His first shadow-step had been disconcerting simply because the world had looked so different.

This was far more so. The change was not only in how he viewed the world; the change was in him. He was, for a few minutes, a part of the living stone. He felt its pressures and tensions, he felt where it had flowed and where it had stopped; he felt where it had been cut away, a harsh edge to his perception.

Even moving through it was a strange experience. He didn’t move a muscle – his muscles, in a way, didn’t exist; they had been transmuted to stone with the rest of him. But through an effort of focused will, he could shift his own boundary, could alter exactly which portion of the rock was him. In that way, he turned to face where he was going; in that way, as he came near the far edge of the stone, he was able to get his head against it first. His head, then his eye. And through that, he could see.

A candle glimmered, in a hallway lined with doors. It was a narrow hall and he was coming up against its end; that would be the hardest part. His wings had been partly spread when he’d shifted into the rock; drawing them in was far harder than merely turning around had been.

Stepping into the wall had felt like half-wading, half-leaping into molasses. Pushing into the air again was an entirely different sort of feeling – cold and heat chasing over his skin, almost sizzling at the point where it met stone. But he forced himself onward, and at last he stood in the air again.

And found that he’d misjudged this room. The one side was lined with doors, yes, but they stood in a rather insubstantial wall: metal bars had been set in a larger cavern, dividing it into cells. At least one of them was occupied.

The locks were crude, simple things. Dedicated effort with a claw could have probably opened it, with the guards nowhere in sight; a quick web of force, with more wrapped around to muffle the sound, had it open in a heartbeat.

The lock wasn’t what was keeping Sharliss in the cell. Dim light and a general unfamiliarity with Sachi features would have normally made it hard to be certain, but the shaman was small for his race, which helped; and if it had been any other Sachi, probably he wouldn’t have needed to be beaten into a bloody, fur-matted mess and tossed in here.

He was breathing, though, and one dark eye managed to open slightly, gleaming in the candle’s fitful light. “Strong soul,” he croaked, and erupted into a far louder coughing fit, each spasm making his entire long body shake in pain. When it subsided, a few eternal seconds later, he lifted his head, trying to focus on the being before him. “I tried. With all my being, I tried. But though I could ward dreams, I could do nothing for the waking mind. I can offer you no help of that sort now. Only sorrow.”

“Don’t worry about that,” Mulin hissed, suppressing a shiver. For a race with a reputation for inconstancy, the shaman’s dedication in the face of obvious agony was staggering. “When you were dragged off like that, I thought… I thought… I’m just glad you’re still alive!”

“Not for… for lack of effort.” Somehow, Sharliss managed to grin. “He could not take my mind, for all the power he is wringing from the world. He is not one much accustomed to being denied; in his rage he punished my body, and he wasn’t very concerned with whatever should follow.”

“Who is ‘he’?” If it was the same Vhark that had come to Mar Drerrasett, it’d be all the more terrifying; that ability had never appeared in their race before…

“He was a most rude host, and gave me no introduction,” Sharliss wheezed. “He thinks himself… a good spirit from the skies. His wings are like those of a great white bird, his skin like marble. His features…” There was a pause, as he coughed a few times more. “He is much like a human, but harsh and cold and cruel.”

“Four Winds,” Mulin breathed. “Siurrah. He’s a long way from his kind.”

The Siurrah were a lesson in arrogant pride. Once, they might have been human, but their command of magic had led them to believe that they were more, that they were a race apart. And they had shaped their own bodies and made themselves so. They were a distinct race, now, and most of both races preferred it that way.

Some of them supposedly got along with their distant cousins well enough – mostly the ones that tired of the vanity of their own kind. And the humans usually thought them beautiful.

That explained the Mentalist ability, though. None of the Vhark had even thought of the possibility, because no Siurrah were known to live less than two months’ hard travel away from Vhark lands, but they as a race did have a strong Mentalist tradition. Some had even won widespread respect as healers of the mind.

Unfortunately, whether it was a tradition of pride or some subtle flaw in their bloodline, all too many of them took their pride to the degree of madness.

The thought was confirmed as Sharliss tried to draw him in with an urgent look. “Be wary of him,” he hissed. “His mind is not whole; you cannot expect him to behave rationally, because he is beyond such reasoned thought. He has his own logic for how the world should work. Anything which challenges it is likely to draw his anger. I do know that your kind frustrate him – he cannot bend their wills to his as he can with my own people, or with the humans. He will never ride their bodies wholly. He can only twist their thoughts – and a strong will should be safe even from that.”

So that was why the search for him had been so indirect. The others wouldn’t want to kill him if they didn’t have to. Hark had been convinced, somehow, that there was no choice.

Mulin could even imagine that the Stonekin had been going to pleasure him, and ram the knife home only in the moment it would cause the least physical pain.

Cold comfort, that. But he thought he could rely on his companions to at least try to capture him alive, if they thought they could.

“Thank you, Sharliss,” he breathed. “Even in dire straits, you’ve learnt enough to be of immense help. I can hope it’s enough for me to put a stop to all this. Is there anything more you would add, anything that might help a little more?”

“Two of yours he brought that he could not break,” the shaman whispered back to him. “One was your twin. That one he was trying to convince with words. The other… the other is the blue one who went with you.”

His heart leapt. Liri had held strong against this twisting of their minds?

“Her heart is as a beacon,” the Sachi went on. “Even from here, it gives me strength. Still he tries to convince her that what he does is for the good of all, that your efforts to stop him will bring perdition and ruin. When last I saw them, before I was brought back here, he was failing.” A crooked, tired smile. “His treatment of me did no help for his cause, I do not think. In that… I can be content.”

“I can’t fully say how much that news means to me,” he sighed. “Thank you. Again. I’ll try to be sure your pain wasn’t in vain.”

He started to rise, but Sharliss seized his shoulder. “Cut the thread,” he hissed. “Cut the cord that binds his will to theirs, and your people and mine will be free.”

“I hadn’t intended to try reasoning with a madman,” Mulin assured him, and was distantly surprised at the chill in his own voice. He hefted his knife. “If I get through this… I’ll bring Vhish back for you. I’m too much a novice to heal the damage done to you.”

“All for a good cause,” the shaman breathed, settling back very gingerly indeed. “Go, and carry all our hopes with you. The strength is in you, and the time of decision is near. With you lies the choice of how this is to be set right.” His dark eye slid shut. “The words are wearying. I must… must rest…”

He was, in fact, asleep before Mulin finished rising to his feet.

Better sleep than the pain of his injuries. Mulin only hoped they wouldn’t slip into his dreams – but the Sachi knew better than any of them how to guard his dreams.

Now it was time to make certain that faith was not misplaced.

He shifted his knife back to his left hand and carefully peered into the hall proper. None was near to have heard their conversation. The guards had to have been spread thin – and they were positioned to catch him in places he’d already slid past.

He felt the shadows slide over him, and he glided along the halls, just another shadow himself.

But this shadow had fangs, and it hungered.