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indicate, gave a snort and pawed the ground.
    The truth of her words assaulted her, and made her determine then and there that she had to do something to help the man, for though he would not admit it, he needed her now.
    At sunset, the emerald witch began her preparations upon a still pool of water, melted snow that had collected in the broken stump of an ancient oak, a tree that had been battered to death in the magical battle the witch had waged against Morgan Thalasi. There was still some resonance of power in that tree, Brielle knew, in its deepest roots and in the inner rings that had seen the dawn and death of centuries. And so it was here that Brielle began her enchanting, pouring oils into the water, singing and dancing about the tree, offering a bit of her own blood, and offering all of her thoughts and, more important, her wishes, to the mix. She focused those thoughts on the wraith, and soon the image of the blackness that was the zombielike Mitchell came into focus within the depths of the pool.
    Brielle had found him with her divining, crawling out of a small cave—his daytime shelter, it seemed—stepping out into the night. The mere fact that she had so easily locatedthe wraith, how easily her enchantment had sensed his presence though he was obviously far, far away, hinted to her just how powerful Mitchell had become. Now the witch called to the deepest knowledge of the tree, to the understanding of the earth itself, begging it to give her a sign, a hint, of how such a perversion as the wraith could be destroyed, of what magic, or magical weapon, perhaps, might at least hurt the thing.
    The water clouded over, swirling, then a small spot appeared at the center of the pool. And in that spot, under the water, the witch saw a craft, a barge poled by a gaunt, robed figure, drifting upward, upward, closer and closer.
    Then it was gone, and so was the fog, and all that remained in the bowl was the clear water and the reflection of the evening’s first stars.
    Brielle gave a long sigh; perhaps no such weapon existed. Perhaps Thalasi’s meddling in places where no mortal belonged had loosed upon Ynis Aielle a horror that would endure for eternity.
    “Not so,” came a low, coarse voice behind Brielle. She froze in place, purely amazed that any person, that anything at all could so sneak up on her here in Avalon, stunned that her many forest friends had not alerted her to the presence—a presence that she felt so clearly now, so cold and deadly. She turned about slowly, thinking that she would face the wraith, thinking that Mitchell had somehow come through her divining instrument to strike at her.
    Her fair face blanched even more when she saw and recognized the speaker. Not the wraith and not Thalasi, but one darker and more mysterious by far.
    Death itself had come to Avalon.
    It took the distracted Belexus a long while to realize that the wintry forest had gone strangely quiet aroundhim, that the nightbirds were not singing, not even the snowy owl that always seemed to be about. But it was more than the absence of animals, the ranger somehow sensed; it was as if all the forest had suddenly hushed: the wind, the trees, the eternal music of Avalon.
    The ranger spotted Calamus, flying in low, landing in a small clearing not so far ahead and pawing the ground frantically, as agitated as Belexus had ever seen the creature.
    “What do ye know?” the ranger asked, and the pegasus snorted, though the sound seemed unnaturally muffled, as if it had come from far, far away, as if the air itself were heavy with dread. This was too wicked, the ranger realized, as if the very heart of Avalon—
    “Brielle?” the ranger asked in a hush, hardly able to draw breath.
    Again Calamus snorted, and stamped his front hoof hard on the ground.
    Belexus sprinted across the small clearing and verily leaped atop the winged horse’s powerful back, and Calamus sped away, running to the far end of the clearing and cutting a sharp turn,