She heard them arguing in the house behind her, heard her own name spoken many times, but it was unimportant to Pony that gray and windy summer day. Everything seemed unimportant at that moment, save the two commemorative markers set in the garden of Chasewind Manor. One had been a gift from King Danube, a symbolic gesture as the man had reclaimed Chasewind Manor. The other had come from Brother Braumin and, surprisingly, from Brother Francis, to signify the support of the new Abellican Church.

Or was it still the Abellican Church? During the heated arguments, Brother Braumin had hinted that his group and any who would follow - and his opponent, Abbot Je'howith, had recognized that the list of fol-lowers might be long - might splinter from the Abellican Church to begin the Church of Avelyn.

"They love us now," the woman said to the marker. It was only a marker, for Elbryan's body wasn't interred there. Pony would not allow it. Her hus-band was to be buried in the grove beyond Dundalis, the place where he had found the grave of his uncle Mather and where he had earned Tempest. To that end, Bradwarden and Roger were leaving Palmaris that very day, the centaur pulling a caisson carrying Elbryan's casket.

Pony could hardly believe he was gone. She stood there, very still, trying to replay the events that had brought her to this terrible place. But she could not fathom it all. Half her soul had been torn away, and now she was empty.

They talked of making her the Mother Abbess, the leader of the Church. King Danube had promised her much, perhaps even the barony of Pal-maris, in honor of her service to the kingdom - for the defeat of Markwart was now being heralded as a victory for the Crown. At that moment, despite her desire to do good, Pony hoped that none of it would come true, that they would all just leave her alone with her memories and herpain. Perhaps she could be a great leader for the Church, perhaps take it in the direction Avelyn had espoused.

She hardly cared.

For all she knew was emptiness and helplessness, a sense of unreality that this terrible thing could not have happened. When she thought back to the previous fall, pregnant in Caer Tinella, making love with Elbryan on the field, she nearly toppled over with weakness.

A gentle hand touched Pony's shoulder, and she turned to see Kalas, the interim baron of Palmaris, and Constance Pemblebury.

"Are you going with them to the north?" Constance asked.

"Tomorrow, perhaps," Pony answered noncommittally. "Or if this busi-ness with the Church is not finished, then perhaps sometime later on." In truth, Pony did not want to go back to Dundalis, could not bear to watch Elbryan's casket be lowered into the ground.

They walked solemnly, staring straight ahead and not at the crowds gath-ered along the roads, many throwing flowers at the caisson. Elbryan, Nightbird, was fast becoming legend to the folk of Palmaris, something that both Roger and Bradwarden welcomed cautiously. For though they knew their friend was worthy of any honor bestowed him, they wanted to remember the truth of the man, and didn't want that truth, impressive enough of its own accord, blurred by ridiculously exaggerated legend.

This moment, Elbryan's moment, would live on in the memories of all who watched - and that audience included King Danube Brock Ursal himself.

A contingent of Allheart horsemen led the way, and would accompany the caisson all the way to Dundalis.

They came through the northern gate of Palmaris to find many more folk, all the farmers of the northern fields. Then another onlooker reared and cried out; mighty Symphony on a hillock not far away.

"He knows," Bradwarden assured Roger.

As if on cue, the great stallion charged down the hill to join them, can-tering past the Allheart soldiers, who sat in silent awe of the magnificent steed, stronger and swifter than even their famed To-gai-ru horses.

Symphony pawed at the caisson, and Bradwarden, ever attuned to the desires of horses, pulled the harness from over his head and strapped it on the stallion.

On they went, quietly to the north.

From far away, Belli'mar Juraviel watched the procession, the last journey of his dear friend, then turned for home.

Unseen by the elf - though not so far away - Marcalo De'Unnero watched, too. His physical wounds were nearly healed by the power of hishematite ring, but his emotional scars ran deeper. The monk - former monk, it would seem -  came to question so many things as he watched the outpouring for Nightbird, as he secretly listened to the conversations of farmers, damning Markwart, praising the ranger, and speaking in hopeful terms of a great and miraculous change within the Abellican Church.

De'Unnero could hardly believe the turn of events, but he had too many problems of his own to sit and ponder them. He had no idea of where his favored gemstone might be, had not seen it in weeks, and believed that it had somehow merged with his soul. For now he was man and beast, and though he could often willfully shift from one form to the other, or to something in between, there were other times, times of anger or when he smelled prey, that the urge to fall into the form of the tiger overwhelmed him.

A pall settled over Andur'Blough Inninness later that summer, when Belli'mar Juraviel returned with news that Nightbird had fallen. Though the war had ended favorably, though Juraviel had returned to them, though the child of Nightbird and Pony was growing strong and healthy, the loss of Nightbird and Ni'estiel weighed heavily on the small and intimate family of the Touel'alfar.

The one real bright spot seemed to be the child, so full of smiles.

Juraviel and Lady Dasslerond went to the babe soon after Juraviel's re-turn, standing over it as it lay on the shining green grass, the Lady bending low to stroke his soft cheek.

"He will grow strong and special," Dasslerond remarked, "will come to greatness beyond that of his father and his mother."

"She lives," Juraviel replied.

Dasslerond turned a firm stare on the elf. Of course she already knew about Pony, and knew, too, that Juraviel had only made the remark to hint that he believed that the child belonged with its mother. Lady Dasslerond would hear none of that, her stare reminded Juraviel. They had taken the babe as their protege, the child of Nightbird and not of Elbryan, the child of Andur'Blough Inninness, and to the elven lady, the issue was settled.

"I aided them in their escape," Juraviel admitted.

Lady Dasslerond gave a little laugh. "Do you believe that I did not know you would do as much when I allowed you to return to them?" she asked, putting her companion at ease. "You chose well on this matter."

"What of Jilseponie?" Juraviel asked. "She knowsbi'nelle dasada. We cannot take that from her."

Lady Dasslerond didn't seem concerned. "Jilseponie was a fine com-panion to Nightbird," she replied. "The woman will not betray him by sharing that which he taught her."

Juraviel hoped the lady was right, for he knew that Dasslerond would be watching the humans more closely for a long while, and that if Pony did begin to teach the sword dance, to King's soldiers or to monks, she would be taken prisoner by the Touel'alfar.

If she was lucky, and if Dasslerond was feeling particularly compassionate.

A giggle from below turned their attention to the babe. His crooked little grin resembled that of young Elbryan when he had first come to Andur' Blough Inninness, but the child showed the same bright blue sparkles in his eyes as his mother.

Except when the elves left him alone, for then came a hint of a red fire behind those blue orbs, a trait inherited not from his mother nor his father, but planted within the child, within Pony's womb, by the demon dactyl during her first battle with Dalebert Markwart, the corporeal vessel of Bestesbulzibar.

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