He held out his magic hands, his painter's hands, so that the moonlight silveredthem, staring as if they held his answer. And perhaps that was true, for if hehad beaten Zanderei, the other man's final question had also vanquished him. Andhe could only answer it by facing his mirror with a paintbrush in his hand.

The moon was poised above the tattered rooftops, resting after the labor ofdrawing in the tide. Like a silver mirror, she blessed the tortured streets ofSanctuary, and the tear-streaked face of the man who gazed at her, with thereflected splendor of the hidden sun.

1

Walegrin listened carefully to the small noises carried on the night breeze. Hissurvival depended on his ability to untangle the sounds of the night-and on thesteel sword he clutched, unsheathed, at his side. Ambushers crept toward hissmall camp in the darkness.

Two bright Enlibar wagons sat, unguarded and garish, in the ruddy light of aneglected fire. Their cargo had been scattered in tempting disarray; chunks ofaquamarine ore shimmered in the moonlight. Walegrin's cloak lay close by thefire, covering an armload of thorny sticks-a ruse to convince the brigands thathe and his men were more weary than careful and valued sleep above their lives.

They'd had little enough rest since leaving the ruined mine with the preciousore; and of the twenty-five men who had left Sanctuary only seven remained. ButWalegrin trusted his six stalwarts against four times that many hillmen.

Walegrin's thoughts were stopped by the warning cry of a mountain hawk; Malm,who had a shepherd's eye for ominous movements, had spotted the enemy. Walegrinheld his ground until the camp swarmed with dark, scuttling shapes, untilsomeone stabbed a cloak and heard wood splintering, not bone. Then, swordraised, he led his men out of the shadows.

These outlaws were better armed and bolder than any the soldiers had encounteredbefore, but Walegrin had no time to consider this discovery. His men were hardpressed, without their usual advantage over the hill-bred fighters. His swordstole the lifeblood of two men, but then he was cut himself and foughtdefensively, unaware of the fate of his men or the tide of battle. He was forcedto retreat another step; the open back of a wagon pressed against his hips. Theone who bore down on him was as yet un-wounded. It was time for a soldier's lastprayers.

Snarling, the attacker took his sword in both hands for a decapitating cut.Walegrin braced to take the force of the stroke on his sword which he held in abent, injured arm. His weapon fell from his suddenly numb hand, but his neck wasintact. The brigand was undaunted, his smile never wavered; Walegrin was unarmednow.

Steadying himself to face death with courage, Walegrin's leaden fingers found anobject left forgotten in the wagon: the old Enlibar sword they had found in thedust of the mine. The silver-green steel showed no rust, but no-one hadexchanged his serviceable Rankan blade for one forged five hundred years beforehis birth-until now. Walegrin brought the ancient sword around with a bellow.

Blue-green sparks surged when the swords met. The Enlibar metal clanged abovethe other sounds of battle. The brigand's swordblade shattered and, with areflex born of experience not thought, Walegrin took his assailant's head in asingle, soft stroke.

The fabled steel of Enlibar!

His mind glazed with the knowledge. He did not hear the hillmen take flight, norsee his men gather around him.

The Steel of Enlibar!

Three years of desperate, often dangerous searching had brought him to the mine.They'd filled two wagons with the rich ore and defended it with their lives-butin the depths of his heart Walegrin had not believed he'd found the actualsteel: a steel that could shatter other blades; a steel that would bring himhonor and glory.

He found his military sword in the dust at his feet and offered it to hislieutenant.

"Take this," he ordered. "Strike at me!"

Thrusher hesitated, then took a half-hearted swipe.

"No! Strike, fool!" Walegrin shouted, raising the Enlibrite blade.

Metal met metal with the same resounding clang as before. The shortsword did notshatter, but it took a mortal nick to its edge. Walegrin ran his fingers alongthe unmarred Enlibrite steel and whooped for joy.

"The destiny of all Ranke is in our hands!"

His men looked at one another, then smiled with little enthusiasm. They believedin their commander but not necessarily in his quest. They were not cheered tosee their morose, intense officer so transformed by an off-color sword-howevergood the metal and even if it had saved his life. Walegrin's exaltation,however, did not last long.

They found Malm's body some twenty paces from the fire, a deep wound in hisneck. Wale-grin closed his friend's eyes and commended him to his gods-notWalegrin's gods; Walegrin honored no gods. Malm was their only casualty, thoughthey could ill afford the loss.

In grim silence Walegrin left Malm and returned to ransack the headless corpseby the wagon. Its belt produced a sack of gold coins, freshly minted in theRankan capital. Walegrin thought of the letters he had sent to his rich patronin the Imperial hierarchy, and of the replies he had not received. In anger andsuspicion he tore at the dead man's clothes until he found what he knew must bethere: a greasy scrap of parchment with his mentor's familiar seal embossed uponit. While his men slept he read the treachery into his memory.

Kilite's treasury had financed his quest almost from the start. The ambitiousaristocrat had said that the Enlibrite steel, if it could be found, would assurethe Empire swift, unending victories-and swift, unending fortune for whomevermade the legend reality. Walegrin had dutifully informed the Imperial Advisor ofall his movements and of his success. He cursed and threw the scrap of parchmentinto the fire. He'd told Kilite his exact route from Enlibar to Ranke.

He should have known the moment his first man died-or at least when he lost thesecond. The hill tribes had been peaceful enough when they'd come up through themountains and they, themselves, could make no use of the raw ore. He counted thedead man's gold into his own pouch, calculating how far he and his men couldtravel on it.

Things could have been worse. Kilite might have been able to bribe thetribesmen, but it was still unlikely he could find the abandoned mine. Walegrinhad never entrusted that secret to paper. And Kilite had never known thatWalegrin's final destination had not been the capital, but back in Sanctuaryitself. He'd never told Kilite the name of the ugly, little metal-master in theback alleys there who could turn the ore to finest steel.

"We'll make it yet," he said to the darkness, not noticing that Thrusher hadcome to sit beside him.

"Make it to where?" the little man asked. "We don't dare go to the capital now,do we?"

"We're headed toward Sanctuary from this moment on."

Thrusher could scarcely contain his surprise. Walegrin's intense dislike of thecity of his birth was well-known. Not even his own men had suspected they wouldever return there. "Well, I suppose a man can hide from anything in Sanctuary'sgutters," Thrusher temporized.

"Not only hide, but get our steel too. We'll head south in the morning. Preparethe men."

"Across the desert?"

"No-one will be looking for us there."

His orders given and certain to be obeyed, Walegrin strode into the darkness. Hewas used to sleepless nights. Indeed, he almost preferred them to his nightmareridden slumber. And now, with thoughts of Sanctuary high in his mind, sleepwould be anything but welcome.