He spun around again. The Laq-sellers continued to pummel Pavek, who was crawling toward him.

"Answer me, Zvain!"

There was nothing to account for the voice that echoed off the walls of the empty square. The speaker was unseen.

Unseen...

Mind-bending masters of the Unseen Way were, by the very nature of their talent and practice, more hidden than those who wore the Veil. To his knowledge, Zvain had never met an Unseen Master, but he knew how mind-benders could turn a young man's world inside out, trapping him in his own memory, attacking him with the horrors of his own imagination. Tales said that every sentient creature had the instinctive power to cast out even the most potent mind-bender, but he, staring in panic at the cloudless sky of his memory and imagination, had no idea how to defend himself.

"Zvain!"

A different voice this time. Familiar and focused. Pavek, no longer a blundering, unclever templar, but a strong and brave man who fought with an obsidian trident. Blood no longer streamed from Pavek's face, but from the Laq-sellers who lay in heaps at his feet. Zvain ran toward the fighter who would, surely, rescue him.

"Who am I!"

The question came from Pavek's mouth and echoed off the walls. Zvain skidded to his knees. His savior was not Pavek, not a savior at all, but the mind-bender. And not wanting to see his own death reflected in Pavek's familiar eyes, he tried to lower his head, but he'd been transfixed.

The false Pavek regarded him with undisguised disgust as he raised his trident. Zvain found enough strength to tremble and whimper. But the mind-bending imposter aimed the trident at himself and, laughing manically, thrust the tines into his own head. With razor-edged talons he slowly peeled Pavek's face away from his skull- No-Not his skull.

Unable to look away, Zvain gaped in horror as a gold-etched black mask appeared where the mind-bender's face should have been. And, by King Hamanu's infinitesimal mercy, he knew knew the patterns on that mask- the patterns on that mask- Elabon Escrissar: Templar of the High Bureau, interrogator, and King Hamanu's favorite. A man more hated-and feared-on the streets of Urik than the sorcerer-king himself.

The interrogator's mask was fully revealed; Pavek's inside-out face hung in tatters from red and black talons that had replaced the vanished trident. The templar shock it once; the slashed parchment reformed itself, right-side out.

"Pavek. That misbegotten jozhal's still got his nose where it doesn't belong."

The templar shook his talons a second time, and Pavek's face floated away on an intangible wind. Then Elabon Escrissar turned toward him, and he would have vomited up his fear, if he'd been able to do anything at all. Laq was deadly, but Elabon Escrissar was worse, and the two together, as it seemed they were, was evil beyond measure.

"Don't be afraid, Zvain. Your loyalty is commendable, for all that it was misplaced. You shall be rewarded-"

Sheer terror finally broke his paralysis when the talons were less than a handspan from his nose. He flopped onto his side and curled into a tight, quivering ball. His heart stopped when cool fingers caressed his cheek.

"There, there, Zvain. Don't be afraid. Truly. When you fear the worst, it manifests before you; that is the mind's nature. Banish your fears and be rewarded. Raise your head. Open your eyes."

Slowly, unwillingly at first, he began to relax. His heart calmed, and the knotted muscles in his neck loosened. When his eyes opened, he looked upon a wise and kindly face, a face so pale it seemed to glow with its own gentle light.

"No," Zvain whispered, trying to recall his fear and the slave-master's true face.

Black talons traced a feather-gentle line across his cheek. He felt his skin open.

"Banish your fears. Accept what I show you as the truth."

The talons were gone, replaced by soothing fingertips that sealed his wounds. Blood became tears.

"Pavek would not help you-Pavek did not love you."

Elabon Escrissar gestured toward emptiness. It filled with a swarthy, stoop-shouldered human dressed in a dirty, sweat-stained yellow robe. The scars on Pavek's face pulsed malignantly. His eyes squinted, and his lips twisted into a beastly sneer.

"He abandoned you, didn't he? He consorted with your enemies, the Laq-sellers-"

The itinerant trio, as ugly and depraved as before, appeared around Pavek, bound to him by chains of congealed blood.

"And you thought he was your friend. My poor Zvain-you thought he would rescue you, protect you. But he betrayed you instead-"

A cool fingertip touched his tears, drying them, so he could see with perfect clarity.

"What can I give you for a reward, Zvain?"

"Vengeance."

"That is not enough. What else do you want?"

"Magic."

"They are yours. Take them."

He felt parchment fingers touch his forehead, then withdraw.

"Take ashes and dust."

The conducive substances appeared on the ground. He gathered a handful of each before rising to his feet. He could see the templar's face-stern and vengeful now, but still glowing with inner wisdom-and Pavek's-turning more b.e.s.t.i.a.l each time his scar throbbed-and the truth was very, very clear in his mind.

"Open your mouth. Speak the words on the tip of your tongue-"

He obeyed, willingly. Harsh syllables hung in the air. They summoned the dust from his right hand and the ash from his left. Pavek began to scream; his tongue lengthened and swelled grotesquely until it plugged his throat. The screaming stopped, but the tongue continued to grow as Pavek's entire body was consumed by one of its lesser parts.

Completely enrapt by the horror and magic, Zvain watched as the slug-thing burst its yellow robes and writhed on the paving stones. It sprouted countless wormy fingers, each with a throbbing scar, a single Pavek-eye, and a silently shrieking Pavek-mouth. As the last of the dust and ash evaporated from his clenched hands, the Pavek-thing began to shrivel. The tiny eyes turned to ash, the open mouths filled with dust, and the wormy fingers shriveled into black splotches that spread and merged until what remained of Pavek resembled nothing so much as the tell-tale black, protruding tongue of a Laq-eater's corpse.

Then that, too, crumbled and was borne away on the intangible wind.

"Vengeance..." the whispered word echoed against the walls of the deserted dyers' plaza.

He opened his hands and stared at them a moment. He'd imagined vengeance would be gratifying; instead he was as empty as his hands.

"Will he serve?" an unexpected, unfamiliar voice said from behind his left shoulder.

Without thought Or hesitation, he turned toward the sound. He saw painted walls, draperies, and a wild-haired halfling. The halfling's face had been brutally marked with slave-scars that seemed both old and unhealed. There was, however, nothing servile in the halfling's posture or his voice when he repeated his question.

Zvain shook his head, unable to comprehend the question until he'd sorted out where he was from where he'd been.

"Oh, yes, Kakzim. Beyond our wildest dreams-"

This time the voice and face were familiar: the elegantly pale slave-master with taloned fingertips. Elabon Escrissar without his mask or the inner light of wisdom.

Were he not still sitting on the ha.s.sock, he would have collapsed as the pieces fell into place. He'd taken more than food and drink from the interrogator: he'd accepted magic.

Or the illusion of magic.

He'd destroyed Pavek in the theater of his mind, not reality and took a moment's comfort from that-until he noticed the wall behind the interrogator. It was barren; the thick vines and cloying flowers were gone. Fearing the worst, he looked at the floor, where a thin layer of ash dulled the carpet.

It didn't matter whether he'd killed Pavek in the dyers' plaza or in his mind; he'd drawn real magic to do it. His greed for vengeance had consumed the life of Athas and left nothing in return. He'd become a defiler, irrevocably doomed and condemned by a single, thoughtless and futile act.

"-Zvain's one of us, now."

Pavek had begun to run as soon as he saw the vast green-crowned grove on the horizon, and he'd run himself to exhaustion before he realized that no amount of racing would get him there. Gasping and feeling like an utter fool-again-he dropped to his knees. He could only wait, lapping up the sweat that fell from his face into his cupped hands, and wait for the cool wind from the center to blow again.

He was confident that it would. From what he'd seen so far, Telhami wouldn't miss the opportunity to mock him face-to-face in her grove. He didn't have to wait long. This time he followed the breeze obediently, even when it curled away from the grove, and set his foot on soft green gra.s.s when the sun was only a few handspans above the treetops. The druid's grove was alive with pattering sound. Pavek flinched left and right at each step before he observed water drops falling through the trees, striking leaves and branches before they dived into the gra.s.s. He'd heard or seen nothing like it before. Face up toward the trees, he stumbled through the gentle rain, paying more attention to the foliage than his feet.

"However did you survive as a templar in the lion's city?" He demonstrated his survival skills, bounding into the air like a startled erdlu, but landing, fists clenched and teeth bared, in a compact, wary crouch.

Telhami reclined on the far bank of a spring-fed stream. At least, he a.s.sumed a.s.sumed it was Telhami. Quraite's chief druid had discarded her veil. The sunlight filtered through the trees revealed her as a woman no longer young, but hardly a withered crone. Prejudiced by a lifetime of dealing with templars, he took her relaxed presence and ironic tone as intimidation ploys and countered with insolence: immersing his face in the surprisingly cold water, as if it were something he'd done ten thousand times before. it was Telhami. Quraite's chief druid had discarded her veil. The sunlight filtered through the trees revealed her as a woman no longer young, but hardly a withered crone. Prejudiced by a lifetime of dealing with templars, he took her relaxed presence and ironic tone as intimidation ploys and countered with insolence: immersing his face in the surprisingly cold water, as if it were something he'd done ten thousand times before.

"Yes, yes, Pavek. Take your time. You already know everything that I could teach you."

More intimidation, and successful this time-which left him that much more determined to conceal how decisively she'd stung him. He sauntered across the stream.

"I knew enough to get here, didn't I?" he asked as he sat. "You and Ruari thought I'd wander forever. Well, I followed your cool wind from the center, and now I'm ready to be taught whatever it is that you have to teach."

Telhami responded with a solitary arched eyebrow. "You run a good race, Just-Plain Pavek, but you don't know how to win. It doesn't matter if you're growing trees or trying to get another scarlet thread for your sleeve-in the end it's not the power that matters, it's the will behind it. Here, as you noticed, power drips down from the trees. Hold out your hand and it flows over you, but can you catch it, Just-Plain Pavek? Can you speak its silent language? Can you bend it with your will?"

"That's what I'm here to be taught."

The druid flicked her hand, and a water-plume splattered his cheek. "I can't teach you how to wield your own will! What do you take me for-? Another sorcerer-king? An incubating dragon? I tell you: the spirit of Athas surrounds us. Speak to it. Bargain with it. Invoke Invoke it. Either you can do it, or you can't. Forget your scrolls. Start with light; that's the simplest spell. Make light, Just-Plain Pavek, while the sun still shines. Make water while it flows beside you. Call a bird or bee down from the treetops. You know the invocations. They're the same for a druid, a sun-cleric, or a Lion's templar-you did know that, didn't you, Just-Plain Pavek? So, make something happen. Something. Anything. Show me what you can do." it. Either you can do it, or you can't. Forget your scrolls. Start with light; that's the simplest spell. Make light, Just-Plain Pavek, while the sun still shines. Make water while it flows beside you. Call a bird or bee down from the treetops. You know the invocations. They're the same for a druid, a sun-cleric, or a Lion's templar-you did know that, didn't you, Just-Plain Pavek? So, make something happen. Something. Anything. Show me what you can do."

Telhami sat back to watch and wait. She'd been prepared to wait several days; this stranger had done well to reach her grove the same afternoon he'd set out to find it. Though she'd decided, considering what he'd been, mat she wouldn't add her voice to the cool wind. She'd done that for Yohan who, even so, had needed three days to find her grove his first time.

Yohan had dreamed of magic, like this youthful templar.

Yohan had tried his best, but not as dramatically as Pavek, who grunted, groaned, and knotted every muscle with his efforts. He put forth a prodigious amount of sweat and tweaked the consciousness of Quraite's guardian spirit. It was not impressed and certainly not compelled, but it was aware.

Once a stranger roused the guardian-which Yohan had never done-she desperately wanted him or her to succeed. The price of failure here, where Quraite was strongest, was invariably death. If Pavek could not shape the guardian's will with his own, the ground would open around him and his corpse would join several dozen others shrouded in the myriad roots. And although that was a fate that served her purpose-adding lifeforce to Quraite-Telhami preferred to nurture Quraite with living druids rather than strangers' corpses.

On the other hand, Pavek was not the only disenfranchised templar wandering the Tablelands. The sullen broods of several city-states had been cut loose when their sorcerer-kings died or disappeared. Surely Pavek was not the only one who missed his borrowed power. She knew she'd sleep more easily if Pavek demonstrated that once a mind had become a conduit for a sorcerer-king's corruption, it could never master a more honest invocation of Quraite's guardian.

She sat patiently, hoping for one outcome, but willing to be satisfied with the other. Then Pavek, suddenly and unexpectedly, abandoned his efforts.

"It's impossible!" he explained with a disgusted snarl, tearing out a handful of gra.s.s and flinging it across the stream. "There's no silent voice for me to listen to. Not even that d.a.m.ned 'cool wind' of yours to follow. I know what I'm supposed to be looking for, and it's not there. You lied to me, old woman. Cheated and deceived me. You knew it couldn't be done, but you wanted to watch me burst apart trying. You wanted me to break my own spirit, to keep your own hands lily-clean. Well, I've seen your kind before: they're all over the templarate. And I've learned not to play your games. I won't make a fool of myself for your amus.e.m.e.nt. I quit instead!"

She could keep any emotion from shadowing her face, even the frustration she and the grove shared at that, moment. He'd come close. He'd come very close and brought the cup to his lips, but he had not sipped or swallowed. And she did not know whether disenfranchised templars in general, or only this templar in particular, were incapable of druidry.

Of course, if all templars were quitters...

But she wasn't fool enough to think that. She sensed that Pavek's shortcomings were uniquely his own.

"You lack patience, persistence, and, most of all, you lack faith faith of any kind in me, in my grove, in of any kind in me, in my grove, in yourself. yourself. I'm the one who's been cheated and deceived, Pavek. You said you wanted to learn; you lied. Find your own way, Just-Plain Pavek, if you dare." I'm the one who's been cheated and deceived, Pavek. You said you wanted to learn; you lied. Find your own way, Just-Plain Pavek, if you dare."

She gathered up her hat and veil, though the sun was close to setting and its light wouldn't bother her eyes when she left the grove, left him here overnight. He was quite safe, unless he tried something destructive. And if he was foolish enough to do that, he deserved to spend eternity among the roots.

Pavek stiffened as she floated up from the ground. Fear was the dominant emotion on his face, and his thoughts were so focused on Ruari's exhortation: Feed his bones to the trees, Grandmother, Feed his bones to the trees, Grandmother, that the half-elf's spiteful words echoed literally through the trees. that the half-elf's spiteful words echoed literally through the trees.

He shouted "Wait!" and without waiting to see if she heard or complied, squeezed his eyes shut.

Tilting her head to one side, listening to the guardian's surge as it honored an evocation, she sank back to the gra.s.s. Pavek hadn't suddenly acquired faith, but he was desperate, too desperate to think and, according to Akashia, this would-be druid was at his best when he wasn't thinking.

There was no grunting or straining this time, merely a prolonged exhalation that emptied his mind as well as his lungs. She leaned forward, holding her breath as the guardian stirred. There was an image visible on the surface of Pavek's mind: King Hamanu, the Lion of Urik, astride a mound of vanquished warriors with the severed head of one of them gripped in his upstretched hand.

Her blood froze: if Pavek summoned the sorcerer-king through Quraite's guardian spirit, they were doomed. She willed herself to intercede, but Pavek held the guardian, and it resisted her.

She knew a moment of fear darker and deeper than any other in her life. She called on her own faith to sustain her, and then there was water.

Everywhere.

An otherworldly image of the Lion-King hovered above her spring, with water seeping from the wounds of the warriors beneath its feet. More water spouted from the mouth of the head he held in his hand. Water looped and spiraled and formed a swirling cloud around Pavek himself.

"A fountain!" she laughed, in genuine relief as water splashed her face. "You remembered a fountain! Water and stone together! Well done!"

Pavek's fountain collapsed the instant her words penetrated his consciousness. He was drenched and dazed. For several moments he did not move at all. Her elation faded: a druid's first invocation was the most dangerous, because the guardian must be released at its end. The more a neophyte druid invoked, the more dangerous the release. Pavek had invoked far more than the few splattering drops she'd expected, and there was a very real chance he'd invoked more than he could safely release. She held her breath, waiting for the ground to open and guardian to claim him.

Finally he blinked and raised his still-dripping hands.

"Water. My water." He extended his arms toward her. "My "My water." water."

She pressed her fingertips against his. It was an awesome personal accomplishment for a faithless man, and a chilling precedent.

"Yes," she agreed solemnly. No need to share her doubts and concerns. "It's a beginning, Pavek. The beginning of another race. Will you finish it? Can you win it?"

The innocent joy drained from his face.

"You can, Just-Plain Pavek," she a.s.sured him, and herself, as she invoked Quraite's guardian and rose above the gra.s.s. "Tomorrow. Here. Now, return home. Supper will be waiting for you."

The moons had set and his clothes were dry by the time Pavek returned to Quraite. He'd hoped Yohan was the silhouette squatting by the lone fire, but it was Ruari instead. The half-elf looked up as he approached. Ruari said nothing, and Pavek didn't either, once he saw his medallion hanging from the half-wit sc.u.m's neck.

CHAPTER TEN.

A summons slid into Akashia's dream some twenty nights after her return from Urik: a twinge of pain in a deep muscle, the unfocused scent of anxiety, the wind-borne words Laq, templar, Laq, templar, and and Pavek Pavek-all woven through a mind-sent image. Striding out of her solitary hut before she was completely awake and without the night-cloak folded beside the door, she was shivering by the time she reached the doorway of Telhami's hut.

A fist-sized oil lamp hanging from a crossbeam cast shadowy light through the single room. Telhami sat on a wicker bench, her eyes closed. She'd slumped, precariously pressed against the bark-covered center pole. Her head had fallen forward at an odd angle. For one horrifying moment, Akashia thought her friend and mentor had died.