She smiled faintly. Maybe Veltan had come up with the best solution after all, and the moon was still there.

Zelana pushed that thought away.

The lovely village of Lattash was doomed, of course. Yaltar’s idiocy had seen to that. Even now the lava from the twin peaks was flowing inexorably down the ravine, consuming all in its path. The people of White-Braid’s tribe would have to leave their homes and find some new place and build a new village. The loss of Lattash caused Zelana an almost physical pain.

“The gold!” she suddenly exclaimed. “I forgot all about the gold in that cave! I’ll have to go back and move it to a safer place. How could I possibly have forgotten that? I must be even older than I’d thought. First I forget my gold, and now I can’t remember names.” She looked at the sleeping child. “Please wake up, Balacenia,” she pleaded softly. “I just can’t carry all of this anymore. I’m so tired, so very, very tired.”

If Yaltar was aware of Eleria’s true identity, and Eleria was aware of Yaltar’s, could it be possible that they knew other things as well? Zelana searched back through her memories to see if she could find any evidence whatsoever that the children had, no matter how briefly, used their dormant abilities to alter reality in any small way. Their dreams were one thing, but if they’d been using their gifts consciously, the fabric of reality could very well be in danger.

There seemed to be nothing overt. The only peculiarity Eleria had shown was her overwhelming need for the affection of the mortals. Her “kiss-kiss” game with Longbow, Rabbit, and finally even the stuffy young Trogite Keselo had seemed on the surface to be no more than some childish game, but what if it went much further? For obvious reasons, Zelana had never actually witnessed Balacenia’s methods to control the man-things of the Western Domain. Could it possibly be that she’d just kissed them all into submission? It had certainly worked with the pink dolphins when Eleria had been no more than a baby. Zelana almost laughed. What a clever way to rule that would be, and, by extension, it might just explain why Yaltar had gone to such extremes to protect Balacenia’s Domain. A few of those “kiss-kiss” encounters would have rendered poor Vash helpless. Then, with Vash wrapped around her finger, Balacenia could have turned to . . .

What were their names? It was maddening! Why couldn’t Zelana remember their names?

THE TIME OF SORROW

1

It was early summer now in the Domain of Zelana of the West, but this summer was unlike any other Red-Beard had ever seen. Summer is usually a time of beauty, but this one was haunted by the twin fire mountains at the head of the ravine. Each sunrise seemed to be smeared with blood as the fire mountains continued to belch forth smoke and ash, and a perpetual gloom hung over the village of Lattash.

A few of the women of the tribe had gone through the motions of planting the customary gardens, but what was the use of that? The village was almost certainly doomed, and in all probability it wouldn’t even be here by next autumn at harvest-time.

Lattash still looked much the same as it had for years. The bay was still blue, the sandy beach was still white, and the forest to the east was still dark green as it mounted up the foothills toward the snow-covered peaks. The tides continued to rise and fall as they had since the beginning of time. The only noticeable difference lay in the river that had always come joyously down the ravine to join the waters of the bay. It was no longer a river, though. It was hardly even a brook. The cursed fire mountains had obviously sealed off the source of the river, and it was now no more than a scant trickle that would almost certainly dry up by midsummer.

That, of course, would mark the end of Lattash. Without fresh water, the gardens of the women of the tribe would die out, and there would be no food to eat next winter. The mood in the village was somber, and a cloud of melancholy seemed to hang over Lattash.

Red-Beard sighed. There was no getting around the fact that it was time to seek out another home for the people of White-Braid’s tribe. That was where the problem lay. Red-Beard’s uncle, Chief White-Braid, was so overwhelmed with sorrow by the inevitable loss of the village that had been the home of the tribe for many centuries that he couldn’t function anymore. The tribe had to find a suitable new location, build new lodges, and grow food before winter came again, but Chief White-Braid refused to even talk about it. No matter how much Red-Beard cudgeled his brain, he couldn’t for the life of him come up with a way to bring his uncle back to his senses.

Muttering curses under his breath, Red-Beard went looking for Longbow.

“I don’t see that you’ve got much choice, Red-Beard,” his friend said gravely as the two of them stood on the protective berm looking down at the tiny trickle of muddy water that was all there was left of the river. “The fire mountains killed the servants of the Vlagh, certainly, but it looks to me like they’ve also killed the village of Lattash. Without water, your tribe will either have to find a new place to live or stay here and die.”

“I know that, Longbow,” Red-Beard replied. “I can see it as well as you can, but how am I going to be able to pound the idea down Uncle White-Braid’s throat? Every time I even so much as hint at the notion, his eyes go blank and he starts talking about something else. He refuses to even think about relocating the tribe. Lattash is so much a part of him that he won’t even consider moving.”

“You’ll probably have to step around him and take charge of the tribe yourself, then.”

“I can’t do that!” Red-Beard exclaimed. “He’s the chief. If I start showing that kind of disrespect, the whole tribe will turn their backs on me. They won’t follow any orders I might give them.”

“They will if your uncle tells them to.” Longbow looked at the clustered lodges of the village and the fishnets hanging from poles along the beach. “I’m sure this was a good place to live in the past, my friend, but the past is over, and now came along just as soon as the river started to dry up. Then went away, and your tribe’s living in the world of now. If they don’t move very soon, they’ll die for lack of food and water. If you put it to them in those terms, I’m sure they’ll listen to you. If your chief isn’t willing to give the necessary commands because of his sorrow, he’ll have to step aside and hand the authority off to someone else—you, most likely.” Longbow smiled faintly. “‘Chief Red-Beard’ has a rather pleasant sound to it, don’t you think?”