The wagon looked like a house on wheels, from the outside. On the inside it was anything but. On the inside it was a bed that ran the length of the wagon, a black iron stove in the corner, and a pair of chests that probably held clothing or valuables. Onainat took the bed. He was sitting on the floor, close to the iron stove, drinking in the warmth of it through his skin. You could forget how cold the desert was if you let yourself. Part of him simply couldn't believe what he'd seen. Part of him simply couldn't believe that he'd been in the shadow of Yggdrasil, that he'd seen the realm of the gods, the Empyrean extending endlessly before him. He could have climbed into the endless tower that stretched to the highest point in creation. He could have combed the heavens for the souls of the departed. He could have... but when he looked at Onainat's slight frame he thought again. Tucked under a pile of blankets, one bare shoulder exposed, she looked more peaceful than he could ever imagine being. Was she dreaming of coins and other various things that shone in the sunlight? That dream would seem superfluous, but it was probably the best dream for her. The only dream.

( He was waiting for her to wake up. )

Skandra grimaced sourly at the thin bone-and-leather cup in his hand. Sure, they were all using the same sort of dice, but something about the situation didn't feel right. Oh, of course. He was not winning. Long since Onainat and Aeotha had retired upstairs while he preferred to remain, drinking wine that was mixed with grape juice and pretending this little stunted hamlet was the sort of urban empire he was used to. They didn't even have proper cloves. He was smoking rolled, untreated tobacco. If that wasn't evidence enough of how wrong this all was - then Skandra didn't know a gods-damned thing about drinking, gambling or enjoyine oneself with tobacco. Despite the clean smell of the pipes from the next table over Skandra didn't miss the sour notes that ran through the air. Fellows who hadn't bathed because that was what gamblers did. Gamblers who made their living at it never would have played this game of dice. Skandra should have refused and gone to bed.

Nonsense.

( He hadn't gone to bed before midnight since he was a child. )

Ash was still floating before him, floating like snow. Flecks of ruin clinging to his clothing. Skandra resisted the urge to wipe his face clean as he shoved the Vel into place on his belt. Whatever it was... whatever madness they had created... it was done. His body ached with the strikes that thing had managed to land against him. Hard to care that this women's clothing he'd stuffed himself into was torn to hell. Harder to care that Uathis was probably going to die. His breath was coming ragged to him now. Onainat was going to live. That was the important part. A dragon. He should have guessed, if he had half a brain. The desert heat hadn't bothered her at all. It had nearly ruined him. Skandra could feel whatever strength he had left seeping out of him. Exhaustion setting in. She was going to have to carry him back, or else wait for him to wake up with a little more energy.

Skandra felt every bone creak as he moved, felt every tense muscle screaming out against the surface of his skin. Couldn't stop the grunts that were escaping from the back of his throat as he lurched toward... something. Something worth having, or something that was irrelevant? That probably depended on whether or not he died here. It wasn't going to be that way. But on the other side of the door they'd taken to get here was a desert. And only a peddler's mad company to keep him safe until he reached civilization. Whatever that creature was, it had been blown to hell, but he didn't know if that was enough for him. Almost he regretted coming here. Almost. Running a gloved pair of fingers across his cheek rewarded him with blood on leather. Still bleeding. From his face, even. Tomorrow morning, if he saw it, was going to be miserable. His only company would be agonizing stiffness in his muscles.

( And a vicious headache. )

"Aren't you gonna cut us loose before they get here?"

"Can't imagine why I would do that," Skandra replied easily.

"They're gonna kill us, mister!"

"Don't," and Skandra held up a gloved hand for peace. "Rush me."

( Life on the road could be hard. )

Skandra could see why they were called the Hanging Gardens. Hard not to, with a thousand strands of... something green... hanging in your bloody fucking face. They were vines but thicker, coated with coarse thin strands of green that seemed like blades of grass but looked more like hair. And they were dotted along the way with flowers. Dandelions. Poinsettias. Every type of flower that was not a flower and some that were. Reds and greens and blues abounded. Everywhere. Though there were paths between these hanging things - gaps where the vines did not drop - Skandra couldn't help but feel they were walking in a maze. West. West to the Fountain of the Dome of the Eternal Sky. A florid name for something like that. What would they see when they arrived? And more importantly, from what were the vines hanging? He thought he saw coarse wood when he looked up. He thought he did. But water would drip down, and he would flinch to save his eyes, or one of the vines would move and he would be looking for something to jump out at him. Funny how strange such a beautiful thing could be. No one had ever seen its like. Entire flower beds growing, hanging, on each of these vines.

( Incredible. )

As the mist parted before him Skandra wished he could cast off that ridiculous red hat. It stood there like a beacon, perched atop his head and howling, inviting the enemy to come and find him wherever they might be. Those black shapes were growing closer all the time but with them came a sense of... something. Dread, maybe. Not dread but something just as ominous. He couldn't put his finger on it. Hating his hat for being his hat - however temporary the arrangement - was a response to that dread. He could bow down to it, give in to it, or he could push on. Pushing on was the better option. So that was what he did. All this time walking through nothing but mist like soup and they still hadn't found a thing. Only a curious sound which he thought was drums. It sounded like drums. Skandra wanted his sword in his hand. It would have comforted him. This was the other side, the realm beyond realms. All points intersected in that one place but he didn't know how to get back. Maybe that didn't matter anymore. Maybe he wasn't supposed to get back. Or maybe this was all some sort of cosmic joke. Maybe there was no getting back.

( Still, he wished he knew what the hell to call the place. )

After the wall on the other side of Aeotha's bath came crashing down, several things had happened in quick succession: first, the sounds of boots on the stairs. Then there was shouting and pounding on the door, at which point Onainat had secured her shiny in her pouch as quickly as possible. The naked elf was a second thought at that point. Aeotha's state of dress became less a concern as a convenience. When two large men, one of them being the innkeeper, barged into their room, Onainat ripped down the curtain that kept the bath separate from the rest of the room. Aeotha sputtered, the innkeeper stared...and stared...

Yes. It was very convenient. She wouldn't have to teleport them out of the inn!

"Time to go!" Onainat chirped, clapping her hands. Aeotha was already scrambling to get the dress on. She was always hauling the poor priestess around. But really, it was a matter of life and death. Well, more a matter of financial life and death. Onainat would die if she had to pay for a wall! Lorien couldn't be too offended. As for the elf, she was a priestess. So she had to forgive Onainat, didn't she?

She and Aeotha managed to make it past the innkeeper before both him and his large bulky friend snapped out of their stupor. Onainat half pushed and half dragged Aeotha down the steps. It was then she noticed that the woman's dress was inside out. Onainat was about to point this out when the innkeeper came barreling after them like a big buffalo of death.

"You destroyed my wall! Damn mages! If I'd known I was hosting magic users I'd have let you sleep in the mud!"

Onainat scrambled toward the door with Aeotha in tow. He wasn't understanding at all. What was wrong with magic? And who did he think he was, being so cruel? She looked over her shoulder and made a face at the innkeeper. "It was an ugly wall anyway!"

"GET OUT!!" the innkeeper roared, throwing a chair at them as they pushed through the entrance. "GET OUT SO I CAN KILL YOU IN THE STREET!!"

"You're too fat!" Onainat shouted in return. What a mean soul! She made another face at him and the innkeeper choked on a growl of supreme rage. She and Aeotha were on the muddied road now. She wasn't very afraid of the innkeeper, but Aeotha could get hurt in a brawl. Still, she couldn't help insulting him back. She made a pig noise at the innkeeper and let Aeotha's arm go finally. "Go back to drinking!"

Her father would be ashamed. So ashamed.

"If this is a dream," Skandra muttered. "We can't be having the same one. Can we?"

He was lying on his back with the sky spinning above him, spinning and yet stationary, as though he was the only thing moving and the sky itself remained untouched. Perhaps it was true. But he wasn't moving. Only the sky was moving and it wasn't. Moving. Skandra spit up water, drenched his throat and his face in the stuff. Swimming. He hadn't been swimming. Every muscle ached. His eyes burned as though they'd never seen light before, as if the desert with all of its torments was nothing beside the radiance of this sun. This sun. Why this sun? Why not the sun? It was this sun, not the sun. His clothing was clean. Not wet but clean. Only his head was wet, only his face, as if the water in his lungs had come from nowhere and was nothing. Onainat likewise coughed up that water. It was pointless. There was no reason for it but it was happening.

"If this is a dream," Skandra muttered. We can't be having the same one. Can we?"

( He was still on his back. )

Despite the bells - which he was systematically cutting from the belt as they walked - good time was made on the non-existent path. It wasn't just a way home that he was thinking about now but the end of his journey. He'd come here looking for something, after all, and now that the fear of death was behind him Skandra Tyullis meant to find it. Doing so without a map, or at least without a map that had discernible landmarks, was slow going. You could walk across the desert for a thousand years and never find anything worth a damn. With all of the sand kicked up by storms... no surprise he saw as many bones as he did dunes, and no markers to name them. Here the sand shifted all the time. Here a thing could be exposed one day and hidden the next. How massive was this graveyard called a desert? Did it extend all the way to the peaceable kingdoms of the west? To the badlands of the north or the mysterious empires of the south? He didn't know. Knowing would have been nice. Knowing would have at least made him feel a little better about the legend he was joining should he fall. That was closer than he wanted to admit.

( Certainly closer than Onainat thought. )

Reaching for something that wasn't there. Bad sign. Skandra glared through the haze of the desert at nothing in particular before he decided that there was no tree, and that there was no spring. Why did someone always imagine a single isolated tree in the middle of all this nothing? Skandra would have settled for something closer to a city. He wasn't a creature of wilderness and forests sprawling but a creature of the city. Any narrow crawl of degenerates and well-intentioned criminals was his to command as he pleased. This, on the other hand, was the sort of shit he hated the most. Just because he'd done it before didn't mean he was interested in doing it again. Doing what Shantar said usually require outstanding feats of concentration and willpower. This, on the other hand, was something entirely different. If Skandra didn't want to wring the old man's neck every day for a thousand years he would have killed him. Of course, there was a voice in his head telling him that it could have been worse. It always could be worse. He could be, obviously, dead. For that he hadn't decided whether to thank Onainat or curse at her.

( His lips were dry. )

There were, upon reflection, a great many things about this world that no one knew. Oh, you could prattle on about science and the discovery of the wheel, of fire, but there were too many things that a person didn't know. One of those things that currently plagued Skandra Tyullis was how to pick a very peculiar lock. It was, apparently, designed by a dwarf of some repute and a known scoundrel who had a debt to pay off with the local magistrate. Or so the story went. Therefore it was the most confounding lock he'd ever seen with his two eyes. It was also problematic because, in two minutes' time, he was to be securely fastened in a cage that had the lock affixed prominently to it. That cage would then be thrown over the side of a barge, and he would sink to the bottom of a river without a name and die. Seemed like a lot of work to kill one person. Then again, considering the source of his current troubles, he shouldn't have been so surprised. Over the years and in a variety of ways Skandra Tyullis had proved to be a thorn in the side of Uathis. It only made sense, given how often he'd tried in the past, that this semi-obscure mage who fancied himself a collector of ancient things would want to be sure.

There was sure, and then there was...

( ...overkill. )

The truth was the shiny was not hers.

Had she put something else on the pedestal of the spider infested temple, maybe things might have turned out better. Maybe her pursuers would have considered the trade equal. Or maybe they wouldn't have noticed until she was gone. Sometimes, however, she didn't plan out her acquisition of shinies. Sometimes, it was fate. Shinies just called to her. The eight cornered talisman felt at home in Onainat's palm. She felt even more attached after seeing the pretty blue crystals and odd center opal that shone in the dark. Even while running for her life, Onainat couldn't help peeking at the shiny now and again.

Yes, she decided. This one was worth a little tussle with death!

Onainat tucked the heavy, silver object into the pocket of her trousers and slid around yet another rock wall. Following Drow underground at night hadn't been the best idea. At the time, linguistics seemed a noble enough calling for such a dangerous stunt. Now, however, she was being chased for more than some harsh, knife-like consonants. If only Onainat didn't have to resort to running, this would be no problem. Teleporting was easier! It also required her to see where she was going. Teleporting in pitch black conditions never went well for Onainat. The last time she felt confident enough to try, she spent three hours in a dwarven sewage tunnel...

Onainat shuddered at the memory.

"Udos zhaun dos ph' ghil," said one of the Drow. "Udos shlu'ta gow dos."

She mouthed the vowels as the haunting voice called them out. Her Drow-shaped "u" was still poor even after all this observation. Onainat frowned. And how could they say she smelled? Onainat turned her nose down by her shoulder and sniffed as quietly as she could. Was it that bad?

"Come out and we will make this faster," another said in common.

Onainat rolled her eyes and scooted farther down the wall. The Drow were about fifty feet below her but they tended to take on the qualities of their pets. They would probably crawl up in the way only Drow and Elves could. As far as Onainat was concerned both races were equally creepy. The Elves just managed to look pretty while being creepy. Onainat frowned as she heard whispers in the dark. She didn't have much time to find the exit to the surface world. Onainat kept scooting down the wall, counting her steps. She had been counting since following the Drow down here. If she was right, she was close.

( If she was wrong... )

When the fire crackled it seemed to whisper to him. A musician heard a song in every sound, no matter how callous and harsh the sound. If music was the collection of sounds to express something - an idea, a thought or an emotion - than even the most terrible of sounds had a place in the pantheon of performance. Even the most wretched terrible things could be made beautiful if they were molded by the right hands. Koe had no such illusions about his own hands, but he had an ear for the sounds which gave lie to the state of things. A fire was a destructive force, but it could be the bringer of life as well. A snore could be a breath gone wrong or a true sign of sleep. In Ilyien's case it was the latter. And in the case of Onainat, who was a tricksome creature at the core of her being, it was the former. Still he didn't look up from his work. Cleaning each and every opening atop his ocarina was proving to be more trouble than he was used to. At least, on the road. He didn't want to miss anything. And he didn't want to let Onainat know that he was watching.

There had been times when she was a child that he thought they would never be separated. Minaht had been more interested in crusades than in raising a child, and if Koe had no taste for them it was because he had seen what a country in upheaval could do to those who looked to a crown or a throne for protection. Times of great change were not kind to those who endured the worst of it. And anyway he didn't thrive on such things. His desire to see the world existed in a different place from Onainat's. And her mother's desire was somewhere far, far gone from both of them. The distance Minaht had created between father and daughter with her stupidity was very real. Very real, and very heartbreaking for a father who was used to being worshiped. Who actually had been worshiped once. Ending and beginning her world with a nod was not what he wanted, but at the same time he couldn't imagine a life without having some sort of...

( Now he sounded like he was about to weep. )