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stood the pawing form of a winged horse with a single sharp horn.
    â€œThe beast has lived long,” Shamarra said.
    My weapons and arms were of bronze, fine bronze embellished with scrollwork, to be sure. The lady handed me a little dagger that was made of iron. Tirell was eager to be off. He mounted the black, and Shamarra frowned gravely up at him.
    â€œWhy do you not ride the white,” she asked, “as befits the bridegroom of the goddess?”
    Tirell’s face hardened and he shook his head. “As long as sorrow for my slain love lives in my heart,” he vowed, “I will wear black and ride a black, and let the black beast follow me if it will! Nor will I ever wed any maiden by name of the goddess, however fair.”
    â€œAll things carry the seeds of change,” Shamarra said. “Look yonder.”
    She pointed across the lake, past the lone swan that floated white over its twin of black. There on the farther shore stood the black beast looking back at us, its head held high, horn pointing toward the sky. In the still water just below wavered a reflection—an image of white! Fair white were the folded wings and shining flanks, and purest white the horn.
    â€œRemember that,” Shamarra said quietly. “It may yet be of use to you.”
    She stood back, and Tirell started away. I came out of a stupor and scrambled onto my horse. “Perhaps we shall meet again?” I asked Shamarra—begging, rather.
    She laughed, a rippling sound. “I think we will,” she answered. “Look for me by watery ways.” I urged the white mare after Tirell, and when I had caught up to him I looked back. The black beast was already pacing at my heels. The lady stood by her lake, watching us go. I waved, and she lifted a hand in answer, but already I knew which of us it was that held her gaze, and my heart was sore.

Chapter Five
    Tirell was the one who found courage to embrace the beast. Though at the time I did not think of it as courage, but as folly, terrifying folly, maybe madness. I had not yet learned that valiant madness braves the dark and comes through it—that is how Abas failed; he was afraid. And I was afraid of the beast and therefore despised it as somehow misshapen, unclean, in spite of the lady’s words and the fair image in the water. The real enemy was myself. I was a far worse fool than Tirell, those first few days, and I was of no help to him.
    He rode out of Acheron with a hard, straight back, and now and then he laughed a laugh I did not like. Sunk in my own gloom, I felt little inclined to speak to him. The black beast paced behind me, once again content to bring up the rear—to my dismay. Soon I had other cause for dismay. Tirell rode far too fast for safety on the treacherous slopes, and more than once I closed my eyes.
    We spent the night on a ledge scarcely wide enough for the horses, and we slept little. Tirell stirred and muttered on his narrow space of stone. Once or twice I asked what ailed him. He gave no reply, so I asked no more. He rode through the next day in a tense, rigid daze, almost as if he were in pain. I learned much later that Abas had been calling him, tormenting him with the inner voice. I did not know that at the time, and I didn’t understand—I still don’t understand. I am no visionary, and I cannot imagine what those days were like for him.
    By nightfall we found easier footing, praise be, and we camped beneath knobby, gray-fringed trees. I distrusted those trees from our earlier meeting, and I resolved to sleep lightly. Still, I was so exhausted and heartsore that I expect I would have been lost in deepest slumber had it not been for the racket Tirell put up. All night long he thrashed and moaned and whispered and whimpered in his sleep. Any other time I would have gone to him, awakened him, soothed him and talked to him until it passed, whatever mood or dark dream it was. But, whether due to the moss or