"I am Pez," he growled.

"You are hers! You are Iridor!" she hissed. Her beauty faded with her angry demeanor: her creamy complexion turned to translucent, parchmentlike skin; her eyes, originally a startling blue, turned milky and she shrank before him. Even in this guise, she blazed power but he was not cowed.

"Who are you, Ellyana?" he demanded.

"You know enough about yourself now to understand that the rising of Iridor is prompted by a visit from the crone."

"The Mother?"

"An embodiment of her, a Messenger for her, a servant. Call me what you will," she said, suddenly gentle. "I repeat, I am not your enemy, Pez. We are allies in the same struggle."

"For the Goddess, you mean." He finally admitted to himself what had been troubling him since the frightening dream at the Sea Temple. It turned his blood to ice to say her name aloud because the whole notion that he was one of her disciples, her closest in fact, terrified him. "Go on, admit it," he pushed. Ellyana spoke such provocative words without ever explaining herself. That would stopa"must stopa"now.

"Yes, it's true. For the Mother Goddess. Iridor is almost fully risen, Pez, and he heralds her next coming."

"I don't understand any of it," he said, waving her away in a desperate bid to rid himself of this frightening new responsibility.

"You won't understandanot until you change."

"Change?"

"That's what I came to finish telling you. You must transform entirely now."

"Into what?" he asked, astounded.

"Iridor's true form."

And that's when it all fell into place. Pez sensed a click in his mind, as if a final jigsaw-puzzle piece had slotted into position. He knew. Had in fact known all his life. Her words felt as though they suddenly completed him. It was as if his previous life was simply a vessel and now that vessel, no longer required, lay shattered in hard, jagged bits about him. "The owl?" he whispered, still not wanting to believe.

"Look in the mirror. You're almost there."

Pez tried once again, adopting his more regular sarcastic tone. "I am a shrunken, deformed, mad dwarf, Ellyana, or hadn't you noticed?"

"You are Iridor for this battle," she said softly and with such affection it almost reduced him to tears. "You are also Pez, dear one. You don't have to give up who you have been but you must accept who you are. Don't be afraida"it is your destiny. You have been chosen, as have all of us."

Pez frowned as another dark thought struck. "And Maliz?"

She nodded grimly. "Has risen. He is amongst us."

"Already?" Pez felt his stomach knot with fear. "How will I know him?"

"You won't. Not yet. It's always the same. But by the same token, he doesn't know you eithera"not yet. He is looking for you, though, and when he knows you, you will lead him to her."

"Her?"

"Lyana."

He dared not say it as he frowned, repeating the beloved, revered name in his head. "Who is she?"

"I do not know. None of us do. The Mother works in mysterious ways, but Lyana will reveal herself in time and you must protect her. Be her eyes, her ears."

"How do I become Iridor?" he asked, running his short fingers through his whitened hair.

She nodded gently, approvingly, at his acceptance. "Go to the Sea Temple. There you will find answers."

"Can't you help me?"

"I am a merely a Messenger, like you. I know only what I'm told. We serve, you and I, that is all. Go now and don't be seena"may Lyana bless and keep you safe in the perils ahead." Ellyana touched his face with fingers that felt feathery against his skin, or was it the other way around? "I must go," she said.

"I'll show you a way out," he said, reaching for the door, keen to have her gone, to have some silence to think.

Ellyana smiled. "No one saw me come and no one will see me leave. You keep yourself safe. You are the critical link now. Trust no one in the palace, not even your friend the Zar. For all we know, Maliz could have taken him."

Pez grunted. "I would know, I think."

"Not necessarily," she warned. "Be suspicious of everyone. Now go. Lyana awaits."

PEZ MADE HIS WAY to the Sea Temple as if in a stupor. He had changed out of his normal comical clothes into a soft sand-colored jamoosh, beneath which he was naked save for his white linen wrap. Because Pez rarely wore the traditional clothes of Percheron, they afforded him the anonymity he needed. He required none of his art of guile as he ran, every fiber of his being tingling.

He arrived breathlessly at the Sea Temple and stood awhile dragging in deep lungfuls of air. As Pez looked up, sucking down the salty air, he noticed for the first time the tiny balcony that ran around the bright blue dome of the building.

How odd, he thought, that I haven't seen that before. Doves and the occasional seabird called from the balustrade where they were afforded a magnificent view of the harbor and the city. Pez's attention was diverted to the dark doorway; he knew that when he stepped through it, his life would change. Casting a single glance out to sea, his gaze fell across Beloch and Ezram, reminding him that he had been meaning to visit the giants of the harbor since he had first talked to Boaz about them. Whatever happened today, Pez promised himself, he would make that visit in the next few days.

And then he was climbing up the stairs into the cool darkness where Lyana awaited him. The soft smile at her lips seemed broader today. Was that a faint blush at the cheeks? He knew he was being fanciful but he suddenly felt very aware of being in the presence of the Mother Goddess.

He knelt, bent his head, and reached a short arm out to touch the folds of her robe, and suddenly he heard her voice in his mind.

32.

There was no sign of Zafira. Pez couldn't understand why, for she had never been away when he had visited before, but as quickly as the surprise of her absence came, it left him, driven out by his shock that Lyana had spoken to him in his mind. At first he had thought he was imagining it but the sincerity of the beautiful voice and her obvious love and gratitude had been all too real. He had begun sobbing within moments of hearing her musical tone welcoming him and his emotions had grown only stronger when she had thanked him for the gift of his life.

Pez had hazy memories of childhood. He had blocked most of them out, but stilla"the echoes of torment and humiliation periodically called to him across time. He had learned at a very young age to act thick-skinned, to turn people's taunts back on themselves, and to use humor to make people enjoy him rather than detest him. He recalled joining a traveling circus. It was passing through his town to make camp at the big city of Merent. He sighed. He couldn't remember the last time he'd thought of Merent or his origins. The circus had paused in his village to water the animals at its fast-running stream and the performers had grabbed the opportunity to slake their own thirst at the local inn, glad to have the sudden and unexpected income. Pez had been an entertainer at the inn, singing bawdy songs, making up rhymes about the villages, and generally getting up to the tomfoolery that amused simple folk, especially those in their cups. He had been enchanted by the colorful, exotic people from the circus, and when the twins who shared a body walked through the inn door, arguing loudly with each other and silencing the patrons with their strangeness, he decided then and there that these circus folk were his soul mates. These were other people who were Mother Nature's accidentsa"just like he wasa"and could understand and sympathize with his sense of dislocation from his family and their friends. Among the circus folk Pez believed he would no longer feel so different or unique and within the circus world he could hide himselfa"and his Lorea"fully. He had been right; it had not been hard for him to melt into their numbers looking the way he did, and once the ringmaster saw him perform some acrobatics and juggle as expertly as he could, he was welcomed. Pez never did say good-bye to his familya"he regretted that nowa"he had simply left the village in one of the many carriages that formed the circus caravan and never returned. Most of the circus people performed acts of great daring or trickery; his job was simply to make people laugh, and it wasn't hard, considering his stature and looks.

Many years later, he had been part of a small breakaway group of the circus troupe who had set off on a roving journey through the less traveled but fabled lands of the Faranel to seek new acts, and it was there, in the Faranel, that he had been captured by slaver traders and brought to Percheron. Pez was not his true name. It was the name he had adopted for the circus and it had stuck. It suited him. He wanted no memories of what had come before the happiness and companionship of the troupe.

Life had been good ever since. He had enjoyed the royal patronage that gave him power through his freedom to roam every inch of the palace, insult whomever he chose, enjoy those he truly liked, without risk, as well as the safety such power afforded hima"for no one dared touch the Zar's cherished jester and companion. He could hardly complaina"especially with such genuine friends as Zar Joreb, Spur Lazar, and more lately, Zar Boaz, but Pez had never been truly loved by anyonea"not his family, not Joreb, and if he was truthful, not even Boaz. And yet, a few minutes ago, as he had sunk onto his knees, crying like a baby, a goddess had told him how much she loved hima"un-conditionally and forever.

Pez walked as if in a trance to the top of the temple, past Zafira's tiny living area, through another small trapdoor, and out onto the roof, where a warm wind blew in off the Faranel, causing the small flotilla of boats in the harbor to rock at their moorings. In spite of the warmth, he shivered. He was terrified.

Trust me, my old friend, Lyana had beseeched. And when he had tentatively explained that what she asked of him was very frightening, she had filled his body with the comfort of her soft tinkling laugh. We always have this conversation, Iridor. You are always fearful and yet we never let each other down. Trust me now as I trust you.

And so he trusted her now, ignoring the nagging fear as he looked out toward Beloch and Ezram, and beyond to Star Island. He was so unnerved by the height he felt dizzied, but despite being unsteady, he forced himself to undress on the rooftop to the sound of cooing doves. He did so carefully, taking the time to reestablish a fragile sense of peacea"just enough, he hoped, to give him the courage to take the first step toward giving himself over completely to Lyana. Once he committed that first physical step on the rooftop, Pez knew there would be no going back. Unwrapping the linen from his hips, he laid it softly on the discarded jamoosh. His skin trembled slightly but he wasn't sure whether it was from the caress of the warm wind or the terror of what he was about to do.

Pez took a deep, long, and slow breath. He had learned many years ago how to listen to the rhythm of his heart. He did that now, and as always, he found some measure of calm. He opened his eyes and looked down upon the rooftops of Percheron, its twinkling lights and gently moving harbor. He looked out finally to the Stone Palace, the only item of architecture that he had to look up to see. It had never looked more beautiful, glowing softly in its lantern light, high on its hill.

There was nothing more to do or think about, other than Lyana's request. Summoning every last ounce of courage, he forced himself to move, and so, naked, Pez climbed onto the balustrade, disturbing a small flock of doves who flapped away. He balanced there, willing himself to find the courage. There was no longer any choice.

For me, Pez, she whispered into his mind, and he knew he could not ever let her down.

Pez, court jester to the Zar of Percheron, opened his short arms as if in supplication to the Goddess, took the deepest breath of his life, and then, like the doves before him, launched himself off the Sea Temple toward what felt like certain death.

He waited for the ground to meet him, imagined people gathering about his dying, mangled body, muttering to one another about the waste of life. But the ground never came; instead he became aware of a comforting sensation of buffeting warm air.

Pez opened his eyes and could feel nothing but elation as he saw the great white wings spread out on either side of him.

He was an owl. Silver white, majestic, beautiful. And he was flying.

Iridor had risen.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS.

This tale is the result of browsing through a centuries-old travel writer's account of his visit to Constantinople. He was particularly taken by the Topkapi Palace and the once-forbidden hallways of its harem. I followed in his footsteps in 2004 with a lively few days in Istanbul and experienced my own awe at this same palace and its historic cityaa setting just begging to be absorbed into a fantasy tale.

As always, plenty of people support my efforts and must be thanked, including: Gary Havelberg, Sonya Caddy, Pip Klimentou, and Judy Downs. My thanks to Apolonia Niemirowski for her encouragement and international sleuthing skills in finding every kind of reference material this author could possibly need. Sincere thanks to Matt Whitney, who at short notice leaped at the opportunity to create a map of Percheron; and to Trent Hayes, who continues to keep my busy bulletin board and Web site running smoothly.

A nod to the booksellers around the United States for their boundless enthusiasm for the genrea"particularly Steve Hubbard in Minnesotaa"and to all at HarperCollinsa"especially Kate Nintzel and Jennifer Brehl.

Special thanks to Chris Lotts in New York for helping to take my work to new markets around the globeait is wonderfully rewarding to hear from readers all over the world.

Finally my love and heartfelt thanks to Ian, Will, and Jack, who keep me firmly in the real world despite my wanderings through make-believe ones.

About the Author.

FIONA MCINTOSH was born and raised in Sussex in the UK, but spent her early childhood commuting with her family between England and West Africa where her father worked. She left a PR career in London to travel, and found herself in Australia where she fell in love with the country, its people, and one person in particular. She has since roamed the world working for her own travel publishing company, which she runs with her husband. McIntosh lives with her family in Adelaide.

You can find out more information about Fiona or chat with her on her bulletin board via her website: www.fionamcintosh.com. E-mail: fiona@fionamcintosh.com.

Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins author.

Praise for FIONA MCINTOSH.

and her previous trilogy, The Quickening.

MYRREN'S GIFT.

"Fantasy fans will welcome Australian author McIntosh's gripping first installment in her Quickening trilogya. [A] delightful and fast-moving story."

a"Publishers Weekly.

"Fiona McIntosh is a seductress. I have not moved from the sofa for three days, beguiled by her new fantasy novel, Myrren's Gift."

a"Sydney Morning Herald.

"Fiona McIntosh is a bold new voice in high fantasy. Myrren's Gift is a rich, satisfying confection of vivid detail, engrossing characters, and their dark doings, all beautifully written. I was enthralled from page one."

a"Lynn Flewelling.

"Stunninga. Nothing short of astonishing. McIntosh weaves a captivating web of action, escapes, and intrigue from which you cannot break freea. Myrren's Gift is a refreshing breath of fresh air in a genre that is becoming stale and clogged by multi-volume series."

a"Bookreporter.com BLOOD AND MEMORY.

"[A] terrific dark fantasya. [T]he story line is action-packeda. [A] fabulous saga."

a"Midwest Book Review "Because I read a lot of fantasy books and books in general, I am seldom taken by surprise by a plot turn. When I read Myrren's Gift, I thought I could predict where this tale was going. Blood and Memory proved me wrong. Fiona McIntosh's books move quickly and unpredictably; if you are tired of plodding trilogies in which little seems to happen, these books are definitely for you."

a"Robin Hobb "This sequel to Myrren's Gift provides a further look at McIntosh's exquisitely detailed world. Strongly conceived, believable characters and a swift plot make this fantasy epic a good addition to most libraries."

a"Library Journal BRIDGE OF SOULS.

"Vibrant and engaginga. An intricately plotted tale of love and politics, set against the backdrop of a rich fantasy realm with interesting magic, and peopled with characters whom the reader grows to care about. A fast-paced and enchanting page-turner."

a"Kirkus Reviews.

(starred review).

"Bridge of Souls concludes all the adventure, grisly deaths and megalomaniacal machinations in gleeful style."

a"Interzone magazine.

"High fantasy at its besta. A fascinating conclusion to an engaging tale of sword and sorcery."

a"Romance Reviews Today.

"McIntosh's work has always been grittier than mostathe tension builds nicely and anyone who has followed Wyl this far will definitely need to find out what happens."

a"The Guardian.

Also by FIONA MCINTOSH.