im under her veil. She made a move to sit up. Zendrak knocked her flat, a terrible growl building in his throat. He meant business. Flexing his fingers in full view of Kelandris, Zendrak let her see the length of his own talon-nails. Kel hesitated then grabbed for the beads again. Zendrak let loose with a fearsome roar, all seven sets of his Mythrrim vocal cords vibrating. Ceramic and glass jars in the back of the shop shook. A few shattered. Kelandris reacted with blind panic and swiped at Zendrak's open neck. As before, she drew blood. This time, Zendrak decided to retaliate. Throwing Kel backward, he shredded her veil. Kelandris howled, putting her hands in front of her face. Zendrak punched her soundly in her unprotected diaphragm. Kelandris groaned, trying desperately to turn her belly away from him. Zendrak prevented her, forcing her to concede dominance to him. Animal to animal, Kelandris understood. Swearing and sobbing, she begged him for the Kindrasul. It was as if she were pleading for his mercy. Zendrak listened to her in silence, trying to assess the true level of Kel's sincerity. After all, like himself, Kelandris was Trickster's own child. Deciding that her tears were genuine, Zendrak gripped the Kindrasul tightly in his hand and flooded the string of beads with the comprehension and compassion of his five hundred years of life. Then he handed them to Kelandris. With a small cry of relief, the woman in black clasped the Kindrasul to her heart. She was so elated by the return of «her pretty thing» that she never felt Zendrak slide his hands around the back of her neck again. Kel shut her eyes, drinking in the emotional warmth of the beads she held. As the true depth of Zendrak's affection filled her body with the sounding of Zendrak's own emotional feeling-tone, Trickster's Emissary quickly sneaked in the back door of Kel's injured mind. Once there, Zendrak pressed Kelandris for the memory of a certain forest glen on the outskirts of Suxonli Village. And the love they had made there. Kelandris opened her eyes, her expression startled through her torn veil. Realizing that Zendrak had breached her psychic defenses, she blasted him with the raw power of her fury. Zendrak stood his ground. Kel's attack failed. The loving power with which Zendrak had invested the Kindrasul had opened Kel's heart briefly. Zendrak only needed a psychic toehold to successfully scale Kel's rage. Now he had one. Kelandris whimpered in distress. She twisted and untwisted the beads in her hand anxiously, her eyes focused on the brown rafters in the ceiling of the tobacco shop. She felt Zendrak's continued, steady intrusion into the darkest memories of her life. Kel gritted her teeth. Zendrak picked his way carefully through her psyche. Kelandris tensed. Zendrak could feel Kel's terror of Suxonli's judgement against her through his fingers. Coaxing Kelandris to match the steady rhythm of his breathing, Trickster's Emissary reminded Trickster's he of all that had preceded the actual revel in Suxonli. Kelandris strained against Zendrak's gentle hands as he probed her neck muscles for a deeper, more personal entry point into her hopelessness. Thorns of Kel's despair cut him. He ignored their pull. He had found what he was looking for: Kel's memory of her love for him. As he edged toward the memory, preparing to make Kel conscious of it again, he noticed Kel's grip on the Kindrasul tighten. Without warning, a moving wall of fear slammed into Zendrak's heart. Cursing Kel for fighting him, Zendrak struggled to maintain his sense of direction in Kel's emotional labyrinth. Pain stung him from all sides. No matter what Zendrak tried, Kel's fear remained unyielding. Taking a deep breath, Zendrak lowered his head briefly, frustration and exhaustion evident in his dark eyes. He cursed Trickster. And again. He did not want to force Kelandris to open to him. Nor did he wish to cram his superior mental training down her throat. Her independence was precious to him as was her formidable fighting spirit. He loved her for her faults as much as for her strengths. Zendrak's dark eyes swam unexpectedly with tears. He needed a way to regain her trust. The memory of the joy they had shared in a forest glen in Suxonli was the only certain ground that he personally held with Kelandris. And it looked like Yonneth had stolen even that. The cruelty of this enraged Zendrak. Feeling at a loss, Zendrak hesitated. There had to be another way through Kel's fear other than by sheer force of will. Zendrak ran through his entire repertoire of tricks, deciding that if he found no other solution than force, he would stop where he was; he would press Kelandris no farther. No matter what Trickster said about it. Zendrak bit his lip very well aware of what would happen if he failed with Kelandris here. Very simply put: the world as he knew it would come to an end. Kelandris was a member of Rimble's ennead, his Nine. Without her, the other eight were powerless. Kel was the ground wire for the psychic charge of the turning ceremony which the Nine would dance in Speakinghast in a few days time. If the Nine did not turn, civilization would falter. There would be no evolutionary leap; Trickster's silent genes would remain silent. And the Greatkin would cease to «matter.» Zendrak swallowed. The temptation to overcome Kel's fear by aggression was tempting. He could've done it as soon as she walked into the little tobacco shop, knife in hand. His was a trained mind, hers was not. Zendrak rolled his eyes. He didn't want the world to end any more than Trickster did. Was the integrity of Kel's psyche worth such a price? Zendrak's hands trembled on the back of Kel's neck. The threat of extinction frightened him. Struggling against his own panic, Zendrak reminded himself sternly that he was not Trickster. It was not his responsibility to save or doom the world. He was merely Trickster's Emissary—and a very mortal, fallible one at that. He raised his dark eyes, meeting Kel's scared green ones. Seeing the fear and helplessness in her eyes, his heart broke. «I can't do it,» he whispered. «I can't get through to her. Rimble—you hear me? I can't do it. Find yourself another Emissary.» Zendrak started to pull his hands away from Kel's neck, but was stopped when Trickster's he grabbed his arms and held them close to her body. Zendrak opened his eyes in surprise to find Kelandris staring sternly at him. Greatkin faced Greatkin. Kel's green eyes glittered cooly. Still gripping the Kindrasul in her left hand, she draped the string of beads over both of Zendrak's exposed forearms. Zendrak said nothing, trying to understand the meaning of her action. Suddenly Kel's expression changed. The power of her Greatkin bloodline was replaced by a strange mortal vulnerability. Kel's hold on the Kindrasul intensified. She resembled a drowning person, the beads her lifeline. A lifeline— A smile broke over Zendrak's face slowly. Keeping one hand on the back of Kel's neck, he reached for the Kindrasul. Resting his palm over Kel's fingers, Zendrak dropped his defenses against Kelandris, using the black glass beads from Soaringsea as a universal translator of the ancient trust they shared as Mythrrim. Like a mneumonic cipher, the Kindrasul allowed Zendrak to communicate with Kelandris at a purely non-verbal level. As love often did, thought Zendrak with chagrin. He swore at himself for being so slow-witted. The way through Kel's fear had literally been under his fingertips. Courtesy of Phebene. Zendrak laughed with relief. Kelandris met his eyes shyly, her madness temporarily at bay. A trace of a smile touched her full lips. Zendrak regarded her with undisguised affection. Kelandris looked away abruptly. She felt blinded by the radiance of what she saw in Zendrak's face. After so many years of deprivation, Zendrak's love seared her heart like a blast of light from the noonday sun. Gathering her courage, Kelandris tried to meet his gaze once more, but she found she couldn't. Tears wet her cheeks. Zendrak watched Kelandris in silence, his expression patient. He had waited sixteen years for this day; he could wait a little longer. Zendrak fingered the Kindrasul thoughtfully. Kelandris must have sensed his personal, emotional «door» on the glass when she had first found them and smelled his psychic scent on them as clearly as Zendrak had smelled hers this morning. It was the nature of obsidian from Soaringsea to retain such an impression, regardless of time elapsed. The intense draw from the volcanoes of these northern isles marked everything with an indelible clarity of emotion. Like the igneous rock that spewed out of Soaringsea's lava cones, emotions rose in a Mythrrim from the innermost depths of its being: straight from the core. To a Mythrrim, the emotions of two-legged society seemed muddled and lacking in the crystalline purity of the black glass Zendrak and Kelandris now held in their hands. Zendrak's eyes softened as he looked at Kelandris with renewed respect. A Mythrrim could starve to death on the emotional diet of most two-leggeds. It was a wonder that Kelandris had not. Zendrak took a deep breath and refrained from his desire to take Kelandris in his arms and simply hold her. Although Zendrak was certain that every cell in Kel's body ached for the company and kinship only a Mythrrim could offer her, he also recognized that Kelandris was only temporarily sane. When they let go of the Kindrasul, Kel would be faced with a choice: sanity or madness. Still, thought Zendrak, there was something he could do to help Kelandris. If she would permit him to do so, he could clear away some of the rubble of her two-legged life in Suxonli. Zendrak eased himself off Kel's body. Kneeling beside her now, one hand on her neck and the other still clasping the Kindrasul under Kel's fingers, he drew from his Mayanabi training and reached inside her mind again. Kelandris stiffened, her eyes wary. Zendrak smiled at Kelandris reassuringly, flooding the Kindrasul with peace. Kelandris remained tense, but she did not fight Zendrak as she had done before. Zendrak modulated his breath to match her own and touched Kel's psyche with the skill of the Mayanabi Master that he was. Carefully, cautiously, Zendrak weakened the last of Kel's two-legged ties—what few were left her after the Ritual of Akindo—and strengthened her Mythrrim ones. This was a dangerous psychic surgery, especially if Kelandris refused his help later on—choosing madness over sanity—thereby isolating herself from not only her societal roots but her animal ones as well. Very dangerous, he thought, continuing with the process. Forcing himself to ignore the nervous twinge of his stomach, Zendrak impressed Kel's mind with the wisdom of Mythrrim laws of kinship. Such laws were more ancient and more gracious than any the two-leggeds had yet evolved. Zendrak cut deeper, and Kelandris began to feel very lightheaded. Zendrak spoke quietly to Kel, telling her Mythrrim stories of the Greatkin and the Presence. Kel's body slowly relaxed. Zendrak freed her psyche further. By leaving Kelandris only her Mythrrim heritage to consult, Zendrak hoped to sidestep the laws of Suxonli. If he could literally undercut the potency and legitimacy of Suxonli's Blood Day Rule in Kel's mind, he might be able to minimize Yonneth's damage. Also, by offering Kelandris a taste of ancient Mythrrim loyalty, Zendrak hoped to expose Yonneth's «brotherly love» for the sham that it actually was. Zendrak frowned. Sundering Kelandris from her Tammirring culture would make her utterly dependent on him for a while. After all, other than Kelandris, he was the only Mythrrim walking around in two-legged form at present. Zendrak swallowed. He knew he could handle it. But could she? What if Kelandris perceived such dependence as a threat to her survival? Risky, he thought, considering Kel's current mental instability. Still, Kelandris was his sister—and the child of two Greatkin. Furthermore, she was just plain willful, defiant, and dogged. In short, utterly creative and contrary. Good often came from such traits. He took a deep breath. But so did bad. There was no guarantee this psychic surgery would work. The entire operation rested on the folly of a calculated risk. Worse, the calculated risk banked on a trust engendered by a dimly recalled past love. Zendrak rolled his eyes, preparing to commit himself to Love's Keeping. Zendrak watched Kelandris play with the Kindrasul nervously. Her movements were jerky and her green eyes only marginally lucid. Here goes, he thought without enthusiasm. Then, pressing his fingers into the back of Kel's neck, Zendrak eased the last thread of two-legged morality away from her heart and soul. Closing his eyes, he poured a hundred thousand years of Mythrrim civilization into Kel's psyche. Kelandris shuddered. She started to fight Zendrak but stopped when he triggered her memory of a certain forest glen in Suxonli. Kelandris blinked, her expression disoriented. Time rolled backwards. Chapter Thirty-One Costumes and torchlight! Shrieks and laughing fury! The season was late autumn. Kelandris was seventeen, and the place was Suxonli. This evening, as had been the custom for centuries, the villagers of this small mountain community celebrated the Trickster's Hallows. They called it Rimble's Revel. This was Carnivale and Mardi Gras. This was Trickster's Treat. And an ancient Remembrance. So sing it: ah ya, Rimble! Come, Trickster, come! Be yet again! But beware his back door ways, the thrall of his disrespect! Beware the color of his striped coat, the prick of his maddening sting! Sing it, Yellow-Jacket Yellow! The Wasp flies abroad tonight! Tonight villagers donned masks and honored all unknowns. They must. Tonight the costumed beggar at the door or the nodding hag at the hearth might be Trickster himself come to merry-prank you. Tonight anything could happen. And while the rest of the world prepared for sleep, all Suxonli stirred. Witness a streaming, screaming time! Doors slammed as two hundred villagers swarmed from their mountain homes, the children leading. This was an instinctive exodus, choreographed by the generational hive-mind of Revels past. Here was a clarion call sounded by history and answered in full by the dancing, prancing men and women of Suxonli. Here gathered the Wasp Queen's hive, each member Rimblessah—Trickster blessed and Trickster drunk with wild abandon. The curious and the hedonistic travelled for miles around to join in the ecstatic revelry of Suxonli's wild festival. Strangers smiled at each other under homemade masks of terror. All were eagerly included in the rapacious clowning of this host village. No one was safe from Trickster's Touch tonight. And that was the way everyone wanted it—particularly young Kelandris. Dressed as a hermaphrodite, Kel wore Rimble's yellow and black. Tonight she'd lose her maidenhead to a costumed villager—like every Wasp Queen had done before her. If she conceived, the crops would flourish in the following year. If she didn't, no one would begrudge her a good time. Tonight was sorrow's banishment and joy's release. Voices! Louder! Change or be changed! Dance high, dance hard with the shriekers in the street! Sporting exaggerated breasts, a striped penis sheath standing erect between her legs, Kelandris led the Hive into the village square. Lips buzzed, children laughed. Now the five elderly members of the village council processed. Advancing slowly toward this year's Revel Queen, they carried a large straw wasp on their shoulders. Kelandris pointed to the effigy. She laughed maniacally—as per ritual instruction. Then the Wasp Queen chanted, her young voice piercing the crowd's clamor: Bugaboo you, you old Stingaroo! Sing Rimsah, ya Rimble, Nothing's taboo! On cue, the crowd erupted into giggles and wild hilarity. Tonight Trickster was theirs. Pulled from the Fertile Dark into the revel torchlight, Greatkin Rimble was no longer a thing of terror or reverence. Tonight Trickster was ripped off his Greatkin pedestal, and his form made disposable. He was the Changeable One. Tonight Trickster would perish in the village flames. But set free, his spirit would enter every woman, man, and child. The villagers each wore a masked version of the Great Fool's face, both claiming and buffooning him. Theirs was a serious silliness. The Wasp Queen lifted a torch high and set fire to the idol of Rimble. And for a brief moment of glory, Trickster's gossamer wings fanned the air with light in the harvest scarecrow-wind. And now the children came. They played a pinching tag game called Trickster's Touch. They were Rimble's little stings. Singing the rhyme, chanting the rhyme, and again! Grabbing hands,