 
### Table of Contents

Bookt Title

Copyright

Preface

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nighteen

Chapter Twenty

Epilogue: Journeys into Darkness

Last Page
The Children Of Harenis

The Harenian Cycle: Book One

AN ARCLANDS STORY
**Copyright © 2017 Nick Shepley**

The Children Of Harenis

The Harenian Cycle: Book One

An Arclands Story

Publisher: Verse Studios

Cover Art: Katya Moskvina

Editing: Vicki Camps, Kanchan Dutt, David Harris

All rights reserved.

# Preface

"...When the Vannic Empire ruled, it stretched from its citadels above the clouds in the peaks of the Arching Mountains all the way to the northern shores of the Greater Arc Sea. The Van controlled the heart of Aestis and ignored the eastern and western Arclands as untameable savagery. They saw themselves as the link between the heavens and the earth, and were so enamoured with themselves and their own civilisation that they committed all they knew to parchment; anyone who knows the history of the Van will tell you that parchment is power. Schools of learning sprung up across the empire during the reign of Dures II, Emperor of the Mount, and during the four decades of his reign, and the shorter, less glorious rule of his son and grandson, a vast library was built. So grand and audacious was this project that it took nearly a century to complete, and an army of the Van Empire's master craftsmen servants, the Firg. The library was built at the foot of Mount Khest and its many vast chambers spread deep into the mountain, growing to the size of the great cities of the Arc Sea.

It was claimed by the Del Marahan seer Mois Trar that a man could spend a lifetime in the library and barely read a fraction of what was stored there; the Van had put in one place all the world's learning and they jealously safeguarded it. Many scholars who trekked from across the known world to read the secrets and knowledge of the Van found life under the mountain unbearable, and some established the city of Harenis on an archipelago of islands along the southern Arc Sea coastline some fifty leagues from the library. As the Van Empire collapsed and its successor empire in the great city of Arc brought order to the continent, Harenis thrived under its new protector. Harenis became a seat of learning and knowledge for generations of scholars and sages, and the city's white marble schools sat just above the waves. Harenian scholars for centuries have lived in the city but looked to the mountain with a mixture of fascination and fear, knowing in their hearts that in its chambers lie the secrets they hunger for, but also in the darkness lies a fate of obsession that has seen many of their number disappear into the shadows of the library and never return..."

_From 'The writings on histories of arcanism, magickes, fables and histories of the peoples of Aestis' by Mordei Morhannan of the School of Dorus._

# Chapter One

Faren Khanhalary turned down the hurricane lamp to a low flicker, its wick glowing red. The Sage of Earthly Things at the School of Neem ushered his wife, Maredh, Scribe to the Masters of Neem, to the table at the centre of the room. He put his finger to his lips, bidding her to remain silent; she had wondered when this moment would arise. Finally, after months of waiting, worrying and hoping against hope that they would never have to speak of what was hidden deep in the chest in the corner of the room, the time had arisen. How long Faren had been preparing this moment, she had no idea, but she knew that her husband was nothing if not meticulous. It was so deeply ingrained within him to eliminate all other possibilities before bringing an alarming thesis to others that it was inconceivable to her that he had not answered as many of his own questions as possible already.

It was the questions that Faren could not answer that she feared the most; it was the possibility that she might see his fear that she steeled herself against. He rolled out a piece of parchment on to the table and slid it towards her. Inscribed on the page in the language that the two of them had developed in the months of their courtship, some fifteen years earlier, was a set of propositions, drawings, and as she feared, questions. Maredh sat and read intently while Faren stood, impassive. Then, she reached for a quill and began to write, addressing the questions one by one, in absolute silence.

The humidity of the Harenian night penetrated the thick stone walls of the Khanhalary's townhouse in the city's third circle, along with the usual mosquitos and sandflies. The dull heat and biting insects not only drifted into insignificance as the two wrote throughout the night, but to Maredh they actually became a comfort. They were a curious form of connection to the real things of the world, things that their written words and seemingly unanswerable questions pulled them further away from, hour by hour.

Just before dawn broke they stopped, Faren took the parchment and lit it with the wick of the lamp and as flames licked at the edges of their words. He placed it in the fireplace until it was engulfed and then gone. He went to the chest in the corner, opened it and lifted the lid and pulled out a long flat object, wrapped in a cloth. Carefully, he placed it on the table and unwrapped it. Inside lay a long thin dagger-like shard of stone, the likes of which, until recently, Faren and Maredh had never seen before. It was grey, but not granite, nor ironstone - in fact from some angles and in certain lights it seemed more like steel than stone. Each time Faren looked at it, he hoped that he would see something different, something about the stone that he might recognise from his studies, something that might help to explain what it was. He was always disappointed.

Maredh folded it again and put it away, unable to bear looking at it and what it represented any longer. Instead, she took his hand and led him up the creaking wooden steps to the mezzanine floor that overlooked their small sitting room. Together, under woolen blankets, lay their two children: Dreya's slender figure and long brown hair; Zan, his shock of white blond hair bleached by the Harenian sun, curled up against his older sister for comfort. Silent tears flowed relentlessly from Faren and Maredh's eyes as they stood over their children, knowing the price that their unanswered questions would exact.

Each night they would return from their labours, eat, put their children to bed and then work. Each night drew them closer and closer to the same bleak conclusions. Almost exactly a month from the first, long, dreaded night of silent discussion, the two adults rose at dawn to face the long journey to the library under the mountain, fifty miles east. It was a semi regular aspect of life for most Harenian scholars and one their children gradually, but never fully, became adjusted to. Weeks alone, with only minders and carers from the scholastic houses to half-heartedly check in on them was a way of life for the city's young. This time, however, it was different.

Faren and Maredh's performance of normality , while imperfect, was adequate enough. Above all things they had vowed not to let the mask drop, their children's safety depended on it. There would be time for grief later, they knew. And yet, and yet as they knelt to kiss their children, knowing where their journeys would take them and how far away they must go, Maredh felt her husband shudder beside her, as if forcing back a sob. Human pain is a potent force with a life and a mind of its own and will not be constrained, not even by parents desperate to protect their children. The reality that Faren and Maredh were blind to was that their efforts were for nothing and that they had raised a daughter in their own image. Shrewd, deductive and unwilling to deceive herself, Dreya Khanhalary knew this was no ordinary goodbye, but unlike her parents, who's emotions betrayed them every time, her performance was flawless. She knew her act had to be for her younger brother, the innocent and unknowing Zan.

***

As the humid summer ebbed away into a stormy autumn and the southern monsoon rains battered the cities of the Arc Coast, the various tribes of semi-abandoned offspring of Harenian scholars shut themselves away for weeks on end, bored and frustrated as the stone streets of the city became rivers and waterfalls. During the brief dry hours when the rains abated and it became safe to venture out, they poured onto the streets and the city echoed with the frenetic pent up energy of youth. Harenis was a city made for the old, with little to recommend it to the young. The adult world seemed to be utterly intolerant of its offspring and ignorant to the insatiable urges that all children had for distraction and play.

The scholastic families of the city who raised the majority of children within the first three circles of the city, seemed to hope that their offspring would not just grow up to emulate them; but hoped they start acting like them now. The delusion that they would lose themselves in ancient texts about the Del Marahan language or the pre-history of Gol were routinely dashed. The children of Harenis had no time for such suffocating pursuits and instead roamed the city in two and threes, occasionally grouping together into larger gangs. These invariably lasted for a week or two until internal rivalries, jealousies and disputes splintered them. It was as much as they could do to stave off the boredom.

Dhugo Rhen, a short round faced boy with a mop of dark brown hair and ears that stuck out, had waited for the end to the rains for weeks. Sullenly he peered from his attic window at the torrential downpour and the low hanging cloud, and was beside himself with excitement when there was a glimpse of sunlight. His older brother, Boyn, had ventured out several times in the last few days without him, sprinting off into the gloom leaving Dhugo behind with no small amount of rejection and hurt. Madame Hari, the overbearing housekeeper that their parents had hired to feed, clothe and manage the boys, was too slow to catch the headstrong Boyn, but more than quick enough to prevent the less agile Dhugo from following him.

Watching Boyn's escape route through door at the back of the cold store and down a narrow cobbled lane at the side of the house, Dhugo eventually summoned the courage and agility to emulate it. He had no idea where his brother had been going, but the air of excitement that Boyn exuded each time he returned was intoxicating. Whatever was going on, Dhugo wanted to join in. He saw his brother make his now all too familiar exit from the family home and after the cold store door swung shut, Dhugo raced to join him. Boyn had vanished round the corner by the time Dhugo had emerged on to the street. Initially he was simply glad to be free of the house and able to roam the streets and attempt to follow brother's wake. However, it occurred to him as he followed Boyn through the streets that he had no idea where his brother was going. He caught sight of Boyn again as he weaved expertly between the market-goers taking advantage of the break in the weather, the fishermen hurrying out to sea and the scholars scurrying across the slippery stones clutching books, glancing nervously at the skies.

"Boyn!" shouted Dhugo, almost out of breath.

He knew his brother had heard him, a hundred paces ahead in the crowd, but no answer came. Boyn seemed to work his way through the crowd and away from the third circle with determination; wherever he was going, it wasn't nowhere. Despite all the petty spitefulnesses that Boyn as an older brother was almost constitutionally bound to inflict on Dhugo, abandoning him had never been one of them. Dhugo summoned all his energies and made a desperate dash to catch up. A meeting of scholars on the steps of a hostelry, discussing with a group of Pheffists in animated terms something in Del Marahan slowed Boyn down and gave Dhugo the opportunity he needed. His lungs burning and his breath ragged he finally caught up with his brother, almost knocking him off his feet. Boyn's expression was a mixture of shock, anger and unexpectedly, panic.

"Boyn, Boyn, wait..." Dhugo grasped Boyn's jerkin, pulling him in a bid to stop his brother temporarily.

Boyn spun round in surprise and then shock, seeming to be momentarily horrified to see his brother. He swatted his hand away and turned with a look of exasperation. "Go home, go home now Dhugo, why are you here? What are you doing here?"

Dhugo attempted to form sentences but they were lost in an endless stammering. Boyn's harsh expression softened momentarily and he relented, seeing his brother's stammer return as it always did when Dhugo felt panicked or afraid.

"Please, please go home Dhugo, you shouldn't have come, I've got something I have to do, you wouldn't understand. There's some friends of mine, I have to see them..."

"Who?" Dhugo asked, unable to summon any further words.

Boyn was about to answer, when a tall dark haired boy, definitely not from the third circle, emerged from the crowd and furtively gesturing with a nod of the head for Boyn to follow him. The boy caught sight of Dhugo and stared at Dhugo, with his eyes alone demanding to know where an extra person had emerged from. Boyn reluctantly shrugged, unable to provide his friend with any meaningful answers. Short of sending the notoriously indiscrete sibling home, there was nothing that could be done than to take him with them; Boyn gestured with his head, it was a reluctant body language that told Dhugo he was permitted to join them, for now.

Dhugo's curiosity had now made him party to whatever Boyn was involved in. He had never seen the other boy before, but it was clear from the familiarity that Boyn and the newcomer shared that they were well acquainted with one another. Boyn had kept this friendship a secret, something most unlike him. Boyn's friend completely ignored Dhugo and the two of them seemed to reflect a growing excitement about something between each other. All of this gave Dhugo a strange, uneasy feeling; a deep desire to walk back through the streets to the safety of home that wrestled for supremacy with feelings of loyalty to Boyn. As the Pheffists finished their conversations with the Harenian scholars and departed, Boyn and his new friend looked to a tall, thin man with slicked back hair and a scarred face, standing at the near end of a bridge by the hostelry. Boyn's friend grinned at him, but Dhugo felt more uncertain and worried, as more evidence of a secretive world that he had been excluded from emerged.

"It's Ratcoats, he came!" said the other boy. Boyn looked back uneasily at Dhugo, his recent reluctant invitation to his brother was clearly about to be revoked. The boy ran over to meet Ratcoats and Boyn walked with a more pronounced air of reluctance. Dhugo followed silently, now both confused and uneasy about the appearance of another stranger, until now hidden from him. Ratcoats did not appear pleased.

"This is it?" He said to Boyn's friend. The boy shrugged.

"No one else wanted to come, couldn't get them to come. Only him," he said, gesturing to Boyn.

"What about the other one?" Asked Ratcoats.

"That's my brother," said Boyn, "He's going home soon."

Dhugo would ordinarily have left then and there, but it was dawning on him that his brother had done something very foolish and leaving him now made Dhugo feel sick to his stomach with anxiety.

"So just one," Ratcoats grimaced, "bad, bad Kwann, bad for me, definitely bad for you."

Boyn, with a sudden flash of uncharacteristic anger and menace turned to Dhugo, his fists clenched, his expression murderous.

"I swear Dhugo, go now or I will..." but Ratcoats cut him off.

"He stays," Ratcoats announced, "seen too much already and we're need as many as we can get."

Boyn, with a stunned expression looked at his brother, shaking his head, but he already knew it was too late. Dhugo was now going to be included in Boyn's secretive activities whether he wanted to be or not.

As the group made their way across the marble bridges of the Third Circle and into the fourth, a district Dhugo and his brother had been forbidden by their parents to enter, the mounting worry and uncertainty grew within him. These streets were unfamiliar, the people in them less like the scholars, apprentices and children that filled his world. The alleyways were darker and the market squares emptier; sullen women sat upon steps gutting fish or making rope and only added to Dhugo's sense of being lost and out of place.

Eventually they came to a flight of stone steps that descended to an all but abandoned jetty. The steps ran down from a cobbled street and were partially obscured by the corner of a tall stone townhouse. Boyn's friend ran to the corner and crouched down, peering round and down the steps towards the water, gesturing to Boyn and Ratcoats.

"Kwann, are they there? Have they come?" Boyn said excitedly.

Kwann, a Virefolk name; but there were no Virefolk in Harenis, as far as Dhugo was aware. Kwann turned back to Boyn, nodding emphatically, a big smile on his face. Boyn laughed excitedly, but with an unmistakable note of fear in his voice.

"They're here," he said, "they actually came."

Ratcoats was impassive, shaking his head at Boyn's evident folly. Dhugo trailed behind his brother ever more reluctantly, but was aware of Ratcoats presence behind him and felt unable to turn back. Dhugo saw his older brother scramble after Kwann down a flight of stone steps to the empty Harenian harbourside. He paused at the top of the steps and stared with trepidation at the scene below. A small cog with tattered red brown sails was moored by the jetty. A handful of men and one woman climbed over the side of the boat; Dhugo was not blessed with the greatest judgement in the Rhen household, but his instinct spoke to him clearly. Something rotten had found its way into the heart of Harenis. He had no idea what he was seeing, other than it was something so far away from the world he and Boyn were meant to be existing in that it was, by default, danger. Boyn couldn't help but have secrets, it was how he had always operated. Whether it was stealing, hiding or making new friends, no one ever saw all of Boyn's world; Dhugo had forced himself into part of that hidden world now and its contours and colours were emerging, though it was unclear to Dhugo what they meant.

One man, a squat, broad shouldered bald type with a hard face and hands that seemed to have been made for breaking things called Kwann and Ratcoats over to him.

"Is this it? You got one, just one?" He asked, jabbing Kwann in the chest. No longer quite the powerful figure that he had previously been, Kwann seemed diminished. Ratcoats hovered out of the range of the man's fists, happy to allow Kwann to bear the brunt of any abuse that might be coming.

"Yeah" Kwann said shamefaced, "I couldn't get anyone else, Harenis is hard...I'm sorry."

"They want them from here, lots of them, it's important..."

The bald brutish man, Golver, pushed Kwann out of the way, and one of his crew took the opportunity to punch the Vire boy in the ear, spitting at the floor directly in front of him. Golver was more interested in Boyn however. He casually walked over to the boy, who now stared intently at the floor. The sudden realisation of how isolated and vulnerable he was set off a series involuntary reactions in Boyn's body. His face burned red and his hand shook.

Golver stood uncomfortably close.

"Can you read lad?"

"Yes..." mumbled Boyn.

"How well then, how well can you read?"

"I can read well, er lots, I know some Vannic, some Swithick, I read Del Marahan."

Golver nodded. "We need readers, I wanted a dozen but you'll do. Get on board, we'll do the introductions later."

Now it was Ratcoats' moment to attempt to retrieve the situation and find favour with Golver. He pointed to Dhugo who stood dumbfounded at the top of the steps.

"Him, he's the other one's brother. He'll do..."

Catching sight of Dhugo for the first time, Golver looked him up and down and then shook his head in frustration, punching Ratcoats in the chest.

"Too young, idiot." He snarled, "Go on, take care of it, no witnesses, " he continued as Ratcoats picked himself up. Golver pulled a curved knife from his belt and gave it to Ratcoats.

"Go on then, fix it."

Ratcoats looked at the knife, stared at Dhugo and then took the blade from Golver, making his way up the steps towards the boy.

***

Boyn glanced over his shoulder one last time at Dhugo as he was roughly shoved towards a gang plank and saw Golver's knife pass into Ratcoats hands. It was the simple, casual way in which the blade was passed that told Boyn exactly what it was intended for; in a rare moment of insight, Boyn suddenly appreciated the truth that real killers weren't dramatic and didn't see anything they did as exceptional, Dhugo was a problem that needed to be solved. The decision to act came to Boyn from an unknown and unconscious place; he might have already chosen to abandon his brother, Harenis and everything that came with it, but this was something in all his naivety he had never bargained for.

"Dhugo, run, run!" He screamed at the top of his voice. He looked up the steps at the glazed expression on Dhugo's face, expecting a moment of realisation, but the hapless boy was simply glued to the spot, as if hypnotised.

Golver turned to glare at him, reaching for a hammer at his side and Boyn felt a heavy hand on the back of his neck from one of the others, pushing him along the gang plank that creaked up and down with the tide. He slipped and stumbled, falling on his chest and nearly sliding into the water. It was as his face pressed against the wood, staring down at the dark green sea slapping against the side of the boat that he saw a minute red spark lazily drift past his field of vision, eventually extinguishing itself somewhere in the darkness below.

Ratcoats had never killed anyone before. He was many things, a professional liar, cheat, thief and courier of unreliable information, but he was not a murderer. He weighed up his options as each foot landed on a step. The rising bile in his throat that threatened to escape into a flood of vomit as he thought about killing the boy, and the leaden arm at his side seemed to be sending him a clear moral message. The fear of Golver sent him another. It wasn't just Golver however, their masters might not punish betrayal immediately, but rarely did anyone escape retribution.

***

Some weeks earlier Ratkoh Tradin, Ratcoats to his acquaintances, clients and victims, set foot on the Harenian quayside after a circuitous journey from Dancare to Mirrorvale to Wardenhal and finally to the gleaming city of knowledge. For a man so lacking in any formal education of his own, Harenis was an imposing place; fortunately for Ratcoats, he had felt an imposter everywhere he had ever been (largely because he normally was one). The sense of inferiority and self loathing that he might naturally have felt in Harenis disappeared into the background. Before Dancare, he had dwelled briefly in Ranhallar, a small outpost just on Mordikhaan's borders, procuring stolen rum and selling it on to Mordikhaani traders.

Ratcoats found that even in a large city, it would take him approximately a year to attract enough enemies for it to become a life threatening problem. In a small town, the process was dramatically accelerated. His ability to bully, trick and blackmail his way through life, while clumsy, was effective but periodic relocations were vital. When the offer of a fresh start in Harenis was offered, Ratcoats, after some persuading, accepted. The man who sent him to Harenis had approached Ratcoats as he stood on the town walls, waiting for the smugglers he normally used to arrive along the dirt track that comprised the local section of the Dancare Road.

"I don't think they are coming, Ratkoh..." He said in a thick Swithick accent.

Ratcoats spun round, surprised by the first use of his real name in years. He tried to brush the man aside.

"I've got business friend, busy so..."

"No you don't Ratkoh, there's no business today. The men you're waiting for aren't coming."

Ratcoats, a lean and occasionally vicious street fighter was no warrior and had to rely on his own innate powers of bluster and bluff when a serious operator presented themselves. He span on his heel and pushed the man in the chest with both hands.

"You want some kind of trouble? You want to get hurt?" he snarled, hoping that this would be enough to give the man second thoughts about bothering him.

The man did not move. Ratcoats reached for his knife but the man grabbed his wrist in a vice like grip that made Ratcoats wince in pain.

"Ratkoh," He said calmly "we're in public and you can't afford any more trouble can you? Put the knife away and listen. Your friends have been sent away and your business here is over. You have no more money to bribe the town garrison to ignore your activities and by sundown, when their purses have not been filled, they will come for you. Are you listening to me Ratkoh?"

"Ye..yes," he gasped, "How do you know my name?"

"Because it is easy to know. You have come to believe in your own talent as a deceiver, but you have none. That is why you will do as I say. There are two ways today can end, the first is on a horse to Dancare, and the other is in a filthy gaol. Make your choice now."

"Dancare..." He muttered, capitulating.

"Good, well chosen," said the man, clapping Ratcoats on the back and letting his wrist go. "Let me buy you a drink and tell you the job."

Go to Harenis and make friends. How hard can it be? It was a job that required Ratcoats to do little more than not be actively dislikable and odious immediately, which on some days was quite a challenge for him. The man told him to make friends with children, particularly the clever ones and then wait, they would be in touch. Ratcoats had spent most of his adult life in no win situations, being given orders by people he couldn't trust, and as a result he quickly agreed.

Just two months later, under the heat of the southern sun, Ratcoats saw the white gleaming stone of Harenis, and knew, with a glance, that there would be no other place in Aestis that he would be more out of place. He was mindful of the fact that only one kind of enigmatic stranger with deep pockets and crushing iron hands could exist in a border town such as Ranhallar. A Mordikhaani.

***

At roughly the same time as Ratcoats was being told his future on the walls of Ranhallar, far to the north, Golver had awoken to a blade pressed against his throat. He squinted and his gaze followed the line of the blade to the hand that held it and beyond that the arm and the face of the wielder. A woman, tall and slender, with long dark hair and features that might have been thought beautiful, were they not so hard. Golver lay on his back on the floor of a barn, where he had been sleeping.

"Have you come from the crags?" she asked bluntly.

Golver stared at her, processing the situation. He pushed himself up on to his elbows and shoved the sword out of the way.

"Depends...." he said, still drowsy, but evidently unconcerned about his safety, "I don't tend to answer questions to strangers who wake me with a sword."

The woman aimed a kick at him but he caught her foot in both hands, flipping it, and her, over on to the hard floor. He grabbed his hammer from a nearby bedroll and swung it down towards her head, missing narrowly as she rolled out of the way. She pulled a knife from a bracer around her forearm, but Golver had already swung the hammer back and caught her in the side, cracking two ribs and sending her sprawling. He tossed the hammer aside and walked over to where she lay, squatting down over her.

"Frangka is it?" He asked. She nodded silently, wiping blood from the corner of her mouth, her breathing ragged, even though she steadfastly refused to show weakness.

"...Been sent here to find you," he said taking her hand to pull her up, "come on, on your feet. We've got work to do."

Golver's journey to find Frangka had begun several weeks earlier. He had found himself, after years of desperate flight, rotting in one of Mordikhaan's bleaker hill top garrison towns close to the border with the Nyeth. Beyond the wooden palisade fence, a muddy cart track ran into thick, suffocating woods that ran to the river Nargen. Beyond that lay the Nyeth, one of the Black Republics that most Mordikhaani soldiers dreaded entering, even though they had conquered the lands that now comprised the republics over fifty years ago. Golver had no intention of crossing into the Nyeth, he knew full well that the conquered and enslaved peoples of those lands were not the problem; whatever dark things that crawled from between the cracks in the world had made the Nyeth and the other republics their home after they had fallen - these were what Golver sought to avoid. The irony of course, was that his adoptive homeland, Mordikhaan, and his adoptive queen, the lady of the crags, the Khul, had made the black republics what they were.

Golver, like so many of the wretched and trapped men who came to live, fight and die in these remote hilltop forts, had arrived in Mordikhaan as a fugitive. A steady flow of men and women (mainly men) from across Aestis made their way to the hated pariah state's borders for the promise of anonymity and shelter in return for loyal, fierce and ruthless service. Golver was happy to make that bargain. He had realised that because Mordikhaan was full of men like him, that it also ran on its own brutal level of chaos and crisis. It was poor and intentionally so, he had concluded. The violence and corruption that punctuated all aspects of daily life were what that lady wished and so it was. When some sort of order punctuated the anarchy, Golver was normally curious at first and then suspicious.

As sergeant at arms in this rotting fortress (so neglected, that it hadn't even been given a name, though men called it 'the tooth' as it stuck out on the hill top like a particularly rotten one in a no less unhealthy gum), his daily tasks, if he bothered to complete them at all, were to make sure no one had fled in the night and abandoned their post and to make sure basic training and drill were carried out. The dark forbidding tree line and the fear that whatever lay over the river might have learned to swim was an effective motivator for most of the men to hone their sword skills. Putting these wretches close to the border like this had ensured they were among some of the Khul's best fighting troops. Fear as a motivating factor in the Khul's realm was invaluable. The Tooth had not been graced by a lord for some time and Golver had been its de facto master. He liked to balance brutality with a modicum of what he viewed as basic fairness; arbitrary violence was a waste of time and instead his wrath was reserved for those who deserved it.

The arrival of Caston Cleargh one freezing dawn as waves of dark rain clouds appeared from the west was most unwelcome, particularly as he brought with him his brother, Cormagh. Golver had never met Cormagh or Caston before but was aware of them by reputation. Seeing two horsemen in what was once gleaming Kharisian armour riding up the hill out of the mist towards the Tooth, Golver quickly deduced who his visitors were most likely to be. He did not like visits and certainly not from overlords who had no knowledge of his existence.

He harboured deep loathings for most people who wielded power over him and resentment for anyone who had been sent from the safety and warmth of the Crag at Kharis. It was the private and not so private ambition of any Mordikhaani with a measure of intelligence to find shelter at the Crag, the seat of the Khul's power. The standard fate of those who failed to enter deep into the Khul's mountain stronghold was that endured by Golver, in the cold and mud of the Tooth. Caston was overlord for the eastern end of the Grimtain mountains and Golver was normally small and meaningless enough to be ignored by his lordship. Not today, he thought to himself.

There was no chance that the brothers Cleargh had arrived at the Tooth to speak to anyone else either, he thought. He was unfortunately for all concerned, the ruler of the keep. As the wooden gates were dragged open to let the two riders through, Golver buckled on a longsword (one that he never used, but its filigreed silver hilt made appear marginally less like the common Mordikhaani refuse he undoubtedly was). Caston Cleargh, a tall, greying and sallow faced man, dismounted, handing the reins of his horse to one of Golver's newest men. His brother, taller and broader, with a bastard sword over his back dismounted, standing silently in the background. Golver prepared himself to go through the empty niceties.

"My lords. What brings you to the Eastern End?" He asked, using the only term Mordikhaanis had for the edges of the Khul's domain; the tribes that once gave these lands meaning and language had long since fled or been subjugated by the Khul's armies.

"Is it Khelester? I was told there was a Lord Khelester here," asked Caston, barely acknowledging Golver.

"No, no my lord, there has been no master of this keep for months, I'm the...."

A look of dismay fell over Caston's face. His brother stood impassive.

"No one at all?"

"No one my lord."

Caston looked at Golver with barely concealed contempt, a series of rapid calculations running through his mind.

"What's your name?"

"Golver my lord."

"And are you filth Golver, the lowest of the low? The sort of excrement that swims ashore in her lady's realm to do whatever you're told?"

There was no point denying it, Golver thought.

"Yes. Completely and utterly," he said, a grim half smile on his face.

"Good, then you're just the man I'm looking for, I have a job for you. Shall we?" He gestured towards the small stone barracks at the heart of the Tooth.

***

At a table, by a grime covered window that looked out onto a sea of mud, Golver sat impassively and listened to Caston Cleargh while his brother, Cormagh sat and sharpened his sword. Golver was not blind to the rather unsubtle message he was conveying, but remained impassive, listening to Caston speak.

"We need readers and lots of them, that's all I know. I have only ever been in her presence once and I know that she doesn't see the need to explain herself," Caston shrugged unconvincingly.

"No need to go asking," responded Golver.

"We have someone already in Harenis, they're finding our readers for us, we need them brought back here."

"And that's what you want me to do?"

"Yes, you and a company of men. They don't trust us, south of Arc, so you won't be flying the flag of our lady. We've acquired an old ship from Wardenhal, one they won't miss, and we have also acquired men for you that no one will miss either. I say men, one of them, a woman...." he paused, disgusted momentarily at the thought "...who can swing a sword rather well, will be joining you. The Ghothars, they let their women fight alongside the men, we took one of their patrols prisoner and she's the only one left. She leads your men and you'll find her at Wroste on the coast."

"That's where I'm going is it?" Golver asked.

"Yes. You leave tonight, don't worry about keeping this...place in order, it has served its purpose and I have need of the men here further north."

Golver wasn't in the least bit worried about the future of the men he commanded. They live, they die, he thought. The opportunity to escape the Tooth, while a positive development was overshadowed by the fact that he had been ordered to travel back to the Southern Arc Coast, a part of the world that where his name would take him to a rope. Turning down such an invitation from Cleargh would result in roughly the same treatment, something that Golver was well aware of and accepted as a standard aspect of Mordikhaanian existence.

Two weeks later, as he pulled the bloodied Ghothar from the barn floor and handed her back her sword, Golver caught sight for the first time his men. Unbeknownst to him, (he had arrived at the small abandoned coastal village in the dead of night and found the nearest shelter available), the troop of a dozen Mordikhaani were camped in an orchard a stones throw away. On hearing the fighting they had scurried up the hill, knives, axes and swords in hand to dispatch the enemy in the most noble traditions of Mordikhaan. He surveyed them silently as they gathered at the barn door and inwardly groaned. A collection of young, wandering idiots, old fugitives and those for whom drink, debt or a deep loathing from their families had left the barren lands of Mordikhaan the only viable home. This, then was his elite team, a squad of ineptitude. It was fortunate, Golver thought, that he would never be judged on how many of them he lost, there were always more where they came from. Golver pushed past Frangka, wiping a trace of blood from his chin with the back of his hand.

"Line up." he muttered, stepping out of the barn he had been sleeping in and past his men.

They began to drift into some manner of lose formation, half heartedly. They should be running, he thought, they will next time. As they formed a line Golver waited and looked at his feet. Finally, he looked up and cast his eye along the line of wretches and failed sellswords. Without warning, he sprang into life, striding over to the first man in the line, a thin, aging Swithick type with curly hair and despair etched into his face. Golver grabbed him by his ill fitting leather brigandine tunic and head butted him. The man shouted in pain an surprise, sinking to the floor to cradle his bloody face.

"Golver!" Shouted Golver as he kicked him in a frenzy, "Golver, it's my name, remember it, remember it!"

The man tried to get up as Golver's boot knocked out teeth and broke ribs. Golver moved on to the next man in the line, taller and younger, with the look of a farm hand about it. He punched him square in the jaw, pulled him down and kneed him in the face, raining kicks and punches down, finally flinging the lad onto the older man.

As Golver stood, bent double, with thick strands of saliva dripping from his mouth, breathing heavy, ragged breath, it occurred to him that he should get his hammer and kill at least one of them here and now. Golver was the first to admit that sometimes his violence was an act, something he had to show to the world. Sometimes, however, the act became bigger than him with an unquenchable thirst for more. More pain, more power, more hate; just more. Not today, though, Golver was momentarily able to consider the consequences.

"Names." He barked.

The remaining men who stood shouted out. Meere, Rysinde, Hood, Sparrel, Vyler. Golver turned to Frangka, who had been observing the spectacle from behind him, ignoring his demand for a line up. She shrugged.

"We've already been introduced." He would deal with her later.

"Whoever's been in charge so far, you ain't now, I am." He shouted, "...so the rules are simple. Fight when you're told and fight hard, run and you die. Don't get drunk without my say. You've all been here in the shadow of the Crag for long enough to know that I'm not joking. Who here can read?"

Rysinde stepped forward. A pale faced lad with sharp features and deep dark eyes and a mass of black hair. Golver looked the child who stood before him up and down.

"Gonna need you lad, we're going to Harenis. That's why you've all been sat here for days."

Rysinde stared at Golver, unsure of what he was referring to.

"Harenis lad, it's a place full of readers. You're ours," he said, clapping Rysinde on the arm, all the while shaking his head at the boy's lack of knowledge.

"Dismissed" He said wearily to the group, turning to face the sea and waving them away with a gesture of his hand.

Frangka showed him the small, two mast boat that would take them across the sea. It had enough space for two dozen men, though how he was expected to stow scores of hostages or prisoners he had no idea. He would have to make room in other ways, no doubt. On his way up from the waterfront to the village he saw the two men he had beaten, crouching by a well, the older man seemed to be struggling to breathe and there were flecks of black blood at the corners of his mouth. Golver unfastened the wineskin from his belt and without speaking, gave it to the man. The truth was, with Golver , that it was rarely ever personal. As darkness drew in Golver realised that he had a shadow in the form of Rysinde, who seemed to hover at his elbow as he set the men to work gathering firewood.

"My Lord?" He asked, as the fire crackled and rabbit cooked on an improvised spit.

"Golver, son, just Golver."

"Oh, er, sorry, I mean, my, er Golver, have you been sent by her, by the Lady?"

"No, don't be stupid, do you think she would send someone like me eh?"

"Oh, er, no, perhaps not. So who sent you?"

"Doesn't matter does it? They sent me to tell you lot what to do, and if we all do it and don't make a mess of it, they won't push us off the side of the Crag."

Rysinde smiled nervously, his silence betraying his thoughts. Golver helped to articulate them for him.

"You were waiting for someone close to her were you? Bet you came here, hoping for a personal audience with the lady?"

Rysinde, silent again, confirmed everything Golver had suspected.

"I'm not one of her favourites and I don't follow cos I'm a believer, lad. I ain't in it for love and their ain't no gold either. It's simple, us and them, Mordikhaan and everyone else; only place left in the world for me you see. I follow..." said Golver, gesturing with a knife that had been prodding the meat roasting over the camp fire, "...because I'm in the lucky position of having nowhere else in the world to go, there's a rope waiting for me in Wardenhal and a filthy black cell in every other one of the cities. That's the sort of simplicity that makes my world work; fight hard, no prisoners, obey and there's a home for you. She knows everything else and cares about none of it."

"They say that a moment by her side is all you need, you know, in order to become an overlord. Aren't you tempted to..." Ask Rysinde. Golver rolled his eyes, irritated by the question, having heard it a thousand times before.

"...No", Golver interrupted, "I am nothing, I am scum, and that's how I like it. An invitation to the lady's court isn't something to wish for, it ain't something you can exactly turn down either. Tends to result in a one way journey to the Black Republics."

Golver looked at the boy who had been annoying him with questions for the past half hour and saw death for him, however, his would be brought to him by educated stupidity - the most unforgivable variety. Golver broke one of his golden rules and spoke directly to the Rysinde.

"Why are you here? What are you doing with these?" He gestured behind him to the others, who were drinking themselves into a stupor by the fire. "You're not like them are you son? You speak like a noble sir and you're how old?"

"I am twenty seven..."

"Don't tell me lies boy," Golver barked, showing Rysinde that an interrogation, not a conversation, was underway.

"Eighteen..." He said, looking at the floor.

"That's more like it. So you're half the age of these half wits and a hundred times more educated. I'm here cos I ain't got any choices left, you're here because it's the one thing you chose, out of many things you could've had. I've got to get as many of these creatures back across the sea without dying, so I don't take kindly to mysteries."

"I cut my father's throat," said Rysinde, attempting to meet Golver's stare.

Lies, thought Golver, but at least a fair enough attempt, he had to respect that. Golver knew this boy had never killed anyone, let alone his own father, no doubt he had heard the bragging of the others and concocted a version of their stories.

"Get some sleep, you'll need it, we sail for Harenis at dawn and it's three long weeks at sea."

# Chapter Two

Not once in all his imagining did Ratcoats think that he would be here at this moment, where a child's blood would spurt from his neck, all at Ratcoats hand. There was a reason why low level nothings and nobodies such as he were best advised to never accept work from Mordikhaan, and this was it. Suddenly the work had become more demanding than a minor operator such as he had signed up for. As he came level with Dhugo, he found it strange that the boy seemed fixated on anything but him, Dhugo stared intently beyond Ratcoats, as if looking at Golver and the others behind him, his mouth now open in and his jaw slack. Ratcoats heart pounded, his breath was ragged and sweat poured down his face. He could hear Boyn's shouts from behind him and he grabbed Dhugo by the hair, putting his knife to the boy's throat.

"Why didn't you run eh? Stupid boy," he muttered angrily, putting the knife to Dhugo's neck. As he did, the dull steel of the blade reflected a burning white light, as bright as the Harenian sun, it hissed as it made contact with Dhugo's throat and they boy shrieked with pain. In a flash of agony Ratcoats dropped the knife as it became hotter and hotter, burning like embers; at the corner of his vision, the world behind him seemed to be bathed in a pure white light.

Dhugo saw it first. As Golver passed the knife to Ratcoats and his assembled accomplices looked on at their pitiful haul of Harenian children with bemusement, an object, a small white sphere appeared in the air in their midst. Slowly, it grew, becoming an elongated sliver of shimmering white, and then a diamond, about six feet long. Dhugo had felt a wave of warm air flowing from the light that dried his mouth and nose and made it hard to breath. He was aware of the man walking up the steps towards him, but was transfixed by the light. He saw flames start to lick at the timbers of the ship and sparks fly as the man grabbed his hair. When the knife clattered to the ground the last thing Dhugo was able to make out before he turned and ran, was the men on the quay vanishing into the light as it engulfed them. At the centre of the glowing white light was a shape in black, the silhouette of a man; Dhugo had seen the shadow and the shadow had seen Dhugo.

The air shimmered around Golver and every breath burned his throat. Behind him the wall of white light advanced, engulfing his men. He turned to his right and saw Frangka draw her sword. Behind her cowered Rysinde, the youngest of his crew. As he felt the skin of the back of his shaven head begin to blister, Golver roared in pain and desperation and ran towards the Frangka and Rysinde, throwing his considerable body weight against them. They plunged off the side of the quay and into the dark waters below.

The shadow figure in the halo of light moved, stepping out of the burning white to become real, a man clothed in black who's feet touched the stone of the pier. Much about him was still hazy and indistinct as the air between the figure and Dhugo danced and shimmered with heat. The stone beneath its feet hissed and cracked with the intense heat of the shadow; the surface of the water around the Mordikhaani ship steamed with heat and the sails spontaneously burst into flame. The shadow man looked at Dhugo and Dhugo looked right back, only barely registering a smouldering Ratcoats in front of him, reaching out with a blistered hand to grab Dhugo's jerkin and breaking his gaze.

In his final moments, Boyn had managed to stand up on the gangplank and silently look back at Dhugo too. The Mordikhaani, Meere, who had grabbed him from behind began to burn and his body crumbled like dry clay. A moment that must have lasted just seconds seemed to linger endlessly as the brothers' eyes met; Boyn stared expressionlessly at Dhugo, so much so that in the days to come, Dhugo would never quite feel sure whether Boyn could see death coming for him in the wave of burning white light. Dhugo never finally saw his brother vanish, the light was too blinding. Ratcoats dragged Dhugo round the of the nearest building and out of the burning light. The two collapsed on the cold cobbled stone and Dhugo, awakening from his daze, scrambled to get away.

Ratcoats was faster than Dhugo and grabbed his collar. He was instinctively aware that whatever the crisis, a captive was an essential acquisition. His right arm from his neck to his hand was red and blistered, the skin in parts had bubbled and cracked under his clothes and the pain was only beginning; shortly, he knew, it would be unbearable. He dragged Dhugo through an archway into a small secluded courtyard garden and pulled out his own knife. Dhugo, still unable to fully connect with reality found himself musing about how strange it was that alongside such chaos, just paces away sat a garden, replete with lavender and bees; Ratcoats knife pressed against his cheek brought him to his senses.

"You listen, you listen good boy, cos I'm only gonna say this once. You scream or run and I'm gonna cut your wretched throat. You're gonna help Ratko here, you're gonna help him yeah?"

Dhugo stared impassively and nodded. Ratko's first instinct was to find somewhere to lie low until he could patch up his arm and then figure out how to flee the city.

"You got a house? A place to stay? You Hareni children, all on your own aren't you? Parents gone away."

Dhugo shook his head.

"No, my parents are gone, but we've got a housekeeper..."

"You think quick now, find me somewhere or you ain't much use to Ratko, you find somewhere now."

As if to emphasise the point, the knife pressed against his cheek, inches above the slender burn on his neck that was now throbbing in pain, though Dhugo was to deeply in shock to notice. Ratcoats pressed the blade until a thin trickle of blood ran down the side of Dhugo's chin. At this moment, Boyn was a mere abstraction, something his mind could not process and the more immediate problem of Ratcoats had rendered temporarily irrelevant.

"I, I think I know somewhere...." He said quietly, "It's quite a walk, on the other side of the Resonance, but it'll be safe."

In the absence of any better ideas, Dhugo guided Ratcoats to the one place he knew was adult free.

***

For as long as she could remember, Dreya Khanhalary had dreamt that she had a stone heart. In her dreams she walked slowly and lifelessly as a heavy weight in her chest pulled her down, acting as an endless burden that she was always close to buckling under. Once every so often, as she awoke, the heavy feeling in her chest lingered and then gradually disappeared. It left her in such a state of panic once, just before her seventh birthday, that she asked her father if it was possible for a person's heart to turn to stone. He looked up briefly from a table of parchment and books and then, without answering, returned to his work. Dreya, fraught with anxiety over the absence of any answer attempted to seek solace in her mother, but found little to comfort there either. At night she would sleep in the same bed as her younger brother Zan, and from time to time the temptation to whisper to him the secret of her stone heart was overwhelming, but she never did. Dreya feared that if she spoke of it, Zan might start to feel a heavy stone of his own.

In the long weeks and months where their parents vanished from their house in the third circle of Harenis and journeyed deep into the mountain to do their work, the two children would spend long boring days at the House Neem, the school that their parents worked at. Following their most recent departure Dreya felt a deep exhausting numbness inside; the questions that devoured her about this most recent absence took all her energy to supress and stifle. She spent long afternoons as a virtual sleepwalker, a restless energy robbing her of more than a few hours sleep each night. During the summer, in the sweltering heat of the southern shores of the Greater Arc Sea, they sweated profusely outside and then shivered in the cold and dark of the marble interior of the school. During the winter, all learning ended for six months as Harenis was routinely battered by storms and Harenians locked themselves away from the elements. The school, as part of their obligations to the children, sent its worst paid and most overworked teachers to check up on the dozen or so pupils in their care, whose parents also gave their lives over to the pursuit of knowledge under the mountain.

Once a week, Dreya and Zan had a house visit while their parents were away, and in addition to this the bakers and fishermen's wives of the fifth and sixth circles of the city dropped daily deliveries of food and laundered clothing off at their door. In the past year, both children had spent less and less time attending their lessons at the Neem; it was Dreya that initiated it first. The thought of traipsing half way across the city for hours of meaningless repetition of words filled her real heart (not the stone one she feared that she had) with dread. If they were careful to avoid visits from the Neemic scholars and anyone else, both Dreya and Zan could live in an adult free world.

Their days instead consisted of wandering across the city, watching the ships come and go from the outer ports dotted along the farthest circle of the city and playing guessing games with each other about travellers they saw setting foot in the city. Drifting children have an almost magical ability to attract each other, and as time went by, they existed within a complex tribe of other offspring of Harenian scholars, all waiting and longing for their parents to return. A dozen or so regular members of the group were complemented by at least a dozen more part timers who came and went, normally as a result of their parents' departure to and arrival from the mountain. This loose, unsatisfying and often lonely world was shattered at the end of the long hot summer of the year 295, as black storm clouds rumbled across a bronze horizon at dusk and the cloaks and robes of Harenians billowed with tempest winds like the sails of Del Marahan trade ships.

As the visits from scholars and others became less and less frequent, and as Dreya became more and more convinced that they actually had no parents at all, she began to feed, wash and cloth herself and her younger brother. She battled her way through the tiredness, but found sudden and unexpected flashes of anger possess her and a deep resentment that she was forced to look after her brother all alone.

She often believed that life asked too much of her, and knew that her parents and their secrets now had clawed more out of her than she could possibly give. Dreya had battled to create an orderly and small world for herself and Zan to live in, one which was boring but seemed to work somehow. And now, as the rains came and flooded the city, that life and all that she knew would be swept away, with the arrival of Dhugo at her door.

# Chapter Three

For a moment Golver, never the strongest of swimmers, thought that he would drown in the harbour of Harenis. The heavy tunic, breeches and boots that he was wearing, along with the hammer in his belt, became leaden weights about his body in the glassy green super heated water. He thrashed helplessly, eyes closed against the stinging brine, lungs bursting. It was his own natural buoyancy that saved him in the end, and as he rose to the surface he gasped for air and was eventually able open his eyes. To Golver's left was the pier, and it was instantly clear that whatever had materialised there had now gone. The blinding light and heat had been replaced by a strangely subdued blue grey haze. Flames licked at the timbers of their ship and smoke rose from the old tattered sail that now burned.

"Golver..." shouted Frangka.

He looked to his right and saw her, Rysinde and Hood clinging to the side of a small fishing boat moored yards away. She gestured towards the pier; Golver heard shouts and the clatter of boots on cobbled stone. They had managed to attract attention and announce their presence in record time and now there would be nowhere to hide. Fortunately, Golver excelled in such circumstances. He swam as best he could to the three Mordikhaani, noticing both Rysinde's expression of unalloyed relief and joy at seeing him, and the terrible burns across Hood's back and arms. As Golver drew close, he reached out to grab the side of the boat with one hand and with another grabbed the back of Hood's neck, plunging his head under the water. Hood thrashed momentarily but it was quite clear to Golver that the drowning would not take long.

Whatever had burned him and the others had already sealed his fate, now all that remained was to finish the job. As a young man Golver had worked as a butcher's assistant in Wardenhal and as a sideline he was paid by farmers and horse breeders outside the city walls to put dying animals out of their misery. Golver had come to see himself as a veritable decapitation expert and his ability to feel neither remorse nor pride in his work was a skill that he had come to believe was invaluable. It enabled him to hold Hood under the water until his lungs were full, and it enabled him to have absolute certainty that drowning Hood was the right thing to do. Golver was in no mood to be dragging around a dying man and it would do little to help the three of them remain inconspicuous.

When he was finished he pushed Hood's body away and looked up, catching the expression of the other two.

Rysinde stared, open mouthed, both appalled and fascinated. Frangka was impassive, and it was in that moment he understood her in her entirety; they might not have been kindred souls, but there was no mistaking the fact that they both knew when bloody sacrifice was required. Saying nothing else, she clambered over the side of the boat and under a heavy canvas. The others followed suit, and Golver's bulky thickset body nearly tipped the little boat over. As they lay in silence, listening to little more than the lapping of waves against the side of the boat and the creaking of the hull, Rysinde was able to pick some of the words of the men who now crowded the pier, shouting orders to one another.

"Dran" he whispered "They're from Dran; nobody speaks Vannic all old and traditional the way they do."

Golver, while having no understanding of the higher Vannic tongues whatsoever, recognised the flowing and yet strangely abrupt accent and knew that the boy was right. The fire at the pier had attracted Dranian soldiers, no doubt mercenaries from the warlike city to the north that policed Harenis for a price. This was, in nearly every way imaginable for a man like Golver, as bas as bad news could get.

Ratcoats had spotted the Dranian soldiers in his first hours in the city, weeks earlier. He had little prior knowledge of Harenis, but the reputation of Dranians preceded them. As he pushed Dhugo along through the crowd, nursing his burning arm, he tried to avoid the sentries that stood at almost every gate. In Taeor, in Arc, in Dran itself Ratcoats would be just another item of passing human refuse, but it was only in Harenis, a city so refined that it had to hire in muscle to police it, that Ratcoats really stood out. It was only a matter of time before one of them, in polished armour and flowing purple cloak stopped the two of them and for that eventuality, Ratcoats needed the boy under control. Just looking at Dhugo, Ratcoats thought it seemed inconceivable that he would say anything at all; he stared at his feet as he stumbled along, his face white as marble. Ratcoats grabbed Dhugo by the shoulder and stopped him, pulling him over to the side of the harbour wall, Dhugo looked at Ratcoats, his eyes silently pleading. The boy was scared witless and desperate to find his brother, all this presented Ratcoats with material to work with.

"Look, look, hey, I am sorry. What I said back there, about the knife, I'm sorry, I'm not going to hurt you boy, not at all, not Ratkoh. We just need to get safe, I don't know what happened back there, I don't but we've got to help each other."

Dhugo said nothing, but simply stared back at Ratcoats.

"Some of these men here," he said, gesturing towards the Dranian troops standing holding spears at intervals along the harbour wall, "they might think we're tied up with that," he said, pointing at the wisp of smoke rising from the pier they had recently vacated. Dhugo turned to look in the direction he was pointing but again acknowledged nothing at all.

"We're both gonna get it if they stop us and think that. They stop us, you can't help your brother, what's his name? Boyn, isn't it? You want to help him, we gotta think smart eh? You and Ratkoh here gonna help each other and be smart, so we gotta tell them something, yeah?"

Dhugo, Ratcoats explained, was his mute son and Ratcoats was taking him home from his apprenticeship with a milliner in the second circle of the city. He planned to embellish the story by telling whoever asked that Dhugo had been accused of stealing and then adding in a slap around the head for dramatic purposes.

***

"We wait 'til dark," muttered Golver, "then we find somewhere in the city to hide."

This was the limit of his orders, as Golver had precious little idea about what they were actually going to do. His first priority was to avoid the Dranians, they were soldiers of the Arclands and would spot an fugitive like him from a hundred paces. They would fling him in a jail cell and there he would rot for months until, as was custom, one of the justices of Wardenhal touring the cities looking for murderers and thieves to exchange with their counterparts recognised him. Then, he would sail back to Wardenhal in the belly of an old trade cog and they would hang him on the dock side. The second priority was to avoid the inevitable encounter with another Mordikhaani, somewhere in the city.

Golver knew roughly how the system of control that Mordikhaan used across the Arclands worked. In addition to raiding parties and spies that were sent out periodically, Mordikhaan sent one, sometimes several 'residents' to each of the major cities or territories of Aestis. There they conducted the Khul's most secretive business and they knew in advance about any visits from the mother country; In short, Golver's arrival in Harenis was probably no secret to half the city following recent events, but it was certainly no secret to the resident, whoever they might be. The unfolding disaster of this supposedly secret mission would not be taken lightly by an agent of the Khul; there would be no need to send Golver and the others back to Mordikhaan, instead they would be dealt with swiftly here in Harenis. His ability to think carefully about what had materialised on the pier this afternoon was strangely muted, the memory of the bright light and the burning pain rather like the sound of distant thunder.

As night fell and the clamour of the afternoon died away, Golver, Rysinde and Frangka slipped back into the water and swam as quietly as possible to the pier, where a narrow flight of steps ran down to the water. The two moons of Hermia illuminated the harbour, casting a pale golden light. As the trio emerged on to the pier, it glittered white in the light of the moons. Golver frowned, puzzled and knelt down, running his hand through the tiny luminescent particles that crunched under his boot. He held scooped up a handful of the bead like droplets and held them up to his eye.

"Glass," he said, "It made glass out of them."

***

Unlike Taeor, Hothis, Arc, Wardenhal or Dran, Harenis went quiet at dusk. Harenians, concerned as most of them were with research, debate and scholarly writing first and the private world of their families often a distant second, spent virtually no time in the few taverns and ale houses across the city. They were mainly for visiting travellers from more uncivilised parts of the Arclands and beyond. The quiet in the streets meant that Ratcoats and Dhugo could travel quickly across the city, but it gave Ratcoats a deeper sense of anxiety and paranoia. He staggered, drenched in sweat, bent double with excruciating pain across his arm and back. Dhugo, had he chosen, could easily have outrun Ratcoats, but fear of the consequences kept him safely within his captor's reach.

"This is it..." he mumbled, as they stopped by an impressive two story townhouse with a heavy wooden green door.

"Ok...ok boy, do what we said. Don't mess up and don't try to trick me, or I'll get in anyway and..." his threats were interrupted by a wracking cough. He spat blood on to the pavement and leant heavily on the wall. Dhugo, summoning all his energies, desperate to be convincing, reached for a pebble that Ratcoats had selected for him earlier. He threw it at Dreya's window. Ratcoats slunk round the corner, out of sight.

"Dreya....Zan...let me in..." he cried in his most desperate, pleading voice, "let me in!" He all but cried out, attempting to combine a shout and a whisper, desperation in his voice.

"Dreya...." He called again, just as a second story window creaked open and a slender girl with long mousy hair appeared from behind a curtain.

"What?" She snapped, "Dhugo, what do you want? You'll get in trouble, the Circle Watch will give you a hiding if you don't go home and go to bed! It's the middle of the night!"

Dhugo, stared back, all his thirteen years depending on how he convinced Dreya next. As a result, nothing came out of his mouth but it flapped open and closed anyway in his inimitable style. Dreya, staring down at the the helpless scene in front of her pursed her lips and frowned, knew that she would regret any act of kindness she offered, but not having any idea exactly how much. She also knew that she would regret abandoning Dhugo even more and crept down the creaking wooden stairs to open the door. Dhugo, folorn, trudged up the steps to the open door, which Dreya peered round, squinting uncomprehendingly him.

Dreya and Dhugo were the same age and she had known him for so long that not only could she not identify the moment that he became part of her world, but she had no sense that he hadn't always been there. Over the years their friendship had evolved into a more master-pet pairing as Dhugo slavishly followed her around and in her more capricious moments she realised that there was immense power in controlling this rather needy and unhappy boy. The thing that she and her brother Zan shared with Dhugo was the virtually limitless free time that came from having scholar parents who spent weeks on end out of the city at the great library, fifty leagues away under the mountain.

Harenian children had lived like this for generations and many simply assumed that all children drifted free of their parents for months on end. Dreya was just perceptive to enough to realise that they were the exception, not the rule. She had often wondered if the surfeit of freedom they both enjoyed and endured would eventually have consequences. Dhugo, pale, frightened and desperate, brought them to her door. She opened the door a crack wider and gestured silently with her head for him to come in, using silence also to communicate her irritation. As he stepped through the door his face betrayed a truth; his eyes were red and he stared at the floor, his mouth trembled and he reached for her hand. Without questioning, she took it and led him to the oak table in the centre of the room, pulling out a chair.

"What, Dhugo? What has happened?" she asked, her irritation gone. It was always in these moments, normally those which involved her brother Zan, that a powerful sense of obligation and duty gripped her. In the absence of any adults, she would have to suffice. It made Dreya feel deeply uncomfortable, as if she were possessed by some force, and yet she could not help it.

Before Dreya had the chance to close the door, Ratcoats burst through it, kicking it wide open with and snarl. Dreya screamed but he quickly grabbed her round the neck and put his hand over her mouth. In his other hand he pulled out his knife. Her eyes bulged with terror as he held the blade under her chin.

"Ok girl, listen good, cos I'll kill you both if you get this wrong. It's Dreya, isn't it? The boy here..."

he gestured towards Dhugo, "he told me all about you, you and your little brother Zan."

She stared at Dhugo, horrified.

"I'm gonna take my hand away and you'd better not scream. You make a noise and Ratkoh gonna have no choice but to cut you real bad. Nod if you understand."

She paused for a moment, considering her options and then nodded.

"Good, smart girl.." Ratcoats coughed again, a spray of blood from his mouth spattering over Dreya's dress. He lifted his hand from her mouth and she let out a frightened sob.

"Dhugo...what did you do? What's going on."

"No questions..." said Ratcoats, staggering over to the table that Faren and Maredh Khanhalary had spent so many years reading and writing at. He slumped into a chair, his body shaking with exertion.

"Dreya..." Ratcoats voice came as a low rasp "...get me wine, brandy, root spirit, anything like that, I need it now..."

Dreya looked at Dhugo with pure, undiluted hatred and anger, realising that she had, within moments, become both prisoner and slave in her own home. Silently she turned to the cellar to get Ratcoats as much alcohol as he could drink.

***

Zan's heart pounded so wildly that he thought he would be sick. The moment he heard Dreya scream he had been torn from his half sleep and sat bolt upright. His bed, perched on a mezzanine floor over the family room, enabled him to witness the events below him. The man knew about him and Dreya and when Zan saw Dhugo, the source of his information became abundantly clear. Despite his many admirable qualities, Dhugo was weak, it was almost as if nature had designed him with bullies in mind. As Ratcoats drew his knife and placed it on Dreya's cheek, the urge in Zan to race down the stairs and do something, anything, was overwhelming. The only strategy that sprung to mind, however, was to offer to take Dreya's place instead, giving the man three hostages, not two.

Go and get the Circle Watch, said calmer thoughts in his head, prevailing over the panic. Unlike the Dranians at the Barrel House, the Circle Watches, one for each circle of the city, were the very picture of local incompetence, apathy and idleness; however, in a crisis they would have to do. Silently, Zan crept across the wooden floor and pulled on his breeches and sandals. At the back of the room there was a skylight that opened on to a sloping roof. Zan pulled back the bolt that locked the skylight and clambered out on to the wet tiles, sliding down to a stone ledge that prevented him from plunging down two storeys to the cobbled street below. He stood up on the ledge and walked gingerly to the end of the roof and then stepped on to a narrow wall that enclosed the small garden and orangery at the back of the Khanhalary house. When the wall declined in height sufficiently, Zan leapt down and disappeared into the undergrowth at the bottom of his parents' poorly maintained garden. Zan forced open the wooden gate that led out on to the dark unlit street, and without pausing, fled into the night.

# Chapter Four

In the days following the departure of Maredh and Faren Khanhalary, the first fall of leaves began in the forests of Slinde, a couple of hundred miles to the east. It was a time of quiet and reflection for the Slinde folk, who often faced long hard winters but for a traveller in their midst like Khariel it was a moment for periodic discomfort. It was a hint from nature that unless he moved quickly, he would be trapped in the valley until spring. Winter crossings over the Arching Mountains were all but impossible. Khariel's innate restlessness meant that a winter in the remote valley kingdom of a quiet river folk would be all but unbearable.

Searching was a special form of torture, Khariel knew. His search was a constant, nameless one, a burning sense of frustration and discontent had driven him from town to city across the Arclands, ever closer to Harenis. Khariel, the son of a modest Hothi scribe had spent childhood days and nights staring from the tower his father rented a room in, staring out across the Hidden Heart, the vast forest in the centre of the city, feeling the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end as he tried with all the keenness of his youthful eyesight to penetrate that still and silent canopy of trees. He had known then that something, a nameless, formless 'something' existed at the very edges of his consciousness and the constant search for it ever since had pushed him to madness from time to time or so he believed. As a boy he had taken his father's trade and with the spare money that he could accrue, had borrowed, bartered and bargained for every scrap of parchment ever written on the Heart. There was little that was said about it that could be relied upon, but as the years of solitary effort passed, he became something of an authority on the forest. He knew the small amount that could be known, mainly about those who had stepped across the boundary stones and into its heart. For years he had stared at the boundary until it was unbearable, and then, as he thought that madness itself would claim him if he did not act, he stepped over the stones and into the Heart itself.

Now, far from Hothis, at the small lake town of Slinderahl in the Slinde Valley, Khariel, exhausted from many months of travel, had lapsed into a periodic bout of apathy. His discontent, restlessness and agitation had to contend with the deep mental fatigue that had overtaken him.

At dawn, he sat on the steps of the wooden long hut that he had been his home for the last few months, courtesy of the Slinde family that had been his host and lit his clay pipe.

How much longer do I do this? He thought to himself, shivering in the pale blue grey light of the early morning.

"You don't even know what you're trying to do Khariel," came a voice from behind him. Khariel leapt with a start and reached for a non existent dagger at his belt. An older man had spoken from within the long hut. As Khariel turned round he saw nothing in the gloom, other then sleeping bodies on straw beds and the embers of a fire. As his eyes grew accustomed to the dark, Khariel thought that he could make out the faintest shape of a man.

"Who spoke?" He said, trying not to wake the family of Hiirdmane, the Slinde woodsman who had offered him a bed in return for some work repairing the thatch on his long hut.

"Someone who can give voice to your pain Khariel," came the voice

"Someone who speaks in foolish riddles, I'd say," he retorted, the false bravado in his voice betrayed by fear.

"Not riddles, Khariel. You met us in Hothis, long ago, there was a bargain. We knew your pain then and we know it now. We know what you long for and what happened in the Forest of the Heart."

Khariel now wished that the voice was speaking in riddles, but he understood exactly what it was saying.

"Time for debts to be honoured Khariel, time to leave the prison you've consigned yourself to here. Go to Harenis, watch and wait."

Khariel waited at the door of the long hut for some time until he realised that the man was gone. He waited for Hiirdmane and family to rise, thanked them for their kindness and collected his belongings, untethered his horse from the family's barn and was gone as the sun lit the Arching mountains with a rose hue. The exhaustion that Khariel had felt for so long travelled with him but at the very least he now had something to fill his thoughts other than maddening unanswered questions. It was at least a week's ride from Slinde to Harenis and Khariel's horse, Muuli (a Slinde word for mischief, he later learned after having been sold the animal by an unscrupulous horse trader), was his only company. Being left alone with his own thoughts was quite unbearable for Khariel, and especially after a visitation from a voice reminding him of Hothis.

As a boy his yearning, his longing, to know what lay in the Forest of the Heart had led him along the loneliest of roads and it was only now, twelve years later that he realised one fundamental truth; to know was to be alone. As his thoughts drifted deep into the past and in his mind he retraced the steps of the boy who once was, beyond the boundary stones and into the dense undergrowth and trees, he could almost hear the wildwood drawing him in, closer and closer to the river that ran through it.

He remembered his fatigue, and waking in a circle of stones, his body shivering and shaking. He remembered the burning in his hands as his fingertips began to smoulder and the scars that had emerged on his face. He remembered that they were there, the same people who had found him in Slinde. To call them people was misleading, however, they seemed to be real, physical bodies only at the very edges of his thought and imagination. They were voices, fleeting reflections, but they seemed more real, vital and powerful than fire, frost or stone.

And they made him a deal, which he instantly took, for it meant life. After his awakening in the forest, Khariel knew that his journey for answers, for truth would be one he undertook alone, and so it had been for the past decade. He found fragments and slivers, but nothing more. Harenis was a city that he had feared to enter for a long time. It contained far too much truth for him, and in particular, he dreaded the prospect go hunting through the library, knowing that he would be consumed by it. Mercifully, he had not been sent to the city to read, but to watch and it made a welcome diversion from his searching.

***

"Is it done?" Asked Hartmann, looking up from the map table in the centre of his private chamber as his men at arms filed into the room.

"Yes, " said Dreskoe, "we got rid of the other...." but he paused as words failed him.

"Bodies, they were bodies," Hartmann said, completing the sentence. He had not been completely sure what had seen earlier that day on the quayside, though he knew it had once been human.

"Sir, the men, superstitious some of them. They're wanting answers, asking what kind of flame renders flesh that way, burns it into blackened glass? They talk of it being a witching."

"And it is your duty to remind them of their duty. They serve, fight and obey. They are not granted the right to ask."

"Yes my captain," Dreskoe said, the other men at arms nodding ruefully. Hartmann had called them to his chamber at nightfall to issue his orders; he knew that there was no scope for error in what was decided next.

"What is spoken here, in this room goes no further. Is that understood?"

His men nodded silently.

"Good. Tell me what is left on the quayside?"

"A white crystal, like a powder. As we hacked away at them, it poured out from the blackness. We did as you said and tossed the remains in the water, but the white dust, well it seemed to stick to the stone."

Hartmann frowned. Lasting evidence of the horrors they had seen today did not suit his overall strategy. Until he could think of anything better to do, he would quarantine the quay.

"What we have seen here, is, perhaps the work of some powerful witching, or some alchemy from these Harenians that has torched their fellows. I don't think the bodies we found today were Harenians though."

"Why so my captain?" asked Vandermayne, a tall, thin pikeman with a scar running down the left side of his face from a Vire sabre.

"Harenians don't use that part of the docks. Incoming ships from the north and the west moor there. Whoever they were, they weren't from here. Did you see the ship? Harenians are not an overly proud folk, but they have standards. I've never seen a Harenian set foot in a cog so rotting and broken. I do not want word of this monstrousness spreading across the city until we understand its cause. A Dranian garrison that causes panic and chaos is hardly worth paying for, I'd say."

Again, Hartmann's soldiers nodded in silent agreement.

"We must send word to our lord Allansr directly. He will know what our task here should be regarding what we have seen."

Hartmann knew that he was suggesting something with the potential to harm them all and would not have been surprised to have faced strong opposition, but instead there was silence. Allansr was the lord of the Evayn family, one of the ruling dynasties of Dran, but as soldiers they were answerable to the high council of the city, led by Lord Sorias Varren. Soldiers of the city did not tell their secrets to individual family heads. Not officially, anyway. Hartmann was under no illusions about the Varren archers who had been assigned to him; he knew full well that part of the reason for their presence was to keep Lord Sorias up to date about all developments in Harenis. Evayns were a small, weakened presence on the council, but that did not mean they were fools. Hartmann knew very little about the politics of the council, but he knew that it dealt explicitly in secrets and what he had seen today counted as a highly significant one. Lord Allansr would have this for himself.

"Vandermayne, how many men have we got to guard the empty hand?"

Vandermayne shook his head.

"None my captain, we are stretched to breaking point as it is. Unless you use the Varrens."

Hartmann frowned. He was loath to say that the Varren troops and their captain, Zyre, were untrustworthy, but in this instance, he deeply mistrusted them. Dreskoe spoke next.

"I'd be inclined to use them sir, they know already that something is funny about the empty hand. They'll expect you to keep it from them, they'll expect you to act like you've got something to hide. Send them down there and if they work out what's going on, then at least someone from our lot will know. Probably they won't have a clue, and they'll think you don't either. That way you can get word without alerting their suspicions."

Hartmann nodded in agreement. Dreskoe was right. Zyre would no doubt attempt to find out more about the bodies on the pier, but the crucial knowledge he lacked was what Hartmann had seen with his own eyes; a lone wild eye, staring out from a blackened skull.

"Dreskoe, send me your fastest rider, we need to send word to our Lord." The man at arms knew exactly who his captain had in mind.

Rendon Dreskoe, as he was known by his family, and particularly by his sixteen year old son Halli, marched out of the Captain's chambers and down to the communal sleeping chambers in the cellars of the Barrel House. The old building, as the name suggested, had once been the customs house for all the Arc Sea trade in wines and root spirits and the cellar still smelt of rancid vinegar. If there was ever an environment for toughening up young Dranian soldiers, this, he had joked with the others, was it. He knew where he would find Halli, who had little interest in the fighting and fake joviality of his peers. Halli was sat on the edge of the narrow wooden bed that had been his home for the past year, sharpening a ceremonial Dranian dagger, known as a tarro. He looked up at his father, a man who inspired in him a constant sense of inadequacy and anxiety.

"Son, the captain's got a job for you, he's sending you home by first light. Don't ask me any questions now, 'cos I ain't got answers for you. Pick the fastest horse we have, keep your mouth shut and take this with you..." He threw a sealed, rolled parchment on Halli's bed.

"For Lord Allansr's eyes only."

# Chapter Five

Captain Zyre, tall, thin and shaven headed, his face framed by a finely trimmed black beard, silently ascended the stairs to Hartmann's chambers. He knew full well what Hartmann would order him to do and he knew that any show of trust or solidarity between the two men was an act. Hartmann was no fool, thought Zyre, and he'd have to be one to trust a Varren. Zyre, though equivalent in rank was still suborned to Hartmann, something a more impetuous and impulsive member of the Varren house might have found intolerable. Instead the captain, a man with an almost inscrutable mask for a face which betrayed neither passion nor rage, was able to remain close to Hartmann and his men just as he had been instructed. Arrogance was a luxury, the Lord Sorias Varren had said to him before he rode south with his bowmen, and it was one that Varrens can never truly afford. Zyre did occasionally reflect on the extraordinary hypocrisy of his masters' words, but decided that the head of the House Varren, like all great men, had little use for self reflection. Zyre knocked.

"Come," spoke Hartmann, his voice deep and sonorous. Zyre entered and saluted, a left fist raised to his right shoulder, which then arced down to his belt in an imaginary dagger thrust.

"Dyl Darak," he hailed his captain. Death to our foes.

"Dyl Darak," responded Hartmann, with far less energy and enthusiasm. Hartmann had never cared much for such sentiments, he was a soldier, not an assassin.

"Zyre, take as many of your men as you can spare and guard the empty hand. It is important that no one gets in or out. The men are full of talk and nonsense, keep them focused on their duty and not on soldiers gossip. Hold the quay until relieved."

Zyre did not wait for any further information to be imparted, he knew that it would not be forthcoming. He didn't expect Hartmann to be in any way as forthcoming as he normally was with his own men at arms. Zyre nodded that he had understood and then turned on his heel, back through the heavy oak door and marched down the stairs. He walked through the Barrel House and out into the dark of the Harenian night. Nestled close to the Barrel House was the Varren barracks, situated in an abandoned sailors hospital, where the sick and infirm who were abandoned by their crews on the docks at Harenis were once nursed back to health or helped past death's curtain.

"Varren men to my side," he barked, rousing soldiers from their bunks.

Archers and crossbowmen leapt to attention along the long narrow living quarters, pulling on Varren livery over their tunics and buckling on swords. Boryen, of his two men at arms, a squat and broad shouldered man who was fearsomely strong after a lifetime of pulling the strings of longbows began to shout orders at the men in lower Vannic. In response archers hurried to sentry points around the empty hand.

Boryen drew his master to one side, in a darkened alcove, as the Varren men marched off to take their positions.

"My Captain, there is word from the Evayns. They are sending one if their own, the son of Dreskoe, back to the city this night."

Zyre, once again expressionless, was lost deep in thought.

"They mean to tell their lord about the happening here at the empty hand. They have a secret for his eyes only," Zyre mused.

Boryen nodded. The Varrens knew enough, rumours from Evayn men and eye witnesses confirmed something deeply troubling had happened at the empty hand. A blinding light, charred bodies and talk of a man standing briefly at the centre of a halo of light. The product of feverish imagination perhaps, but it was significant all the same and the Varren company was here in search of the significant above all things. Zyre was Lord Sorias Varren's eyes and ears in Harenis and there was nothing that would signify failure more than the loathed Evayns knowing more. Zyre knew that whilst events at the empty hand might be a mystery to himself, Hartmann and others, the Lords Varren and Evayn would see them in a different way; The gaze of the Lords of the Council of Dran stretched far and the encompassed many mysteries.

"Boryen, send your three best riders and trackers. Stop the boy, kill him if necessary. Take whatever message Hartmann has sent back to Dran."

Boryen nodded grimly. Hartmann's decision to send the boy in secret broke ancient Drannic protocols and codes; keeping essential knowledge from the council was a high crime. Hartmann had sent the boy in supposed secret, Boryen surmised, principally because he anticipated the Varrens having this very discussion. If the fate of the boy was ever uncovered there would be blood on the streets of Harenis.

"They must be discrete," said Zyre, as if reading Boryen's thoughts, "It would mean war here and we have our orders, we can't risk an open fight with the Evayns."

"Understood my captain," Boryen muttered, saluting and then turning away to seek out the men he knew he could trust.

Zyre followed the procession of men who had assembled in three serried ranks in the small hospital courtyard. He briefly inspected them as they stood to attention, and then motioned with a nod that they were to move into position. He led them the short distance past the Barrel House, towards the empty hand; as the men marched under the light of the two moons they fanned out, some taking the higher ground on the raised city walls high above the vantage point where Dhugo had seen his brother consumed by the white light. Others positioned themselves in the shadows of the courtyard and waited.

Zyre's men didn't have to wait long. Three shapes emerged from under a thick canvas on a small fishing boat, sliding into the water. They swam to the empty hand and clambered onto the quayside. At Zyre's elbow, a Dranian archer drew back an arrow, training it on the leader of the group, a short, stocky bald man with a hammer at his side. Zyre, without taking his eyes off Golver, reached to his left and pushed the archer's bow to one side.

"Not these ones boy..." he whispered.

"My captain, our orders..." stammered the young archer.

"We have different orders boy, from our real master. We don't worry about these ones, they are free to go..."

All Varren bows slowly lowered and without ever having realised the imminence of their own deaths, Golver, Frangka and Rysinde trudged silently into the city of Harenis.

***

"There has to be a place here, a place for the likes of us," hissed Golver to Frangka, as the two of them, along with Rysinde, crouched in a darkened alleyway, a stone's throw from the empty hand.

"A place?" asked Rysinde.

"For the wretches, boy, for the ones their lordships don't want to see," Golver snapped, in barely concealed exasperation.

"There always is, everywhere," said Frangka, in her deep, lilting northern voice.

"Ink..." said Rysinde. Golver and Frangka looked blankly.

"Ink, yes, that's it. That's where they go..."

"Ink?" asked Frangka.

"Yes, the whole city runs on the stuff. Someone has to make it, and I'd heard once that it's made in a place called Inktown, it's what they call the Ink Makers Quarter. They get covered in the dye, it's how people know that they are the lowest of the low."

Golver, never slow to spy an opportunity, smiled grimly.

"Ink," he muttered.

The three of them emerged from their hiding place and with Golver in the lead, they hurried through the virtually empty streets of Harenis, looking for the light of a tavern or alehouse. The last light on the horizon illuminated the brooding black clouds overhead and the rumble of distant thunder was quickly followed by the first heavy raindrops on slate.

Finally, as the rain grew in intensity to a downpour, they spied the familiar signage that hung over an open tavern door and smelled the aroma of pipe smoke, spilled ale and stew. Once again Golver, who had spent most of his life in darkened alleyways of one kind or another, scurried into the lane that ran beside the tavern. He attempted and failed to avoid standing in the sewage that ran down to the Harenian drains. He grabbed Rysinde by the collar.

"Go in there, you're the only one that'll pass for Harenian. They'll see right through us two in an instant. Look for anyone with ink on 'em." He completed his order with a shove, leaving Rysinde in no doubt about the potential violence that would ensue if he returned empty handed.

***

On the other side of the city, Dreya sat cross legged on the stone floor of her parents house, as Ratcoats drunk deeply from an open bottle of wine. Her heart, no longer stone, beat wildly in her chest and her hands trembled in fear. She had once thought that being alone was the worst feeling in the world, but this, however you could describe it, was far, far worse. No one was coming to save her, no mother, no father, not even Zan. Instead fear was here, with a scowl and a knife. Dhugo hid in a corner on the other side of the room, as keen to avoid Dreya as he was to stay out of Ratcoats way. She was happy to keep it that way.

Momentarily, as Ratcoats lifted his arm with a wince, she saw red, peeling skin on his wrist and the back of his hand. Looking closer, she spied black, congealed blood on the table where he had been leaning. Gradually, Ratcoats slumped closer and closer to the table, eventually passing out, as the bottle slipped from his fingers and shattered on to the floor. Waiting until she was confident he was unconscious, Dreya stood up and tiptoed over to where Dhugo sat staring at his feet. He looked up at her as she reached down, grabbing his collar and dragging him out of the room. She threw him to the floor, pouncing on top of the stunned boy, raising a clenched fist.

"Give me one reason why I shouldn't beat you senseless..." she hissed through her teeth.

"I didn't, I mean, I couldn't, I mean, I had to, he made me..."

"Why here? Why me? Who is he?"

"It had to be a place with no grown ups, no parents....I don't know who he is, he knows Boyn."

"Your stupid brother? Why am I not surprised? Why isn't he here as well then?"

And with that, Dhugo's words were gone. Boyn, the bright light and the man who stepped out of it all disappeared from Dhugo's words, vanished into a deep and impenetrable place within him. All that remained was silence and Dhugo's tears.

"So that's it then? Nothing to say for yourself. To think that you are, sorry, were, my friend." Dreya shook her head dismissively.

"I need to get Zan, your friend over there is going to wake up soon and we've got to do something about it when he does."

She crept upstairs, careful not to wake Ratcoats up. Almost immediately she noticed the open window, her eyes flashed across the empty bed. In an instant she knew what Zan had done and her stomach lurched in panic again. Zan had almost been born doing the wrong things for the right reasons. Dreya had been unaware until this very moment precisely how much she relied on her younger brother to guide her; she suddenly felt bereft and afraid, having no idea how to deal with the slumbering intruder downstairs. Dhugo would have to do. Dreya raced down the stairs, now completely unconcerned about whether she woke Ratcoats or not. She grabbed Dhugo again and stared into his eyes.

"Do exactly what I say Dhugo Rhen. Zan has gone, he must have heard what was happening and have run off to get help. You can't just sit in the corner and do nothing, I need you now."

Dhugo nodded that he understood.

"I have a plan, but we have to wake him up."

Dreya took Ratcoats knife that had been left on the table and hid it in one of her mother's earthenware jars in the cold storage cellar. She picked up a long wooden pole in the cellar and returned to the living room. She reached across the room with the pole and prodded Ratcoats in the ribs. He murmured, stirred and groaned. A harder prod brought him to his senses. Bleary eyed and disoriented, he stared at Dreya, and then, in a panic, thrashed around for his knife.

"You, you won't find it, I can promise you that, " she shouted, determined that her voice not betray the panic she was feeling. Ratcoats tried to pull himself to his feet but the pain that shot throughout his body and the fever that had started to burn within him caused him to collapse back into his chair.

"You'd better listen to me," she said, realising that the wretched figure in her home was entirely dependent on her.

"What d'you want girl?" he drawled.

"It's not what I want, it's what you want that matters. You're going to die, I can tell. Whatever has happened to you is going to kill you and you don't look like someone from round here. I could just let you die, but I won't, after all, how would I get rid of your body from my parents house? If you do what I say, and you promise not to hurt me or Dhugo, then I'll take you where you can get help."

Ratcoats contemplated her offer momentarily, as his body shuddered and shivered, cold sweat poured down his burning skin and he felt delirious with pain. In all probability, this would end with him being thrown into a jail cell, but the alternative, as Dreya had ably pointed out, was a slow drawn out death.

"You don't get your knife back either," she added succinctly.

Ratcoats looked up and, admitting defeat, nodded his consent. Dreya reached for her father's thick cloak, waterproofed with Olorian resin to keep off the rain, and then aimed a kick at Dhugo.

"We're taking him to the House of Neem, Lord Valis will know what to do, so get up and help me, it's a long walk in the pouring rain."

She looked to the window as she heard the rains begin.

"Zan will know what to do, he'll make his way back here."

Dhugo, rubbing his sore ribs where Dreya had kicked him, pulled himself up and took a spare cloak that she offered him. Ratcoats staggered from the table, putting his arms around the two children's shoulders and together they staggered through the door and into the dark of the night.

# Chapter Six

The sound of distant thunder and the first electric blue crack of sheet lightning accompanied penny sized raindrops that hammered the city and anyone stuck in the downpour. Zan, running along the cobbled streets of the third circle had already slipped and cut open his hand and lip. The salty, metallic tasting blood in his mouth mingled with rain water and poured down his chest. Finding a Circle Watchman was not difficult, there were plenty of them, finding one that was any use was the more difficult part. In the light of the Scriveners Arms, a tavern dedicated to scribes who's miserable existences had led them to want to drink themselves to death with the minimum of interruptions, stood two watchmen and a third other, rain pouring from their cloaks, hoods and helms. Zan knew that the problems of Harenian children were far down the list of Circle Watch priorities and imploring them to come and take a strange and violent man from his house would require his full complement of negotiating skills.

Seeing the watchmen in conversation with the other made Zan temporarily hold back and wait; the emphasis his mother placed on good manners stayed with Zan even in a crisis. The watchmen were seemingly oblivious to the presence of the boy, instead they seemed to be more interested in talking to the other man and holding their hands out. Zan noticed a small purse being placed in the hands of the watchman on the right. The giver of what was undoubtedly a bribe of some description saw Zan and nudged the watchmen, hinting that it might be appropriate for them to do their job.

Golver, who with Frangka had been waiting in the alleyway by the Scriveners Arms, had shrunk into the darkness when the watchmen emerged from the alehouse to meet their friend, clearly another Dranian. He watched with interest when a young boy of no more than eight splashed through the rain to address the watchmen. The Dranian clocked him first, he was clearly no fool, unlike his companions in the watch. Golver was no fool either, on nights like tonight, he told himself, everything means something. He nudged Frangka and pointed at the boy, bidding her to be silent while he listened to what Zan and the Dranian had to say.

Revein, archer to the Varrens and man at arms to Captain Zyre, casually brushed the Circle Watchmen out of the way. They were happy to oblige, having been given Dranian coin they were disinclined to ruin an otherwise profitable night with the problems of enforcing the law. Revein, a well built man with the a grey and black beard and a receding hairline just visible under his hood turned to face Zan.

"You need something boy?" He asked, knowing that the answer was unlikely to be no. Zan nodded, relief flooding through him.

"There's a man, he broke into our house, my friend Dhugo brought him, he's got a knife but I think he's really sick too, he has a burn. He threatened my sister..." Zan's voice wavered at this point as he choked back tears thinking of how frightened Dreya had been.

"He called himself Ratkoh I think...."

"Ratcoats..." hissed Golver, knowing in an instant that it was his heartfelt desire and moral duty to find Ratcoats and beat him to death. Frangka elbowed Golver hard to silence him, knowing that one look from the Dranian in their direction would spell death for both of them.

Revein looked at the boy before him and knew that everything he was saying was absolutely true. Some children, perhaps most children were born liars in Revein's opinion, but not this one. This boy, bright and full of a curious kind of energy that only young children possess and that adults seem to lose couldn't lie if he tried, the truth literally poured out of him. Revein knew, as Golver, hidden in the shadows did, that nothing in the city happened this night by coincidence. Everything was connected, everything had meaning. The boy was integral to whatever had happened at the empty hand and talk of burns piqued his interest. Yes, this was connected to whatever Hartmann had send young Dreskoe back to Dran with.

"What's your name son?"

"Zan, Zan Khanhalary and my sister is Dreya."

"Well, we've got to help her Zan, and we've got to do that quickly."

Zan nodded, by the look of the man, he wouldn't have much trouble dealing with the intruder in their home. The man knelt down and put his hand on Zan's shoulder.

"Zan, we've got to go to the waterfront, my captain is there, he'll send soldiers to capture this man. If we go there, we can keep you safe, this man sounds like he is dangerous."

Zan frowned, unsure as to why this convoluted strategy was being suggested and concerned at the timescale involved. He had been labouring under the impression that the man was a soldier and didn't think that Ratkoh would be too much of a problem for even one armed man.

"My name is Revein, archer of Dran..." he said, pulling back his cloak to show Dranian livery. Sensing the boy was unsure, he added "...I can't just leave you here in the pouring rain can I?"

"Er, I guess not, no..."

The two watch men slunk away and Revein gestured in the direction of the empty hand, a signal for Zan to follow him.

"Not far, let's hurry now..." he said as he set off at a brisk pace through the rain and the stream of water that coursed down the sloping street. In the dark of the ally, Frangka, sensing that Golver had resolved to follow the pair, grabbed him before he could step out into the lamplight.

"No, idiot!" she hissed, "it's a trap, they won't go to Ratcoats, they're Dran. They want him for what he's seen, they're taking him back to where it all began, where the white light was. We need to go to the ink place, hide, think..."

Golver, irritated and not a little surprised at how strong and single minded Frangka could be, pushed her away. Realising that she was right, but unwilling to acknowledge it, he simply grunted. Golver's mood was lifted moments later as Rysinde emerged from the tavern, alongside a short and stooped man with wispy thin hair a thick rough woollen tunic and hands blackened by ink. Golver smiled grimly, seeing that Rysinde, the conniving wretch, had saved them.

"...my friends, the ones I told you about, they are waiting here for us..." he said, loud enough for his companions in the rain soaked alley to hear "...it's so kind of you to help us, they will be so deeply grateful."

Golver and Frangka gradually emerged from the ally, neither gifted with the social graces necessary to make Rysinde's new friend feel safe or secure. Anticipating this, Rysinde had used alcohol to make the interaction easier.

"This is my friend Edwys," he said as he descended the tavern steps, "Edwys, this is Merric and Llosa and we just need a place to stay in Inktown. Thank you so much for offering to help us." He emphasised his gratitude by giving Edwys a clap on the back; the man stared at the floor, drunkenly fiddling with his purse and then pointed towards Inktown, reassuringly for Golver in the opposite direction to the departed Dranian soldier and Zan. The four began the arduous trek to Edwys's small, cramped garret in Inktown, some miles away. Rysinde, who had chosen the name Vynder, helped the drunk Harenian as he stumbled in the driving rain.

Long before Mordikhaani made their way to Inktown, Revein and Zan arrived at the empty hand. Sharp and observant, Zan spotted the armed men standing on high ramparts and rooftops above the quay. A small group of sentries waved Revein through with a salute and he walked down the stone steps on to the quay, which Zyre had lit with a dozen burning torches, The rain had died down to a light mist of droplets that seemed to fill the air. Zan had noticed the Revein had changed, the friendly, concerned act that he had originally effected had been replaced by a hurried, disinterested persona. Zyre stood on the dock, amid the orange-red light of the torches. Beneath his feet, the stone glittered with the light of the fire, the strange glass that had poured from Golver's ill fated crew seemed to sparkle with a life of its own.

"My captain," said Revein, "this boy, he says there is a man who has come to his home, one who might be involved with what has happened here."

I never made that connection to be honest, thought Zan, that's entirely one of your judgements. Then Zan knew that he had been foolish to follow this man; he was not interested in helping him or Dreya, it was Ratcoats and anyone else connected with whatever Dhugo had seen that they were looking for. Without looking at Zan, Zyre spoke directly to Revein.

"Take the boy to the barracks. Find the man he speaks of and bring him to me, we have much to learn here."

"My sister!" shouted Zan, suddenly aware that rescuing here had been entirely dropped from the agenda, "my sister and Dhugo, he's got them."

Zyre turned to Zan with his glacial, emotionless gaze.

"He has your sister?"

"Yes, yes he calls himself Ratkoh and he has my sister, your man said he would help her."

Zyre looked to Revein, and casually nodded.

"Yes, yes, we will help," he said casually, "Revein, take five men and bring them all here, alive."

Revein nodded, turned on his heel and departed, ordering the sentries to take Zan to the Varren barracks.

***

Muuli, the Slinde Valley's most obnoxious horse gave Khariel a swift bite on the leg as a parting gift when he stabled him at Vinderhove, the small fishing village on the Harenian coastline, a stone's throw from the Vinderhon Bridge. The bridge was a vast white marble crescent that attached the city of Harenis to the mainland, and Khariel had travelled for ten long days to reach it. As dawn had broken over the foothills of the Arching Mountains, Khariel had ridden through the low lying fog that clung to the land and from the mist the Vinderhon emerged, shining like a scimitar at first light. Wishing Muuli no ill will, Khariel gently patted him on the nose and limped away, leaving the horse to a bag of oats; Muuli did not seem bothered to see Khariel leave. He had arrived at Vinderhove at dusk, just as Golver, Rysinde and Frangka hid on a boat in the harbour and Ratcoats used Dhugo to help him find a bolthole. Standing under the great white stone archway at the edge of the Vinderhon, Khariel spoke out loud.

"I still have no idea why I am here, what you want from me or where I am going, so if you were thinking of giving me a sign, now would be a good moment."

Receiving no answer, he shrugged and began to walk across the bridge and into the city. There was minimal traffic crossing into the city as night began to fall. Khariel had tramped through the gates of grand and self important cities before and was used to being ignored. City watchmen knew that the roads were clogged with men like him and the roads to Harenis doubly so. Wandering outcasts, half mad scholars with a sack of dusty books, each convinced of their own importance, each railing against the indifference and disinterest of the world. Khariel knew that there were countless lost souls and wretches like him on the road, but few if any of them had recently been visited by some ghost like imagining from the past and sent to roam the streets of an unfriendly and unforgiving city like Harenis. Khariel, brought up in the slightly cooler climes of Hothis, hated the heat and the humidity of Harenis and the brooding storm clouds that dominated the skyline, threatening heavy rains and thunder. The sticky oppressive heat of the night could only be broken by a titanic storm, but it would be hours until refreshing winds from the east would blow out the gathering storm.

Khariel sweated and endured the endless attacks of midges and flies that gathered in ever greater numbers along the Harenian coast, and which this evening seemed plague the approaches to the city. Cursing, he swatted away the small biting mosquitos and silently rejoiced when he caught one with his hand. He paid the small toll at the end of the Vinderhon Bridge and made his way into the city, past the small clusters of Harenians who loitered outside the handful of hostelries, or who hurried through the city streets, in advance of the storm. Exhausted, he spied an alleyway leading to a market square that was all but abandoned, it looked like the perfect spot, in the absence of anywhere better to go. He took off his pack and sat down on a stone bench; a sense of mild despair was beginning to take hold. He had no idea why he had come to Harenis or what he was supposed to be looking for, he knew that there were many hidden forces in the world that relied on subtlety and mystery, but in these two key fields he had always been rather slow on the uptake. His visitor might have done better by spelling things out in a more explicit manner.

Torches in the courtyard had been lit by the Circle Watch and swarms of insects were gradually developing into clouds around each of the six flickering flames. Sitting back and enjoying the momentary sensation of taking the weight off his feet, Khariel watched the darting bats that now flitted back and forth, catching the flies that were drawn to the flames. As he sat there, rubbing his aching soles, he noticed that gradually, all the insects converged on one lantern in the far corner of the courtyard, by a gate that seemed to lead out onto a broad avenue. His exhausted eyes stared for some time at the growing cloud of insects, which began to cover the wall and nearby windows.

He glanced around the courtyard and found the rest of it to have suddenly emptied of bugs. Khariel stood and walked over to the cloud and as he did so, a wave of activity seemed to pass through the insects and they began to pour out of the courtyard and across the avenue, towards another light. Darkness was falling, along with the first droplets of heavy rain and Khariel was determined to give chase; insects behaving in ways that insects generally did not was an irresistible challenge for him, he secretly hoped that it would a compelling story that could be used to impress others. As he followed the insects, the cloud moved to another lantern, further down the avenue. Khariel raced back to get his pack and then hurried to find the insects. They had not moved from their lantern until he arrived, and Khariel could have been forgiven for thinking that they were waiting for him.

Khariel noticed that the swarm was now so large it was virtually filling the street, instead of him chasing a cloud of insects, he stood in the middle of it and mercifully, they had stopped biting him. As night fell and the rain began to hammer the streets, soaking Khariel to the skin and killing countless of his new companions, he wandered far into the First Circle of Harenis, the swarm seemingly taking him closer and closer to the centre of the city, where Khariel knew the great debating chamber, the Resonance sat. The streets were now almost completely empty, which made Khariel feel slightly less self conscious, chasing a cloud of insects.

Just at the point where Khariel began to think that he had lost his own mind and that he had convinced himself to look for meaning in the random behaviour of mosquitos and sand flies, he arrived at the gates of the house of Neem. He read the Vannic script on the gates that announced the building as Neem; it was a centre of learning that he had heard of many times and had never quite intended to visit and certainly not at the urging of insects. As Khariel turned his head, on the other side of the road, in the light of a dying hurricane lamp he saw two children and a man slumped by the outer walls of House of Darsune. In that moment too, he noticed that the insects were gone. Khariel saw the man was unconscious and the two children were frightened and exhausted.

So this was it? Khariel knew that the visitor in Slinde had sent him here to experience this moment; he thought to himself that if he was wrong, it was largely down to the vagueness of his dispatcher, and not any error on his part. He walked across the street and crouched down in front of the girl, who along with the boy was wet, shivering and pale. The man between them looked gravely ill and Khariel knew he would die in the rain. The girl looked at him, unsure of what to say, so he spoke first.

"My name is Khariel and I've come to help you," he said, mentally adding the caveat 'at least I think so.'

"I am Dreya," she responded "Dreya Khanhalary."

# Chapter Seven

Lord Valis, master of the House of Neem, stood alone in the vast grey marble Thulchamber, or 'Chamber of the Unknowable' which sat at the heart of the great school. The sound of Harenian storms was amplified in the chamber as rain hammered on the domed bronze tiled roof. Valis enjoyed the cacophony, it was a moment to escape the endless carnival of thought in his mind. Etched into the grey marble at eye level, around the entire chamber was a thin band of High Vannic script, the Khelduthar, it told the story in beautiful flowing Vannic prose of the last three centuries.

Our time of miseries.

Valid ran his fingers over the Vannic lettering as he murmured the inscription to himself, reminding him of every subtly and nuance in the story of the great and terrible sundering. The Van, who's empire was long gone, believed themselves to be intimately connected with the heavens. Fanciful stories abounded about Vannic cities on mountain tops, but the reality, in Valis's view, was far more mundane. Van, Arc, Del Marah, they were all empires that rose and fell on the backs of countless unknown paupers, slaves, journeymen, soldiers and statesmen. Not one of them communed with the spirits or received the blessings of some benign god when their time was up. Valis's fingers came to rest on a circular, spiral shaped symbol. Keeper.

There should have been a better name for him really than Keeper, Valis had always thought. The actual High Vannic term 'Deyul Thardahar Un Kuth' - the lord who binds and weaves, had been corrupted over the centuries to leave most Arclanders who still paid any attention to spiritual matters with the term The Keeper. That was the name given to a forgotten god, assuming of course that he had ever existed in the first place. The Vannic script of the Khelduthar was written from the perspective of Orlane of Gol, the first sage to chronicle what was eventually to be called the sundering. In the decades before it happened, ill portents, dearth and the bespoiling of food, livestock and land. The holy men who prayed to the Keeper experienced nothing but resounding emptiness and silence and then for days on end chaos reigned. Much of the time known as the Sundering was, Valis was sure, the stuff of exaggeration and fantasy. Some chroniclers reported the very stars in the heavens moving, or that the sky itself was torn asunder by some force. There were supposedly earthquakes, floods and long days engulfed in absolute darkness. The accounts of the Sundering differed, depending on which chronicler or historian was telling the story, but one aspect of it all seemed curiously consistent; The light of god.

Valis had been interested in this part of the story for most of his career and it was the part that he both believed and disbelieved in equal measure. Within days of the Sundering, something fell from the skies, and beyond that, according to Arteymes of Phef, the Celestial Realm. Various eye witnesses saw as a shimmering cloud of light,energy and dust that descended, as if from the clouds and then hung in the air over Eastern Aestis, until it gradually settled, draining deep into the earth. In the places where met with the earth, the flora, the fauna and the very land itself seemed to change. The people who lived in these places or who passed through them were changed too.

Valis's work, his entire mental world was given over to the exploration and the conquest of mysteries, but there were some parts of the world that had emerged three centuries on from the Sundering that were unknowable. This, Valis concluded, was a curse to men such as he. Knowledge was of course power, but it was obsession too, and the desire of scholars such as himself to conquer the unknowable was strong. The fire that fell from the heavens, seeping deep into the earth, the 'light of god' as it was known - this was truly unknowable. Valis was roused from his silent contemplation by one of the lower scribes who appeared at the edge of the hall.

"Lord Valis? Captain Zyre is here to see you."

Valis smiled.

"Good, send him in."

Within the first few days of Zyre's posting to Harenis he had presented himself to Valis and the two men had met regularly ever since. Valis was taken aback when the Dranian captain appeared in his chambers without Captain Hartmann, notionally his superior. It didn't take long for Valis to fully understand the situation. Whatever Zyre's purpose in Harenis, it was not to support or serve Hartmann; far from it, Varren men served Sorias Varren and no one else, not even the Dranian Council. Valis accepted Zyre's visits for what he knew them to really be, a gift from Sorias Varren himself, no doubt one that the lord of Dran would expect to be repaid at a later date. Zyre certainly had his uses as an extra pair of eyes and ears. Without him, Valis's various political games against the other great schools of Harenis would have been that much harder to play. Valis, for appearances only, acknowledged Hartmann's jurisdiction as commander of the garrison but in most matters would privately consult Zyre. Now, unannounced, Zyre had emerged from the storm, no doubt with a story to tell. The captain was shown into the great chamber, rain water dripping from his cloak. Valis waved the scribe away with his hand.

"Captain, this is unexpected," he said coolly.

"You have my apologies my lord, but there have been developments on one of the outer quays that merit your attention. Our agreement was always that I bring before you anything that, well, perplexes..."

"And you have something here that is perplexing?"

"Very..."

Zyre recounted to Valis everything he knew and everything he suspected since Hartmann ordered him to guard the pier. He omitted to mention allowing Golver, Frangka and Rysinde to pass through his cordon and the decision to keep Zan as little more than a hostage at the Varren barracks.

Valis's face as Zyre spoke was, as ever, inscrutable. When the Captain of Bow had finished speaking there was a heavy pause.

"Scribe," called Valis, "fetch my cloak."

Turning to Zyre he spoke.

"Show me everything."

***

Weeks before their erstwhile master's meeting with Zyre, Faren and Maredh Khanhalary left their home for the final time they choked down their tears and their aching sorrow inside them until it was barely perceptible sensation. In the early hours, as they walked together across the city to the Vinderhon Bridge in silence, the feeling rose in both of them momentarily, a high black wave that threatened to engulf and drown; at other times it subsided as both convinced themselves and each other that they would see their children again. Sorrow could be suppressed for a while when focus was necessary, but it was only a temporary reprieve.

It was customary for scholars to travel to the library at first light, the two day journey to get there made an early start a necessity. For Faren and Maredh, it also meant less scrutiny. The mounting feeling in the days since their late night silent conversations had begun that they were being watched had become overwhelming. Ever since they had met, some fifteen years ago as junior scribes to Valis in the House of Neem, Faren had maintained a healthy mistrust of the institution. He saw it first and foremost as a means for advancing his own research and learning and was highly suspicious of scholars and scribes who engaged in career building. At first he had seen it merely as unseemly, the curators of half the world's knowledge (that which hadn't crumbled to dust under the mountain), surely had a far more important job to do than to see who could acquire the grandest of chambers? A world where wisdom, learning and lore took second place to petty ambition (which was a fairly accurate summation of the current state of the world), was one without much of a chance. One of the first things that Maredh had decided that she loved about Faren was his anger; the rage against the privilege, pomposity and hypocrisy of the lordly sages of Harenis who traded their learning for power and luxury, with little thought to the idea that they were in fact meant to be servants. An early career setback came for Faren when he articulated the view that Harenians had been gifted a vast store of knowledge and their task should be the painstaking curation and interpretation of the library for the benefit of the rest of Aestis and beyond. This rather radical approach, suggested Valis, was of course noble, but it was also naive. Valis, quiet but venomous, had suggested to Faren that he showed great promise, but to derail a career before it had begun by upsetting his masters in their privilege and wealth and demanding they serve the masses was unnecessary folly.

Faren, aware of Valis's limitations, decided to keep his views to himself, but he never lost the feeling that he was viewed with suspicion as an outsider who had no understanding of the rules of numerous hidden games. This came with certain advantages as well, it kept scholars of the more morally bankrupt type away from him and allowed the pair of them to work in whatever fields interested them. In recent months, following the arrival of the stone shard and the feeling of being watched had begun, Faren was quite able to eliminate the House of Neem from his suspicions early on. He knew that he held the status of dangerous subversive, but he also knew that they lacked the skill or the effort to watch the two of them like this. Some days there had been the sensation from a corner of a market square or a reading room that someone was watching, always just on the very limits of perception. The barely perceptible nature of it, combined with consistency - this was the work of a true professional. The fact that it was not simply the work of petty rivals in the House of Neem who had resented him for years was far more troubling. Faren, in his more paranoid moments, became convinced that no Harenian was watching him and this opened up a range of disturbing possibilities. Maredh attempted to reason with him periodically, but she knew as well as he did, that these were not in and of themselves irrational fears.

At Vinderhove they hired two horses and set out on the Khest Road into the mountains to the great entrance to the library. Far from being a road, it quickly narrowed into dirt track that ran through the brush and bracken of the broad flat plains that gradually rose into foot hills. Harenis was far from being the noisiest or most over crowded city in Aestis, but the silence of the foothills, that eventually rose into high granite canyons was a world away from the urban din they knew. Half way to the Library lay the large village of Forgehead, deep in the Khest Valley. The village would probably have died decades ago were it not for the steady stream of travellers from Harenis to the library. It boasted several well kept taverns and innkeepers seemed to dominate the workings of village life; as the trail rose higher along the canyon wall, the two travellers saw the village on the plains below, hugging both banks of the River Rhoth. The path took the riders down to Forgehead at dusk as lamps were lit across the narrow bridge into the the village. They avoided the larger inns that were already alive with song and ale and instead made their way to a smaller, more discrete farmhouse tavern on the edge of the village, just before the fields of barley and turnips began. Faren and Maredh, after giving the inn keeper's son their horses, entered the tavern's main room, minding their heads on the low ceiling.

A barrel chested man with a leather apron and a broad moustache stood behind the bar, studiously cleaning pewter cups with a less than clean rag; the rest of the inn was reassuringly quiet. With only the crackle of an open fire to penetrate the heavy silence, Faren felt himself able to relax slightly. Asking for a small room, he slid two copper coins across the counter and the taciturn innkeeper gestured towards the stairs, atop which their room could be found. Thanking the innkeeper, they made for the stairs, but as they did, something caused Faren to glance towards the fireplace one last time.

There, by the fire, was a man. Lean, well dressed with dark hair, hunched by the embers as if desperately cold. Faren shook his head, almost in disbelief. It had been a long ride and they were both tired but neither he nor Maredh had spotted this stranger moments earlier. As he looked over, the man looked up and caught Faren's gaze. For a fleeting moment, Faren was certain that the man flashed him a knowing smile, then just as quickly the moment had gone and the stranger's eyes drifted back to the fire.

Momentarily, it was struggle not to run for the door and into the dark; in that moment Faren knew that every moment of fear and suspicion had been real, the watchers were here and they knew where they were going.

***

It took a while for Zan to process exactly what was happening. He was cold, wet and hungry and feeling increasingly desperate to see his sister. The constant gnawing worry he felt most of the time when his parents went away to the library was replaced by the panic of being completely alone. The Dranians had taken him to their barracks and he had been left in the chambers of the captain that he'd just met. The door was not locked, but the presence of soldiers in the corridor outside made him feel strangely anxious about leaving. No one seemed to be doing anything about the man in their house and he was beginning to suspect that this was not a priority. Zan climbed onto a chair in the corner of the room and pulled himself up to the window ledge.

Outside rain hammered the empty streets that ran down to the harbour. Rain water, golden in the flickering lamp light created torrents and pools down the paved stone and poured off roof tops in long, elegant waterfalls. The silence of the rain-soaked world that Zan could see was interrupted by two figures that turned a corner on to the road, a stones throw from the window he peered out from. One was instantly recognisable as the Dranian captain who's chamber he now inhabited, the other was cloaked and hooded. Zan craned his neck as the two men hurried across the street where a ledge provided temporary shelter from the rain.

The man in the hood pulled back his robes to reveal a face that Zan recognised; it was difficult to put a name to the man because Zan had rarely paid that much interest in adults who weren't his parents (and often he paid them scant little interest either), but he knew the man worked with his father. He had seen the balding head framed with white hair and the jowls that looked like they belonged on a pedigree hunting dog, he knew those funny, watery eyes that stared but gave nothing away.

Valis. That's it, that's what his father called the man. The memory of his father's interactions with this man were mainly of his father bitterly criticising him and the odd awkward house visit from Valis, requesting this or that book or stack of papers. There was potential to work with here though, thought Zan, a familiar face who would remember his father was exactly what he needed. Valis might be able to order these soldiers to tell him what was happening with his sister and Dhugo.

Unaware that he was being observed from Zyre's chambers and marching in the dark and the driving rain alongside Zyre, Valis saw a cordon of Varren soldiers. There was not an Evayn in sight. Here, in plain view was the endlessly complex politics of Dran transplanted into the heart of Harenis.

"Don't fall out amongst yourselves now will you," he said to Zyre, dryly.

Valis walked down the rain soaked steps to the empty hand. He walked gingerly onto the luminescent glass beads, feeling them crack under his feet. The driving rain was half blinding, it was weather he had successfully avoided for at least a decade. This was worth it, however, worth all the inconvenience. He knelt down and ran his hand over the tiny glass pellets, which seemed to have fused with the very stone itself.

"Something wholly new," he whispered "born of a fire in the heart of knowing. Beautiful, just beautiful."

If Valis was happy about the find so, indeed, was Zyre. One of the captain's primary roles in Harenis had been to work towards this very moment, where the master of the House of Neem was firmly indebted to the Varrens.

Zyre was content to indulge the old scholar for as long as he wanted, but he was also mindful of the chances of an Evayn soldier, or even Hartmann himself from arriving on the scene. Mindful of the potential for crisis if that was to occur, but aware that Valis would not take kindly to being removed from the pier as a result of internal Dranian politics, he momentarily vacillated, unsure of what to do. In a momentary decision he would later come to regret, he opted for an modicum of transparency with Valis.

"My lord, it is perhaps better not to linger, Captain Hartmann has been particularly determined to keep whatever has happened here as secretive as possible, so as not to cause alarm," he began.

"But Captain Zyre, the city of Harenis is Captain Hartmann's and your paymaster, and the House of Neem foots much of the bill. It is not within Hartmann's gift to keep secrets, especially not from me."

"You are not the only one he keeps secrets from my lord. Hartmann knows that something of great import has happened here and seeks to gain advantage for himself with this knowledge, to the detriment of the House of Neem and the House Varren."

"And you think that he should not learn that other eyes have seen what the spearmen of House Evayn have seen?"

"Yes. Hartmann is most useful when he thinks that he is in charge, it's always been important to allow him to have that view of himself."

Valis was no fool, he knew that Zyre had mentioned House Varren for a reason. Having common cause with the most powerful house in Dran and not the Evayns, the smallest and weakest, was an ambition for every merchant company, mercenary band, lending house and sparse kingdom across the Arclands. It was no small achievement for a scholastic house like Neem either.

"I've seen enough," said Valis simply, "I have work to do. Send word to the House of Neem with anything else that transpires."

Back in the barracks, Zan pushed open the heavy oak door to Zyre's chambers and peered down the corridor. The glut of bored Dranian men milling around began to dissipate as one watch handed over to the next. There seemed to be next to no communication between the men, who, without so much as a salute departed for their bunks as their comrades took up their posts. One soldier stood at the end of the corridor as a sentry. Zan as far as he was aware, was not a prisoner of Captain Zyre, he simply seemed to have been dumped in the barracks for safe keeping. There seemed to be nothing to prevent him from marching down the corridor and out into the rainy night. Something kept him rooted to the spot, however; something in the faces of the Dranians, in the tight grip on his arm as they escorted him to the barracks. In the hard eyes, expressionless mouths. 'These men are unlike any you have ever known Zan', came the thought in the back of his mind 'these men are iron, they are steel...' Very quietly, the voice added 'these men kill.'

"And I'm about to be stuck with them..." he whispered under his breath, as if to address his own thoughts.

With that, he started to walk down the corridor, hoping against hope that Dranian soldiers were as disinterested in their duty as the Circle Watch. He walked past the sentry, who stood to attention (or inattention, Zan thought), with his left hand on the hilt of his sword. The soldier saw Zan emerge from the shadows and stared intently at him, but spoke not a word. Zan looked back at the man, their eyes meeting. He smiled nervously and pointed to the door, unsure of exactly how to explain to the man who he was and where he was attempting to go. With the door in sight, he broke his gaze with the soldier and scurried for the exit, pushing it open. He ran out into a fresh wave of heavy pounding rain and saw a drenched Valis marching back to the House of Neem. Zan ran after him, slipping on the stones again.

"Lord Valis!" He shouted, though the noise of the downpour drowned out much of the sound.

He ran alongside the old scholar, grabbing his sleeve."Lord Valis, Lord Valis!".

Startled, the Valis peered down at Zan.

"What are you doing boy, why are you wandering, it's late. Where are your parents."

"You know them, I am Zan Khanhalary, my mother and father work with you. There's a man, he came to our house, he took my sister prisoner but he's been burned and I think he's dying. The soldiers won't help."

Valis looked like he had been punched. His mind, rapier sharp, struggled to process everything Zan had said.

"Your parents, your mother and father..." he stopped himself before he could ask what he really wanted to know, where are they and what are they doing, "...I mean, your sister, it's Dreya isn't it? I teach her Vannic. We shall go to the House of Neem and from there I will make sure the watch do their duty. You shall stay at the house tonight, the streets are no place for a boy." Not one that can identify a man who has been burned by whatever destroyed everything in the vicinity of the empty hand at any rate, he thought.

The two walked back to the House of Neem through the storm. Valis turned over everything he had learned in the past hour in his mind and one thought eclipsed all others. There were no coincidences here, everything was related and everything had meaning, even though there were no answers at the present moment. Valis had the curious sensation that life itself had reached out and tapped him on the shoulder, challenging him to keep his eyes open. Invariably in this situation, the observant were rewarded with revelations. Tonight, he could see, would fit precisely into that theory. As they rounded the corner of Neem's waterlogged ornamental gardens, four figures were huddled by the Larkwell Door, leading into the Larkwell Library of the House of Neem. One, a tall dark haired man was clearly dying and another was a young girl who seemed familiar.

Zan rushed forward an threw his arms around her, confirming her identity. Dreya Khanhalary. It also confirmed what Valis had previously thought. Tonight there were no coincidences.

# Chapter Eight

"Golver," whispered Frangka, "we need to get out of here at first light. As soon as he wakes up..." she pointed at the inker who lay in a drunken stupor on the floor "...he'll scream for the guard when he sees us."

It was not that any of this had not already occurred to him, Golver had few skills, but surviving definitely was one of them. Come the end of the world, he thought, there would be natures survivors - rats, cockroaches and himself.

"I'm thinking..." he retorted, barely acknowledging her.

"Good, good," she nodded sarcastically "...always good to hear, glad you're giving all this some thought. You can tell me the plan whenever you like."

He spun round in the cramped inker's garret and grabbed her by the throat, slamming her against the wall. Her booted foot kicked him in the groin and she pulled a bone handled knife from her sleeve and pressed it to his windpipe, pushing hard until a tiny rivulet of blood ran down the edge of the blade. He slowly let go of her neck and lowered his hands. Golver, never one to take being spoken with disdain lightly was also no chauvinist when it came to respecting a woman with a knife to his throat. He was quite aware that whilst he had brute force and vindictiveness on his side, Frangka had agility and skill.

"Touch me again and I'll cut your eyes out when you sleep," she said through clenched teeth, pushing him away. He stared malignantly back at her for long enough that she was in no doubts that he would revisit this slight later.

"We need gold," spoke Rysinde, who had been lying on bunk above them, but now swung his legs down and dropped on to the floor, neatly breaking the icy silence.

"All the money in Harenis won't stop us from hanging if we are caught, boy..." snapped Golver.

"Not that kind of gold, real gold...what do people in this city crave more than anything else? Knowledge, the place runs on it. That's how you have power here; we have knowledge too, the kind of knowing that no one else has."

Frangka was unaccustomed to subtlety and found herself frowning when Rysinde spoke.

"What are you saying?"

"That thing at the dock, whatever it was, that burning fire. That was, I think it's fair to say, a bit out of the ordinary."

They both stared blankly at him. Rysinde shook his head in exasperation.

"Buyers and sellers. It's simple. We have something valuable, or we can at least give that impression. We just need to find the buyer, the person that will give us what we want in return for our story."

There was a flicker of thought in Golver's eyes, as he gradually saw the potential in Rysinde's idea.

"That boy, the young one that came along with Ratcoats, he saw it, I know he did. He looked right at it. He's a lot easier to sell than one of us."

"Who will buy?" asked Frangka, starting to gradually see the possibilities as well.

"Someone who cares," said Rysinde, thinking aloud, "....there's got to be a sage, a scholar somewhere in this city who collects information. They're like magpies for this sort of thing they really are..."

Golver stood slowly, raising his hand, gesturing for silence, indicating that a master stroke of an idea had dropped into place.

"...Shut up the pair of you...it ain't a Harenian we want, we need the resident."

Now it was Frangka and Rysinde's turn to look puzzled. Clearly it was a term that did not register with them.

"I've heard of them, from time to time, they ain't supposed to be spoken about in Mordikhaan, but they say every city has one, sent here by her, by the..."

Rysinde and Frangka both nodded before the name was uttered, there was a great superstition surrounding its utterance.

"....anyway, she sends them out and they live in places, Arc, Dran, Harenis, the Mill Lands for years, no one knows about them but they run everything she wants running. Story goes that they're the way to talk back directly to her..."

"We are not in favour, Golver, hadn't you noticed? When this disaster is told to the Crag, we're all dead."

"Unless," smiled Golver, "we give them something big..."

Whatever Golver had planned to extricate them from the mess they were in, Frangka was under no illusions that she would never benefit from it and would be sacrificed long before a boat back to Mordikaan came to rescue them. Right now, however, she had no option than to stay close to him, survival often demanded such compromises.

***

Frangka was no stranger to desperation, she had been born into it and it had been her constant companion ever since. Black sand that stung the eyes and biting winds that blew it relentlessly, year upon year across the Aardland provinces of Ghotharand. These were the childhood memories that Frangka Spaasi clung to. The Aardlanders were Ghothar folk who were sustained by little more than their own bitterness and anger, and one only had to look at the empty grain barns, dried wheat husks and dry, brittle corn to see why. When Ghotharand was originally settled by the Ghothars and the original nomadic peoples of the north, the Elsari were driven from their lands, Ghothar farmers from beyond the northern seas were encouraged to set sail to settle these virgin lands. The Aardlanders found that the very land was a lie, the topsoil was thin, not the deep black earth they had been promised. In certain parts of the Aardland, it blew away as dust within a dozen harvests and the poor farmers and their animals had to trek to their more prosperous neighbours settlements to survive the hunger and dust storms.

Aardland and its neighbouring provinces were dotted with empty and abandoned farms and settlements, slowly sinking into the sand drifts. Daughter to a dying mother and a father who fled his responsibilities the moment she was born. Frangka's earliest memories were of wracking coughs, delirium and her mother, Feerya's sad dark eyes. The papery dry skin of her skeletal fingers brushing the side of Frangka's face mournfully, longingly, knowing that the end was not far off. Before the black sand pox overwhelmed her Thaxe Spaasi arrived, unannounced, in her life. Feerya Zwaali, small, easily intimidated and bent double with ill health and the needs of a bright demanding child was on first impressions, the most unlikely match for Thaxe Spaasi. A border ranger from the neighbouring mountain fiefdom of Ulrand, he drifted between the wilderness and the small farms and villages that existed at the very edge of the Ghothar kingdom. He spoke Elsari and had a deep respect for the nomads, one which was not shared by most ignorant Ghothars. His thick black beard and strange Veskan tattoos along his arms, along with a bearskin cloak, longbow and double handed sword made Thaxe appear a veritable giant among the Ghothar peasants, and whilst Frangka could never quite remember the day that he strode into their village, Nirso, she remembered that something changed in both her mother and him when they met.

The gruff, direct and intimidating bordersman was able to find something within him that was gentle, vulnerable and silent when he met Frangka's beautiful but diminutive mother. The only time she had ever seen him cry was when they buried her. In her dying days her mother had pleaded with Frangka to remain strong for Thaxe. She had no fears at all that he would care for her daughter and defend her; he had often referred to himself as Frangka's 'lion'. As her mother had grown more ill and Frangka had looked to Thaxe increasingly to be the father she never had, the strange world of the wilderness that he inhabited became ever more alluring to her.

"Take me with you," she said, as they sat in the small farmhouse they had shared together for four years, on the night of her mother's funeral. Thaxe held her hand.

"Did you ever think that I wouldn't? The border is no place for you, but neither is the Aardland. The earth here is dying, but in Ulrand there is still life. We will cross the plains..."

Frangka, then aged nine, reached for her adoptive father and plunged into the musty warmth of his bearskin cloak. At dawn they packed the few meagre items that Feerya had accumulated through her short and difficult life, Frangka took for herself a necklace of red glass beads that had belonged to her mother. Thaxe sold what remained of their livestock for an old mare and they set off on horseback along the old plains road to Ulrand. As they left the family home for the final time, Thaxe knelt down and looked into Frangka's eyes.

"There's danger out on the plains if you're not careful. Things you aren't meant to see. You've got to promise me you'll do as I say if danger comes, ok?"

She nodded emphatically.

"Look at this," he said, pointing to his forearm, covered in runic symbols that ran from his wrist to his elbow. "It might not look like it, but it's a shield. There's creatures out on the plains and if they come, you get under my arm and stay there, I'll do the rest."

Frangka stared blankly, her obedience to his every command total, he was suddenly her entire world, the basis of everything that felt safe and made sense. He was her lion.

It was only as dusk fell on their fifth day of riding, as they could see the mountains of Ulrand rising from the plains that Frangka saw the silhouette on the horizon as she sat behind Thaxe on the horse.

"What is that?" She asked, pointing the tall man like body that stood up miles away, framed by the last red light of the sun.

Without answering, Thaxe lifted her high and placed her in front of him, wrapping one tattooed arm around her and covering her with his cloak. He whipped the horse with the flat of his sword and kicked it into a gallop. For a moment Frangka sensed that Thaxe was afraid, and that made her feel utterly terrified. Her entire world was build on the premise that Thaxe was fearless, indestructible, all powerful. They crossed the borders of Ulrand that night and stayed there for seven years, Thaxe found a home for them with a family of goat herders in the mountains. As time passed, Thaxe resumed his journeys back into the wilds; while he never told Frangka, he would make his way back to Aardland to see his beloved Feerya's final resting place.

Frangka learned everything she could from Thaxe and by the age of sixteen had mastered Ghothar longsword and dagger fighting and was a remarkable shot with a short bow. She found a new home with the Ghotharic knights of Lord Huusk of Ulrand, humble servant of the new Ghotharic king Roharradh of Khozan.

# Chapter Nine

"He's dying..." muttered Valis, rolling Ratcoats, with the help of several scribes on to a large stone table in his chambers, "...you were right to bring him to me, but I can't promise I can do much, I have never seen burns like these."

Dreya was tempted to say words to the effect of 'don't worry too much if you can't...' but stopped herself. Even an odious life was on some level sacrosanct and wishing the dying ill was just something she couldn't countenance.

"I, er, we don't know him, he isn't our family, he just broke into our house with Dhugo," she said, motioning towards the dejected figure in the corner. Dhugo stared at the floor, determined to stay as silent on the day's chaos as possible. Dreya was beginning to recognise that as the hours slipped past her anger towards Dhugo had subsided. Instead it was placed by a weary exasperation.

"Your parents are gone, aren't they Dreya? Up to the library? Is that where they went?" asked Valis, "it's most unfortunate they couldn't be here to deal with all of this. If you can tell me where they are, I could summon them."

Dreya shook her head.

"They left in the night, they didn't say where they were going. They normally go to the library, but this time they didn't say."

Valis seemed unconcerned about who Ratcoats was, instead he was focused entirely on the challenge of keeping him alive. As a master of Earthly Things, his expertise was in the cycles of nature, the seas, tides and mountains. He had only a limited knowledge of the workings of the body. Already he had sent word to raise Master Lyred from his bed; Lyred has spent most of his career as both a surgeon and a documenter of cadavers. Expertise in either field would no doubt be useful tonight. It only remained for Valis to keep Ratcoats alive long enough for Lyred to arrive and then he could focus on more important business, such as the question as to Faren and Maredh Khanhalary's whereabouts; the answer to that question, he suspected, would be revelatory. There was a further issue also that needed to be dealt with. The half vagrant scribbler who stood in his chambers, acting as an unwelcome surrogate parent of Dreya and Zan. The first move in the campaign to dislodge him was unfaltering courtesy.

"Tell me, friend, what brings you to Harenis, you are from different climes, I feel? What do they call you?"

"Khariel," he responded, shivering in the cold of his waterlogged clothes.

"You don't seem like a Harenian..." probed Valis, as he held down a poultice on Ratcoat's red raw back.

"No, no I am not, I was simply passing through the city to find a ship to Arc and I saw that the young lady and the young sir..." he pointed to Dreya and Dhugo, "needed some help."

I wonder why he is lying, thought Dreya. She was not alone in this question, Valis knew a hollow tale when he heard one, but for now it was easier to indulge it.

"You are welcome to stay here until the storm abates, my scribes will guide you to a ship at first light."

***

Whilst Valis attempted to interrogate Khariel, on the other side of the city in Inktown Edwys stirred. Golver and Rysinde slept but Frangka was restless, she sat in a mouldering arm chair, surrounded by the detritus of Edwys's life - dirty plates, empty bottles and mounds of parchment. She sat with her sword in her lap, applying oil to the blade and rubbing it with an old rag as her mind wandered. Whilst exhaustion had claimed Golver and Rysinde, she was yet to succumb and instead she was left to contend with endless questions. The default position for most of Frangka's thoughts was hopelessness, it was where she was most comfortable, despair was never a problem for her, it was the possibility of hope that was unbearable. The chances of the Circle Watch or even worse, the Dranian guards capturing and hanging all three of them was high; one great comfort to Frangka was that imminent death had been a feature in her life since she strayed into Mordikhaan three years earlier. The one thing that her journey into the Khul's realm had taught her was that there were many more fates worse than death, and that if a premature end came to her tonight or tomorrow, it would by no means be undeserved.

"That's quite a sword," croaked Edwys, who, after hours slumped over the table, had now opened his eyes. Frangka, startled, left her thoughts and came back to the present moment. Uncertain how to respond, she waited to see what the Harenian inker would make of his new guests.

"Where did you get it?" Edwys asked.

"It came to me a long time ago, I found it, I needed it..." she said, slightly thrown by the relaxed nature of Edwys's questioning. The inker sat up and gestured towards a bottle on a shelf.

"Can you pass me that?" he asked, clearly able to handle more alcohol.

Frangka obliged and reached for the bottle and Edwys gestured for her to sit at the table, which she duly did.

"It's ok," he whispered, noticing her hesitancy, "...when I drink I make friends, I often wake and find new faces in my home, it's part of what stops life being dull."

Frangka nodded, smiling, relieved that they were not about to lose their sanctuary just yet.

"Your voice, your accent, Ghothar right?"

Frangka nodded.

"You're a long way from home then. I won't ask what brings you here, to Harenis, to the darkest corner of Harenis. If you were able to tell me the truth, I don't think it would matter anyway. Who are your friends?"

Frangka could not remember the invented names that Rysinde had given for the trio.

"Oh, they aren't friends, just..." she had no words, how did one actually describe Golver.

"Leaves on the breeze..." said Edwys, using an old Swithick saying.

"Yes, I guess that's what you could call us."

Edwys offered her the bottle and Frangka drank deeply. The sour, cheap Harenian wine made her wince and cough; Ghothars were grateful for water in the barren lands they inhabited, her palate was unprepared for rancid alcohol. While Edwys and Frangka found temporary solace with one another through drink, Golver, who had been awake for some time, lay in the corner and listened. He wasn't concerned with Frangka or remotely interested in anything she said; all who were unlucky enough to feature in Golver's life were either useful to him or irritants. At the moment Frangka was fortunate enough to fall into the former camp, but inevitably she would transition to the latter. No, it was Edwys that Golver was focused on, as it took an arch manipulator to spot another expert practitioner. The delicate dance of questioning and answering, or subtle probing inquiry and listening, encouraging the closed and cold Ghothar to open up. Trust was his goal, Golver could see that plainly, and Frangka was giving it to him. Normally he would have calmed his deeply suspicious and paranoid nature by smashing Edwys's fingers with his hammer, but Golver continued to feign sleep. On this occasion his instincts told him that Edwys would offer up something miraculous if he was uninterrupted. Instead Golver's thoughts turned to the boy that got away hours earlier, and how to find him in the morass of the city as it woke up.

***

Lyred, a short rotund man with a red face, shining with perspiration from the humidity that returned as the rains died away, scratched his chin. In his long career as a physician and surgeon, he had never seen burns like these before. Ratcoats lay before him on the table, his shirt removed and the full extent of the damage was clear. No man can survive losing half the skin on his back and arms, Lyred could ease the pain but little more. Both he and Valis knew that this was not why the master of the House of Neem had called him. Lyred knew full well that Valis wanted him to witness the wounds. The old master's silence told him as much; he was waiting for Lyred to tell him what he wanted to hear but tonight he was out of luck, Lyred was in no mood for playing games. He looked at Valis, who waited silently on the other side of the room.

"What do you want me to say?" he asked.

"As ever Lyred, I want you honest opinion and no more."

"You know full well that this man won't last the night. That's not why you asked me here."

"You don't think I'd just let him die, do you?"

"No, not at all..." backtracked Lyred. Because that's not your style, he thought, continuing the sentence in his head, I don't doubt that the lives of ordinary no marks such as this mean nothing to you, but you've never been willing to get your own hands dirty.

"We have a duty here to treat the afflicted..." said Valis, Lyred remained silent until the other half of the sentence slipped out, as he knew it inevitably would "....but these are wounds that are, well, extraordinary. I know that little escapes you when it comes to the knowings of the body."

Lyred rarely benefitted when it came to one of Valis's games and he suspected that in this instance it would be no different.

"Nothing I have ever seen has been able to burn in this way, to flay the skin with fire without burning through cloth or hide first. Send for an orderly to bring a tincture, it is the only thing that can help him."

"What could have done this?" Asked Valis.

You know full well, you meddling old man, thought Lyred. At least you know well enough not to ask that kind of question. These burns came from something at the very limits of accepted knowledge and lore. These burns invited more foolhardy scholars and thinkers to risk their careers and livelihoods asking all manner of inconvenient and fruitless questions. At best, academic ridicule awaited, but another possibility existed too, a journey into the heart of the library. Both Lyred and Valis were too careful and comfortable to even consider such a venture.

"A fire that we have never seen before, put simply, a fire not of wood or oil. Will that be all?" he said curtly. Lyred was determined to walk back to his chambers and disengage from Valis, before he inadvertently stumbled into one of the old man's traps.

Dreya, Dhugo, Khariel and Zan were shown to a room normally used as chambers for the apprentice scribes. New apprentices came during the Harenian winter, leaving large parts of the school empty now at the end of Harenis's summer. Dreya found apprentice robes for her brother, Dhugo and herself and Zan quickly found a bunk and went to sleep. Dhugo tried to do the same but his eyes remained wide open, his hands gripped the edge of his blanket tightly. Smiling politely, Dreya shoved Khariel out of the room and began to close the door.

"Wait..." said Khariel as quietly as possible, so as not to wake the sleeping Zan and attract attention to the four of them.

"No," said Dreya, "...no I don't think so mister whoever you are, I think we're all quite alright here."

"Please, please listen, Dreya, I was sent here to find you."

Dreya peered through a narrow gap in the door.

"By who?" she asked, utterly unconvinced that Khariel had anything of any value to say. By a sort of ghost and some mosquitoes, he thought, realising that these words would be unlikely to help.

"I, well I don't really know, but I know..."

"You don't know? That's not very encouraging...."

"I never know who they are, they come along from time to time and this time they wanted my help, I have debts to repay....I know this isn't making much sense, but they wouldn't have sent me if you didn't need my help."

"Oh, well what kinds of help do you specialise in? Are you a mighty warrior with a sword?"

"No, not very good with all of that..."

"Not interested then. Good luck finding a ship in the morning," she said as she shut the door.

"I do find things though," he said, pressing his face to the crack between the door and its frame, "and I find people Dreya, it's something I have a talent for."

There was a pregnant pause, and then the door opened a crack once again. Dreya peered out at Khariel.

"Ok, I am listening."

"Valis, he wanted to know where your parents were, why was that?"

"My father, he works for Valis, he and my mother go up to the library once or twice a year or so."

"But this time is different, am I right?"

"Yes, a little, they never properly said goodbye, they just left us. When that man turned up we were all alone."

"I can help you find them Dreya, the people that sent me, I am sure they sent me to look after you and Zan."

"Well once again, a very kind offer but I am sure Valis can help with this one. He will let us stay here until our parents come home."

"And you trust him?"

"There's no reason not to, he all but rules the first circle of Harenis and is a man of great knowledge."

Sadly, there was every reason to mistrust, every reason to suspect, every reason to fear, thought Khariel. There was nothing more deadly than a man with ambition and status to defend. Freya's door shut once more and Khariel, sighing, sat in a chair opposite the chamber until the dawn.

***

Ratcoats drifted in and out of consciousness, in his waking moments he felt an unbearable cold and a searing agony across his back if he moved. This must be what the end feels like, he thought to himself; better it come now than this get any worse. He was aware of other people being around him, though he had no idea where he was. Eventually he realised that he was alone, he had been carried out of one room on a stretcher and taken to a darkened alcove, only lit by candles. It was unmistakably a place that the dying are taken to, when the living can do nothing more for them. It was faintly surprising to Ratcoats how quickly the fight to survive had left him, in only a matter of hours physical pain had forced his body and his mind to surrender. He was resigned to his death now, which did not necessarily mean he was ready for it, only that he was ready for the pain to end.

"Ratkoh," whispered a voice, "Ratkoh," it came again.

Ratcoats lay on his chest, his raw and burned back faced the ceiling. The voice came from above him and Ratcoats turned his head as far as possible to see who was calling to him. There, in the shadows of the alcove's ceiling, Ratcoats could make out a shape, a boy in an old dirty coat crawled along the ceiling, his pale, angular face illuminated by the candle light. Ratcoats managed to murmur a groan of shock, but his ability to be fearful or panicked was long since gone. The pale faced boy, whose teeth were blackened and eyes were yellow and snake-like crawled down a pillar and stepped on to the floor.

"Ratkoh, time's nearly up, isn't it? So much you'd hoped for, but the hour is late...time is our prison. One day though, you'll look back on what happened to you and think about how lucky you were. Not everyone gets to be burned like this, it's a rare and special thing."

Ratcoats could only mumble in pain, occasionally sobbing through the agony. The boy knelt down next to him, so that they were at eye level.

"It gets difficult from here, you have to make some choices. I bet you didn't realise there were any choices left at all? There's still the ultimate choice of all to make. Live or die."

Ratcoats stared at the boy, barely understanding what was being said.

"Life can be yours again, but you have to ask me for it. You have to want it Ratkoh, and I'm not here to haggle, you don't even get to ask about the price. Think of this as a one time offer that you've got a moment or two to consider."

Ratcoats resignation to his own death evaporated. He reached out and touched the boy's sleeve, grunting his agreement. Life it would be.

"Good choice, very wise," said the boy, putting his hand over Ratkoh's mouth and nose. "This will only take a moment."

When Ratcoats next woke, he did not know whether he had been asleep for minutes or hours, but what he did know is that the pain was gone. He was able to sit up, though he still felt feverish and cold. He reached round to touch his arms and back and felt nothing but his own smooth skin. A man with greater depth and capacity for processing mystery might have been beset by great questions and might have been filled with both joys and fears at his salvation. Not Ratcoats. He wrapped a blanket around himself and found his old clothes, hung up neatly, ready no doubt to bury him in. He looked to the ceiling, as memories of his previous encounter flooded back to him and he ran his hand down the side of the pillar by the table he had been left to die on. Proving that gestures could articulate far more than words ever could, he spat on the floor in disgust at burning men and crawling boys and made for the door, determined to leave Harenis and never come back. Stepping out into the dimly lit corridor, where only flickering candles lit the gloom, Ratcoats hurried down the nearest flight of spiralling stairs, pausing momentarily when nausea and light headedness overcame him. The stairs ended on a corridor landing below, and Ratcoats peered round the corner and stared directly into Khariel's eyes. Since Dreya's refusal of his help, Khariel had drifted in and out of sleep and had been awoken by footsteps down the stairs.

"You're feeling better I see..." he said.

Without waiting to ask what Khariel was talking about, or who indeed Khariel was, Ratcoats turned on his heel and ran down the corridor towards a sturdy oak door at the end. Khariel shrugged; he was in no mood to go chasing after mutilated strangers who had inexplicably risen from the dead, even if their circumstances had distinct parallels to his own. His job, as he understood it (and it was a hazy understanding at best) was to help Dreya, Zan and Dhugo, and he was perilously close to being made redundant. In the morning no doubt Valis would have all manner of questions about where the dying man had got to, and Khariel was unsure as to how forthcoming he would be at that point. One way or another Valis, he predicted, would show his hand in the morning and as he was on Valis's territory, it was likely that there was very little he would be able to do. Added to that was the fact that the voice that had sent him to Harenis had been rather unclear on the mission. Khariel was unable to go, knowing full well that the kind of debt that he owed could not go unpaid, but he seemed unable to carry an unclear task in the face of opposition from both Valis and Dreya.

"Highly unsatisfactory," he muttered to himself, pulling his cloak closer around himself "...highly unsatisfactory indeed." Eventually he drifted into a fitful and uncomfortable sleep. As dawn broke over Harenis and the first red golden shafts of sunlight filled the corridor, Khariel was woken with a start by a booted foot kicking his leg. Bleary eyed he looked up and two armed men, Dranians by the look of them, towered over him.

"Time for you to clear off my friend," barked the nearest one, grabbing his arm.

"By orders of whom?" Khariel demanded to know, even though he could easily predict the answer.

"By orders of me," said Valis, who stood a dozen paces behind them. The Dranians pulled Khariel to his feet, holding him by the arms. He angrily struggled against them but it was to no avail, the wiry Khariel was no match for Zyre's men.

"I have an offer for you" said Valis, "passage to Arc, to Hothis, to Dran or wherever you want to go, in return for an answer to a question. A scribbler like you can't afford many luxuries, I can pay for the voyage to be quite comfortable."

"I'm quite alright, it's a kind offer, but I'll have to decline," Khariel responded tersely.

"Yes, I thought you'd say that. You have business here, don't you? That was what I wanted to ask you. Who sent you to find Faren and Maredh Khanhalary's children? You lied when you said you were just passing through, I know that. I have worked with some of the greatest liars in Aestis and you are not one of them, I can see, smell and almost taste a lie in the air. You came for those children and just to look at you, I'd say you don't have the character to see a card game through, let alone the seizure of..."

"...I don't seize anyone or anything..." he blurted out, instantly regretting having spoken. Valis smiled as Khariel indirectly confirmed what he had suspected; someone else was at work here.

"There is no need to be evasive, friend. You are in my city and anything can happen here," he finished his words and nodded to the guard on the left, who delivered a powerful uppercut to Khariel's abdomen. The force of the punch nearly lifted him off the floor and his legs buckled. Khariel slumped to the floor and the guard knelt down with him, pulling out a knife, pressing it to Khariel's face.

"You be clever now and tell the Lord what he wants to know, because we're never going to be this nice to you again."

As if to make the point he stood up and crushed Khariel's hand under his boot. Khariel shouted with pain, looking up at Valis in disbelief. With his free hand he scraped a pinch of dust off the floor and as he did, he glanced over his shoulder to see Dreya peering anxiously around the door. Looking back towards Valis, he could see that the old man had not seen Dreya, as he was fixated on Khariel.

"Ok, ok..." he mumbled, trying not to be sick, "I'll tell you what you want to know, then will you let me go?"

Valis smiled again, showing his row of short, flat yellow teeth.

"As long as it's the truth, of course..."

The guards let him stand up and he staggered to his knees, wincing with the pain.

"Here's the truth, Lord Valis," he said with outstretched hands, one coated with dust.

"Untharraghk!" he shouted clapping his hands together with an ear splitting bang. The walls, the floor, the air seemed to explode with a vast grey black cloud of stinking, stinging, choking dust. The two guards and Valis began to desperately gasp and gag and choke.

Time stood still, momentarily. As Dreya stared at the spectacle of Khariel, the two guards and Valis, she was caught by a the explosion of stinging, burning dust that filled the corridor. Her eyes and her throat burned and a moment of choking and panic seemed almost endless. She staggered backwards and fell to the floor, retching and heaving. Zan and Dhugo, only partly asleep leapt out of bed and ran to her side as the heavy door swung shut, her last thought had been to slam it before the dust overwhelmed her. The passage of time resumed once more as she drew a ragged breath and coughed until her lungs burned. Dhugo shook with fear, his face drained of colour.

"...it's here again, it's come back..." he stammered, his eyes now wild with terror.

# Chapter Ten

For a while, all Valis could hear was the ringing in his own ears. He had no idea how long he had lain on the stone floor and as he opened his burning eyes he could see very little other than a thick cloud of grey dust. He pulled himself up on to his hands and knees and looked around. Khariel had vanished and the two Dranian guards were unconscious. Despite the fire in his lungs and the pounding of blood in his throat, Valis could still think quite clearly. This itinerant drifter had brought a dust cloud into being, something that could not, should not be. Something that tore down every principal his work and his school was built on. Valis didn't care, for what he had seen, and felt, and inhaled was power, and for that he would sacrifice the House of Neem gladly. As he dragged himself along the wall he almost felt foolish; having had something so valuable under his nose and having failed to see it. Did this make the children and their parents irrelevant? No, not for a moment, in fact Khariel helped to answer one of Valis's questions. Who had sent him? It was now clear to Valis exactly who; Faren and Maredh Khanhalary. The conjuror and the missing scholars were now part of the same story and Valis knew, with increasing desperation that something extraordinary lay buried deep within it, available only to those that made the effort to look. Valis was determined that this would be him. Right now, however, he merely had dust and pain to contend with.

Khariel, having covered his face with his cloak pushed opened the door to Dreya, Zan and Dhugo's room and knelt down on the floor by Dreya, who was still groaning from the effects of the dust cloud.

"What did you do," she croaked "What did you make happen?"

"I bought us some time Dreya, we aren't safe here, we have to go," he said, pulling her to her feet. Zan and Dhugo, now fully awake, raced to make sense of what they saw. Zan lept up and ran to Dreya, pushing Khariel aside. Holding her tight a silent tear, the culmination of exhaustion, fear and now the sight of his choking sister, ran from the corner of his eye.

"We stay," he said quietly, unable to look at Khariel.

"Dreya," said Khariel, as he pulled one of the beds across the door, "I promise I can explain everything, I swear that to you, but we have no time left. In a moment Valis and his friends will have recovered and they will come through that door." Dreya did not respond, however, she simply held her brother tight.

"They'll come for you, and they can have you," said Zan.

"Zan, they don't want me. Ask yourself this; why doesn't Valis know where your mother and father are? He runs this school and this city and he doesn't know the answer to that question. Why?"

Zan stared defiantly, determined to give Khariel an answer that would defeat him.

"Because...because...."

"Because they don't want him to know..."said Dreya, with an air of heavy resignation.

"Because they don't trust him," finished Khariel. Dreya looked up and for the first time her expression had changed. Instead of defiance, her eyes told him a different story; she was ready to listen.

"You don't have to like me, but you need to trust me; trust me when I tell you that your...our only chance is to get away from here. I have no idea what Valis wants with you or your family, but he wants it bad enough to try to bribe and then batter me into submission. Lord Valis is not a happy man right now and when he stops choking and can see properly again, he's going to tear this city apart to find us."

Dreya, not quite so defiant and dismissive as she had been before, felt that big lump of stone in her chest re-emerge. Khariel was right, though she was loathe to admit it. She had seen what Valis had done to Khariel, she had seen his men threaten to cut him. Khariel might be an annoyance, she thought, but he wasn't a threat to the peace or a corruptor of morals; Valis, her father's direct superior had instructed violence to be carried out on another and thought nothing of it.

"Zan, Dhugo, let's go. We can't stay here," Dreya ordered and her brother and Dhugo obeyed. Khariel, without even considering the relative height of the small skylight window on the other side of the room instinctively made for it as it was the only viable escape route. Dreya looked momentarily terrified at the quite literal leap into the unknown, then, when the cold realisation that there was no alternative dawned on her, she steeled herself and followed Khariel.

He climbed through the window and dropped on to the tiles, sliding to the edge of the sloping roof. As Dreya reached for the window frame to follow suit she heard Valis's voice on the other side of the door.

"Dreya, Dreya Khanhalary, open the door, let me in," Dreya, Dhugo and Zan all hesitated at the window. Zan looked intently at his sister and made for the door. She grabbed his arm and pulled him back. There was something about Valis's voice, something so powerfully and dangerously reasonable and reassuring that drew all three children back from the window.

"Dreya, I know you are afraid. I know you are lost, I know what your friend has told you seems very real but I urge you to wait. We can help unravel where your parents are together."

Khariel, lying on the sloping roof looked back to see the three children hesitate. He knew that persuasion would do no more good here, Dreya had to make her decision.

"I saw what you did," she said simply, climbing out of the window.

"Very well..." said Valis softly. On the other side of the door the old man pushed past the Dranian Guards who had composed themselves and waited for his orders.

"Tell Zyre to bring everyone..."

"Everyone, my lord?"

"Everyone!" He roared.

Dreya gestured to Dhugo, who, silent as ever, climbed out of the window next. Finally Zan, who buried his misgivings and his longing to let Valis help them followed his sister. He skidded down the tiles and the four of them jumped down into the garden and the wide green expanse of carefully manicured lawns. As scholars and scribes answered the ringing of dawn bells that sent them to seminars and study, the Khariel and the three children ran across the college grounds of the House of Neem and though the wrought iron gates into the busy streets of the first circle.

As with so much in Golver's life, timing was everything. He, Rysinde and Frangka, on their way back to the empty hand wandered a stone's throw from the gates of the House of Neem and saw Khariel and his charges exit in haste into the street.

"That's our boy..." he muttered, a look of grim satisfaction on his face "let's see where they're off to eh?"

***

Under normal circumstances, Rendon Dreskoe would not have sent his son, Haali, back to Dran. The journey would require a strength and guile that had was sure the boy didn't possess. Haali was too much like his mother; reflective, shy and almost completely unsuited to soldiering. He was handsome with dark eyes and hair, a beauty he had acquired from his mother's side of the family as well. In Rendon's opinion, although he would never have articulated such a thought, the only Dreskoe that could be trusted with such an undertaking was him. Haali, just sixteen years old, had been sent on campaign with his father, as was tradition in families like the Dreskoes. There had been a Dreskoe in service to the Evayns for four generations; Rendon had often thought that if his great grandfather, a farmer from west of Dancare, had been slightly more astute he would not have declared his loyalty to Korren Evayn 101 years earlier.

The family were henceforth loyal to the smallest and most embattled noble house of Dran. There were a handful of other Pages of Spear like Haali in Hartmann's company and few of them seemed warm to the boy, much to his father's embarrassment. Instead, Haali was a loner, spending his spare time practicing sword and spear drill on his own, reading or disappearing into Harenis. He knew the boy had his secrets and he was content for him to keep them, Rendon often felt disappointed that his son wasn't a born fighter, but he didn't feel inclined to take from Haali that which he didn't wish to give. He had decided long ago that disappointment was enough, invading the hidden world of his stranger of a son would do neither of them any good.

At dawn, he found Haali waiting, as instructed, by the steps at the rear of the Barrel House. Rendon and Hartmann walked down to meet the boy who stood to attention, doing his best not to appear uncertain or afraid.

"At ease," said Hartmann.

Rendon Dreskoe, a sword and scabbard in his hand, threw it to the boy.

"Have this, it's stronger and sharper than that twig you call a sword," he said in a poorly judged attempt to joke with his son. Haali caught the sword and attempted to show his thanks and gratitude, but his father barely acknowledged this. Hartmann stepped forward and placed his hand on Haali's shoulder, hoping that his words would give the boy some strength.

"Remember you are a soldier of Dran, a son of the east and all that makes the great city stand against all foes is within this," he pointed at the Evayn livery on Haali's chest.

"Yes my captain," he said, filled with humility and pride.

"Ride north on the Taeorfal and take shelter in the Taeor if need be. Get to Dran and our Lord as soon as possible and fear the road, for it is a strewn with dangers for those who travel it blindly."

Hartmann was diplomatic enough not to become involved in Rendon Dreskoe's family life, but he could see that the man at arms' rare, begrudging praise for his own son had seeped into the boy like a poison. Hartmann had been training and leading spearmen for a decade and he had learned to see the glimmer of promise in a soldier and, on occasion, Haali had shone. There was one factor, above any other that extinguished his light, the boy's father, Hartmann's right hand man.

"I will do my duty, no matter what," Haali said, buckling on his sword and turning to make his way to the nearby Vinderhon. Once Haali crossed over, the stables at Vinderhove that the Dranians had commandeered would assign him a horse.

A hundred yards away, at the Varren barracks, an out of breath scribe from the House of Neem arrived. He pushed through the large oak doors, unchallenged by sentries who recognised the crest of Valis's school on his robes and understood implicitly its significance to their captain. Unused to the light physical exertion that even a short run required, Borycke Baryse wheezed as he hurried down the corridor to Zyre's chambers. The Varren captain, having returned to his chambers after a night on duty serving both Hartmann and Valis rested on his thin wooden bed, awake and alert but his eyes closed. The young Evayn had been sent on his way, so a watchful pair of Varren eyes had just told him. Three Varrens had left for the Taeorfal road two hours before and would easily find the boy. Hartmann only had himself to blame for sending the lad to his death, thought Zyre.

Borycke knocked and entered without waiting for a reply.

"What is it?" asked Zyre, without opening his eyes.

"Captain Zyre sir, Lord Valis requires your assistance and that of your men, there are fugitives from the school and they have fled into the city..."

Zyre opened one eye.

"My men have their duties to attend to already, I cannot pull them away from their posts," he said simply.

"My captain," continued Borycke, "Lord Valis said that this was a matter of burning concern, and that you would understand."

"He said that did he?" asked Zyre, recognising the rather unsubtle code that the master of Neem had employed.

"Yes my captain, burning concern."

"Well, then..." he said simply, reaching for his sword belt. Zyre brushed past Borycke and out of the room, stalking down the hallway to the Varren mess hall where he found Revein.

"Man at arms," he said "pull all available men back from the empty hand, we are looking for fugitives from the House of Neem, they are still in the city and...." he turned to Borycke who had scurried behind him down the corridor.

"Borycke, sir..." said Borycke, responding to a pregnant pause.

"Borycke here will give you a description of those we seek. Once you have them take them to the cells downstairs and do nothing more until you have word from me."

Within minutes, the cordon at the empty had had vanished and a flurry of Varren troops hurried to the House of Neem to begin combing the streets for Khariel, Dreya, Zan and Dhugo. Hartmann, minutes after having seen Haali set off towards the Vinderhon, returned to his chambers which overlooked the docks. As he looked down he saw the Varren men leave their posts; Zyre's men at arms gesturing towards the First Circle where the House of Neem was located.

"Zyre...." he muttered through gritted teeth. Dreskoe entered the room behind him, clearly alarmed.

"My captain..."

"I've seen it already, what in damnation is Zyre doing? He has no orders other than those he's been given. This will not stand, get your men together, we're going to remind the Varrens who are the masters here."

# Chapter Eleven

Hartmann, Dreskoe and Vandermayne marched across Morthe Square, the stone plaza directly opposite the House of Neem. Zyre and Revein were deep in conversation, browsing a map of Harenian districts, allocating troops to search for Khariel, Dreya, Dhugo and Zan.

"Zyre!" shouted Hartmann loudly enough to bring the bustling square to a standstill. Dozens of Varren soldiers stopped and turned to face the two captains, hands slowly moving to swords and bows. Only the steady and unbreakable calm of their men at arms kept the Varren soldiers in line.

"Zyre!" Hartmann shouted again, barging past the Varren captain's men. Wearily, Zyre looked up from his map and turned to face Hartmann.

"Your men, they are breaking orders I gave; I command the garrison here, not you. Your men have until the dawn bell to get back to their posts or..."

"Or what, captain?" said Zyre, barely concealing his contempt.

"Or the last ones to their posts hang," Hartmann responded grimly.

Zyre knew Hartmann well enough to know that he did not bluff, the Evayn captain considered all threats before making them. Zyre studied his face, looking for any hint of weakness or wavering. There was nothing.

"You would start a war between our houses here in Harenis, with no authority from your master, the Lord Allansr Evayn, over a few Varrens leaving their posts to help the House of Neem for an hour or so? Surely Captain, even you would not be so foolish?"

Hartmann paused momentarily to consider what Zyre was really saying. Walk away Hartmann, relinquish your power, forget that you command Varren men and let them do as I bid. What a monstrous liberty you ask, thought the Evayn captain. He turned to Dreskoe and Vandermayne.

"Arrest him."

The two Evayn men at arms grabbed Zyre and Hartmann ripped off the Dranian Crest from his tunic. A dozen Varren swords drew and Zyre's archers drew back their bows. Hartmann looked to Dreskoe and nodded, the Evayn man at arms responded by reaching for a bull horn at his belt. Putting it to his lips he blew three short blasts and the shout of a hundred Evayn spearmen could be heard in response. Scores of Evayn men, hastily assembled and hidden in alleyways poured into the square, surrounding their Varren bretheren. Within moments the square was filled with armed Evayn men ready to fight, and startled Varrens now facing impossible odds. Zyre's men at arms looked to him for direction, ready to fight to the death if he ordered it. There was no honour in suicide, Zyre had always maintained. With a barely perceptible shake of the head, Zyre indicated this to the surrounded Varrens, who slowly sheathed their swords and re-quivered their arrows.

"A Varren company is never an Evayn's to command, no matter how much the High Council desires it. You'll see," said Zyre, smiling.

"Take him away," said Hartmann to Dreskoe, "there will be a prison galley back to Dran and the judges can decide what to do with him."

Turning to Revein, he handed him Zyre's crest.

"Put your men in order captain Revein. They are loyal and fearless and a credit to the House Varren."

Revein nodded, silently processing the battlefield promotion he had just received.

"Yes my captain."

"Meet me at the first chime of the dawn bell at the House of Neem. We must speak with Valis, the master of the house...."

"That will not be necessary..." came a reedy and thin voice from the crowd. Valis snaked his way through Zyre and Hartmann's men.

"Captain Hartmann, I have an apology to make to you. In my concern to enlist Dran's help, I feel I have overstepped the mark and now created a crisis for you and Captain Zyre."

Hartmann stared impassively. Valis might have denigrated Khariel's poor showing in the arts of deception, but the captain of the garrison could see straight through the old man.

"Should you have come to me, Lord Valis, what would you have asked the garrison to help you with?"

Valis smiled, seeing that Hartmann was not so easily fooled.

"Yes, well, I would have asked for your help with a problem that I have been dealing with. As you know, some of our finest sages and scholars take a leave of absence and travel to the library at Mount Khest from time to time. We are normally scrupulous in our care of their children, but it came to my attention that a wandering vagrant has inveigled himself into the trust of three children whose parents are good friends of mine. Zyre had agreed to help find these children, understanding how important this was to the House of Neem."

"And you asked him to keep this a secret, why?"

"My dear captain, I would never have..."

Hartmann dismissed Valis's protestations with a wave of his hand.

"He kept it a secret from me and he did this because someone told him to. That person, without any doubt, was you Lord Valis."

"Be careful Captain Hartmann..." glowered Valis, but before he could continue his threat, Hartmann interjected.

"I answer to the Great Council of Dran, and to no one else. Harenis, a city with its own council that you answer to, pays coin to Dran for our protection, but that does not buy you anything more than the maintenance of good order and the blood of Dranian sons if the city comes under attack. We deliver justice and safety without favour. I cannot be threatened, but I can ask you to tell me why you have kept secrets."

The old man's rage was barely concealed; his pale eyes burned with a fierce intensity. He stepped closer to Hartmann, speaking in a low whisper.

"Something is here, captain, here in this city and those children are the key to understanding it. There is no more time to swap idle words or threats, we must have it. Zyre has shown his weakness and no doubt his master, the lord Sorias Varren will deal with that accordingly, but for you and I captain, the chances of harnessing a great and terrible fire are in front of us."

Now Valis had Hartmann's attention.

"What do you know about fire, my Lord?"

***

Valis's scribes wrote down the names of the fugitives for Hartmann, after he and Revein marched into the inner chambers of the House of Neem. Revein instantly recognised Zan's name.

"I saw the boy last night my captain, I can find him."

Hartmann nodded, he was determined to find the children and whoever they were with, but he had no intention of delivering them to Valis.

"Organise the companies captain, go lightly to this task, they are not to be harmed."

Revein nodded, noting how expertly Hartmann had appropriated the manhunt from Valis's grasp. He did not doubt that the master of Neem would attempt to reverse the situation. Revein saluted and took his leave of the two men. He barked orders at Varren and Evayn men now assembled in the square, but once they had been dispatched he made his way back through the avenues and boulevards of Harenis to the Barrel House, where Zyre occupied a temporary prison cell. Making his way past the Evayn men, he ordered them to open the cell door and let him in. Zyre sat on a low wooden bunk, emotionless, expressionless.

"What orders my captain?" asked Revein. Zyre smiled, noting that his man at arms had learned long ago the secret Varren protocols for situations just as this.

"There are others in the city, others who come from across the sea, from..." Zyre stopped himself before he uttered the name of the lady of the Crag's realm.

"...yes my captain," said Revein, acknowledging that he understood.

"Our Lord's word on anyone from that place is that they should pass, so let them," he said simply.

"Yes, I shall see that it is done. Can I do anything for you my captain?"

"My fate is in the hand of our Lord Varren now; I have never doubted him for a moment, I will need nothing more. Our hunters on the Taeorfal will send word soon Revein, then lord Varren will know what secrets the Evayn possess, and we will have our brief and blessed moment of revenge."

***

The noise of the city at dawn, of market traders, hawkers and apprentice boys filling the streets, squares, market places and gardens was unable to penetrate Dhugo's thoughts. Blood pounded in his ears and he was short of breath as he ran, following Dreya, Zan and Khariel as they weaved through the crowds. For hours he had been too stunned to speak and when he had slept he had seen waves of white fire engulfing Boyn. As the four fugitives ran out of the first and second circles and into the more familiar third, Khariel saw an alleyway to duck into. The others followed him and together they crouched down in the shadows.

"We need to make it to the Vinderhon," said Khariel, "we haven't got much time before Valis has the entire city looking for us."

"And from there, where?" Asked Dreya.

"The library, it's the only place your parents could be," Khariel replied.

She nodded in agreement, suddenly catching herself agreeing with him, a realisation that made her uneasy. It was important to her that she distrust Khariel as much as possible.

"We should go back," said Zan, "our parents wouldn't want this, they've always told us to wait before and they came back for us."

"This isn't like before Zan," said Khariel, "this is different. Lord Valis wants something from your parents and he wants you to help him get it. I was sent to look after you and the best way to do that is to get you to your parents."

"I don't trust you..." said Zan, looking Khariel intently in the eye.

"I can understand that, I really can. I probably wouldn't trust me either, but I don't think you should trust Valis."

"Zan," said Dreya, "it's better that we find mother and father, they are the only ones who can help. That man who came into our house, we didn't expect him and we have no idea how he was burned. And Valis, well what is a sage like him doing giving people beatings? It doesn't make sense."

"He did something un-natural" said Zan, pointing his finger at Khariel. Dreya looked at her rescuer, waiting for a response to Zan. After a pregnant pause, Khariel spoke.

"It's just...just a trick I can do."

Zan and Dreya waited for more, but further elaboration was not forthcoming. They looked at each other, unconvinced. Dreya broke the silence.

"Whatever he did, he's the only person that will take us to the library. I have no idea why he's here," she said, speaking as if Khariel did not exist, "but I want to get away from the House of Neem, and I want to see our parents."

"Valis will do all that, he'll take us to them. He told me so last night when I saw him." said Zan. Dreya frowned.

"When did you see him?"

"I was found by one of the Dran men, they took me to their barracks and I waited. When I was there I saw him walk down to the pier near the Dran barracks with one of the Dran captains."

Dhugo stared intently at Zan as he said this.

"What pier?" he said quietly, startling the others.

"Er, its the, er, what's it called now?" said Zan, sifting back through his vast encyclopedic memory.

"The empty hand!" he said triumphantly, moments later. Dhugo let out a long sigh.

"I was at the empty hand yesterday with that man, the one that made me take him to your house. Something happened there. That's what Valis is really interested in."

Now it was Khariel's turn to fix Dhugo was a piercing gaze.

"What did you see Dhugo, what happened?"

"A thing came, it came from nowhere, it was a shadow surrounded by burning light, it burned everyone and it took my brother. That's what burned the man, Ratkoh, he called himself."

"He's fine by the way," interjected Khariel, "Dhugo, if you close your eyes can you see what this burning shadow looks like?" He asked, knowing that the fate of them all hung on Dhugo's answer.

"Yes, yes I can, and it is there when I sleep."

Khariel smiled, but his smile betrayed a grim realisation.

"Dhugo, there are some things that exist in the world that the mind will not let us forget because of what they are and how powerful they are," he attempted to put what he knew into a language he hoped an eleven year-old boy would understand. "We become a vessel for them, as if someone had painted a picture of what happened. I don't think Valis yet knows what you've seen, but if he did find out, he would want to catch you above all things. What you have seen is worth more than you can possibly imagine."

"If Valis wanted to get his hands on things that are un-natural and powerful, I think he'd want you to teach him your trick," said Dreya to Khariel.

"I'm pretty certain he would. This is why we all have to keep going and get out of the city. I have some coin, we can get what we need on the other side of the bridge."

"I'm not crossing over, I'm not leaving, I have to find Boyn," said Dhugo, after a moment's silent consideration of Khariel's words.

Dreya shook her head.

"When you said it took Boyn, what do you mean?"

"He vanished into the burning light, but I know he's still here."

In the many years that Khariel had drifted across the Arclands, looking for answers to the power that had been awoken in him in the forest in Hothis those long years ago, he had been drawn to realities that existed on the very edge of mortal experience. He knew that they existed, that they remained hidden and sometimes exploded into the the world of the everyday, defying explanation. He had every faith that Dhugo's story was true, and he was equally convinced that his brother was long dead.

"Where will we find Boyn, Dhugo. Where will he be?" Khariel asked, knowing that this search had to be concluded swiftly and they had to be out of the city in hours.

"Our hidden place," said Dhugo, "that's where he will be. It's not far from here."

"Let's go then, we must be quick."

As Khariel, Dreya, Zan and Dhugo emerged from one alleyway, Golver, Rysinde and Frangka rounded the corner onto the same street. Golver pushed the others into a neighbouring side street so they would not be seen by their prey. Khariel's brief pause had bought Golver all the time he needed to catch up.

"Not long now and we have him," he whispered to the others.

# Chapter Eleven

Hartmann, Dreskoe and Vandermayne marched across Morthe Square, the stone plaza directly opposite the House of Neem. Zyre and Revein were deep in conversation, browsing a map of Harenian districts, allocating troops to search for Khariel, Dreya, Dhugo and Zan.

"Zyre!" shouted Hartmann loudly enough to bring the bustling square to a standstill. Dozens of Varren soldiers stopped and turned to face the two captains, hands slowly moving to swords and bows. Only the steady and unbreakable calm of their men at arms kept the Varren soldiers in line.

"Zyre!" Hartmann shouted again, barging past the Varren captain's men. Wearily, Zyre looked up from his map and turned to face Hartmann.

"Your men, they are breaking orders I gave; I command the garrison here, not you. Your men have until the dawn bell to get back to their posts or..."

"Or what, captain?" said Zyre, barely concealing his contempt.

"Or the last ones to their posts hang," Hartmann responded grimly.

Zyre knew Hartmann well enough to know that he did not bluff, the Evayn captain considered all threats before making them. Zyre studied his face, looking for any hint of weakness or wavering. There was nothing.

"You would start a war between our houses here in Harenis, with no authority from your master, the Lord Allansr Evayn, over a few Varrens leaving their posts to help the House of Neem for an hour or so? Surely Captain, even you would not be so foolish?"

Hartmann paused momentarily to consider what Zyre was really saying. Walk away Hartmann, relinquish your power, forget that you command Varren men and let them do as I bid. What a monstrous liberty you ask, thought the Evayn captain. He turned to Dreskoe and Vandermayne.

"Arrest him."

The two Evayn men at arms grabbed Zyre and Hartmann ripped off the Dranian Crest from his tunic. A dozen Varren swords drew and Zyre's archers drew back their bows. Hartmann looked to Dreskoe and nodded, the Evayn man at arms responded by reaching for a bull horn at his belt. Putting it to his lips he blew three short blasts and the shout of a hundred Evayn spearmen could be heard in response. Scores of Evayn men, hastily assembled and hidden in alleyways poured into the square, surrounding their Varren bretheren. Within moments the square was filled with armed Evayn men ready to fight, and startled Varrens now facing impossible odds. Zyre's men at arms looked to him for direction, ready to fight to the death if he ordered it. There was no honour in suicide, Zyre had always maintained. With a barely perceptible shake of the head, Zyre indicated this to the surrounded Varrens, who slowly sheathed their swords and re-quivered their arrows.

"A Varren company is never an Evayn's to command, no matter how much the High Council desires it. You'll see," said Zyre, smiling.

"Take him away," said Hartmann to Dreskoe, "there will be a prison galley back to Dran and the judges can decide what to do with him."

Turning to Revein, he handed him Zyre's crest.

"Put your men in order captain Revein. They are loyal and fearless and a credit to the House Varren."

Revein nodded, silently processing the battlefield promotion he had just received.

"Yes my captain."

"Meet me at the first chime of the dawn bell at the House of Neem. We must speak with Valis, the master of the house...."

"That will not be necessary..." came a reedy and thin voice from the crowd. Valis snaked his way through Zyre and Hartmann's men.

"Captain Hartmann, I have an apology to make to you. In my concern to enlist Dran's help, I feel I have overstepped the mark and now created a crisis for you and Captain Zyre."

Hartmann stared impassively. Valis might have denigrated Khariel's poor showing in the arts of deception, but the captain of the garrison could see straight through the old man.

"Should you have come to me, Lord Valis, what would you have asked the garrison to help you with?"

Valis smiled, seeing that Hartmann was not so easily fooled.

"Yes, well, I would have asked for your help with a problem that I have been dealing with. As you know, some of our finest sages and scholars take a leave of absence and travel to the library at Mount Khest from time to time. We are normally scrupulous in our care of their children, but it came to my attention that a wandering vagrant has inveigled himself into the trust of three children whose parents are good friends of mine. Zyre had agreed to help find these children, understanding how important this was to the House of Neem."

"And you asked him to keep this a secret, why?"

"My dear captain, I would never have..."

Hartmann dismissed Valis's protestations with a wave of his hand.

"He kept it a secret from me and he did this because someone told him to. That person, without any doubt, was you Lord Valis."

"Be careful Captain Hartmann..." glowered Valis, but before he could continue his threat, Hartmann interjected.

"I answer to the Great Council of Dran, and to no one else. Harenis, a city with its own council that you answer to, pays coin to Dran for our protection, but that does not buy you anything more than the maintenance of good order and the blood of Dranian sons if the city comes under attack. We deliver justice and safety without favour. I cannot be threatened, but I can ask you to tell me why you have kept secrets."

The old man's rage was barely concealed; his pale eyes burned with a fierce intensity. He stepped closer to Hartmann, speaking in a low whisper.

"Something is here, captain, here in this city and those children are the key to understanding it. There is no more time to swap idle words or threats, we must have it. Zyre has shown his weakness and no doubt his master, the lord Sorias Varren will deal with that accordingly, but for you and I captain, the chances of harnessing a great and terrible fire are in front of us."

Now Valis had Hartmann's attention.

"What do you know about fire, my Lord?"

***

Valis's scribes wrote down the names of the fugitives for Hartmann, after he and Revein marched into the inner chambers of the House of Neem. Revein instantly recognised Zan's name.

"I saw the boy last night my captain, I can find him."

Hartmann nodded, he was determined to find the children and whoever they were with, but he had no intention of delivering them to Valis.

"Organise the companies captain, go lightly to this task, they are not to be harmed."

Revein nodded, noting how expertly Hartmann had appropriated the manhunt from Valis's grasp. He did not doubt that the master of Neem would attempt to reverse the situation. Revein saluted and took his leave of the two men. He barked orders at Varren and Evayn men now assembled in the square, but once they had been dispatched he made his way back through the avenues and boulevards of Harenis to the Barrel House, where Zyre occupied a temporary prison cell. Making his way past the Evayn men, he ordered them to open the cell door and let him in. Zyre sat on a low wooden bunk, emotionless, expressionless.

"What orders my captain?" asked Revein. Zyre smiled, noting that his man at arms had learned long ago the secret Varren protocols for situations just as this.

"There are others in the city, others who come from across the sea, from..." Zyre stopped himself before he uttered the name of the lady of the Crag's realm.

"...yes my captain," said Revein, acknowledging that he understood.

"Our Lord's word on anyone from that place is that they should pass, so let them," he said simply.

"Yes, I shall see that it is done. Can I do anything for you my captain?"

"My fate is in the hand of our Lord Varren now; I have never doubted him for a moment, I will need nothing more. Our hunters on the Taeorfal will send word soon Revein, then lord Varren will know what secrets the Evayn possess, and we will have our brief and blessed moment of revenge."

***

The noise of the city at dawn, of market traders, hawkers and apprentice boys filling the streets, squares, market places and gardens was unable to penetrate Dhugo's thoughts. Blood pounded in his ears and he was short of breath as he ran, following Dreya, Zan and Khariel as they weaved through the crowds. For hours he had been too stunned to speak and when he had slept he had seen waves of white fire engulfing Boyn. As the four fugitives ran out of the first and second circles and into the more familiar third, Khariel saw an alleyway to duck into. The others followed him and together they crouched down in the shadows.

"We need to make it to the Vinderhon," said Khariel, "we haven't got much time before Valis has the entire city looking for us."

"And from there, where?" Asked Dreya.

"The library, it's the only place your parents could be," Khariel replied.

She nodded in agreement, suddenly catching herself agreeing with him, a realisation that made her uneasy. It was important to her that she distrust Khariel as much as possible.

"We should go back," said Zan, "our parents wouldn't want this, they've always told us to wait before and they came back for us."

"This isn't like before Zan," said Khariel, "this is different. Lord Valis wants something from your parents and he wants you to help him get it. I was sent to look after you and the best way to do that is to get you to your parents."

"I don't trust you..." said Zan, looking Khariel intently in the eye.

"I can understand that, I really can. I probably wouldn't trust me either, but I don't think you should trust Valis."

"Zan," said Dreya, "it's better that we find mother and father, they are the only ones who can help. That man who came into our house, we didn't expect him and we have no idea how he was burned. And Valis, well what is a sage like him doing giving people beatings? It doesn't make sense."

"He did something un-natural" said Zan, pointing his finger at Khariel. Dreya looked at her rescuer, waiting for a response to Zan. After a pregnant pause, Khariel spoke.

"It's just...just a trick I can do."

Zan and Dreya waited for more, but further elaboration was not forthcoming. They looked at each other, unconvinced. Dreya broke the silence.

"Whatever he did, he's the only person that will take us to the library. I have no idea why he's here," she said, speaking as if Khariel did not exist, "but I want to get away from the House of Neem, and I want to see our parents."

"Valis will do all that, he'll take us to them. He told me so last night when I saw him." said Zan. Dreya frowned.

"When did you see him?"

"I was found by one of the Dran men, they took me to their barracks and I waited. When I was there I saw him walk down to the pier near the Dran barracks with one of the Dran captains."

Dhugo stared intently at Zan as he said this.

"What pier?" he said quietly, startling the others.

"Er, its the, er, what's it called now?" said Zan, sifting back through his vast encyclopedic memory.

"The empty hand!" he said triumphantly, moments later. Dhugo let out a long sigh.

"I was at the empty hand yesterday with that man, the one that made me take him to your house. Something happened there. That's what Valis is really interested in."

Now it was Khariel's turn to fix Dhugo was a piercing gaze.

"What did you see Dhugo, what happened?"

"A thing came, it came from nowhere, it was a shadow surrounded by burning light, it burned everyone and it took my brother. That's what burned the man, Ratkoh, he called himself."

"He's fine by the way," interjected Khariel, "Dhugo, if you close your eyes can you see what this burning shadow looks like?" He asked, knowing that the fate of them all hung on Dhugo's answer.

"Yes, yes I can, and it is there when I sleep."

Khariel smiled, but his smile betrayed a grim realisation.

"Dhugo, there are some things that exist in the world that the mind will not let us forget because of what they are and how powerful they are," he attempted to put what he knew into a language he hoped an eleven year-old boy would understand. "We become a vessel for them, as if someone had painted a picture of what happened. I don't think Valis yet knows what you've seen, but if he did find out, he would want to catch you above all things. What you have seen is worth more than you can possibly imagine."

"If Valis wanted to get his hands on things that are un-natural and powerful, I think he'd want you to teach him your trick," said Dreya to Khariel.

"I'm pretty certain he would. This is why we all have to keep going and get out of the city. I have some coin, we can get what we need on the other side of the bridge."

"I'm not crossing over, I'm not leaving, I have to find Boyn," said Dhugo, after a moment's silent consideration of Khariel's words.

Dreya shook her head.

"When you said it took Boyn, what do you mean?"

"He vanished into the burning light, but I know he's still here."

In the many years that Khariel had drifted across the Arclands, looking for answers to the power that had been awoken in him in the forest in Hothis those long years ago, he had been drawn to realities that existed on the very edge of mortal experience. He knew that they existed, that they remained hidden and sometimes exploded into the the world of the everyday, defying explanation. He had every faith that Dhugo's story was true, and he was equally convinced that his brother was long dead.

"Where will we find Boyn, Dhugo. Where will he be?" Khariel asked, knowing that this search had to be concluded swiftly and they had to be out of the city in hours.

"Our hidden place," said Dhugo, "that's where he will be. It's not far from here."

"Let's go then, we must be quick."

As Khariel, Dreya, Zan and Dhugo emerged from one alleyway, Golver, Rysinde and Frangka rounded the corner onto the same street. Golver pushed the others into a neighbouring side street so they would not be seen by their prey. Khariel's brief pause had bought Golver all the time he needed to catch up.

"Not long now and we have him," he whispered to the others.

# Chapter Thirteen

Thick black smoke rose from the roof of the Rhen house, drifting over the elegant town houses of the third circle. Burning fragments of priceless manuscripts, along with a fine grey ash drifted on the breeze, as Circle Watch men formed a line, passing buckets of water from the canal in a desperate bit to douse the blaze before it spread. Revein knew as soon as the first plumes of smoke appeared that Golver's time was up; it would be better to be at the scene when Hartmann arrived, not surreptitiously arrive shortly afterwards. He briskly marched down the street and stepped into a doorway when he saw Golver and Rysinde emerge from the house, Golver with a young boy slung over his shoulder. Moments later three figures burst on to the street, one of them, unmistakably was Zan. Revein hurried over to the three, creating a rough approximation of concern and care. Dreya crouched on the floor, wretching from the smoke; he knelt down and took a small leather water bottle from his belt and put it to her lips.

"Slowly, drink slowly," he said. She took a large gulp of brackish water and promptly vomited it back up onto the cobbled street. As the smoke had begun to blow in the direction of the sea, a small crowd of Harenians were able to gather a safe distance from the fire and surround Khariel, Dreya and Zan. Out of the corner of his eye, Revein spied a fourth figure, crouched, cat like, in the shadow of the building. Frangka, now truly a warrior without a kingdom, assessed her options and the best chance of leaving this accursed city. She was just afraid enough of what Golver might do if he had the chance to think twice about making a run for it on her own, but she was also mindful of the fact that in a matter of minutes, hundreds of Dranians would arrive. It only took one to figure out where she was from, and one already knew; the Dranian crouched down with Dreya.

"She's fine..." croaked Khariel, "...we're fine, thankyou. We have to go," he staggered over to Dreya and began to help her up. Revein, bemused, looked at the bedraggled pair in front of him and laughed.

"With respect, friend, but I think it would be better if you gave me the girl now. Besides, her brother here..." he said pointing towards Zan "...is already known to me, the Lord Valis seeks them and will care for them, you can be on your way."

Revein calmly shoved Khariel out of the way and took Dreya's hand, pulling her forcefully to her feet. Khariel sprung towards Revein, desperate to break his grasp, but the soldier anticipated his rather clumsy move and a back fist to the jaw sent Khariel sprawling into the crowd.

"Zan," called Revein, holding Dreya, "...time to go son, let's go to the House of Neem."

However, before Zan could respond, Frangka spoke for both of them.

"No. Let them go sir, " she levelled her sword at him and he slowly let go of Dreya, who ran to Zan and held him tightly.

"Let's not be foolish now girl," Revein muttered through gritted teeth, "...half an army's on the way, no way this one ends good for you." Revein drew his sword and readied himself for battle.

"Maybe, maybe not...." she shrugged as the two slowly circled one another. In the distance, the sound of dozens of boots on cobbles caused the Dranian captain to smile mercilessly at his Ghothar opponent.

"Here they come now, girl, how many do you think you can fight?"

"Maybe I just kill one for now, " she responded cooly. Revein, angered by her calm leapt forward in anger and swung his sword down hard. She blocked the arcing blade and, as she had done with Golver's hammer, she sliced her opponent's sword in two. Revein's blade clattered to the street and he stood, utterly stunned. Her boot slammed into his chest, sending him sprawling, she had no intention of slaying an unarmed man on a busy street, simply humiliating him was enough. The crowds parted and Hartmann strode through, with twenty Evayn spearmen, who surrounded Frangka and Khariel, who had now managed to stand. Frangka grabbed Khariel and whispered in his ear.

"You have to get the boy back, Golver, the man who took him, he thinks he is useful and that he has seen something that Golver can use."

"He's right," said Khariel, grimacing in pain.

"They'll be gone forever in an hour..."

"I think we're about to be inconvenienced, " Khariel responded, looking at the circle of spearheads that pointed at them.

"Who dares best a captain of Dran," shouted Hartmann, helping Revein up from the ground, "tell me now and you may find clemency."

Frangka sheathed her sword, and stepped forward.

"It was me, a captain of Ulrand," she said in a matter-of-fact manner.

"Ulrand? Well you are a long way from home my lady..."

"Captain. I am a captain not a lady..."

"Forgive me..." Hartmann replied with mock sincerity "How does a captain of the far north find herself fighting on the streets of Harenis, and what is your business with this man..." Hartmann looked at Khariel and then at the two children and remembered Valis's descriptions.

"It seems like everyone wants to find you today, sir..." Hartmann said directly to Khariel. Frangka looked directly at Revein, who looked away unable to meet her gaze. In that instance she knew that she was at least safe from being revealed as a spy of Mordikhaan; such a revelation might see Revein sharing a cell with them.

Dreya ran to Khariel's side and turned to face Hartmann.

"This man is not a criminal, you have to let him go. There is another man who attacked us and he took my friend just minutes ago. He kidnapped a boy, Dhugo Rhen...."

"Golver, his name is Golver," said Frangka, "...and he is good at hiding, so you have to be fast. He thinks that he can trade the boy, that he is valuable. He thinks that the boy saw something yesterday at the water's edge."

"The empty hand..." Hartmann said quietly, "...where is this man now? Where can I find him?|

"He has gone to Inktown to hide and to try to make his deal there, " she said.

Hartmann turned to Vandermayne at his shoulder and nodded.

"Take a dozen men, find this Golver, anyone with him and the boy," he said.

Vandermayne gestured to half of the Evayn spearmen who formed a small company and marched towards the direction of Inktown.

"Khariel, " said Dreya, taking the initiative for the first time as the bruised and battered conjuror seemed utterly dazed, "we need to go. We need to get to the bridge. The captain here will find Dhugo, he's said so, we have to go now."

Khariel wearily nodded and Zan picked himself up, ready for the three of them to depart. As Hartmann stepped aside to let them pass a familiar, thin voice from behind the smouldering house spoke.

"I don't think so, Captain Hartmann, arrest him."

Valis emerged from the darkness of the smoke, his watery, dead eyes fixed on Khariel.

***

"Captain Hartmann, I see you have done your duty in a way that Zyre failed to. You have found the criminal." said Valis.

Hartmann was not swayed by Valis's empty flattery and waited for whatever manipulation came from the Lord of Neem.

"It might be a bit premature to call anyone a criminal my lord."

"This man is a liar and a thief and must be punished; he has tricked these children into following him."

Hartmann turned to face Khariel.

"Is this true?"

Khariel, still dazed from his various beatings shrugged weakly. Dreya, now stood behind him winced at the possible answer.

"Truth is a malleable thing, who's to say really..."

"No, not it's not true," Dreya shouted, "Lord Valis is the liar. Khariel found me and Dhugo when we had been attacked by a stranger. Lord Valis used your soldiers to attack him because Valis wanted us."

Hartmann turned back to Valis and now it was the captain's turn to stare intently at the old sage, who appeared diminished and uncertain.

"I never forget my place, Lord Valis, and I never forget my duty. I am here to ensure the good order of the city and to garrison it against all threats, internal and external, I ensure the peace and what justice I can guarantee, and I don't meddle in the plans and agendas of those who pay Dran for its services. Rest assured, whatever your motives here are, they are non of my concern."

Valis smiled, prematurely triumphant.

"Good, so you will hand over the criminal and the children."

Hartmann smiled back, shaking his head.

"No, no of course not Lord Valis, if this man has stolen from you, and I note with interest that you haven't specified what he has stolen, I will see to his punishment. As is my right, I will take these children into my wardship, they are not of your concern."

Through gritted teeth Valis hissed: "Then I will insist that this man be punished to the full extent of Dranian law by yourself and that it be done right now."

"But of course. He is banished from the city, a fitting punishment for a suspected thief. I will see that he is escorted to the Vinderhon Bridge in due course. Given the abundance of thieves, fires and troubles of all natures, Lord Valis, I will also see to it that my men escort you back to the House of Neem."

Valis, realising that he had been bested looked to the Dranian men who now flanked him and, with a stare that promised a future, savage retribution to Khariel, he turned and walked away. As soon as Valis had disappeared into the crowds that had begun to re-emerge onto the streets, now that the Circle Watch had begun to get the blaze back under control, Hartmann pulled Khariel to one side.

"You have an hour to leave the city, I can give you no more. Valis's friendships with the Varrens have been disrupted but they are not dead, by any stretch of the imagination. Those ties will be deadly to you friend, and to them, " he said, gesturing towards Dreya and Zan.

"They come with me too..." said Khariel, "it isn't safe here."

Hartmann nodded.

"I can't guarantee their safety in the city, so you must guarantee it. Where will you go? Taeor?"

"No," said Khariel, "the Library."

Dreya waited patiently for Khariel and Hartmann to finish speaking, knowing that they were deciding her and Zan's fate. As she stood, watching the two men, she notice Frangka, who had watched both men speak with Valis with an air of detachment. Dreya's eyes darted between Frangka, Khariel and Hartmann until a vague notion solidified within her into determination. She strode to Khariel's side and interupted the two men.

"She comes too, the captain of Ulrand." demanded Dreya to Khariel, "she saved your life. That other man, Golver, he was going to kill you and she stopped him. She also put the other Dran captain on the floor and if you don't take her too, they'll get her, I know it."

"You're asking a lot," said Hartmann, "she struck one of my men."

"Who deserved it," said Dreya, "I don't go unless she comes, I think she could stop anyone who wanted to hurt us."

Frangka looked on with bemusement. She was utterly astounded that the Harenian girl was making such efforts to help her, and she knew full well that Dreya was right, unless she left with them and soon, Golver or the Varren soldier would kill her. Khariel looked over at her, knowing full well she was weighing up her limited options.

"Well, what do you say?"

"If you knew I'd sailed from Mordikhaan three weeks ago with Golver, would it make much difference to you?" She said dryly.

Khariel raised his eyebrow.

"No, probably not. You in?"

Frangka allowed herself a momentary smile.

"I think I've had my fill of Harenis," she said simply, a statement that another Ghothar would have understood as a firm commitment.

Hartmann shook his head, exasperated.

"Ok so go, get to the bridge, go, you haven't got time. I will find Golver and the boy."

Khariel looked to Dreya, Frangka and Zan and readied himself. The journey to the library began.

***

Golver and Rysinde raced through the streets towards Inktown. The unconscious Dhugo was slung over Golver's broad shoulders, and he shoved ordinary Harenians out of his way. Golver had torn off a strip of his tunic to stem the flow of blood from his hand and it had now become a sticky black mess, though mercifully the bleeding had stopped. The dull ache that ran up his arm as a result was a permanent reminder. Frangka would die for this.

"Golver," gasped Rysinde, not used to running for any given time, "...why are we going back to Inktown? That's the wrong way, we need to be leaving and fast."

Golver ignored him, by rights he should leave the boy here to die, but he knew that he was in very bad company on his own. Keeping Rysinde by his side always meant that there was someone else to throw to the wolves if necessity demanded it.

"Golver, Golver...back there, the house and the fire...it was that thing again wasn't it?" Rysinde continued on a different tack, unable to read Golver's none too subtle cues.

"Shut up, there's a good lad..." Golver muttered; his thoughts had to be firmly anchored in reality, not taken up by whatever madness had emerged at the empty hand and now appeared to have repeated itself.

"What about Frangka...?"

Golver grabbed Rysinde by the throat and threw him against a wall, all whilst balancing Dhugo over his shoulder. He pressed his face so close to Rysinde's that the boy could feel Golver's warm fetid breath on his chin.

"I'm going to cut her in two, that's what. I am going to gut that evil Ghothar filth like a fish, that's what..."

Rysinde, detecting that he had struck a raw nerve with Golver, nodded emphatically.

"The traitor..." he said, unconvincingly.

"Shut up and walk, we can't be late..." said Golver, ignoring Rysinde's rather feeble attempt at matching Golver's murderous mood.

They had left Edwys's run down hovel in Inktown hours earlier, but in that time almost everything in Golver and Rysinde's world had changed. Golver and Rysinde found their way back to Edwys's door and as Golver tried the handle, it slowly swung open. They both stepped inside, back into the dusty gloom, and Golver laid down the catatonic Dhugo. Rysinde glanced at the boy and saw his sweat-drenched brow and pale skin and the dark rings around his eyes.

"Golver, whatever you do, you'd better hand the boy over to someone soon, he's sick and no use to us if he doesn't make it."

Golver looked down and shrugged.

"Yeah, won't be long now."

"What, what won't be long?"

"The swap, him for us..."

"With who?"

"The resident of course."

"But we don't know how to find the resident, we don't know if it's just one of those stories you hear in Mordikhaan."

"No story Rysinde..." came a voice from the shadows. Emerging from the dark was Edwys, the lonely scholar that Rysinde had somehow befriended at the Scrivener's Rest. Though of course it all became clear now, he hadn't befriended anyone.

"It took me an hour or two to find you last night," said Edwys, "I was shocked originally that the Crag had sent you, once the lady had a habit of being discrete, but no longer it seems. You were far too keen to make friends Rysinde, but I suppose you're lucky that I was there; imagine who you might have offered a drink too...." Edwys shook his head, smiling.

"The boy, he saw everything, whatever happened yesterday, he's your link to it."

"And why do you think the lady would care?"

Golver didn't have an answer, not a satisfactory one at any rate.

"Because at the Crag, they're always looking for this sort of thing, I don't know what it means or where that burning light came from but it's not nothing and if it's not nothing, it's valuable."

Edwys nodded.

"That's true, the word I have from the Crag is that this is very valuable indeed, you've got their attention. Past failures overlooked, a fresh start for both of you, death to the traitor."

Rysinde broke out in a broad smile.

"Sounds very reasonable, glad we could be of...", he was interrupted with a punch to the chest from Golver.

"Shut up, I'm doing the talking," he hissed, anticipating that Rysinde's mouth could see them with their throats cut yet.

"So we've got passage home then? When do we go? How?"

"I am still arranging those details, so you will have to be patient, but for now we must deal with the boy here."

Dhugo's breath was shallow and he seemed smaller than when Golver had seized him at the Rhen House an hour or so earlier. Edwys knelt over Dhugo and furrowed his brow.

"I think he'll make it, and at any rate, the Crag never specified that they wanted him alive."

Edwys pulled a blanket from an old wooden chest and dragged it into the centre of the room. Lifting the lid, he gestured towards Dhugo.

"Place him in here," he said in a matter of fact manner.

Golver and Rysinde lifted the unconscious boy into the box and lay him on his side. Edwys closed the lid. A moment later there was a heavy, thudding knock at the door, leaving Golver to reach for his knife. Edwys gestured for Golver not to panic.

"Friends of mine, don't worry."

Edwys opened the door and three men entered. To the unassuming they were typical Inktowners; men on the lower rungs of Harenian society, but neither Golver nor Rysinde were that unassuming. These were Mordikhaani, it took one to know one, but there was a certain feral look that most exiles from the Arclands who fled to the Khul's realm shared. Edwys gestured to the box and they took it to the door and out on to the street where a cart was waiting.

Rysinde smiled as the door shut behind them, the deal was done and they were safe. He began to imagine their return to Mordikhaan, he might he able to negotiate for himself a place at the Crag or perhaps a residency somewhere, though not Harenis of course.

"When do we get out of here?" said Golver. Rysinde noticed a tone in Golver's voice that alarmed him.

"You will have to wait, one of the men I employ in Inktown here will come to take you to a safe house later and from there you will learn about your instructions to get home."

Edwys gestured them both to sit down and the three sat in an unsettling silence. Rysinde, exhausted from the past day's desperate struggles felt himself drifting towards sleep, and couldn't tell how long had elapsed between thoughts. He looked over at Golver as the minutes seemed to slip into hours. Golver caught Rysinde's gaze and, almost imperceptibly, shook his head.

This is a set up.

Rysinde's stomach lurched and his legs felt as if they had filled with frozen sea water. They were waiting to die. Mordikhaan never forgives. Edwys got up from where he sat and made his way to the window to peer out into the street, trying to maintain the pretence that Golver and Rysinde's rescuers were coming. Rysinde took the opportunity and leapt from his seat, leaning over he grabbed Golver's knife from is sheath and he grabbed Edwys round the neck, plunging the knife through his ribs from behind. He clamped his hand over Edwys's mouth, holding in the gasp of surprise as the resident's lungs began to fill with his own blood. Golver stared, mesmerised, utterly speechless. Eventually he stumbled over to body and looked down at the blood soaked Rysinde. After a long, long pause he spoke.

"We were dead anyway..." he said, "...but you've killed us for sure now lad. Still, I'd probably have done the same."

Golver noticed a look of wild elation in Rysinde's eyes. It was a familiar stare, one that first time killers sometimes got when the thrill of the deed became intoxicating. Men with that look always got themselves killed.

"Come on then," he muttered, "Clean yourself up, we're leaving, hopefully we can find a hole in the ground deep enough that the world will forget about us forever. Here's me thinking that the hole was meant to be Mordikhaan."

# Chapter Fourteen

Maredh Khanhalary, on the short but painful journey to the library weeks earlier, had begun to feel that she was so full of secrets that there was little room for anything else. All the component parts of her soul that made her function as a person were subsumed. Instead, secrets to protect her husband and secrets to protect her children filled the emptied vessel that was once her life. As the sun broke over the Khest Valley, Faren had woken his wife and gestured that they should leave. The two crept out of the tavern at Forgehead and made their way to the stables at the rear where they quickly saddled and mounted their horses. Faren's eyes darted back and forth, scanning the road and the horizon to look for riders, watchers or anything that looked out of place.

It isn't Valis, Maredh thought to herself; of that she could be certain. The pressure of wondering who was watching them was telling on her husband, the normally capable and decisive man she had loved all these years seemed diminished and humbled by the constant fear in his heart. As they rode together, Maredh smiled bitterly, acknowledging a bitter truth; male strength was often a performance, it might be accompanied by real resolve, but men had to act out their strength for others to see. Women had to be strong regardless and the world was merciless when they were weak, but it also was indifferent towards their courage. Maredh had been forced to be strong for her family in ways that Faren could scarcely imagine.

When the stone shard had first arrived at the library and had been thrust into the hands of Faren, Maredh had sensed a deep heart pounding excitement when she saw it. It was a strangely intoxicating experience, almost similar to the first feeling of infatuated love. She felt drawn to the stone and had to force herself to concentrate on the most trivial of tasks for days on end, knowing that if she had allowed herself, she would have spent hours or even days simply looking at it. Gradually, the feelings subsided and she felt able to look at it but it was clear to her that Faren didn't have the same kind responses to it, instead the question as to what it was and where it came from seemed to consume him. The answers that they came to led them along the Khest Road to the library, at least the answers that they shared with one another. Maredh kept her strange magnetic attraction to the stone secret from her husband, her reasoning for doing so was, as yet, unclear to her. The weeks and days that preceded their decision to leave, the decision that would wrench both of them apart countless times over, were dominated by one thought; the safety of their children.

"The school, the school will look after them once they realise we are gone. We cannot leave instruction, it's too dangerous. If Valis was to understand where we are going and why there is no telling what he might do," Faren had whispered one night as they stared bleakly at their options. Maredh said nothing but her silence was hardly a sign of agreement, she had seen so many young scholars consumed by the ambitions of their masters at the school and had no desire to see Dreya and Zan swallowed up by the place as Maredh and Faren had almost been. Slowly, over weeks of mounting desperation she came to think about the stone and looked back through the copious pages of writing, theorising and number that the two had drawn out together, pointing to clues as to where it might have come from.

"It belongs to someone..." she had whispered to herself as she leafed through old journals in their study. Now to speak to the master, whoever that might be.

Maredh knew it wouldn't be difficult. The reaction she had to the stone told her that, her knowledge of the study of earthly things told her the rest.

'When connections of this type occur and when energies within things are of a type, then energies may flow back and forth between those things and they have between them union."

If it sounded profound and memorable to Maredh it was because she had written it, in an obscure and barely read 'treatise on metallurgic knowings'. She had always wondered what 'union' had really meant and now she was starting to suspect that it had many, many meanings, that there could be all manner of unions. In the hours deep in the archives at the House of Neem she came to understand that the nature of the stone was unchanging, but that the state which she inhabited could be altered to match it. Late at night she ran her hands over the stone again and tried to recapture the electric energy she felt the first time she sought it. There was nothing except the strange stone-metal texture of the shard. She touched it again, desperate for the old sensation, but it was dead. She grasped the stone tightly in her hands and held it to her beating heart and suddenly a powerful convulsion shot up her arms, a shockwave that ran through her body. She gasped and dropped it to the table, her hands shaking and shuddering. The stone had spoken and its message to Maredh seemed clear. Connect through shock. In a city beset by months of thunderstorms this would be challenging, but not impossible.

As the ride towards the library gradually drew to a close and the trail rose once again out of the valley, the ancient blue marker flags that marked the trail to the Llurye Gate appeared. There were many entrances to the library, some known and others hidden. Faren and Maredh had chosen the Llurye Gate specifically as it was one of the lesser used ways in, but not one so obscure that, as sometimes happened, it might have been flooded or lost under a rockslide.

When Maredh saw the familiar contours of the mountain she felt oddly comforted. She normally hated coming to the library, with all its problems and potential dangers, but at the end of this journey familiarity of any kind elicited a profound and deep relief. The library had dominated most of her life, she had both loved and loathed it, and now she started to see that she and Faren were becoming inseparable from it; instead of it simply being a dead place it was a gigantic living, if silent actor in what would no doubt be the last great drama of their lives. For better or worse it was he focal point of their world.

At the Llurye Gate they tethered their horses, hoping to find one of the library orderlies to take them back to Vinderhove later. The gate was a stone archway in the woods which had long since crumbled. Centuries ago, Vannic scholars in all their conceit and self importance had demanded archways and garlands of flowers to announce their arrival at the library, but now the stone ruins simply gave a clue as to the location of a doorway. Embedded within the sheer granite wall that rose out of the woods, comprising the base of Mount Khest, was a large iron bound oaken door, one to which Faren had his own key, stolen years earlier. After a momentary struggle with the aged iron lock, there was a click and the door slowly swung inwards. The library and its ocean of secrets awaited and Faren and Maredh Khanhalary stepped into the dark.

***

Maredh, weeks before their journey and shortly after she had realised how to commune directly with the stone, found herself hunting for storms. She looked at the weather charts drawn up by Arcish sailors, deposited in the depths of the school. She found herself observing the darkness of the eastern skies each noon, testing the breeze, reading as much as she could on lightning bearing storms and skies until she was convinced she could predict when the next lightning storm would be. It coincided with a periodic night duty that all scholars were coerced into performing at the House of Neem, which was fortuitous, as the scale like green bronze tiles that covered the school's roof would provide the perfect conduit for the lightning, as would her fragile human body.

It was a peculiar form of madness, she thought, when she placed her trust and her life in a shard of unrecognisable stone. As she had hurried towards the House of Neem in the late afternoon the humidity was almost unbearable, and by dusk the first cool winds from the Arching mountains began to blow, creating the constituent parts of an epic storm. The ominous rumble of thunders to the east and the first flash of sheet lightning left Maredh in no doubt that she had picked the right day.

Bypassing her fellow scholars at the House of Neem, Maredh made her way to the libraries at the top of the school, and from there to the stairways to the eaves. She opened a small door reserved for carpenters to attend to the roof beams at the top of the north stairs and pushed her way into the musty dark cavernous space of the roof cavity; above her head was a roof of bronze tiles, and at the eastern end of the cavity was a circular glass window that looked out over the city, with a view of the coastline and the growing storm. She didn't have long to wait, the fork of lightning lit up the horizon and a second flashed into existence over the city.

As she crouched in the dark the lightning flashes became more frequent and cracked across the city, drawing closer. Maredh looked at the skyline, and noticed how the forks of lightning seemed almost to be following a path, roughly down the centre of the city itself. She knew enough about the natural world to know that it seldom was so obliging as to do things in straight lines. She slowly looked down to the bag slung at her side and the stone within it, wrapped in an old silk scarf.

"Bring it to me," she said, suddenly aware that she was talking to the stone. She reached above her head and placed her hand on the cold metal tiles and breathed deeply, waiting for the inevitable, wondering exactly what it would feel like and whether she would feel anything at all. For her, always, waiting was agony itself, far more so than the actual pain. She had always maintained that the worst part of any suffering was the anticipation. She placed her other hand on the stone, which seemed alive with energy; instead of the feel of smooth flat stone under her hand, the sensation of a thousand pinpricks from ice cold needles.

As she held the stone tighter, a bolt of lightning struck the Resonance, the central debating forum separated from the schools of the first circle by hundreds of feet of water. The lightning leapt from the Resonance in a flash and struck the bronze roof of House of Neem. The only sensation Maredh was aware of, momentarily, was a vast explosion down her arm then numbness, cold and the realisation that she was starting to suffocate. Following that, all was calm and peace.

Maredh had no idea how long she had been gone, and was awoken by the sensation of cold water spray on her face. She opened one eye and saw that she lay on cold stone tiles. A singular droplet of water fell slowly and spattered tiny droplets as it landed in a small puddle by her face. The cold spray was startling and she rolled over, feeling sick and cold. She looked up with dread to see what might remain of her hand. She held her fingers close to her face and stared; it was completely undamaged.

This is a dream. I am not here, this is where the stone sent me, this is what it wanted me to see, she thought. Maredh pulled herself to her feet and instantly saw why it was that this place was familiar, it was Valis's chambers. It was at least as much of Valis's chambers as her memory and imagination would allow her to see, parts of the room were clouded in darkness, other shapes were blurry or indistinct. A hunched figure with its face turned away from Maredh sat at the far end of a long stone table; it was unmistakably him, an amalgam of every unpleasant memory she could muster. In her mind she had created a statue to the man and it could hardly be described as a monument, instead it was testament to his smallness, a study in loathing.

"What do you want me to see, why am I here?" she asked, speaking to herself, "I came to speak to the master, not him."

All she heard in response was the slow, steady drip of water, landing with a painful tapping noise on the stone. As the sound captured her attention, she turned once more to stare at the place she had awoken. As she stared at the polished stone, a long shadow fell, the silhouette of a man. Whoever the master of the stone was, it was here, but there was still nothing to break the silence than the fall of a water droplet.

Knowing that there might not be time for niceties before this illusion dissipated Maredh shouted to the stranger everything she had come to say.

"My children. I will leave them soon because of the stone, the stone knew to get me here to see you. You must protect them, they won't be safe when we are gone. He will want the secrets we will guard..." she pointed to the hunched Valis, "...and there will be others too. The stone came to us and it will devour us with what it asks, all I ask is that its masters save our children. Do that and we will give you whatever you want."

As she spoke she felt her grip on the reality she had created start to fade; as her dream became more lucid she started to drift back towards consciousness. The shadow lingered however as everything else faded to grey. The long, imposing outline of a man seemed finally, imperceptibly almost, to nod as if in agreement as Maredh slipped away.

***

Hartmann knew, following his short and unhappy conversation with Valis, that the old scholar would spend the rest of his time in this world trying to destroy the Dranian captain. Whilst not a pleasant prospect, it was one that he was willing to tolerate. Far too many demands had been made on Hartmann's integrity and, by extension, that of Dran. It was clear to Hartmann that Zyre had been content to prostitute the city in whose army he had served for so many years. Hartmann also knew that there was unfinished business to conclude with Zyre before he bundled him onto a ship bound for home and a prison cell on Nurian's Rock. He waited at the edge of Inktown with Dreskoe as his men went house to house searching for Dhugo. Vandermayne marched through the dirt and debris of Inktown streets, stopping before his captain and saluting.

"What news?" asked Hartmann. Vandermayne shook his head ruefully.

"There's nothing here sir, no sign, we've scoured all of Inktown, looked high and low."

Hartmann nodded grimly, though he was hardly surprised.

"They've moved him. Put men on the Vinderhon and check every cart and wagon that crosses. Anyone with a boy that age, hold them back. Stop every ship from being boarded..."

"My captain, that's well over a hundred ships in the next few hours. We don't have the men," said Dreskoe. Hartmann clenched his fists in frustration, knowing that Dreskoe was right.

"If we only knew where they were going, where they were taking him, we could target those ships," he said.

"I think I can help you there," came Revein's voice from over Hartmann's shoulder. The Varren captain had managed to restore some of his lost pride and composure. Hartmann turned slowly, eying him with suspicion.

"You can, can you?" he said dryly.

"The men that took the boy are from Mordikhaan, Zyre knew about this, in fact he let them into the city..."

"...and there was a woman with them? The one that you fought?" Hartmann said, diplomatically.

"Yes, she was one of them, looks like she had something of a change of heart. Fortunately you arrested her for the crime of striking a captain of the watch, didn't you, Captain Hartmann?"

"Don't waste time asking questions you already know the answer to," Hartmann responded. Any other captain of the watch would have thrown the Ghothar woman into a dark cell for a few months on the off chance she might be suspicious. Hartmann was perfectly certain she had arrived with the fugitives he sought, but something about her fierce defiance and the willingness of Dreya to throw her a lifeline stayed his hand.

"She's not who we're looking for, no matter where she's from. Tell me everything Zyre told you about Mordikhaan. I'm going to pay your captain a farewell visit."

Hartmann grabbed Revein by the shoulder.

"There's something about that boy Revein, something important, if those Mordikhaan scum want him, he's important, so find him."

Revein was in no doubt that Hartmann would see straight through any attempt to be cooperative or helpful. There was no point in trying to build trust with a captain of the Evayn who would never trust a Varren, no matter what. Instead of attempting to appear genuine, Revein would settle for utility. He could at least be willing to show that he was sufficiently untrustworthy that he would betray Zyre. A more fearful man would worry about the consequences, especially from the vengeful house of Varren. Revein had already penned a letter to be given to Zyre's guards who would courier it to Lord Sorias Varren himself. In this letter, it stated simply that Zyre was a traitor and had revealed crucial secrets to the Evayns, and that Revein had ordered a lone Evayn dispatch rider to be taken care of along the Taeorfal Road. There was precious little reason to allow Zyre a happy return to Dran, Revein had thought, especially as Revein's own new position was so insecure. He had been promoted by a lowly Evayn and this could easily be taken away from him by the lord of his house. Instead, what better way to consolidate ones own position than to unmask a hidden enemy?

Hartmann and Dreskoe marched back to the Barrel House and made his way to the holding cells below. Zyre sat behind a row of iron bars on a wooden bench, awaiting his escort back to Dran.

"Captain Hartmann..." he said, nodding with mock deference. Hartmann gestured to a guard to open the cell door.

"....and Man At Arms Dreskoe. I am honoured by this farewell committee, but I believe captain we have said all we have to say to one another."

Hartmann shook his head.

"No, far from it. In fact I feel I've got a lot more to ask you, Zyre, more than I've probably asked you in the last year. Let's start with the big question, did your Lord Sorias Varren order you to allow Mordikhaani into the city you were sworn to defend?"

Zyre broke into a smile.

"And you want me to answer that do you? If you've brought your man here to intimidate me, it's not going to work and besides, it wouldn't do to send me back to Dran with fingers missing would it?" he shook his head dismissively, almost disappointed by Hartmann's inability to extract information.

"No, no it wouldn't. But you can go back to Dran with a message for your house. I have time and witnesses here in Harenis and it only takes one of your men to corroborate the story and then the Varrens will have some explaining to do to the council."

"Varren men are loyal to the end, they never talk," said Zyre.

"Normally I'd agree with you, but here's the thing Zyre, one already has."

Zyre looked at both men with undisguised loathing.

"It's funny, isn't it, that in two different ways, you're reaching out to Dran, telling the Hammer of the East that there's trouble here in Harenis, trouble that you, Captain Hartmann, don't really understand. You're sending me back, but you've also sent someone else haven't you? A young lad who's riding up the Taeorfal was we speak. What's his name?"

Dreskoe turned to stare at Zyre, watching the movement of his mouth, consuming every word the Varren man uttered.

"It's Haali, isn't it? Haali....Dreskoe, yes, Man at Arms Dreskoe, he's your boy isn't he? Very brave too, riding home on his own. How long do you think it'll take him? How long across that wild, bandit filled territory?"

"He'll be fine...." Dreskoe said through gritted teeth.

Zyre laughed, staring deep into Dreskoe's eyes, smiling and slowly shaking his head.

"No."

Dreskoe leapt across the cell towards Zyre with a roar of anger and fear, Hartmann grabbed the huge, bearlike soldier.

"No, Rendon no!" He shouted, throwing Dreskoe back against the bars.

"What, what have you done!" screamed Dreskoe. Zyre smiled again and shrugged.

Dreskoe strained against his captain, who desperately struggled to hold him back. He hooked his arm around Dreskoe's neck and held him tightly.

"We will stop this, whatever he's done, we will stop this. He wants you to fear for Haali, but we will stop him, I promise you."

Dreskoe stopped struggling and Hartmann let him go.

"If anything happens to my boy, I will find whoever did it, and I'll find their sons too," he snarled at Zyre.

"I would expect no less," Zyre responded, turning to Hartmann he added: "Captain, I no longer feel safe in your custody, if it's all the same to you, I'd like your guards to transfer me to my ship. You needn't worry about me absconding, you can put an arrow in me if I step back ashore."

Hartmann looked to the guards and reluctantly nodded.

"Take him away."

# Chapter Fifteen

While Hartmann was forced to drink deeply the bitter draft that Zyre had prepared for him, Valis was engaged in little short of a revolution at the House of Neem. Change, Valis knew, took years and sometimes even decades to occur, it was a slow imperceptible build up, the gradual erosion of all that was solid until suddenly the power to hold change back was gone, worn away by a steady drip.

A drip.

Why did he use that metaphor? he wondered to himself as he stood in his chambers, bookshelves torn from the walls, papers strewn everywhere, maps tables and charts in a pile on the floor. Valis surveyed the ruin that surrounded him, all of which he had created in the last hour and wondered if, momentarily, he might be going completely mad. He tried to retrace his steps back from the Rhen House and his humiliation at the hands of Hartmann. He had walked once again through the drifting pall of grey white smoke that emanated from the house, the burning at the edges of his eyes and in the top of his chest from the smoke was as nothing compared to the depths of his rage and humiliation.

For hours on end, ever since Zyre had visited him last night, he had been presented with moments of revelation the likes of which sages and scholars across Aestis would never see, not in a dozen lifetimes. Each time he had been denied the knowledge and power he sought. Most recently this had been at the hands of Hartmann, but he reserved his deepest rage and hatred for that wretched itinerant conjuror who had stumbled into his world. Valis, who's entire career had been built on the orderly collection and interpretation of knowledge of the world was now faced, at the end of his career with a terrible truth. A entity with powers to burn flesh into glass and a travelling stranger who could summon a storm of dust had kicked over his life's work by showing him there were powers in this world, long rumoured but rarely seen and never meaningfully corroborated.

His taxonomies of nature and cataloguing of flora, fauna, sea and stone now meant nothing. It was simply a wrong, nay an evil, that this destruction of everything he had worked for be allowed to happen and the perpetrators walk free. After all, the House of Neem, based on understanding the natural world, would now have to stand for something else, an understanding of worlds natural and unnatural.

Valis was, of course, lying to himself (or if not lying, then certainly not telling himself the whole truth). The version of Valis that he chose to see, most of the time, was that of the passionate man on a quest for greater understandings of the world. The reality, one which he rarely acknowledged, was different. Valis was a man preoccupied with power and status; he had used his position at the House of Neem to further this goal, becoming through the ruling council of scholarly houses at the Resonance the de facto ruler of Harenis. This, now, was meaningless. Anyone could rule over stone and wood. Anyone could rule over people and the extent of that power anyway was questionable, as Hartmann had just shown. Not everyone could rule over the intangible, the invisible, the forces that shaped reality itself. The thought that this might be possible momentarily eclipsed his rage and set off, deep within him a feverish desire, a lust he had not experienced since he was a young man.

"I must have this..." he had murmured to himself as the sea wind blew the smoke from the Rhen house and it slowly cleared. More than anything else in the world, Valis wanted what secrets Khariel had shown him. The House of Neem would be his vehicle and any scholar there who objected would be swept aside. As he marched forth, Valis attempted to apply strategy to passion. I must act slowly, he thought. Lyred and the others, they must be kept in the dark for as long as possible, and I must send word to the library, Khanhalary and his wife must be found. They know something, they are connected to the burning man, to Khariel, they are the missing piece of the picture.

The short walk from the Third Circle back to the House of Neem, across bridges, through narrow lanes and wide open boulevards was time enough for the founding ideas of Valis's revolution to take hold. Nothing was, or ever would be as important as finding the power, the magic (though he cringed at that empty, nebulous term) that had been wielded against him last night. Nothing would ever be as important as accessing, taming and using that power. Valis was a man quite accustomed to bending the world to his ambitions, and he knew instinctively that this quest for knowledge and power would be the last one he would undertake in this life.

It began with an internal act of destruction, the sweeping away of decades of presumptions about the material world around him. Then swiftly followed the acceptance that magic, the ability to summon forth earth and fire from nothing, lay at the heart of it. No revolution took place without sacrifice and Valis was willing to accept, readily, that the world he thought had existed had just been swept away.

The truth was, that the world of learning that Valis inhabited had always been artificial. There were countless books in the great library, mouldering in the dark that discussed secret and arcane learnings about the supposed workings of magic. These had been consigned to be forgotten by a toxic combination of Aruhvian Priests and scholars, who between them found it politically expedient to mock and ridicule talk of magic. Valis had focused on understanding the flight of birds and the patterns that shoals of fish make, and had dismissed magic as a serious area of study.

It was simply unheard of to consider it, to discuss it, or to write about it. It was what the poor, superstitious woodsmen of the Khest or the Slinde Valley believed in. It was what the hardy but non too bright Veskans he sometimes taught believed in. It was what Olorians, far to the south believed in, it was what the odd passing heretic between the Mill Lands and Ghotharand believed in, but it was not what the master of the House of Neem in the great city of Harenis believed in. Except the for the fact that it was now an unshakable, categorical truth.

As he rounded the corner, back to the House of Neem, an institution with a palpable sense of unease and worry in the air after hours of chaotic upheavals, he readied himself for war.

***

"Hello old fella," said Khariel, timidly, reaching out to pat Muuli on the nose "...sorry for leaving you here, but we're heading off now." Muuli stared, his deep brown eyes communicating nothing, though Khariel was certain the horse's silence was a sign of its hatred towards him. Sure enough, as he stroked Muuli's nose, hoping for a better master-steed relationship, Muuli nipped his little finger. Dreya, Zan and Frangka stood in the stable block at Vinderhove on the far side of the bridge, witnessing the spectacle of horse and rider relations unfolding before them. It occurred to Dreya that however well meaning Khariel was, and however much integrity he had shown in the last few hours, he was clearly new to the rescuing business. Her reflex decision to demand that Frangka join them made perfect sense in this light. Dreya looked to Frangka, who shook her head as she watched Khariel's amateur handling of the horse.

"He doesn't like you," she said.

"I can see that," Khariel snapped back, then lowering his voice to a whisper so Muuli couldn't hear, "...he's unpleasant."

"No. No, he just doesn't like you. Here, let me show," she said, interjecting with her simple, tough Ghotharic manner. She pushed Khariel out of the way, though he did not object at the intervention, he had secretly been dreading having to deal with Muuli for hours.

"Maata heras," she whispered to Muuli, stroking his nose and looking deep into his eye, "...maata heras, maata heras." Muuli snorted and rubbed his face against Frangka, who looked back at Khariel.

"You have to be nice to him, that's all." Khariel, stunned by the duplicity of the animal handed Frangka the saddle, perched on the wall of the stable.

"He's yours now," he said with no small amount of relief.

In the event, Frangka and Khariel left Vinderhove on foot and Dreya and Zan rode on Muuli. They left along the Forgehead Road that wound through the bottom of the valley. Zan sat in front of Dreya and the two children, unfamiliar to riding, both swayed in the saddle. Zan was unusually quiet.

"You ok?" probed Dreya, knowing full well that Zan was not.

"It's just Dhugo, I...I can't stop thinking about how we left him," he said quietly.

"The captain of the watch, he said he'd find him. He'll catch the ones that took him."

Zan did not respond, showing exactly how little he thought of promises in general at the moment. Dreya tried to cajole him.

"We'll be at the library soon and when we get there, mother and father will be there, they'll be glad we came to them."

"I think they wanted us to stay with Valis, I don't think we should be out here," he said sullenly. With a sudden flash of irritation Dreya responded.

"Well we are, and Lord Valis has shown himself to be quite the rat. I don't think our parents have ever asked us to stay with people who lie and are cruel. Anyway they aren't here if you hadn't noticed, it's just us, they go away when they please and leave us to deal with things so that's what we're doing."

Dreya's answers were far from satisfactory to Zan but they were the only ones going. Neither Zan nor Dreya had travelled beyond Vinderhove before and certainly not with two drifters they barely knew. They merely had to hold on until they got to the library and then, Zan knew, their parents would take over. The normally independent and daring Zan now yearned for his mother and father to be back in charge.

"Who is he?" Asked Khariel to Frangka, "...that man? Golver? Where did you find him?" She ignored the question momentarily, but then replied.

"Long story. He was in charge, they sent us to Harenis to find children, clever ones..."

"Plenty of them," Khariel interjected, "...wait. Why children? And anyway, children, isn't that a bit..."

"Yes, it's a lot. We don't get to be rescuers all the time do we?" Frangka was suddenly defensive.

"Not the sort of job you volunteer for then?"

"No, it wasn't a choice. I didn't choose to end up in Mordikhaan either. Anyway Golver, he survives I guess, it's what he knows how to do best. If that involves breaking anyone or anything to do so, he's a master at that too."

"Looks like a man with a grudge or two?"

"He'll kill us all if we ever run into him again."

"Good thing you've got that then isn't it," he pointed at Frangka's sword. She shrugged.

"It only works when it's hot, like fire, so don't rely on it, rely on those..." she said, pointing to Khariel's legs, "...he takes revenge very seriously."

Frangka paused before asking a question of her own.

"That other man, the old one. You made him angry, what did you do? He said you were a thief."

"Oh him, I guess everyone, deep down inside truly hates a free spirit. I get it a lot."

Frangka allowed Khariel a rare smile.

"I can see how you make people angry. What does he want with them?" she gestured to Dreya and Zan.

"I have no idea, other than he wants their parents who, I'm hoping, are at the library."

In Mordikhaan, every word was a lie and as a prisoner of the Mordikhaani, asking questions was to court death. The ability to speak openly with anyone who was not Golver or Rysinde was liberating, but strangely unfamiliar.

"And you? Where do you come from?"

"Originally? Hothis."

"Not what I'm asking and you know. What are you doing with these two? Who sent you?"

"I don't know. There is a voice that turns up every so often, they...it helped me once. Sometimes you see them, like a shadow or something, other times you don't. Anyway, I owe them and they never quite give me a clue as to when the debt is paid off. They told me to come to Harenis and I sort of figured out the rest for myself. If they'd have wanted me for something else, they'd have involved themselves by now."

"So you don't know who sent you, you aren't sure if you're doing the right thing and you hope these children's parents will be at the library when we get there."

"Yes to all those questions. These things tend to happen to me and they normally work out. I notice that nothing I've said has made you turn round and walk in the other direction though."

"Nowhere else for me, so I might as well keep walking. Reuniting children with their mother and father? As long as they aren't in Mordikhaan I can do that."

***

Hartmann raced through the streets from the Barrel House towards Inktown. He couldn't hurt Zyre, but he could certainly injure Revein, who was without a doubt the first Varren that Zyre would have discussed murdering Haali Dreskoe with. Rendon Dreskoe was, for his own good, under armed guard and locked in Zyre's recently vacated cell. Hartmann had left to his howls of rage and fear for his son, his hands bloodied from punching the bars. Hartmann at this present moment had no idea whatsoever about what to do about Haali and how to protect him. As he crossed the boulevard that separated Inktown from the rest of the Third Circle, he spied the Varren captain emerging from a house. Hartmann's impotence and guilt, knowing that he may well have sent the boy to his death, utterly unsuspecting the danger from the Varrens at his side, were channelled into the first punch that sent Revein spinning across the street when Hartmann cleared the distance between them. He followed up the punch with kick to the groin while the stunned captain lay sprawled on the ground and several more. He picked up Revein and slammed him in to a wall.

"One of my boys..." he roared, leaving Revein in no doubt as to what the beating was about and potentially how life threatening it could become. Revein offered no excuses, explanations and denials. Finally, after Hartmann realised that no amount of violence was going to satisfy him, he grabbed Revein by the throat and drew his sword.

"You stop this, I don't care how, you send out riders and you stop them or I swear I will carve his name into your face." As if to emphasise the point he gashed Revein's cheek with his sword and left the man to drop to the floor. Revein, his face swollen and plastered with blood, fell to the floor, choking and gasping for air. Hartmann turned round to see dozens of Varren men nervously reaching for their swords. Hartmann made a display of keeping his unsheathed.

"Some of your friends have been sent out, this dawn to murder one of my lads on the road to Taeor. I'm going to kill each and every one of them, and I'm going to kill any Varren that helped them, so think carefully about what you lads want to do next, because I'm ready to get started now."

After a pause that seemed to last hours, the Varren men looked to one another, and then at their captain on the floor. They filed out past him, knowing there was no point risking Hartmann's wrath for an accomplice to murder. Hartmann was aware that he was close to sparking a war with the Varrens that would spiral beyond his grasp.

"Get up..." he ordered, pulling Revein to his feet. The Dran captain, humiliated in front of his men for a second time spat blood on to the street cobbles. He held his side, feeling broken ribs under his fingers.

"Which boy is it going to be, Hartmann? Dreskoe's boy or the one the Mordikhaani have got? I don't think you can save them both. You needed my men to help find that boy, but they've quit. What will you have me do captain?"

Hartmann knew the answer instinctively.

"Your duty, captain..." he said grimly.

"And I am sure" coughed Revein, "that young Dreskoe will do his."

And with that, Hartmann had made his impossible choice. Haali Dreskoe, a squire of Dran knew his duty. At least that is what Hartmann told himself in order to mentally survive this moment. Dhugo was a defenceless Harenian citizen that he, Revein and the rest of the garrison were sworn to defend and protect. Revein, having learned from his master how to place pressure on Hartmann, smiled a bloody smile.

"I knew you'd do the right thing in the end captain. Oh, and I owe you now. I owe you captain," he said, touching the cut on the side of his face.

More than you know, thought Hartmann, I saved your life today when I put Dreskoe in a cell. Revein limped away knowing that his men had now heard that he and Zyre had ordered the assassination of a fellow Dranian soldier. Hartmann knew that rank and file Varren men who came from the fishing villages at the foot of Nurian's Rock, or who turned up at Dran's gates with a sword and a gambling debt weren't always like the snakes they perpetually seemed to have for masters. Like most soldiers, they had a simple hard morality and comradeship. The beating he had unleashed on Revein would have done far less damage to his reputation than the truth that Revein was prepared to stab a fellow soldier, even and Evayn, in the back.

Hartmann returned to the Barrel House and marched down to Dreskoe's cell. The burly man at arms sat on a bunk, staring at the floor, his fists clenched white.

"He's a good rider and sharp too. We must trust now Rendon, it's all we can do. He's gone from us," said Hartmann.

Dreskoe looked up, his eyes burning with anger, he stared at Hartmann in silence.

"We will kill them all, Rendon, that I promise you. We will find out which ones they are, we will get names and we will kill every last one of them."

It was just enough of a promise to keep Rendon Dreskoe from killing Revein, but Hartmann knew that this was a temporary fix. Sending riders out to catch up with Haali was pointless too, they would never get to him in time. There was a slender chance the Varrens might miss him, or that he might use his head and get off the Taeorfal, but only a chance.

As Hartmann contemplated every way that Zyre had caught them out, an Evayn spearman ran down the stairs and into the basement jail of the Barrel House.

"My Captain, it's the Varren men, they're outside, all of them, and they want to speak with you."

Hartmann looked to Dreskoe and back at the spearman.

"Let him out," he said to the guards, gesturing at Dreskoe, suddenly calculating that a strong fighter would soon be an asset. Hartmann walked up the stairs and through the main hall of the Barrel House, as scores of Evayn men, seeing the Varrens outside were readying themselves for battle. Hartmann gestured for them to put their swords down, at least momentarily.

Hartmann stood on the steps and looked at the crowd of nearly a hundred Varren men, swords raised aloft. Two Varren men came forward with Revein and threw him on the steps.

"Take him away," shouted a Varren archer to Hartmann, "...we don't serve men who murder our brother soldiers."

Hartmann looked in surprise at the Varren crowd.

"You know this is mutiny, your Lord Sorias Varren will see you all hang for this," said Hartmann, believing it was only right to mention this possibility.

"Not if you throw him in jail for being unfit for command. We can't mutiny against our captain if there is no captain," said the bowman.

"Very true, but you will need a captain," he replied. At this point the Varren archer and spokesman turned to the other Varren men. In unison they knelt down, pointing their swords to the ground, in a ceremonial display of fealty to a new lord. The archer remained standing.

"My captain," he said, saluting Hartmann, "Dyl Darak."

# Chapter Sixteen

Valis, having returned to the House of Neem drifted, almost unnoticed into the Thulchamber, which was full of scholars and scribes crouched over long stone tables, busying themselves with writing or reading. He stood silently for some time watching them work, remembering his own youth nearly half a century ago, crouched over these very same tables.

"The school is closed, please leave," he said, almost inaudibly at first. There was barely any recognition from the scholars he was addressing that he was even true at all.

"The school is closed, please leave," he said, his voice louder. One by one the young men and women he had trained for so long to apply critical thinking and knowledge to the complex world around them started to look up.

"The school is closed, please leave," he all but shouted at his stunned audience, "The Circle Watch will be bolting the doors in one hour, take your personal effects and go."

With that he turned away and ascended the spiral stairs to his chamber. Valis's palid hands shook with excitement, blood pounded in his temples; within a few hours there would be nothing but silence in the school and then his long work could begin. He could start the process of tearing apart everything he had dedicated his life to and instead learn that which was forbidden and secret. Having seen real power being used, he knew that the meaningless power that dry, dead knowledge brought him would no longer suffice. Lyred had positioned himself in front of the door to Valis's chambers, he arms folded and his face stern.

"You have no authority to close the school Valis, none whatsoever."

Valis stared, menacingly at his colleague.

"Don't think about stopping me Lyred, don't even try. There's too much at stake here."

Lyred shook his head.

"Listen to yourself, what has become of you? You're right, I can't stop you from whatever it is you are doing, but I can convene the council tonight and strip you and the House of Neem of any rights and entitlements you might have in this city. You close the school down now and it stays closed. No access to the library and no help, not so much as an ink worker from Inktown."

Valis pushed Lyred out of his way and swung open the door to his chambers.

"Do your worst Lyred, do your worst, I have no more need of you or the council, and I will have plenty of help..."

Lyred knew what what was about to come next and inwardly cringed.

"...I have Parañe."

Parañe Vanderschale began to throw books into a holdall. She opened a drawer in the small chamber that had been allotted to her and folded her few clothes into the bag. She found a drawstring purse with a handful of coins in and tucked them into a pocket. In the quarter of an hour since Valis arrived in the Thulchamber and announced that the school was closing, she had been faced with a mounting wave of dread. Of all scholars in the school, she was the only one who would be left behind, trapped behind the wooden doors alone with Valis. She had lived most of her life with one male bully or another and Valis was simply the most complex and dangerous of a long line of tyrants.

Vrana Ty, the slight, dark girl who she saw running from task to task around the school, appeared at her door looking worried.

"The other houses, will they have us?" she asked.

Parañe shook her head.

"I don't know, I really can't say, I don't think this has ever happened before."

Vrana shook her head and blinked back a tear, then hurried on to pack her own belongings. Parañe had known little other than the House of Neem for most of her life, her father had helped to build it, along with Valis and Lyred, to the exulted status that it enjoyed today. He had died on her 19th birthday two years ago, a full decade after his violent bullying behaviour had driven her mother to suicide. She had thrown herself from the Resonance at midnight, the Circle Watch dragged her body from the water days later. It was only after her father died and Valis came to the family home looking to offer her sanctuary and purpose at the school, that she truly discovered the source of her father's behaviour.

Valis was a far more talented intimidator and aggressor than her father had ever been. What Herrard Vandershale achieved with his fists, Valis achieved with words. Parañe at the time was so profoundly relieved that she had found a saviour that she accepted Valis's offer wholeheartedly. It was hardly surprising that Parañe, a victim all her life, was so eager to find a rescuer even if it was one she swiftly learned to fear and dislike. Most people made the mistake of thinking that Valis consumed knowledge. He didn't. Parañe knew full well that Valis consumed people, it was the one thing that he was truly talented at. He was able to use them to his own ends and then discard them once he was finished, but he had always relied on a degree of subtlety and cunning, which made today's dramatics rather confusing. Valis rarely did anything that was likely to arouse the suspicions of others, but ever since the Khanhalarys took a surprise leave of absence, she had noticed that his behaviour had become ever more erratic. Lyred had tried to shield her and to keep her safe from him but it hadn't always been possible, whatever qualities Lyred had in kindness and humanity, they were no match for his power and vindictiveness.

The normally suspicious Valis had become more and more obsessed with their whereabouts. Parañe had only heard snatches of conversations and rumours about last night, but if they were true, the Khanhalary children had been at the school, along with a stranger and some sort of chaos had ensued. Since then, he had seemed like a man possessed. Ever since he had provided her with a sanctuary at the school two years earlier she had in essence become an indentured servant to him, even though her own study into Vannic languages should have been a priority in itself. The time had come to go, however; her parents house that was unchanged since the day her father died would be a place to shelter until she could work out what else to do.

As she filed out of the main entrance, along with the other scholars, clutching her belongings, she heard Valis's voice one last time.

"Parañe," his voice cracked as he leant over the balcony above. She attempted to ignore him.

"Parañe, stay as you are. You still owe Herrard's debt," he shouted over the others, who momentarily turned to look at him.

Parañe knew with a sickening dread exactly what debt he referred to and her shoulders slumped. She dropped her belongings and turned to face him, noticing as she did Vrana's fearful expression as she filed past.

Valis looked down and smiled.

"Very good Parañe, we have work to do."

The Circle Watch men closed and bolted from the outside the great oak doors of the school once the last scholars had left and with that Parañe and Valis were alone.

Master and prisoner.

***

Using all his strength, Valis pulled a huge wooden bookcase on the wall of his chambers, sending it crashing to the ground. The priceless manuscripts, charts, maps and books that he had spent a lifetime writing and collecting were scattered across the stone floor. As soon as he had torn down the bookcase he stopped, waited and listened, straining to hear it.

Nothing. The drip had gone.

He sank into a chair and cradled his head in his hands. Then the dripping noise came again and he leapt to his feet again. In the hours since he had closed the school and trapped Parane, the dripping had begun again and Valis had become obsessed with finding its source.

The drip had been with him, in these chambers for the last two decades. Some of the time Valis had been able to hear it, intermittently as a younger man he had been driven half mad trying to find the source of the noise. However, in the years when the dripping noise seemed to stop, Valis still had the sense that it was still present, just on the edge of his perception. For long periods of time he would be lost in work or another obsession and the drip (both audible and silent) would be lost to him. Today it seemed almost deafening.

"Where is it?" he rasped, his face flush with rage. He had thought at first that the noise came from behind the bookcase, which would have placed it firmly in the middle of the wall. This at first seemed impossible to Valis, but he then reminded himself that he had seen too many things in the last day or two for the concept of impossible to have any meaning at all.

It stopped once more, as if taunting him. He walked through the debris of the room, parchment crackling under his bare feet, until he stepped directly into a patch of cold wet in the midst of the chaos.

He looked down, struggling to comprehend the existence of the pool of water under his left foot which had not been there hours or even moments earlier. He mentally traced a line from the centre of the puddle upwards to the ceiling, where any natural leak would have fallen from. There was nothing but stone above him, no dark discolouring or mould that would indicate a constant flow of rain water. Nothing at all.

A drip landed on his foot, icy cold and as heavy as stone. He gasped with pain and fell to his knees. He lay on his back in the water and looked upwards to see the origin of the next drip and when it came he gasped with surprise. It had materialised from nowhere, appearing from thin air some six and a half feet off the ground. Valis lept up and grabbed a chair, dragging it over to the puddle. He stood on it to enable him to see the exact point at which the drip materialised. Another droplet formed, and this time Valis noticed that tiny rivulets of water seemed to run along invisible cracks in the air to converge on a particular point, where the merged into a drop.

Valis reached out, gingerly, and touched one of the cracks. It seemed to grow, as if Valis were touching a thin layer of ice on a pond. More droplets began to fall from the crack and run down his finger and sleeve. Valis smiled in wonder as they pattered to the floor and he pushed the crack with all his strength. It ran through the air, as if the fabric of reality itself was being torn and when the crack reached the wall, the tearing became more pronounced and rapid. The rip in the air now arced across the wall of the chamber and seemed to emit a dull amber light. Valis gasped in terror and delight, holding one weathered hand to his lips, scarcely able to register the vision that grew before him.

The empty space before his eyes was now fragmented like a mirror cracked. Chunks of the reality Valis took for being the everyday fabric of his world began to break apart and drift away from each other. The pale amber light that shone through the cracks began to fill the room and from above Valis, the droplets that had started to fall became a powerful punishing rain, saturating the remainder of his life's works.

As one reality drifted away, another emerged from the golden haze in front of Valis. A red desert that stretched into the distance, and rising from the horizon, ominous, opaque yellow skies. A figure was discernible on the horizon, a black speck that began to take on the shape of a man. Within moments, the figure, which seemed to have noticed Valis rose into the air of the strange harsh red and yellow world and levitated towards the fractured frontier between realities.

Valis was frozen, staring in wonder and dread as the figure approached, a tall and slender man in a long black travelling coat and boots with worn breeches. His hands were outstretched as he alighted in front of Valis, but it was what was visible above the man's neckline that left Valis shudder with fear and yet unable to avert his gaze.

Where the man's face would normally have been was a shifting cloud of vapour and dust. In the light of Valis's chambers the cloud face intermittently sparkled, as if tiny fragments of precious stones were suspended within it. As the man's feet touched the floor Valis instinctively fell to his knees.

"I am no god Valis. I am so much more than that, and I have waited an eternity for you to find me," came the voice of the man, a high whisper which made Valis think of the noise of shattering glass. Valis looked up, speechless.

"I know what you seek, Valis, worlds have shattered to bring it to you. I am the manifestation of all your desires, the answer to all your questions."

"Who...who are you?" Valis managed to stammer.

"I am the master with many names and none, I am the stone unfastened from the crown. I am the Wanderer and I have much to show you."

The Wanderer reached down and took Valis's hand, his touch feeling of nothing at all. Valis stood up and together they stepped into the red reality.

***

Weeks earlier, as Faren and Maredh Khanhalary had laid down to a restless sleep in their small room at the farm tavern in Forgehead, Sharrick, the man who had followed them from Harenis, waited. He had sat in plain sight to be seen by the scholars and still they did not think to run. He was amazed at their naivety.

His journey to a small tavern in the Arclands had started three years earlier in the crowded fishing port of Vruk on the southern Veskan coast, several hundred miles north of Oloris. There he had spent his days in service to the Veskan sea lords watching who came in and out of the port and sending his messages across the country to the royal court. Watching was a particular Veskan gift, it was how a precarious, besieged people had managed to gain a foothold in eastern Aestis and hold on without being swept into the sea. The man, who went by many different names, but in the Arclands was called Sharrick, was an impeccable watcher.

When he realised that he worked for the sea lords in name only, and another master behind even their power really decided his destiny, he took the foolish step of announcing this insight. On a routine patrol along the Vrukund coast he was stabbed in the side by the shipping agent he had worked every day for the previous five years with, Drenser Na Shar, and left for dead. As the night fell and the ice cold final sensation of dying crept through him, men came and dragged him away. He had little knowledge of what happened over the next few months, he was hidden in dark caves, at once buried in a metal box for hours, taken to an abandoned Aruhvian monastery, examined by a silent Pheffist and then finally, when he could walk again, abandoned.

Sharrick was left at the borders of Veska with a horse, a waterskin and a runic shield to get him across the steppe. He rode west towards the Arching Mountains and then crossed during winter into the Arclands. He knew that his captors were not done with him, not by a long shot. A year into his new life in a small town on the Taeorfal north of Harenis, Ruskarn, they returned. Sharrick had managed to buy a tavern, the Green Sun, from the broken down drunkard who had previously owned it and as he served drinks, he settled into his old life as a watcher. He saw everyone who came in and out of his place, noticed when the door swung open and when is swung shut. He knew who was selling stolen silk, opium, spices or salt in his tavern. He knew which of the patrons owned girls and sold them on the waterfront. He knew who was in debt and who they owed. He knew everyone.

There was no point in attempting to surprise Sharrick, he knew that and he knew that when they returned, they would be direct. Each night, as he finally threw out the last of the drinkers and bid the less irritating ones a good night, he left the tavern door open for an hour. It was a sign to anyone watching.

He waited for days, weeks, months until finally they came as he cleaned pewter tankards. Five men, hooded and cloaked, heavy boots fell on the wooden floorboards. Sharrick spoke without even bothering to look up.

"Took you too long. Why the wait?"

There was nothing but silence. The tallest one reached into his tunic and placed a leather case on the counter. Sharrick put down the tankard he was cleaning and picked it up. Inside was a letter, sealed with wax. He broke the seal and read the one word on the page.

Drenser.

He looked up at the men.

"Thankyou, that's very kind, it saves me the trouble of finding him and dealing with him myself. I'm confused though. Whoever sent you obviously ran Drenser too, they made him try to kill me and then they dumped me on the steppelands and I wound up here. Now you've taken the time and trouble to kill him off..."

Sharrick realised that he was answering his own questions. Drenser had stabbed him in the back and left him for dead, but he had been saved by Drenser's master, the person Sharrick had realised that he too was working for. Sharrick was left for dead because it needed to be assumed that he was dead. He had ridden west to the Arclands by design, his masters wished him to be here.

"...I presume there's something you want then?"

The tall man reached over the counter and grabbed Sharrick, throwing him on the wooden surface. He pressed his face close to Sharrick's ear.

"Harenis. Khanhalary," he snarled, then left.

This, then, was how Faren and Maredh acquired the sense that they were being watched. Sharrick left the tavern in the capable hands of Torrund, the local blacksmith and frequent patron, and rode in the dawn to the city of knowledge. He quickly found Faren and Maredh, two well known luminaries at the House of Neem and began to make detailed notes about them. He was in no doubt that his brief was to watch. He employed all the standard Veskan procedures in terms of information sharing. He established a letter drop in one of the city's gardens, the stones all marked in a way that only a Veskan courier would be able to notice. He tirelessly watched the two and saw their interactions with Lyred, Valis, Parane and their children. He became aware of the various other agents in the city, particularly the Mordikhaani resident and was careful to conceal his own existence from them. When the stone arrived at the House of Neem for Faren Khanhalary, delivered by a young boy from Taeor, there was a dramatic change in the couple's behaviour, and at once he knew that this was the moment he had been sent here to observe. He knew that a visitation was not too far away. He filed his reports in Veskan codes once again and waited. He did not have to wait long.

They came for him once again in the small room he had rented a short walk from the Khanhalary's house. Their message, silent as usual, was delivered with no small amount on unsubtlety. He came home to find one of them in his small cramped room and a long, black Veskan bow and two curved daggers on the table. The man looked up at Sharrick to make sure that the silent order was understood and was gone.

Sharrick knew exactly what they wanted, kill them both and take whatever they have received from Taeor. He also knew that he had no intention of doing so; the power that controlled him, having plunged twelve inches of cold steel into his side was now demanding that he become a murderer.

Over the weeks that he had watched both Faren and Maredh, he had allowed himself to think about both of them. As an information gatherer, a spy, this was a terrible mistake. It was perhaps a sign that he no longer cared enough to keep himself out of their minds and hearts; Sharrick looked at Maredh from a tavern window one afternoon as she made her way home in the rain. She held her cloak close to her body and grimaced in the driving wet, and as she struggled against the storm he suddenly saw a painful human frailty to her, a vulnerability that momentarily left him lost for words.

From that moment onwards he began to deliberately linger in crowds, libraries and archives as he followed them for slightly too long. He knew how to remain hidden, he knew how to be seen and he knew how to reveal just enough to cause others to act. Encouraging in both of them the idea that they were being watched and the belief that what they had was dangerous to them was the single greatest act of kindness and humanity he could conceive of. Maredh had long since concluded that it wasn't Valis watching them and she was right. Valis was the least of their worries.

He wrote to his masters that he would kill the pair of them as they made their way out of the city to the library and then take the stone that was of so much importance and ride with it to Veska. He knew that there was no way he would be trusted to do this alone, so he rode ahead of the Khanhalarys to prepare an ambush, but not for them. He waited in the light forests along the side of the road for hours, not looking for either of them, but for Veskans who would undoubtedly be sent to finish off the job if Sharrick failed and then to kill Sharrick thereafter. They came on foot, five of them, instantly recognisable as the five from Ruskarn. Sharrick imitated a Veskan red crow, a bird that wasn't seen within a thousand miles of this part of the world.

It was an unmistakable sign to the five who knew that they had to take care of him first. They scrambled off the road and into the forest, straight into Sharrick's line of fire. He killed two instantly with his bow and jumped down from a tree landing knocking a third to the floor. He darted forth plunging one knife into the chest of a fourth would be killer while kicking the fifth attacker in the groin before slashing his throat. The final attacker, getting up from the ground ran at Sharrick, sword in hand. The Veskan spy swerved to avoid his attacker and plunged both knives deep into his chest. All five lay dead within moments and Sharrick stopped to gather his breath. He spent an hour dragging the bodies into a marshy hollow where he covered them with leaves and branches. He then washed off the blood on his tunic and rode to Forehead to intercept the Khanhalarys.

In the morning after the two departed, Sharrick rode at a distance, hidden, ensuring they reached their destination and as they entered the library he had the grim satisfaction of knowing that the stone was forever denied to his masters in Veska.

***

As dusk fell, Khariel, Frangka, Dreya and Zan's journey took them along a crumbling path by a riverbed, before it rose in front of them back towards the woods. Sharrick had not anticipated that the Khanhalary's children might try to follow them, let alone that they might have help. He had seen Dreya and Zan in Harenis almost every day as he had watched their parents and could only wonder what their absence had done to their children. Sharrick had scoured the terrain in the last two weeks to find the hidden Veskan store of supplies that was a standard feature of any long range Veskan spying operation. High up on the wooded ridge above the travellers he had found it, a large shelter dug deep into the root network of a huge oak.

Stores of food, clothes and provisions for a long journey were secreted there, it would be his parting gift to the Khanhalary family before he left to hide as far away from Veska as physically possible. He noticed that the journeying quartet were riding towards the Durean Gate, not to the Llurye Gate that Faren and Maredh had used. There was a significant and problem with this. From one gate to another, along the side of the mountain, the distance was over thirty miles. Inside the library, so he was reliably informed, this was an insurmountable distance. A distance in the dark labyrinthine interior between the gates was not two days steady march but possibly two months maddening wandering and searching. This would be a lifetime in the dark as far as the two children were concerned, a time in which parents could easily be lost forever.

"You're going the wrong way," he said, perched on a boulder by the nearest line of trees. Khariel spun round and Frangka drew her sword.

Sharrick leapt down and raised his hands. His bow was slung over his back and his two long knives were sheathed, visible at his sides.

"You're going to the wrong gate, it's an easy mistake to make, everyone would go to the Durean Gate, old Dures made it big and impressive so people would know it's there. It's not the one you want though."

He walked towards the group, hands raised still.

"What's your name friend?" shouted Khariel, apprehensively.

"Sharrick, my name is Sharrick," he shouted.

"He's lying," whispered Frangka, recognising his accent, "He's a Veskan, they all lie, never heard a Veskan with a Swithick name."

Sharrick saw the unmistakable cheekbones and dark eyes of a Ghothar in Frangka, and saw her battered leather armour.

"Thouragh urdar," he greeted her in broken Ghotharic, knowing instinctively that he would have a hard time being convincing.

"Put your bow and your blades down over there friend if you want to talk," said Khariel. Dreya and Zan slipped off Muuli's back and peered cautiously at Sharrick.

"How do you know we're going the wrong way?" asked Dreya as he drew close.

"Because I watched your parents take the road to the library. I made sure they got there safely."

"I, I don't understand..." said Dreya, unaware of the risks her parents had faced.

Sharrick breathed deeply and sighed, ready to explain what he knew.

"Something came from the city of Taeor to your parents, a stone, I know nothing more about it than that. I was sent to watch them and report what I knew. When it came they seemed troubled and I knew that the stone would be important to others. Men came looking to take the stone and I stopped them and now it is with your parents in the library."

"Very noble," said Frangka "what made you such a hero for these people."

Sharrick shrugged.

"They deserved it," he said to her, expecting hostility from a Ghothar anyway. He turned to Dreya and Zan.

"Your parents needed my help, they were facing people who were rotten to the core, who..." he didn't want to have to say it, but the time for euphemisms was fast running out, "...who kill and think nothing of it. Your parents have never hurt anyone."

Tears welled from Dreya's eyes as something inside her broke, the exhaustion and deadness inside which were really the product of immense repressed anger at her mother and father was swept away. Instead an unfamiliar wave of emotions swept over her, fear for her parents, a deep and almost overwhelming love and immense sorrow. She found herself holding Zan's hand in a vicelike grip, and whilst she couldn't see him as he stood behind her, she could feel him shudder with uncontrollable tears.

"They are alive, I promise you Dreya, the other men are gone," he said; Frangka and Khariel were under no illusions as to their fate. Frangka slowly sheathed her sword, seeing that whatever the truth of the story, Dreya believed it.

"There is a place to rest up ahead, there is food, proper travelling clothes there, everything you need. Let me show you where and I will take you to the Llurye Gate tomorrow where. That's where you've got the best chance of finding them."

Frangka looked at Khariel, trying to shake her head without Sharrick seeing.

"I don't expect you to trust me, I really don't, but it's the only chance these children have to make it to their parents," he said to Frangka.

Khariel shook his head, unsure of what to believe.

"Dreya, only you can decide here. Just remember that when people sound convincing, it's because they've normally practiced the art."

In the absence of any better chance of finding her parents, Dreya looked to Sharrick and nodded.

"Ok, very well, show us the way, but my friends here are looking after me and Zan and they'll hurt you if you try anything."

Sharrick looked at Frangka and her sword.

"Of that I have no doubt Dreya," he said as he turned to collect his bow and knives.

He led them up the slope to the old oak and the Veskan supply store just as the brooding clouds above their heads began to offload fresh rains which made the tree canopy overhead hiss.

They sheltered from the storm in the hollow where wood that Sharrick had collected and dried over the past few days was quickly built into a fire and lit. He found dry travelling clothes from the back of the hollow for Dreya and Zan, which, whilst being far too big, were a significant improvement on the clothes they had fled their own home with the previous night. Frangka found preserved and salted fish and dried meat and fruit in jars and even a slightly stale bag of oats for Muuli.

"Sleep now," she said to the exhausted children, as they rolled out blankets in the dark earth of the hollow. When they both closed their eyes and collapsed into deep sleep almost instantly, she turned to Sharrick.

"You can go now," she said bluntly. He seemed taken aback.

"How will you find the gate?" he said, casually.

"We'll find it, won't we?" she said to Khariel, who sat by the fire. He didn't look completely convinced.

"Well to be honest, I can't say for sure we will, I've seen the big one before, the Durean gate, but the others, well there's hundreds of them so I'm told."

Frangka flashed a look of annoyance at Khariel for undermining her argument in front of Sharrick.

"We don't need your help, we're helping the children just fine."

"Why?" Sharrick asked, "I told you what I'm doing here earlier, but what about the pair of you? What are you doing here with these children?"

Khariel, attempting to leave out ghostly figures, clouds of seemingly possessed insects and an obnoxious horse did his best to explain.

"I owe a debt and there are people that want these two protected so I'm doing my best to do that," Sharrick nodded, acknowledging that this was at least a satisfactory answer. He turned to Frangka, waiting for her explanation.

"Her," Frangka said simply, "...the girl, Dreya, she saved me. I'll see her to her mother and father's side."

"And so will I, Frangka, so will I," said Sharrick, "I don't owe these children or their parents a debt, but I owe all the ordinary people like them over many years who have fallen into big black holes because of me. I am tired of snuffing out the lights of the world when it suits someone far away."

It was hard to tell whether Frangka seemed at last to take this at face value, or she recognised that Khariel was right and that they needed him. Her features appeared to momentarily soften as Sharrick spoke.

Her concentration on his words waned however as she noticed the fire, which began to flicker and dance, growing in heat and intensity as if blown by a powerful wind. Khariel stood up beside her and she reached out to his arm.

"It's here...it's found us...." she whispered as a halo of fire exploded in the tree canopy above them.

# Chapter Seventeen

Valis stood next to the Wanderer at the edge of a familiar landmark, the Vinderhon Bridge. Instead of the cool waters of the Southern Arc Sea lapping around the huge stone pillars that held the bridge up, there was simply the broken burned earth of the desert. At its far end was a dead city, a simulacrum of the Harenis that Valis knew, except one choked by the desert sands.

"What dream is this?" Valis whispered.

"No dream," said the Wanderer, "...this is reality's red waste."

The Wanderer outstretched one hand towards the sea of dust that surrounded the alternate Harenis. As he did the horizon seemed to shudder and the vast expanse of dust rippled and rose. For miles the red sand stirred and gradually, to Valis's horror, formed itself into a wave. It seemed to take an eternity for the vast red wave to reach Harenis and engulf the city, slowly closing around it like a glove, suffocating anything or anyone that might exist there. The cloud-wave surged inland towards the bridge and Valis, who noticed that he was standing alone, was suddenly plunged into the shadow of the tidal wave of dead sand and debris. He found himself choking and blinded, the stinging sand burning his eyes. It took seconds for his nose and mouth and lungs to clog with dust and for him to collapse to his knees, gasping for air.

As he lay dying, in the twilight gloom that the sandstorm had created, he saw everything. He found that the sand no longer stung his eyes, instead, as he stopped breathing it seemed to part creating a tunnel that he could crawl through. He stood up, initially feeling panicked at the fact that his chest was no longer rising or falling, the fear of suffocation simply drifted away, along with the surprise that Valis had about transcending nature's most basic rules. In the dream like state that he inhabited in the Red Waste Valis was temporarily relieved from all fear and doubt. All there was was a desperate yearning for more. To see, to feel, to know more. I am here because I am hungry, he thought to himself. Only the hungry are allowed to come this far.

He clawed his way along the ground to the bridge and began to stagger across it. He slowly made his way to the far end of the bridge and through familiar streets towards the centre of the city. The houses, schools, market squares and hostelries, apothecaries, warehouses and shops that gave Harenis its life, here is this other place were simply empty shells coated with red dust.

Despite what the Wanderer had said, Valis did not believe that anything here was real. He looked back at the sand storm that had opened a tunnel for him to walk through. It stood, static, a permanent circular wall of wind and sand hundreds of feet high around the city. Whatever Valis was doing here, whatever the Wanderer wanted him to see, it was clear that he would see it alone. As he neared the House of Neem, after an hour or so of walking, he looked to the skies beyond the great red wall of dust and saw in the sickly yellow skies the glimmer of a star falling. This burning red star fell far too fast however, and looked far more like a burning comet plummeting to the earth. Valis tracked its progress with his eyes, squinting at the heavens. It was falling towards the city, west of the House of Neem.

West towards the empty hand.

Valis began to hobble in the direction of the star fall, falling and picking himself up again, stumbling again and again. Exhaustion, however, wasn't a worry for those who already seemed semi dead. All that existed for Valis in this monstrous hallucinatory version of his home city was simply the determination within him to see the secret that he knew was waiting at the empty hand. As he made his way towards the dockside however, he looked at the strange re-imagining of Harenis and wondered how different now it actually was to the reality he had inhabited.

This place was empty, devoid of life, devoid of people, of secrets, beauty and horror. It was simply a nothing place. How long had Valis's reality in the original Harenis been similar? People to him had little intrinsic meaning or value, he took so little interest in his work which he had mastered decades ago that he couldn't give a coherent answer as to why he engaged in it. The world he had left to follow the Wanderer was dead in a different way, but dead all the same.

Existing to observe that which was easy to understand and to inhabit a world full of inferiors was, it occurred to Valis in that moment, an unending torture. Existing in a world where real and unimaginable power existed, simply to denied it, was a torture too. The embrace of something so far beyond him, so greater than himself and the promise that he might become ensnared and lost within its vastness - that he might connect with eternity itself; this drove him on. The world that is was simply a draft of brackish water and the world that promised itself, the world to come, was an intoxicating wine.

He rounded the corner to the empty hand and there, above the wharf, hovered the star. Beneath the star stood a man, with long flowing dark hair and a beard, his clothing instantly recognisable to Valis as ancient Vannic. Around the man an energy crackled and coursed through the same flat plane of reality that had fragmented in Valis's chambers.

"So it was you..." he croaked, realising what he was seeing, "...you came and started all this, when you showed yourself at the empty hand, burning them all to a cinder."

The man looked back impassively at Valis, staring through him as if unable to hear the old scholar. Here stood the answer to Valis's questions, a vision of a man, who undoubtedly was a man no longer, but a flame to burn this world. Why the Burning Man had come to Harenis, Valis had no idea, but Valis could see that it was his arrival in the city that had begun to fragment reality. The cracks in reality grew as Valis stood and stared at the man and they reached out like cracks in thin ice across the city towards the House of Neem.

"You helped create the door," Valis whispered.

"He did," said the Wanderer, who had reappeared behind Valis "...though it's not what he wanted."

Valis turned to see the Wanderer, his hood had now been pulled up to obscure his cloud face and instead Valis had the sense that he could see the vague features of a face in the dark of the hood. The Wanderer pointed to a crack that the man had created in the reality around him.

"Our doorway," he said, bidding Valis to cross back through.

***

Parañe had always wondered if she would die like her mother. Now she had no doubt. As she walked up the stone stairs to the rooftop of the House of Neem, she had a unique insight on why her mother took her own life; it was the only rational act she had left. A caged animal will find its freedom one way or another and she had only one power that was greater than anything Valis possessed, the power of her own death.

Parañe, perhaps the loneliest person in the city, had now been imprisoned in the school with a man she feared and loathed but who she knew controlled her like a doll. His words and his power to manipulate (which never manifested itself as manipulation at the time) were so deeply buried within her that she frequently lost track of what her own thoughts actually were. The last sources of friendship, care and companionship she had in the world were gone and an old feeling, that of suffocating or being buried alive had returned to her that day. It was how she had felt as a child when she witnessed her screaming drunken father beat and humiliate her mother. From one man to another, she had sometimes thought bitterly, both her and her mother hadn't stood much of a chance. Now there was one way she could fight back and no one could take that away from her.

The time for tears to be shed had long since passed. In her early teenage years her ability to cry suddenly and abruptly ended after she had to nurse her mother for days following a particularly savage beating. Tears dried up and childhood ended, and instead a fight for survival replaced the exploring that should be part of early life; Parañe had to lock down her grief, pain and secrets. To the outside world she had to present a fleeting smile, to make herself small and unseen, to hide the breathtaking beauty that developed as she grew, her flowing golden hair tied back and often kept under a scribe's hood. Eyes fixed on the floor as she scurried across courtyards and quadrangles; Valis was used to dealing with life's victims and in Parane he could not have asked for a more perfect specimen, alone, vulnerable and broken but with an insatiable desire to serve, if only to prove she had worth and value.

Borycke Baryse, Valis's most put upon scribe and the most forgettable man in Harenis had decided not to leave the school and knew it would be days before Valis noticed. Borycke, a good fifteen years older than nearly all the other scribes at the school, had arrived on Valis's doorstep three years earlier, having travelled from Arc to read the Histories of the Great Cities, an epic collection of works housed partly at Neem and in part at the Great Library. Valis had looked upon him with an air of bemusement and contempt. Scholastic learning normally began at fifteen, not thirty eight, but Borycke was able to pay a substantial fee to gain admission to the school and Valis in his arrogance thought that sending him away was actually more effort than Borycke merited.

The Arcish historian, balding, bearded, overweight and like Parane, simply desperate to please, was used to the contempt of others and so shrugged off Valis's indifference with a grateful smile.

He had lived within the school whilst pursuing his own interests in the library, carrying out duties as they arose but for months on end being at his leisure to read, write and research. He discovered to his great pleasure that it was something that he was not simply good at, but that he had a veritable genius for. He engaged other scholars on low days at the Resonance, where he challenged assumptions about Arclandish history and the period that was broadly understood as the Sundering. It was this period of time, the chaos that had enveloped the world and the myths and stories that surrounded it that he felt compelled to return to time and again.

The lack of real evidence about what had happened, the loss of archives, the scant amount written and the reliance on oral testimony handed down from generation to generation he found both maddening and fascinating. As he learned more and more over the years a feeling stirred within him. He wasn't good with feelings in general, they were normally uncomfortable or the harbinger of some kind of sadness or sorrow. This feeling was different, however, it pushed aside the artifice of intellectualism that he had created for himself, and existed on the edge of his thoughts as one confusing word.

Love.

Borycke was reading, writing, talking and telling for love. He had no family left and no one he had ever found to give his heart to so the source of his love was at first unclear. It eventually came to him in the depths of the library, late into the night. He loved the people he read and wrote about and loved them deeply. The men, women and children who's hopes, fears and desires were as real as his own, who had lived through the great stories and tragedies of the world. People who's suffering he sometimes felt he touched as he read through the night. He loved them all and knew that telling their stories, both joyful and terrible was the only way to show that love. It was all they deserved. He stayed behind in the House of Neem for them, for the families and lost souls captured forever in parchment. To leave Valis, who appeared to have gone insane, to do what he wanted with the Neem collections seemed like an utter betrayal of everything he had worked for and for all the lives recorded on velum.

He stayed for Parane as well. She had been kind to him over the years, recognising his vulnerability and her own as kindred spirits often do. Her pain was acute and deep, like a splinter of glass in her heart, his was old and dull, the silent stirring of a soul ill at ease. She grew to be his second love at Neem, he saw how Valis bullied her and how she still longed for the old sage's approval regardless. With both parents gone and yet still a child, she was a lost daughter and Borycke made whatever efforts he could to be a surrogate father. Most of the time he achieved kindly uncle status. Until tonight of course.

Borycke had kept his presence in the school over the past few hours a secret to both Valis and Parane, but from the corners of the Thulchamber, he could hear her walk along the stone mezzanine above. He peered upwards and caught a glimpse of her from behind as she walked towards the spiral stairs of the west tower. In that moment, Borycke knew. He was gifted with some degree of human insight, he had always known that, but in the weeks to come he was puzzle over why he understood Parane's motivations so deeply in that moment. The only answer he came up with eventually was that a desire to die that night made perfect sense.

He hurried up the stairs behind her and found the door at the top open to the roof and climbed out onto the small circular platform that overlooked the city. Parane had placed one foot on the crenelated wall and was, with a curious amateurism, attempting to ease herself over the side, as if clambering into a boat.

"Parane," he shouted, "wait, stop, don't..." She looked at him, stunned to see him still in the school. As she turned to him, taking in a last view of life, Borycke had no doubts that this action was not simply a cry for help. If Parane had meant anything in her life before, she had never meant it as much as this. She began to topple backwards and Borycke leapt forwards in a desperate attempt to grab her before she fell. As he did so, it seemed as if time had slowed down. Around Parane appeared to be clear fragments in the air, as if she had fallen through a pane of glass. Borycke felt as if he was struggling against a tide to reach her, but mercifully, time had slowed to an almost standstill around Parane as the air around her seemed to break apart. He pulled her down onto the hard stone with a desperate sob of relief, and summoned up the only line that was guaranteed to work with a life long people pleaser like Parane.

"Don't leave me Parane..."

Silently, in despair, she put her hands over her eyes, but the tears so long denied would not come. Eventually she pulled herself up and placed her hand on Borycke's shoulder.

"Don't worry, I guess I won't, not today anyway," she said, her exhaustion and sorrow present in every word. As she spoke she followed the line of Borycke's vision, to the cracks in reality that were slowly vanishing and fusing back to a seamless whole before their eyes.

"What, what is this? What is happening?" She asked, uncomprehending.

"Valis," said Borycke without hesitation, "...it's Valis."

In the far distance, on the mainland, just at the very limits of their eyesight, a flash of fire in the dark of the forests erupted, momentarily illuminating the treetops and the looming mountains behind.

Parane nodded. This was Valis.

***

Frangka pushed Sharrick to the wet, dark forest floor as the night exploded into burning red light.

"Don't look," she hissed, pulling her cloak over the two of them, "stay down, it burns everything."

Sharrick said nothing, instincts kept him alive and the instinct to listen was powerful, Frankga knew far better than him what was happening.

This was the third time it had appeared for Frangka, but only the first time she had been in its presence for more than a moment. As she lay on the ground under the cloak she listened to the quite thunder generated by its tremendous power. She counted to five, then to ten, then to twenty and the roar of energy and flame continued. The Burning Man was waiting.

"Stay here," she said to Sharrick, before getting up to stand in the overwhelming light of the entity that had shaped her fortunes. It hovered thirty feet above her, a black silhouette in an orb of red energy, not the burning white of the empty hand. The rain evaporated into a thin mist that mingled with the smoke and hung in the tree canopy, while the rest of the woods were bathed in a strange crimson light. The treetops burned and flames licked along the side of oak and ash for hundreds of feet. Behind her a terrified Muuli reared up, a whinnying squeal of fear accompanied by the snapping of reins tethering him to a tree. Muuli bolted into the dark. Frangka saw Khariel to her right, also standing now and staring at the Burning Man. Neither of them were blistering, choking or otherwise dying from being in close proximity to it, as if it had chosen to protect them from its power.

Dreya and Zan had awoken from their short sleep, startled by the panicked Muuli. They both slowly stood, shielding their eyes from the glare in the presence of the Burning Man, as did Sharrick who picked himself up from the ground. Frangka shielded her eyes with her arm and drew her sword, even though she knew it would be futile against the terrible power before them. As she raised the sword the intensity of the energy seemed to change, from red to an ice white and blue; the fiery heat was replaced by a painful icy chill. The sword, all of a sudden seemed impossibly heavy, as if some powerful gravity dragged it to the floor. Frangka struggled to hold it and then dropped the blade to the floor, but instead of it falling flat on the wet earth, an invisible magnetism caused it to stand on its tip. In the strange blue light, momentarily, a circular rune could could be seen at the sword's hilt, Khariel could make it out clearly.

"Haegl..." he murmured to himself, "...what a thing to call a sword..."

"Is it yours?" called Frangka, "Is this why you're here? Take it if you've come for it," but the Burning Man was silent. Dreya could hear the last of Frangka's mental strength begin to ebb away as she faced the shadow. What began as the voice of resolute defiance ended in unmistakable fear and desperation.

"Take it and go, leave us!" she finally shouted. It had been the sword all along that had called the Burning Man to her; at the empty hand, at Dhugo's house and now. It had fallen into Frangka's hand years earlier in a moment of terror and desperation along the borderlands of Ghotharand years earlier and now it seemed almost fitting that it leave her in similar circumstances. The blade stood on its point exactly where she had dropped it, however, and there was no attempt by the shadow to reclaim it.

"It's not here for your sword," said Sharrick, "and it's not here to kill us, we'd be dead by now if it were."

Frangka ignored him, in the face of such immense power, the musings of a comparative stranger were irrelevant to her. He persisted however, grabbing her arm he forced her to listen to him.

"It's waiting, can't you see?" She pushed him away angrily; doing nothing and waiting was the only approach she had in the current circumstances and she did not want to have to listen to a passing Veskan who hadn't encountered the entity before.

"Waiting for what?" shouted Dreya, standing behind them.

"To say something," responded Sharrick. He had no idea, but it was a reasonable guess; it hadn't come to kill them, and it was unlikely to have stopped by to stare at them. The Burning Man remained silent however, only the crackle and hiss of a cold energy filled the silent night air. It stretched out two silhouetted arms and once again the its halo glowed fiery red. A circle of flame ripped out from the man's centre, exploding outwards to create a thin but perfectly symmetrical sphere of burning red energy above the trees. The five travellers looked upwards to see the spectacle that the shadow had created.

Zan peered hard and thought that within the flickering fire circle above their heads he saw lettering in the flames, fleeting and then gone.

"Not telling," shouted Sharrick, "...showing. It's trying to show you something."

Frangka looked upwards, dumbfounded by the vision she saw. The circle that gently turned above their heads began to flicker and fade, tiny gaps appeared in the seamless band of flame and the circle broke up. As it faded away, the light of the Burning Man dimmed, until it existed only as a glowing red outline in the dark, and then it was gone. With a thud, the sword fell on its side in the mud.

Frangka fell to her knees, desperately attempting to process all that had happened. It had come to her, it had followed the sword and come to her. It hadn't wanted the sword but instead had shown something.

"What do we do now?" asked Dreya, looking to Frangka for some reason to supply her with answers. Frangka shook her head, partly in bemusement, partly in despair.

"I don't know Dreya. I can't help you, you got to work this one out," she said, her voice flat.

"That's not what we said," said Khariel, reaching out his hand to pull Frangka up, "we said we'd get them both to safety, and nothing's changed."

Remembering her promise, she got up and in the glow of the fire that still flickered, nodded solemnly. Ghothars always remember their promises.

"Your parents, they will know what to do," said Sharrick, "this thing, that sword, the stone your parents received from Taeor. None of these things are coincidences. They will know. We will be at the gate by midday if we leave at first light."

Frangka nodded solemnly and picked up her sword.

"It's called Haegl," said Khariel, "...it's an old northern Vannic word, I can't remember the exact translation but I think it means..."

"...It means grit," said Dreya.

Frangka lifted the blade and looked at it in the firelight.

"Haegl," she smiled, "like a piece of grit in the world. It was his sword, I know. I think it rides with me a little while longer."

She sheathed Haegl and as the fire died down, the three adults and two children attempted to snatch a few hours sleep. All the while, above their head, lazy shards of reality floated in the air, attempting to piece themselves back together.

# Chapter Eighteen

Weeks earlier the journey of Faren and Maredh finally came to an end. Two hours of climbing up steep stone steps, through cramped tunnels lit by intermittent torchlight ended for the scholars when they reached Dures Horizon. The 'horizon' was in fact a huge circular stone balcony stretching around this interior of the artificial cavern inside Mount Khest; it was so called because Dures II supposedly came to the balcony in his dying years as the library was still under construction to view his life's work. Both Faren and Maredh stopped to rest, neither particularly enjoyed looking over the side, Maredh had concluded years before that there were some things that were too vast for the human mind to accommodate.

The library certainly fell into that category. From the vantage point of Dhures Horizon, the library itself, several hundred feet below looked like a city shrouded in night and mist. A layer of dust hung like a pall of smoke over the vastness of the library and books were not housed in simple shelves but in wooden storage blocks the size of houses. Where once there might have been a simple corridor between book cases, entire boulevards existed. The library was lit by lantern but there were so few curators and keepers that entire sections of the vast collection of works had fallen dark. Some regions of the library had gone without light or visitors for years. The library's keepers were engaged in an almost endless losing battle against entropy. Unlike any other city in Aestis (and the library was bigger than the actual city of Harenis at least twice over), the city of books below them was utterly silent. The repository of all the world's knowledge had more in common with a vast tomb or mausoleum than a library. It was intended as a sanctuary for knowledge long ago by far sighted Vannic emperors, now it had slowly become a burial place for ideas.

Faren and Maredh pulled their cloaks over their mouths and noses, even at this height the dust permeated the air, causing those who lived for long enough in it scriveners lung, a wretched palsy of the chest that slowly choked the sufferer. Their journey was almost at an end, the Llurye Gate had been specially chosen by Faren and Maredh not only because it was far away from the main Durean Gate but also because the scribe's perch, a cluster of chambers used by the House of Neem was nearby. It was a risk arriving there unannounced, there was a chance that it would be uninhabited, but those scholars who were using it would undoubtedly be enemies of Valis or have their own personal loathing of the man. All the pair of them needed was enough time to work out where in the library their journey had to begin; it would take word of their arrival several days to reach Valis at least.

They had used the perch many times before and knew how far to walk around the circular balcony until they found its thick wooden doors. The way was intermittently lit by candles and Faren lifted a slim glass lantern from a hook and used it to light their way to their destination. He drew a key from a pouch at his waist and attempted to unlock the door. He need not have bothered, it was open and the perch was in use. So much for their subterfuge. Maredh glanced cautiously, not relishing the possibility of complex and unwelcome conversations with fellow scholar from Neem.

They entered the candle lit hall of the perch and noticed to their joint dismay that there were at least a dozen familiar faces from the House of Neem stood patiently, waiting for them. Faren looked at them in silence, attempting to gauge whether there was any point in maintaining the pretence any longer. He looked at Maredh, who glanced anxiously back, and then he looked at the solemn faces in front of him.

"How long have you been waiting?" he asked.

"A few days, no more..." came a voice from the back of the hall.

Kaider Morin, one of Faren's scribes stepped forward: "They are all here because of the two of you. And because of me."

Morin, a man with thinning red hair and an expression of almost permanent unease in himself, closed his eyes momentarily as if attempting to relieve himself of an immense pain and then he spoke.

"There are people, dangerous people Faren, I don't know who they are but they know about every one of us and they know about you too. They came days ago to Harenis and they took my sons. They said it would help me to focus on talking to you directly if I knew Oran and Dyle were with them...."

His voice wavered and broke into a sob, but he fought to continue speaking.

"They said you had something, something very valuable, far too valuable for a place like Harenis and far too dangerous too. They want it back and we've come to ask you to give it to them."

"And you got here in time to say all this to us..." said Faren, "...you got here before us, you must have set out before we did. "

Kaider had never been anything other than trustworthy, Faren instinctively thought, but he was lying today.

"....they have my sons Faren, whatever your research is about, it can't be more important than that. All they need is for you to just give it back and they'll let the boys go."

"Why did it take a dozen of you to tell us this?" Faren asked, his tone laden with suspicion.

Kaider smiled and looked at the floor, shrugging. He knew that his story was not adding up and that Faren could see the holes in it.

"You've always liked an audience I guess," he smirked, "...now give us the stone and it can go to its rightful owners."

Faren and Maredh backed away slowly, back towards the main door.

"You have no idea what you're asking for Kaider," said Maredh, "...if you did, you wouldn't be talking like this, you need to let us go."

Kaider and the others edged forward.

"The truth is Faren, my boys are safe and well. My friends, the ones who want what you've got, they thought it might be something that would get to you, what with your two being all on their own. But you were just too clever weren't you? It's always been your problem."

"Kaider, listen to me," Faren said, edging away, "...listen, whatever you're being promised by these people, it's not worth it. We spent months working out where this stone comes from and what it is. We still don't know for sure, but if even our guesses are remotely right it, it is the death of everything we know. You can't take it..."

"I spent so many years listening to you..." Kaider snarled as he charged at Faren, who stepped to one side, sending his former scribe sprawling. Maredh and Faren ran for the door. The other scholars raced to stop them, suddenly realising how dangerous to them a man with a key could be in this situation.

Maredh and then Faren darted through the open door and then turned to pull it shut. The other Harenian scholars inside shouted as Faren turned the key in the lock, sealing his former colleagues inside. Lifting up his foot he stamped down on the key, breaking it off in the lock. If they were lucky, the inhabitants of the perch might be heard in a week or two by a passing librarian, but the library was a vast space, sparsely populated. Faren was unconcerned. There was nowhere to go now and nowhere to hide; the few days that Faren had hoped would be theirs at the perch, days of poring over maps of the library, looking for a clue as to where to find the origins of the stone, those days had just been denied them. Instead, there was only one road left. Ahead of them was a vast flight of stone steps curving downwards into the dark. The time had come to enter the library.

***

Faren and Maredh had always looked upon Parañe with immense sympathy and sadness. They had known her mother and liked her, and over the years the illusions that they had regarding her father one by one vanished; neither of them celebrated his death but neither mourned it either. Both looked on in barely concealed horror as Valis imposed himself on the vulnerable young girl before her father was cold in the ground. Lacking the wealth, the family heritage or the prestige to merit a tomb at Dancare, he was buried in a meadow cemetery an hour from Forgehead. Parañe had not visited the grave since he was buried, she was far from finding any freedom as an orphan but at least she was free of him. Her world had been dominated by Valis since the death of her father and the madness that now seemed to have engulfed him had made him dangerously unpredictable. The only thing that was remotely consistent about Valis, she thought, was his capacity for vindictiveness.

"We have to go Parañe," said Borycke, as they stood at the top of the tower, looking eastwards inland to the distant flashes of light and fire from the woods on the road to the Library.

"Whatever Valis has done here, whatever he's involved in," he said, "...whatever happened up here, with the air when it seemed like glass, it's nothing to do with us."

"He will never let me go Borycke, you go, get out of here, he will make me stay until the end," she said, a look of blank despair on her face.

"He can't control you Parañe, he can't keep you here."

"Yes Borycke, he can. My father died owing him a debt and it was a debt that passed to me. It means that Valis can do whatever he wants with me. I'd leave now and never come back if I could, but I am his prisoner here and he knows it."

"I won't leave you Parañe, I won't go to another house. If you're here then so am I," said Borycke, but even as he spoke she shook her head.

"He will find out, you can't go against him Borycke, he's too dangerous."

Borycke, in an uncharacteristic display of assertiveness gripped Parañe's wrists and looked into her eyes.

"Parañe, if you stay here alone with him, you will die, and you know it."

He was right, she did, her suicide bid had been interrupted tonight but it was her most powerful tool and one that gave her immense comfort and strength. Any time she wanted to exit Valis's world she could do. She nodded slowly, allowing Borycke to know how right he was in his assessment of her choices.

"I can find ways of hiding until sanity returns to the school, sooner or later Lyred will come back and force Valis to open the school again. The school is a big place and there are plenty of archive rooms and cellars to find a home in."

She smiled at his naive optimism and was heartened that he was going to stay, even though she knew in her heart that evading Valis would be all but impossible.

"I guess someone has to stop him," she said meekly, barely comprehending the significance of her words.

"Stop him?" said Borycke, looking intently at her, hoping for further explanation. She shrugged.

"Stop him, stop whatever this is, whatever he has started now. The only positive with Valis was that he was always weak, a wretched small man with no power to speak of other than his position in Harenis. He's always sought out ways to make himself more powerful, he can't help himself."

Parade knew Valis better than almost anyone in Harenis, she had been victimised by him for so long that it became a strange form of intimacy, where the persecuted was periodically able to have unfettered access to the mind of the persecutor.

"What do you think he is doing?" asked Borycke, his mind racing with questions.

"It doesn't matter, with him there will always be a plan, a scheme, a ploy and a victim. Whatever we've seen tonight, whatever happened at the Rhen house today is far bigger than him. Something has changed in this city and Valis thinks he's found out about it first. He'll be in a rush now to seize as much as he can from whatever is going on."

"Maybe it would be better to leave him to do what he wants?" said Borycke.

"Maybe," said Parane, a new note of coldness in her voice, "but shouldn't wicked men be made to suffer?"

Borycke was stunned by this change in Parañe, he had never heard her utter such views in all the years he had known her. She was not borne aloft by courage, so much as resignation. As a hostage in Valis's world she had nothing to lose and as a result, nothing left to fear. Finding a way to defeat her tormentor and to deny him whatever it was that he craved the most would be as powerful an act of defiance as dying, it suddenly occurred to her. Parañe's world was physically defined by Valis, her prison was the school. It was temporally defined by her, she knew that the length of time she had to spend at the school could be brought to an abrupt end by her own hand. What filled that physical and temporal space was down to her. The idea that she might now be a spy or a saboteur against her tormentor suddenly seemed very appealing and not at all the terrifying prospect that it might otherwise have seemed.

"We'd have to be patient," said Borycke, indicating that he was slowly coming round to the plan "...he could never know what we had done, even if we can do anything at all."

She nodded, now he was getting it.

"We stay together no matter what," she added, "...he can be very persuasive, never trust him."

Now it was Borycke's turn to nod in agreement.

"We stay together," he said smiling.

"Hide away Borycke and I'll find you, I should go to him or he will suspect something."

He leaned forward and kissed her on the forehead, clasping her hand.

"Courage no matter what, Parañe," he said, though his words were not only for her benefit, but for his. He left the tower and headed down the flight of stairs and with that the strange secret war against Lord Valis of Parañe Vandershal and Borycke Baryse began.

# Chapter Nineteen

Zyre's floating prison, the Winds of Gol, a large galleon that the Dranian Garrison in Harenis regularly used, creaked and slowly rocked. The storm surge created by the rain and wind that lashed the city caused the harbour wave to heave and crash against the dock and the ships moored there. The Winds of Gol would sail at dawn for Dran, having crossed the Greater Arc Sea from Arc itself with a cargo of linen, silk, hemp, salt and preserving spices. Its onward cargo to Dran was human, passengers travelling to the militarised city state voluntarily and otherwise. Zyre was neither free, nor condemned to the ship's brig either. His captivity was a relatively comfortable one, as befitted his status. He was given a cabin of his own and Hartmann had allowed two Varren men who volunteered for the role to escort him to Dran. Hartmann was under no illusion that they would act as companions to Zyre rather than jailers, but it was a useful way of ridding Harenis of two Zyre loyalists and he would have sent more back to Dran if he could.

As the sea winds whipped the harbour, Hartmann walked down to the dockside where the Winds of Gol was moored, knowing that there was one final conversation to have with Zyre. He walked up the gangplank, the ship's warder, a burly man with a steel capped staff recognised him, nodded and stepped aside.

"I have need to speak with your captain, sir, regarding the passenger I sent you earlier this day." The warder nodded and gestured to a figure above them on the aftcastle of the ship.

"Captain Provel," he grunted.

Hartmann mounted the wooden steps up to the aftcastle's deck, Provel looked out to sea, studiously ignoring him. He face was lit only by the red embers of a Del Marahan brakha. The thick aromatic smoke from the tightly rolled leaf mingled with the smell of sea air and rain.

"You've got trouble for me, I'm guessing," she eventually said, knowing full well that it was the only thing that Hartmann could possibly be bringing.

"I normally send trouble back to Dran with Captain Nobel," said Hartmann, who was familiar with the Winds of Gol and its crew, but not its current captain.

"He's with the Old Man now," she said. Sailors across the Arc Sea knew that frequently murderous ocean as the Old Man, providing it with offerings to placate its wrath. The Old Man became for many of them a living entity, a dark god to be wary of and to flatter with gold, wine and sometimes blood. Hartmann had little time for such superstitions, he had liked Nobel and was saddened to hear of his passing; how he had died and who was responsible would no doubt remain a well kept secret.

"I need you to take this to the council," he said, handing her a sealed parchment.

"Sorry, I've already heard about what happened to your last courier," she said dismissively.

"There will be more than enough money to make it worth your while," he promised, knowing that the garrison had few resources, but that with any luck a grateful House Evayn would compensate Provel for her troubles.

"I attach a high price to anything to do with you, your men, Dran or this place at the moment. I'm not blind or deaf, the whole waterfront knows what happened with you and your friend Zyre today. I can tell you word for word what's in that letter 'dear council, Varren men have mutinied but there was a good reason for it, please stop the Varrens from throwing everything they have against us'. Am I right?"

"Yes, you are. Nice letter to deliver if you're dumping a Varren captain in chains at the dockside in Dran I'd guess. I think it's an insurance policy incase the Varrens are upset by what has happened to their man. You can have gold to go with that insurance policy, or not, it's up to you."

She frowned, looking at Hartmann with both contempt and a grudging respect. She snatched the letter from him and slid it under her cloak.

"The House Evayn will see you are compensated for your trouble, captain," said Hartmann, "Before I go, I need to have one final conversation with the prisoner."

"As you wish," said Provel, returning to her smoke as the rains began to lash the deck.

Hartmann made his way below deck and was guided to Zyre's cabin. He opened the door and stepped into the cramped chamber. Zyre looked up from the book he was reading and stared impassively at Hartmann.

"Captain, will I never be rid of you?" he said.

"Soon you will Zyre, soon. At dawn you will sail and return home, charged with insubordination, a sentence that should see you at the end of a rope."

"You know that won't happen though, don't you, "said Zyre, mocking him.

"Yes, your master Sorias Varren might be displeased that your tireless work for him here in Harenis has been undone but he won't allow one of his own to hang on principal. He will give you something to do for a few months to keep you out of sight and in that time you will tell him everything you know about burning men, charred bodies and he will be most interested. The first thing you'll tell him, however, is that the Varrens in Harenis have thrown out their captain Revein and are being led by a lowly Evayn. At that point, his rage will know no bounds and he will do whatever he can to undo the slur to his family's honour. I can't stop any of this, it's what you will do no matter what."

"How very perceptive of you captain."

"This is why I have written to the council, upon which Sorias Varren sits, to explain how and why you planned the murder of a fellow Dranian soldier. You were labouring under some delusion that a secret letter was being couriered to Dran, but in reality, the assassination of one of my men was based on nothing more than your imagination. That's what the council will hear anyway."

Zyre was now deathly silent.

"The council, knowing that Varrens kill Evayns, and possibly Mondrias, Graylls, Hauks and others will be outraged, horrified, livid. It will certainly make Sorias Varren's position untenable, and it might make his demands for swift action against the Harenian garrison more difficult to justify. I'd say you're going to have to run to your master before the letter reaches the council, because you've left him in a very difficult situation."

Zyre's silence and his look of pure, unadulterated hatred was unnerving, but Hartmann knew he had won.

"Safe journey Zyre, give my regards to the Varrens," said Hartmann, leaving Zyre to his fate.

***

In the eerily dreamlike world that Valis inhabited inside his chambers, the Wanderer began to fade. Valis was not aware how much time had passed since they had returned from the Red Waste and felt drowsy and suddenly unable to concentrate. He sat slumped at his table, staring at the grain of the polished wood. At times it seemed as if the Wanderer was close and was speaking, at other times he seemed to vanish into the dark recesses of the room. The drip, mercifully, had ceased for now.

"I have a gift for you," came the Wanderer's oddly melodic whisper, "the gift of seeing."

The words roused Valis from his listless state and the mental fog that clouded his vision lifted; once again the world seemed clear. He stood up and saw the Wanderer in front of him, standing on the cold stone floor. He outstretched his hands and black sand poured onto the floor from each ice white palm. The thick grains, like tiny black diamonds, skittered and bounced on the stones alive with their own energy. They began to swirl and swarm across the floor, forming a thin black circle, a ring of the purest obsidian. The Wanderer gestured to Valis.

"Too see across the long miles and into the darkness."

Valis, his mouth dry with excitement and his heart pounding, stepped forward towards the circle.

"What will I see?" he asked, his voice high and childlike.

"Whatever you wish," replied the Wanderer, " but you be more than just the seer."

If the Wanderer said anything else at that point, Valis was oblivious, his insatiable lust for the power of sight that the Wanderer promised drowned out all thought. With a feverish excitement bordering on madness he stepped into the circle and the room plunged into a semi darkness. A noise rather like the crashing of an immense wave told him that he was no longer in the House of Neem. Valis peered into the gloom and when his eyes adjusted, he quickly recognised where he was; the Library of Harenis. In front of him were the thick doors of the perch, locked shut as they had been two weeks earlier by Faren Khanhalary. Valis reached out to touch them and the thick iron bolt shattered like glass. The doors swung open with just a wave of Valis's hand and he found himself drifting into the main chamber of the perch. Around him lay bodies, not dead but exhausted through hunger and the daily effort of staying alive as the body slowly devoured itself.

Valis had not consciously chosen to come here, the circle had. The stirrings of hatred in his heart towards the two scholars who had dared to vanish without his say, to the Khanhalarys, from whom he would have extracted knowledge had guided him here. The circle knew all too well what he wanted and it also seemed to know how to get it. Other than the Khanhalarys, Valis knew where any scholar in his service was at any one time, and knew exactly the name to call for.

"Kaider."

Kaider Morin and several of the other scholars had spent hours throwing their body weight against the doors and when that was unsuccessful they used benches and tables. As the hours turned into days, they grew weaker and hope faded. They should have known, Kaider thought, the steel bolts and the doors themselves were built by the Firg long ago and Firg steel always holds. He had drifted in and out of consciousness in the past few days, unsure who was alive and who was dead, and when the voice called out his name he was sure he was dreaming. Wearily Kaider pushed himself up off the table where he was slumped and peered into the gloom. In the last few days the trapped scholars had taken to rationing the candles and one flickered dimly in an alcove in the wall. Kaider had the sense that there was a presence beyond the flickering flame, but hunger had robbed him of certainty in his own perception.

"His eye will reveal truth," the Wanderer whispered to Valis. Barely understanding what the Wanderer meant, Valis reached out to touch the corner of Kaider's eye. Even though he stood in front of Kaider, the scholar seemed to look straight through him. Valis intuitively knew that he would not be seen. As soon as Valis's boney porcelain middle finger brushed the side of Kaider's eye, a powerful convulsion passed through the man and he began to stammer and then words streamed from his mouth as if being vomited from him. A series of random and unconnected thoughts spilled out of his unconscious mind and amid the babbling chatter two words gleamed like diamonds.

Veska. Khanhalary.

"He has been loyal to another," whispered the Wanderer, "Your instincts were right, those you seek are hunted by great powers."

Valis wondered what else he might be able to do to Kaider in this vulnerable state to deliver a fitting punishment for his disloyalty. The Wanderer preempted any sadism from Valis.

"He is more valuable than gold," the disembodied voice whispered, " breath into him."

***

When the blue light of dawn came, Frangka roused Dreya and Zan, and Khariel reluctantly scouted the woods for Muuli.

"Not long now," she said to Dreya in a bid to be slightly more reassuring than she had been hours earlier when she had been convinced that the Burning Man would destroy them all. They ate what supplies of salted fish and dried fruit they could stomach and headed back down the wooded slopes at first light to the trail that would lead them up to the library gates.

The road to the Llurye Gate ran along the line of trees for several miles and as the travellers climbed up the trail the eastern sun burned up the low lying mist and warmed cold aching bones.

Khariel wasn't sure what he had expected from both Dreya and Zan as they neared the library, but he hadn't expected them to be so subdued. He glanced at Dreya and caught Frangka looking too. Dreya's expression was one of resignation, the look that someone used to disappointment frequently adopts.

"They know this is a waste of time," said Frangka, when they stopped to rest, making sure she was out of earshot. Khariel smiled and shook his head, lying to himself in the interests of expediency.

"No, they're just exhausted and they're worried about Dhugo," he said.

Frangka fixed Khariel with an uncompromising stare.

"Fool yourself if you like but don't waste your time trying to fool me too. Their parents won't be there, and they know it."

# Chapter Twenty

The tragedy of Faren and Maredh Khanhalary, thought Dreya, was that they never actually meant to disappoint or fail their children but so frequently did. The parents who never cared about their children or who beat or tormented them had such low ambitions for what it meant to be a caring human being that they met them every time. Dreya's stone heart, which weighed heavily in her chest as they walked up the trail to Mount Khest in the shadow of black skies, was an unwelcome gift from her parents; she realised this now and recalled that the heart had weighed heavier every time they had both gone away. Neither parent had ever asked Dreya if she and Zan wanted to be alone, it was simply assumed that they would not mind. No one had asked Dreya if she wanted to spend weeks and sometimes months caring for her brother, as the help from the school invariably withered away as the days dragged by. Dreya had conditioned herself to be disappointed with her parents and Zan had learned how to insulate himself from the hurt which spread from his sister.

She knew that unless the invisible laws of the world that pertained to family, love and how much you could trust anyone at all had changed dramatically, that they were heading for a monumental disappointment. Faren and Maredh would be gone. Dreya found her skepticism about her parents hard to reconcile with the easy way in which she had begun to quickly trust the three strangers who led them towards the library. Each of them, in their own way had been simple and clear about their motivations and the limits of how far they could take the two children. Dreya had noticed Frangka and Khariel in murmured conversation earlier, glancing over at them. Frangka's face, normally cold and impassive was now riven with a frown as she talked with Khariel. Dreya did not profess to be an expert on people but she could instinctively see in Frangka a person who did not like surprises and whose entire mental world was focused on potentially bleak outcomes. It was quite clear to Dreya that Frangka had already considered the possibility that there would be no one to meet them at the library.

Weeks had passed since Faren and Maredh had passed through the great doors at the Llurye Gate and they stood partially open when the travellers arrived. Neither of Dreya and Zan's parents had returned back through the gate to lock it on the way out and there were no wardens left to attend to the tasks that absent minded or preoccupied scholars forgot. Khariel, who had spent years wandering across the Arclands looking for fragments of hidden knowledge, had made it one of his defining principals in life not to enter the library. He recognised however, that the business of living periodically swept aside such rules and concerns, reminding him of his very limited control over his own fate. The library was here whether he liked it or not and Khariel recognised that his principals were irrelevant; he had lost the battle to preserve them. Now the long climb upwards in the gloom awaited them.

***

Valis did not know how long he had been in the seeing circle (which was the name, given his limited magical lexicon, he had decided to give it) it seemed like hours but he was starting to realise that time in the Library of Harenis was not what it once had been. As his powers within the circle grew and the circle and Valis's mind began to work as one with each other, his thoughts spread out across the library, noticing in a wild intoxicating rush the thoughts and feelings of scholars across the vast expanse of the the great chamber of knowledge. He encountered strange parts of the library where all thought seemed dead and also parts of the library where his mind was not permitted to go. These frustrations were rendered irrelevant, however, when a very familiar sensation arose at the Llurye Gate and the seeing circle took him at once to the steps that Khariel, Frangka, Dreya, Zan and Sharrick climbed up. He seemed to hover above them and as he did, his loathing of Khariel was undimmed. Reaching out with his thoughts to Kaider, whom was now firmly under his will, Valis issued his first order.

"Welcome them Kaider, welcome them."

He had breathed into Kaider, as instructed by the Wanderer and flecks of the black sand had carried on his warm breath, settling on Kaider's face and then disappearing into his skin. Valis felt a curious warmth emanate from Kaider when this happened, the man seemed to shake and shudder on the spot. For a moment his eyes focused on Valis before him and he shook with fear, but as Valis felt the connection between them grow, his power over Kaider became absolute and he knew that he could reach deep inside him.

"Do not see..." whispered Valis. Kaider's terror abated as the vision and the memory of having seen Valis appear before him vanished. Kaider staggered away from his dying contemporaries, through the main hall of the perch and out onto Dures horizon, making his way to the stone steps that Khariel and his party would be climbing. Weakness and hunger no longer seemed to be an impediment for him; a newfound strength surged through his legs and his body. Instead of clear, conscious thoughts he seemed to exist in a dreamlike state, but one where all events, from the scurrying of some small creature to the eventual footfall of feet on stone steps were entirely predictable, as if ordained by some great entity.

Sharrick walked, holding a torch aloft, one hand on the hilt of a dagger. As they climbed in silence and almost total dark, up endless flights of stairs, his thoughts drifted back and forth and settled on the day he had last seen Maredh Khanhalary. In her fear and vulnerability that day in the driving cold and rain there had also been exquisite beauty; something human and real that Sharrick, in all his years of watching and reporting had rarely seen. Like Frangka, he was doubtful that they would find Dreya and Zan's parents at the end of this long climb, but that was in large part because doubting was his trade. He was unsure how he would feel if he ever saw Maredh again and that troubled him. Sharrick had survived as long as he had by knowing his own mind, but his heart was frequently a mystery to him. He knew that for the woman he had seen that day, protecting her children from harm seemed like no imposition at all.

Sharrick saw a figure standing at the top of the stairs first and in a moment knew that their presence was known; flaming torches were nothing if not a giveaway. He glanced behind himself to Frangka, who had seen the figure too; he heard the scrape of her sword, Haegl, being unsheathed and gestured for her to put it away. Whatever awaited them at the top of the stairs, they would have to talk this time, not fight. As they stepped onto Dures Horizon, Sharrick held the torch aloft and in the flickering light Kaider's emaciated face was illuminated.

"Welcome," he said softly, "No one has used the Llurye Gate in weeks," Kaider noticed the assortment of weapons that Frangka and Sharrick carried, "...you don't seem like our usual visitors here."

"We want to find the last people who used the gate," said Sharrick.

"Then you are in luck friend, I know them well, and..." he peered past Sharrick and saw Dreya and Zan in the semi gloom, "...I know their children."

"Where are they?" asked Dreya, desperate not to dare hope anything, desperate for the stone in her chest not to get any heavier.

"They left, they were here briefly, along with the rest of the Neem scholars who use the library, but they left."

"Where? Where did they go?" demanded Khariel, tiring of the rather evasive man.

Kaider gestured to the five travellers to the side of the horizon, and leaned over the stone parapet towards that vast expanse of the library below.

"They have gone into the library, that is all I know."

Khariel looked across the enormous expanse of the vast city sized archive and let out a sigh of despair. It had all been for nothing, there was no way they could find anyone in the library and Dreya and Zan would have been better off staying back in Harenis. Instinctively, seeing his guilt and frustration, Dreya went to his side.

"It's not your fault, it's theirs. They are selfish, my parents, I should have told you. They belong in there, books are about all they care about."

"Dreya, I was sent to find you and protect you. I hoped that taking you to them would keep you safe, but I can't manage to do that even. The people who sent me, well I don't think you can call them people, I think you and your parents are important to them, I don't know where to go from here but I promise I won't leave you and Zan."

"We go in," said Frangka.

Dreya, Zan, Sharrick and Khariel turned to look at her.

"We go in," she repeated. There was a pregnant pause.

"Is there a reason why?" inquired Khariel.

"We can't find them in there, no one can, but we can find whatever else we need."

"What do you think we need?" asked Khariel furrowing his brow, trying his best to understand what Frangka, a woman of few words at the best of times, was saying.

"They have a stone, we have a burning man, a circle of fire, trying to tell us something. We have all the books in the world down there. The burning man and your parents, all part of the same thing. We go in and find out what."

"Where would we even start looking? We'd spend the rest of our lives lost in there," said Khariel, shaking his head.

"My parents always said what chaos it was down there, that it doesn't work like a normal library any more, things are lost and no one knows where," said Dreya.

"Not no one," said Kaider, "I know how to find what you are looking for."

Suddenly, Kaider had everyone's attention.

"The library can be made to give up its secrets," said Kaider, channeling Valis's words, "If you let me, I will show you the way to those who have spent their lives understanding its workings. They are the map makers at the heart of the library, they will know what you seek."

Frangka looked to Dreya.

"You choose, we brought you and your brother here, so you choose."

Dreya looked down at the expanse of chaos below them and remembered the Burning Man from the previous night, how it spared them and had something powerful to show.

"We go in," she said.

# Epilogue: Journeys into Darkness

Slate grey skies and the promise of a rough crossing. Captain Naverin of the Prince of Hevere, a small freight cog that had spent years slipping in and out of ports across the Arclands largely unnoticed, looked to the skies and muttered a silent prayer to the Old Man, promising to send something or someone of value over the side of the ship as it was tossed about in a deep swell. Ordinarily in these conditions he would not have taken the ship out to sea, but the price that the dockside agent paid in a hurry was unusually high. Discretion, always, was part of the service he offered and he had little interest in the cargo that had been brought aboard. He was mildly curious that the trunk had been left in a cabin, along with a couple of minders; he knew that his destination, the southern shores of Mordikhaan, meant that there was another good reason to know as little as possible.

Below decks, two of the Harenian Resident's hired swords, after having waited a couple of hours since the ship slipped out of Harenis's harbours at night, opened the trunk they had brought with them. Dhugo, pale as moonlight and still, lay asleep, his knees curled to his chest. His minders, tasked with the job of taking him to Mordikhaan, reached down to check that there was still breath from his mouth and a pulse in his neck. Satisfied that he was still alive, both looked at the other and with a shrug, closed the lid of the chest once more; they would have to find a way to wake him soon, lest the boy die and they have to put his body over the side; after recent disasters in Harenis, the servants of the Crag were growing intolerant of failure and returning to Mordikhaan empty handed was not a prospect either of them looked forward to.

Many leagues to the south, across sea, land, forest and mountain another journey into the unknown began. Kaider was careful not to encourage his visitors to venture in the direction of the perch which was just a stone's throw away. Instead he pointed to the heart of the library, which lay just on the edge of their vision in the gloom and dust. Lights flickered in the far distance as Dreya, Zan, Khariel, Frangka and Sharrick strained their eyes to see.

"There, the map makers, a day or two in a straight line, but most likely five or more on our journey. They will know where in the library you should go."

"Very kind of you to take us there," said Sharrick, as they began to assemble their collective belongings.

"It's nothing, really, I knew their parents..." Kaider began.

"It's funny," said Sharrick, "I don't suppose we've met before have we? You've never been east of the mountains?" he asked, using a popular geographical expression for Veska and Ghotharand.

Kaider smiled nervously.

"No, no, never, barely even left this place," he said gesticulating at the library. Sharrick smiled back.

"You must just have one of those faces I guess," he said, leaving enough uncertainty in his voice to show Kaider he was unconvinced. Kaider led them along the long stone arc of the horizon to the next flight of stairs downwards and the party of six descended down into the dust and disorder of the library to make the journey to find the mapmakers and learn the secret of the Burning Man.

As they did, in the old ink quarter of Harenis, or Inktown as it is known to some, a dirty glass window pane broke with a stone. A hand reached through the shattered window and grasped a door handle, wrenching it open. Ratcoats shoved the door open wide and forced his way in, reaching around in the gloom for a candle or any form of light.

"See, told you no one was living here," came a voice from the ceiling. Ratcoats looked up and the boy who had emerged out of the shadows in the House of Neem walked upside down across the ceiling.

"Only him," said Ratcoats, pointing to the body of the Resident and the pool of congealed blood that he lay in.

"He won't be any trouble Ratkoh, think this place'll be fine."

"Fine for what? When you gonna leave me be?" Pleaded Ratcoats, who had endured two endless days of the boy and was feeling frantic. On hearing his tone the boy's sharp features transformed into a murderous stare of rage.

"We've got work to do Ratkoh, and you're mine til it's done, til I say! He's coming Ratkoh and we're going to show him this time, going to show him for good!"
Dreya, Zan, Khariel, Parane, Borycke, Frangka, Zyre, Valis, Hartmann, Sharrick

and maybe even Golver will return in:

The Magician of Harenis - Coming soon.

Join the world of Arclands @ www.arclands.online
