for my own Black Horse
Olori Eldalie
(in Tolkien's Elvish languages of Middle Earth: “Elven Magic”)
1977-1985 in the high desert of Oregon
1985-2006 in the green hills of PA
and for my friends in the Shire of Dawnfield,
(Society for Creative Anachronisms, East Kingdom, 1985)
who brought her to me

with special thanks to the Tristans
especially my honorary big brother Dave,
photojournalist and Viking Longship Captain
every Elf needs a Dwarf
to unfry the computer
untangle the mystery wires behind the TV
and with unwavering enthusiasm, proofread this tale 

the mysteries of life, the most potent gifts of existence, 
quite often arrive on the backs of black horses
(Linda Kohanov, The Tao of Equus)

On the Backs 
of Black Horses

~Prologue~

	The muted thunder of hooves on packed sand, the farther thunder of surf, breaking on a long line of moonlit sand. It rolled up out of the sea eons ago, first a ripple, then a sandbar, then a long barrier island full of life. Loblollys and marshmallows and wax myrtle and bayberry, deer and possum and wheeling white seabirds, herds of small wiry horses and white sails on the wind. In the shallow bays, the wide wings of rays and the silver flash of mosquitofish and the green flash, like magic, of coomb jellies and dinoflagellates.
	And the Dark is devouring it.
	One of its inhabitants flees, not away from danger, most likely toward it. His true name is long, and would fill many pages; it is a story in itself, the story of his (so far) short life. Those who know him call him Kai. He is not a true Islander; though generations of its blood flow in his veins. He was born elsewhere, and his father had come from a far place, so to all who live on this long line of sand, he is an Outsider. One of the Landborn.
	He gallops now, across the sand he knew with his eyes closed, sand he ’s grown up on, surfthunder behind him, hoofthunder below, and the faint scream of the Dark just beyond the glow of the lighttower. He carries little but his swords, his bow, and (he hopes) enough arrows to keep them at bay.
	Until he can find the Gate. Until he can find the Spellbook. 
	If it truly exists.
	If it is where legend says it is.
	A name echoes through his thoughts, thoughts bent almost entirely on running, on breathing, on running, breathing, running...
	It runs through his head like a chant, like his hard, labored breathing...
	Hawk Circle, Hawk Circle, Hawk Circle. It lies on the other side of that Gate, in a world that is only a faerie tale to his folk.
	What if that ’s all it is? What if there is no Gateworld, no Spellbook?
	What if he never tries to find out?
	One of the Grandmothers still remembered. It had been where she said, there in the library on the mainland, the story from the past, the story which told of the Spellbook, the Gate, and the place it led to.
	A terribly strange place, if you could believe all the things you read in books.

~1~
crapzilla

	“Moose! You freaking idiot!” The voice had the charm of a metal manurefork screeching across the stable’s chalkboard. “A horse’s butt has more brains than you!” She didn’t say butt, and she meant it. Tiffanie; Evening Manager, Queen of the Universe and Keeper of All Knowledge Equine. 
	Yeah, she would have spelled it with all caps; in little stick-on fake diamonds on a Barbie pink background. She was eighteen, three years older than me, a whole head shorter, and sixty pounds lighter. I could have picked her up and flung her over one shoulder. 

	I pictured it; over one shoulder, kicking and screaming like Fay Wray in King Kong. Then, sploop, straight into Crapzilla, the manure pile out back, the one that had been accumulating for five years, smouldering in the January chill like a sleeping dragon. Tiff-Fanny had a new horse trailer, riding boots that cost more than my computer, perfect pink nails, and the absolute certainty she knew all there was to know about horses; their care, feeding, training, and what color of saddle pads they liked to wear. She was learning Stable Management from Elaine, the lady who owned Stonewall Stables. That meant Tiff got to tell the rest of the Junior SooperDooperPooperScoopers, like me, what to do. Elaine claimed everyone (even Tiffanie, Equine Queen of the Universe) had to start at the bottom, as a Pooper Scooper. In the six months I ’d been here, I had never seen her within ten feet of a pitchfork and doubted she knew what one looked like.
	She had her own horse, Rhiannon, a big grey Trakehner cross that had cost more than my mom ’s car. Rhi had won a wall full of ribbons before Tiff ever got her, and the wall had turned into a houseful since. Tiff was the perfect little robot horseman.
	Even her eyelashes didn ’t get ruffled.
	But outside the ring she used nose chains and spurs and martingales, and other gimmicks top trainers used instead of trying to communicate with the horse. A lot of people in Stonewall ’s show crowd seemed to think stuff like that was ok.
	A lot of the books I was reading, and my own heart, said there was another way.
	Someday...someday I would have my own horse. I ’d find him or rescue her, or shovel a Crapzilla the size of Miami, but I’d have one. I’d train him, I’d show Tiff-phony what real horsemen were. 
	First I ’d have to learn serious horsemanship, more than the basic walk-trot-canter-hand gallop around the arena without falling off stuff I knew now. And that meant shovelling more crap, including Tiffanie’s.

	The screech was louder, like an oncoming train.  “You left Rugby’s LATCH OFF again!” Four stalls down, the gigantic Hanoverian cross raised his head. Through the bars separating the stalls, I could see his broad brown ears pricked in my direction.
	The latch, oh crap the latch. The specially designed latch that Houdini himself couldn’t have opened. The one they’d installed because Rugby could open stall latches that contained mere mortal horses.
 	Tiff’s face appeared above the wall of the stall I was cleaning. Through the stall’s bars, she looked like some sort of mad caged ferret. “I suppose you WANT him to get out into the grain room again and colic or founder?”
	Crap. Crap crap crap. I forgot. No point in explaining that to The E-Queen of the Universe. Or did I? Maybe he figured out the unfigureoutable latch.
	“I’m going to write you a list.” Tiffanie fumed, “And pin it to your freaking forehead!”
	 “Fine.” I said, and threw a forkful of poop in the wheelbarrow. “Just don’t write it in pink.” I like pink as much as I like Tiffannyspiffanny.
	She didn ’t hear that, she was screeching about a lot of other stuff, mostly about how useless and stupid I was. Blah blah blah. I forked crap and listened to more. At last, Tiff snorted and stalked off...in a, yeah, in a tiff. I pictured giant spiders and centipedes...and a few walrus sized sluggish things... creeping out of the empty stall at the end of the barn, devouring her slowly and agonizingly.
	I wheeled the barrow down the long aisle, past three size twos in skin tight schooling chaps untacking and grooming a lesson pony. Their eyes followed me down the aisle, then their snickers. 
	I threw the barrow over on the pile, helping it along with a kung fu kick. Ok, I don ’t really know any kung fu, except what I saw in the movies. But it made me feel better.
	I signed my name and hours in the logbook, then tried to add up my hours this week; enough for a riding lesson? Not yet. Crap. Yeah, crap. It would take the moving of a lot more crap for an hour of glorious riding, of trying to become One With the Horse, (I read that in one of my horsemanship books) like those mythic Greek Centaurs. I ’m a Sagittarius, so I paid close attention to the whole Centaur thing. I’d drawn them along with all the horses and pegasuses and unicorns and stuff when I should have been taking history notes, or doing math problems. I doodled one after my name, scribbling it in black, my favorite horse color.
	I knew Tiffanie would hate me messing up the extreme tidiness of Her Book.
	I walked back down the aisle toward the big door at the end of the barn, past butts in chestnut and bay and pinto, one dun, three greys, one Appaloosa with its white rump blanket and dark egg-spots. The barn was full of the sweet smell of hay, the contented sound of crunching.
	If only it didn ’t also contain Tiffanie and her mutant species.
	 “Valerie? Where’s your ride?”
	I looked up and saw Elaine. She had the kind of expression she wore when someone has shown up for a lesson without their helmet.
	 “Uh, Mom had to go to Aunt Helen’s. No problem. I can walk from here. Not far.”
	Elaine looked out into the square of paddock lit by the big pole light. Half a foot of snow gleamed like wolf teeth in the dark. Her expression grew grave. Concerned.  “You should have told me earlier. I could have arranged...”
	I shrugged,  “No problem.” I dug in a pocket and produced a can of pepper spray, held it up like a hero’s sword, “Muggers beware.”
	And I had Betty Bop. I caught her up where she ’d been leaning against the wall by the door. A six-foot bo staff I’d found at a yard sale last fall. If I met anything that was immune to pepper spray, I’d just bop it over the head.
	 “You have a flashlight? Cell phone? Mittens?” A trained attack dog? Body armour? A nuclear-powered ray gun? Elaine’s Concerned Look was getting more serious, “Just wait, I’ll...”
	 “Elaine!” The voice from the other end of the barn was loud and insistent. Elaine turned and I made my escape.

	I liked walking back this way. Better than Mom drilling me about what defeats I’d suffered in school today. About what I hadn’t learned about horsemanship, because I was just moving manure from one end of the barn to the other. About why I didn’t paint my nails and wear pink like she did when she was fifteen. About why horses seemed to matter more to me than dances or boys or what fashion brainfart was popular this week. About my weird music or my hours online, or why my brain was always in a galaxy far, far away. About the books I read that she didn’t understand or what Animé meant or where Middle Earth or Narnia were.
	The icy pool of light faded into starlit pastures bordered by woven wire fence. The lane wound out into the dark, trees along its edges like scratchy pen and ink lines against the snow. Before the lane reached the road, a trail wound off, south, toward my house. Deer had started it. Hikers strengthened it during warmer weather, a few cross country skiers and two dogsledders kept it open during winter. It wound through the state park, down by the lake, then up across the top of the hill, then out across a few farm fields, then twisty windy along the edge of our development and into civilization.
	Civilization, bleah. I wanted a place like the wood I was walking through. Trees and possums and skunks and snakes and silence and just enough grass to feed a horse.
	I had a quarter acre of perfectly mowed lawn and alien shrubbery, trimmed like it had dropped out of a muffin pan. And Mom ’s little yard gnomes and the girl in the bonnet with the flowers growing out of the pots on her tricycle, and the big shiny ball on a pedestal. 
	No place for a horse, not even a tiny little one.
	I stalked along the trail, Betty Bop making light crunches as she poked tiny holes through the stiffly frozen snow. I ’d forgotten the flashlight, and my headlamp had burned out. It was ok, there was enough starlight, a sliver of moon, the snow gleaming like an earthbound moon. Off in the woods, something snorted and crunched off through the underbrush. A deer. Another, three. A great horned owl called out of the dark; hoo hoo-hoo-hoo-hoo HOOOOO. I stopped by the frozen lake, stared out across the white water; in the summer full of swimmers and kayakers and Labrador Retrievers and ducks and geese. Silent. Still.
	All too near, something howled.
	I whirled like a spooked horse, Betty Bop poised to rain terror on the head of some dark terror from the black lagoon.
	The woods remained white and still, trees standing out stark and dark like the hairs on a wolf ’s back. 
	Dogs. Somebody ’s dogs, bored, chained to a doghouse dogs, or kenneled dogs, spotting a deer or skunk wandering at the edge of a yard. Coyotes, maybe. Hunters had spotted them here, they’d moved into southcentral Pennsylvania years ago, taking over the territory wolves had been exterminated from centuries before.
	They howled again, an eerie concert, like the kind of thing you heard all the time on Animal Planet.
	No. Not quite.
	 “Awhooooeroooooroo rooo.”
	I frowned. It didn ’t sound right. Not at all like Animal Planet. 
	Chill, Val. what do you mean, doesn’t sound right? It’s just dark and late. You like dark and late and alone.
	“Awhooo oo oooooo!”
	I picked up the pace, trying hard not to peer back over one shoulder.
	In the snow under my feet were the long narrow tracks of a cross country skier. Then wider tracks of a dogsled, with the musher ’s footprints occasionally between them, where she had stepped off to pedal the sled. And the prints of the dogs. Old prints, from a few days ago, at least. They were misshapen from day melt and frozen into weird shapes now. I’d met one of the mushers here a few weeks back, a lady with four Siberian huskies, just out for fun in the park. Cool dogs. Having as much fun as she was.
	 “Awhoooeroo eroo errrrr! “
	The Siberians had yodeled at me, a wolf concert. They were fuzzy and friendly. All pink tongues and soft wolf fur.
	 “Awooooooo!”
	The sound came from somewhere east. Not behind me. In front of me. And not at all like those Siberians. Not at all.

	I picked up the pace. Jogging now, Betty Bop cradled in one hand, like a spear in the hand of a Valkyrie. The Viking chicks, you know, the ones who swoop down on flying horses and pick up the souls of guys slain in battle, and take them to Valhalla to party forever.
	The crunch of snow, my own panting. I ’m not good at this running thing. Moving heavy objects, no problem, running...not good. Not... good... at... all.
	Pant pant pant. I slowed to a walk. Just somebody’s dogs, that’s all. No hurry. No psychos wandering the woods waiting for hapless maidens. No alien abductions, no werewolves, vampires, zombies or orcs.
	I stuck Betty Bop into the snow for the hundred and eighty-zillionth time and she slipped. I caught myself and glanced at the trail again.
	Hoofprints. Weird. This was not the bridle trail. And even on that, not many people rode in the park in this kind of weather. 
	Something about the shape of the track made me stop. Not the softened forms of the Malamutes ’ tracks. I ran a finger around the edge of one of the hoofprints. Snow powdered off on my glove. The sharp edge crumbled.
	The tracks were fresh.
	Weird. Who would be riding a horse out here...now? Wish I had my light. I squinted at the tracks. Clear and sharp in the starlight, and the faint skylight from the developments and Ski Roundtop, over the far hill. Couldn ’t see a shoe print. A barefoot horse. I stood, half crouched over the line of prints and followed them. They ran down the trail, and I tried to read the pattern.
	I ’d bought a tracking book and studied it closely. I’d followed the prints of horses in the riding arena, after I’d seen what gait they were doing. These were...what? Not a swinging trail walk, not an easy gait a rider would use on a casual ride. They were big prints, a big athletic horse, like the Trakehners and Hanoverians and other warmbloods at Stonewall, a long stride. Trotting, not cantering. But trotting like he meant it, like he had a long way to go. The trot is more efficient for stuff like that, for long distances. Gallops and canters are meant for quick and short.
	I bent and followed the tracks; straight down the middle of the trail. 
	Then I noticed...something dark...a dark stain...a drop here, a blit there.
	I really wished for my flashlight, the one I ’d left in my locker.
	Brilliant, Moose. What the heck is that anyway? I squinted at the dark blots on the trail.
	Something yodeled eerily, off to the left. Closer than before.
	I poked at the hoofprints with the end of the bo staff. I realized what the dark blots were.
	Blood.

	Winter woods are mostly silent; no bird concert, no frogs singing by the lake, no moose-crashes of squirrels in leaves.
	This wood had gone silent...too silent. I stopped, looked back toward Stonewall, shifting my feet like a horse scenting four fanged horse eaters in the bushes. 
	My eyes turned back to the dark blots in the hoofprints at my feet. Maybe somebody needed help. I fingered the pocket where my cell phone nested, looked back once more toward Stonewall.
	I stabbed Betty Bop into the snow, like a spear, crunch crunch crunch and trotted forward down the trail.
	The grey silence was shattered by a shout, a faint snarl. A yelp. The sound of a heavy thud. 
	Another shout.
	I thought about the pit bull fighting ring that had been uncovered a few months back. I thought about how isolated this wood was after dark. My grip tightened on Betty ’s smooth reassuring weight.
	My foot found a rock, sticking out of the snow and I sprawled on the trail. Under my nose was another fresh horse track, spotted with blood.
	I thought about the feral dog packs sometimes seen scavenging garbage, running deer and killing them. I scrambled to my feet, Betty in one hand, my other reaching for the pepper spray. I could hear a voice, raised in anger, more snarls, another yelp. 
	If my brain ran on logic, I would have turned around, run the other way, my fingers blipping out 911 without looking.
	Nobody ever accused me of being logical.
	I dropped into the kind of ridiculous crouch heroes in movies assume when they are being stealthy. Not that it would help here, on a wide open trail gleaming with snowlight. I crunched noisily around a corner in the trail and saw the horse, huge and black against the snow, his rump towards me, the rider swinging at something on the ground. The horse plunged, lashing with forelegs then kicking with both rear ones. I saw a dark, leaping feral shape, more of them in the woods, all teeth and gleaming predatory eyes and eerie silence, except when a hoof caught one in the ribs or the head. I swung Betty down on the head of the nearest dog. It rolled aside and another leapt into its place, its attention on me now.
	A big shepard mix, broad head though, maybe some pit bull...some part of my mind was analyzing its breeding and why anyone would abandon a dog like this to run starving wild and kill deer and attack trail riders, then....
	It leapt for me, and something in its eyes was wrong, all wrong. I blasted it full in the face with the pepper spray. It fell, screaming and writhing to the ground, then lay still, steaming as if it had been hit by a laser cannon. 
	No time to think, there was another, and another and it was all flying fur and teeth and ice and cold and something latching its jaws on Betty Bop and me kicking it in the teeth, and the air stinging with cold and pepper spray and the sound of hooves and yelps and a set of teeth aimed at my throat and something silver spinning out of the air between me and it.
	The creature fell silent and still in a puddle of darkness.
	Silence. All white snow blotched with dark; blood and bodies and the horse ’s dancing hooves and hard blowing and my own gasping breath.
	A long blade slid past the edge of my vision, slashed itself against the snow. 
	A sword?
	I followed the blade up to the man on the horse, saw him sheath a sword the length of his horse’s body. 
	The horse had no head. 
	No head, no neck. Just legs and body and shoulders and the rider ’s torso coming straight out of those shoulders.
	I swear, I will do my math homework. I will not stay up till three in the morning watching reruns of Xena, Warrior Princess. 
	I stood like the world’s biggest doofus, mouth agape, waiting to wake up, and hoping I wouldn’t.
	“You are uninjured,” the apparition intoned, assessing me with a sweeping glance.  
	 “Ah... ah....ah...” I managed to say.
	The Centaur ’s forehand dropped, one knee bent, the near shoulder lowered, like a horse trained to assist short riders. “Get on.”
	I scanned the woods, empty of dogs. Or whatever they had been. My eyes went back to the Centaur, swept up the long, heavy-boned legs and the hindquarters muscled like an Olympic jumper to the armoured torso that belonged on a superhero.
	Or supervillain.
	If this guy pulled up to the curb in a Corvette and said,  ‘get in,’ would I?
	No way, I ’d be hauling out the pepper spray, running like hell and dialing 911 all at the same time. Somehow, I didn’t think 911 would be able to deal with this. 
	And I knew I couldn ’t outrun him.
	He had ears, shaped a bit like a horse ’s; they twitched in annoyance. He glanced eastward, as if hearing something I couldn’t. “Come, now!”
	It was a little too much like an order. I backed up a step, frowning.
	He rose, spun like a barrel horse, grabbed me and flung me more or less over his withers. 
	I think I shouted something inane, like  “Hey! Put me down!”, then the world was all thundering hooves and flying snow and treeshadow flashing past my head way too close. Betty Bop was gone, lost in the first plunging rollback he’d done. The pepper spray was still in my hand, but his face was out of reach. I grabbed at his side and found some kind of harness; whatever his nine foot sword was slung on, I guessed. One tree trunk sized arm was locked around my legs, I flailed, his grip shifted, loosened. I kicked, his grip tightened in a new place. I floundered up to something like a normal galloping position, his harness lumpy under my snowpants. I grabbed at his back, searching for a better hold, found cloth and leather and chain mail and a lot of hair. I stuffed the pepper spray into my sleeve.
	 “Whoa!” I shouted, as if he was a runaway horse. If he was, I could have hauled on one rein, circling him till he stopped.
	Centaurs don’t have reins. Crap. And the woods trail had no space to make a circle. 
	Crap crap crap! Terror and excitement were battling each other in my gut and terror was winning.
	He thundered down the trail at about warp ten, tree shadow flickering like laser fire..
	My hands found his hair...mane. It flowed down his back and onto....his other back. He ducked, and a tree branch swept across my knit hat. It stayed on the branch, dangling like mutant Christmas ornament.
	Think Moose, think!
	Elaine would put me on eternal poop patrol if she saw me riding like this, without a helmet. “Hey!” I shouted ineffectually. 
	The Centaur didn ’t reply. 
	 “Where are you going!” 
	Silence. Hoofthunder. The shklunk of an unshod hoof hitting a rock. The switch of a branch sliding off my back.
	The trail spat itself out into a farmer’s field, we were galloping along the side of the field that lay in treeshadow during the day. Deep snow here, I could feel it through the Centaur’s plunging stride. Deep, heavy going.
	I glanced back, no feral toothy shapes creeping through the trees on our trail.  “I...don’t....see anything!” I gasped out between strides.
	No answer, just the determined plunging, his sides heaving with the effort.
	I have a book on movie stunts. Frame by frame pictures of how stunt riders do falls. Into deep, soft, carefully prepared ground. I practiced one day at Stonewall, leaping off a trotting school horse, till Elaine saw me and grounded me for a week. I never got to try to make the horse fall. But I remembered the pictures.
	We ran out from under the trees into clear space, deep snow. 
	Deep, soft snow, a lot of it.
	He slowed, lunging forward in a collected canter. I felt the rhythm of his stride, when his hind legs bunched under him, when his forelegs reached; one two three...one two three... 
	I grabbed his hair and threw my whole immense weight into it. He let out a startled  “Aghck!” and went down in a catastrophe of flying snow and legs. I leapt free with all the grace of a bounding moose, rolling and thrashing my way in the hip deep snow, back to my feet, breathing hard.
	The pepper spray was still in my sleeve. I freed a hand and hauled it out, aiming at him as he floundered to his feet. He stood, one hind leg cocked, one hand on the hilt of his sword, his face as expressionless as a horse ’s. 
	His ears were flat against his skull, his body language shouted anger. 
	I held up the pepper spray like a cowboy gun, thinking all the while that his sword was longer than the reach of that spray. But I could fire faster. I hoped. I tried to gasp out some words between gulping freezing air into my lungs. Something strong, heroic, like, 'We don't move until you tell me what's going on here!'
	He spoke first.
	 “Fool!” It came out like an angry snort. Then, softer, “You’ve doomed us all!” His head turned and his ears moved, radaring in on a distant sound.
	Not distant enough. I saw the shadows coming through the trees, pouring out of the woods bordering the farm field. Something in my gut twisted. The Centaur shot me a glance, and it looked like Silver, the school pony, when a student smacked him on the rump for refusing a jump. He spun, putting the broadside of his body between me and the running shadows. I noticed his near hind leg was still cocked, as if he didn’t want to put weight on it. He drew the sword in a long shiinnnnk of silver sound. 
	“They’re just dogs! Feral dogs!” Even as I said it, I didn't believe it. “Why are they after you?”
	 “They are not dogs.”  
	I knew in my gut he was right. I floundered up beside his shoulder and he moved, keeping his body between me and...them.
	I held up the spray, a horse with its eyes on the side of its head and three hundred and forty degree vision would have seen it. His Human eyes, set on the front of his head, were turned away, toward the advancing shadows. “This isn’t empty yet!” I told him.
	He half turned his head to see, then bowed, dropping his withers a few hands lower. I didn ’t wait for more of an invitation. I scrambled up, hauling on leather straps and fittings meant for the sword and other gear, not a rider. I locked a hand into a strap crossing his torso and aimed the spray. 
	They hit us like a tidal wave of teeth. Teeth and snarls and predatory eyelight. Their shapes stood out stark against the clean snow; knife slashes of dark on a white page. The huge sword wheeled by my left knee, then my right. I aimed at lightning flashes of eyelight, at white glitters of teeth, too close. The Centaur ’s hindquarters rose in a buck as he lashed out with hind feet. “Hang on!” And he was rearing, coming down on a big shape leaping for him, crushing it into the snow.
	He hacked a clear space into the milling mass of dark shapes before him; his hindquarters coiled and threw us forward into a gallop. Not the polite hand gallop I ’d learned in the riding arena; long, quick, desperate strides. 
	No saddle, no helmet. Elaine would be mortified. Mom would just faint.
	I bent low, hiding my face in his mane, hoping my legs wouldn ’t give out. After all the other stupid I’d perpetrated tonight, that would be the grand champion Stupid Prize, just falling off in the snow.
	He sheathed his sword on the run, and one strong hand fell on my leg, flattening it against his side. Holding it in place. 
	I yelled in his ear,  “There’s a trail here, snowmobilers made it, the other side of the woods has shallower snow. And the tracks will be easier going!” I pulled on the strap my right hand was locked into, like it was a rein, tightened my left leg, without really thinking he might not read that signal like a horse. “Right, to the right!” His head turned, haunches shifted. The pattern of the trees changed, I saw the snowmobile tracks.
	 “Where?”
	 “There, see the tracks?”
	 “What...” he said between leaping strides, “...is...a snow...mow...bee?”
	 “There! The flat marks in the snow!”
	 His haunches bunched under him, he slid, skewed around and plunged into the woods, dodging down the twisty trail like a champion pole-bending horse. The snowmobiles had packed the trail; the footing was solid, sure.
	Sure for our enemy too, I guessed. And they were smaller, quicker, than my long-legged Centaur. 
	And they had much less trouble dodging trees.
	Whap! Branches scraped my bare head, smacked across my back. His torso was bent low, stretched out like a running horse’s neck, I bent over it, the way a rider leans over a galloping horse’s neck. My hands were frozen in the harness across his shoulders, one leg locked in his sure grip.
	I wished Centaurs came with saddle and stirrups; my butt was bouncing like a basketball. Some part of his harness was boring its way into my thigh. My knee had found a stray buckle and was at war with it. The oddly shaped case slung on his right horse shoulder was banging against my other knee. What looked like half a bow protruded from it. The rest was empty space that I guessed might have held a lot of arrows. Arrows used...where? On what? I tried to glance back. “Where...” I gasped between bounces, “are...you...going?”
	He was silent, saving his breath for running. The trail twisted up out of the woods, ran along the edge of a field. To the right loomed fence and groomed shrubbery and house lights. He snorted something that sounded like annoyance and veered away across the field. It sloped down, then up to a treeline. I could see car headlights on the road beyond. 
	Behind us the dark shapes spread out across the field.
	The Centaur turned straight down the hill, wobbled, staggered, slowed to a lurching walk.
	He acted like Rugby, the first time his owner had taken him on a trailride. Rugby, who ’d never been out of a flat showring before. Never gone up or down a hill before.
	Smart trail horses go down hills at an angle, zigzagging back and forth. When they go up hill, they tend to go straight up, at a plunging gallop.  “Do a switchback!” I shouted into his ear, “Go across the hill at an angle.”
	He half turned, his ears cocked in surprise, but he didn ’t say anything, just angled across the slope, picking up speed again. He reached the bottom, and plunged straight up the other side, just like any horse.
	I looked back. Closer. They were closer. And there were a lot of them, a dozen maybe. We must have trashed a hundred of them. I glanced again at the empty space beside the bow; a lot of arrows. “How...many...ARE there?”
	No answer, just the muffled thunder of heavy hooves and hard breaths. A duck under more tree branches. An inexpert scramble up a bank.
	Lights in the distance.
	 “Hey...” I began to say.
	Moving lights. 
	 “That’s a road!”
	Moving lights, closer.
	 “Good,” he gasped softly.
	Much closer.
	 “No! Wait!”
	He leaped, and I saw a guardrail go by under his legs. He skidded as he hit the pavement, hooves scrambling for purchase. I felt the coil of his hindquarters, like a horse crouching for a six foot jump.
	He threw himself forward.
	The night was blasted apart by light and sound. The scream of brakes and a long metallic screech as something scraped the guardrail we ’d just cleared. The Centaur leaped again and I saw a red hood slide by below us. 
	Thuds, yelps, a howl cut off in mid-yodel. More screeching. 
	Darkness. I came up out of his mane gasping, behind us came the bang of car doors, shouts, a blaze of light on the road. 
	The Centaur plunged down into the woods, with less staggering this time. I saw no sign of our pursuers.
	He slowed at the bottom, trotted to a halt, stood, ears cocked back toward the road, listening, his horse sides heaving.   “What...were those?” 
	I reached in the dark and found my voice. It came out about two octaves higher than it should have.  “That’s what I asked you. You said they weren’t dogs.”
	 “Not them... the...creatures... with eyes that shine... like suns.”
	 “What! Cars?”
	 “So...fast,” he panted.
	 “You mean cars! You’ve never seen cars! I thought you did that on purpose! To throw off those...whatever-they-ares.”
	 “Cars?” 
	 “You coulda’ got us killed!” I nearly shrieked.
	His ears flinched. “I am breathing, and you have plenty of breath, so we are not killed. And your... cars... have destroyed our pursuers.” He turned, one way then the other. Looked up at the sky, misting over now with cloud cover. “You did not explain cars. Should we be concerned about more of them?” 
	“Yeah, like if you try to cross another highway you’ll probably end up as giant road pizza!”
	 “What is pizza?”
	 “Oh nevermind.”
	He was still gazing skyward, as if trying to find something.
	I searched and found a voice that wasn ’t a screech. “They’re like wagons, or carriages.” I told him,  “We ride around in them.”
	 “I saw no horses.”
	 “We replaced them with dead dinosaurs.”
	He didn ’t bother asking for an explanation of fossil fuels. He stood, trying to read a murky sky. I followed his gaze skyward. “What are you looking for?”
	 “The stars... are gone. Only a little mist, but...so much...light!”
	Lights from three different towns on the horizon, and from Ski Roundtop. Electric lights eating up the stars. Maybe Centaurs came from a place with no electric lights. Apparently they didn ’t have GPS, or compasses or maps either. “You’re lost.”
	He didn ’t answer.
	 “Typical male. You never stop and ask for directions. Where are you going anyway? Where’d you come from? What are those things that were chasing you? What’s a Centaur doing in Pennsylvania, anyway?”
	His head turned swiftly, I could see the glint of his dark eye,  “You know the name of my people?”
	 “Yyyyyeeeeaah.” I said slowly. “Mostly we find you in books, art museums, astrology web pages, fantasy movies. Not running around in the woods in the middle of the night.”
	 “Movies?” He began walking, a long swinging stride. A stride with a hitch in it, I frowned, watching the movement of his horse shoulders and counted the hoofbeats. He was limping on his left hind foot.
	 “For a guy who speaks perfect English you don’t know much about...us.” I said. It was kind of weird English though, an accent I couldn’t place, like it was from some other time. “You’re limping.” I added.
	He marched on, limping, definitely limping.
	I slid off. Fell face first in the snow. The muffled one-two-three-four of hoofbeats in snow stopped, then came back to me. I felt a hand pull me to my feet. My thighs ached, my legs felt like melting rubber, one woolly sock had slipped down into a lump in my boot.  “Let me look.” I told him, staggering toward his hindquarters.
	He looked down our trail toward the road. I could see the faint glint of distant lights, heard the wail of faraway sirens.
	“Oh maaaaan, they’re gonna have some weird things to tell the cops.” I pictured the tabloid covers: Centaur Leaps Toyota, Leaves Behind Mangled Mutts; Were-creatures in disguise. Maybe they didn’t see anything, maybe it had all been lights and flashing hooves and they thought they just saw a runaway horse. Yeah, that’s it, a runaway horse. Definitely. I went to his left rear leg and automatically reached out to run a hand down it, so the horse wouldn’t be startled. Like I would with a school horse at the stable.
	Not a school horse, not anything like a school horse. My hand froze an inch from his flank. I knelt, and wished I hadn’t won the Stupid Award by leaving my flashlight in my locker. The snow gleamed pale, the cloudy sky threw some light. Enough to see the blood trickling into the clean snow.
	His cannon, from hock to fetlock was tooth-slashed.
	 “You were running on that?” I breathed.
	He made some vague grunty male noise. 
	I pulled off the light pack I ’d stuffed my school clothes into. There was my favorite Animé character on the t-shirt I’d worn today, and changed for my barn shirt. It was white, clean, and would make a great bandage. I looked up at the Centaur, “You got a knife? I mean, something shorter than that.” I indicated the sword.
	His hand moved and I heard the light shink of unsheathing metal. He leaned back toward me, like a horse scratching his nose with his hind foot. He held out a dagger, hilt first. 
	I took it and stuck it through the shirt, ripping it into long strips. I ’d wrapped horse legs at Stonewall; as bandages, as supportive wraps for dressage and jumping exercises. 
	 “I can...” he started to say.
	I ignored him and began wrapping, feeling miserable. Stupid. It was my fault, all this. If I hadn ’t tried to stop him...
	 “Peace.” He said softly, “They had already attacked me before you found me. Perhaps I would not have come this far without you. I would not have expected more of my own friends.”
	I looked up, his face was mostly in shadow, and I couldn’t read his features, tell if he was handsome or ugly, young or old, Human or other. How’d you know what I was thinking? You a mind reader, or what?
	If he was, he didn’t answer. Maybe he was like a horse. The books I read said they could read the most subtle body language better than a Human could, that they knew what you were thinking by how you smelled, or that they could feel your heartbeat through your touch or know about you by your breathing. Some of those authors claimed it went way beyond what science could explain; that they could read your mind and your heart too.
	If mere horses could do all that, what could a Centaur do? 
	I tied up the last bit of the bandage.  “That’ll do for now, until we get you to...” To what? A vet? The ER? What was I gonna do with a wounded Centaur? “Where are you going?” Maybe that would help. Maybe he knew somebody here. Somebody who could help him.
	 “You would not know it. And I have lost my way. When the stars return, I may find guidance there.”
	 “Try me.” I said stubbornly.
	He let out a sigh and gave me one of those long patient looks school horses give newbies.  “Hawk Circle.” he said at last.

~2~
over the river

	“Hawk Circle?” If he’d said second to the left and straight on till morning, or through the wardrobe, or to the Shire, it would have made some kind of sense... “Hawk Circle?” I repeated incredulously.
	He made his way down the slope, glaring down at the rough ground. I slipped and stumbled ahead. The trees and snow ended at a creek. Here, some of the brush was dense and tangley. The house lights we could see were pretty far away.  “We must find a safe place until the stars are revealed again. The ones destroyed by the cars may not be the last. And they have your scent now as well as mine, so you must stay with me. Though you have good weapons...”
	I shook my pepper spray. It was empty.
	 “Your folk may have other ways to deal with them, but we are not truly safe till we get to Hawk Circle.” 
	 “Ah...Hawk Circle is just over those hills.” I pointed across the creek.
	 “What? How do you know of it?”
	 “We went there on a field trip in October.”
	 “Field...trip? You go to see their fields?”
	“No, no no...in school. We go out of the classroom and sort of into the field. It’s an expression, not real fields, exactly. We go see cool stuff like rescued wolves and beavers and binturongs and wallabies. The year before, one of the wildlife rehabbers from Hawk Circle brought in some birds of prey. It’s an environmental research and educational center, run by, uh,” I frowned, trying to remember, “yeah, the Earth Life Foundation.”  I was pretty sure their environmental research didn’t include the effects of Centaur browsing on the understory of hardwood forests. “If we’re talking the same Hawk Circle, that is. But I don’t know of any other.”
	“There is a circle of water, like this. A stream that splits and flows to west and east, then around in a circle to meet itself in the south again.” His hands made a circle in the air. 
That was a fairly unique geological formation. The only other one I knew of was a huge impact crater in the wilds of Canada.
“There are four barns,” he added, “one at each compass point, white, black, red and yellow. I seek the white one.”
	 “Yeaaaahh.” I said, disbelieving. “The red barn is the stable. I remember that from our tour. I don’t know about the white one, but the black one is the endangered species facility. There’s a yellow one at the raptor center, and the library’s that color too.”
	 “Can you find it?” He said.
	Now, in the dark? From the middle of the woods? I remembered it was north of the park, we’d passed park signs on the way. We’d crossed a big creek too. I pointed vaguely north. “It’s that way.” What exact way I wasn’t sure. A mile or two east or west and we’d miss it. 
	His face was unreadable in the dark, but he was probably thinking how stupid this Human chick was. “Think,” he said softly, “How far did the sun march across the sky while you walked?”
	 “It didn’t. We drove.”
	 “Drove. Those...”
	 “Cars, yeah.”
	 “Much faster than a carriage pulled by horses.” He looked like he was thinking hard, trying to translate from one language, and one mode of transport, to another. “ Ah. How many... hills? Were there streams?”
	“One, we crossed one.” I shut my eyes, trying to remember the name of the road. It was gone. Stupid stupid stupid! I stuffed chilled hands in my jacket pocket and encountered my cell phone. “Whoa...” I pulled it out and beeped out a keypad tune incongruously cheerful in the dark and cold. In a minute, I had a phone number from directory assistance. 
	Great, it’s the middle of the night, nobody’ll be there. It occured to me that maybe I should leave a message with Mom too, though she wouldn’t be back from Aunt Helen’s yet. Beep beep boop boop blit! “Hey Mom, it’s me, we had an emergency at the stable, I’m helping, I’ll be home whenever...bye!” 
	Well, it was mostly true.
	 “What magic is this?” The Centaur said, amazement in his voice.
	 “Telecommunications.” I booped out another number, the one for Hawk Circle. Maybe the answering machine would have directions or something.
	 “Teleportation. Telepathy. These I know of...”
	Brrinnnnng brrrinnng. “Hello?” The male voice on the other end was not a recording, and it sounded way too awake for the middle of the night.
	“Hello?” I said in shock.
	 “Hello?” the voice repeated.
	 “Hello...”
	 “I think we’ve covered that.” the male voice said.
	 “Uh, is this Hawk Circle?” 
	 “Yeah, the late night art department and emergency line. You have injured or orphaned wildlife?”
	I looked at the Centaur,  “Sort of.”
	 “Sort of?”
	 “How do I find you?” I demanded.
	 “What kind of animal?”
	 “Big.” I said.
	 “What?”
	“Where are you?” I said, louder than necessary.
	“Where are you?” 
	“I think we were on route 74. Before...uh...before we turned off.”
	The voice on the other end began patiently giving directions. I repeated them out loud so the Centaur could hear them too...whatever good it would do for somebody who didn ’t know the roads. Didn’t even know what macadam roads full of cars were, or how to read street signs.
	 “Got that?” the Hawk Circle voice said.
	 “Uh huh. I think so.”
	 “You got my number saved?”
	 “Yeah.”
	 “Can you transport...it...ok?”
	 “Yeah.” I glanced at the Centaur.
	 “What...”
	Click beep. I pocketed the phone and looked up at the Centaur. “We can’t follow the roads.” I began. “If they saw you...it would just be too weird.”
	“I was told this. I do not wish to be seen. We will parallel the roads.” He bowed again, lowering his near shoulder, “Let us go then.”
	 “Uh,” I waved at his leg, “maybe I should walk.”
	 “You are too slow,” he said bluntly. “Get on.”
	I slid on, gingerly, leaning forward in an attempt to keep as much of my bearlike mass off of his rear end. 
	He climbed back up the hill, zigzagging in a switchback pattern now, the crunch of his hooves in the snow the only sound.  “What is your name my lady?” he said softly.
	“Valerie. Just Val, really. Unless you’re mad at me, then it’s Moose.”   
	“Ah. And what is a moose?”
	 “A sort of really big deer. As big as you.”
	 “A good name then.”
	 “Not the way the girls at the stable say it. What’s yours?”
	It rolled out like a soft nicker, like waves on a beach, like the easy rhythm of a canter. But like a newbie watching a horse canter, and not getting which legs were doing what when, the syllables of the name ran together in a muddle.  “What?” I was never gonna get all that off my tongue.
	 “Kai,” he said. “that is the short version.”
	 “Oh. Good. I’ll never be able to say the other one.”
	He made a sound, half chuckle and half quiet nicker.  “There is a longer name.”
	 “You’re kidding.”
	 “One which recounts my ancestry; we use those names in ceremonies. It is too long to say here.”
	 “Must make signing checks kind of hard.”
	 “Checks?”
	 “You’re really not from around here, are you?”
	He snorted. 
	 “Where are you from? And why would you go to Hawk Circle? I mean, there’s all kinds of weird critters there, but definitely no Centaurs.”
	 “Weird?” I felt a shift in his body language, like a horse who’d just had a whopping big horsefly land on his butt. His ears flicked in annoyance.
	 “I, uh, mean. Good weird. Cool weird. Like ah...” oh good Moose, insert foot in mouth all the way up to thigh.
	He laughed, but not the way Tiffanie does.
	 “What were those things you said weren’t dogs?”
	He crunched on through the snow in silence, ignoring my questions for the eighty-seventh time. ”
	 “You don’t talk much, do you”
	 “The less you know, the less danger you will be in.”
	 “Elaine says, the more you know, the better.”
	 “Who is Elaine?”
	 “The lady that runs Stonewall Stable, I work there, for riding lessons.”
	He nodded. I hoped he ’d say something about my riding. He didn’t.
	Maybe it was that bad.

	
	Kai stayed silent, his head up and ears twitching occasionally radaring in on some sound I couldn ’t hear, like a horse. His Human shoulders moved in front of me, not swinging like a man walking, more like the torso of a good rider, barely bobbing with the motion of his horse shoulders and the swing of his front legs. I sat like a lump behind his withers, legs swinging with his stride, trying to melt into the motion of his hindquarters, like Elaine said.
	His limp was getting more pronounced. We came out of the woods, followed the edge of a field. And the edge of a road, thirty feet away. A back road, no traffic this late. At least, not yet.
	 “There are people, like you, in the cars?” He asked.
	 “Yeah. And they’ll see you here.” I frowned at the road, and at a set of headlights in the distance. I thought of the moment I rounded the bend in the trail and saw him for the first time. “If you turn your butt toward the road when they pass, they’ll just see a horse and rider.”
	 “Ah. Butt? What is...”
	 “Your tail.” I said quickly. 
	The lights vanished behind a hill in the road, then came over the top. I felt his body tense, like a horse thinking about spooking.  “They do not come off the road?” He said with concern.
	 “They can’t. They’d be stuck in the snow and mud.”
	The headlights came on, vanished in some trees, glared again like suns as they came over a low rise. He spun abruptly, tail to the road, his whole body tensed for takeoff. I clung to the gear straps over his shoulders, like a newbie hauling on reins.
	The car passed in a whoosh of cold air and light. Kai let out a breath and turned parallel to the road again.
	Three cars, two hills, one stream.
	Kai halted at the edge of a treeline. Ahead of us a small bridge leaped the creek. On either side a steep bank plunged down into the water, frozen hard enough for deer and possums to cross. His head turned downhill, toward the frozen water.
	 “I don’t think the ice will hold you.”	
	His eyes scanned the surrounding landscape. “The land doesn’t seem too steep.” He paused as if unsure about that. “I can break through the ice, wade it.”
	“It’s rocky;” I said, “there’s spaces between the rocks that can trap your feet. Some places are mucky with silt and mud. The creeks around here are mostly shallow, but there’s deep holes too.” And right now, it’s all really really cold. “Not good for your leg.” Really not good for mine. “Go across the bridge.” 
	A guardrail trailed along the edge of the road beyond, the trees sloped down sharply from the road edge to the stream.
	 “It will be hard to get off the road for some way.” His ears turned toward the far side of the bridge, then down the slope toward the creek. He stood very still, as if listening.
	 “The bridge...” I started to say.
	 “Quiet.” 
	Far away came the glare of headlights, the sound of engines. An eternity later two cars went by, then a truck going the other way. Neither slowed to take a closer look at the horse at the edge of the wood.
	The world fell silent again. Kai listened. At last he stepped forward, toward the bridge. We tap tap tapped over it, his hooves making the light plep plep plep of unshod feet. 
	“No shoes.” I observed, trying to fill the heavy silence.
	 “They are unnecessary.”
	 “You guys know about horseshoes though?”
	 “Of course. We have many skilled smiths,” one hand fell on the hilt of his sword, “Who do you think instructed your folk in the beginning?”
	 “Oh.” 
	Kai broke into a trot, hurrying up the hill, ears twitching forward and back again. On the horizon, headlights shone. 
	 “Headlights, but a long way off.” I told him.
	He nodded, picked up the pace. I leaned forward, balancing on my hands and thighs since I didn ’t have stirrups to stand in.
	The land along the road leveled out. We eased off the shoulder into the edge of a field. That became someone ’s yard and trimmed shrubbery, which became another field and a yard and the edge of a cow pasture, then a line of new houses all tall and lookalike with impressive stretches of shorn grass, snow covered now, between them and the road. I glanced back at the line of hoofprints we’d left and realized people would look at them, and like the passing cars, they would see what they expected; just a horse. 
 	Ahead, a road turned off right, into the trees. I could see the glimmer of a green road sign on its grey metal pole. “Kai,” I hauled on one of his shoulder straps without thinking. he turned his head, and cocked one ear back at me, it looked annoyed. “Street sign. Go closer, I want to read it.” Something about the road looked familiar. I stared straight out at the tall sign, level with my eyes. “. Whoa! This is it! We turned down this road to get to Hawk Circle.” I reached in my pocket and found my cell phone. I hit the button for last number called and got...
	“Hey, you get lost?”
	 “No. Not exactly. We’re on Blackberry Road.”
	 “Follow it, you’ll see the sign. Has a redtail hawk inside a suncircle, says E-L-F, Earth Life Foundation, as well as Hawk Circle on it.” 
	 “Yeah, got it; hawk, sun, Elf.”
	Silence, then a bemused voice,  “Are you on a horse?” 
	I could hear the one-two-three-four crunch of Kai ’s hooves in the gravelly snow along the road along with the rustle, squeak and jingle of his gear that sounded a lot like saddle squeak. “Uh, yeah.” 
	 “Give me that.” Kai said.
	 “You sure?”
	His hand moved and the phone was engulfed in it. He stared at it like it might fry him, then held it about a foot from his ear.
	 “Hold it closer.” I suggested.
	 “Hey...what?” came the faint Hawk Circle voice.
	 “The Grandmothers.” Kai said. “Where do I find the Grandmothers?” He fell silent, listening, then nodded and handed the phone back to me.
	Like a thousand other times, my frozen fingers accidently hit the camera button. The display winked on, showing the back of Kai's head and shoulders. I held it out, away from us.
	Click.
	Nobody'd ever believe it anyway, they'd just think it was clever Photoshop.
	I stuffed the phone into my pocket.  “What Grandmothers?” I said.

	It felt like an ordinary trail ride at Stonewall. Except it was the middle of the night, I had no saddle, no reins, no helmet, and instead of a horse ’s graceful neck in front of me there was the broad back of a guy who should have been in a King Arthur movie. I was tired, hungry, thirsty, every bone, every muscle, every tendon in my body ached, I had a ripping saddle sore where a buckle on Kai’s gear had bored into my knee, and my ears, because my hat was hanging on a tree ten miles away, were freezing.
	He eased back into a trot, the UP down UP down of his limp was throwing me side to side like I was riding a camel, ow ow ow ow oowwww. “i ...COULD... walk...YOU...know.” 
	No answer. Down the road and there was the sign; hawk and all. Then a left turn, the sound of water not entirely frozen, a bridge. Then we were on a long gravel road with deep woods in either side. Deep dark woods, primeval. The kind that should have lions and tigers and bears lurking in them.
	Or dragons.
	Up on the top of the wooded hill came a burst of light, like sudden flame, then it was gone. From way too close came the howls.
	 “Awwwwwoooooooooo!” The first voice was joined by others until the woods was filled with voices in ten part harmony.
	 “Oh crap!” I breathed. “They’re back.”
	Kai stopped dead in the middle of the road, his ears reading the sound.  “Wolves.” He half turned, looking at me with one eye, “Did you not say there were wolves here?”
	 “Oh, yeah. Duh.” Wolves, just wolves, not the werethings on our trail.
	Not nearly far enough away, something roared, not a little roar, like a lion on a nature special. Bigger, like dinosaurs, or dragons in the dark. I thought I saw another flash of light on the hill.
	 “You can let go of that now.” Kai suggested, sounding a bit strangled. 
	 “Oh.” I eased my grip on the leather and cloth that circled his neck.
	A gleam of light shone through the woods, a single pole light at a house. We rode by and it faded into the trees. A road branched off, a bridge curved over a tiny stream, tall trees on each side of the bank interweaving their branches. I recognized the library, the visitor ’s center.
	What were they going to do when a Centaur rode up to their door?  “Are you sure this is where you want to be?” I whispered.
	 “Can you not feel it?”
	 “Feel what?”
	 “When we crossed the border of this place. It is protected.”
	 “By what?”
	Whoosh whoosh whoosh... 
	“Gaaah!” The sound had come from directly overhead, and behind me. I ducked, Kai lurched from my shifting weight, I reeled the other way and grabbed for straps or cloth or hair or anything and missed. Kai wobbled, grumbled something and caught me before I could slide any farther.
	 “Did I not say this place was protected?” He rumbled.
	 “Yeah, sure, sorry.”
	A broad winged shape circled out of the silver air and landed in front of us. A bird, cocking his head curiously up at Kai. It was big, a crow, no... bigger, with a beak like a swordblade, the edges of head and beak roughly feathered...raven? Yeah, a raven! A bird that should be hiding in the evergreens, fast asleep at night. Moonlight shimmered off it like it was made out of dark silver.
	The raven bobbed once, as if he was bowing, then very clearly said, “This way, follow me.”
	I stared at it, mouth agape. It flapped up, whoosh whoosh whoosh... and sailed down the road ahead of us, Kai lurching into a trot behind.
	The raven veered left, up a dirt drive bordered by more woods. Through the trees a lone light gleamed, like a lighthouse in a dark sea. We came out of the woods into an ordinary driveway sweeping in a long curve past an ordinary white farmhouse and an ordinary white barn. The bird wheeled, and vanished behind the barn.
	Kai stopped before the door, confounded by a set of steps leading up.
	I slid off,  “Maybe I should knock...”  The door was a cheerful blue under the porch light, electric candles glowed in the windows on either side, a wreath with dried flowers and berries and fresh greens hung on the door. Bushes and ivy grew wild on either side of the broad wooden floored porch, wandering out to the drive in place of a grass lawn. I stood on the welcome mat, one hand poised to knock. I glanced back at Kai, half expecting him to have evaporated into dreamsmoke.
	The light glinted off bronze ornaments on leather straps, gleamed faintly in chestplate and vambraces of some battered silver metal, was lost in the dense weave of chainmail. Burgundy cloth and dark leather covered his torso under the armour. He wasn ’t the immense apparition he’d seemed on our flight through the dark. From the Dark. He was more like fifteen hands than eighteen, a normal horse size. He stood on three legs, the injured one cocked, torso sagging, his face tired and grim. I stared at it for a moment, clear now in the light. A good-looking dark eyed Human face, but with some of the strong lines of a horse face too, and those crazy almost horse ears. 
	And way younger than I expected. In fact, he looked barely older than me.
	Behind me the door clicked open.

~3~
hawk circle

	A grandmother aged woman stood there on the porch, its wooden flooring creaking slightly under her feet. She was a head shorter than me, short frizzly silver hair sticking out like possum fur, bright dark eyes peering up at me. She wore muck boots and grey jeans and a big silvery down jacket with lots of pockets. “Well, hello dear,” she said as if she had been expecting me. Each pink hand held a huge steaming mug, she thrust one at me. 
	The heavenly smell of hot chocolate curled up into my nose. 
	The grandmother ’s eyes went out past me to Kai. Her expression changed to the look grandmothers get when a grandchild has fallen off the swing and is screaming. She glanced back into the house and called, “Aura, Cora! They’re here!” She trundled down the steps and took my arm. “Come dear, he won’t fit very well in the kitchen, not like Misty in Marguerite Henry’s book. We’ll have to go to the barn.”
	She stopped before Kai, held out the mug, beaming sweetly.
	He took it gently, and bowed from the waist,  “Grandmother.”
	“Come dear.” She patted his horse shoulder and trotted toward the barn, her knee high pink and black plaid wellies going squich squich squich through the snow. I stared after her, wondering about a woman who didn’t bat an eye at a Centaur on her porch. I felt a gentle shove on my back, Kai pushing me toward the square of warm light that was the barn door.
	The barn was warmer than outside, they always are. The body heat from a few horses can make it pretty toasty. I glugged down the chocolate, staring down the line of stalls, all low wooden walls, with carved corner posts, like some kind of ancient Viking hall. No bars on any of the stalls. Carefully swept dirt floor. Curious heads poked out; a wooly looking cow, one of those Scottish Highland types, I thought. A donkey. Something that looked like an escapee from a Dr. Seuss book; I finally recognized it as an alpaca. There were a couple of horses, one bay with a spraggly black mane that half stood up and really odd broad ears… and some empty spaces that held either very short critters or none at all. There were a couple of dogloos in an open stall on the end; from the pile of sleeping bags and blankets in one emerged a wiggling nose, then a small black and white potbellied pig. Oh, it's a pigloo. I grinned as she cicrled our feet, making inquisitive grunts and snorts. Chickens  in an array of colors and patterns roosted in the rafters, muttering to themselves as the lights woke them up. A couple of barn cats appeared from their night hunts to investigate us.
	 “I’m Delphi,” the little woman said.
	 “Val.” I managed to say.
	 “Kai...” and more of a very long name rolled off his tongue, longer than the one he’d first told me. 
	Delphi lead the way to the first stall, piled deep with clean straw,  “Here, dear, we don’t have time for the whole thing, I’ll just call you Kai, if that’s ok.”
	He bowed again, as if to a queen,  “Yes Grandmother.”
	Grandmother Delphi turned to me,  “Help get his gear off.”
	And I was tugging at buckles and straps stiff from the cold. I couldn ’t help notice that it was beautiful stuff, under the trail dirt; the leather was carved in wonderful patterns, looping like twining vines, like coiling snakes, like leaping waves, like wind-whipped horsehair. Some of it was painted, some had insets of harder stuff, like glass or tile or shell or jewels. There were runes running along some of it, in a language and alphabet I had never seen (of course). Some was newer, some looked like the old, well-oiled gear I'd sometimes seen at Stonewall. That stuff had different patterns on it, and marks where the buckles had been adjusted for a horse, or Centaur, of a different size. The chainmail had been repaired; I could see rings woven into it that were made of newer and brighter metal. The chestplate and vambraces (arm guards) looked like they had been unearthed from an archaeological dig. A dig involving a somewhat larger Centaur. I pulled it all off and draped it carefully over a stall door. I hung the bow and its case up with extra care. Then I noticed the sheathed sword, and a matching sheath on the other side, empty.
	I glanced at Kai, wondering what the story was behind the missing sword. His eyes met mine for a moment, but he said nothing. I hung that gear up with the rest.
	 “What about his leg?” I pointed at the bandaged left rear, blood soaking through the torn t-shirt. “Can you fix it?”
	Delphi bent and squinted as if she ’d forgot her glasses, “Oh no dear, I’m not a healer.”
	 “You’ve got a vet or something, right?” I said desperately.
	 “They’re here?” The breathless voice came from the door, a familiar male voice, the one from the phone.
	I turned to see a guy, flanked by a couple of big wolflike dogs, Malamutes, twice the size of the Siberians I ’d met on the trail. The guy was lugging a big plastic bin into the barn. He was kind of young, and had a sweet face, clear green eyes, hair like a sun-streaked liver chestnut mane poking out from under a knit hat. Whatever else he was, was hidden under a parka and ski pants. He paused for a moment, staring in wonder at Kai, then heaved the big bin the rest of the way up to the first stall, opened it, and began unpacking what looked like medical supplies. The dogs trotted into the barn and stopped a few yards away, grinning welcoming grins at Kai. Kai gave them a gentle smile. 
	Behind Wolf Guy came another guy with a couple of gear bags; he wasn ’t really young, but not old either, taller, leaner. He glanced at Kai, nodded a greeting as if a Centaur in the barn wasn’t odd at all. His eyes turned to me and he grinned, “Sorry about nearly dumping you back there.”
	 “Huh?”
	 “On the road. Usually it’s the horse that spooks, not the rider.” He flashed me a pirate grin, and turned to drop his bags by the stall door. 
	He had a dark silver raven painted on the back of his bomber jacket. 
	I stared at him; a lean, chiseled face, deep blue eyes, hair I thought was grey, or dark silver. Then he leaned over by me, pulling something out of a bag, and I saw his hair was grey like a grulla horse, like the bird on his jacket; each hair the color of storm seas, not the salt and pepper mix of normal grey. And he had a nose like a raven’s swordblade beak. 
	He stood up and I met his eyes. It was like looking into the sky over the twelve thousand foot Rockies, where you could almost see the stars at noon. For a moment I had the dizzying feeling I was looking down over the edge of those mountains. “I’m Bran. Bran Hrafnsen.” It sounded almost like 'Robinson'. He nodded toward the other young man. “That’s Ian. Ian Greenleaf.” He turned to hand something to Ian, then turned back to me, gesturing at the Malamutes, “Keet and Skana.”
	I stared at the dark silver raven on Bran ’s jacket. “...raven...?” I said in a very small voice.
	 “Brilliant deduction, Sherlock,”  he said amiably. “'Hrafn' is Norse for 'Raven', 'Bran' is Celtic for 'raven'.” his mouth quirked up in another pirate grin.
	I stared after him as he walked to Kai. Why do I get the feeling that your real name would be harder to pronounce than Kai's?
	Grandmother Delphi took the gear I had removed from Kai, and vanished with it into what might have been a tackroom. A minute later she returned with a pile of fresh towels and a box of equine grooming tools. Silently she handed them to me.
	In the light, I could see he was a mess. Sweat and wet and mud and blood; scrapes and scratches from brush and rock, slashes from reaching teeth and claws. 
	 “Holy crap.” I said quietly. In the barn light his horse coat was nearly black, the kind of black that sunburns to toast in the summer. The kind Tiffanie would lock in a stall away from the sun, so he’d be pretty for the showring. And it was a short, shiny coat, as if where he had come from, it had been spring or summer. There were rubbed spots behind his withers, under where the saddle would be on a normal horse; bare, raw spots. Spots where I’d been sitting on top of gear not designed for a rider. From the grooming kit I picked out a plastic handled blade; one side is a smooth sweat scraper and the other has short teeth for removing mud and loose winter hair. I grabbed a soft rubber knobby toothed groomer too. I reached a hand toward Kai's horse shoulder and stopped in mid air.
	Kai's armour and clothing was in a pile by the stall door.  I was staring at a grungy, well-muscled, and totally naked male back. Sure Moose, it's just like a horse. 
	No it wasn't.
	
	“Here,” a gentle voice behind me said, “use this on the wounds.” And a wet towel was thrust into my hand. I turned to see Ian. “Clean with this, then put this stuff on.” He thrust a small jar at me. I turned the jar over; it was nothing vets carried around in their kits. This looked like something that might have come out of a grandmother's kitchen; all gooey and full of lumpy looking herbs. I pictured Delphi cooking some up in a big copper pot. It smelled good; like a summer garden. I bent over the dark horsehide and began scraping off the mud.
	 “What’s your name?” Ian said. He crouched by Kai’s near rear leg, undoing the wrap I’d made. 
	 “Moo...” I began. Kai shifted, bumping me lightly. “Val.” I coughed.
	 “Moo-val?” Ian said, smiling.
	I made a face.  “Val. Just Val.”
	 “Valkyrie? Valiant? Valentine? Valedictorian?” Bran said.
	I almost laughed.  “Hardly. Just Valerie. Valerie Swartz rhymes with warts.” I forget who had made that up, probably in first grade, but now it fell off my tongue (and everyone else's) everytime I said my name.
	 “Courts, forts, horse, ports, quarts, quartz with a 'z', retorts, sorts...surely you could find something more picturesque and suitable than warts.” Bran said, smiling.
	I shrugged.  “If I don't say that, everybody mispells it, with the 'ch' in it.”
	Bran's eyes went to Kai's leg.
	Ian whistled softly, pulling the last of my mangled t-shirt off of the leg. 
	 “Oh crap, it’s all wrong, isn’t it. I had to do it in the dark. I forgot my flashlight...I...”
	 “It’s fine. You saved him a lot of damage. Not to mention epic blood loss.” Ian said.
	My hands stopped worrying over a scratch on Kai ’s shoulder, fascinated, I watched Ian begin to clean the wrecked leg from hock to fetlock. 
	 “You a vet?” I asked.
	 “No.”
	I frowned.
	 “He’s better,” came Bran’s voice.
	 “I had a good teacher.” Ian said, “I’ll introduce you someday.” 
	I heard Kai take a sharp breath, as if in pain. I laid a hand on his withers, the way I would have one of Elaine ’s horses. I felt his hand go to my shoulder. I stood, shifting from one rubbery leg to the other, watching Ian. I expected him to whip out a needle and thread and start stitching bits of mangled leg back together, or at least to wrap it back up in something better than a t-shirt.
	He cupped his hands around the cannon, the bony lower leg between hock and fetlock. His hands moved as if he was warming them over a very small fire. They began to glow. Green light spilled out of his hands like firefly luminescence, like the faint flash of green you see in the ocean sometimes. He crouched, unmoving. 
	I bIinked, not sure I was really seeing that. I felt Kai’s hand tighten on my shoulder. I held my breath. Everything in the barn fell silent.
	The glow burned brighter. Like lightsticks on the Fourth of July. Like the shimmery light at the bottom of a swimming pool at night. Like green leaves in spring with sun shining through them. Then it sank; into Kai ’s leg, into Ian’s hands.
	Paf! It was gone.
	The barn rustled again with activity. Grandmother Delphi trundling off with towels and other gear, running water somewhere in another part of the barn. Keet, or maybe Skana, taking an interest in a couple of chickens roosting in the rafters, until Bran gave him a hard, silent look. Ian wrapping the leg in bright green vetwrap, then stretching slowly to his full height again. He ran his hands over Kai’s barrel, haunches, shoulders. “The rest of these wounds will respond to Cora’s medicine just fine.” He met my eyes and his looked tired, beyond tired, as if that strange green magic had drained him utterly.
	 “How’d you do that?” I whispered. Then felt stupid for asking the magician to reveal his secret.
	 “It’s a gift.” 
	Kai dropped a heavy hand on his shoulder,  “It is a great gift. Thank you.” He stretched his leg experimentally. Set it down, put some weight on it. His ears cocked in surprise.
	 “It's not fully healed, I can't do it all at once, sorry. But it's in one piece now. And you won't have to worry about infections.”
	 “It feels good. Thank you.”
	Ian looked up at him, eyes full of something other than tired. Something kind of like awe.  “I don’t know where you’re from, or what legends your folk tell,” he said, “None of your folk have been here, at Hawk Circle... or in this world, for....a long time, anyway.”
	Kai nodded,  “I was told this.” He studied Ian for a moment, as if he wanted to say something else, but wasn't sure he should. “By the Grandmother who told me how to find the Gate.”
	Ian nodded,  “We have a legend, goes back to the Greeks, about a Centaur healer named Chiron.” He said it like Kai-ron. 
	Kai stiffened, straightened,  “One of the Great Grandfathers! You know of him?”
	 “He taught us humans a few things long long ago. Some of us still remember.”
	 “Part of my name is a memory of his.” Kai said.
	 “Awesome.” They gripped arms for a moment, like they were warrior buddies, then Ian walked toward the barn door, Bran and the dogs shadowing him closely. I thought of the dogsledder I’d met, and how the whole team moved on the trail; graceful and strong and fluid as running water. Bran and Ian and Keet and Skana looked like that.
	Then there was the smell of hot chocolate, and oatmeal, and some kind of warm cake, and cookies and the kind of things people remember from their Grandmother ’s kitchens. Delphi handed Kai a big plastic sport bottle. He stared at the straw, baffled, until I showed him how to use it. He took a long swig and was handed a huge bowl of something hot, steamy and smelling of oats and honey and fruit and nuts. Another Grandmother, Aura, tall, the color of a dark bay horse, and bald, bought a couple of great warm blankets and spread them over the straw. A third, Cora, was shorter, with golden bay skin and long black hair that swayed like prairie grass. She wrapped a blanket around Kai’s shoulders, his Human ones, as he sank into the deep warm bed.
	Cora regarded me with deep black eyes, then turned to the tall bald woman and said,  “I’ll smooth things over with her mother.” 
	The tall woman smiled gently, and nodded, her hands moved and I recognized Sign Language, though I couldn ’t tell what the words were. 
	 “Mom...holy crappola! It’s gotta be...” I fumbled for my watch. Three am. “I am soooo dead!”
	Delphi ambled up, her wellies clunking like oversized duck feet,  “Don’t worry dear. We’ll take care of everything.” She reached out and caught a few strands of my straggly mud-chestnut hair. A quick flick of her wrist and...
	 “OW!”
	 “Sorry dear, we’ll need this.”
	 “For what?” Maybe I didn’t want to know. I was too tired to want to know.
	Delphi smiled reassuringly,  “Come in and get some sleep.”

	I was floating on a cloud, a nice warm one, all white and fluffy and smelling of spring sun. 
	Sun, sun sun sun, burning through the window and assaulting my eyelids. I peeled one open and didn ’t see my Breyer horse collection, galloping across the highest shelf, where the cats couldn’t knock them off. No bookshelf, no computer, no Animé collection, no movie replica sword slung on the wall. I blinked, then remembered. I was wrapped in a huge down comforter in a spare bedroom in the Grandmothers’ house.  
	I thrashed ungracefully out of the down nest and peered blearily out the window.  “Definitely missed the bus.” I took in the room; walls the color of pirate movie water, deep glowing greeny blue. Shelves of books with a toy-store-museum's worth of odd stuff perched on the shelves in front of the books. Figurines of animals and heroes with swords, action figures (some I recognized from my favorite comics). One rearing horse, black. Crystals and rocks, shells and bits of twig and leaf and horsehair, a dreamcatcher with a hank of black horsehair in it. A compass with colors at each direction: red, yellow, black, white. A pair of Elvish fighting knives I recognized from a film. Things that might have come from some place across the planet. Or from some other planet.
	I found my clothes, mysteriously clean, laid out in front of an old free-standing wardrobe with lions and other animals, and trees, and centaurs carved on it. Curious, I creaked its door open and found more stuff inside. I held up one T-shirt. It looked like it would fit. So did the jeans. And there was a knit hat, not much different from the one I'd left hanging on a tree branch.  I hesitated, poked at the back wall of the wardrobe; it remained a wardrobe. I opened the door into the hall. A long farmhouse hall, with other doors; they and their frames painted and carved. Potted plants lined the hall, and something waddled out from behind one.  
	For a moment my morning fogged brain saw the world ’s biggest rat.
	I blundered backward into my own doorframe, knocked crooked a small hanging sign that read  ‘Spare Oom’, and tried to escape through the closed door.
	The silver furred rat paused, stared up at me with bright dark eyes. Its pink nose, framed with a radar array of gossamer whiskers, twitched, and one delicate hand, palm black, fingers pink, paused, poised in midair. A black and pink petal ear turned toward me.
	Stupid stupid stupid, it’s only a possum. What the heck is a possum doing in here? “Sorry.” I told it out loud, “didn’t mean to startle you.”
	It sniffed once more, and waddled on down the hall, its pink and black tail making gentle S-curves.
	I went down the hall in the other direction from the possum, looking for a door that might lead to a bathroom. Each door and its frame was painted and carved with woods or reefs or jungles, or places out of fairy tales. There were names on all the doors, some I recognized as places in books I ’d read.
	At the end of the hall was another door, painted with deep sea creatures, I opened the door and it was the bathroom, with fish towels and seashell soap dishes and all the kitschy fish stuff people put in bathrooms because there ’s water there, I guess.
	Most people ’s bathrooms don’t have fifty gallon aquariums in them though.
	Or an otter in the bathtub.
	I stared. It chirruped at me and made another circuit of the enormous tub, splashing water onto the tile floor. It looked annoyed. And toothy. Last year on our field trip, the lecture lady had told us how an otter had bit her through six mil dive gloves. I backed up.
	From somewhere down the hall a cheery voice called,  “Sorry dear, forgot to tell you, just use the bathroom in the Jungle Room.”
	Oh great, wonder what’s in there? Tigers?
	No tigers, just a lot of exotic looking plants and a hot tub. I didn’t notice the thirty foot python till I was walking out the door.
	From somewhere in the house I heard the miscellaneous clatter associated with kitchens, and caught a waft of something cooking; something really good. 
	It ’d have to wait, I wanted to see Kai.
	I wanted to see if it was all some kind of weird dream. 
	I found a door to the outside and went out of the gingerbread warmth into the bright white of a Pennsylvania winter.
	The door didn ’t open onto the porch I remembered from last night. Stepping stones led along a narrow trail though shrubbery and sleeping winter flowerbeds. A few crows called from the trees, overhead a couple of vultures circled on the air currents. I followed the wall of the house, thinking eventually I’d find the wall that faced the barn.
	I came around a corner and a black and white pony raised his head from the shrubbery he was devouring. He was the kind Elaine liked for lessons; sturdy, about thirteen hands, wooly coat making the edges of his white spots fuzzy as a panda, huge bush of weatherproof mane. He turned to regard me with ruby eyes.
	He had a three foot horn sprouting from between his eyes; a sharp businesslike swordshape, nicked and scarred by...what?.  “Whatsamatter kid,” he said, “you expecting something pink with lots of hair and ribbons?”
	 “Ahhhhhhh,” I managed to say.
	“When you go back in, ask Cora if she’ll bring me some carrot cake. It was a long patrol last night, with those Unseelie trying to get in.”
	“What?” 
	 “Dark faerie. Shapeshifters, but not the kind you find here.” The unicorn’s ruby eyes looked like the hearts of stars, like a nuclear powered ember held in your hand...and about as safe. 
	I remembered what Kai ’d said; 
		“Can you not feel it?”
		“Feel what?”
		 “When we crossed the border of this place. It is protected.”
		 “By what?”
	“You’re Hawk Circle’s Guardian.” I said.
	 “One of them.” He grinned, an impossible move for someone with horse lips, and ambled off, tasseled tail swinging, “Don’t forget the carrot cake.” He called back over his shoulder.

	The barn looked empty. The curly coated cow and the donkey and the horses were gone. I passed a few of the chickens out front, scratching through the snow under a bird feeder. Two potbellied pigs  (these were mostly black) were rooting under the feeder too, searching for whatever the birds had dropped. One striped cat stopped to stare up at me with yellow eyes.  “I don’t suppose you’re like, a champion ogre-killer or something?” I asked the cat.
	 “Mrrrow.” It told me and stalked off into the barn, its tail waving.
	Empty, totally empty, no heads peering over stall sides wondering where breakfast...or maybe lunch now...was.  “Probably turned out for the day.” I tip-toed up to the first stall, half expecting to find nothing there either.
	Kai was curled in an immense lump, snoring quietly under his blankets. It was weird; horse feet and tail sticking out from two edges, and a face framed by black hair pillowed at the other edge of the blanket. It was a nice face; not the tired, grim one from last night. Sort of a beautiful face, actually, even with those weird horse ears. I could see one ear, twitching slightly as he dreamed. I wanted to touch it, see if it was bare skin, or velvety like the end of a horse ’s nose.
	 “Hey,” a soft voice said behind me.
	 “Aaaghk!” I spun around, startled.
	 “SHHHHH!” A boy, fourteen or fifteen, was perched on the stall wall beside me. His hair, poking out of a virulently patterned knit hat, was an impossibly brilliant shade of red.
	 “Where’d you come from?” I squeaked.
	He pointed with one hand, the other on his lips, his eyes making shut up you stupid idiot motions towards Kai, still amazingly snoring.  “The house,” the redhead whispered, “Breakfast is ready.” He hopped off the stall wall, making no sound as he landed. He stood beside me for a moment, peering into the stall. “Wow,” he said softly. “This is so cool!”
	My eyes went from his amazed face to the sleeping Centaur, “I would think you’d be used to this sort of thing; what with a guy who turns into a bird and a unicorn in the garden, not to mention the otter in the upstairs bathtub and did I mention the thirty foot python?”
	 “It’s only twelve feet. We rescued it from some yahoo who thought he could...oh well, longstorysomeothertime, hey, you met Yawa already?” He whispered.
	 “What?”
	He caught my arm and dragged me toward the door,  “Let him sleep, he needs it.”
	Outside once more I demanded,  “Who?”
	“Oh, hey. I’m Zan. Alexander Fox. Well, actually, Mirzithan. You’re Val, they told me. The unicorn is You And What Army. Y.A.W.A. Not his real name of course, nobody knows what that is.” Zan grinned as if he knew a lot more he wasn’t telling. “Come on, the Grandmothers sent me to tell you breakfast is ready.”
	I slogged, schloop schloop schloop through the snow toward the house.
	His feet were utterly silent, not even leaving footprints. 
	 “Yawa kept those...whatzits out all by himself?” I said.
	 “Yeah. What were they anyway? Did he say?”
	 “Seal, deal, dealie, wheelie oh crap, I can’t remember. He did say something about dark faerie though.”
	 “Dark...Unseelie?” Zan’s eyes widened.
	 “Yeah, yeah, that was it.”
	 “Oh crap.” He said softly, one hand on the kitchen doorknob.
	 “Oh crap? I was blowing those things away with pepper spray last night.” I think my voice crept up a notch or two into the Fay Wray zone. “Kai’s sword seemed to work pretty well on them. And his hooves. And the cars. And presumably the dozens of arrows that weren’t in his empty bow case.”
	 “Quiver. The arrow holding thingie is a quiver.”
	 “Well, all it was holding when last we left our Intrepid Hero, was a very short bow.”
	 “Yeah, the bow goes in the bow part, and the arrows gazinta the quiver part.”
	 “Whatever. What are you, Robin Hood?”
	He grinned,  “I am pretty good with...wait, cars, what was that about cars?”
	 “We left a bit of a traffic jam on route 74.”
	 “That was you?”
	 “You heard about it?”
	Zan opened the kitchen door,  “All over the news. Some pack of wild dogs and a crazy rider jumping a Toyota. They were towing cars and scraping up roadkill all night. Nobody got really hurt, except the dogs.”
	 “Kai said they weren’t really dogs.” I said queasily.
	Zan shook his head,  “Unseelie take other forms, ones that blend in with...wherever they are. Wonder why they’re after him?”
	 “He wouldn’t tell me.”
	 “Centaurs are like that. Like horses, I mean. They don’t talk much.  Or, that’s what the Grandmothers said. I never met any. Well, sort of, I did. Once, when I was a kid...”
	 “You are a kid.”
	He made a face, “When I was a little kid, a traveling Centaur troupe came through our village...” he stopped in mid-sentence, his face looking as if the wrong words had escaped. 
	“Centaurs in...your village? Where are you from?”
	“Longstory someothertime.” he said quickly, “Unseelie, dark faerie, what else did Yawa say?”
	 “Nothing. Except, don’t forget the carrot cake.” I frowned at Zan, “Dark faerie? What’s Dark Faerie? You mean like Elves? I thought Elves were like, you know, tall, elegant, good at archery and poetry and talking to trees and horses and stuff.”
	Zan turned, met my eyes with startled sea grey eyes.  “We are.” he said.

	 “We?” We were in the kitchen, Delphi and Aura piling up broad wooden trays with food; mugs of chocolate, fresh orange juice, muffins and biscuits and bowls of some kind of weird porridge, that smelled wonderful despite its lumpy look. The ceiling was hung with baskets and copper-bottomed pots, iron cookware, herb bundles. The counters held crockery and several aquariums stuffed with bedding; from a few of them came small furry rustlings. At the end of the room was a large perch, on it sat a turkey vulture with a taped wing. “We?” I said again to Zan.
	 “Yeah. Earth Life Foundation? E...L...F?” Zan said through a mouthful of muffin. “You’d think that’d be a clue.” 
	 “Oh.” I said, feeling as bright as a half dead firefly. 
	Zan glanced over his shoulder at Grandmother Delphi, cheerfully stirring and flipping and shoving things in half a dozen pots and pans on the stove.  “You came here on a Centaur, the Grandmothers said we don’t need to keep any secrets from you.”
	 “Yeah...ok.” I tried to imagine what secrets they’d have that would be weirder than what I’d seen.
	Zan paused to reach into the fridge, produced a deceased mouse and handed it to the vulture. The vulture gulped it down whole. Zan looked up at me, studying my face for a moment, as if he expected to see the usual grossed out girly reaction.
	“Cool.” I said. “I guess,” I pointed at the aquariums, “they do wildlife rehab? I mean, when we were here last year, they told us about some of what you do here.” Or is it all just some kind of cover for...for what?
	“No cover. It’s what we do.” Zan said, picking up his tray. “What we’ve always done, heal the land, its creatures, teach the Secondborn.”
	“What?”
	 “You. Your kind. Humans.”
	I turned to see Grandmother Delphi reach out with one hand to stir a pot, flip some pancakes with the other, and adjust something in another...with four feet of pink prehensile tail. I stared, in total dorkdom, a muffin halfway to my mouth.
	Delphi continued cooking, humming to herself, oblivious.
	Zan poked me, hard.  “Come on.”
	 “What...? 
	He picked up a tray, handed me two, and dragged me toward the door on the far side of the kitchen.
	I followed him down the stairs, feeling like a moose following a fox. We passed through an open door and I looked up and up at three stories of glass wall, barely visible behind trailing vines and reaching trees and blooming flowers. A stream bubbled out of somewhere, ran in a rocky trickle across the middle of the flagstone floor and vanished into the far wall. Overhead in the greenery birds sang. 
	 “Whooooaaaa! The aquarium’s rainforest room isn’t this cool!” I stared at the distant glass roof, oddly free of any trace of snow, and tripped over something on the floor.
	A number of muffins on my trays went sprawling.
	Zan shot out a hand and caught them.  “Careful, it’s the real world, not the mall.”
	One end of the room held a table, already loaded with breakfast items. A few other people clustered around it; Ian and Bran and the two dogs, a stocky woman half my height, and a bearded, equally stout man of the same height and similar face.  He looked a lot like one of the seven Dwarves... or maybe more like one of the thirteen Dwarves in The Hobbit. There was also a taller woman with hair like a chestnut pinto horse ’s mane; part flaxen and part white. 
	 “Tas.” Zan walked up to her, dragging me with him. “Tashunka Wolf. This is Val.”
	She was about a hand shorter than me, but built like someone who could probably kick Kai ’s butt. I wondered what she was; Elf, dragon, somebody who could turn into a hedgehog?
	“The Grandmothers said to keep no secrets from you.” She said it as if she’d rather keep them. “Their wisdom is greater than mine.” She scrutinized me with one earth brown eye and one sky blue; mismatched like some horses I knew. The blue one was like looking up into high clouds. The brown like earth and horsehide and saddle leather. She studied me the way the advanced school horses study newbies: evaluating how easy it’d be to dump you on the next jump. At last she said, “Not many have met the Unseelie and lived to tell the tale.” I couldn’t tell if she meant that was an amazing demonstration of warrior skill, welcome to our secret base...or...too bad they didn’t eat you.
	“Doc.” Zan said, indicating the short guy.
	Yeah, ok, so where’s Sleepy, Grumpy and Dopey? 
	“Charlie Durgin.” Zan added. 
	I could see teeth through Doc's beard, and wasn’t sure if it was a grin, or the kind of expression you’d find on an annoyed wolverine. The short woman elbowed him gently out of the way and held out a broad hand, “Earla Durgin.” she said. It was like shaking hands with a bear. “I heard you took out a lot of Unseelie last night.” She nodded as if I’d got an A on a test or something. “Um, “ I mumbled, not sure what to say to that. 
	Earla turned suddenly, mine-dark eyes on the far end of the greenroom. 
	I heard the sound of a sliding door, and the light tap of bare hooves on the stone floor. A moment later a black and white shape appeared through the shrubbery, followed by a tall dark one; Kai and Yawa. Kai was wearing a T-shirt over some of that athletic wick-your-sweat-away underwear that looks like half a superhero suit; bright red UnderArmour. The T-shirt had a video game hero on it and looked like it might also fit Ian. With them was a small, slender woman; beautiful, pale, Asian, and not very young. She moved like a zillionth level black belt. Her clothes didn ’t look like something out of Merlin’s Yard Sale, but they weren't bike leathers from the Harley store either. She was clad in flowing dark blues and greens and purples and blacks, her boots and bodice textured like lizard skin and dragon scales.
	Dragon scales. I glanced at Zan, remembering the roar in the dark, and flashes of light in the woods. And Yawa saying he was one of the guardians.
	Zan answered it before it fell out of my mouth.
	 “Dragon Woman,” he whispered. He pushed me toward some low, squishy chairs set up in a loose circle in a clearing in the greenery.
	 “Ooohkaaaay. So you’re an Elf, aaand,” my eyes went to Earla and Doc. “Dwarves.” I suggested. “But why Doc?”
	 “He fixes stuff; helicopters, planes, cars. Earla’s good with any kind of tech, computers and... things she makes up.”
	 “Bran’s some kind of were-raven I guess...”
	 “Ravenkin. Elven, but his family has a close association with corvids.”
	 “Corvids, like crows and ravens and stuff.”
	 “And jays, magpies, rooks, yeah.”
	 “I remember some of that from when we came here on our field trip. And Cora...Corvid... Cora. Crow? Raven?”
	 “Grandmother Crow.”
	 “Delphi has a possum tail and silver hair, like Possum, and everything she wears has pockets, lots of them.”
	 “Delphi, Didelphis virginiana, the Virginia possum. You’re smarter than you look.”
	If Tiffanie or another of the ChickiePoo Squad had said that, I ’d have crumpled into a chewed spitball. Zan’s lopsided grin made it seem more like an actual compliment. 
	 “And Aura,” I frowned, “she Signs, but she’s not Deaf.”
	 “Vultures don’t have a syrinx...voice box, like our larynx.”
	 “Cool. So, what’s Tas?” I whispered.
	 “She’s a poo...”
	Pooch? Poodle? Poop deck? Poo-meranian? Shih-Tzu-poo? Zan’s words were cut off by Grandmother Delphi. “All right everyone,” she said, “now that our guests have rested, we shall hear their story.” End of speech, she sat down on a rock, gesturing first to Yawa. 
	I noticed Aura, but the other Grandmother was missing. “Where’s Cora?” I whispered to Zan.
	 “Probably in your math class right about now.”
	 “What?”
	 “We had to replace you, while you’re here, it’d be kind of inconvenient if the FBI showed up looking for you.”
	 “Cheeeeez.” My voice came out in a whine of disappointment. One of the few classes I could nail with ease. So much ease that I'd be yawning and doodling while Mr. Myers tried to help the concrete-brained jocks figure out two plus two. “I hope she's good.” As in, it's the only class I didn't look bad in.
	 “She's done formulas for wing-load on various pterodactyl species...” Zan began.
	Yawa let out a snort that sounded a lot like Mr. Myers when the boys in the back start texting. Zan coiled, catlike, on his chair, I lumped into mine, feeling like a walrus on an undersized pool raft. Around us the others found seats and fell silent. Yawa  stepped up, front and center, his ruby eyes scanning the assemblage. 
	He nodded his horn, at me.
	 “Wha?” I said stupidly.
	 “How did you come to the aid of a Centaur, in a world which no longer knows of them?” Yawa said. Talking horses worked fine in cartoons, but a real one forming words with horse lips was really, really odd. I noticed Earla, sitting near him with a very large piece of half-eaten carrot cake.
	 “Uh.” I glanced at Kai, at Yawa, at the others, at the plants reaching for the glass roof, at the flitting birds in the branches overhead, at the blue and grey stone under my feet.”
	 “Go on, dear,” Delphi said pleasantly.
	Yawa shifted his feet, dipped his horn ever so slightly. One ruby eye gleamed out from under his mass of black and white mane. He looked like he might be about to lose his patience.
	 “Ok...um... well...” The words tumbled out, bumbled out, fell over each other in a mess, but I told them about the stable and Tiffphony and walking home in the snow and finding the blood trail and hearing the howls and finding a rider battling feral dogs only it wasn’t a rider and it wasn’t feral dogs.
	The unicorn snorted something, his ruby eyes on Bran.
	 “Unseelie.” Bran said with distaste.
	Ian frowned, like a warrior.
	Dragon Woman ’s eyes gleamed like small suns. Her mouth opened a little, showing shining teeth. “There are none left,” she said flatly. “Not here.” She nearly smiled. 
	 “She’s on our side, right?” I whispered to Zan.
	 “They followed him through a Gate.” Yawa nodded his horn at Kai.
	Gate, right, Ian had said that last night. Or was it Kai? I didn't think they meant the garden variety either. Gate, like all those Portals to Other Places in the books I read.  “How did he find the Gate?” I whispered to Zan, “And why does he speak English if he’s from an alternate universe?”
	Zan gave me a startled look.  “How do you know about Gates?”
	 “I read books.”
	Zan started to say something else, then Dragon Woman gave him hard stare. He closed his mouth on the words.
	 “I am sorry,” Kai was saying, “I could not prevent them following me. But I came here for the means to their end. They have opened a rift into our world, and if what I have read is true, the Four Sisters are the Keepers of the Spellbook that can seal it again.”
	“Why wouldn’t it just be somewhere in your world?” The words just fell out of my mouth before I could stop them. Everyone’s eyes turned to me; like when I spaced out in history class and answered what was the first capital of the United States with forty-two. I shrank back down into my seat as far as I could. Not very.
	Aura cleared her throat, the first sound I’d heard her make, she stared pointedly at Kai.
	 “A fair question,” Delphi said.
	Kai looked at the stone floor, the way I did when I didn ’t know the answer in math. “Long ago, we lived here, in your world, lived beside the Secondborn, taught them.” His dark eyes were unreadable under his equine brow ridges, with their lack of eyebrows. “They became numerous, contentious, and drove our folk back, into the wild. At last, we ran out of wild. My clan retreated to Rrhawwhnina.” The word sounded as if it might have originated in a horse’s chest, rather than on an English speaking tongue.
	 “You have not told us the whole tale.” Grandmother Delphi suggested.
	 “Rrhawwhnina is part of a larger world, one where many of your folk,” he gestured at the assemblage of Elves and Dwarves and others, “have retreated. There are Gates between the worlds, through which some pass at times.” He paused, his ears flicked back. Maybe it was the Centaur equivalent of a frown.
	 “There are those who have believed that this is dangerous.” Grandmother Delphi said, her eyes on Kai.
	 Here, Kai almost whispered,  “We have argued among ourselves in the past. Argued that we should seal all the boundaries of our land, never to go forth into this, or any other. Nor allow others in, or any trade between the worlds.” He paused, “I was not there, I was not yet born, but I know that many died over this. The Spellbook was used before, to heal Rrhawwhnina.” Kai said. “But it was not left in the keeping of the Centaurs.” 
	 “Why?” I blorted. “I mean, what’s the problem with actually keeping your world, or your little piece of it, closed off?”
	Kai stared down at me, one hoof landed on the flagstone in an annoyed stomp.
	 “You can think of time...reality... as a river.” Bran said, “Or maybe an ocean...” He paused, eyebrows furrowed like a math genius trying to explain quantum physics to a first grader, “or maybe it's a...”
	Ian cleared his throat and gave Bran a pointed look.
	 “River. River is good.” Bran continued. He smiled, his hands flew, illustrating what he was saying. “You know how sometimes, along the edges, little eddies, whirpools will develop? They go round and round, and if they’re big enough, you can sit in there in your boat, while the river rages by. You never move.”
	 “What happens if you seal off a piece of the river from the rest?” Ian suggested.
	 “Uh.” I thought furiously, trying to remember what I'd forgotten of Science 101. I pictured those weird little pools that formed on the trails in the woods, in spring or after a lot of rain. They’d start out all kind of bright and clear, sometimes get frog eggs in them. Then, if they didn’t dry up, they’d get algae and pond scum and other weirdness. Like a horse trough that hadn’t been cleaned in a month. “Well, I guess gross things would grow in it...” I began.
	 “Exactly.” Bran said.
	 “Pretty much what happened to the Unseelie.” Ian said.
	 “They want...they need; the bright, the clean, the light.” Yawa said, “They desire, and they destroy what they desire.”
	 “And any who have what they desire.” Bran said, “They don’t take prisoners.”
	A creepy chill ran up my spine. I wasn ’t thinking, last night, that those things would actually eat me.	
	Kai bowed again to the Grandmothers.  “Please, we have need of the Book again.”
	 “Of course dear.” Delphi said smiling, “But it’s not here.”
	 “What!” Kai said in shock, “Where then?”	
	 “In Erda.”
	Zan ’s face was now the shocked one. His mouth hung open, but nothing fell out.
	 “You hid it in another Gateworld?” Ian said.
	Aura ’s deep green eyes fell on him; the kind of look the math teacher gives when everybody groans about a pop quiz.
	Zan found his words.  “My Gateworld.” 
	Grandmother Delphi nodded at him, then at all of us,  “Rrhawwhnina is but an island on  the edges of the vast round world known as Erda. Though, as you have heard, there were those who wished to turn the island into, well,” she smiled as if at a secret joke, “an island. A separate place, isolated in space and time.”
	 “An island?” I blurted. “What kind of island?” I thought of Kai’s ineptitude on hills. A flat island, no doubt.
	 “Yes dear, it is quite flat.” Grandmother Delphi said, looking at me. “One of a necklace of sandy barrier islands along the edge of Erda’s western continent.”
	I thought of one of my favorite kid ’s books, Misty of Chincoteague. The islands in that book are part of a sandy barrier chain along the edge of our continent.
	 “Quite a lot like those islands.” Grandmother Delphi said to me.
	Zan ’s face brightened, “Barrier islands! Cool! I know all about...”
	I was starting to hope he knew all about how to teach me how to keep people from reading my mind. 
	 “Kai’ll need help getting the Spellbook.” Ian said. His muscled frame was no longer hidden by a baggy parka; he looked like the kind of guy who could go on this kind of mission all by himself armed only with a knife.
	Zan cut in,  “I remember a lot of...”
	Aura silenced him with a look.
	 “Kai can’t get it,” Delphi said to Zan, “Or you. Takes a Human.”
	All eyes now turned to Ian. 
	 “Ok, then,” he said, as if somebody had suggested a trip to the Caribbean. His eyes went to Bran, Bran’s went back to Delphi.
	 “No,” Delphi said, “Not Ian. Has to be a girl. A maiden.”
	Everybody ’s eyes shifted.
	To me.

	 “I need a...” Kai looked as if someone had told him he had to go snowboarding with his grandmother. “...Human maiden?”
	I stared at them, trying to make words come out of my mouth and failing. My thoughts raced like wild horses before a storm. But, but... I've gotHistoryand there’sthistestonFriday andMom'ssister'sbirthday and who'llcleanthelitterpan mymomhatesdoing thatand I promisedAuntSusie I'dhelphercleanherattic andElaineatthestableand Ihavethis project... due...and  I'm sure you have some kid here, somebody who can... I don’t know... What do they need? A swashbuckling swordchick? One of those girls in my video games who're good at a thousand deadly martial arts? Somebody who can solve riddles? I'm terrible at riddles.
	Delphi beamed at me. Aura regarded me with a face I couldn't read at all. Doc was still glowering out from under his eyebrows. Earla had one brow cocked; disbelief, I'm sure. All I could see of Tas' face was one ice blue eye, and it did not look pleased. I wondered if she ever looked pleased. Dragon Woman was as unreadable as a jade statue. Ian was looking from Bran to the Grandmothers to Bran to the Grandmothers, probably hoping desperately for them to tell me it was time to go back to study hall. 
	Nobody spoke. Nobody moved. It felt like that still, hot air in July, right before the squall line sweeps across from the hills full of rain and wind and lightning.
	 “I, um. Ok, well, then. What do I do?” I glanced at Kai, “I mean, how does this Human maiden person get this book thing...anyway?”
	“You’ll need someone who knows that world...” Zan blurted.
	“You haven’t been there since...” Ian shot a furtive glance at Bran.
	 “...a long time.” Bran said. His eyes went from Zan to me, “Do you have an inkling of the dangers you may face?”
	 “Dangers?” Fay Wray was squeaking back into my voice.
	 “I live for danger.” Zan said, dancing back, carving Zs in the air with an imaginary sword.
	 “You’re going? Right?” I said to Bran and Ian. Seemed like a good idea to have a healer, especially one that looked like he could kick the butts of the entire Unseelie horde by himself. And a guy who could turn into a raven and whatever else Bran was good at besides flying. My eyes slid over to Tas, her stance casually dangerous, like one of those butt-kicking heroines in my video games. Yeah, let’s take her too, whatever she is... poo, Zan said poo... poo what? Were-poodle? No, had to be something scary. Oh yeah, and two of the seven Dwarves would be good, and Dragon Woman. 
	 “What about...” Ian said.
	 “...us?” Bran finished.
	Aura and Delphi and Dragon Woman and Yawa ’s eyes met in deliberation. The tip of the unicorn’s horn dipped ever so slightly, then swung toward Zan, “We’ll need more than two on this mission, and your illusions may be useful.”
	 “YES!” Zan leaped up, gesticulating triumphantly.
	 “Illusions?” I said.
	He grinned, gesturing minutely toward Yawa. The unicorn wavered like the air over a hot summer parking lot. A short, stout, hairy chested, and rather disgruntled looking Centaur stood there, a horn sticking incongruously out of his Human forehead.
	Tas gave Zan a light smack on the back of the head, and the unicentaur returned to his original shape.  “Maybe,” she said, “you better send me.”
	 “Of course.” Delphi said. “We will need your strength and ability to teleport.”
	 “A pooka would be useful... in any of your forms.” Dragon Woman agreed.
	 “I’ll need a horse.” Zan suggested, looking pointedly at Tas.
	 “Horse?” I said. “Pooka?” I said, mostly to myself. I tried to remember what I'd read about pookas. If I'd read about pookas.
	Tas gave me another patient school horse look and turned to Bran and Ian. They leaned forward, like a team of horses ready to pull a load. Tas said,  “I say leave the redhead, and take these two.”
	 “Certainly,” Delphi said, “But I think we’ll also need the redhead. But he’ll have to take his own horse, Earla will need to go with you, Tas.”
	Earla ’s face broke into a wide smile.
	Doc fidgeted, harrumphed at Delphi. 
	 “We need you here dear.” Delphi said. “And your daughter is quite capable on her own.”
	Dragon Woman rose, her movements made me think of something sinuous and powerful, like that python in the bathroom...or dinosaurs.  “Time flows differently between the worlds, but the Unseelie will yet have time to wreak havoc in Kai’s world while you get the Spellbook. I will go there and help hold back their dark tide.”
	Delphi and Aura nodded.
	Dragon Woman smiled, showing way too many teeth, and slipped silently from the room.
	I leaned over to Zan and whispered,  “I’m really really glad she’s on our side.”
	 “No coms,” Yawa was saying, and his ruby eyes went from Zan to Bran, “That sort of tech isn’t allowed in Erda.”
	“And even if it was,” Earla said, “somebody,” and her eyes went straight to Zan, “would cause a meltdown within five minutes, no matter how good my Elf-shielding was.”
	I turned to Zan, “Elf-shielding?” 
	Zan made a face,  “I swear, that epic computer network failure at the library last week was NOT my fault.”

~4~
three sisters salvage
(thrifty necessities & recycled wonders)

	Sorry Mom, I’ll be late for dinner. I was kidnapped by a Centaur, and I have an errand to run in an alternate universe.
	I really really hoped Cora was better in history class than me. 
	We headed for what might have once been a big chicken house. Or a shed that got out of hand. The long low building sprawled out from the Grandmothers’ house, white as the snow at its feet. Wind chimes dangled from odd places under the eaves, and in the branches of the shrubs and trees around it, jingling, tinkling in a light fairy tale soundtrack. Plywood cutouts painted to look like herons and groundhogs and other critters lurked in the shrubbery. A shiny purple ball on a pedestal sat outside. It all looked nearly as tacky as my mom's lawn ornament land.
	 “Hey,” Zan said, “Don't make fun of the lawn palantir.”
	 “The wha'?”
 	He hopped around me and up the stone walk to the door. A sign proclaimed “Three Sisters Salvage: Thrifty Necessities and Recycled Wonders”. There were carvings along the doorframe; possums, vultures and crows.
	“The three recyclers.” Zan pointed out.
	 “I know. I stayed awake in Bio 101. Hey, what about the fourth sister?” Kai had said Four Sisters. That, I assumed, included Dragon Woman. Or maybe dragons didn't recycle. The other three were scavengers, they ate dead stuff. Maybe dragons liked their food alive and kicking.
	Delphi was fumbling at the door with a set of keys that made most wind chimes look small.
	 “Ah, here we are.” Delphi said at last. A big iron key that looked like something from King Arthur’s Court rattled in the lock, and the door swung open. I walked past her into...
	...yeah, King Arthur ’s yard sale. I stared at shelves and tables stretching dustily to a far wall. At least, I think there was a wall. There were rugs and baskets and bowls and copper and wood and things gleaming in the attic gloom that might have come from a medieval movie set, or a museum. Shelves formed a free-standing labyrinth that might have hid half a dozen minotaurs.
	 “Cool!” Zan said, on my heels. He was nearly lost in a huge outrageously colored parka, the crazy knit hat still stuffed down over his red hair. A neon green pack was slung across one shoulder.
	 “Whoa! Where’d you get all this...” I wandered forward into the dusty maze.
	 “Stuff!” Zan exclaimed. “Lots of stuff. Cool stuff. I need more stuff.” Zan picked up a basket lying on a table and ran a hand over it. Something inside rattled, making the basket jump. He hastily put it back on the table.
	Delphi appeared out of the shadows.  “If you break it, it might eat you.” She smiled at me and pattered down the aisle ahead of us, her tail occasionally looping out to adjust something on a table.
	I stuck my hands in my pockets, and found the exact center of the narrow aisle.
	 “What are we looking for?” I whispered to Zan.
	 “You’ll know when you find it.” Delphi said.
	Oh sure. 
	“Stuff we need for the quest, right?” Zan said.
	Delphi continued down the aisle, her fuzzy silver hair sticking out like possum fur, her hands deep in some of her many pockets.  “There, this is...” she peered at something under a dusty piece of canvas. Something I couldn’t see hissed and snapped. Delphi dropped the canvas back in place, “...no no, that wasn’t it.” She frowned and poked along some shelves. Shadows flitted out of sight, away from her searching hands. “Here dear,” she said stepping back, “You look.”
	 “Me?” I was not sticking my hand in there, no way.
	Delphi smiled and ambled down a different aisle, leaving Zan and me to stare at a set of dark, cluttered shelves.
	 “Is that armour?” I said, pointing up at a round gleam of faint silver high on a shelf.
	 “Yeah.” Zan set a foot on the second shelf, and pulled himself up, as easily as I could collapse on a couch. A moment later his head was level with a shelf eight feet up. “Hey, this is cool.”
	I heard rattling, a clank. A snarl. I saw Zan flail at something I couldn ’t see, then...
	 “Catch.”
	Something sailed past my head,  “I failed baseball 101!” I shouted at him.
	It clattered onto the floor, followed by the thht of Zan’s light feet. He picked it up, shaking the other hand as if he’d touched something hot. 
	“Are you bleeding?”
	 “Nah, just a scratch.” His hand bore a crescent moon of toothprints, oozing red.
	I looked frantically around the shadowy shop, Delphi had vanished.  “Oh great.” I stared up at the shelf, quiet now. “What was that?”
	Zan turned the round object over,  “Not armour, some kind of pot, bowl, cauldron thingie.”
	 “What if it was poisonous?”
	He was staring at the bowl as if it were the latest video game.  “Don’t think it’s poisonous.”
	 “Not that, the freakin’ toothy thing that tried to eat you!”
	Zan didn ’t look up, “There’s a unicorn just outside.”
	 “What? What’s that got to do with attack creepy crawlies!”
	 “Unicorns cure poison.”
	 “Oh. What about rabies?” I lumbered back through the aisles to the door, “I’m gonna get him. Now.”
	The door was locked, and the keys, and Delphi, were gone.
	 “Crap. DELPHI?” I turned, stared back into the gloom, no answer. I rattled the doorknob, it sounded creepy in the twilight of the big cluttered room. “Zan, we can’t get out!”
	No answer. Did it seem darker in here? It was starting to freak me out. “Zan?” I bumbled my way back down the aisle. “Zan!” No answer. Great, he’s collapsed from some kind of mystery poison, and I can’t find him, and even if I did, there’s no way out of here! 
	Aaaaaagh!
	Wait. The door had a window in it, though only Zan would fit through it. But maybe there were other windows, lurking among the shelves; at least, there’d been windows on the outside of the building. 
	But then the inside of Merlin ’s Yard Sale didn’t seem to match the outside at all. It sprawled on for acres, for miles maybe, into the gloom.
	Ok, think Moose, think. I could find something and break a window. Yeah, that’s it. If I could find a window. But I had to find Zan first. I scrambled down one aisle and up the next. The place was a labyrinth, and I got lost in the supermarket. In school. “ZAN!” Something shifted on a shelf above me, a whispered movement, like a cat. I froze, reached for the table beside me and grabbed the first thing that came to my hand.
	It was a sword, a whopping big one. I didn’t stop to think how it had got there, I swung it up between me and whatever was on that shelf. 
	It moved again, whatever it was. I held the sword up and it began to shine. Faintly, like a star. Like moonlight was falling on it.
	The shelf went quiet. I backed away, sword at the ready.  “Zan?” I whispered. Then shouted, “Zan!”
	 “Here.” I heard a faint voice. I rounded a corner and he was sitting on the floor, still staring at the bowl, gleaming misty grey in the dim light. He looked up, “What?”
	 “What? What do you mean, what? You got bit! Then I couldn’t find you! I figured you were dying of...”
	 “What? I’m fine.” He held up the bowl. “Look.” He held his hand over it, the one he’d got bit on, the one that now showed no signs of blood. A faint glow came from the bowl; green, like Ian’s healing energy.
	 “Did you do that?”
	 “The bowl does it. It’s some kind of healing magic.”
	 “Magic?” I looked around, “Man, this is one weird yard sale.”
	 “What’d you find?”
	I held up the sword.
	 “I find crockery and you find the coolest weapon since Kai’s two-hander. Damn.”
	 “I don’t know, that looks like that could be kind of useful.” I nodded at the bowl. I half expected Delphi to appear out of the gloom and announce that we had found our destined magic items.
	No Delphi.
	 “Are we supposed to look some more?” I wondered.
	Zan got to his feet, tucked the bowl under one arm,  “Yeah, let’s see what else is here.”
	Half rotted and rusted plows and farm tools that might have come out of an ancient illuminated book, musty tapestries of knights and ladies with hounds hunting and unicorns caught. Bowls and spoons and cracked crockery, echoes of time long gone, none of it quite whole anymore.
	 “Where’d all this come from?”
	 “I don’t know. I never saw it before. It’s different every time she opens the door. I think it depends what key she uses.”
	 “What key....riiiight. Where is she, anyway?” I felt the need to whisper. The gloom hung like the weight of a thousand years. And I wasn’t at all sure what else was lurking in the shadows, or if the sword would handle it. Well, ok, the sword probably could, but me? Moose, Dorkier Princess. I held the sword up and studied it. It shone with the ordinary gleam of old steel now. Someone had studied Magic Swords 101, because they’d put the requisite runes running down the length of the blade. It was long and strong; not broad-heavy like a Clydesdale’s legs, or light-boned like an Arabian. More like, like a big warmblood, an Olympic three-phase horse. Or a Friesian. Like Kai.
	Zan ’s voice cut through the murk. “Delphi’ll be back when we’re finished.” He made a wry face, “Maybe you’ll have invented warp drive by then.”
	 “Me?” I snorted. “I’m ok at science, but just the nature, animal, pond goo stuff.”
	Zan smiled broadly.  “Me too. But I meant humans. You’re the techies. You’re the ones who come up with stuff like trains and cars and TV and computers.”
	“And supertankers that wreck and oil rigs that explode and global warming and nuke bombs.” I said. I studied the silver length of my blade...yeah, my blade, frowning. “This is nuts. They need a...a... ordinary girl to save Kai’s world from impending doom?” It sounded ridiculous when I said it, like some kind of crazy video game, or a movie where everyone lives happily ever after. 
	“It’s definitely not a video game.” Zan said. 
	 “What else can you do besides read minds and turn unicorns into Centaurs?”
	 “Sorry, didn’t mean to hear that, it’s just...sometimes...” he made a face, as if he had just committed major geekiness. “It’s really loud. What people think. And I forget that they didn’t mean to share it.”
	I shrugged,  “So what else can you do?”
	He picked something off the nearest table, the broken handle of some long lost farm tool. He stepped back, raised a hand and the air around the stick wavered, solidified and became a sword.  “I’m not bad with a sword.” He spun it in an intricate pattern in the air, then it vanished. “I’m better with a bow.” A beautifully carved longbow appeared in his hands, “It’s an Elf thing,” He said with a pleased shrug. 
	 “Cool.”
	The bow vanished. 
	 “What was that about the library network meltdown?”
	Zan looked away, embarrassed.  “It’s an Elf thing too. We’re technologically impaired. This,” the air wavered again and a very real looking tiger stalked ahead of us and vanished into the gloom, ”is just...energy, redirected, channeled in a new way. It tends to make computer systems self-destruct though. Elf-destruct, maybe.” 
	I smiled,  “Do something else.”
	He grinned, a miniature winged horse flew out of his hands and vanished into the dusty gloom.
	I frowned,  “I didn't hear the wings. Unless those were owl wings, it should have made some kind of whoosh-whoosh noise.”
	 “Yeah, well, that's Bran's department. He's the sound design guy. The mimic. It's a raven thing. They can mimic any sound. I can't do sound for squat.” He gestured and a tiny lion roared, silently.
	 “That's still cool.” I said. I tried my own roar, in sync with the lion. It came out more like a squalling cat.
	Zan laughed. The lion vanished. He gestured again, and vanished himself. In his place stood the latest, hottest actor to grace the covers of a zillion magazines.
	I stared, mouth hanging open like a feeding whale shark. Then I flushed every shade between vermillion and fuschia. Boys didn't notice me, especially those kinds of boys, except to make my life miserable. I stared at the floor, sure my face had gone nuclear Barbie pink by now.
	Then Zan was back, grinning wickedly.
	The words fell out, louder than I intended them to.  “STOP READING MY MIND!” 
	 “Sorry.”
	I looked up.
	Zan looked contrite. Embarrassed, maybe.  “I'll teach you how to block that sometime,” he offered. 
	 “Ok.” I studied my sword again. Then I had a random brainfart. “Wait, can you make me look like...?” I tried to remember what girl everybody thought was hot this week, who’d been on the cover of every movie magazine, every glamor magazine this morning. They all ran together in one big blond blob.
	Zan grinned, as if he ’d seen the picture in my head. “Temporarily.” His grin faded, “Glamour. That's what some folk used to call Elf magic. The kind of magic that makes something look like what it isn't.” He looked at me, like he was seeing something other than what I saw in the mirror. “But do you really want that kind of transitory beauty?”

	Up one dusty aisle and down another. In the shadows unseen things rustled, scuttled away, or chittered like mutant rodents.
	 “What are those?” I whispered to Zan. The whole place made you want to whisper.
	 “I got no idea.”
	 “You’re an Elf, don’t you know about things like... I don’t know, things that go ba-dump in the twilight zone?”
	 “You’re a Human. Do you know how your computer works?”
	 “No.”
	 “The internet?”
	 “Nooo.”
	 “Tv? Phones?”
	 “Ahhhh.”
	He made a gesture that said, see!
	“Well, then, what else are we going to need?”
	“We’ll get camping gear and stuff from the Faire supplies.”
	 “What?”
	 “We do medieval faires, faerie festivals, historical camps. We gotta lotta...stuff. Humans need so much... stuff,” he said half under his breath.
	 “Oh. Weren't you kind of happy about finding more stuff? When we came in here?”
	He ignored that.  “Right now we’re just looking for...” he stopped, his hand falling on a pile of... “stuff,” on a table. He closed his eyes, rooting through the pile.
	 “You really think that’s a good idea?” I held the sword at the ready, listening for more creepy things rustling in the shadows. “I mean, searching with your eyes closed?”
	 “Sometimes you gotta look with something other than your eyes.” He rattled in the pile, his whole arm disappearing for a long moment. Then his face erupted in a triumphant grin. He held up...
	 “...a spoon?” I stared at it in disbelief. A big wooden spoon, handcarved a zillion years ago, maybe, but definitely useful for nothing beyond soup and porridge.
	He shrugged.  “It feels right.”
	 “Feels right?”
	He brandished the spoon like a sword,  “Use the fork, Luke.”
	 “You’re weird.”
	 “Thanks.” He said brightly, and wandered off down another aisle.
	 “Hey!” I scrambled after him, “Wait up!”

	He found, in quick succession, a hair comb (with a lot of teeth missing) carved out of some white boney looking stuff, an empty leather pouch like the kind you could buy at the Rennaissance Faire for a few bucks, a leather belt (with no buckle), a short coil of rope, some candles, and a cracked pottery mug.
	 “Well,” I said, looking at his haul, “I guess the rope and the candles might be useful.”
	He gave me the kind of look that said you are a clueless dork and stuffed it all in his pack.
	I had only found the sword. Yeah, but it was a cool sword, even though it was longer than I was tall, it balanced nicely, even in one hand. Maybe that’s all I needed to find.
	Definitely cooler than a bowl and a bunch of rope.
	 “Maybe we should go and try to find the door now.” I suggested.
	Zan stared into the shadows.
	 “If we can find it.” I added.
	 “No, I think there’s something else.”
	 “What, more rope?”
	 “Never know when you might need a bit of rope.” He started walking.
	Afraid to be left in that eerie dark again, I blundered after him. He stopped so suddenly that I nearly plowed right over top of him, which would have been disastrous for him. I threw out my hands to catch myself and knocked a pile of stuff off a shelf. It clattered down, accompanied by rustlings, scurryings and a startled shriek...crashed onto a table, dislodged another pile there and the whole thing collapsed in a great cloud of dust.
	I waved the dust away, coughing and sputtering, holding the sword up to keep the scuttley things at bay.
	Zan rose out of the dust cloud, the sword point an inch from his nose. He reached out slowly and brushed it aside with one finger.
	I waited for him to say something about clumsy mooses...meese...moose, whatever. And how Delphi was going to turn us all into frogs or something for wrecking her medieval flea market.
	Zan looked down,  “Hey...”
	 “What? Don’t you have enough rope?” I reached for a fallen pile of cloth, thinking maybe we should at least put it all back on the table.
	Zan stepped back,  “I think this one is yours.”
	 “What?” I crept up, half expecting to see some kind of bizarre creature crouched, ready to spring, in the midst of the debris, I raised the sword and advanced.
	Zan took another step back.
	I stepped forward, one foot, then another. I looked down.
	Dangling incongruously on the tip of a wooden pitchfork was a set of ancient skeleton style keys. They gleamed faintly, as if moonlight was falling on them. 
	Gleamed like the sword.
	 “Keys?” I said.
	Zan shrugged and stepped farther back.
	 “Oh right. We’re gonna spring somebody from jail or open a buried box of treasure.”
	 “You never know.” Zan’s face looked more like one who was staring into the box of treasure than at a set of dusty keys on an ancient farming tool.
	 “Yeah, ok.” I reached down and scooped them up. At least they wouldn’t take up much space.

	 
	We rounded a book-stuffed shelf and bright snowlight glowed at the end of the long aisle. We hurried toward it and tumbled through the open door into the ordinary world of sun and blue sky and crows yelling from the woods.
	I studied my sword in the bright glare of snow and sun. It looked pretty much like something you could find at the Renaissance Faire, or like the movie replica sword I’d got through a catalog (Mom thought it was weird, but she didn't make me send it back... as long as I cleaned my room and washed the dishes). Anything that had seemed uncanny about this sword in the gloom of the antique shed was gone now. I gave it an experimental swing. It was heavy, but the weight sat nicely in my hands. It was like the feel in the reins of well-trained horse; not lugging on you, not leaning, just there, really there. I smiled, slashed at the air. Danced back, left, right, hacking huge silver circles into an unseen Unseelie horde. “Whoo!” The smile turned to a ridiculous grin. Cool, I was all the pirates and swashbucklers and vikings and knights and samurai and Jedi rolled into one. “Hah! Hee-yah!”
	A voice came from behind me, “Where did you find that?”
	I froze, sword in air. I turned to see Kai, his face nearly expressionless, like a horse, but his body was frowning.
	 “It found her.” Zan said.
	Kai stepped forward, his vetwrapped leg making only a slight hitch in his fluid stride. A hand moved and poked me hard in the stomach.
	 “Ga-OOOF!” I flailed backward and dropped the sword.
	 “Ineffective block.” Kai said. He caught the sword before it hit the ground and swung it a few times.
	I straightened, with some effort, sure my face was turning purple.
	My sword spun in the Centaur ’s hands, faster and faster, wheeling like a bird around his torso, across his horse back. It snapped into a guard in front of him. He lowered it, studying the runes on its blade as if reading its history.
	 “This is a good blade.” He stared at the runes running down its length, “A Centaur blade.” For a split second, he looked like he was going to say more, maybe translate those runes. But he didn't.
	 “Whoo-hoo! Coooooollll!” Zan whooped.
	Kai said,  “How did it come to be in the Grandmothers'...”
	 “Yard Sale.” Zan said.
	Kai's ear twitched. It looked annoyed. 
	 “A Centaur blade?” My voice was about the size of a Chihuahua. Maybe a hamster. I thought about walking off and letting Kai have it. Maybe he was annoyed because he hadn't been invited to go along on Magic Item Quest. (We figured he already had all the stuff he needed for his own world, and he wouldn't have fit in the yard sale very well anyway.) Or maybe there was some kind of Centaur thing about mere Human Maidens wielding their swords. Or maybe he just thought I was a dork.
	Kai glanced from me to the shed housing Three Sisters Salvage and Thrifty Necessities. His eyes came back to me. “You will need more than luck and spirit to wield this. Without killing one of us.”	
	Yep, dork. I stood, a great useless lump in the trampled snow, wondering if there was a magic spell big enough to turn me into a real swordbroad. Into someone who cross the mountains and raging rivers and climb the highest tower and find the Spellbook. Who really could help Kai save his world. Probably not. Probably I should bail on this whole thing. Just go home. Tell them to find some other maiden. After all, they probably had time, or could bend it like fence wire. Probably knew all kinds of girls who were at least good at lacrosse or karate or solving puzzles or something. Anybody would be better than Moose, Dorkier Princess.
	 “And you, I suppose, were born with the incredible skills you now possess.” 
	I looked up. The voice was Zan's. He stood, a splash of ridiculous clashing colors, tiny next to Kai's black bulk. Kai was looking down at him, with no expression I could read.
	Still probably thinking what a dork I was.
	Kai let out a breath. One foot stepped back, away from Zan. 
	 “We have people who know how to wield swords. Know how to teach.” Zan said, his voice sounded less like a dorky kid and more like... what? Something older and scarier. Something I was glad was on my side.
	 “We have time. At least a little.” Zan swept the sword out of Kai's hands, his eyes bugging a little as he bent under its weight. He tossed it to me.
	I managed to catch it without impaling my foot. 

~5~
swordbroad

 	We assembled in the vast green space of the Grandmothers’ jungle room; Ian, Bran, Kai, Zan and Tas. All contemplated how to sling a six foot sword on my nearly six foot frame. On a sword belt at my waist, it would plow a furrow in the ground behind me, or trip me and send me onto my face. 
	I could do enough of that without any help.
	Kai was still in his athletic supersuit, at least, the humanish half was, he'd strapped on his basic swordharness again. His sword was slung along his side, but he had little idea how to fit a Centaur blade on a Human form. The others fiddled with it and at last figured out a way to sling it over my back. Earla went to her workshop, with measurements and tracings of my various bodyparts and began producing a sheath and harness to hold the sword.
	Then I spent three hours learning to draw it, with five swordsmen drawing on dozens of styles and thousands of years of swordsmanship trying to figure out how to keep me from impaling the Good Guys. Or myself. 
	A break for late lunch. I wondered how Cora was doing in history. In gym. Better than me, I hoped. I collapsed at the big wooden table and hoped for pizza. I got some kind of healthy looking stuff, heavy on the greenery. I would have sent it back to the kitchen, but Aura gave me the kind of silent look that suggested the cooks would not be trifled with. I ate it and it wasn ’t that bad.
	It still wasn ’t a double pepperoni with anchovies and bacon.

	We walked from the Grandmothers ’ house to the black bank barn in the west of Hawk Circle. Zan danced ahead, leaving no prints on the snow under the trees. I trudged on foot. Kai strode behind, disguised as a black Freisian horse by one of Zan’s illusions. Medium sized, solidly built, archy necked and heavy maned, he would have made even TiffanySpiffany’s horse look like a peasant in the presence of royalty. And the only thing different from Kai himself was the parts from the horse shoulders up.
	Ian came with us, Tas and Bran had vanished earlier on their own missions. Bran was flying a group of ecological lobbyists to D.C. (in a plane, of course). Tas was retraining problem kids by teaching them to train problem horses, up at the indoor arena near the red barn.
	Occasional cars passed us; parents with kids headed toward a Hawk Circle educational program; a van with a dive flag license plate headed for the lake; a beat up Volvo with college students in it. They glanced at the black horse ambling behind me, and kept going. A minivan with little kids inside went by, and half a dozen faces pressed to the window, wide-eyed with wonder.
	 “Horsie?” Kai said, his long-nosed horse head following them.”Why are they saying...”
	 “Don't talk.” I said. “It's too weird.” 
	A bus rumbled up the road toward us, oozing noise from the windows sealed against winter. I heard the sound of a window sliding open, a shouted,  “Hey look, it's...”
	Zan spun, wide-eyed.  “Crrrrap!” He waved his hands frantically at me.
	The face peering out the window stared in puzzlement, then vanished into the gloom of the bus.
	I stared back, forgetting to duck behind Kai.
	 “Somebody you know?” Kai said.
	 “Uh, yeah, sort of.” If you could count the jocks whose favorite sport was Make Fun of the Fatchick.
	 “They didn't see you.” Zan said, “At least, not for more than a second. Sorry, I should have disguised you from the beginning.”
	I looked down, my Wally World parka had morphed into an expensive ski jacket, like the stuff the girls at Stonewall wore. I wondered what my face looked like.
	Kai's disguised horse head swung from me, to Zan, back to me, his body language had the puzzled look of someone trying to round up a memory. “Where have I seen...” the horse said, impossibly.
	 “Uh, the movie we saw last night.” Zan said.
	In Hawk Circle's educational/media center. A Centaur fit in there a whole lot better than in a regular theater. I stared down, spun around, trying to see my butt. Smaller, much smaller.  “Can you just leave it like this?” I asked.
	Zan gave me a look that said when Hawaii freezes over.
 	We rounded a curve in the road and the barn loomed before us, like an ancient castle. My parka, and my butt, returned to their original shape.
	“Welcome,” Zan intoned, in his best action cartoon voice, “to our secret base.” 
	The big bank barn was nearly black with age and weather. Trees shadowed it, vines were in the process of swallowing it whole. The bottom layer of the barn was dark stone, set into the side of a slope, a  “bank”. Above that was vine covered weathered wood reaching up and up to a weathercock accented roof.
	The weathercock was a dragon.
	On the bank side of the barn was a big sliding door that would have admitted a truck (actually, designed to admit tractors and farm equipment), set in that was a Human sized swinging door. Zan slid the wooden bar back and creaked it open. 
	Inside, the adze carved bones of the barn soared off into shadow. Snowlight glinted through cracks between the boards and vines. I felt the need to whisper, like in the Grandmothers ’ flea market shed. This didn’t smell like any barn I was used to; no sweet scent of hay or feed or horse bodies. No poop. There was something faintly... reptilian about the smell, the feel of the place.
	“Not exactly reptilian.” Zan said.
	“What! Are you reading my mind again?”
	“Sorry, sorry! It just leapt out at me. Shielding, I promise, I swear, I'll show you.” He reached against the wall and I heard the familiar click of a light switch. The shadows lit up with the warm glow of electricity. “This is Dragon Woman’s home. She lives below, mostly. But here’s where we train.” 
	“For what?”
	 “Battling orcs on moonless nights, saving the world from impending doom, stopping mad scientists, alien invasions.” he gave me a steely sea grey stare.
	 “You said the ELF quote ‘heals the land, its creatures, teaches the Secondborn’ unquote.” I made air quotes to emphasize the point, “Or maybe that’s all just some kind of cover for your real job?”
	 “We really are trying to save the world from impending doom. Only it’s not mad scientists and aliens and orcs. Humans and their effects on the environment are a lot scarier than orcs.”
	Yeah, you're too right. I watched all those specials on melting glaciers, vanishing tigers, overfished sharks. I thought about what Kai had said, about his people running out of wild. I felt suddenly stupid.
	“Brilliant, Elf-boy.” Ian said, shooting me a sympathetic smile. 
	“Well, I mean, not all humans.” Zan looked away, as if he was trying to round up some better words, but they’d knocked down the fence and galloped off.
	Kai-horse shot him a loaded look, and stopped, shoulder to shoulder with me.
	I stared into the shadowy expanse before us; a stretch of empty wooden floor where farmers in the old days used to park wagons and farm equipment. To left and right, where they would have stacked hay and straw, there were ladders and ropes and nets; a climbing course.
	Ian stepped into the center of that space, bowed slightly, as if entering a temple, or an ancient training school for kung-fu monks.  “Yi, shi, zhing,” he said.
	 “Y’ok, Gobi-Wan Anchovy.” Zan said. He walked silent and light-footed into the barn, hopped up on the low wall bordering the empty hay storage area. He made it look like gravity didn’t exist.
	 “What?” I said, stepping through the door. The floor creaked under my feet.
	 “Mind, body spirit.” Ian replied, sounding like a guru from a kung-fu movie. “To accomplish this mission, they all have to be in balance.” 
	Kai stopped at the door, one hoof testing the wooden floor.
	 “It’s ok,” Zan said. “It holds her weight.” For a moment I flushed red with embarrassment. Then I remembered, Dragon Woman usually hung out here.
	Kai strode into the middle of the empty floor, his hooves thumping hollowly on the ancient wood. Zan gestured and the big dark horse head with the star between his eyes morphed back into Kai’s muscled torso, clad in a ski jacket and his red UnderArmour. He looked up at the ropes and nets and the bumpy things nailed to the walls for climbing. “What's this?”
	“Ropes course, climbing wall. “ Zan said, “Easier than fitting a ninety ton rock wall and a pirate ship in here.”
	I stared up at it apprehensively. I don ’t do ropes, I don’t do walls, I stay on the ground, unless I’m on a horse. I unshouldered my sword and took a few experimental swipes at the air.
	 “I’ll show you,” Zan said brightly, and started toward one of the ropes. He leapt up as if he had anti-gravity sneakers, caught a rope and swung there.
	 “Later,” Ian said, “we have other work to do now.”

	Block, parry, swing, slash. Block, parry, swing, slash. Block, parry, swing, slash. We stood, spaced out across the floor, thrusting at empty air with our real swords, the way a karate class might practice kicks, strikes and blocks without an opponent.
	Then the basic moves were slung into a sort of sword dance. A kata. A ballet of deadly beauty. At least, for Zan, Ian and Kai it was.
	For me, it was like trying to remember how to get out of Merlin ’s Yard Sale. Like fumbling volleyballs and flailing with hockey sticks in gym class. Like dropping ten textbooks and all my homework on the school stairs; right in front of the biggest jock-jerks in class.
	Slash-swing-parry-block ...no, wait, swash-party-blob-sling...no... I swung when I should have parried. I hacked when I should have slashed. I swashed when I should have buckled.
	I collapsed onto the floor, panting.  “I’m never gonna get this!” I wailed.
	Kai stood still, four legs planted like fence posts, staring down at me. Like Rugby when I fell off going over a six inch high cavalletti, and he just looked at me; stupid Human.
	““One of my teachers said to me,” Kai said, “I think, yesterday. Never is a very long time,” He held out a hand, caught mine and hauled me to my feet.
	Silently, Zan held out my sword. I didn’t quite reach for it.
	 “One of mine said,” Ian said, “you have much to learn, but you have come a little way down the road. You can turn back here. Or go on.’”
	Was he saying I could bail on this crazy mission? That they ’d find somebody else? Yeah, they could certainly find somebody else; somebody better, faster, stronger, smarter. Somebody who didn’t get lost going to the school bathroom.
	 “You didn’t turn back when you saw blood on the trail. When you thought you saw a trail rider battling feral dogs.” The voice was Ian’s, the only other Human in this room, the only other Human in the whole crazy conference at the Grandmothers’ where everybody was a unicorn or a dragon or an Elf or a Dwarf or a were-poodle or something. 
	 “You did manage to figure out how to escape from me, when you thought I might not be the hero of the tale.” Kai said wryly.
	Ian smiled,  “I don't know if I could have pulled off throwing a centaur.” He came and stood before me, his green eyes level with mine. His hair was the same earth color as mine, under the sun streaks. “Once upon a time,” he said, “there was this really dorky fat kid. The school bullies couldn’t stuff him in his locker because he wouldn’t fit, so they stuffed him in the bin with all the used gym towels, and once, into the dumpster behind the school.”
	 “His mom had to smear peanut butter on him so the dog would kiss him.” Zan added.
	Ian made the kind of face you make at somebody telling a really dumb joke.
	Zan grabbed it and ran with it,  gesturing and hopping like a mad muppet.  “He knew he’d never get a date, so he started kissing frogs...well, toads... well, he tried, but they all ran away in panic.” A toad hopped out from behind his foot. Then a bullfrog, two green frogs, a pickerel frog and a rather large hellbender salamander.
	I almost smiled. The amphibians hopped and slithered toward the door. The two foot long hellbender wriggled by my ankles, I bobbled aside, wondering if it felt as slimy as it looked.
	Ian said,  “I didn’t really kiss any toads but...”
	 “You?” I tore my eyes away from the hellbender, which looked like grotesque river mud that had come to life. I stared back at Ian's chiseled features.
	 “Yeah, I was a pretty big dork. Then I met some people who showed me how to be who I really am.”  He glanced at Zan, held out a hand and Zan flipped my sword up into the air. It wheeled like a bird and landed in Ian’s hand. He spun it with the kind of powerful grace you see in running wolves. He held it out hilt first to me. ”Things change.”
	Things change. Yeah, not long ago I was shoveling endless poop at Stonewall, now I was standing in a dragon ’s den, learning to swordfight with a Centaur and an Elf. Yeah, me, Moose, Dorkier Princess.
	I took a deep breath, took the sword from Ian ’s hand, “Ok, so now what?”

	The days ran together in a blur of sore muscles and weird health food. Kai had his own practice, with and without me. Bran (and Tas, and Earla and Ian) showed him some moves he hadn't seen before. 
 	Zan showed him a few too; mostly involving thumb exercise, as Kai learned the Way of Nintendo.
	In the Dragon's Den, and in the indoor riding arena, we sparred with practice swords, padded, but weighted like the real thing; me and Kai, me and Zan, me and Bran, me and Ian, me and Tas, me and Ian and Bran. Me and Kai and Tas. Me and Zan and Kai.
 	Me, collapsed on the floor, gasping. 
	We used our real weapons as well, using illusions by Zan as targets in the indoor arena, and the Dragon's Den. Zan, Bran and Ian introduced their favorite weaponry. Bran, and Zan were, as all Elves in all the fantasy tales I'd ever read, great with a bow of any length. Bran also  wore a necklace, a leather thong on which hung a thumb-sized dark silver raven, wings outspread. To any other than his friends, that ’s all it was.
	He clasped a hand around it, moving both hands as if beginning a kung-fu sword form. The raven swelled, grew into a swordhilt. It lit on fire like the sky. A lean blade emerged, drenched in blue light.
	“Skyfire.” He said, in a voice from another time. “She channels the energies of air, sky, light and lightning.” The sword was silent, except when it sizzled through something with a faint echo of thunder and lightning.
	Ian had his rather more ordinary sword, but also a few dark silver disks in a pouch, disks that looked like they might have been found in the Grandmothers’ yard sale, twentieth century version. One looked an awful lot like it might have once covered a cooking pot, another looked like a hubcap, a third was definitely the logo from an old Volkswagen Beetle, a V and W entwined within a circle.
	 “Are we playing Ultimate Frisbee?” I wondered.
	He gave me a half smile, then threw one at Zan's moving illusory target.
	The miniature UFO split in half and exploded in a silent ball of flame.
	 “Whoa!” I said. 
	 “They can do other things.” Ian said, “Knock out an enemy. Bespell one. Or destroy vast tracts of real estate.” He pulled out another one, winged it at Zan's target. This time the target vanished as if it had never been. “And no,” he said to my questioning look, “they don't work for anyone but me.”
	 “Probably a good thing.” I said. If I threw one, it'd be like the destruction of the Death Star, for sure.
	 My ginormous (Zan's word of the week) Centaur sword proved harder to control than the padded practice weapons. But I learned one sword form, then two, then four. I learned about legwork, controlling the distance between you and your opponent. Ian and Bran talked about things like centering and balance and chi. 
	Use the chi Moose. I was definitely chi-impaired. Ian and Kai took my fumbles and falls with stoic patience, though I was sure they were thinking what a huge dork I was. Tas glared at me from under her mane, as if challenging me to look any stupider.
	And, usually I managed to rise to the challenge.

If it all sounds too good to be true… as in, no schoolwork… you’re right. Too good to be true. The Grandmothers didn’t neglect my intellectual nourishment. Math, science, writing assignments, history; all worked into some very odd classroom situations. A writing assignment on Training Potbellied Pigs to Dance (or Clicker Training 101), comparative wing-loading of turkey vultures vs black vultures, American History in the Fur Trade Era (with candlemaking 101 and muzzleloader practice). I hadn‘t escaped manure movers duty either: there were still stalls to be cleaned.

Thankfully, Centaurs cleaned their own.

	 “Gaaaah!” I swung my padded practice sword hard as Bran banked out of the way, light as flight. I face-planted into the sand of the indoor arena.
	Bran laughed.
	I looked up, face red, stomach knotted, like when TiffanySpiffany yelled at me for some stupid thing I'd forgot.
	Bran's hand moved, winglike, come on. Get up. His sword slid out of the way, leaving an opening. He grinned wickedly.
	I yelled something piratelike, “arrrrrr!” and floundered at him, forgetting every swordform I'd just learned.
	He banked out of the way again. Nearly. I connected with his leg and he flipped into his own face-plant in the sand. He rolled to a sit, staring up at me, grinning through plastered sand.  “That's more like it.” From there, he snapped his sword out to catch my leg. I sprawled into the sand beside him. 
	I fell back, staring at the ceiling,  “I suck.” I thought of the size twos at Stonewall, snickering at me, of Her Highness Tiffany, of all the girl jockettes who snorted when I missed a ball that was headed for my team-sports-impaired head.
	 “Black.” Bran said, “and white.” He pointed at Kai, dancing circles around Tas (mounted on a bridleless white horse) and Ian (on a strawberry roan). “What color is a black horse?”
	 “Uh, what?”
	He pointed his sword at Kai's polished bulk, the edges of his mane and tail and fetlocks bronzed by sun, and with sunburned lighter areas on his flanks, belly. The warm indoor lights made him look even browner.
	 “Um, bronze. Brown, chocolate. Umber. Some bluey-black on the darker parts.”
	Bran smiled. He nodded at Tas.  “What color is a white horse?”
	“Is this a trick question? Like what color is George Washington's white horse”
	He shrugged. 
	The horse Tas was riding had faded dapples, a six year old grey Arabian gelding, she'd told us. I said,  “Most white horses are really grey. They start out bay or black or brown, or some other color, then turn whiter and whiter. Till they're white, or mostly white. Some of them have dapples, or have those little chocolate chip marks; 'flea-bitten'.”
	“Or they're cremello, or Perlino, or extreme overo, or sabino.” He started to sound sing-songy, like he was going to break into some kind of awful poetry. “Or Appaloosa, or...”
	I winced. “Wait, what's Perlino?”
	 “A dilute of a dilute of bay.”
	 “Ok, ok, so white horses aren't really white. And black ones aren't really black. What's that got to do with...” I paused, not remembering where this had started.
	 “I suck. And all those size twos at your old stable are snotballs and TiffanySpiffany is the Incarnation of Pure Evil.”
	I made a face, embarrassed. And stared at the sand.
	 “Black and white...” the silver grey raven said, “...the world isn't.”

 	Maybe it was Kai who whispered in someone's ear that I needed more riding instruction before I could journey with the rest of them across Erda. I'd had some at Stonewall, and I'd ridden a cousin's horse a few times before that. I'd learned the basics: walk, trot canter, hand gallop, a few low cavalettis. I knew enough to stay on Kai that night, but partly I'd survived the wild ride on Kai because he did his best to help me stay on. 
	I didn’t think about how we would get from the Mainland to the island of the Centaurs. I guess I assumed they’d have bridges, like we did on the eastern shore. 
	Kai and Tas stood in the center of Hawk Circle’s indoor arena while I lumped around the edges on a patient school horse named Baggywrinkle. He was a dark sorrel Belgian gelding with a profusion of flaxen mane, like a haystack. Huge, broad-barreled, furry, thick legged, he was some kind of ex-Amish plow horse. He jogged politely around the arena, stopping dead in his tracks every thirty feet or so. 
	This is dumb. I already know this stuff. Can't I get a real horse to practice on, instead of Hairy Trotter?
	“More leg!” Tas called, “Push him. Now. NOW!”
	Too late, Baggywrinkle had blundered to a halt again, head down, nearly snoring.
	Kai stood by Tas’s shoulder, mostly saying nothing, his ears twitching back, whether in concentration, or because he couldn’t believe how bad humans could ride, I didn’t know.
	I falumped Baggywrinkle into another lumpy trot, feeling stupid.
	Tas spent a lot of time talking about things like centering and breathing and soft eyes and balance and chi. She said things like;  “pretend the reins you’re holding are two little birds” or  “let your whole body breathe” or “drop your consciousness down within yourself, your chi radiates from your center” or “let the ice cream in your body melt all over the horse and into the ground” when I sloshed in the rising trot. And “be a spruce tree, let down your roots, center yourself and grow”.  
	Despite Baggywrinkle's reluctance to actually move, I wobbled. I weebled. He banged into another lumpy trot, jiggling me like jello.
	“Roots!” Tas called. 
	I looked more like one of those trees that gets blown over in a big wind, grasping at Baggywrinkle's ample mane. Sloshing left. Lurching right. 
	“Let them down into the earth.”
	Lurch lurch lurch.
	“Wouldn’t it be better,” I muttered to Zan as we walked back to the Grandmothers’ house, “if I just rode Kai again?”
	Zan glanced at the trees along the road, at the sky, everywhere but at me.
	“What?” I demanded.
	“Well, he’s still recovering.”
	“Ian finished fixing his leg four days ago.”
	“Not that. From carrying yo...a Human. He’s never carried anyone before. His back was pretty sore.”
	He was sore? I thought about my rubbery legs, turned to fossilized aches a week ago, now being shredded by a school horse and a lot of swordplay. “He was?” I didn’t know whether to laugh or feel sorry for him.
	“He’s big for his clan, but he’s young. Too young to be carrying a rider, he could break down, go lame, wreck his back.” He looked at the ground.
	I didn’t need to read minds to figure out Kai didn’t really want to be hauling around my overstuffed butt. 
	My overstuffed butt continued to bounce on Baggywrinkle like a beach ball on top of another beach ball. 
	Tas continued to say things that didn't make a lot of sense; ice cream, spruce trees, birds, pretend the reins you're holding are two kittens. Tas didn’t say things like Elaine had said; keep your chin up or twitch your left quadrucep back half a millimeter or straighten your shoulders or drop your heels. 
	After a week, the beach balls seemed to be bouncing a whole lot less.

“Ok, “ Bran said, “take a hike.” He’d sheathed his practice sword in the rack by the door, mine and Zan's followed. Bran pulled on his parka. 
I stuffed myself into mine, and stepped out the door to the right, Zan on my heels.
“This way,” Bran said, going leftish, “Haw... shield side...port.”
Zan grabbed my hood and hauled me hawshieldportish.
“I meant, take a hike,” Bran said, striding down over the barn bank, following a path I couldn’t see.
I followed, trying to remember if Luke Skywalker had ever hiked around that swamp planet where he met Yoda, and if that had helped him be a better Jedi.
“Where’re we going?”
“It’s not the destination, but the journey that matters.”
I yawned, thinking that what mattered right now was a giant hot chocolate and some of those oatmeal cakes Grandmother Delphi was so good at making.
Bran wove through the snow and half buried weeds to the big hickories marking the end of the barnyard and the beginning of the woods. Zan danced around him like a crazed ferret, scooping up snow, throwing snowballs into the branches, shaping it into birds flying off into the woods, amber in the late afternoon sun. Overhead, a flight of real birds dipped and rose, a soft sound coming from them that might have been voices or wing noise. 
“What do you hear?” Bran said.
My own feet scrunching through the snow. Just mine, darn Elves make as much noise as an imaginary cottonball dropping on a cottontail bunny. “Mostly me.” I said. “Isn’t there a way to make me walk quieter?”
“Maybe.”
“How?”
“Lighten your feet.”
“What?”
“More yang, less yin.”
He was talking kung-fu, I was thinking some kind of magic spell: ooga booga lighticus maximus. “ Can't you just whip out a magic wand or something? I could practice kungfuyinyang wahzu till I’m blue and not walk like you.”
No answer.
Crunch crunch crunch. Zan winging a wad of snow into the sir, turning it into the USS Enterprise. Then a weird sound: a bad imitation of a starship shifting into warp drive.
Then silence, except for my overly crunchy feet. 
Finally…“What else do you hear?”
Faint wind in the trees. The far off scuttle of a squirrel in the branches. Something that sounded like a dog barking… no wait, a barred owl, calling early in the evening.”Wind... squirrels.. a barred owl.”
“WHO! Who cooks for YOUUUUU! Who cooks for you-aaaallll!” Zan shouted back to the owl. 
We stared at him.
“That's what they sound like,” he said.
“This is not a third grade class.” Bran said, “I think she knows what they sound like.”
Zan bounced off, leapt up, swinging from a low branch.
 “Smell anything?” Bran said.
I sniffed through a slightly runny nose. “What do you smell?”
“Ravenkin,” he said, pointing at himself, “birds have a lousy sense of smell.”
“Grandmother Delphi’s chocolate chip cookies.” I said.
 Zan snorted from overhead.  “Not!”
For just a moment a wistful look crossed Bran’s face, like he wished he cold smell them.
Zan leapt to the next tree, then to the ground. We crunched on through the woods, following nothing that looked like a trail.
“Look there.” Bran pointed down, to snow.
“Snow.” I said, clueless.
“Look closer.”
“Still looks like snow.”
He gestured and a ball of pale blue light congealed in his hand, he held it down to cast a faint light lengthwise across the surface of the snow.
Now I could see faint shadows, lines, impressions.
“Oh. Not exactly tracks…” I squinted. “Are those feathers?” A fan of feather prints, like part of a wing. A big wing. And a faint trail of some kind, little scratchy blits that suddenly ended.
“Here,” Bran pointed, “is the trail of a mouse. He came from that brushpile over there,” he pointed up, “and the broadwinged hawk was waiting there.” His hand swooped over the marks on the snow.
“How do you know it was a broadwing?”
“Woods hawk, about this size, hunting on the ground, not in the air, like an accipiter.” He paused.
“You see more than just the stuff in the snow, don’t you?” Stuff humans couldn’t see, ever, no matter how well they learned to read the signs in the snow.
“Yes. But you are not blind.”
We walked on. “You don't always leave no tracks.” I observed. Bran was definitely sinking in a bit, leaving footprints.
“It requires a certain amount of energy and focus to walk invisibly. There is no need now.” He stopped, looking up at a tall straight tree trunk.
“What do you see?” I asked.
He put his hand on the trunk, “Put your hand here.”
Ok, it's a tree trunk. “Yeah?”
“Be the tree.”
“What?”
	“Imagine... you are the tree. Feel your roots going down into the earth, feel yourself reaching up into the air, into the light.”
	“Right. Is this like Tas's be one with the horse thing?”
	He gave me a patient look.
	Sure, Gobi-Wan Anchovy, I can be the tree. I stood there, one hand on the tree trunk, feeling dumb. “What kind of tree is it?” I asked.
	“Does knowing the common name,and where it fits on a taxonomic chart help you understand it?”
	“Well,yeah, that's what they tell us in science class, anyway.”
	“Hmmph.” He moved off a few feet and sat on a log, part of a tree that had fallen long ago.
	I stood there, one hand still on the tree, wondering what I was supposed to feel. Tree. Big. Smoothish bark. Really straight trunk. Doesn't move much.
	“It's a tulip tree, if you must know.” Bran said.
	Zan was gone, but I heard crunching sounds fromsomewhere overhead, like he was playing Tarzan or something. “It grows tulips?”
	“The green flowers look a bit tuliplike. It's Latin name is Liriodendron.”
	“Sounds Elvish, somehow.”
	He half smiled. “Just be the tree for awhile.”
	Right. Imagine ice cream melting down the little birds in your hands and kittens... chi, freeze, sneeze. How long are we gonna stand out here and talk to trees. I'm tree-impaired.
	“Stop thinking. If your mind is like an ocean in a hurricane, you could throw a battleship in there and nothing would happen. But if you drop a pebble into still water, the ripples go out, and out...”
	“I thought we were talking trees.”
	Bran closed his eyes,as if he was searching for extreme patience.
	I looked up the tree trunk, perfectly straight. “What do you see when you look at a tree?”
	“It's not so much what you see.” Then he was silent, and perfectly still, as if he had frozen there. He was looking at something far away... or inside far away.
	I tried to imagine being the tree. Tried to imagine not having a brain full of hurricanes. OK, reach up with your branches. Reach down with your roots. Darn, there's that squirrel again, boy do they itch...
	Then, for just a moment, It almost made sense.

 Later that night Zan made good on his promise to teach me to shield my thoughts from people who could pick brains the way I picked steamed crabs. 
	 “Picture a bubble of light around you,” he said.
	Rays, waves, particles, I didn't know light came in bubbles. I squinted and tried to visualize one of those wobbly things I blew out of my Magic Soap Wand in the summer when I was ten.  “What color is this light thingie?” I asked.
	Zan sighed.  “Barbie pink.”
	 “Ewwww.”
	 “Ok, monkey vomit violet.”
	 “Wonderful. I can visualize it just perfectly now.” My pukey purple bubble wobbled, wafted away in the wind and popped.
	Zan stood on one of the fence posts by the riding arena, perfectly still.  “First you must ground yourself.” 
	I was already on the ground, and that was where I was going to stay, certainly not on any fence post.
	He stood on one leg, the other drawn up, making him look a lot like a red-headed heron.  “Be like a tree, your roots extending into the earth.”
	 “Not trees again, what is it with Elves and trees? I thought we were doing bubbles?”
	He gave me a painfully patient look.
	 “Ok, roots.” I tried to picture it and the big wind blew me over again, just like in the riding lesson. Again, and again I tried to stand on one leg. To picture tree roots anchoring me. To picture the lifted leg light as a feather.
	I got a lot of practice falling over.
	Zan's hands moved up, then out, then sideways, in time with his breath.  “Push out your aura, like this.”
	My who? He was starting to sound like a refugee from the sixties.
	“I am a refugee from the sixties. And you're not shielding!”
	I snorted. “Bubbles, shields, auras, tree roots, what's with all this fairy tale stuff!” I really just wanted to go play with my sword some more, or ride. Mostly ride. Solid, practical stuff that would serve me... all of us... on this trip. I was stuck with imagining bubbles.
	Zan stopped in mid-demonstration of whatever weirdness came next, one hand poised as if he was going to push his bubbly aura roots straight through my head.  “F-a-e-r-i-e.” He enunciated each letter carefully, as if engraving it on my frontal lobes. The wacky redheaded kid who looked like he'd be right at home on a skateboard or in front of the latest video game was gone. Physically he was still there, he still looked the same, only he didn't. His sea grey eyes had the glint of steel in them. Of something older than steel. It was like the difference between the eyes of a Labrador retriever and a wolf. I blinked.
	 “If you call us that,” his voice was nearly a whisper, like a distant hurricane, “then, in your heart, spell it right.”
	He wasn't talking about spelling, no no, not at all.

	
	More riding, more sparring, more shoving my aura into weird shapes and colors never before seen by the eyes of woman and contemplating the empty space between my thoughts.
	Baggywrinkle would go twice around the arena now before blundering to a halt. Transitions from trot to canter and canter down to trot became less like heaving a tank into motion, and more like actual riding.
	In the Dragon’s Den, Zan danced circles around me, scoring a dozen hits on me before I could go from hack to slash.
	Tas was two hands shorter than me, and hit like a kicking mare. Then she’d teleport. Phoomph! And she’d be somewhere behind me, swinging.
	“Don’t let that startle you! Be prepared! Turn! Listen! Feel!”
	Sorry, special effects on screen are one thing, but it’s a little hard to get used to somebody two feet away simply ceasing to be there. Then being there somewhere else, usually about to rain blows on my head.
	Phoomph. My eyes registered Tas's teleported appearance a split second after her sword snapped into my helmet.
	“Don't wait for your eyes, they'll decieve you.” Tas said.
	Bran grinned, hefted his own sword and nodded at Tas.
	Phoomph. She vanished. His sword swept in a circle. 
	Phoomph.She reappeared, tumbled to the ground as his blow connected, rolled back up, a wicked half-smile on her face. “That's how it's done,” she said to me.
	Bran motioned for me to step up for my next round of battering.
	Phoomph.
	Phoomph.
	Phoomph.
	A dozen Phoomphs later I whomped Tas as she appeared. 
	I grinned at Bran, straightened out of my fighting stance.
	Tas rolled, fluid, quick.
	And vanished.
	A split second later I was in a headlock.
	 “Finish what you start,” she said.

	Bran stood, his pose more than casual, more like he was half asleep. The Dragon's Den echoed around us with late winter wind. I lifted my sword into a guard. He nodded.
	I charged. I thundered down on him like a locomotive, a tank, a herd of mad Clydesdales.
	I didn't see him move, I swear I didn't see him move. He must have warped the space-time continuum. I landed flat on my face on the ancient boards of the Dragon's floor.
	 “Use your opponent's energy against him,” he said. “Or her.”
	I rolled to my feet, a little less floundery than last week. I snapped back into a guard position. He motioned me to come on. 
	No thundering tanks this time, I advanced more carefully, trying to let moves we'd practiced come without thinking.
	Bran grinned, blocking faster than the strike of a heron ’s beak. Raven’s beak. I know he wasn’t going as fast as he could, because with each practice he had gotten faster. 
	I whammed a good solid one into his midsection and he went down, laughing.  “Good one!” Then he lept back into a guard, taunting me to come and get him. I charged and he wasn't there. I whirled and he did another impossible move; the kind of thing they do on wires in kung-fu films. I swung and my sword swept through his hair.
	 “This isn't Hair Design 101” Bran taunted. He made a ridiculous face, then followed it with sound effects; a hair dryer.
	I grinned back,  “Come back here, and I'll make sure you won't need your blow-dryer this month!”
	He spun, did another insane wire-fu move, landed a blow, straight onto my block. I flung his sword, and him, back. He sprawled, in a perfect faceplant on the floor.
	 “Hah!” I yelled.
	He rolled to his feet with the grace of a cat, sword at the ready.  “Not bad for someone who hasn't had a thousand years of practice.”

	
	Kai was not as fast as Bran, but had far more raw power. All the power of Horse behind his humanoid half.
	I tried to block Kai ’s strikes and despite the stiffness still in his back, from galloping across half of Pennsylvania carrying a rather large lumpy Human, I got rolled across the floor. 
	 “He’s bigger than you.” Ian observed.
	 “No kidding, Sherlock.” I said. “How’m I supposed to fight him?”
	 “You can’t stop him,” Ian said. 
	Bran gestured to me,  “How did I evade you?”
	 “Use your opponent's strength against him.” I repeated his words to me.
	Ian stalked out onto the floor, nodded at Kai and raised his sword.
	Kai swung and Ian met the sword, slid aside with a sweep of his own sword and smacked Kai on the rump.
	One hind leg lashed out and tapped Ian in the middle of the chest, he went down with an “OOOF!”
	“You missed that last block.” Bran observed.

	Someone decided our training should include aerobics. Jogging, specifically. The only jogging I wanted to do was on a horse. I jog, on foot, like a walrus. If Kai thought I looked stupid, he didn ’t say so. He danced ahead, just out of reach (yeah, easy for you Mr. Four-legged). But he might have gone faster. And he didn't.
	We learned to fight on the side of a hill. Now it was Kai's turn to look stupid. He bumbled, he stumbled. He fell on his face.
	I started to laugh, then choked it into silence.
	 Bran acknowledged his flying, snowstorm tumble with,  “Guess you don’t have any ski resorts on your island.”
	 “It lacks hills. And especially lacks snow.” Kai said. “But sand and water can be as tricky.” He lunged back onto his feet and came on, swinging.
	We climbed Hawk Circle ’s hills; up, down, up, down, till I was dizzy and out of breath. Kai sat down on his horse butt, glaring at the rocky, muddy, snowy mess we’d made, and the unforgiving landscape so different from his own.
	We traded glances.
	I grinned, then chuckled. The sight of a big, butt-kicking Centaur sitting on his rump on the side of a steep rocky hill was ridiculous. I tried to choke the laugh into a cough. It didn ’t work.
	He scowled at me, a scowl that came more from his narrowed eyes and the tilt of his ears than his non-existent eyebrows, and stone-quiet face. Then he cracked a smile. Finally he laughed too.
	I wanted to ask him a million questions, how he found the way here, the ship, the Gate, what his home looked like, what color his mom ’s hair was. I tried to think of where to begin.
	He rose, shook himself off, glanced at the sky, going grey with setting sun and dense cloud that wanted to snow but couldn ’t. “We should go now.” He turned and headed down the hill.

	I advanced to a better school horse; a big grey Percheron cross named Scrimshaw. He knew some advanced dressage moves that Baggywrinkle didn ’t know. I learned leg yielding and shoulder-in and side-pass and turns on haunches and forehand. I learned to not fall off going over twelve inch cavallettis. It wasn't just riding anymore, it was ballet on horseback.
	I don't know if being Ring Assistant made me feel better, or worse. I stood in the center of the arena (unless something on the student's gear needed adjusted, or a rail needed raised, or a gate needed opened, or...) and watched Tas give lessons. There was the five year old who was definitely infinitely better than I could ever hope to be. There was the handicapped kid who could jump a two foot fence, with no hands, (literally, no hands, or arms either). There was an autistic kid who could communicate better with horses than people; especially the zebra hybrid with the broad ears I’d first seen in the Grandmothers’ barn the night Kai arrived. A recovering addict whose counselor was a big Appaloosa. A woman fleeing abuse, learning to trust again on Baggywrinkle. Others for whom the horses were a way to journey to a better place. My job was to watch. Watch the riders. Watch the horses. Mainly watch the horses. Learn their language. Learn when they were going to break their gait ten strides before they did it. Learn which horse would work best for what rider. Learn what they were saying with their ears, their body language, their faces, still except for their deep eyes and their radar dish ears.
	It was hard to be still. To only watch when I wanted to be galloping on the wind. To just listen. 
	I spent a lot of time in the Dragon ’s Den, hacking and slashing, swashing and buckling, or sitting still and staring into space. They called it meditation. That was even harder than all the swashing and buckling. I learned to turn the wobbly imaginary bubble into a solid one that could block Zan's ability to read me. And Kai's. 
	 “Good.” Bran told me. “Not all of Kai's folk may be on your side.”
	Hack slash, swash buckle. I began to get out of the way of Kai’s heavy blows, and Tas’ power punches. I started to block Ian’s combo moves. I even managed to hit Zan, once.

 	Between bouts there was more healthy food served up by the Grandmothers, and Ian and Earla. Fruits and vegetables in every shade of the rainbow (and some I was sure hadn’t been seen by the eyes of Man or Woman). Beans and nuts and seeds and grains, as if I were training to be a Centaur. 
	“It’s not a diet, it’s a lifestyle.” quothe Ian, tossing something in a wok. 
	I rolled my eyes. 
	Then he moved in a way only jaguars could. 
	I reconsidered. “What's that stuff?” I pointed to the stir-fry.
	“Olive oil.” He named some vegetables that I was sure were from some other planet.
	I sniffed it. Not exactly Booger King fries. 
	He moved again, muscles bulging like a lion.
	OK. If that stuff would make me look like his little sister, I'd trade in my McDeathburger frequent fryer card.
	It wasn’t all green stuff, though; Earla would sometimes whip up a batch of wicked chocolate brownies. Dense, chocolate death brownies. Even better than Mom's. Mom's, which lasted about half a day when she made them. (Who me? Oh no, chocolate pixies, I swear!) One of Earla's was enough. 
	There were push-ups, crunches, leg lifts .
	I gained strength, stamina, bruises.
	 “Is all this really necessary?” I asked Ian.
	 “It’s not a video game,” he said, “you can’t just hit reset and start again.” He paused, glanced down, “Maybe you should see Grandmother Delphi about getting a better fitting wardrobe.”
	I flushed, I was used to shopping in the fatchick department. Alone, without any friends to laugh at the size labels. Then I looked down, following Ian ’s gaze. The jeans I was wearing were sagging at half mast. I needed a size or two smaller. Maybe three.
	Tas gave Ian a light smack on the back of the head, ruffling his hair.  “Men,” she said to me. “See me after practice. We’ll do something about your wardrobe.”
	She sauntered off, me staring after her in disbelief. 
	And what did she mean, anyway?
	I soon found out. Tas, Earla and me, stuffed into Tas's Jeep, rolling up into the mall parking lot. We headed in, me still feeling mystified, and a little uncertain with Tas, Warrior Queen of Doom in command. 
	 “I hate the mall,” she said. Ahead of her, the crowds parted like waves around the bow of a mighty battleship. Maybe she knew how to shove her aura into the shape of a giant battering ram. “Noise. Chaos. Screaming kids. Fake plants. Signs.”
	 “Sign, sign, everywhere a sign, blocking out the scenery, wasting my mind...” Earla, singing in an amazing, low-pitched girl country star kind of way.
	Tas snorted,  “All this stuff nobody really needs.” She glared at the crowds, “Humans.” She muttered so low we almost couldn't hear her.
	I shot her a startled glance.
	 “I know, they all annoy the hell out of you.” Earla said, shooting a pointed glance in my direction.
	 “Certain ones.” Tas grumbled.
	 “Most of them.”
	 “Selected idiots.” Tas snorted.
	 “What about the biosphere we are all inextricably part of?” Earla said, “The Great Circle we are all part of?”
	 “So's pond scum.” Tas muttered. “And ticks.”
	 “We all have breathed molecules breathed by Einstein, Buddha, Rembrandt, Jesus. Molecules of water that lived in the blood of dinosaurs flows through all our veins.”
	I stared from one to the other.
	 “Some have just not come so far yet on their journey.” Earla said.
	 “Some are still at the dock.” Tas said. She glanced at me. Her face softened, just a hair, “Ok. Some are well over the horizon, and have left the dock far behind.”
	We passed an electronics store, and Earla was sucked in, the way some horses are sucked back toward the barn when you'd rather they went the other way. Barn gravity. Electronic store gravity. Hardware store gravity. Home improvement store gravity. Tas lost her in the bookstore, then lost me trying to find Earla. 
	 “Coms!” she grumbled, “Next time we bring coms!”
	 “And have you melt them down.” Earla said.
	 “There must be something in those bags that could prevent that.” Tas pointed at the massive booty Earla was toting.
	Tas carried no bags (though she produced a wallet from some hidden pocket in her coat at the bookstore). She eyed every clothing rack, every store window, occasionally pulling me up beside one, holding up jeans or shirts or other stuff and raising a questioning eyebrow. 
	 “Sure, that's cool.” I'd say, then she'd put it back on the rack.
	So, like when are we actually going to buy something?
	I must have been thinking louder than I thought because Tas said, “We don't need to.” A trace of a wicked little smile touched her lips.
	Earla grinned, “Our present culture frowns on shapeshifters who appear stark nekkid.”
	“What?”
	“She can make stuff.” 
	 “Ooohhhh. Too bad I can't shapeshift.” I said, eying Tas's considerably leaner, and shorter, frame.
	 “The clothes adjust to the wearer, for a certain time after they're made.” Earla said.
	I glanced at Tas, glowering at something on a rack. She snorted, held out an overpriced T-shirt with a brand name plastered across the front.  “You have to pay a mint to be somebody's billboard, shouldn't they pay you to wear their ads?”
	I never really thought about it before. At school, it was all about the Labels: whether the big billboard on your chest said the right brand name, that was the measure of your Coolness Factor. Back at Hawk Circle, we retired to the indoor arena. A wind sprang up out of nowhere, swirled wet and sand and...
	Poof! A strong looking fourteen hand mare stood in the middle of the arena, a mostly white overo pinto; a scribble of chestnut ran along her back, a patch of chestnut on her chest was shaped like a wolf's head, and a splot of chestnut covered the top of her head and one eye. Her mane was blond and white, as was her tail. 
	I knew she was a pooka, but I stared anyway, I'd never seen her transform before.
	She eyed me with one blue eye, then...
	Poof! Tas-Elf in a new costume. (Crap. I'd never look like that. The stuff I'd liked in the store looked awesome on her. It was going to look ridiculous on me.) 
	A storm of wet sand falumphed onto the floor of the arena.
	I cranked my mouth out of large-mouth bass mode and found some words.  “Cool. That's how you put the arena's sand floor in, huh?”
	She almost laughed.  “Yeah. About eight hundred pounds of sand and water each time. Took awhile.”
	 “Did you have to learn to do that? Or did you just come that way?”
	 “Even babies have to learn to sit up. To crawl. To walk. Even Elf babies. I followed that mustang mare for thirty years. When she passed on, she left me a gift.” She paused. “To shapeshift you need the skin of the creature you are becoming. Or part of it.” She peeled off the hoodie she was wearing, and the jeans. Handed them to me.
	 “This'll fit?” I said uncertainly.
	She didn't answer. She did say,  “her name was Wolf. As is mine.”
	I balanced on one foot on the blue tarp spread on the sand, wiggled one foot down a pants leg, then the other.
	They fit. Perfectly.
	The skin of the creature you are becoming. An eerie tingle walked up my spine. Pookawear. Pookaskin. 
	Tas shifted again, and the tough little mustang stood there, twin to a mare long gone. She tossed her mane and the wind blew and the sand fell and I had a T-shirt and ski pants. 
	 “They'll be warm or cool as you need.” Tas said. “And waterproof.”
	Pookaskin. No brand names splattered across the chest or butt or wherever. I wondered if Tas had followed the mare alone. Lived in a tent. A tipi. A cabin. A cave. Or under the stars like the horse she was becoming.
	Pookaskin. What was I becoming?

	More swashing, buckling, orienteering, orienteering at night. Bran led us on long forays under the stars, using them alone for navigation, an art he seemed to know well. Kai seemed also to know a lot about the stars, how to tell where he was from them, and the stories written in them.
	We paused on the snowlit side of a hill, Kai stared up at the light-hazed sky.
	 “Guess your sky is darker.” I said.
	He looked down at me, startled.
	“The stars are gone. Only a little mist, but so much light! You said that the night you came here.”
	“Oh. Yes.”
	 “We call it light pollution.” I pointed up at the few stars visible through the haze. “It's only happened in the last century or so. When we got electricity. Before that we just had candles and campfires, like you do, I guess.”
	 “Ah, yes.”
	 “Guess your stars would be different, but you seem to know a lot about ours.” 
	 “The same stars, according to those who know such things. But not in the same places for time slips differently between the worlds.”
	 “Dragon Woman said that, about time, in our conference, the first day you were here. Then how do you know our sky?”
	 “There are libraries in Erda, like the one at Hawk Circle. I often went to the mainland to study in them: my folk maintain a mostly oral tradition.” He paused. “When you were engaged in your own battles of learning, I was in Hawk Circle’s library, and their planetarium, as well.”
	 “How would you have our star charts in your libraries?”
	 “We too have Gatesingers, and Gatewalkers. Though none on our island.” He paused, as if there was something he almost wanted to say. “Nearly none.” He said it so softly I almost didn’t hear it. “We do not travel beyond our borders. But there are those who have, and they left their tales. Maybe traveler’s tales, I thought. Maybe not true. But here I am.” 
	Before I could ask more; how he ’d found the book, and how he’d found the Gate, and what Gatesinger he couldn’t mention, he turned his eyes to the north star and strode off, me in tow. I wondered what other traveler’s tales, found only in books, might be true.

	Next was climbing; half the ropes course in Dragon Woman ’s barn; the easy part, Zan said. 
	Yeah, right. Easy for you Elf-boy, with an agility of 102.
	Kai was excused from this exercise, though he seemed to be pretty good at throwing and tying rope. When I had got to the top of Dragon Woman’s Rope Course From Hell (only dangling from my safety harness three times), they sent me aloft in the pirate ship.  
	“Privateer!” Zan emphasized the word, “Government sanctioned, with a letter of marque and reprisal. America was a young country. Sort of a teenager. A willful rebellious teenager from the point of view of the British Empire, which was heavily involved in the Napoleonic Wars, fighting that short French guy. The Brits had the world's best butt-kicking navy. Ours sucked.  But the Bay spawned an answer with her twisting, narrow waterways and quirky winds.” He was beginning to sound like a narrator for the History Channel. I was beginning to wonder if I could move fast enough to stuff my hat in his mouth. 
	“In the golden Age of Piracy, back in the early 1600s and early 1700s, ships were broad and bluff bowed, like Haflingers, Morgans, or Shetland ponies.” Here Zan paused to demonstrate. His hands moved and a ship sailed out of them, golden and round bellied as any Shetland. “But before the American Revolution, Bay shipbuilders began building sharper bowed, quick, agile schooners. Pilot schooners, they called them. By the War of 1812  they were like the jet fighters of their day, 'schooners, pilot boat built' or 'Baltimore Clippers', wicked fast and agile. Long, lean cutlass bladed hulls, usually black. Raked masts, vast clouds of sail.” One materialized in his hands, looking like a bird in flight. “They could outrun what they couldn't outgun, and outgun what they couldn't outrun.” Smoke billowed from the sides of the ship as it fired its cannons. “The privateers took enemy ships as ‘prizes’, or ran blockades with their own trade goods.” The ship morphed into a galloping black horse with a cloaked rider. “Sort of like Robin Hood, or Zorro.” 
	He had more to say about privateers and 1812, but the tiny little word schooners sailed in one of my ears and right out the other, without ever unloading their cargo. I stared up at the mile high maze of rigging, on a hundred foot ship afloat in the diving quarry, wondering what the heck it was doing there, and where did they think it could go, in a quarry.
	 “It’s only about a hundred feet to the top.” Zan was saying.
	Whatever. I wasn’t going all the way up there. I interrupted Zan’s stream of verbiage,  “Why is there a ship in the diving quarry?”
	 “Same reason all the horses have sailing terms for names. Bran was a privateer in the War of 1812. And the American Revolution. And some other stuff I’ve forgot. Before that he battled pirates, and slavers. Travelled with Vikings, explorers.”
	Vikings? How old was he, anyway? Out loud I said, “A raven shapeshifter, on a ship? A seal maybe, a whale shipshaefter, er shapeshifter, but...”
 	 “Before humans invented airplanes, they flew with sails.” Zan’s eyes went to Kai, standing on the part of the dock that wasn’t floating, glaring up at the rigging. “Or on the backs of horses.”
	“Speaking of horses, why does the ship have a horse color for a name? It’s not even pink.” It was, in fact, black; black hull, black masts. The sails, furled, were the color of a medium bay horse. There was a carved wooden sign on the bow, like the nameplates on horses’ stalls, it said Roane. 
	“Not ‘roan’ as in...” Zan said.
	 “I know what roan is.” I snapped. I launched into a Zanlecture, just to prove it. “Roan is either black, bay or chestnut with white hairs. Grey horses get lighter, turning white as they get older. Roans stay the same medium shade of grey, but only their necks and bodies are grey. Their manes, tails, legs and faces stay the original horse color; black, bay, chestnut. The black based roans are called blue roan. The bay or chestnut based ones are called red or strawberry roan, and they look quite pink.”
	Zan made a face, embarrassed, annoyed, maybe both at once, “Roane, with an ‘E’ on the end, as in Seal Folk, selkies, seal shapeshifters. It’s Celtic.”
	“Oh. Why,” I repeated, “is it in a quarry?”
	Zan gave me a pirate smile, as if there was a very long story behind that. He opened his mouth as if he might start telling it.
	 “Ok, longstory someothertime.” I stared up at the mile of...ok, hundred feet of rigging I had to climb.
	All I had to do was climb the shrouds; these were stout lines that ran from the masts to the sides of the ship, between them ran  ‘ratlines’, forming a sort of rope ladder to the sky. Climb the shrouds and grab the favor hung there; an embroidered wisp of cloth, like a lady would give a knight errant. There were four, in colors like you’d find at horse shows; blue, red, yellow, white. First, second, third, fourth places. The blue was hung the highest.
 	It was kind of like Dragon Woman ’s Rope Course. Maybe easier.
	Except that it was moving. If it moved a little bit down on deck, it moved a lot more farther up. The quarry was a deep, clear lake forming by people digging a hole in the earth a hundred years ago, looking for limestone. When they stopped digging and turned off the pumps, the hole (dug below the water table) filled with water. There were no streams in or out. Tall limestone cliffs rose on nearly all sides,  not much space for the wind to kick up waves. 
	No problem.
	Bran was perched on the bowsprit, singing.
	The Roane had been standing like a quiet cowpony with its tail swishing gently. The first time I climbed, I could feel faint motion on deck, then more as I climbed higher. Then the wind picked up a little, and with it, some wave ripple on the quarry’s still surface. The second and third time, still not too bad, though there was more motion now. It was kind of like riding a very large horse. I pulled out my (Elf-proofed by Earla digital) camera and took a couple of shots (just to prove I’d been there).
	Bran kept singing. 
	I was halfway up, the fourth time, feeling like I should whip out a cutlass and shout arrrrr! or something. 
	The wind came out of nowhere, roaring down the white walls of the quarry. The waves reared and tossed their manes like wild horses.
	The mast in front of me swung like a sword. I clutched the shrouds and clipped my safety harness fast.  “What...?”
	The white walls of the quarry vanished in a wall of rain and wind. I clung to the shrouds, somewhere in my stomach, a bunch of eels were having a wild party. 
	 “Higher!” I heard a voice below me shout, “A little higher.”
	I looked down and saw Zan ’s wild red mane, blowing in the wind. “Are you nuts?” My voice came out in something far less than heroic. I felt like a rider on a bronc. 
	Zan scrambled past me on the inside of the shrouds (leaning backwards),  “Come on, race you to the top.”
	“You are nuts!” But was Moose, Dorkier Princess going to be beaten by a mere boy? Even if he was nearly semi-immortal and had an agility off the scale? Neither wind nor rain nor Dark Knights would stay me from my appointed destiny. I clutched, I clung, I clipped, I unclipped, I inched. I found myself staring at Zan from the other side of the shrouds. The cliché, ‘wind knocked out of my sails’ came to mind. I started to say, “I guess...” you were here first, after all, you’re the Elf boy with an agility of 102. 
	He reached, the last favor was blowing in the wind above his head, just out of his reach. Through the rain, he shot me a crooked Elf grin.
	It wasn ’t out of my reach, if I stretched a bit. I reached, the wisp of blue cloth came loose and into my hand. “Whooo-oooh!”
	Zan echoed me, howling like a wolf. From below came an answering howl, an eerily accurate wolf-whoop. Bran grinned up at me through the rain.
	We climbed down to a deck, rolling and pitching like a horse in a gallop. Kai was scrambling up and down the smooth, skateboard ramp curve of the deck, matching swordblows with Ian. He slid, he teetered, he tripped over cannons, he fell. He got up again.
	Kai looked even more ridiculous than I ’d felt aloft. But every time he fell, he got up again, and came on, fighting.
	Finally Bran signaled a halt. He whispered something into the air and the wind seemed to soften. The wall of rain thinned. For a moment I could see something, something that wasn ’t the white limestone walls of the quarry. Sun, glinting through clouds low on a horizon full of water.
	 “What?” I started to say. Then it faded, and we were back in still water, white cliffs rising around us, with the Pennsylvania woods beyond. I stared at Bran.
	Bran looked back, his eyes like deep sea, his mouth quirked in a privateer grin.  “Water connects everything.”

	With the help of Tas, Ian and Bran, Kai and Zan and I searched out gear for the trip; packs and sleeping bags and clothing that wouldn ’t look out of place in Erda. Wool and silk and leather and rough linen. Simple and beautiful, in earthy browns and blues. I pulled on the tunic and leggings and felt like I'd already stepped into a faerie tale. (Yeah, Zan,I spelled it right). We all had swords and bows and knives already. We found camping tools; knives, pots, pans, saws. The Grandmothers packed preserved food in waxed cloth, in light wooden casks. Ian put together first aid gear. There were whistles for everyone (warnings, communication over distance). We learned a signalling system (hand and sound). 
	There was a language spell for those of us who didn ’t speak the common tongue of that land. 
	“Waitaminute.” I said, to Grandmother Delphi, “Kai speaks perfect English.” As in, don’t they all in Erda? And, why do we need a language spell?
	“Have you asked him how he learned it?” she said.
	He wasn’t there at the moment, since he apparently already knew the Common Language, which clearly wasn’t English. He hadn’t said much about his own journey to Hawk Circle. “He doesn’t talk much. In any language.”
	 “Maybe no one has ever listened to him.” 
	I gestured at the heavy book Delphi was paging through, searching for the Language Spell,  “While you’re at it, maybe you can find a swordchick spell in there somewhere.”
	She gave me a sweet, bright-eyed smile,  “No dear, you have to come at that by another road.” She paused, “You’re on it already.”
	Later I collapsed on the down comforter in my Spare 'Oom. That other road was pretty freaking rough; full of deep mud and lots of ruts and rocks and highwaymen. Adventures looked so easy in the movies. 
	And they all came out right in the end.
	Didn ’t they?

	The sun was going down with that hard orange light with deep blue shadows that you only get on winter snow, or white sand summer beaches. I ’d taken Scrimshaw out for a trail ride, bareback, and was crunching back to the red barn, feeling cozy and comfortable on his broad, warm back. It was a good break from the relentless training, and good training too, for me and for Scrimshaw; striding, sometimes trotting through the snow,  the varied terrain, different smells and sights and sounds of the winter twilight. I'd seen the first great horned owls drift across the fields in search of mice under the snow, or careless rabbits. We'd seen deer in their shadowy tree-grey winter coats stalk silently out of the woods. Scrimshaw had snorted in startlement at the sudden drifty movement of a fox crossing the trail. I’d almost forgotten quests and spellbooks and The Sword of Doom, and being Valerie, Dorkier Princess. I let Scrimshaw into his stall, and passed the indoor arena.
	The door was open and I could hear faint hoofbeats in the arena ’s deep sand. The sound of someone training. Someone from Hawk Circle, the tourists and students had all gone home. I peered in.
	Kai was dancing. Alone, without any music I could hear, clad in the gear he ’d been wearing when he arrived; bowcase and sword sheaths, with one sword still missing.
	He danced; the long strides of an extended trot, the rounded, circular motion of collected trot and canter, an elegant controlled pirouette, then a fantastic leap, a lash with hind legs. A slow rear, his arms and torso moving like a martial artist, a dancer. He drew the huge sword and swung it around himself in slow motion, his other hand holding an imaginary twin to it. It was like tai-chi with a horse. Like the woman at Stonewall who rode Olympic level dressage. It was perfect; horse and Human body all one. I couldn ’t picture me doing it, with a horse or without one.
	He slowed, bowed, east, I thought. Then he turned and saw me. For a moment his still face showed startlement. Then, maybe, something like embarrassment.
	 “Wow.” I managed to say.
	‘I didn’t know...” you were there, watching.
	“I didn’t mean to...” interrupt you. Intrude on your personal space. 
	We both laughed, sort of nervously.
	 “Where did you learn that?” I managed to say.
	 “I’ve had many good teachers.” He paused, half smiled, “I tried outside, in the snow.” His face twitched like he’d tasted something bad. “I had not seen snow before I came here.”
	 “Just a lot of sand, I guess.”
	 “Yes. Though my mother remembers when it snowed once, a little, and she and her friends made balls of beach sand and snow and threw them.”
	I laughed, picturing Centaur kids throwing sandballs on a beach.  “Snow’s hard to run in, if you’re not used to it. You did ok when we were running from the Unseelie.”
	 “You can do many things when your life is at stake.” He paused, looked at me, “Or the lives of others.”
	 “Yeah. I don’t think I ever thanked you.”
	 “For what?”
	 “Saving me from those Unseelie that night. Bringing me here.”
	 “You saved me as well. And it was you who brought me here.”
	 “Oh.” My eyes dropped to the empty sword sheath, and words fell out of my mouth. “There’s a story behind that.”
	 “It was my payment to the captain of the ship which brought me to the Gate.”
	 “Ship? You came on a ship?” It bent the brain, trying to picture him on a boat, for longer than a sword practice with Ian, at least.
	 “I needed something swifter than my own feet. And there is much water between my island and these hills.” He made a face, as if it had not been quite as much fun as a pirate movie. “Our boats...”
	 “Centaurs with boats?”
	 “We live on an island, of course we have boats.”
	 “I thought you’d have, I don’t know, bridges.”
	 “Not like the vast structures you build here. Much of our water is too wide for bridges.”
	 “Bet your boats aren’t much like ours either.”
	He nodded,  “our boats are quite different from the cramped, thin-decked, tall-masted, low-ceilinged, ladder infested boats of humans. Fortunately the Great Bay can be sailed in a few days.” He paused, “Unfortunately it is known for its sudden and ferocious squalls.” He looked a bit green, as if even the memory of it made him seasick. 
	 “Well, we have to get the Spellbook first, and that appears to be a horse journey, or all that bouncing around on Baggywrinkle and Scrimshaw is for nothing.”
	He was silent for a moment, as if he was thinking about something.
	 “It took the entire universe to get us where we are. Nothing you do is for nothing.” 

~6~
wild black mare	

	Zan and I perched on the corral fence studying the small herd within. School horses, equine-assisted therapy horses, handicapped riding program horses, and a couple that were favorites of Hawk Circle ’s people. Zan never used the word ‘owned’. In fact, oddly, he hadn’t been using a lot of words in the last half hour. He just sat there, or rather, perched, like a bird, watching the herd, soft eyed. It was weird, Zan, with no words. 
 	 “You know what they're thinking...” I said.
	He moved like somebody waking,  “They...” it was as if he had to shift gears to another language, “don’t... think... in words.”
	 “Oh. Yeah, of course. You’ve been staring at them for half an hour. Who’s going to go with us?” 
	 “We need a couple of packhorses. Mules are better. Burgoo and Loblolly know how to pack,” he said. “They are willing to go with us.”
	The two Appaloosa mules were already staring at us. Brothers, they were out of the same Appaloosa horse mare by the same donkey stallion. Burgoo was two years older; dark head and legs shading into grey neck and white body with dark egg-shaped spots. Loblolly was black with a white blanket from withers to tail, covered with egg spots. Both had white stockings. 
	 “You said Bran named them. What do the names mean?” Names told you something about the horse. Or about the person riding it. Some of the names at Stonewall mostly said the rider had a big ego and a lot of money.
	Zan pointed, “Burgoo’s a kind of porridge sailors used to eat. Loblolly’s another name for it, it’s also a kind of pine tree that grows on barrier islands and in the Bay area. Baggywrinkles are big fuzzy things made out of old rope, they keep the lines from chafing the sails, you saw them on the Roane. Scrimshaw’s carving on whale ivory. Bluewater Sailing is out on the open sea, where all you can see is blue water. Going into the eye of the wind is straight into the wind. Wing and wing is a way schooners sail, with a sail to port and one to starboard, like bird wings. Topgallant is the small square sail above the topsail, the one up high, like a bird on the wind.”
	“Bayberry’s a pun,” I observed, “she’s a red roan, bay with white hairs in it, and bayberry is a scent in candles.”
	“It’s a bush that grows near salt marshes.” He fell silent again.
	 “How about taking Baggywrinkle?” I prompted.
	 “Too big, eats too much, and too slow.”
	 “Scrimshaw.”
	 “Ringbone. He goes lame sometimes.”
	 “Eye of the Wind.”
	 “Ex-racehorse. Fast, lotta endurance. About two working brain cells.” Zan shook his head.
	 “Marshmallow.” An agile little pale grey thirteen hand pony, part Arabian, she looked like she could go forever.
	 “Too small for you, for such a long trip.”
	Yeah, so I still had some flab to unload. And my legs would probably drag, anyway.  “So, you ride her.”
	 “We’re trying to minimize the number of horses. Kai can, uh, carry me.”
	 “What happened to ‘too young to be carrying a rider, he could break down’?” 
	“A big rider.” Zan’s face scrunched suddenly, a stuck my foot in my mouth all the way up to my hips look.
	I felt, what? Disappointed? Annoyed? I felt like I’d like to be five foot three and weigh a lot less. Instead I crossed my arms, like Tas, and glared down at Zan.
	 “He wanted to carry you.” Zan said quickly, “You’re the most important one on this mission. He won’t let you out of his sight, believe me.”
	 “Of course.” 
	 “Uh, you need a bigg... taller horse.” He was definitely turning red with embarrassment.
	 “Right.” I said, “Except a really big horse eats too much and is unhandy on trails. Unlike the big rider, who will probably have to knock a horde of Unseelie off your butt.”
	He glared at me, then laughed.  “After I’ve dropped dozens with my bow, and yet more with my sword, your assistance may be useful.” He bowed gallantly, balancing on the top board of the fence. 
	I turned to the corral full of horses.  “Bayberry's a good looking one.” She had a nice sloping shoulder, long legs (short in the cannons), springy pasterns, and a short back. She looked like she could move well. “What's her breeding?” She wasn't that tall, maybe 14.2, not dish faced like an Arabian, not bulldog muscled like a Quarter Horse.
	 “Florida Cracker Horse.”
	 “What?”
	 “The first European Explorers were Spanish, they brought the first horses to North America; Spanish Barb types. You can still see that type in some western mustang herds, Keigers, Sulphur Mountain... and in the east coast barrier island horses: Chincoteagues, Bankers, Shacklefords, Corollas, the Marsh Tackies of the Carolinas, and the Cracker Horse.”
	 “Cracker?”
	 “For the crack of the bullwhips the saltwater cowboys used to drive cattle. They're strong for their size, long on endurance. Smart. Sensible.”
	Sounded like the perfect horse for me.
	 “Ian usually takes Bayberry.” Zan said.
	 “Oh.” I tried not to sound disappointed. “What about that blue roan?”
	 “Bluewater Sailing, Marsh Tacky, that's Bran's.” Zan shifted on the fence, falling silent again, watching, maybe reading their minds or something. He stayed silent for minutes. The minutes stretched.
	I felt the weight of too much silence, I started talking, words spilling out like horses on too long a ride charging back to the barn.  “Those pintos are nice, or are they Paints? Paint, you know, the breed, pinto's just a color. That one looks like it might have the Quarter Horse blood of a Paint. The other one's kind of small. Is it some pony breed? Maybe Chincoteague, they're mostly pinto. Doesn't have the same kind of head that Bluewater and Bayberry have, more like a Welsh pony. I thought I remembered reading something about the Chincoteague ponies, that they mixed in other bloodlines, like Arabian and western Mustang and Welsh. Is that one overo? It looks like overo. I've mostly seen the tobiano pinto pattern, overo's more unusual, like somebody fired a white paint cannon at a normal colored horse. That one looks like his base color might be grulla...”
	 “If you stop speaking your language, you might be able to hear theirs.” Zan said quietly.
	Startled, I shut up, and sat, wobbly, with a fence board cutting my gluteus maximus in half. I stared out at the multicolored herd, trying to see the way Tas showed me in the lessons; wide-eyed, with the three hundred and forty degree circle of sight horses have.
	See like a horse, like a prey animal, not like hawk or wolf or lion. Soft eyed, see the whole circle, fell the whole circle, feel what is without, what is within.
	On the far side of the corral, a black mare raised her head, stared at me intently. She was about 14.2 or 14.3, solid and sturdy with all her legs on straight. Her mane shifted and I could see the faint white rune line of a freeze brand on her neck. “Her.” I said suddenly. 
	Zan turned to me, surprise on his face.
	 “I guess I could ride her.” I said uncertainly, “Everybody else has a horse. If Ian can ride Bayberry, she should be big enough for me.  She kind of looks like a black version of Bayberry and Blue...” My voice trailed off. I had never seen her in a lesson, and didn’t know anything about her. “I mean, you know her, I guess...” 
	 “Topgallant. She’s the lead mare.” Zan stared out into the corral, silent again. The mare eyed him, as if some conversation was going on between them. “Mustang. She grew up in a wild herd out west. I forget which state. Came here through the Bureau of Land Management’s Adopt-A-Horse Program. I usually ride her. We’ve used her in therapy sessions on the ground, or with people lungeing her, but...” he frowned, “we got her in last year. Stays out here, in the pasture with the run-in sheds. Hates barns. Doesn't like the indoor arena much either. Tas rides her. Bran. Me. I ride her a lot. I think that’s why she's willing to go.” He frowned again, like there was something he wanted to say but couldn’t.
	 “What?”
	 “If you ride her, you’d be the first Human to stay on her back since she’s been here.”
	 “Maybe I should pick another horse.” I suggested.
	 “There aren’t any.” Zan said. “None we could spare from the programs. Anyway, she picked us.”
	 “Maybe I could switch with Bran, or Ian.”
	 “Maybe we could see if she’d work for you.” He hopped off the fence and walked out into the middle of the herd. Topgallant followed him back to the barn, nose resting on one slender shoulder. True to Zan's words, she hesitated at the broad barn door, her head high, her eyes and ears telling me that such places were full of four-fanged horse-eaters. 
	“ No Equus munchus horribilis here, don't worry.” Zan said, more for my benefit than hers, I thought. He stroked her forelock, then her ears. Her head stayed high, ears locked in on the yawning door.
	Zan began making little circles on her forehead with curved fingers.
	She stood, resolute.
	Zan sighed, produced horse treats from a pocket and lured her inside.
	She studied me, from her throne in the middle of the barn aisle, like a queen appraising a lowly peasant. I took the bridle Zan offered to me and stood, ten feet back, contemplating the fact that she wasn’t in crossties, or even wearing a halter. 
	 “What if she doesn’t like me?”
	 “What if she does?”
	I held up the bridle.  “There's no bit.”
	 “Yeah, it's a bitless bridle.”
	I pictured the Wild Black Mare running off while I pulled ineffectually on the reins attached to a mere noseband.
	 “She goes fine in it.”
	 “Right.” For you, Elf Boy. I took a step forward.
	 “Just remember what Tas showed you.”
	Another step.
	 “Don’t come at her like a predator, in straight lines, with your raptor eyes focused on her. Humans think in straight lines. Horses think in circles.”
	Curves, curved lines. Approach in curved lines. Don’t grab at the head like a lion going for the kill. Don’t shove your energy at her. I eased up to the mare, trying to walk casual. Trying to not be a predator.
	She snorted.
	I froze.
	She walked past me and stuck her head in Zan ’s chest.
	 “Great. Maybe you should just ride her.”
	 “Go ahead, try to get the bridle on.”
	I walked, casual, up to her shoulder, muttering something meaningless and hopefully calming under my breath. Nice horsie stuff. 
	She turned and gave me a dark stare, the queen looking down her nose at the village idiot.
	 “If you’re gonna be a weenie, she’s just going to walk away.”
	 “Or smash me into the barn door.” 
	Zan snorted, like the mare.  “Breathe, you’re forgetting to breathe.”
	Breathe, breathe, yeah, breathing is good. I took another step, two, and found myself by Topgallant’s shoulder. I reached out with one hand and slid it under her chin. Her head came up, and I swear her eye flashed faintly red. 
	Zan touched her nose, her poll, between the ears. Her head lowered again.
	I held up the bridle. There was a headstall and a noseband, but the rest was a weird tangle of not-leather I didn't recognize.  “How does this work?”
	Zan said,  “Open the noseband, spread those, and slide it over her head like a regular bridle.”
	I slid one hand under her chin, slid the reins over her head. So far so good. 
	She snorted and threw her head up out of reach.
	I jumped back. 
	She scurried back. 
	 “Bayberry, maybe I could convince Ian to let me ride Bayberry.”
	 “He’s never ridden Topper either.” Zan coaxed her forward.
	 “Maybe she could pack and I could ride a mule named after food.”
	Zan gave me a withering look.
	 “Great.” I approached again.
	She stood, one ear on Zan, one on me. The ear focused on me looked annoyed.
	I lifted the bridle, trying to remember to breathe. 
	 “Massage her poll, like I did.”
	I tried it. 
	One baleful brown eye glared at me, but she dropped her head a notch. I slid the noseband over her nose, lifted the headstall toward her ears. She stayed still, like a bomb waiting to go off. I rustled the straps into place, closed the noseband.  “What hole?”
	 “Four.”
	I buckled it.
	 “Ok, cool.” Zan said, and walked off. He returned with a four foot long dressage whip, wrapped in dayglow lime green tape. He handed it to me.
	 “Huh?”
	He grinned at the startled look on my face.  “It's not a whip, it's a wand. An extension of your arm.” He snagged it out of my hand, passed it gently over Topper's body. She stood, head lowered, one ear watching him. He handed the wand back to me. “Walk here, beside her head. Hold the lead line like this, and the wand here. Signal her to stop with a little tug and release, like this, and wave the wand in front of her while you say whoa.”
	I cocked an eyebrow at him, it all sounded way too complicated.  “Ok, whatever.”
	She walked beside me, (or behind Zan) through the door, to the outdoor arena. There was a labyrinth of poles, the sturdy sort you'd use to build jumps, on the ground. Zan took the lead line from me and demonstrated how to lead her through the labyrinth, not stepping on any poles.  “She'll read your body language, your intent, and she knows some words, like 'whoa'.
	I took the lead line. She hesitated. I tugged. Her head went up.
	 “Massage her poll. Her neck. Her forehead.”
	Massage therapy for horses, ok, whatever. 
	It worked. She unlocked the brakes and moved forward at the next tug. Then she yawed left and walked over me. I shoved her away.
	 “No no noooo, like this!” Zan showed me how to use the wand, and my fingers, to keep her in her space and me in mine.
	A half hour later we had navigated the labyrinth without destroying it, or my feet. It was a long way from navigating the road to where the Spellbook lay.

	A few days later, I found myself back in the riding arena, this time on Topgallant. She balked at the door to the arena with more vehemence than she'd shown balking at the barn door. It took us a half hour to get her inside. Tas and Kai stood in the center of the arena. Because there were still other students about, Kai was disguised (by Zan ’s illusion) as himself (with regular Human ears) on a dark horse. It was really weird seeing him in jeans and a T-shirt. Cute weird. But weird. Like, how would he ever fit on a prom dance floor.
	Like I would ever go to prom or anything.
	On Topgallant, it was back to square one. First we walked. We walked in straight lines, in curved lines, around the corners, big sweeping curved lines, Tas calling out things like,  “More inside leg! Stop hanging on the reins! Where are those kittens? Loosen up! What happened to that spruce tree?”
	It got uprooted, apparently. Topgallant walked with her head up, nose out, back hollowed and stiff, her hindquarters trailing like a woogity woogity haywagon behind a farm tractor. Nothing I did seemed to get her to relax into that nice, rounded frame (nose in, head down, back rounded, haunches under her) horses were supposed to be in. 
	 “Baby kittens!” Tas shouted. 
	Kai just glared. I couldn ’t tell if it was concentration or annoyance.
	I looked at Topper ’s ears, they looked like tornado warning radar. No kittens anywhere.
	 “You’re supposed to be holding baby kittens!” Tas said.
	She meant the reins, I looked down and I was gripping them tighter than my greatsword.
	 “Breathe!”
	I am breathing, dammit. I just want  a horse that doesn’t feel like it’s gonna explode any second.
	Kai leaned over and whispered something to Tas. Whatever that was, it couldn’t be good.
	Topgallant blundered to a halt, swung her head around and nipped my booted toe.
	“Oh great.” I poked her nose, not too hard. One dark eye gleamed at me. With malevolence? Or was she just laughing at this clueless Human?
	 “Legs.” Tas said. “Move her forward.”
	Oh, like she was going to listen to anything I had to say.  “Can’t I just...”
	 “No.” Tas crossed her arms like a fortress gate. “You are the Rider of the Black Horse. You are Sagittarius, born in the Year of the Water Horse. The Black Yin Horse. Even your name suggests this.” (My Pennsylvania Dutch last name, Swartz, translated as 'black' in German.) She stared at me, one earth eye and one sky eye glinting through her blond and white mane. “Of course, you can always just give up. Go home.”
	Kai gave her a startled, near panicked look. She elbowed his horse-chest and he staggered back a step. He said nothing.
	I stared at the hoofprints in the sandy floor of the arena, as if they were runes giving me the answer. Sure. Go home. And feel forever like Moose-Who-Almost-Had-A-Great-Adventure?
	I lifted my head and stared back into Tas's earth and sky eyes. “No way.” I searched for the roots of that spruce tree and tried to let them down into the earth, and some of my tension with it. I pressed my legs to her sides. Nothing happened. I pooted her lightly with my heels. She lurched forward into a trot. I floundered, caught myself, pitched, weaved and wobbled back to something like a sitting trot position. 
	By now Topper was going about warp eleven, at a trot, diagonal pairs of legs hammering like a fence post driver. I weebled to port and she trotted out from under me.
	I sat in the sand of the arena, staring up at Topper, stopped ten feet away, staring back at me, her ears in that position that indicated surprise.
	 “If you’re going to do an extended trot, you should try to do it on the horse.” Tas suggested.
	Kai had just buried his face in one of his broad hands. 
	I creaked to my feet,  “Sure. Yeah. Can we try that again?”

	And again, and again. We progressed from straight lines to circles, big ones, little ones, spiral in spiral out. Serpentines. Yin-yangs. Celtic knotwork. Topgallant worked better to the left than to the right. 
	 “Only lefties are in their right minds.” Tas observed.
	Kai groaned.
	Hah hah hah. I’d noticed a lot of people here were left-handed. So was I. It was one of the things that made my mom crazy, that I couldn’t use scissors right. Or write as neatly as her. That I did everything backwards.
	“Try that canter again.” 
	Circle in, pick up the trot, open up the circle. Get her on the outside rein. Get her balanced. Feel where her feet were. There; I could feel the hind leg coming forward to start the canter stride.
	 “One... two...now...”
	Topper blundered onto the left lead in front and the right behind. It was like riding a camel on a ship in a storm. I pulled her up, hard, glaring down at her.
	 “She was not balanced.” Kai observed.
	 “No kidding, Sherlock.” I said.
	 “You were late with that signal.” Tas said. “And you lost her head.”
	 “Do not lose yours.” Kai intoned.
	Grrrrr. Topper flicked an ear at me. So did Kai. I think there was some sort of plot going on between them. I sighed, picked up the reins again.
	Again. Again. Again. 
	Finally we could canter both ways, on the correct lead.
	Most of the time.

	I sat again, on Topgallant, a rein in each hand, wrists flexed, relaxed. I could just feel her in the reins, the poised energy of a horse standing, ready to move forward in any direction. Tas stood in the center of the arena, as if she were astride an imaginary horse.
	 “It's likely your other hand will be busy.” Tas said, one hand on an imaginary set of reins. She made a motion like a slashing sword with the other. Even without a sword in her hand, she looked scarier than Kai. 
	 “She cannot use the Centaur sword from the saddle.” Kai said flatly.
	Tas paused, staring at him, through him. “Things change. The only constant in the universe is change.” She turned back to me. “Cowboys needed a hand free for the lasso, for gates, for sixguns.” She motioned for me to move out onto the rail at a walk. “In the age before gunpowder, your shield and reins would be in the hand not wielding a sword or lance. Most humans' bridle hand is their left one. Yours will be your right.” 
	“Does Topper know neckreining?” I asked.
	Tas motioned for a reverse along the rail, moving her imaginary reins the way I should. I thrust my fistful of rein to the left. Topper's nose yawed right, her ears left, and her body kept going straight.
	 “Legs!” Tas said. “Have you forgotten?”
	Left leg at the girth, outside leg back, keeping the hindquarters in line.
	 “More leg!”
	Which one? 
	“Outside leg! She'll move away from it.”
	I thumped with the outside leg and Topper broke into a thundering canter. On the correct lead. “Arrrrrggghhh!” I shouted.
	Kai's harumph was audible the length of the arena.
	Tas waved us to a walk.  “Don't smash her with your foot, press...” She demonstrated, standing on the ground. Air horse, sort of like air guitar, only weirder looking.
	 “Ok.” I thrust my fistful of rein right again, timing my leg pressure with it. Sort of.
	Left right left right left right weave right left weave around the poles and over the cavalettis and right left and... 
	Topper's nose still yawed the opposite direction she was turning, and she turned like a tank. Left right left right left right weave...
	 “Think about where you're going.”
	 “I am.”
	“No, see it in your head. And she will too.”
	Ok this was definitely getting into the Twilight Zone. But then, the person telling me this could run forty miles an hour and live on a diet of grass if she wanted to.
	Right left weave around the poles and over the cavalettis and right left and Topper was beginning to go where I thought her.  
	Topper halted at Tas's upraised hand.  “Now do it without reins.” she said.
	What?
	Tas just glared at me from under her pinto mane. “Drop 'em.” She meant the reins. 
	Oh sure, and watch Topper the Wonder Horse gallop off into the sunset.
	I let the reins out till I was just holding the buckle in the middle, a long loop of rein dangling uselessly under Topper's neck.
	 “Drop them.” Tas enunciated, as if I hadn't heard her clearly the first time.
	Aaaaaahhhhh!.
	I let go the buckle, a panicked look on my face. Topper flicked an ear and kept on walking.
	At least Tas didn't say anything about kittens now.
	Left right left over the cavallettis and under the big blue crinkly tarp dangling from the ceiling and left right left around the poles and right around the barrels and...
	Topper's nose still yawed the opposite direction she was turning, and she turned like a tank. “We'll teach her gee and haw while we're at it.” Tas said. “She already knows whoa.”
	In fact, if you said any word with a long O in it; oh, so, know, low, bro, she'd stop dead in her tracks. “Gee and haw, isn't that sled dog commands?” I'd heard Ian call out to his Malamutes that way, even when they were just on a walk. 
	 “First it was horse commands, generally for plow horses. English speakers who learned to drive dogs just used what they already knew.”
	Left right left right right left left around the poles and barrels and highway cones and Ian and Zan and the two Malamutes and a llama and left and right...
	Gradually Topper yawed less and turned more. I could nearly think which way we were going and she'd seem to hear it.
	But riding in the arena wasn’t exactly like riding across the wild reaches of Erda to the edge of the Knowne Worlde. Which was where the last test came in. 
	Zan.

~7~
through the gate

	We rode through a tropical rainforest, nine hundred and forty shades of green. Monkeys and birds and stuff I couldn't identify shrieked from the trees. Vines trailed across Topgallant's flanks, startling her. A shadowy shape swung overhead and vanished into the canopy. She snorted, spun halfway around. I straightened her out, urged her forward with my legs.
	Down a trail, turning to the left, and left again. Something scuttled out from beneath Topper's feet, she snorted and scuttled herself, straight into the dangly vines draping the trail. I hacked them out of the way with my belt knife before she could turn herself and the vines into horse macramé.
	Then the jaguar leapt, with a scream worthy of a horror film heroine.
	Topper teleported, I swear she did. I hung in midair for about ten seconds (flailing in an unsuccessful attempt to grab those trailing vines) and plummeted to the sand floor of the arena. The rainforest vanished. Zan stood, wide-eyed, glancing from Tas to Bran to Tas again.
	 “No, that was fine.” Bran said to Zan. His eyes had a wicked glint, like an actor who's having way too much fun doing sound effects for an animated film. He screamed like a jaguar again, and Topper, at the far end of the arena stared, her ears radared in on him, her body tensed. Her ears flicked, her dilated nostrils failed to pick up the scent of any four fanged horse eaters. She let out a disgusted snort and lowered her head to the sand, sniffing.
	I blundered to my feet, brushed the arena dust off in vast clouds.  “There are NOT going to be any jaguars on this trip!” I glanced uncertainly at Bran, then glared at Zan.
	Zan raised his hands, fending off my wrath.
	Bran's hand wheeled like a tumbling bird, “Get your horse.” Get on your horse, his hands said. “We don't want her spooking out from under you every time a rabbit hops out of her path.”
	I sighed and stomped across the arena to her. I heaved myself up on her, wondering what they were going to throw at me next. Or maybe I could just go collapse in my Spare 'Oom. Maybe watch a movie where it all came out right in the end.  I turned to look at Bran, caught his steady blue gaze. The glint was gone. No trace of the comedian doing sound effects. He looked more like a thousand year old zen master.
	 “Maybe there's jaguars. Maybe not.” Bran said. “Maybe there's something worse.” 
	After a few days, Topgallant ignored jaguars, dinosaurs, minotaurs, and spaceships from Mars. Zan, however, collapsed on the arena's sandy floor, out of ideas. Topgallant just nosed in my pockets, looking for the horse cookies the Grandmothers had made for us.
	I wondered how many pounds of those cookies I could fit in the gear we were taking to Erda. 

	We stood in the Grandmother ’s Green Room, hovering over a map. It looked awfully familiar, that map, like something I should have seen. Where? In a book? A film? A  nature special on TV?
	No, nothing so far flung and exotic. Something I'd seen on one of my mom ’s road maps. A huge inland sea, shaped a bit like a stout tree trunk, its branches blue creeks and rivers, its twigs, streams. “Hey, that looks like... the Chesapeake Bay?” Only it was different colors from the urban sprawl colors on Mom’s map. It was all greens and browns and ocean blues. And there weren’t any big splots of civilization labeled Annapolis and Baltimore and Washington D.C. “Why is the Bay in Erda?”
	 “Erda contains a great many things you will find familiar, and a great many you won’t.” Bran said. His finger trailed along the edges of the water, his voice fell into the rhythms of another time, another place, “Here are the drowned feet of the river called Susquehanna in our world. In Erda, it has another name; the River of Rocks. “This,” he ran a finger along the stout tree trunk of the bay, “is simply The Great Bay. It’s inhabitants are aware that beyond it is the vastness of the world ocean. They have traveled it much.” He wandered down the fat peninsula (shaped, I thought, like a pointy-ended fox’s tail) between the Bay and the Sea. Roads crossed it; one straight down the center like a backbone; others branching off to small towns on the edges of rivers or creeks, or ran straight down the center of ‘necks’, small peninsulas of land reaching out into the vast water of the Bay. Bran’s finger crossed patches of deep green, lighter green, medium green, blue-green, yellow-green, drab-green, pea-green, sea-green, and a few thin lines of blue. He came to the edge of the land. “Here is a small strip of sand, thirty miles of barrier beach, and on it is Ship Shoal Tower. There you will find the Spellbook.”
	I squinted at the map. Tower? On an island at the edge of what would be DelMarVa in my world. It sounded weirdly familiar. I just couldn ’t figure out how. 
	Island. 
	Island island island. Islands are surrounded by water.  “Why can’t we just take the ship?”
	All eyes turned to me as if I ’d said; why can’t we skateboard in the mall? 
	 “Ship?” I repeated, “The one in the quarry? The quarry that sometimes isn’t just...uh...a quarry?” I made vague sailing motions with my hands. I looked at Bran, “Water connects everything. Like, oh, islands? Anyway, Kai came on a ship. Part of the way, at least.”
	“Uh, Ship Shoal Tower?” Zan suggested. His hand moved, a miniature sailing ship materialized out of the air, ran aground, fell over and was swallowed by illusory waves.
	Bran regarded me with his deep sky eyes. “What I said about water is true. But that is not your destiny. The journey is the destination.”

	In the half light of predawn, we crunched through unbroken snow, a line of horsemen, clad in wool and leather and linen, lightly armoured, swords and bows swinging from back and hip, packs and saddlebags lurching on horse haunches, and on two pack mules. Ahead swayed a splotch of chestnut, like a floating map, with a long blond tail swinging out of it. Tas in pooka form, her white parts almost invisible against the snow. 
	A wider butt swayed above Tas’s; Earla, riding the pooka because Dwarves and horses go together like chocolate on pizza. She was wearing something that looked like padded leather and a chainmail shirt, and a helmet. It looked like it should weigh a ton, but Tas/Wolf hadn’t complained or told her to pack it in a mule’s pack. Topping off the ensemble were a pair of fairly ordinary looking camp axes, slung across Earla’s back. Bran had a bow, and Skyfire hung from his neck. 
	Kai stalked just ahead of me, Topgallant’s shoulder nearly against Kai’s rump, Zan perched like a noisy bird on a light pad worked into Kai’s original Centaur gear. Kai had enough arrows to hold off an army. Zan had his own bow, but no arrows, and also carried a light sword. Where Bran's swordhilt channeled the energy of wind and water, Zan's bow channeled the energies of earth and fire. Ian’s Malamutes; Keet and Skana, padded between the horses, wearing their own dogpacks. 
	 “You know,” Zan was saying way too cheerily, “you can’t do that with northern dogs. Siberians, Malamutes, Alaskan huskies. Gotta keep ‘em on a leash. Always. Unless you’re in the wilds of Alaska. Or unless you got an Elf or two in the party, then you can...”
	He ’d been chattering like that since we left the barn. I was really wishing I could get close enough to stuff my hat in his mouth. I couldn't figure if he was excited, nervous, worried or flat out scared. I think I was all of the above. 
	 “Ian’s are all rescues.” Zan rattled on, “From people who didn’t understand how northern dogs think. None of this ‘whaddaya want me to do now boss’ stuff, like Golden Retrievers.” He did an amazing impression of panting, tongue hanging canine enthusiasm. “They’re like big puppies; puppy muzzles, puppy ears, puppy brains. Technically it’s called paedomorphosis, that’s an adult with juvenile characteristics. Northern dogs don’t have much of that. They’re much closer to the wolf model. Instead of coming when you call, they take a message and get back to you... maybe. Keet and Skana are from the northwest coast Indians; they mean orca in two dif...”
	Tas gave a snort, it sounded like a warning. 
	Zan shut up.
	 “The sun’s not even up yet, I shouldn’t be either.” I grumbled.
	 “Day’s half wasted by the time the sun gets up.” Earla rumbled from ahead of me.
	The mules ambled between the Elves; neither Wolf, nor mules nor Bran ’s horse Blue wore anything remotely resembling a bridle or halter. Only Ian’s mare, Bayberry, had a light bosal; a bitless bridle consisting of a rawhide noseband, a headstall to hold it on, and some braided horsehair reins. Topgallant wore the bitless bridle she'd always worn, with a light rope halter over it to tie her up when needed. The Elves didn’t need reins to talk to horses, or to Ian’s Malamutes. Keet and Skana trotted along between the horses with only a few longing glances at passing rabbits.
	We wound up the high hill in the north of the farm, through winter trees, dark against the snow, like wolf fur. Stars faded, the sky paled, cold wind pried at the edges of my cloak, I huddled farther into it. 
	The trail spiraled out of the woods into small clearing at the top of the hill. Tas stepped into it, silently, followed by Kai and the others. Behind us, the sky went silver, then red-gold.
	Bran rode forward, stopped Blue with an unseen signal and began to sing. The sky went hot with sunrise color, and the song rose like a bird to meet it. 
	The trees across the clearing wavered, shimmered, and suddenly they were the wrong trees. Not bare winter trees, trees clad in the greens and browns of spring or summer. They wobbled back and forth with the regular Pennsylvania winter trees for a moment, then they were there, solid and real, on the other side of the clearing.
	Topper stood, legs locked, staring at the weirdness.
	The song ended.  “Now.” Bran said, and rode toward them. 
	I closed my legs on Topper's sides, squelched the butterflies in my gut and followed.  

	I had been kind of hoping for big purple trees, or flying horses, or something.
	Erda ’s woods looked just like the kind of woods that were already in Hawk Circle, only greener. Birds sang in the green canopy not far above. Grey squirrels scampered up tree trunks. Deer paused to stare at us from a safe distance, then vanished into the woods. A wisp of grey and burnt orange appeared briefly, then vanished up a tree.
	 “Grey fox.” Zan said. “You know the red ones were imported from Europe? The colonists wanted to gallop after them with horse and hound, like they did back home. Greys are no fun to hunt, they just run up trees. So they brought in the red ones...”
	Wolf turned, flicked her ears at him, cutting him off. 
	Far off something howled. I tensed, visions of Unseelie pouring out of the woods came to me.
	Beneath me Topgallant snorted, a cannonshot noise, and teleported sideways ten feet. She'd apparently forgotten all about jaguar practice. I hung in the air for five seconds or so, then discovered terra firma.
	Thud!
	I rolled and came up nose to nose with Blue. Bran stared down at me. “It was just wolves,” he observed. 
	Stupid stupid stupid. Stupid horse! Stupid me. I feel sooooo stupid!
	“You appear to be in one piece,” Bran said hopefully.
	I creaked to my feet, investigating body parts. They all seemed to be there in more or less the right order. “Yeah. Sure.”
	I felt a hand on my shoulder, straightening my gear, which mostly consisted of the Sword of Doom. I turned to see Kai ’s (slightly worried) face, Zan peering around his shoulder. “Next time when the horse moves you should move with it.” Kai said.
	 “Easy for you to say. Your horse bits are part of you.” I glared up the line of stopped horses and mules. Wolf turned, one ear flicked, in amusement, I thought. Earla still clung to the broad western saddle like a non-swimmer in a lifeboat. “That,” she said, “is why I walk. Or drive.”
	Wolf snorted derisively.
	 “You ok?” Ian said, he sounded the most sympathetic of all of them.
	 “Yeah, sure.” I repeated.
	Topper stood three equines up, nose in some shrubbery, munching. I took an annoyed step toward her. My foot swung back to its original position, impeded by Kai ’s hand, still on my shoulder. 
	 “It’s not her fault you didn’t learn to fly.” Bran said.
	I saw Kai ’s other shoulder move, but didn’t see where that hand had gone. It coincided perfectly with Zan coughing to cover up what had started as a laugh.
	 “Soften your approach.” Kai said.
	 “Whatthehell did she do that for, anyway?” The stupid feeling and the annoyed feeling were turning into anger. “It's not like we didn't do a ton of bombproofing in the arena.” I gave Zan a pointed glance.
	 “We are no longer in the arena. You know that. She knows that. She saw what you thought you heard.” Bran said.
	Right. Whatever you say. What was that you said?
	“She thought you saw Unsee...” Zan went silent as Kai’s haunch shifted under him.
	 “She would face even the Unseelie if the heart of her rider is calm.” Kai said.
	I took a breath, shook off my annoyance and caught Topper ’s reins. She threw her head up a notch, staring down at me with an uncertain eye. I glanced at Zan, at Kai, at Bran, at Wolf. No one offered any aid, advice, or Horse Telepathy 101. “It’s ok,” I told her, “Nothing but wolves.”
	 “Oh that’s encouraging.” Zan said helpfully.
	Topper flicked her ears toward him, then back at me as if to say wolves? In fences, as at Hawk Circle? Or loose, and horse-hunting, as my grandmothers remember them? I glared at Zan then tried to picture something peaceful. Sheep, maybe. Daisies. Those little garden gnomes Mom collected.
	Earla glared down at me from Wolf’s back. Maybe she disapproved of garden gnomes. Maybe she just had saddle sores.
	I hopped on one foot, poking the other into the stirrup, and swung up, letting myself down on Topgallant ’s back as gently as possible. I could feel her arched back, the tension in her stance, something I wouldn’t have noticed a month ago. I mumbled sweet nothings at her, and she more or less stood still. Bran was right. Riding in the arena, even with T-rex leaping out at us, was different. I knew there was nothing really dangerous there. Here was a different story.
	Back in the saddle, back on the trail, arched over in summer greens. It was warm, definitely warm. I peeled back my cloak, everyone else was rolling theirs up and finding places to stow them. I took mine off, rolled it and threw it across Topper ’s withers. Her neck was wet where the reins rubbed across it, turning into white lather. Of course, I could take off my winter coat, but she was stuck in hers, long and hairy as a buffalo's.  
	I heard the light thhht of feet hitting the trail behind me. I turned to see Bran stepping back from Bluewater Sailing. He motioned for us to keep going. I gave Zan, ahead of me, a questioning look. Then, from behind came a swirl of wind, wet wind full of leaves and forest floor.
	I turned to see Bran melting. He blew away on the wind, then it coalesced, and the silver raven from Hawk Circle looked up at me. “What? You think you kids would be used to special effects by now.” He flapped, whoosh whoosh whoosh, and vanished off down the trail. I could just make out the shape of Skyfire dangling from the raven's neck.
	Zan hopped over onto Blue’s back, stared at me. 
	I guess my mouth was still hanging open far enough to trap an entire butterfly collection.
	 “Aerial reconnaissance,” he said.
	 “Right, I knew that.”

	Bran returned a few minutes later, shifted back to his regular form with a whirlwind of leaves and mist. He described the layout of the land we were heading into. Trees, trees, trees. Lots of trees. No purple ones. No flying horses, unless you counted Topgallant ’s attempt at teleportation. No orcs, no dragons, no castles or other quest clichés.
	 “Wow!” came a voice from behind me. “Chestnuts.”
	Two Appaloosas, one pinto, two blacks, two roans (one blue, one red). Definitely no chestnuts, unless you count the fact that Tas/Wolf is a chestnut pinto. I turned to see Ian staring dreamily up into the trees, as if he was in a cathedral with DaVinci paintings on the ceiling.
	“No, dude,” Zan said, and spun easily on Kai’s back so he was riding backwards, facing me, “Like 'under the spreading chestnut tree, the village smithy stands', 'chestnuts roasting on an open fire, Jack Frost'...”
	 “We get the picture,” Earla rumbled.
	I looked up at the trees, big, green, definitely trees.
	Zan frowned at me and turned around to the proper riding position.
	 “Don’t we have these at home?” I said, wondering why everybody seemed so awed by a bunch of trees.
	 “Oh, they’re still there,” Ian said, “sort of, hiding in the understory  A fungus came to New York City from China in 1906. American chestnuts were utterly unresistant, and rapidly succumbed. All of the big, mature trees were killed, but only above ground. The roots survive and continue to send up shoots. Usually by the time the tree is twenty feet tall or so, the blight catches up with it and it dies back.”
	 “They die while they’re still kids.” Zan said as if he were talking about relatives. He had spun around again, riding backwards.
	 “You’re talking about trees.”
	 “Yeah.” Zan seemed almost annoyed. No, he was definitely annoyed. He turned around again and stared forward, then up at the cathedral trees.
	 “Yeah, ok, trees are cool.” I stared up at them too. They didn’t look any different from the trees in the state park back home. Ok, maybe a little thicker around the base. Maybe taller.
	Bran said,  “You hear that?”  
	 “What?”
	He was silent for a minute, while I tried to hear what he meant. The forest was pretty noisy, early morning noisy, lots of birdsong. The last wolf howl had echoed far off a minute after I reboarded Topper. One barred owl had let out a last who cooks for you-aaaallllll a few minutes back. “I hear a lot of stuff.” I said at last.
	“Exactly.” Bran said. “More than you will ever hear, even in Hawk Circle’s woods. Ours are as close to these old growth forests as any in the east, but even ours have changed from the likes of this.” He lay back on Bluewater’s back, staring up at the canopy.
	I had a feeling, that even if Blue teleported sideways, Bran would stay with him.
	I needed to know how he did that. I needed to be able to do it too.

	The green light shifted overhead, light rays slanting down straighter, as the sun rose. The forest quieted, a little. The air smelled a thousand shades of green. Horse hooves thudded softly on a path of dark forest soil sprinkled liberally with rocks and roots. Occasionally Kai ’s hoof would find a rock or root and his stride would wobble ungracefully for a moment. I almost giggled, then I remembered he’d grown up on sand. And I remembered how many times I’d fallen on my face on that trail in the woods, when I met him, forever ago.
	We switchbacked down a hill, splashed across a clear stream, its edges shrouded by understory growth and ferny mossy things I didn ’t know the names of. Light danced off the water like visible magic. Pale insects circled in the patches of sun, like faeries. A fish leaped for one and missed.
	 “Mayflies.” Zan said. He jumped off and turned over a rock, then another. He went on, in a voice that sounded like a narrator for a nature documentary, about mayflies and caddisflies and stoneflies and indicators of stream health, and how this one was really really clean and healthy, unlike some back home.
	I thought of a place in upstate PA, the big wild woods where my grandparents liked to go for weekends and  long summer weeks. Where their parents had lived. Where the old mines still poured out acidic orange water into dead streams.
 	Behind me, Kai reached a hand down and nearly dragged Zan back onto his back.
	I frowned up at the big green trees.
	 “We’re workin’ on it.” Bran said softly. “and so are you.”
	“You think you can fix it all?” I said. You and the ELF.
	“You. You’re the one who’s going to fix it all.”
	I gave him a blank, uncomprehending stare.
	 “We are only the Shifu, the Sensei. You have to win the fight.”
	‘You’ meaning me? Or ‘you’ meaning humans in general. I wasn’t sure. I wasn’t sure I could find this Spellbook thing. Or even stay on Topper for ten minutes straight in Erda, much less help save the world from impending ecological doom.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

	A clear stream, its edges shrouded by understory growth, ferns and moss; light dances off the water like visible magic. Pale insects circle in the patches of sun, like faeries. A fish leaps for one and misses. At the edge of the stream, a small dark shape slides into the water, its flexible spine and waterproof fur make it an excellent fisherman. The mink emerges with a fat trout. In moments the fish is only scattered scales and entrails. The mink stares at the dancing mayflies, the mosquitoes flittering like dust motes in the light. The mink melts, puddles on the rock, slides into the water. Reforms. A fat brown trout leaps for a mosquito, then another.
	By sunset, a small cloud of mosquitoes has risen from the water, heading south.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

	Up the hill, winding around trees and rocky outcroppings. Kai leaned forward, haunches bunched under him, frowning. Topper, who ’d grown up in the wild west, plunged uphill with ease. The mules, Burgoo and Loblolly, never put a foot wrong. The dogs padded along between us like silent sentinels, their ears occasionally pricking toward unseen things in the woods. Or their noses would lift like radar homing in on something worthy of note. Topper, more than the others, seemed to see, or hear, or smell, or sense things with other kinds of horse radar, that the other horses missed. Of course, she was the only one who had lived years in the wild. She raised her head, ears radared in on something far off, even before the dogs did. Kai would follow her lead, turning his head, staring into the deep green gloom.
	 “What’s out there?” I said at last. 
	Kai stayed silent.
	 “Deer. Squirrels. Elk. A few woods bison back there.” Bran pointed. “The wolf pack has bedded down long ago, the owls are nodding on their hidden roosts. Ravens are singing out the borders of their territories.”
	I couldn ’t see any of it. Or hear it, or smell it either. I felt like a blind person blundering through the woods at night.
	At midday we found a grassy clearing, growing back into forest, with small cedar trees inching their way back from the edges of the wood into the grassy space. Scattered among them were some young black locust, and fire cherry, and some tall weedy plants; ragwort and sneeze-weed, Zan said, and some native clover species. We unpacked the horses,  rubbed down their hairy, sweaty winter coats. As I worked over Topgallant with one of the the metal curry combs we'd packed, I noticed her winter hair beginning to loosen. Wads of it caught in the pattern of the curry comb, I banged it against my boot, knocking out dozens of horse waffles. Then I turned her loose with the others to graze. 
	I poked around our clearing, surprised to find the remains of an old stone wall.  “People were here?”
	 “Yes, there are many kinds of people in Erda.” Bran said. 
	 “Just not so many, in number, as in our world.” Tas said. She sounded less than pleased about the world she normally lived in.
	 “Why did they leave this place?”
	 “Like the “Indians” in the northeast woodlands, they farm a place for awhile, then move on, letting the old place grow back into forest.” Ian said. He unpacked some cooking gear from Burgoo’s pack, began setting up a cooking campfire with Earla’s help. “We’ll need some wood,” Earla suggested, looking pointedly at me and Kai and Zan; the kids on the mission. 
	Zan studied Burgoo ’s packsaddle, lying on the ground now. “We could get a lot of wood on that.”
	Kai made some vague snorty noise through his nose. His expression suggested that those who tried to put a pack on him would face his sword.
	 “Keet and Skana, then.” Zan said, “They can pack out a bunch, or I could make a travois...”
	 “Busy.” Ian said. He motioned to the dogs and vanished into the bush.
	 “We won’t need that much wood.” I said, “We’ll just carry it.” I figured a cloak would work well as a sling, put a couple of logs in it and sling it over a shoulder. I got mine and looped it over my arm.
	“Take your sword as well.” Kai said. “This is not your world, devoid of predators and brigands.”
	No, we just have have wars and nuclear meltdowns and school massacres and drug and gang wars and global climate change and pollution and poverty and incurable epic diseases.
	Kai shouldered his bow, sheathed his sword and strode off into the woods.
	Oh, and did I mention the asteroids Earth crosses paths with all the time?
	Zan followed Kai, lightfooted. I trudged after, bowlegged and wobbly from hours of riding. The clearing faded behind us, the forest primeval closed in around us. I stared up at its dappled ceiling, out into its shady depths, wondering what was lurking in there. Dragons? No, she’d gone on ahead to Rrhawwhnina. Orcs, maybe. Did they have orcs in this world? Well, after all they had Elves, they had to have orcs, I guess. Not your world, devoid of predators Kai had said, meaning maybe they had jaguars or tigers here, or sabertoothed cats or thylacaleos. I looked back, “Maybe we should have left a trail of breadcrumbs or something.”
	Elf and Centaur both turned to look at me as if I’d said something like  maybe we should take a GPS to the mall.
	“There is a trail.” Kai said. “If you do not stray from it, all will be well.”
	Zan strayed immediately, straight up. He leapt up, caught a limb and swung there for an instant, then he soared up into the tree and vanished. I didn ’t even hear the kind of moose-crash in the branches that squirrels make. A minute later I heard, “Look out below!” 
	Kai caught me and hauled me backwards as a couple of rather large branches tumbled out of the tree. 
	 “Dead wood.” The voice came from pretty far up the tree. “There’s a couple of dead branches up here.”  Snap, crackle, pop. Something else chattered down through the greenery and landed a foot from Kai’s tail. He snorted and trotted down the trail, shoving me ahead of him.
	Along the borders of the trail we could find a fair amount of deadwood, enough for a lunch fire, anyway. Zan reappeared, and pondered how he could drag his huge pile back. He uncoiled a rope from his waist and tied one end to the ridiculous pile of branches.
	 “You’re not going to be able to drag that,” I glanced at Kai, “without his help.”
	Kai didn ’t look like he was going to offer any either.
	Zan hummed to himself, finished tying a pretty good sailor knot, and gave an experimental tug.
	The entire pile of branches levitated a couple of feet off the ground and floated there like a special effect.
	 “Whoa!” I stared.
	 “Never know when you might need a bit of rope.” Zan said with a pleased grin.
	 “That’s the rope you found in the Grandmothers' yard sale.”
	 “Yep.”
	 “Wait, why didn’t it make you float while you were wearing it?”
	Zan gave me a crooked grin,  “Clearly you don’t understand the Rules of Magic.”
	 “Apparently not.”
	He waltzed down the trail ahead of me, the sprawl of branches trailing behind like some kind of weird mutant balloon.
	I traded glances with Kai, we both looked at our fairly small bundles, then at Zan ’s retreating floating tree-balloon. I moved to throw mine back into the forest.
	Kai ’s hand landed on mine. I turned, looked up at his face. His ears were radared in on something in the woods. He turned his head and sent a piercing alert whistle down the trail after Zan.
	No answer. 
	All I could think was; Unseelie! They’ve followed us here!
	“Come!” Kai dropped his firewood bundle, wheeled on his haunches and trotted in the direction Zan had vanished. 
	I jogged after him, swifter than a month ago, still no Olympic runner. He was going slow enough for me to keep up. Or slow enough to not blunder straight into danger.
	I saw his haunches sink, his rear feet plant in a sliding stop. His bow was in his hands, an arrow fitted to the string.
	I saw nothing on the trail ahead of him, only shadows. Then the shadows moved. Lithe, Human-tall, sort of Human-shaped shadows, spotted and striped like the dappled light of the forest. I thought of dinosaurs; those raptor types, like Deinonychus, or Velociraptor. I thought of birds.
	Predatory birds with gigantic sickle curved claws on their feet, and long saurian tails. They wore no clothing and carried no gear. They stood in a half circle across the trail and one of them had Zan in a hold a WWF wrestler couldn ’t have broken. Disbelief battled with panic somewhere in my middle. Unseelie in a new guise? A guise drawn from the creatures of this world? 
	Kai aimed his arrow at the head of the one in the center, the one holding Zan. He didn ’t say a thing.
	Unseelie don’t bother with prisoners. With captives. They just devour the light and those who live in it.
	I thundered up beside Kai. Then I had the creepy scary movie sense of what’s behind you? I turned my head enough to see and more had stepped out behind us on the trail. 
	I thought of the dogs who weren't dogs I'd fought on Kai's trail. The way the light in their eyes was different. They way they felt different. Something about these felt like...
	They weren’t Unseelie, they had to be something from Erda. Something that could still be dangerous. Great, we’re surrounded by the Evil Dinosaur Men of the Lost Forest. I raised my hand to my swordhilt, saw golden eyes around the circle of warriors shift and narrow. Saw stances shift, become tenser, more like crouching tigers. Or dragons, no longer hidden. My hand, on its way to my swordhilt froze. The creatures around us didn’t move, but their eyes shifted to the one next to the one holding Zan.
	She spoke, clearly and precisely, (I thought of professors, or queens) her words were aimed at Kai. “I have thirty-seven warriors at my back. You have one. You have enough arrows for all our hearts, with some to spare, and no doubt, your aim is impeccable, as is the case with all your folk. But you would not be able to fire them all.” That was stated less as threat than as immutable scientific fact. Her huge curved sickle claw twitched suggestively, clicking against the other claws. I don’t know why I thought of the creature in front of me as her, but it seemed right.
	I heard Kai's bow creak, as if it might have reached its limit. I saw great golden eyes, like the eyes of eagles, six foot tall eagles, go to me. Slowly I moved my hand from my swordhilt. I inched around Kai’s butt, moved toward the Leader. 
	“I’m Valerie.” I blurted. “Just Val, actually. This is Kai. That,” I pointed at Zan, big eyed under the feathered arm of the creature holding him, (they were covered in fine feathers like penguin plumage, but patterned more like jungle cats), “is Zan.” I noticed the rope with its stack of branches was still floating eerily, a bit behind the Leader. “And his magic rope. We’re just passing through. We didn’t mean to disturb anyone. We didn’t take anything, except some dead branches.” I gestured at Zan’s pile. “Which we meant for a lunch fire. If you like, we’ll move on down the trail.” I smiled, I hoped it wasn’t a rude gesture in their culture. 
	The Leader studied me, the way a lion might, before it eats you. Her eyes went to Kai, his bow frozen in a hard draw.
	 “Kai, put it down.” I said, not in our language bespelled Native Erdan, but in English.
	Around the circle feathered crests went up on the warriors ’ heads. It looked like what birds of prey do when they’re alarmed.
	English, bad move. They probably think I’m giving him secret battle directions. “Put it down.” I said in the Common tongue.
	Kai turned just enough to give me a disbelieving glance. I reached up and gently touched his bow arm. He finally lowered the bow, his whole body tensed, suspiciously.
	I said to the Leader.  “I’m sorry, I haven’t made the acquaintance of your folk.”
	 “Clan of Rakthbashkth. I am she.” You couldn’t really have spelled it in English if you tried, because it contained sounds never heard in any Human language; deep rumbles, creaks and hisses. It made me think of dinosaurs again. Or what they would turn into if you gave them a few million years to evolve. In another world. “You are wiser than you look,” Rakthbashkth said. She gestured and Zan was thrust at us. He stumbled, caught himself and straightened. 
	 “You know Clan Ashnarii?” Zan said to her.
	Feathered crests rose and fell. It made me think of how horses will prick their ears, raise their heads when they are surprised.
	 “Indeed. She is one of the revered Grandmothers.” Rakthbashkth said. “How do you know of her, Outworlder?”
	Zan stopped, mouth open like a big bass, words not falling out.
	 “What makes you think we’re Outworlders?” I said.
	Rakthbashkth opened her jaws in what might have been a grin.  “You smell funny. Your blood runs with strange things not found here.” She glanced at Kai, “Even he is tainted.”
	 “She means all the weird environmental chemicals and crap that end up in us.” Zan said. “And Kai’s been in our world long enough to absorb the pollution.”
	Kai glowered.
	 “Your sense of smell is keen.” I said, bowing slightly to Rakthbashkth, hoping that was a compliment.
	Her head dipped ever so slightly. 
	 “Why are you concerned with us?” Kai broke his silence. His stance suggested he still found Clan Rakthbashkth disconcerting.
	 “You have come through one of our Gates. That is our concern.” Rakthbashkth said.
	We looked at each other. How much should we tell them? I wondered, and your Gates? Bran sang it open. 
	“Why?” Rakthbashkth said. It sounded less like a question and more like an order.
	Kai clammed up again. Zan glanced furtively back toward the camp.
	 “Unseelie.” I said. It kind of fell out of my mouth. Nobody ever accused me of being deliberate, of thinking before I stuck my entire leg in my mouth. Behind Rakthbashkth, the others of her clan rumbled and muttered among themselves. “They followed Kai through to our world,” I said, “then we came here. To stop them.”
	Zan groaned. Kai tensed.
	Rakthbashkth stared from one to the other, then at me, her expression unreadable. Her great golden eyes bored into mine.  “Often true wisdom comes from guilelessness, and purity of heart. Keep to the Path. Be sure your fires are well out. We will deal with any Unseelie we encounter. Your quest is your own.” Rakthbashkth eyed Zan and Kai. “Your males are as impulsive as ours. Guard them well.” With that, she stepped back, gestured once, and the whole tribe vanished into the sun dappled green gloom.
	 “What did you do?” I said to Zan.
	He looked embarrassed.  “I heard them first. Before I saw who they were.”
	“You heard them?” I said in amazement. I hadn’t heard a thing when they were stepping out in front of me, or behind me, and I was looking at them.
	Zan tapped one gently leaf-shaped ear. “Elf!”
	Kai made a vague derisive noise through his nose.  “Keen are the ears of the Elves.” It didn’t sound like a compliment.
	Zan ignored him.  “I did an illusion. A big whopping one. They didn’t buy it. Orcs... I mean, Dragonkin, can see through things like that.”
	 “Orcs? They didn’t strike me as the Bad Guys. And they weren’t nearly ugly enough for real orcs. In fact, they were kind of awesome.”
	 “Dragonkin.” Kai rumbled. “The other word is reserved for those of their clans who leave the Path. It is often hard to tell which is which.”
	 “Not where we come from.” Zan said. “The orcs lop off their tails, to look like men.”
	 “Not in all worlds.” Kai began.
	 “There’s no way they could ever look remotely Human.” I said.
	 “If they put on enough black leather and cycle helmets,” Zan said, “it works pretty well. They like tech...”
	 “What?” Kai cocked his head, questioning.
	 “...technology. Human tools. Like Harleys and Jetskis and guns.
	Kai said.  “I have never met them before, only heard of them. I did not know which we were dealing with. I was told they use no tools. No fire.”
	 “Dragonkin don’t. Orcs do.”
	 “They seem awfully intelligent.” I said.
	 “Very.” Zan said. “They keep to themselves. Nobody trades with them, because they get everything they need from the land. Nobody hires them as mercenaries, because they don’t wage war, because they don’t have anything to defend. They don’t make towns or villages or cities or roads or lines on a map.”
	 “If they're not the Bad Guys, why were you so set on shooting them?” I said to Kai.
	He glowered.  “As I said. Orcs? Or Dragonkin? And they had Zan.”
	 “Bad Guys, Good Guys, it's not that simple with them.” Zan said. “It's like sharks. Or T-Rex. They have their own agenda. It usually doesn't include us.”
	 “The Elders,” Kai said, “told me Dragonkin walk between the worlds.”
	 “Yeah.” Zan said. “They move at will through the space-time continuum.” 
	 “Orcs walk between worlds too?” Kai asked.
	Zan nodded.
	 “Do they try to come here with their...” Kai looked as if he was trying to remember the words, “Jet-Li’s and Harskiis...”
	Zan didn ’t laugh at Kai’s mangled English. “I don’t know. I haven’t been here since...”  He turned and walked swiftly back in the direction of camp, trailing his bundle of firewood. The only wood we were going to collect today, it seemed.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

	Rakthbashkth swatted at the air, blowing hard through her nose to clear it of the insects cluttering her sight. A few tickled at the edges of her eyes and lips, where the fine feathers gave way to bare skin. Her kin were also swatting, snorting. A few had broken off twigs of particular plants, rubbing them on exposed areas. Someone began singing the Mosquito Song.
	 “The mosquitoes are particularly bad here,” one sister observed.
	 “They are the base of the food chain, where I was born.” Rakthbashkth reminded them. “Much life depends on them. Think of it as giving blood to that life.”
	Someone grumbled,  “I would rather keep it to myself.” She rubbed the aromatic plant over her face, and soon the mosquitoes vanished, as if they had never been.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

	We moved east, out of the hills, still in the vast greeness that Zan called an Oak Hickory Forest. He ’d fallen into Lecture Mode again (obviously they didn’t let him talk enough at Hawk Circle). He reeled off a littany of names: Red Oak and Black Oak, Scarlet and White Oaks, Chestnut and Shumard Oaks, and the Chestnuts themselves. Hickories; Pignut and Mockernut and Bitternut and Shagbark. Dogwood and Sassafras and Hophornbeam and Hackberry and Hawthorn. Then the understory; Mountain Laurel and Blueberry and Deerberry and Vibernum. And the small stuff; Wintergreen and Spotted Pipsissewa, and wild Sarsparilla and Trout-lily and Jack-in-the-Pulpit and Pink Lady’s Slipper. 
	But it wasn’t like History class, where we memorized lists of name-fact-date. Zan almost sang the names. It was as if the names themselves held power, held some essence of who the green spirits were who wore those names. He pointed them out as we rode by, waved at them as if they were relatives. He pointed out the nearly hidden mink by the stream, the huge spider in the old woodpecker hole, the neatly coiled garter snake at the side of the trail, the ovenbird singing teacher teacher teacher from the forest floor. 
	Bran would sometimes cock his head at raucous noise coming from the branches above; “Hear that?”
	 “What?”
	 “Jays.”
	 “Corvids.” Zan started to say.
	 “Like ravens.” I said. I turned to look at Bran, “What are your relatives saying?” 
	 “That there are strangers in the woods.”
	I turned, staring back past Bran, along the trail rapidly vanishing into the verdant tangle, half expecting the shadows to spring to life.
	 “Just us.” Bran said, “For now.”

	Days passed under the steady hoofbeats of our horses, mules, one pooka, and a Centaur. It rained, and we rode through it, in wool cloaks whose natural oils shed some of the wet, but not all of it. Even Kai produced a cloak that covered his humanoid torso and part of his horse back with its gear. The nights were clear and cool and full of stars. We were warm enough, if never quite dry. We unrolled a canvas tarp as shelter, making a sort of tipi shape out of it (with a smokehole for the cooling fire). I learned the real usefulness of northern breeds like Keet and Skana was that, in the wilderness of the Arctic, or Erda, they could hunt their own lunch. The first time Keet leapt into the bush and came up with a rabbit in his mouth, Ian responded to my grossed out expression with a nod at the nearest horse,  “Herbivore.” Nod at the dogs, “Carnivore. How many pack mules you think it would take to carry dog food for three months? And have you read the list of ingredients on a bag of doggie chow lately?”
	Yeah, yeah, and it's not like I never ate shredded cow at McDeathburger. And Burgoo and Loblolly ’s packs weren’t full of canned food for us either. That invention would come later, if at all, to Erda. Earla knew where to find edible plants, and how to work them into an interesting stew or soup. Kai, it seemed, was the best one at catching fish, though he preferred using a bow rather than a rod. Raven-Bran, Tas and Ian with their bows,  and the two malamutes vanished often into the woods. They'd return with dinner on the cloven hoof, or rather, lashed to a travois made of saplings, pulled by Keet and Skana. Sometimes the hunting party would be Ian, raven-Bran, two dogs and a third, larger, leaner canine; Tas in wolf form. 
	  “Raven.” I pointed at Bran, perched on Ian's broad shoulder.  “And a whole pack of wolves. You're kind of a wolf too.” I said to Ian. “Seems like your best buddy should have been a were-wolf or something.”
	He smiled at Tas.
	 “Ok, your other best buddy.”
	 “Wolf the Hunter needs Raven the Seer.” Ian said. “Scientists have noticed that wolves will follow ravens to potential prey; moose or caribou herds, for instance. Then the ravens will come down and share the kill. They'll even play jokes on the wolves, pulling their tails and such. The wolves don't seem to mind. And ravens in places where there are no wolves are very very cautious, you might even say terrifi...”
	Here, Bran's swordblade beak made a stab at Ian's ear.
	Ian ducked, brushed Bran off. He flapped up to a nearby branch and sat there, ruffled.
	“They're a lot more at ease when there are wolves about. Modern scientists came to this knowledge late. Native hunters, like the Baffin Island Eskimos have always talked to tulugaq, followed him to prey, then shared it. Ravens will even signal, with their flight, to wolves, or knowledgeable Native hunters, follow me!, this way! Thousands of years ago the Norse people knew the same thing. The father of the gods, Odin, had two ravens, Hugin and Munin, Thought and Memory, who went out each day to bring him news of the world. Two wolves walked at his side.”  
	“Weren't they always telling Big Bad Wolf fairy tales? You know, Riding Hood and devoured grandmothers and all that?”
	“There was a time before humans herded cattle and sheep. Before Wolf was an enemy, a competitor for the same prey. A time when humans understood Wolf's place in the web of life.” The voice was Bran's, raven-flavored. He lifted his wings and sailed off down the trail, dipping his wings once, twice. Time to go, follow me, this way!
	We passed circles of cabins woven of sapling and covered with bark, like some of the Native American tribes used to do. These never had livestock nearby, like the stone houses, or they just had lean, wiry, swift-looking horses and wolflike dogs (like Keet and Skana, but smaller) or lean yellow prick-eared dogs like dingos. Occasionally, a small, grey-striped cat peered from the bushes. We saw more clearings, growing back into woods. Then clearings with farm houses and barns still squatting in the middle of them, along with brown fields striped with the greens of early summer crops. Some of the houses were sturdy stone, thatch-roofed, like pictures I’d seen of Ireland. There were small barns, fences of branch and briar, or stone or stacked log, holding cattle and horses, pigs, goats and sheep. There were farm cats, in all colors. Dogs; big white ones that looked like the sheep they were guarding; swift, wolf-eared herding dogs in shades of camoflaged brown; small terrier types whose job, Zan said, was killing the rats attracted to the grain stores. Curious folk came out to watch as we passed, on the road, within a few yards of their front gardens. Bran would usually call out to them some sort of greeting, often something completely different from the last greeting he’d given. Maybe the locals had a dozen different languages. Bran seemed to know them all. The locals were certainly a diverse lot; some were short enough to be Dwarves, and those Earla greeted in a language that sounded like wolverines having a rockfight.
	We greeted, but we did not stop, not for long. Long enough to exchange some game caught in the woods for fresh strawberries and milk and shortcake. Long enough to trade (there were a few trade items; beads, cloth, period tools, in our mules’ packs)  for fresh bread or garden vegetables. We had some coin of the realm too, packed deep in the mules’ packs, if we needed to buy anything outright. This world seemed to be mostly happy with barter and trade though.
	But we didn ’t stay. Not long enough to hear the music that came from the candlelit windows at night. Not long enough to join in the dances we saw around a fire in the distance.
	Not long enough for anyone to ask too many questions about who we were and why we were there.
	We passed through a wooded grove where Bran whispered,  “Look up.” High in the trees, a hundred yards away in the woods, were treehouses that looked like they might have been woven of the living branches themselves. “Those are Elf-trees,” he said.
	The Elves must have been out hunting, or at the mall, or something. They didn ’t make an appearance. Or maybe they did, and I was still too clueless to see them.
	Zan turned around on Kai ’s back again, staring up into those trees. I got the feeling if he had been on a regular horse, he would have turned and galloped back into the midst of the Elf-village. Kai kept moving resolutely forward, and Zan stared into the treetops for a long time.
	 “Is that where you lived?” I said. 
	He shook his head, uncharacteristically silent. A few minutes later, when the Elf trees had faded out of sight, into the woods, Zan spoke.  “I lived farther north. If we had ridden north from the Gate, instead of south... I didn’t know my people...” His words were fractured, as if he had to search for them and paste them together. “I was found... really small, young... raised by... people like yours.”
	 “You were raised by humans?”
	 “Farmers. Practical, pragmatic, stoic, sensible, mundane, down to earth people.” He’d finally found his words, a whole lot of them.
	I tried to match the picture he was making of these folk with a picture of him. It was like seeing a wolf herding sheep. Or a polar bear hanging out in a Florida retirement community.  “Sounds,” I said, “like a bad fit.” 
	For the first time in awhile he cracked a grin.  “You know what it’s like, being an Elf kid in a family like that?” It almost didn’t sound like a question.
	 “Yeah, I think I do know.” 
	Kai cocked his head, turned it so I could see one eye. He looked like he was thinking about saying something. Then Zan ’s words ran over whatever Kai had been about to say.
	 “Like being the world’s biggest misfit.”
	 “Like being an alien.” I agreed.
	Kai found words, ”Like always wondering what was wrong with you.”
	 I nodded,  “For awhile, when I was a little kid, I thought maybe I wasn’t really part of my family. I thought maybe the faeries really left me under a cabbage leaf or something.”
	Zan grinned wider.  “We would never leave anybody under a cabbage leaf.” Then his grin faded, “The hollowed bore of an ancient tree. Where the spirit of the tree could watch over your kid until someone found him... that’s what we would do”
	I stared at him, but he ’d hidden away under his bright red mane. I was hoping he’d tell me what dangers led his parents to hide him in an ancient hollow tree. He remained uncharacteristically silent for a long time.
	I saw Kai ’s face shift subtly, his ears downtilted a notch. As if he sympathized.
	Maybe more than sympathy. Empathy.

	The hills had flattened out into a wide farming valley, with a half mile wide river running through it. There were sycamores and silver maple, ashes and shagbark hickory, kingfishers, green herons, wood ducks and spotted sandpipers teetering along the waterside rocks. The horses had mostly shed their winter coats. It had happened awfully fast, much faster than I'd ever seen any horses shed before. I think they had some help from Tas. I saw her running her hands over them and singing something in, I guess, Elvish. It was good they were now in shiny short summer coats; as we moved south the heat and humidity rose. 
	Early one morning, we spotted river otters playing in the shallows near our camp. Zan explored the rocks along the edges, peering down into the clear water. Then he dived off one with a shout as he hit the cold water. I waded out, timidly at first, gasping, then laughing, splashing Zan as he came up for air. Around us gulls wheeled in the early light. Swallows skimmed the surface for a sip of water, then did their aerial ballet chasing bugs. I could see the flash of fish, the waving beds of submerged aquatic vegetation, like mermaids ’ hair. I turned to see Kai chest deep in the water; Human chest deep. 
	Weird sight.
	Perfectly normal sight; good-looking Human teenaged boy in the river. (From the right angle, you couldn ’t see his ears). I stopped and stared for a minute, like I might at the latest movie star on the cover of some supermarket magazine.
	Then he turned, climbed out and shook the water off, and he was Kai the Centaur again.
	The river widened, roaring over rock fields, slowing in broad pools, where we could look down from the rocks and see the flash of bass and trout, the quicksilver of shad, the huge armoured shapes of sturgeon. Things we couldn ’t see in the river I knew back home, where dams choked it into lakes, and only some fish could return to their ancestral spawning grounds. Here, in Erda’s river, the water and silt and nutrients flowed down as they always had, spread out on the floodplain nourishing the land. Here shad and sturgeon and eel made their ways from river to sea and back again. Or at least, that’s what Zan told me. I thought about the guys, back home, screaming around on their Jet-skis and speedboats, wondered if they’d ever noticed the great blue herons or the black-backed gulls. Or if they even knew what a sturgeon looked like.
	Probably not. Probably wouldn ’t notice a Centaur either if one stood on a rock at the river’s edge. 

	The river vanished behind us. Underhoof the soil grew sandy. The wrinkly quilt of the northern hills smoothed out into coastal forests that stretched to the sea. Back home they called them pine barrens, though there were some oaks and cedars too. And holly, and eventually bayberry and wax myrtle. And poison ivy. The creeks we forded were shallow, sandy, and sometimes brackish with sea salt from the great bay they connected to. Downstream we saw the distant white wings of gulls and sails. Bran sometimes sailed ahead, scouting, then returning with advice on the best route. As we came to creeks slicing across the low, flat land, Bran would slow Blue, or sail back in a circle if he was flying.
	At the first one Bran nodded at Kai,  “You’re the islander.”
	 “I have traveled rarely outside of my island.” Kai said.
	 “You went to the libraries on the Mainland.” I suggested.
	 “Not very far. Same landscape as my island. A few creeks.” He stepped forward to the marshy bank, studying the water. “This is yet farther north than the land I am used to. It's a little different.”
	Ian said to Bran.  “You’ve sailed the Chesapeake for a hundred years, or more. You know it north to south, east to west, top to bottom. Calm to squall.” 
	 “More than a hundred years.” Earla said, eyeing Bran. “Much more.” She frowned at Kai, as if she’d rather not follow an inexperienced youth through her least favorite element.
	Bran shrugged, gestured for Kai to take the lead.
	Kai went, studying the way the grass flowed down to the edge of the marsh. Watching the blackbirds in the tall grass, the gulls sailing over the water, the egret stalking the shallows. Maybe listening to what they had to say about the weather, the tide or who was dating who. He tested the footing at the edge, waded in, singing a song in his own tongue, a smile growing on his face. He looked like he was finally, sort of, home. 
	Topgallant, despite her nautical name balked at the strange smelling water, the squishy footing, the ghost shapes of sea nettles drifting through the water. We had crossed tarps, crinkly plastic, even a teeter-totter bridge in the arena (the real creeks were frozen over), but this strange water was too much.
	“She would face even the Unseelie if the heart of her rider is calm.” Kai had said. Calm, calm, I’m really calm. See how calm I am! Calm calm calm... 
	She’d face Unseelie maybe, but not sea nettles. Topgallant stood at the marshy edge, feet rooted. I turned her and rode back toward the creek again, faster. She stopped, harder, nearly throwing me over her head. Bran splashed across to the other side on Bluewater, Ian on Bayberry, even Earla didn’t grumble too much as Tas/Wolf waded across. They all stood on the far bank, staring at me, waiting. Kai half turned to Bran, looked like he was saying something I couldn’t hear. He started to come back across, but Bran said something, Kai stopped, ears annoyed.
	I stood on the far side, feeling left of useless. I poked my heels against Topper’s sides again. “Come on.” It’s ok, really. I got off, tried to pull her. Pushed her head to the left, to the right, trying to unstick her. I thought about asking Zan for his rope, maybe I could levitate her like a big weird horse balloon and drag her across. I thought about all the esoteric stuff I’d practiced for this quest, and thought maybe I should have studied Creek Crossing 101 a lot more. I looked up at Tas, still in horse form, standing on the far bank. “Maybe you could just ‘port us across.”
	“Her element is earth, not water.” Bran said.
	Finally, Kai let out a sigh I could hear all the way on my side of the creek. He splashed across, Bran glowering after him. Kai took Topper by the bridle, whispered something in her ear. She raised her head, resistant, no matter what the Centaur said. But she followed him, her head in his grip, across the creek.

	
	On the next creek crossing, Topper was sandwiched firmly between Blue and Bayberry. Kai scowled ahead, Zan turned backwards on Kai ’s back, kicking up the water when it reached his feet. Kai didn’t splash back, he just gave Zan the kind of look you give an annoying little brother. Then Kai stepped into a hole, his back submerged, and Zan floated off. I saw a couple of sea nettles drift by. Zan splashed back to Kai and stood on his back, as it emerged from the water, like a circus performer, well out of reach of the stinging tentacles (he’d ditched his boots and was riding barefoot and mostly bare legged). Topper followed Blue in with only a little prodding, Bayberry’s nose right on her tail. Keet and Skana swam, as usual, their packs temporarily thrown, one over Ian’s broad shoulders, one over Earla’s. Anyone with clothes or fur was immune to the stinging tentacles of the jellies. Kai’s bare-skinned torso was covered with cloth, some leather and his gear, the rest of us had riding breeches that suited Erda’s styles, so we weren’t likely to have any problems.
	What with sea nettles and Unseelie and who knows what else out there, I didn ’t think too much about sand. The creeks back home were rocky; shallow riffles here, deep holes there, hidden logs, submerged snapping turtles, muddy places, pointy rocks, low head dams that would suck you down and hold you there. Those were the hazards.
	You think of quicksand as something you ’d find in an adventure movie, or a video game. 
	Creek crossing eleventy two.
	 “I don’t remember this much water when we drove to the shore.” It seemed we were always crossing it, going toward it, going away from it, paralleling it, or about to fall into it.
	 “That is because you were in a car.” Bran said. “You couldn’t feel the land. Or smell it. Or hear it. Or see it properly.” He pulled Bluewater to a halt, letting me take the lead.
	Kai moved to pass him, to guard my rear flank, I guess. Bran held out a hand and stopped him.
	Topgallant hesitated at the water ’s edge.
	 “It’s ok.” I told her, “You’ve done this before.” I shifted my seat and tightened my legs on her. I could feel the tension in her stiff-legged stance. I scooted my seat and pooted her with my heels.
	She stepped in, stopped. I did more scoot and poot. Finally she splashed tentatively across, head up, sniffing for four fanged horse eaters. I heard the splash of Kai, right behind, then the others, then the snorting of the dogs as they hit the water. This creek was shallow, and narrow, and we were across in a moment. Then on the sandy trail, through splotchy pine shade.
	At the next one, a short bank slid down to the water. Topper tucked her haunches under her and eased down with only a little prodding, then plunged right in. 
	Behind me, I heard Kai call out, not in English, not in the Common language. Maybe in his own. It sounded like a warning. I half turned.
	Topgallant dropped under me like the first hill on a rollercoaster. I let out a shout and rolled off over her shoulder, coming up soggy and salty in two feet of water.
	Kai thrashed his way in and stopped ten feet away, a look of alarm on his face. 
	Topper was sunk, listing hard starboard, her head barely above water, her haunches, incongrously still visible.
	I scrambled to my feet and sank into the goo from hell. I floundered, trying to keep hold of Topper ’s reins, keep her head out of the water. My own was going under.
	Kai shouted something again, still unintelligible.
	 “We don't speak Centaur!” Zan yelled, and rolled off his back. 
	 “On your side!” Kai shouted, now in Erda's Common tongue, “Don’t stand!”
	I flung myself forward, sword and all, as if I was swimming. I still had the reins in one hand.
	 “That way!” Kai said, maneuvering sideways in the stream.
	I wallowed, testing the bottom and still finding only goo.
	Zan splashed out, threw out one end of a rope. The rope, the floaty one. I grabbed it with one hand and hauled on Topper’s head with the other. I wasn’t going airborne, but I wasn’t sinking anymore either. “Come on! Get out!” I shouted at Topper. She remained bogged, flat-eyed.
	Zan threw the other end of the line to Kai, ran down the rope to me, “Get back there. You’re stronger, I’m lighter! With Kai, haul on us.”
	I swapped places with him, floundering back towards Kai, one hand still on the rope, convinced if I let go I ’d sink up to my eyeballs.
	Zan splashed up by Topper ’s head, looped the rope around it, tied it fast. “Come on, don’t just sit there.” She was, she was sitting there, a look of stunned blankness on her face, not thrashing, not fighting. Had she done this before? Did she know something we didn’t? Or had she just given up, and was going to let the river eat her?
	 “UP!” Zan shouted.
	We hauled on the rope.
	She plunged up, a fountain of mud and salt water and one sea nettle. She took a few bucking steps and stood, wide-eyed, in three feet of water with a solid bottom. By now, the other riders had waded in and were standing nearby, waiting.
	Kai let out an audible sigh. We ran down the rope to Topper, Kai walked around her, studying her, touching, sniffing, rumbling something under his breath. 
	I got back on Topper on the other side of the creek. Topper fidgeted forward, still antzy from the creek crossing. No one moved to block her, to hold her still, as they had other times. I hauled on the reins, shortening the left one so she circled instead of charging down the trail. I settled into the saddle, still soggy from the creek. I frowned at Bran. 
	Kai did more than frown.  “I should have gone first.”
	 “And when you are not there,” Bran said, “then what?”
	Kai grumbled into silence.
	My turn to yell at Bran,  “Didn’t you see that on your scouting mission?”
	 “You can’t see everything from the air. And there are other ways to test the footing.” 
	 “She could have broken a leg or something!”
	 “Your first thought was for her, not yourself. Good.”
	 “Good! What’s good about quicksand!”
	 “It wasn’t quicksand. Not real quicksand anyway, just a silty point bar.” Bran’s eyes seemed to darken, “There’re much greater dangers here than deep mud. You’ll need to continue thinking like a team, like you just did.” He cast an eye down the line of riders, “A team of three.”	

~8~
orcs

	 “Ow!” I smacked another mosquito, “Where are they coming from, anyway?” The ones I was used to came out at twilight; miniature vampires held at bay by citronella candles, a squirt of bug spray or impenetrable baggy clothing (preferably in light colors).
	 “You may have noticed we are surrounded by much water.” Kai said. “They breed in water.”
	 “Salt marsh mosquitoes.” Zan added. “Aedes solicitans.” He waved his hands.
	I butted in before he could tell me their whole life history and the scientific names of all their relatives.  “Well, they can stop soliciting me, did anybody bring any bug spray?”
	Earla rumbled something about traveling between worlds and rules and aerosol cans and how one world with an ozone hole (didn ’t we fix that?) was enough. Kai said something about how the mosquito was the base of the food chain in the marsh. His stoic expression suggested that people who complained about mosquitoes were weenies. His tail was busy swishing something off his flanks, though. I smacked another bug, with glee.
	 “Surely we could have sneaked a few cans of Superduper Deep Woods Bugoff into our packs.” I said.
	Zan was still waving his hands.  “It’s hard to keep a mosquito bubble over the entire party, when it’s moving. And when they’re this thick.” He glanced to the fore of the party, “Braaaan!”
	 “I am helping.” Bran said.
	 “Mosquito bubble?” I said.
	Zan made one more ferocious gesture and the whine in my ears ceased. For a moment.
	Tas/Wolf sat down, sliding Earla off over her rump. She shifted back to her Elf form, leaving wet sand scattered in the scratchy meadow grass. The saddle had vanished, to be reformed later, as she did with clothes. She traded glances with Ian and they both stalked off into the woods ahead. A few minutes later they returned with wood and some green stalks. The green stuff had no name in our world, because it didn ’t exist there. It did, when added to a smoking fire, drive off the bugs.
	An hour later a big dark silver raven wheeled over us, landed. The wind shifted, swirled, and Bran stood there (in different clothing than last time... the mall rats at school would be soooo jealous). He sat by our fire (despite the heat, it was better than the bloodsucking air force),  “Couple of big creeks ahead.”
	Earla gave him a night-eyed stare, “You mean ‘creeks’?” She held out her hands about shoulder width apart, “Or creeks?”  Her arms stretched almost impossibly wide, wider than she was tall, for sure.
	Bran sighed, held out his hands as far as he could, about six feet.
	Tas studied his eyes for a moment,  “Too far over water for me to ‘port.” She glanced down the row of equines, quietly grazing. “Especially with several tons of horseflesh.”
	Earla glanced at me, back at Bran,  “And who said we didn’t need a boat?”
	 “I think the theory is they have them here.” Ian said. “We just rent one, pay the ferryman, whatever.”
	Bran frowned into the sandy soil beneath his feet.
	 “What?” Ian said.
	 “Didn’t see one.”
	 “What about bridges?”
	Bran shook his head.
	 “Fords?”
	 “No Chevys either.”
	Earla groaned. I traded pained glances with Zan, definitely not Monty Python material.
	 “How far around?”
	 “Weeks. We have come by a straighter path than most of the inhabitants of this particular piece of shoreline generally travel.”
	 “The shortest distance between two points is not always a straight line.” Earla grumbled. “A sailor should know that.”
	Bran pretended not to hear her.  “This trail is not well used enough to warrant ferries or bridges, or even a fishing village with a faering boat.”
	 “Kai wouldn’t fit in a faering boat.” Ian said.
	 “We could tow him.” Earla said.
	Kai rumbled something untranslatable under his breath.
	Zan stood as if he ’d been bitten. He rummaged in his belt pouch and produced the missing-toothed comb he’d found in the Three Sisters Salvage: Thrifty Necessities and Recycled Wonders. He held it up, toothy side down.
	It looked a little bit like the Bay Bridge back home.
	He grinned.
	 “You don’t know what it does...” Earla said uncertainly.
	 “So, let’s find out. Or maybe it does whatever I tell it to. Or maybe I can lay an illusion on it and turn it into a bridge.”
	 “I am not crossing any bridge unless it’s real.” Earla said.
	 “It seems right.” Zan said, half to himself. He stuck the comb back in his pouch, looking crestfallen.
	 “Let’s give it a try.” Ian said, he looked like he was about to say more, but Bran shot him a glance. He shut his mouth and looked at me, at Kai. 
	As if he was waiting for us to say what we thought.
	 “He’s the one who knows about such magic.” Kai said. “If we do not try, we will always wonder what might have happened.”
	 “Yeah, sure.” I said. “If it doesn’t work that way, we can still go around, right?”

	A couple of hours ’ ride and we could see the glint of water through the trees. The trail we were following was more like a deer track, a footpath. If there had been a village here,  they would have had to use some pretty intense technology, or magic, to build a bridge. I stared out across a half mile of water, bordered by marsh and islands of mostly pine.
	Behind me, Skana muttered roo-roo-rrr, a sort of canine question. I turned to see her looking back along the trail, into the trees, head up, sniffing the air. Keet mirrored her. “What?” I said. Ian turned, to follow the dogs’ gaze. Kai sidled up beside me, ears flicking like radar that couldn’t get a signal.
	Topper raised her head, ears intent on something, alert. Then she snorted, her cannonball warning.
	It leapt out of the tall grass ten feet away and roared down on Bran and Blue, sickle claws slashing.
	Topper bolted, and I rolled off, heaving the sword out of its sheath, trying to remember what everyone had taught me. I heard the silver shiiinnnnk of Kai’s sword unsheathing, heard the thump of Earla hitting the ground running, axes out. The thunder of hoofbeats, scattering in panic. The snarl of the big Malamutes in defense mode. The twang of Zan’s bow, aimed in a different direction, the hiss of his fiery arrows. They were coming at us from everywhere; swift, silent shapes, familiar shapes.
	Dragonkin?
	Leaping, slashing, faster than anything I could have imagined. There was Kai, on my right side, his huge sword wheeling in a great silver barrier. Zan was on the other side, firing madly. I swung hard at the spotted, feathered blur in front of me...
	Dragonkin!
	No. No way. Dragonkin had great golden intelligent eyes. Something in these eyes was wrong, all wrong. Like the dogs that night, when I met Kai.
	A pair of axes buried themselves in the back of one to the left. The one that had leaped on Bran. It flashed like cannonfire and vanished in a pall of black smoke. Bran rose from the wreckage, singed and sooty. He shot a glance at Earla, “Thanks, I think.”
	“I could.” She spun with inhuman speed and slashed at one behind her, “Have spared you the charbroiling.”
	 “Better than having my guts ripped out.” He whirled and from nowhere a blue flame sprouted, his long lean sword was in his hand, glowing like the sky on fire.
	I didn ’t have time to think.
	Don’t think.
	Just wheel and slash and ignore the flash of flame and the stench of strange dark smoke and the Dragonkin vanished. Teleporting? No, I’d just... I didn’t want to think to much about it, the feel of the heavy blade cutting through living flesh. Wheel and slash and block a sickle kick aimed at Keet. Back to back with Zan for a moment, holding off three at once, slicing them into flame and smoke. Bran doing one of his crazy aerial wire-fu moves, right over my head, taking out three at once. Ian flinging a dark silver disk at an orc’s head, and the creature imploding in a volcanic flash.
	Where are the horses?
	Slash and swing and block with the whole weight of my body. Kai swinging hard, on my right, the length of his horse body shielding me from one side while I trashed orcs on the other. Legs lashed out at the corner of my vision, caught one in the middle. It went down and I made sure it stayed there. He reared and came down on another, while his sword made quick work of a third.
	The blue flash of Skyfire to my left. The silent, swift flight of Ian’s disks, like miniature UFOs. The whoop whoop whoop of Earla’s axes spinning into a target. Tas, in her regular form, clad in black leather, wielding a pair of fighting knives.
	Flash, poof! I had the eerie feeling I was in a video game. In a movie. Except it was real; the smoke choking my lungs, stinging my eyes, the ache in my swordarm as the fight grew longer and the sword went from a few pounds to a few tons. The tangling shrubbery and tall grass, the hidden log I tripped over (a sweep of silver sword over my head announced the arrival of Kai, taking out the orc swinging at me as I fell). The bizarre sound of Zan’s arrow, whizzing by my ear to burn a hole in a leaping orc. The blue wheel and flash of Bran’s sword, the faint phoomph! of Tas teleporting. 
	Then the orcs were gone.
	Just gone.
	Just smoke, drifting over the marsh grass. Then it was gone too.
	Everyone standing, breathing hard, smokestained, dirty, bloody. Still alive.
	Tas sheathing two wicked looking blades, melting, taking on horse form again and galloping off. The only horse in sight.
	Where were the others? My stomach tightened.
	 “Don’t worry, Tas’ll find them.” Zan said. He didn’t look all that confident himself. “Nobody trained them as real warhorses. They ran right away.”
	How many of those...whatever, were chasing them? And where was Topgallant?
	Ian whistled and his dogs came out of the grass, disheveled but alive, their packsaddles still in place, one pack missing, one slashed. He was bleeding in half a dozen places, but he checked us first, “Anyone need...”
	 “Sit.” Bran told him. He looked at Zan, “Now would be a good time for one of your gifts from the Grandmothers.”
	 “It’s in Burgoo’s pack.”
	Burgoo had gone missing, with the other horses. We set about finding bandages (some torn from clothing, Bran used his tunic, he could make more clothes easily enough), water, a few basic first aid supplies in belt pouches and Kai ’s pack. I bandaged Ian. Then he dealt with Earla, who’d caught a wicked slash on her leg. 
	 “What was all that...smoke.” I said.
	 “Orcs don’t leave bodies.” Zan said. “In any world.”
	He had not said  ‘Dragonkin’. He’d said ‘orcs’. But were they either? I remembered what Yawa and Bran had said back in the Grandmothers’ Green Room:
	“They want...they need; the bright, the clean, the light.” Yawa said, “They desire, 	and they destroy what they desire.”
	 “And any who have what they desire.” Bran said, “They don’t take prisoners.”
	Whatever those were, they were not taking prisoners.
	“Those weren’t orcs.” I said.
	Zan said.  “I clearly remember the one that had me in a headlock.”
	 “I should have filled them with arrows, when we first met them.” Kai said, glowering.
	 “You would not be alive.” Ian said.
	Bran swatted a mosquito. Frowned at his hand. And stayed silent.
	 “No.” I said, “The ones we just fought weren’t Dragonkin.” Everybody turned to stare at me, though Bran didn’t look especially surprised. “When I met Kai, on the trail that night...” I tried to put what I’d felt into words, but they kept slipping away. I felt suddenly stupid. Surrounded by people who lived and breathed magic, who knew about things like Dragonkin and Unseelie.
	 “The dogs.” Bran prompted, as if he’d read what I was going to say..
	  “I thought they were dogs. Of course, I thought Kai was just a trail rider at first...
One leapt for me and its eyes were wrong, all wrong. Something...” I couldn’t explain it, describe it. Now it just seemed like a badly remembered dream, wafting away like the smoke from the vanished Unseelie-Dragonkin.
	 “What are you talking about?” Kai said.
	 “She’s right. They were not Dragonkin. Nor orcs.” Bran said. “Your Unseelie have found us.”
	Kai ’s stoic expression shifted to alarm. Then query.
	 “Unseelie are shapeshifters.” Bran began.
	Kai ’s expression showed he knew that all too well.
	Bran swatted another bug, held up his hand.  “To shapeshift, you have to have a piece of the creature you want to be.”
	 “Like, a DNA sample?” I said.
	 “Yeah, basically.” He touched his hair, “Raven feathers. A selkie’s sealskin. Tas’s wolf teeth.” He gestured with his bug-stained hand, “A drop of blood.”
	 “Even Dragonkin are not immune to mosquitoes.” Kai said, his own eyes growing wide with understanding.
	Bran gave him a hint of a lopsided raven grin, five points for knowing the answer to that one.
	I swatted another one, a creepy feeling growing in my gut, “How do we know who’s real and who’s Unseelie? And what if they copy us?”
	 “If it’s trying to rip your guts out,” Zan said, “it’s probably not your buddy.”
	Bran shook his head,  “They aren’t just mindless predators, hunting all things bright and beautiful. They can practice deceit. They can wait, if necessary.” He turned his gaze to me, deep, blue, like the sea in those nature specials, where you’ve gone out of the shallow reef water and out into the great big blue forever. “So it will take the gift of Sight to unveil them.”
	I stood there, my mouth hanging open like a whale shark scooping up krill. I finally stumbled over the words,  “You guys are the experts on magic stuff.”
	 “We each have gifts, yes. And so do you.”

	Tas came back an hour later, trailing a line of horses, most of their gear intact. Despite Earla ’s objection to riding, she had helped design mule packs that had weathered even an Unseelie attack. 
	I ran to Topgallant, trailing the remnant of a broken rein. I ran my hands over her, nothing but scratches from brush, some sticky burrs, and a couple of ticks. I yanked them off and threw them into the bush.
	 “She kept the herd together.” Tas said. “Her experience in the wild served us all well.”
	I pulled out the burrs, swept off the mud, relieved she was back. I looked at the short dangle of leather left on the side ring of the bridle.  “Looks like you were right,” I said to Zan, “about the rope, I mean. I might need some about now.”
	 “Here.” Zan said, and held out a piece of leather.
	 “That’s the belt from the Grandmothers’ yard sale.” The one with no buckle, old, worn, definitely too short, not to mention too wide to be of any use.
	 “How am I supposed to...”
	Zan shrugged,  “I’d give you the rope, but then you’d have to learn to fly.” He thrust the belt into my hand, and wandered off. I noticed the bowl, the one with the healing magic, was in his other hand. He went off down the line of horses and stopped at each one. Now I saw that some of them had slashes and cuts. Burgoo was limping. Loblolly’s pack harness had rubbed him raw in one spot, as it slipped in his flight. The cover had a huge slash in it where an Unseelie claw had connected.
	I turned to my own small problem, a broken rein. It suddently didn ’t seem right to waste magic to fix it, if that’s what the belt was. Still, it had been a gift. Never look a gift Elf in the mouth. I held up the strap, touched it to the side ring of the bitless bridle. The broad, worm leather moved in my hand, like a live thing. Like a snake. It stretched, looped. The leather shifted from worn dark brown to an intricate pattern.
	It was a snake, a long, slender creature in a pattern of red-gold-black-white. It looked at me with golden eyes, like the Dragonkin, then caught the side ring of the bridle in its mouth. It slid its tail over Topgallant's withers and looped around the ring on the far side of the bridle, forming a long loop of rein. A rein of shining dark leather with an intricate pattern of red-gold-black-white.
	 “Whoa.” I turned to Zan, fifty feet away, bent over Burgoo’s hind leg, the bowl glowing with healing magic. “Did you see that?”
	A voice over my shoulder said,  “Of course not.” I turned to find Kai.
	 “It was his find.” I said, “Zan’s, he’s the one who found it in the Grandmothers’ yard sale. He gave it to me.” And I almost hadn’t taken it.
	Kai nodded, as if he understood the weight of giving, and receiving, such a gift. He reached out a hand and ran it along the rein. 
	 “I can think of a dozen girls at Stonewall who’d be freaking out right about now.” I said.
	 “Why? You have received a great gift.”
	 “Snakes, they’re afraid of snakes.”
	 “Why? It is a sacred symbol among us. A sign of transformation. Of healing. Of wisdom. Snake lies close to the ground, he is grounded, she hears through her very bones the wisdom of the land itself.”
	 “Oh. The snake sign is on some of your gear. Of course.” I thought of the medical symbol that you see at every hospital, doctor’s office; the staff with the snakes winding up it. “Yeah, it’s a healing symbol in our world too, sometimes. I think they just forgot that.” I ran my hand down the leather, textured a bit like snakeskin; dry, cool. The rein seemed to fit into my hand as if it was part of it. As if I was part of the horse.
	Like Kai.	

	
	 “So, who was counting orcs?”
	We had patched our party back together, found Keet ’s missing pack, found gear dropped and scattered in the melee. I desperately wanted to make camp right there and eat a hot fudge sundae, right after a big helping of strawberry shortcake and a dark chocolate bar the size of Texas. Everybody else was tightening their saddles, lashing down their packs, and stowing their weapons, in easy reach.
	Bran repeated his question.
	 “Why,” I wondered, “would we need to count them. Anyway, we were a little busy at the time.”
	 “How many Dragonkin were there? In your original encounter?”
	I thought furiously, I was terrible at riddles, and remembering stuff like this.
	 “I have thirty-seven warriors at my back. You have one.” Kai said. “Rakthbashkth said that. I did not count them, many were hidden, I think, for only a few could be seen on the trail, but I think she did not lie.”
	 “They don’t.” Tas said.
	 “I don’t think we just fought thirty-seven...eight, counting the Rakthbashkth clone.” Zan said. “But maybe the Unseelie didn’t recreate all of them.”
	 “Maybe they made more than one clone of each.” Ian said.
	 “Maybe,” Bran said, swinging up onto Bluewater, “they’re still out there.”
	 “Certainly.” Earla agreed. “We did not destroy all the Unseelie any more than Kai did on his way to Hawk Circle.”
	I thought of the endless stream of toothy shapes pouring out of the Pennsylvania woods. I did not want to think of an endless stream of orcs pouring out of the pine barrens.
	 “Orcs and water do not mix.” Tas said, “The sooner we get across that river, the better.”
	 “What if they took some other shape?” Zan said.
	 “Oh yeah,” I said, “attack seagulls.”
	Something in Kai ’s face shifted, as if he’d just remembered something horrible. 
	 “Whoa.” Zan said softly.
	 “What?” I said.
	 “You don’t want to know.” Zan said.
	 “The Birds.” Tas said, “Alfred Hitchcock. Ring a bell?” 
	“What if Zan’s magic comb doesn’t work?” I said.		
	“We’ll burn that bridge when we come to it.” Kai said, but he wasn’t smiling.

	We got to it soon enough. The water stretched, choppy with windwaves, to a far blue line of trees. Definitely not wadeable. Bran had gone raven again, sailing back over our path, scanning for any anomalies. Kai, Zan and I took point, Ian and Earla brought up the rear. Keet and Skana turned often, ears pricked back down our trail, watching.
	Watching what? Their buddy, in raven form, or something else?
	At the edge of the water Zan slid off Blue, reached into his pouch, produced the broken toothed comb.
	Something shrieked, far away in the trees behind us.
	Zan went to the edge of the river, waded in a couple of feet. Stared at the comb.
	 “Do you know how to make that thing work?” I said.
	He shrugged, set it in the water.
	Nothing happened. We stared at it for a minute. A sea nettle drifted by, then a coomb jelly, like a little see-through starship, its lines of cilia flashing faint iridescence. I could see the grass beds, dark against the pale sand, waving in the current. I could see them clear out to where the water was too deep to stand in. I saw the small silver flash of some kind of little bottom-of-the-food-chain fish. The slower, darker motion of something big. The sideways scuttle of crabs. The dark winged shape of a six foot wide cownose ray, rooting up the oyster bar, nearly at our feet.
	Oysters, crabs. A seafood roast would be great right about now. Or a swim, it was still hot, and it had been a long ride in arms and armour. 
	There was still no bridge.
	Our silver raven flew out of the trees, flung himself over our heads,  “Move it! There’s more, that way,” he veered upriver, “about a mile. And that way,” he veered downriver.
	 “Dragonkin? Or Unseelie?”
	He landed on Ian ’s shoulder, panting. “I think some of both. Or the Unseelie have cloned Clan Rakthbashkth twice and set to fighting each other.”
	 “Which ones are where?” Ian said.
	 “I did not get close enough to look in their eyes! They are all too near.”
	Zan glared at the comb, lying in the water in front of his bare feet. 
	 “Maybe there’s a magic word or something.” I said.
	“I know about magic!”
	“Not this kind, apparently.” I shot a worried glance around the party, no one else seemed to have any better ideas. 
	Now Zan was trying words, long, short, loud and insistent, soft and pleading, multimillion syllabled, in what sounded like a bunch of different languages.
	Nothing happened.
	 “I’d say we got about two minutes before we have to start swimming.” Bran said, his voice sounding odd, coming from a bird’s syrinx.
	It came to me, a brainfart of epic proportions, a memory of a stupid kiddie fairy tale.
	Fairy tale, faerie tale, the old spelling, the one with Power. I was kind of in one. In the one I half remembered, the heroine had a bunch of normal stuff, and as she fled, she threw an object behind her. It would turn into a hedge or a river or something to impede the enemy. Now we were the ones impeded. “Throw it.” I said.	
	Zan gave me a look that said your frontal lobes are full of hamsters.
	Bran rose up into the air, wheeled above us and let out a graaack! It made me think of those sirens that are going off in movies where you’ve got exactly ten seconds to escape before the villain’s secret base blows up.
	I plunged into the river, grabbed the comb and threw it as far as I could.

~9~
the river

	The river rolled on as it had for probably ten thousand years. The waves lifted their white horse manes and galloped to the far shore before the wind.
	 “WHAT,” here his English failed him and Zan rattled of half a dozen words (the Grandmothers would never translate them in polite company, I’m sure), “DO YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING!”
	Maybe just having a brainfart after all. Maybe I should have waited. Maybe maybe maybe... Well, nobody else had offered any better ideas.
	Bran wheeled out over the water, following the arc of my throw. 
	Maybe he ’d get it back. Have a better idea of what to do with it.
	Or maybe Zan had been wrong, and it was just a stupid broken comb after all.
	Maybe we ’d all have to swim.
	Under Bran the water began to boil. Upwelling, like those places on a river where the current hits a big rock and flows straight up to the surface. Then it upwelled in a new place. In three places. Something thrashed to the surface. Something big. Like the back of a giant snake, it writhed, rose, twisted into the air, a huge mooncurved arc of white. Across the river more arcs rose like the Midgaard Serpent, danced and arched their backs, stretched legs below them, down into the deep river. The arcs rose higher and they were one long loopy line, marching across the river on piling legs, the ends sloping down onto the land.
	Zan stood, his own mouth open like a big whale shark now.
	 “Cool.” I said.
	 “Hurry!” the raven shouted from overhead.
	We ran to our horses, leapt up. Wheeled and cantered for the end of the bridge on our side. Zan leapt up on Bran's horse, Blue.
	 “Zan, take point!” Earla called, “We’ll guard the rear.” They shoved the mules ahead of them, I followed Zan, Kai hard on my heels.
	The bone-white road of the bridge flowed from the sandy grass up a slope onto the bridge itself. A narrow road, enough for one horse to cross, its sides swept up in railings like rolling waves. 
	Topper screeched to a halt, forelegs planted, haunches under her, prepared to turn and run the other way.  “NO!” I dug in with my heels, hauled her head around facing the bridge again. Kai came up hard on Topper’s rump, his own hooves sliding on the white road. Zan was already trotting across on Blue, he turned, looked past me, his eyes widened, as if he’d seen something
	Something really really bad..
	 “No time,” Kai said, “if she does not go, you will have to leave her!”
	 “No!” I pounded on her, and she seemed to root farther into the earth. At least she wasn’t trying to turn again, but she wouldn’t move forward either.
	“What’s wrong with her!” Doesn’t she know what’s on our tail?
	“Calm your own heart.” Kai said. “Listen!”
	Listen? Listen to what? I shot a glance back, I could see shapes emerging from the woods a few hundred yards away. Our Dragonkin? Or the Unseelie clones? Unseelie, I knew they were.
	Zan trotted farther onto the bridge, his eyes going from me to the woods behind me, a look of growing panic on his face.
	Calm, calm, calm, I took a deep centering breath. Like when I faced Kai with a sword. When I had to climb Dragon Woman’s Wall of Doom. Or the pirate ship, excuse me Bran, privateer. 
	Calm, centered. I realized my hands were gripping the reins like a swordhilt in battle. Kittens, pretend you’re holding kittens. I loosened my grip on the reins...
	...reins...the magic snake-belt from the Grandmothers. It was warm, yielding. Reins. I remembered something Tas said; not just something to control the horse, the path of communication with the horse. Listen! Kai had said. Listen to Topgallant. It was almost like I could see through Topgallant’s eyes. I could see through her eyes... and the very real bridge in front of her was more terrifying than the not-yet-visible orcs behind us. Sometimes the predator leapt on the one galloping ahead of you, and you had to veer on another path. It didn’t matter that Blue had trotted onto the bridge. It only mattered that the bridge was strange and I was afraid.
	Ok, nothing to be afraid of. Nothing in front of us, anyway. Come on. The danger lies behind.
	Topgallant took a step, then a leap, then she was trotting across the narrow path of the bridge, ears flicked back, listening hard behind her. I sat down, legs against her sides, urging her forward. The wind hummed through the arched bridge structure above us. Hoofbeats drummed on the white path under our feet. Waves sloshed against the legs of the bridge. Was it swaying? Or was that just my imagination? On the top floor of the mall, you could feel the building swaying in high winds. I looked down. Bad idea. It was a dizzying drop to the water, moving water, moving bridge, definitely moving.
	I felt Topper’s back hollow, tense. She hesitated, a glitch in her hammering trot, a break in the rhythm that told me she would break, halt, and run back into the jaws of the Unseelie. I lurched onto her withers, bobbled. Calm, calm, keep moving. I sat down, closed my legs on her. Follow Bluewater Sailing, after all, this is his element, right? Open water. Topgallant flicked an ear, picked up speed, the hard rhythm of her trot returning. Now I stood, perched in galloping position, allowing her back to spring up and down without my weight, whispering her forward as fast as she would go. I half turned to see Kai, right on my tail, his eyes though were on the far horizon, where the water flowed down to the sea.

	I could feel something change under my feet. Under Topgallant ’s feet. Something in the way the bridge and the water moved. Or something in the way we moved on it.
	I turned, and saw Kai looking too,  “They’ve reached the bridge.”
	They were on it. Or almost. The horde had stopped at the far end, as if they were uncertain what to do.
	 “They take on the shape of what they have copied. They also take on some of its fears.”
	 “How could Dragonkin be afraid of anything!”
	 “They have a hearty respect and distaste for vast stretches of open water.”
	I looked up, realizing something was missing in the sky,  “Where’s Bran?”
	Kai pointed, back. To the far end of the bridge. 
	I could see a faint flash of blue light. Skyfire in the only hands who could wield it, Bran’s. “No...” He was going to try to hold them off while we crossed. I started to pull up. Kai shoved into Topper, pushing her forward, “Keep going! He’ll follow us on the wing.”
	If he’s alive. On the wing? What about the bridge? Or maybe it would unmake itself too. Or maybe, like Kai said, we’d have to burn it.
	Ahead of me Zan had broken into a canter, the bridge undulated faintly, like the memory of a trampoline. I urged Topper faster, she stretched into an extended trot. I had guessed wild horses didn’t ever use the slow collected canter; they trotted if they were in a hurry, and galloped if panicked. I stayed in galloping position, hoping she wouldn’t stop and send me over her head, and over the railing.
	She trotted on, in long, ground eating strides. The bridge arched up, then down, like the ones we drove over on the other Bay. Zan galloped down the last hundred yards, thundering onto a wide curve of beach bordered by tall grass and shrubs farther on. I followed, then Kai, then the mules, and Bayberry and the dogs, and Wolf with Earla aboard.
	I wheeled Topper around, stared hard at the far shore, trying to see what was happening. I heard faint noises, saw a few flashes of blue light.
	Then the bridge writhed, looped itself up like a mad snake, and sank. Topgallant snorted and scrambled backward, while I tried to keep her head pointed toward the far shore, and Bran. 	The waves crashed away and back into the hole left by the bridge. They ricocheted off each other for a few minutes, then sank into the galloping rhythm of waves rolling before a long fetch of wind.

	Ian turned, rode to the very edge of the waves, staring hard at the far shore, his face showing nothing. But his green eyes showed anxiety.
	Wolf stood by him, her ears turned toward the far shore.
	Ian turned,  “He said to keep moving.”
	 “There’s no knowing what they might turn into next.” Earla agreed. Beneath her, Wolf turned and cantered, slow and easy like a rocking horse, toward the woods.
	Zan stared back too, then turned and followed Wolf.
	Everyone was silent.
	No one even mentioned the fact that Zan ’s magic comb/bridge was gone for good, or suggested what we’d do at the next crossing.
	I’d give anything to see a big raven wheel out of the grey distance.
	He didn’t. Zan rode ahead of me, slumped on Blue, even Blue’s ears were at half mast. Ian was terribly quiet. 
	I eased up beside Zan on a wide stretch of trail. I glanced back at Ian, silent, stoic.
	 “They’re Raven and Wolf.” Zan said. “He’d know if ...” 
	I couldn’t think dead. Elves didn’t die, did they?
	“Everything dies.” Zan said, sounding a thousand years older.
	 “Everything is reborn.” Kai said quietly.
	 “What did you see?” I asked Zan, “You can see that far, right?”
	 “Farther.” He rode on for five strides, silent. “I saw a lotta orcs.”
	 “Dragonkin, or Unseelie?”
	 “Can’t tell.”
	 “You’re an Elf, you know stuff like that.”
	 “You’re the one with the Sight. Like Bran, or Tas, or Ian.”
	 “Where’s Bran?”
	 “If I knew, I’d tell you.”

	The sun sank in a haze of red, a blood red line under the black cloud beginning to drop rain on us. Earla cast an eye skyward,  “Now we need our weather wizard, where is he?” The drops got larger, and the wind came up. Wolf melted, reformed as Tas. She glared up at the greenish clouds, “And we could use our aerial scout as well, but I’m all you’ve got, and I don’t like the looks of that.” A swirl of wind and sand and wet and she was Wolf again, with Earla up, and all of us cantering hard down the trail in gathering dark. My reins, magic or no, were useless, I could only see dark and rain. It was up to Topper to put her feet where they belonged. To see the twist of the trail, the log fallen across it. Up to me to lean low over her neck and avoid the branches trying to sweep me off. It was the ride through the night woods on Kai, again. No, there I’d at least had some moonlight. And a mount with enough brains to keep me on his back.
	But Topper had brains too, and experience running wild, in dark, in rain, snow, over trackless deserts. She fell into her ground-eating wild horse trot, hanging back a few yards from Blue, she placed her feet carefully, her night eyes finding the way through the dark.  
	I don ’t know how Tas found it in the dark, in the rain coming down sideways. First I felt Topper’s gait shift. Then slow. There was a difference in the feel of the rain to our left. Then I saw a gate, set in a stone wall. Tas had shapeshifted again, leaving a scattering of sand in the path before the gate. She and Earla swung it open and went in. There was a long house of stone, light glowing through the carved shutters of the windows, and a barn. Tas and Earla knocked on the door, a short, round woman answered, staring up at us travelers, except Earla, with whom she was eye to eye. They exchanged polite words and in a few moments we were leading horses into a stone barn, pulling off gear, hanging soggy cloaks. Then we (even Kai fit in their Great Hall) were huddled around a Dwarf-fire, with kids and dogs and aunts and several other levels of relations I couldn’t keep straight, while the wind howled outside and thunder crashed. A dozen times I must have jumped as a lightning bolt blasted something in the woods nearby.
	The Clan Chief grinned through an immense red beard, said, in the Common tongue,  “Don’t worry, my kin and I built these walls ourselves. You and your four-legged friends will be safe here.” 
	There was food, lots of it, and strong dark beer (for those who liked such things), a long table and short chairs. And comfortable beds, much larger than I expected. Most of our gear and soggy clothes were left hanging by a fire place large enough for the Dwarves to have a dance party in, if they did that sort of thing, (I couldn ’t picture it). I didn't feel much like eating, and nobody else in our party looked like they wanted to party either, despite the Dwarves' hospitality.
	They kept presenting us with a vast array of dishes and drinks I couldn ’t begin to identify, saying things like “You have to keep up your strength.” and, “The road ahead will be long and the pickings short.” Stuff your grandmother probably told you. They listened to our tale with stolid expressions, occasional nods of sympathy, then offered us more food.
	I began to nod in my steaming mug. A girl about my age, and half my height, came to show me to a real bed. I followed her to the long narrow stair leading up to the sleeping loft. Most of the adults in the Dwarf Clan were still below, with Tas and Earla, Kai standing off to one side, trying not to fall asleep. It looked like some kind of conference.
	I couldn ’t have stayed awake another minute if a thousand orcs were pounding on the door.   
	Ian sat, apart from the rest, hunched by the fire, brooding, Keet and Skana flanking him like those stone lions people put at the end of their driveways.
	I paused on my way up the stair, wanting to ask. Afraid to ask.
	He looked up and met my unasked questions with leaf green eyes.  “If he was dead, I think I’d know.”
	 “You...think?”
	 “He knows. Every time I leave the world, he knows.”
	“Every time...?” As if he’d left the world many times. If he heard my question, he didn’t answer.
	“I know when stuff happens to him.” Ian said, “What he’s thinking. What he’s feeling. I...” he looked away, “can’t find him.”
	“Dragonkin.” I said suddenly. Maybe I was just trying to make him feel better. Maybe I was just trying to make myself feel better. “They go to other places, right? I mean, if they were somewhere else, if he was with them...”
	Ian looked up, his eyes seemed brighter for a moment.  “Yeah. Sure.” Then he turned and huddled back into himself.
	I trudged, exhausted, up the steep narrow stair to a sleeping loft, fell into a deep bed and strange dreams.

	 “Val, Val, wake up. Come! Hurry!” I rose, blearily, bonked my head on something hanging over the bed, something hung out of the way, if you happened to be a Dwarf, but not if you happened to be Val The Exceedingly Tall. Tas was shaking me. I bumbled downstairs after her, through the Great Hall (were there that many Dwarves here last night?), found Kai and Zan already up and staring at an open door.
	Outside stood a semi-circle of Dragonkin. They looked like they ’d been through Hell, World War II, and most of the levels of the latest video game. 
	 “What are they?” Tas said in a voice I was pretty sure was meant only for me. 
	Why? You know. You and Bran know these things. You don't need me to tell you. Or maybe this was a test, like doing flying lead changes on Scrimshaw. I stared at the feathered crests, torn and bloodied. I hadn’t noticed before, but the feathers were notched and trimmed in various ways; maybe to show rank, or accomplishments, like Boy Scout or military badges. I noticed the gashes in their feathered bodies, not bandaged, but not bleeding now either (did they have healers, like Ian?). I met their great golden eyes. “Dragonkin, certainly.”
	Tas nodded, gestured to someone behind her. 
	I turned to see Earla, in more armour than she'd had before (there was no way that had been in any mule's pack, she must have borrowed it from the other Dwarves).  “Let’s go then,” Earla said.
	 “Go where?” I said. Then noticed Ian, coming from the barn, leading Bayberry. He stopped in front of me, eyed Zan and Kai, then turned back to me. “Take what you need from the mules’ packs. The Dwarves will keep them safe till we return for them. Do not take too much though. Travel light and swift. Kai knows the way.”
	 “Wwwwaaait, wait wait wait,” this was starting to sound like he was going somewhere else. Somewhere I wasn’t. I glanced around the Great Hall, there were more Dwarves than last night, and most of them were in armour, with heavy swords, and short, powerful bows, and battleaxes taller than themselves. And obvious now (how had I missed them?) were taller figures, lean as cheetahs or greyhounds, armed with longbows and lean rapiers. They had eyes like twilight and moonlight and sea.
	Elves! The ones from the tree villages? Or somewhere else? How did they get here? Why? Some of the how might be answered by the small creatures perched on a few shoulders. At first I thought they were hawks, or cats. Then I looked closer and saw they were sort of both: griffins Maybe they carried messages, or was that only owls?
	The Elves had hair in various shades of bay and chestnut; strawberry blond and deep burgundy and warm acorn and fire red, like Zan’s.
	Like Zan... I turned to him, standing by Kai, his eyes on the Elves in the hall. Eyes with an ache in them.
	Tas spoke, pulling my eyes from the Elves and Zan, answering the why of a Great Hall full of armoured warriors.  “The Unseelie have made their presence known to more than us. We must do what we can to stop them. You must get the Spellbook, and seal up the rift.” 
	I stood, openmouthed, doing my impression of a whale shark again.
	 “Take the dogs, they are another set of eyes and ears, and they can take care of themselves.” With that, Ian swept me up in a hard hug, like a big brother. Like a fellow warrior. Then he swung up on Bayberry. Earla was already on Tas/Wolf. From around the corner of the barn came a handful of Earla’s kin, mounted on what appeared to be...
	 “Are those cows?” I said incredulously.
	 “WarOx.” Earla grumbled. They were the size of a Welsh pony, hairy and longhorned. They looked more like Dr. Seuss characters than tanks, but somehow I didn’t think I’d want to mess with them. They were armoured, and their riders seemed overly well-armed.
	I turned to Tas/Wolf and Earla and Ian, “But...”  But I thought you’d be with me the whole trip. But I thought you’d tell me how to find the tower, how to climb it. How to use the bloody Spellbook.
	Ian echoed Bran’s words from a few days earlier. “You have a team. Team of three.” Then he, and the others, wheeled and vanished down the path on the heels of the Dragonkin.

~10~
the tower

	
	The Great Hall of the Dwarves emptied of all but the very old, and the very young, and a few to defend the farming community. The Elves left on silent feet, with barely a rustle of leather and chainmail. One turned for a moment, a tall woman with bright red hair. She looked at Zan, her eyebrows dipped like birds ’ wings as if trying to remember something. The griffin on her shoulder rustled its hawkfeather wings, lifted into the air. Then she was gone with it.
	We ate what the Dwarves brought us in silence. Then, as one, we rose and went to the barn. We picked through the mules ’ packs, and it went something like this; 
	Me, holding up an item. Kai shaking his head. Thumbs down, back in the pack. Me holding up another item, certainly a necessity. Kai; thumbs down, back in the pack. Zan, holding up something we couldn ’t live without. Kai; down; back in pack. 
	 “But what about?”
	 “No.”
	 “But...”
	 “No.”
	 “Who appointed you General?” Zan said.
	Kai glowered at him. I think it was a glower. His face remained, as always, impassive as a horse's, but his ears twitched in annoyance.  “My folk,” his head lifted a bit, like a show ring champion, “have learned the art of traveling light.”
	Zan hefted the cracked pottery mug he'd found in the Grandmothers' Yard Sale.
	 “No way.” Kai said.
	 “Way.” Zan snapped back. 
	 “We certainly need useless pottery.” Kai said.
	 “Carry pottery. It might turn out to be a boat or something.” Zan said. He stuffed it in his pack.
	 “As long as you carry it.” Kai grumbled.
	I sighed and hefted (with one pinkie) the saddlebag that would hold my gear for the next...  “How long will it take us to get there anyway?”
	 “Depends how much...” here Kai regarded the pile of civilized items we had been certain were necessary for any journey into the unknown, “manure...”
	 “I think the word you’re looking for is crap.” Zan said.
	 “...you want to take.” He muttered to himself, “I can’t believe two-leggeds need so much...”
	 “Crap.” Zan said. He swung his (rather larger than mine) bag over one shoulder and headed for Blue’s stall.

	We rode out at a long, ground covering trot, an efficient gait for covering long distances fast, the one competitive endurance riders use most. Blue could stretch into a ground devouring stride; Zan perched on his back, light as a feather. Topper was strong and long of body, and her stride was tireless. Keet and Skana cantered  alongside, backs folding and unfolding in the rhythm of a running wolfpack. 
	Team of three. Seven, counting dogs and horses.
	The road ran south through piny woods peppered with open farmlands, small villages, creeks with boats afloat at wooden docks. Places full of morning birdsong, of farmers walking behind slow moving oxen, of hazy afternoon sun, fishermen furling their white sails and rowing to dock. We passed few other riders, they gave us only a passing glance. The world around us seemed normal, sunny and bright, nothing amiss.
	I glanced back often, thinking I saw shadows on the trail. Thinking I heard Something.
	We drank from our waterskins, refilled them at streams, at town wells. Paused for dinner at a tavern in a small village (faster than hunting our own dinner this day, and we had taken some of the coin of the realm from the mules' packs). Kai stood at the end of the tall table the woman led us to. Zan and I hunched over our plates, Keet and Skana lying underneath the table, with their own remnants of someone else ’s feast. The few others in the tavern glanced our way, curious, but not overly amazed at the Centaur. Their eyes fell more often to the two large, wolf like dogs, apparently not common in this land of herders and farmers and fishermen.
	 “If this was a movie,” Zan said, “this is where you’d put in a barfight.”
	I glanced up from my pie, full of some concoction of vegetables and mystery meat. I cocked a questioning eyebrow.
	 “You know, just to give the stunt guys and special effects guys something to do. Keep the audience from falling asleep.”
	 “There is little chance we will fall asleep anytime soon.” Kai said.
	Nothing happened. Zan and Kai's keen ears picked up chatter about farming, fishing, the market price for crabs this week. I asked a few of the locals about the weather, about crabs. There had been sightings of 'crab walks' along the edges of the eastern shore's shallow bays. At the mouth of the Great Bay. Not far from Kai's island. I motioned for Zan, Mr. Nature Knowitall. 
	“What's a crab walk?” I whispered it in English. That might raise less suspicion than somebody asking about crab walks.
	His face, unlike Kai's, was bad at hiding emotions. A look of distress passed over it. He whispered back; “hypoxia, or anoxia.”
	 “What pox?”
	 “Low oxygen levels in the water. Or none at all. Crabs and other marine organisms head for the shallows, and the surface, trying to get oxygen. It's easy for crabbers to scoop them up by the thousands.”
	 “What would be causing that?”
	 “Industrial pollution. Agricultural chemicals. Strip mining. Development. Water treatment systems in need of upgrade. Malls.”
	“None of which we have here. What's going on?”
	 “Unseelie. But these folk don't know yet.”
	I finished my dinner with a new sense of urgency.
	We rode on. The horses had their own dinner, and we set out at a swinging walk. Muscles loosened and dinner digested, we broke into our Journey Trot and the wide flat world of the Peninsula rolled away beneath our hooves.
	I kept imagining shadows, wheeling behind us out of the woods. Out of the sky. Topgallant snorted and leaped sideways; at a strangely shaped rock, at a sawed off log someone had taken firewood from, at the sudden appearance of a deer.
	This time I stayed with her, closing my legs on her and sending her forward. Nothing to fear. No Unseelie here. Not yet. Just woods in the dusk and evening birds and the gulls wheeling over the next creek with its village bridge.
	Zan straightened, turned in the saddle, peering back. I saw his eyebrows tilt like bird wings, his eyes narrow as if trying to see something in the gathering dark.
	“What?” I said. Topper trotted on, her nose on Blue’s tail, Kai behind me. Keet and Skana ahead, noses to the trail.
	Zan turned, settled back into Blue’s saddle, and the stride of the Journey. “I thought I saw...” but what he thought he didn’t say. It was gone.

	We ran long into the night, Zan singing something under his breath, keeping the mosquitoes at bay. Easier, I guess, with so small a party, though a few still got through our defenses. We could not run forever though, and the horses needed to graze and to rest. The weather was fair, we found a clear space for a camp and turned the horses loose to graze. In a mundane world, with no Elf or Centaur in the party, we would have hobbled or picketed the horses, so they wouldn ’t wander far. But in a world where Unseelie might come on us in the dark, or where predators still roamed, loose horses could escape faster. Zan sang something, laying his hand on first Blue’s head, then Topper’s.
	 “What are you doing?”
	 “Protection. And safe return. To us.” Zan said. 
	I looked into the treeshadow around us. A shadow detached itself from a distant tree, sailed into the darkening sky, then vanished. I squinted at it, a big bird. What kind? Probably just a great horned owl, out hunting. They were big, silent. They liked this kind of land, woods and fields and farms. The only ones who had anything to fear from the owls were rabbits, rats, birds, and the odd skunk. 
	We slept fitfully, rolled in our cloaks against the night chill and any mosquitoes Zan hadn ’t taken care of. We stood watch, by turns, first me, then Zan, then Kai. The dogs lay nearby, forming their own watch team, ears and noses tuned into the news of the wood.
	I dreamed of a storm, a tornado, whirling, roaring down on us. I woke in the dark, a faint memory of whirlwind sound in my head. I sat up, blinking in the starlight. Sharp, clear starlight, stars like someone had spilled sugar across a black-hole sky. Zan curled in his cloak, the faint shapes of horses, nodding a few yards away.
	Keet was on his feet, staring into the dark. Skana let out a low rrrrroooorrr, not quite a growl, but not a welcoming sound either. I glanced back at the horses. Topper’s head was up too, staring in the same direction as the dogs, ears like warning radar.
	Where was Kai?
	I rolled to my feet, sweeping my sword up with me. I held it up in a guard, turning, turning taking in the whole circle of what was around me.
	A normal summer night. In a world where the Dark was hunting us.
	Where was Kai?
	The song of one lone night bird, loud and insistent. The distant chorus of frogs. The booming call of a great horned owl from somewhere off in the woods.
	No Kai. I glanced at the dogs, wishing I spoke Dog. Then I let out a breath. So maybe he had to visit the port-a-bush.
	Something in my gut said different. Calm Val, calm calm calm. Just dreams and fears playing in your head.
	I stared into the starry dark for another minute. It’s nothing. I looked at Zan, only a shock of red hair, dark brown in the starlight, just visible under the folds of the cloak. We need to sleep. We have to travel hard tomorrow. Zan looked like he was about twelve, asleep. Maybe five. Go back to sleep, it’s nothing. 
	Topper snorted. Not quite her cannon noise, but loud enough. The other horses raised their heads.
	I strode over and toed Zan awake. He leapt up, wide-eyed, sword in hand, pulled from somewhere under his cloak.
	I felt suddenly dumb. The girl who cried Unseelie. I made vague motions at the spot I figured Kai should be, on watch.
	 “Maybe he had to visit the port-a-bush.” Zan whispered.
	 “I already thought of that.” I nodded at the dogs, on their feet, staring into the dark. At the horses, all on alert now.
	Zan walked to the dogs, put a hand on each furry head.  “He went off that way. Told them to stay here.”
	I shouldered my sword, strode past Zan,  “Come on.”
	He scooped up his bow, trotted after me, the dogs flanking him the way they had Ian, was it just last night? Then he sent one dog ahead, nose to the trail. A thin line of deer trail, scratchy bush, almost too big for a Centaur to pass easily.
	Too tight for a Centaur to fight in easily. My stomach tightened. What had he seen? Heard? Why would he leave us, instead of waking us?
	I shoved through the bush, through wax myrtle and poison ivy and greenbriar, hacking at it with my sword. It glowed faintly, like it had in the Grandmothers’ yard sale.
	Zan pushed ahead of me.  “Shhh, go quieter.”
	 “Easy for you, Elf-boy.” I dropped back and let him lead, following the wolf shapes of Keet and Skana.
	Then, a faint voice. The dogs stood up on their toes, ears at attention.
	As if they ’d heard something familiar.
	Zan slowed, melting through the bush silently. I shoved through behind him, feeling like a moose, my great huge broadsword tangling in every piece of greenbriar and ivy that existed.
	Bran had said, They aren’t just mindless predators, hunting all things bright and beautiful. They can practice deceit. They can wait, if necessary. Of course. If they were going to stop us, they wouldn’t do it in the open. They’d take us somewhere our weapons would be useless.
	“Zan!” I whispered, “We’re being trapped!”
	He turned, eyed my hunched form and my sword, tangling in the shrubbery. His glance fell to his own bow, nearly useless in such tight quarters. He reached into the pouch (he’d never taken it off) slung at his belt and pulled out...
	...the wooden spoon from the Grandmothers ’ yard sale. I gave him an incredulous look.
	 “Use the fork, Luke.” He swung it experimentally.
	I expected the spoon to work as well as the comb had, at first. I expected the forest to sit there in the starlight, tweetering with night birds and humming with mosquitoes and frog song as it had for millenia. 
	Branches moved, swayed, writhed back like snakes. The trees swayed like dancers, drawing the tangly bushes back with them. They bowed, like courtiers before royalty. Zan bowed back. 
	I yanked my sword free and plowed ahead. Into what?
	Zan and the dogs flanked me, running hard. Ahead I could see something in the opening tree-tangle; a big dark horse-shape, and a smaller one, man-shaped, crouching, or sitting.
	I thundered to a halt at the edge of a clear space, the low shrubs around it swaying and weaving back, stepping out of our way.
	In the middle of the all too small open space stood Kai, a few yards from another, hunched on the ground. I heard a voice, muted. 
	The dogs ran forward, expressions of joy on their faces. Zan ’s face broke like sunrise.
	 “Bran!” He ran forward too.
	Only I hung back. Maybe it was dreamshreds, lurking in my brain like ghost cobwebs. Maybe it was the tight tangle of the bush, and the way great horned owls sounded in the dark. 
	You have the Sight.
	Maybe it was nothing. Maybe he’d escaped the Unseelie horde and elected to follow us, instead of Ian and Tas and Earla.
	What are they? Tas had said. 
	Part of my heart was leaping; Bran! Bran! It was him! He’d made it! That was the tornado in my dream, his shapeshifting whirlwind. 
	Dragonkin, I’d told Tas, with certainty. I was not at all certain what I was looking at. I stepped forward, then realized Zan had dropped his bow. I picked it up, strode forward to join the others. 

~11~
nine foot knoll

	The dogs stopped. Their brown eyes went forward to Bran and Kai, back to Zan. Keet stalked back to Zan, the thick fur of his neck and shoulders seemed to stand out, making him look even bigger. Skana stood by him, gave a low arrrooo-rooo-roo.
	I thought of the howls I'd heard in the woods, when the Unseelie were hunting Kai.
	The dogs made no move to run to Bran. Or Kai.
	I came up beside Zan. I glanced up at Kai, ten feet away, and had a sudden thought. I was in Kai’s sword range. If that was really him.
	Bran wasn ’t. Wasn’t near enough for Kai to do him any harm. 
	My heart in my throat, I stepped back, drawing Zan with me. Stepped back, out of range of both of them, till I knew. Did I know? Could I know? Or had the other times just been a fluke? I looked at the dogs, but they seemed as uncertain as me: no growls, but no move forward to people they knew. Just waiting.
	Kai saw me move, turned dark star-filled eyes toward me. Eyes shadowed with bewilderment. But Kai’s eyes, definitely Kai’s. I let out a breath and walked forward.
	 “Bran?” I said. He didn’t stand, he stayed there on the ground. I heard him breathe, as if he was injured. And he was holding one arm. “How did you get here?” Inane question. I knew how, he didn’t walk, that’s for sure. And what was he doing in a thicket instead of just coming to our camp?
	 “As the crow flies.”
	To my blank look he replied,  “Yours was a long and winding road. Flight has the advantage of being shorter and straighter.”
	Injured arm, how did he fly?
	 “Finally caught up with you. Then that owl. That’s why ravens don’t fly at night.”
	I couldn ’t see his face, shadowed. Couldn’t see whether he was smiling or not.
	 “Had to land here. Kai heard me.”
	Kai took a step. Hesitated. 		
	 “Hey.” Zan said. “I think I have something that will help.”
 	Bran looked in his direction, but his eyes were shadowed. Not odd, it was dark out. Everything was in shadow.
	Kai stood, feet shifting, his bow and arrows in their case, his sword in his sheath. 
	Zan rummaged in his bag.  “Maaaan, you look awful.” His hand came out of the bag holding the bowl, the one that glowed green with healing energy. It lay in his hands, dark and cold.
	My sword was the only light, besides the stars. It glittered subtly in Kai ’s eyes, in Zan’s, in Keet’s turned toward me for a moment. He seemed like a big furry wall between me and... what?
	Zan can speak Dog. Or maybe he isn't listening. Maybe he wants too hard to believe...
	Kai took another step. His voice was full of relief. “Long we have wondered what...”
	 “Kai, no!” I shouted. Keet snarled an exclamation point to my shout.
	Bran moved. 
	 “Your bow!” I don’t know if I was yelling at Zan or Kai or both. Zan half turned and I flung his bow to him.
	Bran swirled up from his place in the grass, a slice of darkness in his hands where Skyfire should be. I swung hard to meet it. To keep it from Zan, from Keet, Skana and Kai. My great sword banged against dark steel, or something else. A horrible metallic ringing sliced the night air, rang through my body, through my brain. My sword answered with a flash of hot light. I blocked the dark noise along with the blow, shook it off. The dark sword swung again and I answered with a sweep of fire. 
	A swift move from Bran. Not Bran. A spin, a leap...
	I had no time to shout a warning to Zan. I just threw myself and my sword into NotBran. He staggered, rolled aside, spun like a bird in flight. Came back swinging at me. I’ve fought him before. Of course, a million times in practice. With him carefully choreographing the moves. With him holding back, just a little, the sensei, the shifu, the swordmaster allowing the student to win, to learn.
	Now he was trying to kill me.
	I knew he could, easy. There would be no smack with the flat of the blade, only the deadly slice of the edge cutting through flesh.
	Mine.
	My sword flashed up in a desperate arc of fire.
	 “Get out of the way!” Zan’s voice. 
	Out of which way? I slashed, felt something sweep through my tunic, my breeches. I tumbled to the ground and heard the twang of bowstrings and the hiss of arrows, entirely too close.
	Bran fell, a singed hole and one Centaur arrow square in his heart.
	Not Bran, Unseelie. Sure. Tell that to my eyes, to my pounding heart. 
	Kai lowered his bow, face stricken. Zan stood, wide-eyed, open mouthed, bow in his hand, arrow flown. 
	I stood, breathing hard, gasping after only a short bout. I sat down, harder, Skana a great furry mound of sympathy beside me. Keet stood, snarling at the dark shape at our feet.
	Kai and Zan looked at me.
	 “Another step and I would have been too close.” Kai said simply. He paused as if the next thing was hard to say. “I should not have left the camp. I should have awakened you both.”
	I nodded.  “Team of three. Bran said...” I choked on the rest of it.
	Zan drew back his bowstring, an illusory arrow sizzled into shape on it. He stepped toward the fallen body.  “The good thing about a sword,” he said, glancing at me, “is it’s always loaded. Good thing you picked up my bow.” 
	I lurched up, sword at the ready. A ridiculous black-humored thought came to me.  “If this was a movie, this is where the body would come back to life.” 
	 “Hah hah.” Zan said without humor. His face was tight with dismay. He drew the bowstring harder.
	None of us said are you sure? Was that really Unseelie? I had a horrible thought, what other kinds of magics were there? What kind of spell could the real Bran have been put under to attack us? What if...
	“How did you know?” Kai said. He said it with certainty. He said know with weight.
	“I.... I don’t know. Something just felt...” I couldn’t explain it, how it felt, how it felt wrong, even without seeing the creature’s eyes. But I couldn’t find words to make a picture of what I’d felt. “Anyway, I think the dogs knew too.”
	Kai nodded, understanding.
	The body stayed dead. Zan relaxed his bow and the arrow faded. He reached for the dark sword, flung into the grass. He touched it,  “Ah!” and jumped back. 
	I heard the silver sshhhiiiiiink of Kai’s greatsword unsheathing. He reached out with it, poking at the dark weapon. He withdrew swiftly, an equally pained look on his face. “I would not have wanted to cross blades with that.”
	I looked at him, startled. I had crossed blades with it. I held my sword up, its glow sunk back into its depths, only starlight glittering across its surface now. I started to sheathe it, but saw Kai turn in a circle, ears on the woods around us. He motioned to Keet and Skana, and they trotted off, looking like wolves hunting.
	 “There may be more.” 	
	 “Sure.” I said, “there always have been.”
	 “I think the hordes are fighting the others.” Zan said. “I think they sent one. They figured one would be enough to stop a bunch of kids.”
	Kai snorted something derisive.
	 “Hey,” Zan said quietly, “you’re bleeding.”
	 “I am?” I looked down, the dark sword had cut more than my tunic, my thigh was oozing dark all over my pale breeches. As I looked, I noticed the pain, seeping past the battle adrenaline.
	 “Here.” Zan frowned at the bowl, “It didn’t seem to want to work before.” 
	 “Maybe because it doesn’t work for Unseelie.” I said.
	It still didn ’t want to work for Zan, it lay there, a silver bowl in the dark.
	I don ’t know where it came from, a brainfart bubbling up from the depths. “Let Kai try it.” I said. Chiron was a healer as well as a trainer of heroes, and Kai carried that ancient name in his own.
	 “Kai?” Zan turned to him, held out the bowl.
	He stepped forward uncertainly. Reached down and took it from Zan ’s hands. 
	It burst into green light. He nearly dropped it. Then he knelt, an amazing sight, his horse butt still in the air, his forelegs bowed under him, leaning toward me in a mirror of my pose that night in the snow when I bandaged his leg.
	The green glow poured into his hands. Hands that had just wielded a deadly bow. Hands that could wield a greatsword with ease. Poured from the bowl to his hands to me.
	It sank into my leg like warm green sea, like sunlight on green leaves.
	Then it was gone.
	Kai stood,  “We should go.”
	I scrambled up after him, except for the ripped breeches and the vast bloodstain, I seemed to be in one piece. I glanced back at the dark shadow in the grass.  “I know what orcs do when they die.” My hands made little explosion signs in the sir, “What about...what...” Just a shadow. Not Bran, not really. My stomach churned, and I don’t think it was from loss of blood. The same face that had laughed with me, encouraged me to keep going when I wanted to quit. The swirl of dark silver hair. The lean, agile body that was never where I expected it to be when I was fighting it. 
	And what had happened to the real Bran? Was he lying somewhere, like this, too? 
	 “Unseelie take on the characteristics of whatever they copy.” Kai said.  “In life or death.”
	 “How’d they get a DNA sample, from him?” I blurted, my eyes were stinging like they’d run into sea nettles.
	 “Mosquitoes.” Zan said, his voice tight. “Or a scratch in the fight.” 
	Only a scratch. Yeah, sure. Trying to make me feel better. Trying to be positive, hopeful. He sounded an awful lot like Bran. “We can’t just...” leave him...it... here.
	“It’s all sand, we can’t build a cairn.” Zan said.
	“A what?” 
	 “Pile of stones.” Zan said. “There’s no stones here.”
	Kai said,  “we have no time.” A shadow shape appeared at the edge of the woods and warbled softly. Kai looked up at Keet and Skana, at us, “The way is clear. For now. We must move.”
	“If we had a boat, we could leave him to the river, like they did with Boromir in Lord of the Rings.” Zan said.
	“It is not one of your fallen heroes. Leave it where it fell.” Kai turned neatly on his haunches and headed back down the trail to our camp.
	 “What about the sword?” Zan said, “Doesn’t seem like a good idea to leave that lying around.”
	I turned to see, thinking maybe I could bury it, or fling it into the bush with my own sword. I looked, but it had evaporated like a nightmare. 
	Zan sheathed the spoon in his bag, turned and followed Kai. 
	I followed Zan. I heard a soft rustling, a creeping, slithering sound. I spun, sword at the ready, but all I saw were tree roots and bush and greenbriar weaving themselves back, covering everything without a trace

	The path back to the camp seemed far shorter than the hack through the thicket searching for Kai. I ran, on Kai ’s heels now, heart still pounding, afraid of what we’d find there.
	We found the camp as we had left it. The horses stood, heads high, ears strained in our direction. We were packed our light gear, doused the last of the campfire, tightened girths and slung weapons at the ready. 
	We set out with Kai in the lead. He broke into a canter, his strides growing longer and quicker, stretching into a hand gallop, not a pace we could maintain for more than a few miles. Keet and Skana galloped among us, backs flexing like longbows. The dark woods rolled by on either side of the road. Then open fields, lit with moonsilver. The dark shapes of cattle, pale clouds of sheep. The startled bark of a farm dog as we passed in the night. Then woods, dark and full of the unknown. Kai kept up the gallop, Topper and Blue pounded after him, their necks wet with sweat. The Malamutes, bred for millenia as pullers of heavy sleds, could go all day.
	But not at this speed. They began to drop back, tongues hanging.
	A four foot wide shadow detached itself from the trees and floated over the road. I gasped. Topper flinched, leapt sideways almost over Keet ’s back.
	 “Only an owl.” Zan said.
	 “Kai.” I called. 
	 “Pull up!” Zan called. “Save your speed for when we need it!”
	Kai slowed, breathing hard. He glanced back.
	 “There’s nothing there.” Zan said. He looked at me, his face a question mark.
	I nodded, sat back in the saddle. Then slid off. Topgallant stood, head lowered. Keet and Skana lay down, tongues hanging.
	 “Sorry.” Kai whispered. 
	 “Let’s rest a minute, then go on at a trot.” That was my voice. It almost surprised me. “We have to think like endurance riders, not racehorses.” I’d read a lot of magazines, left in the tackroom at Stonewall. I’d read everything from the library on competitive trail riding. And more at Hawk Circle. We had to pace ourselves.
	We stood, or sat in the middle of a dark road in the middle of nowhere, listening to the night noises. Kai stood facing the way we ’d come, watching the shadows.
	I turned the other way, trying to make sense of the dark landscape ahead. Something burned at the edge of my awareness, a flicker of light. I was used to electric lights in the dark, but there were none in this world.
	When the night is all dark, any light is more obvious.  “What’s that light?” I said.
	Zan stood, peering after me. He went to Kai and said something, low and indistinct. Then he was climbing on Kai ’s shoulders, his humanoid ones, standing like an acrobat, peering into the dark. “It’s a long way off, maybe ten miles or more.”
	 “Then it must be as tall as a lighthouse.” I said.
	 “There’s shadows around it. A stone circle.” Zan said.
	Kai moved under him, surprised, delighted.  “It’s Nine Foot Knoll light!”
	 “It is a lighthouse!” I said.
	 “More than the navigational markers of your world. It is a sacred site; the light is a beacon, the stone circle a protection.”
	 “Let’s make for that, then.” I said. We mounted up and trotted on, in the long ground-eating Journey Stride.
	We all glanced back, often. Ahead of us, the light glinted through the trees. Vanished momentarily behind a low rise. Shone again, closer, stronger, a bright point on the dark horizon. We saw nothing on the trail behind. Heard nothing. The woods rustled with their usual night life; owl and small rodent, nightbird singing and the hum of insects. 
	The stars wheeled across the sky, the light shone closer. Then it was there, on a low sandy hill surrounded by loblolly. We wound our way up to it, relieved. It didn ’t flash, blink-blink, blink-blink, like our lighthouses back home, just put forth a steady warm glow, like a huge candle under glass. I stared up at the light, not a tall tower, like the one we sought, a handsome house of wood, six-sided, high up, like a big spider with living trees for legs. Trees that had been shaped, sculpted. They bowed away from the cupola at the top which housed the light, so it could be seen for miles. I stared at the glow of the light, wondering who came to turn it on and off, as if it had a big light switch or something. Someone would have to climb it, light it, every night, rain or snow or heat or cold. Then they would put it out in the morning. Maybe they lived in the house, that would make sense. If anyone did, they did not come out to greet us. 
	“Can we just... go in?” I asked Kai. Or do we have to knock? Or utter some magic spell? Or leave a donation?
	For an answer, he strode in between two of the stones, stopped, bowed, hands clasped, left over his right swordhand, motioning for us to bring the horses. I followed, bowing as he had clasping my hands the other way, right over my left swordhand as Bran had shown me. Bran... it left an ache in my center. What had really happened to him? 
	We unloaded our gear,  curled up, near each other, hard stone at our backs and slept.
	Some of us anyway. I heard a rustle, and turned to see Kai, still standing, staring at the stars, as if they might tell him something.
	“Why did they send you?” I said. Why a kid, like me? Why not some great experienced warrior. Some superhero who could clean up the entire Unseelie Horde in one swell foop?
	“They didn’t.”
	“What?”
	 “You heard my tale in the Grandmothers’ council. We have argued among ourselves in the past that we should seal all the boundaries of our land. Nor allow others in, nor any trade between the worlds. Keep to ourselves, avoid the problems of the Mainlanders. Our island sits at the mouth of the Great Bay, a strategic point, some would say. All ships passing into or out of the Bay pass us; sometimes at some distance, for the mouth of the Bay is wide, but they must pass us. Some would stop for trade. Some would stop for plunder. Warriors of other places would have a fort there, cannons.”
	 “Erda has cannons? Gunpowder? I thought it was all, I don’t know, swords and bows and medieval stuff like that.”
	 “Erda is not your past.” Kai said. “Some of our folk tried to seal us off, instead they opened this rift. When I left, my people were all busy fighting, thinking they could stop the Horde, thinking they could stop each other, not even knowing who had started the whole trouble. Few know of the ancient tales. Their eyes do not go farther than a stride or two ahead.”
	“How do you know of it then?” How did he know our stars? Wait, libraries. I smiled.
“You’re just basically a huge book geek.”
	His ears flicked in an equine question mark,  “I spent much time in libraries, yes.”
	 “No one sent you. They didn’t have the imagination to think of it. You decided to come find us.”
	He nodded.
	 “You’re as different from your people as I am.”
	He let out a breath, it sounded like a wave rolling up on shore after a thousand mile ocean journey.  “You have no idea.”
	 “Unseelie, political unrest, war. What are we riding into?”
	 “I have no idea.”

	
	I woke with sun in my eyes. And the shadows of the standing stones stretching across me to the far edge of the world. 
	And the scent of something like pancakes. I blinked. A tall shadow that wasn ’t a stone stood before me, and a bulky one, one of the horses, I thought.
	I sat up. Bran! The tall, lithe figure moved, holding out a steaming mug. Then he turned slightly and the sun hit him, and his long black hair. Black and white; mostly white, with black sweeping back from his eyes in two broad streaks. I frowned, it reminded me of something, but I couldn't think what. The bulky shadow was not one of the horses, not a horse at all, but a Griffin the size of a thirteen hand pony. It had wings, head and fore talons like an osprey, ears like a caracal (one of those desert lynxes with the tufty ears), and a body the subtle sand shades and lean shape of a cougar. 
	Osprey, that was it. The Griffin's head markings looked like the hair of the man before me. He smiled, speaking in the common tongue, “Welcome travelers. Your animal companions have had their breakfast, perhaps you are ready for yours?”
	I stood, glanced down at my disheveled self, bloody and grungy and sweaty and mosquito bit Looked up at the poised man before me, clad in the colors of sea and shore. I noted the leaf-shaped ears, the chiseled face with the clean lines of osprey wing or sea wave. Elf. So, were they all good guys?
	As if he had read my though, he said, “You are protected here. I am the Lightkeeper of Nine Foot Knoll, and the Riverkeeper for the Nassahannek. My name is Pandion.” His gaze took in the mess that was me. “You have a story to tell. Come eat and we will hear it.”

	It was a funny name for an Elf,  I thought, not like the long tangley ones full of syllables with too many consonants, or weird combinations of vowels, that I remembered from my books. More like names I'd heard on the Chesapeake Bay, back in my own world.
	The world that was getting fainter and farther away.
	The Lightkeeper led Zan and me up the ladder, into the Lighthouse. The interior was two rooms, one above the other, and the cuppola for the light a small glass room above that. Support beams arched across the ceiling, bookshelves lined the walls full of books, shells, driftwood and objects that might have been everyday stuff or things from ships that had visited exotic ports. There were a couple of bows and swords, including one as big as mine or Kai's. From a chest, the Lightkeeper produced a pair of untorn, unstained breeches and handed them to me along with a bowl, pitcher of warm water and small pile of towels. He motioned to a movable screen (the folding kind you can hide behind). I took them, spreading the screen out, making a little cubbyhole in one corner of the six-sided room. I heard the clatter of dishes (yeah, Elves clatter dishes), as Zan and the Lightkeeper collected breakfast. The smell of pancakes and syrup nearly overwhelmed the small space of the Lighthouse. I peeled off my shredded breeches wondering how I was ever going to fit in anything that came out of a chest owned by a six and a half foot Elf built like a cheetah. I loosened the drawstring and my breeches fell in a lump at my feet. I made use of the towels and the water, then picked up the new breeches, prepared to do battle with them, or at least, ask for a larger size.
	They fit pretty good, a little long, close-fitting, but stretchy. I frowned, wishing for a mirror. There weren't any. There hadn't been any in months.
	I emerged, grabbed the last bowls and trays of food and headed down the ladder after Zan. 

	The pancakes were brown as the Grandmother's multigrain bread, and had that same nutty healthy taste, like an earthy undercurrent beneath the sweetness of the syrup. They tasted like something that could keep you going for a week all by themselves. Maybe a month. We sat in a circle in the long shadows cast by the standing stones, rising sun glinting through the trees, gulls wheeling and wailing up from the river. We told our tale, interrupting each other in a confusion of where we were and what we saw until the Lightkeeper held up a hand for silence. From somewhere he produced a feather, a huge one that looked as if it had fallen out of the Griffin's wings. He passed it first to me.
	 “Whoever holds this may speak till he, or she has said what is needed.”
	I told my part of it. Then Zan. Then Kai. The horses, and dogs, remained silent, of course, but the Lightkeeper studied them for long moments, as if he could hear their tales as well. 
	 “A black dragon was spotted, flying east, some days ago. A good omen. The Dragon Mothers do not often grace us with their presence. But even a dragon cannot contain all the Unseelie.”
	 “Dragon Woman.” Zan said, “She's from Hawk Circle. She went before us to help hold back the Unseelie tide.”
	Pandion nodded.  “A lighthouse is a Guide, a Beacon, a Light in the Dark. And a collector of news as well as artifacts. The news is dark. The Dark is spreading.”
	 “What of my island?” Kai said. He sounded almost afraid.
	 “It has not vanished beneath the sea. Your folk are not easily trifled with. But they are hard pressed. Some of the very old and very young have escaped to the mainland. All who can fight are. But they cannot fight these things forever. Or stop them.” 
	 “Guess they're all in a fort somewhere. Like Fort McHenry or something.” Zan said, “With lots of cannons. I wonder how we...”
	 “There is no fort. Not like that, at least. Nor cannons. There is a palisade around the lighthouse, that is all. And many accurate bows.” Kai said. “We have always been a mobile folk, we do not build the vast edifices your folk do.”
	 “This very quality will buy your folk some time.” Pandion said.
	 “And make it hard for us to find them.” Zan said.
	 “We only need to find the place to heal the rift, to use the Spellbook.” Kai said.
	I interrupted the Knightly Knews with a well-placed foot in my mouth. “What are we gonna be able to do?” Even with the Spellbook. Kai's island was overcome with creepy crawlies, there wasn't any safe place to get to. We wouldn't even be able to find Kai's people in a war zone. I really was trying not to sound like Fay Wray. We was supposed to include a Ravenkin, a Well-muscled Hero, a heavily-armed Dwarf (maybe even the battle cow) and the Pooka of Doom. Now it was three kids, two horses and a couple of sled dogs.
	Pandion studied me for a moment with golden eyes, golden like a bird of prey. “Every step you make is a choice.” 
	If I was logical, those steps would lead straight back to Pennsylvania. I glanced at Kai, at Zan's wide grey eyes, at the Lightkeeper's golden ones. 
	Nobody ever accused me of being logical. I turned to Pandion again,  “Got any suggestions?”
	 “If you leave at sunrise tomorrow, you will be well-rested, and be able to make the trip across the tip of the Fox's Tail in half a day.”
	Zan cocked his head, eerily like Bran, quizzical.
	The tip of the big peninsula we were riding down, it was shaped like a fox's tail. We were nearly at the bottom, nearly at Kai's island.
	 “The Eastern Road,” he pointed, “will take you to Ship Shoal. There is a ferry to the island. The fee is one crown.” He meant the coin of the realm, “Or the equivalent in produce, chickens, or other trade goods. One for each horse and rider.” He eyed Kai, “You count as a horse.”
	Kai shifted uncomfortably, looking a bit green. Remembering his squally trip up the Bay, no doubt.
	 “It is too far to swim.” Pandion stated flatly. “From the mainland there, take the South Road, there is only one.”
	 “I know.” Kai said.
	The Lightkeeper eyed me.  “You have only the one weapon?”
	My ginormous magic sword, you'd think that would be sufficient. I nodded, wondering what he was getting at. Maybe one hugemongous magic sword wasn't even enough for what we were riding into.
	 “Let me see what you know.”

	We stood in an open place in the circle of stones. He drew a light, long sword, standing casually. I raised mine in the guard I'd been taught. Pandion gestured with his empty hand. Come on.
	I did, not sure what he wanted. I threw everything I knew at him. He blocked effortlessly, tumbling away from my moves like a bird in flight. Like Bran.
	He gestured again. Stop.
	I bent, breathing hard, but not as hard as all those weeks ago. 
	“Good.” He said. “Now, how will you fare if your enemy attacks while you are horsed?”
	I'd fall off and wail away at them on the ground, like I did before.
	He cocked his head as if he'd heard. Of course he'd heard. “You are riding into a world of horse men.” He said it distinctly, as two separate words. “You will not have the chance to fall off and collect your horse later.”
	Great. My great sword would be of no use whatsoever. 
	 “I think your sword was already of use. Now you need something else.” He vanished into the Lighthouse. A minute later he emerged, another sword slung over his back. He held it out to me. It was long and light, like his. It moved in my hand like... like a bird.
	 “This you can use from the back of your horse.” He demonstrated, air sword. Like air guitar only more graceful. “Just don't do this.” He made a couple of moves across his body. “Unlike Kai, you have a bit more anatomy in the way.”
	Like Topper's head and neck.
	 “Ah.” I said, “What do you want for it?” The sword, in trade.
	He remained silent for a minute studying us, the trees, the dip of an osprey over the water. He turned, beamed at Keet and Skana, panting lightly in the shade.  “The dogs.”
	 “The dogs!” I think we all said it at once.
	 “You can't.” I said, “they're not even ours, they're Ian's.”
	 “And I think Ian would want them back in one piece.” Pandion said, “They came as companions, as extra ears and eyes and noses. As hunting companions, with the strength to pull and carry. Now you must run fast and light. Faster than they can go. And you are riding into great danger. They are not war dogs.”
	He was right, Keet and Skana weren't even good watch dogs. They liked everybody. The joke about northern dogs was yeah, they're great watch dogs; watch the burglar come in, watch him carry stuff back out again. They had helped on the Journey, on the hunt, they had helped me catch an Unseelie. They could not help fight them.
	 “I would keep them till you return. Then you can give me back the sword.”
	I looked at Kai, at Zan. We all nodded at once. My eye fell on my Centaur sword, lying against one of the standing stones. Kai's gear lay not far away, with one empty sword sheath. I frowned,  “Would that fit in there?” I pointed at my sword, and the empty sheath.
	Kai's eyes went from sword to sheath, and widened. His ears flicked forward in that position that indicates astonishment.
	 “I mean, well, I... you'll be able to use it better than me now.”

	I spent the afternoon learning how to wield a lighter sword, from the back of my horse. It wasn't all that different, except that it was faster. A lot faster. Kai spent some time working with both swords. They matched well in weight and balance and length, even if they looked different. I rode Topgallant at targets set up on a barrel; a melon, pine cones, a single strawberry. At first she ran wide, and my attempts to rein her closer to the target turned her head, not her body.
	 “No no,” Pandion called, “if she runs like that you'll take off her ear.”
	 “You'll put your eye out!” Zan yelled, sounding like something I'd heard in a movie somewhere.
	 “Hah hah.” I snorted at him, and rode at the target again. Topper lurched to port, I threw my left leg into her and she ignored it.
	From the sidelines, Keet yodelled at me. I stared at him. Then I understood.
	I wheeled Topgallant and lunged at the target again. This time I loosened the rein and called,  “Gee! Gee! Gee!”
	An ear flicked back at me, and Topper ran straighter. By the dozenth time Topper was running straight, responding to my body language and whispered gee and haw..
	Pandion raised his hand, “Enough.”
	We rode down to the edge of the river, found good footing on the beach and rode in till the horses had to swim. Back in slightly shallower water, Zan leapt off Blue's back, cannonballing and swandiving and double back flipping. I settled for lounging on Topper, dangling my feet in the water, splashing Kai.
	And then he splashed back. 
	I got him back, cannonballing off Topgallant's rump. She snorted and hopped away through the shallows. I splooshed up and climbed on Blue, leapt off, landed in a whopping bellyflopper, smacking a wave at Kai.
	Never, never get in a water battle with a Centaur. When they rear, they can make the mother of all cannonballs.

	We rode east into a blood red sunrise.
	“Red sky at morning, sailor take warning.” Zan said. His usual exuberance and overabundance of words, was missing. Like Bran. And I thought of Bran, and where he wasn't, and where he might be, or not be, because the bloody redhead had to mention sailors. I half expected him to go on with sailor superstitions, but he didn't. He stayed morose and uncharacteristically quiet. Kai cantered ahead, his expression somewhere between stoic and grim. My own head was still in the  morning muddle zone, and Topgallant responded by refusing to canter, pounding out a bone-jarring trot instead. Just to combat the grimness, and get Zan back for tacky sailor superstitions, I started singing 'we are Santa's Elves', from 'Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer'. I got through three verses before Zan yelped for me to stop. 
	“I'll give you my allowance till I'm ninety-two!” Zan said, a pained look on his face.
	 “Deal.” I said.
	He broke into a slow smile.  “I'm a hundred and fifteen... give or take a decade.”
	I glowered at him and pushed Topgallant past Bluewater Sailing at a thundering canter.
	We slowed in a mile or two, walked till the horses were rested, then fell into the Journey Trot. The sun sailed across the sky, the road ran on past farmhouses; their fields empty of farmers and teams, their shepard type dogs barking from fenced and guarded yards. Wagons and walkers and riders filed past us on the road; all headed west.
	 “We're the only ones going east.” I observed.
	 “We're the only ones crazy enough to do so.” Zan said.
	I thought about that. About why three kids were on a mission that ought to have the Marines, a couple of SWAT teams, the U.S.S. Enterprise, and all of the X-Men ever created on it.  “Grownups would take one look at our problem, turn around and go west.”
	Zan shot me a startled look,  “Yeah. Yeah really.”
	I rode on, silent for a dozen strides.  “What about the ferry? Is anybody going to be there to run it?”
	They weren't.

	 “Ferry Landing.” Kai read the sign.
	 “Faerie Landing. F-a-e-r-i-e. And you're the only ones in sight,” I said to the guys.
	Zan groaned. Kai's ear flicked, as if a horsefly had landed on it.
	The ferry drifted haphazardly in the current caused by the rising tide, its mooring line tied off to a piling a few yards out in the water. No one was in sight. The buildings by the dock were empty. Zan climbed up a stack of crab traps leaning against the side of a building, trotted up the roof and stood there like a weathercock, staring across the water to Ship Shoal Island.
	 “What do you see?” I asked.
	 “Cordgrass, marsh mallow, bayberry, loblolly pine, gulls, four kinds; herring, black backed, laughing and...”
	 “I wasn't looking for nature special commentary.”
	 “That's what Ship Shoal is, Nature. There's no people living there. The lighthouse keepers come and go from here.”
	“I know that, I was there.” In the conference at the Grandmothers', when we talked about our journey. “You can see the lighthouse, can't you?”
	“Yep. I can see it over the treeline.” 
	I let out a breath. “Unseelie?”
	 “Who can tell, from here.”
	“Why's no one here then?”
	“Evacuating, like the rest we passed. Just in case.”
	“You hope just in case.”
	“Enough speculation.” Kai strode past me, into the water, caught up the end of the ferry's mooring line. He hauled on it and the boat drifted closer, then ran aground. He waded to it. It was floating in water knee deep on a Centaur. He splashed around it, found a ramp along the side of the boat, lowered it. He stuck out a foreleg, tested the stability of the ramp, the boat, his ears pasted back. Finally he plunged up and onto the deck. “Seems whole,” he called to us.
	Zan loosed the mooring line, rode out on Blue to Kai, flung the mooring line aboard. I waded Topgallant into the water, following the path Kai and Zan had taken. I had no wish to get bogged again. Topgallant stopped a few feet from the boat, and its ramp up onto the deck. Her head lifted into that posture that shouts, 'four-fanged horse-eater alert!' 
	Blue thump-thumped up the ramp as if he was going onto a horse trailer.
	Topgallant stood, rooted in knee deep water. 
	 “Come on.” I closed my legs on her and urged her forward.
	No way. No how. She stared at the alien construction the way she had the bridge, the indoor arena. The only place she hadn't hesitated was the Dwarves' barn, and then I think it was only because of the storm. 
	Kai and Zan watched me from the deck of the ferry, waiting. I could ask them for help. They could lock hands behind her, like we did for horses reluctant to go on trailers. 
	I turned her, circled once and came back at the ramp a little faster.
	She halted, fast and hard.
	From the deck, Blue nickered at her.
	Zan made a circling motion with his hand,  “Try again.”
	I did. She stopped like a reining horse.
	 “Picture her going on. Picture a warm glow, safety up here.” Zan said.
	Yeah, push your bubbly aura roots out there and make them look like a wheelbarrow full of sweet feed.  “Maybe you could just do an illusion of a great white shark or something.” I suggested.
	 “How well do you swim?”
	Yeah, she'd just take off and be at the island before the ferry. Or go west back to wherever she came from. I sighed and tried to remember what I'd learned from Zan. From the Grandmothers' endless meditations between bouts of swashbuckling. I felt the warm silkiness of the reins Zan had given me.
	Come on. The water isn't all that wide I told her. Oh yeah it was. I  glanced up at the far shore and realized how weirded out I was. The bridge, for all its magic, had its feet in solid ground. I'd been surrounded by older and wiser and stronger folk. Now it was just me and Zan and Kai. And a boat that I hoped they knew more about than me because the only thing I'd ever played on that floated was my pool noodle, and a ship in a quarry.
	This was so not a quarry.
	Calm, calm, calm. 
	I circled again, closed my legs. I could feel her hesitate, feel the glitch in her stride. Come on. Then she was up the ramp, standing next to Blue, legs splayed, nostrils wide.
	Kai hauled up the ramp. 
	 “Where's the ignition?” I said.
	Nobody laughed. There was one mast with a lopsided yard nearly at its top. Zan squinted up at it, then found a line belayed at the base of the mast. He loosed it and a heavy canvas sail floomphed down like a dragon wing. Topper snorted and plunged hard aport. I hauled her in, thinking calm thoughts at her, picturing that wheelbarrow of sweet feed. She came back to paste herself alongside Blue, staring at the clearly insane humanoids.
	I looked up at the giant wing over our heads.  “The big stick thingie's crooked.” I observed.
	“Yard.” Zan said. “Or not. Remember the Roane? This is like her foresail. That's a gaff.” He pointed to the yard, with the mast top it made a shape like the top of a K. “Fore and aft sail, goes closer into the wind than a square rig. Loose-footed, so there's no boom to get in our way down here.”
	His words sounded confident, like he knew what he was talking about. His face looked confident. But he'd taught me enough about shielding and getting through other people's shields that I could feel his feelings.
	He really really wished Bran, sailor of wind and sea, was here. 
	So did I.

~12~
ship shoal

	Zan set about sorting out lines, trimming the sail. He pointed me toward one end of the boat. I couldn't tell if it was the back or front, both ends looked equally blunt and unseaworthy, not at all like the pirate ship in the quarry. “We'll need somebody strong on that tiller at the stern.”
	Stern, the nautical term for boat butt. This tiller was longer than my... Kai's greatsword, seven feet at least. Lines from it ran through pulleys at the side of the boat, making the  tiller look like a horse in crossties. I stared at it in confusion until Kai said,  “The boat steers like a horse. The tiller is the bit. Those lines are the reins.” 
	 “The lines give you a mechanical advantage.” Zan said, “Easier than heaving on a seven foot tiller.” He paused, “Not that a seven foot tiller would give you much trouble.”
	Thanks, I think. I looked across the water. 
	“It is not far.” Kai said, casting an apprehensive eye at the sail. “It is fairly shallow, five to seven feet deep, with a few holes of ten or twelve, and a narrow channel of twenty.”
	He answered my questioning look by holding up something that looked like a map.  “Charts. You said once that men never stop and ask for directions.”
	 “Good thing then that you're a Centaur.” 
	 “Just wish this thing had a backup engine.” Zan muttered.
	 “You'd probably fry it.” I told him.
	 “There's your backup engine.” Kai pointed to the twenty foot oars lying down the center of the boat. 
	 “Great, you're the only one big enough to use them.” I said.
	 “I think you could manage one.” Kai said. He was almost smiling.
	Zan frowned up at the shred of cloth fluttering from the top of the mast. Then he frowned at the far shore. 
	I looked from Zan to fluttering cloth to Zan to the shore. I got it. The wind was blowing the wrong way. I could see we'd drifted down from the piling the boat had been tied to. I could still see the water flowing past the piling, south. Flowing really fast and hard.  “What's that way?” I pointed south. “Besides Kai's island, eventually?”
	 “Open water.” Zan said. “The whole vast World Sea.”
	My eyes went from sail, to fluttery thing to ripping current to flat lumpy sail to far shore.  “Oh goodie.” I shoved on the tiller.
	 “No no! The other way!” Zan shouted.
	I hauled on the big rope reins and slowly, agonizingly slowly, the blunt bow of the ferry swung across the horizon northward. The sail flumped in the light wind that was definitely blowing south.
	 “How long before the tide goes the other way?” I should have thought to ask that question before we boarded the boat. We could have waited.
	 “Not soon enough.” Kai said. He glanced up at the sail, south at the total lack of land in that direction. He picked up one of the oars, fit it in the oarlock on the south side of the boat and began rowing.
	 “Careful.” Zan said, “if the wind picks up and you catch a crab...”
	 “I am not looking for dinner.”
	 “Crab, crab, as in the water sucks one end of your oar in and the other end breaks something: the boat, your head, your buddy's head. You can row while we're going slow but...”
	 “I am not devoid of knowledge about boats. I grew up here.” Kai said, his voice sounded like a shutting door.
	Zan shut up. 
	The boat drifted; east toward the other shore, south toward the great big blue forever. Kai threw his considerable muscle into the oar, I could see the sturdy wood flexing. Blue and Topper stood in the middle of the broad, stable ferry, occasionally shifting a foot. The gulls wailed in the distance. An osprey wheeled out of the far shoreline and dipped toward the bright midday water. A line of pelicans flapped over, looking like pterodactyls. Maybe they were pterodactyls, this was Erda, after all, not the Eastern Shore I knew.
	 “Take us farther aport.” Zan said to me. 
	 “Port?” I pointed south, to the right.
	 “Port!” He pointed up the continent to the north. “Your other left.” He heaved on a line, trimming the sail again, trying to find enough wind to fill it.
	I hauled on the tiller lines, and the boat drifted south. Damn! Rudder goes left, boat goes left. Tiller goes right, rudder goes left, boat goes left. Lines go right, tiller goes...no wait. Lines go left, tiller goes right, rudder goes...
	The wind died. The sail flumped into a useless curtain of heavy sand-colored canvas. Kai heaved on his oar. Zan scrambled to play with lines. He sang something into the wind.
	Bran had done that. He seemed to be able to do something about the wind. I threw a desperate look at Zan.
	He drew his belt knife and plunged it into the mast.
	 “What?” I didn't realize I'd said it out loud.
	 “Wind.” Zan said, looking south. “Come on wind! Come on! What we really needed on this trip is a black cat. Cats keep the wind in their tails, you know, and black cats are especially lucky.”
	 “Right.” I said. Maybe sailing superstition. Maybe, considering the company I was keeping, fact. “How about black horses?” I stared at the far shore, most of the island seemed to be drifting north. I could see the end of it. The south end. We were definitely running out of island. “Wait, what about your magic items? There must be something in that stash that would be useful right about now.”
	He gave me a startled look. He tied up the line he'd been fiddling with and dug into Blue's saddlebag. He set out the candles, the cracked mug, and the leather pouch on the deck.
	Nothing happened.
	 “Maybe I have to throw it or something,” he said. Like the bridge.	He frowned at the candles. Peered into the mug. Peered into the leather pouch. All empty. Not even a sheet of instructions in Mangled English and five other languages. He picked up a candle, humming something I recognized as 'Candle in the Wind'. He lit it. Absolutely nothing happened except that the candle blew out.
	He sighed, picked up the pottery mug. Turned it over.
	The island ahead of us was definitely drifting farther north. I could see its southern shore, a long low bowcurve of sand.
	Zan hefted the mug and threw it as far as he could.
	It landed with a little splash in the chop to our south. A moment later the boat drifted over the ripples the mug had made.
	We waited. Except for Kai, who kept heaving on his oar. Maybe it was slowing our southerly drift, but not by much.
	 “I'll get the other oar.” I said. “Is there some way I can tie this up?” I made vague motions at the tiller.
	Zan trotted back to me and fiddled with it. 
	 “Which one?” I called to Kai.
	He pointed, with his head, to the oar behind him. In front of him, he was facing backwards.
	I grabbed it and began heaving.
	 “The other way.” Kai suggested.
	I'd never rowed anything in my life, and the Grandmothers' kung fu program didn't include Galleys 101. I watched Kai's shoulders, the circular motion of his arms. Ok Moose, you can do this. It's not that impossible.  Or only a little impossible. I fumbled. I shoved the end of the oar the wrong way. I caught a crab and threw myself on the oar, popping it back out of the water. I expected to hear Kai yell at me to quit and leave it to him. 
	He didn't.
	It began to make sense; lean on the oar when it's in the air, stick it in the water, pull the end of it toward you while the oar blade sweeps toward the boat's stern. Make a little circle in the air, the blade makes a bigger circle in the water. You look backwards. The boat goes forward.
	Zan tweaked the sail again, though I couldn't see that it was doing much, maybe being a big air rudder. He hauled on one of the tiller lines, adjusting it. The boat cranked its nose north-eastish. We were now sideslipping across the shallow bay like a horse doing a shoulder-in across an arena.  “What are you doing?” I asked Zan. Making the boat go nearly sideways seemed like a bad idea.
	 “Ferrying. Like when you cross a river current in a kayak.” He pointed at us, “You paddle on one side, let the current carry you across.”
	Or south, into the great big blue forever.
	Zan ran back and forth, adjusting lines on tiller and sail. Kai and I hauled on the oars.
	We were running a race with the trees on the far shore. And the trees were winning.
	 “Zaaaaan!” I didn't mean for my voice to start sounding like Fay Wray again. I heaved harder.
	 “Wind, wind wind.” Zan frowned up at the tell-tale on the mast head. “Even if we got wind now, we're probably pointing too far into the wind.”
	 “What?”
	 “This thing's so bluff it probably can't make more than a couple points into the wind.”
	 “What?” I repeated,  “Speak English, not Nauticalese.”
	 “If the wind was over there, we'd be fine.” Zan pointed vaguely behind us. “If it existed. Which it doesn't.”
	The trees had won the race and vanished northward. The only thing ahead of us was a few low shrubs and a faint hiccup in the horizon that I hoped was sand.
	Kai rumbled something under his breath, heaved on his oar and hauled the entire thing into the boat. He dropped it on the deck like a felled tree and scrambled to the bow.
	 “Keep rowing!” He called to me.
	I heaved. The shrubs were slipping away north, the shallow bay we were in was opening its mouth to spit us out into the sea. Whatthehell was Kai doing?
	He picked up an anchor, half hidden in the nautical clutter at the bow, and heaved it over board. The anchor chain rattled over the side, then the long line slooshed over the side after it.  “Ship your oar!” Kai shouted to me.
	I hauled it in as fast as I could, dropping it on the deck beside his. 
	 “Hang on.”
	The boat swung south in the current, the slack curve of the anchor line lifted. The boat hit the end of the line and swung around hard, like a runaway horse brought up short on a lunge line. Topgallant and Bluewater scrambled to regain their footing. I grabbed a shroud, the loose oars rolled against my ankles. I stepped on them, to keep them from going overboard.
	The boat floated, its nose pointed north, the current ripping by to the south, the line of sand to the east now still.
	I breathed.
	Zan gave Kai a baffled look.
	 “There are two anchors.” Kai said.
	 “I knew that.” Zan said. “All boats have...”
	Kai ignored him and put his hands on the anchor line, stretched off the bow. He started to pull on it.
	 “He just threw it in, he's pulling it up now?” I asked.
	 “Noooo, he's hauling us to it.” Zan said.
	 “It's called kedging.” Kai said over his shoulder. “When I get to the first anchor, someone will tie this line fast, then I will take the other anchor closer to our shore.”
	 “Then we haul ourselves to that one.” I said.
	 “Yes.”
	I came to his side, found a place to put my hands on the line and hauled with him. Together we heaved the boat up till the line dropped nearly straightaway below us. He held it while I tied it off, Zan helping me loop the line around the cleats properly.
	 “How do we get the other anchor out there?” I pointed in the general direction of our shore.
	 “A small boat would be good.” Zan said.
	 “Which would probably carry you out to sea.” I said.
	 “I've seen bigger battleaxes.” Kai said. He picked up the second anchor and heaved it hard over the side. It flew out a few dozen yards and splashed into the sea.
	I stared, openmouthed.  “Really really glad he's on our side.” I said to Zan.

	
	Thus we hauled ourselves to land, hand over hand, or rather anchor over anchor. As we came closer to the sandy southern shore, I could see something I'd never seen on my trips to the shore in summer; the bottom. I could see grass beds waving beneath us, peppered with splotches of bright color. I could see the pale sideways movements of crabs, the dark winged shape of a dinner plate sized ray taking off, the silver flash of fish. 
	Zan hopped up on a bit of deck gear in the center of the boat, stood there, balancing, staring hard at our shore.
	 “I wouldn't stand there if I was you.” Kai started to say. He moved toward Zan, but not fast enough. There was the muffled sound of wood scraping across sand, the creak-groan of wood doing something it shouldn't be doing, and the sight of Zan flying off his perch. He rolled and landed under Topgallant's feet. She snorted and backed up, staring at the bit of deck that had come to life.
	 “I guess we should have raised the centerboard before we got to the shallows.” Kai said. 

 	Zan and I furled the sail, it folded like a big bird wing, a shallow V, like a vulture's spread wings, tucked up against the mast and gaff. Kai splashed off, bow in his hand, an arrow fitted to the string, his head turning this way and that, ears listening to all points of the compass rose.
	I heard nothing but wind (stronger now, when we no longer needed it), gulls and the slosh-gurgle of the shallow sea against the boat's hull. I got Topgallant, and rode her down the ramp.
	Zan turned once as we rode off, sang something under his breath, his hands moved like a black belt in Tai Chi, if they had such things. The ferry vanished, replaced by marsh grass.
	 “And how are we going to find it again?” I asked.
	 “I can always find my own illusions.” Zan said.
	 “And if you are not here.” 
	I wouldn't have said it. I couldn't have. Kai did.
	 “Then you won't have to worry about it, because the illusion only lasts as long as the illusionist.”

	We climbed up from the half flooded low marsh, to sand that stretched away in a mooncurve south. Ahead a few dozen yards was the ocean beach, waves breathing up and down as far as I could see. We turned the horses' heads north, riding eventually into the dry high marsh with its taller grasses, Kai in the lead, bow drawn. Behind me, Zan, too, had his bow in hs hand. The horses' necks weren't stretched out in the relaxed walk of an afternoon trail ride, but tense, heads high, ears turning like radar dishes, nostrils flared, trying to pick anything out of the background noise that might be equus munchus justawfulus. I rode with one hand on my sword, and one on the reins.
	I saw no trail, but Kai strode ahead as if he was on a superhighway. We came out of the high marsh, and were confronted with a tangle of bayberry and waxmyrtle shrubs. Kai paused, turning this way and that, searching for a trail.
	Zan rummaged in his pack and produced The Spoon, triumphant.
	Kai fell back, looking like he'd rather not have had to.
	Zan held out the spoon and the shrubbery obediently bent back, dancing as if in a light wind, leaving just enough space for us to pass.
	Through the shrubbery, and greenbriar and up into a piney wood. Big silver squirrels stared at us from the forest floor, then hopped away in slow, graceful leaps, climbing tree trunks and pausing ten feet up to stare at us again.
	 “Fox squirrels.” Zan breathed, the first words he'd said in a half hour. Amazing. That he could be quiet that long. “They're endangered on DelMarVa. There's a few at Blackwater, and on Assateague.”
	These were big and fat and slow. Surfer Dude squirrels, I thought. Nothing the Unseelie would want to turn themselves into. I smiled, began to relax. Under me Topgallant's back relaxed too, her head dropped a hair. 
	 Then it shot up, ears radared, nostrils scenting the air. Something crashed in the tangle of greenbriar and poison ivy ahead of us. The arrow flew from Kai's bow and just as swift, another was on the string. Topgallant snorted, but kept moving forward between my legs.
	Ahead of us came a flash of white, then another.
	 “Deer.” Zan said. “Guess we're not having venison for dinner. You missed.”
	 “Hmmmph.” Kai muttered.
	I was pretty sure he hadn't been hunting. Just reacting, like a spooked horse to rustlings in the bush.
	The horses' feet made almost no sound in the sand underfoot. An attacker wouldn't make any sound either.
	What would the Unseelie be here? What form would they take? Deer? Right, attack Bambis.  “What lives here besides fox squirrels and deer?” I asked.
	 “Fox. Raccoon. Possum.” The voice was Kai's. 
	Attack possums. That bent the brain.
	 “Terrapin lay their eggs in the sand, swim in the shallow waters behind us.”
	That sounded at least a little scarier.
	 “Diamondback terrapin, the original ingredient for turtle soup, once nearly extinguished from our own bays.” Zan said.
	Ok, not so scary.  “What else?” I said.
	 “Horses. Wild horses.” Kai said.
	 “The Place Across.” Zan said, “Assateague.”
	The island from my Marguerite Henry tales, from our own eastern shore. The place of the wild horses.  “The same island?”
	 “Yes.” Kai said, “And no. It is Erda's island, not the tame one of your lands.”
	 “So, what else is here? Wolves? Panthers? Grizzly bears?” I thought of all the large predators that Unseelie might find useful.
	 “Not here.” Kai said. “Only on the mainland.”
	 “Utahraptors?”
	 “What?”
	 “Dinosaurs.” Zan explained. “Like in that movie.”
	 “Not here.”
	I wondered where.  “Well, then. Unless they decide to turn into a horde of bloodsucking horseflies, we're ok.”
	Really, my imagination needs to be put on a shorter leash.

	We rode out of the woods into a wide sandy area peppered with low deserty looking plants. To our right, north, rose a sandy hill crowned with loblollies. Poking its head above the pines was the light, a plain brown wrapper tower made of stone, or brick. We wound our way up the broad trail in the tree-dappled sunlight, our objective in sight, thoughts of the Unseelie faded.
	They flew out of the woods. First one, landing on Topgallant's rump; a big black horsefly, the kind the kids at the stable called B52s because they were about the size and shape of a WWII bomber. Topgallant hopped, popping her butt into the air, trying to dislodge it. I twisted in my saddle, hesitating, drop the reins and smack it? Or drop the sword and smack it? Or smack it with the sword?
	I figured that would send her off into the west at about warp eleven. I dropped the reins and smacked it. It squashed with a grossly satisfying crunch. Topgallant lurched forward, coming up against Kai's rump. He was busy smashing a few flies of his own, his bow and arrow in one hand, then in its case as he used both hands.  “Zan!” he yelled.
	I turned to find Zan busy fly squashing too. He was doing it one handed, his bow still in his other hand.
	 “Isn't there a fly song too?” I said, louder than necessary.
	 “I'm singing it!” He yelled back, “It's not working!”
	Another one landed on Topgallant's rump, I flailed at it, she bucked. Somehow I stayed with her. Another fly crunched under my hand.  “Unseelie.” I yelled. I didn't need to look into their beady little multifaceted eyes. I knew. One fly had morphed into twenty, then a cloud. From the woods came a dark hum, something like black mist clung to the trees. Moved, writhed, twisted out from the pine boughs like smoke. I shouted and pointed.
	Zan fired his bow into the midst of them and they erupted in a satisfying burst of flame.
	There were more, lots more.
	I waved my sword in mad silver circles around me and Topgallant. It didn't seem to be doing much; I heard the occasional splat of a B52 against the blade, but they were landing and the horses were going nuts.
	We broke into a gallop up the hill toward the light, Zan turned in his saddle, firing back into the black horde behind us.
	We broke out of the woods into a circle of sand and brilliant sunlight. The dark hordes fell back, hesitating at the edge of the woods.
	 “Into the light.” Zan said.
	I leapt off Topgallant, grabbed the door handle.
	It was locked.

	I shot a desperate look at Kai, the guy with the big whopping great sword. Two of them, if anybody could open the door he could.
	 “Keys!” Zan shouted, “You have keys!” He fired again into the mass hovering at the edge of the woods, “They won't stay there forever!”
	Keys. Yeah, the stupid keys I'd forgotten about in my fascination with cooler toys, like the greatsword Kai was now spinning, along with his original one, keeping the few Unseelie who dared to come out into the light at bay. I fumbled in my pack, Topgallant dancing around me. I hauled them out. They jingled like faerie bells, flashed in the hot sunlight.  “Whhooo!” I stuck the first one into the lock.
	Nothing happened.
	 “Hurry up!” Zan fired again and again, little explosions going off in the woods. July woods. Dry woods.
	I really hoped he wasn't going to burn down the whole island or something. I fumbled, jiggling the next one in the lock.
	Nothing.
	There were a lot of keys.
	 “Crap crap crap crap.” Key two and a half. Key three, four, five.
	Nothing.
	The first rule of self-defense is have your keys in your hand when you're headed toward a locked door, like your car or house or something. That way you aren't fumbling with your keys while the villain sneaks up on you. They also make a nifty weapon, thrust between your fingers.
	Key six, seven, eight. Jingle jingle fumble bumble. This is the place where you yell at the stupid heroine in the horror movie, because she didn't have the right key in her hand, and the big hairy munchus horribilus is about to eat her because she's an idiot.
	You! Out of the gene pool!
	Key nine, ten... maybe none of them worked and Kai was the guy who'd have to open the door, if it could be opened. It looked like a medieval castle tower and was probably just as sturdy and defensible.
	Key eleven.
	They probably thought of Centaurs with greatswords, Dwarves with battleaxes. Why wasn't the Dwarf with the battleaxe here right now? I bet one of those battle cattle could open this bloody thing.
	 “Kai...” I began to say.
	He was busy, his swords wheeling at a ridiculous speed, his body placed between the Unseelie and our horses. Zan had retreated to just behind him, firing over one broad shoulder.
	 “KAI!”
	Click. 
	The door fell open under my weight. I sprawled in the entrance hall, collected myself, and my sword. I turned, sword at the ready, taking in the empty room, the ceiling high enough for horses. “Come on!” I shouted through the door, “Bring the horses.”
	Topgallant refused the two steps leading into the lighthouse. “Come on!” I pleaded. Kai shoved her from behind. Zan stayed farther back still firing like a laser cannon in a video game. “Come on.” I said, softer, “It's safe in here.”
	In here was someplace Topgallant had never been. She had spent years running with a wild herd, finding her own shelter. She hung out in the pasture with airy, spacious, high-roofed run-in sheds. She eyed the indoor arena with suspicion each and every time. She hated barns.
	Breathe! Calm yourself. I could see the swarm move from the edge of the clearing, maybe hoping to make the dash across the patch of brilliant summer sunlight and into the dark tower. I could see Zan still firing, Zan, who would be coming in last with Bluewater Sailing.
	“Come.” I breathed. It's safe in here. I felt the cool smooth snake pattern of the magic reins Zan had found at the Grandmothers'. A connection to the horse. Trust me. 
	Topgallant took a plunging leap, missed the steps entirely and slid across the stone floor of the lighthouse anteroom. Kai plunged in behind her, blocking any escape. He twisted his torso, unable to wheel his entire horse body. His swords were useless in this small space, anyway. He drew his bow, but without thousands of arrows that wasn't going to be any use either.
	Zan fired three more shots, an arc of fire. He spun Blue in a tight pirouette, and rode into the tower.

	I slammed the door shut. I could hear the stuttering of sound on the other side; insect bodies hitting the thick wood. Zan sheathed his bow in its case, reached for his belt knife, then a look of embarrassment came over his face.
	 “Left it sticking in the mast, didn't you?” I said.
	 “Yeah.”
	I handed him mine, even though I had no idea what he was doing with it.
	He ripped off a piece of his tunic and began stuffing it in the door's lock.  “In case they decide to become mosquitoes.”
	 “You don't have to worry, the builders of this tower already thought of that.” Kai said. “Our own light is the same.”
	I could see light coming through the archway that led to the circular well of the tower proper. Light from a window. I ran through the arch and ducked to avoid bonking my head on a stair rung. Across from me was a four foot high window.
	A glass window.
	 “Kai.” I pointed. Already a dark mist had obscured the trees outside the window. All they'd need was to shapeshift into something a little bigger, maybe those big silver squirrels would be enough, and they could bust the glass and swarm in on us.
	Kai loomed in the archway, ducking to see better,  “Don't worry,” he said softly, “this place is protected, can you not feel it?”
	The same word he'd said eons ago as we entered Hawk Circle.
	 “I feel hot.” I said. “Sweltering, dripping, stifling hot.” Definitely no air conditioning in Erda, I could feel the faint movement of air from unseen air vents, but it was hot air. “Air vents.” I said to Kai and Zan.
	I heard Zan's voice from somewhere behind Kai,  “Kai's right. Protected.”
	Protected hot air at least. I let out a breath. Stared up and up and up at the stair.
	 “Yeah.”  Zan said. “The Centaur stops here.”
	 “What?”
	 “The buck stops... Centaur...oh never mind.” He sounded odd somehow, like he'd run a marathon.
	Kai scanned the room with his eyes, his ears, his nose,  “There is some water here, for the lighthouse keepers when they are here, no doubt. And some food, but little that horses can eat.” He opened what looked like a cupboard, poked at a burlap bag, sniffed inside. “Seems they ate a good deal of rolled oats.”
	 “We can't stay here long.” I finished.
	Kai found a bowl and opened a barrel of water for the horses. 
	 “Is anybody home?” I wondered. Lighthouse keepers, guards, trolls, Sleeping Beauty, whatever. “Is anybody home!” I shouted up the tower stairs. No one answered. “Guess we have to climb up there and find out.” 
	 “According to the book I read, the Spellbook is at the top. And there is no 'we'. A maiden.” Kai said, “The legend says a maiden must retrieve it.” He glanced pointedly at Zan.
	 “Didn't say anything about a boy climbing the tower, to hold off whatever else might be up there.” Zan said. He glanced at Kai, hoping for a lack of disagreement. He'd never read that book, he had only Kai's story to the Grandmothers to go on.
	Kai didn't answer, yea or nay. Neigh. Hah hah. I thought. 
	“Yeah, sure, come along.” I said.
	Kai poured some more water and gave it to Bluewater Sailing. Then he began dishing out the rolled oats from the bag and mixing it with the water to make a kind of mash for the horses. I turned to Zan, he did not look at all like someone who could climb a tower right now. He'd collapsed on the floor and was sitting, hunched over his knees.  “Or not.” I said. “Maybe Kai's right. Girls only.” I didn't say I didn't like the idea of climbing up there all alone. That going upstairs into the attic in my house creeped me out. That Zan was the guy with the plus five flaming bow of doom. The agility of 105. And that I could, only too well, picture me fumbling somewhere near the top and sliding all the way back down the spiral stair. 
	 “You'll be fine, ” Zan said, “I climbed a lighthouse with a merrow once.”
	 “A mer-which?”
	 “Not witch. Mer-maid, mer-man, mer-row? Fishtail guy? You can't be any worse than him.”
	 “Must have been a shorter lighthouse.” If Zan was trying to make me feel better, it didn't help. It really didn't help that he didn't look any more capable of climbing the stairs than his merrow buddy. “You ok?” I ventured.
	He didn't look up, all I saw was a damp straggly mop of red hair.
	 “Zan?” I went to him and shook his shoulder gently.
	He took a deep breath and looked up.  “In a minute.” 
	I scrunched down next to him,  “What? Did they hurt you...?”
	 “The bow,” he said, “The good thing is you can never run out of arrows. The bad thing is it doesn't shoot arrows.”
	 “Huh?”
	 “It channels energy. The energy of earth and fire. My energy.”
	I understood.  “And you're all out of arrows.” 
	I stared up; the stairs were iron, or something like it. They were skinny triangles, like flight feathers fanning out from a central iron pole that vanished up into the shadows. The whole thing looked like the spiral coil in the middle of a whelk shell. Light shone in from the window, turning the brick walls and the red stairs the warm colors of that shell. The stairs were skinniest by the pole, widest by the wall. There was a rail along the wall, and I could see a landing a few dozen feet up. 
	Kai ducked past me and squeezed into the space under the stair.  “There is little enough room for two horses out there, much less three. He folded his legs and hunched on the floor like a big weird sofa. “I will stay here.”
	 “Ok.” I said, still staring up, the distance to the top blocked by the swirling pattern of the stair. I took a deep breath.
	 “Wait, wait.” Zan wobbled to his feet. “You can't go without me.”
	 “Yeah I can.”
	 “I'm the only one who can read the instructions.”
	 “How do you know there are any? Anyway, guys never read the instructions. They just get a bigger hammer.”
	Zan hefted his pack,  “Then you need me. I got all the hammers.” He held up The Spoon.
	 “Certainly,” Kai said, “Broken crockery will be useful.”
	Zan glared at him.  “We'll probably go back and there'll be a two hundred foot battleship parked there.”
	 “Then it will be aground and useless.” Kai said.
	I set a foot on the first step and began to climb. I turned just enough to see Zan haul himself up after me, one hand on the rail.
	Around once, around twice. A few yards higher, another window, this one set in a shallower alcove.
	 “I know this place.” Zan said. His voice echoed hollowly off the curved walls.
	 “You've been here as often as I have. Which is to say, never.”
	“Not exactly this place. Or this time. Or this place in this time. Or this point on the space-time continuum.”
	“What are you talking about?” I stopped climbing and stared down at him.
	 “I, uh, well...” He looked less than sure about whatever he'd just said. He made vague motions for me to go on.
	I shook my head and kept climbing.

	The stair wound up and up, pausing every couple of turns for the flat space of a landing. I paused there, breathing deeply. But not gasping, like I would have, an age ago. A long time ago in a subdivision far far away.
	Zan stayed behind me. Normally he could have trotted, lightfooted, past me. A gazelle compared to my lumbering wildebeeste. I glanced down at him over and over, his face was calm and he was climbing, not gasping, but something about him still wasn't right.
	 “How long does it take you to recharge?” How long before we could go back outside with any hope of combating those things?
	 “I...dunno. I never shot that much before.”
	 “You should go back.”
	 “No way.”
	 “But.”
	 “No.”
	I turned and climbed. 
	At every landing there was an arched window, glassed with the ripply kind you see in historic buildings. The bottom window was set into a little alcove, ten feet deep. The next alcove was shallower, and the one after that shallower still.  “Weird.” I said out loud. The outside of the tower had looked smooth, so did the inside. I wondered if it was like the Grandmothers' Yard Sale; the inside different than the outside. 
	 “Nah, it's just gravity.” Zan said.
	 “What?”
	 “Tall skinny things tend to fall over. Pyramids don't. The outside is a cone, the inside is a cylinder.”
	 “That's why the windows are different at the bottom.”
	 “Yeah.”
	“How do you know?” Mr. Encyclopediabrain.
	“It looks like... “ He halted as thoroughly as Topgallant at the ferry.
	 “What!” I demanded. “You said that before.” I turned and stared at him.
	Sometimes he sounded like he was 150. Right now he looked like he was twelve.
	 “What! It might be important.”
	He shrugged.  “It looks like another lighthouse I know. But you know, a lot of them look the same.”
	 “My mother has twenty zillion lighthouse calendars. She collects them. Along with tacky paintings of glowing candlelit cottages and Victorian villages with snow and one-horse sleighs. They do not all look alike.”
	 “The tower design is ubiquitous.”
	 “Don't try to confuse me with big words. I read books.” I studied him, “It's the light you climbed with a merrow, isn't it? And why would you be climbing a lighthouse with a merrow?”
	 “Longstorysomeothertime.”
	 “You can tell me that part later. What light? And what about it?”
	 “The Assateague light.”
	 “OK. Kai basically said we're on the Erdan equivalent of that island. I guess it could have the Erdan equivalent of the same lighthouse.”
	 “The same, but not the same.”
	 “Do Elves always talk in circles?”
	 “Yes.” He paused for a couple of breaths. “And no.”
	 “Aaaahhhhggh! The light, what about the light. It sounded like there's something important about the light.”
	 “If it is...”
	 “If it is, what?”
	 “Well...” He hesitated again, like a balky horse, as if he, for once, couldn't round up enough words.
	 “What?” I forced my voice softer, as if I was trying to convince Topgallant to board a ferry or come into a lighthouse.
	 “If there's actually a connection...”
	I waited, silent.
	 “The Assateague Light is a Gate.”

	He didn't mean Gateways of the Chesapeake either, the historic sites and points of interest the tourist people promoted. Gate, to other parts of the space-time continuum.
	“Then why didn't we just go from our Gate to this one?”
	“I don't know, maybe it doesn't work that way. Bran's...” he choked into silence for a moment, “...the Gatesinger. He... knows all that stuff. The Gates aren't all connected. They don't all do the same thing. Some, you just go in, and when you come out you're in the same place only some place different.”
	“What?”
	He frowned,  “You go in this lighthouse on this island and you come out of this lighthouse on this island, only you're somewhere or somewhen else, or both.”
	 “Oh, I totally understand now.” 
	”At least, that's how it worked before.” He was silent for a moment, catching his breath. “You can't get there from here.” He made a motion with his hands, silly Human, bending the space-time conundrum is for Elves. 
	”Oh yeah. That'll be soooo useful for us right now. Since we want to be here, and we can't go anywhere else, like, say, directly to the Centaur Island, we just end up back here, with the Screaming Hordes of Evil outside.”
	Zan shut his eyes as if he'd like to take a nice long nap. He finally said, “some Gates only work when and how they want to.” 
	 “How they who want to?”
	 “The Gate. Or whoever made them. Well, the Dragon Grandmothers made them, but. I don't know how they work. Well, I mean, I know how this one works, or the one I think this one might be in our world, and a couple of other worlds, if this is the same one...”
	He was sounding less and less coherent.  “How,” I said slowly and clearly, “did it work before?”
	 “You need... four people, four elements, four directions. It's a... medicine wheel, a compass rose. You put one person... of each element... at the right places... on the Four Directions at the top of the Tower... and then it works. Maybe. If it wants to. The other time, it sent us where we needed to be.”
	 “Not where you chose.” I finished.
	 “Right.”
	 “And we only have two people who can climb the tower. If it's the same tower after all.”
	 “Yeah.”
	 “So, that's pretty useless.”
	 “Maybe.”
	 “Oh I'm so glad we have a Magic User in this party.” I started climbing again. “What do we do when we get the book? There's Unseelie outside, and I bet you can guesstimate how many million mosquitoes and horseflies they can turn into by the time we go back out there again.”
	He took a deep breath,  “Nine billion eight hundred and forty two million six hundred and forty three thousand five hundred and fifty two.”
	 “Really?”
	 “No. I suck at math. I just made that up.”
	 “You'd think after a hundred and fifty years you'd be doing like quantum trigonometry or something.”
	 “No. Just magic.” He stopped. Then sat down, leaning against the red brick wall, eyes closed.
	I stopped, came back down the stairs to him. I folded up beside him, stared up and up at the stairs, spiraling to the right. I thought again of whelk shells, the swirl of the galaxy we rode, the paths of the sun, moon and stars, the microscopic squiggle of DNA, all of them spirals.
	Zan opened his eyes, looked up.  “Chaos Theory makes spirals too.” 
	 “Where do you get this stuff?”
	 “Enough chaos eventually makes a pattern. At least that's how it was in Jurassic Park.”
	To my befuddled look he added,  “The book, not the movie.”
	 “Dogs.” I said.
	His turn to be baffled, I was getting pretty good at this blocking the mind-reading thing.
	 “Two dogs would make four of us. Maybe they're the other elementals we need to open the Gate. Or get it to do something else useful. Like fry the Unseelie.”
	 “Still wouldn't work. You're fire and earth, so's Kai. I'm fire mostly, and water. Keet and Skana are earth too, and frozen water.”
	 “Tas.”
	 “Earth, and she's not here.”
	 “Ian.”
	 “Earth.”
	 “Earla.”
	 “Earth, fire.”
	 “Bran's air, isn't he?”
	 “Yeah.” Zan almost choked on it. He closed his eyes again.
	 “What about your magic items? Maybe some of those count. Or maybe one of those candles is citronella, and we can use it to get past the Unseelie bugs from hell.”
	He didn't answer. Really weird for Zan, no words, not even one. I sat there, feeling him breathe. Making sure he was still breathing, slow and steady. I looked up at the iron core of the iron stairs. Thought of the old tales I'd read.  “Aren't Elves supposed to be allergic to iron?”
	 “That's only in fairy tales.”
	 “Look who's telling me about f-a-e-r-i-e tales.”
	 “That comes from... iron age cultures overwhelming bronze age cultures... iron was clearly superior. Or maybe from blacksmiths... people thought they used magic... to forge metals.” He was silent for awhile. 
	I wondered how long we had to climb this tower and find the Book. How long till Zan's magic was back. Recharged. How long till he could channel...wait, channel! “Iron channels energy too. Magnetism, electricity, other stuff. Does it channel the stuff you do?” 
	“Yeah.” His voice sounded way too soft for Zan.
	 “Is this good or bad for you right now? I mean, the whole core of this place is iron.”
	 “Couldn't go outside, even if it was bad.”
	 “Good? Or bad?” I repeated.
	 “You know when you go out in the surf?”
	 “Yeah?”
	 “You watch it for awhile then plunge in, and if you are at the wrong place in the wave, it swallows you, grinds you up and spits you out.”
	 “Yeah.”
	 “The edge of the middle of this stairwell is like being at the wrong place on the wave.”
	 “Where do you need to be?”
	 “At the top.” 
	I could hear the part he didn't say, or at the bottom. “I'm hauling your butt back down...”
	“We're closer to the top.”
	I couldn't tell, but it felt like forever since we'd crammed ourselves into the anteroom.  “Ok.” I stood up, grabbed his hand and hauled him to his feet, “if I have to I will carry you up there myself.”
	I didn't quite have to, but he didn't pull his hand out of mine either.

	The stairwell ended in the watchroom just below the glass circle that housed the light itself. The center pole ran through the watchroom and into the ceiling, where it presumably held up whatever they used for a light and lenses in Erda. Zan collapsed against the pole, facing south. I knew it was south because I could see the thin strand of sand through the glassed window. Outside the window was a walkway with a railing, inside were shutters, presumably useful in storms. 
	 “Shut them.” Zan said from his place, leaning against the pole.
	 “Why? We'll need the light.”
	 “So they can't see us.”
	 “This place is protected.”
	 “Yes, they can't get in, but we shouldn't let them know what we're doing.”
	I went to the window and closed the shutters. And to the other three windows. I looked for the haze of bugs that must have grown to epic proportions by now. It was gone. Nothing. Just the dance of late afternoon light on the distant sand, on distant water to the east, on the tops of loblollies to the north, on the bay to the west, and the warm light going down behind the clouds over the mainland. A few gulls circling. 
	 “Where'd they go?”
	 “You're the one who can see them.” 
	I couldn't. And that was creepier than seeing the dark cloud I'd expected. I handed Zan the lamp I found and he lit it. I held it up, taking in the watchroom. Between the windows were shelves, floor to ceiling. Shelves of books, fat, skinny, every color, trimmed in flashes of metal, shells, or just polished leather or wood. I ran a hand along them; they had the rich look of handmade things, not the cheesiness of the mass paperbacks I had so many of.  “Funny place for a library.”
	Zan didn't say anything, just sat against the pole with his eyes closed.
	Ok Moose, now what are you going to do? You're here, in the tower. Now where's the darn book? There were a lot of books. I thought of the horses in the anteroom and the heat and the limited water we had for them. They had traveled hard and far and needed to eat more than a little oatmeal mash. Horses weren't like dogs, they couldn't fast, they were used to living in a salad bowl. And unlike most hoofed creatures, they had peculiarly sensitive digestive tracts prone to things like founder and colic.
	I had to find that book, and a solution to the Unseelie issue outside, and find it soon.
	 “Where do I start?” I said out loud. I'd expected, what? A single book on a gold-plated stand, or at least one lined with seashells, open to the correct page, with clear directions in a language I could read. 
	Yeah, and I'd expected Topgallant to cross a bridge, climb onto a ferry and think of a lighthouse as home.
	If Zan had an answer, he didn't give me one. I looked, and he was breathing, deep and slow as if he was asleep.
	 “Great, the only one who knows about this stuff is asleep.” Ok, so I'd give him a few minutes while I looked. I pulled one book down, flipped through it: old fashioned looking type, definitely printed, not hand lettered, so Erda must have printing presses. Another book had beautiful woodcuts as illustrations. Yet another, its leather binding old and worn, had words in calligraphic brush strokes and full color illuminations. When I passed a finger over them I could feel the paint.
	 “How do I tell if it's the Spellbook?”
	No answer from the magic user.
	I could look in here all day. All night. All week. We didn't have all week. Think Moose! They wouldn't have said a 'maiden' if she didn't have the key. No, they should have sent somebody else after all, somebody with a library degree.
	Degree. 
	Key. The keys jingled faintly, like a distant memory. I pulled them off my belt, where they'd been hanging and held them up in the lantern light. “Whoa.” OK, now which key? I held up the whole ring, jiggling them. Maybe one would burst into light, a magic ray would point out the right book. 
	Nothing happened. 
	I walked around the room, holding the keyring up to the shelves, hoping it would maybe attract the right book with some kind of magical magnetism.
	Nope.
	I dangled them from one pinkie, from the end of my sword, hoping a key might point to the right book.
	Nada. Zilch.
	Maybe it wasn't the keys. Maybe it was one of our other magic items. Or maybe Zan had to read all of the books. Bet he could at least read the titles, have a clue where to start. He was still asleep, or in deepest meditation, whatever Elves did to recharge. I could wake him prematurely. That struck me as dangerous. I did not need an Elf with half a battery. I pictured it, like my cell phone, in the middle of a conversation... or a battle of life and death... bzzzzt eeeeep! And he falls over.
	Round and round the little room I went, thinking furiously. I stared at the shelves, the books. The stuff on the shelves between the books, in front of the books. There were objects scattered across the shelves, like in Pandion's lighthouse, things that might have come by ship from faraway places. Armoured knights and deck prisms, a single gorgeously colored feather in a vase (it looked like the crest feathers of the Dragonkin), a tooth (large and pointy), a fantastic bone with three 'wings' (a dolphin vertebrae), a turtle shell, a chess piece, a statue in porcelain of a lady. I looked closer and she was a cat. There were little dogs, a giraffe, a creature carved of some warm golden wood that I thought was a yellow dog like we'd seen in some of the villages we passed.. I looked closer and it had stripes on its butt and a thin possumlike tail. A thylacine. I wondered if they still existed in Erda. (The last died in my world in 1937). There were little carved horses, a bear.
	Wait, what was that again? 
	Pan back, zoom into that chess piece. Hey... Not the knight I'd first thought. I reached and lifted a small Centaur off the shelf. He was dancing, half rearing, his hands moving as if he was doing a martial arts kata, or a tai chi form.
	He was carved out of dark wood, his fetlocks were covered in flowing hair, like Kai. I looked at the empty spot on the shelf where he'd stood. There was a book (of course there was a book), fat, with a plain dark binding and no title. I pulled it out. It felt like wood under my hand. I tapped it, harder than wood.
	And it was locked. It had a keyhole like a tiny little treasure chest. There was nothing on its cover to mark it. No Centaurs or other magical looking stuff.
	Maybe you're wrong.
	Maybe I'm not. I held up the keyring and frowned at them. There were only so many keys, and a few of them wouldn't even begin to fit in that lock. I began trying them.

	The fourth key opened the book. It sprang open as if the spell had leapt out of it like a galloping horse. The pages were warm sand color, hand lettered runes in ink the color of a liver chestnut horse patterned them. The edges were alive with color: knotwork designs and illustrations in dark brushstrokes and inks the colors of stained glass. The designs wound like greenbriar, like wind-whipped horsehair. Among the twining leaves and vines were pictures: the tower, its light beaming out into the dark, wolves, a raven, galloping horses, Dragonkin, a bridge, a bluff-bowed boat with a single sail (loose-footed), heroes with swords and bows. One had red hair peeping from his hooded cloak. There was a tall girl (leaner and meaner than me, for sure). The raven wasn't quite black. The Centaur was: black, with hairy fetlocks.
	 “Kai.” I whispered. “This is our tale!”
	There was the bowl, the spoon, the keys, the comb, the sword, the cracked pottery mug.  And there was Kai, holding the Bowl, green twining vines coming out of it and into a tangle of seething black lines. Farther along the edge of the page was another tangle of black, this time with the Bowl by itself, upended, as if it was tumbling, or being thrown.
	 “What does that mean?” I ran a finger over it. The paint felt fresh, somehow. In the center of the page were three words.
	In a language, and alphabet I didn't know, of course. Without thinking I said,  “Zan!” 
	 “What!”
	I jumped, the voice came from right behind my shoulder.  “When did you wake up?”
	 “Now.”
	 “Oh. Didn't mean to wake you.”
	 “Yeah, you did. But it was time. And I was awake before you yelled anyhow.” He pointed to the page. “Cool, how'd you find it?”
	I held up the small Centaur.  “It was on the shelf behind him.” I held up the keys, “One fit in the lock on the cover.” I ran my hand over the illustrations, “Look, this is...”
	 “Yeah yeah! Us!” Zan's eyes were Christmas morning wide.
	 “Problem is, this is all the stuff we've already done, like somebody was taking notes on our journey.” I ran a hand over the illustration of Kai and the healing bowl. I had no idea why it was growing vines out of it. “I don't suppose you can read this?” I pointed to the runes.
	 “Sure. Says 'you have the key'.”
	 “What?”
	 “You have the key.”
	 “That's four words, this is three.”
	“Different language, different word order. No prepositions. No the.””
	“Definite article.” I said.
	 “Wha?”
	“The is a definite article, unless it's an adverb. I did pay attention in English.”
	“Whatever. They don't have it here.” His finger stabbed the page. “Key have you,” he repeated. 
	“Well what's that supposed to mean, anyway?” I think Fay Wray was trying to make another appearance. It was supposed to be The Spell, the one that closed The Rift. “Isn't there something on another page?”
	Zan turned the page. “Nope. That's something for making magic missiles”
	 “Well maybe we need magic missiles to defeat the hordes of Darkness!”
	Zan shook his head.  “What we need's on this page. This page alone.”
	 “Aaaagghh!” I sat on the floor, head between my hands.
	Zan picked up the keys from where I'd laid them on the table, when I'd opened the book. “You have the key.”
	“There is no 'the', and I have a lot of keys. What am I supposed to do with them, besides open lighthouses that lead to books that don't have the spell we need.”
	Zan held the keys, jingling them like wind chimes. With his other hand he traced the lines of the border designs.  “Kai's got the bowl, but you're not in that... hey...”
	I could see his normally humorous expression shift. Suddenly he didn't look at all like a kid in a comic store. He looked like some kind of crazy red-headed wizard. Young, crazy red-headed wizard, but... I stood,  “What?”
	He traced the dark lines backwards across the page. They seethed into a broiling mass, not at all like the neat, orderly knotwork elsewhere. He looked at me and cocked a questioning eyebrow at me. He didn't have to ask it.
	 “Unseelie.” I said. I could tell, even in a primitive illustration.
	 “That's where they're coming from. That's the Rift.”
	What?I leaned closer. “Why vines?”
	“Green, look, brighter green, no leaves, not like these lines over here; these are vines. This,” he tapped the twisting green coming from the Bowl, “isn't vines, it's the green light the Bowl makes.” His finger moved from Rift to Bowl back to Rift.
	 “The Bowl is the key.” I breathed, “It heals the Rift.” It took me a moment longer to absorb the rest. “It's not me at all. It's Kai who does it.”
	 “Yeah. You're just the faithful sidekick.”
	 “So are you.” I retorted. What did I feel? Let down, that I wasn't the Hero after all? Relieved that I wasn't? Relieved that we'd found the answer? 
	Terrified about how we were going to get Kai and that bowl to the Rift.

~13~
the spell

	“Great! “all we have to do is climb down the tower, open the door, and defeat the Unseelie Hordes of Doom. Before we even get to Kai's island. Assuming our ferry's still there. Or maybe they turned into beavers and ate it.” I said.
	 “Shipworms.” Zan said. “We're surrounded by saltwater. Beavers live in freshwater.” 
	I pictured shipworms in the quantities our horseflies had come in.  ”Thanks for that image, Mr. Tactful.”
	Zan was still poring over the Book. “These illustrations have all the important stuff that's happened. And how to heal the Rift. There must be something here to help us open the Gate. Or obliterate the Unseelie. Maybe in some other dimension this tower has photon torpedoes.”
	“Maybe if we look at all these other books, there's a copy of Interdimensional Gates for Dummies.”
	He glowered at me and kept studying the pictures. As if he'd missed anything.
	I came back and peered over his shoulder.  “What's this?” I stabbed a finger at something I hadn't noticed before. A smaller illustration near the picture of the lighthouse beaming into the dark. The dark was alive with crawly twisting shapes, except where the beam of light was. The smaller illustration looked like a compass rose, with arrows pointing out at each of the main compass points. They were different colors; red, yellow, black, white.
	Zan's eyes widened,  “Compass rose.”
	 “Ok, I figured that part out; it looks like an aerial map of Hawk Circle. But, last time I looked, we don't have the people to open the Gate. Or whatever else this tower can do.”
	Zan nearly leapt from the table. He pulled his pack from the floor and rummaged. A moment later he emerged triumphant, holding four candles.
	Red, yellow, black, white.
	 “This,” he pointed excitedly to the illustration, shows where they go. White in the north, red in the south...”
	 “How do you know their illustration orients the same way a regular map does? Maybe their north is south? Maybe the top of the map is west? I think I remember seeing some Native American medicine wheel thing in a book, and blue was south...”
	 “You said it. Hawk Circle.”
	I stared, he was right. The white barn was in the north, the yellow to the east, the red in the south, and the black, Dragon Woman's hangout, was in the west.
	 “What do they do?”
	 “I have no idea.”
	 “Great. Experimental Magic for Dummies.”
	But Zan had already stuffed the candles back in his pack and was climbing the rest of the spiral stair, up to the light.

	We climbed the last bit of stair to the big glass greenhouse at the top. Whoever had the responsibility of hitting the light switch had abandoned their post along with the rest of the refugees. Zan lowered his pack to the floor.  “The illustration shows the light on.”
	 “I hope you studied ancient lighthouses 101.” I stared at the center of the glass tower top. It was occupied by an amazingly complex sculpture of glass, or crystal. A thousand fragments of glass in a vaguely pine cone shape, glinting and catching the last rays of the setting sun. “You know they can see what you're doing now. And there's no shutters here.”
	Zan ignored me, peering under the mass of glass or crystal or whatever it was, tinder box and candle in his hands.
	I looked out over the tops of the loblollies to the flaming sky in the west. A few birds sailed there, silhouetted against the sunset. Real birds? Or Unseelie? Some drifted closer. Maybe they'd given up. Maybe they had to go home for dinner. 
	“They love the dark, that's when they're strongest.” Zan said from somewhere under the giant lens.
	 “Oh thanks, that makes me feel so much better.” It was hot up here, hotter than anywhere else in the lighthouse, even with the sun's rays fading. I was melting and I was highly visible to my worst enemies. I laid my hand on my sword, wondering how good the glass, and the tower's protective spell was. 
	People who live in glass towers shouldn't swing swords.
	I hoped nothing could get in here, because I didn't know how I was going to fight it; the light lens took up a good portion of the middle of the room, and only a narrow catwalk ran around the edge, by the glass windows. Glass, glass; everything up here was glass. That makes a great combination with Evil Forces and flailing swords. And there was that hole in the skinny little catwalk where the stairs came up; yawning like the maw of a great white shark. I turned to see a flower of flame in Zan's hands. “Something I can do?” I need to DO something, not just stand here waiting for something huge, hoary and hungry to smash through the glass.
	“Here, take the candles.” Zan handed me a creamy colored one, lit. “Hold this under them, till they melt a little. They didn't leave us any candle holders so we'll have to stick them onto the catwalk with their own wax.” He paused and pointed, “That's north.”
	“That's west.” I pointed toward the setting sun, “I think I can figure out the rest from there.”
	Zan paused, one hand under the big lens,  “That's southwest. Northern hemisphere, remember? Summer sun sets in the southwest. Not as far south as winter, but not due west either.”
	 “Ok, Mr. Wizard.” I headed for the spot he was pointing to, plastering my back against the sectioned glass windows, trying to keep in mind where the stairwell was in the growing dark.
	Something hit the glass behind my head. I shrieked and dropped the candles.
	Enormous light flared in front of me, something big pounded against the glass beside me, then, a shrieking howl, fading the way a train whistle does as it goes away from you. 
	Silence, except for my panicked breathing. I stared into the dark outside, the bright light behind me turning it into absolute pitch black impenetrable dark. I saw nothing.
	 “The candles!” Zan said. He leapt across the open stairwell and caught the red one as it rolled to the edge. 
	I crouched, carefully, slowly, and picked up two more, squinting into the blast of light from the thousands of glowing prisms refracting and multiplying the light of the oil lantern in the center of the room. If they bust in here now, we won't be able to see to fight!
	“Right there.” Zan's voice. “Put one there.”
	I could see a black silhouette, pointing, a foot to the left of where I was. “What color?”
	 “Black.”
	I held the creamy candle, the sand-colored one, under it. Made a tiny puddle of wax on the catwalk. Stuck the candle in it. Held it there with trembling hands.
	No more thuds on the window. Not yet. Maybe the light had driven them off. Maybe it would keep them off.
	Maybe not.
	A quarter turn around the glass lightower, keeping my face mostly away from the penetrating light.  “What color?” I had no idea where I was on the compass rose now.
	 “White.”
	North. I melted the puddle, stuck the candle, trying not to wiggle it as the puddle cooled. It finally stood.
	 “Now we light them.”
	 “Maybe you should do that.”
	 “Just do it.”
	I held the sand candle to the white one. It flared into flame. I inched my way around the glass, touched the flame to the black one. Poof, flame, more than you'd expect from something so small. I inched farther and I could see Zan's silhouette, and the sudden burst of light glowing through his cupped hands.
	 “That's all four.”
	We stood, squinting.  Zan grabbed my hand, held it tight.
	 “Should we leave?”
	 “No, wait.” I felt him tighten his grip even more, impossible for one so small and wiry. Then I felt what he had sensed coming; like the moment the rollercoaster drops out from under you on the first hill. Like the feeling you get when a sea wave sneaks up on you from behind.
	The big light flared, I shut my eyes and I could see it still. There was a silent whooomp! 
	And darkness.
	I opened my eyes in time to see the candles flare once, then go out. A ring of light rolled out from the tower, as if a rock had been dropped into a giant pool of light. It rolled out, down the tower and out and out, across the tops of the trees, through their branches, across the pale sand in between. Out, out, across the waters of the shallow bay to the west. Across the miles of trees to the north, across the dunes and sand and sea to the east. Across the sandspit and open water to the south.
	It rolled away like distant thunder. I thought I heard faint and distant shrieks. We stood in a dark tower, its light spent.
	 “Now what?” My voice sounded odd in the dark. Zan was gone from my side. “Where are we?” It hadn't looked anything like the Gate we'd ridden through at the beginning of our journey.
	Light flared again, the oil lamp refracting through the zillions of glass prisms of the big light. Zan rose from his place by the lens.  “Whoever was supposed to tend this left in a hurry, I guess.” He glanced toward the sea, “It might be needed. Come on.” He turned and hurried down the stairs.

	
	He shot one last look at the book. Closed it and put it back on the shelf whence it had come. I placed the little Centaur in front of it again: I blew the dust off him, and the shelf, and turned him the other way. As a message to whoever had left him there; we were here, we understood. 
	We headed for the stairs.
	Down down down, we trotted, a faint green glow, like comb jellies in the surf, floating in the air ahead of us. Zan, who'd made the glowy thing, galloped ahead, the steps ringing faintly under his light footfalls. I thundered down after him, my feet on the iron stairs sounding like distant wind chimes. We reached the bottom.
	Kai was snoring, leaning against the wall, his horse legs still folded under him. The horses stood, heads at half mast, a couple of bread loaf sized poop piles scattered through the anteroom.
	I had a sudden thought. The Book was not left in the keeping of the Centaurs. The Centaurs had misused it once. Had fought and died over it. Should I trust him with the knowledge of how to close the Rift? I mean, just yet. He'd have to know, later. But what if, what if someone pried the secret out of him, tried to use the Bowl themselves? Or maybe it didn't have to be him. Maybe any of us could use it. Maybe...
	He stirred. Opened his dark eyes. Met mine.  “What did you learn?”
	 “I have the key.”
	 “You have a lot of keys.” He almost smiled.
	I looked away for a moment. At Zan. He said nothing. I turned back to Kai. Kai who'd risked his life for me when he didn't even know who I was. Kai who hadn't laughed at my feeble attempts at horsemanship and swordplay. Kai, who I knew would risk death getting me to his island so I could save it. I didn't have to save it. He did. I said,  “It's you. You're the one who has to heal the Rift.”
	 “What?” He stood, banging his head on the low stairs.
	 “The Bowl, the Healing Bowl. It's there in the book.”
	 “Are you sure you have interpreted it correctly?”
	Zan said nothing, leaving it to me.
	 “Yes. It's in the pictures. You and the Bowl.”
	He stared, disbelieving.
	Probably thinking, “Why did I travel all the way to the Gate? Why all the way to the northern hills beyond the Bay? Why did I trade my sword for passage that wasn't needed? Any two-legged could have climbed the tower, found the Book, the page, the Spell which isn't a spell at all. And why not just put the Bowl itself in the tower?”
	“We're just the Faithful Sidekicks.” I said. 
	He stared at me for another few heartbeats, a few more breaths. Then, “The journey is the destination.”
	My turn to look startled.
	“Do you not remember, when we gathered in the Grandmothers' Green Room, studying the route south? You wanted to take the ship. The Roane.”
	“Yeah, OK, I remember.”
	“The Journey is the Destination. Bran said that.”
	Something in my center clenched like a fist. I wanted suddenly to cry, I hadn't had time to cry over him on this whole crazy mission.
	 “Perhaps I had to make my own journey, as you have made yours. And we have not seen the end of it yet. Who knows why I had to find you.” Kai turned to Zan, “And you.”
	We told Kai then about the candles and the ring of light.  “It rolled across the landscape like a tsunami.” I said. “It felt like...” 
	 “What?” Kai said.
	 “Like a wave, washing everything away before it.”
	Kai made his way between the horses, toward the door.  “Zan, get your bow.” He drew his own sword, holding it close in our cramped quarters.
	Bow in hand, Zan opened the door. He stepped out into the starlit dark.
	I followed him, pressing in front of Kai. After all, we were the Sidekicks now, Kai was the Hero. We needed to protect him. Zan peered into the dark. So did I, with zero idea of what I was looking for.
	 “Can you feel them?” Zan asked.
	Feel them? I blinked stupidly into the dark. I'd seen them, even recognized them in pictures, but...
	“Center yourself, draw energy up from the land beneath you...”
	I know, push your bubbleheaded aura roots out till they collide with something.
	Kai stood in the doorway behind me, sword at the ready. Zan paced a semi-circle in front of the light, humming something under his breath. The horses peered out, ears at attention.	
	I heard the booming call of an owl in the dark. The wail of gulls. The cry of something not a gull. Still a seabird. An ordinary seabird.  “They're gone.” I said suddenly. “Gone.” I don't know how I knew, but I knew, as surely as I knew Kai was the one with the power to save his people.
	 “I don't feel anything but the reach of tree roots into the sand, the sweep of gull wings over the land...” Zan agreed.
	 “If you keep rhyming, I will have to smack you.” I said.

	We found the corral where the lightkeepers brought their own horses, some hay and grain left there, and a freshwater pond for the horses' use. We made our own camp by the corral with only the native insects to bug us. Zan soon took care of that with another mosquito song. We rolled up in bedrolls and slept.
	I woke with clean bright light in my eyes; the color of sunlit sand, of breaking waves. A horse stared down at me. Not one of ours, they were in the corral. This one was smaller, a sunburnt chestnut with a flaxen mane. I sat up, he snorted and galloped off. I heard others crunching through the bush not far away. Zan was already up, feeding horses. Kai was gone.
	To my questioning look, Zan pointed. To the lighthouse. Kai had found the stove, and was cooking breakfast for all of us. He had also, apparently, removed the poop piles.
	Real Heroes use manure forks.
	We sat, boots off, our toes in the sand chowing down. It's amazing how great rolled oats are when you're truly hungry. Kai might have folded himself into the sand, like the horse couch shape of last night, but he stood, like any horse, eyes watching the sky, ears tuning in to sounds I couldn't hear. Even his nostrils seemed to be reading the news from afar. 
	A  fresh breeze came up the hill from the water to the west bringing with it the smell of the salt marsh and the cry of the gulls. I always loved the sound. I tried to think of words to describe it; beautiful, haunting, achey, like Celtic music, or Native American flutes. Their cries always echoed of some faraway place. Some place I was trying to get to.
	A voice started singing, softly,  “to the sea, to the sea, the white gulls are crying, the wind is blowing, the white foam is flying, west, west away, the round sun is falling...” It was Zan.
	There was a knot in my throat I couldn't speak past, another Elf had sung that in another tale, a big fat thousand page tale on my bookshelf back home. Home. I hadn't thought about it much lately. It seemed a million lightyears away. Or maybe what I thought was home wasn't the place I was trying to get to.
	Zan wandered off, singing, a couple of haybags from the lighthouse slung from one hand. I rose and scrambled after him. We walked down the hill to a meadow of tall, fine grass. He pulled my knife from his belt and began cutting hay.  “The horses can stock up while we struggle back across the channel.” We returned ten minutes later with them stuffed with salt meadow hay, my knife still stuck in his belt.
	 “We should go now.” Kai said. He pirouetted on his hind legs, slow and controlled as a Gran Prix Dressage horse, and headed for the corral.
	We packed our gear, saddled the horses, rode back to where we had left our ferry. Zan undid the spell that hid it, and it was there, exactly as we'd left it.
	I looked west, wondering how far that ring of light had reached.
	We were in a curved sweep of marsh grass, a sort of cove, here was no current I could detect. We shoved the ferry out, on its anchor line, till it floated, lowered the ramp, loaded the horses. Kai went to stand at the anchor line, studying his maps. Charts. It's a chart if you're on water. Zan and I made the horses comfortable on board. I looked up at Kai. He seemed to be studying those charts a lot more than was necessary for a trip across the channel.  “When's low tide?” I asked, not wishing to have to kedge the whole way across, though the mainland would be kind of hard to miss; there was a whole lot more mainland than island. 
	 “Slack tide.” Zan said, “That would be the critical thing.”
	“OK, when's slack tide?” And what is it? High? Low? Somewhen in between?
	“At high, or low, when the current stops moving, before it goes the other way.” Zan frowned at Kai and went to him, trying to peer over his shoulder, not quite possible for one considerably shorter than Kai.
	I searched the shoreline for some sign of how far up or down the tide had gone. There were no pilings here with barnacles on them (barnacles out of the water meant that at some point the water would rise and the barnacles would be underwater again). In the flooded marsh grass near shore though, I could see a ghost of a line. My imagination? No, really, a line, painted by the stuff high water leaves on the grass. I couldn't see any mud at the base of the grass, or maybe it never got that low. But it certainly got higher.
	Kai lowered his chart.  “Not quite low.” He pointed at the ghost line. “Current's moving south. Wind's easterly.”
	 “We can run before the wind, straight back, or nearly straight back...” Zan began.
	 “Or we can go south.” Kai said.
	Zan gave him a look of incredulity.
	 “Uh, isn't that what we were trying to avoid yesterday?” I said.
	 “We were trying to reach this island yesterday.” Kai said, “Now we are trying to reach mine. In the south. As fast as possible.”
	 “Big water.” I pointed south, “Teeeny little boat.” I pointed down at our water borne steed.
	 “Intracoastal waterway.” Kai said. He held out the chart to us. A line of islands marched south from our position. Behind them was a series of shallow bays, like shells on a string.
	 “That's all connected?” I asked.
	 “Yes. For a shallow draft boat like ours.”
	I didn't mention the fact that it wasn't ours, and that someone might ultimately miss it.
	 “Yeah, we commandeer a ship, sail south, arrive sooner.” Zan sounded more enthusiastic now. 
	 “What about your difficulty with water? Your magic doesn't work too well there. Like, if the Unseelie throw a couple of great white sharks at us, there'd be no Zan and his plus five bow of doom to blow them up.”
	 “My 'magic' works fine.” Kai said, one hand on his swordhilt, the other, with the chart, brushed the bow case at his horse shoulder. “And I found more arrows in the lighthouse, though they are not exactly matched to my bow, they will do.”
	As in any great swashbuckling pirate movie, my sword would work fine too. If the Unseelie threw pirates at us. I tried to picture Jaws Four with swords.  “I wish this boat had cannons.”
	 “Yes, pirates would certainly choose a ferry as their target of choice.” Kai's face was, as always, unreadable. One ear twitched.
	I glared at him. 
	Zan stood on his toes, poking at the charts,  “This is all shallow. Land nearby, underfoot, under our hull, and to port and starboard. I can still do illusions and use my bow, though not as well as on land. And not for long.”
	 “How long?”
	 “A couple of days.”
	 “How long will it take us to get there?”
	 “With good winds, a day.” Kai said.
	 “What about with bad winds?”
	 “A lot longer.”
	 “Maybe we should walk.” I said. I really preferred walking. Probably the horses preferred walking too.
	Kai was studying the sky, the ruffle of the pine boughs on the far shore, the flight of birds.  “We will sail.”
	 “Or row. Or kedge the whole way there.” I said. I was a hair sore from the unaccustomed exercise of Olympic Rowing I'd done yesterday.
	 “The Hero's Sidekick is supposed to be encouraging.” Zan suggested.
	 “How shallow is it?” I persisted. Maybe too shallow for us after all.
	 “Too shallow for great white sharks.” Zan said.
	 “Not too shallow for our boat, especially with the centerboard up.” Kai said. “That is why is has a centerboard, and not a keel.”
	 “OK, Popeye.” I said. “Whatever you say. It looks like the wind's trying to blow us to the mainland though.”
	 “We could do a beam reach, but there's not a lot of room to tack in some of those channels.” Zan said. “Better if the wind was more northerly.”
	Almost on cue, the wind shifted  to northeasterly. Zan and I shared startled glances. Kai set his eyes resolutely on the horizon. 
	We used the oars to shove out into the wide shallow bay between the island and the far mainland shore, then rowed into position, bow pointing south. Together we hauled on lines and set the sail. We put Kai in the center, near the oars. Me on the tiller. Zan up front as lookout.
	 “Keep a sharp eye on the bottom before you.” Kai said. “We do not want to run aground.”
	 “Hey,” I observed, “If we do, we have three horses to pull us off.”
	Kai glanced at me, deadpan. He looked as enthused about that possibility as I did about pop quizzes in math.
	We sailed south, Zan calling out stuff like:  “sandbar, broad on the port bow!” and “Shoal, three points forward of starboard beam!”
	 “Points? What are points? Just point or something!” I yelled at him.
	South south away, our canvas curved over our heads like a big dragon wing.  “We're on on a broad reach,” Zan said, “Awesome true wind!”
	 “As opposed to fake wind?”
	 “True wind, the real wind speed, not what it feels like from your boat, which is moving inside the wind.” Zan launched into an explanation of nautical aerodynamics: how the wind coming a few points off our stern, flowing across the sail, generated lift, giving us more speed than a wind blowing straight into our sail.
	 “Where do you get this stuff?” I asked him.
	He hesitated, his cheerful expression fading.  “Learned it from our real sailor. Bran.”

	The sun rose hot and white across a perfect blue sky. It was hard to imagine Unseelie and war in this same country. The water was clear enough so Zan could see the bottom, even in twenty feet of water. The lead line, used to determine depth, lay hibernating in the bow. The south end of Ship Shoal swept westward, a sandbar the shape of a fishhook. Inside its half circle, and on its edges, the bottom glared at us clear and bright. We steered westward, over eelgrass beds peppered with dead man's fingers and sea pork and sea lettuce. There were the silver flashes of kilifish and Atlantic silversides and mumichog, the sideways scuttle of swimming blue crabs and the broad, dark wings of the cownosed rays. The waves broke into choppy wind shapes, like fins.
	Then they were fins.
	“Zan, Zan!” Your bow, your illusion of a sperm whale, whatever, they're on us!  With no clue as to whether it was two points abaft the port beam or three points off our butt, I pointed.
	There was nothing there.
	He frowned at me, at the water.
	I stared, I know what I saw. I think I know what I saw. Maybe not. Maybe just my overactive imagination.
	A fin sliced across the surface, vanished. Then another.
	 “There!”
	Zan stared, then laughed. His hands made a ballet in the air, first moving in a horizontal S-shape,  “Shark.” Then he moved his hand, fin shaped, in a vertical wheel, “Dolphin!” He pointed to the fins surfacing a few feet off our bow.
	I could hear their quick explosions of breath, like someone blowing across the top of an empty soda bottle. I stared, transfixed. More surfaced, now right beside us. Grey backs, dark silver, like the water. Two surfacing in perfect harmony, one smaller than the other; mother and calf. Now and again one would roll, look up at me with a wise dark eye. One smiled, well it looked like a smile, they always look like they're smiling. Its mouth was lined with rows of sharp teeth. It occured to me Unseelie might not need to be sharks at all, but something innocuously cute.
	Like dolphins.
	I looked into its dark eye. Just a dolphin, as at home on the waves as I was on land. On a horse. A Dolphin. She looked at me. She. Definitely She. There was something in her dark eye, like she was trying to tell me something. Or maybe I was imagining it. Or not.
	If you stop speaking your language, you might be able to hear theirs.
	I looked and listened. Then the Dolphins turned, headed past the end of Ship Shoal and out to sea.
	I glanced up at Zan, wondering if he'd heard.
	He nodded.  “The sea is dying. What are you going to do about it?”

	South, through the maze of channels and shallow bays behind the barrier islands. Marsh grass rose to starboard and port, with clumps of shrubs on the higher ground. I saw few pine trees here; the islands were low and windswept, but high enough to give us sheltered water to sail through. We ate things from our packs, put out a haybag for the horses along with some of the oatmeal mash Kai had brought from the lighthouse. We watered them from the barrel we'd brought from the lighthouse. Kai stoppered the barrel again, lashed it in place on the deck.  “When we return, we will have to repay their unknowing kindness.”
	When we return? What did he mean? Zan and I would be the only ones going back by way of Ship Shoal.
	If we returned at all.
	South, south, flying on the wind across the wide bays. Under us the water changed. First the bottom fell away in the narrow channels, clouded by something that hadn't been there farther north. Then we ran aground. We scurried to drop sail.
	 “I thought it was deeper,” Zan said. He threw the lead line, a great loop of rope sailing out with its chunk of lead weight on the end. The line fell short with a splash, leaving most of the rope at Zan's feet. It was only a couple of feet deep.
	 “What's happened?” I peered over the side, and couldn't see a thing, just murky water.
	 “The dark is spreading.” Kai said.
	We managed to heave the ferry off the sandbar, using the oars as poles. Now we proceeded slower, sail reefed, Zan throwing the lead line, Kai eying the charts closely.
	The sun sailed away over the mainland, dropped behind a cloud bank.  I thought I heard the distant rumble of thunder. I glanced up at the really big lightning rod in the middle of our boat.
	 “Keep going.” Kai said. He reached out with an oar, tested the bottom.
	The sun was gone. In its place was a towering mass of dark cloud looming up from the mainland. I scanned the shorelines to east and west, low lying marsh and shrubs, no shelter in sight.
	Rumble rumble rumble.  “That was thunder.” I said.
	Kai answered by shoving harder on the oar. 
	We drifted forward under our reefed sail, Kai testing the bottom with the oar. Zan leapt up on the railing and began climbing the shrouds. Fifty feet up he stopped, peering westward.  “Squall line coming!” He slid down, landing on the deck with as much noise as a cat. 
	 “What did Bran have to say about that!” I said, beginning to panic.
	 “Reef your sail, run with the wind, oh, and stay away from the mast.”
	 “Drop the sail!” Kai said, “there's nowhere to run.” He hauled in the oar, motioned me to stay on the tiller, but to turn us toward the shallows to the east. Zan dropped the sail, Kai threw the anchor overboard. I went to the horses. They seemed much calmer about the impending disaster than I did. I wondered what Topgallant had done in the wild when storms swept over  the herd. Her ears flicked westward, she sniffed the wind, then turned her back to it, lowering her head. Blue did the same. The boat swung slowly into the wind.
	Then the wind died.
	A stupid cliché came to mind; the calm before the storm. I'd never thought of it as anything real. As anything terrifying. I watched the black mass heave up over us trailing its pale skirt of rain, its forward edge pale with broken cloud like wild surf..
	And wind. It hit us like a moving wall. The ferry swung on its anchor line, facing into the howling wind, the flat bay water shapeshifted into waves tossing like wild horses. Green lightning split the black rain, an avalanche of thunder rolled. I would rather have had the whole Unseelie horde to fight. I huddled between the horses with the awful realization we were the tallest thing for miles.
	Then I heard singing. I lifted my head. I could just see Zan, standing by the mast, singing something into the rain. Was it my imagination? Or were there faint blue lightnings dancing in the air above the boat's gunnels? 
	The air danced with the green fire of lightning and the blue fire of something else. Wind whipped air and water together till I couldn't tell what was sky and what was sea. Topgallant rode the center of the boat with Blue, sandwiching me in the warm nearly dry space between. The  little ferry, as broad and sturdy as Earla the Dwarf, rocked like a galloping horse, but did not go over. Then, as suddenly as the wind had come, it was gone. The black cloud raced east, out over the sea to trouble bigger ships. The blue light sizzled and sank back into Zan's hands.
	I stared at him, my mouth an open invitation for roosting bats and nesting birds. I found my voice, but not many words.  “What, what...” 
	He grinned,  “Deflect lightning spell.”

	
	We set the sail again, all of it, and flew south. The charts showed wider and deeper reaches of water; all the way to the Southern Continent if we missed the turn into the mouth of the Great Bay. Zan climbed up the rope ladder formed by the shrouds that braced the mast from the sides and stared at the long line of gleaming sand vanishing into the blue haze south. The sun reappeared from the cloud bank turning the west sides of the waves warm purples, the east sides cool greens.
	 “Do you see it yet?” I called to Zan.
	 “No.”
	 “I thought you could see, like dozens of miles.”
	 “I can, but it's too hazy.”
	Five minutes later;  “Can you see it yet?”
	 “No.”
	Five minutes later...
	 “No,” Zan said, exasperated, “we're not there yet.”
	The sun was sinking, going down like the Titanic. No Centaur island in sight. A lot of ocean in sight to the east.  “We're going to miss it in the dark.” I said. It looked a lot harder to find all that open sea.
	Zan didn't reply, just perched as high up in the shrouds as he could get, staring into the purpley blue distance. Kai stayed amidships, eyes on the long line of shore starboard, ears turning this way and that, nostrils testing the wind. A  wind which, at least, had stayed northeasterly; we wouldn't get blown out to sea. 
	Zan waved at me to adjust the tiller, heave the boat's nose farther west.
	I questioned him with a tilted eyebrow.
	He shook his head, peered back toward the hazy horizon.
	 “It is some trick of theirs.” The voice was Kai's. “To hide the island from us.”
	I frowned into the darkening blue horizon.  “They can't hide themselves.” I said at last.
	Kai gave me a startled look, as if I'd said something deep and insightful.  “Zan cannot see the island, but you can see them.”
	 “Yeah. Apparently.” My eyes went from him to Zan, perched in the shrouds. I looked back at Zan, fifty feet up. Crap. I'd have to look from there. And I didn't have a safety harness to clip myself into the rigging.
	Zan came sliding back down the shrouds, stepped back.  “Hurry, it's almost dark.”
	OK Moose, this is easy. The Roane was at least fifty feet higher. But it was broad daylight, and you weren't on open water. I took a deep breath grabbed hold of the shrouds, put a foot on the first ratline. A bunch of eels started having a party somewhere in my gut. Stop it!  I    breathed again, trying to pretend I was just getting on a really big horse. I put another foot another ratline higher just like stepping into a stirrup. Another step, another ratline.Then another.
	It was there, a dark smear on the near horizon. Was I looking at the Rift itself? Or just zillions of Unseelie crawling out of it? I didn't want to think about that too closely. I pointed. Zan took a fix on the location with the compass and some other instruments left by the real crew. Unlike Zan's swift sliding descent, I climbed down, placing one careful foot at a time into the ratlines. We tweaked our course and headed for the Dark.

	We came around the Point into the mouth of the Bay in the dark. Nearly there, I saw a candle flame glimmer of light. I pointed.
	 “Our lighthouse.” Kai said. “On the sand spit at the end of the Point.” He looked relieved.
	I felt more than relieved. If there were Centaurs at the lighthouse, then the Good Guys had a foothold still.
	There was a cove on the back side of the island, on the side where the short, steep waves of the Bay rolled away into the west. We could see the long dark line of trees on the higher ground in the center of the island, obscuring the lighthouse. To the north we could see  flashes of flame in the sky.
	 “Dragon Woman.” Zan's voice came out of the dark. “Somehow I don't think she's going to come escort us. She seems kind of busy.” 
	 “Maybe we should make for the Light.” I suggested. “If it's a Centaur lighthouse, it must be more horse-friendly than the last one.”
	 “Indeed.” Kai said. “It is.” 
	We ran into the shallows, dropped anchor. I heard the faint background whine that is the song of the saltmarsh in summer; the mosquito air force had come to greet us. Something whined in my ear, stuck its needle nose in my skin.  “Ow!” I smacked a mosquito. Three more.
	 “Sorry.” Zan said, and gestured into the air, humming.
	The faint background whine faded. I smelled the strange combination of salt water, decaying vegetation, and fishiness that is salt marsh. And something else.  “It doesn't smell right.” I said.
	Kai turned, surprised.  “You smelled that?”
	 “What is it?”
	 “Not what it should be,” he said. “It is the smell of the Dark.”
	I looked down into the black water at our feet, trying to hide my terror.  “Great, are we going to morph into something gross if we step in that?”
	 “No.” Kai said quietly, “No more than you will turn into a horse if you step into a pile of crap.”
	 “The word you're looking for is manure.” Zan said.
	 “Manure then. It was the same when I left. Only there is more of it now.”
	I hopped overboard with Zan and helped slide the ramp down. Something in the dark water wriggled and swam away, unseen. I repressed the urge to scream like a little girl and jump back on the boat.  “If it's not trying to eat you,” I said between clenched teeth, “it's probably not Unseelie.”
	 “Yeah,” Zan said. He looked about as heroic as I felt.	
	I thought about the footing we couldn't see, about three people with horse hooves behind me, about Topgallant getting bogged. I climbed back on the boat, found a boathook; a pole taller than me with a pointy bit and a hook on one end. Useful tools for retrieving lines from docks, and other objects you couldn't reach from a boat. I stepped back into the water, leaving the horses to Zan.
	 “Shouldn't we wait till daylight? he was saying.
	 “No. They will find us long before then.” Kai said. 
	 “What's the plan, then.” I said, “Do we have a plan?”
	We turned to Kai, on his home turf now. Kai the Hero. The Sidekicks waited for him to come up with a Plan. 
	 “They can see no better in the dark than you can.” Kai said. He didn't sound like a guy with a Plan.  
	 “But horses can.” Zan said, “See pretty well in the dark, I mean.”
	 “And my folk as well.” Kai said. “I will go to the Rift tonight.”
	“We.” I said. “It's we. And we should probably wait till better light, so we can see to shoot things or knock things off your butt with our swords.”
	Kai made his vague grunty male noise. He studied the half moon sailing above the treeline, unobscured by the Dark. Not really enough light for the night-impaired to fight well. “Let's make for the Light then. The Rift is not far from it.”
	 “Nothing's far from anything here.” Zan said, “It's an island. A pretty small one.”
	 “Far enough when your path is full of Unseelie.” Kai said. He cast an eye toward the flashes of flame, now in the northwest sky. 
	 “I'll find a safe path to shore.” I said. I waded shoreward, testing the bottom before me. I tried to wade silently. No luck there. I splashed through knee deep water, then fell in a shallow hole.
	 “Watch out for the ray holes.” Zan said.
	 “What?” I emerged, a dripping creature of the black lagoon. “Maybe Jaques Cousteau should go first?”
	 “No sharks. Just rays. Don't step on one. I happened to John Smith. He was so sick from the venom he had his guys dig a grave. But he recovered in time to have the stingray for dinner. They named a point after him. Stingray Point.”
	 “The Pocahontas guy?” I looked down, I hadn't thought of natural dangers, just Unseelie.
	 “Brilliantly, he stabbed the ray with a sword.” Zan said, “Don't use your sword. Shuffle your feet. They swim away. But they leave holes. Don't fall in them.”
	 “Yeah. Thanks Nature Boy.” I poked farther with the boathook, found solid sand, no rays, then a deeply mushy spot. “Not there.” I pointed. More solid sand. The marsh grass loomed, and beyond it solid ground. I turned to Kai and Zan, “I think we can...”
	Zan's expression shifted, staring at something behind me.
	I turned and a woman walked out of the dark. 
	Tall, but not skinny like one of those anorexic runway models, or those Photoshopped chicks on magazine covers. A Real Woman, like a Valkyrie or one of those swordchicks in my video games. She walked out of the marsh and came to the edge of the water.
	I frowned at her, I didn't remember Kai saying anything about ordinary humans here. 
	And why was she wearing my clothes?
	And carrying a boathook?
	I didn't have time to think about that, because at that moment she leapt into the water and swung the boathook at my head.

~14~
unseelie and centaurs

	Unseelie! 
	I slammed into her with my boathook, spun, blundered through muck and two feet of water and eelgrass and shells. I landed on my butt, blocking her boathook with mine. I plunged to my feet again, swinging the boathook like my Centaur sword. The one now on Kai's belt. And I had no time to draw my new one. 
	Dark, dark, a little light from the moon, but not enough to fight.
	I flailed madly as she came on, wishing I'd spent more time learning those bo-staff routines Bran was so good at. I blocked; crack crack crack. Made a hasty thrust with the pointy end of the hook. 
	Where the hell's my backup? Where's Kai and Zan? 
	I spun around as she wailed away at me, and I could see them, stunned, statue-still, at the edge of the boat, eyes going from one of us to the other. 
	I slammed the boathook into her arm. She dropped her hook, rolled out of my way with a splash, retrieved it from the muck at our feet.
	You can't fight in the dark. You haven't practiced in the dark.
	I hesitated. Orienteering in the dark, sailing in the dark, riding in the dark. Not much swordplay in the dark. Definitely no practice with really big sticks with pointy ends.
	She took the opportunity to flail away at me again.
	Not play. Survival. I blocked; wham wham wham and she came on like a starved shark.
	It's dark. And you're not good enough. Not without your friends to save you.
	I knocked her down. It occurred to me, weirdly, that she had the kind of hair I'd always wanted, an expensive sunstreaked look over brown. 
	She plunged up out of the muck, trailing a sea nettle. Feinted at my head, the nine foot boathook wheeling like a bird to land on my thigh. I barely got the end of my boathook between in time.
	Where's your magic sword? How're you going to fight without your magic sword?
	Was that me thinking that? Or her? 
	“Like this!” I shouted. I slammed into her with renewed hatred. She blundered backward, fumbling. I threw the boathook like a spear and drew my sword. My sword from the Lightkeeper. Maybe not a Magic Sword from the World's Weirdest Yardsale, but a damn good one. I swung at her head.
	She ducked, floundered in the water, came up in a new place and slammed into me full force. With a sword to match my own. 
	Why does that move look familiar?
	I galloped backward and floundered underwater. I came up swinging.
	She loomed, a shadow beast with a slice of silver in her hand. It whirled down on me.
	I blocked, ducked. What's with Kai and Zan? Hey, a little help here...
	“Hey!” She shouted, “A little help here!”
	From the corner of my eye I saw Kai plunge toward me, sword drawn. My sword, and he was aiming it at me. 
	 “Hey!” I shouted, and had no time to say more as his sword came down. I ducked, deflected, rolled out of the way. 
	He backed off suddenly, his body language shouting confusion.
	The girl took the opportunity to clobber me.
	I hauled myself out of the salt slime and threw myself sideways. Stenchy black marsh water up my nose, something stinging under my tunic; jellyfish tentacles probably. I kept stepping on sharp oyster shells, slipping. The only good thing was she was doing the same.
	I plunged into her again. My muscles remembered, without thought, a move Bran had taught me. A feint, a slash, a spin.
	And it was reflected back on me, like a mirror. She knew the same move.
	Impossible.
	And she was wearing me down.
	You know you can't win. Not without them.
	“Kai!” I shouted. But he made no move toward me. Zan either.
	What was with them! 
	I pulled every move, every combination out of my memory. I hadn't lost the fight with... with that Unseelie in the dark, disguised as Bran. But I hadn't won that one either. Kai had. And Zan.
	I could see them shifting positions at the edge of my vision, moving here and there, but with no purpose. What spell does she have them under?
	I could not go on much longer. 
	You're not the Hero.
	I could not come up with a move that she didn't already seem to know.
	Why?
	She smiled at me in the dark. The way the snooty girls at school did sometimes. The way the size twos at the stable did. The way Tiffany did. Down her nose.
	You're nothing.
	She didn't look a bit like Tiffany, but I hit her anyway, hard.
	She blocked it. And the move was Bran's. One he'd taught me.
	One he'd taught me, along with the counter-move. I'd almost forgotten it. It surfaced now without thought and I slammed into her again. She fell back, breathing hard, covered in marsh muck. Her eyes narrowed, her smile vanished. She came on like lightning.
	My turn to fall back, blocking desperately.
	Think, think... what else did he teach you? What would Raven do? I blundered backward toward the boat. To the right was the place I'd checked for footing. Bad footing. I put on a face that told her I was desperate. That told her I was running out of steam.
	I stepped toward the goo from hell. Sidestepped. Banked out of the way like a bird in flight.
	She fell for it. Straight in to her knees. She floundered and I didn't give her a chance to figure out how to get out of it. I swung my sword, hard.

	She sank, silent, vanishing into the dark murk her kind had created. Breathing hard, I turned to Kai and Zan, still standing in the water a few yards from the boat, eyes wide, bodies tensed.
	I wanted to yell at them, scream at them, say something clever and sarcastic, but their expressions were too weird. Like a horse in the path of a charging lion. I stood, breathing hard, with no words coming out.
	Then Zan said the weirdest thing.  “What color is the Spare 'Oom?”
	 “What?” I blinked at him, my mouth tried to find more words and failed. I made a few motions like a goldfish gasping for oxygen at the top of the bowl. Then, “green. No, sort of turquoise, like the Caribbean, but greener, sort of...”
	He plunged through the water and threw his arms around me and hugged me, sword and swamp goo and all.
	I stood there, mouth agape, staring over his head at Kai. Kai breathed, lowered his sword and sheathed it.
	“What is with you guys?”
	Zan was nearly crying when he looked at me, “We thought, we couldn't...”
	 “Couldn't what?”
	 “You don't know?” Kai said. “No.” His face had a look of bafflement on it.
	I was more baffled. ”Will somebody please tell me what's going on here!” I yelled. “Where was my backup!”
	 “We couldn't tell which one was you.” Zan said. 
	 “Huh?” 
	 “She...  looked... like... you.” Zan said very slowly and very very clearly.
	 “She didn't.” She was clearly taller, and skinnier, and more athletic. And had better hair.
	 “You have not seen a mirror lately.” Kai said. He strode past me to the shore, his bow at the ready.
	I stared after Zan, as he went for the horses. He came back down the ramp, handed me Topgallant's reins.  “Shapeshifters,” he said. “Mosquitoes.” A  look of pain passed over his face. “I'm sorry I didn't do the mosquito spell fast enough when we arrived. I'm sorry we... we...””
	 “They could have got the DNA sample earlier.” I said. “She really looked like me?”
	 “Yeah. Exactly.”
	No way. 
	“Way.” Zan said. “Moved like you too. All that stuff...”
	 “...Bran taught me.” I finished.
	 “How'd you...?”
	 “Silt of Doom.” I pointed to the spot with its deeply gooey bottom. “A Raven trick.”
	Zan smiled.  “He would have liked that.”
	We mounted, headed for the unknown darkness ahead. Zan's voice came from beside me,  “It's funny. Not hah hah funny, not really, sort of weird funny. Bran...” his voice faltered, “He'd probably think it was funny. He always said, the greatest enemy you face is the one in the mirror.” 

	We headed south, toward the Light. Kai, who knew the island and its trails, took point. The other archer, Zan, took up the rear. I rode in the middle, sword drawn. Zan had no talent for true invisibility, but he spun an illusion over us; deer moving through the dark. The night was silent, too silent, devoid of the cries of gulls, the owl's booming voice, the yip of a fox. I didn't even hear the moose-crashes of squirrels in the trees. We rode along a wooded path, ears straining for any hint of danger. We heard only the faint creak of our saddles, the light jingle of bits and bow case and sword sheath hardware. Yeah, I thought, deer with creaks and jingles. Bran should be here.
	I cast an eye skyward, wondering if the Unseelie had thought yet about attack seagulls. Or owls. I remembered something Zan had said about Great Horned Owls; their grip strength: one thousand psi on each talon tip. Once, a dark shape sailed overhead, then vanished.
	Then there was nothing, only the pale sand under our feet, and the dark pines to either side. We rode on, the horses' footfalls muffled by sand. I looked back at Zan.  “What do you feel?”
	 “It's... the whole place is like a prisoner in a dungeon. The birds have fled. Many things have died. The rest are hiding. Even the trees are besieged.”
	I felt Topgallant's back shift, hollowing slightly under me. Her head raised a notch, her ears, turning, radaring in on nothing, focused forward.
	 “Kai!” I whispered. I pointed ahead.
	He turned, eyed Topgallant and Blue, also head up, nostrils wide. His eyes went from the horses to the trail ahead, their senses keener than even his.  “Bad place for a fight,” he said, “The trail opens up a bit farther.”
	Farther ahead. Closer to whatever lay there. Kai picked up a trot, we followed. In two dozen strides the trail did open up; a clearing, the sand reflecting moonlight, silhouetting the dark shapes stepping from the wood beyond.
	Horsemen.
	I blinked, no. Horse-men. Centaurs. Or Unseelie Centaurs. I squinted into the night.  “Centaurs.” I said. 
	Beside me, Kai relaxed his stance, lowered his bow.
	Zan dropped the illusion hiding us.
	Then an arrow screamed past his ear, embedded itself in the tree behind him.
	 “Hold it!” I yelled, not at Kai, at the shadow Centaurs across the clearing. “We're on your side!”
	They stepped forward, six of them, smaller than Kai, but well-armed. Moonlight glinted off their armour and swords and no few bows. Most were dark shadows, one looked like a patchwork, half visible against the moonlit sand; a pinto. One was hard to see at all, nearly the same color as the sand, I guessed, and the last gleamed like wolf teeth in the dark.
	“Syrnwhyyrhuu?” Kai said. It was one of those sounds, like the name of his island, like his own long name, that could not possibly ever roll off a Human tongue. It rolled off his tongue now like a greeting, with the kind of joy you have after finding an old friend you thought dead.
	“Do not come any farther,” a male voice came out of the dark.
	 “We're not Unseelie, we're with you,” I said, “It's Kai!” 
	 “Kai?” A female voice. The spotted one stepped forward.
	Someone stepped in front of her,  “We don't know they're not Unseelie.”
	 “Well, I know you aren't.” I said. “What do we have to do to convince you?”
	 “A Human?” Another female voice, surprised.
	A male voice, sounding somewhat grumpy said,  “Why would Unseelie turn into a Human.”
	He'd meant mere Human, of course. I frowned into the dark, trying to identify him. I'd have to set him straight later.
	“To trick us,” snapped another voice. 
	Zan rode forward so they could see him. He slung his bow on his back.  “Let me see Unseelie do an illusion as good as the one you just saw!”
	Someone snorted,  “You did not sound or smell at all like deer.”
	The first voice I'd heard, Srfwr, Surfer, whatever, fit another arrow to his string. The others stepped up around him. It looked, somehow, like a battle formation. I couldn't read their faces in the dark, not that that would help, I couldn't read Kai's in the daylight very well. I could read their body language; like horses. It was tense, on the edge of flight.
	Or fight.
	I tried to find words that would convince them.  “Hey,” I began.
	That got another few steps forward and five more drawn bows.
	Something dark wheeled out of the night air, banked over the Centaurs.
	The birds have fled. Zan had said. And Kai remembered. He lifted his bow, tracking the shadow above us.
	At that point, it nearly all went south. My shouts were lost in the scuffle. There was a flurry of voices, a scramble of feet, of weapons drawn. Then out of the dark came an odd voice; “Knock it off, all of you!” A  voice made peculiar by its origins in a bird's syrinx. We froze, Centaurs, horses, Elf and me, in various phases of deploying weaponry. 
	There was a bird, a big one, perched on Surferdude's shoulder. Reluctantly the Centaur lowered his bow an inch.
	 “Sheath it!” The bird ordered. The others flinched, lowered their weapons.
	I blinked, I knew that voice.
	The raven lifted his wings and sailed into the center of the clearing. There was a swirl of sand and wind and wet from somewhere. It coalesced into a familiar tall, lean form.
	 “Bran!” Zan, shouting for all the island to hear. Blue leapt forward, two strides, three. Zan bailed onto the sand and grabbed Bran in a huge hug. 
	 “Took you long enough.” Bran said. “Even with that favorable wind I sent.”
	Once again I was doing my impersonation of a large-mouth bass. The world seemed to slow around me. I could see shapes moving, passing me, swirling together in a knot of voices and hugs and dancing hooves.
	Then there was Topgallant, still as stone, and Bran at my left leg, looking up at me, a big cockeyed grin on his face.
	I fell off, covered in dried swamp goo and all, and hugged him, twice as hard as Zan.
	 “Oooff!” He staggered back, grinning, “Haven't exactly been a couch potato since I left, have you?”
	 “What happened?” I said through my tears.
	For once his words were nearly as spare as Kai's.  “Unseelie, Dragonkin. I was with them for awhile. We came here, I found Kai's friends.” He paused, eyed the longsword at my hip. “Where's Keet and Skana?”
	 “At Nine Foot Knoll.”
	 “Good. Ian would be pleased that the dogs are not here.”
	 “Ian! He doesn't, he didn't...ohcrap, he was...”
	 “I know, sorry. He couldn't find me. Well, he has, at least by now, had word of my continued existence.” He smiled faintly, “Where's your sword?”
	I pointed at Kai,  “He has it now. The lightkeeper loaned me this sword. Said it'd be better, on an island where everyone has hooves.”
	Bran nodded,  “You could not fight horsed with the other.” He studied me for a moment. “The other was somehow useful?”
	I nodded, choking a little.
	 “What?” Bran said gently.
	 “The Unseelie.... cloned...you.”
	His smile faded.  “Ah.” 
	 “The Unseelie had a wicked sword. The Centaur sword was the only thing that could block it.” I really didn't want to say anymore about it.
	His hand lit on my shoulder like a bird, gave me a reassuring squeeze.  “You did well.”
	 “How do you know?”
	 “You're here. Get your horse. Now we have to get to the Light.”

	We rode, a long silent line in the dark. A thousand questions buzzed in my brain like horseflies. Where are all the Unseelie? Where are the rest of the Centaurs? Where IS the Rift?How far's the light? And how many of those things so we have to fight off before we get there?
	Zan spun his illusion again, though it would only be visible to one on the outside, not to any of us.
	“Can you feel them near?” Bran said to me, softly. He said it in English.
	I scanned the bush, left and right, heart in mouth. He knew. He could tell where they were. It was a test, certainly a test.
	 “Stop thinking, just feel.” Bran said.
	 “Nothing.” I said at last, surprised. “Where are they?”
	 “Farther north. Closer to the Rift. We have cleared a little space in the south, around the Light.”
	I thought of the lights at Nine Foot Knoll, and Ship Shoal.  “Are they all magic?”
	A trace of the privateer grin returned,  “What did you learn at Ship Shoal?”
	Of course, he didn't know. I countered his question with a question,  “Who's at the Centaur Light?”
	 “Good, you're thinking faster than me. People who might want to use what you learned at Ship Shoal.”
	 “Have they discovered who opened the Rift? Who wants to seal the island?”
	 “No. I think the one, or ones, who were there when the Rift opened may have been the Unseelie's first victims. But there are no few who would cheerfully seal up the island, to close the Rift. And more than Kai have learned the old legends. They have heard there is a Spell, in a faraway land. They know Kai left on a long journey. They know the Dragon, and I, and the others who have come here are not the carriers of the Spell. I think anyone with Kai may be in danger, especially one who comes from a faraway land.” He gave me a pointed look.
	I studied the line of Centaurs ahead and behind.  “I'm only the Sidekick.” I said. In English.
	His eyebrows flew up like birdwings. 
	 “The Book said, 'You have the key'. But the illustrations showed Kai using the Healing Bowl we got at the Grandmothers'.”
	 “Whoa.” Bran said softly. He glanced at the others, “Keep it to yourselves; you and Zan and Kai. Though I think these are purely and truly with us, it is better if they don't know, yet.”

	The trail wound out of the woods, through low shrubs of wax myrtle and bayberry and others. Then across rolls of sand scattered with beach heather and prickly pear. Then the plants vanished entirely and a wall rose before us. 
	 “It's kind of short.” The words fell out of my mouth. I glanced at the Centaurs, hoping no one thought I was saying their lighthouse looked stupid. The wall was the kind you'd find on colonial era forts; a fence of vertical tree trunks, pointy at the top. We rode through a gate, an ordinary one of wood, and it creaked shut behind us. Inside was a courtyard, the three walls making a broad triangular shape. In the center was a long building of logs, with light shining from a cuppola on the roof. The whole thing was at once primitive and beautiful; carvings sprouted from corners and edges, banners flew from high places like windblown manes, small fires burned  like Christmas lights. Here and there birdwing shapes of canvas flew like horizontal sails (Shade? Shelter?) Small groups of Centaurs turned to look at us as we straggled in. Someone came to take our horses to safety, food and water and rest. The rest of us were ushered into the great hall.
	A fire burned in the center, above it burned the second fire, surrounded by crystal prisms. The Fire lighting the entrance to the Great Bay itself. A spiral ramp led up to the Light, strong and wide enough for a horse to walk, or a centaur. 
	We sat by the fire, on pads, like thick quilts, over soft sand. A quiet commotion of voices and food and drink and plans whirled around us. One by one, Kai's friends named themselves to me;
	Surferdude (I couldn't even imagine how to spell what Kai had called him) was short and stout and well-muscled, liver chestnut with flaxen hair and tail, feet white to the fetlocks and liver chestnut skin. He looked like a guy you wanted on your side, not the other.
	Tarth was the pinto girl, dark palomino and white. Her hair and tail gleamed white, her skin was the deep golden tones of her palomino markings. The white marking on her side was the shape of the Bay itself.
	Ystyfnyg: I gave up trying to pronounce his name as Kai had, and dubbed him Steffen. A  leggy, gawky, colty looking blue black with white hind legs, he looked younger than Zan. He carried a bow, like the rest, and two light lean swords.
	Buan: She was a graceful smokey dun, like sand with shadows across it. Her legs had zebra stripes, there was a line down her back and across her (horse) shoulders. It was the kind of color that someone at the stable had called  “primitive horse color”. Certain breeders of Spanish Mustangs looked for that color as an indication of ancient bloodlines. Buan's hair and tail were dark brown, nearly black, like her legs, and her skin was golden like Tarth's. 
	Paratoi (called by most, Par), was a bay, with a splash of white on her rump, like a seabird in flight. She had black hair with a white streak in it, the way some horses with white markings on their neck will have. Her tail was black, her skin chocolate.
	The last was Lleuad, whose name meant moon. There was a longer version, which I couldn't pronounce any better than Surferdude's. I settled on “Loo”. He was bigger than the others, nearly Kai's size. He was true white with very pale pink skin and ice blue eyes, not grey, Perlino or cream. He had far more clothing on his humanoid torso than the others, long, loose-sleeved and pale, with loose shrouding and light scarves around his shoulders that looked like something he could pull up over his head. 
	Cool, Centaur island ninjas dress in white.
	I liked Kai's friends. Of course, they were his friends, they had to be cool. And something about them was as quirky as he was. The other Centaurs were solid colors, bays and chestnuts and sunburned browns, with varying skin tones. Kai's band was diverse, to say the least. And other things about them were somehow, different. Like some kids I knew at school, the ones who didn't dress in the latest fashion brainfarts. The ones with weird taste in music, in books. The kid who loved animé as much as me. The junior mad scientist who was probably going to blow up the science lab some day. Or turn Mrs. Brown into a fog. 
	The conversation bubbled around me like the noise of a woodland at sunrise. The Centaurs usually ran in small bands, making temporary camps. This was their strength now; the Unseelie couldn't pin them down long enough for more than brief sorties. 
	“Like the privateers of the nineteenth century.” Bran said, “Outrun what you can't outgun. Outgun what you can't outrun. They've been keeping them at bay.” He made a face, as if he'd realized he'd made a bad pun, “Keeping them, mostly, from crossing the Bay. Keeping too many from going north up the Peninsula.”
	I looked around at the wooden walls, back at Bran, unasked question in my eyes.
	 “The Unseelie aren't likely to breach these walls.”
	 “What about hordes of vampiric horseflies?” I said.
	Bran grinned,  “Had that problem, eh?”
	 “Yeah.” I glowered. “I never want to see another horsefly again.”
	 “This small place is protected, for now. Did you think the Centaurs were all about bows and swords? They have magic users too.”
	 “But not enough to destroy all the Unseelie and drive them back into the Rift.”
	 “No.”
	Someone handed me a bowl of something steaming and hot. I was hungry. Tired, really really tired. When was the last time I'd slept? Before Ship Shoal. 
	Bran thrust a blanket at me.  “Sleep here when you're done eating. You will be safe.” He nodded at several standing Centaurs on the room, “There are guards.” He studied me, “What?”
	I looked up from my bowl.  “Just tired.”
	 “What?” He repeated.
	I said it in English,  “they didn't need a Human maiden after all. Just a Centaur with enough guts and imagination to leave the island and come looking for the answer. Which wasn't even in the tower.”
	 “Ah.” Bran gave me one of those looks, like you're staring into bottomless sea. “The Bowl wasn't. But the Big Book of Instructions was. And who would have got to the top of the Tower?”
	 “Zan.”
	 “I talked to Zan. He would not have made it at all.”
	I shrugged.
	 “And who would have stopped the Unseelie in the wood that winter night?”
	 “Kai was doing OK till I came along.”
	 “Uh huh. And I'm sure he would have found Hawk Circle before he bled to death.”
	If he was trying to make me feel better... he was.
	He cocked a droll eyebrow.  “I suppose you'd rather be home playing the latest video game? Watching reruns of As the Stomach Churns or Total Drama Island?”
	I almost laughed.  “Hardly.” 
	If I expected More Great Words of Wisdom, I'd have to wait. What he said next was  “Get some sleep.”

	I slept, curled on a huge pad smelling of sweet saltmeadow hay. I woke to bright light and the remnants of the breakfast fire. I rolled and came eye to fetlock with a pair of grungy white horse feet. I squinted up. Loo handed me a bowl, silently. I couldn't read his face; it was nearly covered, except for his eyes, in his pale ninja drapings. His drapings, his gear, and his white horse body were stained by travel, marsh muck, and war. Fantasy is a clean white horse I thought. Maybe I'd read that in a book somewhere. In faerie tales, the Hero's horse was always white, really white, or golden like the sun. Not here. I sat up. “Thanks.” Whatever was in the bowl smelled wonderful, like oats and molasses and memories of the stables I'd been in. There were different Centaurs, and only a few, in the hall now. The ones I knew were gone.
	“Where's the others?” I asked.
	 “Preparing. Kai and Bran said to let you sleep. You are the important one, after all.” He whispered it so only I could hear.
	Kai's band still believed I was the one who had to set things right.
	I finished my bowl, hurriedly. Then had an awful thought. On an island of Centaurs, where's the bathroom?
	 “Um.” I started to say to Loo. I looked around, there had to be a girl here, somewhere.
	He tilted his head, his ears a questionmark.
	 “Bathroom.” I said, spilling the word out as fast as I could.
	Even behind his ninja shrouds, I could read his surprise,  “You want to take a bath?”
	 “No, no! I...” It must have translated weird, literally, as bath-room. They didn't seem to have rooms of any kind, and I doubted there was a bathtub large enough for any of them. And they worked like horses, as far as the uh, ah, toiletry went. 
	I thought of all the words...potty, toilet, loo. Yeah, loo, sorry.  “Um.” I said to Loo.
	At the far end of the room one of the Centaurs lifted her head, strode over. She looked like someone's mom, even though she was armoured in chain mail and carrying two bows.  “Come dear.” She sounded almost like Delphi, “Dragon Woman showed us what you'd need.” She led me off to a small tent erected outside.
	I emerged. I'd slept in most of my gear. I gathered the rest, ran back outside to find Loo. Maybe I'd spell it differently. Lue. Lu. What was that sun-hero guy from Irish myth Zan had told me about? Lugh. In the one illustration I'd seen, he was pretty pale.	
	A knot of Centaurs, Kai's band, and Zan circled Topgallant, talking. I strode up, tripped over something on the ground. Flushed red.
	Nobody laughed.
	They stepped back, forming a half circle, Topgallant in the center, Kai to her right. Zan on foot with no Bluewater Sailing.
	 “Where's Bran?” I said.
	 “He has his own battles to fight.” Par said.
	 “Raven,” Kai said, “the Trickster.”
	 “Like a privateer, sailing circles around the warships.” Zan said. “He'll make us a distraction.”
	 “Give us time to get to the Rift.” Buan said.
	Lugh nodded, turned to Zan and held out an arm. Zan barely touched it as he swung aboard.
	I didn't want to think too hard about what kind of distraction Bran was making, or how likely it was to get him killed. I didn't think I could deal with him dying again. I looked around at our little party.
	I didn't want to think too hard about how likely they were to get killed either. I remembered what Ian had said once; you can't just hit game over and start again.
	I took a deep, terrified breath. Topgallant sidled away from me, eyes wide. I breathed again, finding the calm in the storm.
	I'm not the Hero on the white horse. I am the rider of the Black horse.  Zorro. Raven. Those privateers in their wicked little black ships. Rider of the storm, of the dark night. Dark Knight. Black leopard stalking. Wild horse running. Thunder, squall line, storm wave...   
	Even if I am only the Faithful Sidekick. 
	The gate creaked open before us. I spun Topgallant and led the way through.

~15~ 
the rift

	I lifted Topgallant into a canter, then plunged onto the long sandy trail leading north. Thirty seconds later I pulled up, collecting Topgallant enough for Kai to reach my side. 
	I looked at him. “I am going the right direction, right?”	
	He cracked a smile, nodded. A few minutes later he tilted his head leftward, indicating another trail.  
	Topgallant responded as if she'd read my thought, gathered herself and stretched out her stride. The trail ran wide and sandy under the trees.
	Besieged trees, Zan had said. I glanced back at him, leaning forward on Lugh's broad back, flame hair against golden white. Both faces intent, serious. Kai's friends cantered in a close pack, bows at the ready. Surferdude was in the rear, a broad heavy sword in one hand, and a battleaxe worthy of a Dwarf slung on his near side. Buan, the dun girl, ran behind Kai, bow in hand, with Steffen at her heels looking more like a gawky teenager than a warrior. Dark bay Par and gold and silver Tarth matched each others' strides as if they had been doing it for ages. Lugh, regardless of his ninja wrappings, was anything but stealthy.
	Despite the bright sun and damp heat, the woods seemed benighted. The greenbriar and poison ivy grew more and more tangled and dark as we rode north. I glanced up at the patches of sky visible through the pines. The sky was hazing up, darkening as if before a storm. No, not the sky so much as the air itself.
	Then I heard it; the way you hear the distant wail of the gulls as you approach the beach. This wasn't the enchanting keening of gulls that accompanies your trudge across the sand with beach chairs and snorkeling gear and marshmallows. This was a faint echo of fingernails on blackboards, the soundtrack of Halloween horror films.
	Except it was real.
	The air darkened, and with it came a distant boom, like thunder. Then a long, rolling stutter; boom boomboomboom boom.
	Kai's stride faltered, he glanced west, then at Zan.
	Zan started to say something, but his words were lost in a much nearer scuffle of sound.
	They bolted out of the woods, dark feral shapes leaping from a hidden place under the trees. Topgallant snorted, plunged against Kai. I pulled her up.
	Unseelie?
	Kai gave me a hard, questioning glance.
	“Centaurs.” I breathed, “just Centaurs.” Six of them, lean, wiry and small like the rest on this island. Armed better than anybody in my video games, with bows, knives and swords. Sunbleached bays and chestnuts and browns, except for the leader, nearly as pale as Lugh, but with golden skin and strands of black hair in his mane and tail. Not quite true white, not grey, that dilute of a dilute of bay called Perlino.
	While I analyzed the colors of Centaurs, Kai shouldered ahead of me, halted, feet shifting.
	The new Centaurs formed a half circle, preventing further advancement down the trail. The woods were dense on either side, full of greenbriar and poison ivy. Topgallant danced under me, tensed. Was she sensing something I didn't? Or  picking up on something I already knew? “Let's go,” I said to Kai, we don't have time...”
	“Neither do we.” The Perlino charged Kai, sword drawn.

	The blow staggered Kai, sent him sprawling into the greenbriar lining the trail. Behind him all hell broke loose as his band surged forward, shouting. I heard the zing of a warning arrow, a shout to sheath it already and use your head. And hands and feet. A melee of flying hooves and swordhilts and sand. Someone rearing, coming down on an opponent. The newcomers were older, experienced warriors. I could see that in the first thirty seconds. 
	But they weren't very big. I yelled something and charged into them, swinging the butt of my sword down on the swordhand of a wiry chestnut. He dropped his sword, uttering a surprised exclamation that would not have been translatable in polite company. I dropped my reins and punched him with my rein hand, he fell. I charged forward steering Topgallant with body and leg and gee-haw commands. Topgallant pinned her ears and bowled straight through the next one. I whammed him on the head as I went by. I took out the next with the flat of my sword. Around me the others were doing the same, bowling the newcomers over, disabling them if possible.
	I guess we've uncovered your political plotters.
	I spun, Topgallant answered the shift of my weight, the twitch of a leg muscle, a sudden shout to turn hard haw!. The new sword, wheeled light and true, even when I was just using the flat of the blade. I shouted something heroic at rock band decibel levels. A muddy bay went down in a cloud of flying sand. Par blocked a blow aimed at me, then Tarth let loose with both hind heels. Surfer slammed into someone with the flat of his axe.
	We needed to clear a space down the trail. It wasn't clearing. They'd picked a narrow place, too tight for Kai and Lugh to maneuver. Too much confusion for bows, too many of our own in the way, and none of our band seemed to want to kill other Centaurs.
	The opposition didn't seem so controlled.
	I wheeled Topgallant, raining blows on the bow hand of a faded chestnut Centaur. Topgallant spun like a reining horse, like a gran prix dressage horse. Like an extension of me.
	Like a Centaur.
	I whooped, Val the Valkyrie, all the samurai and jedi and heroes who rode by night on black horses in one.
	Then a train wrecked into my back.
	I shook my head, shook sand out of my eyes. I stared up at white legs, stained with faint color; marsh mud, horsehair pigment or blood, I wasn't sure. The Perlino stared down at me. I thought about taking out his legs but I couldn't make my body move fast enough. I blundered to my feet, the point of his sword at my nose.
	Then I heard the muffled sound of hooves from behind and someone slung me over his withers.  I punched, shoved, scrambled into a sitting position.
	 “Behave.” The Perlino said, “Or I will tie you there.”
	 “That'll be fun for him!” I snarled.  Me, Moose, thumping about as baggage on a thirteen hand pony.
	 Around me the confusion sorted itself into stunned silence. 
	 “We have spared you,” the Perlino said to Kai's band, “if you follow us we will use our bows and we do not miss.” 
	Kai stood, stricken, Topgallant, wild eyed, beside him. 
	GO! I thought ferociously at him. My eyes went to Zan, Zan who could always hear me, even when I didn't want him to. My eyes locked on his sea-grey ones. Come on! Hear me! I'm not shielding from you! Hear me! 
	Zan's eyes widened a fraction. If he heard me, if he was trying to think something back at me, there was no way I could know. I shouted at him in my head again.
	Go by another route! I'll do what I can to slow these guys down.
	Zan nodded minutely, his eyes shifted to the Perlino.
	If the Perlino's crew had the ability to hear my thoughts, they would have to fight to get through the shielding Zan had taught me. They didn't seem to have heard me.
	Two of the newcomers stayed on the trail, bows drawn. The last I saw was Kai and his friends laying down their arms, and turning back. Then the bay Centaur carrying me broke into a wild gallop and the three of us were plunging up the trail north.

	I didn't make it easy. I remembered everything Tas had taught me; kittens, spruce trees, ice cream, the whole nine yards. And how not to do them. I bounced, I slid back to the weakest part of my Centaur's back. I lurched; port then starboard. I gripped his gear harness, lurching at just the right moments to mess up his stride. To wobble him into the greenbriar, to make him miss a step, not miss a tree root. If I was a Centaur, I'd probably be about seventeen hands tall, that's four inches for each hand. These guys were thirteen, fourteen max. I put on my best Fay Wray face and screamed at them to slow down. To watch out for that tree. That I couldn't really ride bareback.
	The bay finally begged for mercy and trotted to a painful stop. The Perlino addressed me at swordpoint.  “Get on.” He pointed his sword at his other accomplice, a faded chestnut with brownish hair. I blundered off the bay, flopped uselessly against the chestnut's side. He grumbled something I couldn't hear and hauled me up.
	I tensed my back, bounced, lurched. I could feel his back, taught, hollow beneath me. I could feel his stride falter.
	 “I cannot believe they ride this badly!” he complained.
	We ran north.

	
	We came out of the woods onto a high marsh meadow, the long grass swirled into cowlicks by the wind, or by something else. A  pall hung over it like mist, like smoke, but the only fire I could see was in the sky; a vast, black shape winging overhead belching out Death Star explosions.
	Dragon Woman!
	She could not help me. She had her own problems. Ahead of me, the high marsh sank down to the crunchy, flooded grass of the low marsh. Beyond that was a shallow stretch of water between the island of the Centaurs and the fox-tail shaped Peninsula. 
	There should have been a shallow stretch of water, an inlet. Instead there was a gaping black wound, bleeding black writhing shapes. They oozed out of it like a nightmare, twisting and forming vague things that reached into memory, beyond memory. Reached back to when our furry little ancestors ran from the teeth of dinosaurs. Reached down to the dark depths of the soul, the catacombs of the collective unconscious, where our worst fears are locked. I could face feral toothy things in the dark with only Betty Bop and pepper spray. I could face Dragonkin that weren't. Even Not-Bran. They looked like things I understood.
	These didn't. Deep in my gut something twisted, tightened. I froze on the chestnut's back.
	He froze too. I could feel the tension, the terror in his stance, in his ears, his back. He glanced at the Perlino. 
	We weren't alone with the Unseelie. As they seethed out of the Rift, trying to form shapes that would work in this world, another horde fought to hold them back. Bands of Centaur warriors, Dragonkin, and a few bands of warriors on foot; Humans? Elves? A few were short enough to be the Dwarf warriors I'd met before. Griffins overhead. And Dragon Woman. All out of reach. None even noticing my existence. 
	Where was Kai?
	I was on my own.
	The Perlino dragged me off the chestnut, gesturing with his sword.
	 “So,” I said, “I guess this is where you do your great soliloquy, explaining your backstory and motives and why you want to do something as stupid as seal up the whole island.” I searched for more words, more time. More time for Kai and the rest to get here.
	The Perlino thrust me back, at arm's length, and said nothing.
	 “Of course, why would you bother telling me your life story if you were just going to kill me anyway?” 
	He sheathed his sword and drew his bow in one slick move, as if he'd done it a million times.
	I chattered on.  “You realize you're gonna be stuck here, on an island, with all the people you pissed off...”
	The Perlino's bow creaked.  “Seal the Rift. Seal the island.” That was it, no soliloquy, no more words, just his deadly serious stance and his bow.
	 “If you kill me, I can't do the Spell.”
	 “I never said I would kill you.” The arrow dropped a notch. 
	It occurred to me there were a lot of non-vital places an arrow could lodge, to encourage someone to do what they were told. Where's Kai? I tried to look from the corner of my eye, to see like a horse, to the side, all around. Melee, confusion, a storm of fire and smoke and writhing half-formed shapes.
	“I need to be closer.” I said. It would buy time.
	 “You can sing a spell from here,” the Perlino said.
	 “It's not a spell.”  I said, and jingled the keys. 
	His eyes widened, the bow loosened.
	I could read him, the way I could read the horses. The way Zan had taught me. He was thinking he might use the keys himself. Think Moose, think! Throw them, run. Create confusion.
	He was certainly faster than me. Not to mention his bow. Think think think. Wait. No... No. No wait. Don't think. Feel. As long as he's focused on you, he's not looking for Kai. “I have to be closer.” 
	He was a bit too sure of himself, too upheaded, like a cocky stallion that a trainer might put a chain shank over the nose of. Like a bunch of the boys in school, the ones who snickered at me from the back of the class. 
	I wanted to punch him out.
	Instead, I appealed to his total lack of humility.  “And you are the fastest.”  He grabbed my arm and swung me up. I glanced back, his friends were not following him.
	We blasted through the melee,  dodging footsoldier and Centaur and diving Griffin. He knew what he was doing with a sword, he blew aside Unseelie the way I had mere watermelons at Nine Foot Knoll. He was long bodied, short legged, heavily muscled in horse shoulder and quarters; the kind of conformation that made for frequent, large strides. A sprinter.
	Where's Kai? How long can I hold this guy off? How long can I play the game?
	A sprinter. He'd be ridiculously fast for a quarter mile or so, and then he'd be done. He'd already run farther than that, just to get here. He might have one last burst of speed, but not for long. Kai and his friends were built less extremely. Built for speed and endurance. To go the distance.
	Where are you? Come on! 
	The black wound gaped, the Unseelie were thick as smoke. Now I was batting them off; half formed phantoms reaching and clutching, seeking a solid form. Seeking blood and flesh and bone. 
	Where's Kai?
	I didn't know, maybe I couldn't see him in the melee. Maybe he'd never got here, stopped by one of the Centaurs left behind on the trail. Maybe stopped by the Unseelie.
	“When!” The Perlino's question sounded more like an order.
	I was out of time.
	There was a move I'd seen, in a book on movie stunts. I'd only done it once.
	On a much larger Centaur.
	I shifted my grip. Listened to the sound of his feet hitting the ground, felt his legs gather and reach. One two three... I threw my immense weight into him at just the right moment.
	He went down in a tangle of flying hooves and marsh mud.
	I rolled free. The good thing about Centaurs is they have the speed and power of Horse. The bad thing is, they have the agility of a beached whale when floundering on their sides on the ground. I leapt for him and grabbed one of his swords. He came up, drawing the other.
	I didn't stop to think. I swung as I'd been taught. Our twin blades clashed, echoed, wove a circle of angry steel in the midst of the dark. He could turn with the speed of a reining horse, of a champion barrel racer, and I was the barrel. I flung out the unfamiliar sword in increasingly desperate circles. Then anger took over; anger at him for daring to kidnap me. For threatening Kai and our friends. I wanted to do more than punch him out. I wanted to kill him. Kill him a lot. Obliterate him. Erase the memory of his DNA from the planet. I smashed into him, slamming him with the butt of the sword, slashing at his legs with the blade.
	He skittered sideways, leaped out of the way, came back swinging.
	I rolled, dodged like a raven in flight. Blocked without thinking as I had a thousand times.
	He'd had a few thousand more years of practice than me it seemed.
	The Unseelie noticed. New blood. New victims. New forms. Ready for the taking.
	Now we fought each other, and them as well, a squirming tornado forming around us. The grass under my feet shortened. I felt more mud. Saw the glint of water.
	He lives here. He knows this marsh. He's driving me toward the water.
	I would be the one bogged in the silt, not him.
	I could not use the same Raven trick again; the one I'd used on my double. So I used a different one. 
	Raven the Privateer. Outrun what you can't outgun. Outgun what you can't outrun. 
	The Perlino was fast, an experienced warrior. But he wasn't trying to kill me. Not just yet. He was holding back, just a hair. Waiting to take the prize, to steal the ship, not sink it. To use the key. To close the Rift and the island forever.
	He was big; if he'd been human he would have been at least 6'5”. And that was attached to a horse's butt. For the first time in my life I felt small. Despite the Perlino's barrel racing capabilities, he was still the warship. 
	I was the privateer. 
	A human could outrun a horse over a short distance. And outmaneuver one. Even one with a thousand years of practice.
	Bet Bran had more practice than the Perlino... and he taught me.And I haven't used up all the Raven tricks just yet...
	I feinted, deflected, and struck at just the moment all four of his feet were rising for the next stride.
	He went down again in a flurry of muck.
	I swung, hard. The edge of the blade connected with his left foreleg. I heard the awful sound of breaking bone, then the Unseelie were on me, and I was mowing a path through them.
	To where?

	Black shape winging overhead, blasting fire. Random shapes of Centaur and swordsman and archer appearing out of the gloom. It might have been a minute, or an hour, or eternity I fought my way through Unseelie, shouting at the real Elves and Centaurs and other fighters that I was one of them. Time stretched. Flew. Then out of the dark came a blast of fire, at ground level, mowing down a murky, half-formed shape behind me. More fire, and two shapes materialized; one dark and one bright as a rising moon.
	Lugh, and Zan on Topgallant. Zan, firing his bow, literally firing as more blasts of flame leveled the dark around me. In midgallop he leapt to Lugh's back. Topgallant slowed, I grabbed for mane and saddle and swung up.
	  “Where are they?” Zan shouted over the din.
	Your captors, he meant. “I don't know, I lost them, but the pale Perlino one is down. I took out his leg, he won't be going anywhere.”
	Zan absorbed this, then, “His bow. Does he still have his bow?”
	 “I think so. I didn't have time...”
	 “Come on.” Zan threw me a sword, hilt first. Pandion's sword, from Nine Foot Knoll. I handed Lugh the Perlino's sword, it fit Lugh better than me, and now he had two. We galloped, mowing a path through the dark.

	Zan had found me in the melee the way you might find one guitar in the middle of a rock band convention, all playing at death decibels at once. Now he searched for the glimmer of aura that was Kai. He held his bow at the ready, but did not fire it. 
	He really reeked at multitasking.
	I galloped off Lugh's left shoulder, the sword in my left hand holding off the hordes there.  Lugh seemed capable of keeping the rest at bay.
	 “There!” 
	Zan pointed with his bow and Lugh swerved right. Topgallant and I thundered after, in near perfect sync.
	Overhead, the dragon passed, and the ground lit for a moment with skyfire.
	Then some of the seething multitude on the ground came into focus through the murk. A familiar set of Centaurs, in a tight circle at the edge of the bayberry and wax myrtle, Kai in the center.
	“Do they know?” I said to Zan. Know that it's him, not me who has to seal the Rift.
	“He told them. Before I came looking for you.” Zan said.
	Why come looking for me? He's the one you have to protect.
	If Zan heard that, he didn't answer. We galloped up, swung into positions along the edges of that circle.
	The black wound yawned.
	The Bowl was in Kai's hands. 
	Glowing.
	Brighter. Tendrils of green leaking out of it, growing out of it, like vines. Strong and tenacious as greenbriar. The Green wove toward the Dark.
	Not enough. Not strong enough. Not close enough. Not yet.
	The Unseelie were thick as piranhas in a feeding frenzy. Piranhas with half-formed teeth, teeth that had more than the ghost of a bite. I thrashed through them, fending them off. Off me, off Topgallant, off Kai.
	Green, glowing. It was like waiting for the sun to rise on the darkest day of midwinter.
	Come on!
	Then out of the dark behind us came another flash of light. Of white. Galloping hard.
	I turned, eyes widened.
	The Perlino in full gallop, bow drawn.
	Impossible!
	Indeed. I knew he still lay at the edge of the marsh, if he lived at all.
	“Unseelie!” I shouted to Zan, and realized how ridiculous that sounded. We were surrounded by them.
	He turned anyway, saw where I looked.
	An arrow flew from the Perlino's bow. Zan raised his hands, a bubble of blue light dancing there.
	Too late. The arrow passed by Zan's ear and embedded itself in Kai's chest. His Human one, right where his heart should be.

~16~
the healing

	I screamed something. I can't remember what. I wheeled Topgallant and plunged through the belly deep sea of bayberry. I didn't care if the Unseelie shot me too, he was going down, going down hard and staying down. Five long reaching strides and the black mare was on him like thunder, like a tornado.
	My sword raked a long line of red fire down his side, taking his bow with it. I spun in the tight space between the tangley bushes and came back as he staggered. I threw Topgallant's shoulder into him. 
	My sword swung for his neck.
	He went down and did not rise.

	I wheeled, it was me after all. I have to get the Bowl to the Rift. I have to heal the Dark. I would, if I had to walk into it myself. The circle of Centaurs was standing, fighting in a tighter formation now, as I galloped back to them. Other Unseelie who had found flesh and blood forms pressed in on all sides. I rode into them, screaming, turning the sword into a flashing wheel of light.
	Kai stood, in the center, holding the Bowl.
	What?
	The arrow protruded from his center.
	What? Impossible.
	He was sweating, from battle, from pain. Bleeding a thin trail of scarlet from his chest. His sides heaved, but he stood like a statue. His eyes were closed, the green light growing. Growing. He held the Bowl higher, as if listening to some voice only he could hear. The light flared, too bright for me to look. The seething dark shapes around me blew away like smoke in the wind. I heard a faint scream vanishing into the outermost dark.

	It was dark behind my eyelids again. I opened my eyes. 
	And sat on a black horse in an ordinary green marsh, the low lumpy shapes of bayberry and wax myrtle behind us, a path of glittering water a dozen strides away, and beyond it more marsh, and the whole Peninsula glowing in amber afternoon sun. Around me stunned warriors stood, astounded, among the hunched shapes of fallen friend and foe. A vast black shape sailed overhead with a sound like the luff of a huge sail.
	Kai stood, still as stone, the Bowl nowhere to be seen.
	My mouth made shapes, but no words. I turned Topgallant and shouldered past Lugh and Par and Tarth to Kai. Steffen and Surferdude paced a circle around the others, weapons drawn, scanning for last remnants of Unseelie.
	They were gone. Gone. All that was left were some of the bodies they had occupied.
	Buan stood like a rock by Kai's side, arms around him.
	I came to stand on the other side, staring at him, overwhelmed, not knowing what to say. You should be dead!
	His face, when he turned it to me, was not without pain, but he half smiled. “If Nexxus had... shot me... I would be dead. The Unseelie... apparently.... did not understand... our anatomy.”
	“What?” And where's the bloody bowl, we could use it!
	“We have but one heart.” Buan said, “Our horseheart.”
	 Lugh leaned past my shoulder, a gentle gloved hand touched Kai's chest, “The arrow has passed through muscle and blood vessel, and perilously near spine and nerve.”
	The torso is like a horse's neck, mostly muscle.
	“The one...” Kai said.
	“Stop talking.” Buan said. She glanced at me, finished Kai's sentence, “The one who took Nexxus' form must have held another form earlier; Elf or Human or Dwarf or Dragonkin. He thought we were the same.”
	“I tried to block the arrow.” Zan said, his face distressed. “Maybe I just deflected it the wrong way.”
	Buan shook her head. 
	I said the obvious,  “We need a healer.”
	 “The Bowl.” Zan said.
	 “Gone.” Lugh said. “Into the Rift. Perhaps it will bring light there.”
	Kai sagged, supported by Buan and Lugh and Topgallant.
	 “What do we do?” I said. The Bowl was gone, its mission complete. At home there would be emergency rooms and midnight vet clinics. 
	Not here.
	Ian; where was the ELF's healer when we needed him? Somewhere out on the Peninsula, watching the last of the Unseelie fade like a nightmare awakened from.
	I needed him to wake me from this one. Kai stood, reluctant as a horse to lie on the ground. I could feel him getting heavier, weaker.
	 “You have healers.” I began. 
	 “It will take time to find them.” Buan said.
	Topgallant seemed to have enough left for another ride. I'd take Zan. He could find Ian. The others could find a Centaur healer.  “I'll...” 
	 “The others have already gone.” Buan said. 
	I looked past Kai and saw that half his band had gone missing. Gone for help already.
	 “Stay.” Kai said, faintly. I could feel him leaning harder on Topgallant. She stood like a rock. I wanted to do anything but stand like a rock. I wanted to scream, cry. Run a desperate race for help. But I stood, arms around Kai, not letting him fall. Time slowed again, like cooling lava. We stood, and I realized I couldn't feel Kai breathing, or hear his heart.
	Of course not, all that was at my leg, in his horse chest, under his horse ribs, heaving faintly against my boot. I wanted to say something. Lots of things, and none of them would come out. I stood and held half of him in miserable aching silence. Waiting. Waiting.
	 “Look.” Buan said, and pointed south.
	I heard the luff of vast wings again, saw the shape of the hundred foot dragon slide out of the air and light on the high marsh grass, it waved under her wings as in a storm. Her wings folded, swirled in on themselves. She shrank.
	Walking toward us through the grass was a five foot tall woman, slender, of apparently Asian descent. Her long black hair swayed like grass in a wind. Unhurried, she came. The Centaurs parted like waves before Moses.
	She laid a hand on Kai's horse chest. She turned, spoke in soft tones,  “I need the other black Centaur.”
	Steffen stepped forward, eyes wide, looking terrified and embarrassed all at once.
	 “Not you.” Dragon Woman said.
	We looked around, all of us. Black was a rare enough color here. There were no others in sight.
	Except Topgallant.
	Dragon Woman smiled at me, with way too many teeth.
	My mouth fell open, but nothing would come out.
	 “Sagittarius. Rider of the Black Horse. Faithful friend.” She reached up to me, a delicate hand opened, “Show me your keys.”
	Wide-eyed, I freed a hand from Kai and undid the keys from my belt. I held them out to her.
	She passed her hand over them, and one glowed green.  “Wrap your hand around it thus, and hold it here.”
	I half expected her to say something about bubbly aura roots and trees and kittens and ice cream. She didn't. I held the glowing key, warm as spring sun, glowing bright through my hand like leaflight. I felt the energy flowing up from the ground. Down from the sky. From all of the Four Directions. Flowing, coalescing. Warm as sunfire. Cool as bay water. 
	She reached up and drew the arrow from Kai's chest.
	And the magic was gone, sunk back into the earth.
	I blinked. Whoops and exclamations erupted around me, morphed into a herd hug. Kai caught my arm and drew me into a tight embrace, pulling me half off Topgallant.  I stayed that way for a moment, for eternity, leaning against Kai's warm chest.
	Not feeling him breathe, not feeling a heartbeat. That was coming through my leg, pressed against his side. Through the other senses I was just beginning to hone.
	Like a Centaur.

	Dragon Woman left, lifted off and sailed over the marsh, her wingshadow passing over the grass, leaving it in bright afternoon sun. Around us the other combatants dealt with their own injuries and deaths, or stared at us, not sure what to make of our odd little band of heroes. The ones of our band who had gone for help returned when they saw the dragon land. We stood in a tight circle, all chattering at once.
	 “How did you...?” Zan and I blurted at each other.
	 “First you.” Kai said. Then a funny smile caught at the corner of his mouth. Like he knew how I had got free of my captors.
	 “Tas's training paid off. I rode really really bad. I made them nuts, slowed them down. Then, uh, yeah, when only Nexxus was left. You know. That trick I played on you.” I said, “I threw him.”
	 “At a full gallop.” Kai said, smiling as if he knew.
	Surferdude cocked his ears at us in disbelief.
	I nodded, embarrassed.  “We were in the marsh then, the ground was kind of soft.”
	 “What?” Par said, astonished.
	“He was a lot easier to throw than Kai.” I added quickly. “I grabbed one of his swords.” I might have given them a blow by blow description of the fight, except it was all a blur now. And it didn't really matter. I'd got here. Kai'd healed the Rift. And we'd healed Kai. And we were alive. “I broke his leg. He stayed down. What about you guys, how did you get away from those other two. They looked like...” Like they could have kicked your collective butts. I didn't say it. “Serious. They looked serious.”
	“I was not going to press my luck.” Kai said. He glanced at his friends.
	I understood what he hadn't said. He wasn't going to press their luck, endanger them.
	Surfer snorted. “They were holding back. I don't think they would have really killed us. We could have taken them.”
	Tarth gave him a meaningful look, her ears flicked back, and one hind leg cocked. 
	 “They've had a zillion years more practice than us.” Steffen said earnestly
	Surfer gave him the hint of a glower.
	Tarth harumphed.
	Surfer folded his arms and shut up. 
	“Giving the three who took you,” Buan said to me, “some time to separate from their companions was good for us. All of us. Now we had only two to deal with. And it seems that you dealt with three quite well.” She smiled, a 'that was an amazing demonstration of warrior skill, welcome to our secret base' kind of smile.
	I ducked, embarrassed, “They could have held you there for hours.” I said. “What did you do?”
	Kai glanced at Zan. Did that funny smile again; a secret, conspiratory smile.
	 “It seems your friend is an accomplished illusionist.” Lugh said wryly.
	 “Yeah wow!” Steffen exclaimed, with the enthusiasm of a twelve year old with a new video game, “Like, awesome!”
	 “What did you do?” I said to Zan. I pictured Unseelie. I pictured Dragonkin. T-Rex. Starships with photon torpedoes.
	 “Indricothere.” Zan said.
	 “Say what?” I said.
	“I threw an indricothere at them. Well, not threw, exactly. They're kind of too big to throw, literally.”
	“What,” I said, “is an indricothere?”
	 “Ancient relatives of the Horse, and the Rhino.” Kai said.
	 “Picture five rhinos strapped together. Crossed with a giraffe. Only lots taller..” Zan added. He held out a hand and a miniature of the creature formed there.
	“I could see why they might have dropped their bows and run.” I didn't say why didn't you think of that sooner? 
	Zan answered anyway, “I would have done it sooner, but...”
	“He was busy fighting.” Kai said. “And creating an illusion that large requires intense concentration.”
	I glanced at Lugh, Buan, Surferdude and the rest. Their faces were still, but their body language suggested embarrassment about the indricothere incident.
	 “Next time you might warn us of your talents.” Surferdude grumbled.
	 I stared at the miniature in Zan's hand, picturing it the height of the loblollies.  “That would make one heck of a Centaur.” 

	
	The Unseelie had vanished like a bad dream. 
	Except for the debris they left behind.  Marsh grass and shrubs scorched by dragonfire. Bodies they had cloned and fled from when the Rift closed. Bodies of those they had slain. 
	 “Their spirits are gone.” Zan said, sounding a thousand years old, “we can't tell if they were Unseelie or our own. And the island is low, close to the water, a shapeshifter rolling over on itself in the wind and tide. The kind of place where long-buried shipwrecks reappear after every storm.” He didn't say it, that the same would happen with bodies.
	 “We will have to gather much wood for that pyre.” Lugh observed.
	For three days the island was silent as it was swept of the dead, wood was gathered, and the healers went to work on the living.
	One of the living was carried into the circle of the lighthouse fort by Dragon Woman herself; the Perlino, Nexxus. He had fought off the Unseelie from his place on the ground, broken leg and all. He had splinted that later, but horses, or Centaurs, unlike dogs, don't function with three legs. Of the others we had seen with him, only one lived: the faded chestnut that had carried me most of the way to the Rift. The Centaurs surrounded them in a tight circle, talk flew back and forth among them. 
	After awhile, but not long enough for the shadows to have shifted much, twelve Centaurs, six men, six women, formed a circle in the center of the Centaur circle. They carried themselves like kings and queens, with power that came from mind, body and spirit. They didn't look old, not like my grandparents, but they certainly weren't young. They carried swords and bows, wore the traditional armour of the Centaurs.
	 “The Council.” Kai whispered.
	The faded chestnut was ushered forward, to stand in the center of the two circles; one of the Council, one of the Tribe. His name was spoken. The whole thing, like the name Kai had started to give the Grandmothers so long ago. I watched the shadows drift across the sand as the name was spoken, as the life-story that went with it was told. The tribe came forward, one by one, each telling a piece of the chestnut's tale. Of friendships, good deeds done, mistakes made, wrongs made right. 
	I listened. My mind wandered. I heard some. Nodded. Jerked awake again. Kai was saying something to me.
	 “They want to hear your tale now.”
	 “My tale?” They knew why I was here. And by now they knew that they hadn't needed a Human maiden to heal their land, only Kai.
	Kai said,  “They want to hear how you were kidnapped. What you know of these two.”
	I stood uncertainly. Was gently shoved to the edge of the tribal circle. I stood there, shoulder to horse shoulder with the Centaurs. I told my tale, at first haltingly, then, a look from Kai, from Par, Lugh and Zan. I straightened, the words came more easily now, like sword blocks and blows, like transitions from trot to canter had a lifetime ago. 
	Others spoke after. Argued for the chestnut. Against him. He told his part of the tale. And listened, scarred now by the Unseelie, and the full realization of what had happened. He listened, their words fell on him like rain.
	He wept. 
	There was silence. Then discussion; a tide of voices that finally washed away into silence. The verdict was given. The chestnut would stay in the tribe. He would have much work to do to repair the damage he had helped to create, but he was given another chance. 
	Then Nexxus stood in the circle, leaning on a heavy crutch, grim faced. He looked like he'd been through hell already, and the faces around the tribal circle were grimmer than his. The Council's faces were like stone. I wondered what they would do? Shoot him? Jail him? (Where?) Send him away? They spoke his whole name as well, and told his entire tale, and the sun sailed down the sky and fires were lit while they told it. They had already heard my part of it.
	Nexxus had been one of the stoutest warriors, the staunchest defender of the island. He did not trust outsiders; they had caused trouble in the past. He had taught young warriors. He knew the oral history of the tribe, defeats and victories, the legends told down the generations. 
	 “The Villain is the Hero of his own tale.” Zan yawned. He stretched back on the warm sand and closed his eyes.
	 “They're the ones telling the tale, not him.” I said. I frowned at the Perlino. I'd only seen this little bit of him, a dagger sharp piece of the iceberg. The Villain part. This was starting to get complicated; like the hairs in his mane, neither black nor white, pure good nor pure evil. I'd killed him about one and a half times already (if you counted his Unseelie clone). A couple of times I had wished I'd killed him twice. Now I wasn't so sure. I caught Bran's blue sky gaze for a moment, and wondered what he was thinking. He didn't tell me. What would he have done in my place? What would I have done if the Unseelie hadn't closed in on the fight between Nexxus and me? Killed him outright? Run away? What did I want to do with him now? 
	No one was asking me.
	The talk went on and I dozed, snapping half awake to find Zan curled in a blanket on the sand next to me. Kai stood like a bronze statue, in the outer circle of the tribe.

	I woke with a start. The murmur of voices had faded. The sky was dark, fires still lit the fort's walled yard. Fires blowing in a sudden wind. Above me, the dark took form, great wings luffed, and Dragon Woman landed. She looked from one Council member to another.
	Two stepped forward, one man, one woman. They spoke at once.  “He cannot stay here.”  
	The great black dragon nodded.  “He cannot be cast out either.” She looked at each of the Council members. 
	For one moment she looked at me, her great golden eyes boring into mine like twin suns. What would you do?
	He looked miserable, not a bit like the villain in any movie or video game I'd ever seen. He looked like a guy who'd taken a very wrong turn. I wondered what had made him do it. Where he'd gone hard aport when he should have gone starboard.
	Maybe, if the Unseelie hadn't separated us, I would have done what I did anyway, left him lie and gone to find Kai.
	 “He has a lesson to learn.” A murmur of sound went around the circle of Centaurs. The black dragon reared, caught Nexxus up in her clawed hands. Wings that spanned the courtyard swept up, she leapt into the dark sky. The last I saw of him was a flash of white under her vast dark wings.
	She returned the next night, for one final task; lighting the Centaur Island's version of a grand Viking funeral pyre. It burned short and fierce, a sphere of white light that could be seen beyond the curve of the sea's surface, across the Great Bay, and far, far up the fox tail of the Peninsula. 

	At last, grief gave way to celebration. Every race I'd encountered in Erda, and some I'd never seen before, spilled out of the lighthouse fort onto the beach in the late August sun. Even Dragonkin crouched, or lay on the beach, looking less like fierce raptor warriors than lizards on a hot rock.
	Lugh, I noticed, still looked like a ninja; a much whiter, cleaner ninja, but he was swathed even more thoroughly than before. Weird. Until Par explained it. Par, of the dark skin, never had to worry about sunburn. Pale pink-skinned Lugh sunburned under a full moon.
	There was a profusion of food. Of music and dance. Of bonfires and things toasted over them that made marshmallows seem mundane. The horses wandered free over the marsh, eating the saltmeadow hay. There were speeches and tales. 
	And one night, the echoing boom of cannonfire from the Bayside.
	We galloped out to the marsh, Kai, and me on Lugh's broad back, and Zan on SurferDude, and all the others of Kai's band. Zan stood on Surfer's shoulders and stared out across the darkening blue water.
	I didn't need Elf eyes to see the sleek cutlass blade hull and the raked masts, or the golden flash of cannonfire as the ship saluted us again.
	“It's the Roane!' Zan shouted, and whooped back.
	“What's she doing here?” I said.
	Which question was partly answered in a few minutes when the ship's boat came ashore with a tattered and smokestained Ian and a bedraggled crew, most still clad in jeans, T-shirts and other gear from our own world. With them was one Dragonkin, looking more than a little seasick. They would only tell us that the whole tale would have to wait until they had baths, better food than burgoo and loblolly, and a bed that didn't heave and roll. Ian fended off questions, proffered food and clean towels, making way through the throng like a ship in a gale. He found Bran and stared at him for a good five seconds before wrapping him in the ferocious hug of a long lost brother. 
	Not long after that, two horses trotted into the fort; one red roan and one mostly white overo pinto. Earla lurched on her broad western saddle on Bayberry's back, Wolf trotting in front. She left her horse-shape and eight hundred or so pounds of sand by the gate. Earla heaved herself over Bayberry's side and fell on the sand, swearing that next time she was going to bring an ATV.

	Our tales spilled over each other. Kai stayed mostly silent while Zan and I threw a maelstrom of words at Ian and Tas and Earla. The Dragonkin who had come on the Roane,  Ashnareth, stood and spoke, while Ian snored on the sand. The eleven others who had come with him turned out to be teenagers, boys and girls, looking out of place in their jeans and T-shirts, hiking boots and river sandals. Some were still gazing around themselves lemur-eyed and bass-mouthed.
	I stared at the anachronistic (and young) crew until Bran explained. “You are not the only one who knows our true nature. Not the only one who walks between worlds.”
	Ashnareth spoke.  “I was not at Hawk Circle when Kai arrived. I heard the tale from one of my kin later; that you,” she glanced at me and Kai and Zan, “were headed here to heal the Rift. And that the Unseelie had spread beyond this place.”
	 “She's worked with us before.” Zan interrupted. He looked like he was going to say more.
	Ashnareth shot a glance at him, her lip lifted a hair, revealing more teeth than Dragon Woman. “It is our duty to stop the Unseelie wherever we encounter them. I know Hawk Circle better than most of my kin. And I particularly know the capabilities of the Roane.” Here, her face took on that slightly seasick look it had when she arrived. No, more than slightly. Definitely. “The Unseelie had stolen vessels and were working their way up the Bay. The Roane was the quickest way to stop them. Unfortunately,” here, she glanced at Bran, “The truly experienced Captain was yet healing under the care of our finest doctors. Fortunately, Ian and the Sea Scouts have paid attention to the instruction of that Captain.” The feathers on her crest flicked, “Unfortunately, the Bay is noted for its fierce and sudden squalls.”
	“Yeah,” I said, “Kai mentioned that problem.” I thought of my terror on the ferry. Somehow it was comforting that somone as fierce looking as Ashnareth had the same feelings.
	 “I have survived worse.” Ashnareth said grimly. 
	“Ask her about Chessie sometime.” Zan said. “And Makenuk's Fin.”
	Ashnareth rumbled something deep in her feathered chest. It didn't sound like she wished to talk about any other boats. And I had a feeling those were tales that needed a  lot more awake time than I had tonight. Ashnareth coiled back on the sand, one clawed hand holding a shishkabab rod over the fire. I looked at Bran, staring into the fire.
 	“Unseelie,” I remembered the words he'd told me when we first saw him again. “Dragonkin. You were with them for awhile. Then you came here, found Kai's friends.” 
	“That pretty much sums it up. I stayed behind because I'm the only guy who could cross that river without the bridge.” His mouth twisted wryly, “I slightly underestimated the number of Unseelie.” 
	Ashnareth glanced at him. “You knew perfectly well how many there were.”
	 “Good thing there were some real Dragonkin about. Good thing they can walk between worlds as easily as they do.” He gave Ashnareth an appreciative look.
	Her crest feathers fanned. I could see that most of them were smooth, without the notches and clippings the other Dragonkin had shown. She's just a kid too! I thought.
	Bran glanced at me, smiled, as if he'd heard. Of course he'd heard.
	“So that's why we couldn't take the Roane here?” I said. “She'd be needed elsewhere.”
	“Part of the reason.” Bran said. “Could you have stopped Nexxus and slowed his friends if you had spent the whole trip lying on deck and sipping lemonade?”
	“I doubt I would have been lying on deck.” I said, glancing at the Roane's crew, sacked out on the sand, still trying to catch up on their sleep.
	“This moment is as it should be, because it took the entire universe to make this moment.” Bran stretched back on the warm sand, closed his eyes.
	 “What?” I said.
	 “The Zen of Elves.” Ian said. “You'll get used to it.” 
	“Yeah,” one of the older Roane crew said, “welcome to the ELF.”

	No one was in a hurry to return. There was damage on both the Centaur island and the Roane to repair. We did what we could to help. I found I could wield hammer and nail as well as a sword. Among the Roane's assortment of gear, from various centuries, various magics, and various technologies, was snorkeling gear. And some underwater cameras.
	We donned it, Zan and me and some of Kai's band, and stepped into the water off the Bayside marsh, cameras in hand. Horses swim pretty well, and SurferDude, Buan and Lugh proved particularly good at snorkeling, either walking across the bottom with their masked and snorkeled heads on the surface, or swimming in deeper water, horse bodies submerged, with just enough breah in their vast horse lungs to keep their humanoid heads on the surface.
	A faerie world opened up under my fins. I wasn't just drifting over its surface anymore, peering through the wobbly wave ripple at an abstract painting. I was in it, immersed. I held the dark question mark of a seahorse in my hand. Swam after a diamondback terrapin (and lost the race). Drifted over a stingray the size of an SUV. Bright splashes of color flashed in the dark forest of eelgrass. A lizardfish vanished in a puff of sand, as if he had teleported. The cartoon cute boxy shape of a young striped burrfish wobbled away in front of me. The ball gown shape of a moon jelly drifted by. Sea nettles trailed gossamer lines of stinging fire. A haze of miniature bubbles glinted on the grasses like faerie lights.
	And at night, the whole thing lit with green fire. Green magic, bioluminescence. Shrimp left V trails of green light through the water. Miniscule motes of light glanced off my mask like snowflakes. Coomb jellies drifted by like tiny starships, their cilia lines flashing like warp drive engines.
	We dove in through the sea waves on the oceanside and found more magic: sharks; dogfish and sandtigers (intent only on eating fish), dolphins eying us curiously, their sonar buzzing through our bodies. We saw the bones of a shipwreck. Barely shipshape anymore, it had become a reef, an oasis in the midst of a sandy desert, covered with anemones and sponges and starfish in every color in the paint store. 
	We galloped on the beach, splashed through the waves, or stood in them, letting them wash over our backs and rock us up and down like the pace of an easy canter.
	I found the answers to some questions I'd had about Kai. His mother's hair is dark, not quite black. She's seal brown. Where his father is, no one knows; he's the Gatesinger Kai started to tell me about so long ago. 

 “We too have Gatesingers, and Gatewalkers. Though none on our island.” He paused, as if there was something he almost wanted to say. “Nearly none.” He said it so softly I almost didn’t hear it. “We do not travel beyond our borders. But there are those who have, and they left their tales. Maybe traveler’s tales, I thought. Maybe not true. But here I am.” 

	The parts of Kai's gear that didn't quite fit were his father's, left for him in the keeping of the Grandmother who told Kai the tale that led to the Gate and Hawk Circle.

One of the Grandmothers still remembered. It had been where she said, there in the library on the mainland, the story from the past, the story which told of the Spellbook, the Gate, and the place it led to.
	
	“Not the Gate at Hawk Circle.” I said, “Which one then?”
	“It's the one in the River,” Kai said. “The rock with the pictures carved on it.”
	 “The river... what river?”
	 “I think you call it...”
	 “Susquehanna.” Zan finished.
	 “The river... rock with pictures...wait, you mean the Petroglyph Rock?”
	Kai smiled.  “That is what they call it on your internet libraries, yes.”
	 “You sailed up the Bay, but the River's unnavigable, except by kayaks. And I don't think you'd fit in one of those.  How did you get to the Gate? How did you get across the river. And who opened the Gate. And...”
	He grinned,  “Longstory, someothertime.”

	I could have stayed forever, with Kai and his friends, my friends now too. I could have galloped Topgallant on that beach forever. Snorkeled in the clear water. Sailed the Roane on a roaring reach into the east, heeled till her cannons were awash.
	It wasn't to be. The Universe wanted me back in Pennsylvania.
	It was decided; Zan and Tas and I would ride north, to Nine Foot Knoll Light. There we would pick up Ian's dogs, return my borrowed sword, then to the Dwarf farmstead to collect the mules, and then head home. The others would go on the Roane. The ferry we had borrowed would be sailed north by a few who had come from Ship Shoal to fight the Unseelie. I packed light, gifts from the Centaurs and anything not needed for the easy ride north would go on the Roane. We did pack some Coin of the Realm, though it was generally known that many on our path would welcome us, and feed us for free, because of our exploits. We would not go on the Roane because her hundred feet by twenty six feet of weather deck was already occupied by sails and pinrails and lines and masts and ship's boats and cannons and cabin trunks. The single deck below was occupied by bunks and a galley and heads and engines and nav gear and crew, and a few special modifications no one was talking about. It had low headroom, even for humans, and was infested with ladders. It was not a bit like the Spanish galleons that had brought horses to the same islands in my world.
	The last few days, Kai and his friends were away much among their own folk. There were hushed discussions, a sense of secrets kept, plans made.
	Plans that didn't seem to include me. I felt kind of left out. I shot Kai a questioning glance or two, but he'd clammed up again. Like a Centaur.
	Then the night before we were to leave, it came out. At a grand fire in the courtyard of the palisaded fort, Kai stepped forward with his six friends.
	 “We are leaving,” he said, straight and simple. He turned to...
	Tarth, she said,  “we will go north...” Her eyes went to...
	Buan,  “...with Zan and Val and the others.”
	“We want to see Pencil-vane-ya.” Steffen said. He was grinning, “I've heard of their magic, seen some that came on the Roane, movies and video games and...”
	Surferdude cut him off at the pass, “...we are needed there.” He nodded to...
	Par.  “Penns-woods and Mary's-land are horse country. We can teach them.”
	 “We can come and go through the Gate, at Hawk Circle, of course,” Lugh said.
	Around the circle of firelight, a murmur arose. 
	 “Aren't you afraid to go to this strange land?” a small girl asked Lugh.
	 “There are none of our people there, I heard.” someone's grandfather said.
	A few of the older ones grumbled that wasn't it enough to live on an idyllic island? And the Mainland was bad enough, but a whole other world?
	 “We have never quite fit on this island.” Kai said, very softly, so only Zan and I could hear.
	I watched their faces, their quiet goodbyes. I wanted to whoop with joy that Hawk Circle would have seven Centaurs living there. That I would be able to hang out with Kai...and Lugh and Par and the rest every day if I wanted to. But seeing the sadness in mothers and fathers, sisters and brothers and cousins, I held back my own delight. For awhile.
	Next morning we rode out in bright, late summer sun. We trotted along the beach to warm up, then eased into a rolling canter, slashing through the waves tumbling in on a rising tide. Kai eased ahead, then Lugh kicked in the afterburners, coming up hard on his heels. Lugh, clad in the least amount of wrappings I'd seen him in yet; one of the Roane crew'd had some hundred proof sunscreen. I let out Topgallant's reins and leaned up over her neck, “Let's go!” I whispered, in the Elvish Zan had taught me.
	She blasted ahead, thundered up on Lugh's rump and passed him.
	I let out a whoop, and was answered by the whole tribe.

~17~
The Whole Nine Yards

	We passed Ship Shoal on the road by the sea. Stopped at the little village where the ferry set out from. The ferry was back, where it belonged, none too much the worse for our inexperienced handling of it.
	Zan stood up on Blue's back, peering across the water. Bayberry, with Tas aboard, stopped behind him, her ears pricked in the direction he was looking.
	I didn't need Elf eyes to see that we'd left a bit more of a problem than a battered ferry.
	A two hundred foot battleship with cannons and three masts and the whole nine yards lay, listing hard starboard, in ten feet of water in the middle of the ferry's route.
	Zan dropped down lightly on Blue's back, flushing nearly as red as his hair.
	Kai shot him a loaded look.
	Lugh looked from Zan to Kai to Zan to me. His ears flicked in a questionmark.
	Tas shook her head, moving Bayberry past them. “I'm not going to ask.”
	 “I think,” Zan said, “we should ride a little farther north. There's a good inn up the road. Much better food than here.” He fingered the leather pouch hed found in the Grandmother's Yard Sale, still empty, at his belt.
	 “Whatever you do,” Kai said, half under his breath, “don't pay them with that.”

	I untacked and unpacked Topgallant and me at Hawk Circle's barn, and turned her out to graze in the bright spring grass. I put her gear away, but as I was hanging up her bridle, the snake reins returned to their original form. The wise creature looked at me with eyes like sun and Dragonkin, then slid off into the shadows of the barn, looking for mice.
	Cora returned to Hawk Circle, wiser in the ways of high school students. She zapped me with a spell that rearranged my brain cells the way the month or so of school I'd missed would have. I had a weird headache and double vision for a day, then I was back to normal.
	As normal as I ever would be again. As normal as anyone who had ridden with Centaurs,  fought Unseelie, done magic at the top of a lighthouse, and helped save a world from impending doom could be.
	I really would have preferred for Cora to stay in some of my classes, especially gym, with its emphasis on stupid team sports that involved me being the dead last chosen (you take her, no YOU take her, no REALLY you can have her...), though maybe, maybe, I wouldn't be so awful at them now. 
	Anyway, for a workout I preferred my horse. And my swords. And occasionally, the swaying deck of the Roane.
	A few classes were more interesting now. Especially when I could hear stories from   people who had actually been there with Isaac Newton, or Copernicus, or the Vikings, or the Pilgrims, or the privateers.
	I sat in my math class, scribbling the formula on the blankboard (so not a typo). It looked like Mr. Myers was trying to design a time machine, or maybe just bend the space-time continuum. I yawned. 
	Been there, done that. And Earla had already shown me more complex stuff than this.
	The bell jarred me out of my stupor. I pushed my way out of the classroom, painted one of those anemic shades of green never found in nature. Around me boys strutted, trying to look tough or cool or whatever else was in fashion this week. Girls jabbered on about who was doing what with who, and did you see what she was wearing and I just hate her and she doesn't even match! and my blah blah blah.
	Drama drama drama. None of it would matter in two years. None of it really mattered now.
	I strode down the hall, the way Tas plowed through the throngs at the mall. The throngs parted, some cast me a wary glance, most just ignored me, hyperfocused on their boys and their games and their dramas. I wasn't the fat dorky kid anymore. But I wasn't one of them either. I never would be. I'd never go to Prom, or Homecoming, or Friday night football games. I'd never get asked on an ordinary date with a movie and popcorn. 
	Unless you counted Movie Night at Hawk Circle. Centaurs didn't fit well in a theater, not even in the handicapped aisle.
	I'd never go to a high school reunion. Never wear a brand name splattered across my chest, or butt, or whatever. 
	Although Tas had relented, and designed a couple of pieces with  “Pookawear” splayed across my chest. And a “Centauri” hoodie. And Bran had given me a copy of his pewter grey bomber jacket with his raven logo on the back. 
	I'd never drive a cool car.
	Unless you counted the weird hybrids Earla was working on. I had spent a few evenings helping her with the latest design. I still wasn't sure what they ran on. It wasn't dead dessicated dinosaurs, that was for sure.
	I didn't care anymore about the high school crapzilla. Not at all. 
	A little piece of me wanted to tell them my story. Pssst, hey, I helped save a world from impending doom. Maybe even kept yours from getting overrun by the forces of Darkness.
	They'd never get it, even if I could tell them. Even if they believed it, which they wouldn't. Anyway, probably some other girl could have done the same thing, maybe even better. I just happened to be the one that crossed paths with a Centaur one snowy night.
	I sailed down the hall and into my next class, Biology. I liked this class.  I'd started looking into taking more classes along these lines. I wasn't sure where it was all going, not any more than I'd known how we were getting to Kai's island and back, but I was on the road.
	Chairs screeched, papers rustled. The class parrot let out a squawk from his perch up front, signaling silence and attention. Ms. Klinger grinned at us, her short red pixie-cut hair falling over one eye. She gave me a conspiratorial wink. Well, what would I expect from one of the E.L.F.s? 
	 “Valiant.”
	 “Valerie.” The beefy football player behind me snickered. I shot him a loaded glare. He ducked and shut up.
	 “Valerian,” she said, eyebrows knotted as if she couldn't remember.
	 “Just Val.”
	 “You'll be the first to present your paper today.”
	Last year, no, a few months ago that would have sent me into a full-blown hand me a dozen donuts palpitations and puking panic attack: standing up in front of a class was kin to facing the Dark Hordes of Doom.
	Been there, done that. 
	I stood, rustled my papers into order. Poking at the computer which held my presentation. I stared out across the classroom full of kids who could navigate the internet with their eyes closed, but would get lost on a lake. Kids who wore shorts and flip-flops in winter because they never left the mall. Kids whose thumbs had a great exercise program, texting and gaming.
	“Black and white.” The silver grey raven had said, “The world isn't.”
	There was Jamal, a lanky kid in the first row had helped stop a pit bull fighting ring in his neighborhood. Katie, (short, stout and curly haired) was thinking about doing something like what she saw on Animal Planet. Reed, (whose first car was a new BMW) had made her family's business better at recycling. Joey ('hottie' Haas) wanted the Prom theme to be 'Singin' in the Rainforest'.
	“Ok.” My title page flashed onto the screen behind me; 'The Bay: Total Maximum Daily Loads: What's the Limit?' Groans sounded across the room. I grinned. Ms. Klinger smiled her wicked elvish smile. I cued the epic film music. The next images were familiar ones to me, part of my own story; photos Zan and Kai and I and our friends had shot in the waters off their island. Waters like the ones we had known four hundred years ago in our own Bay. There was the broad winged shape of a cownose ray, the waving grass beds punctuated with splashes of color, the armoured shape of a sturgeon, the pterodactyly flight of pelicans, the plunge of an osprey, white sails on the wind, red sky at night, spray kicked up by a herd of wild horses. The Bay, and the Peninsula, as I knew it. As it was once upon a different time and space. As it might be again.
	If they cared enough.

~Epilog~

	“Ready?” Kai said.
	I nodded from my place on Topgallant ’s back. The black riding coat, tall boots and velvet hard hat felt far weirder than a greatsword, but they were my tools today.
	My Centaur sword, the one from the Grandmothers' yard sale, was hanging on my wall beside my movie replica, ready, just in case. Kai's sword sheaths contained two again; his lost one had been hanging on the wall at Nine Foot Knoll. Pandion had been glad to trade it for the sword I'd won from Nexxus .
	Tas grinned up at me, shot a glance at the rest of the dressage contestants on the other side of the sandy arena. Some were practicing movements they would use in a few minutes: trotting in perfect circles, side-passing, pirouetting. Some were standing, watching their competition. A reporter from the local newspaper aimed her camera at everyone. A moment of uncertainty swept through me,  “They all look so small on their horses.” Meaning their horses were all terribly tall; Thoroughbreds, and warmbloods like the chestnut Hanoverian doing the extended trot, the grey Trakehner towering over his five-ten rider, the bay Oldenburg yawning while his nearly six foot tall rider pulled up a mounting block to get on. I knew I looked ridiculously undermounted on my short little mustang.
	 “Watch how you say short.” Tas said, her blue sky eye staring out through her wild mane, untamed even here in the land of formal wear and horse polish.
	I smiled, nervously. Behind Kai ( in his guise as Cute Guy on Friesian) stood a little knot of horsemen.
	Horse-men, and horse-women. Our Centaur band, also disguised as riders by Zan. But, with his notoriously distractable attention span, and the furor which would ensue should seven Centaurs suddenly appear at a major dressage show, the Grandmothers had made the magic a bit more flexibly permanent: each Centaur wore a talisman, a necklace that held the illusion on them as long as they wore it.
 	There was the blond, bronzed SurferDude, golden Tarth, Steffen, his black coat polished so clean you almost couldn't see him, his white stockings gleaming. There was tawny Buan the Lioness, red-bay Par the Bold, moon-pale Lugh, wearing a muscle shirt and hundred proof sunscreen. His flanks were finally, truly, white, so white you almost couldn't look at him. With them were a few Hawk Circle students and our horses: Marshmallow and Baggywrinkle, Scrimshaw, Bluewater Sailing, Bayberry and even Eye of the Wind. There too were Zan (with Keet and Skana), Bran, and Ian with a video camera ( so we could all study our rides, later). They shot me supportive smiles, thumbs up. 
	Then I noticed Tiffany, standing by her big warmblood, Rhiannon, staring at me in disbelief. I could just about read her mind. Maybe Zan's lessons had worked all too well.  What do you think you’re doing here? On that scrubby little mustang, no less?
	Tas looked up at me, “Do you care what she thinks?”
	I let out a breath. Shook my head. I cared about the dance; the harmony between horse and rider.
	 “You have the key.” Tas said. She slapped Topper affectionately on the shoulder and stepped back.
	Kai smiled.  “All that matters is in your hands.”
	I heard the announcer call my number, call out my name and Topgallant ’s, and Hawk Circle Stable. I shot a last glance at my teachers, took a deep centering breath and trotted toward the arena.
	Enter, working trot sitting...
	It was the dance, in perfect balance. I could feel every footfall, every shift of Topper ’s weight, every twitch of muscle.
	Like a Centaur.
	Circles and straight lines and shoulder-ins and turns on the haunches, and collections and the extended trot. Not the hammering fear of the trot over the bridge, the long ground eating stride of the Journey. The round collected canter of maneuvering in a thicket. The turn on the haunches that would swing you away from a foe, or onto one, sword drawn. The classical music played over the loudspeakers like a soundtrack to our seven minute movie.
	Then it was done.
	Halt, salute, leave arena free walk.
	I watched the others. Our kids: Jeffy, who couldn't walk, rode Baggywrinkle in Training Level and did well. Susan did a fine job on the ever-squirrely Eye of the Wind. Scrimshaw wasn't lame today, thanks to Ian and Kai. He helped Ryan do a great ride, Ryan whose mom could barely afford groceries most weeks. Bayberry bobbled, blew a lead, but Sara didn't bat an eyelash, a long way from her temper tantrums three months ago. There were a couple of kids from Stonewall, including Rugby and his young rider who also did well in Training Level. 
	Tiffany gave a pretty good ride, though Tas and Kai picked her apart, subtle details I was only beginning to see. Stuff I ’d have to learn if I was going to help Tas and Kai teach at Hawk Circle. Rhiannon had made a few glitches; things caused by tension. Caused by a rider who wasn’t in harmony. Tiff left the ring poised and in perfect form and... well, in a tiff. I could see her face getting redder, and I was beginning to see the other signs (that a good riding instructor would have to know) that she was mad as hell. She was too professional to clobber Rhiannon right there, but she’d ride off behind the trailers somewhere and beat the crap out of her, I knew. I shot a glance at Kai. 
	“Me?” He said, surprised. The guy who could stop Unseelie barehanded suddenly looked... afraid.
	“Yeah, you. I think she'd listen to...” a cute guy on a gorgeous horse.
	Kai cocked his head, I could almost see his (disguised and invisible) ears twitch.
	“...you. She'd listen to you better than me.”
	 “Perhaps Tas.”
 	“Busy.” I glanced at Tas, and the others, busy with Hawk Circle's crew.  “Like Par said, We can teach them. Here's your chance.”
	“Come with me.”
	 “She thinks I'm a dork.”
	He glanced at Tiff, then me.  “I'll tell her different.”
	 “Thanks. But you'd better save Rhi first.” I nodded ferociously in Tiff's direction.
	Kai nodded, gathered himself up and cantered over to her.
	Tiff gave Rhi a smart shot with the training whip, hauled her up just as Kai crossed her bow. He stood there, blocking her, staring at her with those stardark eyes of his. 
	I really wanted to hear what he said, but I hung back, waiting to see what he ’d do. I knew what I'd do. I'd want to knock her on her butt.
	All I saw was a quiet conversation. Conversation, something he ’d never been very good at. I saw his hands move... hands that had stopped Unseelie with a sword the length of his horse body... move gently now, as if he was explaining something.
	I stared, bemused. Then I saw Tiff do something odd, she kind of slumped, all teary eyed and snorfeled over Rhiannon ’s withers.
	They wandered off, side by side. 
	A half hour later Kai came back. He stopped in front of me, his black-horse self forming a set of bookends with Topgallant. He looked down, a little self-concious. 
	“What happened?” I asked.
	He met my eyes again. “I explained a few things, from the horse’s point of view.”
	 “Oh.” I said, and broke into a grin..
	He grinned back.  “It was much like pouring water on a rock. But I think the rock is a bit more porous now. I invited her to Hawk Circle. She accepted the invitation. For training,” he said swiftly. “You'll be there, of course?”
	“Of course.” I turned Topgallant so he could see the second place ribbon on her bridle. He let out a war whoop. Staid riders in black jackets and polished boots turned to stare. He grinned at them, pointed at the ribbon. 	
	“Who got first?” Kai said.
	 “Glenstorm.” I pointed at the eighteen hand Hanoverian, the color of burnished copper. A  small woman stood by his head, or rather, kind of under it. “Kate Zeigler. She’s been around for years, she’s awesome. That’s a young horse she’s training. He did really well.” I held out my test, each movement scored by the judge, with comments. Kai scanned it, I explained the parts he had trouble translating. “Awesome!” He dropped a hand on my shoulder, gave it a squeeze (I think he would have hugged me if I’d been on Topper). 
	 “Ok,” I said, “are you ready? We’re up in twenty minutes.”
	 “We...?” He looked surprised.”Already?” He looked at the sky, judging (I knew) the angle of the sun, the slant of the light, the shape of the wind, the symphony of distant bird calls.
	 “I really really gotta get you a watch.”

	Enter, working trot sitting.
	Side by side. It was a pas de deux, two riders mirroring each other in their movements. A ballet on horseback. We were doing it as an exhibition, not in competition, it seemed unfair to enter a magically disguised Centaur against regular horses and riders.
	I danced left, on Topgallant.
	Kai danced right.
	Perfect circles and sweeping turns, long reaching extended trots (the journeying gait), collected canter, round as a carousel horse, controlled as a warhorse, hoofbeats falling like the beats of a drum. Like a heartbeat. 
	A pirouette, each of us wheeling slow motion away from the other. Coming together again, side by side, in perfect sync down the center line 
	Sidepass, shoulder-in, making a V across the sand, an X. Writing our story in runes that all could see.
	I didn ’t see the crowd, staring, transfixed. I didn’t hear the epic film music we’d chosen, I was part of it. Part of Topgallant. Part of Kai of the extremely long name. 
	The music swelled, swept away into silence. Our hoofbeats stopped, rooted in the sand.
	Halt, salute.
	We strode out in a swinging free walk, side by side, applause that was more than just polite ringing in our ears.
	It was way better than Prom.

Appendix

(confessions of a teenaged pooper scooper)

T.L. Byerts

 	They say, write what you know. So, here's where some of this tale comes from.
	When I was four, the TV Universe was populated by cowboys and horses. Saturday morning had adventures like Roy Rogers on his golden palomino, Trigger; the Lone Ranger on his white knight steed Silver; and Champion the Wonder Horse, Gene Autry's chestnut with the white stockings (it looked flashy on black and white TV).
	The ones I liked best were not the horses of the White Knight or the Golden Hero, but the ones who rode, like a thundercloud of justice, by night: Zorro on his black steed, Tornado. Or the stormy Black Stallion that only a kid could ride. Or Fury of Broken Wheel Ranch.
	My Dad found a broken down dark bay pinto pony named Teddy, when I was four. We nurtured him back to health and I, or my friends and relatives, rode him till he died of old age. 
	But I longed for the Black Horse.
	My Dad found a young colt, black as Fury, which is what I named him. He sparred with Teddy, reared and looked magnificent to a pre-schooler. Dad began training him, then injured his back. The colt was sold to a friend. Later, I learned he died of colic.
	Years passed. I joined 4-H. Our club was led by a family, the Mayos, who were into dressage and three-phase eventing; the sort of thing they do at the Olympics, as well as in many local clubs. I got a two-year old bay gelding, half-Arabian, named Saraf ( “Son of Sahara” was his registered name, the son of a bright red chestnut Arabian stallion named Mirzithan and a dark bay mare, Star of Sahara), and began training and showing him. Along the way, I trained other kids in 4-H, other horses, got a few jobs as a sooper dooper pooper scooper. And another horse; a small, wicked fast grey Arabian-Welsh cross of 13.2 hands named Bazraf (a relative of the aforementioned Mirzithan). Together we explored the middle ages with the Society for Creative Anachronisms, learned swordplay, were the object of a unicorn quest, and taught many wannabe horsemen. 
	I lost him in a traffic accident one night, but that is another tale.
	My friends in the SCA ultimately presented me a check; not just for any horse to replace the one lost (there is never a replacement), but for the Wild Horse Center nearby. The Bureau of Land Management's Adopt-A-Horse Program was fairly new, in 1985. I had heard about it and thought many times about adopting a wild horse from somewhere out west, out there in the mythical land I'd watched on TV as a kid.
	Now I had the chance, but the wounds were too raw, and I didn't really want another horse.
	Winter passed. The sun returned. Snow melted. The Wild Horse Center got a new shipment. I went. And I knew what I wanted.
	The Black Horse.
	Of course, real horsemen don't care what color a horse is. It doesn't affect how the horse moves, what its personality is, or how it performs its job. It matters not a bit.
	I know that. I've done horse judging in 4-H. Horse Bowl. I've shown my blood bay Arab. Flown on my piece of wild grey sky. Ridden the pintos and Appaloosas and chestnuts of friends.
	I want the Black Horse. I tried to explain it to people. The ones who knew horses scoffed. Color matters not.
	I want the Black Horse. The one galloping through my dreams since I was five. Fury. Tornado. The Black Stallion.
	I walked into the Wild Horse Center. Bays and chestnuts and the odd grey, a few cream or dun, those are the colors you find. Once in awhile, one with pinto markings. Or a grulla. A perlino. Maybe even a true white horse.
	Black is rare.
	When buying a horse you judge its conformation, training, personality, health.
	All these horses had the same training; none. The same personality; unknown. They were all healthy enough. The only thing one could judge was conformation.
	She stood at the far end of the pen, crowded with dusty bays and chestnuts and browns. A dark mare with oversized feet. Scrawny. A dusty looking foal at her side. I studied her with a horseman's eye: legs all on straight, the big feet would be trimmed, the ribs would fill out. An annoying boyfriend, with me at the time, blurted that that was the one. I nearly lopped off his head. Snarled something and stalked off to look at all the other horses. It was, after all, not his bloody decision!
	I looked at scrawny white horses, bays, chestnuts.
	I came back to the black mare. A loud, stout woman with too many kids was hanging over the fence eying her.  “Yep!” She proclaimed, “I like her!”
	 “Um, I already picked her.” I said.
	And there I was, with an eight year old mare and a foal (I hadn't counted on a foal). Eight years running wild. Being part of a herd. Being rounded up and shipped to Pennsylvania was rather like a human being abducted by by Martians.
	I named her  “Olori Eldalie”, Elven Magic, from the languages of J.R.R. Tolkien, the man who gave us all Middle Earth, Hobbits, and made us remember who the Elves really were.
	It took about six weeks of  “nice horsie” work: halter training, feeding her by hand, trying to pick up her feet. I was running a race with her growing feet: I had to get her trained enough to get a farrier out to trim them. I finally had him trim them, while I held up her feet.
	My bay, Saraf, helped train her. I spent another nine months lungeing, ponying (leading from Saraf), and other ground work. Then I had a friend feed her some carrots while I got aboard. Nothing happened, except she looked for more carrots.
	She went on the face the screaming Viking hordes at our medieval faire. During the ring jousting, and sword demo (where I struck at targets with a steel broadsword) she ran with her head cocked to the right and I nicked her eyebrow. (Val did much better.) Practicing for a swordfight, she ducked every time my opponent's sword rang against mine; I solved the problem by stuffing her ears with cotton balls.
	She trained a number of green riders. Carried us on trail rides. Into the Dark Ages and back. After years in civilization, she still slid up to the water trough at night, looking for four fanged horse-eaters in the bush. She hated buildings (a riding clinic I attended was in an indoor arena, and she balked at the entrance). 
	Riding in the game lands in the Pennsylvania hills, I got off to lead her across a stream. I hopped across, and turned to encourage her to come over. She did, landed with an 'ooof!' And stuck there, her hind end bogged in the mud. I got the reins from my friend's horse, making Lor's reins longer. I heaved and hauled and shouted and finally got her sideways in the stream ( “Ohgod I've killed her!”). She lay there, startled, stunned, shocked? Was it the kind of odd state some prey animals go into when the lion has them down? Then she plunged up, all in one piece.
	She bogged again, riding along a Chesapeake Bay creek, when the solid sand gave way to the deep gooey stuff you find in Bay country. She sank to her knees, I rolled off, and she popped back up with a  “stupid human” look on her face.
	She taught more newbies to ride. Entertained the neighbor kids. Grew fat on the green grass so different from the dry high desert of her southeastern Oregon origins.
	I thought she would go on forever.
	She didn't.

	
	The year she died, I had discovered the Chesapeake Bay, in particular, a piece of it called Eastern Neck Island, which I explored from my sea kayak, Makenuk's Fin. Upriver from E-Neck is Chestertown, and the first weekend of November, a dozen historic vessels from around the Bay descend on this tiny port and become a floating timeline. You can sail on this timeline for a fee, and I had booked a ride on the Pride of Baltimore II.
	I'd fallen in love with her earlier, on a trip to Baltimore: she's a reproduction of the wicked swift and agile privateering vessels of the War of 1812, her lean, sea-hugging, cutlass blade hull and her raked masts make her look like she's going warp eleven standing still. 
	Now I would sail on her, at least for an couple of hours, on a calm ride down the Chester River, with a couple of sails up; the river is too narrow for her great cloud of canvas wings.
	In the middle of the voyage we were allowed below. People were buying T-shirts and other souvenirs. I checked out a book leaning against the wall above the galley table.
	It fell open to a page of a man, one of the original captains of Pride I, steering through a gale, wind and rain whipping his foul weather gear and hair; “steering the wild black mare...”
	“What's this wild black mare thing?” I asked.
	A crewmember told me that someone had referred to sailing the first Pride that way: it was like riding a wild black mare through the woods at night.
	The privateering vessels were usually painted black. Like Zorro, on his black horse, they were fighting larger, more powerful foes. There are records of people in the British Navy referring to those crazy Americans and their “untamed wild horses”, the “schooners, pilot-boat built”, ships that later became known as “Baltimore Clippers”. (The Clipper Ships of the later 1800s were a different breed: large cargo carrying vessels, but with all the swiftness of the privateers. Clipper was also a term applied to fast horses.)
	The next Halloween, I rode Pride II for real: sailing as Guest Crew from Baltimore to Chestertown. We squeegeed the gunnels, painted the gun doors, ate fantastic food (no burgoo and loblolly here), stood watch, slept in a bunk lit by a deck prism (like a small blue moon, even in starlight), took a zillion pictures, and yeah, at least once, they let you steer the ship.
	Roaring on a reach under full canvas, the deck heeled till the cannons are nearly in the drink, the raven blue sky darkening behind us, the sun shining golden red from under evening clouds, she was the Wild Black Mare, the inland sea of the Chesapeake too small to contain her.

	I live with my cats, a couple of sled dogs, some kayaks from which I explore the Susquehanna River and the Great Bay. The daughter of the Wild Black Mare ( a bay mare named Svaha) lives up the road with a friend, and another mustang, some goats, more sled dogs, and free range chickens. I have volunteered with wildlife rehabbers; wrangling barfing vultures, biting otters, owls with a per talon tip psi of 1000 lbs., raising cute possums, and have once wrestled a (very small) tiger. I continue to volunteer with a local county park whose mission is to connect people to the natural world. 
	I've done historical (or perhaps, hysterical) recreation in various time periods from Viking to early America, whopping people upside the head with broadswords, riding in chainmail (you slosh mightily, as it throws off your center of gravity), winging random arrows into the air and learning that black powder rifles were much more complicated than Elven bows.
	I've trained a few wild mustangs, some sled dogs, carved Halloween pumpkins and decorated Christmas trees underwater, and spent Halloween on a pirate ship. 
	Sorry Bran, privateer.
	I am an artist, I have no left brain, unlike Val, I suck at math.
	Every so often, I strap my kayak, Makenuk's Fin, to the roof and journey down the Delmarva peninsula to a long thin line of sand called Assateague island. There are wild ponies, gulls and pelicans, deer and fox and great horned owls, sea pork and fox squirrels, cownosed rays and dolphins, breathing just off my bow.
	And a lighthouse, pointing the way out of the dark.

Tas' guide to horsemanship

	A few people who are re-thinking the ancient art of not falling off horses.

Linda Tellington-Jones, and the TTeam Method, several books; (massage techniques, labyrinths and other groundwork, an intelligent way to teach your horse, or retrain a spoiled one). Also books on working with cats, dogs and other creatures.

Sally Swift, Centered Riding (kittens, spruce trees and melting ice cream).

Linda Kohanov: The Tao of Equus, Riding Between the Worlds (an equine assisted therapy instructor talks about her experiences and the Wisdom of the Black Horse).

John Lyons, Buck Brannigan: working cowboy “horse whisperers” who developed kinder and more natural ways to train horses.

Dr. Robert Cook, veterinarian and inventor of the Bitless Bridle (www.bitlessbridle.com).

“The Complete Training of Horse and Rider” Colonel Alois Podhasjky of the famous Spanish Riding School in Vienna (the dancing white Lippizans) was what I read as a teenager and sparked my interest in dressage.

There are many other excellent horsemen who have written books, trained horses and humans at clinics, and changed how we relate to this magnificent fellow creature, these are just a few of my favorites.

Bran's guide to privateering

	For your own high seas adventure, cruise the web for a tall ship near you. Don't worry if you're a landlubber, these ships sail on missions of education. 
	On the Chesapeake Bay you can find several colonial vessels doing dockside tours or short sailing trips;  Schooner Sultana (1768), The John Smith Shallop, Maryland Dove, Kalmar Nyckel (does pirate cruises), Susan Constant, Godspeed, Discovery. 
	The Lady Maryland is the only reproduction of the sleek little pungy schooners that once hauled freight around the Bay.
	The Constellation, in Baltimore, doesn't sail anywhere, but she's the real deal, a Civil War era, two hundred foot battleship with the whole nine yards. Literally, all the yards from which the sails are slung. You can walk her historic decks, and camp on her overnight. There are other historic vessels in Baltimore as well, and a terrific aquarium.
	The Pride of Baltimore II appeared in Steven Spielburg's film “Amistad”. She's a reproduction of the wicked swift and agile Baltimore Clippers of the War of 1812. She does dockside tours, short public sails, and longer guest crew passages. Similar ships on the east and west coasts are: Californian, Amistad, and Lynx.
	The Longship Company invites anyone to come outside and play with this seriously fun group of history enthusiasts who sail a 40' Viking Longship on the Chesapeake Bay. Sae Hrafn (Sea Raven) sails a couple times a month from April to December; www.longshipco.org.
	Tall ship events happen everywhere there's ocean, (or really big lakes: the Great Lakes have several ports with historic vessels like Niagra) bringing in ships from around the world. The ASTA guide (American Sail Training Association), or the web, can give you information on ships in other areas. 

Zan's very short guide to sled dogs

	(They wouldn't let me say as much as 'd like to...)
	Don't buy from a puppy mill. Be cautious about pet shops (do they adopt dogs from the local shelters? Or sell puppy mill puppies?).
	Adopt, rescue; the rescues are overflowing.
	Neuter and spay, it's the only way. You don't need to breed your dog, too many other people are being stupid.
	 “I don't have time for my dog” is not an excuse. Make time, get him a buddy, create a 'dog safe space' in your home (a room, a kennel) rather than give him up to an (overwhelmed and overflowing) rescue.
	Think before you get a dog. It's not a pair of jeans you can take back if it doesn't fit; it's a living being.
	Research your breed. What was it designed for? What was its original job? Will it fit your personality? Your lifestyle? (Independent-minded) Malamutes and Siberians don't think like Golden Retrievers (who love to please you) or Labs (easy to train). Border Collies, Malenois and other working breeds need a job to do. Actually all dogs need a job to do, even if it's retrieving a squeaky toy or catching a frisbee. Anything under twenty pounds is a prey item in coyote country or hawk country (guard that teacup poodle when you take it out for a whiz). Greyhounds are big, fast and very laid back: perfect apartment dogs for couch potatoes. A thirty pound Siberian will eat your cat, your couch and need to run miles every day. A German Shepard is a good  “watch dog”, Siberians will watch the burglar come in and watch them carry all your stuff out.
	Northern dogs (Siberians, Malamutes, Spitz, and other  “huskies”) are cool, beautiful, but need high, strong fences that they can't dig under, patient training (they're smart but independent-minded) and you can never ever trust them off a leash. 
	Never.
	Really.
	Never.
	They have a high  “prey-drive”, they don't just chase it, they catch it and eat it in three gulps. Training one for obedience work is a very interesting challenge for those wishing to know and understand more about other living things. 
	You can mush any medium to large dog in snow-free zones, in cool weather, with sledding harnesses, a rig, mountain bike, scooter, and a good trail. With snow you can ski-jor (cross-country ski) harnessed to one to three dogs (if you're a good skier and brave), sled (look for a used, light recreational dogsled if you have one or two dogs), or try snowboards, snow scooters or other snow gear. Make sure your dogs know  “gee, haw, on-by, and especially WHOA!”. Make sure your rig (skis, sled, scooter etc.) has brakes. You'll need it when the dogs don't whoa.
	Agility training is fun, easy, and you can make the obstacles (or climb on the kiddie playground equipment when no one is looking). 
	There are lots of other dogs sports: rally obedience, flyball, frisbee etc.
	While many northern dogs seem to avoid water (getting wet in the arctic tends to freeze you solid unless you're a polar bear) some love it, and will like going out in boats, or swimming alongside paddle-powered craft like kayaks or canoes. Make sure you start in shallow water until they are comfortable, and get them a doggie PFD. Use a floating rope to keep 'em leashed.
	 “Freestyle” or dancing with your dog amuses Siberians more than obedience classes; it's Stupid Pet Tricks set to music (any kind). You don't have to be athletic or musical. There's lots of videos and classes abound.
	Stupid Pets Tricks aren't stupid to your dog; it's fun. There's lots of good books, videos and classes out there to tell you how to get started being your dog's best friend. Check online, at your local vet, petshop or SPCA.