"I feel… strong!" yelled Hadyn.

Then the youth screamed.

Already Hadyn's boots were a blaze of fire, and Raidon could see naked bones in his lower legs. White sticks burning. His upper legs were like translucent wax melting inside a stone oven. Or like Hadyn was a candle, and spellplague, the flame.

In three more heartbeats, Hadyn was consumed. Burning ash dispersed in the wind.

Raidon rose, looked into Finara's terrified eyes. He didn't really see her.

His mind remained fixed on Hadyn's death. Or, more accurately, the manner of his death. A vision of the dissolving caravan chief who died so long ago assaulted him for the hundredth time. As always, he couldn't help wondering if Ailyn had perished similarly. Had she screamed like Hadyn? Had she called his name? Or cursed it?

The monk's gritted teeth couldn't restrain the groan at the image of Ailyn's death clawing its way into his mind.

If he wanted to end that personal misery, now would be an easy time to do it. Just a step or two…

No. The weakling's way was not his, no matter the provocation, even his own failure to follow through on his promise to protect Ailyn. He let the images flow away from him like a river until his mind was empty. Let focus be his only emotion.

The sound of the Granite Vortex returned. The past faded, for the moment.

Ahead, the bridge terminated in a meadow of tall, scarlet grass strewn with boulders. The boulders didn't actually rest in the grass; each hovered a foot or two off the ground. Some were stationary, but several drifted in random directions. By the scars each bore, it seemed likely they'd all survived impacts.

Raidon checked the map. Some previous traveler called the meadow Cyric's Table. According to the legend, their route required they leave the bridge and pass through it until they reached the roots of something labeled Grandmother Ash. Glancing up, the monk spied a fantastically tall tree in the misty distance. Its topmost branches bore a canopy of blue fire.

He motioned with his head to the bridge terminus.

Finara stood rooted in place, morose and muddy-eyed. She clutched her own copy of the map in one hand; the other held tight to the burro's reins.

"I can't do it, Raidon. I can't step off the bridge. Hadyn was… The odds are against me."

He nodded.

She looked at him, her eyes beseeching him for words of encouragement. He had none. He replied, "Perhaps this is not your day."

Tears broke from her left eye, but she nodded as relief struggled with anguish and fear.

"Gods willing, I will see you back in Ormpetarr in three days," she said. "If you return with a spellscar, then I know it is possible and not merely a tale told to bilk the incredulous."

Raidon clasped her shoulder, then turned to regard his path. He excised concern for her safe trip back from his consciousness.

A drifting cube obscured "the distant tree for a moment. Above, a jagged trail of blue lightning split the sky, sending a flash across the plain. Blinking away the after-image, Raidon left the bridge and entered the plain of red grass. He did not look back.

The long-bladed, crimson grass crunched beneath his feet. The boulders drifted like tiny versions of the earthmote he'd seen west of Nathlekh. Unlike that massive air island, these moved and left wakes of bluish radiance. He wondered if the masses were solidified spellplague. He avoided the darting masses with the diligence they deserved.

He left the unmoored rocks behind and reached the edges of the exposed, tangled root mass. The field of burrowing roots, stretched perhaps a mile, maybe more, surrounding the tree in the distance. He'd misjudged the tree's size. It was larger than he'd thought. At least no grass grew between the great, fingerlike roots that clutched at the earth so fiercely. He studied the roots for a time. It seemed they slowly twined and churned the earth, moving, but only as quickly as earthworms through soil.

He moved out across the root field. They offered solid footing and did not react to his weight. He quickly reached that which the roots all supported.

The bole of the tree was more like a cliff face than an ash trunk. No limbs offered access for several hundred feet, but those above were as thick as roads. The sound of the wind in the roof-like leaves high above was like the roar of a distant cataract. Each leaf gleamed like a tongue of sapphire flame.

Raidon scratched his chin, and then drew out his map. The Pilgrim's Path led to the Grandmother Ash's base. A dotted arrow led away from the tree into the heart of the discontinuity, as if the cartographer had lost confidence in the route in this final leg.

He decided to scale the tree, if he could, to get a lay of the land from on high.

He placed one hand against the tree's grayish, deeply grooved bark. It was sun warm and pleasant beneath his fingers. Raidon mused, "You've survived this Plague-wrought Land well, it seems."

Intense gladness washed across Raidon. It came without warning and smashed through his focus as if it were nothing more than rice paper.

The monk snatched his hand from the tree, and the sensation was gone.

Raidon studied the tree several long moments, considering.

He ventured, "Are you conscious?"

No voice answered, nor unwarranted feeling. He laid his palm again across the tree.

Acknowledgment suffused the monk from his crown to his toes.

"I greet you, Grandmother Ash. I am Raidon Kane. I am sorry to disturb your solitude, but if you please, I have a question, if you will hear it?"

Curiosity prickled up Raidon's arm.

"Thank you. I seek an old friend, an elf woman, who may have ventured past you some years back. She would have carried with her a powerful sword and had a dwarf as a traveling companion. Does that sound familiar?"

A "green" feeling of assent settled upon him, and then… fear.

"What makes you afraid, great one?"

The tree shuddered. A blue flame ignited beneath Raidon's hand. The monk snatched his hand away, leaving a trail of fading flame. He anxiously regarded his palm for several heartbeats, and then let out his breath in relief.

The point of flame on the bark remained, grew into a line that quickly traced the outline of a humanoid figure. The shape bulged, and then stepped from two dimensions to three. It was a woman, perhaps, but she was bark and leaves, stem and bough, with hands of knotted root. Thick strands of moss made up her hair and her eyes were twin forest pools limned in blue flame. Her bare skin was the ridged, grayish bark of an ash tree.

"Who says I am afraid?" the woman asked him, her voice vibrant with the music of a major chord. She wasn't much taller than Raidon, though he had the feeling she wasn't fully unfurled.

He resisted the urge to retreat a step. He replied simply, as if women emerging from trees was nothing less than what he expected, "Perhaps I misspoke, madam."

The woman examined her digits, wriggling them as if checking to see that they all functioned. Satisfied, she glanced back at Raidon. She asked, "Why do you seek those three in particular? Many more pilgrims have traveled the Plague-wrought Land since them."

"The elf s sword, Angul, has duties to perform in defense of Faerыn."

"You do not seem a swordsman," the woman said, somewhat critically.

"I am trained in their use: fist, foot, sword, sling, and more I have studied. Regardless,"-Raidon waved away the topic, surprised to find himself extolling his own virtues-"Angul is required. Have you seen him, or his wielder, Kiril the elf, or her companion, Thormud the dwarf?"

"I saw those you describe. I manifested a form much like this one so that we could converse. I attempted to dissuade them from their goal. They sought the Chalk Destrier, a fiend of white stone who was empowered the same time I was awakened."