It struck like a bolt of the gods. The earth shook. The oak swayed as if in a gale. The mountains trembled; deep in their hearts, fire called to fire. Too late Polyxena snatched at the powers she had loosed. The ground beneath her pitched and rocked. Somewhere perilously close, she heard the cracking of stone. The sun reeled in the sky. Human voices cried out; an ashen rain began to fall. Rivers of mud and fire ran down the mountainsides. The earth yawned, gaping to swallow them all. Polyxena had no spells or incantations, not even a prayer for this. Her wits barely sufficed to fling her flat while the world went mad around her. She had never expected—she could not have imagined— “Peace,” said a voice so soft, so ordinary, that it struck more powerfully than the braying of trumpets. “Be still.” One last time the earth heaved before it sank back into stillness. On the mountain above, even as the fire died, a steep slope crumbled; a fall of rock roared down into the valley. The air was full of noise and dust and terror.
