Ingrid took one last look at the gray waters of Lake Superior, which had cradled her since her birth. Then, she turned on her heel and, with the rocking gait of an experienced sailor, she strode to the stern. Avanasy stood at the tiller, one hand keeping it steady, the other feeling the tension in the mainsheet. She took his face in both hands and kissed him, drinking in the promise as he returned her kiss and embraced her with one arm.

"When you wake, it will be to see the land of my birth," he said.

"I look forward to the sight." Ingrid smiled at him, and went below.

Neither of the bunks seemed to be claimed, so Ingrid sat herself down on the right-hand bed. She pulled the little bottle from her apron pocket and stared at it for a moment, ashamed of the nervousness that fluttered in her breast.

Then, she pulled out the stopper and swallowed the thick liquid in one draft.

She had time enough to taste sweet honey and strong brandy before a wave of dizziness swept over her. She managed to lie back and swing her legs up, but a second wave overcame her and all the strength left her limbs. She was distantly aware of the clatter as the vial fell from her fingers to the deck, but she could do nothing about it. Sleep already wrapped her in an embrace as warm as any Avanasy could offer and it pulled her close into its comforting darkness.

She lay oblivious for a time. Then, it seemed to her that she sat up, wide awake, although she did not know why.

"Come out," called a stranger's voice. "Come out. You are summoned."

The Land of Death and Spirit bloomed around Avanasy like a dream. Lake Superior and its wide gray waters were gone without a trace. Instead, he sailed up a broad brown river. The sails bellied full in a wind his skin did not feel. No sound came from his boat's timbers, nor did any come from the flowing waters, or the dark pines that towered on the mossy banks. These were the Silent Lands, the Shifting Lands, the homes of ghosts, the unborn, the never born, and the eternal. No sorcerer crossed them in the flesh unless he was desperate. No sorcerer carried an unprotected, ordinary human through them unless they were insane.

Avanasy could not afford to think of that now. He had to keep all his mind fixed on his destination. In the mortal world, a sorcerer had to reach for their magic and use their will to shape it. Here, the magic reached for the sorcerer and tried to shape him. Here, the need was to hold one's soul steady, to be a rock in the stream of the Shifting Lands. A divided soul would feel the yearning, lonely tug of the half of itself that resided here and would travel far to ease that ache.

Small memories, his master had told him. It is the tiniest, most intimate details of life that will make the links in the chain to pull you through the Silent Lands.

So, Avanasy remembered. He remembered the smell of the coal fire in his master Valerii's house late at night as Avanasy took down his instruction in the great vellum book. He remembered the taste of broth and dumplings in winter when he was a boy and had come back in from helping his father supervise the brewing sheds, and how the warmth of the good soup could be felt through and through. He remembered the day the zhagravor, the telling sorcerer, had wrapped the red sash around his waist and looked hard in his eyes and declared him sorcerer.

He remembered walking into the great hall at Vyshtavos, and how the keeper of the emperor's god house had barred his way, ceremonially challenging him, until Master Valerii gave his name and the keeper stood aside so that Avanasy might kneel before the emperor and hear his charge.

"The high princess, my beloved daughter Medeoan Edemshoidoch Nacheradavosh, has been declared sorcerer. It is my express wish that she be trained in arts magical and the meaning of sorcery. Your master, Valerii Adrisyn Rhasovin, has said you are most suited to this charge. Will you accept the task?"

Protocol forbid him to look up at the monarch's face until invited to stand and give counsel, so he gave his promise to the blue-and-gold carpeting and the tips of the emperor's black velvet slippers. He remembered how his heart sang as he spoke of his loyalty and honor.

He remembered Medeoan as he first saw her. Twelve years old, pale-skinned and pale-haired, with too little flesh for her rapidly growing frame. "Pinched" was the unflattering word that first came to his mind. She stood in the middle of the schoolroom flanked by her graceful music tutor and fat mathematics tutor. He had time enough to see that much before he had to kneel and study the parquet floor. He remembered the patterns of pale stars laid out in the darker wood. He had a long time to become familiar with them before she bid him stand.

But then came the summer days in the gardens, and the winters by the fire, and discovering Medeoan's voracious mind and troubled heart. Hours in the Red-Library poring over the volumes kept there, increasing his own knowledge and opening his mind to the vastness of the world's possibilities that even his master could not teach him.

Memory on top of memory, long locked in the back of his own mind, all tumbling out in a flood, creating a current to draw them forward into Isavalta. He held his hand on the tiller to steady himself, but the tiller had no force in this river. There was only his heart and his concentration now, but after all those long months in a world where the magic was so stifled, even this amount of work felt like freedom.

Movement caught his eye, and despite Avanasy's deep concentration, his gaze flickered momentarily, and he saw Ingrid climb out of the hold.

"What!" he exclaimed, and his hold on the course and memory loosened dangerously.

Ingrid did not even pause at the sound of his voice. She continued across the deck with a slow, steady motion that was almost a glide.

"Ingrid!" Avanasy called desperately and he reached out as she passed him, unblinking. He saw his hand touch the cloth of her sleeve, but he felt nothing, nothing at all.

Illusion? Spirit? Avanasy's mind reeled, and he felt his hold on the course slip that much further.

Ingrid, or the seeming of Ingrid, did not pause when she reached the rail. She continued on, her stride unbroken, and then she was on the bank.

Avanasy could not believe what he was seeing. This must be a trick. Some fey spirit was trying to throw them off, trap them forever here in the Land of Death and Spirit. But as Ingrid vanished into the pine forest, his heart constricted, and he knew he could not hold his mind to the task without certainty.

He had to hurry, before his hold was gone, before he was awash in the unbroken and shifting sea that was the world around him.

Steeling himself, Avanasy lifted his hand from the tiller.

Remember Isavalta, he told himself as he crossed the deck. Remember the hours at the loom weaving these sails. Remember how the threads cut even your toughened fingers. Remember the touch of the cotton dust in your throat. Remember.

He started down the ladder. The boat rocked under him, gliding forward still on the current of his thoughts.

Remember the summer day you spent painting this boat. Remember how the sun beat down on your back and the strong smell of the paints in the heat. Remember how tired you were when you were done, but how proud. Your masterpiece. Remember how Master Valerii smiled and clapped you on the shoulder and you knew you'd done well.

It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the gloom of the hold, but when they did, he saw Ingrid lying still in her bunk and he wanted to shout with relief. He had almost been taken in by an illusion of the Silent Lands, but there she was, safe and whole.

Safe yes, but whole? nagged a little voice in the back of his head. Are you certain?

But how could she be otherwise? She had a divided soul. She was safely anchored, one foot in the mortal world and one in the Silent Lands. Asleep as she was, her spirit could not be moved. That was the law.

Despite this, Avanasy moved forward. He had to be sure. He could take no chances with Ingrid. In this place, she depended utterly on him.

Remember the first day in Master Valerii's house. Remember how you started at shadows, your boy's head filled with thoughts of ghosts and house goblins. Remember how you were so afraid to open the big cupboard in the attic, and when you did you found it full of nothing more terrifying than the winter's linens ...

Avanasy reached for Ingrid's hand, and found it cold. Fear rooted him to the deck. She breathed, he could see the rise and fall of her chest clearly, but she had gone cold as a corpse, and her sun-browned cheeks had lost all their color. Her white skin seemed to glow in the darkness.

She was not dead, but nor was she alive. Her vitality, her spirit, against all he knew to be possible, was gone, and he had seen it walk into the Land of Death and Spirit.

How? he wanted to howl. How has this happened? Who has done this to you?

No. No. He must stop. He must think, he must remember. He must hold their course, and he must let go. It was too much. Avanasy threw his head back, his jaw and fists clenched to hold in his screams, to try to keep his thoughts together.

He must find her. She would die left like this. He must follow her spirit somehow. There must be a way.

Must be a way. Remember. Remember. Remember Isavalta. Ah, gods, gods, Ingrid, what have I brought you to? Stop. Remember. Remember your master's house. Remember his teaching, remember your study. It is all you both have now. Remember ...

He had it. The ring. His promise given to her. He could follow that through the shifting lands. It would be a thin thread, but it would be enough. It would have to be.

His grip on his memories slid away just thinking about it. Too much to concentrate on. He could not guide the boat and walk the Silent Lands at the same time. He would have to let the boat slide into the mortal world, and it would have to take their bodies with it while their spirits both walked.

It was a grave risk. They could be so easily led astray. Ingrid might already be beyond him, in the grip of whatever great power could hail a divided soul from its body.

No. No, he could not believe that. There would still be something he could do. Some way to save her.

But even as he thought that, he felt his hold on the boat loosen yet further. The air around him seem to thicken and grow warm, turning into a comfortable blanket into which it would be so easy to fall, fall and sleep, and let what would come bring itself and never worry about any of it ...

Clamping down hard on his feelings, Avanasy pulled the ring from Ingrid's cold, unresisting hand. Then, as quickly as he could, Avanasy climbed the ladder and crossed the deck to the tiller.

Remember. Remember Medeoan's wedding, if you can remember nothing else. Remember the touch of the door under your hands. Remember the anger. Remember how you prayed.

Keeping tight rein on his thoughts, Avanasy sliced a length of rope from one of the coils. He wound it around his left wrist, and bound his wrist to the tiller.

Remember how Medeoan's eyes blazed when she spoke the words of banishment. Remember how Kacha stood beside her, and how coldly he smiled. Remember the triumph you saw glittering in his unmatched eyes.

He pulled the knot closed as tightly as he could with his one free hand. Then, he laid his iron-bladed knife aside. He could not hold such a thing and do what he must. Instead, he clasped Ingrid's ring.

Avanasy closed his eyes and willed himself to relax. He let the warm vapors of the Shifting Land enfold him. He abandoned will and memory, fear and anger. He must be a feather in the wind now. He must be light and air. No part of earth must he be. He must be free, a shadow, a thought, a dream, nothing at all.

Although he did not open his eyes, still Avanasy saw. He saw the wide brown river. He saw the small red boat with its white sails bellied in a wind he could not feel sailing with the current. He saw himself slumped over the tiller, but only for a moment. Boat and abandoned body vanished like mist at the touch of the sun. Back to Isavalta, if all was well, to drift upon the ocean, until he could make his way back.

Until we can make our way back, he told himself firmly.

He opened his shadow of a hand and in it found the memory of a ring. He let himself go further yet, unbound spirit, dream, vapor that he was, and he began to drift. Now it was the ring that provided the current. The ring would search out its mirror self in the Shifting Lands. The ring, his promise, would bring him to Ingrid.

All around Avanasy, the lands swayed and blurred. He had no true eyes to close in this form, but still, all turned to darkness, and he felt himself begin to fall.

Ingrid stepped onto the shore. All her clothing was perfectly dry. She did not remember having left the boat. She looked back, but all she saw behind her were the dark trunks of pine trees.

It's only a dream, she told herself. There's nothing to fear. In the manner of dreams, Ingrid seemed to know exactly where she needed to go. She felt as if there were an invisible string tied to her waist and pulling her easily forward through the dark, pine woods. Her feet made no sound as she walked over moss and fallen needles. She could not see sun or sky. She cast no shadow before or behind her. But none of that worried her. She knew which way she must go, and she was content to walk until she found her destination.

Ingrid did not know how long it was before the woods opened before her. She stepped easily from the thick forest into an open meadow lit by a pale, green light for which she could discern no source. The grass bent and waved in a wind she could not feel, but it made no noise at all as it moved. A round green hill rose before her like a bubble from a pot of boiling water. On top of the hill stood a bright red fox.

Ingrid hesitated. She had seen no other living creature since she had entered the wood. Her way, however, lay past the hill. She knew that, as she knew she must continue walking. She could not linger here. She turned from the hill and started toward the woods again.

But the fox was in front of her, and it was enormous.

Ingrid stopped short. Her heart thumped once. She distantly knew she was afraid, but she could do nothing. The fox stood before her, its head level with her own, its ears pricked up and alert, its whiskers twitching interestedly.

"Well now," it said. "What have we here?"

The sound of the fox's voice sent a cold thrill through her, as if it were a knife blade that touched her bare skin. She was still pulled forward, but at the same time she was rooted to the spot.

"I said." The fox's, the Vixen's, tail swished back and forth. "What have we here?"

"I ... I don't know," stammered Ingrid. "I ... I'm supposed to go that way." She waved tremulously in the direction she was pulled. Without sun, without shadow, she had no way to give the direction a name. The pull, though, was becoming more insistent, almost a pain.

"Yes." The Vixen narrowed her green eyes. "Yes, you are. But, perhaps I should not let you pass." The Vixen whisked around Ingrid, more like a great cat than a fox. "Perhaps I should keep you for myself." She paused a moment, considering. "But no. Then I would never know what she meant to do with you herself, you see. The Old Witch has hidden in her house for so long, none understand it. She has so many to serve her, what needs she with one more? What can you do that they cannot?" The Vixen lifted her muzzle, gazing closely at Ingrid's eyes, and Ingrid felt herself begin to tremble although she did not know why. "Your eyes are sharp, but how sharp? Your sight may be your trouble, always showing you what you should not see." She stepped away, contemplating Ingrid now with a sort of cool disinterest. "Such eyes can plague a family down the generations. Such eyes can ruin kings and yet save kingdoms." The Vixen sat back, her mouth hanging open so that she appeared to be laughing. "But then, greed was ever a part of her nature. She may want you simply because she wants. Yes, I'm minded to let you go about her business for now, little woman. Perhaps she thinks you can bring back what she's lost."

The Vixen was gone, as suddenly as she appeared, and Ingrid was alone in the meadow under the pale green light, utterly bewildered, except for the pulling that led her down a path she could not measure toward an end she could not guess.

It is a dream. I was promised. It is only a dream.

Because she could no longer bear to stand still, Ingrid continued on into the dark trees again. The woods continued on for some time. Ingrid could not even feel the ground beneath her feet now. She might as well have been standing still while the woods flowed about her.

But slowly, gradually, the trees began to change. Maples and oaks intruded on the pines. A small creek ran silently between mossy banks. Ingrid stepped across it. On the other side, a birch tree pulled its branches back to let her pass. As it did, Ingrid saw a house swim into her vision as if from a fog.

It was a low, thatched building of gray stone. It looked as if it could be a cliff side, formed by wind and weather wearing away the soil rather than an edifice built by human hands. A low stone fence surrounded it, and a winding stone path led to its low door.

There was nothing in the least alarming about the place. It was an old homestead, well tended and sturdy. Yet, Ingrid found herself hesitating beside the gate. The pull had released her. She was where she was supposed to be.

"Ingrid," said a voice within the dark doorway. It was the same voice that had called her from the boat. "Come in to me."

Ingrid did not even think to disobey. She stepped across the threshold, and was suddenly dizzy, as if she had been swept up and carried some distance.

The inside of the cottage was as neat, and as solid, as the outside. The dim light that filtered through the doorway gave Ingrid the impression of heavy furniture carved of dark wood, a stone hearth without a fire, a broom, a dirt floor and, in the far corner, an angular shadow that it took a moment for Ingrid to realize was a loom.

A shadow emerged from the darkness of the cottage and stepped into the square of pale, green light that fell through the cottage's single window. Dizziness took hold of Ingrid again, but it cleared swiftly and she saw the shadow had become a tall, slender woman. Years had etched themselves into her face, but each line held both beauty and strength. Her eyes were clear and filled with purpose. A waterfall of white hair, unbound like a girl's, hung down past her shoulders. She wore a simple black dress and held her capable hands folded neatly over a white apron.

Ingrid had never known either of her grandmothers, but what she felt now was a mix of longing and comfortable love that surely must be what she would have felt for them.

"You are a good child," said the woman, nodding her approval. Her voice was melodious, nothing at all like the wild voice of the Vixen.

"Who are you?" asked Ingrid, her voice faltering. It seemed strange to speak after so much silence, and she sounded so clumsy to herself.

"I am grandmother and I am crone," said the old woman. "I am the one who sent for you and the one whom you heeded."

"Yes," said Ingrid, although she did not know why. Had she truly been expecting a name? That seemed presumptuous somehow.

"I called you here because I have a task that needs doing. I need you to hear me and to complete it."

Ingrid hesitated. She yearned to do as she was told. She felt the gentle authority of this woman and, again like a child, she wished for her approval.

It's only a dream, she told herself. What's wrong with giving a promise in a dream?

"Ingrid."

Ingrid turned to the window. Avanasy stood in the yard. The world seemed to ripple unpleasantly where he stood. The neat fence was at the same time pickets and bones. The gray stones were simultaneously skulls. The house rocked where it stood.

"Ingrid!" he called again. "Come out to me!"

"Granddaughter, stay yet awhile," said the woman behind her. "Let the man cool his ardor for you while you attend your elders, as you should."

"Yes, Grandmother." But Ingrid's words had no force. Even as she spoke them, she felt herself drifting toward the door. The floor shifted and shuddered under her feet. Bones, she thought again. Why were there bones in the roof beams and bones underfoot? She could not see them, but she knew they were there.

"Ingrid!" called Avanasy again.

"Bind you by the threshold, bind you by the word," said the old woman behind her. "Bind you by your promise to me."

"But there was no promise," said Ingrid vaguely, and the door fell open in front of her.

The house seemed to have grown stilts, for now she looked down a long stair at Avanasy.

He seemed insubstantial, somehow, as if he were nothing more than a shadow among shadows. Yet, she felt drawn to him, as she had been drawn to this house.

"Come away, Ingrid." He held out his hand, beseeching. "Come to me."

"I will," she assured him. "But there is an old woman inside who needs my help."

"No, Ingrid, she means to harm you." Why could she not see clearly? This place had seemed so solid, such a part of the earth. Now it rocked under her like a restless boat, and all that was dark seemed to be bleached and white.

"How can she hurt me? This is only a dream. You told me so."

Distress creased Avanasy's face. "I was wrong."