He bowed, a deep, courtly bow. “My dearest changeling,” he said. “A thousand thanks for the loan of your beautiful body.” His voice . . . Aneas was just beginning to hear again, and he sounded odd, distorted.

The changeling shaman wriggled, like a woman putting on a new dress for the first time. “Ahh,” s/he said. “Such a pleasure having you inside me.” S/he laughed. “The things I have learned.”

Master Smythe’s eyes flashed red. “And now,” he said.

He saw Irene. Her crossbow was pointed at his temple. She was perhaps three feet away in the rich orange light, her face etched with black, her beautiful eyes huge.

“And now?” she said, her voice full of steel.

“I thought you trusted me?” Master Smythe asked.

“No,” Irene said. “We told you to trust us.”

Master Smythe raised his hands. “I mean you no harm,” he said. “And by now, Ash knows I have his reserve of power. Things will become very complicated. You, of all people, need my help. You know what is in your head.”

Aneas watched Irene.

“I know, thank you. And things are already very complicated,” Irene said. “Looks-at-Clouds?”

The changeling nodded. “We have to trust him. He could kill us all and fly away if he chose. You can’t keep a crossbow pointed at his head forever,” s/he said.

“I know,” Irene said with icy calm. “I’m considering simple murder. But I suppose I shall not.” She raised her crossbow so that the bolt aimed at the ceiling.

“I do not like being threatened,” Master Smythe said.

“I do not like being called a patricide,” Irene nodded.

Master Smythe looked at her and nodded. “You, I understand,” he said. “May I? While I have this marvelous advent of sheer power?”

He reached to touch her, and she flinched.

Aneas moved toward him, but he was too fast.

“There,” said Master Smythe. He had a black egg in his hand. “Good-bye,” he snarled, and tossed it into the inferno behind him.

Loomsack Mountain—Ash

Ash’s breath of unreality swept along the stones of the shore and into the stream; Mogon’s shields shriveled; wardens died at the very moment of salvation, and a Golden Bear, heavily pregnant; a dozen Morean knights who’d survived the fight with the cave trolls, twenty foresters running for safety, half a hundred Morean mountaineers caught by ill luck in close order . . .