Shestryl was the first to regain consciousness. The griffon blinked, wondering why she was staring up at the sky. This wasn't right…

Carefully, she picked herself out of the bush where she lay sprawled untidily. "Hurr," she muttered to herself as she cautiously stretched each wing. "Nothing broken, I don't think…"

Then she caught sight of the scarlet-clad form that lay unmoving nearby. She clacked her beak in alarm and hopped the two steps to turn Vir'hada over gently with one fore-claw. The old shaman was breathing, Shestryl noticed with relief. Nothing more could be done just now, so Shestryl turned her attention to Darrim.

The massive energies of the gate and the Void beyond it had reduced the Adept to a mere husk. Shestryl felt her throat tighten with grief as she observed his shriveled body, no heavier than a child's. But…the griffon blinked as she looked around and saw several other bodies as well. They had been bleached by their passage through the Void, but Shestryl saw that they were all alive.

Stupid griffon, she admonished herself. First thing to do is get help. And don't you have a teleson set for a reason? She fumbled the odd coils of wire out of one of her many pouches and set it correctly on her head. As always, she felt that odd echoing inside her skull, as if her thoughts were suddenly bouncing off of the walls of a cave. :Frostfire! She sent, and was rewarded with an immediate answer.

:Shestryl, what happened? We Felt the disturbance all the way at the Vale!

:The experiment…failed. Darrim is dead and his teacher injured. Part of it is physical, I think, and part of it backlash from being too close to the gate when it—when it exploded. And Frostfire—there are others here who are injured. I—I think they came from the other side of the gate.

There was a moment of mental silence, and Shestryl got the impression that she had managed to startle the normally unflappable Adept. Then she Heard, :We will send someone as quickly as possible. You know what to do in the meantime.

Shestryl removed the teleson. She did indeed know what to do—all of the Silver Griffons were trained in basic field medicine. And she, with her human-like "hands" was better at it than most of her race.

The first, most immediate need was shelter. All of the humans were in shock, and would die if they weren't kept warm, even on a balmy day like this one. Quickly she scraped bracken together to form a sort of pallet. Then, one by one, she began dragging the humans to the make-shift "bed", starting with Vir'hada.

When she got to the first of the strangers, she scented blood. Peering closer, she realized that he was injured. In fact, all of them were bleeding, and all but one clutched weapons. And weirdly enough, all of them wore leather masks.

Damn. She had no bandages with her, and there was nothing she could use except…her eyes fell on Darrim's body, and she sighed. Well, he certainly wouldn't be needing his clothes any longer. Praying that Kal'enal would understand, the griffon used her beak to rip the mage's robes into strips she could use to bind wounds. When she had them all treated and resting as well as she could, she covered them with the remains of Darrim's clothes and her own wide wings, and settled down to wait for help.

Squeaky drifted through dreams in which real memories mingled with most absurd fantasies. Most vivid of the memories was standing at her Captain's elbow and facing Ram Singh's army of fanatics. She remembered firing arrow after arrow into the endless line of screaming fighters. She remembered Morg lifting his axe and going into one of his berserk frenzies, mowing down the entire front line before he had disappeared beneath a pile of bodies intent on tearing him apart. She remembered Maul and No leaping into the fray, each accounting for perhaps a dozen men before she couldn't see them any more. She remembered the look of grim hatred which was the last memory she had of her brother's face, and the eloquent expression in her lover's eyes, eyes that held all the words he refused to voice.

But she also dreamed of soft music, green and gold and blue, music that danced through her brain and brought deep and restful sleep. She dreamed of bright blue eyes in a woman's kind face, and of cold clawed hands that held her gently and bade her drink something that tasted better than anything else she'd ever put to her lips. She dreamed of the sound of gently falling water and birdsong and once again that joyous verdant music.

When her eyes fluttered open in truth, she thought that she must be still dreaming. She was comfortable, neither too hot not too cold, laying on something that cradled her body gently. Her very tired body, she noticed, and then wondered how she could be so tired when she'd slept for…how long had she been asleep? And where was she anyway? And where—dear gods, what had happened to everybody else?

The frantic questions drove her to sit up. Or at least, she tried to sit up. She made it half way and was forced to stop, panting with exhaustion and whining a little with frustration. She clutched at the green leafy curtain that surrounded her, finding that it was not really leaves but cunningly woven cloth. Her grip pulled it aside somewhat, and she caught a glimpse of a large room with several other small beds like the one she lay in. The one right next to hers—so close she could have touched it if she'd had the energy to reach out—held a large man whose curly brown hair was threaded with gray. One side of his face was horrifically disfigured, as if burned by acid at some point in the past, and Squeaky let out a little sob of pure relief as she recognized her Captain.

A whisper of sound from the opposite corner made Squeaky tense and whip her head around as a tall graceful woman stepped around yet another curtain. The woman smiled at Squeaky, then quickly moved to support the shaky scout as the last of her reserves gave out.

"Gently," said the woman softly. "You have been many days in bed, and your body is still very weak. You must be almost as a child again, and go gently as you learn to walk and feed and dress yourself again."

Squeaky blushed. "I'm sorry," she stammered. "I—I don't mean to be such trouble."

The woman smiled kindly as she slid an arm around Squeaky's waist. "You have been very little trouble these last weeks," she said, "and any trouble you are likely to get into now means that you are getting better, and that is all any Healer or kestra'chern could ask. Now," she asked briskly, "what would you like first? Food, or a bath?"

Squeaky realized that her stomach was so empty that she felt almost sick, but even worse was the way her skin crawled with the need for a bath. "I—I think I'd like to get clean," she said hesitantly.

"Very well then," said the woman, and she eased Squeaky out of the bed. The scout wobbled as her legs tried to collapse, but the healer let her cling to her arms until her balance was steadier, and then led her, step by slow shuffling step, beyond the curtain.

The sound of falling water was louder here, and there was a faintly metallic tang in the air. Squeaky's eyes went round as she saw the pools of gently steaming water, cupped in shallow bowls of natural rock. The woman led her to the highest one, and helped her ease into the water. Squeaky gasped again as the heat enveloped her, and then moaned in pure bliss. It was hotter than any bath she'd ever had, and seemed to want to turn her whole body into mush.

"Here is soap," the woman was saying, "and here are cloths for washing. When you are clean, go to the higher pool, for resting. I will have Resten leave you a robe, and get you something to eat."

"Wait," Squeaky blurted. "What about the others? My Company? Will they be all right?"

Sorrow veiled the woman's eyes for a moment, and abruptly she leaned over to place a kiss on Squeaky's forehead. "They will wake soon," she said. "Their injuries were…severe. And when you are all awake, then it will be time for speech about where you are, and how you got here, and what your plans will be from there."

The scout washed with soft soap that smelled of herbs, even managing to get her hair clean. She had another bad moment when, as she was lowering herself into the other pool, a lizard-like face suddenly emerged from the bushes. The face was attached to a creature perhaps four feet tall, and shaped like a lizard but walking on its hind legs. It carried some sort of bundle in its hands, and bore enough of a resemblance to the Dominator's snaky servants that Squeaky screamed, lost her grip, and slipped beneath the surface of the water.

With a speed that belied its reptilian appearance, the lizard-thing ran to the pool and fished out the spluttering scout, briskly thumping the water from her lungs. When she had stopped choking, it reached for the bundle it had dropped and began drying her off with a soft towel, then draped a warm blue robe about her shoulders.

"Th-thank you," Squeaky stuttered. She shivered with reaction, and the creature eyed her for a moment.

"Humph!" it replied. "Silly humans. Go out and fight, get hurt and have to come back for Healing. And who does all the washing and cleaning and cooking for poor sick humans, hmm? Resten and other hertasi, that's who." The creature—or hertasi—pulled Squeaky to her feet. "Speaking of cooking, it's time and enough that you were awake to actually taste what I make for you. Come, come—you cannot regain your strength on broth and tea!"

The man known as One emerged from tangled impressions of pain into a warm safe darkness. Pain fled; he was conscious instead of a presence that seemed to shield him. Vankar's shield, His reward to those who died in His service. Content that he had managed that much, One slept dreamlessly.

When he awoke, it was abrupt with no fanfare. He looked up at the leafy green canopy overhead, and puzzled at the lassitude that weighed down his limbs. He was in no pain, but he wasn't at all certain that he was dead. For one thing, he was thirsty. And incredibly hungry. Only one way to find out for certain. With a groan at the sheer effort such a simple act cost him, One levered himself upright against the soft cushions that cradled him.

He surveyed the room—if that was the right word for a place that seemed grown as much as built. It held other beds like his—some occupied, some not. His trident was leaning against the wall nearby—One reached for it, feeling the sweat beading on his brow at the incredible strain such a simple act required. His hand grasped the cool metal, and he used it to pull himself the rest of the way up, resting his feet on the floor.

He stopped, partly out of weakness, and partly to stare at his own hand. It was striped, like one of the horse-like zebras he'd hunted in his youth. Something had leached the black pigment from part of his skin. A quick glance determined that the effect extended to his entire body.

Then there was a flutter of movement out of the corner of his eye, and a monster stepped into his view.

The fore of the creature was something like a falcon. The cranium was perhaps a bit larger in proportion, but it had a falcon's striped plumage and large yellow eyes. As well as a beak large enough to sever a horse's spine. The back part, One observed, was more like a great cat—like one of the lions he had competed with for the zebras. All four legs ended in talons nearly as long as his hand, and a huge pair of wings was neatly folded on its back. It cocked its head curiously as he struggled to stand.

"Arre you one of the Haileigh?" it asked, perfectly understandable despite the slight trill.

Coherent human speech was not what One had expected, and the shock sent him nearly to his knees. "Highly what?" he managed to ask.

That great beak gaped in what was unmistakably a smile. "I ssupposse not," the creature said. "I thought you might be one of the Haileigh warrriorrss. They'rre big and black, like you."

One took a moment to process this before answering. "I am not one of the Haileigh," he said. "I am called One. And I am…not as black as I used to be."

It—no, she, he realized—made a gurgling sound that was unmistakably laughter. "That iss temporary," she said. "I am Shestryl. And you arre likely hungrry. Some of yourr Company is awake, and having a meal. "Would you like to join them now? Orr would you like a bath firsst?"

He thought about that for a moment. "Food first," he decided. "Then a bath."

"Then lean on me," she said, and began to maneuver her body next to his.

But One shook his head. "No," he said. "I will manage."

Shestryl cocked her head again to study him as he sat summoning the energy for his next attempt. "If you ssay sso," she said cheerfully. And did not say anything else as he rose and made his way slowly to the waiting table.

The Captain of the Tears of Blood lay swimming in sea of blood and guilt. He had been responsible for the lives and livelihood of nearly five hundred men. And he had seen them cut down for no crime other than being what they were.

Why did they hate us so much? He wondered. What threat did we pose to them that they should hunt us down? Now, as then, there were no answers, and over and over, he watched as they appeared before him, still bearing their death-wounds, demanding to know why he had led them to their deaths.

I didn't know, he told them silently. I didn't know.

Then something seemed to stand between him and the gruesome visions. A cool voice and soft music intervened, drowning out the voices. A dim veil cut him off from the specters, allowing him a measure of peace as he slept.

He woke as he had so often recently, feeling Squeaky's warm body snuggled next to his. Unconsciously, he raised a hand to stroke her back, and she stirred, and squealed piercingly.

"Knuckles! You're awake!"

"What…yes, I'm awake," he mumbled. He opened his eyes and blinked. Squeaky's face was inches away from his, but why were there leaves behind her? Had they had to camp? Why was he so comfortable if he'd been sleeping on the ground?

Automatically, he tried to sit up. Squeaky grasped his hand and braced him as he managed to get his torso upright, then nearly fell over again, winded from the effort.

"Wh-where the hell are we?" he managed to ask.

"You are in my chambers in the Vale of the Kala'd'in K'leshya," said a new voice.

Knuckles beheld a woman with bright blue eyes, golden skin, and lovely aquiline features. "And who are you?" he asked suspiciously.

"I am the kestra'chern Nightsong," she said. "You and your shieldbrothers have been my guests for many days now, and you are one of the last to awaken. Your wounds were…deeper than others, and took more time to Heal. But now you will be better served by becoming accustomed again to motion, and by eating real food and not the soups and teas which were the only things we could feed you. Come; there is food prepared, or your shieldmate can show you where the pools are if you wish to bathe first. I will have Resten bring you something to wear in just a moment."

She turned to leave, but Knuckles interrupted. "Wait," he said. "Why are you doing all of this for us?"

Nightsong regarded the mercenary captain with surprise, and then shook her head. "Because you need it," she replied, and then left.

Carefully, Knuckles lowered himself into the hot spring and reached for the soap. "Ok, Squeak," he said as he began scrubbing, "fill me in. The last thing I remember is being on the Plain, getting ready for Ram Singh's fanatics to cut us down."

"That's the last thing I remember, too," Squeaky said. "Until I woke up a couple of days ago. Knuckles…" the scout's voice betrayed her anxiety, "this is the weirdest place I've ever seen! Have you noticed, you understood everything Nightsong said to us?"

"Well, yeah, she was speaking Rosean…"

But Squeaky shook her head. "No, she wasn't. She was speaking her language, Kalad'a'in. But you understood her, because she put it in your head—she put it all of our heads—while we were sleeping."

Knuckles thought—really thought—about the words coming from the woman's mouth. "Huh," he said. "You're right. But it felt natural, like I'd always known it."

Squeaky nodded vigorously. "If you think about it, you can even spot some gaps, like where there isn't a good word for a concept in, say, Foresberger or Rosean," she said. "Like kestra'chern. There's nothing quite the same in any language I know, so it doesn't translate."

"And the people here—half of 'em walk on four legs! There's things like lizards that seem to do most of the cooking and washing, and things like wolves and deer that talk in your head, and then there's the griffons…They're so nice and polite you could almost forget that they're big enough to eat you whole!" Squeaky shuddered. "Yesterday I stepped out of these rooms just to see if I could—you wouldn't believe the size of the trees in this place—well, look at that wall there."

Knuckles turned his head, and realized that what he's assumed was an ordinary wooden wall was in fact covered in bark, and had a slight curve to it. "That's…a tree?" he guessed.

Squeaky nodded. "Seems like most of this place is built above the ground," she said. "Not that I went far—it wouldn't be hard to get lost out there, until you were a little more familiar with the layout."

Knuckles submerged briefly, rinsing the soap from his face and hair, then reached for the towel Squeaky held out to him. "Ok…what about this woman, this Nightsong?" he asked. "What do you mean, she put the language in our heads?"

The scout's face was solemn, and a little scared. "That's just what I mean," she said. "Some of them—maybe all of them—they have this way of talking in your head. I mean, you don't hear it with your ears at all. And I guess they can do things other than talk. Nightsong knew you and I were lovers, and that One was your first officer. And—everybody calls me Tara." Knuckles raised an eyebrow. He was one of the few people who remembered Squeaky's birth name.

The thought of someone rummaging around in his head made Knuckles profoundly uneasy. He let Squeaky help him out of the pool and began drying himself off. "What else?" he asked. "I know there's something else—you've got that look on your face, the one you get when there's something you don't want to talk about."

Her answer was slow. "Have you noticed that it's easier to talk without slurring you words?" she asked carefully.

"I—what?" Since a monster's acidic venom had literally eaten part of the flesh of his face five years ago, Knuckles had gotten used to taking special care when eating and speaking. Now, he hurriedly felt his left cheek, still expecting to encounter a gaping hole. Instead, his fingers met only skin—ridged with scar tissue and coarse with stubble, but skin nonetheless.

"There's still a lot of scarring," Squeaky was saying, "but now—well, I don't think you'd scare anybody if you went out without your mask."

His hands shook a little as he reached for the clothes she handed him—and then he got another surprise. "Where are my clothes?" he asked.

Squeaky made a face. "The hertasi probably kidnapped them," she said. "They took everybody's, I think. When I ask where they are, they just give me this look, and say they're 'being cleaned.'" Now she smiled. "It's ok, though. I like the things they've been leaving out for me." She spread her arms to display the outfit she was wearing. "They're very comfortable, and they look bright, but they'd blend a lot better than you'd think in the forest—if we were in an actual forest."

"Huh." Knuckles took a closer look at Squeaky. The tunic she was wearing was a mottled red and brown, with a subtle pattern of knotwork along the edges. Those edges looked ragged at first, until you realized that they'd been cut in the shapes of autumn leaves. Little antler-tips fastened the front, and the hem came almost to the knees of the matching trousers. Both were cut close to the body, though not so close they impeded movement. Glancing at the pile in his hands, Knuckles realized that his were of a similar cut, though in mottled greens. Grimacing at the loss of yet another familiar thing, he slipped on the new clothes. Squeak was right, he realized; they were comfortable. Then he noticed yet another anomaly. "When did you become a blond?" he asked.

Squeaky tugged at her hair self-consciously. The sun-streaked brown had lightened to blond, and all traces of tan had faded, leaving her with the peaches-and-cream complexion she'd had when she first joined the company. Even her eyes had lightened, turning the hazel into a clear light green.

"Nightsong says that's another effect of the magic that brought us here," she answered. "Something about node energies and bleaching. She says it's temporary, though." She grinned suddenly "Just try not to laugh when you see One. He's striped!"

"What did it do to me?"

She cocked her head. "Not much. You've got no tan left, and your eyes are kind of a steel-gray. And there's some white in your hair, right at the temples. Makes you look a little older, that's all."

"All right," he sighed, shaking the last of the water out of his hair. "Where's the food I smell?"