Nothing. The creature did not move.

"All three, Varien," said Vilkas quietly. "All three."

I took Maran's hand and Shikrar's talon and brought them together to touch the gem.

Nothing.

"I may stink of the things, but I'm not a real demon," said Maran quietly. "This was made by them." She lifted the Farseer to touch the soulgem, but she had overbalanced. It slipped from her fingers. All three of us—Shikrar, Maran, and I—moved to catch it at once, and were all touching it at the same time.

Upon the instant a great blaze of light streamed from the Farseer, dazzling even in daylight. I tried to let go of it and could not, and neither could the others. When I thought to look, I realised that the Hollow One still stood before us, unmoving, soulgem in place.

What was there to lose?

"Together, then. Touch the Farseer to the soulgem," I said. It took but a tiny movement from us all—a little farther—contact.

The soulgem caught a portion of the Farseer's blaze. There was a grotesque sizzle like fat in a fire, and the creature stepped back. Its eyes were wide, surprise warring with furious joy for just an instant—and it changed. I had never understood why that simple word was so important in the tale of the Demonlord until I saw it happen.

In reverse.

In an instant.

Light and colour spread out from the soulgem, flowing swift as flame over the creature, first changing that rusty black faceplate to one of bright iron, then extending the full length of the beast—which was a great deal more length than it had before. In moments, impossibly, there stood before us a full-grown adult of the Kantrishakrim, dazed, blinking in the daylight, astounded.

Shikrar, eyes wide, somehow managed to croak, "Welcome, Lady. I hight Shikrar of the line of Issdra. Who art thou?"

"Treshak. I hight Treshak," she managed, and cried out in agony.

Idai hurried up to her. "Lady, what ails you? What may be done for you?"

"Not me," she moaned. "Help them. The rest of them. Free them, quickly, in the name of the Winds!"

And so we did. As the three of us were yet bound to the Farseer, Vilkas drew forth the soulgems and held them in place while we touched the Farseer to each in turn.

I had dreamed of this moment for many long years. Our people had striven to restore the Lost since they had been torn from life by the Demonlord. In the thousands of years since, there had been endless debate about the flicker of the soulgems. Were the Lost in some way still alive and aware? Were they tormented by demons? Would any of them still be sane if we did manage to bring them back after long ages of whatever imprisonment they endured?

It seemed in the end to depend on the individual.

Many, blessedly, were largely undamaged. Their imprisonment had seemed Httle more than a long, uneasy Weh sleep, and they simply awoke in their new bodies with little sense of the passage of time.

Some had been aware for part of the time, crying out, feeling trapped in some desperate place. They said that they had drifted in and out of consciousness. They thought perhaps several tens of years had passed while they were ensorcelled. Somehow they had managed to cling to hope, but they were furiously angry.

The first of these to be released saw Gedri standing before it and drew in a breath of Fire. I cried out to Shikrar, who managed to deflect the blast upwards. We did not condemn him— the last thing he recalled clearly was a treacherous Gedri, the Demonlord, who had stolen his life from him. He was taken away by the Kantri to a part of the field far from the Gedri, where he was told as gendy as possible what had happened in the intervening time.

Vilkas took a moment to warn Rella, Will, and the Healers to move out of sight until all could be explained to the confused souls. They disappeared in the direction of the Dragons Head, an inn hard by the field.

There were a few, though, who wrung our hearts from us. A score of souls found themselves in the green world, cried out in agony, and threw themselves into death.

It is rare that a child of the Kantri will willingly choose death, but we can do so if the pain of life is too great. It is very simple. There is a—a something in the base of the throat. The nearest that humans can understand would be a flint. It would be as if you filled a room with oil-soaked straw, threw in a lighted match, and closed the door.

When we die, in the natural course of things, the fire within is released from our control and we burn to ash very quickly. This was even faster. The first of the Lost who chose death passed to the Winds in less time than it had taken for its new form to appear. Shikrar, his voice trembling, asked Vilkas to collect the soul-gem and bring it to him: when he saw it clearly, he heaved a deep sigh of relief. It was small and dull. The poor trapped soul was released to death at last, and could rest.

It took nearly five hours to restore them all. We were exhausted by the end, but we had no choice—the Farseer clung, blazing, to our hands, until the last of the Lost was restored. The moment all was accomplished, the thing dropped to the grass, dark and lifeless.

Shikrar, Maran and I followed in much the same fashion.

Berys

What a fine chance! I had only just sent along a Rikti spy to report on what the damned dragons were doing, and behold, what piece of news it has brought me! If I understand it aright, it appears that those whom the Demonlord had thought destroyed have been restored. How very resourceful of them.

So, the number of my enemies is doubled. And these new creatures were created by the Demonlord, whose imminent arrival will doubtless rouse them to fury and to the foolishness of acting in anger.

How interesting. It will be useful to see how he deals with them.

On the whole, I believe that I am pleased. What fun would all this be if it were too simple?

Marik has confirmed the Rikti's report. How kind of him to keep me informed, and how charming that the damage the dragons inflicted upon him has allowed him to hear the thoughts of those two creatures. Shikrar and Akor. Altogether delightful.

I was uncertain as to when I would unleash all those lovely healers of Mariks. There they sit, so demure in House of Gundar trade establishments throughout the four Kingdoms of Kolmar, no sign of their slightly suspect allegiance. And I never coerced one; they have come to us of their own free will. Ah, how easily the lust for power corrupts.

It is astounding how many folk are unhappy with the power they have, and how willing they are to take part in something they know to be wrong. Just a little corruption at first, a fortnight to try out the new power available to them before they must choose. Nearly all, having become accustomed to the greater level of power in those few days of the trial, are seduced by the good they can do.

They are under no illusions. Even the most ignorant village Healer knows perfectly well that power is either the gift of the Lady or the price of the Raksbi. Barely one in a hundred has had the moral courage to resist. Barely one in ten of those has refused entirely. After all, it is such a little price. A lock of hair. Not much to ask. Hair grows back.

And now they are there in their hundreds, all over Kolmar, ready to my hand. When I activate the link, those who have submitted to this will be, swiftly and simply, taken over by a demon. They will retain half their natural power for the demons to make use of—and demons are very good at making use of power—and half the power of every single Healer who has made this pact will flow into my hands, to do with as I will. Once I set them in motion, with the simplest of rituals, they will go forth and take the darkness with them. Slaying patients, destroying crops, burning homes—whatever the demon fancies.