A black and white unicorn sits back on his haunches, blinking to clear his head, while the shadow of a unicorn girl crouches beside him, gesticulating excitedly. It takes the flesh-and-blood unicorn a moment to register her movements as language. … you see? I was Sylvan again, Rory – I got the smock from my trunk and gave it to Corwin!

Rory sits back and blinks a few times, trying to sort things out. "Whoa, Sil … Things were really confusing this time around. You … you were Sylvan? Well, I was Corwin, and I was doodling in a sketchbook, though I wasn't really sure what I was doodling. And you gave me the – er, Sylvan gave me – Corwin, that is, you know – the smock, and then I – er, Corwin? – had another flashback, back to when he … I … was my age. I mean, my my age. Back on … Aeonia?"

Rory then bursts into a long narrative, trying to explain what it was like, splashing around in the brook, coming face to face with a woman that looked like a cross between a human and an Aeonian, and maybe something else … and about the Sidhe, and the Seelies and Unseelies, and Autumnshaven, and … "… and … and we have last names! Or, I do, at least. I think. It's … Stormshadow."

The shadow unicorn starts to gesture while Rory speaks, then stops herself to listen instead. When he finishes his narrative, she sits still for a moment, watching him, then gestures, "You were right – sort of, anyway – we started out in the same memory. But yours was a lot more detail than mine." She stops again, then spells out the name, "Corwin Stormshadow. Do you think that – that really was – you?"

Rory frowns, shaking his head. "No … No, that can't be. Koshiro said that I'm not Corwin. And … well … Koshiro said he couldn't lie. But … well … I don't have any reason not to trust him at that." Rory furrows his brow. "But … if we're both part of Corwin and Sylvan, then I suppose it's as close to a family name as we'd have … and if we're children of Corwin and Sylvan in some magical way, then we'd have that name coming, too." He sighs. "In any case, it'd be nice to have a whole name." He brightens. "I like it. Especially the 'shadow' part."

Silhouette makes a smiling gesture with her hands, nodding. "I like it, too," she agrees.

Rory shakes his head. "Anyway … I guess we're learning more about Corwin and Sylvan. I still haven't learned about whatever it was of Corwin's that was considered a shame, that he wouldn't tell Sylvan about. I'm wondering if that crest that had the black lightning bolt on it was the Stormshadow crest. I suppose if we find that on his armor, we'll know. Uhm … " He peeks at the chest. "Is that armor under the smock?"

At some point when having the flashback, Rory pulled the smock into his hands and out of the chest. Underneath it, still in the chest, a layer of gleaming metal and chitinous pieces is visible.

Careful not to touch it and set off another flashback before he can make certain Sylvan is ready, he peers at what he can see of the metal, watching for some sort of insignia to see if he can verify his theory – or dispel it.

The chainmail and chitin are still partially obscured by the woven case and the palette, still inside the chest, but what part of the chain is visible does have a similar crest woven into it, using different hues of chain links.

"Look! Look!" Rory exclaims, pointing at the crest. "See, Sil? Just like in the dream! Well, you can't see it too well, but … " He grins, then sobers a bit. "I guess we still have another flashback at least to make it through. And we're still not up to the part where Koshiro does his magic … and I suppose we're going to have to get to that part if we're going to figure out who we are." He sighs.

"I was thinking … maybe Sylvan and Corwin are still alive," Rory posits, "and this is all some sort of test, you see, to determine if we're worthy. Maybe, you see, there was this magical accident, or there was a curse, and you were born a shadow, and in order to restore you to physical form, we have to go on a quest into the Cave of Marvels to retrieve the Crystal of Life, but not just anyone can go in there, so we have to pass a test of merit, and Koshiro, he's, like, the keeper of this cave, and he's one of those wise sage types who comes up with puzzles for quests like this, so he's the one organizing all this. And … uhm … "

Rory furrows his brow. "Or else … Sylvan and Corwin are still alive in the past, but, you see, we're in a possible future, because Sylvan went to Koshiro and asked him to please make a spell to let her see the future, so this is that possible future, and you are actually Sylvan, or, that is, her representation in this dream vision of the future, but for some reason, you don't wholly remember who you are, because that's some side effect of the magic, you know, because it's really powerful, and I … uh … well, you know, you can't know your own future, or something like that, though I know the Scryers say otherwise, so I'm sort of an abstraction of both Corwin's and Sylvan's future selves, since they can't really see exactly what happens to themselves in the future, so there's some lesson in all this, and when we're done, we go to Koshiro and you report back to your past – er, present self – and warn them about that raider attack… "

Rory pauses for breath. "… and then they live happily ever after."

Throughout Rory's long speech, the shadow unicorn kneels on the floor, listening quietly. After his final comment, she signs, "Do you truly think so?"

Rory looks down at the floor, quiet for a long time, taking a breath from his long theorizing. "No. No … I don't really think so. But it's just a theory. And you can theorize anything. That's basic magery. Or something like that." He sighs. "I … I think … " He sniffles. "I think the most likely theory is that Corwin and Sylvan are dead. Corwin was mortally wounded, and Sylvan couldn't save him. Koshiro has an alien view of life, and he doesn't really care about individuals. Reece … He's just a pet. He agreed to help Sylvan and Corwin, and let Corwin 'live', but it wasn't in the way you'd think. And Sylvan probably knew it, but she was so sad at the thought of Corwin dying, that she'd agree to anything."

Rory wipes at his eyes with a sleeve. "And I think Koshiro cast a spell, a really powerful one, that took Corwin's and Sylvan's life essences, and their bodies, whatever was left … and made me. And that was supposed to be the bargain. Corwin would 'live', but as part of me. And as part of you … but Koshiro was surprised when I told him about you. You came along as … as … an extra … bonus." Rory's lip quivers. "I think … I'm just … I'm … "

The shadow girl reaches out to Rory, placing dark fingers over his shoulder. Her hand rests there, unfelt but visible. "I think they live," she signs, carefully, with her other hand, while waiting for him to continue.

Rory nods silently. "Well, if you think so … then I think so, too. I mean … it's a possibility. Maybe… " He ponders. "Remember how we were talking about what he had to do to go back to Aeonia? Well … maybe he did what he had to. Maybe he fulfilled the requirement, somehow. Maybe Sylvan and Corwin managed to both go back to Aeonia, and that's why they aren't here, and why they don't need any of this stuff anymore. Or maybe when they went back, it was all sudden, like, a fluke or something, or there just wasn't any time to go back and pack. And us … well … uhm … maybe we're sort of a testament to what happened. Or … uhm … Well … I think my theory falls apart here. But I still like the idea."

"I like it, too," Silhouette signs, removing her hand so she can use both to speak. "Maybe it could have happened like that. Maybe Koshiro helped them go back to Aeonia, and then made us to cover up the fact that he let them return, so the other shadow-dragons wouldn't get mad at him for letting Corwin and Sylvan go."

Rory nods, then furrows his brow. "Wow! That's a great idea, Sil! I wish I'd thought of that. Maybe the shadow-dragons are keenly aware of the life essences of every Aeonian on Sinai, and the sudden departure of the tell-tale life signatures of Sylvan and Corwin would have alerted them to a breach of the Aeonian's imprisonment here, but perhaps we have within us the 'signatures' of Corwin and Sylvan, so we show up as their life forces, still around on Sinai! Wow, Sil … you're good!"

The shadow turns her head in profile so that Rory can see her beaming smile, then nods, the bow in her mane bobbing. "It does make sense. And it doesn't contradict anything we've found so far. Except for the part where Corwin said that shadows can't lie," she adds, looking downcast at that thought.

Rory furrows his brow. "Well … think of it … of what Koshiro's told me, I have a hard time piecing together any truth in it. I am Corwin … but I'm not Corwin. What he's said could be interpreted as saying both. But just because you can't lie doesn't mean that you can't say things that aren't literally true. Corwin was crying, 'I'm dyyyyyyyying!' when he obviously wasn't. But that's it. He obviously wasn't. When I play act, I play act … and when I theorize, I theorize … but when someone asks me something, I give them a straight answer. Unless there isn't a straight answer, in which case I have to just do the best I can, and what I may say may be interpreted the wrong way. And maybe that's just it. It's something so obscure and magical that I'm just not getting it."

"Maybe that's why he told us to come here, so we could see it for ourselves." Silhouette looks around the room. "Rory, remember the dreams you had? You said that in one of them you saw one unicorn warn the others about the coming dragons."

Rory furrows his brow even more, trying hard to remember…

Silhouette bites at her upper lip, then turns her head to look at Rory directly. "Or am I confused?"

Rory puts his hands to his temple. "I'm sorry … I got my dreams mixed up. In the recent one … Corwin warned the people at Autumnshaven about the Dragon attack. But … in the dream that Kiz and Kell gave me … you were the one who tried to warn the unicorns. Or, that is, Sylvan. But I keep associating Sylvan with you."

"I… I thought that was what you told me, too. Why would your dream say a black unicorn did it, and your memory now say a white unicorn?" Silhouette signs, puzzled.

Rory shakes his head. "No … I think they were two totally different events. First, it was an attack on Autumnshaven by the Unseelie Court - that is, the Dragons and Trolls and all that. But Lady Eve gave Corwin a vision in the pool, and he warned his father, and they did some sort of mystical magic stuff and made it so that the Dragons couldn't find the castle in the forest. I think they did that to 'mortals', too, so they wouldn't happen upon faerie places. Or something like that."

Rory continues, "But the dream … that was a different event. That was later. Corwin was older then, and he could wear armor, I think. And this time, I guess the people didn't listen. Maybe … " He frowns. "Maybe it's because Sylvan was black. Corwin seemed to think there was something wrong with that. A taint. So maybe they would listen to Corwin, but not to Sylvan."

"But you said in your dream that they did listen. Didn't they? It took them a while, but they heeded her warning in time to escape," Silhouette signs.

Rory nods. "Oh yeah. Right. Well … I guess you could say that. They kind of noticed the dragon that was swooping down on them. Except … the dragon in the dream didn't look like a 'shadow dragon'. I mean … he looked like I'd kind of expect a dragon to look. But then … maybe there are different types of dragons there. Otherwise, they wouldn't bother to call them 'shadow dragons' instead of just 'dragons'. Right? Although now that I mention it, I'm not really certain that they ever did call them 'Shadow Dragons', or whether I just made that up myself at some point."

"So maybe the dragon in your dream was a different kind of dragon as well as it being a different place and everything?" The shadow girl throws up her hands, then makes a sign of being disgusted. "I am sooooo tired of all these metaphors and comparisons and things that are true but only in a sense – " she shakes her head fiercely. "I just want to turn the puzzle upside down and look at the answers."

"Me too!" Rory exclaims, then sticks out his tongue. "But I … hmm … or maybe Koshiro can't give us straight answers because he's held by some sort of obscure code of honor of a secret order of Shadow-Dragons not to. But in any case … do you feel up to trying out the armor? I'm really at a loss as to how else to proceed other than that, or marching back to the cave and begging and pleading with Koshiro for help."

"I think Koshiro told you as much of the truth as he knows, or is willing to tell us. I guess … the armor, then." Silhouette looks at it, with an odd hesitancy to her shadow body.

"No … wait," Rory says. "Something's not right." He looks askance at Silhouette. Until Silhouette popped up, he had pretty much assumed that any "feelings" he was getting here could be attributed to her, but he sees her hesitance as well. "Maybe … maybe we're doing something out of order?"

"I don't know," Silhouette signs. "Do you feel like you shouldn't touch it, too?"

Rory sighs and shakes his head. "I've got a bad feeling … but I think … I think it's just that whatever we're going to experience here, it's going to be really, really unpleasant. I want to get prepared for this. Don't go anywhere – I'll be just a moment." He gets up, and pads back to Sylvan's room, checking the chest – and anywhere more obvious - for any cloths or blankets that don't look like they'll disintegrate at the touch. With whatever he can find, he trundles back, and sets them down, then gestures for Silhouette to sit on them. "I want you to get as comfortable as you can. I get a feeling that when we wake up, we'll probably both be bawling ourselves silly, so might as well get prepared. I don't want a mouth-full of sneeze-dust like last time."

The little shadow girl nods. She starts to settle on the blankets, then stops. "Turn the trunk around so we can touch the mail inside it from the bed, Rory. That way we can lie on it. It'll be cozier than the floor."

Rory snaps his fingers – or, that is, he tries to, because that's what the older apprentices do when something occurs to them, and it looks really cool, but all he does is let up a little puff of dust, as his hands are dirty from his rummaging around. "You are so practical, Sylvan! All right… " He sets the blankets back up on the bed, then proceeds to see if he can manage the feat of turning the trunk around as directed.

The trunk, while too heavy for Rory to lift unaided, isn't so massive that he can't push it around. By dint of a lot of poking and prodding, he finally gets it into place, so that the trunk is against the bed with the lid opening away from it.

Rory puffs and pants, then says, "After all that, I may just need to take a rest regardless!" He clambers up onto the bed, adjusting the blankets, and then holds out his hand toward the chest. "All right … You all set, Sil? When you're ready, we'll go on a count of three, like last time. And, remember, when we count the three, you touch it on the three." He's clarified that point countless times before, but it's a matter of tradition for him.

The little shadow nods, with a mixture of anxiety and enthusiasm. "Okay," she signs, after one last squirm next to him on the narrow bed. "Let's do it."

Rory takes a deep breath. "And remember … no matter what … we're always friends. And I'm going to be right there with you, so don't be afraid. Now … here we go! One … two … three!" And he reaches for the armor.

"Cory, maybe we should have talked to your father about this before we came," Galiel says, his new mail clinking as he walks beside his friend.

"I told you, there's no sense in asking my father about it if we can't do it," his fellow unicorn replies, striding proudly in equally new chain. "We'll ask the smith if he can fashion this device, then I will present the concept to my father as a practical idea, and not some childish fancy."

The city around them has all the stark unpleasantness of mortal life. Dust rises from the cobbled street as worn wagons clatter down it, and the dirt clings to the humans who move about their business on the road. Sounds fill the air: the shouts of mortals, the clanging of iron against a forge, the clucking of chickens. The mixed odors of cooking food, sweat, and offal, are no more appetizing than the sights or sounds of the city.

The two fey Aeonians, dressed in gleaming silver covered by snowy white tabards with the devices of their respective houses emblazoned upon them, present a stark contrast to the mundane city – but despite this, the human inhabitants take no notice of them. No bows or nods of acknowledgement, or curious murmurs follow the two as they walk towards their destination – only the open space around them in the otherwise crowded street shows that the humans are, in some sense, aware of their presence.

As the pair nears their destination, a young urchin stares at them, wide-eyed and open-mouthed, so startled that she does not even clear the way for the armored young unicorns. Galiel stops, looking nervous before her gaze, but Cory doffs his helmet and smiles at the little girl, giving a short bow. She giggles and responds with a clumsy curtsey, while a man nearby watches her, a confused look on his face. The blond unicorn presents her with a silver coin and a pat on the head. "Go on home, little one," he tells her, and she nods once, still wide-eyed, before darting off.

"How'd she see us?" Galiel whispers, fidgeting.

"Some of them just can. Especially children," Cory replies in a normal voice, rolling his eyes. "Don't you ever pay attention to your tutor?" Without waiting for a reply, he moves towards the smithy entrance and walks through it. Inside, the clanging sounds of forging metal overwhelm the noises from without, and the blasts from various furnaces make the room feel like an oven. The gold-maned unicorn flicks his ears back at the wave of heat, and glances to Galiel, who follows him through the door, nose wrinkled.

Straightening his posture, Cory settles his helm into the crook of his arm, then walks purposefully towards an older, bearded man, who stands beside an anvil, supervising as a teenaged boy with muscular arms hammers at a breastplate. The feel of the so much steel all around him makes the unicorn's fur itch, and his mane prickles along his neck.

"This'll never work, Cory," Galiel laments, coming to stand beside him. "Just feel it! There's no way – "

A look from the other unicorn cuts off his friend's complaint. "Ready?" Corwin asks, his voice cool. Galiel nods. They turn towards the bearded man, and the man suddenly yelps in surprise, stumbling backwards.

The boy at the anvil pauses in his hammering to see what startled his master, and his instrument falls from numb fingers as he stares, open-mouthed, at the fey knights. All around, the noises of the forge die as the men and boys at work stop to gape at the unicorns.

"Master Ironwrought," the violet-eyed unicorn begins, delivering a slight bow, "Please allow me to introduce myself. I am Lord Corwin Stormshadow of Autumnshaven. My companion is Lord Galiel Brecht, also of Autumnshaven. I understand you are the Master of this armory?"

The bearded man blinks nervously, wiping his hands on his apron before he remembers himself enough to bow in return. "I – I am, milord."

"Good," Cory beams. "I may have a commission for you, Master Ironwrought, but first I need to know if you can make it."

"A – commission?" Further confusion spreads across the man's face. "But what use would such as you have for my armors? My lord," he adds belatedly, his ruddy face turning redder at his forwardness.

Cory waves a hand, "No, no, nothing like that. Let me explain," he starts, then looks about him at the quiet forge, "some place more private."

"OF course." The smith looks around with a sudden scowl on his face. "Back to work, all of you! Enough lollygaging! You'll ruin the temper of your work standing about like that!" The man growls and curses at his apprentices and journeymen as he leads his way to a small back office, ushers out the clerks working there, then does his best to fawn over his two lordly guests.

"I've seen your people – humans, I mean," Cory begins, "make traps for animals out of steel, where the base has a spring-loaded plate, so that when the animal steps on it, the plate goes down, and the sides of the trap spring up to close around the animal." The unicorn gestures with his hands as he speaks, putting his palms together for the imaginary base of the trap, then snapping his fingers together over his palms, like the trap sprung.

Ironwrought strokes his beards, watching his curious guest. "I … see, your lordship. Begging your pardon, sir, but I am a master armorer. The type of trap you describe is work best suited to a blacksmith."

"I know, I know," Cory says, holding up a hand, "But, see, it's not exactly that kind of trap I want." He glances at Galiel for a moment, then continues. "Master Ironwrought, you are renowned for your skill not just in crafting plate, but also in making ingenious devices, like the joints on your gauntlets, or to help knights mount once armored. It's that sort of ingenuity that prompted us to come to you.

"The trap I have in mind will be a good deal more complex to make than the ordinary sort, because, you see, it will be bigger. A lot bigger," Cory says, "and the springs used in it won't have the same purpose, and there are properties and so forth that I'm sure will be affected."

The armorer leans forward, brow creased. "How … much bigger did you have in mind?"

"Oh," Cory looks to Galiel again. "I'm not exactly sure. Probably about a hundred yards wide would do."

Snow falls in gentle flakes across the field, a bed of white powder already hiding the land. A force of knights in silver plate, mounted on like-armored steeds, stands at ready in a line two deep, spread along the eastern flank of Autumnshaven. The morning sun peeks through the clouds and drifting snow to glint on the points of their lances, and renders their ethereal war horses translucent, the forms of the archers spread behind them glimpsed through their legs.

At the front of the line, a lone knight paces his nervous war stallion. With his helmet off, the knight's blond mane glows in the dawn, dusted by light crystals of snow. He peers intently into the distance.

They'll come, a voice says in his head. Be patient, Lord Corwin. We are watching.

I know, Cory projects in reply, with a confidence he does not feel. They have to come this way. My own mother and the Lord Scryer both foresaw it, and this is the weakest point in our line. Even if they don't come this way, the battle will go just as hard for them. The cliff face is well-defended by wards and archers, and the bulk of our forces are on the northern and western fronts. It wouldn't make sense for them to go any other way. Not unless they knew, he thinks privately.

And what if they know? Cory turns his ethereal horse to the left to pace the row again, eyes darting between scans of his troops and the horizon. What if the Scryer is wrong? What if the Unseelie force is larger than they anticipated? What if the smith had betrayed them? Maybe it wouldn't work in the snow. Maybe the snow was actually a spell sent by Unseelie sorcerers to obscure the battle so that their troops could sneak past the Seelie army. Maybe the Unseelies had already bypassed all the wards through powers of the enemy Kindred and won, and his people just didn't know it yet, and they would sit here in the snow until they all turned to ice statues while his homeland was pillaged and burned…

The snow is a good omen, Rand's words cut through his leader's fretting. Against all this white, the shadows will have no place to hide – but it conceals ourselves and our secrets well.

True, the blond Aeonian answers, glancing across thesnow-covered fields towards the distant tree-line.

I see them! Even without sound, the sprite's words seem high and piping. They come! They come!

Hide yourselves, Corwin commands, urging his mount into position along the line of knights.

The glass-coated mount has ample time to settle into place, and Cory to secure his helm on his head, before the sprite leader gives an updated report on behalf of her scouts. They have not yet seen us … we count fifty trolls, divided into two units, and ninety wolf-mounted goblins, in three units, plus a dozen of the Shadow-folk, Lord Corwin – but more yet come. Two of the goblin units ride ahead of the trolls, while the third, and the shadows, keep pace with them.

Corwin delivers a brief acknowledgement, and signals his knights to ready themselves. At the tree line, moving shapes grow visible, and in response the Seelie force lowers their visors, and adjusts their grips upon lances.

Another twenty-one trolls bring up the rear, Lord Corwin, his scout reports. They bring seven catapults with them.

Understood, Corwin answers, his thoughts grim. You know your assignment.

Snowflakes drift across the still-quiet battlefield for another moment, then the Unseelie army boils out of the woods like a dark tide – two columns of mottled goblins riding massive gray wolves charge first, flanked by the slower-moving trolls that march behind them. The shadow-dragons are harder to see, mixed with the actual shadows of their other soldiers, but they are there, irregular blotches on the snow that ripple as they move closer.

Loose arrows! Corwin commands, and shafts arch over the heads of his men. Most fall short of their mark, and those which find a target do little damage. The Unseelies plunge towards the defenders anyway, in a wedge-shaped formation intended to drive past their line.

As the charge reaches the midpoint between the knights and the forest, Corwin orders, Enchanted arrows! The archers exchange their shafts for the rarer and more effective ones crafted by the hand of Autumnshaven's master fletcher. These shafts fly truer, directed at those stragglers on the edges of the formation and striking them down.

The knights lower and brace their lances as leaders of the charge near. Moments before the lead goblins close, five flaming boulders arch over them and into the ranks of Corwin's men. The ethereal horses leap away from the assault; one not fast enough, as mount and rider are crushed beneath the boulder, and another too quickly, crippling an archer not fast enough to get out of the knight's way. The Seelie line wavers, but does not falter, and meet the charge of the goblins with lance-point.

Battle rages all around him as Lord Corwin's lance breaks inside the body of a speared goblin, and he drops the hilt to draw his sword, fighting to keep the image of the battle lines clear in his mind's eye, even as he fights to defend himself from the spear of another goblin. The mane along his neck prickles as he bats the spear aside with his sword, then pierces the goblin's chest. A shadow-dragon is behind him.

No, Cory thinks, wild panic swirling up in him. Focus. Instead of whirling to face what he feels at his back, he focuses on the battle in his mind's eye – a picture composed by the positions of his allies and the foes that they face directly. In a split second, he knows that the feeling at his back is a shadow's trick – Galiel fights behind him. The shadow is -

There. The unicorn rears his war mount back and drives the animal's hooves into a dark place on the snow to his left, then leans over to slash it with his blade. The shadow melts back at the assault, its edges tattered.

First platoon, push to close, Corwin orders, still holding the image of the battle in his mind. Second, Fourth platoons, stand fast. Third, fall back three paces. Archers, focus on the right flank. In front of his own eyes, the battle is chaotic and bloody, wholly unlike the simplified image he holds up in his mind. Following his own directive, he backs his mount away from the snapping jaws of a dark wolf. The First squad's leader has fallen, and they aren't rallying strongly enough. His right flank will crumble in minutes.

Rand, use your squad and rally the right flank. Hold them! the blond unicorn commands, pulling the men from Second to supplement the First and praying it will work.

Moments trickle past as both sides battle furiously, and for a breathless minute Corwin thinks the Unseelie force will focus on breaking the right flank rather than driving forward. But, perhaps sensing the weakness of the center line, they abandon the push at the right to press forward. In his mind's eye, he sees the battle lines painted, as perfect a triangle as he could hope for. Another prayer accompanies his next command: Break and run! NOWNOWNOWNOW!

Like that, the Seelie forces wheel and melt away from their attackers, archers dropping their bows in their haste to flee the battleground. Corwin's mount falters as a wolf takes a chunk from its hindleg, and he feels a searing pain in his side as a spear finds it in his headlong retreat. But the ethereal horse plunges away regardless, spurred by his rider's anxiety. In Corwin's head, the scene plays out, Seelies injured and dying in the retreat, while the Unseelie force presses forward, gleeful but not as fast as the ethereal horses, throwing javelins and readying their catapults. The Seelies who survive reach the perimeter several feet before their pursuers. "MARK!" Corwin screams, hardly aware that he shouts it aloud as well as mentally.

Cold iron splinters from the ground behind him, throwing a cloud of snow into the air as hidden, triggered springs thrust it skywards. The enchantment on the earth that had kept the fey folk from sensing the iron hidden beneath it shreds like grist in a mill; exposed, the unicorn can feel the mass of iron, a palpable weight that seems to push at his back, making his hide crawl with the desire to escape it. Where the iron sprung becomes a great blank spot in his mind – no longer can he see what is there in his mind's eye. His heart catches in his throat, and he has to haul on the reins to force his mount to wheel about and face the trap, giving the same order to his troops, Turn and pursue.

At first, his brain refuses to comprehend what he is looking at – it seems as though a bizarre black forest has grown on the field, with strange shapes and branches shifting in the snow. He blinks, and horrified comprehension washes over him.

Black iron spikes, several yards high, sprout all along the perimeter of the wedge-shaped section of the field, and partially collapse inwards, interlacing at the center to form the crude, giant cage he had originally envisioned. But he had never imagined the contents of his cage like this – not the field of iron spikes that carpet the interior, nor the writhing, screaming, agonized beings impaled and imprisoned within it. Dark shapes twist and moan, blood trickling down the iron shafts that transfix them, smoke suffusing the air where iron touches skin. Those who had evade being skewered seem little better off, crazed by the suffering of their fellows or the presence of so much iron. They dash amongst the spikes, frantically looking for a way out of the grisly forest, while each brush against the iron blisters their hides. Some huddle in place, keening miserably.

"Lord of Light," Cory whispers. "What have I done?"

Reports of the battles on the north and western fronts pour into his numbed head, excitement bubbling through them as their enemies turn and flee those fields. It's Lord Corwin's trap! one sprite scout leader concludes. Word spread, and they fear more traps! Autumnshaven is saved!

Before him, the suffering Unseelies writhe and twist in the grip of cold iron. "Dear Lord." Suddenly, Corwin digs his heels into his horse, commanding it forward, towards the trap. The ethereal creature dances, twisting back itshead and shifting in place as it refuses to approach the iron. Impatience overwhelms him and Cory leaps from the animal, nearly slips in the powdery snow, then charges towards the black bars on foot. His ears flatten involuntarily against his head, and his nostrils flare as he fights against an innate repulsion to the metal. "We've got to get them out!" he screams.

Lord of Light! Cory shudders as he staggers towards the cage of spikes. Retract the cage! We've got to get them out! he commands.

He is barely aware as his trap-setters murmur protests and confusion. Lord Corwin, there's no way. Only mortals can remove them safely – there's no way to un-spring them.

Shaking his head, the unicorn reaches for the one iron spike, but when his gauntleted hand closes on blood-slicked metal, his skin burns even through the mithril. He releases it, then unsheathes his sword with blistered fingers and swings at it, but the enchanted blade only glances against the unyielding metal. He hits it again and again, uselessly, with the sword, tears streaming unnoticed down his face, then reaches again for it with his hands, trying to shove the bar into the ground from whence it had came, heedless of the pain. Why can't we retract them? We've got to get them out! he repeats, helpless and infuriated. In the name of the Lord, help me!

Armored hands drop onto his shoulders, trying to pull him away from the cage. "Lord Corwin, stop it," Rand says, his voice filled by pity. "There's nothing we can do. We've sent for the smiths – Cory, stop. This is madness."

Cory stares up into the agonized, still-living eyes of an impaled goblin, his body sliding, inch by inch, down an iron spike. "No, no, no," the unicorn repeats, continuing his futile struggles. Insensible to reason, it takes six Aeonians to finally drag him bodily from the scene.

Rory collapses on the bed. "Gnuhhhhhhh," he groans. "Ow. Ow, ow, ow, ow." He sniffles, then says, "Silhouette? Are you all right?"

His friend hovers over him. "I'm fine … I was so worried about you!" she signs, kneeling on the bed. "Nothing happened to me when I touched the armor … but I thought … something was happening to you. Something bad."

Rory shudders violently, and sits up on the bed, cross-legged, hugging his arms about himself. "Well … I guess our plan of touching something at the same time isn't failsafe, then. B-b-b-but … nothing's ever for certain in magic, anyway, right? Especially weird magic." He sighs. "I dreamed of Corwin, back on Aeonia. I think it's a world mostly populated by humans, but there are 'faerie' folk, too, and Aeonians are among them. I kind of doubt the world is called 'Aeonia', though, at least by the humans. They can't even see the 'fey folk'. Well, except for some. Children, and … well … some of them. I'm not clear on the rules."

"Corwin was a commander. He had lots of troops, and people died, but he was really determined," Rory continues, "and he had some humans construct for him some traps made of iron. Giant traps. He made a tactical retreat in a battle to trick the Unseelie attackers to pursue his forces … and to run right into these traps. And the traps were made of iron. They burned … and … and it was really horrible. They didn't die right away. They were trapped, and they were burning from the iron, and Corwin was shocked at what he'd done, though everyone else was cheering that they'd won."

Rory shudders. "He was ashamed and afraid. He wanted them to open the traps, to let the Unseelies out before they died, but nobody could touch the traps. Iron didn't just burn Aeonians. It burned all the faerie folk, so only humans could open the traps. He tried to open a trap himself, and burned himself, and six men had to drag him away. I … I don't think Corwin much wants to remember any of that. It … it was really awful. He won … but he couldn't be proud of it."

Even as he says "I'm not clear on the rules," he finds his memory of them sharpening. The fey folk could make themselves invisible or visible to humans at will … but it didn't always work. And the trap – wasn't the one that Corwin had planned. He planned a cage that would surround the Unseelies, but what was actually fashioned were hundreds of spikes, only outlined by Cory's cage.

Rory blurts out the realizations as they come to him, correcting himself for Silhouette's benefit.

Silhouette shakes her head. "Poor Corwin," she signs.

Rory frowns. "I don't understand it. The human smith … he seemed like some sort of a master. Someone who took his craft seriously. Those spikes were nothing like the trap that Corwin wanted, but I just don't think a master craftsman like that would deliberately change what was made … not like that."

Rory looks to Silhouette. "Some sort of … sabotage? In a roundabout way? What if … what if this was something made to make the Seelies look bad? Meant to goad the Unseelies into taking action they might not have otherwise considered?"

"Somebody must have told him to do it differently? What do you think happened after that?" the shadow signs, and as she asks, Rory finds that he can remember the next parts. Corwin found out that the Lord Scryer had changed his trap – "to make it more effective."

Corwin hated the new design – violently, passionately – and was even further horrified when he learned that the Seelie Court planned to use it again. He spoke against it in council meetings – "Nothing to be used against anyone, not even our worst enemies." His words had some effect, but similar designs were still deployed, sparingly.

They made him a hero – for having had the idea, for having had the strength to implement it. The High King awarded him the highest honor in the land. Everyone seemed to look up to him and admire him. It was – terribly unnerving. Corwin was still quite young, barely of an age to be considered adult.

Rory does his best to put into words the narrative as it comes to him, and then lets out another dejected sigh at the end of it all. "No wonder he didn't want to talk about it."

That's not it. Rory feels a cold chill along his spine, accompanied by the sudden certainty that what he's remembered so far isn't the bad part.

Rory abruptly looks around, then leans over and peeks under the bed. "Where are you?!" he cries out. "Why can't you just speak up so both Silhouette and I can hear you? Why are you being so secretive?" His voice cracks a couple of times, and he ends with a "pbbbbbt!" as he rights himself on the bed. "Sorry, Silhouette. Hearing voices again."

"What did the voice tell you?" Silhouette signs. "Maybe – maybe we should just go. Maybe we don't need to find out this badly."

"The voice said, 'That's not it,'" Rory reports, "right after I was surmising that this was the reason he didn't want to talk about 'it', whatever 'it' was. So I guess there's something even worse. Well … I guess I've run out of things to touch and set off flashbacks. Unless you've got any ideas? We could rummage around in his room some more."

Rory sighs. "And … well … as for whether we need to find out or not … it's not like we have much to lose. All right, all right … I know, it's pretty bad and all … but Corwin and Sylvan are important to us. I mean, they're somebody to us. We don't even know what. They're family, or they're part of us … but it's something important. And I don't think we'll ever know what we are, until we know what they are. And if I'm ever going to make you real … I need to know what you are right now."

"I … I guess you're right. But – if that's not the thing so bad that Corwin wouldn't talk about it – doesn't that mean – there's something worse?" Silhouette shudders.

Rory gulps. "Yes … but … I mean … well … what I said … uhm … " He puts his sleeves over his face. "You don't have to do it with me, okay? I mean, you didn't even come along this time. I think I'm getting better at taking this. It's … it's all just a dream, anyway. For me, at least. If we just stay brave and work our way through this … then eventually we'll be done with it. We just have to figure out what will set off the next step."

Rory peeks out from underneath his sleeves at the contents of the room, keeping an eye out for any obvious memory-spurring artifacts o' doom.

No evil artifacts leap from the shadows to bite Rory on the nose. "Hey, Rory," Silhouette waves her hands to catch his attention again. "What did you say was the name of the god that Corwin believed in?"

"The Lord," Rory says, "The Lord of Light. The Creator. Some of his people believed in this, but it was different than the old religion. The old religion really didn't say much about right and wrong. Kind of like the stories about the Kindly Ones playing tricks on people, I guess. But he believed in right and wrong."

"The Lord of Light," Silhouette signs. "Isn't that funny? I wonder if that's why he was worried about Sylvan, because she was dark."

Rory sticks his tongue out the side of his mouth, then says, "That's silly. But then, so is worrying about her because her hide is dark. I mean … I don't think I'm particularly nasty or anything. At least, I sure hope not! And if I am, then I honestly hope to get better." He sits down, rubbing his temples, then sighs. "All right. I don't see any obvious articles to touch to get another flashback. Maybe whomever sent us here has given us all the pieces we're going to get. I just need to figure out what the purpose is. Or what the final puzzle is. Unless there's somewhere I haven't looked yet."

As he's making a final scan of the room, he catches movement from the corner of his eye, and turns to follow it – then realizes, rather to his chagrin, that it's just his own shadow.

Rory, however, at this moment, is pretty excitable. "Silhouette! He's trying to be sneaky! POUNCE HIM!" With that, he leaps at his own shadow, calling out, "I GOTCHAAAAAAA!"

The world fades in slowly around him: dark, cold, painful. Manacles fasten his wrists and ankles, spread-eagled, against a hard stone slab. A cool breeze ruffles his exposed fur; abstractly, the blond unicorn is aware that his mane remains unmoved by it, matted to his neck and forehead by something that feels crusty and slightly tacky against his hide. Blood, he remembers. I was bleeding.

A shadow looms over him suddenly, flicking tendrils at his face, and he flinches involuntarily. "Lord Corwin," a voice announces, loud, echoing in the room with a mocking edge. "So good of you to join us at last."

Cory stares into the tendrils, trying to focus on the shadow. Where is he, really? But the mind trick he'd used so often before doesn't resolve the monster on this occasion. Shadow fingers flit over him, making his skin itch and crawl where they pass, then are gone. He closes his eyes, sagging against the stone, and reaches out with his mind. Father? Rand? Galiel? he calls, searching for some hint, some sign that he is not alone.

He remembers, as through a fog, leading a scouting group, through enemy territory. An ambush – Did anyone else survive? he wonders, momentarily more worried for his people than his own predicament.

But the only answer comes as: Don't talk to them, boy, in a voice as harsh as a winter night. They can't hear you. If they could, they could not help you. You belong to me, now.

The unicorn clenches his jaw against the surprise and fear welling up in him. "I belong to no one, monster," he grits out, eyes cracked open, trying to think of what his father would do.

"Believe that if it comforts you." A tink against one manacled wrist. "After what you did to my people, you are mine to claim." The words seethe with suppressed anger and hatred.

I didn't mean to, Cory thinks, a shiver that has nothing to do with the cold wracking his frame. But it seems wrong, somehow, to say it. Ten score people died in screaming agony – and soul-dead, perhaps – because of his plan, and what does it matter to them that they were his enemy, or that he had not understood what would happen?

"No protestations of innocence? No pleas for mercy?" the shadow inquires.

"You attacked us. So sorry if we inconvenienced you by defending ourselves," Cory answers, trying to be sarcastic but feeling queerly sincere about his statement.

"With cold iron! and mortals!" Tendrils lash against his hide like tiny stinging whips, accompanying the words. "You understand nothing, boy! You betray all our kind and call me monster!"

The young unicorn stares into the darkness that is his tormentor, momentarily baffled by his vehemence.

"I will make you understand," the shadow continues, calming. "You have the gift for it, and I will bring it out. Then you will understand, and that must serve as my vengeance."

Cory feels the chill of the stone at his back building in his bones. "G-gift?"

Black tendrils flick at his matted mane, peeling the blood-stained strands painfully from his throat. "You can see it in your hair. I will bring it out in you … and then you will be like us. You will follow the Path of the Shadows."

"No!" Cory screams. "I won't! I will never be like you!"

The unicorn feels rather than sees the shadow draw away, then his eyes are drawn to a crystal as it shifts to hang over his head. "You will."

"NO I WON'T!" He feels three years old again, throwing a tantrum at his father's feet – just as uncontrolled, just as helpless. "You can't taint me – I believe in the Light, and the Lord will protect me!" As he speaks the words, he feels a modicum of reassurance seep into him, like his mother's touch, soothing. "You can't taint me. You can't make me follow the dark path."

"And you are so sure you do not already? Your own people have seen it in you, haven't they? They whisper about it when they think you do not listen. Look at him … the tainted one." The crystal twinkles over his head, surrounded by dark shadows. "You used cold iron on the fey folk and watched while they suffered. And you call yourself pure?"

Cory shook his head stubbornly. "I believe in the path of light. I know I'm not the perfect follower … maybe I am tainted. Maybe I am flawed. But I know what I believe in. And it's not your kind." As he speaks, he feels a sense of clarity, of ease. "You can't change that. You can convince me that I did a horrible thing – but that doesn't mean I should do more horrible things. It doesn't mean that I have to be a horrible person."

For a long time, the shadow made neither movement nor reply, and Corwin felt the certainty slowly drain away from, replaced by the cold, the ache in his wrists, the pain of his scraped head and neck. "Is that what you believe?" the shadow said at last. "That the Path of Shadow is nothing but evil, and the gift a taint to be rooted out by your Lord?"

"M- … maybe."

"'M-maybe,'" the shadow sneers in reply. "I was wrong," it continues, rage seething in its voice. "You are not fit for understanding. You are not fit to follow my Path. If you fear the Shadow so – then let me take it from you!"

The crystal flares into life, and a blinding radiance bursts out of it, beating down on the unicorn's frame. An unearthly scream wrenches from his throat, every nerve ending lit with unbearable pain. His eyelids flutter open and shut, beyond his control, as his back arches upwards, wracked and straining instinctively against the manacles, struggling for escape, for respite.

As the painful light eats into him, Cory prays – for rescue, for relief, for everything he has ever held dear. But it leeches into his thoughts, burning at them, burning away his memories, burning away hope for surcease. Piece by piece, things drain away. Joy. Love. Hope. Friendship. Laughter. Contentment. Mercy. It seems to him that they crawl out of him, like the shredded bits of his own shadow, chased from him by the hideous light, cowering in a blissfully dark corner. Everything flees, until nothing remains but pain, fear and the terrible light.

And rage – a bottomless rage that even the awful, never-ending light cannot fill, that goes on and on like the light.

Days later, a Seelie scout group find him, still manacled to the rock. At first, they do not even recognize Corwin, with his body emaciated but a bright, pure white, from the roots of his hide to the tips of his mane and tail, fever-hot to the touch.

As they break the cuffs from his wrists, his eyes open,but no familiar consciousness looks out – only wintry blue eyes that glow with a cold and terrible light.

Rory rolls over on his back. "Ugggggggh. I think I got him, Sillll… " He groans melodramatically.

The shadow girl clip-clops on silent hooves to him. Did … did another one happen?

Rory nods feebly. "Remember the tale of Cedes the Cursed? The one who got seven wishes, one from each of the Kindly Ones, and he actually took them? Well … he doesn't hold a candle to Corwin. He got captured by the Unseelie and they were mad at how he used iron, and … well … they mind-zapped him. Turned him into a … a … well, really bad off person. I guess somehow, over time, he slowly got back to being personable again, but it must have taken a really long time. He lost how to paint, how to be friends … he couldn't even be happy. His folks helped him try to be 'normal', but … his friends, Galiel and Rand really helped him out the most. I … I can really understand now just how good of friends they were … and how much it hurt him when they died."

Rory scratches his head. "But, really, I guess he pretty much stayed a mess until he came here. And he was still not much fun at all until he met Sylvan. And even then, he was still pretty cranky."

Silhouette makes noiseless giggles at him, then sobers enough to nod her head. "I guess I noticed. Is that why he said he didn't paint anymore? Because he didn't draw again until he met Sylvan?"

Rory nods. "All he did was fight, fight, fight. Not much need to draw, I guess. So I guess that was why his solution to every uncomfortable social situation was to go out and try to pound on the dragon some more, and get himself bruised up. It was all he'd been doing for … wow … centuries."

"What could the shadows do to him, to leave him like that?" Silhouette shuddered. "He was just like you! And I can't imagine you ever being … anything … how could they do that? How could you make anyone like that? I don't understand." She shakes her head violently.

Rory frowns. "I don't know, either. This all involved magic of their world, I guess. It had something to do with his 'taint'. At first, the Shadow Dragon was going to make him 'dark', somehow. I really don't like the idea that anyone can do that to anybody … but I'm pretty sure Corwin wasn't happy with the idea, either."

"He was going to make him dark? You mean that turning him into someone who could only fight wasn't dark? I thought the light were supposed to be the good guys on Aeonia," Silhouette signs.

Rory nods. "I'm not quite clear on that point. And I'm not certain if Corwin was, either. And … well … even the 'good guys' were capable of doing wrong. I don't think that we can classify them quite that easily. Light can show your way, or it can blind you. Shadow can make you stumble into a pit, or protect you by hiding you. I don't know that this 'light' and 'dark' on Aeonia was equal to 'good' and 'evil', even if people wanted to believe it was so."

"I guess not. So if the shadow didn't make him darker, what did he do?" the girl signs, sitting down on the floor next to Rory.

Rory says, "He pulled the 'taint' out of him. Or something like that. Lady Eve had mentioned something about the 'taint' being in Corwin, as if it weren't necessarily a bad thing. Or … a 'gift'. And the dragon somehow pulled that out. Or suppressed it, or something. Ngh. This is messy."

"I wonder where it went," Silhouette signs, staring at a distant wall.

Rory frowns. "I don't know. I'm not even sure what 'it' was, or how you'd take it out." He blinks. "Koshiro should know."

"Maybe he would." Silhouette stands and looks at Rory. "Do you think Koshiro knew what had happened to Corwin before he came to Sinai?"

Rory shrugs. "I don't know. But he's going to know more about 'taints' and 'gifts' than we do. In any case, we've been hoping for visions to answer our questions, but we just get more questions. Koshiro might not answer our questions, but we've got to give it a try, because we're coming up dry here. I'm going to call up the shadow Creen again to let Koshiro know we're coming." Rory takes a deep breath, and hops off the bed, stretching his legs. "And then, we've got a long walk back." He grins at Silhouette. "But this time, you'll be with me."