It was dark. It was also raining – again; a fine drizzle that made the fire beneath the smoke-hole sputter occasionally as drips fell into it, and magnified the noises of the beasts outside as they munched on the grass to leeward of the tent.

Mishaar glanced over to where the youngest Children lay curled together under a collection of hides and smiled.

"The Southern Children sleep like that, too," he remarked to no-one in particular. "The edges of the desert can be very cold at night." He refilled his pipe with weed from a small pouch at his belt, pulled a burning twig from the fire to light it, and leaned his back against the centre pole of the tent. "My thanks for your hospitality. I only wish I could stay longer."

Sherath opened his eyes sleepily and looked at Mishaar. "Our home is yours," he said. "Whenever you wish to share it. And however temporary it may be. You're leaving on the dusk tide tomorrow?"

"Yes. All being well. I should be home in about three weeks."

"They'll be watching for you," said Nemeth. "The Sea-Elves will be before you with the news."

"True," replied Mishaar sleepily, offering his pipe to Nemeth.

There was quiet for a few minutes.

"What is this?" asked Nemeth eventually, handing the pipe back to Mishaar.

"Southern mountain weed, in part."

"Hmmm. Reminiscent of Shenwaith's pipeweed. Better taste, though." – Any chance of you bringing some more over, son of my mother's people?

– I could get to Tashik by midwinter. And it is also useful medicinally. Sherath?

– Yes, I was listening.

– You're not asleep, then, said Nemeth.

– All but. How useful medicinally, Mishaar?

– More predictable than valerian. Less sleepy. And not addictive.

– Very similar to Shenwaith's pipeweed, then, comented Sherath, his Voice drowsy. Do you have enough to leave some with me? It could prove useful for treating any wound that doesn't require the total sleep of dozewort. Particularly on the packbeasts.

– I have more on the ship. Legend has it that Miirshekaar's Beastmaster was the first to feed it to animals that didn't respond to other methods – often when they'd been mishandled earlier. You can keep what I have here.

– Thank you. Domina?

– She's out to the wide, Sherath, said Nemeth. As is everyone else. Go to sleep, Brother. There was just a trace of Command in his Voice.

Sherath's eyebrows lifted momentarily, and he smiled. – Hmm. Don't try that one too often. Nemeth grinned at him. Sherath's breathing gradually slowed.

Nemeth lay back, resting his head on one arm and reaching the other out lazily for Mishaar's pipe.

"So tell me, Mishaar."

"Miirshekaar's sword?"

"What else?"

Mishaar grinned. "What else? There's a host of things I could tell you, Nemeth Nehhuare's son. Do you remember how beautiful your mother was?"

– I remember. Nemeth flashed a mental picture across to Mishaar. You knew her? He handed the pipe back.

Mishaar rummaged in his pack and brought out two pipes. – Here, have a couple of my spares. I did know Nehhuare. Before Shithri came South, I was there. She went with him not long after she Journeyed, you know. She was very like Shiffih, as a young Child. There's not much of your sire in Shiffih. She'd be nothing unusual in the South – nor you, apart from your eyes. You're like your grandsire was as a youngster. He had a nose like a hawk, too – but you have the eyes to go with it.

– Mishaar; how old are you?

– I forget. One does, after a while. I was much as I am now when your grandsire was young.

– No-one waiting for you? asked Nemeth.

– Other than the Children? No.

– No woman, then.

Mishaar grinned. – I'm still waiting.

– The archetypal Seeker, Mishaar.

– I didn't say 'still looking'. Just waiting. Mishaar's eyes crinkled at the corners.

– So you have no Children of your own yet?

– Why the assumption? I never said I was celibate.

Nemeth laughed. – True. So?

– One living. Half-Elven. His mother was very beautiful.

– Was?

– She was killed three years ago. I'm told it was an accident – I wasn't there.

– Don't blame yourself.

– You're perceptive, Nemeth.

– It was obvious. And the little one?

– Kash. He was only seven then. I took him to the Children. With Hamia dead, there was nothing to keep me in the city.

Nemeth rolled onto his side and added another log to the fire, glancing round the tent.

"I think it's stopped raining." He eased himself to his feet and made his way carefully to the tent flap. "Yes, it has."

The cloud cover was thinning enough to allow some of the moonlight through – enough to show the speed of the clouds scudding along. The wind sighed uneasily in the branches of the trees beneath which the tent was pitched; a scattering of leaves pattered onto the roof of the tent. Nemeth cast Awareness across the plateau; a few rabbits were about, making up for grazing time lost to the rain earlier. He let the Awareness drift over them, then expanded it skywards, feeling the tingle of a sharper mind than theirs intruding on him.

The great grey owl faltered only momentarily in her flight, her mind seeking Nemeth's and investigating him with an acute and deft Awareness of her own. For a wild minute he saw through her eyes and felt the wind slip by around silent-feathered wings; as one, he and the owl selected one rabbit from the group and as one stooped for the quick kill, his toes clenching briefly as her talons gripped into the soft neck and, twisting, snapped it.

– Good hunting, little one, Nemeth whispered.

He turned away from the tent flap, his balance suddenly left him and he felt top-heavy, his talons ... no, not talons, you idiot; toes ... scrabbling for a hold on the floor, distinctly remembering not having landed. Part of his brain tried to order a futile essay into spreading non-existent flight pinions ....what?... His arms and fingers extended, fingers angling downwards as he arched his neck and back against the direction of the flight ... above him in the air the owl faltered in her own flight for a minute, almost losing her grip on the rabbit before pulling her Awareness away from him. He recovered his balance, glancing up and catching Mishaar's eye before doubling up with silent laughter.

– It's okay, I'm okay, he reassured Mishaar. Just disoriented.

– Still flying, son of Nehhuare?

– How did you know?

– No mountain weed has that kind of effect. Besides which, the nose wasn't your grandsire's only hawk-like feature. You inherited the gift as well as the beak.

Nemeth seated himself quietly beside Mishaar, Aware that not all had been said.

– What are you holding back, Mishaar?

– Something that was never said. Thought, but never said.

– What?

– There were times when Shamin couldn't be found; no-one saw him go, no-one saw him return. And Awareness – if it found him at all – found only what I Heard in your mind there.

– I see.

– Do you? I'm not saying it, said Mishaar.

– Neither am I. Just wondering. Nemeth found his mind wandering back to Sherath's experience with the snow-leopard, and wondered some more – shutting his thoughts well away from Mishaar.

– You wouldn't be the first one to wonder, said Mishaar, answering only what he had Heard.

– Is that actually possible? Nemeth's eyes sought and held Mishaar's, trying to read something – anything – in the almost-black depths. Mishaar grinned.

– Enabled? Who knows what is possible with Assumed Power? You – if I'm permitted – have the capacity to become a very dangerous Elf, Nemeth.

– So tell me something I don't know.

– I meant even without Miirshekaar's sword. With it ... ?

Nemeth grinned, taking the proffered refilled pipe. – You said only one child living? There were others?

– There were. One full-Elven. She'd only just Journeyed when the sickness came on us. Mithra. He flashed a brief picture at Nemeth, and was lost for a moment in remembering. Two others, twins, full-human. That was a long time ago.

– And their mother?

– Two mothers. Kathra half-Elven, Mithra's dam, was killed by a human princeling who always got what he wanted. By force if necessary. One day he wanted Kathra. She died hard. He paused. So did he, when I found him. I kept out of sight for quite a long while after that.

– And the twins' dam? asked Nemeth.

– Human. Also died before her time. Again at the hand of a man. The Southern country can be cruel to its women. And again, I wasn't there when I was needed. There have been times when I looked for Death – but he's never taken me. Only those whom I loved.

– You have loved, then.

Mishaar's eyes met his, somewhat of a laugh in them.

– Yes, I have loved. And doubtless will again. It's not the same without the love. Perhaps – sometimes – you'd call it little more than friendship. But to buy a woman for a night can surely never be the same as to have the gift of a friend – for however long the gift lasts. You have to know that the friendship at least will last till death. There is more than one way of forging bonds – for those of us who don't have access to Unnamed Blades.

– Speaking of which ... suggested Nemeth.

– Yes. The Nameless One. It was forged in your own Western cave system, you realise?

– I didn't know.

– By the dragon Hlammaeth, from the sky-born metal Turgel which can only be shaped or marked by dragon-fire. A formidable weapon even without its Power – the edge will be as keen now as it was when it was first honed. And some legends have it that the Nameless One does have a Name – but the Name itself is hidden. Certainly Miirshekaar never knew it. There is a certain Power in a Name – perhaps Hlammaeth himself, having Named it, hid the Name from Miirshekaar. Another dangerous Elf, by all accounts, he added thoughtfully. Tread carefully, Nemeth.

– What can you tell me of the properties of Turgel? he asked.

Mishaar reached into his shirt and took the blue stone on its chain into his hand, looking at it for a moment before slipping it over his head and handing it to Nemeth.

Nemeth caught Mishaar's eye before taking the stone gently. The Power in his hand was a tangible thing.

– What's the stone?

– Sapphire.

– Ye Gods! It's as big as a thrush's egg. He ran his fingers across the surface of the polished but uncut stone, holding it towards the firelight to inspect the hole pierced in it for the chain ... no, not for but by the chain, like piercing an ear with the ring itself...

– It takes more strength, said Mishaar. But the principle is the same. And the Power that you feel is inherent in the chain, not the stone. With most such baubles the chain is there as an adjunct to the stone. This stone serves merely to distract attention from the chain.

– Quite some distraction, said Nemeth, attempting to put a value on the sapphire. Even though at first glance one would take it for a moonstone. He looked more closely at the chain, searching in vain for imperfections which would show where the links were closed; rippling the chain across his fingers in the firelight. It gleamed with a soft sheen rather than a sparkle, almost wax-like, dark grey with hints of bronze and blue when the firelight caught it right ... almost hypnotic, realised Nemeth, dragging his mind forcibly out of its drift and somewhat reluctantly handing the ... bauble ... – his eyes laughed – back to Mishaar. Where did you come by this? I assume it must also be dragon-forged.

– Obviously. As I said, there is no other way, with Turgel. He settled himself more comfortably. Long ago, and far away...

– What is this, a Children's tale? asked Nemeth with a laugh.

– It could yet be. Stranger things have happened.

– True. I'll put music to it, one day.

– Quite a long time ago, and certainly not close to here, anyway, said Mishaar. After Kathra's death – you recall I had to disappear for a while? Several years, as it happens. I don't remember how many. I had need of my own company; losing Kathra was like losing part of myself. In losing bits of yourself, sometimes you find strength to make harder bits to replace them, Nemeth.

The Southern lands are huge, he continued, – and much of them almost untouched by man – or Elf, for that matter. Though if you look hard enough there are signs of peoples long gone, in places that are now wilderness.

– What peoples? Man or Elf? Or Dwarf?

– What's left isn't really adequate to judge from. Whoever they were, they were mighty builders. The kind of stonework you'd expect from Dwarves, but with the beauty and line of Elven work. And the paintings ... Nemeth, they painted in stones, coloured stones on the floors and set into the walls; and the stones of the walls are so laid together that the lines of the joints between them form yet more pictures; the longer you look, the more pictures you see. And windows ... windows made with coloured panes sliced – would you believe sliced? – in single sheets from coloured rocks, and sliced so fine that the light shines through them when you clean the dust and sand away. Only one thing can slice through stone that way.

– Turgel?

– Yes. And the metal between the panes, Nemeth – that was Turgel, though I took it for lead at first glance. The coloured windows in some of Mankind's holy places – have you seen them?

– Long ago. In a part-ruin.

– They're a poor shadow of what I saw down South. A poor shadow. Mishaar extended his Voice through Awareness and into memory, taking Nemeth along the paths he had walked. Nemeth let his eyes close, his mind merging with Mishaar's, seeing as vividly yet as detachedly as in a dream; feeling beneath his own fingers the oily smoothness of the stone-paned windows that Mishaar had run his hands over, and the shimmering tingle of the Power in the Turgel between the panes. He jerked his eyes open suddenly.

– Mishaar; the Turgel in the windows ... the windows were made by dragons, too.

– Yes, dragons certainly had a part in the building of it all. It was there I found the sapphire chain. His mind wandered back again, and Nemeth stood in Awareness with him in the inside of a building whose only entrance was through a massive archway half-hidden by windblown sand, looking at a window whose picture was almost obscured by the darkness of sand against the outside; and then in memory they crawled over the heaped sand on the outside, scooping handfuls of it aside to let the light through, polishing the stone panes. Back inside, Nemeth stood looking in wonder through the eyes of Mishaar's memory at the picture window with the last light of the westering sun blazing through it, and shining on what had been obscured by the dirt before: the blue stone, its Turgel chain wrapped around the raised hilt of the sword held aloft above the head of the figure in the picture. And also looking at the Southern script inset in the window above the sword: "Malehsh." "It is written."

Mishaar eased back slowly from the link, opening his eyes in response to the question in Nemeth's mind, and meeting Nemeth's own amber-hazel hawklike eyes glittering with reflected firelight.

– "It is written"? asked Nemeth softly.

– The window was made before the sword was forged, Nemeth. A long time before. There was Power in the making of the window, and Power in the stone's chain, and I climbed up and took the chain from the picture. Strange. Not something I would have done had I thought about it – but the Power in the place seemed almost to destroy thought itself. And with that chain once in my hand, I was drawn to the central Power in the building; massive, enfolding, waiting Power, right there in the building itself.

I had been standing on the source of that power earlier when I looked up and saw the stone. The whole floor was in pictures and in silver flakes that caught the light and threw it around, and the last light of that setting sun came straight through the sword in the window and threw its picture onto a silver-sheeted stone on the floor. There was script around the edges of the silver sheeting, but so worn away that I couldn't read it, and in the centre of the silver sheet an oval hollow. Into which the sapphire fitted. Exactly.

– Like a key into a lock, said Nemeth softly.

– Quite. But I hadn't the Power to unlock it; and if I had the Power, I doubt if I would have the courage. It resisted my attempt to use Power.

– You can use Power, half-Elven?

– A little; and that only when I have this, he indicated the Turgel chain and sapphire, once again nestled safely against his chest. And I say it resisted me. Enough to know that whatever lies under that stone is not meant for the likes of me – though Miirshekaar's line is something that we share. If indirectly. But half-Elven only, and without Power of my own – no, Nemeth, I couldn't handle it, and it knew I couldn't. I think you could; though I'll say again that you have all the makings of a dangerous Elf.

– You're quite safe with me, Mishaar, remarked Nemeth with a smile. You mentioned Miirshekaar's Beastmaster, some time back.

– I did?

– You did. What – if anything else – do you know about him?

– What – if anything – does anyone know about him? I could recite you some of the legends, but how much is legend and how much was fact is anyone's guess. The Shethis were strangely reticent on the subject when I questioned them.

– So what are the legends?

– I'm sure you must have heard them. Or most of them, if not all. Mishaar took another slow drag from his pipe.

– I've not heard much more than anecdote, said Nemeth.

– Which is basically all there is, and common knowledge among Elves; if you could call it 'knowledge'. What do you already know?

– Preface everything with the words 'Legend has it that ...', replied Nemeth with a smile.

– Obviously, Mishaar responded.

– Okay. He was reputed to be some kind of relation of Miirshekaar, but half-Elven – like yourself. Some say perhaps a half-brother. One of the few half-Elven who spent as much time with Elves as with men, and because of his talents with beasts in demand by both. No records remain of his birth ...

– ... or his death, added Mishaar quietly, and with a smile.

– True, said Nemeth, looking at him with sharp curiosity. Although it's sometimes said that he died, with Miirshekaar, in the battle at Nahrsalk.

– It's also sometimes said that he survived that battle, took the sword and hid it, and having done that died of the wounds he received in the battle. Yet another legend has it that he was carried off by a "massive shining skylizard whose brightness dazzled the Enemy" – even though the dragons were then and have always been in the North. In the South, dragons are no more than legend.

– But you know that's not entirely true. Dragons were involved in the building of that picture window, Nemeth pointed out.

– Yes. It's not often you get the chance to prove that what's assumed to be common knowledge is wrong. So where does that leave us?

– That leaves us with the possibility that the Beastmaster actually was carried away by a dragon. Although I wouldn't describe the dragons that we know of as 'shining', as such.

– Poetic licence, suggested Mishaar.

– Which version do you prefer? asked Nemeth.

– I think he survived the battle. Miirshekaar's sword was certainly not found on the battle site, and not many people would have been able to remove it with impunity.

– Why not? asked Nemeth curiously.

– It wouldn't have let them. Whoever handles it must – again according to legend – have either some blood relationship to Miirshekaar or the permission of the owner. Which, if Miirshekaar was dead, would have been difficult.

– Which also suggests that the Beastmaster was a relation. If that bit was true, which it might not be; it might have been just to deter people from trying.

– An instant death penalty is generally a fairly effective deterrent, agreed Mishaar, grinning.

– Echoes of the Dwarvish Courts of Justice, said Nemeth. But in spite of that, you were prepared to risk it back in that building?

– I already told you – we're related, Nemeth. If the sword ever had to choose between us, it would undoubtedly choose you, as a full Elf – but if you weren't around, I would be its last option.

– Not its last – there would be Kash after you. Just remember that you've already told me I could be a very dangerous Elf, suggested Nemeth with a smile.

– It isn't now, and never has been, my intention to take that one on myself. Without full Assumed Power, the sword would be stronger than I am. I'd hate to have a difference of opinion with my own sword – it might happen at a crucial moment. Mishaar grinned.

– Is it possible then that the sword took the Beastmaster, rather than the other way around?

– And suggested its own hiding place? Possibly. But why not go directly to Miirshekaar's next heir?

– We must assume that it had its reasons.

– One could always ask Hlammaeth, suggested Mishaar.

– If one could find him. Ymbolc might be easier to speak to.

– Ymbolc? He wouldn't tell me, when I asked.

– Wouldn't? Or couldn't? asked Nemeth. – And when did you speak to Ymbolc, anyway, half-Elven?

– Last year sometime. I went to the cave systems. Incidentally, your hairy nephew sent his regards if I should locate you.

Nemeth grinned. – How was he?

– Thriving. I declined the offer of drinking from his flask, though.

– Why?

– I suspected that whatever was in it might have a different effect on myself to that which it has on a half-troll. I was also unsure how to take his suggestion that it would put hairs on my chest.

Nemeth laughed. – What colour was it?

– Blueish.

– It's okay; has its uses. I tried it a couple of times. Shengard just calls it 'Jungle Juice'.

– What does it do?

– It reduces other people's ability to perceive you, answered Nemeth. The effect is cumulative; takes a while to wear off. If you have too much – or too often – it reduces your ability to perceive yourself, which is unnerving. I suspect that he hasn't yet eliminated whatever addictive principle it contains, although it doesn't seem to affect him in that way at all.

– How do you know it could be addictive?

– I was Aware of the possibility. Which was why I was careful with it. Did the Beastmaster have a name? Or was it never recorded?

– It's certainly recorded, but it's a bit of a mouthful; which is why he's generally just called the Beastmaster.

– Well? asked Nemeth with a smile.

"Miesh'aasht Hahn Diishhuarheth Shahvehnkaeh," said Mishaar in a whisper.

– Not truly a Southern name, commented Nemeth.

– The name comes from more than one language, the second of which shares some of its roots with Southern Elvish. However, not enough for me to be able to work out all of what the name itself means. The "Miesh'aasht" gives the clearest indication of all that he was related to Miirshekaar. Very possibly his son, in fact. But not necessarily, he added thoughtfully. The assumption is that his dam was from that other people.

– Which way did you come North last year?

– By Cutter into Anster Sumares on the West Coast. They call it 'Shipton on Sea' nowadays, though. A lot of the Old Elvish names have virtually disappeared.

– Which others?

– Vaster is now Kineton; Pontanni on the road east from Anster Sumares is now called Lambridge. And Mons Dei is, inevitably, Godshill, said Mishaar. The locals still know the old names because that's what's carved on the waystones – but they might give you some odd looks if you ask for Caprester instead of Shambury-on-the-Hill.

– How much travelling do you do?

– This past two years I've done more than in the previous ten. It's been easier to find a working passage rather than a paying one; and I've found that ship's masters ask less questions of deckhands than they do of passengers. If you're paying passage, they seem to want to know how you make your money, just in case they can negotiate overseas trading options with you. I've managed to get quite a reputation for being weather-wise, too, which helps.

– And are you? asked Nemeth.

– No more than most. But the Sea-Elves are, and we communicate reasonably well when I'm aboard.

– What cargo's going south this time?

– Salted fish in one hold, ox-hides in the other.

– Smelly, commented Nemeth.

– Very. But fortunately I'm working as steersman on this one. By the time I'm needed, the cargo will have been loaded and the hatches battened down. Steersman's a cushy number for me – just an eye on the stars, Awareness of the currents and a hand on the wheel; a good meal twice a day, a sheltered sleeping spot in the wheel cabin, and plenty of opportunity for Speaking with the Sea-Elves. The only bit that requires any thought is making course corrections when I come on after the idiot who has the other watch.

– If he's an idiot, why is he kept on? Asked Nemeth with a grin.

– He's the master's cousin. And provided there's a good steersman on the dark watch, he doesn't cause many problems – which is why the dark-watch steersman is given such a good deal. As company, he's fine. Good tempered, clean, affable, doesn't snore; he's a good friend, but a lousy steersman.

– You're very tolerant.

– Not tolerant, particularly; just honest. I don't let people's faults blind me to their virtues, or their virtues blind me to their faults. I find it easier that way to come to terms with my own faults and not be too smug about my own virtues. I've also found that it takes quite some time to discover enough of what a person is before you can stand back and look at them as a whole. It's tragic how many people are incapable of doing that – so many lost friendships just because one person or the other didn't have either the patience or the vision to wait for the whole picture. Life-or-death situations require instant decisions; relationships take much longer.

– That's the Elf in you Speaking, commented Nemeth. What do you make of Farinka?

– Apart from the obvious?

– What's obvious? asked Nemeth.

– She is totally necessary to the survival of Elves on this world. She is also very young, very unstable, and very Powerful. She reminds me of a wild deer that survived capture once and isn't about to be snared a second time; or of a packbeast that's been half-broken by a bad master and will bolt – or kill – if it's threatened again.

– She's killed already since she's been here.

– Hunting's different – as you know, said Mishaar.

– She wasn't hunting. Apart from tickling trout, she's never killed to eat. She dropped a mad boar in his tracks, to protect me, mostly, – using Command. Never laid a finger on it.

Mishaar's eyebrows went up. "Whew." – Thanks for telling me. Who taught her that one?

– No-one. None of us had ever seen it done – or even attempted – before.

– I have. Once. But the killer also died, in that instance, said Mishaar quietly. Having done it successfully once, she's likely to use the same thing again if she's pushed too far. Gives the lie to that old story about not being able to use Power for attack, doesn't it?

– I'd say it was more for defence than attack.

– It's a very fine distinction, Nemeth. I'm sure the boar would have seen it as attack.

– But the difference is in how the Commander sees it.

– And how does Farinka define defence? asked Mishaar.

– Good question.I don't know the answer.  

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