PROLOGUE

Zisa pulled her wrap closer around her shoulders, wishing she'd accepted
her mother's offer of a blanket to carry with her up the mountain.  Though late
summer still clung to the foothills, the higher she climbed, the more the wind
seemed to bite through the cloth to get at her flesh. 
    
She'd made this trek before, though always with one of her brothers by her
side.  This year, though, the last brother still at her mother's hearth was
preparing to go through his coming of age, and no one else made an appropriate
escort.  She'd pleaded to be allowed to go anyway, and her mother had agreed;
some arguing later, her father had agreed as well.  Though the mountain was, for
the most part, an alien place to a girl born and raised in the desert, after
four winters she regarded the mountains as her second home.  She felt no fear,
not of wild animals or of the supposed ghosts that haunted the passes.  Her
grandfather was a great wizard, and he would not let anything bad happen to her.

Zisa was not sure how old Grandfather was, but her mother was near her
fortieth decade, and she said that Grandfather had had gray hairs when she was a
child.  But he still had the vitality that made his family revere him as a
patriarch, and the wisdom that bought their respect.  He was capable of taking
care of himself, but her mother (his daughter) felt obligated to see to his
needs, even if it was just in the winter.

She'd been reluctant to go the first time, she remembered that now.
Grandfather had been a distant legend to her, someone that shouldn't exist in
reality with people that she knew.  She'd been crying on the trip up to his
small house in Stark Pass, but she and Grandfather had hit it off so well, she
cried when her father arrived to bring her home again.  Zisa smiled at the
memory.  It always seemed she couldn't make up her mind whether she wanted to
come or go!

This trip, she was looking forward to a surprise.  Granfather had hinted at
something last spring--that she was ready to learn something.  She hoped it was
magic; she wanted something to show her friends about why she wanted to go up
the mountain so much.

A particularly vicious gust startled her, nearly pulling her wrap out of
her hands and returning her to reality.  There were three men standing on the
path before her; all in rough clothing and bits of armor tied or sewn together
like patchwork.  The one who looked to have lived in his ragtag outfit since
birth sneared at her; he was missing two of his front teeth and the rest were
filed into nasty looking points.  The cleanest one pulled out a knife and
pointed it at her. 

"Dir na kupkik," he said, obviously an order, though Zisa couldn't
understand. 

"I don't understand," she said, shaking her head slowly.  She pulled the
wrap tighter, aware of their eyes on her body. 

"Dir na!" the filthiest one snarled.  He held no weapon, but she could see
the wickedly curved blade at his side.  He had the unconscious arrogance of the
hunters in her clan; the kind that meant that he was more than merely skilled in
his weapon of choice.  Not that someone as soft and weak as she was could have a
chance against him even without the weapon.

"What do you want?" she said.  She ransacked her brain for the little
Trade-speak she knew, and tried to repeat the question.  "Vasa duni?"

They looked at each other briefly, and burst out laughing.  The cleanest
one put away the knife and wiped his eyes.  "Vasea lit," he said.  We want
company, that meant, and not the innocent kind... it was a proposition for a
woman free with her body.

Zisa frowned at them.  "I'm not a prostitute," she told them in
trade-speak. 

"We're not paying customers," the filthy one said.  They put aside their
weapons--obviously she was no match for the three of them--and started
unfastening their shirts. 

"Grandfather," she whispered.  "Please help me."  She backed away from the
men, obviously raiders.  She kept waiting for the ground to open under their
feet, for the trees to reach out and pick them up off the ground, for fire to
fall from the sky and blast them.  None of those things happened, though she
kept calling for help.  No one heard her whisper, no one heard her screaming
when they pushed her to the ground.

                          *                                  *                           *
 
She'd fainted long before they were done with her.  When she woke up, she
was face down in the dirt.  She could feel warmth on the soles of her bare feet;
they were the only parts of her that didn't hurt.  She flexed her arms and bit
her lip, swallowing her groan of pain.  Every muscle ached; every inch of skin
felt bruised.

She didn't seem to have any clothes on, though some parts were so numb it
was hard to tell for sure.  She moved her right arm in front of her, then her
left.  The left didn't seem to be moving right; she felt something pop in her
shoulder when she brought it around.  It hurt, but no more than the rest of her. 

She had to get away, clothed or not.  Gritting her teeth, she pushed
herself up on her elbows.  The left didn't want to support her; the shoulder was
probably dislocated.  She decided to just use it for balance.

She rested there for a moment, gathering energy and listening for her
attackers.  She could hear snoring, but didn't dare turn her head to look in
case she hadn't given herself away yet.  There seemed to be three different
snores - one high-pitched whistle, one deep grumble, one that sounded like they
were trying to breathe through mud.  That should be all three.

She reached out with her right arm, planted her elbow, and pulled herself
forward.  Leaves crackled beneath her body.  She froze, but the snorers went on
making their music.  She took a deep breath, then pulled again.  She could see
the skeletal shape of some bushes outside the camp; if she could get that far,
she could get to her feet and run.  She could get to Grandfather, and he could
make all of this go away.

Zisa reached out again, pulled herself along the ground.  She kept her eyes
on the bushes.  Pull, and she was another foot closer to safety.  Pull.
Grandfather would find her, or she would find him.  Pull.  She'd be fine, she'd
spend the winter recovering and learning magic so this could never happen again.
Pull.  Grandfather would help, he had to help.  Pull.  She just had to reach the
bushes.  Pull.  One more foot.  She reached out once more, and that was when she
realized that the night was quieter than when she'd started moving.  There was a
footstep at her side.  She started to moan.

 ...Grandfather...  A strong hand gripped her hair, pulling her head
back.  She felt something cold against her neck, then a line of heat ripped
across it.  The hand dropped her and the footsteps moved away.  Time slowed
down.  Something hot and sticky flowed over her arms and splashed up on her
face.  She opened her mouth to cry for help one more time, and tasted blood.
She couldn't speak, couldn't draw in air.  She couldn't move.  She lay frozen as
her blood turned the dirt to mud, and her body stiffened, even as her mind and
spirit reached out in terror for help, for her grandfather to save her.

                                 *                           *

The Sage Lok never felt so tired, and so old, in his life.  This is what
comes of starting a family, he thought, sooner or later your wife or one of your
children die, and all the lights that warm your path get a littel dimmer.  They
seemed all but black at the moment.

His only granddaughter lay naked in the mud, frozen to the ground by her
own blood, not a hundred yards from his door.  She had been hard-used before she
died, he could see that, and it made his heart hurt to see it.  She'd been the
sprite that came and warmed his home the last four winters, keeping him human
and putting a smile on his face for the first time since he left the desert for
the mountain.  His daughter had done right to send him Zisa for help in the
winter; he wished he had done right by Zisa, instead of leaving her to become a
broken doll lying in the muck.

Why didn't she have an escort?  One of her brothers always accompanied her
up the path!  It wasn't safe for a woman alone anywhere, much less anywhere near
the Gold Road where bandits were thick as weeds.  True, the Road was almost two
miles away from here, too far on foot and the ground too treacherous for a
horse, but it was still too close to have a young woman out there alone.

She'd had so much life in her...  He sighed, and turned north.  Barely
visible in the moonlight, the shade of his granddaughter stood with her hand to
her throat.  Ghostly blood seeped from the wound, and she watched him with
diminishing hope.  He could see her form growing darker as despair overtook her. 

...Grandfather...  The voice was fainter now; much fainter than when
she'd appeared in his study, startling him enough to make him fall off the
chair.  She seemed convinced that he could help her somehow.  She'd obviously
had no idea she was dead; at least, not until she was confronted with her own
body.

Looking at her made his heart tighten all the more.  He couldn't leave her
shade to wander the pass in misery; no more could he bring himself to banish her
from this plane.  It could take centuries for her ghost to come to terms with
her death; banishing would do nothing more than send her to suffer in an unknown
world and extend her attachment to the physical worlds.

"God of wisdom, help me," he muttered.  There was a solution, but it would
be difficult, if not impossible, to pull off.  And it had to be done quickly,
before her spirit lost all vitality.  "Let it be done, then," he said, and took
a small coin-shaped stone from his pocket.  It was tied to a thong, which he put
around the body's neck.  He muttered the key word, and her body rose from the
ground, pulling away from the mud.  He wished he could have found her clothes,
somehow he thought he wouldn't feel quite so sad if Zisa's body had clothing on
it.

He gathered his will and sent her body floating before him.  It would be a
long night, and a longer day.  He hoped his old bones were still up to the work
ahead.
                                              
                          *                                  *                           *

Only flashes of memory remained.  There was an image that made no sense to
her; an old man crouched over a female body, looking sadder and older the longer
he looked.  In the memory, she felt more despair at every moment.  This man was
supposed to help her, and the longer it took, the more certain she was that no
one could help her.

Another flash--a young girl dancing around a campfire, getting in her
elders' way, but instead of scolding her they laugh and encourage her antics,
making room for her and her dance.

She was walking up a path alone.  In the memory, she was lost in thought,
but the 'she' that remembered felt dread with every step taken.  She didn't
pursue that memory, that one led to darkness.

A long period of darkness, then a sensation of weight.  She lay on a table,
looking up at the old man who was moving his hands above her head.  A blue glow
surrounded her.  She felt something crack, and her consciousness fled.

These scraps floated in her consciouness, moving to the fore as she
examined them, floating away when she focused on another.  One of these scraps
must tell her who she was.  The old man--was he her father?  Or a kind stranger?
That fire, and those adults, was that a family?  Why did she dance?

The old man had placed her body in a chair by the fire.  She could see that
she was in a sitting position, but she did not feel it.  She looked at her hand,
resting on the arm of the chair, and flexed it.  It moved, but she felt nothing.
She heard the wood splinter under her grip.

The old man entered from the doorway.  He looked distressed and pale,
moving more slowly than he had in her memories.  He didn't look up to a long
crouch any more.  He put his hand on hers and pulled at it.  She allowed her
hand to relax and be pulled with it.  She tilted her head slightly to watch his
face.  He noticed the movement.

"Ah, you're awake!" he said, some of the weariness lifting from his voice.
"How do you feel?  What do you remember, inta?"

She frowned, or tried it, but she couldn't feel her face move.  "Inta?"

"Beloved granddaughter..." he said.  "You don't remember anything?"

She thought hard.  "You found the body in the mud.  I needed help."

"I am your grandfather."  He sighed.  "I knew something had gone wrong, but... what do you feel?"

"Feel?"

"Are you warm or cold?  Are you happy or sad, or confused?"

She had to think about it.  The words had no immediate meaning for her, so
she shook her head.

"No?  No to what?"

"I don't feel warm or cold.  I am empty."

"What do you mean, empty?"  He gripped her hand; she allowed him to reshape
it to fit his grip.  She did not want to make his hands into splinters like the
chair.  Something told her that would be bad.

"Do you feel this?"  She could see his knuckles turn white.

"No."  He squeezed harder; his arm started to shake.  "I do not feel..."

He released her and stepped back, panting.  "I see why they were the
protectors," he muttered to himself.  "I must have missed something vital."

"Am I ...broken?"

"No, of course not!" he snapped.  "You are fine, don't worry... well, don't
ask, because you aren't."

"You are Grandfather."

"Yes, so listen to Grandfather and stay there," he said.  "Don't move until
I say, all right?"

"Yes."  He nodded and left the room again.  She detected a slight limp in
his steps.  He was gripping his left arm with his right hand, rubbing at the
muscle.

She didn't move, just as he asked.  Directly across from her was a window.
She could see a tree a few yards from the wall.  Its branches drooped.  Some of
the leaves were brilliant red, but perhaps half the leaves she could see had
turned a shriveled brown.  A little brown bird perched on the branch,
skittering back and forth as it watched something on the ground.  A moment later
it was gone, leaving the branch to sway in the breeze.

She turned the bits of memory she had over in her mind, but learned nothing
new.  The girl dancing fascinated her.  Could she dance like that?  She decided
to try it.  She stood up, and remembered her word to Grandfather.  She would ask
him if she could dance, when he returned.  She sat down and waited.

The night hid the tree, but when dawn came she watched the sunlight slowly
spread over the tree.  All the red leaves were gone.  The bird did not return.
She listened for signs of Grandfather moving, but all was silent.  The fire had
gone out long ago, but she still felt no cold or warmth, so it did not concern
her.  Frost crept up the window.  She watched over the course of the day, as ice
spread across the water in the bucket by the fireplace. 

She watched the sunlight go, and then come again, and then fade into
darkness.  She wished to watch it set, but her window did not face west.  She
felt a small twinge when a bird flew past the window, but that was all.  She
waited for her Grandfather.

                          *                                  *                           *

There was a bird's nest in the tree now.  Two little brown birds traded
time on the nest while the other flew away.  She had watched them build the next
twig by twig, pulling little pieces of fluff off themselves to line the nest,
bringing bits of thread or leaves to weave into the walls.  One of them had
spent two days on the nest before they switched the first time; she saw a flash
of yellow in the nest as one flew away and the other hopped into the nest to
take its place. 

Now there were little birds with no feathers in the nest.  The parent birds
still took turns sitting on the nest, but when they came back, they regurgitated
half-digested insects into the little ones's mouth.  Seeing this reminded her of
eating; how long had it been since she tasted anything?  She had been here an
entire season; at least that long.  That wasn't normal, was it?

Grandfather had never returned.  Had he left her?  She considered her
promise to stay where she was.  How important was a promise?  Did he know she
stood up that time, and left her for it?  It seemed unlikely.  Perhaps he was
resting.

A scrap of memory floated in front of her.  A woman lying in pain, her
distended belly exposed by the blanket that had slid down to her lap.  A young
girl giving her water from a cup and pulling the blanket over the woman.  Was
Grandfather sick?  He looked pale, before.

Checking on his health was surely more important than keeping this promise.
She stood up and froze for a moment, looking for balance.  A spider crept down
from the web it had made in her hair and crawled down her face, pausing for a
moment on her nose.  She paid no attention.

She walked to the door, leaving footprints in the dust.  The door led to
another room, with another fireplace and a kettle hanging in the middle of it.
There were ashes under the kettle, no fire.  There was a plate and a goblet on
the cleared-off half of the table; the other half was cluttered with tomes,
strange objects made of brass, glass carvings, and a few scattered jewels.  She
picked up one of the jewels; she felt an odd resonance with it.  She stared into
the sapphire prism, catching the sunlight in its facets.  She felt attached to
it, so she held on to it.  Perhaps Grandfather would let her keep it.

But she held it too tightly; the jewel was crushed before she noticed.
Blue sand crumbled out of her hand and onto the floor.  She felt an odd sense of
loss, but then lost it.  She was here to find Grandfather.

One more door, this one lying open.  A shoe lay just on her side of the
opening.  She stared at it for a moment, it seemed suspended in the air.  Then
she saw that a foot was inside it, the heel resting on another foot. 

"Grandfather?"  she moved closer.  There was little light in the room, but
she could see that he wasn't breathing.  She paused.  She did not breath,
either.  Was what was wrong with her, wrong with him?  He was not moving though.
She thought of her long sit in the wooden chair and decided that lack of
movement meant nothing.

She knelt and pushed her arms under his prone body.  He remained in the
same position; his body did not sag as she had expected.  She lifted him easily
and placed his body on the bed.  He remained in the same position, twisted on
his side, clutching his left arm.  She pulled his hand away, and something gave
in the arm.  She heard the crack but didn't know its significance.  His arm did
not want to lay flat.  After three attempts to move it gently, she gave it up
and left him as he was.  His arm stuck up into the air, his hips twispted, his
face blank.  She found a quilt on the floor and covered him with it.  Only his
upright arm and his face showed.

She contemplated getting him water.  She did not want water.  Would he? 

She would wait until he asked for it.

The quilt slid out of place, exposing a shoulder.  She pulled it back up.
Her hand jarred his head when she did so, and she heard a hollow rattle as
something inside moved.  She leaned closer and saw that he now had only one eye;
the other was an empty socket.

That didn't seem right.  She stood there staring at his face.  Her eyes
weren't loose, were they?  She tapped her skull, waiting for the rattle.
Nothing changed; she was not seeing inside her head with one eye.  Nothing
seemed loose.

The back of his head and neck were a darker color than the rest of him, as
well.  She lifted him by one shoulder to look.  Yes, the skin there was
purple-black, like one large bruise.  She poked the back of her own neck.  Of
course she felt nothing.  She needed to see herself.

She opened drawers and boxes until she found a mirror.  She looked into it,
held it to the side of her head so she could see it from the corner of her eye.
She took note of hair that was once black but looked like it had faded in the
sun.  A slightly hooked nose, eyes the color of the stone she had found, lips
set in a line.  All had the look of paint that had been left in the sun; it had
obviously once been darker, but something bleached it out.  Except the eyes, her
eyes were brilliant blue that jumped out of her face at her.

She couldn't get a good view, but she was sure there was no discoloration
on her neck or head.  Grandfather's problem must be different from hers.  She
didn't know what to do.

She could look for someone, but that would break her promise even more
thoroughly than she had already.  She could wait for someone to come.  But then
he might get sicker.

She didn't know what to do.  She went to the rocking chair in the corner
and planted her feet.  She considered the problem as she watched the light
coming through the window move across the room. 

                          *                                  *                           *


She was sitting in the rocking chair watching Grandfather not move when she
heard a noise, something hitting wood.  She stayed where she was.  The pounding
went on for a while, then she heard a door open.  After a moment, a gray-haired
man poked his head in the door.  He did not look at her, but focused on the bed.
His face tightened.

"Lok?" he said.  When Grandfather didn't respond, he came in the rest of
the way.  "Lok, you all right?"  He pulled back the blanket and froze.  "Good
god," he muttered. 

She wondered if she should say something; he didn't seem to have noticed
her.  But then he turned his head towards the window and saw her sitting there. 

"Who are you?" he asked.  "What happened to Lok?"  He pulled a cudgel from
his belt and held it ready.

"That is Grandfather," she said.  "He stopped moving."

"He... stopped moving?"  He frowned at her.  "That's a strange way to put
it.  You aren't one of those crazies, are you?"

She didn't know what he meant, so she said nothing.

"Come in the light where I can see you."

She stood up and stepped closer to him.  "Pretty enough... odd coloring.  Lok's your granddad, eh?"

She nodded.

"Yeah, there's some of his look in ya.  Never seen eyes like that though."
He sighed.  "Ya don't look crazy.  Can you tell me what happened?" 

"When I woke up, Grandfather was worried.  He told me to stay where I was.
He left, and then I thought he might be sick, and he was on the floor.  He
didn't move.  He has not moved."

"When was that?  Can't you smell... can't you tell he's dead?"

"The tree had red leaves when he left me.  There was a new nest with birds
in the tree when I looked for him."

He stared at her.  "And you didn't move, that whole time."

"One time, I stood up, but then I remembered the promise."

"Huh."  He stared at Grandfather.  "You only moved once?  Didn't you eat?"

"Why?"

"Why what?  Ah, forget it.  You don't know, do you?"  He turned and walked
from the room.  She decided to follow.  She did not know if this man should be
in the house when Grandfather was not moving.  Dead.  She tried to wrap her mind
around the word, but it wouldn't let her.  It made her think of cold mud and
fear.  It was a distant, cold fear, but she still shied from it.

"What are you doing?" she asked when he went in the room where she had
waited.  He was going through stacks of papers, looking at the books Grandfather
had out when he left. 

"Finding out what you are."  His face was still tight, but he seemed more
energetic.  "See if you're worth something."

"Worth something?" 

"Yeah, quit repeating what I say!  I'm a peddler, I gotta turn a coin where
I can.  I was going to sell some old books to your granddad, but seeing as he's
dead, maybe I can recover the loss here."  He moved to the table in the center
of the room, which was littered with blue crystal dust and had symbols painted
on it in white.  "Never seen anything like this before."

She said nothing, only watched him sift the blue dust through his fingers.
"Don't smell magical... not like you, anyway."  He paused and looked at
something on the floor.  "Ah, might have something right here."  He bent over
and picked up a book.  "Hmph.  I think I sold this to him."

She approached him, wanting to see what he was looking at, but he closed
the book and picked up a parchment on the floor.  He stared at it for a long
time, his mouth moving as he whispered to himself.  Finally he looked up at her.
"You're Zaisa, ain't ya?"

Something clicked inside her mind.  A woman bending to pick her up,
smiling, saying her name--"You say, Zee-sa," she said with sudden conviction.
The man nodded.

"Zisa, then.  Okay, I got what you are.  You are a person in a fake body."

She just stared at him.

"Okay, try this... you died, your grandfather brought you back and put you
in a new body.  Looks like you just aren't used to it."  He looked her up and
down.  "Tell ya what, come with me.  You can help me peddle, and I'll look out
for ya, eh?"

"But Grandfather..."

"It'll be fine.  We was good friends, he'd know you were in good hands."
He nodded to himself.  "Now.  Let's pack up all these magic books and things,
since he ain't using them anymore, and we'll get on the road in the morning."
He was smiling to himself as he started digging through drawers.  Deciding that
this must be a happy occasion, Zisa tried to form a smile as she started picking
up books and piling them on the table.