“Leave us,” The Which commanded firmly.

The guards looked surprised and more than a little disappointed. They hesitated, glancing nervously between The Which and her prisoner.

“Do you forget that I am a magi seer?” She grew firmer still. “I do not foresee my death at the hand of this Indiran. Do as I command.”

The guards reluctantly complied, retreating into the hall, where they would not have the opportunity to eavesdrop. The Which took a slow measured breath.

“Many young Manolith warmen have undertaken a challenge,” she began, suddenly intimate. “All of them have failed. I think, perhaps, you might not. You might even enjoy it. It will appeal to your soldier’s sense of mission.”

My “soldier’s sense of mission”? The irony nearly made Everson laugh aloud. He hoped that the smirk he could not control would be construed as cavalier.

“What kind of challenge?” he asked.

“Now where is the fun in spoiling the surprise?” The Which smiled thinly, but there was no mirth in her eyes. “Besides, it’s either that or languish in one of our prisons until you rot.”

“As a soldier and now a prisoner of war,” Everson countered quickly, “is it not my duty to accept the consequences rather than give you a strategic upper hand?”

The Which looked at him without responding for a moment. Suddenly, and for no reason that Everson could discern, her features softened to the point that he was reminded how pleasant her face could be.

“Do you want this war to end?” she asked with a sincerity that seemed entirely genuine.

The question so caught Everson off guard that he could only think to respond with a question of his own. “Why would I not?”

“This conflict began before you were born. What is the one thing our warring worlds have never tried?”

Everson shrugged, at a loss.

“Diplomacy,” The Which answered for him. “Cooperation. I repeat your question to you. If you could help to put an end to the death and suffering, why would you not?”

Everson put down his spoon and said, “You have my full attention.”

* * *

The universe certainly has a twisted sense of humor, The Which thought.

The Prophecy did not specify that the champion of the Tree and the common soldier destined to wed Allegra would be one and the same, but suddenly The Which saw a connection that had previously eluded her. With the fateful night of the Prophecy so near, why should it not be so?

But a union between an Indiran and a Manolith? It was a consummation devoutly to be wished but doubtfully achieved. The very proposition seemed unthinkable. Yet there was an unlikely logic to the idea.

The Which tingled with anticipation, even though the Indiran’s laborious climb up the side of the Tree was far less inspiring than Kohl’s agile ascent. She knew she had no real reason to be this optimistic, but she also knew that there were those times when she must heed the quiet but empirical voice of the universe without question. So she remained steadfast in her hope, even though she could hear the snickers of her two guards every time the Indiran slipped and nearly fell to his death.