"Then," Honnis said, a bit out of breath, drained by his outburst, "you have faith in something that most people turn away from in prejudicial fear. Magic is natural. And like most natural things, it is also dangerous."

He lifted the glove. Praulth saw, with some alarm, that Honnis's hand could not hold it steady.

"You have wondered from the start how I have been providing you with current intelligence of the Felk movements occurring so far away."

"Yes," Praulth said honestly. "I have wondered."

"Far Speak."

"Master?"

"Communication magic. This glove belongs to one of the elite scouts dispatched by Cultat. That scout, in turn, possesses an item of mine, something I've handled often, that has essentially taken on something of my ... spirit, if you will."

"Spirit?" Praulth retreated from the word. It had no place in her world of cool logic and deductive

insight.

Honnis gritted his teeth. "By the sanity of the gods, Thinker Praulth, don't close your mind now."

"My apologies, Master Honnis." How strange. Only a watch ago she had been silently cursing this man. Now she was affording him all the courtesies of his academic status. Not to mention the respect she owed him as her mentor.

Yet Honnis had betrayed her. How could she forgive that... even if this was his deathbed?

"Everyone," Honnis pronounced, "has the capacity to work magic. But the facility for it is another matter. It is a penchant, no different from the distinct ability to, say, understand at a fundamental level the strategies and cunning of a war commander who has been dead two and a half hundredwinters." "I see," said Praulth.

"I don't believe you do." But he said it gently. "Tell me then."

Honnis closed his eyes, drew a breath that rattled slightly. "Magic has a source. People commonly believe— if they believe at all—that practitioners draw on energies that are locked away inside themselves. Some even who use magic in a minor capacity believe this themselves. They don't know better, and they've not been formally taught otherwise. But magic doesn't come from within." She was curious. "Where then?" "Elsewhere. The source has as many names as the gods have faces. The Wellspring. The First Divinity. The Glorious Birth."

She puzzled over the names. They sounded archaic, superstitious.

"It is the place from which we come," said Honnis, "and to where we are all restored. It is a reality of great energy, of vast power."

"A reality?" Praulth felt herself frowning as her logical mind instinctively picked apart Honnis's words. "Are you implying that there is a reality other than this one?" "It is self-evident." "How so?" "This reality is life. What is life's opposite?"

"I am not Master Turogo's pupil," she said. Turogo headed the philosophy council. "I am yours." This last came out somewhat hoarsely.

"Life's opposite is ... ?" pressed Honnis.

"Death," Praulth said, with a small shrug.

"That is yet another name. The oldest."

She wasn't following. She wasn't even convinced this was leading anywhere. But she had promised to hear this man's words. Then, what he had said registered.

"Are you saying," Praulth whispered, "that magic taps into a reality beyond this one ... beyond life? Its source is—death? That makes no sense." In truth, all this was greatly offensive to her rational mind. She accepted the authenticity of magic. The Felk had used it in their war, and war was a reality not to be denied. But this babble about the Wellspring or whatever Honnis had said—

"From which we come and to where we are restored," the elderly instructor repeated. His eyes had remained closed. Now he opened them, peering up at Praulth.

She felt the impulse to go to him, to kneel by the cot, take his hand. But she didn't know if such actions would be welcome. She remained standing.

"I am dying because the rejuvenation spells are failing," said Honnis. "Also because I have strained myself by exercising the Far Speak magic. Death is not evil. Life is not good. Both are potent forces, as all opposites are. Both draw great power from the other."

He needed to pause again, for another labored breath.

"Matokin has reawakened magic in this reality to a degree it has not known for many, many years," he continued. "He has produced many practitioners. He has schooled his mages in magic's methods, but he has taught nothing of the ethics of the art. They don't grasp the consequences of what they do. Only the most powerful—the Far Movement mages, I would say—would know anything of the Wellspring. Most would only know that with enough training, with the proper incantations and gestures and discipline, they can achieve spectacular feats."

Praulth absorbed this. "But what are the consequences?"

The thinnest of smiles touched Honnis's lips. It was startling nonetheless to see any sort of smile on his face.

"They are using Far Movement magic," he said. "Opening doorways, portals. They are entering the reality beyond this. They are flirting with dangers that perhaps Matokin himself doesn't even understand."

It was Praulth's turn to press. "Yes—but what are those dangers?" A coldness spread through her.

Honnis abruptly gathered himself. His face became the severe disagreeable mask she had seen so often before. He fixed her with his withering stare.

"Why did the mighty empires of the Northern and Southern Continents crumble so many hundredwinters ago?" he asked as if she was some pathetic first-phase student.

"The Great Upheavals," she answered. "And they were?"

"Internal strife. If you require a detailed accounting, I can recite what historians have cobbled together from that chaotic period—"

"Since the time of the Upheavals," Honnis said, trampling her words heedlessly, "what has been the prevalent attitude toward wizards?"

It was a broad question, yet it was still answerable. "Practitioners of magic have been feared by most cultures."

"Why?" Honnis asked.

"They were made to blame for the Upheavals.

They..."

Honnis's gaze fairly drilled into her now. She halted. His bald head moved slightly in a significant nod. "Yes," he said, voice gone breathy and weak once more. "It was the misuse of magic that caused the Great Upheavals. Magicians were shunned because they were to blame. Those mighty empires were no wiser, in the end, than Matokin and his followers."

She needed to sit. She groped behind herself, found the stool, spilled a pile of pages off of it, and sat. She could say nothing. Shock gripped her.

"There is something else I wish to say."

Praulth blinked. Some moments had passed. Honnis was watching her, barely able to lift his head. She moved the stool nearer, though she didn't take his hand.

"I cannot be proud of you," he said, measuring out the words. "I don't have the right. Actually no one can properly take pride in another's accomplishments. It's a sickening practice. But—your work has been exceptional. You do not know how gifted you are. I labored over each and every field report I received from Cultat's scouts. Yes, I recognized Dardas's patterns. But I could not—not with nearly the degree of accuracy you have demonstrated— predict his movements. You know Dardas." That fragile smile came once more. "Your tactic—using the Battle of Torran Flats ... brilliant."

Praulth felt tears threaten her eyes a second time. Whatever Honnis had done, it was for a greater good. For the alliance Cultat was hoping to build. For the defeat of the Felk.

"Thank you, Master Honnis," she said.

"It's Dardas. You know that."

"Of course, Master Honnis."

"No ... Praulth. It is Dardas."

She stared.

"Let me," he said, "tell you about resurrection magic ..."

THE BATTLE OF Torran Flats. Brilliant? Perhaps. To Praulth it seemed the obvious tactic. She had simply approached the problem logically. She knew Dardas's style. She could predict his movements. How to engage him in the field was merely a matter of analysis and deduction.