The night was cloudless. Starlight poured down onto the snow, dancing in the crystals of ice. Ushatar tilted his face up to the sky and realized, for the first time, that some being had created the marvel of stars. Something—who? What?—had first imagined that such a thing, stars, should exist, showering light down upon the world, and then, through some process, manifest that thought into a physical thing that could be seen by every living creature. Who was it? And how had he, she, or they, done it at all? Like imagining a picture and then drawing it, Ushatar thought, only endlessly more than that. For some, Ushtar thought as he stared at the sky, drawing was a mystery too. But one that could be taught, he realized. He didn't know why any of these new thoughts mattered. But they didn't need to matter. It was all simply… beautiful. Someone had created the stars, and ridiculously, Ushatar was as joyful as if that someone had created the stars specifically for his own personal pleasure in this single moment.

But someone mortal was coming. He'd something earthy to do. Reluctantly, Ushatar lowered his gaze, until it settled on Saalcaf and Aarth-Anghum, approaching him as warily as the cats of Isengard around poor old horny Ghuribal. They stopped before him, the Durub and the Smith, and their posture was subservient. Ushatar laughed aloud, and threw his arms over their shoulders.

"Stop that," he told them, "It's only me."

"If you say so," Aarth managed.

"You feel no change?" Saalcaf asked, alarmed.

Ushatar stood very still, considering himself. He breathed in, the cold pure air delighting him as it ran through his body. He could feel the blood coursing through his veins, a delicate but invigorating massage. Had they truly put some spirit in him? Air and blood were very mortal things. He ought not to feel them if he was ageless evil, certainly not feel such mortal things with such pleasure? "I've my own thoughts, I think they're the same. I love my mate, my sprog. If that ritual was supposed to turn me into some Witch King, it didn't. But I want to remake the swords all the same. I'm sure we'll do it right this time, even if it's only Ushatar there, hoping they work on the wraiths. Should we fetch Gadhaal and begin?"

"You feared our failure last night," Aarth said slowly. "You said as much to me. And now there's no fear in you."

"Maybe Gadhaal sucked my brains out instead of my heart," Ushatar said, grinning. "Besides, we either do it right and win, or we fail and die. I was ready to die anyway. So every extra moment that I'm myself is a gift, isn't it? I don't think I've ever felt so alive."

"I think we must see Gadhaal anyway, first. And Brodha too, maybe. She can check your... your body. Then maybe we'll know for sure if the power's been focused in you."

"I'm sorry to say, Saalcaf, I'm only Ushatar. But I'll go with you, and then I'd like to try my hand in the forge. Can I make a blade of my own design? I've not much experience, but I'm pulling an image from my mind, I'd like to turn it into a real sword-What was that?"

Ushatar's head whipped around, braids swinging. Whatever he'd seen, its shadow was the size of one of the shy wild dogs that dug in the trash mounds in his old prison. It was just behind the closest dar. "Did you see it?" he asked Aarth.

Aarth just shook his head.

"It was there," Ushatar said, striding off to investigate. But on the other side of the dar, was only an alarmed old Orc sitting on his haunches outside his dar, sharpening his knives in the cold. Ushatar's appearance alarmed him. "Did something run past here?"

The old Orc shook his head, unsure how to speak to Ushatar.

"Good," Ushatar said, posturing himself to put the Orc at ease. "Tell me if you see anything, all right?"

The head nodded, and Ushatar backed away. A faint scent of death touched him, but that was gone as quick as the shadow was. He was so puzzled that he forgot the sword he wanted to make.

"I'll go get Brodha," Aarth said carefully, "And meet you both in Gadhaal's dar."

"Right," Ushatar said, returning to the present, and he walked away with Saalcaf.

Tara stood at the mouth of her dar, watching carefully. Once she saw Aarth begin to walk away, she ran for him, with Ilzin in her arms.

"Where's the Durub taking him?" she demanded, her breath fogging in the frigid air.

Aarth frowned, uncomfortable to be speaking alone to Ushatar's bonded mate. "To see Gadhaal. I'm to bring Brodha. He says he's unchanged, Tara. But he is not… as he was."

She bounced Ilzin up on her hip, shaking her head. "I… When I found him early in the morning, he was sick, he was cold, exhausted… And then I woke up and he… I don't know if he really ever slept. I thought he fell asleep, but he'd… He'd drawn, you see. So much that he'd have to have been at it all day, and even then… And… Well, he's never been… I've seen him happy, you see, or maybe content, but he's… He's radiant. I thought maybe, he was sure he was doomed last night. He was giving up his mind, himself, everything, to save us. Maybe he's full of joy to have woken as himself? And so it didn't work?"

"That's almost exactly what he said. Told us every moment now was a gift. But he's not the same, Tara. I can't say how he's changed, but he has. He's gone to see Gadhaal, and I'm bringing Brodha, too, maybe her healer's arts can tell us if he's… mortal. Or not. I don't exactly know what state he ought to be in, if it worked."

"You don't even know what you meant to do to him," she accused, rage flushing her all over again.

"Tara, if it didn't work, you know what's going to happen."

"And you don't realize I'd prefer that, than to lose him! Than to go… back! Whatever happens, you'll not do any more magic on him. I've got no powers, but I swear to you, you'll do no more harm to him! So let's together go get Brodha. I'm coming. Whatever happens now, I'll be there to make sure no one tries to hurt him again!"

"No one means him hurt, Tara."

"You say so! You only meant to steal his mind from him! You'd make him a different sort of wraith, to save yourselves! I don't forget that, Aarth. I'll never forget that. Now let's go."

When they entered Gadhaal's dar, the shamaness was sitting across from Ushatar, her fingers gently lifting his face as she examined him with her white eyes. Tara glared, but Gadhaal didn't so much as notice her. Ushatar hated magic, Tara thought. He loathed the shamaness's presence. Yet her he sat, his body at complete ease.

"Very good," Gadhaal purred. "Your energy is strong."

"He's changed?" Saalcaf demanded, ruthlessly. "It worked?"

"We must see…" she breathed, turning about to fetch a bowl, water, powders as milky as crushed bone, as her own gaze.

Tara pinched her eyes shut. She'd chosen Ushatar. She'd nothing in the world but Ushatar and their baby, and if he was right, the baby she was carrying. When she opened her eyes, they were fogged with sorrow, but she went to sit right beside him. Ushatar smiled around her; he looked at her like she was the moon itself, lighting the sky, but she couldn't smile back. Tenderness and grief mingled. I don't want to hate you again, she thought, and as if he'd heard her, he frowned.

"S'all right, Tara," he murmured.

If you've not turned, maybe, she thought, hugging Ilzin close.

"Spill your blood," Gadhaal said, handing him some old, rusty looking dagger.

"And I'll have a taste of that," Brodha said.

Ushatar sliced his left palm open without flinching, black blood welling up, dripping into Gadhaal's scrying bowl. Nonchalant, he held his palm out to Brodha while watching Gadhaal. The healer licked his wound, then scowled.

"Somethin' else in there, anyway," Brodha said. "Somethin' more than Orc."

"He's half-Man," Tara insisted.

"Aye…" Brodha agreed, but she looked instead to Gadhaal, who nodded.

"He's half-Man," Tara repeated forcefully.

"Quiet," Gadhaal hissed, her claws sprinkling the bone-powder into the mix of water and blood. When it struck the surface, the liquid began to boil and steam, and the shamaness's lips spread, grinning, across her fangs.

"Nah," Ushatar murmured.

"What does that mean?" Tara demaned. No one replied. "What the fuck does that mean!?"

"Calm yourself, girlie," Brodha breathed, sympathy laced through her voice.

"The power grows within him," Gadhaal pronounced, and Tara gasped, shrinking beside Ushatar.

"Is it time to make our swords?" Saalcaf asked.

"Time for that and more. But leave him a while with me first, while you prepare. There are spells he'll want to learn to speak."

"Spells?" Ushatar asked. Without fear. Without disgust. Tara closed her eyes at the finality of it. It was this, his lack of hatred for sorcery, that terrified her far more than some witch's bubbling bowl. He hadn't believed he'd changed, at least he'd said that; but he hadn't flinched when told he had, that he was cursed utterly.

"Words," Gadhaal said. "Words of power."

"D'you mean there are words to make what's in here—" he tapped his temple, "come out here, into the world?"

"Oh yes," she purred.

"You'll teach me how to draw," Ushatar said, laughing at his own private joke.

"What does this mean?" Tara cried. "Is it like Khalgurz? Do we watch him change now? Do I watch you die, Ushatar? Do I watch some foul thing make use of the body and heart I loved?"

He turned to her, full of a radiance that made him excruciatingly beautiful, yet in the way only a terrible wild thing could be beautiful. "Tara…" he breathed, all of her pain pouring from his horribly brilliant eyes. "You go see Daumani, let Ilzin play with her sprog, and with Broghud. When I've done my work, I'll come back to you, and you'll see… my body, my heart, all of it is yours still. And nothing makes use of me. Nothing will make use of me ever again."

Tara couldn't sit with Daumani. Even her friend's comfort was a knife in her belly. She left Ilzin and ran to her dar, sobbing herself into exhaustion until she lay shivering in her furs, staring at the cold dead hearth. As she fell asleep, it occurred to her that she might take Ilzin and run, through the wraiths, through the cold… they'd die, she thought, but was there another choice? If the same power he'd banished had infected him again? If she'd have to watch it… And how many times worse would Isengard have been, if she'd loved him first, only to have him turn? I've a baby now… and pregnant!

It was too much to bear. She would think of it all later. She'd only woken, but she couldn't even gather the strength to rise from bed. Tara lay like one dead, until the oblivion of sleep returned.

And then, in her sleep, she felt the warmth of arms around her. "Ushatar," she whispered, but as she woke and saw him, she said, "You're not Ushatar. Leave me…"

"I'm no one else," he murmured, his hands on her face. When he put his mouth to hers, a sob escaped her, and he kissed her tears, whispering, "I'm here, do you see? I'm right here."

"You'll be gone soon. I'll never know when."

"No," he swore, as he snatched at her breath, his eyes closing in pleasure as he pressed his lips to hers. She could feel his hands sweeping her trousers away. "A thousand armies couldn't take me from you."

"This isn't an army!" she cried, even as she grabbed him close to her, pulling the heat of his skin against hers. His voice was still his own, his hands strong and gentle, his touch demanding and reverent.

"You keep me, myself," he whispered, pulling her tunic away. "I'm here," he said, and then he was inside her. "I'm right here."

Tara felt the deep shudder that passed through him, as if he was suddenly drowned in pleasure. But she didn't see, when he gasped and tipped his head back, the ethereal glow that ignited in his eyes. He brought her miles past thought, past sense, to some place where there was only bliss holding her shivering body together. The light was changing around her, from night into day, but he'd not had his fill. "Shh," he whispered, sitting back and pulling her into his lap, his teeth grazing her bare flesh softly. "Don't move at all."

"I must," she gasped, and his laugh was like a melody.

"Don't move," he whispered. "Still. Now… just breathe… with me."

She panted, drawing him in, exhaling herself back into him, until she no longer knew the difference between them, until his pleasure was hers and hers, his, and that pleasure was like the sweetest death, radiating through them.

Then somehow, it was all over, and Tara was on the border of sleep again, spent entirely in his arms, their bodies slick and weightless. She shifted against him, thinking idly, something was missing. Her fingers brushed without conscious understanding at her throat. The pure white stone, stolen from the Bear-Men, was gone, but Tara didn't register that at all, as the last fragments of awareness slipped away.