By now most of the tasloi had reconsidered their chances. The surviving members of the pack melted into the jungle, leaving behind a score of their dead.

The three men worked together to cut down Themo's mount and tried not to listen as the other two lizards fed noisily upon the fallen tasloi.

"Fine sport," Themo observed happily. "Of course, the green dragon would have been better, but there's something to be said for starting small."

"The tasloi ambush obscured what little trail sign Andris left behind. Any more time spent tracking would be time wasted," Iago said.

Themo looked unwilling to give up this adventure. "But if we keep traveling west, we'll find this village."

Matteo shook his head. "I wish that were true. Our only chance of finding the village was following Andris to Kiva. From what I can ascertain of wild elves, we could walk directly beneath the village, and not see it unless the elves wanted us to."

The three friends fell silent. Themo's lizard scuttled over to the battlefield and nosed aside one of its comrades. Except for a few of the less palatable bits, the feast was over. Cheated, the reptilian mount returned to its rider, dragging its tail and looking as dejected as a kicked cur.

"What now?" Themo asked in a resigned tone as he climbed back onto his disgruntled mount.

"Perhaps the answer lies in Iago's recent past," Matteo said slowly. His eyes were apologetic as he turned to the small jordain. "You were in the service of Procopio Septus. It seems likely that Zephyr, his jordaini counselor, betrayed you to Kiva, but Zephyr did not give you directly into the elf woman's hand."

Iago's olive skin paled. "That is true."

"Perhaps we should trace the path between. It led to Kiva once. It might again."

The small jordain rode in silence for several moments. "Three days I spent in the Crinti camps," Iago said softly. "By the end of that time, I was grateful to be sold as a slave."

Matteo acknowledged this with a somber nod. "Did the Crinti deal directly with Kiva?"

"Yes. They spared me the indignity of a slave market, if nothing else. Understand this, Matteo: the rumors of the shadow amazons fall far short of the reality."

Themo cast him a disgusted look. "If you don't like the plan, just say so."

"I didn't say it wouldn't work," Iago said slowly. "If I could think of a better one, I'd be swift to speak it."

"Dangerous, is it?"

"I would rather leap naked into a pit of molten tar than return to that hell."

Iago spoke with a stillness that chilled Matteo, but Themo nodded as if this pronouncement confirmed a dearly held hope. "There'll be fighting involved?"

"I can almost guarantee it," Iago murmured. As he spoke, his eyes went cold and hard.

Themo noted the change in his friend's expression and hooted with approval. He slapped the reins on the lizard's neck, his good spirits fully restored. "Well then, what are we sitting around here for?"

A small, bedraggled figure crept through the jungle, staggering from tree to tree, clinging to each as if she took strength from it. Kiva, the once-powerful magehound, walked barefoot, clad only in the plain gray tunic of an Azuthan penitent. Long, jade-green hair hung about her face. The only magic in her hands was that which rippled through the mazganut tree she clutched for support. Kiva sensed the forest's teeming pulse, heard the soft music of the Weave, but faintly, as if from a great distance.

So frail was Kiva that she felt a disturbing kinship to her own shadow. Her strength had been stolen in battle with the laraken, her wizardly magic siphoned away. For days, only pride had kept her going. Now even that was gone. All Kiva could call upon were ancient memories and the vendetta born of them. Whenever her vision began to blur, she closed her eyes and whispered, "Akhlaur!"

Hatred focused her, strengthened her. She had not trained and plotted and fought for two centuries to die now, her vengeance incomplete!

Kiva pushed away from the tree and stumbled onward. Instinct led her where memory failed, for she had been a child of this forest. No elf, no matter how long away from the trees of her birthplace, no matter what transpired in the years between, ever lost her connection with the land. No living elf was completely devoid of magic.

As twilight came on, insects emerged in stinging clouds. Childhood lore came back to Kiva, and she drew in long breaths of air until she caught the faint, sharp note of an acridia plant. She followed the scent and picked a fat spear, crushing it and smearing the fragrant green gel on her skin. The scent disappeared at once, and so did the hungry insects.

This small success heartened her. She noted a hooded flower, nearly knee high, with a blood-red stamen that resembled a sneering goblin. It was the only truly ugly flower she knew, and it held one of the most lethal poisons of the Mhair. Kiva fell to her knees beside it and began to dig for the treasures it protected.

After a few moments she found them-truffles, big as her fist, fragrant and meaty. She brushed the dirt from a savory fungus and began to eat, dutifully at first in order to regain strength, and then with real hunger.

"Kiva," said a male voice, a human voice, deep and disturbingly familiar.

Startled, she leaped to her feet The too-sudden movement set her head whirling and her vision dancing with sparks of light. When she focused, it was upon the ghostly form of Andris, the jordain she had condemned, used, and discarded.

For a moment Kiva went cold with horror-she, who thought herself beyond reach of such emotions!

"Is this my fate, then?" she murmured. "Am I to be haunted by all those whom I have killed?"

"If that's so, you will never lack company," Andris responded. "Perhaps the others will be along presently, but I am no ghost."

Even as he spoke, she saw it was true. The tall jordain was translucent, but he retained color, like delicately tinted glass. The jungle grasses bent beneath his feet and parted before him as he came toward her.

Her first response, honed by dozens of years among Halruaa's wizards, was to hurl a spell. None came to her call. She pulled her only remaining weapon-a broken boar's tusk, long as a dagger and nearly as sharp-and slashed at the approaching human.

Andris easily dodged and seized her wrist. The elf tried to twist away, but her captor's grip was surprisingly firm and strong. She quickly realized the futility of struggle and forced herself to meet his eyes. To her relief and puzzlement, her death was not written in them.

"How is this possible?" she demanded, her gaze traveling his translucent form.

"The laraken did this. I carry elf blood, the gift of a distant ancestor. 'Distant' only in terms of time," he added pointedly. Understanding touched the elf's golden eyes, bringing light but no warmth. Andris felt an illogical stab of disappointment.

At loss for words, he handed Kiva the necromancer's tome. She paged through the ancient book, her face deathly pale and her lips set in a tight line. "Is this true?" Andris asked gently. Kiva slammed the book shut. "As far as it goes, yes. There is much left unsaid."

Andris whistled softly. "If that is true, I am glad for the omission."

"You should be." Her voice was faint, and memories haunted her eyes.

After a few moments, Andris ventured, "This book explained many things. I've wondered how you, a full-blooded elf, could face the laraken and live."

His question jolted her back into the present moment "Do I?" The elf spat out the words. "The laraken and its creator-" she punctuated this by hurling the book back at Andris-"have taken from me everything of value. I breathe, I speak and move. I hate! But do I live? Such things the sages debate!"