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I can go no further, Damon. The Gods guard you, kinsman
.

He reached for her in panic, but she was gone, would not be born for hundreds of years. He was alone,dazed, wearied, in a vast twinkling foggy darkness, only the shadow of Arilinn behind.
 
Where can I go? I could wander forever through the Ages of Chaos and learn nothing
 
.

Neskaya. He knew that Neskaya was the center of the secret. He let Arilinn dissolve, felt himself movewith thought to the Tower of Neskaya, outlined against the Kilghard Hills. It was like fording a coldmountain stream against a current which was trying to sweep him downstream to his own time. In the dimstruggle he had almost lost track of his objective. Now, desperately, he reformed it: to find a Keeper in Neskaya before it was destroyed in the Ages of Chaos and then rebuilt. He struggled backward,backward, and saw Neskaya Tower lying in ruins, destroyed in the last of the great wars of that age,burned to ashes, the Keeper and all her circle slaughtered.

It was there again, not the sturdy cobblestone structure he had seen rising behind the walls of Neskaya City, but a tall, luminous, dim-glowing tower of pallid blue stone. Neskaya! Neskaya in the ages of itsglory, before the Comyn had fallen to the poor remnant of today. He felt himself shuddering somewhereat the knowledge that he saw what no living man or woman of his time had ever seen, the Tower of Neskaya in the heyday of the Comyn.

A twinkling light began to dawn in the courtyard, and by its sparkle Damon saw a young man andremembered, in startlement and welcome, that he had seen this once before. He chose to interpret it as asign. The young man was wearing green and gold, with a great sparkling ring on his finger—ring ormatrix? Surely that delicate face, the green and gold clothing of an ancient cut, marked the young man asa Ridenow? Yes, Damon had seen him before, though briefly. He felt himself formulate with a curiousemotional sense of relief. He knew that the body he wore on this complicated astral level was only animage, the shadow of a shadow. He was briefly aware of his own body, cold, comatose, cramped, agasping tormented piece of flesh unimaginably
 
elsewhere
 
. The body he wore here in the higher level wasunfettered, calm, easy. After such exhausting eternities of formlessness, even the shadow of form was arelease of tension, almost an explosion of pleasure. A solid weight, blood he could feel pulsing in hisveins, eyes that could see… The young man wavered, became firm. Yes, he was a Ridenow, a lot like Damon’s brother Kieran, the only brother Damon loved rather than tolerated with civility for theircommon blood.

Damon felt a rush of love for the stranger, who must have been one of his own remote forebears. Hewore a long loose golden robe, cinctured with green, and surveyed Damon with a calm, kindly stare. Hesaid, “By your face and your garments you are surely one of my own clan. Do you wander in a dream,kinsman, or do you seek me from another Tower?”

Damon said, “I am Damon Ridenow.” He began to say that he was not now a Tower worker, but itoccurred to him that on this level time had no meaning. If all time co-existed —as it must—then the timewhen he had been psi technician was as real, as present, as the time when he lay in Armida, searching. “Damon Ridenow, Third in Arilinn Tower, technician by grade, under Wardship of Leonie of Arilinn, Lady Hastur.”

The young man said gently, “Surely you dream, or you are mad, or astray in time, kinsman. All the Keepers from Nevarsin to Hali are known to me, and there is no Leonie among them, nor no Hasturwoman.” He smiled, not unkindly. “Shall I dismiss you to your own place, cousin, and your own time? These levels are dangerous, and no mere technician can tread them in safety. You may return when youhave won the strength of Keeper, cousin, and that you have come here now shows me you have already

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that strength. But I can send you to a level that is safe for you, and wish for you as much caution as you

have courage.”

“I am neither mad nor dreaming,” Damon said, “nor am I astray in time, though truly I am far from my

own day. My Keeper sent me here, and it may be that you are whom I seek. Who are you?”

“I am Varzil,” said the young man, “Varzil of Neskaya, Keeper of the Tower.”

Keeper
. Damon had been told of times when men were made Keepers. The young man used the wordin a form he had never heard, however,
 
tenerézu
 
. When Leonie had told him of male Keepers, she hadused the common form of the word, which was invariably feminine. Coming from Varzil, the word was ashock.
 
Varzil
 
! The legendary Varzil, called the Good, who had redeemed Hali after the Cataclysmdestroyed the lake there. “In my day you are a legend, Varzil of Neskaya, remembered best as Lord of Hali.”

Varzil smiled. He had a calm, intelligent face, but it was alive with curiosity, without the withdrawn,remote, isolated quality of every Keeper Damon had ever known. “A legend, cousin? Well, I supposelegends lie in your day as in mine, and it might be well for me to know nothing of what lies ahead, lest Igrow afraid, or arrogant. Tell me nothing, Damon. Yet one thing you have told already. For if a woman is Keeper in your day, then has my work succeeded and those who refused to believe a woman strongenough for Keeper have been silenced. So I know my work is not futile and will succeed. And since youhave given me a gift, Damon, a gift of confidence, what can I give you in return? For you would notundertake a journey so far without some terrible need.”

“The need is not mine but my kinswoman’s,” Damon said. “She was trained to be Keeper at Arilinn, but

has been released from her vows, to marry.”

“Need she be released for that?” Varzil asked. “But what is your need? Even in my day, kinsman, a Keeper is no longer surgically mutilated, or do you think me a eunuch?” He laughed with a gaiety which for some reason reminded Damon of Ellemir.

“No, but she is held halfway between Keeper and normal woman,” Damon said. “Her channels were fixed to the Keeper’s pattern when she was too young, before maturing, and she cannot readjust the channels to select for normal use.”

Varzil looked thoughtful. He said, “Yes, this can happen. Tell me, how old was she when she wastrained?”

“Between thirteen and fourteen, I think.”

Varzil nodded. “I thought so. The mind writes deeply in the body, and the channels cannot readjust withthe imprint of many, many years as a Keeper in her mind. You must lead her mind back to the days whenher body was free, before the channels were altered and locked, and many years as Keeper froze theimprint into her nerve channels. Her mind once free, her body will free itself. When you take her throughthe sacrament next—But wait, are you sure the channels have not been surgically altered, nor the nervescut?”

“No, it seems to have been done in pattern training with a matrix—”

Varzil shrugged. “Unnecessary, but not serious,” he said. “There are always some of the women who lettheir channels lock that way, but at the Year’s End festival the release comes. Some of our early Keepers

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were
 
chieri
 
, neither man nor woman,
 
emmasca
 
, and they too found themselves locked or frozen into that pattern. This, of course, is why we instituted the old sacramental rite of Year’s End. How you must love her, cousin, to come so far! May she bear you children who will be as much credit to your clan as their brave father.”

“She is not my wife,” Damon said, “but wedded to my sworn brother…” As soon as he had said that, he felt confused, for the words seemed to have no meaning to Varzil, who shook his head dismissingly.

“You are her Keeper; it is for you to be responsible.”

“No, it is she who is Keeper,” Damon protested, feeling a sudden frightening irritability, and Varzil looked at him sharply. The overworld shook, trembled, and for a moment Damon lost sight of Varzil, even the great sparkle of his ring dimming out into a faint, distant point of blue.
 
Was it a matrix
 
? He felt as if he was smothering, drowning in the darkness. He heard Varzil in the distance, calling his name, then with relief felt Varzil’s hand close faintly upon the image of his hand. His body came into focus again, but he felt faint and sick. He could only see Varzil dimly, and beyond him a circle of faces, a glittering ring of stones, faces of Comyn who must have been his forgotten ancestors. Varzil sounded deeply concerned.

“You must not remain here longer, cousin, this level is death for the untrained. Come back, if you must, when you have won your full strength as
 
Tenerézu
 
. Do not fear for your cherished one, Damon. It is for you, as her Keeper, to take her into the ancient sacrament of Year’s End, as if she were half-chieri, and
 
emmasca
 
. I fear you must wait for the festival, if she must work as Keeper in the time between, but after that, all will be well. And not in three hundred years or a thousand will any child of the Towers forget the festival.” Damon swayed, dizzy, and Varzil steadied him again, saying with kindly concern, “Look into my ring. I will return you to a level that is safe for you. Do not fear, this ring has none of the dangers of the ordinary matrix. Farewell, kinsman, bear my love and greetings to the one you cherish.”

Damon said, feeling his consciousness thinning and groping, “I do not… do not understand.” Nothingremained clear now but Varzil’s ring, glowing, coruscating, wiping out the darkness.
 
I saw this before,like a beacon.
 
. Speech had gone. He could no longer formulate words. But Varzil was close beside himin the darkness.
 
Yes, I shall go now and set a beacon to guide you here… this ring
 
.

Damon thought, confusedly,
 
I saw it before
 
.

Do not struggle with definitions for time, cousin. When you are Keeper you will understand.

Men are not Keepers in my day.

Yet you are Keeper, or could never have come here without death. Now I may delay no longer foryour safe return, cousin, brother…

The glow of the ring filled Damon’s consciousness. Sight vanished, light left him, his body went formless. He was floating, struggling to maintain balance over a gulf of nothingness. He fought to cling to somefoothold, felt himself swept away, falling.
All those levels I climbed so painfully, must I fall downthem all…
 
?

He fell, and knew he would go on falling, falling, for hundreds of years.

Darkness. Pain. Formless weariness. Then Callista’s voice, saying, “I think he’s coming around now.

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Andrew, lift his head, will you? Elli, if you don’t stop crying, I’ll send you out of here, I mean that!” Hefelt the sting of
firi
 
on his tongue, and then Callista’s face moved into his range of vision. He whispered,and knew his teeth were chattering, “Cold… I’m so cold…”

“No you aren’t, love,” Callista said gently. “You’re wrapped in all the blankets we have, and there are hot bricks at your feet, see? The cold is
 
inside
 
you, don’t you think I know? No, no more
firi
 
. We’ll have hot soup for you in a minute.”

He could see now, and every detail of his journey, of the conversation with Varzil, came flooding backinto his mind. Did he truly meet an ancestor so long dead that even his bones were dust by now? Or didhe dream, dramatize knowledge deep in his unconscious? Or did his mind reach deep into time to seewhat was written on the fabric of the past? What
 
was
 
reality?

But what festival did Varzil mean? He had said that not in three hundred years or a thousand would the Comyn forget the festival and the sacrament, but Varzil had not counted on the Ages of Chaos, on thedestruction of Neskaya Tower.

Still, the answer was there. As yet it was obscure, but he could already see where it was leading.
 
Themind writes deeply in the body
 
. Somehow, then, he must lead Callista’s mind back to a time when herbody was free of the cruel constraints of the years as Keeper.
 
It is for you as her Keeper to lead herinto the ancient sacrament of Year’s End, as if she were half-chieri and
 
emmasca.

Whatever the lost festival, it could be recaptured or reconstructed somehow—a ritual to free the mind ofits constraints? If all else failed—what had Varzil said?
 
Come back when you have won your fullstrength as Keeper
 
.

Damon shuddered. Must he, then, continue this frightening work, outside the safety of a Tower, to makehimself Keeper in truth, as well as in the potential Leonie had seen in him? Well, he was pledged, and for Callista there was, perhaps, no other way.

It might not be that bad, he thought hopefully. There must be records of the festival of Year’s End in theother Towers, or perhaps at Hali, in the
 
rhu fead
 
, the holy place of the Comyn.

Ellemir looked over Callista’s shoulder. Her eyes were red with crying. He sat up, clutching the blanketsabout him. “Did I frighten you, my dearest love?”

She gasped. “You were so cold, so stiff, you didn’t even seem to be breathing. And then you wouldstart gasping, moaning—I thought you were dying, dead—oh, Damon!” Her hands clutched at him. “Never do this again! Promise me!”