. And now that I have my Lilis back I could die of happiness."

For once Lilis had nothing to say at all, but the sun shining out of her face told the whole story.

THE BOOK.

Maigraith rose, ate a frugal breakfast then walked up-stream through a dawn drenched with mist. She was thinking about the art and science of gates. As Tensor's original gate had been made from metal and stone, materials that the Aachim were supremely comfortable with, so Faelamor's was rooted in the natural environment so beloved of the Faellem, the fount of their strength and their soul.

But the Faellem were not makers of machines, and were forbidden to use magical devices at all, so Faelamor was constrained both by inexperience and by the prohibition. She had used a chip of stone from Tensor's original gate in Katazza to spark her own to life. Like calls to like, she had said.

A woven ladder hung down from the tree on this side of the river. Maigraith climbed up. The platform swayed beneath her but the chip of stone was not there. Looking down into the rushing river, she knew why the return had gone so wrong. The stone, the focus, must have fallen into the river on their departure, and Faelamor was so inexpert that she had brought them back to the focus rather than to the gate. Maigraith tested the ropes, bouncing on the platform until waves ran across it. This is Faelamor's creature, she thought. I don't like it.

She set to work on the gate, pulling it apart and remaking it, but finally realized that there was still too much of Faelamor in it. She cut it down and it fell into the river, where the current hung it over the rapids further down. Shortly it tore free, tumbling out of sight. Just at that moment Faelamor appeared.

"You couldn't make it work!" she said, critical as always, but her shoulders were slumped.

"It's not mine! I have to make my own," Maigraith shouted.

"There's no time!" Faelamor screamed.

Turning her back, Maigraith set off upriver.

All morning she wandered, not knowing what she sought, only that it must be the right place and she would recognize it when she found it. Upstream the gorge narrowed progressively until there was just a narrow strip of forest between dark cliffs of limestone, stained red and black by seeping iron. As she squeezed between two ironstone boulders shaped like spires, the hairs stood up on the back of her neck. Looking left, Maigraith saw a vertical slit in the cliff, a cave where a fault had wrenched the rock apart. To her right the river raced through a channel cut in rock. Leaf-filtered sunlight made lozenge patterns on the ground. This was a good place for her.

Maigraith put her ear to one of the ironstones, trying to tune herself to the structure as she would to a pebble from which she planned to make a lightglass from. She would not shape this rock, or the other-no time for that-but she sensed out its mineral essence and set to work.

Carefully selecting a pebble from the river, she took a chip from the top of one ironstone and the base of another, and a piece from the rock of the cave mouth. Squatting between the stones, Maigraith chipped away at her four pieces of rock until they were roughly shaped, four quarters of an egg. She smoothed the pieces until the quarters fitted together perfectly, singing the essence of the stones as she did so. The task took all day and part of the next, but she worked patiently, humming to herself, shaping and testing, smoothing and retesting.

Faelamor came and went, chafing at the delay and increasingly wasp-tongued. Maigraith ignored her. Finally she laid the egg aside in its pieces, pulled the basket of silver wire off one of her lightglasses and wove it into a thread which she passed through the four stones, drew tight and fastened them together as one. She warmed the stone egg in her hands and envisaged the four components of her gate-the river bed cut into rock, the pudenda-like cave mouth, the twin spires of ironstone.

Momentarily the egg wobbled in her fingers then lit up like a lightglass. Maigraith moved it between the spires and felt her hair drawn out toward the stones on either side. I can do it! she thought.

She did not tell Faelamor that it was ready. Nor did she feel the need to test her gate in any way. She stood between the stones, staring into the middle distance, at the rushing water not far away, feeling the opening behind her as if it lived and breathed. It felt very peaceful here. She clenched her hands around the egg, then swung them back and forth like a pendulum between the two ironstones. Maigraith had always had a feeling for stone and was sure that she could call what she needed from these. It felt like home here.

The short day faded; mist began to rise up from the river. Her hands glowed red and black. She conjured the most vital image of Havissard into her mind-the bedchamber where she had found the silver stylus and the piece of paper with the mysterious name-Aeolior! She worked through the procedures that Faelamor had shown her so reluctantly: the making of the gate, the way to control the gate. They were as clear as if they had been carved into the stones.

I can make this gate work! She focused on Havissard and tried to bring the gate to life. Nothing happened. It was no more than its individual components, half-seen through the mist.

What's wrong? Maigraith began again. Maybe I'm not trying hard enough. She went through the process once more, but again it was lifeless; not even the hint of a gate. Maybe I'm trying too hard.

Maigraith went back to her rhythmic swaying as the mist rose and the light faded.

Faelamor appeared, glaring at her. "You've failed again!" Her face was blanched. She disappeared.

Maigraith let herself drift right into the dream.

I've been doing it the wrong way-Faelamor's way-but of course that won't work with my gate. I need something to draw a line between Havissard and here. Her small treasures, the silver stylus and the name, were still in the pocket of her coat, carefully wrapped. Taking out the stylus she held it tip upwards between her fingers, touching the stone. She recalled to mind the room that Faelamor had used as a landing place last time. No, that image was too crowded; she kept seeing Faelamor's tormented face as she leapt back into the gate.

Maigraith focused on another place-Yalkara's sleeping chamber. The stylus had lain there for centuries. That room was not tainted with Faelamor-all the fears and emotions associated with her would not rise up to choke off her abilities, as they had so many times before. Faelamor had saturated her with fear of failing.

Maigraith recalled to mind the way to control the gate. She squeezed the egg, rehearsing the procedures step by step. Ready! She closed her eyes. Yalkara's bedchamber floated before her. Forcing down a momentary lack of confidence, she tried to open a gate. There was no dizziness, no shifting planes of reality, no feeling of movement at all. The image faded slowly from her mind. I've failed, Maigraith thought. That's all I know about gates. It isn't easy at all. How I sneered at Faelamor.

Then she noticed how warm it was. The air was warm and dusty. She sneezed. Opening her eyes she found that she was in pitch darkness. Havissard! I've done it! The transfer had been so clean that she had not even felt a bump as she arrived.

Maigraith put away the egg and the stylus, feeling in her pocket for a lightglass. The one she fished out, she was pleased to discover, was her favorite. It was formed from a single red-brown garnet the size of a small egg, perfect save for one tiny flaw. She had used that flaw to pass a silver thread into the heart of the crystal. The light was a redbrown glow that suited her mood.

The light showed Yalkara's bedchamber, just as she had left it. Havissard was hers to explore for as long as she cared to. At least, Maigraith recalled, as long as she could go without food, for she had brought none with her. She could do what she wanted now; she need never go back at all. Faelamor could not reach her here!

The bedchamber was a dark room-walls, carpet and furniture. The red-brown light from the globe seemed to sink into the walls and disappear. She touched it to more light, but still her eyes strained. Memory told her that it had been brighter in here before. She found a globe above the door and fetched from it a brighter light, white and yellow. She was surprised that it worked. The floor was quite dusty and their footmarks could clearly be seen: Faelamor's little prints passing through, her slightly larger ones going back and forth, the mark of one knee beside the bed.

For the rest of the day (was it day or night here?-she had no idea of the time) she wandered through the halls and rooms of Havissard. She found many things to interest her, for the place was exactly as it had been abandoned. Every cup and spoon remained, every bed and bedcover, every tapestry, every kitchen implement. Even the food survived in the storerooms, though that was long past use, save perhaps for dried-up stuff that she was not hungry enough to try. But somehow she was disappointed. Something was lacking. I expected too much of Havissard. For all the way it calls to me, it's still just an empty place full of old things. Something is lacking, but in me!

Shaking herself, Maigraith headed to the library for the book. She found trackmarks in the dust, a chip from a light-glass, a man's bootprints going right up to Faelamor's bench. There was no other sign of Mendark. Half the day she spent in the library, just looking through the unreadable journals, dreaming. Some were illustrated with sketches, mostly of buildings, ruins and landscapes. They all looked strange. Aachan was a forbidding, inhospitable place, with its black flowers and organic buildings, its mountains like broken glass stuck on top of a wall. But somehow appealing.

Maigraith enjoyed the time in the library most of all, until she recalled to mind the way Faelamor had looked as she examined the smaller book. She could still see her horrified face. Whatever had upset her, she had found it in the book. There was an empty space on the shelves but the small book was nowhere to be found, and she lost Mendark's tracks in a part of Havissard where there was no dust at all.

Maigraith was famished, and she had given her word to Faelamor. If she was to abandon her it would be to her face. She headed back.

To her exhilaration the return was almost as effortless as the coming. Maigraith was now pleased that Faelamor had forced her, as glad as she had been to be pushed by Vanhe. She had learned a completely new skill, all the more precious because Faelamor could never master it. Another step on the road to her new life.

She emerged from the gate between the ironstones, hipheight above the ground. The air popped and she fell the short distance, landing on her knees. It was dark, past midnight. She had been away for more than a day. Suddenly exhausted, she trudged downstream to the camp, threw off all but her shirt then crawled into her shelter. Weariness battled with hunger and won; Maigraith slept.

Faelamor appeared soon after. She squatted in the mouth of the tent, watching Maigraith sleep. Putting out a hand, Faelamor stroked Maigraith's brow, then drew back her hand. Maigraith, Maigraith, I care for you more than you can ever know. I'm a monster, it's true, and I've treated you worst of all. But duty must come first. She bowed her head and withdrew.

Faelamor shook her awake at dawn. "Where is the book?" she hissed right in Maigraith's ear.

Maigraith, jerked awake, rubbed her ear. "It wasn't there."

"Are you sure? Did you look thoroughly?"

Maigraith groped forward in the semi-darkness, put her hand on what turned out to be Faelamor's breast and shoved her away. "I searched the library," she said angrily, moving after her into the daylight. "I followed your path all the way back to the gate. It wasn't there. It looked as if Mendark picked it up."

"Mendark!" said Faelamor, her face slowly drawing into a horror mask. "Was there any sign of him?"

"Footprints, a chip off a globe, but that's all."

Faelamor convulsed, then bit back a scream. Maigraith wondered if she was going mad. "What does it matter?" she said. "How can this old book be so important?"

Waves of red and white pulsed across Faelamor's face. She clenched her fists, then took three, deep, deliberate breaths, trying to bring her panic under control.

"It matters!" she said hoarsely.

"Why?" Maigraith pressed her recklessly. "What are you hiding? What does the book say about the Faellem?"

Faelamor exploded. "How dare you question me?"

"I know you're hiding something," said Maigraith, determined to find the answer whatever the consequences. "Is this why you were exiled? Why the Faellem refuse to take you back now?"

That turned out to be one question too many.

"You useless, incompetent fool," Faelamor screamed. "How I despise you." She shuddered, stumbled away a few steps, then to Maigraith's astonishment her face scrunched up like paper in a fist. The golden eyes disappeared in the folds, her mouth gaped open and a horrible thin, squeaking wail issued out of her. "No time; no time!"

"Faelamor, what is it?" Maigraith cried, scrambling to her feet.

Faelamor screamed and screamed, her face like a scarlet sponge.

"Tell me what the matter is!"

Maigraith bent down over her, unable to comprehend what was happening. Faelamor had always been the very definition of control. She tried to catch her liege's hand but a hard little fist struck her right in the throat. Maigraith choked. It felt as if her windpipe had been crushed flat. She fell to her knees, desperately sucking at the air.

The screaming had not stopped for an instant, though now it was growing shrill, cracked, squeak-like. Opening her eyes, Maigraith saw Faelamor staggering around drunkenly through the trees near the river. She's gone mad, Maigraith thought. She ran soft-footed after her.

The sky turned green, then red, then black. Thick red drops the size of melons drifted in the air, illusions exploding from Faelamor's tortured mind. She appeared and disappeared randomly as she passed between the trees, but it was illusion concealing her, raw and uncontrolled, breaking out in spectral waves that saturated Maigraith's eyes with color. She knew that, somewhere within herself, she had the strength to disbelieve them out of existence. She tried to, until her eyes bulged out. Suddenly the colors disappeared.

There was no respite. Now the trees seemed to have come to life, their trunks swelling and contracting as if breathing. Branches thrashed at her-more illusions from Faelamor's deranged mind. Maigraith ran around a massive tree, a branch slammed into her and she landed hard on her back.

She was slow to rise this time. It felt as if she had been whipped across the face. Her breasts felt bruised. Then, as she lay with her eyes closed, Maigraith heard a strange groaning sound accompanied by a rustle-thud! And again, this time closer.

Her eyes sprang open. A branch end was questing about in the air, its jagged tip stuck with dirt and impaled leaves. With another groan it stabbed at the ground not far away, sprang back and sought out in her direction.

If that's illusion, it's the best I've ever seen, Maigraith thought. She lay for a moment longer, getting her breath back; then, as the branch thrashed above her, What if it's not illusion? What if Faelamor's fit is actually doing this?

The branch whipped down, stabbing at her belly. Maigraith rolled, felt the jagged end tear through her nightshirt, then scrambled to her feet and ran.

Had it been anyone else in the world, she would have struck them down with the Secret Art. She attempted it but felt no power in her hands at all. Faelamor had made sure that Maigraith could not use power against her.

Other branches lashed at her. She weaved and ducked, then found herself in a clearing not far from the river. Faelamor was reeling about on a stony ledge above the water, her screams reduced to a crackling wail. Her staring eyes passed over Maigraith, who felt the grass stab at her ankles, the stones try to crush her bare toes.

She snatched up a stick lying on the ground. A hailstorm of pebbles and twigs exploded upwards, battering her exposed flesh. Protecting her eyes with her hand, Maigraith kept going, beyond the stony area onto smooth rock.

The storm ceased. Instantly the rock split open beneath her, cracks opening and closing like giant clams. She snatched her foot out just in time. Faelamor was spinning round on the ledge, and every time her eyes caught Maigraith's she felt a stab of horror at what she saw there, a mad world in which every object loathed her and wanted her dead.

The rock moved. Something smashed directly down onto Maigraith's bare foot. She felt the bones break. The pain was impossible to ignore but she kept going, a running hobble. As Faelamor spun round again, Maigraith thumped her on the back of the head with her stick, as hard as she could.

Faelamor's feet lifted off the ground and, still making that ghastly cry, she fell forward off the ledge, tumbled over and over and smacked into the water face first. The scream was cut off and the current pulled her under. The illusions stopped instantly.

That wasn't supposed to happen, Maigraith thought. Her eyes followed the bubbles down to a set of rapids, where Faelamor became wedged between two boulders with her head and chest forced under by the flow. Her legs thrashed uselessly.

Duty suddenly reasserted itself. Faelamor was drowning! Until Maigraith repudiated her oath, face to face, Faelamor remained her liege.

One step revealed that her foot was badly broken. Faelamor would drown long before she hopped down to the rapids. Maigraith did the only thing she could-she stumbled forward and dropped into the river.

Her nightshirt ballooned up around her face, then she struck with an impact that sent a spear of pain up through her foot. Maigraith trod water feebly, just keeping her head up as the current carried her swiftly toward the rocks. The rocks swelled in front of her and she slammed into them, not far from Faelamor.

Maigraith crawled across to heave at Faelamor's legs. She hardly moved; the force of the water was too great. Almost shrieking with pain, Maigraith stood up on her broken foot and dragged Faelamor out of the water.

Faelamor's face was battered and bruised blue all over. Water dribbled out of her mouth and nose. Maigraith draped her face-down over the rock and was about to deliver a hard blow in the back when Faelamor released her breath with an explosive gasp and rolled over.

"You took your time!" she choked. Little and old and fraillooking Faelamor might be, but she was as tough as the bones of Santhenar.

"This is the very last time!" Maigraith said; then they crawled together to the bank, up through the forest, which had now reverted to inanimate wood, to the camp.

Faelamor gave no thanks or apologies for her fit; but then, Maigraith had not expected any.

"This is a disaster," she kept saying as Maigraith attended to her lacerations and bruises. "A catastrophe! We're doomed!"

Maigraith was sick of it. Her foot was in agony. Why was she working so hard on someone who, mad or not, had just done her best to kill her? "Then crawl away and die," she screamed in Faelamor's face, "and the sooner the better!" Packing up the bowl, the rags and bandages, she began to hop to her shelter.

"What's wrong with your foot?" Faelamor asked sharply, in the hoarse little voice that came out when she was exhausted.

"You smashed it with a rock!" she screamed. "You tried to kill me."

Faelamor knew it too-Maigraith saw in her eyes as the memories of her fit came back, one by one.

"I'm sorry!" Faelamor said. "Sit down. I will attend to it."

Maigraith could hardly bear her touch, but she endured. The bones must be set and she could not do it herself. Faelamor was a healer of rare skill-the foot would recover as quickly as bones could grow together. It would need to, Maigraith sensed.

She sat on the ground, whittling a pair of crutches, while Faelamor put the bones back in place and made a wooden frame to take the place of plaster. Her touch was infinitely gentle. Even her look was caring-until Faelamor caught Maigraith's eye on her-whereupon the habitual scowl reappeared.

"Wear this for three weeks," she said. "Then you may remove it, but treat your foot gently for another two. No jumping! After that it will be as good as ever."

Maigraith tried out her crutches. The frame was grue-somely uncomfortable.

"How are you feeling?" asked Faelamor. "Are you strong?"

"That depends what you require of me."

"To call the Faellem again." For a moment that look of despair was back in her eyes, then she shuddered and became her iron-willed self again.

"I think I can manage that," said Maigraith.

They remade the link.

Hallal? Faelamor called. Ellami? Gethren, answer me!

To their amazement, a response came at once.

Faelamor, sighed the wispy voice in Maigraith's mind. Is there no end to your arrogance?

Ellami! The voice was like a current through Maigraith's mind. I need you!