The Magehound

"But that is worse than the Kilmaruu Paradox!" Matteo protested. "If the gate is closed, the laraken will be unleashed upon the land. Many wizards will be destroyed."

Tzigone sniffed. "Well, there's more to Kiva than I suspected! I thought I was the only one to have that particular dream."

Andris eyed her with interest. "You do not care for wizards. That's a strange sentiment for a jordaini lad."

"I'm not a boy, and I'm no jordain!" she said emphatically. "What I am is chock-full of magic. Laraken eat magic. So as far as I can figure, there's only one reason for Kiva to want me here: bait."

The jordain's face lit up. "You are the young woman of whom Kiva spoke! The one who can call the laraken!"

Tzigone's eyes narrowed. "What makes you think this laraken will come when I call it?"

"You have the gift. Kiva says that it is so-an inheritance from your mother, the wizard Keturah."

The color drained from Tzigone's face. "Keturah," she said, repeating a name that was suddenly familiar. "Of course. All creatures came to Mother's call."

"You have both magic and resistance to magic. The laraken will be enticed by your voice. You will lure it away from the magical gate, and Kiva will close the leak forever. But if Kiva is correct, the laraken will not be able to touch the magic locked inside you."

"And if Kiva is not correct?" Tzigone asked, her voice a mocking imitation of the jordain's worshipful tones.

"I would not ask this of her," Matteo said softly. "She may have this talent from her mother, but I suspect she also has a bit of the diviner's gift. Her sight doesn't go forward, but back in time. I have seen it. This gift is newly awakened in her. I do not know if the laraken will sense it or not."

Andris considered this. "If this is true, then the battle would be dangerous to her, and to us as well. Only people who are utterly without magic can avoid the laraken."

"It is too big a risk to take," Matteo said. "Tzigone, you must leave. Go now, and quickly."

His words stirred memory, memory awakened by the sound of her mother's name.

Run, child! Keturah had said, her beautiful voice shrill with fear. Don't stop for anything.

The words echoed through Tzigone's mind and chilled her heart, just as they had done nearly twenty years before. She responded instinctively, like the child she had been, arid she turned on her heel and fled.

She ran to the nearest big tree and scrambled up into its comforting, leafy arms. She fisted her hands and dug them into her eyes, fiercely willing herself into the darkness of the memory trance.

Tzigone slipped back, back, until once again she was a small child, fleeing with her mother. They were in the puzzle palace, a magical maze that filled a vast courtyard. Footsteps thudded through the villa toward them.

Tzigone turned to dart back into the insane courtyard, plucking at her mother's skirt. But the woman gently pried the small fingers loose.

"Go," she said quietly. "My magic is nearly gone. They will find me soon whether I run or stay."

"I won't leave you," the child said stubbornly.

"You must. It is you they seek."

The child Tzigone nodded. Somehow she had always known. But knowing wasn't the same as doing, and she could not bear to leave.

A figure appeared suddenly in the open door, though the sound of footsteps was still many paces away. The child stared with mingled awe and fear at the most beautiful creature she had ever beheld.

In the doorway stood an elf woman of rare and exotic beauty. Her skin was the coppery hue of a desert sunset, and her elaborately curled and braided hair was the deep green of jungle moss. Rich displays of gold and emeralds and malachite glittered at her throat and on her hands. Over her yellow silk dress, she wore an overtunic of dark green, much embroidered with golden thread. A little smile curved her painted lips but did not quite touch her eyes, which were as golden and merciless as a hunting cat's. She was beautiful and terrible all at once.

"Greetings, Keturah," the elf said to the child's mother. "You have led us a merry chase. And this, of course, is your accursed little bastard."

Her voice was as sweet and clear as temple bells, but Tzigone wasn't fooled. «Bastard» was the worst epitaph a Halruaan could hurl. Tzigone understood that it was not just insult but truth.

The crescendo of footsteps came to a sudden stop just beyond the door, and the elf woman glanced back over her shoulder. "Take them both," she said with cold satisfaction.

But Keturah leaped forward and braced her hands on either side of the doorframe. She cast a desperate glance back at her daughter. "Run, child!" she pleaded. "Don't stop for anything."

Tzigone hesitated. Green light began to encircle her mother, twining about her like choking vines. Keturah tottered and went down to her knees, her hands clawing frantically at her throat.