"Perhaps he bribed him with a treasure," said Bekki.

"A treasure, eh?" said Beau. "What do you suppose it was? Or for that matter, what did he offer Skail of the Barrens to attack the Dwarves at Drimmen-deeve?"

Bekki shrugged, but Tip said, "Delon the Bard offered Raudhrskal a mate." Suddenly Tip's eyes widened. "Oh my, but I just thought of something."

Phais looked at Tip, an eyebrow raised.

"What if Modru has offered the renegade Drakes the Dragonstone?"

Phais shook her head. " 'Twas lost with the destruction of Rwn."

"But what if he's found it? I mean, that's why they became renegades in the first place, isn't it? They didn't want to give up the Dragonstone."

"Mayhap," replied Phais, "though Dara Arin herself said 'twas more likely they became renegades because in their arrogance they did not wish to be bound by the strictures of a pledge to anyone, much less the one devised by the Mages of Black Mountain."

"Now wait a moment," said Beau, throwing up a hand. "Look, didn't you just say Dragons were selfish and arrogant and powerful?" At Tipperton's nod, Beau plunged on: "Well if that's so, then which one of them would hold this Dragonstone? I mean they couldn't all have possession of this precious thing. So how could Modru promise the renegades the Dragonstone?"

"Perhaps," growled Bekki, "he secretly told each one that he would give over the stone to him and him alone- Skail, Sleeth, and any other Drake he would bribe-separately promising each one the same."

Loric nodded. "A Black Mage would do such."

Tip shook his head. "But wouldn't the Dragons take retribution against Modru for doing such an underhanded thing?"

Now it was Phais who shook her head. "Not with Gy-phon as Modru's protector."

Beau yawned and stretched. "Well, I must say it's all quite beyond me. It's enough that we'll be done with it when we've delivered the coin."

"Oh, Beau, we won't be done with it until the entire war itself is done," said Tip, sipping the last of his tea and sliding his cup into a saddlebag. "It's all connected, you know."

Beau's eyes widened, and he nodded, pondering, then said, "You're right, Tip, but listen: nothing will ever be over, even after this war is done, for indeed all is connected, all is linked, past, present, and future, at hand and near and far, from all that has ever gone before to all that is yet to come."

As Tip took up his bow to stand the first turn at watch he said, "Well, Beau, you may be right about that, but if we can just get to the end of this war and win, for me that will be enough."

Beau did not reply as Tip stepped away from the fire and into the cold dark beyond.

South-southeasterly they fared, passing by the frozen corpses of those who had fled from the city of Dael, had fled from the raging Dragonfire, had fled from the whelm-ings of Sleeth, had fled into the countryside only to be blizzard-slain. Men, women, children, babies, horses, dogs: Modru's storm had spared none. And they lay scattered along the road as testament to his cruel power.

"Oh Adon," said Beau, his tilted amber eyes wide with distress, "why didn't some survive?"

"They had no chance to prepare when they ran from Sleeth's ravagement," growled Bekki.

"But they should have made fires, found shelter, anything but this."

"Oh, Beau," said Tip, "don't you remember the shrieking wind? The blinding snow? I mean, if it hadn't been for Bekki, we would have been hard-pressed to survive ourselves, and we're well prepared for the cold."

"Aye," said Phais, smiling at Bekki, "'twas Fortune Herself who favored us with the company of this Drimm."

Bekki shot the Dara a quick glance, then looked at the road ahead, the Dwarf somehow disconcerted by her regard.

Beau sighed, then said, "Ah, me, and wellaway, but it is so tragic for so many to come to this grievous end."

"It's just one more thing that Gyphon and all his get will have to answer for," said Tip.

Loric looked at Tipperton. "Art thou still consumed by the need for revenge, wee one?"

Tip shook his head. "No, Loric. I but speak the truth." Loric nodded and said no more as on down the Sea Road they fared, riding now in silence.

The next day, the shortest of the year, they passed beyond the reach of the frozen dead, and that night, as a waning gibbous moon rose in a clear sky, Phais, Loric, Tip, and Beau all took places to step through the Elven Winter-day rite, the Dara facing north, the Alor and Waerlinga facing south. And as they looked upon one another, Phais began to sing, to chant, for it was something of each. Then Loric took up the chant, the song, and surprisingly he was joined by Tipperton, the Waerling in harmony. And Loric and Phais both smiled down at the buccan, while Beau looked at him in astonishment.

And in the argent light of the silvery moon shining down on white snow, Phais and Loric and Tip and Beau began stepping out the turning of the seasons.

Singing, chanting, and pacing slowly pacing, they followed an ancient ritual reaching back to the dawn of Elven-kind. And enveloped by moonlight and melody and harmony and descant and counterpoint and feet soft in the moonlit snow, they trod solemnly, gravely… but with filling hearts.

Step… pause… shift… pause… turn… pause… step.

Slowly, slowly, move and pause. One voice rising; two voices falling. Liquid notes from the dawn of time. Harmony. Euphony. Step… pause… step. Phais turning. Loric turning, Waerlinga in his wake. Dara passing. Alor pausing. Buccen pausing as well. Counterpoint. Descant. Step… pause… step…

And all were lost in the ritual… step… pause… step.

When the rite at last came to an end-voices dwindling, song diminishing, movement slowing, till all was silent and still-Lian and Waerlinga once again stood in their beginning places: female facing north, males facing south. And when they were finished it seemed as if the weight of the last few days had been lifted from them, and they were gladdened.

"I say," exclaimed Beau, breathlessly, "we almost know how it's done, eh?"

Loric grinned, but Tip shook his head. "Oh no. If it wasn't for Loric, we'd've floundered about in the snow."

Beau grinned back at Loric. "Even so, we're beginning to get the hang of it, neh?"

"Aye," said Loric. "Ye are at that, though e'en if ye practiced each day, still 'twould take long ere ye would be masters of the rite."

"I say, if we were Dwarves, we could master it at one pass, couldn't we?" asked Beau.

"The steps, aye, but the chant, the song, and its relation to the steps, that would take awhile."

"Speaking of Dwarves," said Tip, looking about the sparsely wooded clearing, "where has Bekki gotten to?"

Phais pointed. Atop a nearby hill stood Bekki, his arms stretched wide to the sky above. And they could hear his voice chanting words.

"What's he doing?" asked Beau.

" 'Tis the Drimmen rite of Wintemight, a calling out to Elwydd," said Loric.

"Elwydd, eh?" said Tip.

"Aye, for She is their patron."

"What's he saying?" asked Beau.

"Words nearly as ancient as the Drimma themselves," replied Loric. "I was taught the rite by Kelek, when we were shipwrecked in the Bright Sea. To do it properly, the DelfLord acts as cantor, the Drimma of the Dwarvenholt act as chorale, in alternating litany."

"Can you chant it to us?" asked Tip. "In Common, please."

Loric glanced upslope, then shook his head and said, "Even though thou and I art Chak-Sol, Tipperton, Bekki will have to do so, for it is their most solemn rite, a thing of the Drimma and not of the Lian."

"Oh," said Tip, looking up at Bekki on the moonlit hill, the snow asparkle in the silvery light, "I understand."

After a moment, Beau looked at Tip and said, "You know, we don't have solemn rites."