A few revelers were still sitting on the front steps, leaning against each other and smiling drunkenly.

Isabeau ignored their invitation to join them, plunging into the garden. Shadowy fronds closed over her head. The air was cool and smelled green with new growth. She pressed her body against a tree, the rough sc.r.a.pe of the bark grazing her skin, its solid strength supporting her. Tears stung her eyes but she did not weep. Buba came to rest on Isabeau's shoulder, b.u.t.ting her head against Isabeau's neck. She stroked the feathery head and took comfort from that until the tumult of anger, desire and frustration at last began to ease.

Birds were beginning to test their voices against the dark. Isabeau raised her head and looked about her.

She could see now the fronds which had swallowed and enclosed her. Feeling tired and heavy with the weight of her dream, she slowly made her way through the lawns and shrubberies to the sacred circle where the witches had tested her yesterday.

She reached the glade in the center of the ring of seven ancient trees. In the growing light she could clearly see the black ashes of their fire. At one of the points of the six-sided star a large clay pot still stood, with a tall straight hazel sapling springing out of it. Among its roots nestled a clump of heart's ease.

On the other side was a tall spray of oats, heavy with seeds.

It was Isabeau's task this morning to make herself her witch's staff, symbol of full acceptance into the Coven. She had to meditate for long quiet minutes before she was able at last to put aside the effect of the dream. Even then it was not lost but only locked away somewhere where it would no longer disturb her so powerfully.

Feeling very calm and very distant, Isabeau knelt under the oak tree and drew her witch's knife and the crystal she had found in the mountains out of her satchel, washing them carefully in the pool. Alone in the dim garden, she carefully drew the knife along her finger, watching the dark blood well up. She smeared the blade with her blood, then dipped it in the ashes of the fire till it was thickly encrusted. She then knelt at the sixth point of the star, breathing deeply and slowly.

At the very moment that the sun rose above the horizon, flooding the garden with warmth and color, she cut down the leafy sapling with one swift movement. Slowly, ceremoniously, Isabeau stripped all the twigs and leaves from the sapling then scoured the branch with earth and ashes till it was smooth and white. She washed it clean in the pool and stained it a pale silvery-white with starwood oil. Kindling the fire again with twigs gathered from beneath all seven trees, she then forged a silver cap for the end of the staff, magnetizing it with a lodestone as she had been taught. Finally Isabeau set the crystal at the head of the staff in delicate claws of silver, with a spring clasp that could be clicked open to allow the crystal to be lifted out of its crown.As Isabeau labored she chanted words of power over the staff, pouring her energies into the wood and the crystal, making them a part of her.

"I make ye, staff o' hazelwood, in the name o' Ea, mother and father o' us all, and infuse ye with all that is good in me, all that is wise and strong and kind.

"I make ye, staff o' hazelwood, by the power o' the stars and the moons and the unfathomable distance o'

the universe, and infuse in ye all that is bright and dark, all that is known and unknown.

"I make ye, staff o' hazelwood, by the power and virtue o' the four elements, Earth and Fire, Wind and Water; by the power and virtue o' all things, all plants that grow and die, all animals that crawl and fly and run, all rocks and mountains, all suns and stars and planets.

"With these things I infuse ye, that ye may stand as sure as the tree from which ye sprang, as full o'

ancient power and wisdom, that ye may support me and shelter me as ye did the creatures that hid in your branches. With these things, I infuse ye, staff o' hazelwood, and make ye mine."

Then she blessed the staff, sprinkling it with water from a bunch of leaves from each of the seven trees, wound about with flowers plucked from the gra.s.s- rosemary, thyme, gilly-flowers, and clover. She stood up, lifting the staff toward the sun. "In the name o' Ea," she cried, "I command ye, staff o' power, to obey my will in all things. I command ye, staff o' power, to summon the powers I wish to call, and break and reduce to chaos all that I wish to destroy."

The crystal caught the sun's brightness and refracted it into a white flame, blazing as bright as a tiny sun.

Rainbow sparks shot out from the stone, dancing over the glade like multicolored fireflies. Isa-beau felt a surge of power run down her fingers, shooting along her veins and nerve endings and up into her brain so that for a moment her whole body was seared with a white-hot energy. Then the clamor and pain receded, and the light sank down to a twisting flame of blue and gold and crimson, deep within the crystal's translucent heart.

Isabeau had consummated her bond with the staff of power, had poured all her sorrow and desire and impotent rage into its strong white body. She fell to her knees and kissed the crystal, incoherent thanks to Ea and the G.o.ds of White and her own sorcerous powers mute and struggling in her heart.

I'll be a great sorceress, she thought. No man's love can be worth as much!

The Isle of Divine Dread

Fand crouched in the darkness, listening. Although the silence was undisturbed by even a shiver of air or a slow trickle of water, Fand knew that they were there, listening to her as intently as she listened to them.

Gingerly she risked moving, stretching out one foot and extending her toes, clenching and unclenching her fingers. It had become a horrible sort of game to her, the only sort of resistance she had to the constant torment of their regard. They wanted her to die, she knew it, they wanted her to give up and let her muscles lock, her lungs collapse, her blood freeze. Although Fand longed for the gentle release of death, to die would be to allow them to triumph. Some stubborn shred of resoluteness kept her alive within the ruins of her mind and spirit, kept her heart beating despite all they did to her.Fand did not know how long she had been trapped here. Her life before the sisterhood was like a fragment of dream that lingered on long after one had woken, more an impression of emotion than a memory. She had been happy, she knew. There had been a shining sea and soft sand and warm kisses that had filled her body with light and life. There had been a face, dark skinned and proud, with silver-blue eyes intent with pa.s.sion . . .

The darkness stirred. She froze.

"Who?" they whispered. "Who do you love? Who do you hate?"

Fand did not reply. Slowly the lurid green light grew up all around her. A circle of priestesses stood over her, their faces made grotesque by the shifting green phosph.o.r.escence.

"Why do you not die?" one asked.

"Are you not cold enough? Are you not hungry enough?"

"Why do you not die?"

"Do you hate us?"

"Do you wish we were dead?"

"Do you love us?" They bent over her. Doom-eels wriggled in their left hands, their squirming tails shining blue-white. Fand shrank back. "Who do you love?"

"I love you," she said, her voice hoa.r.s.e. Her limbs twitched uncontrollably.

"Well, we do not love you, stupid sp.a.w.n jelly," they said and lashed her with the electric tails of the doom-eels. She scrabbled away, but they were all around her, laughing. She curled up into a ball, her arms about her head, her knees drawn up to her chin. The doom-eels did not strike again. After a moment she looked up.

"Do you love Jor?" The hiss was soft, sibilant.

"Yes, yes, I love Jor," she gabbled.

"Jor is all. Jor is might. Jor is strength. Jor is power." The priestesses paced around her, their voices rising in pa.s.sion. "Jor is all. Jor is might. Jor is strength. Jor is power."

"Jor is all," Fand agreed. "Jor is power."

For a long time the only sound was the swish of their furs on the stone, the hiss of the doom-eels' tails.

Fand waited.

"Who?" they whispered. "Who do you love? Who do you hate?"

"I love Jor. Jor is all. Jor is might. Jor is strength. Jor is power."

"Jor is all. Jor is might. Jor is strength. Jor is power," the priestesses echoed.

"Jor is all. Jor is might. Jor is strength. Jor is power," Fand repeated desperately.

Again there was silence. Fand felt sweat springing up along her hairline, on her palms and the soles of her feet. Every muscle in her body was clenched tight in antic.i.p.ation of pain. It did not come.One of the priestesses bent and smoothed back the hair from her brow. Fand flinched, and she clucked her tongue in sympathy. "Hush, hush, little girl-human. You do well."

"You have not died," one of the others said.

"Why have you not died?" asked another.

"Are you not cold enough? Are you not hungry enough? Are you not weak enough?"

The hissing tails of the doom-eels writhed about her. Fand pressed herself against the icy stone.

"You do well," the first repeated, stroking Fand's hair tenderly. "Maybe you are not so weak as we had thought."

"Not so weak, not so weak," the others echoed softly.

Fand could not help looking up at the priestess's face, tears springing to her eyes.

"Do you love me?" the priestess said gently. Fand nodded, the tears beginning to spill down her face. The priestess unhooked her heavy sealskin fur and let it drop upon her. "Sleep, little one," she said.

Gratefully Fand clutched the warmth and softness to her and closed her eyes.

She was woken only a minute or two later by a freezing deluge of snow and water, the fur cloak wrested away from her. She could not help screaming in shock and pain. They lashed her with the doom-eels, shrieking at her, accusing her. Among the cacophony of voices, she heard them crying, "You must love none but Jor, none but Jor. Jor is your G.o.d, your master, your lover, your purpose for being. Jor is all.

Jor is might. Jor is strength. Jor is power."

"Jor is all. Jor is might. Jor is strength. Jor is power," Fand repeated dully, but the attack did not abate.

All she could see were blue-white arcs of hissing light as the doom-eels were raised and brought lashing down, and behind, the floating spheres of green-dark light. She closed her eyes and endured.

After that they left her alone for a very long time. She wept a little, then when the deep well of grief within her was all dried up, Fand lay there in a sort of stupor. Words and images ran through her mind, noisy, brightly colored, incoherent.

"Is it the prince Nila you weep for?" a gentle voice asked.

Fand did not respond. Nila, she thought.

"You must try to forget him," the voice in the darkness said, soft with sympathy. "He has forgotten you, that you may be sure of. He will have found himself some other concubine in which to spill his seed. Men are fickle, inconstant creatures. They do not love like women. Their love does not endure."

There was silence again for a very long time. Then softly, insistently, the voice spoke again. "Love will bring you only grief and pain, do you not know that? I loved once, a very long time ago. I am wiser now."

Fand felt a gentle hand on her hair, then a beaker of sea-squill wine was held to her lips. She drank thirstily, then accepted a few tidbits of raw fish held to her lips. The food and wine brought a rush of vigor to her body, so strong it made her feel nauseous. The hand stroked her damp forehead, and then the cloak was drawn up over her again. She sighed and turned her cheek into it.

"Do you love me?" the voice asked softly.Fand shook her head. "No," she answered, so low her voice was almost inaudible. "I hate you."

"Do you love Prince Nila?"

"No," she answered, her voice a little stronger. "I love only Jor."

"That is good," the voice replied and then she heard the swish of the priestess's furs as she was left alone in the darkness, alone for the first time in months.

Dark silence was broken by oscillating green light and whispering voices. Pain was followed by dark silence. There was no other division of time. Darkness, green light and pain, darkness. Always they asked her the same questions, and Fand searched desperately to know the right answers. Gradually the pain came less often, though the questions changed.

"What is your name?"

"I have no name."

"Who are you?"

"I am nothing."

"Do you love me?"

"No, I hate you. I hate you all."

"Do you love Prince Nila?"

"No. I hate him. I love only Jor."

"Why do you hate Prince Nila?"

"Men are selfish, fickle. He abandoned me."

As the priestesses brought the doom-eels down upon her naked flesh, she cried out desperately, "I love only Jor! Jor is all. Jor is power. Nila is nothing. Nothing!"

The pain stopped. "Why are you not dead?"

"Because you wish me to live. Jor wishes me to live!"

"Why does Jor wish you to live?"

"So I may serve him."

They whipped her, ruthlessly, over and over again. "What worth are you, sea sc.u.m, sp.a.w.n jelly? Weak, sickly, stupid, halfbreed human. What use are you? Nothing. What can you do? Nothing. Why would Jor want you? You might as well be dead, no one wants you. Why do you not die? We do not want you, useless pathetic bag of bones. Why would we? Can't even grow a tail. What use are you? Can't skin you to keep warm, no flesh on you to eat, no blood in you to drink, no fire in you to keep us warm . . ."

Something inside Fand snapped. There was a sudden incandescent flare that penetrated through the screen of her hands. Her flesh was red, the bones within dark. She heard a dreadful screaming. Sheuncovered her eyes, her heart hammering. The cave was lit up with golden warmth and light. All around her stood six pillars of fire, shrieking, beating themselves with flaming hands. On and on the screaming echoed. The priestesses rolled on the floor, threw themselves against the walls, while the hot, hungry flames devoured their flesh, their eyeb.a.l.l.s boiling within their sockets of bone. Eventually they screamed no longer, writhed no longer. The flames sank down to smolder upon the shapeless, blackened forms.

The cave stank of burned flesh.

"You wanted fire," Fand said. "Are you warm enough now?"

The tiny island of the Priestesses of Jor rose gray and forbidding from the seas, a tumult of white water raging around the feet of the sheer cliffs. The melancholy cry of thousands of seabirds filled the air, the loneliest sound Nila had ever heard. He floated in the icy water, staring at the steep rock with a heart frozen by foreboding. What would they do to him if they found him here?

I do not care, he thought. What more can they do?

It had been a bitter six months for Nila. All joy had gone out of his life without Fand, all hope and happiness. His failure to save her haunted him. But what could I do? he had asked himself a hundred thousand times, without ever finding relief.

Nila had been watched closely by his father's minions, unable to even seek the solace of solitude at the ruined witches' tower or in the dark depths of the Fathomless Caves. Every step he took there was someone behind him, spying on him, reporting his every move. He flaunted the black pearl upon his breast, allowed an undertone of mockery in his voice when he spoke to his brothers, and killed two of them in duels on the slightest of pretenses. He was filled with a reckless disregard for his own life, yet somehow this gave him an acute sensitivity toward anyone else's disregard. Nila survived three more attempts to murder him, killing another of his brothers and seven of his lackeys in the process. As the endless night of winter at last began to fade, Nila's tusks began to bud and he noticed a new favor in his father's voice. The Fairgean King approved of Nila's pride and insolence, his newfound aggression. Even his thirteen surviving brothers regarded him with a new wariness.

The ice that sealed shut the mouth of the Cave of a Thousand Kings melted away, and the warriors were able to go out in pursuit of the whales swimming past in their annual migration south. Nila at last had a chance to escape his father's scrutiny and he had swam at once in search of Fand.

The priestesses' island was not far from the Isle of the G.o.ds. Nila had reached it in only a few hours, and he had spent the rest of the day trying to find some way in. He had circ.u.mnavigated the rock three times, tried to climb its cliffs, dived deep into the ocean to find an underwater cave. All to no avail. At last he had given up and swam back to rejoin his pod.

His absence had not gone unnoted, of rourse. He was humiliated in front of the whole court, his father frothing at the mouth with rage as he demoted Nila and sentenced him to six lashes by doom-eel. Nila endured the whipping in grim silence and smiled in private over his demotion. When most of the court left the Isle of the G.o.ds to swim in the wake of the whales he would be left behind to guard the Cave of a Thousand Kings with the other second-grade warriors, considered too weak or old or unskilled to swim to the south. Although Nila would have been cut to the quick over such a demotion at any other time, now he could only be glad. He would have all summer to try and find his love.

Yet now the summer was almost gone and still Nila had not been able to find a way into the Isle of Divine Dread. And now a horrible fear lay upon him, choking him like an octopus's tentacle.All through the months they had been apart Nila had been aware of Fand as clearly as if she called out to him through the darkness. He had felt pain and grief and anger and desolation, he had felt a slow dying within her. Then last night, the night of the summer solstice, he had been jolted from sleep, crying aloud her name. He had dreamed of fire, that terrible weapon of the humans, that all-destroying, profane, unnatural power that melted ice, evaporated water, and burned flesh to cinders. The horror of the dream lingered all day, and when at last he shook himself free of it, he realized that he could no longer feel Fand.

It was as if she was dead.

Desperate with fear he had escaped the pod and swam for the Isle of Divine Dread, unable to admit that he might be too late. This was the sixth time he swam all around the towering rock and he had seen no other sign of life but the clouds of crying seabirds. Black despair filled Nila once more.