I sit down to write with a great deal of trepidation. The events that have come to pass in Alka’ales of late are difficult for me to understand and painful for me to remember. But I must, if I am to be honest. I hear my Bird crooning to me in approval of my decision.

We are approaching the anniversary of that day when the gate opened (or so Sawanin Lusahu said) and when the green women appeared. That may have something to do with why Rosédan and the others seemed to be so tense. At least, I’m fairly certain that Sawanin Lusahu wasn’t tense for the same reason I was, which was that my situation with Rosédan was becoming more and more difficult. It would have been one thing if I had simply escorted her back home, to part there, but we had remained in one another’s company for over a year now, maintaining the pretense that we were husband and wife, a pretense of the sort that shapes reality around it. I’m afraid I have even begun avoiding Rosédan, regarding it as the wisest course of action. I tell myself constantly that we must ultimately part, but there is a part of me that will not believe it.

I see that I’ve rambled pointlessly. I doubt my readers care to hear this much about my doubts and my vacillations, what I think about Rosédan and what she thinks about me. You would rather hear about the Battle of the Rising Lightning, and about the Crown with Four Emeralds. These strike me as rather good titles for the recent events, almost like the titles of the adventures of the Hawk of White Mountain. He was always unraveling such enigmas as the Mystery of the Sinister One-Handed Priest or the Riddle of the Ruined House.

But I am still rambling. My readers can perhaps perceive my reluctance to tell this story, but my Bird urges me to continue writing.

I think the best place to begin is with the day that Sawanin Lusahu got into an argument with Enikkhe Konahu. This doesn’t narrow it down much, I admit, as the two of them were always getting into arguments in front of the stupa. On those occasions when I was present to overhear them, I understood very little of these arguments, which as far as I could tell revolved around technical points of the magical arts. But there was one particular day that was, in fact, their last debate, though I didn’t know it at the time.

“You’ve been sitting here in A’ula Zölköh, treating it like the only part of Alka’ales that matters,” Enikke Konahu was saying. “Here the schools of magic multiply to an absurd number that no one would even bother to count. But in all their multitude they have done nothing to bring back the chalice we long for.”

“One part contains the whole,” said Sawanin Lusahu. “But you’re about to tell me exactly what I’ve been missing, aren’t you?”

“There is a pillar of volcanic rock north of here that is as old as mankind. There is a mountain guarded by a circle of gray-faced immortals where a stone tree grows. There is a plain where it is death to step foot, crossed by rivers of breathable water. And all of them have secrets written in their center. When you put the secrets together as I have, maybe you’ll begin to understand the truth of magic in Alka’ales.”

“You’ve traveled all that way, only to learn something you could have understood without lifting a foot.”

This was all very interesting, but I was called away at that moment by the sight of a pilgrim standing confused in the middle of the street. I am always sensible to my duty.

Apart from this one confused wanderer, there had been no pilgrims or new students recently, leaving me free to go for long walks where I could ponder many things, but especially Rosédan. It was a few days later that I was walking near a line of trees, and I believe entertaining an absurd fantasy in which we returned to Edazzo to wed and raise a family, but that doesn’t really matter, needless to say. What does matter is that as I was walking I met Sawanin Lusahu and we fell into conversation. He was, it seemed, in a mood to confide in me, and so he said, after a few pleasantries, “Things are going to change very soon.”

“What things?” I naturally asked.

“Everything.”

“Don’t tell me you’ve found the chalice,” I joked.

He didn’t seem to find it particularly humorous. “I know you don’t mean any harm by it, Kësil, but I wouldn’t advise you to make remarks like that around anyone else. The chalice is, well, it is something very special to us, as you should know. And no, I don’t believe it will ever return to us. That’s why I’ve done what I have done.”

“What is that?”

He touched his forehead, running his finger in a half-circle around his brow. “Thipērek Thüzranahü and I are bringing forth something new.”

“Congratulations!” I said. “I congratulate both of you!”

“Thank you,” he replied. “It has been long arduous work.” (I began to wonder at this point whether this was a conversation suitable for my innocent ears.) “We have both had to learn much we didn’t know.” (I glanced around, hoping for some excuse I could use to either change the subject of the conversation or remove myself from it.) “Rosédan was an immense help, of course.”

“I beg your pardon!” I said. If I had been sitting down, I would have risen to my feet in outrage, but as it was I could only take a few steps back from Sawanin Lusahu, who seemed to me to be leering unpleasantly.

“By the Flame, you don’t have to shout. Rosédan’s magic is of a kind that is intensely practical, which we needed to balance my vision. But you’ll see what I mean tomorrow.”

“Oh. You mean you’ve made a magical artifact.”

“Of course. What did you think I was talking about?”

I judged it best not to answer that, and fortunately at that moment I found an excuse to change the subject after all. A bird of some kind flew quite low past our heads, so close that I could hear the whir of its wings. I turned my head to see it swoop underneath a bare tree branch and vanish into the holes that dotted the rock wall behind us. “It nests there, I suppose.”

“Yes. Well, it’s the wrong season for that, actually. It won’t be long before he goes south with his kin, leaving us to face the cold. They’re wiser than us, don’t you think?”

“I’ve never seen a bird build a fire, let alone learn magic or go to war.”

“A cynic would say that only proves my point,” said Sawanin Lusahu, but I had the impression that he was no longer paying much attention to me or to the conversation. Maybe it was the way he turned away and began to walk in the opposite direction. “I’ll talk to you again tomorrow, I suppose!” I called, and he waved once over his shoulder.

When I returned to the dormitories I was pleased to see Rosédan had returned from the college. She was sitting at the rock, about halfway between the two towers, that had become our usual meeting place. When she saw me, she sprang up and ran over. After we had properly greeted one another, I took her arm and we went for a walk. (Another walk; I hid my weariness successfully, I hope).

“It’s going well,” she told me when I asked her about her studies. “I think I’m beginning to understand how the portals work that we passed through.”

“I don’t suppose you could explain it to me.”

“I’m afraid not,” she said, laughing and shaking her head. “But there are ways to cut channels between different places. That’s as much as I know how to say using words. The deeper secrets of magic are not expressed with such crude tools.” She looked very superior as she said it, though I knew the look was not a serious one.

“I wonder if my Bird could understand it,” I said.

“I wonder too.” Silence fell between us, awkward as so many of the moments between us were of late.

“So you’ll be going home soon,” I said at last.

“Maybe,” she said, “but maybe not. I really don’t know how long it’ll take me to master this magic, or to create a portal, even it’s even possible. Like Sawanin Lusahu told us last year, there are gates that open only at certain times.”

“I’m sure that you’ll figure it out,” I told her, squeezing her hand.

“Thank you, Kësil.” It was a distant, formal phrase, and perhaps I should have been glad for that, but I must admit that I was not. When we made our farewells that night, I felt as if my heart was being torn from my body, and I knew that something had to change between us. But as it turns out, I have not yet had the opportunity to decide what.

The next morning I had forgotten entirely, I am afraid, about Sawanin Lusahu’s promise. In fact, I didn’t remember what he had said until the first thunderclouds began to appear over the northern plain. Then I recalled his words and asked if this was his promised magic. Since I was alone at the time, I didn’t get any answer. At first I wasn’t worried, as there were after all plenty of natural storms in the world. I had been planning on going inside soon anyway and getting out of the cold wind.

But as I was walking back towards the dormitory, there was a tremor in the earth that nearly knocked me over. This first tremor was followed by another, so that I began seriously to worry for Rosédan’s safety, and turned my feet towards the college.

The tremor that I had felt had not been a strong one, or so it seemed to me, but I was horrified when I came in sight of the arch that marked the entrance to the college. Had once marked, I should say. Now it was broken, split into irregular pieces that either lay on the ground or leaned against one another in a precarious fashion. When I came closer I saw that the image of the green woman (what other name could I give it?) was utterly shattered, and as I made my careful way through the pieces I stepped over a stone on which remained half of an enigmatic smile and a wide eye.

The houses within the college seemed to be intact, which eased my worry for Rosédan but strengthened my curiosity as to how the arch had fallen. I stood on my toes to see over the crowd of aspiring magicians that had poured out into the streets, thinking that Rosédan’s yellow hair ought to stand out vividly. I didn’t see her at first, even as I pressed into the crowd, and I called her name, but my voice was drowned out in the general uproar. For once the sense of emptiness that usually hung over these streets was no longer present.

Then I felt a hand slip into mine, and I knew right away that it was hers. “Kësil,” she breathed in my ear. “You’re all right.”

“What happened?” I asked her. “It wasn’t magic, was it?”

“It was. Thipērek Thüzranahü says that it was an attack, but who would want to attack us? Oh, here she is now.”

Thipērek Thüzranahü appeared at Rosédan’s side. As usual, she was wearing a crown of flowers nearly identical to the one she had worn on her wedding day. At least, I’m fairly certain that it was a different crown, on the grounds that no flowers could remain fresh for all these months. “There is magic of destruction as well as creation,” she said, “and someone set it to tear the college apart. It’s a terrible blasphemy.”

“But why?” I asked.

“Striking at the absence of the chalice is the nearest thing to striking at the chalice itself,” she said with eyes wide.

“No, I meant why would anyone do it?”

“No one who was born in Alka’ales, whether Reniye or Sukaye, could possibly raise a hand against the chalice. It was someone from outside, it had to be. Someone in the guise of a pilgrim did this.” Her tiny mouth twisted itself into a grimace, and thinking for a moment that she was about to spit, I moved my feet out of range.

“Was anyone hurt, though?” I asked at the same time that Rosédan asked, “And the stupa itself?”

“Is intact,” said Thipērek Thüzranahü. “Thank the Flame!”

I couldn’t help thinking that whether or not the stupa was intact, the chalice was still missing. But I knew better than to say so, and instead I repeated my earlier question.

“A few were,” she replied. “That’s what I’ve heard, anyway. But no one badly. No one was under the arch, thank the Flame.”

“Where’s Sawanin Lusahu?” Rosédan asked.

“He went back to our house to get something that he, that we thought we might need. But,” she said in a transparent attempt to change the subject, “no one knows more about the recent pilgrims than you, Kësil. Did any of them seem suspicious to you?”

This was a tricky question. I am a stranger in this part of the world, after all, and most of the pilgrims are strangers too, resulting in a kind of double separation. Normally I am a keen judge of character, but even I can’t tell what lies behind the still face of a man from Pagn, or the patter of a painted Ērn. After a moment’s thought I confessed that I didn’t know.

“We’ll figure it out, I’m sure of it. We have the greatest teachers of magic here in A’ula Zölkhöh, don’t we? Ah! Sawanin Lusahu, darling!” She turned from us and embraced her husband, who had appeared out of the crowd. (I considered adding ‘as if by magic,’ but these days I’ve found that to be a particularly absurd phrase to use.) When they separated, I saw that Sawanin Lusahu was wearing a circlet of metal around his head. I believe it was iron, but he stood with his neck straight and unbowed. There were emeralds set in the iron, four of them evenly spaced around the circumference.

“Earlier than I had anticipated,” said Sawanin Lusahu, his voice surprisingly calm and clear. “But we are prepared.” He made a bow to Rosédan and added, “We cannot thank you enough for everything you’ve taught us. Without you none of this would have been possible.”

Rosédan didn’t make any response except to draw closer to me. I put an arm around her, which seemed like the thing to do. At any rate, it seemed like the thing a husband would do for his wife, which she wasn’t, of course.

“But who attacked the arch?” I asked, bringing him to the subject of discussion.

“I have an idea, as I’m sure you do as well.”

I, Rosédan, and Thipērek Thüzranahü exchanged glances. I don’t think that any of us had an idea at all. As one, we looked to Sawanin Lusahu.

“Now where is Enikkhe Konahu?” he asked, reaching up with one hand to touch the metal of his crown.

Thipērek Thüzranahü took a sharp breath. “You don’t think he had anything to do with this, do you? Why would he want to attack the chalice?”

“You misunderstand,” said Sawanin Lusahu, causing me to wonder who exactly he was. This couldn’t be the Sawanin Lusahu I had known, who would have said something more along the lines of, “That’s not quite what I was trying to say.” I looked back and forth between the crown and Rosédan, hoping she would pick up on my unspoken question, but she remained stubbornly oblivious.

“I haven’t seen him. Have you, Rosédan?”

She only shook her head.

“No matter. We’ll find him anyway,” said Sawanin Lusahu. “Ostalos Elsahi is buried in his study, which is for the best.”

My curiosity as to Sawanin Lusahu’s crown was overwhelming, and I knew I would have to be cunning to get any answers from him. “What is that crown you’re wearing?” I asked.

“It’s magic,” said Thipērek Thüzranahü. “Couldn’t you guess?”

“I suspected that much,” I said quickly.

“Explain it to him as we walk,” said Sawanin Lusahu, and immediately started to push through the crowd, making room for us to follow with great sweeps of his arms. People complained, of course, but he silenced them with very untypical glares.

“This is what we’ve been working on all year,” said Thipērek Thüzranahü to us in a hushed voice. I wondered what she made of the new Sawanin Lusahu, recalling a proverb I read somewhere to the effect that a man was known better to his wife than anyone else.

“Yes, but what does it do?” asked Rosédan. “What is the idea that went into it at its making?”

“It was a very simple idea. We wanted to bring something new into Alka’ales, something that would fulfill this longing we all have for the chalice. What do you think it was that the chalice did for us? It was something for us to raise our eyes towards and something to lift us higher.”

“What was the idea?” Rosédan asked, her voice quiet and firm.

“To create something new. Something to which we can look forward, not back.”

“An idea must be more specific than that.”

“Where are we going, anyway?” I wondered. I’d thought at first we were heading for the stupa, but we were well past it now, and the northern gate to the town was ahead of us. The crowd had thinned out, but Sawanin Lusahu still walked as if he were forcing his way through it.

Thipērek Thüzranahü chose, probably wisely, to answer Rosédan instead of me. “It’s specific enough,” she said. “Look at Rinthlep Roukos!”

I did look at the mountain, and I can’t say that I saw anything unusual. But then, I never really paid much attention to Rinthlep Roukos after Rosédan and I had come down from it. Mountains are mountains, in my view. I’m accustomed to them from my home and I’ve never observed them to change much.

But Rosédan apparently saw something different, because she drew in a sharp breath. I squinted up at Rinthlep Roukos but I still was perplexed, and turned back to Thipērek Thüzranahü to hear what explanation she had to give me, since at this point it was clear that she wouldn’t answer any direct questions.

“You see its crown,” she said, and as soon as she spoke I could make out something like a golden band in the air around the mountain’s peak, though I wouldn’t have been able to swear that it wasn’t an illusion of the sunlight on the clouds, made stronger by the darkness in the north. “You see its jewels.” And with these words I saw bright points in the golden band. It reminded me of something, though I couldn’t say exactly what.

“It’s the crown Sawanin Lusahu’s wearing,” said Rosédan.

“The colors are all wrong,” I remarked, but was ignored.

“Yes! They are one and the same,” said Thipērek Thüzranahü despite the mismatch I had so acutely noted. “It was a coronation for the mountain. We’re making it into our guide.”

“But surely the mountain is very very old,” Rosédan murmured. Then, raising her voice, she said, “But the magic of my people works its ends in visible matter and in the perception and thought of the mind. What exactly is it that Sawanin Lusahu’s crown does?” I was surprised: it is rare for her to grow impatient, but she was clearly impatient now.

“Perception. I think that’s the right word. We’re changing how the people of Alka’ales see the land. The mountain is just the beginning. Before long every tree and hill will shine with life, with the new life that we’re bringing to them.”

“And just what do you think will happen to your husband?”

“He shines already, doesn’t he? He will shine brighter and brighter, until…”

“Until?”

“We don’t know. That’s what’s so beautiful about it. Don’t you see? We wanted to bring something new to Alka’ales, beyond even what we could draw up in our minds. Oh, Rosédan, why do you look so frightened? We were dying before, but now we can live, even if, like a child, we don’t know what we’re growing into.”

“Magic without rules, without bounds? You’re opening yourselves up to things you don’t understand, that no one understands!”

“Yes. That’s what we want. But here’s Enikkhe Konahu. Let’s see what he has to say for himself.”

I was not at all sure what part of the scene before me was the most startling. Enikkhe Konahu was indeed here, but he was sitting astride an animal like nothing I had ever seen before. There was something of the bat in it, though it had a long beak like a heron and a remarkable crest on its head. It rested on squat legs and clawed hands, its great wings extended out along a single long finger each. Its color was a pure snowy white.

“A dragon!” Rosédan said, which startled me nearly as much as the creature itself. A dragon, as every child knows, is a green scaly serpent that breathes fire “By Heaven! I had no idea there were dragons here.” We’ve since learned that there are indeed a few dragons in the northern mountains of Alka’ales, wild and savage creatures. It must have been quite a feat for Enikkhe Konahu to tame it.

A bow was hanging across Enikkhe Konahu’s back, and his companions Pūīros and Arkwos were standing on either side of his dragon. But the thing that competed with it for my attention was the army arrayed behind him. When I say it was an army, I don’t mean to compare it to the imperial army of Sëril, or even the Ikkësa horde. I didn’t make an exact count at the time, but there couldn’t have been more than a thousand men, and probably well short of that. Nevertheless, they were all well-armed and disciplined, and to me who had grown accustomed over the past year to the pacifistic and withdrawn magicians of A’ula Zölkhöh, it was quite startling. It seemed to startle my companions too. If my readers wonder how we managed to stumble across this army without noticing it from a distance, I can only say that our conversation was an exceptionally engrossing one.

Sawanin Lusahu was standing in front of Enikkhe Konahu, his head tilted back to stare at him. “What have you done?” he asked, or possibly declared. Something about his posture was suggestive of declarations.

“What have I done? What have you done? What is Ostalos Elsahi preparing for himself? I am doing only what needs to be done for the sake of the land, my friends!”

“Did they promise to make you king of Alka’ales?”

“They promised me nothing. I promised them! I promised them as I promise you, that I will wake Alka’ales from its slumber.”

“But that is what I am doing,” said Sawanin Lusahu, and laughed.

“A remarkable coincidence! But you turn to magic that you barely understand, as you’ve admitted yourself. I have been to every corner of Alka’ales to learn, and everything I’ve learned I understand. And I reject it! I’ve acquired power, to be sure, but it’s no different in kind than the power of a strong man with a club. To impose your will on the world is the sum of it all. The only question, then, is where he should strike with that club.”

“I don’t think your new friends have done you much good.”

Arkwos’s form shook, and Pūīros said, “You are mistaken. It is Enikkhe Konahu who persuaded us, not the other way around. Without him, never would we have spurred ourselves to action, so tired were we.”

“The men of Sukaye have governed Alka’ales sometimes fairly, sometimes poorly. But their rule has grown tired and stale.”

“You are Sukaye yourself,” whispered Thipērek Thüzranahü.

“There are no more Sukaye, no more Reniye,” said Sawanin Lusahu. “Have you already forgotten that we are all children of the chalice?”

“I know the confessions. But the chalice is gone! Gone, Sawanin Lusahu! Gone! We have to act for ourselves now! And the only power left in Alka’ales isn’t here in the dreaming south, but in the north, where at least men dream of life and the Reniye fight for what they lost.”

“Ah!” I said, coming to a sudden realization. “It was you who broke the arch!”

“I’m pleased to hear that my aim wasn’t far off! But you are unobservant, aren’t you? I have behind me not only this army of men with iron weapons, but lightning from above and below. A’ula Zölkhöh will fall, the memory of the chalice will be set in its rightful place, and I will arrange for the next era.”

“I’m sure you will,” said Sawanin Lusahu. “You always were quick to put yourself in the middle of things. But that is a lonely place to stand. Does your wife know all these plans of yours?”

Enikkhe Konahu threw back his head and laughed. “She is Reniye! She will understand what I do.”

“We’ve talked too long,” rumbled Arkwos.

“Yes, we have! Out of the way, all of you. A’ula Zölkhöh lies helpless before us and there is nothing you can do to stop me.”

“Isn’t there?” asked Sawanin Lusahu, tapping with two fingers the crown he wore.

Arkwos’s form began to grow, and I realized with a shock that he had been crouched over all this time. At his full height he was taller than even the tallest of the Ikkësa. “I warned you of this,” he said. “They were never as weak as you pretended.”

“I said nothing about them being weak,” said Enikkhe Konahu sharply. “Pure strength is not the issue. I love you, my friends, but I know that you will not, you cannot, stand in my way. None of you have the fortitude.”

“Maybe so, once. But you’ll find me different than I was before.”

Enikkhe Konahu began to laugh, but stopped abruptly and leaned forward, his eyes fixed on Sawanin Lusahu. “What have you and Thipērek Thüzranahü been doing? Are we all surpassing our teachers now? Is Ostalos Elsahi about to appear in a cloud-drawn chariot, his father and his mother on either side and the chalice in his hand?”

Later I was to ask Rosédan what exactly the teachers and masters of magic in A’ula Zölkhöh had been doing while their students fought and tossed the fate of Alka’ales like a ball between them. “There was nothing they could do,” she told me softly. “Sawanin Lusahu and Enikkhe Konahu were right, after all. The masters were so focused on the chalice, or rather the void where the chalice had been, that they were powerless before the phantasies that their students summoned up. Some were unaware; some sat in their houses doing what they could to prevent disaster, and for all I know they were successful.”

All I can say is that I didn’t see any signs of such intervention at the time. Enikkhe Konahu was still taunting Sawanin Lusahu, but suddenly he shouted, “All right! Very well! Let’s try one another and see who triumphs!”

Sawanin Lusahu grinned and said, “Your trust in yourself is unshakable. But you’ll see that it’s misplaced.”

“I’ll knock your crown from your head, Sawanin Lusahu.”

This was all very tense and dramatic, but I would have enjoyed it decidedly more if Rosédan and I hadn’t been right in the middle of it. In my experience it is better to be far away when magicians quarrel. I began looking from side to side to see if there was some avenue by which we could make our escape, but at that moment Thipērek Thüzranahü ran out to stand between her husband and Enikkhe Konahu, her hands raised above her head. She cried out (and I am positive that there were tears running down her cheeks), but neither my Bird or I were able to make any coherent sense of her words.

Pūīros stepped forward, or perhaps backward, and I could not help but shudder as his hair shifted over the back of his neck. He began to speak, but as his mouth opened, Enikkhe Konahu put a hand on his shoulder and whispered in his ear. “Enough, child,” said Enikkhe Konahu. “Help your husband if you will; otherwise leave us to our discussion.”

Slowly she straightened her back and turned away from him. I really did think she was about to walk away, but she went to Sawanin Lusahu’s side and he put his arm around her.

“I’ll ask one last time, because we were friends. Step aside. There’s nothing, nothing you can do to help yourselves.” He stared at us from under his thick eyebrows, and when no one showed any sign of movement, he sighed and lowered one of his hands to point at the ground directly in front of Sawanin Lusahu. The dark clouds above us rumbled and were answered by streaks of light that seared my eyes and drew the hair up from my arms.

Sawanin Lusahu stood in the midst of the lightning without flinching, though Thipērek Thüzranahü buried her head in his shoulder. Again he touched two fingers to his crown and I began to hear a sound like rushing wind or flowing water, seemingly from every direction at once.

Enikkhe Konahu dismounted and whispered at the side of his dragon’s head, where I assumed its ears were. The dragon made a short run towards us, then lifted itself into the air with astonishing flaps of its wings, soaring over our heads in great circles. Enikkhe slowly raised his hand from the ground. The sound of wind, or water or whatever it was, was drowned out by a hideous noise from underneath us. Rosédan cried out and clung to me as the earth trembled beneath our feet, so rapidly that I thought I would fall over. A sudden dizziness overwhelmed me then so that I did fall over, Rosédan coming with me. When we managed to regain our footing again, I saw that a rift had opened up in the ground between us and Enikkhe Konahu. Pūīros and Arkwos still stood on either side of him, but there was no sign of the army behind him. I stared ahead, trying to work out what could have happened to them and wondering if indeed they had been nothing more than an illusion in the first place (at this point in my adventures, I was ready to blame magic for anything and everything). But it was only when Rosédan cried out, “The earth! Where is the earth?” that I realized what had really happened.

We were standing, Rosédan, Sawanin Lusahu, Thipérek Thüzranahü and I, on a wedge of ground that had been dug out of the earth by a giant's spade and then, somehow, raised up to float in the air. Enikkhe Konahu and his companions were on another such wedge floating opposite us. I let go of Rosédan’s hand and went to the edge, where despite another sudden wave of dizziness I was able to see Enikkhe Konahu's army below us, looking like toy soldiers for a child to play with.

“You are outside your mother's embrace now,” said Pūīros loudly. “Her strength will not save you.”

“Our strength is not limited to the earth,” said Sawanin Lusahu, and I wondered if they would even be able to hear him. The sound of the wind had redoubled, primarily because the wind itself was blowing against us furiously.

Enikkhe Konahu took his bow and nocked an arrow to it, saying as he did, "We'll see, won't we?"

A magical duel was all very well, I thought, because I had no idea what to expect from it. But I knew exactly what to expect from an arrow pointed at my heart. Not that it was literally pointed at my heart, but my readers will understand what I mean. I put myself between Rosédan and the imagined path of the arrow, more on instinct than any conscious thought. My conscious thoughts were at the moment insisting that I should withdraw rapidly from the entire situation, apparently not having received word from my eyes about our current location.

In a flash Enikkhe Konahu drew and loosed his arrow. Yet it wasn't an arrow that sped towards us, but a thread of light that hummed as it flew. Sawanin Lusahu held up one hand and the thread of light spread and vanished against a green shield that appeared and vanished in an instant. Again Enikkhe Konahu shot an arrow that became a beam of light, and this time Sawanin Lusahu stepped aside. The light curved after him and vanished into the ground at his feet.

“Don’t you understand?” he said. “Shoot as many arrows as you want, and for each arrow I will have a thousand defenses. That is the nature of my magic.”

“But it’s unfocused!” said Enikkhe Konahu. “You have no idea what you’re doing! How do you hope to accomplish anything?”

“I can’t see that. But it doesn’t matter, does it?” Sawanin Lusahu laughed suddenly, a high laugh that rose and then fell into silence.

Arkwos bent to whisper in Enikkhe Konahu’s ear. Enikkhe Konahu whispered back and that looming shape rose again and moved towards us. Then with an unexpected burst of speed (at least I had not expected it), Arkwos leapt and cleared the gap between our wedge of earth and his. I was so distracted by this that I didn’t notice Pūīros cross the gap, so I can’t say how he did it, but nevertheless he was there, facing us with his face that was not a face.

“A dainty toy,” rumbled Arkwos.

“But it will only echo to your hurt, I believe,” said Pūīros. “We can take it from your head.”

They moved to either side of Sawanin Lusahu, who seemed, for all I could tell, utterly unaware of their presence. Perhaps it was because his attention was fixed so firmly on Enikkhe Konahu on the other side, but in any case I debated with myself whether I should shout some warning, or at least tap him on the shoulder.

I was forestalled by Thipērek Thüzranahü, who sprang forward and pressed her lips to her husband’s, which was, I can safely say, not a strategy I had considered. As their embrace continued, he raised one hand in the air and pointed behind us, and when I turned to see what he was pointing at, I only saw the southern peaks, with Rinthlep Roukos chief among them. I looked back and was surprised to see that the hood of Arkwos’s cloak had fallen away, revealing the face of a pale young man, his eyes wide and his mouth open in an expression of awe and longing. Or possibly hunger. I heard somewhere that armies fought on an empty stomach, but was that true of magicians too? Pūīros had lowered his face to the ground, which is to say, I suppose, that he had raised it to the sky.

Then the awe on Arkwos’s face became greater, so great that it was indistinguishable from terror, and he took several steps backwards. I didn’t notice his danger before it was too late to do anything but cry out as he vanished over the edge. I was able, however, to run to Pūīros and reach out my hand to him as he followed his companion, but he only shook his head rapidly and then dropped.

Enikkhe Konahu screamed in rage and was answered by a sound from below. I have heard, on particularly cold days in the winter, trees crack when the sap in their trunks freezes, and that is what this sound reminded me of, though many times louder. It was so loud, in fact, that the echo of it ran up my legs. I turned to Rosédan, thinking I should comfort her, but I was startled to see a rift had opened up between us. A rift in the ground, I should say, not a metaphorical rift. The wedge of earth on which we stood was beginning to break apart, and I had my doubts as to whether it would support us much longer, or whether we would share the fate of Arkwos and Pūīros.

Then I was falling, my stomach lurching upwards and the wind becoming a painful roaring torrent. My hand found Rosédan’s and we held on to one another as the earth approached us. I believed with all my heart at that moment that we were going to die, and I wish I could say that my thoughts were on the Flame, but in fact I was pondering a beetle that had decided to latch on to my arm for some unaccountable reason. It was a reddish-yellow in color, so maybe my thoughts were on the Flame after all.

Then I shut my eyes. The roaring of the wind stopped, so I assumed that we had struck the ground and that I was now dead. I wondered whether it would be worthwhile to open my eyes, which were presumably no longer physical eyes but some sort of spiritual or ideal matter. Then I heard Rosédan’s voice, clear as a bell. It would be fairly impious, and definitely foolish, to write that I was more pleased to hear Rosédan than to behold the Flame, so I won’t write it.

“Kësil,” she was saying. “Kësil, open your eyes.”

It was sound advice, in multiple realms, and I took it. But when I did, I was surprised to discover that we were not dead, unless the next realm bears a striking resemblance to the plain north of A’ula Zölkhöh. Thipērek Thüzranahü was standing before us with her arms stretched out, almost touching our respective midriffs. “There,” she said, releasing a sigh. “We’re safe, at least for now.” She wavered on her feet and would probably have collapsed altogether if Rosédan hadn’t supported her and helped her sit down.

My gaze was drawn helplessly upwards to the sky, where I saw two figures that I assumed to be Sawanin Lusahu and Enikkhe Konahu, standing on what seemed to me empty air, locked in combat. There were flashes of light, roars of thunder from above and below, and similar such dramatic effects. It occurred to me that I should keep an eye on the northern army, so I looked down again, but regretted it when I saw the broken form that must have been Arkwos. I was sick to my stomach, and reflected that I had not thought Sawanin Lusahu or Thipērek Thüzranahü capable of such things, even in these dreadful circumstances.

In any event, the soldiers seemed as entranced as Rosédan and me by what was happening up above. I whispered to Rosédan, asking her if she had any idea what was going on, but she told me she didn’t, that this was all beyond her. I also exchanged some extremely awkward looks with the front rank of soldiers, not to mention the dragon, which had landed again and sat crouched on the ground nearby.

But it seemed to me at last that the thunderclouds were fading and light was beginning to shine through. Sawanin Lusahu and Enikkhe Konahu had for a few minutes vanished into dots, but when I looked up now I saw something baffling. A knot of wood was floating in the air, an impossible conglomeration of roots that, as I watched, sprouted leaves. The leaves matted over one another and began to turn color, glowing with a pale light that intensified until it was as bright as the sun and I had to look away to avoid hurting my eyes.

Then, when the light had faded, I saw Sawanin Lusahu falling towards us, though he seemed to be falling rather slowly. There was no sign of Enikkhe Konahu.

“Where is he?” Rosédan asked once Sawanin Lusahu had touched the ground again.

“It was too much for him,” said Thipērek Thüzranahü softly. “He was a man of one thought, and he was very good at spreading that thought, but our magic has yet to born; it sits in the womb gathering its form. How could he hope to defeat something that has no shape, no bounds, no limits?”

“Then he is dead,” I concluded.

“Yes, but I doubt you’ll find his body,” said Sawanin Lusahu. He stepped past us, and I noticed as he did that his face was pale, and even the emeralds on his crown seemed more pallid than they had been. When he addressed the army, there was a strained timbre to his voice, if my Bird conveys such things accurately. “You have come a long way following this man’s dream, and I honor you for it. But the dream is over. It’s time to wake up and go back to your lives.”

The speech itself didn’t strike me as particularly impressive, but no doubt the magic of his crown played a role in swaying the gathered soldiers. One of them, a tall man, stepped forward and bowed to Sawanin Lusahu. “What can our weapons do against you?” he asked.

“Go in peace. But that dragon is a fine animal, and I claim it as my prize.”

He stepped towards it, but it raised its head and hissed at him. Suddenly Rosédan stepped forward and whistled. The dragon fell silent and let her approach to stroke its crest. “In my home there are many dragons,” she said, “and know something of their care and training.”

“Then I name you, Rosédan, as my dragon’s groom.” He signaled with his hand and the tall man brought him a horse. He started to mount it, but faltered with one foot in the stirrup, and I was forced to help him up. There he sat, leaning back in the saddle, as the army turned and began its march back to the north. There was a curious tranquility to all of them, and despite what Sawanin Lusahu had said about awakening from a dream, it seemed to me more like they had fallen into one.

“We should tell Phērīs Tipelahi first,” said Thipērek Thüzranahü, and Sawanin Lusahu made a weary gesture with his hand that seemed to be one of assent, or at least Thipērek Thüzranahü took it that way. We returned to A’ula Zölkhöh in a properly somber mood, following Sawanin Lusahu on the white horse.

Phērīs Tipelahi’s house was some distance from the center of town and the stupa, on the western side of the town. We found her sitting on her porch, some piece of needlework draped over her knees. “He’s gone, isn’t he?” she asked. “Well, you’ve won, and I congratulate you. He never minded putting himself forward, going out in front to take all the attention. My place as his wife was to support him. But never mind that. What will you do with me now?”

“Nothing at all,” said Sawanin Lusahu. “You will be like the rest of us servants of what is to come.” After saying this he really did fall off his horse.

We took him inside, to lie on a bed in Phērīs Tipelahi’s house. He was deathly pale now, and the emeralds in his crown seemed no more than bits of glass. For a few days afterwards he lay there mumbling about green fields, then Rosédan and I were called to his side. He had mentioned us in his ramblings, or at least he had mentioned Rosédan and I came along out of friendship, with perhaps some hopeful curiosity.

But Sawanin Lusahu seemed worse than before, so pale that he was almost a corpse. It was only his words that had more life in them. “Thipērek Thüzranahü,” he said. “Where is Thipērek Thüzranahü?”

“Right here,” she said. “I brought you some water from the well.”

He waved it away and then let his hand fall down the side of the bed. “I can only beg your forgiveness, all of you. I was a fool. I knew I wouldn’t be able to master it, but I thought I could at least survive it. I was wrong, and I’ve paid the price for my foolishness. But A’ula Zölkhöh, all of Alka’ales, I don’t know what will happen to you now. I tried to save you but I wasn’t able.”

“You did your best,” Thipērek Thüzranahü said, lifting up his fallen hand. Phērīs Tipelahi stood in a corner of the room, and I wondered what she possibly could be thinking. This was, after all, the man who had killed her husband, even if it was in an honorable duel. But I could read neither her expression nor her voice.

“No, no I really didn’t. It’s only for the Flame.” His voice was barely audible now.

“What is?”

“The magic of birth that we discovered. The creature cannot hold its own beginning. It’s only for the Flame.” He sighed and fell silent. After a moment Thipērek Thüzranahü started to weep, her hand still over his.