just thought you'd like to tell him a thing or two. About that night. Uh—just before you danced for me?» «You mean when I—» «Yes, yes,» said Trickster hastily, appearing not to want to discuss Zendrak and Kel's love-making on the eve of Trickster's Hallows. «That night,» he repeated, and folded his hands primly in his lap. Kel's eyes narrowed under her veil. «Zendrak's in Speakinghast?» «That's what I said, didn't I?» Kelandris suddenly straightened. «Wait a minute, Rimble. You're acting like you don't know Zendrak. He said he was your emissary.» Trickster pursed his lips. «Well, well. Mortals will say the damnedest things.» Rimble climbed up on a rock. «Just goes to show you can't believe everything you hear, hmm? And things did go so badly after he touched you.» Kelandris said nothing. She felt unexpectedly disappointed about Zendrak. She could hardly remember the few hours that she and he had spent together—the impact of it had been shattered by the Ritual of Akindo. Still, she was sure she recalled something special about that time. Something wild. Something powerful. Maybe even something good. Kelandris stared at the fall of a crimson leaf as it drifted lazily to the ground. Whatever had happened between herself and the man called Zendrak—she was sure it would never happen again. She was a convicted murderess now. «And I'm Crazy Kel,» she whispered. «Yes,» said Trickster unexpectedly. Kelandris glowered at him. Trickster shrugged. «It's not my fault. And neither will it be my fault if you keep being crazy. I've given you your way out. Your loophole.» «Speakinghast?» «Take it or leave it.» Kelandris hesitated. Then without even a backward look, Kelandris of Suxonli turned northeast heading for the route that would take her around Jinnjirri and through the southernmost tip of Tammirring via the Eastern Feyborne Mountains. The trip would take her about two to three weeks depending on the weather in the mountains. By Trickster's estimation, Kelandris of Suxonli would arrive at the Kaleidicopia just in time for the «K's» annual Trickster's Hallows. By then, Kelandris would also be quite mad again. And Zendrak's problem. Trickster watched Kel disappear over the next rise. Doing a small pirouette, he rubbed his hands together and said, «Perfect!» As it turned out, there were at least two people who didn't agree with this evaluation of Rimble's. The first person was Zendrak; the second was the Patron of Great Loves and Tender Trysts, Greatkin Phebene—Rimble's sentimental, rose-garlanded sister. The Panthe'kinarok Interlogue Themyth, the Greatkin of Civilization and Ancient Hospitality, eyed the place cards on the enormous round table sitting in the feasting hall at Eranossa. Sathmadd, the Greatkin of Organization, had invented the idea of place cards only that morning. Themyth leaned forward, slipping her wrinkled hand between delicate china and glassware to fetch the card resting directly to the left of her own place setting. She lifted it up and read the beautifully lettered script. The card said: Trickster. Themyth grunted. Considering what Rimble had in mind for the mortals—a new game he called «topsy-turvy'— Themyth wondered if this was the best seating arrangement for her little brother. Perhaps he should be put between Love and Imagination, she thought, rearranging five cards deftly. Themyth surveyed the new combination. Sathmadd on Themyth's right, Phebene on Themyth's left, and Rimble sandwiched between Phebene and Jinndaven. Much better, she decided and took a plum from the table's silver cornucopia. «Ooh,» she grunted, rubbing the small of her back gingerly, a strand of gray hair falling into her ancient face. Themyth wished Rimble had been a little less acrobatic in his love-making. Still, she mused with a naughty, pleased smile, Trickster's improvement had been most generous in both its size and effect. Themyth chuckled, instantly losing fifteen years off her apparent age. Two feet had been quite substantial—in more ways than one. She nibbled the soft, sweet fruit in her old hand. Still grinning, Themyth rematerialized herself at her proper age. Regaining her stately composure, she unbuttoned the top of her fabulous, colorful coat of tales, feeling daring. And uncommonly randy. Called Eldest by the other Greatkin, Themyth's name meant «great story.» It was she who chronicled all the histories of mortals and immortals alike. Her personal symbol was the blazing cave-hearth, and it was around the flame that Themyth's «memories» were most often shared. Themyth's word was respected in all things. She alone held the honor of presiding over the great meet of her ragtag family, that once-an-age council they called the Panthe'kinarok—that Divine Potluck Feast wherein the fate of a world might be decided by the choosing of Bordeaux over Burgundy, and the outcome of a hundred-year war might be reached through someone spreading butter sloppily on a steaming dinner roll. Nothing was too small to «matter» in the Everywhen of the Presence. Occasionally, however, the themes for the Age to Come were set into motion during the hours before the Panthe'kinarok. Under these circumstances, Themyth might be required to give counsel without benefit of long deliberation or sprawling family caucus. This was just the sort of situation that presented itself to Themyth now. «Theeeemth!» cried the Greatkin of Love, running hurriedly toward the crone. «Oh, thank the Presence I found you!» «What's wrong?» Phebene was about to answer Themyth when her eyes fell on the newly arranged place cards. «Well, will you look at that? Maybe nothing.» The Greatkin of Civilization smiled. Phebene straightened the garland of wild green roses on her head, saying, «See, I just talked to Sathmadd, and the old crab said she wouldn't put Trickster next to me. She didn't want to have to listen to 'the jokes' during dinner. 'The jokes,' « repeated the Greatkin of Love, rolling her eyes. «Maddi is such an eternal prude. I don't know how Rimble ever got her in bed last Panthe'kinarok.» «With difficulty,» replied Themyth. «Believe me.» Their conversation was interrupted by a sleepy looking Greatkin of Imagination. Jinndaven walked toward his sisters slowly, his filmy robe of lavenders and mauves trailing gently behind him. He yawned as he reached them. His Primordial Face looked a little crumpled. Phebene put her hands on her hips. «Where have you been!» she demanded. «I've been searching for you high and low! Sathmadd nearly caused a doomsday scenario,» Phebene said, nodding at the large table behind them. «What?» asked Jinndaven stifling a second yawn, «did she sit Trickster next to Mattermat and Troth?» Mattermat and Troth were the Greatkin of All Things Made Physical and Death, respectively. «Almost,» replied Phebene. «Next to Mattermat and Themyth.» Themyth snorted. «Troth looks nothing like me. My wrinkles are better.» «Interesting,» said Jinndaven trying to imagine Sathmadd's combination. «Well, it certainly wouldn't have been fun!» retorted Phebene. Themyth interrupted here. «It's all been taken care of, Jinn. Trickster will be sitting between Phebene and you.» All trace of Jinndaven's sleepiness vanished. «Me!» he cried, aghast. «That's a rotten idea. Stinks of Trickster, too. I object. Vigorously!» «Why?» asked Themyth. «I just spent the last two hours sleeping off Trickster's latest improvement. Experiment is more like it,» he added with contempt. «The little rug-rat turned me inside inside-out. And I will not spend an entire nine course dinner seated next to His Short and Mighty!» Phebene's reaction was unexpected; she dissolved in tears. Themyth and Jinndaven both stared at the little puddle on the floor that was now the Patron of Great Loves and Tender Trysts. Neither of the two Greatkin knew what to say. Finally Themyth cleared her throat and mumbled, «She's such a sentimental lass. Terribly romantic, you know.» «Yes,» said Jinndaven still looking at his liquified sister. He bent close to the puddle and whispered, «What if Maddi comes in this room, Phebes? Only Rimble has the right to change his Primor—» Jinndaven broke off unexpectedly, his expression alarmed. Trickster's shift was translating! To everyone! And everything! Themyth waited for him to explain. «He shifted me, Eldest. Rimble's got this crazy idea about transposing all Reality—us, too—into a higher pitch. Says it'll make us 'loose' for a while! Just look at Phebene!» Themyth grunted. Jinndaven was such an alarmist. The crone squatted stiffly beside Phebene. «Phebes, it doesn't matter how much Jinndaven protests about the seating arrangements. Trickster belongs between you and the Greatkin of Imagination for this Panthe'kinarok. And that's my final decision.» Phebene instantly rematerialized as her lovely, radiant self. Throwing her arms around Themyth, Phebene said, «Good. That way there's hope.» «Hope for what?» asked Jinndaven dubiously. «Us?» «No, you ten-foot narcissist. For those lovers. That's who I'm crying for. Kelandris and Zendrak.» «The names are familiar,» said Jinndaven. «Of course,» replied Phebene indignantly. «Don't you remember that love story I started to tell you last millennium? We left off when Zendrak—» Themyth interrupted here, her expression astounded and dismayed. «Those two are lovers?» «Were,» corrected Phebene. «But that's all going to change,» she added, rubbing her hands together with pleasure. «True love to the rescue.» Themyth stared at Phebene. «You mean you really don't know?» Phebene shrugged at Eldest, straightening her garland for the countless time. «Know what?» Jinndaven rolled his eyes. «Why are there chills running down my back? Why do I have a bad feeling about this?» The Greatkin of Civilization put her bony arm around the slender waist of the Greatkin of Love, and said, «Phebes, we need to talk.» Phebene narrowed her eyes. «Now, Eldest, you know how I am about unrequited love.» «Hates it,» said Jinndaven nodding. «It's more complicated than that—» began Themyth, scanning her long coat to see if she could find a tale to illustrate her point. Phebene pulled away from Eldest, putting her hands on her hips. «I want a happy ending!» «Would you settle for deviant?» asked Themyth, looking up. «I will not! These two are mine, Themyth! Not Rimble's! He better stay
clear, too! Otherwise, I'll suffocate him with roses! I'll plaster his face with valentines! I'll—» She broke off, searching for the worst possible punishment she could think of for Trickster. The Greatkin of Love smiled. «I'll stuff him to bursting with meaningful glances and cooing candlelit dinners for two. Eat romance, Rimble!» she cried, raising her fist. Then, before anyone could stop her, the Patron of Great Loves and Tender Trysts strode out of the feasting hall, her rainbow gown fluttering like battle banners. Jinndaven looked at Eldest. «Was Trickster expecting this?» Themyth bit her lower lip. «I don't think so.» Jinndaven stroked his chin. «Ah,» he said thoughtfully. He
