The Unicorn shrieked as if it sensed the birth of its enemy. Lalo felt thecanvas quiver in his hands. Light shattered and scattered across the floor ascrystal wings beat upward into three-dimensionality. He had set out to draw awhite bird like something he had once painted for the gods, and Lythande's coolvoice and fluttering fingers had tranced him as an aid in recovering the memory.

But he did not recognize the wonder that was emerging now-it was an eagle, itwas a phoenix, it was a swan- it was all of these and none. The great birdopened its bright beak in a piercing cry, talons clutched and unclenched, wingsswept wind across the room, and it was free.

Lalo sank back upon his heels, gasping as the Unicorn's darkness gave way beforea storm of white wings. The war of fire and ice and darkness sent fiercecoruscations of opal light around the room. Roaring, the Unicorn charged againstits foe, and Lalo huddled, a still speck at the eye of the storm.

Between one flurry and another he heard someone call his name. Blue lightstabbed his eyes. "Lalo-open the Gate!"

Lalo forced his limbs to pull him toward Lythande. The pentagram burned him;then the Adept's wand broke it and he was through. And just in time, for theBird of Light was driving the Unicorn after him in a tempest Vashanka would havebeen proud to claim. Lalo struggled upright. Light followed his finger as hetraced a line around the pale area on the plaster where he had drawn the Unicom.

He finished, his hand fell, and the space he had outlined began to shimmer. Theplaster thinned, cleared, disappeared to reveal a black gulf that pulsed withsparkling lights. Lalo's ears sang with subliminal vibration, his visionblurred, a strong hand closed on his arm and jerked him out of the path of thebolt of blackness that hurtled past him toward the void, followed by a beam oflight.

Lalo thrust out one arm in self-protection as he fell, and screamed as it tookthe final buffet of the Bird of Light's crystal wing. Then an explosion ofradiance dispersed the darkness. The tavern shook as the Gate between thedimensions slammed shut, and both the Unicom and its opposite were gone.

Two bodies lay in the lee of a wall where Dyer's Alley turned off from SlipperyStreet. Lythande took a swift step aside to peer at the pallid faces and eyesthat stared unseeing at the rising sun, then returned.

"Knifed-" the Adept said. "Nothing unusual. I'll be going now." She noddedabruptly, and began to walk away from them toward the Bazaar.

Lalo stopped rubbing his numbed arm for a moment and stared after her, wantingto call her back. But what could he say? The Adept had favored him with moregood advice than he could understand all the way back from the Vulgar Unicorn.

By the time Lalo had recovered consciousness, Shadowspawn was long gone, andCappen Varra, with voice unsteady and hands that still reached for his amulet atany unexpected sound, had taken his leave as soon as he could thereafter. By thetime they got Wedemir's wound stanched and Lalo was able to walk again, the sunwas striking gold from the dome of the Temple, and Hakiem was peering throughthe tavern door. With the tables and benches back in place, only the bare spoton the wall and an unnaturally wholesome atmosphere would have enabled anyone toguess what had happened there; but Lalo supposed that the storyteller would findout. He always did, somehow.

But as Lythande had pointed out, it hardly mattered what the rest of Sanctuarythought of him-it was the wizards he must watch out for now. As the style of apainting proclaimed its creator, so it was with magic, and the Black Unicorn hadbeen signed "Lalo the Limner" for any with eyes to see.

"One way or another they will be after you, and you must learn to use yourpower..." Lythande's words still rang in Lalo's ears.

He sighed, and Gilla eased more of her arm under his, supporting him. Wedemir,leaning on her other arm, lifted his head, and father and son exchangedapprehensive grins. They knew Gilla's frown, and the twist of lips clamped shutover hard words.

At the foot of their stairs Lalo halted, gathering his strength for the climb.

"All right, 0 Mighty Magician, do you want my help or can you make it under yourown power?" asked Gilla. In the full light of morning he saw clearly for thefirst time the new lines of anguish by her mouth and the bruise marks beneathher eyes. And yet her body was as steady as the earth below him. It was herstrength that had got him this far.

"You are my power, all of you-" His eyes moved from Gilla to Wedemir, meetinghis son's steady gaze, accepting him at last as an equal and a man. "Don't letme forget it again."

Gilla's eyes were suspiciously bright. She squeezed his hand. Lalo nodded andbegan to climb the staircase, and in his labored breathing they heard thewhisper of white wings.

The ephemerals have no help to give.

Look at them!

They are deedless and cripple,

strengthless as dreams. All mortalkind

is bound with a chain;

all their eyes are darkened....

The sound of screaming slowly aroused Harran from the mechanical business ofpounding out the Stepson Raik's hangover remedy in the old stone mortar. Raikscrambled to his feet, his face ashen, staring toward the gates of the Stepsons'barracks compound. "Just a little more business for the barber," Harran said,not looking up. "More serious than your head, from the sound of it."

"Shal," Raik said, sounding wounded himself. "Harran, that's Shal-"

"Knew the damned careless fool would get himself chopped up one day," Harransaid. He measured the last ounce or so of grain spirits into his mortar andpicked up the pestle again.

"Harran, you son of a-"

"A moment ago you didn't care about anything, including where your partner was,"Harran said. "Now you know... Mriga!"

Over in the comer of the rough stone hut someone sat in the shadows on thepacked dirt floor, hitting two rocks together-grinding a third rock to powderbetween them in a steady, relentless rhythm. The hut's small windows let in onlya couple of dust-dancing arrows of sun; neither came near the bundle of skinnyarms and legs and filthy rags that sat there and went pound, pound, pound withthe rocks, ignoring Harran.

"Mriga!" Harran said again.

Pound, pound, pound.

Another scream strung itself on the air, closer. From under Harran's worktable,by his feet, came a different sound: an eager whimper, and then the thumping ofa dog's wagging tail.

Harran huffed in annoyance and shoved the mortar and pestle aside. "You startone thing around here," he said, getting up without looking anywhere near Raik'swild eyes, "and there's no finishing it. Never fails. -Mriga!"

This time there was a grunt from the pile of rags, though certainly not inresponse to anything Harran was saying- just a kind of bark or groan of animalpleasure in the rhythm. Harran reached down and grabbed Mriga's hands. Theyjerked and spasmed in his grasp, as they always did when someone tried to stopanything she was doing. "No more, Mriga. Knives now. Knives."

The hands kept jerking. "Knives," Harran said, louder, shaking her a bit. "Comeon! Knives...."

"Nhrm," she said. It was as close as Mriga ever got to the word. From under thetangle of matted, curly hair, from out of the bland, barren face, eyes flashedbriefly up at Harran-empty, but very much alive. There was no intelligencethere, but there was passion. Mriga loved knives better than anything.