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trailing behind her, shrouding her form in mystery.

Chapter 5

His Place and Hers
    T HE MORNING DAWNED soft and gentle, a growing hint of spring in the air, though the snow lay thick about Avalon. The warmer air brought up a wispy fog from that snow, veiling the dark trees, dulling the cold starkness from their leafless branches, and giving all the forest a surreal and dreamy quality.
    Belexus stood perfectly still for a long, long while, collecting his thoughts one at a time, translating them into some tangible image—a block of stone—and then dismissing each of them into emptiness, throwing them away, falling deep into a meditative trance. Then slowly he began to reach for the morning sky, like the great oak, higher and higher, spreading wide the great limbs of his arms, stiffening them, grasping a firm hold on nothingness, the cords of his bulging muscles stretching taut. Then gradually he softened, became fluid, like the willow, that most deceptive of trees, the tree that successfully battled the greatest of winds through apparent submission. Side to side he went, always to his limits, always reaching. The ranger had seen fifty winters, but with the graceful stretching routines Brielle had shown to his father Bellerian, and that Bellerian had in turn taught to Belexus and to all the rangers of Avalon, his body remained supple and flexible, more the frame of a twenty-year-old.
    It went on for many minutes, and then Belexus pressed his palms together and pushed with all his strength, working muscle against muscle, his forearms and biceps balling from the exertion. He came out of the isometric press with a violent leap, catching the lowest branch of a nearby tree and quickly inverting himself, wrapping his legs about the limb and hooking his ankles. Then he let go with his hands, hanging flat out, stretching toward the ground, again lengthening his back. Slowly he lowered himself, leg muscles tight so that his feet held strong as he gradually loosened his wrap on the branch. Then he let go with his legs altogether, dropping, outstretched arms first, to the ground, where he caught himself, holding the perfectly steady handstand for a calm and slow ten-count.
    With a deep, relaxing breath, Belexus bent his arms, ever so slowly, until his face was low enough to kiss the sacred ground, and then he pushed back up to the handstand. He repeated the motion fifty times, until he felt the warmth of coursing blood flushing his huge shoulders.
    The ranger sprang to his feet gracefully out of that last push-up. He repeated the beginning of the routine, giving a few final stretches, then gathered up his huge sword and belted it about his waist. Before he had gone five steps, he drew out the sword, held it across his open palms, and paused long to consider that trusted weapon, studying its workmanship, remembering the many battles it had served him, the talons slain, the whip-dragons skewered.
    Ultimately, the ranger had to remember the one time the magnificent weapon had failed him, the one enemy against whom it had no power.
    The ranger’s gaze drifted up from the sword, staring into the fog, into nothing at all. He conjured to mind an image of the sword Brielle had shown to him in the reflectingpool the night before, a weapon superior to anything Belexus had ever seen, a mightier weapon even than Fahwayn, the enchanted sword wielded by Arien Silverleaf. He imagined the fine cutting edge of the displayed weapon, could almost feel its sharpness against his finger, the blade lined in diamond and edged in a white, inner light that promised power against even the wraith of Hollis Mitchell.
    Yes, he could fight Mitchell with that sword, Brielle had assured him, could avenge the death of Andovar and put to rest the battle-lust demons that threatened more than his life, that threatened his very soul.
    “I’m knowing yer thoughts,” came a soft voice behind him, soft like the warm fog, like the essence of Avalon itself.
    Belexus blinked