Just before the ten-year Troll Wars ended, a stranger came to the holt from the faraway Glider Mountain. The full consequences of this visit wouldn't be revealed for many more years. Allim's long-standing dream is fulfilled, but the delight he expected wouldn't come about from this particular incident.

"Beware what you wish for; you just might get it." -- old Chinese proverb.

 

The falls roar in my ears. I can smell the mists as they rise, fresh and cold, even from this great height. Below me, the elves that walk there appear as small as insects. By my reckoning, they are equally insignificant. I wrinkle my nose.

Dressed in tanned animal skins, they romp like children at the foot of the falls, gilded by the rays of the setting sun. I see them prepare to swim and bathe, stripping off their garments with not the slightest trace of self-conciousness. They are small-bodied, I believe, from what I can judge at this height. Their hair, their bodies, the way they move like beasts of prey -- they, too, are tainted.

This is what comes of meddling with the outside world. My journey has been proof of that, though I was refused to believe it when I set off. I have encountered but one other gathering of elves, near a lake far to the south. It was there I found and probed a hunter knocked unconcious in an accident, and discovered the taint of beast blood in his veins. I still shudder at the thought. How and when this came about I do not even want to think about. I wish to be away before I am witness to whatever strange mating rituals these elves participate in.

From what I can see, this group appears to be more tainted than the last, for they are more beast-like to my eyes. I crawl back from the edge of the cliff, but my eye is caught by three more figures coming down the path. I worm back to the edge, careful that the beast-blooded elves do not see my movements. The newcomers are taller, more fair than the others. By their movements and the texture of their floating hair, I believe them to be of pure, untainted blood. Curious. Why would they live among these creatures? Surely not by their free will. I observe them more closely to see what bonds them here. Perhaps I can aid in their liberation.

One of them, a fine male with short dark hair calls to one of the swimming elves. She rises from the water, her fiery hair falling in a wet trail down her back. She runs to him. I nearly retch when I see him catch her up in a lover's embrace. With lips curled back, I shrink away from the sight. Why? Why would he even touch such a creature? And there stands a lovely elf woman, with straw-gold hair beside him, smiling as if she approved!

I must get away from this place. My search is for other elves, those who remember their true heritage -- and one in particular. But not these. Not these warped creatures who mixed their blood with that of short-lived animals. Not even the few pure-blooded elves who dwell with them and lie with them as if they were fit for mates.

One, at least, has sense enough to stand apart from the rest. I see he is little pleased with the menagerie he is forced to dwell with. He draws away from the scene, his arms crossed, and I am about to think well of him until I see a small child run up to him and wrap her thin arms around his knee. He smiles at her, I think, and she reaches for his long, black hair. A small, chestnut-haired female comes and takes the child in her arms. Though the two look uneasily at one another, there is little doubt who sired the child of this female.

Disgusting. I take up my pack and bags and turn my face away. I will travel northward still, for I am told the Palace remains there. Perhaps there I will find more of our kind, some whom have refused to mingle with the world and its mortal creatures. I will forget the beast-blooded elves. I will forget the pale-haired elves here who embrace their beastly lovers. I will forget Allim.

Allim. His name is Allim. High Ones! Here?

I know his name.

How do I know his name?

How in the name of the High Ones do I know his name?

This cannot be... this must not be...

I fight it, but his name rises, unbidden, on a private send.

**Allim!**

I will not look back. I cannot look back. I begin to run, wishing I had wings on my heels to take me out of range of the send that must inevitably come. I cannot outrun it.

**Liafair!**

His send freezes me in place. I do not want to go back, but my legs seem to be controlled by someone other than myself. Step by unwilling step I return to the cliff's edge.

He is there, staring in shock at me from the base of the falls. The others look on, curiously. They sense that something has happened, but they do not know what. He sees me.

**Liafair,** he calls again, **Liafair!**

His send is a confused muddle of shock, surprise, pleasure, wonder, cold fear. This seems to be a dream come true for him, and he is afraid I will vanish. I am tempted to step over the edge of the cliff and put an abrupt end to this horror. At least I would see the Palace. The others have seen me, and are pointing. They chatter among themselves. Some are running for a narrow path that may lead to the top of these falls. Perhaps they seek to guide me down. Among the milling confusion, Allim stands as one transfixed, still staring at me. It is he. How can this be?

**Where did you come from? Please don't go. Don't be frightened.**

He interprets my shock as fright. Perhaps there is some fright in it. I am afraid of so much as coming near these tainted elves, of being forced by my own nature to Recognize one who lives among them. If only I could glide, as some of my people do, I could fly away and escape. What then? The reality sweeps in a cold wave over me. I have Recognized Allim, and there is no escape no matter how far and how long I run. To deny Recognition will only bring illness, perhaps a slow death. But to lie with him and bear a child by him... I shudder. I feel cold and ill already. In utter shame I sit down heavily on a rock and await the arrival of his cohort for in truth there is nothing else I can do.

Moments later they come, hardly out of breath though they ran all the way. Wolves run among them like pets. I shrink back at the thought of touching any of these beasts, wolf or half-wolf.

A curvaceous green-eyed female with dark red hair has put on garments of russet and brown. She steps forward. "The mists have parted joyfully to bring us a new friend," she says, "I am Leafdance. Welcome to Grey Falls. Who are you? Will you come stay with us for awhile?"

They are friendly, if nothing else, these elves that breed with beasts. They are like the dogs the humans keep, which wag their tails and whine and piddle when the master approaches.

"My name is Liafair," I tell them, still keeping my distance. "I come from a mountain far to the south. Though I am on a journey, it seems that I must stay with you for a short time, thanks to the one named Allim."

Leafdance's green eyes go wide. "So that's why the prickly pureblood looked like he was struck by skyfire! It's Recognition, isn't it?"

Whoops and howls arise from the little group. I hear one send the news to the others waiting below. There is nothing for it, now. They all know. There will be no escape until all is done. But what then?

"That randy buck is at it again," one of the wolflings says with a laugh.

"Allim may be prickly as a burr, but he and his line will be our salvation yet."

"This comes as a welcome surprise after the devastation our holt has seen. Come." Leafdance extends her hand. "We will guide you down the cliff trail and to the holt."

"Don't touch me!" I step back from her hand. All eyes turn on me. The mood has suddenly turned cold. A wolf growls.

"Purebloods," a male mutters.

"I'm... I'm just not used to your kind," I say, recovering my composure.

"Some of these cublings may seem a little rough around the edges," Leafdance says, with a wry grin, "But if it's the Gift of Anlari that bothers you, you'd best get used to it, or you'll be holed up in a pureblood's cave until Recognition fades."

"Maybe it won't," a young male sniggers.

"Moth!" Leafdance scolds. I sense a private send between the two, and Moth looks cowed.

The greetings done, I allow them to lead me down the trail. The sound of my heart pounding in my ears nearly drowns out the roar of the falls. I want this to be over with. I want to be away from here.

Impatient, he has not waited for me at the bottom. Instead, I see Allim climbing the trail to meet me. The dumbstruck look has not left his pale face. He holds out his slender hands to me.

**Liafair,** he sends, privately, **all my life I've wanted...**

I turn away, but the others are close by and there is no place to draw away. He senses my reluctance, and does not press.

**The Wolfriders shock you, I see. Come, I will take you to the rest of the purebloods. You will be more at ease there. There are few of us, far too few, but,** He draws closer, **thanks to you, beautiful Liafair, there will be one more.**

I cannot look at him, but I allow him to take my hand and lead me down the trail. The others, the Wolfriders as he calls them, follow behind. The trail seems long, but only because I do not know what is at the other end, nor how long it will take to get there.

We pause in the middle of the forest. The Wolfriders run ahead, calling. Faces pop out from holes in a great tree. I see that there must be treeshapers among these people, for the tree itself has been shaped into dens, much as the rockshapers shaped my home. The Wolfriders share the news of my arrival with words, howls, and sends. They tumble out of the tree to meet me.

So, they breed as quickly as their beasts, I see. Young ones cluster with their parents. All crowd in to meet me. I am overwhelmed by their presence, by the very life force they exude. They are so strongly alive! I look up in surprise as a Glider soars past and touches down lightly.

"A Glider!" I whisper to Allim. "A young one, too. What brings him here?"

"His village was destroyed by humans," Allim answers. "Kaylamale was the only one to survive. He Recognized a maiden who came to us from Moon Lake in the south. Both have been here ever since, though they have talked of leaving. Mistweaver misses her people."

So, that is what happened to the Rebels. No one ever knew what became of those who sought to live in peace with the Outside. This one looks far to young to remember the Division; no doubt he thinks his people were there for good reason. The best he has done for himself since the loss of his people is to find a Wolfrider mate and live as a beast. Pity he did not return home; perhaps he was never taught where home was.

By the banks of a small stream I see a low mound rising, and a cave entrance. Allim leads me there. Passing through the narrow door, I see that beyond the mouth the cave divides, making several rooms. The doorway to each room is draped with a skin.

"I den here," he explains, "along with Tilvah, who takes one of the inner chambers. Kyleria and Volann occupy the other rooms." He gestures out the door. "Down the bank are other caves. Yharren keeps one for himself and Firelark. Orelan had one of her own, before she was lost in a battle. So now do Navah and Ronti." He draws back a door curtain. Within is a pile of furs which I can only assume is a bed of some sort. "Come," he says softly, with a smile.

I stand back. Not now, surely? Not this fast? Where is the delightful ritual, where is the good form? Where are the looks and winks over the feast table, the sends and touches, and the whispers from unexpected corners, leading days later to a long pleasuring? Come? Is that all he will give me? Just come and be done with it?

"What is it?" he asks. He is curious, not angry. But he is full of Recognition, and eager to pass through that doorway with me. It has been so long that any of my people have Recognized that I cannot recall what forms they followed. But surely it was more that just "Come."

"Give her at least a little time, Allim," says a voice from behind. I turn and see the elf woman who was at the base of the falls. Behind stand another female and a pale-haired male.

"This is Tilvah," Allim says smoothly, though obviously a trifle annoyed by the presence of the other purebloods, "and Kyleria and Volaan."

Tilvah steps forward. "Surely you are tired from your long journey. Allim is thinking only of himself, as usual." She gives him a tarty smile. "Come, I have plenty of furs in my den, and can make room for you. I will see to it that you are rested and fed before I allow the sire of half the tribe to get his hands on you." She leads me to another of the rooms, and fusses among the furs in the bed.

"Cool your heels, Allim," I hear Volann say, "or whatever part of you most needs cooling." To me he says, "Welcome, Liafair. I'll fetch you something to eat. How do you prefer your meat?"

When I have rested and washed the travel dust from me, Tilvah and Kyleria come in to greet me in a more formal fashion. How strange they appears to me, these tall elf women dressed in animal skins and sporting ornaments of gleaming metals. Though their garments are not lacking in imagination, they are far more utilitarian than I am accustomed to.

"The holt is wide awake now that night is upon us, and the Wolfriders wish to meet you," Tilvah says. "What shall I tell them?"

"I..." What shall I say? I sit frozen on the low mound of furs Tilvah has prepared for me. "I have travelled all this day and I am weary. I wish to sleep to be at my best before I greet them."

"Sleep at night like the humans?" Kyleria laughs. "Your people must live a very different life than ours."

Very different, indeed. Innocent girl, to think that all bands of elves seek to pit themselves against humans, and prowl the night like so many beasts of prey.

There is a rustling at the door skin, and Allim enters the room. His narrow grey-blue eyes are agleam, fixed only on me. Kyleria gently chides him for not seeking permission to enter, but Tilvah says with a sigh and a smile, "I suppose you have excellent reason for forgetting your manners, old friend."

The grace with which he folds his long legs as he seats himself at my feet is so near that of a true elf that I feel my breath falter. "Excellent reason, indeed," he says, catching up my hand and gazing adoringly at my face, "Such loveliness and such good fortune as this is enough to make me forget myself entirely." I could gag.

"Not to mention eating, drinking, breathing..." Kyleria gibes. "You'll see," she adds with a smirk as Allim gives her a narrow look.

As angular as he is, his motions are fluid as he pulls himself onto the fur mound beside me. He wants to be close to me, very close as the tug of Recognition draws him to my side. I stifle an answering call from within.

**Liafair.** His private send is like a whisper. It teases and torments. **When, Liafair? Where? At dawn under the falls? In a tree nest under the stars? Or... now? In my chamber? I await your word.**

"Private sending, Allim," Tilvah says, her eyes sparkling, her chin on her fist. "Would you prefer to be alone?" She rises to leave.

"No! Wait!" Allim's presence envelops me like a tight, suffocating second skin. I want to rip him off of me, take a knife and slash at him. "I... I mean... a day's travel leaves me weary and wanting sleep, and the... er... shock of Recognition has quite exhausted me. I would like to sleep for now. Alone, I mean. For now."

His disappointment is plain on his face, but he honors my request. Rising from the furs, he takes my hand and presses it to his face. "I have waited these thousands of turns for this. I can wait a little longer."

The night has passed and so has the dawn before I awaken. Tilvah has already told me that the Wolfriders sleep during the day while the humans are about. That is well. I would almost prefer meeting a human over being with the Wolfriders.

At home, deep within the mountain, I kept little track of day and night for I slept when I was tired and woke when I was not. On my journey I have had to accustom myself to the rhythms of the daystar. Unlike the Wolfriders, though, I preferred to walk in its light.Very little of that light now reaches the furs I lie half-buried in. Tilvah keeps a candle in a bowl for light, and it is burning as I awake, though Tilvah herself is gone. Beside my rude bed is a watertight basket filled with water, and another basket filled with cooked meat. How like the wolves these beastly elves are to eat theirs raw! There must be a firemaker or two among them to roast their food if need be.

I eat, but I have little appetite, for Recognition is already making its demands upon me. Perhaps that, too, comes from meddling with Outside, but from what little I know about Recognition among my own people I cannot tell if that is so. I push the basket away and sit still in the silence of the cave. It seems that none of the purebloods have gone to bed yet.

Almost none. I hear Allim tossing restlessly in his furs.

He was in my dreams of the night, dreams so fiery and intense in their reality that when I awoke I almost thought Recognition had been fulfilled already. I begin to wonder what dreams he had, then remember that he sleeps in the day as the Wolfriders do. As I sit and recall my own dreams, I feel the clutch of desire within. My skin turns sentitive. My breath becomes shallow. I am suddenly and strongly aware of how soft the fur feels against my body. The ache sets in, a deep-seated hot pain that cries out for relief. Without thinking I snatch up a fur and hold it to me as I cross the room and part the door curtain.

His door is close at hand. Only a few steps across the small entry room will take me there. My feet move of their own volition. I shut my thinking mind to what I am doing and let my body to guide me. I do not want to be present for what I am about to do. My hand reaches out for the hide covering his door. Even its smooth stiffness arouses a spark, and I watch the palm of my hand glide across it before I brush it aside.

My movements, though nearly silent, were enough to rouse him from his fitful slumber. He sits up in his furs, his pale skin gleaming in the darkness of his unlit room. I pull deep within myself as I allow my legs to carry me to the side of his bed. He sighs that achingly helpless tone that only an aroused lovemate can sigh as he reaches out to me and pulls me down beside him.

**Liafair,** he sends, drawing me from deep within myself. I do not want to answer. My body will answer him, but I do not want to know of it. He sends again, calling my name. This won't do. He is unsatisfied with only the physical relief of Recognition. He wants me to be fully with him, and that I cannot do.

His skin is hot against mine, his weight insistent, but he will not take what he knows is his until he has drawn me forth. With his forehead on mine, he dives deep into my mind, probing with his soul. I had thought an unwilling physical joining would be difficult enough but this is worse, infinitely worse. I flee, but he has lived among the wolflings all his life and knows the hunt. He is hot upon the trail of my being.

**Why, Liafair?** he calls, **Why?**

There is, of course, more to the send than the simple word. The question is formed from rich layers of emotion, heated by both desire and anger. What did Leafdance call him? The prickly pureblood? Yes, there are prickles indeed in his sending, though he has attempted to smooth them over for my sake. They sting me with guilt but they do not draw me forth. Let it be over, I think, for the heat of the moment has cooled. Let it be over and let me be gone.

There is stillness and silence. I know he still lurks at the corners of my awareness as surely as his body pressed against mine. He waits not with the tension of a beast who has sighted prey, but with the confusion of a baffled hunter. He has withdrawn to wait, but I can wait, too.

**WHY?**

The send rips through my conciousness. It is a warning as much as a question, carrying the message that this is no elf to play teasing games with. How shall I answer him? I fear telling the truth will bring as much of his rage down on me as witholding it.

**Where are you, Liafair? Why will you not be with me?**

Arrogant one. Can he truly believe a few flattering words from him would have me panting to crawl into his furs? That simply because I have Recognized him I should immediately love him also? I skirt the edges of conciousness enough to raise my body into a sitting position. Perched on the edge of his rude bed, I pull a fur around my shoulders.

"Tell me of this place and how it came to be," I say.

With a heavy sigh he sits up in his pile of furs. "Very well," he grumbles, "What is it you want to know?"

A tiny smile twitches at the corner of my mouth. This is a small victory, if delaying the inevitable can be called a victory. I must keep him talking, so I must compose my questions well. "Tell me what is meant by the Gift of Anlari." There. That must be a tale that will take him some time to tell.

Another sigh, and he begins. "Of all of us, only Tilvah is old enough to remember Anlari, the High One. I regret that I was born after she made her sacrifice. If I had been alive then, perhaps I might have changed things. Perhaps the Wolfriders would never have been."

"Then the Wolfriders... took her away?"

I feel his body move as he shakes his head. "She is the mother of them all."

I shudder. "On purpose?" I blurt.

"It is hard for me to even understand, but then I wasn't there to see it. I wasn't a part of the world then and I little understand the difficulties the High Ones and their Firstborn went through. They were fragile, those Firstcomers. Had they been able to regain the Palace, they may have at least made themselves stronger, even if they could not make it fly once more. But since they could not flee their troubles, it came to this: like all creatures that walk on this world, they had to adapt or die. They learned to hunt. They learned to eat meat to make themselves strong in body if not in magic. Those that did not learn soon died. Some went away and were never heard from again. No one knows what became of them."

Better that they had died, than to breed with the beasts of this world, I think. I cannot help but wonder from whence came the firstborn who founded my people. Could they have been from the ancestors of this band? Could they have turned away in disgust from these predatory elves? But Allim is still weaving his tale, and I must listen.

"But the world grew colder and harsher. There came a winter when food was scarce and the tribe was hungry more often than not. In the summer, hunger for meat can be tollerated for one can often find something to eat among the green growing things. In the dead of that frozen winter, though, there was nothing. It was as though animals had disappeared from the land. The tribe began to wonder if the winter would ever end.

"There was a pack of wolves nearby, and often the tribe would try to steal meat from the pack's kills. One of the elves even became a kill and was meat for the wolves when he tried to steal from them by himself. Poor Kyprin was one of Anlari's dearest friends and she mourned long for him. At first she swore to avenge his death by killing wolves, and she set out to study their habits to see how best to go about it. But as she watched them, she felt a growing admiration for them. As harsh as the winter was, they were able to survive. They could hunt better than any of the elves. She resolved to learn even more from them."

Would that not have been enough? Could she not have simply taught her people to hunt well? What led her to the sacrifice? I hug the fur tighter about my shoulders and listen to the story.

"Anlari had no skills a shape-changer, but sought to change her shape with the help of two healers. She worked diligently with them, and succeded in turning herself into a wolf. She learned to challenge other wolves for a place in the pack, and was soon running among them. When she made kills of her own she would take them back to the tribe. If the pack made a kill, she would hold off the pack until the elves came to take a share. Both the tribe and the pack survived the winter thanks to Anlari.

"Anlari, however, came to like running as a wolf too much. With the death of Kyprin it seemed that she did not want to be close to another elf. The tribe saw less and less of her as she spent more and more of her time in wolf form.

"Then she disappeared for three turns. All the tribe feared she was dead. They suffered much hunger those three winters, but all lived to be astonished one spring when Anlari, in wolf form, presented the tribe with twin cubs -- Arran and Nimor, both half elf, half wolf."

I am sad for that elf of old. How painful to be forced by hunger into the form of a beast, and stay in that form over sorrow for a dead lover. So deep does this story touch me that I fail to hear the rest of the tale, of the childhood of Arran and Nimor, and of Allim's own birth. Only vaguely do I understand that Anlari wandered away and was never seen again. I must wonder, of course, if she still walks in the world. Surely if she did she would have shown herself to the Wolfriders again. No, she must dwell in the palace now, free of the confines of the body.

"I remember Nimor," Allim concludes, "and all the Wolfrider chieftains who have followed. Every one of them carries the legacy of the unknown wolf-sire of Arran and Nimor. And yet, every one of them carries the blood of a High One, also." He says that as though he has never thought of it before. He shakes his head of the thought, his long hair brushing against my hips.

There is a long silence. He has concluded his story, and I must pose another question.

"But in spite of their wolf blood, you have Recognized some of these... half-breeds?"

It is difficult to keep the tone of repulsion out of my voice. I am sure he senses it, for his muscles suddenly stiffen.

"And what of it? I have Recognized a great number of them over the many turns I have been alive. That is true. As little as I've liked it, it has helped to keep the tribe alive. I have longed all these turns for Recognition with another pureblood like myself, and only now has my longing been answered."

I feel him turn toward me. His hands are on my shoulders but his grip is far from gentle. His lips are near my ears.

"Is that why you turn from me?" he says in a low, dangerous voice. "Is that why you hide from me so far within yourself? Is that why you cannot share yourself with me? Simply because Recognition has played me for the fool so many times?"

What shall I say to him? The truth which is painful? A lie that he will see through at once and be hurt even more? His fingers dig painfully into my flesh.

"Answer me!"

I still cannot speak, but the silence speaks for me. His hands drop from my shoulders.

"I see."

He shoves me away from the bed with such force that I hit the stone floor with a thump. I will have a bruise tomorrow.

"Go then, if I fill you with such disgust!" he snarls. "See how far you can run from Recognition!"

I dash out of the cave room, running from him, from his pain, from the mocking tone of his final words. He knows what I am going through better than I, and he knows what the final outcome will be, High Ones curse him.

Tilvah is asleep in her cave when I dash in and snatch up my garments. She wakes, but asks no questions. I give no answers though it pains me to be so rude to her. It is Allim I wish to hurt, Allim with his cold gibes and his surety of the final outcome of our Recognition. I wish to the High Ones that I had the strength to deny Recognition, just for the pleasure of seeing him writhe.

The daystar is ablaze when I leave the cave. I will walk for the day, though I know I shall return. I must walk and think and decide what I shall do with Allim.

The sun gilds the dusky skyline of sun-goes-down when I return. I sense eyes on me as I near the holt. Looking up I notice a Wolfrider maiden, dressed in a purple and black breechclout and pullover, squatting on a branch. Her eyes are like blue fire as she fixes me with her glare. She does not speak.

*What do you want?* I demand.

Silence. She only scowls at me with those wolfish eyes, her body still while the afternoon breezes play with her honey-gold hair. I shrug and toss my own hair over my shoulder as I walk by.

Again I am assaulted by a pair of lupine eyes, green this time. A gangly adolescent with pale, red-gold hair sits beside a young wolf, atop a large stone near the path. Perfectly silent, her legs thrust out in front of her, the youth stares at me with a stony look. I am angry now but I will not show it, neither will I speak to this child who dares to look at me so. I walk past her as if I had not seen her.

The gauntlet is not yet over. A mature male is leaning against a tree further up the path. I see him too late to change my own course without being obvious. At least he is not staring at me. Through a curling fringe of silvery hair he is staring off into space at nothing in particular. I stride by him, ignoring him, and think I am free of molestation from him when I hear his voice behind me softly mutter: "Recognition is Recognition."

Furious, I will not look at this impudent Wolfrider. I continue on my way with a firm stride. I see Allim ahead, sitting in front of the cave entrance. That is good. I have something to say to him.

He is not alone. I grimace. I will still say what I have to say, for it is only a sleepy half-grown child he plays with in the last of the sun's rays, the same child who hugged his knees when the Wolfriders were bathing at the falls yesterday. She giggles as he pretends to pull a palmed stone from her ear. "Do it again!" she coaxes.

I pause to watch. I think my plan will work. As prickly as Allim is, he at least has the makings of a decent father as I plainly see. Surely it is only the continual presence of the Wolfriders that makes him nervous and irritable. I will offer him a better life. I watch some more. He seems to have taken a delight in this child. That may make things difficult, but surely as she follows her own nature, led by her wolf blood, he will turn away from her.

Before I can speak there is a flash of purple in the trees above, and the same maiden who glared so furiously at me drops to the ground in front of Allim.

"Father," she says, and once again I shudder, "I want you to know -- if the pain grows too great, Stone will help you through it."

An enigmatic smile plays at Allim's lips. "I have suffered greater pain than this, and it will come to an end, as it must. Besides," he says, lifting the child onto his lap, "I am sure your lifemate has very little sympathy for any sufferings of mine."

"That may be," says a voice, as the silver-haired male glides into view. He knows I am here, but he does not acknowledge me. "But I know better than you what it is to be denied Recognition. And I have a duty to the tribe as well."

"You're nasty!" a small voice hisses behind me, startling me. The half-grown, green-eyed child trots past with her wolf in tow. She makes straight for the small figure in Allim's lap. "Hey, Briarheart, wanna play?" she bellows.

The child greets her with a squeal of enthusiasm, but Briarheart's mother has appeared from the bushes near the cave and calls for her whelp. Both the children scamper happily toward her.

With the children gone, I walk purposefully toward the cave. I see the daughter of Allim and her mate withdraw. That is well. I wish to speak to Allim alone.

"I have decided," I announce. I stand before him. He doesn't bother to rise from the dust he sits in. By the time I am through with him, he will no longer sit in the dust, whether literal or figurative. I will make it my task to remind him of what he is. I will fulfill the purpose of my journey.

"Yes?" he drawls.

"You know how I feel about these half-elves you are forced to live with and breed with. You know your breeding with them causes me to dislike being near you. It is as if their taint has become yours, though I know the blood of the High Ones flows pure in your veins. But it does not have to be that way.

"My people live far from here, but I have traveled the distance. No one of tainted blood lives among us. We have separated ourselves from Outside to avoid the impure influences. The only reason I have gone abroad is to see if others like us still exist. I see a few do, but must live among these Wolfriders and adopt their ways. I can see that you do not like living this way. I know how you believe Anlari's sacrifice was a mistake.

"Now think: if you were to come with me to be with my people, you could live among us and remember what it is to be an elf. The impurities of this world would fall from your shoulders. There would be no need to scrabble about for survival, for we have a few skilled hunters to feed us all. Think how your own powers could grow in such a place!

"Thus it is my decision that while I must eventually accept Recognition with you, I cannot bring myself to do so until you become everything an elf can be. If you will leave this place, come to my people, and dwell among us, then I will accept you as my lifemate."

I stand proudly, waiting for his acceptance. With the pain these Wolfriders have caused him surely he will leap at the chance to live among real elves. Perhaps the other pure blooded elves who dwell here will follow also.

A wistful look had touched his austere features as I spoke, but now as he rises to his feet, he fixes me with a cold glare.

"I am not accustomed to negotiating Recognition," he says, and stalks away.

"You aren't the first to find Recognition with Allim difficult."

Tilvah came across my lone meditations by the river. She stands by me for I have not asked her to sit. I do not particularly care whether she joins me or not. I have grown uncharacteristically irritable, so much so that I find Tilvah's gentle presence cloying.

"I do not usually give unasked-for advice," she says, seating herself on a rock near me, "but if I were to see you walking unwittingly toward a human village I would surely warn you of the danger. Toying with Allim, particularly when he is full of Recognition, can be equally dangerous."

I give a snort of contempt. Allim? Dangerous? "In my travels I passed a band of humans who kept herds of small hoofed animals for their wool and their meat. When Allim first came to me there on the falls the look in his eyes reminded me of one of those wooly beasts as it follows its herd leader. What danger is Allim to me, his Recognized? Would he hurt me? Force me? I think not."

Tilvah gives me a strange look. For a moment I think she pities me. "Perhaps I ought to ask Redmane or Greeneyes to speak with you."

"I need no advice from a half-beast." I almost regret that snippish reply, for I see even Tilvah is losing patience with me.

"There is only one end to this story, you know."

"I know that, of course. I know I must join with Allim, and he knows the conditions under which I will submit to Recognition."

"He said something to that effect, but did not elaborate. He was too angry -- and hurt, though he won't show it -- to explain. He is very proud, you know."

Hurt? If I hurt him, I am glad for it. If he is proud, he will soon learn that living here is nothing to be proud of.

"Then I will tell you: I can only accept him if he comes to live with me and be one of my people. To live here willingly when he knows there are true elves he could dwell with is something I cannot understand." I turn to face her. "Of course I open the invitation to all pureblooded elves in this holt. You are all welcome to join us."

"But not the Wolfriders?" There is a harsh tone in Tilvah's voice I have not heard there before.

"Of course not. We are pure elves, trying in our own humble fashion to recreate the world and the lives of the High Ones."

Tilvah rises to her feet. "Anlari was a High One. I remember Anlari. Even in wolf form she had a purer heart than any elf I ever knew. Any elf," she says, with pointed emphasis. Somehow her words carry more sting than I think they ought.

But Tilvah is not through with me. "Allim was not even born when Anlari ran with us. He doesn't remember the hunger that gnawed at us those first long, cold winters. As much as he rails against the Wolfriders, I notice he has grown quite fit and healthy on the meat they provide.

"Though he may deny it, Allim is as much a part of the tribe as any of us, and you have forced him to realize that in a way he never has before. What you have asked him to do is to turn his back on all that he is and follow you, to become what you want him to be. But Allim is not clay to be molded into a toy to please you. He is your elder by a thousand years or more. If you continue to treat him as an errant child you will earn only his hatred. And you will still have to answer to Recognition."

"If he were a true child of the High Ones..."

"He is." Tilvah cuts me off. "His beautiful mother was a High One. The last of them."

She turns her back on me and walks away.

Three nights pass. I carefully avoid Allim and the rest of his mangy tribe as much as possible, though I still return to Tilvah's cave to sleep. It is difficult to sleep at night with these Wolfriders out and about in their beloved darkness. Tilvah has been in and out of the cave all this night and though she is quiet, her movements disturb what little slumber I have been able to snatch. Confound that wretched Allim who Recognizes with such incredible ease! If he were to suddenly take up hunting and be gored to death by a stag this night I would laugh. The last three nights have been painful enough. I meant to find another cave to sleep in but Orelan's old cave is unkempt from disuse, Navah and Ronti are too standoffish, and Yharren is, if such a thing is possible, even more insufferable than Allim. Besides, obsequious Yharren has taken up with a wolfrider female whom he keeps like a pet in his den, making it unfit for my needs. Even without her presence I do not think I could tollerate his fawning over me while he practically spits in the faces of the rest of his tribe. I do not find him flattering.

The tribe has not gone out hunting this night, at least not for animals. There has been a good deal of chatter about something called dreamberries which apparently have just ripened. Allim and his whelp Kestrel have aided the process with their treeshaping powers and all the Wolfriders are howling lustily over the harvest. Whatever these wretched berries are I wish the Wolfriders would just eat them and be done with it.

And if that silver-haired Stone can truly cure pain, I wish he would cure mine, for my whole body aches with the demands of Recognition. I made up with Tilvah long enough to ask her to send for him, but perversely he refuses to come. I heard there were other healers of lesser power in the holt but they must be under his orders.

The howls and laughter fairly shake the stones of the cave. I wrap the furs over my pounding head and moan.

**Liafair!**

The send is Allim's, but there is something darkly different about it. I look up and see him, a finely etched shadow in the doorway, tall and menacing. A faint, fruity odor wafts in. What are these dreamberries? The wine of the Wolfriders? Is Allim in the throes of a drunken frenzy? I remember Tilvah's warning and shiver.

"Put your robes on, Liafair," he orders.

"What for?" I say, forcing the tremors from my voice. "I am tired. I want to sleep."

He crosses the room in two strides. His hand is like a vice on my arm. "Get dressed," he snarls. The odor of these dreamberries is strong on him.

"Why should I?" Anger and fear mix in my tart reply. "Wouldn't it be easier to force me like this?"

"I could if I wanted to." His voice has teeth. He means what he says. "But unless you want the lusty Wolfriders leering at your naked form, you will put on your robes and come with me."

My heart is loud in my ears as I snatch up some clothing and pull it on. Allim does not wait for me to straighten my garments, nor has he the patience to allow me to pull my boots on. He grabs my arm again and yanks me toward the cave door.

"Where are we going?" I demand.

He does not reply, but only pulls me through the door and out into the starry night.

I gasp in astonishment. The silvery light of the mother moon pours through a gap in the tree canopy. The entire tribe is gathered there, bathed in the glow. Harp and pipe music twine among the trees. A number of the Wolfriders prance wildly to the tune, their twisting, leaping bodies exuding a grace I did not think possible. Those who are not already dancing are passing a basket of purple berries around while they clap out the rhythm of the music. Howls and song vibrate through the cool night air.

Allim's hand is still locked on my arm in an iron grip. My feet stumble and catch as he pulls me roughly toward the gathered tribe, toward a gap in the circle of seated Wolfriders. He drops to the ground and pulls me down to sit in front of him, my back pressed to his chest, his long legs fencing me in on either side. His arms hold me in place and will not let go. The Wolfriders look on with mixed expressions, but they do not interfere, nor do I expect them to. Animals of the forest fight and squabble and even kill each other while their packs look on serenely. There is no reason these Wolfriders should be any different.

The song has ended, the dancers are lounging in their lovemates' arms, and the tribe is calling for a story. A young, gentle-eyed Wolfrider rises and stands in the moonlight.

"Glow, though still young, is becoming an accomplished storyteller," Allim says. Someone has passed him a basket of berries. He lifts out a handfull and holds them in front of me. "Eat," he orders.

I shake my head. I must keep my wits about me tonight, and I don't know what effect these berries will have.

With one arm he forcefully turns me so that I am half-facing him. "You will eat," he says with finality. He takes a berry into his fingers and presses it to my lips. "Take it!" he snarls, and forces it into my mouth. The tangy, heady flavor drips down my throat. I am afraid of what these berries will do to me, but I am more afraid of Allim in this state. Though I will not take the berries myself, he continues to push them into my mouth until the handful is gone.

Glow's story weaves on, a funny tale, mainly accounting for the most recent actions of the tribe's lovemates caught by surprise in their favorite woodland haunts. Hoots, howls, and blushes pass rapidly from one Wolfrider to the next.

Then a hush falls over the band as a young, black-haired Wolfrider, dressed in blue and grey stands to tell another tale. "One of yours?" I sneer, judging by the hair color.

"No one knows who Blackbird's father is," Allim says, darkly. "Windsilver left the tribe, then returned only long enough to abandon her cub here. She came back to deposit her second, Frost, then got herself killed when she thought herself clever enough to outwit the humans. Few mourn her loss."

"Only true elves would feel the loss of a tribemate," I sniff, feeling the effects of the dreamberries. "Like the beast they are kin to, they forget their dead." A foolish and irritable thing to say. The dreamberries are stealing my wits.

Allim is silent for a time while Blackbird begins his tale.

"True elves? Tell me, what do the wolves do with the ill and unfit, the lame and the blind among them?"

"Turn them out. Kill them, I suppose."

"Exactly. Now look."

Blackbird turns to face our side of the circle. His eyes stare blankly into space and his hands make odd gestures as he speaks. I watch his face break into exaggerated expressions while his entire body seems to speak a different language than his tribe.

"Why... he is blind!"

"Yes, he is."

"But... has no one tried to heal him?"

"Yes, but even if Stone has power to heal the defect, Blackbird would not let him."

Blackbird spins his tale of things his sharp ears catch when others think he cannot possibly be listening, sounds that tell his what others are doing though he cannot see them. I see guilty looks, blushes, and giggling fits break out among the Wolfriders. His tale is amusing and I stifle the urge to laugh lest my imprisoner think I am having a good time. But even Allim and I cannot escape the blind elf's sharp-bladed wit. There is no cause for me to laugh at the things he reveals about us, though the tribe finds plenty of amusement in them. When did Blackbird hear these things? How much does he know?

"Of course," he goes on, turning away from us, "There is the tale about Stone and Kestrel and their two cubs."

"But they only have one," someone shouts, "even though Hilltop makes as much noise as two... unless... wait a minute..."

Kestrel gives a knowing smile and pats her belly while Stone pulls her closer in a loving embrace.

"Whether it was taken or given, we'll never know," Blackbird goes on, "but either way, Recognition blesses us again."

"In two years, two cubs for the holt," another someone calls.

"They mean us, too, of course," Allim whispers in my ear. A thrill courses down my spine. I stifle it. "Those two will have a cub, and so will we. Look at them."

I look. What is extraordinary about those two? "Why is no one mocking their Recognition?" I ask, fretfully.

"They Recognized turns ago, and made Hilltop," Allim explains. "But Recognition has yet to fade for them, though an even stronger force pulls them together in a true bond. Look at them well. They are seldom out of sight or sending distance of one another these days. Before Recognition, they had no particular interest in one another. Then Recognition struck and they accepted it as any two who Recognize should. In doing so they accepted one another. Love followed quite naturally."

Curse this Allim and his dreamberries and his contented daughter, for I suddenly want to cry. I swallow hard. "So they, like the wolves, never stop to question their instincts and only follow blindly."

"Wolves don't have Recognition," Allim reminds me.

Another young Wolfrider -- Starfall, Allim tells me -- now stands where Blackbird had been speaking. She finishes a short song about some tribemates she caught behind the waterfall after the last howl. Everyone has a good laugh over that, and she sits down.

"That will be the last of the more boisterous tales," Allim says. "The first giddy effects of fresh dreamberries now give way to their true purpose. Watch and listen."

A hush settles over the tribe as a tall, lean Wolfrider strides to the middle of the circle. An upright shock of dark blond hair flops forward over his headband, nearly obscuring his blue eyes. His mouth is firm, his face hard. By his stance I presume this is the chief of the tribe.

**A few turns ago, our holt was attacked by rogue humans,** Allim sends privately, so as not to disturb the silence. **Nearly a third of the tribe was slain. No one has taken that harder than Wolfrunner, who was away from the holt at the time. His own twin brother was among the dead. Since then we've found ourselves at war with trolls from the north and a strange band of elfin warriors from the southern desert. These are desperate times for our tribe. Recognition has never been more welcome to them.**

War with elves? It sounds like a lie, but there is little time to think about that. Wolfrunner has pulled a long brightmetal knife from a sheath at his belt and holds it up in the moonlight. He turns the blade and stabs it into his open palm. Droplets of red blood spill one at a time onto the ground. The Wolfriders and most of the purebloods with them take up a chant, a litany of names that is their chief's lineage. When the chant reaches the current generation, Wolfrunner cries out and stabs at his palm again. A steady stream of blood splatters on the forest duff.

"That is for my brother, Sharpwit, dead by accident. Some say by his own hand, but I guess we will never know for certain."

The chief holds his palm out until the blood slows and clots, ending this bizzare ritual sacrifice, if that is what this is.

"We have already howled long and loud for Sharpwit and all the others who died that spring and since. The dead have gone to be with the High Ones. If we are sad, it is only for ourselves who are left behind and miss them. This howl is to honor the new life that has sprung up in our tribe since them. Let our cubs know the story of our tribe. Let them know who they are."

In an open send to the entire tribe, Wolfrunner gathers them together to recount the history of the Wolfriders through their collective memories. Tilvah's are the oldest. She is respected for her shared memories of the earliest days of the Wolfriders and the Time Before. Locked in her ancient recollections are a few memories once shared with her by the last High Ones to dwell with the tribe. One by one the other pureblooded elves add their own remembered tales. Even Allim makes his contribution.

Through their collective sendings, I know what the tribe knew, feel what the tribe felt, in those early days after the Palace fell. I wander with them over the hostile landscape, feel their despair in their own survival in the harshest of winters. I watch through Tilvah's youthful eyes as Anlari is shaped into a wolf to go hunting with the pack. I feel the tribe's astonishment as she comes limping into the cave with twin half-wolf cubs clinging to her back. I watch them grow and give rise to more offspring with their mingled blood. The tribe moves from one holt to another, from flat freezing lands to the Vastdeep waters to the forests. I see familiar faces birthed and raised, purebloods who still dwell with the tribe, countless Wolfriders who lived and fought and died, and Wolfriders who still gather to remember.

I have lost track of time and space. The sensations coming from my own body seem distant and I cannot even say what generation they emanate from. I taste something warm and sharp and I vaguely know that Allim is pressing more dreamberries into my mouth. I am awash in a sea of memories, hardly aware of which are my own. There is a feeling of pleasant warmth and comfort around me. The taste of the dreamberries entices me to take in more.

Swirling into the misty sea I float in comes a private send of old memories: beginning with scenes of a long-ago holt viewed from behind his mother's knees I see Allim's life slowly unfold. I feel his joy as his treeshaping powers first glow in his slender hands; I see him chafe under the strict control of Anlari's son, Arran; I know his frustration at seeing the wolf-blooded elves take control of the tribe while the purebloods accept the meat the hunters bring and devote themselves to more spiritual matters. I catch a glimpse of this young rebel's reflection in a still pool: hardly past childhood, stronger than his twig-thin frame would suggest, brow continually clouded in anger. I see him run away time and time again to escape the rule of the wolf-chief, and each time he is ruthlessly tracked down by the pack and brought back bruised and bloody. His mother cools his rage-heated brow, but I see that she is growing weak with a long-lasting illness and there is no healer to help her. The last image I see of this woman shows her lying on a fur-covered bed, her face gray and her hands fluttering as she gestures for her son to come near. With her dying breath she implores him to cease running from the tribe and to stay as a reminder to all of their elfin heritage. Thus she passes on the role of an elder to a boy not even old enough for a mate.

The seasons flash by in their terrible dance. I see his first awkward lessons in the pleasures of the body at the hands of his old friend Tilvah. I struggle with him as he fights his first Recognition with a Wolfrider, just the first in a long series that last his lifetime. And throughout that lifetime I hear his long cry as he aches for one of his own blood to Recognize him. Somewhere in the long progression I sense an odd note, something I did not think I would find there. Before he can cover it I reach for it and find the unexpected. Deep within, in a place so secret even he seldom knows of it I find a small, hidden measure of affection for his tribe. I think that I will use this as a weapon against him to break his hold over me but he does not give me the chance. He knows what I mean to do. I expect to feel his rage, but instead I taste the tartness of dreamberries again. A fog drifts in over my thoughts. I know I found something, but what was it? There was something I was going to do, but I have forgotten it. Allim's tale weaves on as he comes to his present crop of offspring: tall, golden-haired Kestrel, who refuses to hate him though he was far from fatherly toward her, who fought to preserve his life while he fought against fire to save the Grandfather Tree; little Briarheart whose life he helped to save and whose bright demeanour may change his own; the twins Duskwind and Shadowfall who are as wolfish as can be and will have nothing to do with him, and now live with other elves far out in a baking desert; Crowfeather, whose long black hair marks him as the treeshapers' son.

Mixed in with the memories are sensations of the present. My body, far away, is moving almost of its own volition up a tall tree, Allim clinging to my waist as he guides me up. There is a hollow at the top that I somehow know he has shaped and lined with furs just for us, as he has done in countless recollections of past lovers. The fathomless sea of long ago tales, the dreamberry haze misting across my mind, the glittering stars and the touch of skin and the deep ache of need in the present all swirl together in a pleasure-filled dance of the senses. Who am I? Am I the pureblood he first shared himself with, or am I one of the Wolfriders? I have quite forgotten. There is no need to remember, only the need to touch and be touched, to give and receive, oh especially to receive, to take in, to draw together, to cry out a sound that must be a name but I cannot remember whose nor does it seem to matter. And when the height of it all has passed I hear a name -- "Tito!" -- calling out to me -- "Tito!" -- settling over me in a peaceful union --"Tito! Tito!" -- and then the voice pulls deep within and is silent though I know that it is still there. And Allim is here, and I am here, and everything will be all right. Darkness draws in around me, sleep covers me like a down-soft fur as I settle in a warm embrace and my conciousness slips away.

The brilliance of the sun and the roar of birdsong awaken me. I do not want to open my eyes. My head aches. My whole body feels stiff. What did I do yesterday that should have left me feeling so...

My eyes snap open. I am fully awake in a moment, jolted by the recollections of last night. The nest is as I remember, the furs, everything. So, this was not just a dreamberry illusion. Allim was with me last night. Recognition was fulfilled. I close my mind to the memory of the joining, and try to feel relief that the most distasteful part of all is over.

I try to forget the pleasure I felt.

I am afraid to turn over and face Allim in the harsh daylight and in the absence of a dreamberry mist. Moments later I realize that the furs beside me are cold. I turn over. Allim is gone.

Just like him, but just as well. I pull my robes back on and descend from the tree. I will let Allim gather up the furs himself. I do not serve him. The holt is silent and I am glad. I could not face the knowing looks of the Wolfriders just now. And I do not want any messy goodbyes when I leave.

I shall have to return to Tilvah's cave for my belongings and provisions are there. I have no desire to enter the cave for I must pass by Allim's chamber to get to Tilvah's. I hope he is deep in a drunken sleep. I hope Tilvah is, too, for that matter. I am sure she will have questions I do not want to answer.

The cave mouth is before me. I take a deep breath and pass beyond the skin of the outer door. So far so good. No sound comes from Allim's chamber as I tiptoe by. I part the door skin to Tilvah's chamber. Silence. I look around. Tilvah is gone.

Swiftly I take action, gathering up my belongings, packing them efficiently into their carry bags. I grab my boots and pull them on, find my oiled cloak, and pack the carry bags onto my body. Their familiar weight is a comfort. I am abroad again.

As I pass Allim's door on the way out, I sneak a curious peek past his door skin. His bed is empty. Frowning, I move on. I hope to the High Ones he is not waiting for me just beyond the cave mouth. But I pass through unchallenged, and disappear into the forest.

Perhaps Allim and Tilvah are out talking. In that case, they are apt to be near the falls. I will flee in the opposite direction. Remembering Allim's memories of being hunted down by the wolf pack, I lay a complicated trail, crossing and recrossing my steps as I move ever farther from the holt. When I find a running stream, I pull off my boots and step in. No wolf will ever follow me now. I travel down my watery trail until I smell the human village, then pull on my boots and head out across land.

It is late in the afternoon when I feel the tickling of a send just beyond range. It is Tilvah, I am sure, she who sends farther than anyone else in the holt. I ignore her and move on as I close my mind to any further sending. I remind myself again that I will have no messy goodbyes. Nor do I want to give the Wolfriders any clue as to my whereabouts.

While I walk I lay out my plans. If the Lord of my people hears of this child I do not know what the results will be, but I know I want no whelp of Allim's running about my feet. This must remain a secret. I will need a few confederates, the fewer the better. By the time the sun sinks under the horizon, I have the beginnings of a plan in place.

The landscape flows under me like a figured carpet. It has been five years since I last saw this forest. Three of those years I spent sleeping in Preserver-wrappings, hoping to have the pregnancy done and over with while I lay dreamlessly. Unfortunately, the unborn child slept as well, and I was finally awoken by the healer and my lovemate, the only two of my people I entrusted my secret to. I spent the next two years in seclusion, supressing the memories of the place to the point of supressing the feeble sendings of the child in my belly. Now that child squirms and mewls in a wrapper as I, mounted birdback for the third day behind my faithful Glider, wing across the face of the world to a place I would otherwise never wish to see again. The child bleats out his hunger and I allow him to relieve it one last time. Then my sweet Ellusin will fly me back to my people where secretive Sunai, the healer, will dry up my milk and ease away every last trace of the birth.

"Are you sure about this?" Ellusin asks one more time. This is the first infant he has ever seen, and he is quite taken with it.

"Absolutely," I tell him. "Were you my Recognized, and this were a child of your making, I would be crowing with delight. But this whelp belongs with his sire. I will have nothing near me to remind me of this place."

Ellusin shrugs and takes the infant from my arms. He covers the tiny face with a corner of the wrapper. One more look and he may change his mind despite my will. Sending some instructions to his great bird, he rises gracefully from the halter and plunges swiftly toward the canopy of trees. From my shared memories he knows the cave to seek. When he has laid the bundle by the entrance, he sends to me, shoots back up through the trees, and mounts his bird again. Over the rush of wind I think I hear the wail of my child, and I almost have a change of heart, but we are already winging homeward. The relief I feel is like a boulder being lifted from my shoulders. I am free.

But not quite. I believed us to be nearly out of sending range. I had not counted on the powers of the gathered tribe. Every one of them is joined in an open send, flinging toward me a picture and an emotion I had not expected to feel.

It is guilt.

What is so shocking to these Wolfriders about the child I have left? Are they not awash in litters of their own? But as I see the picture more clearly, I realize what is so remarkable about it. I see the tribe gathered near the cave. I see the purebloods looking on with expressions of tender sympathy. I see Allim, half dressed, standing framed in the doorway. He clutches the infant Tito to his bare chest. His face is buried in the wrappings.

It is not the child that shocks them so. It is only that this is the first time they have ever seen their prickly elder weep.