Was their way of communing… communicating… where his own memory play came from? Was this, mingled with his born-Fay essence, what gave him such ability? Could they give him one memory notso dark and heavy as his own?

A piece of night moved beneath a shaggy old cedar, and a pair of eyes glittered at him.

The grizzled pack elder took shape as he stepped out. Other majay-hi circled among the trees, and with them came a flash of white. She turned around a bramble and stopped, one forepaw poised above the ground as she looked at Chap.

Wynn had called the female's color that of a lily. The light touch of yellow in the female's eyes reminded Chap of the pistils of that flower.

She came close and sniffed his nose, and her own scent was laced with rich earth and damp leaves. Chap felt her nose trace up along his shoulder, his neck, below his ear. Then her head pressed in against the side of his.

A silver female shining in moonlight flashed in his mind.

A mother… the white female showed him a memory of her mother.

Chap recalled running with his siblings on the moss of an elven clearing.

Another memory not his own flashed. Cubs wrestled over who could stay atop an old downed tree, half-covered in lichen that flaked under their tumbling little bodies.

She had heard his memory, and answered in kind.

To speak like this without effort, to share memory instead of only seeing those of others…It was as if he found his voice for the first time and heard those of others after a lifetime in silence.

Chap had never known this as a pup. Perhaps he had not stayed long enough to learn it before Eillean took him away to a young Leesil. Maybe it was a skill, like human speech, that came with maturity. His thoughts rushed to memories of Nein'a and her half-elven son trapped within the city ofVenjetz.

The white female pulled back. She knew nothing of human cities and ways, and the image must have been unsettling. He whined and licked her face.

She did not appear disturbed. She yipped at him, wheeled about, and bolted partway into the forest. She stopped, looking back.

Chap released all but the earth beneath his paws and the rich scent of her fur and followed.

The dreamer rolled in slumber. Within his dream, wind rushed over his body and ripped at his dark cloak. He flew high over rocky cliffs painted in snow and ice.

He had never traveled like this before in his slumber.

In a deep canyon valley between mountain ridges like teeth rested a six-towered castle. Each of the tall towers was topped with a conical spire fringed with a curtain of ice suspended from its roof's lower edge. He wanted to pass over its outer wall and reach the courtyard, but did not. Instead, he lighted upon the crusted snow outside and sank deep as it broke beneath his feet.

Twin gates of ornate iron curls joined together at their high tops in an arched point. Mottled with rust, the gates were still sound in their place. Far beyond them, the castle's matching iron doors waited atop a wide cascade of stone steps.

Something moved upon those steps.

At first she seemed dressed in form-fitting white, with hair as cleanly black. As she took a first step down the stairs, it was clear she was naked. A shadow appeared to flutter above her right shoulder. It coalesced into a raven, which rustled its wings as it settled next to her head.

Her face was so pale it was almost translucent around strangely shaped eyes that…

The image vanished.

The dreamer stood in a stone hall with shelves all around filled with scrolls, books, and bound sheaves. Upon a table of gray-aged woodlay a black feather quill next to a squat bottle half-filled with ink.

At the hall's far end, another set of heavy doors were sealed shut with a solid iron beam too massive to lift.

The dreamer lost his aching hunger. His body desired nothing.

It is here… his patron whispered all aroundhim, though he saw no massive coils of black scales…the orb… the sister of the dead will lead you.

He was wrenched from sleep and back into the cold world of the awakened.

"No!"

Welstiel's eyes opened fully to find Chane crouched within the tent, staring, his narrow face intense.

The sister of the dead will lead you.

A bitter promise.Welstiel had heard it one too many times.

"What's wrong?" Chane asked. "Why are you shouting?"

Welstiel sat up without answering.

They had ridden night after night, and their mounts grew thin and slow from dwindling grain. He feared that soon they would be on foot and wished to get every last step from the horses before the beasts collapsed and died.

"Pack up," he said.

Lingering bitterness faded. His patron showed him much more than ever before, but again in small pieces that did not quite fit together. He had seen an inhabitant of the fortress-perhaps one of the ancients? And he had felt the calm from the close presence of what he sought.

Welstiel's hunger to feed had died in that place within his dream, and now his hunger for what he sought grew in its place. So why did he feel so bitter upon waking?

The sister of the dead will lead you.

Magiere was the crux. Whatever his patron showed him, it was never quite enough to be certain of his destination-and always with the reminder that Magiere was necessary. Yet she was far off on another deviation with Leesil. Welstiel would find a time and place to bring her back under his control.

He smoothed his dark hair back. He would have to trust in his patron but also in himself, and practice a mix of effort and reserve. He stepped out as Chane began pulling down the tent.

"Why were you shouting?" Chane asked again. "You have never shouted quite like that before."

Welstiel's suspicion rose. "What do you mean?"

"You talk in your dormancy."

Welstiel remained passive, hiding anxiety. How long had this gone on, and why did Chane choose this moment to reveal such?

"What do you hear while I am dormant?"

"Nothing comprehensible, but never such an outcry." Chane became hesitant and changed the subject. "I wish to continue my lessons in Numanese as we ride."

Chane finished saddling his bony horse and swung up.

Welstiel followed suit. "Where did we leave off? I believe it was the common irregular verbs in past tense."

"Yes."

Lessons continued as they rode, but Welstiel's thoughts drifted often to the icebound castle, to the new scroll-filled hall, and to the calm stillness he had felt as he looked upon the iron-barred doors.

He started from his wandering thoughts, as he thought he heard a whisper on the cold wind.

The sister of the dead will lead you.

Hot baths were almost a vague memory, until Magiere slipped into one beside Wynn, listening to the sage's embarrassing groans of pleasure as they washed. Once finished, Magiere pulled on the elven clothing made of felt and raw-spun cotton. Her skin smelled of honey and fennel from the soap. Leesil had his turn, complete with grumbling about soapy water that hadn't drained completely for his own fresh bath.

Magiere spent the rest of the evening sitting cross-legged in the outer room with her hosts. Leesil sat on her left with young Leanalham on his far side. The girl studied Leesil with brief glances, thinking she went unnoticed, peering at his ears, eyes, and the shape of his face-until suddenly aware of Magiere watching her. Magiere didn't really mind the girl's interest in Leesil, or shouldn't have.

Leanalham was overwhelmed that someone else in this world shared her differences from her own people. Magiere understood being different, constantly reminded of it when anyone looked closely at her.

Still, Leanalham kept staring at Leesil.