In the middle of the wide hilltop one piece of stone had been cut free from vegetation-a huge pale rock, angular as an ax head, that jutted to twice the height of a man. Between the high bonfire and this naked stone stood three motionless dark-robed shapes. They looked as though they had been waiting for a long time-perhaps as long as the rocks themselves had waited. As the Fire Dancers pushed the prisoners toward the center of the hill, the dark trio turned, almost in unison.

"Hail, Cloud Children!" Maefwaru shouted. "Hail to the Master's first Chosen. We have come as He wished."

The black-robed things regarded him silently.

"And we have brought more even than we promised," Maefwaru continued. "Praise to the Master!" He turned and waved to his underlings, who hurried Simon and Miriamele forward; but as they approached the bonfire and the silent watchers, the Fire Dancers slowed, then stopped and looked helplessly back to their leader.

"Tie them to that tree, there." Maefwaru gestured impatiently at the wind-gnarled corpse of a pine standing some twenty paces from the fire. "Hurry-it is almost midnight."

Simon grunted in pain as one of their captors pulled his arms behind his back to secure them to the tree. As soon as the Fire Dancers had finished and withdrawn, he edged toward Miriamele until their shoulders touched, in part because he was frightened, and hungry for a little of her warmth, but also so that they might more easily whisper without attracting attention.

"Who are those three dark ones?" he asked under his breath.

Miriamele shook her head.

The nearest of the black-robed figures slowly turned toward Maefwaru. "And these are for the Master?" it said. The words were as cold and sharp as the edge of a knife. Simon felt his legs weaken. There was an unmistakable sound to the voice, a sour yet melodic accent he had heard only in moments of terror ... the hiss of Stormspike.

"They are," said Maefwaru, nodding his blunt head eagerly. "I dreamed of the red-haired one some moons ago. I know that the Master gave me that dream. He wants this one."

The robed thing seemed to regard Simon for a moment. "Perhaps," it said slowly. "But did you bring another as well, in case the Master has other plans for these? Did you bring blood for the Binding?"

"I did, oh. yes!" In the presence of these strange beings the cruel Fire Dancer chieftain had become as humble and ingratiating as an old courtier. "Two who tried to flee the Master's great promise!" He turned and gestured to the knot of other Fire Dancers still waiting nervously at the edge of the hilltop. There was shouting and a convulsion of activity, then a handful of the white-robed figures dragged two others forward. One of the captured pair had lost his hood in the struggle.

"G.o.d curse you!" shouted Roelstan, sobbing. "You promised that if we brought you those two we'd be forgiven!"

"You have have been forgiven," Maefwaru said cheerfully. "I forgive you your foolishness. But you cannot escape punishment. No one flees the Master." been forgiven," Maefwaru said cheerfully. "I forgive you your foolishness. But you cannot escape punishment. No one flees the Master."

Roelstan collapsed, sagging to his knees while the men around him tried to tug him back onto his feet. His wife Gullaighn might have fainted; she hung limply in the arms of her captors.

Simon's heart seemed to rise into his throat; for a moment, he could not breathe. They were powerless, and there was no help to be expected this time. They would die here on this windswept hill-or the Storm King would take them, as Maefwaru had said, which would surely be unimaginably worse. He turned to look at Miriamele.

The princess seemed half-asleep, her eyes lidded, her lips moving. Was she praying?

"Miriamele! Those are Norns! The Storm King's servants!"

She ignored him, absorbed in her own thoughts.

"d.a.m.n you, Miriamele, don't do this! We have to think-we have to get free!"

"Shut your mouth, Simon!" she hissed.

He was thunderstruck. "What!?"

"I'm trying to get something." Miriamele pushed against the dead tree, her shoulders moving up and down as she fidgeted behind her back. "It's at the bottom of the pocket of my cloak."

"What is it?" Simon strained closer, until his hands could feel her fingers beneath the cloth. "A knife?"

"No, they took my knife. It's your mirror-the one Jiriki gave you. I've had it since I cut your hair." Even as she spoke, he felt the wooden frame slide free from the pocket and touch his fingers. "Can you take it?"

"What good will it do?" He gripped it as firmly as he could. "Don't let go yet, not until I've got it. There." He tugged it loose, holding it tightly in his bound hands.

"You can call Jiriki!" she said triumphantly. "You said that it was to be used in direst need."

Simon's momentary elation ebbed. "But it doesn't work that way. He doesn't just appear. It's not that kind of magic."

Miriamele was silent for a moment. When she spoke, she, too, was more subdued. "But you said it brought Aditu when you were lost in the forest."

"It took her days to find me. We don't have days, Miri."

"Try it anyway," she said stubbornly. "It can't hurt. Maybe Jiriki is somewhere close by. It can't hurt!"

"But I can't even see it," Simon protested. "How can I make it work without being able to look into it?"

"Just try!"

Simon bit back further argument. He took a deep breath, then forced himself to think of his own face as it had looked the last time he had seen it in the Sithi gla.s.s. He could remember things generally, but suddenly could not remember details-what color were his eyes, exactly? And the scar on his cheek, the burning mark of dragon's blood-how long was it? Past the bottom of his nose?

For a brief moment, as the memory of the searing pain from Igjarjuk's black blood washed through him, he thought he felt the frame of the looking gla.s.s warm beneath his fingers. A moment later, it was cold again. He tried to summon the feeling back, but was unsuccessful. He kept on fruitlessly for long moments.

"It's no use," he said wearily. "I can't do it."

"You're not trying hard enough," Miriamele snapped.

Simon looked up. The Fire Dancers were paying no attention to Miriamele or him, their interest fixed instead on the weird scene beside the bonfire. The two renegades, Roelstan and Gullaighn, had been carried to the top of the large stone and forced onto their backs. Their four captors stood atop the rock holding their ankles, so that the prisoners' heads hung down, arms dangling helplessly. "Usires Aedon!" Simon swore. "Look at that!"

"Don't look," said Miriamele. "Just use the mirror."

"I told you, I can't. And it wouldn't do any good anyway." He paused for a moment, watching the contorted, upside-down mouth of Roelstan, who was shouting incoherently. The three Norns stood before him, looking up as if at some interesting bird sitting on a branch.

"b.l.o.o.d.y Tree," Simon swore again, then dropped the mirror to the ground.

"Simon!" Miriamele said, horrified. "Have you gone mad? Pick it up!"

He lifted his foot and ground his heel into the looking gla.s.s. It was very strong, but he hooked it over so that it was tilted against the tree, then stepped down hard. The frame did not give, but the crystalline surface broke with a faint percussive sound; for a moment, the scent of violets rose around them. Simon kicked it again, scattering transparent shards.

"You have have gone mad!" The princess was in despair. gone mad!" The princess was in despair.

Simon closed his eyes. Forgive me, Jiriki, Forgive me, Jiriki, he thought. he thought. But Morgenes told me any gift that cannot be thrown away is not a gift but a trap. But Morgenes told me any gift that cannot be thrown away is not a gift but a trap. He crouched as deeply as he could, but the rope that held him to the trunk would not allow his fingers to reach the shattered mirror. He crouched as deeply as he could, but the rope that held him to the trunk would not allow his fingers to reach the shattered mirror.

"Can you get to that?" he asked Miriamele.

She stared at him for a moment, then slid herself as low as she could. She, too, was several handlengths short of the goal. "No. Why did you do it?"

"It was no good to us," Simon said impatiently. "Not in one piece, anyway." He caught at one of the larger shards with his foot and dragged it closer. "Help me."

Arduously, Simon got his toe beneath the piece of crystal and tried to lift it high enough for Miriamele's abbreviated reach, but the contortion was too difficult and it slid away, tumbling to the ground once more. Simon bit his lip and tried again.

Three times the shard fell free, forcing them to begin over. Fortunately, the Fire Dancers and the black-robed Norns seemed caught up in the preparations for their ritual, whatever it might be. When Simon sneaked a glance toward the center of the clearing, Maefwaru and his minions were on their knees before the stone. Roelstan had stopped shouting; he made weak sounds and thrashed, striking his head against the stone. Gullaighn hung motionless.

This time, as the jagged thing began to slide off his boot again, Simon lurched to the side and managed to trap it against the leg of Miriamele's breeches. He pushed his own leg against it to keep it from falling, then lowered his foot to the ground before he toppled.

"Now what?" he asked himself.

Miriamele pushed against him, then slowly moved up onto her toes, lifting the shard higher along Simon's leg. It sliced through the rough cloth with surprising ease, drawing blood, but Simon remained as still as he could, unwilling to let a little pain deter them. He was impressed by Miriamele's cleverness.

When she had lifted herself as high as she could, they moved again so that the crystal fragment rested primarily on Simon, then Miriamele eased herself back down. Next it was Simon's turn. The process was excruciatingly slow, and the crystal itself seemed sharper than any normal mirror-gla.s.s. By the time the shard was almost close enough for Simon to grasp in his hand, both prisoners had legs ribboned with blood.

As he strained his fingers toward it, and found it still just beyond reach, Simon felt the hackles on his neck rise. Across the hilltop, the Norns had begun to sing.

The melody rose like a serpent rearing above its coils. Simon found himself starting to slide away into a sort of dream. The voices were cold and fearsome, but also strangely beautiful. He thought he heard the hollow echo of measureless caverns, the musical drip of slow-melting ice. He could not understand the words, but the ageless magic of the song was unmistakable. It drew him along like a subterranean stream, down, down into darkness....

Simon shook his head, trying to drive the grogginess away. Neither of the captives dangling across the top of the rock was struggling now. Beneath them, the Norns had spread out until they formed a rough triangle around the jut of stone.

Simon strained against the rope as hard as he could, wincing as the hemp bit into his wrists; it tormented his flesh as though he were-bound in smoldering metal. Miriamele saw the tears form in his eyes and leaned against him, pushing her head against his shoulder as though she could somehow force the pain away. Simon strained, gasping for air. At last, his fingers touched the cold edge. Just the light contact sliced his skin, but the thin bright line of pain signaled victory. Simon sighed in relief.

The Norns' song ended. Maefwaru rose from his kneeling position and made his way forward to the stone. "Now is the time," he cried. "Now the Master shall see our loyalty! It is time to call forth His Third House!"

He turned and said something to the Norns in a voice too low for Simon to hear, but Simon was paying little attention in any case. He grasped the shard of crystal in his fingers, unmindful of shedding a little more of his own blood as long as it did not make his hold too slippery, then turned and began feeling blindly for Miriamele's bound wrists.

"Don't move," he said.

Maefwaru had been given a long knife that glinted in the wavering firelight like something from a nightmare. He stepped to the rock, then reached up and grabbed Roelstan's hair, pulling it so hard that the captive's ankles were almost tugged loose from the grip of the Fire Dancers atop the rock. Roelstan raised his hands as if to fight, but his movements were horribly slow: he might have been drowning in great depths. Maefwaru pulled the blade across Roelstan's neck and stepped back, but could not avoid all the blood that spurted free; darkness spattered his face and white robe.

Roelstan thrashed. Simon stared, sickened but fascinated, as streams of blood ran down the face of the pale rock. Gullaighn, hanging upside down beside her dying husband, began to shriek. Where the red liquid pooled at the base of the stone, the ground-hugging mist turned crimson, as though the blood itself had been rendered into fog.

"Simon!" Miriamele b.u.mped against him. "Hurry!"

He reached out to find her fingers, then followed them up to the knots around her wrists. He placed the slick fragment of crystal against the bristling rope and began to saw.

They still faced the bonfire and the b.l.o.o.d.y stone. Miriamele's eyes were wide in her pale face. "Please hurry!"

Simon grunted. It was difficult enough just keeping the crystal in his lacerated, blood-dripping hand. And what was happening in the center of the hilltop was making him even more frightened than he had been.

The red mist had spread until it surrounded and partially obscured the great stone. The Fire Dancers were chanting now, cracked voices unpleasantly echoing the poison-sweet song of the Norns.

There was a movement in the mist, a pale bulky something that Simon at first thought was the stone itself given magical life. Then it strode forward out of the reddened darkness on four huge legs and the earth seemed to shudder beneath its tread. It was a great white bull, bigger than any Simon had ever seen, taller than a man at its shoulders. Despite its solidity, it seemed oddly translucent, as though it had been sculpted from fog. Its eyes burned like coals, and its bone-hued horns seemed to cradle the sky. On its back, riding like a knight on a horse, sat a ma.s.sive black-robed figure. Terror beat out from this apparition like the heat of a summer sun. Simon felt first his fingers, then his hands go nerveless, so that he could not tell if he was still holding the precious shard. All he could think of was escaping from that terrible, empty black hood. He wanted only to throw himself against the weight of his ropes until they burst, or gnaw them until he was free to run and run and run....

The chanting of the Fire Dancers grew ragged, shouts of awe and terror intermixed with the ritualistic words. Maefwaru stood before his congregation, waving his thick arms in horrified glee.

"Veng'a Sutekh!" he shouted. "Duke of the Black Wind! He is come to make the Master's Third House!" he shouted. "Duke of the Black Wind! He is come to make the Master's Third House!"

The great figure atop the bull stared down at him, then the hood turned slowly, surveying the hilltop. Its invisible eyes pa.s.sed across Simon like a freezing wind.

"Oh, Usires on the T-T-Tree!" Miriamele moaned. "W-What is it?"

Strangely, for a moment Simon's madness lessened, as though the fear had become too great to sustain any longer. He had never heard Miriamele so frightened, and her horrified voice pulled him back from the brink. He realized that he still held the bit of crystal clutched between his stiffened fingers.

"It is a bad ... a bad thing," he panted. "One of the Storm King's ..." He caught at her wrist and began sawing away once more. "Oh, Miri, hold still."

She was gulping air. "I'll ... try...."

The Norns had turned and were speaking to Maefwaru, who alone of his congregation seemed able to stand the sight of the bull and its rider: the rest of the Fire Dancers groveled in the tangled undergrowth, their chanting now entirely given way to sobs of almost ecstatic fear. Maefwaru turned and gesticulated toward the tree where Simon and Miriamele were tied.

"They're c-coming for us," Simon stuttered. As he spoke, the shard sliced through the last strands of Miriamele's ropes. "Cut mine, quick."

Miriamele half-turned, trying to use her fluttering cloak to hide what they were doing from their captors. He could feel her vigorous movements as she dragged the edge of the crystal fragment back and forth across the thick hemp. The Norns were making their way slowly across the hilltop toward them.

"Oh, Aedon, they're coming!" Simon said.

"I'm almost through!" she whispered. He felt something gouge into his wrist, then Miriamele cursed. "I dropped it!"

Simon hung his head. So it was hopeless, then. Beside him, he felt Miriamele hastily winding her own severed rope around her wrists once more so that it would appear she was still bound.

The Norns came on, their graceful walk and billowing robes making them almost seem to float over the rough ground. Their faces were expressionless, their eyes black as the holes between stars. They converged around the tree and Simon felt his arm caught in a cold, unbreakable grip. One of the Norns severed the rope that had leashed the prisoners, then Simon and Miriamele were drawn stumbling across the hilltop toward the looming stone and the terrifying shape that had appeared from the red mist.

He felt his heart speeding as he neared the bull and its rider, racing faster with each step until he thought it would burst through the walls of his chest. The Norns who held him were frighteningly alien, implacably hostile, but the fear they inspired was as nothing before the all-crushing terror of the Storm King's Red Hand.

The Norns flung him to the ground. The bull's hooves, each wide as a barrel, were only a few cubits away. He did not want to look, wanted only to keep his face pressed against the shielding vegetation, but something drew his head inexorably upward until he was staring at what seemed a shimmer of flame in the depths of the black hood.

"We have come to raise the Third House," the thing said. Its stony voice rumbled both without and within Simon, shaking the ground and his bones as well. the thing said. Its stony voice rumbled both without and within Simon, shaking the ground and his bones as well. "What is "What is ... ... this?" this?"

Maefwaru was so frightened and excited that his voice was a squeal. "I had a dream! The Master wanted this one,.great Veng'a Sutekh-I know that he did!"

An invisible something abruptly grasped Simon's mind as a falcon's claws might seize a rabbit. He felt his thoughts shaken and flung about with brutal abandon, so that he fell down onto his face, shrieking with pain and horror. He only dimly heard the thing speak again.

"We remember this little fly-but it is no longer wanted. The Red Hand has other business now... and we need more blood before we are ready. Add this one's life to that of the others upon the Wailing Stone. "

Simon rolled over onto his back and stared up at the clouded, starless sky as the world reeled about him.

No longer wanted... The words spun crazily in his head. Someone somewhere was calling his name. The words spun crazily in his head. Someone somewhere was calling his name. No longer wanted No longer wanted ... ...

"Simon! Get up!" Get up!"

He dimly recognized Miriamele's voice, heard its shrill terror. His head lolled. There was a form approaching him, a pale smear in his blurry sight. For an appalling moment he thought it might be the great bull, but his vision cleared. Maefwaru was stalking toward him, the long knife held up so that it glinted in the bonfire's wavering light.

"The Red Hand wants your blood," the Fire Dancer chieftain said. His eyes were completely mad. "You will help to build the Third House."

Simon struggled to free himself from the tangling gra.s.ses and clamber up onto his knees. Miriamele had thrown off her false bonds, and now flung herself toward Maefwaru. One of the Norns caught at her arm and tugged her to his black-cloaked breast, pulling her as close as a lover would-but to Simon's surprise, the immortal did no more than hold her helpless; the Norn's black eyes were intent on Maefwaru, who had continued toward Simon without sparing an instant's attention to the girl.

Everything seemed to pause; even the fire seemed to slow in its fluttering. The Red Hand, the Norns, Maefwaru's cowering followers, all stood or lay still, as if waiting. The blocky Fire Dancer chieftain raised his knife higher.

Simon tugged furiously at his restraints, straining until he thought he could feel his muscles pulling free from his bones. Miriamele had cut through part of the rope.

If only ... if only...

The rope snapped. Simon's arms flew outward, and the coil slithered down his arm and dropped to the ground. Blood dribbled down his wrists and hands where the shard had cut him, the ropes had scored him.

"Come, then," he gasped, and lifted his hands before him. "Come and get me."