

## The Ring of Eman Vath

## In the Land of Aeon Book #1

## By: Hal Emerson

Copyright © 2015 by Bradley Van Satterwhite

All rights reserved.

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

First Edition, Digital, 2015

Table of Contents

Chapter One: The Fairfield

Chapter Two: Visitors

Chapter Three: Stories in the Night

Chapter Four: Invasion

Chapter Five: The Great Ship

Chapter Six: The Kull

Chapter Seven: The Road to Var Athel

Chapter Eight: Rane

Chapter Nine: Wren

Chapter Ten: Flight

Chapter Eleven: Apprentice

Chapter Twelve: The Minor Arcana

Chapter Thirteen: Valinor Therin

Chapter Fourteen: The Last Thief

Chapter Fifteen: Captive

Chapter Sixteen: Need

Chapter Seventeen: The Northern Isles

Chapter Eighteen: Little Bird

Chapter Nineteen: Escape

Chapter Twenty: Blood of the Eryn-Ra

Chapter Twenty-one: The Wilds

Chapter Twenty-two: Binding

Chapter Twenty-three: Fort Turin

Chapter Twenty-four: Pursuit

Chapter Twenty-five: Blood, Word, and Song

Epilogue

About the Author

Preview of The Prince of Ravens

Chapter One: The Fairfield

Dunlow was a quiet place – sleepy, some might say – and it had no aspirations to be anything else.

It was a large village, possibly a small town, and known vaguely throughout the Peninsula as a place of people both hardworking and stubborn. Located a good distance south of the great city of Caelron, and also a good distance north of the sprawling inland city of Londor, it was just far enough away from both that most people could say they'd visited it even if they never had. It was exactly the same time and distance to both cities, in fact – five days by wagon; three if you had a good horse – and though no one really cared, the people of Dunlow loved to tell anyone willing to listen that their town was in the exact, dead center of the Peninsula.

Existing in-between as it did, Dunlow managed largely on its own, save for occasional trade with other towns. It had not seen a tax collector in over fifty years, and neither Caelron nor Londor seemed certain whose influence it fell under, so, in the name of good manners and shrewd politics, no influence was exerted. This left Dunlow to take care of itself, which it did perfectly well, thank you very much.

A streak of pride ran through the population of Dunlow – the stubborn kind that comes from rising before dawn and working past sunset. It extended to every aspect of their lives: Dunlowians were proud of the harvest, proud of each other, and by and large proud of their place in the world. They elected their own council to run the town and to ensure a fair shake for any accused of wrongdoing, and they were quite proud of that too.

They were also, it should be noted, proud of their humility.

Though the duly elected town council was enough for most matters, there was also a mayor for bigger events of smaller importance. Dunlow was just large enough of a village to need a mayor, and just small enough of a town that he did not have much to do. In the years of King Malineri's reign, the office fell to the lot of Eldric Stonewall, owner of the Fairfield Inn.

Eldric was a bold man, though not particularly cut from heroic cloth. He was dark of eye and middling of height, and he tended to thoughtfulness instead of laughter, though he was courteous and affable enough for a good reputation. As a boy he earned his spending money mending odds and ends around Dunlow – a chair here, a wagon tongue there – and the older generation took note. The young Eldric was good with his hands – indeed, rather brilliant at times – and that meant he had a future. When the boy became a young man, the Council spoke to his parents.

The aging Stonewalls took the town's advice and apprenticed Eldric to a carpenter in Ouldin, one of the fishing villages that lined the coast. He was gone for five years, visited briefly before his two-year stint as a traveling journeyman, and then returned for good several years later with Guild papers in hand.

His parents were delighted to have him home, and Dunlow at large was ecstatic. A man with Guild papers was a man employable anywhere throughout Aeon – even in Aginor or Londor or Caelron itself. The fact that Eldric had chosen to return home after earning the rank of Master was a huge boon for Dunlow; only a handful of people in its long history had been officially sanctioned by one of the twelve Guilds. Not that they thought such finery was needed – most of them got along perfectly well without such pomp and nonsense – but to turn away an official sanction would be unthinkably arrogant, which they most certainly were _not_.

When Eldric's parents heard he was returning, they set aside space on their property for him to open up a carpenter's shop. They were quite beside themselves with excitement. They beamed at him when he strode through their door and offered smiles and awkward, aging-elbow hugs. Old Rubin Stonewall fought to hold back tears at the sight of his full-grown son, though his wife Eda wept openly.

Eldric was glad to be home, or so he told himself. He ate well and drank, speaking deep into the night about the shop he would build and the tools he would order on credit with the backing of his Papers. He dreamed aloud about how he would help raise up the rest of Dunlow so that it would never again be considered just a backwater village but fully acknowledged as a town of solid reputation. When finally his parents retired for the night, leaving him alone, he went to the bed and room of his childhood and watched the stars through his window.

There is a constellation in the land of Aeon that has never been seen elsewhere – a constellation called the Sisters. It consists of two starry women holding aloft a single Sorev Ael staff. It is only visible at midnight and only on the horizon, like a dream that fades as each new day begins. The story of the Sisters was always a favorite of Eldric's, and as he lay on the soft wool blankets, his heels hanging off the edge of the short child's bed, he remembered the story and grew sad.

There were men of learning in Aeon, men called Sorev Ael who studied the hidden powers of the world in the city of Var Athel. Var Athel lay just north of Caelron, opposite the Shining City on the other side of Maiden's Bay. From the Sorev Ael had come some of the great legends of Aeon, and the story of the Sisters was one of the most remarkable. Their deeds and adventures were many, but what Eldric remembered as he stared up at the bright white stars that hung in the black velvet of the night sky was that the Sisters had been issued Papers just as he had. They had been trained as clothiers to inherit their mother's store, but when the time came for them to do so, they found themselves unable. They saw what the years had done to her, how she was bent, gray, and lonely, and they spoke to each other in quiet whispers about what they wanted for their lives instead.

The scene of their announcement played itself out in endless permutations in Eldric's head that night. He wondered if they had quarreled, wondered if their mother had been so disappointed that she'd wept. For in the morning, the Sisters told her that they couldn't stay – that they were only back for provisions before they departed again to report to Var Athel.

It was a lie, of course. In that day women were not tested for the spark of the Sorev Ael, the Servants of All. Still, the Sisters knew that to tell the truth – that they wanted nothing to do with their mother's life – would have been unnecessarily cruel. Their mother was understandably distraught, but she could not oppose what she thought was the will of the Sorev Ael. The Sisters left her what money they had received with their Papers – several years' wages – and told their mother to do with it as she would. They left immediately after, desperate to escape.

They arrived at Var Athel penniless, with only the clothes on their backs. They had no proof that they had even a shred of talent, had never shown any signs of power, and had never even given the Sorev Ael much thought. But when they arrived at Var Athel they demanded testing – even though women were not allowed into the Sorcerers' Court in that day. They were, of course, denied entry.

They stayed at the gate of the Citadel for three days and three nights, sleeping in shifts. Finally, it was Rothoc the Bold, then head of the Circle that rules Var Athel, who went out to test them himself. The Keeper of Var Athel, an ancient being part man and part enchantment, appeared before them and held out his staff. They both placed hands upon it without hesitation, and a brilliant light flooded the whole of the courtyard, blinding onlookers who had come to watch two foolish women be taught a lesson.

When the light faded, Rothoc came forward and embraced them like long lost daughters. When he released them, he smiled and said simply, "You have come home."

Eldric fell asleep thinking of that story, and for the first time was confused by it. There was a sick yearning in his heart and a war in his mind between what was expected of him and what he wanted. He slept very little, and what dreams he had were dark and full of fear.

When he woke the next morning, it was to the misty gray light of pre-dawn that had seeped into Dunlow. He tried to push away his thoughts from the night before along with his wishes for the future. Stories were for children, and he had grown up. He splashed water on his face, tore off a chunk of bread on his way through the kitchen, and went out into the morning.

The air was crisp, though the cold did not seem to touch him. He was divorced from his body as only those on the verge of a profound change can be. His mind was awake despite the hours of lost sleep, and he went to the plot of land laid aside for his shop, tools in hand, and made ready to build according to the plans he'd drawn.

But then he stopped and began to think.

Eldric was of that strange and bygone breed of men that enjoys contemplation. For many in Dunlow, contemplation was at best a pleasant diversion when no conversation was to be had and at worst a dangerous distraction from the constant necessity of work. Not so for Eldric, though. Thinking was a part of him, as much as his skin or bones. He had old blood in him – the ancient blood of the men who had made the first fire and looked at the world in wonder. So when he stood on that plot of land, the flat and level earth behind his parents' modest home, thoughts rushed in on him the way that first love does: all at once, encompassing.

He thought again of the Sisters – how they had turned away from the easy life that well-meaning others had tried to force on them. He thought of his parents and what they expected of him; thought of the years he'd spent training in Ouldin and later throughout the Peninsula. A typical man of Dunlow who had such thoughts would have dismissed them, for thoughts of such nature interfered with work and work was the height of virtue. Eldric, however, was not a typical man. He was perhaps more and perhaps less, but either way makes up a difference.

He slowly turned and looked around the family plot, held in the grip of something beyond his understanding. The Stonewall plot was old – one of the oldest in Dunlow – and the house had stood for generations. The road that traveled the Peninsula from Caelron to Londor was just visible from where he stood. The smaller road that branched off of it and passed through Dunlow all the way to the foot of the Windy Mountains ran right by the Stonewall plot. The Village Green was nearby too, and the oldest, biggest shops as well. Everything from the blacksmith to the clothier was within walking distance.

And so it was that in the fine mist of a breaking day, Eldric Stonewall realized what he was going to do with his life.

He woke his parents and told them what he planned, speaking feverishly, his cheeks red with excitement. They listened in dismay as he made clear his intention to throw away a solid profession in favor of an ill-formed dream, but as he spoke, their minds began to change. He saw the spark in their eyes when it flared to life, and he did not let up until he had fanned it to a full blaze. He spoke through morning, afternoon, and night, unfolding to them his vision, and when finally he fell silent, they were bursting with pride and urging him onward.

He worked nonstop over the next week, as only a man devoted to a dream can do. He drew up more plans in a feverish daze, sleeping in sporadic bursts that were broken by lightning bolts of inspiration that threw him back into frantic motion. When finally he was done, he slept for a day and a half straight.

He went to Lare, the town builder, and unfolded his plans with no less enthusiasm than when he'd spoken to his parents. Lare, gnarled with age but still strong of eye and limb, was impressed. He too caught the fever, and the number of dreamers increased to four.

Together they went to the Village Council, a group of some dozen men and women from the most influential families in Dunlow. If Eldric had come on his own, a young man with a head full of strange ideas, he no doubt would have been dismissed. But together with his parents and Builder Lare, he drew their eye.

Soft-spoken as he was, and prone to bouts of quiet contemplation, not many had heard him speak before that day. But Eldric, when overcome with passion, spoke with the fire and eloquence of men several times his learning; and as he had done with his parents, so too did he work his magic on the council.

There was little on the docket that day, and Lilibet Struan, the current Head, thought that when the floor was opened for petitions the meeting would soon be done and over with. There was only old Lare and the Stonewall family in attendance that night from all the village, save for Poal the scribe, and she was looking forward to an early night. She went through the normal proceedings with extra speed, then opened the floor for comment. As soon as she fell silent, Eldric stood.

They greeted him with smiles – a young man with Papers is always considered an upstanding citizen by default – and commented on how much he had grown. He thanked them and began to speak.

At first, there was only stunned silence. The announcement that he did not wish to live a carpenter's life shocked and appalled many of the older and more conservative members of the council, but as he continued, not stopping to allow for protestation, the silence turned from shock to captivation. He spoke the same way he had spoken to Lare and to his parents, for that was the way he spoke to everyone when the passion of a thing was in him. He painted a picture of what he intended to do and spoke of how the idea had come to him. He spoke until his mouth was dry and all his dreams had been laid bare, and when he finally fell silent the sky outside had turned from the amber-gold of sunset to the pitch-black of night.

It is doubtful that the council had ever heard so audacious a plan before, but though the people of Dunlow are proud and stubborn, there runs in them a streak of imagination like a vein of gold buried deep beneath the earth. If it is uncovered and brought to light, there is much of wonder and excitement there, and such was on display that night. Lilibet Struan broke the silence:

"How can we help?"

Eldric grinned and told them.

The very next day a town gathering was called, which old Mayor Appledown helped to organize. When everyone was in attendance, Eldric laid out his plan. Some shook their heads in reluctance, and some seemed angry that time would be wasted on such a scheme, but most were excited, and soon Eldric had the help and supplies he needed.

It was on that day that he met Jaes Heatherfield.

Her father, Chester Heatherfield, came up to Eldric after he finished addressing the village and told the young man that he regretted his inability to help. He was just on the far side of middle-aged, and so was his wife. The only child they had ever had was Jaes, and if they left the fields they owned at the foot of the Windy Mountains, they would never pull in enough crops to feed themselves, much less make a profit when the traders came.

But Eldric heard very little of this, because Jaes had come up beside her father, and as soon as he laid eyes on her he knew, just as he had known about his future, that she was what he wanted.

She was tall and curved and strong: a farmer's daughter with no older brothers to help with the chores. She stood straight and looked him in the eye, and when she smiled her whole face beamed and his heart melted.

Chester Heatherfield, no fool, stopped speaking when it became clear that Eldric, while doing his best to appear attentive, was only hearing one in every twenty words. Mr. Heatherfield made the introductions straight away – for there is very little that will stand in the way of a Dunlow farmer seeing his daughter married well – and when Eldric took Jaes' hand in greeting, they fell in love immediately.

It took three years to build the inn, which, actually, was quite a feat for such a small town. It was three stories tall – audacious in that time and place – and had a common room, three stables in back, and one whole side made of the same stone wall that had given Eldric his family name.

Jaes came every day to help him work. Chester Heatherfield, a clever twinkle in his eye, told her that Eldric had begged him for the extra help, and that if she worked well she could continue going. Jaes, no fool herself, went along with the ruse.

The inn, already a fantastic vision, was inspired to new heights by the presence of Jaes. Eldric built it as much for her as for himself – he pushed himself to new heights of ingenuity in order to show her what he could do, and every time her expression turned to one of surprise and wonder, he fell in love with her all over again.

Jaes, for her part, was Eldric's equal in many ways, for she was as good with people as he was with ideas. She was known far and wide throughout the town and knew each and every resident in turn. She convinced Blacksmith Thomil to work practically for free and made sure Builder Lare was always on call but out of the house when Mistress Lionel was around. And when the Council met she was often in attendance, her ear pricked for any noise the older and stodgier members of the village cared to make about the racket or the way things were changing too quickly. For those who were leery of the inn, she often had a soothing word that put their minds at ease; and for those that downright opposed it, she had a sharp-taloned scolding ready to let fly.

But it was when she returned to Eldric and told him what she'd done – how she'd organized a meeting or turned a thorny protestor into an intrigued proponent – that she earned her true reward. His eyes would light up and he would stand a full inch taller, as though he'd been filled with excess life.

There are much worse ways to fall in love, and little better.

Three years passed all too quickly, and when they were done Eldric realized he had a simple choice before him: let Jaes return to the Heatherfield farm or ask for her hand in marriage. He chose the later.

Their wedding took place the day the inn was opened, and the whole village turned out for it. It was a grand affair, as only country folk can put on, with freely flowing ale from Danil Greer, apple tarts and fresh-churned cream from Village Head Lilibet's sister-in-law Alice, sizzling meats from Lopin Buie's stock, and fruit fresh-picked from the Appledown orchard brought by Mayor Appledown himself. There was dancing and music and beauty, and the midsummer stars watched it all with a twinkle in their eyes.

The inn was named the Fairfield, and it was exactly as they had imagined it.

The little girl came scarcely a year later – it is perhaps unsurprising to say that there was a fierce and constant effort to make her in those early months of marriage – and she was the talk of the town. Both Eldric and Jaes were well-regarded citizens by then, and many had heard Mayor Appledown speaking openly of retirement now that a fine young man had come that could easily take his place.

But Jaes' pregnancy was not an easy one. Despite the best help and care from Ellen Buie, midwife of the town and one of Lopin Buie's wide and ranging brood of children, she was forced into bed rest, where her condition only worsened. Fear filled the Fairfield then, try as Eldric might to frighten it away with song and drink and guests.

The day of the girl's birth was horrible, fraught with pain and suffering. It drove Eldric nearly mad to hear the screams that echoed from the birthing room, and he was well and truly in his cups by the time night fell, surrounded by a dozen well-meaning men who had been through such fathering before.

Little work was done in the village that day – Eldric and Jaes lived in the consciousness of the town as the prime example of good Dunlow folk, and not a single person could hear of their troubles and not offer up a word of prayer to the Creator. Many gravitated to the inn, as if drawn by a magnetic force, and though few entered, they all made excuses to be nearby.

Finally, the girl was born, but Jaes could not stop bleeding.

Ellen Buie, the midwife, grew desperate and sent for Doc Staevns despite the well-customed prohibition against men in the birthing room. He was known as a levelheaded man with steady hands and years of experience treating both man and beast. It is lucky that he came, for it was Doc Staevns that saved Jaes' life. But after, when he came to Eldric, the doctor's face was grim.

Jaes lived, but she would never again conceive.

It was at this point that all eyes turned to the newborn girl.

"All that is left is to name her," Jaes said when she and Eldric were finally alone. Their tears had dried as they held each other, and now in the aftermath of the ordeal there was finally time for thought. Jaes was still weak, but she was young and her spirit strong, and you could see from her eyes that she was determined not to let this gift go to waste. The baby girl was laid between them on their wide bed, the best and widest in the village, and as they spoke she slept softly on, oblivious.

"We wanted to have two," Eldric said, careful to speak gently. "I never told you, but I dreamed of naming them... well, it sounds foolish now."

"You're always foolish," Jaes said as she tried to hold back tears. She smiled softly even though she wished to cry.

He smiled back and spoke slowly. "My parents told me stories when I was younger. One set of stories in particular."

He looked at her, asking without words whether he should continue, and she nodded her assent, a watery smile pushing its way across her face. He nodded back, self-consciously cleared his throat, and told her of the stars.

"There were two sisters – one named Amyl and one named Quinyl. They were Sorev Ael – the first women, or so the story goes, and rarer still for their strength. Both of them earned the Staff and Ring only years after coming to Var Athel. Quinyl was one of the most skilled Namers the Citadel had ever seen, and Amyl became a Mage. She was even offered a position on the Circle itself... "

He told the stories late into the night, going through the various tales, their storied parts in the early days of the war with Charridan, their travels through the Northern Wilds to the land of the fabled Eryn-Ra, and their rumored romances with princes of Calinae and Laniae. She listened to it all, rapt with attention.

"You remind me of those stories every day," he said quietly. "You make me feel like a boy, hearing them over again for the first time, and I cannot help but love you."

Jaes cried in earnest then, and the tears were the bittersweet kind of slowly healing sorrow. But she held his head between her hands and spoke back fiercely.

"There is no better man than you in all the world – and I love you with all my heart. Is it your wish to name our daughter after one of these women?"

"No," he said slowly, holding her hand to soften the blow, "since there will be no sister to follow her." Jaes' face fell and she looked down, feeling as though she were a broken thing that could no longer live up to its purpose. But Eldric raised her head again and looked into her eyes.

"I wish to name her after both," he said. "And she will be enough."

Jaes smiled through her tears and nodded. She looked down again at the sleeping child.

"AmyQuinn," she said. "AmyQuinn."

Chapter Two: Visitors

The girl stood tall on the hillside, squinting against the wind.

From the Lookout Spot, she watched the merchant train as it came down the PenRo and waited with bated breath to see if it would turn. It was smaller than others she'd seen – barely four or five wagons and a dozen free-riding men on horses – but still clearly a merchant traveling south to Londor.

The wind shifted as it often did and whipped down suddenly from behind her. The cold sea breeze that gave the Windy Mountains their name raised goosebumps along her bare neck and arms, and she swayed slightly as the wall of air buffeted her. The force of it was strong enough to lift her heavy brown braid off her back and swing it around to her chest.

She shivered, then forced herself to stop. Bolin Buie had said he could plunge into the Silvercreek Pond without shivering and she had flat out denied such an outrageous assertion. He had of course insisted on the truth of his statement, and so the two of them had done the right thing and agreed to _both_ do it, so that the person who shivered last would win a prize as yet to be determined. Both had agreed on nullification rights should the offered prize not suit on the day of the engagement, though that was mere formality. Pride was on the line – unless the offered prize was insultingly bad, there was no backing down. Determined to win, AmyQuinn had been practicing all week. A little wind was nothing compared to the icy cold of the Pond, and she had better buck up if she expected to show Bolin Buie that she was no chickenheart.

She hoped Ernin wouldn't be there. Ever since her thirteenth birthday several weeks ago, he'd started looking at her when he didn't think she could see him. Not that she really minded it – it was just awkward, and she didn't want distractions. Her feud with Bolin Buie was of paramount importance.

The merchant train turned, taking the loop in the road that led from the PenRo up to Dunlow.

A shivery spike of excitement raced through her, banishing all thoughts of ponds and boys. She squinted harder and held a hand to her forehead to shade her eyes. The train was still many miles distant but clearly visible from the Lookout Spot. She turned to share a smile with Lenny but stopped when she remembered he wasn't there today.

She frowned and smoothed her long wool dress with her hands. The dress was horribly scratchy, and as she thought about it she hated it all over again. Whoever had invented dresses deserved to be eaten by Lupin Buie's pigs.

Sullenly, she glared around the Lookout Spot, but there was neither man nor beast in sight upon which to vent her ire. She hesitated for a moment, caught up in wanting to hate the dress and all the grown-up nonsense it represented, and then decided it couldn't hurt to do the thing one more time.

She twirled around and watched the skirt flare out, flashing in the setting sun. A thrill rushed through her, though she did not smile. She stopped and watched the skirt descend, eyeing its light floral pattern. The background color was the green of deep forests or the Silvercreek Pond in summer when the sun shines through the leaves. It really was quite pretty. She wasn't too proud to admit that. She supposed that though dresses were still exceedingly stupid, if she _had_ to wear one, this one wasn't so bad.

She refocused on the task at hand.

The merchant train was closer now, and she knew that soon it would be visible from the Fairfield Inn itself. If she did not leave immediately, she would have been neglectful in her self-appointed duty. Picking up the hem of her skirt and baring her stockinged legs in a most unladylike manner, she raced down off the back of the Lookout Spot, an enormous half-buried boulder at the foot of the Windy Mountains, and flew down the lesser slope beside the rock, racing toward the inn.

The wind tore at her as she went, unearthing a smile as rare as any diamond. It whipped past her face and took hold of her long braid so that it streamed out behind her like the tail of a kite. She jumped and hopped the trail breaks, rounded the Meeting Oak that led to both the Silvercreek Pond and the Lookout Spot, and then came to flatter ground, blood rushing through her limbs and breath catching in her chest. She breached the final scrum of trees on the edge of town and then was off along the road that led all the way from the Windy Mountains through Dunlow and eventually to the PenRo itself.

She raced past the outer farms and houses, most of which were built of solid stone and stout oak with thatched roofs that kept Alister Thatcher in good business. The sun was making its way down the western half of the sky, throwing long shadows out before her. She felt light-headed and giddy as her arms and legs pumped furiously in her reckless sprint, and she used the momentum of her downhill dash to power her through the small dips and rises of the unleveled road. She felt like a sea-blown gust of wind; she felt free and unstoppable.

A few people called out to her as they made their way home from the fields or the shops in town. They knew her and knew too what it meant to see her running at such a tear from the direction of the hills. She left a commotion in her wake like a stone skipping across a pond, and the eddies of conversation brimmed with excitement as the conversants stowed their tools, secured their work, and followed after her. A few of the younger children tried to race alongside her, and one or two kept up for a time until their mothers called them back. The adults shouted questions that she answered back as shortly as she could:

"AmyQuinn! How many this time?"

"Not many!"

"From north or south?"

"North!"

"Caelron, eh? How soon?"

"Sunset!"

She reached the lowest slope of the hilly west side of Dunlow and then raced up the final rise on which was located the Village Green and the Fairfield Inn itself.

The air rushed in and out of her lungs with fiery insistence, but she neither stopped nor slowed. She pushed herself harder up that last incline, using the momentum she'd gathered on her careening downhill run to give her extra speed. She broke over the top of the hill into the last slice of sunlight beaming down over the Mountains on that bright end-of-summer day, and breathlessly watched the merchant train peak around the side of the bend that would bring them up to Dunlow. With the sun behind her, her shadow stretched all the way out to touch the first wagon – a huge unwieldy thing with four spoked wheels each the size of her whole body. The darkness she cast was long enough that it almost fell across the driver and the man who sat on the running board beside him, both of whom she could only make out as slices of watery color in the light of the setting sun.

Something jarred inside her, like a heartbeat gone sideways, and in the same instant the man beside the driver suddenly raised a hand to shield his eyes. The colors of his cloak solidified as the distance closed: gray and black like volcanic ash. The wind grabbed eagerly at it, covetous, the same way it had clutched at her dress. She shivered, though she wasn't sure why, then shook off the strange feeling and rushed into the Fairfield.

"Father!"

Gasping, she pulled up just inside the door. There was no one in the common room. The fireplace off in the distance to her right, large and stone-lined with well-padded and well-worn chairs scattered before it, was dark and unlit on this summer's day; the small bar with the door that led to the kitchen on the opposite side of the room was unmanned; and the stairs, directly in front of her past the wide dinning tables, were freshly swept but empty.

She hurried to her parents' quarters – up the stairs that ran around the inn – and skidded to a halt on the first floor landing, ignoring the ascending path of polished wood that continued up and around to the lofted third floor. She crossed through a small corridor into the large apartments that were for her family's use alone.

"Father!"

"In here!" came a distance reply.

She followed the sound, taking a set of steep and narrow stairs down to her father's workshop – what had once been the inn's basement.

"Father, there's a merchant!"

She turned the final curve in the staircase, running her hands along the stone-and-mortar walls that doubled as the inn's foundation, and emerged into a wide chamber where Eldric Stonewall stood fiddling with something on a large wooden table. Light came from high windows in the far wall, illuminating the slab of heavy oak that bisected the room. It was covered with knickknacks of every size, shape, and material – big, small, middling; wood, metal, ceramic; hollow, tubular, conic – that her father tinkered with when there was no other business to attend to.

But at the mention of the merchant, he looked up immediately.

His dark eyes peered over the rim of the little round glasses he wore when working, and he smiled. "What would I do without you?" he asked. "I'll be right up. How many?"

He took off the glasses and placed them carefully in the breast pocket of his flowing white shirt, then quickly undid the heavy leather carpenter's apron he always wore in the workshop. He threw it over a hook in the corner with the easy, practiced motion of a man half his age.

"Only four or five wagons – but they're definitely coming."

"Excellent. Find your mother – she's at the Hall."

AmyQuinn retreated back up the stairs as her father followed, the same excitement in her evident in him and his quick, sure movements. She hurried back through the common room and out onto the Green.

There was a crowd gathering, made up of those AmyQuinn had passed on the way down the road. Others were coming too: those who had ended their work in the fields and had heard the news, and those who always came for a drink at the Fairfield to celebrate the day's end.

The merchant train was working its way up the long slope that led to the Green, and though AmyQuinn wished to stay and see it arrive, she had a job to do. She hurried through the crowd to a long, low building that lay situated across the Green from the Fairfield and ducked through the side door that led to the private council chambers.

She found her mother talking animatedly with a number of other women, two of whom had dour looks on their faces – looks that told AmyQuinn they'd gotten the short end of whatever stick they had been haggling over. When the women noticed her, the conversation stopped, and they all assumed identical scandalized looks.

Realizing her error half a second too late, AmyQuinn dropped the skirt of her dress so that it covered her stockings again. It didn't stop the elderly women from exchanging of a number of dark looks, though, the most intense of which came from ancient Katlin Prue, who looked so much like a vulture that AmyQuinn could quite easily imagine her cawing over the fresh carrion of some poor rule-breaking child.

"Mother," she said quickly, trying to skate over the incident, "there's a merchant train – father asked for you."

"Excuse us, young lady," said Katlin Prue in a patronizing voice that dripped supercilious venom, "but this is a council meeting, and we –"

"Oh let it go, Katlin," one of the few men on the council said from the other side of the room, rolling his eyes. "It's the end of the day and we've gotten nowhere."

"Let's meet again tomorrow," Jaes Stonewall said in a neutral voice that revealed nothing. "I will see you then." She turned to go, and the others had no choice but to let her.

Once they were out of the room, her mother glanced down at AmyQuinn and smiled brightly, an expression that dropped a dozen years off her face. "I've got old Jolinda running in circles trying to get that plot of land she thinks is hers," she said with a conspiratorial grin. "She has the worst claim, of course, but we can't just outright say that because she's old enough and bitter enough that we'd never hear the end of it until the day she dies. You came in at the perfect time to allow me to stall for another day. Now tell me about the merchant."

AmyQuinn quickly filled her mother in on all she'd seen, and by the time she'd finished they were at the edge of the Green, that wide and cultivated patch of grass that served as the meeting place for all public events in Dunlow. Currently, it was more yellow and brown as a seasonal consequence of the summer heat, but that didn't bother anyone. A name was a name – chances were that even if it were burned completely to ash, the force of tradition would still have them calling the leftover dirt "the Green" for several further generations.

"Go to your father," Jaes Stonewall said quickly, eyeing the merchants over the heads of those nearby. "Tell him they'll likely need both good stables and a double round of drink. Have the mutton ready in case they ask for it but offer the venison first – remind him that if we don't get someone to eat it we'll waste the whole thing by the end of the week."

AmyQuinn nodded and hurried off through the crowd, trying not to swell too visibly with the pride of her importance as message-carrier. Her mother moved up to the front of the crowd, where she was joined by a number of the other members of the council, some of whom had just finished the day's work on their farms and needed to hear about what was happening.

"A-Q!"

She didn't stop when she heard her nickname, but she did look back over her shoulder. It was her best friend, Liv. Liv was older than AmyQuinn, and also the granddaughter of ex-Council Head Lilibet. Her auburn hair shone in the sunset and her beautiful pale skin was flushed beneath the scattering of her freckles. She was tall and lean, and though the dress she wore was wool, she had a light blue apron over it that made her look, if possible, even prettier than she already was. There was a boy beside her and slightly behind – the tall, dark-haired Lenny, Liv's brother.

"A-Q!" Liv called again; AmyQuinn waved back but did not slow. She reached the entrance to the Fairfield just as the merchant train pulled up over the lip of the road that circled the Green. She had to tear her eyes away from it as she plunged once more into the relative shade of the inn.

Eldric Stonewall was behind the bar, passing in and out of the kitchen with the scullery maid, Winsley, and the cook, Jasper.

"Father!" she cried out before he could disappear again. He stopped and turned back to her. "Mother says – "

"Venison pie, both good stables, double round?"

She nodded, slightly crestfallen.

"That woman thinks I'd lose my head if she didn't help me keep it attached," he said with an amused chuckle before ducking back into the kitchen.

"A-Q."

AmyQuinn turned to her friends, both of whom had come through the wide double doors after her. A number of other inn-occupants were about now: there were always a half-dozen travelers in Dunlow on any given day, staying a night or two on their way from Caelron down to Londor or vice versa. They had stirred from their rooms and were moving out onto the Green, watching the commotion with interest.

"What's going on?" Liv asked.

"Merchants," AmyQuinn said quickly, letting some of her own excitement show through, though not too much. "I saw them from the Lookout Spot."

"I told you we should have gone," Lenny said sullenly.

"Mother would have killed us," Liv replied.

"AmyQuinn!"

She turned back and saw her father leaning out of the kitchen door.

"What're you doing?" he demanded, a twinkle in his eye. "Get out there and let me know what kind of merchant we're dealing with!"

She grinned and went for the door, Lenny and Liv hot on her heels. They broke through the edge of the crowd and then managed to wriggle and squirm their way to the front. Jaes Stonewall and the rest of the Council were greeting the merchants, focusing on one in particular: a fat man with a purple crushed-velvet vest and voluminous indigo trousers. AmyQuinn, like a number of the Dunlow townsfolk, could not help but stare. She had never seen anyone wear that color – those clothes must have cost a fortune. And he wore them while _traveling!_

Looking past him, she saw that the others in the train were moving the horses, carts, and wagons around the side of the Fairfield toward the stables in the back. A number of men with a dangerous air about them had split between the two – some moving off with the wagons and some staying behind with the merchant.

But in all the commotion and with all the sights to be seen – the tall, imposing guards; the sleek, strong carthorses – her eyes were drawn to a single man standing back up the road, away from the crowd.

It was the man who'd been riding beside the merchant. His hair was full and jet-black save for two slim wings of silver at his temples, and his face was rough and creased, carved by the elements like an age-old rock.

He was dressed like a beggar, but he carried himself like a king. His cloak was simple – dark gray wool with a deep hood hung down the back – and his faded red vest, white shirt, and dark breeches were threadbare and travel-stained. His leather boots were scuffed and the heels looked worn. His head, though, was unbowed, and his back and shoulders were straight and stiff.

A sudden flash of light drew her gaze to his right hand. He wore a ruby ring there, set in gold, and when he reached up to pull his cloak more tightly about him, she saw that he carried a thick wooden staff as well. The ring shone in the waning light of the sun, throwing off red light, and the staff was nearly as tall as he was. He leaned on it slightly as if it were a walking stick and nothing more, but it was gnarled and twisted and unlike any walking stick AmyQuinn had ever seen.

"Do you see that man?" she asked Liv and Lenny quietly.

"The merchant?" Liv asked, eyeing the indigo-dyed clothing with envy as she fingered her light imitation-blue apron. "I wonder if he's willing to trade with us? Maybe he has some of that dye... just a bit can't be too much, right?"

"No, not him. The other one – the tall man with the staff."

"Maybe he's another merchant," Lenny said slowly. He at least took the time to spare the man a glance, though he seemed unimpressed. "Sometimes they travel together, you know."

AmyQuinn wanted to insist further, but just as she opened her mouth to do so, the man in the faded red vest and dark gray cloak turned his head and raked the crowd with his eyes. A sudden flare of heat rushed through her, sending her heart racing. His eyes were deep black, like the color of burnt wood before it turns to ash, and they seemed to hold her and pull her apart, looking into all the corners of her body and mind, summing her up – and then they swept past, over the rest of the crowd, combing and categorizing.

Cheers suddenly sounded from the townsfolk around her, and the noise shook AmyQuinn out of her strange trance. She realized her mother was shaking hands with the merchant and that her father was standing there as well, welcoming him to Dunlow. The merchant turned and gestured to the huge wagon-carriage that had yet to be brought round the back of the Fairfield, and as he did the sides fell open to reveal long mahogany panels baring all manner of goods. A general buzz of excitement swallowed up the crowd, and many of the gathered men and women moved forward, some lining up to speak with the merchant and ask for news, others going straight to the wagon sides, where journeymen merchants with the associated Merchants Guild patch over their left breasts had appeared as if from nowhere and were already bargaining with various townsfolk for goods.

"Look!" Lenny cried. "Books!"

"And _dye!"_ Liv squealed. "Let's go let's go let's go –"

AmyQuinn found herself dragged to the front of the crowd, where everyone was jostling for position. Both Liv and Lenny ended up buying something – Liv bought a bottle of vermillion with the little pocket money she had left for the month, and Lenny spent a whole six coppers on a copy of a book called _The Travels of Travin Hesh_ that he swore was famous though neither AmyQuinn nor Liv had heard of it.

"Aren't you going to get anything, A-Q?"

AmyQuinn looked over the goods, but she knew it was no use. Her father only gave her two coppers a week – a source of constant contention between them, but a point on which he could not be moved – and she had already spent them.

"Yeah, _Lameyquin,_ aren't you going to get anything?"

Liv, Lenny, and AmyQuinn turned to see Bolin Buie, Ernin and Stanil Thatcher, and Thom Smith, stride up to them. The two Thatchers were eating short sticks of candy bought on the other side of the wagon, and Bolin was fingering the slingshot he always carried in the waist of his breeches; a new bag of shot hung next to it today.

"Go away, _Boils,_ " AmyQuinn responded automatically, glaring back at him. He was part of the large – and seemingly always larger – Buie family that lived on the outskirts of Dunlow up the side of the Mountains. They contributed little to the overall décor of the town. One or two of them were good people, but by and large they were bad apples that thought the other townsfolk looked down on them. They were correct on this point.

"Make me," Bolin sneered. The motion pulled his face and stretched his inflamed red skin so that his pimples stood out even more.

"I just might!" she retorted, though she could feel Lenny and Liv behind her shrinking back. "We still have a bet, and until you show you're brave enough to face a _girl_ you can just shove that slingshot up your – "

"AmyQuinn!" said a sharp voice.

She froze and swallowed the word she'd been about to use, unable to stifle her disappointment. She'd been saving that one up for the perfect time and was really excited to use it.

Her father put a hand on her shoulder as he came up behind her.

"Good day, Bolin – Ernin, Stanil – Thom."

The only benefit of her father interrupting them was the delightful way all four of her antagonists blanched and drew back, looking sullen and shamefaced. They were all mean and stupid, but they knew enough to act right when Mayor Stonewall was around.

"Good day, sir," they said, more or less in chorus.

"Go join your parents, boys. I'm sure they're eager to see what you've bought."

"Yes, sir," they said and moved off, though not before Bolin shot another sneer at AmyQuinn. She riposted by sticking out her tongue and thumbing her nose.

"AmyQuinn," her father said. His hand tightened on her shoulder, and she winced. She turned to face him, and now it was her turn to look shamefaced and sullen. "What have I told you about those boys?" Eldric asked quietly, his voice slow but insistent. "You're a woman now, and it's time you started acting like one."

He turned to Lenny and Liv.

"The same goes for you two," he scolded. "You're all above thirteen – it's time you started putting away childish things. Soon you'll be thinking about going into trades. Lenny, I know you've already started helping your father with the farm."

"But, sir," Lenny said, speaking with the polite voice he used when addressing adults, "they provoked us."

"So don't allow yourself to be provoked," Eldric said simply, looking down his nose with dark, serious eyes. Lenny wilted under that gaze and clutched his new book as if it were a shield. "Now –get inside. There are buns waiting for you."

AmyQuinn looked up into her father's face and saw the hint of a smile. She grinned at him and he turned away with an innocent look. She grabbed Lenny and Liv and pulled them along after her into the Fairfield.

They quickly collected their buns – fresh from the oven and drizzled with honey, set aside to cool by the iron-hearted Jasper, who would usually have shoed them out of the kitchen with little more than a smarting hand or backside for their trouble but today seemed too busy to mind.

Back in the common room, over by the fireplace in a little side alcove, the three friends watched the men come in and unload themselves into the rooms above. Several of the better dressed ones – the journeymen merchants trying to earn their Papers – clutched patched and frayed bags that they took to the upper levels themselves, while the guards, wearing heavy leather jerkins and short swords, retired to the bar for drinks. They all ate the venison pie – much to her mother's relief, AmyQuinn was sure – and eagerly drank her father's ale, which was a new batch brewed from the summer crop.

"So what's the book about?" AmyQuinn asked thickly through sticky lips.

"The travels of Travin Hesh," Lenny said.

"Funnily enough, I gathered that from the title."

"Right – well, he's a famous explorer. Someone said he was a Sorev Ael, but I don't think he is. At least, well, we'll see when I read the book."

He grinned and squinted at her through the gathering dark. The candles in the chandelier had been lit in honor of the guests, as had the candles on the dining tables in their silver holders, but neither much lit the corner where they sat. Even if they had, Lenny read so often that he was in a perpetual state of squint no matter what the light. Even when they were up at the Lookout Spot on a day when they had finished their work early, he was reading or squinting at AmyQuinn when she said she saw something. She had started to suspect that he was not really much good as a fellow looker-outer anymore, but she didn't want to hurt his feelings by saying so. Boys could be strange about such things, and Lenny was her friend first and a boy second.

"Famous for what?" Liv asked clearly; there was no excess bun in her mouth, nor honey on her fingers. She ate very daintily, something which Jaes Stonewall had recently insisted AmyQuinn take note of. It was a clear sign of their friendship that when her mother had retreated, AmyQuinn had decided to overlook this slight, and Liv had tried not to take too much pride in the praise.

"Famous for his travels," Lenny said, looking at Liv as though she were thick.

"Yes, we _got that_ ," AmyQuinn said. "Travels _where?_ "

"Oh! Oh, travels _everywhere!_ That's why it's famous. It's a story about the travels he took all over the world. There's even a whole chapter in here about Charridan – though old granny Lilibet said that part must have been made up. No one's been across the Sea to Charridan in over a hundred years."

"Sorev Ael probably have," Liv said, following her brother's words with only slight interest. "And the Viretorum, the Knights of Caelron – maybe they send messages? In the Great Ships."

"Maybe," Lenny conceded. "But Travin Hesh wasn't a knight either."

"How do you know? You haven't read the book yet."

"Because he wasn't – everyone knows he wasn't."

"But then if he's not Viretorum and not one of the Sorev Ael, how could he go _everywhere?_ " Liv asked, looking quite dubious.

"Maybe that's why he's really important," AmyQuinn said, caught up in the story now. "Maybe they sent him because he's been everywhere and done everything and seen so much – maybe even through the Northern Wilds to where the Eryn-Ra live."

Liv groaned and rolled her eyes, but Lenny smiled eagerly.

"It's always Eryn-Ra with you two," Liv said, focusing on her bun with a disgusted sigh. "What's so fun about big scaly fire newts?"

"Uh, the fact they fly and breathe fire and have scales as hard as iron and can talk and have power in their _blood_ – "

"Okay! Fine! Just stop talking about them already, it's ridiculous, they're not even real."

"Come on, Liv, she's right, they're _great_ , wouldn't you want to see one?"

"Uhm, see a big scaly fire newt that could burn my dress and eat me? Why would I _ever_ want to see one of those?"

"You hate fun."

The conversation went on like that for some time, going back and forth among them as it always did, AmyQuinn becoming bored when Lenny mentioned Travin Hesh finding beautiful maidens to rescue, and Lenny becoming exasperated in turn when Liv, now much more engaged, asked if Travin Hesh was beautiful. This devolved into a semantics discussion of whether a man could be called beautiful or should only be referred to as handsome, which ended in a giggling fit none of them really understood but which left them all quite flushed.

All of this did, however, lead them back to the topic of the second merchant.

"Did you see him?" AmyQuinn insisted. "I mean, really _see_ him?"

"No," Lenny repeated, rolling his eyes.

Unable to contain herself any longer, she exploded out with the knowledge she had been waiting to impart: "He's a Sorev Ael. I know it this time."

Liv and Lenny exchanged a glance. Liv looked slightly uncomfortable, but her good-natured disposition would not let her express the feeling. Lenny took a deep breath and assumed the task himself. It was a division of labor AmyQuinn was used to with the brother and sister pair: nice Liv and practical Lenny.

"A-Q," Lenny said, "you think everyone is a Sorev Ael."

"No – I think everyone _could_ be a Sorev Ael."

"Which is just as ridiculous."

"No it's not!" she retorted with perhaps a touch too much heat.

Lenny rolled his eyes again.

"Len," AmyQuinn said with new insistence, "this is different. You can tell just by looking at him. He's even got the ring and the staff to prove it –"

"People can wear rings and carry staffs without being Sorev Ael, A-Q."

"Yeah, but I was right about the last one –"

"The last one?" Liv asked, finally joining in. "That was three _years_ ago."

AmyQuinn groaned in the grips of her eternal frustration at the obtuse nature of her friends.

"All right, all right," Lenny said, breaking in with his 'reasonable' tone that showed he'd had enough of the argument and just wanted to put a stop to it. "You're right. You recognized the last Sorev Ael that came from Var Athel. But you have to admit that was different. He came because we petitioned Var Athel directly when the Gray Plague broke out. And he wasn't even a full Sorev Ael; he was a journeyman sorcerer trying to earn his ring. Sorev Ael don't just come to Dunlow because they feel like making a trip, A-Q. They're all travelling the Wilds or advising kings or... you know, things. Why would a Sorev Ael travel with a merchant train? And a _small_ merchant train? And to _Dunlow?_ "

"Strange are the ways of Sorev Ael," AmyQuinn said as mysteriously as she could, doing her best to imitate the way her father did it.

Lenny and Liv broke out in immediate laughter.

"Hey, well they are!"

"Hah-hah, your _face!_ "

"Shut it – Sorev Ael are mysterious, they could be anywhere!"

"Yeah," Lenny snorted through a mouthful of sticky bun. "Like in your brain."

This comment sent Liv into a further burst of hysterics, and AmyQuinn glowered at them in resentful silence until Lenny brought up how great the last Sorev Ael had been – perhaps in an effort at reconciliation – and AmyQuinn was mollified.

Chapter Three: Stories in the Night

When the conversation stalled, Liv, Lenny, and AmyQuinn went back to the kitchen. They dodged between the merchant's men who were working their way through their second pint after finishing dinner, and AmyQuinn kept an eager eye out for the suspected Sorev Ael. Her father had lit a fire against the windy night and the room was pleasantly warm in the way that makes a scene seem fuzzy about the edges.

The three of them ducked stealthily into the kitchen, stole another trio of buns when Jasper wasn't looking, and then slipped easily back around the side of the bar, a maneuver that they had spent many nights perfecting. They munched the buns while gorging themselves on venison pie, left out by Eldric, and then they said goodnight. Liv and Lenny's mother was quite strict about bedtimes.

AmyQuinn knew that she would not be expected to go to bed yet, at least not tonight. The family apartment was relatively quiet and secluded, but both Jaes and Eldric were up and entertaining the guests, and she knew she still had some time before they sought her out and forced her to retire. Which, really, they should not be able to do now with all their talk about her being a woman. Either she was a woman and she did not need a bedtime, or she was still a child and could wear breeches.

The world was monstrously unfair, and apparently only she could see it.

Suddenly sullen for no particular reason, AmyQuinn crept closer to the fireplace, trying not to look conspicuous, and slowly finished her pilfered bun. The sugar and the full meal of venison pie were already settling down on her like a warm blanket, and the pleasant drowsiness that resulted from a long day of work combined with the excitement of the new arrivals had together sapped her strength.

The men began to empty out of the bar, heading off to the rooms the merchant had rented. Her father was good about offering cheap rates – most innkeepers up and down the Peninsula tended to put guards and such in the stables with the horses, but the Fairfield had more than enough rooms, and Eldric was quite aware that a good word from a merchant's guard in the right ear might provide a whole caravan's worth of customers come next season.

AmyQuinn made her way to her favorite chair by the fireplace, reminding herself to borrow Lenny's book when he was done with it. Her father had taught her to read, and she had gone over his huge collection of two dozen books so many times that she knew them all by heart. She would not admit it to Lenny, but her fingers itched at the thought of getting her hands on something new.

She collapsed into a chair by the fire and curled up on the cushioned seat like a cat. It had been better when their sheepdog Tam was still around – he was as good as a blanket, so long as he wasn't wet or muddy. She was still sad he was gone; he had made a great pretend Eryn-Ra, and he hadn't minded the fake wings so much.

Just as she began to nod off, her thoughts far away on the cloudy path of dreams, she heard voices coming toward her. She shifted in the chair, feeling the warmth of the dying fire against her side, and then the voices moved past her to occupy the same secluded corner that she, Liv, and Lenny had so recently vacated. She lifted her head slightly and cracked an eye, more awake now but not wanting to show it lest she be chided for staying up and then sent to bed.

It was her father, talking with the fat merchant and the man in the gray cloak.

Energy rushed through her and she was immediately awake. She forced herself to lie still, though, and listened with all her might. Their voices carried to her with perfect clarity thanks to the acoustics of the rounded corner.

"I thank you for your hospitality, Master Stonewall," said a high, nasally voice that she immediately associated with the fat merchant. "It is not often that I come this way and stop short of Londor itself – and more often than not I take the bargeway down the bay line. I must say, though, should the opportunity present itself I will most certainly return. Your inn may be one of the best-kept secrets on the Peninsula – I'd never have known about it if it weren't for my son, Lowell. This whole town in fact – how quaint and charming!"

"It's a pleasure to have you, Merchant Aldred," her father replied easily, his quiet, simple voice warm and strong. "We often get more traffic during the summer, but this year's been slow, and the season's almost over. We do enjoy the company when it comes, though – and also any news that might come with it."

He paused delicately, and AmyQuinn took the opportunity to shift in her chair in an effort to see better. It was no use, though: the curve of the alcove was such that the conversants, now fully retreated into it, were concealed. She bit her lip and listened harder.

"Ah, yes," Aldred nasalled slowly. "I may have an interesting piece of news indeed... and it may help enlighten you as to why your visitors have been scarce."

He paused, and AmyQuinn's heart beat fiercely in her chest. She could hardly believe her luck, here listening to grown-up secrets completely by accident.

"There are rumors of raiders in the Floating Isles."

"The Floating Isles?" her father asked, his voice tinged with alarm. "The islands to the north? I thought they were uninhabitable. There was news – oh, it must be years ago now – Caelron sent out Ainic settlers to see if the land was arable, and they returned almost immediately saying it was hopeless. Isn't that right?"

"It is," Aldred said. "But the rumor goes that the newcomers there are raiders. They don't need arable land – they need a base."

"Does that mean they've mapped it? Surely that's impossible. There must be a thousand bays, coves, reefs, shoals.... I'm no sailor, but wouldn't that be terribly difficult?"

"It is indeed, Master Stonewall, which is why it is so alarming."

"Please call me Eldric – and please do go on."

"I'm sure you know that during the War raiders pillaged up and down the coast under Charridan sanction. But ever since the Great Ships were built in Caelron, the sea has been safe from beyond the Archipelago in the south all the way to the Floating Isles in the north. Charridan cannot cross anymore than we can.

"But these do not seem to be men of Charridan. The Great Ships mapped much of the world near us, both north and south – I saw a map of all the known world in the Cartographer's Guild in Caelron and it is truly a sight to see – but still there is much we do not know. We do know, of course, of Laniae to the south, and Calinae in the interior, but beyond that there is open sea that we have yet to cross, and the continent of Aeon goes farther north than we can go lest the Ships risk being lost and trapped in ice. We would go west if we could, but Charridan holds us back. The only other known part of the continent of Idan is a sound there – a slim channel, you know? – that connects the Shining Sea to some other body of water. There are rumors that it leads to another sea, past Charridan, and that it is from there that these men have come."

The merchant paused, and AmyQuinn heard the dull clink of a glass against a metal ring and knew someone was taking a drink. Her father spoke next:

"Some of this I know and some I don't – but what worries me most is the intent of these men. How many have come? I have neither seen nor heard of such a thing in my life. Surely they cannot stand against the Great Ships."

"Mmm, indeed!" the merchant said, warming to his tale. "They seem organized, that much rumor knows, but we have had no direct contact with them. Still, no one can stand against the Great Ships, you are correct. The problem is that these rumored newcomers will not stand at all. On the open sea they run from us, and we have not engaged them in battle so far as I have heard. But therein lies the rub – they cannot overpower the Great Ships, but they can _outrun_ them."

The air grew tense and the conversation paused, as if all three men were absorbing this new piece of information with solemnity. A soft murmur of sound filled up the space left by their silence – distant conversation produced by the few guards still at the bar layered over the crackling of the dying fire. AmyQuinn barely dared to breathe. Before long, the merchant continued:

"That is why the rumors include the Floating Isles. As of now, the newcomers have yet to be spotted in any great force, but that makes men like me nervous. We know of brigands and bandits – particularly in the east as we move toward the Forts – but now we must worry about our shipping lanes as well. The Laniae people are strange in dress and custom, but they are rich in spices and cotton and a dozen others goods – to get to them over land is a journey of several weeks at best, months at worse. One cannot even attempt to reach the Archipelago overland, of course, and they are a fantastic source of salt, fish, netting, and a surprising number of other commodities. These new ships – fast, shallow-bottomed hulls with a lengthened bow and sails like the Great Ships, save smaller – have yet to make contact or set in at any port. The Caelron fleet that patrols the Sea came back this past spring missing two ships, and there's been no end to the speculation as to why or how they were lost, though the King denies involvement. Just last month a cargo ship disappeared after she left Maiden's Bay and set out for the Archipelago. There's been talk of sightings farther north, along the coast of the Wilds – signs of recent fires, sometimes boat lines in the sand clearly left only hours before scouting parties landed. Someone is out there, all right, and they're trying to meddle or maybe worse."

"That's enough conversation."

The intruding voice was deep and rough, and went perfectly in AmyQuinn's mind with the face of the man in the charcoal cloak. It was the tone as much as the words that ended the talk, sweeping aside all possibility of continuing.

"You're right," Eldric said with forced cheerfulness, his voice lighter. AmyQuinn could tell that he was smiling. "I apologize for taking up so much of your time – forgive me, I do sorely enjoy a story."

"I do suppose I should be getting to bed," the merchant said, blowing out a long breath through his lips. AmyQuinn heard again the clink of a ring on a glass, and then the scrape of boots as the men rose.

"Are you coming, Valinor? We have an early morning tomorrow."

There was a pause as both mayor and merchant waited for a reply.

"I will stay up a while longer," came the rough response, though the force with which the man had interrupted the conversation had died down to a simple firmness of intent. "I will take my place in the room set aside for me."

"Speaking of which," her father slipped in quickly, "are you certain that you wish the room you chose? It is certainly serviceable, but there are better on the second floor that are available. I wouldn't want a merchant of Caelron in a room that doesn't suit him."

"The room I've chosen suits me well," the man, Valinor, replied firmly.

Her father and Merchant Aldred emerged from the alcove, and AmyQuinn feigned sleep, her heart beating madly in her chest. She tried to slow and still her breathing, but she did not know how well she managed it. A pair of boots stopped nearby her and then moved in her direction. She recognized the tread and rededicated herself to feigning slumber, repeating over and over in her head that she really was asleep, that she was dreaming, and hoping it would fool her father.

The boots paused near her chair, and she felt his gaze on her face like heat off the fire. There was a long moment of silence, and then he leaned down and gently kissed her cheek.

"Good night," he whispered.

He stood, turned, and draped a quilt over her, one of those kept in a basket by the fireplace for the draftier winter nights. The heavy weight of it was comforting, and as her father moved away she realized she had done her job too well and that she really was falling asleep. She pulled herself back from the edge of dreams with vigorous determination, fighting doggedly against the soothing lullaby of the deliciously warm fire and the food and drink gurgling happily inside her stomach.

Her father's boots retreated across the common room, and then she heard the soft murmur of his final goodnight to the merchant. He ascended the stairs then, and when he was up past the first landing she opened her eyes and stared into the shadows that cloaked the alcove.

Her heart continued pounding in her chest, and her quiet breathing seemed suddenly very loud. The fire was almost dead, and though the candles on the table behind her still glowed, the chandelier had been extinguished, and the room was draped in fading shadows.

She lifted her head – just enough to peek over the top of the chair, ready to pull it back at the slightest sign of movement like one of the turtles she'd caught up at the Pond. When she was sure she had not been observed, she pushed her heavy braid out of the way so that it fell away from her face and down her back, and looked toward the bar. She saw light from the kitchen, which meant Jasper was still up, but otherwise the room was deserted.

She turned back to the alcove and still saw nothing. The man in the charcoal cloak must be sitting where she usually did – the far corner, where one could see the door and hear most anything from the way the sound bounced off the stone wall of the inn.

The quilt slid softly from her shoulders as she raised herself up, moving with such bone-creaking slowness that it was almost agonizing. She tensed her whole body, telling herself not to make a single noise; if she was quiet enough, maybe she could sneak up on him and see what he was doing.

Placing a hand on either side of the chair – the wooden parts, not the cushions since the cushions made crunching noises – she levered herself to her feet. She looked back over her shoulder – still no sign of Jasper or her father.

Crazy thoughts popped into her head, one after the other: was the man doing something dangerous, something secret? If he really was a Sorev Ael, was he making an enchantment? Was he bewitching something? Perhaps he was readying himself to curse the inn itself, or her father for asking questions. Everyone said the Sorev Ael were good, but who knew what someone like that could do? Maybe he was ready to turn eavesdropping listeners into insects...

She made her way to the fireplace and carefully laid a hand on the warm stone. The flames had died out and the coals glowed the red color of autumn leaves. She moved closer to the alcove, toward the joining of the two walls, and slowly, so very very slowly, turned her head around the corner, thinking that when she caught a glimpse of the man she would pull back so fast he'd never see her.

"You move well, but not quite quietly enough."

She started violently and lost her balance, then clutched at the stones as she fell, her sight full of the wooden floor rushing up to meet her. Hands appeared from nowhere and caught her by her arms, easily arresting her fall. She struggled to free herself from them, more in surprise than fear, but before she could do more than make the attempt, the hands righted her on their own and let her go.

She stumbled back and looked up at the man who was retaking his seat, flaring his cloak as he did so to make sure it would not be trapped beneath him. He was watching her with a small quirk of his brow and a purse of his lips that made him look oddly prim despite the roughness of his face and the days of stubble that shadowed his thick chin.

"You are the innkeeper's daughter, yes?"

She did not respond but rubbed her arms where his hands had gripped her. A long silence descended between them as he watched her expectantly. When it became clear that she had no intention of answering his question, he scoffed in amusement, as if she were a clever pony that had done a trick.

"An innkeeper's daughter who doesn't want to talk to strangers. And here I thought there were no undiscovered wonders left in Aeon."

He again waited for a response, and again waited in vain. She was not sure why she did not want to say anything, but she felt very sure that she didn't. This man was even stranger up close than he'd been out on the Green. His composure, his piercing gaze, his very _otherness,_ all made her hackles rise.

"Why are you frowning? You're the one who snuck up on me," he said, looking even more amused. "Either way, you should go. I will be up long into the night and I do not want company, particularly not that of a little girl."

"I am not a _little girl_ ," she protested hotly.

"Very well, a young woman then – but I still don't want the company," he said, settling back against the wall and drawing his cloak close around him. He no longer looked amused; in fact, he no longer looked anything at all. His burnt-black eyes were far away and perfectly blank. His whole face had gone expressionless.

"Why don't you want company?" she asked.

He blinked and an expression of annoyance pushed aside his carefully crafted look of neutrality. His jaw tightened and he turned his head slowly back to her again, this time without the smallest trace of good humor.

"I do not wish to speak. Please leave."

"Then why are you in the common room?" she asked, coming forward and sitting down on the far side of the alcove table. She felt a thrill go through her as he followed her with his eyes and his annoyance mounted. When she sat, he looked away from her toward the door. She followed his gaze, but there was no one there. The doors had just recently been closed and barred for the night, no doubt at the request of the merchant. Usually they weren't – everyone knew everyone in town, and the last serious theft had been when Jack Rolan had stolen Jasper's favorite cooking rack, spices and all, on a dare from his childhood sweetheart.

"Don't you need sleep?" AmyQuinn pressed, watching him curiously.

He did not respond. She examined him more closely and realized the staff she'd seen him with was gone, and the ruby ring that had sparkled so brightly on his right hand was hidden away inside his cloak.

"Why don't you tell people you're a Sorev Ael?"

The words came out before she thought them through, but during the second or so of silence that followed, she examined the question and decided it was a good thing to have said.

He continued ignoring her, though. Then, a sharp small buzzing filled her ears. She shook her head to clear it and rededicated herself to the task at hand. He was just trying to be dramatic. He would have to respond eventually.

The silence between them deepened, and she began to feel unsure.

Surely if he were a Sorev Ael he would have been caught off guard and frightened by her question, like people always were when their secrets were found out. But he hadn't even batted an eyelash, hadn't started or shifted in the slightest. In fact, the whole experience was turning out to be rather disconcerting. AmyQuinn had never been so thoroughly ignored in her entire life.

The droning buzz grew louder, and she again pushed it away.

Now that she thought about it, he didn't look at all the way a Sorev Ael was supposed to look. Why had she been so convinced he was one? He didn't even look like the journeyman sorcerer that had come to help prevent the spread of the Gray Plague. This man was hard and sharp and deadly like an age-old blade, and his eyes were full of bright, direct intelligence, not the old-man wisdom that Sorev Ael were supposed to have.

A rush of fear swept through her, and the man seemed to swell in size even though he hadn't moved a muscle. Suddenly she realized how much larger he was than her – realized too that she was alone with him, a strange man, in the middle of the night. She should run – she should try to escape – she should leave and –

She shook her head vigorously, and the droning buzz, which had risen to an earsplitting crescendo, cut out completely. Her fear disappeared, and her heart settled back into a steady rhythm.

"You're a Sorev Ael," she said, grinning openly.

Slowly, very slowly, those burnt-black eyes turned to her and forced a shiver down her back. It wasn't a pleasant kind of shiver but a fearful kind, and somehow she knew that this time the fear was genuine. Her palms began to sweat. She had never met a man like this – a man with danger written into every line of his being.

What could he do if he actually decided to curse me? Maybe he could turn me into something horrible like a toad or a boy or a –

"Why don't you tell people you're a girl?"

His voice, a mellifluous baritone that was gravelly and yet somehow smooth, sent a rush of heat through her. She stumbled over her tripping tongue in search of a response.

"I – because – I just _am_ a girl."

His expression did not change, but she thought she saw his eyes narrow, and she felt again as she had when first she'd seen him – as though she were being scooped up out of her body, examined, and then haphazardly stuffed back in again.

"It is the same with me," he said. "If I'm recognized, then so be it. But it is not my responsibility to tell everyone I meet who I am. It is much better not to – otherwise I'm overwhelmed with fisher folk who want me to heal stubbed toes and teenagers who want their pimples gone."

"This is Dunlow," she said haughtily. "We're not fisher folk, we're farmers."

He laughed a grating laugh that sliced her pride to pieces. "So you farm the land instead of the sea," he said. "Is that such a good reason for hubris?"

"Dunlow is a good place," she said.

"As good a place as any," he conceded in a tone that said she would get no more from him. But her mind was racing. What did one say to a Sorev Ael? He had just confirmed it. It was true – he wasn't a merchant at all. No, he was a Sorev Ael of Var Athel, which meant that he was here doing something important.

"I've seen one before," she said by way of explanation. "That's how I knew you were a Sorev Ael."

Again, he made no immediate response, but watched her with a penetrating stare that bordered on indecency.

"He came a few years ago," she continued, the words pulled out of her as she attempted to fill the awkward silence. "He was here because of the Gray Plague. We were really worried it might infect the entire town – Dunlow's a town by the way, not a village – but he told us how to contain it and – "

"I am not certain what part of 'I do not want company' was unclear, but maybe I can help clarify – was there perhaps a word you didn't understand?"

Shocked by the open insult, her eyes grow huge as he leaned forward, and her curiosity, as well as her courage, finally deserted her. His thick jaw was set in a firm line, and his gaze was so intense that she flinched away from it.

Quite possibly she had not thought this through.

"N-no," she stammered. "I-I understood all the words."

"Good. So _go away_." His eyes gleamed with a flash of red.

Suddenly the fear that had so excited her in the beginning turned ugly and woke her from her silly trance. She swallowed, trying to work moisture back into her mouth, and nodded dumbly. Standing, she smoothed the skirt of her dress, immediately hated herself for doing something so ladylike, and turned to go.

She took barely two steps before a shout echoed down the stairs.

She glanced dumbly up at the ceiling and then was thrown completely off her feet as the Sorev Ael rushed past her. She pushed herself back up from the floor just in time to see Merchant Aldred rush downstairs half-dressed, his fat wobbling openly beneath the snowy white shirt he wore, his purple velvet vest and coat removed. He was shouting at the top of his lungs, and his small piggy eyes caught sight of Valinor and fixed on him, halting his head-long rush so that he could lean dangerously far out over the staircase railing.

"Valinor – they're – the – it's happening!"

"Girl!" the Sorev Ael called, whirling back to her. Her heart leapt into her throat. "Wake your father and mother – sound whatever alarm you can."

"What?"

But he wasn't listening. He strode to the barred door with heavy purpose and threw his left hand inside his cloak. He pulled from some hidden pocket a thick, dark wand, then whispered a word that brought images of growing trees to mind, or sun and rain and many years, and the wand grew into a staff.

Arriving at the barred door, he got one hand under the beam of wood that held it closed and lifted with bone-cracking effort. The beam rose easily out of its oiled brackets and then fell with a wooden thwack to the floor. The doors swung easily inward in wide arcs, and he started to exit but then pulled up short, turning his burnt-black eyes back to AmyQuinn.

"Girl! _Wake your father!_ "

She was running across the room before the last syllable left his lips. She raced up the stairs as a flood of men rushed out of their rooms on the levels above her to see what was causing the commotion. The guards who emerged were strapping on leather jerkins and short swords, grim looks on their faces. She pushed through them and then turned down the corridor that led to her family's private quarters.

"Father! Mother! Wake up!"

She crashed through the door to her parents' room and saw only her mother, sitting up in bed, blearily rubbing sleep from her eyes.

"AmyQuinn, what's happening?"

"The Sorev Ael," she gasped, "he told me – "

Shouts and cries rose from just outside their window, and both mother and daughter raced over to look out, pulling back the curtains. The merchant's guards had made it to the stables and were madly attacking the wagons; they pulled out what looked like long torches and then doused the light they had brought with them, plunging the scene into darkness.

Why are they dousing the light? That doesn't make any sense –

"What's happening?" Jaes asked again, this time with full awareness.

"The man – he's a Sorev Ael – he came with the merchant – he – "

A bell started ringing in the distance. It sounded like the bell above the Hall across the Green, the one only rung in emergencies. Jaes Stonewall crossed to her dresser and started furiously pulling on clothing.

"AmyQuinn," she said, "your father is still downstairs. He said he was going to help Jasper clean. Find him – make sure he's safe – come back and find me and tell me where he is and what's happening. _Do not go outside!_ "

AmyQuinn shot back through the doorway, raced down the corridor, and burst out onto the first floor landing. She looked down over the staircase railing and saw the common room deserted, and saw too that the light from the fire and the candles had been doused. The only light that now lit the scene was coming from outside, through the wide doors, spilling in from whatever was happening outside.

Her mother's orders still ringing in her ears, she rushed for the stairs, nearly throwing herself down them in her haste. When she hit the ground floor, she raced behind the bar and threw open the door of the kitchen. There was no one inside, and the back door was open. Red light poured in through the empty frame, painting the room with a horrible bloody light.

Red? But the lanterns aren't red...

She stumbled forward, thinking about her father and where he could have possibly gone. She fell through the door, clutching at the jam, and rounded the corner. She stopped and stood stock-still, unable to move a muscle.

Dunlow was on fire.

Chapter Four: Invasion

The alarm bell atop the Hall continued to bray. The rope was held by none other than Bolin Buie, who was out in shirtsleeves and pants and holding his position despite the blaze that had sprung up to consume the Hall. Shouts and cries filled the air as AmyQuinn left the Fairfield and pushed through the gathering crowd, searching desperately for her father.

"Get water!"

"What's going on?"

"Get Mayor Stonewall!"

"The guards – get the merchant guards – "

"What – why – ?"

"Look there – riders!"

Shapes were racing down the road that led from the Windy Mountains, deep black shadows that abruptly resolved out of the night into the forms of men. Those from the outer farms must have heard the bell and were coming to assist in putting out the fire.

But no, that wasn't right. The shapes couldn't be men from the farms - there were far too many of them, and they were all mounted.

The group of shadows cleared the last dip in the road and raced up toward the Green. Men and women cried out and dove aside, and AmyQuinn watched as a gleaming bar of steel appeared in a shadowed hand and swung for her where she stood frozen.

Something heavy slammed into her side and knocked her down, throwing her to the grass. The gleaming silver blade passed through the air above her with the whisking sound of a scythe seeking wheat.

Her trance broken, desperate energy flooded her veins, and she turned and twisted with demonic fury in the grip of the figure that had borne her to the ground. When finally she managed to roll away, she whirled on her attacker, ready to fight for her life.

But it wasn't an attacker at all. It was Bolin Buie, his red boils standing out in livid contrast to his fear-pale face in the light of the burning Hall.

"You're welcome," he sneered.

He pushed past her and pulled his slingshot from his waistband. With practiced ease, he loaded one of the metal balls he'd bought earlier that day and shot it into the darkness, then turned and ran as two men detached themselves from the group and rode, shouting, in his direction.

Numb and too shocked to think clearly, AmyQuinn turned back and tried to stumble toward the safety of the Fairfield, only to find her path blocked by shadows that jumped from their horses. She staggered away from them, buffeted by rushing people on all sides. The invaders began rushing into houses and shops, shouting orders at the townsfolk while waving swords pulled from cloth-wrapped sheathes.

One such man tore Elspeth Struan from the arms of her new husband and threw her to the ground. Another ripped baby Tali from the arms of his mother, and still a third slid a silver blade into the guts of a merchant's guard.

The fire engulfed the Hall completely, roaring in triumph, and then there was screaming all around and the ring of metal on metal. The cacophony was amplified by the deeper voices of gruff men shouting instructions to each other, and above it all was a high-pitched whine that made AmyQuinn wince and cover her ears.

And then the crowd swirled and parted and she saw the Sorev Ael step forward onto the Green. His stride was purposeful and unhurried, and in the howling chaos of the night he existed as a calm eye of the storm. He lifted his staff in his left hand and then struck the tip against the ground with a sharp, percussive jab. The high-pitched whine cut off, stealing the breath from AmyQuinn's lungs. He then raised his right hand, the hand that bore the ruby ring now revealed in fire and glory, and reached out toward the Hall, the burning heart of Dunlow.

The world contracted, bent, and broke open.

A single word cut through the screams and the smoke, rolling from everywhere and nowhere. It was far too loud to have come from a human throat, and if AmyQuinn hadn't seen the Sorev Ael speak it then she never would have believed he had. It cracked and blazed like thunder and fire rolled together, and then with a great shuttering wink the conflagration eating away at the Hall and the brown grass of the Green simply disappeared, plunging the town into darkness.

None of the townsfolk had thought to bring out lanterns or torches, and the ensuing madness was filled with shrieks and cries of terror as family members sought each other out. The black night only amplified their fear, and AmyQuinn was buffeted about on all sides as they rushed around her, panic infecting them all.

But then the cries were pushed aside by another sound: the same word that had extinguished the flames, but inflected differently – higher and lighter, rolling in tight, even waves.

A dozen torches spontaneously lit themselves, flames shooting up high and out of control. The men holding them, undaunted, raced forward, and AmyQuinn recognized them as the merchant's guards. They carried with them a slew of clubs, staves, and short swords, and within seconds they were among the ranks of the blinded raiders, sending them reeling back.

AmyQuinn swung back around and picked the Sorev Ael out of the crowd. He was breathing heavily and leaning upon his staff, his face slick with sweat but his eyes alight with power. A frightening madness illuminated him from within, one that sent shivers down her spine. He stepped forward and his ring flared again with light; he gestured at the thick double doors of the Fairfield, which had been slammed shut by whomever had sought refuge inside, and an invisible force flung them back open again.

"Get inside the inn!" he shouted to the townsfolk at large. Those that still had their wits about them did as commanded, pulling along behind them those too stupefied to understand.

The mounted invaders recovered from the surprise defense and engaged the merchant's guards, who were horribly outnumbered. Several of the black-cloaked men broke free and wheeled toward the Sorev Ael while the common folk of Dunlow threw themselves out of the way lest they be trampled underfoot.

The raiders fell on the Sorev Ael uncontested, making it seven against one. The first invader swung his sword beneath the sorcerer's arm and sliced him across his chest. The Sorev Ael did not seem to notice, but instead riposted by slamming his staff into the man's chest and knocking him from his horse. The others, seeing their comrade fall, enclosed the sorcerer in a circle and attacked as one – two from the front, two from behind, and one from either side.

Valinor held his ground. He spoke the same word as before, a word that was more image and thought than actual sound, and fire consumed the pair of men attacking him from the front, flames leaping from the earth like enchanted roots to drag them, burning, from their saddles. He then spun and swung his staff in a wide arc that clipped one man's temple, knocking him out cold, and broke another man's nose, blinding him with pain and knocking him off his horse. The fifth and sixth men, though, managed to flank him, and they struck out with cold steel.

"Behind you!" AmyQuinn shouted.

The Sorev Ael spun, dodging one of the blades he had not seen, and knocked its owner to the ground. The second blade, by some stroke of luck, missed its mark and sliced through nothing but empty air.

Valinor struck his staff against the ground again and spat out a series of image-words that sent nonsense thoughts skittering through AmyQuinn's head, making her whole body shiver and break out in goosebumps. Whatever enchantment he was working, though, was cut off before it could be finished when the final raider slammed his heavy fist into the Sorev Ael's jaw, silencing him and knocking him to the ground. The raider snarled something that sounded like a triumphant curse and then dismounted in a single fluid motion. He lashed out with a booted foot and sent the Sorev Ael's staff spinning away into the darkness.

As soon as the staff left Valinor's hand, the roaring torch flames in the hands of the merchant's guards guttered out, plunging the world back into darkness. This time, though, the raiders were prepared. Lanterns and torches flared to life, and in the dim light AmyQuinn could just make out the figure of Valinor's final attacker against the backdrop of the night: dressed in black leather armor, masked and hooded, holding a silvery sword over the prone figure of the Sorev Ael.

With no time to think, she did the first thing that came to mind and dove to the ground, groping hopelessly until her fingernails scraped painfully against wood. She lunged for the staff and grabbed it in both hands, then thrust it up above her head, not at all sure what it was she intended to do with it. For an agonizingly long moment, nothing happened, and she was certain she'd done something wrong. But then, with the sound of a bonfire roaring to life, the torches in the hands of the guards ignited like miniature suns. The raw power blinded half the combatants, both guards and invaders alike, and AmyQuinn began to shake uncontrollably.

The sudden illumination surprised the raider over Valinor too, and he threw a hand over his eyes, blinking furiously. He recovered quickly enough, though, and raised his sword again, ready to plunge it down into the Sorev Ael's unguarded chest. AmyQuinn, her body shaking and jerking uncontrollably, rushed forward and raised the staff again in both hands, barely able to lift the weight of it at all.

The sword began to descend. There was no time left.

She fell forward in a lunging dive that brought the staff down on the back of the man's exposed head. He fell like a marionette with its strings cut, and as the staff rebounded, blue light flared and broke out over the scene, appearing from nowhere.

Something picked her up and lifted her into the air, some otherworldly force, and threw her almost a dozen yards. She returned to earth in a heap, slamming into something hard that made her cry out in fear and pain, and then all was silence.

When next her eyes opened, her body had gone numb.

There was sound and movement above her, sensations that did not seem to register, and then a hand grabbed the wooden staff and tried to take it away. She pulled back on instinct, gripping the solid wood with such determination that her forearms cramped up, and the other hand let go. She struggled to her feet despite the way the world spun wildly around her and then braced herself against the staff to keep from falling down again. Her whole body throbbed and ached as if every inch of her skin had been worked over with a leather strap. She forced her eyes to focus, and when they did she found the rough and stubbled face of the Sorev Ael peering down at her through a haze of rain, a bruise already forming along his jawline.

Rain? Why is there rain?

"How did you know I was a Sorev Ael?"

She stared back at him dumbly, unable to string together enough words to formulate a response. Her head was pounding and her eyes felt hot and too large for their sockets.

The Sorev Ael grabbed and shook her, rattling her so hard that her back teeth snapped together and almost bit off a chunk of her tongue.

"Dammit girl, _how did you know?"_

"I – just – I saw –"

"What did you see? Not the staff, not the ring. What did you _see?"_

"I saw _you_ ," she said frantically, trying to think. "I saw you on the Green and that's – I just knew!"

She stopped speaking because she suddenly realized that she was about to be sick. She swallowed down the bile collecting in her throat and then let out a series of hacking coughs, swaying so wildly on her feet that if the Sorev Ael hadn't been holding her up she would fallen back down again.

He watched her through the drizzle of rain that did nothing to dim the fire behind his burnt-black eyes. Dimly, she realized that there was light coming from somewhere – a strong, unwavering light unlike what the torches had cast. It lit his face from one side, highlighting the line of one gaunt cheek and the deep-set pocket of his right eye. He looked severe and unforgiving, like a judge about to pass a dire sentence. Why was he looking at her that way? What had she done wrong?

He let her go.

She staggered back, unable to find her balance. He turned away and bent to the ground, over something she couldn't see. She glanced down at her hand and realized she still held his staff. It was heavier than she'd expected, and the wood was smooth and warm.

"Here," he said.

He held out his hand and it took her a second to realize what he was asking for. When she understood, she stepped forward on shaky legs and handed it to him. As soon as it left her hand, a wave of cold rush through her, and the world, already none too steady, spun like a top. His steady hands caught her again.

"It will pass," he said.

She looked up, not understanding; he grimaced and looked away. People were running all around them, making soft thumping sounds with their feet against the wet ground. Shouts and curses drifted down to them from up the road, made thin and ghostly by night and distance. The raiders had disappeared, and it looked like the merchant's guards were chasing them toward the mountains. Some of the guards had remained behind, though, and one such pair was carrying bodies to the side of the Green, where they were being piled up like firewood.

The nausea came again, and this time she could not fend it of. She turned aside, pulling out of the Sorev Ael's grip, and vomited.

When the sickness passed, she tried to collect herself by digging her fingers into the side of her head and blinking hard. She looked around: lanterns had been brought from nearby houses, and light came from the Fairfield, out of which human shadows were pouring. People were desperately searching the town for family and friends, taking stock of what had burned and figuring out who still had a home.

The Sorev Ael was kneeling over the body of a raider laid out not too far away and muttering to himself. After a few seconds he swore under his breath and stood, then turned and scanned the area in front of the Fairfield.

"Aldred! Mayor Stonewall!"

The merchant and her father turned toward the sound of his voice and then hurried over when they saw who was beckoning them. Merchant Aldred looked ridiculous: his snow-white nightshirt, now wet from the rain, was practically see-through, and it showed off his corpulent body to ill effect. The rain had also plastered his elaborately styled hair straight to his head, giving him the overall appearance of a drowned rat stuffed into a nightgown.

Her father, on the other hand, looked oddly noble, covered though he was in soot and wearing nothing but breeches and shirtsleeves. He caught sight of her and changed course; before she could do anything, he had taken her in his arms and crushed her to him fiercely. His heart beat heavily through his chest against her ear.

"We need to get this man inside," the Sorev Ael said quickly. "Help me grab him. We need to move him carefully, he's heavily burned and losing blood."

"He's alive?" AmyQuinn gasped, twisting in her father's embrace.

"Who is he?" Aldred broke in, his jowls quivering and pale. He stepped up to the other side of the fallen man and took his shoulders while Valinor took his feet.

"He's information," said the Sorev Ael with strain as they lifted the heavily muscled man and carried him toward the inn. AmyQuinn and her father hurried after them; Eldric let go of his daughter with marked reluctance and grabbed the man around the middle, easing some of the burden.

"Information about what?" her father asked with a dark intensity that told her his temper was barely held in check. "What have you brought to my town?"

"I hope to find out," said the Sorev Ael. The clear haste in his voice did not disguise a ringing note of sincerity. "But we must keep him alive."

They hurried into the Fairfield and had just begun to maneuver through the doors when Jaes Stonewall appeared and threw them open, ignoring the rain and mud. She motioned the shambling group over to the largest and longest of the dinner tables and swept it clear in a single smooth motion, catching up the silver candelabra and the clean white linen tablecloth without missing a beat.

"Is there a road that goes through those hills?" the Sorev Ael grunted.

"Yes," gasped Eldric. "It's barely more than a goat track, but it's there. You could take a horse over it if you really wanted to, but I'd be damned before I tried."

"I suspect these men were damned long ago," came the quiet reply. AmyQuinn was not sure if either of her parents heard it. The men threw the raider down on the table and the Sorev Ael turned to the merchant.

"Find the Healer," he said without preamble.

Aldred left, waddling out the door as fast as his bulk would allow. He shivered as he dove back out into the rain, making his fat ripple, but he went without complaint. Jaes Stonewall, meanwhile, was clearing away the people who had gathered in the Fairfield for shelter. Many of them left willingly – now that the raiders were gone, they were desperate to find their loved ones and assess the damage done to their property. Those who could stay to help were bringing in other wounded and laying them across the common room near the newly stoked fire.

The Sorev Ael noticed this; he caught and held Eldric's gaze.

"Is there somewhere private we can go?"

A look crossed her father's face that she did not understand – suspicion and anger followed by guilt and then finally a strange calm – but he nodded.

"This way."

Eldric and the Sorev Ael carried the wounded raider into the kitchen, which was well lit by an overhead lantern of Eldric's own design, with mirrors that reflected and amplified the light. They laid the man down on the cutting table, a solid wooden slab that bisected the room, and then Valinor began probing at the man's most obvious wound.

"I need to see the damage, Mayor," he said quickly. "I need someone to hold him down when he wakes. He will be in pain, and the sight, smell, and sound will all be horrific. Can you handle it?"

Her father licked his lips, then quickly spoke: "I will stay so long as you assure me that my town is taken care of. My first responsibility is to – "

The Sorev Ael held up his right hand, the hand with the ruby ring. The runic symbols carved into the golden band winked and flashed.

"I, Valinor Therin, a Master Mage and Sorev Ael of Var Athel, swear by my name and the Peace that your town is secure."

As he spoke the words, the ruby flared with light, and power radiated outwards, sweeping the room like a rush of wind. Her father's eyes widened, and he looked shaken. He also, however, looked determined.

"Very well, Master Mage."

"Good. Hold him with all your strength and do not let go."

Eldric Stonewall grabbed the man's lower half, leaning his whole upper body over the soiled black cloth. Jaes Stonewall emerged from the common room and grabbed AmyQuinn, pulling her into a corner of the room.

In a single, smooth motion, Valinor ripped off the man's black mask to reveal beneath skin that was cracked and burned. A patch of hair and scalp came away as well, attached to the mask and ripped from the wreckage of the man's face. Jaes Stonewall hissed in a heavy breath and turned away, and though Eldric kept his position holding the man's legs, he turned pale and was forced to look away.

There was motion behind them all, and AmyQuinn turned to see Merchant Aldred pushing through the back door, brining one of the guards with him – a stout man of a height with Valinor and heavily covered in several thick layers of clothing. The guard took stock of the situation and then plunged a hand into his cloak and pulled out a short gray rod, just over a foot long.

"Here," Valinor said immediately, shifting over so that the guard had space to stand next to him at the man's head. The raider woke slowly, stirring feebly at first, and then came back to full consciousness with a violent, sickening convulsion. He began to scream and curse in agony, bucking and struggling with such strength that Eldric was almost thrown away. But Valinor threw his weight on the man's upper half, and together they held him down on the table.

"We need to knock him out!" cried the second man in a high, panicked voice.

"Question him first," Valinor replied. "Ease the pain somewhat, but do not let him fade. Take a deep breath. Still your mind. This is what you're here for – this is what you've studied for."

The guard's face visibly tightened, and his light-gray eyes narrowed in his slim pale face. He grabbed better hold of his wand, held it out over the raider, and then began to chant. The sounds were similar to the ones Valinor had made: not words at all, but something deeper, something that brought images, feelings, smells, even tastes, directly to mind, as if they were all part of a language that had somehow been scrubbed clean of anything but direct meaning.

He ended the short chant with a heavy crash of sibilance and touched his wand to the raider's chest. Immediately, the man's agonized writhing became a violent shiver, and his whole demeanor changed. Tension and pain left him in a rippling wave, draining away like pus from a popped boil. Every muscle relaxed, and his mouth lolled open, showing a tongue burned partially black.

"Good," Valinor murmured, examining the man critically. "Good – keep a tight grip. Don't let him slip under."

The guard nodded and carefully kept the wand touching the raider's chest, staring down at the point of contact with wide eyes and a set mouth. Valinor lifted up off the man's torso and swung around so that he could grab his head. The raider's eyes were heavy-lidded and unfocused.

"Your name," Valinor said slowly. "Tell me your name."

The raider frowned and tried feebly to pull away, but Valinor held him until the struggling faded and another euphoric shiver passed through him.

"Your pain will pass only when you have answered," the Sorev Ael continued. "Should you refuse to speak, your pain will return, and I will see you left in the street as food for dogs, screaming and begging for mercy. _Your name._ "

The man tried to turn his head away; Valinor threw his weight back over the raider's upper body and nodded to the second Sorev Ael.

The wand tip left the man's chest and immediately his whole body tensed. He let out a cry that turned into a gasp of choked air, and pain visibly flooded back through him, engorging his veins and shaking his limbs until he began to seize. Seconds passed that seemed like years, until finally the man's mouth moved frantically, lips forming a word –

"Tholax!" he whimpered, his eyes rolling back in his head, the name only just pushed out past gnashing teeth. He began to spasm in earnest then, shaking the whole table and nearly dislodging his captors.

The wand touched his chest. A shiver of relief rushed through him, but he continued to whimper and moan.

" _Tholax_ ," said the Sorev Ael softly.

Except it was not a word when he said it, or rather it was more than a word: it was the sound of the man to whom it belonged. Images raced through AmyQuinn's head that she had never seen: ships on the high seas; the smell of salt; men with brown teeth, laughing; blades flashing in the sunlight; the bite of cold steel –

"Why are you here?" Valinor demanded.

AmyQuinn sagged in her mother's arms, holding her sides as through she had been struck, but no one noticed. The Sorev Ael was still holding the man's head, and all eyes were on the pair of them.

"We came looking," the man said. He either wouldn't or couldn't continue, though, and he shivered again as tears rolled down his cheeks. He tried to twist away from Valinor's burnt-black eyes, but the Sorev Ael refused to let him go. The guard with the wand – an apprentice? – blanched suddenly, and his lips turned faintly blue as blood drained from his face.

"Looking for what?" Valinor pressed on, relentless. "Why here?"

"We – we came... "

" _For what did you come_?"

"For – _people!"_

The final word cut through the air of the room like a blade, and the temperature dropped appreciably. Valinor shot a look at the younger Sorev Ael and a silent conversation passed between them.

"There were extra horses," the young man said, his high voice shaking with obvious effort, though he tried to keep it level. "We didn't know what they were for, but if there's a reliable track over the mountains – "

"How many did they take?"

"A dozen at least, but they'd have taken many more if they'd managed to make a clean get away. If we hadn't been here – "

"I know."

Valinor glanced back down at the man on the table and noticed that the raider's eyes were slowly fluttering closed. The Sorev Ael reached out and slapped him – a quick, sharp motion that produced a solid ring and startled everyone else nearly as badly as it did the raider.

"Not yet. Not yet, _Tholax_."

Again, the name came out deeper than a single word, and the man spasmed when he heard it. He could not turn his head or look away, but he fought with all his might to do so. Spittle dripped from his open mouth and his hands had balled into fists; the blood that soaked his shirt glistened in the bright light of the overhead lamp.

"Who sent you?"

The man began to shake again as he tried to resist the pull of the question. AmyQuinn stood riveted to the spot, unable to look away. Her mother was watching wide-eyed, and her father was staring up from his position on the man's lower half. None of them seemed to know how to react.

"Tell me, _Tholax_ ," repeated the Sorev Ael, the ruby in his ring flashing like a fiery red eye. " _Tell me who sent you."_

The man's face cleared abruptly, almost as if he'd had an epiphany, and then slowly, very slowly, his locked eyes narrowed in on Valinor's face, and his pained expression evolved into a sneer of utmost contempt.

"No," he hissed. "You cannot hurt me worse than he."

He screwed up his mouth and spat into Valinor's face.

There was a stunned moment of silence, in which no one seemed to dare move, and then Valinor reached up and grabbed the man's forehead with his right hand, engulfing most of the raider's face. The man began again to scream, but this time it was with renewed vigor of resistance instead of pain. Valinor pulled himself up to his full height, grabbed at the gnarled staff that he'd left lying beside the table, and struck the base of it against the floor.

The sound crashed through AmyQuinn's head, and she suddenly saw double. She gasped as her vision swirled with color and then coalesced around Valinor. He spoke a single word that brought with it a sense of sleep and dreams, and the man on the table stopped struggling. His eyes rolled back in his head, his shoulders fell back against the table, and all remaining fight drained out of his body.

"Heal what wounds you can, then bind him tightly," Valinor said. The young Sorev Ael nodded; his face was deathly pale and covered in sweat, but he set to work immediately with the skill and efficiency of a trained surgeon.

"How long will it take until he's ready to travel?"

The younger man looked the raider up and down, grimaced, and said, "An hour at most – hopefully sooner. The incantations are simple, but they need time to set. We shouldn't move him until the wounds have closed. I'll make the sleep permanent until you choose to wake him – that should help."

"Good. We move as soon as he's ready."

Valinor turned away and strode for the door without another word.

"No!" Eldric roared, pulling himself free of the man on the table and standing up to his full height. He was not and had never been a tall man, but when he was consumed with strong emotion as he was now he appeared to tower over anyone around him. He confronted Valinor without fear, not even sparing a glance for the staff in the sorcerer's hands. "No. You tell me what you've brought to my town – you will not leave until you do."

The change that came over Valinor was immediate and shocking. He took a step back, bowed his head, and even went so far as to move toward the counter that circled the room, still gleaming from its most recent polish, and set down his staff. He inclined his head and then slowly held out his empty hands.

"I intended to return here after checking outside," he said calmly. "I should speak to my men there – and there may be wounded that I can help."

"No," Jaes said, coming up beside Eldric. "Send him." She motioned to the man who had just finished muttering a complicated chant over the prone form of the raider. "If you trust him to deal with this, then he can deal with whatever may be out there first. You promised us answers."

"There may be more of your village injured than he can handle alone," Valinor insisted, and AmyQuinn thought he looked truly worried: his jaw was tight, and there was a small muscle jumping on his forehead. "I am not a Healer, but I am skilled enough to – "

"You have lied to me," Eldric interrupted sharply, stepping forward with a face dark and stormy as a thunderhead. "You have lied to my wife. You have placed both her and our daughter in danger. You have placed my _village_ in danger. And until you explain yourself to my satisfaction, there is no way on the Creator's green earth that you are leaving my sight."

The ringing pronouncement hung in the air for a second that seemed to stretch out far longer than a second should, and then Valinor nodded and AmyQuinn breathed a sigh of relief.

"Of course," he said. He shifted his gaze to the other Sorev Ael. "Staci – coordinate with Tol. I will keep an eye on this one while the spells take hold – return when you are done to check him. Look over the villagers first – use the Minor Arcana, not the Major."

The second Sorev Ael paused, and his face darkened.

"You suspect – ?"

"It is always best to leave no trace," interrupted Valinor.

The man nodded and spoke a final hurried word over the unconscious raider. A light came from the cupped palms of his hands, a chill, nebulous blue, and with a rising inflection he touched both hands to the raider's side. The body jumped on the table, and the man's breathing stabilized. Color came back into his sallow cheeks, and some of the burns seemed less red and raw.

"He's stable," the young man said, straightening up.

"Good," Valinor replied. "Go."

He nodded again and moved for the door. But whatever he had done must have taken its toll, because he stumbled on the way out, catching his foot on the corner of a cabinet, and as he did his face suddenly shifted, blurred, and disappeared.

AmyQuinn gasped as the young man transformed before her eyes into a young woman with a heart-shaped face and light, smooth skin. But then, before AmyQuinn could even try to understand what had happened, the illusion snapped back into place and the woman's face was once again masculine, with light stubble and a thick jaw. As the young Sorev Ael recovered and passed through the doorway, though, AmyQuinn took note of the wider hips and thinner shoulders just visible beneath the heavy padding of her clothes – evidence of a woman's figure, not a man's.

"What did you see just now?"

AmyQuinn turned and saw Valinor watching her intently. Both Eldric and Jaes Stonewall glanced from the Sorev Ael to their daughter. It was clear from their faces that neither of them had a clue what he was referred to.

"A... face," she said, not knowing how to put it into words. But Valinor seemed to understand her without further elaboration: he nodded and then examined her with a gaze both critical and calculating.

"You saw the illusion falter. Is he a man?"

She shook her head 'no' before she could give much thought to what the answer was supposed to be. Valinor nodded again.

"She's under stress," he said. "Those newer to the ring sometimes lose control of complex enchantments when they aren't focusing on them. Staci is a Healer as well, which means she isn't particularly skilled at illusions."

AmyQuinn nodded back as if this made perfect sense, though of course it did not. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw her mother and father following this conversation with expressions of alarm, but before they could ask a question, Valinor turned back to them and spoke as if they'd had his attention the entire time.

"We are transporting a valuable object to Londor," he said, speaking quickly but in a very civil and placating tone. "Or at least, that's the rumor that was put out. I am a Sorev Ael of Var Athel, as I have said, a member of the Mages, and as far as anyone knows, I was sent by the Circle to take something of great value down to Londor. An object that went south with a single runner via the bargeway a week ago. An object that, if all went well, is already at its destination. It is very valuable, and to ensure its safety we put out word it would be traveling with Aldred, a friend of Var Athel, and myself. We did not expect an attack, and yet it would seem we found one anyway. If that is what they were truly after."

He looked back at the man on the table and frowned. The raider had said they'd come for people, AmyQuinn remembered. Was that the same thing?

Valinor reached into a pocket of his vest and pulled out a folded wallet of black leather. He opened it and extracted a piece of parchment covered in tiny, cramped handwriting. He held it out to Eldric.

"This gives you claim to a sum of money matching the price of your Hall," he said simply. "Once you have completed reconstruction, bring this to the Sorcerers' Court in Var Athel. The Stewards will see you, verify the claim, and reimburse you for the price of supplies and labor. Needless to say, I am sorry that I cannot do more, but I must leave as soon as possible."

A kind of stunned silence fell between them, and then Eldric slowly reached out and took the parchment, looking it over carefully.

"Very well," Jaes said. Her lips were pressed tightly together, and if AmyQuinn knew her mother, the Sorev Ael would be spoken of in a very harsh tone for the next several months. "Then there is nothing left to say."

"Actually, there is one thing left to say," Valinor said. His burnt-black eyes flashed from Jaes to AmyQuinn, then to her father, back to her mother, and finally back to AmyQuinn, all the while weighing and measuring.

"Your daughter is a Sorev Ael."

Based on the subsequent silence this pronouncement elicited, it was clear that all three Stonewalls thought the statement either an ill-timed jest or the ravings of a madman. Eldric and Jaes just stared at Valinor blankly, and AmyQuinn went numb from head to toe, not at all sure what to think. But once enough time had passed and Valinor's expression remained unchanged, Jaes Stonewall broke the silence.

"Why would you say that?" Her voice was calm and firm, but AmyQuinn heard the anxiety underlying it. "Have you been... were you injured in the fighting? Do you know who and where you are?"

"Yes," Valinor snapped. He stopped himself before he could continue, though, and took a deep breath. It changed his whole demeanor: he stood straighter, his eyes sharpened, and his jaw unclenched; his shoulders relaxed and his hands uncurled.

"Yes," he repeated with greater decorum. "I am well, and in large part thanks to your daughter. I should say she has the talent to _become_ a Sorev Ael – a talent that is rare and growing rarer. When I leave here tonight, I wish to take her with me."

Again, his words seemed a preposterous joke, and it was a long time before anyone made a response. Sounds filtered in from outside – a few shouts, but no cries for help, simply instructions and orders being relayed from one person to another. Eldric was the one to break the silence this time: he shuffled over to his daughter and grabbed her by the shoulders, holding her tightly in front of him. AmyQuinn let him do it, her mind blank.

"You mean the morning," Eldric said, tackling the part of the statement that was easiest to understand, thinking Valinor had misspoken. "You mean when you leave in the morning."

"No," Valinor said firmly. "When I leave tonight."

"Surely not," Eldric protested. "You must stay 'till sunrise – this is no time to go running off in the dark."

"I will not be in the dark," Valinor said, and with a flourish he grabbed up his staff from the counter and thumped it against the floor. Red flame the color of the setting sun kindled in the gnarled crown, licking at the yew wood but leaving it unburnt. He flourished again and the light disappeared. Astonished, the three Stonewalls could only stare at him with wide eyes.

"I ride through the night and morning and I will not stop until tomorrow at dusk," he continued as if he had done no more than scratch his nose. "What has happened here will have happened elsewhere. They could not have known for certain that I was here, and they may not have come for me at all. This man claims he came for people. The fact that I was here... it may be nothing more than coincidence after all. I must alert Var Athel and Caelron of your lost townsfolk – perhaps if they are alerted in time, the captured men and women can be saved, along with any others that might have been taken along the Peninsula."

"You think there were other attacks?"

"Yes. I would say I know, but I am leaving room for hope."

"I don't understand," Eldric said, shaking his head.

"This man is a pawn," Valinor said, motioning to the table and the unconscious raider. "He fears the pain he'll receive from his masters more than he fears the pain he feels now. That means there is a leader. That means this was a coordinated attack. That means multiple parties. That means we must involve the Circle and the Viretorum."

"The Great Ships? They will sail?"

"Perhaps."

"How do we know you are who you say you are?" Jaes asked abruptly. "How do we know you are not a paid conjurer?"

"Jaes," Eldric said quietly, and AmyQuinn saw that a change had come over her father. The anger and the suspicion had faded, and he was now watching the Sorev Ael with something close to awe. "Look at what he's done tonight, listen to what he's saying. This paper," he held up the parchment Valinor had given him, "filled in with extra writing as soon as it touched my hand, guaranteeing me the sum of the repairs we need. This here at the bottom – it's the seal of Var Athel."

But Jaes was not moved: "Dunlow folk lie dead in the street. If he was paid to be here, or if he thinks we'll pay him for his protection – "

"I am a Sorev Ael of Var Athel," Valinor said. "It is forbidden for me to accept wages. It is my duty to do as I have done, and I expect no thanks."

Eldric's hands did not waver from their hold on AmyQuinn's shoulders. "You said you would take my daughter," he said quietly. "What would you take her for?"

"Teaching," Valinor said immediately. "I would take her to Var Athel. I would take her and make her a Sorev Ael. She is strong even untrained. She will do well."

Eldric grasped his daughter's shoulders even more tightly, until it felt as though she were being squeezed in a vise. Jaes laid a hand on his arm; he started and released AmyQuinn, but she stayed where she was, watching Valinor.

She still couldn't seem to form a coherent thought.

"I am sorry to say that I do not have long to wait," Valinor said, obviously doing his best to control his impatience. "I should already be preparing to leave." He glanced between Eldric and Jaes, and then, abruptly, he froze. Something new seemed to have occurred to him.

"Her name," he said softly. "She said it was... AmyQuinn?"

Eldric nodded slowly, which seemed the best he could do at the moment. Valinor speared him with his gaze.

"You named her after the Sisters, didn't you?"

"I... yes. Yes, we did."

Valinor nodded slowly. "You named her well. She can follow in their footsteps. I will take her to Var Athel myself. It is where I go when I leave here – I will stop once or twice along the way for food and sleep, but otherwise she will be there and written in the Book of Names before the week is out."

"But – she is a girl – "

"We do not live in the dark ages of the past," the Sorev Ael said calmly but firmly. "She has the talent. She will be accepted."

AmyQuinn looked up at her father, who looked down at her. His eyes were shinning, and she thought for a moment that it was anger or fear that had made him look so, but then his mouth trembled the slightest bit, and she realized it was pride.

"What does this teaching entail?" Jaes asked quickly, watching the Sorev Ael with a shrewd and calculating eye. Frown lines framed her mouth, and AmyQuinn knew she had not forgiven the man. "How long will she be gone?"

"It is an apprenticeship like that of the Guilds," Valinor said, echoing her business-like tone. "She will be gone for as long as she needs to attain the base level of knowledge that will pass her from apprentice to journeyman – journeywoman, as the case may be – and then she will train as a Deri'cael for the five years required to make her a Sorev Ael, at which point she will have the chance to earn her ring and go where she wills, so long as she obeys the Circle and the laws that govern us."

"Can we visit her?"

"No," he said. "Until she has gained her staff, she is to be secluded."

"Very well," her mother replied, though her tone said quite clearly that this was not a pleasant development. "Then if it is like Guilds in other ways, is it like similar in monetary matters?"

Valinor smiled briefly, his eyes lighting up as he examined Jaes Stonewall more fully. "I can only hope your daughter is a quick-witted as you are. But the answer to your question is 'no', and it is also the first lesson I will give."

He shifted his gaze to AmyQuinn.

"We do not carry nor deal in money. We may offer service for food and water and a bed for the night but we can never accept more than the lowest and the least may receive. The same applies to your time in Var Athel: You do not pay for your training with money, you pay with service. You will swear an oath when you pass into training, an oath that is repeated when you earn your staff and again when you earn your ring. It is simple in essence: the Sorev Ael are the Servants of All, and you will never hold office, never own land, and never harm another person save in direct defense of yourself or others. There are loopholes, which you will find as all of us do, but the letter of those laws is ironclad."

AmyQuinn's mind finally began to work, and she thought of all the stories she had heard, about what the Sorev Ael did, about where they went.

"Should you come with me, the secrets of the world will be open to you. Anything and everything you wish to learn. But you will never be Head like your mother, nor Mayor like you father. This inn will never pass to you. To earn what we can give you, you must foreswear all that the material world offers. You will, of course, be yourself: you will know your mother, you will know your father, you will have your memories and your friendships and you may even return here and live with them should you wish it. But even that dress you wear will not be worn by you again, nor shall any clothing you see in a shop. All you will have in all the world is the knowledge in your head, the Ring and Staff of your station, and the deeds you do in life."

AmyQuinn took a deep, steadying breath as the rough voice fell silent. Valinor watched her, head titled slightly to the side, eyes bright under a furrowed brow.

"What about the Eryn-Ra?" she asked.

His eyes widened, and he looked her up and down once more, a quick appraising flick that then skittered off to the side to her father and mother before returning to her.

"You really do take after your namesakes," he said.

"What about the Eryn-Ra?" she insisted, unable to let it go. "The rest is fine, but I want to see them. I want... are there any left? I know that some stories say they're gone, but there have to be some, right? Amyl and Quinyl tracked them to the Northern Wilds – are there any up there? Do you know?"

Valinor seemed to have forgotten all about his urgency to leave. He was watching her with an intensity that was frightening, and the air between them seemed thick and unmoving. She refused to look away.

Finally, he nodded. "Yes. The Eryn-Ra still live."

Heat rushed through her; she took a step forward, breathing quickly.

"Then yes. Yes, I want to be a Sorev Ael."

He looked to her parents.

She looked up at them too and saw them looking back at her with shining eyes, full of a mix of equal parts pride and pain.

"I – I mean, can I?"

"Crazy girl," her father said fiercely as he slipped his arm around her mother and pulled her tight. "What have I been saying since your last nameday? You're a woman now. You make your own choices."

Her mother let out a choked laugh at that, and AmyQuinn's own eyes began prickling. She hurried forward to hug them and realized for the first time that she was tall enough now that they barely had to stoop.

"I promise to come back," she said quickly, trying not to think about how scared she suddenly was, trying to drown out those thoughts with what she had been offered.

She was going to be a Sorev Ael.

"Our time grows short," Valinor said, his former impatience back in full force. "I need to return to Var Athel with this... _baggage._ " He motioned to the raider. "Come – gather a cloak for riding and whatever travel clothing you have. A dress divided, or breeches, either works, for both will be taken from you when you arrive at Var Athel. Take no personal belongings, no books, no trinkets. Anything you bring will be taken. Do you have a horse?"

"Well... " She turned to her parents. "Can I take Col?"

"He's the only horse I have," Eldric said, looking worried.

"He will return to you," Valinor said, crossing to the raider as he spoke. He pulled back on the man's greasy hair, tugging hard, but the raider made no sound and Valinor let the head fall back again, apparently convinced the man remained unconscious. "Horses know their way home most of the time. I will help him remember. He will return here once we reach Var Athel."

"Then go get changed," Jaes said to her daughter. "Hurry – you must be gone."

AmyQuinn left the kitchen through the common room. Valinor followed behind with her parents, moving toward the fireplace where lay the wounded, already talking about who might need aid and what he might do to help.

She passed through the side corridor to her family's quarters and into her room. Going to the trunk at the end of her bed, she quickly changed into the wool breeches she had been told to put away, pulled on a wool vest for warmth, and found her riding boots under the bed. She grabbed her only cloak – made of thick brown wool that itched her, but which was very warm – and put that on as well.

She looked around the room once, thinking what else she could bring, and realized that what she was wearing was it. Her four heavily read books would stay on the little shelf her father had built for them; the rest of her clothing would stay in her trunk. The smooth stone from the bottom of the Silvercreek Pond, the piece of wood that looked like a dog if you squinted, the blue ribbon that was threadbare from the times she'd rubbed it against her cheek... none of it was coming with her.

She found herself sitting on the bed with no real recollection of having moved there. Her head was buzzing again, forcing away all thoughts save for one: Bolin Buie would win their bet, because she would not be there to prove him wrong.

She took a deep breath and forced herself to stand. Why was she doing this? She had never wanted to be a Sorev Ael before – she had pretended, but she had pretended to be a Viretorum as well, and a lady in a castle, and a wolf and a boy too for that matter, but she had never actually wanted to be those things.

But then the memory of holding Valinor's staff came back to her. She remembered what it felt like to speak a word that was not a word, a word that was pure thought, and the power and certainty that had come with it.

And she would see the Eryn-Ra.

She shivered violently, and left the room that had once been hers.

Chapter Five: The Great Ship

Samson stood on the deck of _Longrider,_ imagining the layout of the Archipelago. The map was a memory, one of the many drilled into him by his father. He scanned the reefs and shoals, charting the course home and taking into account the wind, the tide, and a hundred other factors for which a ship's captain was responsible.

Home was Gol, a large island not far from the last of the fishing villages that lined the coast of the Peninsula, just in sight of where the foot of the Windy Mountains met the water of the Shining Sea. They were in southern waters now, near Howa – they needed to catch the northern current before the sun set and the tide turned.

Gol was one of the largest islands in the Archipelago, and it was located the farthest north and east, save for a number of tiny scattered islands that were barely more than shoals. West of Gol was Hana, and Typr, and then nothing but the vast expanse of the Shining Sea all the way to the continent of Idan, where ruled the Empire of Charridan, the ancient enemy of Aeon.

Samson knew all that, and yet he didn't. He knew it as one knows that the sun rises and sets even without understanding why. It was a fact of life that needed no understanding, simply comprehension. The Archipelagans did not chart west – they traded through Caelron and Laniae. He thought of the west only ever as a place that no one went – the way a practical man might think of the night sky: admiring the beauty, but never really wondering what makes the stars shine.

Samson's world revolved around _Longrider_. It had to. As the youngest Clan Captain in a century, he had been forced to immerse himself fully in the world his father had left him. Johan Seastrider had been one of the most renowned fishermen of Gol before his death of the wasting disease, and it was well and widely spoken of that Samson had both the skill and the drive to become his successor. With the help of his mother, clever and indomitable Marlyene Seastrider, Samson had been placed in his father's fishing fleet when he reached the age of fifteen, the age of manhood in the Archipelago. He'd been given command of his father's old ship, choice of his own crew, and the chance to prove himself.

Many spoke of how much he resembled his father: the same bronze skin and sea-blue eyes of traditional Golish stock, well taller than most men, and with the straight-backed posture his mother had bred into him. He had broad shoulders that would continue to fill out as he grew, and he was quick, both with hands and feet, and had already earned a reputation as a fearsome fighter with spear and staff.

He had younger brothers, eleven and thirteen, and a younger sister. It was the tradition in the Archipelago for the men to set sail in the boats at dawn and to return with the setting sun, and when Samson was given his own ship he made it so that both of his brothers were there to learn from him, as he had learned from their father. The women of the family stayed home and ran the business, keeping the books and corresponding with the mainland should the need arise. Samson's sister was tutoring under his mother, though she was barely ten.

"Samson!" roared Jolly, the first mate, "we've got a catch!"

Excitement raced through him as the crew rushed for the netting thrown over _Longrider_ 's portside rail. All thoughts of sailing home abandoned, he shouted orders to ship the oars and pull in the catch. The men at the netting began to heave.

"Hold the line there!" he cried out, but shouts of dismay echoed back, and he saw the edge of the net, full to the brim, begin to slip.

He abandoned the wheel, throwing a knotted rope over the top grip to keep it in place, and rushed down the side of the galley to where his youngest brother Solom was struggling. He lunged and grabbed the net, picking up the slack.

"Hold it!" Samson cried again. "This is our haul for the day – if we lose it, we come back empty-handed!"

He helped Solom firm up his grip and then heaved with the rest of them. They'd had no luck all day and only as a last ditch effort had they cast their nets here off the coast of Howa. It looked as though they'd dropped right in the middle of a school of herring as they rounded the edge of the coast: the net was halfway out of the water and it was already clear that it was as full as Samson had ever seen it.

"There're too many!" cried Jolly. The first mate was a big bear of a man that had worked with Samson's father, and his support was one of the reasons Samson had _Longrider_ at all. "We have to cut it loose, Sammy!"

"Not yet!" Samson called back, matching the bigger man shout for shout. "Shuffle toward the center, they're concentrated there – get oars under them for leverage – don't let up, we need the haul!"

The men rushed to obey: oars were pulled from the locks that kept them immobile while the galley was rowing, and one, two, three of them were shoved into place beneath the struggling fish. The hardy island pine began to bend under the weight, threatening to break, and with cries of alarm two of the men dove back to the slipping net and grabbed handfuls, while the others levered as hard as they could. The oars held the net where it was, but it was a stalemate: the crew could not pull the net up any further.

"Jayboy! Lop!" Samson shouted. "Throw your weight around!"

The two biggest men – widest, not strongest – moved to the oars, pulling back on the net with all their strength as they went, going hand by hand so as not to let go any slack. Then, when they were finally in place, they switched with the other crewmen and threw themselves against the heavy pinewood handles.

The oars bowed dangerously in the middle where they met the wooden side of the ship, but they held, and with the added leverage the net began to rise. A ragged cheer went up among the crew that was largely strangled by their exertion, but Jolly's voice managed to cut through the jubilation:

"Captain! We've got sharks!"

Fulking blood and tears, this is why you don't fish off of Howa!

Samson let go of the net and rushed for the far side of the line, toward where Jolly was straining with his side of the net. The first mate was motioning frantically astern with his head, and Samson changed tack and headed in that direction. His bare, calloused feet found their way easily across the wet deck, and as he went he grabbed with his foot one of the short fishing spears that lined the oar-docks and flipped it up into the air. He snatched it easily as it rose to chest height, and then dove up and over a tangle of extra netting, rolled, and came back to his feet on the far side of _Longrider._

"Hurry – _hurry!"_

Using his long body, Samson leaned out far enough over the side to see the sharks – two of them, with what might be a third not far behind. If he hadn't known what to look for he wouldn't have seen them: they were covered in rough blue-green skin that blended into the water almost perfectly.

Chameleons. Fulking chameleon sharks. Just our fulking luck.

They were already circling beneath the half-submerged catch, trying to get at the suspended fish as the crew struggled to pull the haul up and over the side. It was perfect for them – all they had to do was swim up and bite.

"Jut! Tek! Throw me two more!"

The men reached down to the oarlocks nearest them and pulled out spears, which they lobbed toward Samson haft-first. The ship had begun to list to port now that half of the catch was onboard, and those who could be spared in the effort of pulling the net up inch-by-inch rushed to the starboard side to help balance out the weight.

"Keep pulling!" Samson shouted. He lunged back over the port beam and sighted carefully with the first of the short spears. It was made of fire-hardened ash and tipped with a hooked metal head meant for stabbing and twisting. A thick rope had been threaded through a hole at the base so that it could be reeled back in after it was thrown. Iron- and steel-tipped spears were hard to come by – if he lost one his mother would never let him hear the end of it.

Kill, don't wound.

The first shark surfaced beside the madly flapping herring, and Samson lashed out. The hooked tip sliced through the blue-green skin, and Samson deftly twisted and pulled. Red filled the water, obscuring everything so that it was impossible to see what had happened to the bleeding shark. Samson frantically scanned the water as the net continued to inch upwards, waiting for his next chance.

A fin sliced the surface, and he struck again. The hooked end of the spear caught in the skin this time, and he wasn't fast enough to jerk it free. With a fierce twist, the spear was wrenched from his hands as the second shark changed direction, a motion that caught the rope on a metal hook halfway up the rail and snapped it clean in two. The shark disappeared into the waves, trailing the spear behind it. Samson did not have time to mourn the loss; he picked up the next spear, clutched it tightly, and watched with wide eyes for the next sighting. The blood clouding the water had begun to thin, but the waves from the coast and the shadow of the ship cast by the setting sun behind them still obscured his vision.

Come on... just give me one more chance...

Movement – he struck, twisted, and pulled.

There came a strange sucking sound as the third shark was yanked up and out of the water, then a solid thwack as it thrashed against the side of the ship and managed to free itself. Samson grunted as the spear slipped from his hands; the shark fell back into the water, trailing the rope behind it. He grabbed the rope and tugged it with sharp jerk, twisting the spear in further, and then let go. The thick line flew out as the shark darted away, but soon enough the slack was gone and the rope rang out a note like a well-strummed lute as it was pulled taut. The line jerked and jumped and then fell slack as the shark managed to free itself, but not without producing another cloud of swirling red blood about a hundred feet off the port side. Samson pulled on the rope and felt the weight of the spear at the end, still attached and waiting to be reeled back in.

There came a cheer from the crew, and Samson saw the bottom of the net lift out of the water and knew they almost had it. If they could get it out of the water, they could get it on the ship.

"Get that catch on board!" Samson yelled, still scanning the waters. " _Longrider_ hasn't missed a haul yet!"

Another cry went up, and Samson saw the fire of competition light in his men's eyes and drive out some of their exhaustion. The arms of the burly men strained their shirts to the point that the muscles looked ready to rip through the fabric, and veins stood out along necks and foreheads all across the galley. He held his breath as the net continued to inch upwards, and then the last shark came again for a final try.

He saw it happen in an instant that was both too short and extraordinarily long: the ripple of the water, the swirl of motion, the fin breaking the surf, the lean, striped body flying toward the net.

He hefted the final spear and threw it like a dart, straight toward the lowest part of the net. The already wounded shark leapt at the same time the spear flew, and the metal tip caught the creature straight through the gill. There was a huge splash as it re-entered the water, and then Samson was hauling on the line, pulling with all his might.

The shark, once again submerged, spun and raced away, panicked by the huge shaft of wood stuck through it, but it wasn't strong enough this time to disengage. Samson pulled with all his strength, the rope burning his hands even through his thick gloves as he refused to let go. A haze of savagery had descended upon him, a red mistiness that had him by the throat: the shark was an adversary now, and he would beat it.

He heaved on the rope, wrapping the excess length around a nearby spar in order to narrow the distance. The shark continued to thrash with the strength of mortal panic, but it could not free itself. The water was red with blood, the shark churning it madly as it tried to escape.

Samson let out a huge bellow of effort and managed to wrap the rope once more around the spar, then again, and once more again. His whole world narrowed in on the task, to the point where he couldn't see or hear anything else happening around him. He heaved again, and this time the shark was so close that it was pulled up and out of the water, where it struggled mightily against the side of the ship, nearly as long as Samson was tall. He reached back into the ship blindly and by dumb luck came across one of the clubs used to bludgeon fish. He hefted the heavy piece of wood, lunged out over the side of the ship, and swung the club into the shark's head, where it connected with a sickening crunch.

The creature went limp.

Samson, gasping for breath, threw the club back over his shoulder and then hauled the shark up and into the ship inch by painful inch. It landed on the deck in a wash of salt, sea, and blood, and then it twitched and shuddered. Samson snarled, his blood hot, and reached over to pull the spear from its gill. He swung it around, raised it high, and then rammed the metal hook into the creature's already flattened head. It gave one final twitch, and then lay still.

A ragged cheer sounded all around him, and he looked up to see the crew shouting and roaring with primal pride. The net full of herring had finally made it over the side, and the men were standing around it, exhausted but exhilarated. Samson raised the spear over his head and shook it, shouting out a wordless cry of triumph, and the others echoed it back to him.

Jolly came forward and clapped him on the back, beaming widely. Samson let the spear fall as the men set to work with their clubs subduing the fish. He could barely raise his arms, and he was covered in blood, sweat, and seawater.

"Pull the other spear in," he said hoarsely to Jut, and then, to the crew at large, "Blood and tears, let's go home."

They laughed at his exhausted pronouncement, and more than a few voiced their agreement. As soon as they'd secured the catch, the crew manned the oars and they moved out around the coast. There they caught a northerly wind in their sails and stowed the oars, moving easily up through the Archipelago with the setting sun on their left, passing other fishing ships as they went and calling back and forth with the crews. Samson let Jolly take the wheel and laid out flat on the deck to rest, as did a number of the crew once the course was set and the lines secure.

It was a clear summer day, one of the last they would have as fall crept closer, and the sunset was particularly beautiful in shades of orange and red and deepening purple that set the sky aflame. From his place on the deck, Samson watched it as his eyes inched closed in weariness, until he fell into the untroubled sleep of youth.

When finally Gol appeared on the horizon, Jolly roused him. It was the captain's job to steer the ship into the harbor – a tradition upon which Samson's father had adamantly insisted. He took the wheel as the men took their positions at the oars. _Longrider_ was a ship of true Golish origin – a combination of the galleys that let men move against the wind and the wider _karrs_ used by the mainland fishing villages, giving her a strong body that widened amidships and then tapered to a sharp, maneuverable point. Her clinker-make made her light and fast, while the skeleton design that was her backbone made her large enough and strong enough to support full loads of cargo.

She was by far and away the pride of Samson's life.

The island of Gol rose from the water before them in the light of the setting sun. The tall pines that framed the bluffs gave the island extra height, and the heavy cliffs of granite that buttressed the harbor from the cutting wind that whipped south and west off the sea and against the coast stood tall and strong as always.

They maneuvered up and around the edge of Twil and then followed the tide through the narrow harbor mouth. The two guard towers, one on either point of the headland, watched them pass, and the men manning them called a welcome greeting home. Samson waved in acknowledgement and then opened his mouth to call out orders to head toward the docks, but stopped mid-action.

There was a Great Ship in the harbor.

He had never seen one before, but there was no mistaking it. The flags flown from the three masts were the red and green of Caelron itself, and there was no other ship that could be so breathtaking. Its size boggled the mind – _Longrider,_ a large vessel, looked downright small beside such a shining feat of nautical engineering _-_ and Samson could not begin to guess at the skill it would take to maneuver a full-sized galleon like that into and out of the harbor. The lines were perfect, and the wood of the planking was so smooth and even that the hull looked carved from a single tree. The off-white canvas sails were tied down for the night, but he could not help thinking about how they would look stretched out against the perfect blue of a summer sky.

The voice of Samson's younger brother Solom spoke from near his elbow:

"What is that?"

Samson tore his eyes away to look down; Solom's dark face was slack, and his hazel eyes openly showed the same sense of wonder Samson himself was feeling.

"It's a Great Ship," he said slowly, turning back, this time eyeing the galleon more critically. There was an empty space for a small rowboat on the upper deck, and barely a handful of crewmen were visible onboard, winding ropes and tying down the ship for what looked like a long stay.

He scanned the shoreline and saw the missing rowboat tied up at the dock. The road that led from the dock inland went through the merchant port and up to the city of Gol itself, located in the island's interior, and Samson knew this must be the final destination of the new arrivals. No delegation from Caelron would come to Gol on a Great Ship to trade with common merchants.

He squinted and managed to make out the shapes of people leaving the rowboat. He caught the silver flash of armor and the dark gleam of tempered sword hilts beneath sea cloaks the red and green of Caelron. Once disembarked, the dozen or so figures disappeared into the lower merchant city, out of the wind and spray of the surf. They were heading in the direction of the Road, which was hidden back among the oak, cedar, and pine carefully grown and cultivated for shipbuilding.

It had been years since an official envoy had been sent to the Archipelago – Samson had been alive then, but young enough that he could remember almost nothing. Men from Caelron often sailed through the Archipelago to trade, of course, and even sometimes docked at Gol for the night, but this was different. There had not been Viretorum on the shores of Gol in many years, and never in Samson's memory a Great Ship.

He wished, not for the first time, that his father was still alive.

"Run out the oars and pull into the fishery dock," he told Timlin, the coxswain, who beat time on the oar drum. The man nodded his graying head and called out the order, changing the beat with the practiced ease of a longtime sailor. Tym and Runi, the other two runner boys that worked with Samson's brothers Solom and Selor, tied down the sail, and soon _Longrider_ was sliding easily into the safety of the dock.

"Samson!"

He lifted his eyes and saw Horas the Fishmonger rolling up to them. The man was nearly large enough to sink a rowboat, but what he lacked in fitness he made up for in greed and business acumen. With the sharp eyes of the Clan Heads to keep him honest, he had set up Gol as the most prosperous island in the Archipelago when it came to the fishing trade. Which meant, of course, that he was the richest fishermonger on any of the islands – a fact confirmed by the gleam of his gold tooth when he smiled, which he did often and freely. Most knew him simply as the Fishmonger. It was a title he had embraced.

"How'd you do?" Horas called, his big booming voice carrying easily up to Samson. He reached up and smoothed back his black, oiled hair unnecessarily. A single large diamond ring glittered on the smallest finger of his left hand.

"See for yourself," Samson said with a wide smile, gesturing behind him. The man strode forward, mopping a handkerchief over his sweating baby face, and mounted the gangplank to peer over the port beam at the deck of the galley.

Samson took great pleasure in watching Horas' piggy eyes bugle in their sockets. The men of the crew saw it too, and they laughed openly and in good humor as they readied the catch for unloading. Already there were lesser members of Horas' outfit approaching with large carts and barrels into which the fish would be placed, packed, labeled, and shipped.

"Is that – is that a shark? A _chameleon_ shark? _"_

Samson looked back and saw Jolly and Jayboy hefting the thing into sight, and it was only then that he realized how big it was. He couldn't really believe that he'd been the one to pull that monster out of the water.

"Aye," Jolly said with a smirk. "Captain is a right piece of work, he is. Lets us pull up the catch of the day while he hunts sharks with nothing but a hook-spear and a club!"

Horas looked from the haul to the shark to Samson, then strode forward and clapped his hands on the captain's shoulders, squeezing tightly. Samson bore it out – distasteful though the merchant could be, he was almost like an uncle.

"Blood and tears, Sammy! I haven't seen a haul like this since your father!"

Samson grinned widely at the compliment, and the smile spread among the crew. Horas turned away and called for his workers to hurry up with the barrels, his look of eager excitement almost childlike in its intensity. It was one of the qualities Samson liked about the man – greedy bastard that he was, he cared little for sentiment and less for the dead, but he loved a good story and his compliments were always genuine.

"By the Sailor's sandy bulge, how'd you even get that many on _board?"_

"Never mind that," Samson said, getting down to business before Horas could get his enthusiasm in hand. "What matters is that they're fresh – we caught them just this afternoon off the side of Howa. If we get them salted and packed now before the day is out, you can sell them tomorrow and – "

"Aye, and fetch a damn good price," Horas said, his mind catching up with Samson's and then running far ahead. "You went to fish off of _Howa?_ You're bloody lucky you got anything – no wonder you had shark trouble!" He eyed the boy shrewdly and then sighed. "Sometimes it's a damn shame I like you so much."

Samson grinned again. "But you do – so don't try to cheat me, old man."

"Old man! Now see here, there's no reason to add insult to injury!"

"Stop stalling while you try to work the figures – I want double the normal commission."

" _What?!_ Sammy, my boy, are you trying to ruin me? Now I know you're an old friend, and of course your father was a friend, but that hardly entitles you to run up the price like that on a poor old merchant like me!"

"Poor?" Samson snorted. "Is that a new ring? What happened to the ruby one? And the sapphire as well? Do you have them sorted by day of the week or do you just wake up each morning and pick one that suits your fancy?"

The crew laughed heartily, and even Horas' workers chuckled. Horas himself smiled indulgently, and Samson knew he had him. "Double for the haul," he insisted. "It's bloody well worth two days as it is, we barely got the net over the side. Standard commission for the men – five each, ten for me and Jolly – and I'll let you have the shark too. Chameleon meat is tasty, but think about what you'll get for skinning the thing. You do it right, that skin is perfect for some highborn lordling from the Peninsula who wants a fancy sword hilt, say, or boots, or even a rich blacksmith who wants a stylish sander. You give me double and it's yours right now – so long as you tell everyone which ship got it for you."

Horas was quiet for a moment, squinting through his piggy eyes at Samson, and the young captain felt his heart beating quickly in his chest. He knew the price was good, and he knew Horas knew it, and knew Horas knew _he_ knew it, and that was as far as the bargaining needed to go most of the time.

"Done," the man said, holding out his hand. Samson grabbed it fiercely and there was another round of laughter and smiles from the men, who had just made twice what they usually did for a day's haul. "But I'll tell you what – I want that shark skinned and ready to go by tomorrow afore that Ship leaves. Chances are there's one such lordling on board who might want the sword handle you mentioned. You convince Jolly to take care of it himself and there's an extra silver in it for both of you."

Samson's eyes widened. He held onto the fishmonger's hand and took a step closer. They both looked toward the Great Ship and then back at each other.

"Who's on board?" he asked quietly.

"Don't rightly know," Horas said too innocently. "But let's just say they looked important – and let's just also say that a ship like that doesn't come all the way to Gol for fresh-caught herring. There's a man with them – more of an older boy really, but he's in armor and he's got a sword – wearing a signet ring with the crest of Malineri himself. He's not some well-born lordling – he's a fulking royal."

Samson's mind whirled into action. A signet ring with the personal crest of the King of Caelron – that meant a direct relative. A young man... there were a few nephews and cousins at court, but chances were that meant the visitor was –

"Prince Rewlyn," he said aloud.

Horas shrugged in a 'who knows?' sort of way, but his smiling eyes gave a clear confirmation. Samson nodded and turned back to the ship.

"Jolly!" he called out. The first mate came, his bare feet transferring him easily from ship to dock in a single bound. The little knitted hat that he always wore to protect his shiny bald head jiggled as he walked, and he wiped his hands on his thick gray sailor's shirt before reaching out to shake the fishmonger's hand. He turned to Samson and lifted an eyebrow at him.

"Captain?" he said easily, the way he had always addressed Samson's father.

Samson explained about the shark. Jolly agreed. He was one of the older men on Gol who had been around long enough to know a little bit of everything, and if a task had anything vaguely to do with the sea or creatures from it, the chance was good that he could more than handle it. Samson's mother had put it more bluntly: "Jolly picks up skills the way a dog does fleas."

The rest of the deal was squared away quickly enough, and Horas paid the money up front as the fish were loaded into the barrels already prepped with salty brine to preserve them. The Fishmonger's men worked quickly, and the easy back and forth between them and the _Longrider_ crew was the uncomplicated banter of men who had been around each other for years and seen times both bad and good together. Likely as many of the dockworkers had been sailors in their younger years as the current sailors had fathers who were dockworkers. The cycle for a man of Gol was simple: the young sailed the seas until injury or age slowed them down; the middle-aged stayed on land to work the docks as they fathered the next generation; and the old kept the books for the wives and the sisters who ran the larger business.

When the ship was squared away and Samson had given out the days' wages to the crew, he began to make his way up the dock with his younger brothers, both of whom were exhilarated and exhausted from the day's work.

"You did a good job holding the net," Samson told Solom, ruffling his youngest brother's hair. The boy was only eleven, and as such did not often participate in the activities of the ship, being still too small to row. He'd been made a runner, responsible for passing messages, keeping the lines tight, and scaling the mast as lookout if need be, along with a dozen other menial tasks with which full members of the crew could not be bothered.

"My hands are going to be sore for _months_ ," Solom said, holding them up; both palms bore ugly red burns from where the wet rope had slipped and dug into his soft skin, but his smile was intensely proud.

"Mine too," said Selor, holding up his own, which were more heavily calloused but still red and raw. He was a runner as well, but would not be for much longer. He'd gone through a growth spurt over the last year since he'd turned thirteen, and Samson was almost ready to make him an oarsman, or possibly even second mate if he showed an aptitude.

"Blood and tears," Samson said in mock exasperation, "that's why you're supposed to wear gloves." He held out his own hands as evidence, displaying the fingerless leather gloves ubiquitous among the Golish fisher folk. They were heavily scarred with rope burns, and looked as though they'd seen better days.

_I need to remember to get new ones,_ Samson thought.

"That's fine for _you_ ," Selor said, looking annoyed – he was at the age where everything annoyed him. "You already have callouses, and you'll be sixteen in a week. You've been working the boats _forever_."

"Yeah," Solom said, following Selor's lead as he often did, "it's a rite of pressage."

"Passage."

"Yeah! Sailors have to have callouses. And good scars too – like Janso's shark bite."

"Or Timlin's eye," Selor said wistfully.

"Janso almost died and Timlin's half-blind," Samson reminded them.

"Well, yeah, but they're _fierce!"_

The two younger brothers continued to chatter on as they walked up the dock, and Samson listened distantly, thinking of what they'd said.

Scars...

It might be nice to have one, but he wouldn't go out of his way for it.

"How else will people know fishers from dockers?" Solom was saying.

"Right," Selor affirmed. "We want people to know we're fishers, like dad was."

"I mean, Horas doesn't have any scars, you know? But I'd rather be Timlin without an eye than _Horas_ with all the dockers."

"Yeah. Who wants people to think you're a stupid docker? They're worthless."

"Selor!" Samson broke in sharply, his tone suddenly authoritative and cutting; his younger brother flinched. They stopped where they were, and a group of crewmen walked by. One or two slapped Samson on the back, and he nodded in recognition of the praise. At sea he was a Captain, but in Gol, ever since the death of his father, he was something of a communal nephew. When the men passed on, he turned back to Selor and continued, his smile turning to a scowl: "I don't want to hear you say anything like that again. Father would never have let you. He's the one who always said that everyone has a place and a job – no one's better than anybody else. Dockers work hard just like fishers do. And some day, when you're too old to pull on oar all day, you'll _be_ one. Father would have been one if he hadn't died."

He took grim pride in managing to speak that last sentence without faltering.

Selor looked ready to argue, but he took in Samson's expression and appeared to think better of it. Samson took a deep breath and pushed it out quickly, trying to ignore the fact that he completely agreed with his younger brother. Why would anyone want to stay on land when they could be out on the open sea? But he knew his father had been a wise man. Everyone said so, at least.

"And Horas – under all the blubber, he's a good man. He keeps an eye out for us and he was one of father's best friends. He's greedy, but I think maybe all people have one bad thing about them. At least he's honest about it."

Selor and Solom both watched him for moment, saying nothing in response. Solom's youthful brow was furrowed as if this new thought was one that troubled him, and Selor was trying very hard not to look impressed, affecting a kind of nonchalance that involved slouched shoulders and an awkward strut. How he managed to strut while he standing still, Samson did not know.

He grimaced and ran a hand through his thick dark hair, turning away and catching sight of the Great Ship again as he did.

Prince Rewlyn.

"Who do you think came?" Solom asked, following Samson's gaze.

"I'm not sure. Come on."

They passed through the merchant dock, the part of Gol that covered the beach around the harbor. It was packed to bursting with shops and stores that were closing down for the night, and the three brothers wound their way through the streets to merge with a swelling crowd that was tramping up the central slope of the Road toward the actual city of Gol.

There was only one real road on island – one that had been paved and smoothed long ago – and as such it was referred to simply as "the Road". A series of smaller streets and alleys made of simple hard-packed dirt and bearing names like "John's End" and "Fisher's Row" branched off of it at odd angles, but they were little more than afterthoughts.

The brothers moved with the crowd past the cobbler and Smynt's Smith Shop, and began to ascend the first and steepest slope. There were switchbacks and side passages along the way, as well as lookout posts at every turning that were normally unmanned. It had been many years since Gol had been invaded; indeed, many years since any of the islands had been. The Peace between Charridan and Aeon spread as far as Laniae and Calinae, and the Archipelagans had no urge to break it; they were traders, and war was bad for business.

And yet that day the lookout posts were manned.

Guards stood in position at every turning, straight and tall, their leather armor oiled and shining. Their spears – which still bore the look of the traditional fishing spears of Gol, though converted for battle – were tied with knots of blue and silver cord, the colors of the island. Samson was not the only one to notice: he could tell from the subdued murmurs of the ascending crowd that they too had taken note.

They rounded the final bend in the path and approached the Granite Doors.

The Doors were two massive granite sheets that narrowed the Road until it was barely wide enough for two carts to pass abreast. It was said that they were the site of a fierce battle that had taken place between the ancestors of Gol and one of the more powerful southern isles, Lainoq. Lainoq had gone to war with the other islands of the Archipelago when the isles were young, and it had conquered many of its smaller neighbors. When finally it had turned its eyes toward Gol, it had sent an invasion force through the harbor and up the Road to the city itself. Though the men of Gol fought long and hard, the Lainoq warriors were fierce, and they pushed the defenders all the way up to where the Doors now stood.

That much was easily known – it was set down in official books of record that one could see and read and understand, both in the Longhouse of Gol and the Library of Var Athel, where all official history was kept – but the rest was speculation. All that was factually definite was that there had been no Granite Doors when Lainoq invaded, and yet here they stood, and had stood since that day. The legend went that a Golish shaman, untrained but powerfully skilled, had sacrificed himself using the deepest of his arts in order to save Gol from destruction. As a result, the granite that made up so much of the island had shifted and surged, and the wide pass that had once let people roam freely from the harbor to the higher slopes had been closed off by high walls through which only the Golish could pass. The Lainoq army was cut in half when the Doors formed, and with renewed vigor the Golish pushed the Lainoq invaders back and then climbed the heavy mountain sides and flanked them, driving them all the way to the harbor and routing them completely. Their power broken, peace was forced – the same peace that still reined in the Archipelago.

It was one of the stories Samson had most loved to hear his father tell.

"The mainland thinks Gol small in size," his father had said, "but no Golish man thinks so. Gol is not just the land – it is the air and sea as well. And the freedom of wind flying among the waves."

They stopped abruptly, and Samson was pulled from his reverie.

The Doors were blocked. A crowd was slowly growing before them, a crowd that lined the narrow pass, milling about and peering over the heads of those in front of them. An air of excitement rippled through it, like the wind causing ripples in the sea.

"What's going on?" Solom asked, too short to see anything.

Samson put a hand on the nearest section of granite wall and lifted himself up, adding a few extra inches to his height so that he had an unobstructed view. He saw straight through the Doors to the distant Longhouse, where were standing men in red and green cloaks with armor and swords, arrayed in a stately procession.

A shiver made its way through the crowd, and then came word that the visitors were Mainlanders. The mood changed from excitement to the strange mixture of curiosity and contempt with which the Archipelagans regarded those of mainland Aeon. Mainlanders were by and large accepted – particularly if they came with money – but no king would ever rule the Archipelago, and those who came representing such a man were often regarded as guests who had put their bare feet on the dinner table. Samson had felt that way before, but he didn't now. All he felt now was a need to _know._

Who would come to Gol with Viretorum and a Great Ship if not the prince?

"Who _is_ it?"

Samson looked down at Solom's urging and caught his brother's hand before it could pull at his gray fisherman's shirt. He lowered himself down, wiping away the rock dust from his hands.

"A delegation from Caelron," he said. The interest of both younger brothers peaked, and they began to make their way forward through the crowd, leaving Samson with nothing to do but follow, apologizing as he went.

The crowd started to move again, and by the time they passed through the Doors into the city, an unnatural quiet had spread. The Caelron men in their red and green stood at the end of the Road before the Longhouse, where gathered the Golish clans for meetings and where sat the Clan Heads in times of crisis. There was movement, but he could not make out what was happening: all he could see were the turned backs of the Viretorum.

A chill ran through him at the sight of those cloaks. The men who wore them stood tall and proud, and well they should: they were the best swordsmen in the entire land of Aeon. His heart thrummed inside his chest, and his palms were clammy. The air was cool against his skin, and he was suddenly aware of how dry his lips were. He ran his tongue over them.

"Samson!"

He jerked away from the sight of the Viretorum and saw his friend Rolin hurrying toward him. Rolin was older than he was, nearly twenty, but they had been friends since childhood, as had their fathers before them. Rolin was first mate on his father's ship, _Wavecutter_ , and Samson thought at first that his friend had heard about the day's haul and was approaching to congratulate him, but the serious look on his face said otherwise. Rolin's dark features were drawn in concentration, and the pockmarked skin of his cheeks and temples was pinched and sallow.

"The Captains have been called," he said quickly, motioning to the Longhouse. His jaw was set in a firm line, and his eyes were narrowed.

"You mean the Clan Heads?"

"No – I mean the _Captains._ "

Surprised, Samson looked back at the Longhouse. The crowd had parted enough that he could see the individual knights with their shining armor and shoulders-to-feet red-green cloaks. Tall and broad of chest, they all seemed uniform, and stood with arrogant self-assurance. They had taken up position on either side of the entrance, and though they were in no way openly antagonistic, it was clear that they were at attention and watching for signs of danger. There were no weary eyes or smiling faces among them: all were alert, all were determined, and all looked ready to fight at the slightest provocation.

"Why?" Samson asked.

"The Great Ship – you saw it in the harbor? It came with an envoy bearing the crest of Malineri himself. It wasn't the King, though – I don't know who that man was walking in just now – you saw him? Oh, well he was about my height, and thin. I've never seen him before. But he's got a dozen knights on shore, and I think he might be one himself. Looks like he's got... you know... _breeding_."

Rolin sneered and glanced at Samson pointedly, and Samson realized he was trying to imply that the man was mainland royalty without saying it straight out in the presence of Solom and Selor.

"Why would he want the Captains, though? What's the point of calling us? Surely the Clan Heads are who he needs."

"I don't know – but they sent me to find you. You're the last one."

Samson paused as they approached the entrance to the Longhouse and stopped short of ascending the steps. "Do you know anything else?"

Rolin grew even more serious, and tension crept into Samson's shoulders. Rolin was given to laughter – his frowns were few and far between.

"There's talk he means to invoke the Bargain."

Samson cursed under his breath.

"What's the Bargain?" Solom asked with no effort whatsoever at guile.

"Take Solom and Selor?" Samson asked. Rolin nodded.

"Wait! No – I want to come!"

He left his brothers with Rolin, knowing that to engage them would only make matters worse. He heard Rolin speak to them and then heard their voices raised in protest, but he was already ascending the steps.

The Viretorum moved into his path so fluidly that he barely had time to react. He stopped and found himself inches away from a man in burnished silver armor, holding a sheathed sword across his body to bar Samson's passage. His heart began knocking at his ribs, and energy flooded through him. He felt the insane urge to lash out at the man, and in the back of his mind came the thought he'd had ever since he was a child:

Could I beat a knight?

"I am a Captain of Clan Seastrider," he said instead, before the man could speak. Not that the man had given any indication that he would. His stoic face could have been carved from stone, and it seemed all too possible that his jaw was decorative instead of functional. But at Samson's words, the man's eyes flicked over him. The motion took barely a second, but Samson was sure that every detail of his appearance had been picked apart and cataloged. He felt suddenly self-conscious in his wide seaman's trousers and gray fishing shirt, and that only made him angrier.

"I'm a _Clan Captain_ ," he repeated, this time more firmly. "I'm supposed to be in there. Right?"

A hand appeared on the shoulder of the knight, and then an arm and eventually a body rounded the wide boulder of a man to reveal an officer of some sort. His armor was, if possible, even more polished than the first man's, and a golden knot of rank attached his heavy cloak to his breastplate. He wore no helmet, and his short brown hair was graying at the temples. His face was fractionally softer than the first knight's, but his steely gray eyes more than made up for that with a harsh intensity that bored relentlessly into Samson.

"What ship?"

" _Longrider,_ " Samson replied immediately. He would not be put off balance; if the Clan Heads were in the Longhouse, then that meant his mother was in there. As the only Captain of Clan Seastrider, he had a right to be there; as a son, he had an obligation.

The officer's eyes narrowed.

"Your name."

"Samson Seastrider," he said, "son of Marlyene Seastrider, the head of Clan Seastrider. I was told the Captains were called. So get out of my way."

The officer watched him for a second longer before speaking brusquely, his tone dismissive: "You're too young to be anything but a boy."

The tone of this pronouncement set Samson's teeth on edge, and he responded automatically: "And you're too old to be anything but a docker."

The insult went over the man's head entirely, but the tone was clear enough. His eyes narrowed, but Samson continued on before he could reply. "This is not the mainland," he said pointedly. "This is the island of Gol, and you have no sway here. If I wish to enter the Longhouse as a Clan Captain, you cannot stop me. If you don't believe me, try to do it."

The man's eyes flicked up over Samson's shoulder to the watching crowd, clearly weighing the situation. Those gray eyes flicked back seconds later to Samson's face, but revealed none of the thoughts behind them. Samson's heart was crashing furiously against his rips, and the blood was singing in his veins. A growing part of him wanted the man to refuse.

I could do it. I could take him.

"Let him through," the officer said abruptly. The first knight reacted to the command immediately, backing away and turning to the side. Samson walked past without another word, trying to ignore the way his arms and legs were slightly shaking as he moved.

He passed into the Longhouse without so much as a backward glance, but he could feel eyes on him, and he had to suppress the urge to shiver. Hot resentment flared up in his gut, and an uncharacteristically prejudiced thought crossed his mind: who were these Mainlanders to think that they could keep a man of Gol from walking anywhere?

He passed through the ornately carved archway and into the high, narrow Longhouse. There was the usual honor guard of Golish spearman just inside, a half-dozen men dressed in long gray cloaks over simple leather armor, and they nodded to him. The captain of the guard looked past him and sneered at the Viretorum.

The Longhouse was a high-arched single room that had once been the center of the village, where all had slept, ate, and lived when first the island was settled. Now it was a meeting hall, and tapestries and decoration adorned its walls, though it still retained the smell of wood smoke and old, spilt spirits. Two long tiered benches lined either side of it, and they were often full of common men and women who came to observe important meetings. Today they were empty. The only people in the room were at the very end of the hall, around the dais where once had sat the chieftain's chair, but where now sat the seven chairs of the Clan Heads.

Samson spotted his mother immediately, in the chair second from the left, and moved toward her, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible. The other Clan Captains, all of whom were men, were already present and standing behind the chairs of their Clan Heads, all of whom were women. For some clans there were three or four Captains; for some, like Seastrider, there was only one.

A young man stood on the speaking platform, addressing the gathered Golish folk. He was tall and fair, with high cheekbones and long dark hair pulled back by a slim golden band that sat easily at his temples. His armor was that of the Viretorum and he wore it as one of them, with the casual arrogance of a man who had been trained to handle himself. And yet, Samson thought, he could not have been more than seventeen.

"There has been rumor of a new force in the Northern Isles," he was saying. His words came out high and clear, ringing through the room in a clean tenor that was sharp and crisp like fresh rain.

A few of the Clan Heads shifted when they heard this, and Samson felt his mother tense in her chair, though he could not see her face. He was the only Captain for his clan, though Solom and Selor would join him when they reached manhood, and as such he stood directly behind her.

"I know it has been a long time since the last Caelron envoy visited your island – "

"Eleven years, Rewlyn," groused Cole Catchpole, the oldest Catchpole Captain. "And that was a courtesy visit at best."

Prince Rewlyn swallowed as inconspicuously as possible, clearly having hoped that such a thing had been forgotten. His voice still rang out calm and assured, though. "Yes – too long. Now is the time to renew old alliances between old friends. Gol has always been a valued partner to Caelron, both in trade and ideals – "

Cole Catchpole snorted, but Prince Rewlyn continued as if he hadn't.

"And it is my hope, as well as the hope of King Malineri, that in the face of this imposing threat we can re-forge the bonds of that friendship, and have between us once more an alliance."

"If Caelron is so interested in re-forging our _alliance_ ," said Cole to rueful chuckles, "why is it that your knights felt it necessary to set themselves on the doorstep of our city seat and search me – a _Captain of Gol_ – as if I were a common mainland serf?"

"There are no serfs on the mainland," the prince said. A number of Captains barked out open laughs, and though the Clan Heads had more restraint, there was open incredulity on more than one of their faces as well.

"But that is not why I am here," Rewlyn continued quickly. "I apologize for my men – they should never have taken such liberty – "

"If you cannot even control your own men," croaked Symal, Clan Head of the largest clan, the Wavewalkers, "what makes you think that if we sent our sons with you you'd be able to keep them safe?"

"I can control my men," Rewlyn said quickly. It was clear to Samson that the meeting was quickly getting away from him, and clear too, it seemed, to the prince. "But that is not why I'm here."

"Then speak about why you are here," growled the oldest Clan Head, Emory Catchpole, Cole's wife, who was backed by her husband, two sons, and three grandsons.

"I bring news of a gathering," Prince Rewlyn said slightly too quickly, rather obviously glad to be back on track. "Of the Viretorum, the Sorev Ael, and many others. Men from Caelron have been sent all across the land of Aeon to request aid."

"Aid?" Emory Catchpole cackled, leaning forward her ancient head and eyeing the young prince with her single remaining eye, which gleamed a dazzling blue. "What aid can great Caelron need from us lowly islanders?"

"You are, and have ever been, our superior in the naval arts – and we entreat your help, as we once did."

The low muttering that had filled the hall suddenly broke off, and the Longhouse went eerily silent. Prince Rewlyn looked ready to say more, but as the silence descended, either his natural political instinct or some part of his courtly diplomatic training told him not to. He shut his mouth and watched them each in turn, shifting his gray eyes, bright with shrewd understanding, among them all. Finally, it was Emory Catchpole who again broke the silence:

"It is not often that we hear flattery from Mainlanders," she said softly. She still affected an air of disinterest, but Samson could not help but notice that she was watching the prince rather too intently, one eye or no.

"Perhaps then it is the fault of the men of Caelron that we have not more often found the necessary humility in us to state what is true," Rewlyn said smoothly. "For that which is true cannot be considered flattery, but compliments due one friend from another."

Another silence fell, and then Emory Catchpole began to cackle low in her throat. The cackle grew louder, a sound like kindling catching fire, and then it leapt to the other Clan Heads and also the Captains, who openly guffawed. Prince Rewlyn smiled as well, a self-conscious and ingratiating smile that said openly that he knew he'd laid it on rather thickly. This only added to the mirth, and the whole council was soon howling with glee so that the thick tension that had filled the room was suddenly dispelled as if it had never been.

"Very well!" Emory Catchpole cried out, cutting through the din. "Very well. Tell us what it is you want. If you want an alliance, that's just words – or words on paper maybe, but paper dissolves in salt water, which is most of what we have here. Tell us what you _want_ , young prince, and, if you tell us true, we might consider it."

Prince Rewlyn opened his mouth to speak, then paused. Something flickered behind his eyes, and he seemed to come to a decision that he'd been putting off.

"We need your captains and your ships," he said. "We need to invoke the Bargain."

The blunt statement fell into the pooling silence like a heavy stone, and was swallowed up with no ripples. None of the Captains protested; none of the Clan Heads so much as lifted an eyebrow.

"And what," Emory Catchpole said slowly and with great intention, "would you need our ships for?"

"To lead our men," he said. "To lead them north."

None of the Golish folk responded, and so the prince continued.

"We would confront these invaders. We would go to them in force and ascertain the purpose of their presence. If they are here in peace, then both Archipelagans and Mainlanders can greet them together – as allies. If they are here for war, then we can go as one to battle."

He paused and looked among the faces of the gathered leaders, but did not seem to find what he was looking for. He tried again: "In either peace or war, it is important for us to work together in this. You sail the Shining Sea farther than any but the Great Ships, and while they are powerful, you are knowledgeable. We in Caelron know this – my brother, King Malineri, knows this."

His next words came out with a twist to them, as if they were distasteful.

"My brother is not our father. I am not our father. Our father was... not the ruler some of us wish he'd been. But my brother rules now – and he has respect for the Archipelago, and hopes to build back up the old alliances, to make Aeon a land once again strong and prosperous as it was after the Peace was first made. That is why we come to ask you to uphold the Bargain – "

"Have you yet made contact with these newcomers?"

The prince, taken aback by the interruption, recovered well enough and turned toward Clan Head Finner, addressing her directly despite the daunting look on her already daunting face.

"We have not," he said, "but we are worried that even now we do not have enough scouts in the water to detect a possible force sent to our coast – "

"And who do you hope these scouts will be?"

"As the men of Gol know the Sea better than those of Caelron ever could – "

"Enough, young one."

Though Emory Catchpole had spoken, it was clear that she had simply echoed the sentiment of all the Clan Heads. Samson looked around the half-circle created by the seven chairs and saw grim looks on many of the Clan Captains' faces and regret among the Clan Heads.

"We will not go to war," she said. "Not even the Bargain can change that."

Prince Rewlyn looked ready to protest, obviously under the impression that she just needed further convincing, but Emory Catchpole raised a hand with a sharp jerking motion that cut him off before he could start.

"We will not go to war," she said again. "The Bargain was struck long ago when the Peace was made, and we honor its terms. We shall never harm Caelron is any way, nor allow Caelron to come to harm through our inaction; just as you shall never harm Gol, nor allow Gol to come to harm through your inaction. We are not one nation, but we are... allies. Despite our differences."

Prince Rewlyn stood stock-still, his young, handsome face blank even though Samson was certain he was panicking inside.

"These newcomers have not disturbed us," Emory Catchpole continued, spearing the prince with her single eye, blue like lightning in the dark. "If they are, as you say, in the north near the Floating Isles, then they are no concern of ours. They are out of our waters, and out of Caelron's; the Bargain does not apply to them."

"You cannot mean that," Rewlyn said, his diplomatic mask cracking to reveal slivers of incredulity. "If they inhabit the Northern Isles, they may pose a threat to all of us. If we are not proactive, then there may be no chance – "

"Do any other Clan Heads object to my opinion?"

Emory Catchpole turned to the others, ignoring Rewlyn completely now. She often spoke for the Clan Heads, and was by far the most respected, but she by no means had power over the other six. A stubborn, independent streak ran through all the men and women of Gol, and you did not become Clan Head without a healthy double dose of it.

But this time, there was no dissension: one by one, all of them, even Samson's mother, shook their heads slowly from side to side. The vote was unanimous: Gol would have no part in any northern expedition.

"We thank you for your kind words," said Samson's mother; he recognized the ritual words of farewell, and it was clear that, Mainlander though he was, Prince Rewlyn did too.

"No, wait – please, I entreat you – "

"Entreat us tomorrow and the day after for seasons to come, but our answer shall remain unchanged," Emory Catchpole said. Samson caught the smallest hint of regret and sympathy in her voice, but she nodded to Samson's mother again, bobbing her iron-gray hair and shaking the heavy shawls that wrapped her head and shoulders.

"We thank you for your kind words," Samson's mother began again; as the youngest Clan Head, the opening and closing words were hers. "But we the Clan Heads of Gol, the representatives of our people, must decline your offer. We wish you safety in your travels, and a fair wind to bring you home."

The Clan Heads stood as one, and the Golish guards came even with Prince Rewlyn, three on his left and three on his right. None of them touched him, but it was clear that they were there to escort him out. He still looked ready to protest, his back straight and his brow furrowed, but he wisely decided not to. With the guards flanking him, he left the Longhouse, moving as though in a bad dream from which he hoped to wake.

The Clan Heads waited until he was gone, and then they all stood as one. The formality of the situation melted away, and the Captains greeted each other and muttered about Mainlanders while the Clan Heads began leading them from the hall.

Samson's mother turned to face him.

She was just past the age of fifty, but aside from the few streaks of gray in her light brown hair and a light dusting of lines around her mouth, she looked far younger. She'd been stunning when she'd wed Samson's father and was still regarded as a great beauty by most on the island, particularly the older men.

"How was the haul?" she asked with a smile. Somehow she already knew.

Samson smiled back, but he knew it didn't touch his eyes. The refusal they had given Rewlyn had taken the joy out of him.

Surely there would have been no harm in scouting alongside the Great Ships.

Marlyene Seastrider saw through the smile, and she held out a hand to him. "Come," she said. "We'll talk at home."

He followed her from the Longhouse, tired from both the day's exertions and the sudden drain of watching the clans reject the prince. Outside, the crowd was parting before the prince and his escort of Viretorum, and Samson felt again a rush of heat as the long cloaks billowed out behind them.

"Come," his mother said, unable to hide the scowl in her voice.

He followed her and was grateful when she took the lead. As soon as they stepped from the platform in front of the Longhouse, men and women of the Seastrider clan mobbed them, asking for details. Each required a response, and his mother, always ready with a calming word and somehow able to speak individually to every member of a crowd, took the brunt of it, allowing Samson to follow stoically along behind her.

The Seastrider clan was old – their blood was the ancient blood of Gol, stretching back to the first landing, and only the Wavewalkers could claim the same. All the other clans had risen to replace the original bloodlines that had died out or joined together along the way. Samson knew that his mother feared the same fate for them. The Seastriders were small, and though they'd intermarried with other clans to increase their number, still they had dwindled. In each clan, the children of those named Clan Head went on to become Clan Captains and Clan Heads in their own right, representing their clan in the island government. All of the Seastrider families were related in some way, and all of course had ships and captains of their own, but those of the First Family were those that bore the responsibility of leadership.

Father always said having three sons was the best thing that could have happened to mother. With three of us, there's a chance to increase again.

The thought was not a comforting one, though. Already his mother was pushing him toward marriage, parading young women before him at every family gathering, and he wanted nothing to do with it. He wanted to sail, like his father; he would wed the sea if he could, and never look back.

He tried not to think of what his father would have said about Prince Rewlyn's petition. He found he hated to think that his father would have agreed with his mother.

Why does it bother me so much?

They made their way finally through the worst of the crowd and headed in the direction of their family home. It was old – so old that it had been added to by each successive generation for years without count. Sections had been torn down and remodeled, doors had been converted into walls, extra rooms had been added, expanded upon, and even relocated, and the end result was the largest and most noticeable house in the entire Seastrider section of the city. It was unlike even most of the other First Family houses – chaotic and yet ordered, like choppy sea waves all pushed in one direction by a strong wind.

They ascended the smooth granite steps that led to the door, his mother still fending off questions from various clan members that had followed them.

"You'll know more tomorrow," she kept insisting. "We will meet as a whole island in the Longhouse – already the Clan Heads are planning it. Please, wait until then. Yes, everything is fine. No, the ships will not sail, that has been decided."

Finally the door closed, and that was the end of it. Samson breathed a sigh of relief and allowed himself to lean back against the entry wall, the smooth wood, made so by years of scrubbing and whitewashing, cool and soothing.

"Don't stay there," his mother snapped immediately, bustling past him. "Come to the table – you need to eat."

"I'm not hungry," he said, but he knew it was no use. He was a captain on _Longrider_ , but just a son in his mother's house.

He ate woodenly. Solom and Selor were there as well, no doubt dragged home by Rolin, but they ate quickly and left, bantering among themselves and all the while shooting envious and put-upon looks at Samson in recompense for abandoning them. Samson, for his part, ate without tasting a single bite of his dinner. It was solid fare – fish and grain, with good wine cut with water – but it tasted like ashes. He could not understand it. He should feel elated: he had brought home the biggest catch of his life, seen his first Great Ship, and had even confronted one of the Viretorum, a knight of Caelron, and attended a meeting of the Clan Heads.

Why do I feel... drained?

"What's on your mind?"

He looked up and realized his mother had already finished her food, rinsed her simple wooden bowl, and returned to the table to watch him. Her eyes were bright, and though she seemed tired from the day, her gaze was clear and there were no shadows beneath her eyes.

"Nothing," he said in an offhand way.

"Tell me," she said, her voice stronger. "You're the only Seastrider Captain – you need to talk to your Clan Head."

"Sometimes I'd just like to talk to my mother," he muttered, but not loud enough for her to hear.

"What?

"Nothing," he said, pushing away the resentment that had risen from nowhere inside him. He suddenly had the urge to run from the house – to race down to the docks, board _Longrider_ , and sail away. He felt constricted, bound by something he could not see and against which he could not push back.

" _What's on your mind?_ " she asked again, and he knew she wouldn't let it go until he said something.

"I don't think you made the right decision. With the prince, I mean."

His mother nodded as if she had been expecting this and waited for him to continue. Unclenching his jaw, feeling as though every word was being pulled from his mouth like a tooth, he continued.

"What if he's right? What if there is a force in the Floating Isles? Then it doesn't matter about the Bargain – it doesn't matter if Caelron's in danger, _we_ might be in danger."

He stopped and swallowed hard, not looking at her eyes. He hated himself when he was here. This wasn't home, _Longrider_ was.

He tried to push that thought away. His father would not want him to think like that. Things happened in life that you did not want to happen – his father had known that best of all. Johan Seastrider had not wanted to be Clan Captain, had not wanted to take a hand in politics, but he had assumed the post because he'd had to, because he was the only direct Seastrider descendant left. He'd told Samson before he died that he'd found happiness even though he hadn't expected it, and that he hoped Samson would follow him and find the same. And now he was gone, and all that was left was the ghost of his words, haunting Samson's mind.

What would he say if he could see me now?

He gritted his teeth and forced his spine to straighten; he rolled his shoulders back like the Captain he was supposed to be. He looked his mother in the eye and mentally crushed the craven thoughts of running like a swarm of pesky insects.

This was his life. This was his responsibility.

"I don't understand why this doesn't fall under the Bargain," he said, his voice smoother now, his thoughts composed. "There might be a force there. They might be a danger – or if not, maybe they're traders like us. Maybe they're children of the Shining Sea like we are – and shouldn't we be the first to greet them?"

His mother leaned back in her chair and sighed. She shook her head slowly as the sound of the other children drifted in from the other rooms of the house. Samson's mind went to them: Selor and Solom who would someday be Clan Captains too, and his sister, Inelle, who would be Clan Head. Maybe then...

"Because Mainlanders always want more than they say they do," his mother answered finally, watching him with a considering look.

"But why refuse him outright?" Samson asked. "I still don't understand. The fishing season is almost over – once autumn comes the sea will be hard to sail, and the winter storms mean we'll be in harbor most days. Why not sail north with them? The storms are less there, and they'll need our help if what he says is true –"

"What he said is _not_ true," his mother interrupted, and the tone of her voice was one he knew well: this conversation was over, and she was about to have the final word. "You have not dealt with them as I have. They are a nation of king-worshipers, and they learn lies at their mothers' breast. If their king asked them to lie, they would do it. If he asked them to invoke the Bargain and gain our trust for deceitful ends, they would do it. It is who they are. They put all else below and their king above to absolve them of thinking and responsibility. Do not let your good heart cloud your judgment, Samson. Never trust a Mainlander."

She fell silent, but the bitterness with which she'd spoken did not fade as quickly as the words themselves. It hung in the air between them, and Samson heard much more in it than she was willing to tell him. Something he had heard before.

He almost asked her about it – the words came to the tip of his tongue and he almost let them fly. All he had to do was mouth them and they would come sliding out, as easily as fish through water. But he swallowed them back instead, leaving them unsaid. He thought again of _Longrider_ and knew that, somehow, if he asked the question he would be irreversibly a man, a Captain to a Clan Head, and he could not bring himself to take that step.

He said instead something mollifying that he could not quite remember. She was satisfied by it, though. He made his excuses – he was tired from the day, needed sleep, would be up early – and then headed through the oddly spaced and shaped rooms of the house toward his bedroom. Past nets and weaving stations, past his mother's desk, past what had been his father's workspace, where he'd carved and smoothed the wood he'd loved so much. No one had entered that room since his father's death except to clean it.

He ascended the ladder set in the back wall of the last room. It took him to the upper level of house – to his room. The room he had grown up in. Though he was Clan Captain, he had yet to move into one of the larger bedrooms on the ground floor. The attic room was too hot in the summer and too cold in the winter, but it was his, and when he needed time to think he retreated there and lay in the hammock strung in the far corner opposite the window.

He went there now, and looked out over the city of Gol as it slowly fell asleep. The house was on a rise, and he could see all the way from the Doors to the Longhouse and even to the distant Wavewalker section. The large oil lanterns strung between the taller houses were being doused, but only every one in three, leaving just enough light for the late night stragglers to make it back home. The moon and the stars were out that night; there was a hint of clouds, but only on the horizon. In the dying light, he could see the last of the crowd going home for dinner and sleep. Shouts and cries drifted up to him, made incomprehensible by distance, and part of him wondered what it would be like to be one of those little dots of people. What would it be like to live a different life?

His thoughts drifted to the prince.

He said he wasn't like his father.

He did not know why that thought was so important, but for whatever reason it was the one that had stuck with him. His mother knew Prince Rewlyn's father – everyone knew of King Hulin, the King to Prove the Islanders Right. The safeguards put in place by the witch men of Var Athel – "meddlers" his mother called them, "meddlers that should leave the world working as it does" – had kept Hulin from turning into the tyrant he'd threatened to become, but only just.

He'd had two sons who'd survived him: Rewlyn and Malineri. They were different, or so rumor said. Malineri had already reformed what his father had corrupted, and the Sorev Ael advisor he'd chosen was supposed to be famous for mercy and compassion.

But did that compassion extend to dark-skinned Islanders? And what of Prince Rewlyn?

He said he wasn't like his father.

He tried again to push the thought away. Simply because he'd seen the look on Prince Rewlyn's face and thought it honest did not mean it was. He had also seen a glint of shrewd cunning in those gray eyes, and the prince was from the Mainland court, where lying was taught to children.

He rolled over, telling himself he needed sleep. But those gray eyes seemed to watch him, even in the darkness behind his eyelids.

Chapter Six: The Kull

He woke to screams.

He was moving before he had time to think, rolling to the side, up and out of his blankets and hammock, and then he was standing and staring blindly into the pitch-black darkness. He stumbled forward, sleep making him clumsy, and jabbed his toe against something hard. He cursed and groped for the ladder, found it, and hurried down.

As he descended, the noise became muffled and distant, but no less mistakable: distant screams and cries for help. He let go of the ladder with his feet and slid the rest of the way down, slamming into the wooden floor with a heavy thud that made his legs burn.

He turned and hurried through the house, only to crash into two moving shadows that had come from the next room over.

"AH! Mother of – "

"Solom?"

"Samson?"

"Selor?"

"What's going on – ?"

"Both of you – quiet!"

The screams from outside cut through the room. In a rush of movement, the three of them made it to the cooking room, where a sudden glow flared up at the window over the counter. It was bright enough to turn the drawn curtains a deep shade of scarlet, and Samson hurried to it, rounding the covered earthen stove.

He ripped the curtains back but couldn't see the source of the light. It came through the cross-barred hole as a reflection off the granite wall that wound around and behind the house. He cursed and turned back.

"Selor," he said, trying to peer through the darkness. He could just make out the outlines of his brothers in the reflected light: both of them were still in their smallclothes and they wore matching expressions of fear. "Find mother – wake her if you have to. Take Solom with you."

He moved in the direction of the door.

"Wait! What about you? Where are you going?"

He rushed from the room without responding. His mind was blank, his instinct and responsibility as Clan Captain pulling him forward blindly. All the thoughts he'd had at first – A fire? An accident in the village? – had filtered out of his mind like sand through a sieve. He stumbled over a pile of sitting cushions in the receiving room, pushed his way through the hanging curtain across the entryway, and then slammed open the front door.

The city that had only hours ago been peacefully falling to sleep was now a full riot of motion. Men and women were running through the streets, calling to each other as fire leapt from house to house in a growing inferno centered around the Longhouse. The huge hall was not yet fully ablaze, in large part due to what looked like most of Gol fighting back the flames with hurriedly formed fire lines passing pails of water, but the threat was very real.

The volatile scene began to shift. Another group came into sight from the direction of the Doors. They moved with precision, not panic, and their strange black clothing made the hair on the back of Samson's neck stand on end. He didn't know them, and yet some primal instinct recognized them as an enemy.

Mainlanders? Is it an attack?

He launched himself off the granite steps and down the sloping side street that would take him to the Road and the Longhouse, his long strides eating up the distance in huge gulps. But as he faded into the maze of houses, he lost the advantage of the higher ground, and his view of the approaching group disappeared. The screams changed pitch and tenor: there was more than fear in them now. There was terror.

He continued his headlong dash, with no plan at all of what he would do when he arrived, only knowing that he had to help – somehow, there had to be a way that he could help.

He burst around the final corner just in time to see flames lick up the side of the Longhouse and ignite the roof.

The fire lines broke apart as the men and women that had made them up dropped their pails and retreated before the oncoming rush of men clothed in black. The invaders looked like moving shadows, and waves of danger seemed to radiate out from them, sending spikes of fear through Samson's stomach.

A new sound came – Golish battle horns. He shot a glance toward the other side of the city and saw Golish men in leather armor carrying spears and rushing to meet the invaders. They engaged the black tide and were swallowed by it.

Samson lurched forward into the square with no idea of what to do. He watched in horror as flames devoured the Longhouse, and the blaze continued to build all around him. A small group of men among the black-clothed invaders began to chant something in a strange language, and all thought disappeared from his mind. He remembered nothing of the next few minutes save a wonderful feeling of serenity. The world became wonderfully simple: all he had to do was walk to where the song was telling him to go; all that mattered was that he come home to –

Home?

A ship appeared in his mind – a black ship, beautifully made, with black sails. It was larger than _Longrider_ and sleeker, clearly built for carrying large loads at high speeds. Smaller than a Great Ship, but large all the same. A carrack of some kind, maybe. It shone in his mind's eye like a beautiful dream, and the feeling of blissful peace swirled in around it, coating every flap of canvas, layering into every grain of wood....

_Sailing_ Longrider _under a cloudless summer sky; riding the waves beside his father, who spoke in a calm slow voice and passed Samson a carved wooden ship just like the one they rode over the Sea –_

The memory jarred him loose from whatever enchantment it was that had taken hold of him. The feeling of serenity evaporated and the burning world came rushing back in on him with all of the attendant panic and confusion. He found himself inexplicably in the middle of a crowd of children and teens his age or younger walking toward the chanting men – chanting men wearing bleached-white bone armor beneath heavy black cloaks.

As soon as he regained enough presence of mind to question what was happening, the alien chanting turned from a beautiful melody to something excruciatingly painful. He cried out and slapped at his ears, trying to pull the sound out, to push it away, to just _make it stop make it stop –_

And then through the haze of pain and fear he saw little Solom, his bronze skin shinning with the reflected light of the fires, walking slack-jawed toward the group of black-robed men.

He followed me.

"NO!"

A surge of energy cracked through him like lightning, and he began to shove his way through the crowd of children, making for his brother. All of the children were younger than he was, and for a brief second he wondered why, but then the question was driven from his mind when he heard shouts behind him, harsh guttural words clearly not the common speech of Aeon.

He spun to see soldiers in black rushing for him, and through their ranks saw a brief flash of the Golish men who had counterattacked being pushed back into side streets. Dozens of other families were ignoring the soldiers altogether and trying to save their houses, and still more were shouting for the senseless children to stop but were held back by the flashing swords of the invaders.

Strong hands grabbed Samson's arms from behind. He shouted and struggled against them, turning again toward Solom and screaming his brother's name to no effect until something heavy crashed into his head and the world went sideways.

By some miracle he stayed conscious. The blow must have glanced away somehow, or been turned partially aside, because though his vision shook and his head burst with pain, he was able to push himself back up off the ground and turn to confront his attacker. He caught a flash of a black hood and huge muscled arms before a heavy club wielded in a ham-fisted grip descended toward him and he was forced to react without thinking.

He pulled back one bare foot, coiled his knee to his chest, and struck out, connecting with the man's chest. His long, lean body, muscled from the work of several years on a fishing ship, acted like a whip, and his foot collided against the man's unarmored chest with such force that the brute was knocked off his feet.

_If he'd been wearing a breastplate I'd have broken my foot_ , Samson thought deliriously. He had the insane urge to laugh until the pain in his head shot down his neck and made him gasp.

Seeing their comrade fall, a half-dozen others closed in on him. He grabbed the downed man's club in desperation and swung it in a wide arc, laying about him with such fury that they all recoiled. His head throbbed with every beat of his heart, and the sound of the fire blurred together with the invaders' chanting to become a single noise that boomed painfully inside his head. His attackers drew their swords and advanced. He swung the club again, but to no effect. The closest of the black-cloaked men dodged beneath his reach, grabbed his arm, and broke his grip. Others grabbed his arms and held them in place behind his back, and then he saw the flash of shining steel rising up above him.

And then, for no reason he could understand, the hands released him and he fell. The sword plunging for his neck sliced through air instead, and then the attention of his assailants was directed elsewhere.

His hearing came back to him little by little, and as he pushed himself to his feet, stumbling away from the center of the growing fray, he saw not a wall of black but a whirling storm of red and green. The chanting had broken down, and now disjointed strings of harsh words were being shouted, words that stung and hissed as they shot through the air like arrows.

The black-cloaked men began to retreat. Horns sounded again, but this time they rasped instead of bellowed, and Samson knew that they were not the horns of Gol but the horns of the attackers.

The Viretorum fought as a single unit, and they tore through all the black-cloaked men who dared to stand before them. Samson didn't spare them more than a glance, though – he needed to find his brother.

"SOLOM!"

The children who'd been walking toward the chanting men were gone, along with most of the chanters, save those that had stayed behind to spit burning words at any who dared approach them.

They were going toward the Doors.

He moved down the Road, his mind racing ahead to the thought of the black ship he'd seen in his vision until a man in bone armor stepped into his path. The man in black struck out with an ancient iron dagger, hissing a word that sounded like the venomous bite of a snake.

Samson pulled back at the last second, and the stroke went wide. A man in red and green stepped between them: a knight of the Viretorum. His dark hair flashed with red highlights from the reflected light of the fires, and a thin circlet of gold shone at his temples.

Prince Rewlyn.

The man in bone armor attacked with artless savagery, and the prince countered with calculated grace. He bore no shield, but instead a longsword that he wielded in both hands. Another of the black-cloaked men joined the fight, swinging a heavy mace, and was quickly dispatched. The man in the bone armor drew something else from inside his cloak, pointed it at the prince, and shouted a word that sounded like fire, but the longsword flashed in the night and seemed impossibly to cut the word down. Shock flitted across the invader's face as the sword continued its arc, looped around, and slammed into his chest.

The shining blade slid easily through a chink in the bone armor, and Samson heard the sick sound of parting flesh as the whole length of it was sheathed in skin. The light behind the man's dark eyes went out, and he fell.

The sword pulled free, scraping against bone with a horrible screech that set Samson's teeth on edge, and Prince Rewlyn stepped back to let the body fall. Immediately, the Viretorum were on it, hacking at the limbs.

"What are they doing?" Samson asked, horrified by the brutality.

"He's a disciple of death," Rewlyn gasped. His dark hair was unbound and disheveled, his gray eyes wild. Samson saw again, in that moment, how young he was. "He – he will rise if he is not dismembered and burned."

An explosion of sound cut off any reply Samson might have made. Everyone turned to look in that direction down the Road – and saw a plume of dust rising into the air from the direction of the Granite Doors.

"They've sealed us in," said one of the Viretorum knights. He was bleeding freely from a gash on his arm, and a whole sleeve of his armor had come undone and was hanging loose.

"That's impossible," Samson said immediately. "The Doors – "

"Have known sorcery," Rewlyn said. "They can be manipulated by anyone who speaks the Words."

"Who are they?" Samson asked. "They have my brother – _who are they?"_

Rewlyn ignored him and turned instead to the Viretorum.

"We need to get through," he said. "Jeremiah, is there a way around? We need to get to the Ship, we need to put to sea before they get away."

"It's been too long since I left," the man said, shaking his head. Samson realized with a shock that he had the bronze skin and green-blue eyes of a Golish man. "There are back roads – I knew them as a child, but they may have changed – "

"I can take you to the dock," Samson said. "I can take you."

The prince paused, seemed to consider, and then made up his mind.

"Then take us."

"Promise me you'll save my brother."

"You speak to the Crown Prince of Caelron," growled the captain Samson had confronted at the Longhouse. His eyes flashed as he pushed his way forward. "How dare you _demand_ – "

"It's your fault he's been taken!" Samson shouted, beyond all reason. "It's your fault – Mainlanders always take from us when they come!"

Prince Rewlyn stepped between the two and pushed them both apart. He turned to Samson first. "I will do everything I can to save your brother – to save all of the children who were just taken. _But you must get me to my ship!_ "

Samson searched the young man's face: his gray, heavily lidded eyes were wide and focused, his mouth was pulled back in a grimace, and his whole body was tense with carefully controlled fear.

"Follow me," Samson growled.

He turned and hurried away without so much as a backward glance. He led them through the burning city, ignoring the cries for help that echoed all around. He closed his eyes against the red-orange glow of the fire still slowly eating away at his city; against the blackened bodies being dragged into the street and the sickly sweet smell that came from them. He focused instead on the wall of black-green trees atop the granite curtain that contained the city. He picked up speed, breaking into a jog and then into a loping run as he neared the final ring of houses. He did not slow or look behind him; he ran, and let the Mainlanders follow as best they could.

The hidden turn in the granite curtain appeared to be nothing more than a natural ripple in the stone. When he neared it, he felt the knights slow behind him. They'd managed to keep up even in their heavy armor, but their pale faces bore clear looks of skepticism. All save for the face of the Golish man – his face instead had brightened, as if he recognized something he hadn't seen in years.

A Golish knight. A man of Gol part of the Viretorum.

He moved into the alcove, then around the edge of the hidden passageway behind the curtain's concealing edge, and disappeared.

The knights followed him as he ascended the path that led to the forest, and he heard one or two of them curse as they tripped over stones and cracks hidden in the darkness. With a final surge of motion, he emerged to find himself atop the curtain looking in on the city; his breath caught in his throat and choked him.

At least a third of the buildings had caught fire, and the other two thirds were in real danger of following suit. Two clan quarters had gone up entirely in flames, and they glowed in the night like miniature suns. Buckets of water were being gathered, passed, and thrown on the blaze, but they seemed to make no appreciable difference, and with the Doors barred there was no way down the Road to gather more. Others were throwing water on houses that had not yet been set aflame, dousing the wood to keep it from burning and adding steam to the gray-black smoke that billowed ferociously out and up into the night sky.

The knights emerged behind him, Prince Rewlyn flushed and winded among them. Those that had brought torches lit them and passed them around. One of the men offered a torch to Samson, and he took it, turning his back on the city.

Mother will help. She will make sure everything is fine. The Clan Heads will have it under control. There is nothing one more pair of hands could do.

But the litany could not purge his guilt.

They raced through the pitch-black forest, Samson with his torch thrust high above his head, though he hardly needed it; his feet found their way unerringly on the path he had tread since he was old enough to walk. They descended the mountain quickly enough and emerged on an outcropping that leaned out over the side of the harbor, near Horas' warehouse.

There was no light here from the burning village – just a dull glow in the distance, as of a fire slowly fading to coals. There echoed down the mountain the faint sounds of screaming, though, but even that was dulled – and the heavy smoke mingled with the steam of evaporating water had so filled the sky that the moon and the stars had been snuffed out like candlelight in wind. The only light left came from the watchtowers at the harbor's mouth – the lights meant to guide in ships at sea lest they break against the heavy shoals that ringed the island. They lit up the mouth of the harbor, but only that; everything else was clothed in night as black as sin.

The captain of the Viretorum pointed: "There."

Samson looked, trying to pierce the veil of darkness, but saw nothing.

"Douse the light," the captain said, coming even with Samson. His face was impassive and his callous eyes were fixed on something down below. Unlike the prince, he wasn't winded or even breathing hard. The others followed the command without question, until only Samson was left.

"We won't be able to see," he protested.

"We can't see now," the captain said. "Douse the light."

"No – that's not – "

The man moved so quickly that Samson didn't have time to react. The torch was torn from his grasp and then put out with a sputtering hiss, plunging them into true darkness. All he could see were the distant harbor lights, two bright points stuck in the great mask of the darkness like the eyes of a watching beast.

"On me," the captain said. "We go silently – follow my mark."

"Wait – "

Samson cut off as a sudden wave of masculine breath mingled with oil and armor polish caught him by the nose. The captain, inches away from his face, spoke quickly and quietly. "Come with us or stay here," he growled. "I do not care. But either way, be silent and stay out of our way _._ "

The smell disappeared, replaced by the clean scent of pine overlaid by smoke, and Samson let out a shaky breath. He heard the soft sounds of the knights moving past him, following the captain down the hillside, and he realized he was in real danger of being left behind. Not knowing what else to do, he followed.

As his eyes became accustomed to the night, he began to make out smaller lights down below he hadn't seen before. There was noise, too – small and almost at the edge of hearing, but it was there: the metallic clink of buckles, the gruff snap of muffled words, the whimpering cries of prisoners.

"Hold," the captain whispered. Samson could just make out his outline, though his red-and-green cloak blended him almost perfectly into the background darkness of the night.

The captain made a motion with his hands that Samson did not understand, and then there came noise from behind them. Samsun spun and looked back up the precipitous slope they'd descended and saw... nothing. He heard again a shout, though, farther up the path, and he realized that he wasn't the only one who'd decided to find another way to reach the harbor.

The knights ignored the sounds completely, though, and began filtering through the shops and buildings between them and the retreating force of invaders. Samson swore under his breath, caught between going with them and turning back, but was diverted from the choice when he felt more than saw someone moving in the darkness to his left. He spun toward the shadowed figure and grabbed hold of thick cloth in the darkness.

"Stop! You idiot, it's me – it's – let go of me!"

Breathing heavily, Samson released the prince.

"They left you behind?"

Prince Rewlyn glowered at him, making the answer clear enough.

"There's only six of them," Samson hissed, looking back down the path toward the harbor. The invaders were coming closer, and it was clear that they were making directly for the harbor. "Are there others?"

"Aboard the ship."

"But only six – what do they think they're going to do?"

"They're Viretorum," the prince said. "Six might be five too many."

The shout from farther up the path rang out again, and Samson turned to see torches at the top of the slope and a group of people headed by a big bear of a man wearing a small knitted cap.

"Jolly," Samson whispered.

"What?"

Samson grabbed the prince by the front of his embroidered tunic.

"Who are these men?" he demanded. The raiders were nearing the dock and would soon make for their ship, which was still cloaked in the darkness of the bay. "Tell me what you've brought down on us."

By the light of the approaching torches, Samson could see the prince's expression go from shock to anger. "They have my brother," Samson said, his voice softening before he could help it. "They have my _brother."_

The prince's expression did not change; he glowered at Samson with self-righteous contempt. "They're the same raiders you refused to help us find."

"What are you talking about?"

"They are invaders, Islander, the ones that have taken up residence in the Floating Isles. They call themselves the Varanathi, and they've come for you just as I warned they would. It's as I told your Clan Heads – we are fighting the same enemy, come for us both. _Caelron needs your help as much as you need ours._ "

In disgust, Samson released the man, shoving him back against the granite wall that made up the left side of the hidden forest trail.

"I was there, Mainlander," sneered Samson. "I was at the meeting in the Longhouse, standing with the other Captains. You said you didn't know who they were – you said you wanted men of Gol to go explore and find out. You _lied_."

Prince Rewlyn's face was clearly flushed even in the masking darkness of the night, and his mouth was set in an ugly line. But before he could retort, there came noise from below, and both of them turned to look. A tongue of flame suddenly lit one of the streetlights – an oil lantern, situated high above the ground on a long pole – and then two more followed suit, seemingly of their own accord. The light pulled back the darkness like a curtain at the beginning of a play, revealing dozens of men all dressed in black with masks covering their faces. Struggling between them was a mass of children that ranged in age from four or five years old to early adolescence.

The mass of shapes began shouting. The reason was clear: six bodies, all clothed and masked in black, lay on the edge of the road, bleeding into the gutters. Pandemonium broke out, though the raiders tried to contain it. Several of the black-clothed men detached themselves from the greater group and made for side streets and alleyways, looking for their attackers, while those in charge of the bound and gagged prisoners continued forcing them down the street, brandishing swords, knives, and clubs as encouragement.

"What's happening?" Jolly asked, alerting Samson to the fact that he and those he'd come with had finally arrived. Wasting no time, Samson pointed to the prisoners.

"They've got Solom," he breathed.

Jolly's face folded in on itself, and he bared his teeth like a wild animal. His clothing was singed and blackened, and shiny burns covered his arms.

"Then we get him back," he growled.

Samson nodded and then glanced behind his first mate. His breath caught in his throat and his heart swelled: Jolly had brought the _Longrider_ crew with him. Many bore clubs or other rude instruments of force, and their looks were murderous. Some were missing, though, and he couldn't bring himself to think about what might have happened to them.

"We make for _Longrider_ ," he said. "We can't fight them on foot – they have swords and armor and who knows what else – but we can take them in the water."

"Wait!" Prince Rewlyn said, throwing himself in front of them. "Take me to the Great Ship, and you'll have us there to help you. The rest of my force is there."

There was a pause, punctuated by more screams, and Samson knew there was no more time left for talk. "Take him with us," he said over his shoulder to Jolly.

He pushed past the prince, who gave an indignant squawk as the first mate picked him up, slung him easily over a burly shoulder, and followed Samson down the slope. The fighting between the invaders and the Viretorum had drawn some of the group back toward the upper end of the merchant port, but many more were still making their way toward the docks. The prisoners had already passed that way, and they were being thrown ignominiously into a half-dozen rowboats like sacks of grain. Samson glanced along the docks the opposite way, toward the last long spur of wood that reached out to the deeper waters of the harbor directly in front of Horas' warehouse.

"Go for _Longrider_ on my mark," he whispered, raising his hand. He listened as the order was relayed and then held his breath as a final group of invaders retreated past them, led by a tall man who carried himself with an air of command that set him apart from the others. Just as Samson saw him, the man paused mid-stride and turned to look back down the street.

The raiders who had attempted to seek out and kill the Viretorum in the dark alleys and side streets were retreating now, torn and bloodied. The knights themselves had emerged in pursuit, all six of them unharmed and with swords coated liberally in blood. Seeing them, the waiting man raised his hands to his head, pulled back his hood, and revealed a bare skull beneath it.

Fear squeezed Samson's heart painfully in his chest. Where there should have been skin, there was only bone; where there should have been a nose, there was only an empty socket. The dislocated jaw spoke a word that hissed and burned, and all of the street lanterns that had inexplicably lit themselves only minutes before were just as inexplicably extinguished.

Suddenly blind, Samson stumbled backwards. "Go for the ship!" he hissed at Jolly, hoping the man was behind him, hoping that he had not been unnerved by the sight as Samson had been. The first mate relayed the order and the crew hurried to obey, rushing off into the night. Samson followed as best he could, trying to collect himself but plagued by the shocking image.

The skull – he has no skin – the skull – a skeleton – bare white bone –

They hit _Longrider_ at a dead run, and the ropes were cast off and the ship set adrift only seconds later. The crew ran out the oars, and as soon as they hit the water Samson gave the order to row for the Great Ship.

What else is lurking in the dark tonight?

_Longrider_ cut easily through the waves, and the familiar rocking of the deck beneath his feet cleared his head. Out over the prow he could see the lights from the harbor towers; when he turned back toward shore, he could see nothing but deep shadow. Too deep, in fact. The lanterns had been relit, this time one by one with long poles in the hands of Golish folk who'd made their way down the hidden forest trails and retaken the dock. They carried torches and lanterns that illuminated quite clearly the shops and the Road... but that illumination did not touch the open water of the harbor bay.

The water remained unnaturally dark and cloaked in shadow, and shapes of boats and ships were only visible when they emerged like phantoms in the night as _Longrider_ passed by them. There were no waves either, which made no sense – it was as if the tide had been temporarily stilled, and the active harbor had become a blank slate of glass, closed off from the outside world and contained in an unnatural globe.

"The ship!" Jolly called out. Even his booming voice sounded like little more than an elevated whisper. Seconds later, the massive galleon loomed out of the unnatural gloom like a wraith, shining and white. Samson's eyes traveled slowly up the side, flicking back and forth as he gave command to turn _Longrider_ along its side.

Something felt wrong.

Prince Rewlyn sensed no such thing; he moved forward as soon as _Longrider_ was close enough to the Great Ship to make the distance easily crossable. He readied himself to jump for the ladder carved into the Great Ship's side.

"Wait," Samson said, and even though his voice was low, every one of his crewmen heard it and froze. He turned back away from the Ship, looking into the eerily still harbor. Where were the invaders?

He turned back to the Great Ship and glanced at the upper deck. A sudden cold dread washed over him, and he realized what he'd sensed, realized what was wrong.

The crew was missing.

"Oars double time reverse! Pull us back!"

_Longrider_ jumped into action as Timlin beat the drum furiously and the ship began to back away. Selor and the other two runners – _Selor?! Where did he come from? Why isn't he with mother?_ – rushed to untie the knots as Jolly ran down the lines making sure all was in order.

Prince Rewlyn, taken by surprise at the sudden change of direction, swayed dangerously on the side of the deck nearest to the Great Ship; he grabbed for the rail, but his momentum was too great –

"Rewlyn! _SOMEONE GRAB HIM!_ "

As if summoned by his brother's thoughts, Selor lunged for the prince and caught him by the back of his cloak, ripping the red-green cloth in his haste to pull the man back. Gasping, Rewlyn staggered to regain his footing, looking around with wild eyes. The men were rowing frantically even as the sails opened in a desperate attempt to catch the barest hint of breeze; the combined effort sent them skittering back across the dark water like a many-legged bug. Samson shouted out orders, trying to control his panic, and glanced back behind them over the high stern just in time to see lanterns flare to life on the Great Ship.

Damn damn damn damn –

"What do you think you're doing?" the prince demanded, pulling himself up to his full height and striding over to Samson. "Get me to my ship!"

"I'm saving your fulking neck!"

The first volley of arrows flew, and he pulled the prince down with him, holding the wheel steady with the furthest extent of his fingertips. They hit the deck with a thud as an arrow flew through the space above them and embedded itself in the quarterdeck wall.

"MOVE MOVE MOVE!" Samson shouted. Timlin increased the rowing beat, thumping the drum openly now that there was no use for secrecy or silence. Another volley followed the first, and arrows sliced through the air, causing the crew to duck and find cover even as they continued rowing.

The Great Ship was full of moving shadows now, shadows in the shape of men. Among them glinted here and there silver flashes of steel and hot, flickering flame. And then, as if waiting for the distraction, a massive ship exploded out of the unnatural shadows that cloaked the water, racing for the open harbor mouth.

The ship was black from stem to stern, as if every rope and porthole had been dipped in pitch, and Samson could only watch in awe as the dark behemoth sliced through the water before them. It was nearly as large as the Great Ship, and two bonfires on the main deck, both fore and aft, lit it with a dazzling blaze.

A sudden wind sprang up from nowhere, blowing at gale force, and it opened the black sails to their fullest extent, plucking the carrack up and throwing her forward with such force that she almost left the water. She flew past _Longrider_ , throwing off waves that turned them sideways and left them drifting, but then the wind caught _Longrider_ too and the smaller ship turned of its own accord. The sails caught and stretched almost past the point of endurance as every rope and tie groaned under the extreme stress. The crew was thrown back as the ship shot forward, and by some miracle they managed to hold on to the oars.

Samson came back to his feet first and shot one last look over his shoulder: the darkness that had settled on the harbor had lifted, and he could see a half-dozen Golish ships being made ready to sail in an effort to follow them. At this pace, none of them stood a chance of catching up in time.

_Longrider_ and her crew were on their own.

"Captain!"

He looked over and saw Jolly pointing frantically. Following the gesture, Samson realized that they were approaching the mouth of the harbor at breakneck speed and drifting much too far aport. If they continued on that path, they would end up wrecked against the rocks.

He dove for the wheel and grabbed the heavy wooden handles, throwing his whole body into the motion. _Longrider_ shuddered beneath him, and Jolly yelled for the oars to change pace to match the turn. Everything seemed to go black as stars winked around the edges of his vision.

The two lights of the harbor towers flashed past them, and they were through.

He let go of the wheel so that the ship could right itself and then grabbed it again as she evened out. The world came slowly back to shape around them, and he called out more orders between gasping breaths.

The supernatural wind died as suddenly as it had sprung up, and a natural one that smelled of salt and sea took its place. The darkness that had cloaked the harbor gave way to the light of the moon and stars, and with the change came a sudden silence, broken only by the creak of wood and rope. The black ship was still ahead of them, but Samson suddenly realized they could catch it.

A scattered trail of shoals and reefs separated Gol from the open sea to the north and west, and it was through these that the raiders would have to navigate. With the wind the way it was, blowing down from the north, the bigger two-masted carrack had to tack against the wind, and that limited its mobility. It also meant that when it cleared the island, the ocean wind that blew north from south beyond the Archipelago would catch them and take them away far faster than the galleys and longboats of Gol could follow.

Samson went frantically through the maps he'd memorized, the maps his father had pounded into his head, and compared them to the path the carrack was taking. They were slipping through Deadman's Trench, the fastest but trickiest way to go – and if they veered too far to port or starboard they would be run aground and held there until the tide came and set them loose.

He did another quick calculation, thinking back to when he'd launched the ship, and realized the tide was coming in, that the water of the distant ocean was washing back into the sea, and that soon the Black Ship would have smooth sailing even through Deadman.

"We need to steer her onto the shoals," he said quickly to Jolly. "Tide is coming in and we only have so much time to do it – they're going for Deadman's Trench and if we scare them to port they'll scrape the reef and run aground."

"Aye," the first mate replied simply, and then he was off to Timlin, instructing him to alter the rowing pace yet again. Samson followed that up with orders to pull hard on the oars, and he spun the wheel to turn _Longrider_ to the starboard side, minimizing their loss of speed. He straightened the ship, held the wheel with one hand, then shot a glance back over his shoulder.

The other Golish ships were on their way, racing through the harbor. There was no chance they would arrive in time to help slow the Black Ship, but if the plan succeeded and _Longrider_ managed to run the invaders onto the reef...

Samson lit the stern lantern and shouted for Selor. His brother came, and Samson told him to relay the plan to the fleet behind them. Selor did so, flickering the light in timed intervals.

The raiders ahead were moving quickly, but whatever skill or power they had did not extend to navigating unseen reefs at speed. _Longrider_ was closing the distance in the shallow water, and Samson held his breath.

"What are you doing?" asked a voice by his side.

Samson started, realizing he'd completely forgotten Prince Rewlyn was onboard with them until he'd spoken. The side of his jaw was bruised, and the rest of his face was red and drawn in anger.

"Hold on," Samson said. "We're coming up fast and we – "

"Turn this vessel around _now,"_ the prince said. "You have no idea what you're facing – you're risking more lives going after them. You need to get me back to the Great Ship, you don't stand a chance against them in a _fishing galley_ – "

Samson's temper broke. He released a hand from the wheel, grabbed the prince by his finely embroidered tunic, and drew him up so that he was standing on tiptoes and gasping for breath. The prince's gray eyes were wide and full of shock.

"My brother is a captive on that ship," Samson hissed. "If you expect me to abandon him on the orders of a king-worshipping Mainlander, then you can jump over the side and drown for all I care. Do you understand me?"

Rewlyn was looking back and forth between both of Samson's eyes, obviously at a loss; finally, he swallowed hard and nodded. Samson released him, then turned back to the wheel and diverted the ship away from a hidden shoal just in time.

_Longrider_ gained on the larger ship quickly, and Samson' pulse began pounding in his ears.

"Get us alongside!"

Timlin shifted the beat, and the men took it in turns to row them into position. The Black Ship had spotted them now, and in the light of the bonfires fore and aft, Samson could see glints of steel and moving figures.

Solom – Solom – I have to get him back – my brother – have to get him back –

The Black Ship spilled enough light into the surrounding waters to make visibility easy. As they raced closer, Samson made out bowmen on the main deck and realized the steely glints he'd seen were arrowheads.

"Any man not rowing, cover the others!"

Men grabbed up long boards and planks slung beneath the rowing benches and held them over the heads and exposed backs of their fellows. Barely seconds later, a chorus of twanging sounds echoed from the deck of the Black Ship, and then wooden shafts were raining down on them.

Men cried out as some of the arrows found their mark, and Samson's heart leapt into his throat and almost drove away his courage. The sound of men he'd known his whole life cursing in pain rocked him more than he'd thought possible.

No – no – Solom – Solom – you can't turn back – save your brother –

"Take cover and _keep rowing!_ " he shouted desperately. The men did as commanded, but the arrows continued to strike, and soon there were more cries of pain added to the night. Some of the crew managed to return fire, using their short fishing bows, and they were reward with curses in a foreign tongue.

"Jolly!" he shouted. "We need to get on that ship!"

The man roared out an affirmative and pointed to the handholds carved into the black wood of the ship's side. They pulled dead even, now racing through the last stretch of Deadman's Trench neck-and-neck. There had barely minutes left.

"Jolly – take the wheel!"

The first mate whirled and grabbed the wooden handles just as Samson dodged aside and grabbed up one of the fishing spears. With the same practiced, easy motion he'd used only hours before, Samson hurled the spear up and over the side of the ship, where it sank into the chest of a black-cloaked archer. The hooked end caught, and Samson yanked on the rope to pull him forward. The man stumbled, crying out in pain, surprise, and fear, and twisted himself awkwardly, winding the rope around his body. Samson pulled again, and the man found himself wedged against the high railing of the deck several yards above.

"Samson! Wait!"

He ignored the shout and launched himself out into the space between the ships, using the archer as an anchor point. He flew over dark churning water and hit the black wood of the carrack's hull with a thump. He slid and turned as the rope tried to pull him back around and the man above fought and screamed for help, but then managed to grab the first rung of the carved ladder. He pulled himself up, hand over hand, with manic determination.

Jolly was shouting something behind him, and he heard the thud of two other spears thrown into the Black Ship's hull, but none of it really registered. Neither of the spears found flesh, but they did catch the railing, and the ships were pulled closer still as a dozen strong Golish arms heaved on the ropes and ran in the oars on the port side.

Samson made it to the starboard rail and nearly lost his head as a cutlass swung through the air above him. The only thing that saved him was the glint of the blade in the light of the roaring bonfires; he saw it and ducked just in time, then struck out with his foot through the bars of the railing and knocked his attacker down.

He pulled himself up the rest of the way and rolled over the railing, grabbing for the cutlass the man had dropped. He narrowly avoided being skewered by another sword as the _Longrider_ crew shot a second flurry arrows up at the raiders, forcing them to duck. He seized his chance and slammed the hilt of the cutlass into the face of the closest black-masked man, knocking him out cold.

He turned, his eyes wide as he searched desperately for his brother.

The light from the bonfires illuminated the scene quite clearly. There were two heavy masts full of black canvas, and the wood of the deck looked sticky and wet with some dark liquid. A strange metallic scent filled the air along with harsh, guttural voices shouting in that strange foreign tongue.

But what drew Samson's eye was the mass of captives chained amidships. All of them were children, and there must have been nearly thirty of them. They shivered in the cold night air, completely naked, and they'd been chained hand and foot to one another. They were all so emaciated that they looked half dead, and none of them had the bronze skin of the Archipelago.

Where's Solom?

There were masked men in black around the captives, and when they saw him, they rushed toward into action. He raised the stolen cutlass and set his teeth, believing with the naivety of youth that he actually stood a chance, that he could fight them all off and save his brother.

"Hold!"

The masked men froze. Samson saw them breathing still, but if he had not he would have thought they had become perfect statues. He heard sound from behind him and realized there was fighting on the deck of _Longrider._

But they were coming after me, how did they – ?

A tall man detached himself from a patch of shadow Samson hadn't noticed and moved forward, lowering the cowl of his hood.

It was the skeleton man.

Once again, primal terror clutched at Samson, uncontrollable in its intensity. The bare skull gleamed at him where there should have been a head, teeth grinned like the face of death...

But this time, something flickered in his mind, and the skull seemed to shift. Suddenly Samson saw it for what it was: a mask, over the face of a man.

"You are brave," the mask said, in words that somehow rang through Samson's body. They were twisted and oddly accented, but perfectly clear. He shivered as he heard them and found himself unable to look away from the two burning eyes that stared through the empty sockets of the bone mask. "So very brave. What is it you've come all this way for?"

"You took my brother," he said immediately.

"Your brother?" The man smiled, revealing yellowed teeth with receding gums. "What does he look like?"

Samson told him, once again without hesitation, the words pulled from him against his will. He felt queasy and nauseated, and a sourceless ache had begun to radiate through his chest. His cheeks began to burn with fever, and he swayed where he stood.

"Bring him," the man in the bone mask said. One of the guards disappeared, only to reappear almost immediately holding a struggling captive.

"Solom!" Samson cried, rushing forward.

The black-masked men were on him instantly. They slammed him against the nearest mast and forced the cutlass from his hand, then grabbed him by the hair and forced him to look at his brother, who was now held by the man in the bone mask.

He realized distantly that the shouting down below on _Longrider_ had grown in intensity _,_ but all he could see was Solom. The boy had a cut upper lip from which ran a thin trail of blood, and his eyes were wide with terror and the desperate hope that Samson could save him.

"Is this him?" asked the man in the bone mask.

"Yes," Samson answered, the words pulled from him.

"Good." The word came out almost as a moan of ecstasy. The skeleton man pulled Solom forward, his large hands pale, gaunt, and powerful, like ancient stone spiders upon the boy's upper arms. Solom was mouthing something at Samson, but he had lost the power of speech. Tears streamed from his eyes, and the sickness in Samson's chest became a horrible pain.

"This fire beside me," said the man in his strange accent, "is what propels us. It is what gave us the wind that drove us from your harbor, and it is what will take us far from here, and far from you and your crew."

One hand let go of Solom; the fingers jumped to a pocket in the black cloak and removed a gleaming knife, slightly curved, with a bone handle.

"It is powered by something that has long been missing from your shores."

He turned and pulled Solom to the fire, holding the boy's head over the flames. Solom found his voice and began to whimper and cry.

"Let him go!" Samson snarled, fighting with all his power against the hands that held him, but to no avail.

"You who are blind to the true powers of the world, now see!"

The blade rose and pressed against Solom's throat. The man turned to watch Samson, and the firelight made the pale eyes behind the bone mask gleam like stars.

"Power comes from terror. From pain. From death." He smiled widely, baring again those yellow teeth. "Take this message back to the land of Aeon. Take this message to your family, to your clan, to anyone who will listen. To the King of Caelron himself, if he will hear poor insignificant you. The Kalac Kull rides the waves of the Shining Sea, and you will bow before him or die in agony."

The blade bit into Solom's neck, and a curtain of blood fell into the fire.

" _NO!"_

The man released the boy, and Solom fell, choking and gagging. His head slammed into the metal side of the brazier, making it ring out like a gong, and then he was on the deck, twitching and shaking. He tried to hold his own neck together, but the blood ran through his fingers like water through a cracked hull.

The bonfire leapt upward, shooting flames high into the air and burning so intensely that it singed Samson several yards away. Words began to flow from the mouth of the bone mask, the yellow teeth flashing in the light, and a wind came from nowhere, lifting the sails.

Samson was pulled backward, away from his brother, away from the fire, and toward the edge of the ship. He was screaming deliriously, calling for Solom, begging his brother to answer, but the discarded body no longer moved. Blood, black and lifeless, pooled beneath it.

The chanting cut off when Samson reached the railing. Hands grabbed his chin and forced his head around, forced him to stare at the bone mask, and the man who wore it silenced the sound of his screams with a single flick of his finger. Samson still shouted, but his cries made no sound.

"Tell them what you've seen. Tell them to bow when next we come."

The hand flicked again, and Samson was thrown over the railing by an invisible force. Panic jolted his mind back to lucidity just as he crashed into the dark water. The freezing sea and the harsh sting of salt shocked his body into action, and with frantic haste he pulled himself to the surface. He was in the shadow of a ship, and two figures descended the side and grabbed him by the arms to pull him up on board. When he fell to the hard deck he had so often trod, his nose pressed against the worn wooden boards, he knew that he was back on _Longrider._

He rose back to his feet, coughing and hacking out the seawater he had swallowed. The blood was still pounding in his veins, and his head felt far too light and his chest far too heavy. He stumbled forward, blindly grabbing at things around him and pushing away the strong hands that sought to hold him still.

He shook his head to clear the water from his eyes and saw his crew, ashen-faced and staring, in the light of the sea lanterns that lit the deck. He saw old little Timlin slumped against the coxswain post, an arrow through his chest; he saw the bodies of Wulf Dover and Aron Hol and others laid out on the deck, unmoving. He saw wounds and bowed figures, heard heavy, labored breathing, and someone somewhere crying quietly, trying to hold back sobs.

His gaze landed on Selor, his other brother. He was unhurt.

A rush of relief invaded him, driving out his grief at Solom's death, and just as quickly that relief was replaced by guilt and revulsion.

"Selor – take the drum. We have to go after them."

But his brother did not move; none of them did.

"I'M YOUR CAPTAIN!" he roared, drawing himself up to his full height. But the words turned into a sob before he could bring himself back under control. "They – they just – they killed – _we have to_ _stop them!_ "

"Solom – they killed _–_ ? _"_

" _They killed him! Now we make them pay!"_

"Blood and tears, Samson, we fulking can't! They're _gone!"_

"No!" He turned and advanced on his brother, impotent rage taking him over. The realization of Solom's death stole over Selor's face, and he swayed where he stood. Samson reached out to grab him and caught him before he fell. The slight form folded into his arms, collapsing against Samson's chest as his knees gave way. Samson helped lower him to the deck, but then left him there and turned to Jolly.

"We give chase," he said viciously. "We follow them. The others can't be far behind us, if we attack together –"

But the look in Jolly's eyes told Samson it wouldn't happen. There was a fire in them – not internal, but reflected. He turned to look in the direction Jolly was facing, out to sea, and saw that the raiders had made it through Deadman's Trench and were drifting into open waters. The Black Ship was speeding quickly away under the power of a new supernatural wind, rounding the far side of the Gol. In the light of the bonfire, Samson made out a name carved into the side:

Desecration.

And then he looked past it, and saw the others.

A whole fleet of black ships rode the waves just north of Gol, all flying a flag that bore a silver skull. They ranged in size and make, from single-masted galleys to heavy schooners to some nearly the size of a Caelron Great Ship, and there were over a dozen all told, stretched out across the horizon like black-winged vultures.

The call to follow them died on his lips, and he stood staring, speechless. The one to break the silence was Prince Rewlyn, whom almost everyone had forgotten was on board. "I have been told of Islander bravery," he said, "but I have never seen it until now."

Samson continued to watch the fleeing ships. How many Golish children had they taken with them? How many had they already killed? Where were the others going?

"Let me come with you back to Gol," the prince continued earnestly. "Let me speak with your Clan Heads once more – and stand there with me. This is what is coming – this is what _has come!_ Caelron cannot stand alone against it, and neither can the Archipelago. We must be together – we must find a way –"

"Enough," growled Jolly. "Leave him be."

The crew took a collective breath and held it, waiting, as they watched Samson. He could feel the pressure of their eyes.

"You must act," Rewlyn said. "My brother, King Malineri, is a good man. He will not betray your trust – "

Samson rounded on him. Several of the crew moved as if to put themselves between the two, and fear flashed across the prince's face before his features settled into a mask of wary determination.

Samson didn't strike him though, nor did he make an attempt to do so. His thoughts were a hopeless tangle: Solom was gone, along with who knew how many more from Gol and the other islands. The Archipelagans had no way to fight against dark power like what he'd seen.

Only sorcerers can fight sorcery.

Rewlyn had come with an offer of help. Mainlanders had helped in the past in times of war, his father had told him that. And yet his mother said they took with one hand while they pretended to give with the other.

What would his father have done?

Some of his blind anger drained out of him, making room for sorrow. It rose in his chest, and though he tried to swallow it back down, shaking his head and looking out over the prince's shoulder, it was no use.

"I don't give a fulk about your king," he said softly. The crew shifted at the sound of the dangerous words, but Rewlyn didn't react or even really seem to care. "I care about my mother. I care that my father is dead and gone and now our home has been torn apart. I care that my brother is dead. I care that if I go back to fishing, they'll come again and take my mother, or my sister, or even me. I only care about you if you have a way to keep us safe. Do you have a way to do that?"

" _Yes_ ," Rewlyn said emphatically. "Yes, I do."

They locked eyes, and something passed between them.

"Then I will speak for you," Samson said softly. "And we'll drive those fulking bastards from our sea."

Chapter Seven: The Road to Var Athel

AmyQuinn was exhausted.

She'd thought Valinor had been exaggerating when he'd said he intended to ride through the night, the next day, and only stop the following evening. Upon leaving Dunlow, however, it became quite clear that he was entirely serious.

It made it worse that she wasn't used to long rides on horseback. She knew _how_ to ride of course, and she often did, but this was not a jaunt around the village or down the PenRo and back in time for one of Jasper's home-cooked meals. This was riding for hours and hours at a time, and she soon found that there were muscles in her back, legs, and rear that she'd never known about but that could nevertheless hurt quite horribly.

They did stop once or twice to rest the horses, though she was convinced that if they had not needed to in order to keep their mounts from dropping dead beneath them, Valinor would have pushed on, dragging her behind him.

They rode in silence, and as fatigue took over, her mind whirled into ever more frenzied action despite her attempts to cudgel it into silence. She was so tired that rising levels of anxiety floated beneath her every thought, and still so shocked by what had happened in Dunlow that a haze of panic and guilt assailed her every time she thought of what she was leaving behind.

Should she have stayed? She was the daughter of Eldric and Jaes Stonewall, wasn't it her responsibility to stay and be of service? To help in any way she could?

_Maybe after. Maybe after Var Athel I'll go back and help,_ she told herself, trying to assuage her guilt.

She tried to think instead of the path their journey would take: Var Athel was on the northern side of Maiden's Bay and only accessible by water through the narrow channel between Var Athel and Caelron itself. She remembered hearing from a terribly blushing Lenny that the bay was so named because in all the years of war between Caelron and Charridan it had never been taken. Her father, on the other hand, had said it was named because the land of Aginor across the bay from Caelron was young and full of Aeon's richest soil.

The Citadel, which was the heart of Var Athel, was said to sit on a rock that jutted violently from the sea, and though many visited it, and indeed inhabited the large city that had grown up on the nearest bank, only Sorev Ael knew the secrets behind its walls, and they transcended all ties and binds of loyalty. The Sorev Ael swore fealty to no one, and though they could be counted as representatives and allies of Caelron, Londor, and all the land of Aeon, they were subject to no laws but their own.

Her thoughts continued to circle: thinking of home, awash in guilt, excited about the journey, guilty again... and all the while the sun rose higher in the sky and sleep seemed like a fond memory of a time long past.

She made it through breakfast and lunch, though both were taken in the saddle and consisted of simple fare – salted meat, bread, water – but she very quickly started to fade as the hot ball of fire passed its zenith and began to descend the western half of the sky. Her eyelids felt as though metal weights had been attached to them, and more than once she started awake just in time to realize that she was leading Col off the main road into the dense forest that grew alongside it.

Valinor had no such trouble. He never faltered, and his gaze never wavered from the road they were taking. His staff was carefully stowed along the side of his horse, in easy reach of his left hand, and he sat the saddle with the easy slouch of a long-time rider. Once or twice at most he glanced over his shoulder at AmyQuinn to confirm her continued presence, but otherwise he completely ignored her and responded with nothing more than grunts when she tried to engage him in conversation.

There were people on the road at least, and these AmyQuinn was able to watch in order to keep herself awake. There were single-horse carts packed with strange goods that used the well-worn ruts down the center of the wider packed-dirt sections of the PenRo; there were lone riders, dressed in heavy traveling cloaks and with the gruff air of those who wished not to be disturbed; and there were even merchant trains that trundled along in the company of hired guards and sometimes turned up the winding side roads toward the Windy Mountains, where lay smaller farming towns like Dunlow.

Apart from providing distraction, though, these fellow travelers did happen to present an interesting problem due to the very obvious evidence of an unconscious man tied across the back of Valinor's horse.

The masked raider had not woken since he'd been put to sleep, and it seemed quite likely to AmyQuinn that he would not wake at all until the Sorev Ael wanted him to. Though, considering Valinor neither fed nor watered him, there was also the very real chance that he was already dead. She tried once or twice to get up the courage to ask him about it, but the Sorev Ael looked so much like a sulking bird of prey with his sharp nose, black hair, and flaring gray cloak that her voice always ended up deserting her before she got the words out.

The Sorev Ael also made no attempt to cover the man, which she thought displayed quite a dangerous lack of foresight. It turned out, however, that most people who noticed unconscious raider then noticed Valinor and ended up saying nothing. They would then watch the strange trio go by with open mouths, and if Valinor acknowledged them at all it was with a curt nod that perfectly completed the frosty air of superiority that so enveloped him. He cut such an imposing figure, and his ruby ring was so often out and flashing in the light, that no one even attempted to stop them.

With one exception.

As they trudged ever northward, they passed a Caelron garrison housed in a barracks and tower really not much more than a glorified fort outside of a small and sleepy town that AmyQuinn thought vaguely might be Erinwale. When they went past, the lookout spotted them and sounded the alarm; seconds later, men in armor came rushing out with swords in hand.

The Sorev Ael raised a single eyebrow and issued a terribly put-upon sigh. He reined in his horse and AmyQuinn did the same.

A man in a simple wool cloak over half-polished armor detached himself from the rear and came forward. He looked not the slightest bit imposing, though he did manage to hold his sword in a way that showed he knew which end was pointy. His long hair was tied back from his young face, which still had baby fat clinging to it, and though he looked like the dim backside of a lame horse, he did seem ready to perform his duty and confront them.

But before he could speak, Valinor raised his right hand to the sky. Sunlight caught the ruby in his ring and shot out a brilliant flash of red.

"I am a Sorev Ael of Var Athel, captain," Valinor said in the same neutral tone he had assumed with Eldric and Jaes Stonewall. It seemed to be the tone he adopted when he was annoyed or impatient and doing his best to pretend he wasn't. "I apologize for my demeanor, but I am on business from the Circle itself, and I cannot allow you or your men to stop me."

He lowered his hand and the day's brilliance seemed somehow to dim. The young captain with the sword looked at him with a furrowed brow and an open mouth, and then abruptly cleared his throat, turned on his heel, and tromped back to the fort without a word. The rest of the garrison followed his progress with wide eyes, shooting glances back at Valinor. They seemed to be under impression that they might still be required to arrest him, fancy ring or no, but Valinor didn't wait for them to try. He simply nodded – curt but polite, as though they'd invited him in for tea but he'd been forced to decline – and heeled his horse on up the road, shooting a curt grimace that might have passed for a smile to a group of villagers that had stopped to watch.

AmyQuinn hurried after him.

There was no other excitement to be had on the road that day, and within minutes she fell once again into a sleep-deprived stupor. When finally they reached their first destination– a town on the PenRo called Brunith – she could barely keep her eyes open. She heard as if through bits of cotton Valinor speaking to someone else, but her mind was not working well enough to make out what was said. Half-understood impressions stuck in her mind: she saw buildings and heard the sound of people laughing, and vaguely smelled bread and wine.

The next she knew, she had dismounted Col, though she didn't remember doing so. She only remembered catching herself on the saddle to keep from collapsing as blood rushed back through her legs to pool in her feet. It felt as though numb, waterlogged tree stumps had replaced her lower half.

She did her best to stand up straight, leaning heavily on Col for support, but the horse was so tired himself that he leaned back against her and didn't help at all.

When Valinor was done speaking to the man outside the single-story inn – it was barely a hovel beside the Fairfield, she managed to think – someone came and took Col away, and she felt a steady hand help her walk somewhere. She hoped that the horse would be given a good bed in the inn, and only vaguely realized that there was something wrong with this thought. There was some talk about the man tied to the back of the horse – the pirate ... the pie ... the pie rat? – and what to do with him. She did not mark most of it and could not have said what was discussed or the excuses Valinor made. All told, she remembered very little besides arriving at the stables and then being helped up into a hayloft.

"What – why are we doing up here?" she mumbled, slurring her words together so badly that it was hard for even her to understand them.

"A Sorev Ael accepts only the lowest and the least," Valinor said softly as he helped her up the final rungs of the ladder. Once in the loft, which was lit by a lantern he carried and hung on a waiting hook, she saw that the space, though full of hay, was indeed large enough for two people to sleep in. "The inn is full, so this is the lowest and the least. I have slept here many nights and will surely sleep here many more. It is comfortable enough. And dry and warm, which is more important."

"But... you're a Sorry Ael... you could sleep in the best room if you wanted to."

She thought she heard him chuckle, and she did not understand why.

"I could indeed," was what he said as he set down the well-mended bags he'd carried up from down below. Each bore a number of patches so seamlessly incorporated into the whole that from a distance they were impossible to distinguish. "I could take by force almost anything. I even know enough that I need not use force at all – I might simply have convinced the innkeeper that what he wanted to do, more than anything in the world, was to _give_ me his very best room."

Something about his tone brought her back to fuller consciousness, and she managed to concentrate on him as he continued. His brows were low and his sharp nose threw shadows across his face in the light of the lantern.

"But I gave up the right to such power when I joined the Sorev Ael. Because the measure of a man is not in what he can take but in what he can do with what he is given. Or the measure of a woman, I suppose."

He moved back down the ladder nailed to the stout oak posts of the loft, disappearing in a swirl of red and gray. There was noise below, and then only seconds later he was back, this time with the unconscious brigand slung over his shoulder as easily as another man might have slung a traveling case.

"Take this," was all he said after he had deposited the man in the hay and pulled out rations from his pack. "Eat."

She did as told, and energy slowly returned to her limbs. She was still tired, but it was a lighter feeling, as though the weight had been temporarily set aside. She drank as well, and her stomach gurgled happily. Valinor ate and drank without speaking, as he always did, but she realized that, for the first time, she had a captive audience. Maybe now he would talk to her?

She made up her mind.

"What's magic?" she asked. Her tiredness still lurked around the corner, but the food had revived her enough that she was able to carefully watch his reaction. She was disappointed, though: his hard mask of stoicism never lifted, and he continued gnawing on a hard piece of dried meat. She waited, breathless, but nothing happened. It was as though he had not even heard her. She bit back her disappointment and thought that maybe she would just go to sleep. Maybe the next night, or on the road –

"There is no such thing as magic. There is knowledge, nothing more."

She looked up so fast that she cricked her neck. She waited for more, rubbing the sore spot, but nothing else was forthcoming. The Sorev Ael continued to chew at his jerky, not casting so much as a glance her way. She examined what he had said, repeating it over a few different ways in her head, and came to the conclusion that this was a highly unsatisfactory answer.

She decided to try again.

"Then why can't everyone be a Sorev Ael?"

He stuck the rest of the jerky in his mouth, chewed fiercely, and then swallowed a hearty swig of water. He shook his head, wiped a hand across his mouth, and then finally turned to her. He took a moment to examine her from head to toe, giving no indication of what he was thinking until he grunted in an amiable sort of way.

"Because not everyone has the talent for it," he said as if the answer should have been evident. "Just as not everyone has the talent to be an excellent blacksmith, or the art to be a renowned sculptor. Everyone can learn some – but there is very little that can be done without raw talent. Even the uncreative can sketch a rough figure in the dirt, but only true artists can paint a truly beautiful landscape."

"Oh," she said quietly, soaking this up.

"And also, the knowledge is very hard to come by," he said, pulling off his cloak and bunching it up to use as a pillow. He lay back to test it, but continued talking as he did. "Not everyone is willing to swear oaths to never hold property or power. Not everyone is willing to go through the years of learning it takes, nor through the Trials."

"Trials?"

"Yes – like a blacksmith must forge a series of metal rings for the Smith Guild before he is confirmed a Master and given his Papers, so too are the Sorev Ael asked to do that which will prove the mastery of their skills. We call them the Trials – and before you ask: no, I cannot tell you about them. You'll hear rumors, no doubt, from the other apprentices, but they'll all be wrong. They always are."

"When will I take them?"

"It depends. You must serve five years as a Deri'cael apprenticed to a Sorev Ael once you earn your staff, though it is rare to move even that quickly. And that's on top of the base apprenticeship in the Citadel you'll have to go through in order to earn the right to even try for your staff in the first place. Still... you will move quickly, I think."

"I will?"

"Yes." He looked up then, propping his head on his hands and contracting his stomach so that he had enough height to peer down his nose at her. "Yes, I do."

He rolled over and lapsed back into silence, and only seconds later began to snore. With his retreat into unconsciousness, her own surrender was nearly immediate. She had barely leaned back against the hay behind her when her eyes slid shut and the world disappeared.

She woke with a start the next morning, groggy and completely unable to comprehend why she was laying in a huge, messy pile of hay.

When she tried to move, her body creaked, groaned, and popped like a warped wooden deck ill-fitted. Sunlight danced in through the cracks of the old loft wall, and a single beam had filtered through the dusty air to fall across her face and wake her. She groaned and rolled onto her stomach; her lower back gave out a particularly loud crack of protest. She started to rub the sleep from her eyes but then thought of the straw and decided against it. She glanced across the hayloft –

The Sorev Ael was gone.

Shocked, she shot to her feet and began examining the space from different angles, trying to peer into the shadowed corners to find him. But despite her frantic searching, there was no escaping the fact that Valinor was simply gone. Cursing to try to make herself feel braver, she raced down the ladder to the floor of the stable, already expecting the worst. Maybe he had made off with the horse and all their provisions – a horse like Col would fetch a good price anywhere, and –

Col looked up at her as she landed painfully on the packed-dirt floor, her legs not quite working properly yet. He stopped chewing his hay long enough to toss his head and eye her with an air of effrontery before turning away. He, at least, looked much refreshed.

"You could have slept longer," said the steady voice of the Sorev Ael.

She spun and saw him slipping back through the door of the stable with a loaf of bread and an earthenware pitcher. He did not seem to notice her fear, but instead tore off half the loaf and tossed it to her with a casual motion, then turned around where he stood and sat on the floor. He eyed his bread critically, seemed to confirm that yes, it was indeed bread, and then attacked it with gusto.

He looked different this morning. His eyes were no longer sunk back in their sockets, and his skin was cleaner and tighter, without the grime and sweat of several days' exertion. His black hair with the graying temples looked less tangled and dirty, as though he had at least attempted to pull a comb through it, and his movements were sharper and lighter.

He looked up and caught her watching him.

"Aren't you going to eat?"

After an awkward moment wherein she wondered if she should apologize for staring and then thought better of it, she came forward and sat down across from him. She glanced at the half loaf of bread in her hand and realized she was ravenous. Her stomach growled at her and pinched inward to further emphasize its point, and so she bit into the bread, which she found out was warm and freshly buttered. Within seconds, the whole half loaf was gone. She chewed the butt thickly, swallowed it down, and then grabbed up the earthenware pitcher and tipped it back, gulping its contents: clear, cool water that tasted sweeter than honey.

"You look better," she said abruptly, trying to start a conversation. She did not want to admit it, but she was incredibly relieved he hadn't left her, and she felt like celebrating by pushing her luck from the night before.

He grunted vaguely but otherwise made no reply. He was still focused on the remaining heel of his half of the loaf. His pace had slowed, and he was chewing it thoughtfully as he contemplated the dwindling remainder.

"How long has it been since the last time you slept?" she asked.

He glanced at her and arched an eyebrow, then smirked and turned back to his heel of bread, looking it over once more before taking a final bite. He spoke out of the corners of his mouth around the edges of the chunk:

"Five days."

Her eyebrows ascended her forehead and her mouth dropped open.

"But that's not possible!" she said.

"How do you know?"

"Because I've _tried_ it!"

It was his turn to look surprised. For the first time that morning, he turned his full attention to her and seemed startled by what he found. His gaze intensified, and her heart palpitated nervously in her chest. His burnt-black eyes combed through her and picked her apart as a strange heat grew in the pit of her stomach.

He barked a laugh and spun to his feet, wiping his hands on his trousers.

"I believe you have," he said with a grin. The smile had an amazing effect on him – whole years dropped off, and he looked almost youthful. "But Sorev Ael can do what most people cannot. I needed to be awake until such time as we reached Londor – I was prepared to go for the rest of the week if necessary."

She found herself watching him carefully for any hint of a lie, but she did not see one. He was acting as though this was nothing more interesting or involved than taking a long walk.

"But _how_?" she insisted. "Do you just try? Or is it magic? Or do you need – "

"There is no such thing as magic," he interrupted, and the chastisement was clear in his voice. The smile was gone, and he was frowning. "Remember what you're told; I will not repeat myself again. There is only knowledge. I understand the world, and myself, and so I can do what most cannot. Eventually you'll understand. In Var Athel they will give you the schooling you need."

He moved to his roan horse and began rummaging around in the saddlebags. Anger rose up in her, hot and sharp. How was she supposed to remember what he'd told her when she was dead tired? And why did that little detail matter?

"Why was Dunlow attacked?" she asked, crossing her arms across her chest just as her mother did when she was upset. She had not planned the question, but the indignant tone in which she asked it fit her mood perfectly.

He paused in the middle of his action, and she saw his shoulders tense briefly before he continued on rummaging. He did not respond, but instead leaned down and lifted the unconscious body of the raider into the saddle and began to tie him in place once more.

"What were they trying to get?" she pressed, her frustration pushing her. "That man said that they were looking for people. Why would they want people? And why would they go all the way over the Windy Mountains to get them?"

"I'm not sure," he evaded, still tying the raider in place, though the knots looked perfectly tight already.

"No – you _do_ know," she accused him, suddenly bursting out in a huge rush of words. "You came into Dunlow and you left with half of it burned. And you told me I can be a Sorev Ael and you just took me away, and you have a man who looks like he's dead on your horse, and you don't say a _single word_ to me the whole time we're traveling and all of that means you don't _know?_ I'm thirteen – I'm not _stupid!_ "

Valinor had finally stopped fiddling and turned to look at her, and his eyes grew narrower with every word. When she fell silent, he shook his head.

"There are some things of which I cannot speak."

"They came for _my family!_ " she said, almost shouting now, her whole body rigid with anger.

He did not respond to the outburst. Instead, he just watched her, with such intensity that he seemed to be memorizing her face. There were thoughts going on beneath the surface of his mind – she could see them, like shadows of movement beneath a still pond, but she couldn't read them. What was he _thinking_?

"Then go back to your family and see if they care that you're throwing a tantrum," he said brusquely. She felt her cheeks warm until she was sure they were glowing, and she tried to sputter out a response, but he gave her no time. "Otherwise, get on your horse, act your age, and follow me."

He untied his roan from the hitching post, mounted in a single fluid motion, and heeled the horse out of the stable, all before she could say a thing.

She rushed to the door and saw him already heading for the PenRo.

_He'll stop and wait for me,_ she thought. _He will._

He showed no sign of slowing, though. In fact, as she watched, his horse picked up speed until it was trotting along at a decent clip, bouncing the sleeping brigand up and down ridiculously as it went.

With the begins of panic, she rushed for Col and mounted as quickly as she could, throwing the saddle over his back, pulling the straps tight, vaulting herself up into the seat, and then wheeling him about. The gelding let loose a whinny of protest at such ill treatment, but she cursed at him, then apologized, and finally managed to maneuver him out of the barn. With a burst of speed, she raced after the Sorev Ael, her cheeks still red with a combination of fury and mortification.

Fine. If he won't talk to me, then I won't talk to him. Let's see how he likes it.

The next few days passed in total silence, and Valinor seemed to find this a vast improvement.

Her first sight of Var Athel put her in mind of a gem shining in the noonday sun.

The walls of the famous Citadel were made of white stone, and they towered over the waves that lapped at the base of the crescent-shaped rock on which it stood. The swelling white curtains of stone that made up the boundaries of the sorcerers' city seemed to rise from the sea itself when the tide was full, and there was no way to tell where the smooth white stone of the walls ended and the raw, unformed rock of the island from which it grew began. It was one seamless piece, integrated into the world with the smooth efficiency of natural beauty. Above the walls were visible towers and turrets, as well as soaring rooftops with flying buttresses and carved statues of men and beasts set on guard and looking out, as if stationed to defend the magnificent structure.

All of it together was larger and more glorious than anything AmyQuinn had ever seen. Several Dunlows could have fit easily inside with room to spare, and even though she stared at it incessantly as they approached, she still could not comprehend its size. Even the Caelron Great Ships, huge constructions of wood and canvas that looked like clouds and waves made solid, were dwarfed by the Citadel as they sailed past it through the channel and out to the Shining Sea.

The ferry they had taken from the mainland just south of Caelron – Valinor had broken their frosty silence long enough to tell her that it was the fastest way to Var Athel – had let them out on the coast of the cove that circled the Floating City, at the docks along the mainland shore. There was another city there, one not inhabited by Sorev Ael but by common men and women. It was large and thriving due to the presence of the Citadel and the traffic it attracted, but as they passed through the myriad shops and houses, AmyQuinn could not understand how anyone there got anything done. Surely they must spend all their time staring in wonder at –

"Come along!" Valinor snapped, urging her back into motion. He'd been forced to repeat the same thing a dozen times since they'd landed, and it was clear in his tone that whatever shred of patience he'd retained was close to fraying entirely.

They turned down a number of roads, passed a number of shops and inns and eating places – even the smallest of which looked larger and more elegant than anything Dunlow had to offer – and then finally emerged at the wide entrance to a long stone bridge that led to the Citadel. It was marvelously crafted, lined as it was with paving stones that were almost impossibly smooth and even, and it was wide enough for three carts to pass abreast. Countless men and women in a wide array of clothing all of various colors, cuts, and styles crowded across it. Their skin was everything from the pale white of Aginor to the deep black of fabled Laniae, something that boggled AmyQuinn's mind. She even saw what she was certain must be Sorev Ael coming and going; some were alone, some were in groups, but all bore openly the staff and ring of their office.

"There are so many," she whispered.

"There are not as many as there were," Valinor replied, startling her. It was the first response he'd made to her since their fight in Erinwale. They were on foot now, leading their horses behind them, and close enough that talking was easy, even in the midst of the heavy traffic crossing the bridge.

"How many are there?" she asked, seizing the opportunity.

"A little over a thousand in the Citadel. Three hundred or so full Sorev Ael, slightly more Deri'cael who've earned their staff and are working for their ring, and the rest apprentices."

She nodded dumbly, too awed by the place and the people to ask anything else. She felt her annoyance and anger from their quarrel fade into the background. Valinor was the only familiar part of this whole alien landscape, and she stayed close to his side. She knew she looked like a country-born fool, her mouth hanging open as she took in the sights all around her, but she couldn't help it. She brushed hay and trail dust from her breeches even as she tried to ignore her appearance, thinking all the while that she resembled nothing so much as an urchin who had lived in a hovel all her life.

"There are more who come seeking entrance, of course," Valinor continued, oblivious to her discomfort, "but many are turned away."

Fear shot through her and she stopped dead.

"What?"

He walked a few more paces before he paused and glanced back.

"Many are turned away," he repeated, confused.

" _Turned away?_ " she asked, incredulous and horrified in equal measures. "But – wait, does that mean that _I_ could be turned away?"

"It's possible," he replied, his mind clearly on something else.

"But – then – _why am I here?_ I thought you said I had the talent!"

Valinor finally appeared to sense that he'd said something to upset her. A shadow passed over his face, and he became noticeably uncomfortable. Abruptly, he drew her into a small recess along the side of the bridge – a rounded platform made for looking out over the water – and motioned for her to sit on a ledge that circled the inside of it. She tried to keep hold of herself as she did, but suddenly everything was racing around inside her head and she could not catch hold of a single thought long enough to think it.

"You _do_ have the talent," the Sorev Ael said, grabbing her by the shoulder with one of his steady hands. The pressure and the touch made her feel solid and anchored, and she was able to take a deep breath with only a slight hitch.

"Listen to me," he continued. "This is what is going to happen. At the end of the bridge is the Keeper's Gate. There are enchantments on it that keep out those who would do the Citadel harm – enchantments so old that every Sorev Ael in Var Athel working together could neither duplicate nor dispel them. When we pass through, the Gate will sense your talent and alert a man known only as the Keeper. The Keeper is old, very old. He's been here since I was a child, since I came here for training, and he was very old then as well. There are many secrets to Var Athel, and he is keeper of them all. He comes and goes as he pleases – some say he is not a man at all, but an enchantment, born of the walls and the gate and the city itself. He will come to you in the Sorcerers' Court, which is only just beyond the Keeper's Gate. It is as far as many men and women go – it is the only area inside the walls where outsiders are allowed. Merchants come there to trade, and those seeking an audience with the Circle or other Sorev Ael come to petition the scribes. When the Keeper comes, you must do as he says – _exactly_ as he says – and all will be well. You will be revealed as a potential Sorev Ael, and you will write your name in the Book, at which time you will be asked to speak the oath that will bind you to Var Athel. That is all."

As he finished, she found that the weight on her chest had dissipated somewhat and she was finally able to take a full breath. She looked up into his burnt-black eyes, and it was his calm that helped her compose herself in the midst of the alien majesty that cloaked the whole of her journey and her future and made her feel as though she were being swallowed by a strange, invisible creature.

"I will be with you until the Keeper deems you fit," Valinor continued, letting go of his horse's reins so that he could rest both hands on her shoulders and look her right in the eye. "When you are accepted, you will go with the Stewards."

"You won't be with me after that?" AmyQuinn asked, feeling again that flare of panic. What had she been thinking in coming here? What was she committing to? What if the Keeper did not take her, or what if the Gate thought she had "ill-intent" and decided to deal with her or – ?

"I am not a teacher," he replied. "I must report to the Circle, and then I will be gone again. There are those here who are much better able to teach than I. But know this: I went through the training, as does every Sorev Ael. It is a part of who we are."

He released her and stood up. He paused awkwardly, halfway between turning back to the horse and staying with her, and through her fear she realized that he was not used to touching people.

But the moment passed. He took the reins of his horse, checked the unconscious brigand – he'd finally covered the man when they'd taken the ferry across the bay – and then set out again to finish crossing the bridge. She followed him with a sinking feeling, like she was being led to the gallows, and with each step panic rose up higher in her chest, filling her up and squeezing her lungs so that it was very hard to breathe. Her vision narrowed in on the gate, blocking out the people and the rest of the bridge. It loomed in front of her, a yawning mouth waiting to swallow her whole. The iron spikes of its portcullis hung high above like teeth, and it was dark inside, pitch black with no light.

"Why is it dark?" she managed to ask.

"It's an illusion," he replied calmly. "Follow closely."

She jerked Col along behind her, and the gelding gave a sharp whiny of complaint. They crossed beneath the shadow of the wall – which soared above them like the craggy precipice of a mountainside – and then they were in total darkness.

Something passed over and through her, and she gasped as though she'd been plunged into cold water. Her lungs shriveled up inside her body and she stumbled several steps forward. As she did, the world reappeared around her and the icy cold dissipated. Col came through behind her, and though he looked startled by her sudden change in stride, he made no sign or show that he'd noticed anything out of the ordinary. She glanced back and found she could now see through the gate quick easily. The bridge was there in plain sight, though it did seem oddly tilted, as if she were looking at it through a heat haze.

"Come along, girl."

She turned back and saw Valinor several yards farther ahead. She hurried after him, pulling the exasperated Col along behind her.

They were inside a long, high passageway now, with bright light visible at the end. The arched tunnel was made of white stone fitted together so perfectly that when she trailed her hand along the wall she felt nothing but the slightest indentations. They passed out of the tunnel, and she squinted against the glare of reflected sunlight.

It was like stepping into a tapestry. The floor was made of creamy white stone, and the courtyard itself was lined with pillars that were as thick around as tree-trunks. It had no ceiling in the center, but was instead open to the sky, letting in the noonday sun. Three pathways led right, left, and straight ahead, and each disappeared into a maze of shops and stalls painted in a riot of color. There were amulets and medallions that claimed to ward off sickness, as well as stoppered bottles containing bright liquid purported to cure disease and induce euphoria. There were knives that would not dull for a dozen years and wagon tongues that would not break. Bright green birds from distant lands squawked and cried loudly from where they were tethered next to sleek black cats with golden eyes full of uncanny intelligence.

The sheer number of people was overwhelming. They wandered in and out of the shops and haggled with merchants who bore the seal of the Sorev Ael on their left breast. They all called about and greeted each other and laughed as young boys in simple wool clothing with the ring and staff emblazoned on their backs ran about and got underfoot, delivering messages and offering various services.

Valinor took the central path, and AmyQuinn followed. The crowd parted as they advanced, revealing two distant lines of people at the base of a set of stairs that led up to what AmyQuinn assumed was the Citadel proper. At the front of each line stood a harried-looking pair of men hastily taking notes as they listened to their petitioners. Valinor continued in that direction, and she followed quickly, only to nearly collide with him when he abruptly stopped a second later.

"Master Therin!"

It was a young boy who had called out what appeared to be Valinor's official title, and he ran up to them breathing heavily.

"Thom," Valinor said with a curt nod. He handed the reins of his horse to the boy, who stopped and stared wide-eyed at the body of Tholax just visible beneath the covering that had slipped enough to reveal a bound arm and shoulder.

"Oh, yes," Valinor said lightly. "See that he's taken to the dungeons. I will inform the Circle of him myself."

"Will... you go to see them now?"

"Not yet. There's something I have to do."

He glanced down at AmyQuinn, and the boy followed his gaze. When Thom saw her, he looked confused. He had the air of someone who was often confused, and his dirty brown hair stuck up in the back like he was trying to imitate a rooster.

"Is she a prisoner too?"

"No," Valinor said, and she thought she saw the ghost of a smile cross his impassive face. "She's an apprentice."

The boy's eyes grew round and his mouth dropped open. He stared with such intensity that AmyQuinn began to feel horribly self-conscious. She had not bathed in days, and her hands itched to smooth her shirt and ferret out any remaining pieces of straw from their nights spent sleeping in haylofts. But she balled her traitorous fingers into fists instead and bunched them by her side.

"Are you joking, Master Therin?"

"No."

"But she's a _girl_ ," the boy said, incredulous.

"And you're an _ass_ ," she retorted immediately.

"You are both correct," Valinor said, highly amused.

The Sorev Ael motioned for Col's reins, and she passed them over with trembling hands. Valinor handed him off to the stable boy, who was still staring at her as if she were some strange creature with a third eye and tentacles.

"Thom," Valinor prompted, thoroughly enjoying the interaction but clearly impatient to continue on. "Go do what I asked."

The boy tore his eyes away from her and focused back on Valinor, and then went pale as the blood drained from his face. Suddenly he was bowing and backing away, muttering apologies, until he finally disappeared into the crowd.

As soon as he was gone, she turned to Valinor.

"Does it matter that I'm a girl?" she asked quickly. "Are girls not allowed?"

"Two of the most powerful Sorev Ael in history were the Sisters after which you are named," he said simply. "The Sorev Ael don't – "

He stopped abruptly and looked over her shoulder, his expression suddenly veiled. She turned, expecting Thom and readying a sharp-tongued scolding to send him on his way again, but it died on her lips.

It was not Thom. It was instead a man older than any she had ever seen. His hair had gone beyond gray and was a pure, snowy white, bleached of all color like a bone left in the sun. His chin was covered in a thick beard that flowed down over his chest like a river of cotton, and the skin of his face was a mass of wrinkles and broken veins, blue worms just below the surface. His back was bent so that he leaned heavily on the staff he held in his left hand – a staff with a clawed crown as gnarled and tangled as the knuckles and fingers of the hand that held it.

The noise in the courtyard began to taper off and then abruptly died. Not a single person spoke for the space of a full minute, but then there came whispering as word was passed along, and soon there were more people crowding out of the shops and looking – all of them looking in at –

Me.

The sudden weight of a thousand eyes made AmyQuinn wish she could disappear. A vague, sourceless buzzing had taken over her body and was making her skin vibrate and her breath come in short, harsh bursts. Her back teeth were locked together so tightly that she didn't know if she'd ever be able to speak again, and there was a lightness in her feet that was quite clearly urging her to run.

" _Do not flee_."

The voice was as old as the man: an ancient tomb opening, full of cobwebs and hundreds of years of dust. But there was power in it, like a vein of gold deep below the earth, and it made her shiver like a plucked string. His words were more than words – they were the sound of wind and sea, and the slamming of a door.

" _Do you understand me_?" he asked.

The question hit her like a punch in the gut. The words, again, were not words but thoughts – images and sounds, the taste of copper, the smell of ancient wood with new oil – words that did not make sense as words. That part of her mind that had opened when she'd grabbed Valinor's staff opened again, and it was like seeing a new color, or hearing a pitch higher than normal sound. There was an extra layer to the world, and she was being given a glimpse of it.

" _Yes_ ," she replied.

The word that was not a word rolled out of her, but as soon as it was off her tongue and past her lips, she could no longer understand it. The extra sense of the world disappeared, and she snapped back to herself. She shook her head and swayed where she stood, then looked back at the man and saw him watching her with blank white eyes.

" _Do you wish to learn_?"

Again, the words that were not words rolled over her, and again that part of her mind opened up, but this time it was harder, and it left her gasping to utter even a single word reply:

" _Y-yes_."

The sense of the words faded again as soon as the answer slipped past her teeth. Fatigue settled over her mind, though not her body, and she shivered as if she were in the grip of a fever.

The man slowly, ever so slowly, nodded.

Murmurs burst out around her like echoes in a dark cave, but she did not pay them heed. She had been seized by something else, something that nudged and poked against that part of her mind she hadn't known existed. The part of her that understood this deeper language, this language of thoughts.

" _You're not a man_ ," she said.

The Keeper's eyes widened, and his whole demeanor changed. Suddenly the benign smile was commanding, and the blind stare pierced her with frightening ferocity. She felt immediately that she had done something wrong. She tried to break away but the blank white eyes held her in place.

" _What am I_?" the Keeper asked.

The world swirled in around her, and there was nothing to see, nothing to hear, nothing at all but the sound of the words and the thought that burned in her mind like a fire in the dark of night.

" _Something more_ ," she whispered.

The Keeper smiled.

There was a burst of light and the connection broke. She stumbled back, her ears ringing. Strong hands caught her, and she recognized Valinor. He righted her, and she looked around wildly for the Keeper.

He was gone.

She stared stupidly at where he'd been until Valinor spoke.

"It's over," he said. She looked up and back at him, and then stood as best she could under her own power. She felt as though she'd been struck upside the head – her vision was fuzzy and she couldn't make sense of what had happened.

"Did he tell me to go away?" she asked, worried. "He didn't say anything about me staying. Does that mean I have to leave?"

Valinor raised his eyebrows and smiled an ill-concealed smirk. He came forward and rested a calm, sturdy hand on her shoulder.

"Look down," he said.

She did, and gasped.

Her breeches and shirt had disappeared, and in their place was a full-length dress of snow-white cotton, with a white sash tied around her waist. Her feet were encased in sturdy white boots, her hands in white fingerless gloves, and on the right breast of her bodice beneath a well-fitted gray cloak was emblazoned a golden sigil – the ring and staff of Var Athel.

"Come with me," he said.

She nodded, and together they walked into the Citadel.

Chapter Eight: Rane

In the latter half of the hundred years that followed the founding of the Peace between Charridan and Aeon, there existed a dark and stormy span of years when a man known as King Hulin ruled in the city of Caelron. He was to become the father of King Malineri and Crown Prince Rewlyn, and there was a saying in the Archipelago that he was a 'king to prove the islanders right.'

His rule was not as unfortunate as it might have been. The Guilds stepped in, and so did Var Athel, in its way, to mitigate what they could, and so the city and its power were at least maintained, despite the worst that Hulin did.

But disaster could not be entirely avoided.

Perhaps his greatest fault was that Hulin saw himself as capable and intelligent when he was neither. When he came to power with the death of his father, he had the best of intentions. He read through the scrolls of law kept in the palace and from them began to issue decrees, convinced of the righteousness of the men who had founded Aeon so long ago.

But the laws he enforced were ancient and barbaric – laws that had long since been condemned and set aside as relics of a savage age. He came to believe firmly that punishment was the path to righteousness, and he commanded the city guards to remove the right hand of convicted thieves, to press night women into indentured servitude, and to put to death anyone that assaulted a man in the king's colors. He relied little on his advisers and in some cases openly ridiculed them, even the Sorev Ael later known as Baelric the Wise, who he openly mocked in court as a "witch man". Baelric, undeterred, did what he could to protect Caelron without the king's knowledge, and in particular performed that which would become the single most important act of his life: he kept Hulin's eldest son, Malineri, out of his father's influence.

Still, there was only so much that could be done to a sitting monarch, and only so much that his subjects would accept done to him. For often times, if people believe that a man has the right to rule, then they will accept any how.

The city of Caelron survived, but its citizens lived in a constant state of unease that evolved over time into a peculiar kind of resigned dread. No one expected mercy if their case came before the king or the king's courts, and so no one sought to extend mercy to others. No one looked to help their fellow men up and out of poverty lest they be tied unwittingly to a former criminal and framed as an accomplice. The only art that was produced was art that praised the state and the king. People did not talk to strangers, much less help them, lest they be found guilty of a crime unknowingly committed. Good people did not have the confidence required to do good acts, for they did not know if they would be rewarded or punished; and evil men, knowing they would be shown no mercy, did evil anyway.

It was well known through experience and rumor that the streets were not safe to walk at night. The criminal underclass that exists in all cities went from virtually defunct to robust in a matter of years, thanks in large part to the draconian laws that Hulin put in place in an effort to suppress them. The more severe the laws became, the more the villains of the night sought protection from still stronger, smarter villains, and the more such men and women banded together, the more power they began to hold. In greater numbers, they had money to spend on bribes for those who had been wronged by the king's uneven justice; and the more they spent in bribes, the more palms were greased and the more people were willing to look the other way when evil deeds were done in dark alleyways and deserted streets. Squalor crept into Caelron around the edges of the city like grime on a gilded painting, and the largest stain was the rise of the cynically named Thieves Guild.

Such comes the fall of virtue. Not through revolution, but through the slow and creeping progress of incompetence, arrogance, and apathy.

It was into this short but troubled time that Wren was born.

He was as a light against a backdrop of dark and bitter tragedy. Stars are beautiful in part because of the inky fabric of deep and eternal black against which they are set to shine; and the sun is born, every day, from the secret heart of night. So it was with Wren.

His story begins with his mother, Rane.

During Hulin's reign, Rane lived in Caelron with her parents, who had brought her from Aginor as a child and established a shop in the Merchant's Quarter selling trinkets and antiques. Her father had earned a reputation as a man who could sell you anything if you were willing to pay for it, and her mother took the trade far and wide among the myriad shops of the great city, procuring items at cheap rates that were then sold for a decent profit.

Rane was a dreamer, much as her son Wren would be. She loved the sky, for it was all she knew of the outside world. Her whole life revolved around her parents' shop in the Merchant Quarter and the store seven blocks away where she often went on errands for food and cloth and trinkets.

But though her body was held captive by the city and her parents' life, her mind roamed far and wide across the land of Aeon. She imagined what it would be like to see the villages to the south, to see Var Athel to the north, even to go beyond the land to the Shining Sea itself, and south past the Archipelago to the open, endless expanse of water that people called the ocean. Every day she watched the sky – blue in summer, gray and clouded in winter, but always there, always changing, always proof of a world outside her little life. She found joy in it and smiled often, even in such dark and troubled times as Hulin's reign. She knew that life was wonderful in a full-body kind of way. She believed it in her blood and bones and soul, even though the world tried to convince her otherwise.

Such untempered optimism is a dangerous thing.

Her fall began with Domin. She never mentioned him to her parents, nor did she mention when he made her an offer of marriage. He was everything a young woman was supposed to want: well-spoken, well-dressed, of good breeding, and with charm and a smile that made her blush. He took her to places where they danced through the night, and when they collapsed, exhausted, afterwards, he spoke soft words into her ear that made her feel on fire. When he asked her to marry him, she said yes, even though she had only known him for a handful of weeks. They celebrated that night in a room upstairs of the inn, a room with a door that locked.

They drank heavily, though Rane told Domin that she did not want to drink much more. He continued to pour her wine, however, and she drank when he told her too. He smiled and spoke such sweet things about what would happen when they were married that she even went so far as to let him touch her.

But when the clock downstairs of the room rang midnight, Rane realized she had stayed out far too late. Her parents would be wondering where she was. She pushed Domin away and told him they'd lost track of time, but he did not seem to care. He playfully pulled her back as she made for the door, and she felt then the first lurch of fear in her stomach, though she did not acknowledge it as she should have. She believed in dreams still, and the dream of Domin was so great that she would not – or could not – allow herself to acknowledge his reality.

She tried to leave once more, but she was stopped again, and this time Domin frowned. When she asked him what was wrong, he told her simply that he was displeased, and that she must not go. She told him that she must; but when she turned again for the door, he stepped between her and it. The latch clicked and the lock turned, and no one came when she screamed.

She returned home several days later just as morning broke across the city. Her parents were in a terrible state, and the sight of her walking through the door brought tears of relief that quickly turned to cries of horror.

That very hour, wasting not a single second, they took her to a Healer, that brand of Sorev Ael that can fix the mind and body. They were told that she had been severely beaten and was close to death from dehydration. She had a number of broken bones, and her skin was torn in a dozen different places. She'd been struck so brutally about the face that her eye sockets had been crushed, and it was because of this that she had wandered around for days before finding her way home.

She was blind, and she was pregnant.

After doing what she could, the Healer gave them strange-smelling poultices and salves and told Rane's parents how and when to use them. She wove enchantments over the girl to ease what grief she could, but stopped short of the final step. She had the power to erase Rane's memorizes entirely – a power that only the best Healers have – but she refused to do it. There was a terrible risk that such an enchantment would come undone as Rane's pregnancy progressed, and if that happened, it would tear her mind apart.

Rane lived at home until the baby came. She lived in darkness then, both literal and figurative, for she never regained her sight and she refused to venture out into the light of day where she could be seen. Her parents were asked what had become of her, and they told the kind inquirers of a trip to the countryside – of an aunt they had left behind in Aginor who had taken Rane for the summer so that she could see the world outside of Caelron. Those who knew her were overjoyed at such news, for they knew it was her dream to see the world, and they wished her well.

Rane overheard, and wept.

There was nothing her parents could do to draw her from the dark, unstable depths into which she had descended. They asked her who had harmed her, her father even going so far as to rage and storm about the house, demanding that she tell him, but she adamantly refused. They tried cajoling her, tried making her favorite foods and offering a real trip to the countryside, but she would not eat, and she refused to hear of leaving.

They loved her as best they could, but it was not enough.

She remained secluded. As the months wore on, her parents fought amongst themselves, each in turn questioning the wisdom of their decisions, saying they should seek out the Healer again to force Rane from her despair with sorcery, or maybe even bring her out into public. But no, the shame she'd suffer was worse than keeping her locked away – locked away for _months_ though, how could that be good? Still, a relatively short stretch of solitude to keep her free from a life of scorn, wasn't that a small and necessary price to pay?

Rane heard all of it, for their rooms over the shop were small and the thin walls ill-made for secrets. Her parents spoke of her as an abstraction, never thinking that she might overhear them or that she might have an opinion of her own. Unbeknownst to them, she had made her own decision.

One night, many months after her return, Rane heard her parents close their door and fall into the deep embrace of sleep. She stood and made her way to the stairs, navigating by feel. She descended to the ground floor, crossed the shop, and left.

There are a series of waterworks in Caelron on the far eastern edge of the city, wonders made with the help of the Sorev Ael. They rise from where the natural shoreline was built upon, and they tower nearly a hundred feet in the air, made of enchanted brick, stone, and mortar that cannot be worn away by the constant surging power of the tide. The fresh water that comes down to Caelron from the northernmost tip of the Windy Mountains passes beneath the city, collecting refuge as it goes, and empties there into the bay, where it is submerged by the current and taken out to sea.

It was to these waterworks that Rane made her way.

She navigated by sound and feel, as she had no sight. At first she moved aimlessly, weeping as she walked. Not the racking sobs of momentary desperation, but the constant, streaming tears of defeat and unendurable grief. Perhaps even she did not know fully what she intended. Perhaps some shred of her former self would not let her know it.

But before she reached her destination, her belly began to ache, and soon, through the haze of her grief, she felt her muscles pull and shudder within her. She thought of the baby's father, thought of what it would mean to raise such a child, and her despair only deepened. She continued moving through the back alleyways that allowed her to maintain her solitude, away from eyes that might see and stop her. She tripped and fell over debris. Her dress was soon slick with dirt and grime and her own bodily fluid, and her feet were torn and bloodied.

She did not make it. She fell one last time in a back alley near the waterworks, and it was there that she gave birth.

The baby came easily, which caused Rane to laugh through her tears. Of course it would – of course _this_ would be easy when nothing else was. The baby's cries echoed her own, and as she lay there in her own fluids, her body took over and she swaddled the boy instinctually as he cried and groped blindly at her chest.

She rose again, not knowing what else to do, and walked on.

She traversed the streets like a vengeful spirit, sobbing and wailing as one possessed. Soon even that, though, was lost in the rushing sound of cascading water. The machinery called out to her with a ceaseless roar, and she followed it blindly until she lost her mind in the maze of the city and knew no more.

It was a Sorev Ael who found her – the king's adviser, Baelric.

He was known as a wise man even then and had made a study of philosophy and human nature. His mind worked in a way that many minds do not, with both compassion and pragmatism in equal measure. He saw the evil of the world and yet was never disillusioned by it. He studied it with the kind of detachment that a carpenter might possess when studying a dilapidated building: looking for ways to cut out the rot and rebuild stronger what could be saved. At the height of Hulin's reign, he wandered the streets at night with groups of men and women skilled in healing in order to help those that he could not help by day, and to keep the great city from falling into ruin.

And on this night in particular, he had even gone so far as to bring the Crown Prince with him, the man who would several years later become King Malineri.

Caelron was large city, and it sprawled over the hills on which it was built to cover the tip of the Peninsula from bank to bank, extending a far distance beyond its ancient walls. A casual observer might say that the mere chance that Baelric took Malineri to the edge of the city that night, to the dangerous Waterworks where the criminal and destitute made what living they could, was astonishing. That they also stumbled upon Rane makes one think of absurd coincidences, or perhaps the hand of fate.

When the conjured light atop Baelric's oaken staff fell on Rane's lifeless body, he held up a hand and flicked it in a smooth, practiced motion. Those he'd brought with him, sympathetic royal guards doing their best to look proud and strong for their prince that night, spread out and searched the street, but found no one else and nothing of interest.

"My prince," Baelric said. "Come here."

Malineri came. He was only a young man then, little more than a boy, but old enough and strong enough that he could face the world as it was. He was not particularly brave, nor particularly wise, but he was good and earnest, and that is enough upon which to lay the foundation of a king.

He was dressed in guardsman's clothes that night as a disguise, but even still his bearing was unmistakable. The green and red of his cape and the soft leather of his boots and gloves beneath the burnished silver of his armor only seemed to highlight his bright eyes, smooth face, and the noble grace bred into his carriage. He came up next to Baelric and looked down at the ruined body of Rane, and then looked away. He had never seen a woman dead or dying before, and the sight of it moved him more than he'd thought possible.

"Do not look away," Baelric scolded. "This is what the city has become. This is what you must end, and what must never be allowed to return."

Malineri forced himself to look again, and a wave of sorrow rushed over him. The woman was worn away to nothing, and the swollen belly of a recent pregnancy told him quite clearly that she had left behind a child.

"Can you not help her?" Malineri asked quietly, trying to keep his voice even.

"She is beyond help now," Baelric said softly. His beard, already turning white, glistening with the dew of the mist that so often covered the city at night, and as he laid a calm, understanding hand on Malineri's shoulder, the sleeve of his robes fell back to reveal black ink etched into his pale skin in the form of ancient runes. "The dead are beyond our help. What we must do, what you must _always_ do, is learn from death, not wallow in it. All must die – all of us. She is beyond help or harm now; what concerns us, and the rest of the living, is that she need not have died here and now. She need not have died for many more years to come, and she need not have died grieving and alone. If there is a way to stop others from dying in such a place, in such sadness, then we the living must seek it out."

Malineri nodded, feeling the truth of his mentor's words ring through him. The guards listened too; many of them were young and would grow with Malineri throughout his life, as was the tradition of Caelron.

"What about her child?" Malineri asked, seeing again her swollen belly.

Baelric paused and turned back to her. He muttered a sound under his breath and there came with it a rushing wind, though Malineri, not gifted with the talent of Words, did not understand the sound or its meaning. The Sorev Ael paused as if waiting for response, but when none came but the silence of the dark night, he turned back to the prince, his face heavily lined with sorrow.

"The child is not nearby," he said. "She left him, where I cannot tell. All we can do is see this woman buried, and hope that someone will find the child and care for it in her place."

Malineri stood there for a long moment, even though it was clear to him that Baelric wished to leave. He stood watching the face of the woman: her eyes empty white and unseeing; her face preternaturally lined with grief and sorrow; her skin marred with scars that he could tell had pained her greatly.

It is perhaps one of the world's great ironies that the significance that Rane could never achieve in life was achieved in death. For Malineri the King was born that night truly and in full, though he was yet a prince. It was her face that haunted him when he thought of sending men to war, her face and those sightless eyes staring up at a dark sky full of stars that made him fight for dreams and hope. It was her face that made him think of the world his men might never see again.

They searched the alley but did not find the boy, for Wren's mother had cast him over the side of the nearest cliff.

Do not worry. He fell, but lived.

For it was those same cliffs that made the Thieves' Guild possible. Below the surface streets, among the underground rivers whereby the city disposed of its sewage and waste, a great crowd of cast-off human refuse also gathered.

It was into this strange underworld that Wren fell.

His crying brought a woman to him, a woman who was woken from a dream of her own lost child. She was recently disgraced, the victim of the king's incompetent brand of justice that had had her husband executed and no provision made for his pregnant wife despite the well-known fact she had no family. She soon found herself unable to pay for food, and then was forced to sell her home. She was a skilled woman – she'd been an apprentice once in the Herbalist Guild – and when her child died, she rejected the city that had so wronged her and joined the Thieves.

So when she woke and heard the child's cries, she could not resist investigating. She traced them through the tunnels and out to the edge of the Waterworks, along the rushing underground river that formed the main spur of the watery warren. She followed it, out and out and out, until she came to the very edge, where the underground river spilled through the air to crash down into the bay so far below.

She spotted him almost immediately, wrapped in cloth soaked with water and bodily fluids and hung from a broken spar of stone.

Tulia reached out, careful of her footing lest she slip and fall herself, and grabbed the bundle. She slipped it off the spike and stumbled back as the cloth unraveled and the baby began to slip. She gasped and almost shouted as the fabric unrolled in her hands – she dove for the child and caught it before it hit the ground.

The boy began to scream, and Tulia thought that he quite honestly had the right. He looked like a newborn – red and puckered, his head awkwardly squashed – and she held him to her chest fiercely.

She blinked back tears, and took him in.

Chapter Nine: Wren

Tulia gave Wren his name because of beautiful voice.

When he cried, melodies seemed to echo back through the cavernous rooms that the Thirteenth Guild inhabited, melodies that evoked pity and made even the hard-heated Thieves feel sorry for him. When he was happy, his laugh would bounce out and skitter around the room like a riotous peal of bells.

There were many babies among the women who fled to the underground world beneath Caelron. Few survived. Life in the Thieves' Guild was not for the weak, and none are weaker than the newly born. It was a dark time, and the Thieves became darker still to survive it.

As such, a reprieve from tragedy was not long for Wren. When he was four, Tulia slipped and fell making her way down from the street into her dank underground lair. It was rumored that she might have been pushed – many others were, in similar circumstances. She never recovered, and so Wren grew up an orphan, with no memory of her.

The Thieves lived a sparse life, a hard life, and there was much of bitterness, hatred, and sorrow in them as is to be expected of men and women on whom the world has turned its back. A whole faction of the Thieves' Guild was devoted to hired murder, and every shade and hue of deceit, corruption, and larceny that could be performed had an associated specialist among them. It was in this world that Wren grew up.

He had pale skin in the tradition of those who had settled Caelron long ago, and his hair was blonde and his eyes were blue thanks to the Aginoran heritage of his unknown parents. He sang often and on request – giving everyone who asked a verse of whatever they asked for. His mind was like a steel trap for melodies.

It was this more than anything else that saved him.

Those of the darker shade of life have little use for that which does not serve a purpose. Once Tulia died, there was no one to feed Wren, and no charity to be had from the others. It was only when he came one night, belly swollen and eyes hollow, to a group of men newly returned from a successful raid that he was able to secure his future. The men were in a riotous mood, and they mockingly offered him a crust of bread in exchange for a rendition of "The Sandy Virgin," widely known as a crude song banned in any reputable tavern.

To their utter shock, Wren took them at their word and began to sing.

The bawdy song flowing from the mouth of a child who had no idea what the words meant, nor indeed how to pronounce most of them, sent the men into hysterics. All mockery forgotten, they asked for more, and he sang what they wanted: he went through "The Barge to Londor" and several verses of "Fruitful Mary" before finishing with "My Hat, My Cat" and receiving his glorious bounty of bread.

He ate well that night, and most nights thereafter.

He made the rounds during every evening meal, asking anyone who looked even slightly interested if they wanted a song, and whenever they asked for one he didn't know, he listened at doors and stayed up into the early hours of the morning waiting for someone to sing it so that he could add it to his growing repertoire.

Those who ran the Guild took note, and at the age of six he was inducted into the Rat Gang, a sanctioned group of younger thieves that the Guild had decided to train. King Hulin still ruled then, but it was well and widely known that his health was failing. The Thieves sensed weakness and hoped to capitalize on it by training future generations in the clandestine arts they'd mastered. With Hulin's death would come a succession and a time of transition that, if properly leveraged, could mean huge profits.

Wren's first theft – as well as the first major operation of the Rat Gang – was set for the night of Solina, the celebration of the winter solstice. The festival was a time of merriment and indulgence meant to celebrate the year's harvest and to warm the darkest, coldest night of the year. The people would gather in the four great city squares, where drink and food was plentiful, and make merry until the sun came up. It was the perfect opportunity for the Thirteenth Guild to enact their most daring operation to date: to rob the city blind in the middle of the festivities. The nine dark masters who ran the Guild were determined that the night thereafter would be known as the Night of Thieves.

It so happened that the shop chosen for the Rat Gang was a shop of some repute in the Merchant's Quarter; a shop with an owner who had never recovered from the loss of his daughter. It was said that if you needed something, you eventually found your way to Jaren's.

Rane's mother and father mourned her death in very different ways. Ellyn secluded herself, and she was often seen in the Grove, where went those who wished to worship the Creator. She prayed there amongst the trees, her mouth moving easily and frequently as she muttered words that made no sense in her own or any other language, hoping that solace might be found in such a way.

Rane's father, Jaren, devoted himself to his shop and lost himself in work. The six years since her death had made him a hard-hearted man. His business boomed, and he grew it with manic intensity though it no longer gave him pleasure. On long nights, he still thought of the daughter he'd lost and what he might have done to keep her safe. When the world was quiet and slow, he often found himself staring out of the expensive plate-glass windows he'd had installed to front the shop – staring sightlessly down the street where Rane had walked.

Jaren was in his shop the night of Solina. He worked constantly when awake, and he saw no reason to celebrate with the rest of the city on that cold winter's night. He did not drink, for to drink was to unlock memories, nor did he eat in excess, for it made him sleepy and then came dreams. Therefore, he had little interest in festivities, and with his wife gone to the Grove to pray with the devout believers, he had freedom to work into the early hours of the morning.

That night was a tremendously successful night for the illicit Thirteenth Guild. Shops were robbed all over town as their owners abandoned them to make merry in the streets, and men and women of all walks of life found themselves penniless in the morning or missing invaluable family heirlooms. A number of the city's rich, all at one grand party or another, returned bleary-eyed the next day to find their manors sacked and artifacts of great worth missing. It was by and large the most audacious and successful mass robbery in all of Caelron's history.

The only merchant of note who did not suffer such a loss was Jaren.

At the appointed time, the Rat Gang made for his shop. They were smart about it, sending lookouts up to scale the roof and check that the light was out in the bedroom and that there was no light in the shop itself. They jiggered the old, loose lock – Jaren had refused for years to replace it – and quickly made their way inside.

Pip led them, for he was the oldest at twelve and anxious to prove himself. Too anxious, as it turned out, for when the door was opened he ushered them in without checking first for signs of current habitation. The younger boys – Wren included – had been told to follow Pip's word at all cost, and so they followed him into the room and spread out. Pip shut the door behind them – he really was a poor thief, truth be told – and in doing so produced a sharp snapping sound.

Jaren heard it in his back room, the part of the shop where he repaired all manner of objects, and was on his feet immediately. He had encountered thieves before – never had they succeeded, but they had come close – and he was ready. He hefted the heavy wooden rod he kept nearby for just such occasions and hastily doused the candle by which he'd been repairing the timing mechanism of an over-large clock.

The boys in the other room, urged forward by Pip, were already searching for valuables. They were young, but they knew what to look for: anything that had its own shelf, anything that was on a high shelf, anything that was behind a counter and could be protected by a body, and so on. They had been carefully tutored. The art of mass thievery, so the theory went, lay in taking what _might_ be valuable and sorting it out later. If it turned out to be dross, it would go down the underground river and disappear in the current on its way out to sea. If valuable, it would be sold.

When Jaren came into the room, he was so stealthy he did not even seem to breathe. The boys never knew what happened – all they knew was that suddenly the shop's central lantern was lit, and then there was screaming and a dark looming figure that rushed at them with a club, like some giant out of a story of the Wilds.

The boys, barely half-trained to begin with, bolted. Pip was the first out, and the others were close behind him, though none were fast enough to avoid a lick from Jaren's rod, and all left with at least one nasty bruise.

Leaving virtually all of their loot behind, the Rat Gang streaked away into the night as if chased by the old devil god Delsur himself. Jaren stood framed in the doorway, watching them go, red in the face and breathing heavily through his nose, looking for all the world like a bearded bull. The last of the night's merriment was finally dying out in the city, but a few remaining revelers caught sight of him and laughed uproariously before they stumbled on.

With a good-riddance snort, he struck the heavy rod against his thick palm and slammed the door. His eyes combed the shop, looking over the now-illuminated shelves and racks, noting what had been disturbed, cataloging everything with the ready mind of a man who knows his business inside and out.

That's when he saw Wren.

When the small boy had seen Jaren rush in from the back room like a nightmare, he'd completely lost all sense of common cause with the other boys and instead thrown himself beneath the closest shelf he could find. It was what had saved him many times before in the caverns beneath the city: when a strong man was in a black rage, or consumed by earthy urges, only fools stayed in open sight.

So he hid, quivering with fear.

When Jaren looked under the shelf and found him, he was struck dumb. The presence of the small, obviously terrified boy was not at all what he'd expected to find after an attempted robbery, and he was so surprised that his choler iced over and shattered, leaving him empty of strong emotion for the first time in years.

And then, with a sudden rush, that void was filled with dread.

The boy was hiding beneath a heavy shelf that Jaren had been trying for years to fix. He had managed to prop it where it was – few customers went back there, for it was near to the counter where Jaren normally stood, and if something was needed then Jaren usually got it himself. The prop he'd used was a sturdy wooden plank, the solid kind of oak that only seems to harden with age, and Wren was resting dead against it.

The scene played itself out in his mind in horrible detail: if the boy panicked and tried to retreat any farther, he would hit the support and be crushed. The shelf was piled high with goods, and if it fell, it would smash him like a bug. Despite Jaren's bluster and satisfaction in having driven the other boys out, he was not an evil man, and even in his world-imposed hard-heartedness he did not delight in pain. He did not hesitate to teach thieves a lesson for stealing – better they learn the price from him who would dole out bruises than from the king's justice that would take their hands – but he would no more have killed them than set his shop on fire.

So when his eyes fell on Wren, the crying, frightened boy who was trying to appear as if he were neither crying nor frightened, Jaren's good heart won out.

"You – boy," he said, drawing Wren's attention. He put down the rod and carefully rolled it away from them both, sending it clattering beneath a counter. "See here," he continued, holding up his hands and trying to compose his face into as inoffensive an expression as possible. "There's nothing to fear."

Wren stared at him with wide eyes and only slowly seemed to come back to himself. Shame and humiliation washed over him – two emotions that are particularly difficult to deal with as a child of six – and his urge to cry redoubled even as he tried to stifle his tears. The end result was a strange quivering moan that tapered off into tight-lipped anger.

"Look now," Jaren said, slowly lowering himself to the ground so that he was on his hands and knees. He watched the oak support plank carefully from the corner of his eye, and his whole body tensed with the knowledge that if he did something wrong he might very well end up responsible for the death of a young boy. "There's no need to be frightened."

This was the wrong approach to take. Reminded that he both looked frightened and indeed _was_ frightened, Wren became truly angry and sneered at the man, hating him immediately. He hugged his knees tighter against his chest and edged back, straight into the oak support.

" _No!_ "

Wren froze as something shifted above him. He looked up and saw the sagging shelf, and then the reality of the situation sank in. He reached around to feel the tilted plank, and the lesser emotions of humiliation, pain, and anger were consumed in that deepest and oldest emotion of all: fear.

"Stop!" Jaren said urgently, shuffling forward and holding out a hand. "Stop. Don't move – you can't move!"

Wren froze, though every bone in his body was telling him to run and run hard. Something in the man's eye, something in his manner and tone, told Wren that he wasn't lying.

"That's right," Jaren said. His voice came out in a hoarse croak. It had not been used in such a way for years now. "That's right. You can understand me, yes?"

Wren nodded slowly, his eyes huge.

"Good, good. Listen – that plank is what's holding up the shelf. I need to come closer to you to get hold of it and prop the shelf back up. Do you understand?"

Wren nodded again, his eyes even bigger; through his fear, he had not heard or understood all of the words, but the intention seemed good, and that was what mattered.

"All right. I'm going to come closer."

Jaren did as he said, shuffling forward on hands and knees until he was right in front of the boy, who did not take his eye off of him for a single second. He came closer still, took a deep breath, and then lunged.

Too frightened to stay still any longer, Wren lunged at the same time, moving out of the way as the man came rushing in. He knocked against the support, and the shelf gave a horrible shutter; at the last possible second, Jaren caught and twisted the support back into place, halting the sagging shelf barely an inch above his own head. He breathed heavily, grunting with the effort, and then pushed and pulled and twisted the plank back into place. It was hard going, and soon he was sweating and gasping for air, and he realized with a sudden depth of clarity that the boy was gone. He'd run for it as soon as he'd been set free. Chances were he was robbing the place blind even now.

Jaren groaned and heaved against the shelf, but it wouldn't rise any farther. He had managed to get the plank in place to help, but it wasn't straight and it couldn't bear the full weight of the shelf. He strained against it, fighting with all his strength for those the final few inches, but it was no use.

The knowledge of his predicament began to seep in: if he could not lift the shelf, he could not get out from under it. There was ample room for a young boy, but it was little more than a crawl space for a grown man. He was trapped. Panic raced through him, granting him extra strength through desperation, and he heaved again with all his might, pushing with both hands to gain leverage, but it was still no use.

Seconds turned to minutes and his arms began to shake as the shelf swung lower by jerky increments. He could hear the heavy shifting of objects above him, and he tried frantically to shake the shelf in the hopes of knocking some of them off – and only then did he realize what a fool he'd been.

Why hadn't he just emptied the shelf to begin with?

The darkness of the past six years swept over him, everything from his daughter to this day, and short bursts of tears rolled down his face and mingled with the sweat on his cheeks. What did it say about everything he had endured if he was destined to end crushed beneath a shelf of his own wares?

Noise from the door, a quick pair of feet running back toward the shelf, and then small hands were grabbing things and throwing them, crashing, to the ground. Silver pots, black iron skillets, copper kettles, books, pens and inkwells, even a block of candlewax, all of it went flying across the floor and Jaren felt the burden on his arms ease. Suddenly he could push with more strength, and the shelf began to rise again, moving away from his face. He gasped and sobbed even as he pushed, trying to hold himself together as he gave every ounce of effort possible, twisting his torso back and forth. His muscles felt ready to rip out of his skin; his arms and hands were swollen and full of energy and blood...

The shelf rose the final bit, and the support plank lurched into place.

Jaren collapsed where he lay, gasping for breath and barely able to believe he wasn't dead. When he finally came back to himself, he noticed a pair of skinny legs in torn, dirty breeches, far too short for the lean frame on which they hung, standing amidst the scattered goods that had previously occupied the shelf.

Still groaning and gasping for breath – it felt as though a heavy creature had curled up on his chest in an effort to hold him down – he inched out from beneath the counter and levered himself up to his feet. He winced as his back spasmed, and he was reminded forcefully that he was no longer a young man; he would likely be laid up in bed for days. He brushed his hand over his eyes to clear them of stinging sweat and turned to the boy.

Wren looked incredibly awkward. He was shifting from one foot to the other as if ready to run, and he quite clearly had no idea why he'd come back. The door was open, and he held a large, full sack that bulged with odd shapes. His clear eyes were wide, and he was staring at Jaren with an open innocence that completely disarmed the shopkeeper.

This was no thief – this was a boy.

"You... you, uh... "

He cleared his throat and forced his thoughts into coherency, latching on to the only thing he could think of: "You shouldn't be here at this hour."

The boy swallowed nervously and began to back away. He looked at the sack in his hands and then back at Jaren.

"This... is this yours?"

The shopkeeper became very quiet, watching the boy carefully. When Wren did not continue, Jaren spoke slowly: "Yes," he said. "Yes it is. I sell what's in this shop. It's how I buy food. For my family."

Wren's eyes narrowed, his brow furrowed, and his mouth pursed, an expression of intense concentration that seemed far too adult for the face of six year old. "You sell them for food?"

Jaren nodded.

Wren's concentration narrowed, if possible, even further.

"It's yours," he said slowly, his eyes no longer on Jaren. "I don't like people taking from me. Only bad people take from me." He refocused on Jaren as another thought occurred to him, his bright eyes totally serious. "Are you a bad people?"

The open innocence and naivety touched something deep in Jaren's heart, and some of the iron there rusted and fell away. He shook his head slowly. Wren nodded, and it was clear he'd made a decision.

"Then I shouldn't thief you."

He dropped the bag at Jaren's feet, and as soon as it left his hands his adultish manner evaporated. He reverted back to the six-year-old he was, shifting his weight to one side and grabbing one of his arms self-consciously. He dropped his eyes, examining Jaren's shoes, and even went so far as to smile nervously and peek up at the shopkeeper through his mop of lank blonde hair.

"I'm leaving now," he announced abruptly.

He turned and made for the door, and for a long moment Jaren just watched him go, completely unnerved. Then, compelled by some urge he didn't understand, he scrambled forward. His cramped muscles protested the sudden movement – his back cracked in a series of sharp pops like rocks thrown against a brick wall – and he was forced to grab hold of the counter to keep himself from falling.

"Wait!"

Wren paused in the doorway and turned back, looking wary. Jaren sprawled out on the floor was much different than Jaren standing, even if the shopkeeper did look like he had been dragged through a quarry backwards.

"Why are you with them?" Jaren asked. "Don't you have a family?"

"No." The boy turned again to go.

"Wait!" Jaren repeated. "Wait. You could have robbed me – you could have taken everything. You could have gone to get the others and come back with them and you would have been a hero."

Wren's face fell. He had not thought of that.

"If you go back," Jaren continued slowly, "back to wherever you're from – if you go back there without anything, how will they treat you?"

Wren went pale, grimaced, and turned to leave.

"Wait! Wait – take something!"

Wren's expression clearly implied the shopkeeper had lost his mind.

"You must!" Jaren said, completely consumed now by some force he did not understand. "Take something – take _some_ thing – what do you do? What do you like? Take it as yours and show that you didn't come back empty-handed. Whatever they'll do to the others they won't do to you. Right?"

Wren followed this logic easily. If he came back with nothing, he would be beaten. If he came back with something, he would be allowed to keep it – the first steal was for you to keep, that was what the Thieves promised.

"Anything," Jaren said earnestly. "What do you do? Your favorite thing."

"I... I sing sometimes?" Wren asked, wondering if this was the correct answer. He was in uncharted territory here, and he had no idea how to comport himself.

Jaren's eyes lit up, and he hobbled over behind the counter against which he'd been leaning and brought out a long wooden case. Wren was intrigued despite himself, and he moved away from the door as the shopkeeper snapped open two tarnished silver clasps and raised the lid of the box. He swung it around to face Wren, and the boy's face lit up.

It was a lute.

It was old and beaten, but it had been carefully repaired and Wren could see the patches of lighter wood that had been integrated into the rounded bottom to seal up what had once been holes. The strings were old, but they were straight and well-pegged at both base and head, and when Jaren handed it to Wren, the boy's whole world changed.

The wood was warm beneath his hands, and a thrill rushed through him that he could not explain. His breathing quickened, and his body tingled with excitement. He ran a finger over the strings, which thrummed out a simple, sweet sound, youthful and innocent.

He looked up at Jaren.

"Thank you," he said. But then he thought about what would happen when he got back to the caverns, thought about how he would keep it safe – _could_ he keep it safe? In the wet? It was solid, but it was quite beaten and no one would try to steal it for themselves and sell it, especially not since it was his first steal and that made it his by Guild rules – but maybe they would? Maybe – ?

"Take the case," Jaren said quickly, retrieving the lute from Wren and placing it in the wooden box lined with old, yellowed canvas. "So that it doesn't get hurt."

He snapped the case closed and handed it back to Wren. The boy took it in both hands – it was nearly the same size as he was – and held it carefully, balancing it as best he could. He looked one last time at the man, and then turned and fled out into the night.

Jaren hurried to the door and watched him go. He felt no sense of loss in seeing the lute go – he'd been trying to sell the thing for ages, but no one wanted it – but did he feel, somewhere deep inside him, a kind of tender warmth he had not felt in years. He stayed there in the doorway for a long time as the rest of the city slowly slunk home to sleep.

When Ellyn returned in the early hours of the morning, he told her what had happened and began to weep. It was the first time he'd wept since Rane's death. Ellyn went to him and held him, and he spoke to her in a voice low and husky, as he had not since Rane's disappearance. She spoke to him too, and comforted him as she had not in many years. They lay in bed as morning dawned, curled around each other, and when they woke, on that morning six years later, they began to heal.

When Wren found his way back to the caverns he was greeted with the solemn, surly faces of the other Rat Gang members who already knew their punishment. He was frightened. Would the masters let him keep the lute after all? Would the Rat Gang punish him for doing what they could not? Pip was cruel when angry, and Yuli...

He need not have worried. The fact that the rest of the Rats had been scared away and Wren had stayed to fleece the biggest object he could find – he was careful not to correct this assumption – caused fierce celebration and laughter among the Guild. And when finally the case was opened before the Guild heads – the men who were the best cutpurses, robbers, strongmen, and outright murderers in the city – even they could not help but smile at the sight of the lute. There was laughter all around, and it cemented forever Wren's reputation in the minds of the Thieves as a small, charmed urchin boy, and it cemented his own idea of himself as well.

But the dark forces that sometimes shape men's lives were not done with him. They had one final break, one final tragedy before he was sent out into the world on his way. It must be told, or his story is not complete.

Chapter Ten: Flight

Wren grabbed the lute with sweaty palms and tried to stay composed. The plan had been doomed from the start, and he'd known it. A feeling of dread had settled over him as the long day had whittled down to its end and now that the time was here, he knew for certain what he had suspected all along:

The plan wouldn't work, and they were going to try it anyway.

He swallowed to try and calm the seething nerves that had nested in the pit of his stomach like a mass of snakes. _There's a chance it could work_ , he tried to tell himself. _Just because Bruth came up with it doesn't mean it's doomed._

He grimaced and looked back. The others were gone – they'd begun to circle around East Square to the other main streets that spilled out onto the long boulevard that bordered the city of Caelron. The plan was in motion and there was no way to stop it now.

He turned back and combed the crowd with his eyes. His gaze landed on Pip, the burly strongarm who'd once been the leader of the Rat Gang and who'd never forgiven Wren for succeeding where he'd failed. As if drawn by the younger boy's gaze, Pip shifted his black glare to him in return and flashed a sneer.

It was the first time either of them had worked together since that night eight years ago. Pip had refused to have anything to do with Wren, and Wren hadn't pushed the issue. Pip was one of the Guild, through and through, and morals were a foreign concept to him.

But there was no one else to work with now.

Wren tried to quell the shiver that raced down his spine at the thought, but he couldn't quite do it. Not with the dozens of guards in the official red and green of Caelron swarming through the square before him.

If this doesn't work, the Guild is done. If any of us get taken, we're done.

He gritted his teeth and forced the thought away as best he could. Ever since the death of Hulin and the ascension of Malineri, the city had turned perilous for the Thirteenth Guild. The new king had reversed his father's decrees, reopened the Courts of Justice, and recodified the laws, striking down the most barbaric and banishing them back to the history books. The town criers stood on the central blocks of the city's four great Squares and proclaimed such every day – the whole city knew of it.

The king had also increased the salary of the guards so that even Fat Joty couldn't be encouraged to look the other way during a criminal endeavor. All told, the Thieves were being picked off one by one. Some of the most notorious guild members had been executed outright for their crimes – Bloody Cherl, the Riverman, Garrotter Bil – and countless others had been thrown in the deepest cells of the castle prison, awaiting trial by a handful of landowners elected to represent the people. Still more, those of less grievous faults, had been commanded to join a legitimate Guild on pain of death and had done so. Others had been shipped to Var Athel, where they were to be distributed across Aginor, Londor, and even to the farther provinces all the way to the Forts where they could be kept under watchful eye.

The Guild was a hair's breadth away from dying out completely, and all those that remained were in East Square that day. Wren was the only straightman left – the others were mostly strongarms, with only a handful of outright thieves. Eight of the nine Guild Masters had been apprehended, leaving only Bruth, the head of the murderous strongarms, to lead them. This had drastically changed the direction and intent of the Guild.

You could have run like the others did. You didn't have to stay.

But where would he go? What other life did he have?

_You have the lute,_ said that traitorous voice. _You could sing and play._

He tried to ignore that thought. It was too big and too nebulous. Play where? Play how? No – he'd been with the Guild his entire life. They were his family. They'd accepted him, and even if they hadn't ever really cared for him, they certainly hadn't shunned him. He belonged with them, and if he left now, he would leave them all.

You don't owe them anything. By the old gods, it's Pip! And Bruth!

But that stubborn sense of loyalty kept him rooted to the spot, watching the swelling tide of people rushing home at the end of the day, flowing from shops through East Square.

This is the last chance anyway. If it doesn't work...

A sharp light caught Wren's eye and drew him from his reverie. On the lowest roof, visible from where he stood and nowhere else, was the tiny form of Sullimen, and in his hand flashed the signal mirror.

A jolt raced through his body, and his whole being screamed out one last time for him to run. Instead, he walked calmly forward into East Square.

Caelron was built on a grid of four major city streets that connected the four corners of the city proper. Inside the boulevards was a huge maze of smaller streets, roads, and walkways that confused even those who'd lived there for years. At each of the intersections between the four major boulevards there was a square. Masses of people came through those squares every day, as they were the easiest way to and from the various corners of the city, and tonight was no exception: hundreds of people were filling East Square as Wren watched. The sun had begun to set, and lantern men were lighting their associated lanterns atop the tall, mirrored poles that ringed the square in order to push back the encroaching darkness of night.

He made his way forward easily. There was a flow to the city, a flow he'd learned the way a child might pick up a language. He didn't even need to think about it now – step, wait, sidestep, wait, step step step, wait, step back, step, wait, step step. It was ever-changing and yet eternal. The energy of the massive city fed the intricate dance and fed the people too who moved in time to the insistent beat. It calmed Wren's hammering heart to feel it, and he managed to paste a genuine-looking smile across his face.

People began to make way for him when they saw the lute. He was not the only musician to play for coins or food, and the non-associated kindred of his minstrel art had already taken up their places on the platform toward which he was heading.

Each of the four Squares contained in their center a wide, raised platform. The massive shelf of stone was a good four feet off the ground, giving anyone who stood there decent height and visibility. It was used for official proclamations, amateur performances, and a dozen other activities of city life. From the center of the platform rose a stone obelisk, which ended in a long, straight metal pole, atop which rested a huge lantern with mirrored sides that illuminated the square long into the night. Various scraps of parchment had been affixed to the small tower – everything from merchant advertising to official proclamations – and it was around this obelisk that Wren and the other performers gathered.

The others were not like him. They were not part of a guild – the Artist Guild would never send their people out to work on street corners, and real bards performed at court or for private parties – but they also weren't Thieves. There had been a handful of others like Wren in the Guild, but all of them were gone now, and none of the current crop were good enough to be worth the time and effort of training.

_Maybe that will change,_ Wren thought as he pushed his way closer to the platform, a large smile on his face and an easy swagger in his walk though he was a bundle of nerves inside. _Maybe it will work. There has to be a chance._

He reached the platform and ascended the short set of steps carved into the side. He turned and looked out over the people passing by below him – though he was short enough that he wasn't _that_ much farther above some of their heads – and immediately noted with the keen eye of a thief that there were guards already congregating at each major entrance to the square where the boulevards vomited out their masses.

He forced himself to keep smiling.

They know.

It wasn't possible, but somehow he was convinced of it. He tried to tell himself it was only jitters. The remaining Thieves had only just come up with the plan – Bruth had set it in motion himself, so it had to be authentic.

He hefted the lute in his arms, strummed a quick chord, and launched into his first song, "Lazy-Eyed Mary."

It was a crowd favorite, and he knew it. The strumming pattern was upbeat and the words were quick and high, able to carry over the deafening noise of East Square and even compete with the carts and wagons that went rolling by down the center of the boulevards, clattering over the paving stones with enough sound to wake the dead.

People turned to watch him as they went by, and some of them laughed. With a grin, he nodded to them and kept going, playing and singing through each of the popular verses and then launching into one of his own:

Lazy-Eyed Mary came to me,

That day so long ago,

" _Not me!" I cried, "Not me, I pray!"_

As she eyed me down below

But she did not heed my plea, no sir!

Not for a second did she pause

For she was ready for a stir

And both eyes were set on me!

A dozen men nearby guffawed as Wren launched back into the chorus, and they stopped to join in. The crowd was swelling, and with it swelled Wren's anxiety. He sang the song again, noting as he did the wallets held by strings at various waists and wiling the crowd to keep their attention on him.

Pip appeared from nowhere and cut the first purse.

Wren launched into a particularly loud and carrying version of the chorus, and the men cheered him on and noticed nothing. Two other thieves appeared on either side – Sullimen, descended from his perch, and Yuli, Pip's right hand man – and both relieved two more men of their money.

Wren felt a sudden lurch of excitement in his stomach as he finished the song to applause and the men continued on their way. Not a one of the pickpocketed victims noticed their missing coins.

The smile on his face became genuine.

He kept playing, working through "The Tavern Wench" and "The Ailing 'Ailor" before coming back to "Crazy-Eyed Mary" once more for the newcomers.

The others performed their jobs perfectly. It was almost too good to be true. In the bustle of the heavy traffic, even the most heavy-handed, all-thumbs thief had a shot at stealing a purse, and though none of the remaining thieves were by any means the best pickpockets, they certainly weren't unskilled.

Why hadn't they done this before? Why'd the other masters always been so dead set against working a Square?

As if in answer to the questions, his eyes fell on Pip.

The former Rat Gang leader was a man now, with a man's height and weight. Heavy muscles lined his body, and Wren could only guess at the number of unsuspecting citizens that had met their end beneath that pitiless stare. But those strong hands were not made for the art of a pickpocket; those bulging arms and that solid chest could not slip easily back into a crowd. So when the merchant Pip was robbing reached for his purse at the same time Pip cut the strings, Wren knew there was no going back.

The merchant in question – an aging, bearded man who was watching Wren with a strange fascination – turned with a look of surprise, and Pip's face went blank. He tried to fade away, as he'd been trained to do as a boy, but it was no use. The crowd was so tightly packed that there was no escape. The merchant shouted something indignant and turned fully to confront the strongarm. All Wren could see as he continued madly strumming was the merchant's white shirt and black hat, and Pip's face blank as a stone over the man's shoulder.

Pip drew a thin, stiletto dagger from his thick belt and stepped forward to embrace the merchant.

The broad back in its creamy white shirt twitched and then seized up. Pip's face was visible over the man's shoulder, and his eyes were locked on Wren, who felt as though he'd suddenly been gripped by a fever. Chills wracked his body, even as his pores opened and sweat beaded on his skin.

He missed a beat, and in that blank space between words, in that time when there was no music in his head to distract him, no clever line of verse to make the crowd laugh, he knew with utter certainty that if he did not keep playing, if he did anything in any way to alert the guards, Pip would kill him too.

The decision was easy enough, then: he struck another chord and launched into yet another song, playing desperately. More of the crowd was watching him now, and the other performers were shooting him dirty looks as he purposely outdid them, but he didn't care. His heart was pounding in his chest and his lungs were on fire from the panic slowly filling him up. No one else had noticed Pip; all eyes were on Wren.

He sang more and more heartily, investing energy and purpose in the words, pulling as much attention as he could. The song began to change, and the sheen of sweat already beading on his skin redoubled. Chills ran through him again, and the words of the song, the soaring melodies, flowed from his tongue as if drawn out by an alien power. It had never been like this before. He felt powerful, like a conduit for something greater than he was, something that flowed through him independent of his will. But even as he had the thought, the feeling ebbed, and those listening to him seemed to shake themselves out of the strange trance he'd put them in.

Desperate, he grabbed at the dissipating sense of power and tried to pull them in again. Somehow it worked: they started watching him again and ignored the slumping merchant in Pip's arms. He sang and laughed and joked, and the crowd laughed with him, cheering their approval. He saw from the corner of his eye Pip slowly lower the merchant to the ground, turning him so that the fatal chest wound was against the paving stones. Pip began to fade back into the crowd, forcing his way now, but going slowly enough so as not to alert anyone to his passage. They were going to make it after all.

And then came the screams.

An aging woman appeared from nowhere, pushing her way through the mass of listeners toward the man on the ground, and her screams shattered Wren's concentration, leaving both him and the crowd stunned and reeling. She dove for the fallen merchant, her simple brown homespun dress snagging beneath her knees as she knelt, straining against her bulging belly –

She was pregnant.

It was impossible, and almost comic. The woman had to be on the other side of forty, maybe even reaching fifty, and here she was heavy with child. Her lined face was screwed up in sorrow, and her graying hair had begun to escape from the tight bun atop her head. She let out a wail for the dying man, and there were gasps as people all around them turned to see what had happened.

Through the haze of shock that covered Wren and the strange dazed feeling that had swept over him when the song had broken, his eyes shifted through the crowd and he realized that Pip was trapped.

The strongarm was being forced forward again by the crowd that had begun to contract in around the sobbing woman. She succeeded finally in turning over the merchant – _her husband,_ Wren thought hollowly, _it's her husband –_ and for the first time he got a good look at the man's face, and his heart stopped dead in his chest.

It was the man who'd given him the lute.

Shock consumed him so entirely that he almost fainted. His vision narrowed in and seemed to retreat away from him in a rush so that the world went out of focus around him. At the center of it all was the merchant: the worn face, the bearded chin, the chestnut hair now thickly graying, the frown lines...

No – no – you're wrong, it's not him.

Memories of that night rushed through him, memories that Wren had not examined in years. He thought of what he'd said that night, of how foolish he'd been not to just rob the man blind like the others would have –

_It wasn't right,_ said a voice in the back of his head, the traitorous voice that always spoke when the world was quiet, the voice of his conscience, that defect that none of the other Thieves seemed to have. _It wasn't right to steal from him. He was a good man, he saved your life._

And here he was: a good man, dead in the streets.

It was as if his world, his life, had been folded back in on itself. He had made this choice once before at the age of six; now he was faced with it again when the stakes were higher. Now he was faced by Pip, with his stiletto dagger, and by Bruth if he somehow managed to escape and leave Pip behind.

Pip killed him. Pip killed a good man.

Wren took a step back.

Turn Pip in. Let them get him. Look who he's killed! Look what he's done!

As if summoned by the thought, Pip's blank face suddenly blazed to life, and he rushed for Wren. Before the boy could move, the strongarm was on him, holding him where he was even though he was on the street and Wren high on the performance platform.

"Play!" he whispered harshly, pulling Wren down so that he could speak into his ear. "Play! If you try to run, I swear by all the gods, old and new, that I will gut you like a pig before anyone comes near enough to stop me."

The heavy hand released him, and Wren staggered back.

The milling crowd began to part like waves before the prow of a ship as guards rushed into the square. And then, in a bright moment of clarity, Wren knew why the other Guild leaders had never wanted to rob a Square: there was no way out. The crowd was so thick it was like a solid wall, and guards were filling every gap that appeared as they made their way in from every direction at once.

The blood from the dead shopkeeper was spreading slowly on the ground as the widow sobbed over his body and tore at her hair. The blood had stained the white shirt a horrible red, and it was on her face and hands. Revulsion rose up inside him, but Pip's threat kept him where he was and outweighed the need to be sick.

You can't let this happen, you can't! He was a good man – Pip killed a good man – the man who gave you... he didn't deserve to die. Pip deserves to be taken!

But if he didn't play, if he didn't provide a distraction for Pip so that he could slip back into the crowd, then he was dead too.

"Play, boy," Pip mouthed at him. The bloody stiletto dagger glistened in his hand, hidden by his body but perfectly visible to Wren. There was panic in Pip's eyes. The guards were nearly on them, and if the Thieves didn't do something fast, there would be no escape.

Wren searched the crowd frantically for the faces of the others, but when he found them he realized they were too far away to help. The scarred face of Sullimen was watching them, horrified, from the edge of East Square behind a row of guardsmen, and Yuli was fighting madly to get close enough to help, but he would never make it in time. Bruth himself was nowhere to be seen, nor were his strongarms; they were just outside the square, securing the route for the escape that would never happen.

Pip spun away from the platform just as the attention of the crowd began to turn away from the scene of the murder and to the guards and each other. The sudden inward surge of people that had come to see the body and the widow suddenly reversed and pulled out, like the sea at low tide. The guards pushed their way forward, and Pip tried to ease his way back into the crowd with the other retreating members.

He's getting away. If he escapes, they'll never get him.

Either way, the Thieves were finished. This had been their last chance, and they'd botched it. They'd stolen a handful of purses, but that was but a drop in the bucket. They'd planned to be here all night, until the crowds thinned enough that there was no longer sufficient cover. They needed coin for bribes, coin for food, coin to re-outfit themselves and replace what they'd lost in the last disastrous raid, coin to buy information, coin for a hundred different things.

His gaze fell again on the body, on the eyes that were staring senselessly up into the night sky. The bearded face had turned ashen, and the raving widow was being pulled from the corpse by the first of the guards to arrive.

Mechanically, doing as he'd been told, he strummed a chord.

Immediately, all eyes were drawn to him. He opened his mouth to sing with no idea of what would come out, and just as he did a guard rushed past him from the other side of the platform, clipping his shoulder.

The angle was just right so that it threw him completely off balance. He went sprawling straight for the obelisk pillar, feet madly trying to find purchase, hands torn between holding the lute and reaching out to stop his fall.

He crashed into the pillar, and with a crunching snap like broken bones, the lute broke in half as he fell to the platform floor.

He lay there for a long moment, staring down at the broken pieces as if someone had pulled out his heart and handed it to him. His whole body was numb, and the sounds of the startled crowd and the shouting guards faded out.

He was there just slightly too long. A rough hand grabbed him by the elbow and tried to pull him up, but he broke away with a cry like a wounded animal. There was the sound of a sword being drawn from a sheath, and then the unmistakable roar of Pip's voice as he bull-rushed the crowd, but Wren never saw what happened next.

He ran, leaving the broken pieces of the lute behind, and as he did a single thought managed to filter through the haze clouding his mind:

Good men die.

Chapter Eleven: Apprentice

Valinor led AmyQuinn up the long flight of stairs at the head of the Sorcerers' Court.

They passed between the two queues of people waiting to petition the harried-looking scribes and ascended the white stone steps. AmyQuinn tried to ignore the eyes on her, tried to shrug them off and hunch her shoulders against them like they were nothing more than an annoying, insistent wind, but she couldn't quite seem to manage it. She felt on display in her new white clothes and after her interaction with the Keeper, and despite what she told herself about being a fool, her face would not stop burning with a fierce blush.

The stairs ended at a second open space, where two more Sorev Ael were waiting in the distance. They began to approach, but before she could much more than take in the general impression of this new courtyard – wide and made of the same white stone as the stairs, with columns all around – Valinor was speaking.

"This is where I leave you," he said.

"Oh," was all she managed to say in reply.

He swung his arms once at his sides as if thinking of patting her on the shoulder or shaking her hand, but he did neither. The moment lengthened until it was unbearably awkward, and neither of them seemed sure of what to say.

"Will I see you again?" she asked finally. She did not know why that was the question that came to her – he was rude, arrogant, and mean, and she was sure now that she didn't like him.

"I come and go," he said.

They stood another moment in silence, and then he clasped his hands together and extended them to her in an extremely uncomfortable gesture of farewell. He seemed to realize how pathetic this motion was and quickly returned his hands to his sides.

"Keep your wits about you," he said gruffly. "You'll be fine."

"Right," she replied, feeling that if she moved or spoke too much she risked dying of some horrible awkwardness disease.

"You'd better go," he said, nodding over her shoulder with his chin. "Farewell."

He turned and hurried back down the steps, taking them two at a time. She watched him go, wondering why he was heading back down when he'd said he was going to visit the Circle that ruled Var Athel...

It happened so quickly that if she hadn't been watching intently she would have missed it. Between one step and the next, the retreating figure twisted and turned in an unnatural way and then lifted into the air. Valinor shrank and spread his arms wide, and then he burst into flight, completely changed. The eagle made its way into the sky, and as it turned, the noonday sun revealed bright red plumage on its breast and ash-gray feathers along its wings. It shrieked at her, flapping hard, and then disappeared into the sky.

Slowly, she realized that she was all alone. There was nothing tying her to the past anymore – not even Col. Her clothes were gone, her parents were gone, and so now too was Valinor.

She took a shaky breath. The flush in her cheeks began to fade and she gripped her hands into tight fists to keep them from shaking. She heard noise behind her and turned toward it.

Two women were standing there, dressed in long gray robes and holding staves that clearly marked them as Sorev Ael. The first was tall and thin, with steely gray hair pulled back in a severe bun that let not a single wisp of hair escape its grasp. Her face, however, was open and kind, with lines along the sides of her mouth and at the corners of her eyes that she was used to smiling.

The second woman was her opposite. She was short and stout – plump, even – and she examined AmyQuinn quite dispassionately over her half-moon spectacles as if trying to obtain notes for a mildly interesting study. She had brown hair that was not – and quite possibly could not be – contained; it fuzzed and frizzed about her head in a thick cloud the color of wet sand.

"Good afternoon," the first one said, smiling kindly.

"Good afternoon," AmyQuinn replied, trying to keep herself from fidgeting.

"What's your name?" the second woman asked. She did not smile, though neither did she frown; she simply observed.

"AmyQuinn Stonewall," she said, trying to keep her voice steady.

"Very good," said the second woman. "And what is it you wish from us?"

AmyQuinn, thrown by the question, looked back and forth between the two of them, mouthing words but managing to produce no sound.

"Take a deep breath, dear," said the kindly first woman, smiling at her in an encouraging way. AmyQuinn did so and then managed to collect her thoughts.

"I want to be a Sorev Ael."

The first woman nodded, looking proud, which both annoyed AmyQuinn and made her feel strangely grateful.

"Very good. Then please follow me."

The first woman turned and moved toward the center of the new court. It was very similar in appearance to the Sorcerers' Court down below, save that it was smaller and empty of people. There were two wide openings flanked by columns on either side that seemed to lead to long corridors that curved deeper into the Citadel, and though the walls were high, there was a wide center missing from the ceiling. Light streamed in through the opening from the sun as it passed its noonday position, and the sky was a clean, clear blue.

The women led her to the top of the court, where stood a plinth. It looked like a column that had been cut off short: the top of it was chipped and jagged, as if it had been shorn away by a single savage blow, and it only came to about the chest height of an average-sized man. A small overhang supported by simple pillars had been built to cover it.

The two Sorev Ael led her up the steps carved in the stone of the dais and onto the platform itself, then motioned for her to step over to the broken pillar. When she rounded the edge of the plinth, she saw that an ancient tome rested inside a small indentation. It was easily the size of her whole upper torso, and nearly twice as thick. The binding was old and worn, and the cover was faded with heavy use.

The second woman – the stern, plump one – came up beside her. AmyQuinn caught a whiff of something musty about her, like the smell of old parchment.

"If you wish to join us, you must sign the Book," she said simply. "As you do, you will be asked to swear the Oath. If you have passed the Keeper, then you can understand the Words. We will tell you what to say, and you must repeat it after us. When you have sworn and signed, you will be an official apprentice of the Sorev Ael and you will begin your training."

"Just – just like that?"

The woman raised a bushy eyebrow, giving her the look one might give a talking sheep. "Were you expecting something else?"

"I... don't know. Shouldn't you tell me what I'll need to do? Or about the training? What it will be like?"

The woman frowned and examined her with a flick of the eyes, apparently disappointed in what she saw. She shot a significant glance at the first woman.

"Darling," said the smiling woman, stepping forward with her hands clasped before her and resting easily atop her sweeping gray robes. "This is part of what is required. To be of Var Athel is to face the unknown. To take the training is to be courageous. We cannot tell you what you'll face, because you must face it on your own. If you are not prepared for that, you are not prepared to join us. And have you really come all this way to turn back now?"

AmyQuinn swallowed hard and turned to the book. She hesitated briefly, but not for long. They were right. She thought of the disappointed looks her parents would give her if she came back, of how Lenny and Liv would react.

_I never said goodbye to them,_ she realized distantly. _How did I forget?_

Taking a deep breath, she stepped up to the plinth.

There was just enough time to notice that there was no quill pen with which to write before the huge tome shuddered as if alive. She recoiled, shocked, just as the cover flew back like a waking creature opening its mouth. The solid leather landed against the stone of the broken pillar with a heavy thud that echoed through the court and bounced back around her. Inside the book was a beautifully gilded page done in gold and silver leaf that depicted a single figure holding aloft an orb in one hand and striking a staff against the ground with the other. The image had a light of its own, and as she watched, gilded leaves and vines grew up from the sides of the paper and swirled about the figure, encompassing it in a circle. Flowers grew from the leaves, violet and indigo, fuchsia and cerulean, and then the picture solidified on the page and seemed to breathe and shift.

"Place your hand on the page," said the stern woman, businesslike. AmyQuinn raised her shaking right hand and felt heat rising from the book, a heat that reminded her of the Keeper, and with a flash of intuition she knew that he was in this book as well, that whoever or whatever he was saturated the whole of the Citadel. Placing her hand on the book would bind her to him, would make her part of whatever enchantment it was that held all of this together, all the Sorev Ael and Var Athel itself.

"It will be harder if you hesitate," the stern woman said. She was peering at AmyQuinn critically over her half-moon spectacles. "You must seize the chance and not look back. You are here – the time for second thoughts is over."

AmyQuinn clenched her jaw and landed her palm on the page.

There was a flash of light, and a weight settled over her. It wasn't a harsh weight, and she didn't stagger or waver or feel thrown off balance beneath it. It was instead the reassuring weight of a heavy cloak, or the way one might feel swaddled in layers of soft blankets on a cold night.

"Good," the first woman said with another kind and beaming smile. "Now comes the Oath – repeat after me."

She spoke then words that AmyQuinn couldn't understand. They were the same sounds the Keeper had made, and the sounds she'd heard Valinor make when he'd fought the raiders in Dunlow. She strained to make sense of them but found she couldn't. They entered her mind only to slip out again, leaving behind vague, shadowy impressions, like footprints on wet sand.

"Relax!" snapped the stern woman counterproductively. AmyQuinn gritted her teeth and bit back a scathing retort. "Let the Words break over you like wind or wave. They are not to be understood but felt; not to be reasoned but known."

She tried to slow her heart and ignore the sourceless light that poured down on her and the broken plinth, tried to ignore that there were others crossing the courtyard now and that some were watching her. She tried to ignore everything, and instead blanked out her mind and let herself float, imitating the way she'd felt in the presence of the Keeper.

Her mind detached itself from her body, and she felt almost as if she were floating. The world slowed and expanded, and there was a rushing sound in her ears, like the sound of the river that fed the Silvercreek Pond in Dunlow.

The kindly woman spoke the words again, and this time AmyQuinn opened her mouth and the sounds came out of their own accord:

" _I swear myself to the Sorev Ael of Var Athel."_

When she was done, she tried to think back, to remember exactly what the sounds were and how she'd said them, but all sense of them was gone.

The kindly woman spoke again, saying more words, and she repeated those as well. She began to sweat. Her eyes felt dry and her lips chapped. The words rang loud in her ears, and she spoke them as quickly as she could.

A shock went through her, traveling from the book to her hand. She gasped and shivered, and her knees went weak. Another shock traveled through her, and suddenly her hand was thrown up off the tome, and the pages began to rifle as if blown by an invisible wind. Pages and pages and pages of names flashed before her eyes, until finally the book fell open to a page in the center only partially filled. Immediately, her hand was sucked back down against this new page, and on that page, at the end of the row of names, was her own name, forming by itself in thick black strokes. It was almost full, almost done – and on the page across from it, in words that hurt her head to read, was a paragraph of words:

" _I swear myself to the Sorev Ael of Var Athel. I give myself to knowledge. I forswear all right to land and titles, to money and power. I swear to protect the lands of Aeon and to guide its people. I swear to serve those who are in need. I swear to never raise a hand to hurt or kill save in the direct defense of my own life, or the lives of others. I swear to never accept more than that given to the lowest and the least. This I swear by the blood that runs through me from the time of the ancients; I bind myself, body, mind, and soul, to this Oath for all my days to come."_

A final swirl of black lettering appeared to finish spelling out her name, and then everything stopped. The shivers that wracked her body stilled and her head began to the pound. The words of the Oath disappeared.

A third shock threw her hand up and off the heavy parchment page again, and this time with such force that she stumbled backwards as a wind whipped through the chamber, coming from all directions at once.

The book's pages flew by again, back and back and back until they reached the title page where stood the gilded Keeper with his orb and staff, and then the cover lifted up off the plinth and slammed shut with a resounding bang. The weight that had settled on AmyQuinn lifted, and the kindly woman held out a steadying hand and caught her easily.

Applause rang out, and AmyQuinn looked up over the pillar. A dozen people had stopped to watch her. Some of them were dressed as she was, in pure white, while others were in all black, and still others were dressed in various combinations of colors and styles that matched the rings shining on their fingers. A few of the ones in white – they looked the youngest, and all of them were boys – let out whoops that made some of the older Sorev Ael frown and then began to move away.

The first woman smiled down at her again and then turned her away from the book. "Welcome," said. "My name is Tamora. It is a pleasure to have you join us. Are you hungry?"

AmyQuinn said she was, and Tamora called over a young man dressed all in black who happened to be passing by. She introduced him as Deri'cael Pyrce and told him to show AmyQuinn to the kitchens for dinner, and then to take her to the guest quarters.

"Guest quarters?" she asked, surprised. "I thought I was an apprentice now?"

"You are," Tamora reassured her. "You have not, however, been placed – and you will need to go through the process with the rest of your group. The apprentices are put together based on the month they arrive – you are lucky in that you will only need to wait until the end of the week. You can visit the kitchens for food, and the Sorcerers' Court if you'd like, but until then you must not go anywhere else. By the end of the week we will come for you, and you will begin your classes."

She motioned to Pyrce – he was a tall boy with black hair and looked to be about sixteen or seventeen – and he led AmyQuinn away. They walked back toward the staircase that led up from the Sorcerers' Court and then crossed through a small side passage that led to an off-shoot wing separate from the rest of the Citadel.

The dining room was small and mostly empty. Her room was small as well, with a hard bed and simple white-washed walls, and as the hours passed into days and she had nothing to do – she did not want to brave the Sorcerers' Court where she might be stared at, and thus had nowhere else to go – she sat and thought about what was to come, kindling the anxiety that was already burning in her gut.

On the morning of the third day, after she had washed her face and eaten a quick breakfast of bread, hard cheese, and an apple, the same young man from before, Pyrce, came to her room and asked her to follow him. She did, and when she left her room she saw that she was not the only one: there were five or six others who trailed after him, all boys. Pyrce went from room to room with unerring accuracy – a remarkable feat, as none of the doors were marked with numbers or names – and collected the rest of what AmyQuinn could only guess was her apprentice class, none of whom she'd seen since she'd arrived. They must have, like her, kept to their rooms.

In the end there were about twenty of them, though it was hard to be certain in the slim corridors. They were all dressed in white clothing, though the boys wore breeches and tunics instead of the dress the Keeper had given her. Of the twenty, there was only one other girl. AmyQuinn observed her covertly as they moved down the corridor, hoping they might eventually be friends. She was tall, with mousy brown hair and darkly tanned skin. She didn't speak and didn't acknowledge any of the others.

The boys who formed the rest of the group – none of them looked much older than AmyQuinn was – were all relatively quiet and shy as well. Some of them looked like they might even be as young as nine or ten, and they in particular looked quite nervous and frightened. The smallest of them looked like he was constantly trying to decide between bursting into tears and breaking out in laughter. His little black eyes darted around frantically, like a woodland creature trying to find the way out of a trap. A few of them seemed to know each other and said hello, but the serious presence of Pyrce in his black clothing kept them from talking as they were led out of the Visitor's Wing, through the upper court, and into the left hand corridor that branched off into the main building.

The Citadel had been built on an enormous scale. Every pillar, every corridor, every _stone_ seemed to drip with age, and walking through the palatial halls made AmyQuinn feel like the worst kind of backwater simpleton.

There were tapestries and paintings on every wall, each of a different battle or treaty or ocean crossing or discovery or crowning, and the sheer psychological weight of them all was overwhelming. The ceilings were high and vaulted so that even minor sounds echoed up and down the passageways, and the pillars that buttressed the ceilings were all majestic carved columns.

In contrast, the chamber to which Pyrce led them was small and off to one side of an ancillary corridor. It contained neither furniture nor decoration, and the floor and walls were nothing but blank, bare stone. The only thing the room did contain was people – three of them, standing in the exact center of the chamber. Two of them were dressed like Pyrce, in clothing the same cut and style as the apprentices except that it was midnight black, and they too were young men.

Pyrce motioned the apprentices forward, and then left, shutting the door firmly behind him.

The man in the center of the room stood – he'd been sitting, legs folded beneath him, as they'd entered – and looked them over. He was dressed in simple wool breeches and a wool tunic, both a drab, almost shabby, gray, and he wore a ring on his right hand that bore a dazzling topaz gem set in a snowy white band of metal unlike anything AmyQuinn had ever seen. In his other hand he held a staff of light-colored wood.

"Welcome," he said with a nod and a smile. The look was inviting and clean, and his voice was deep and calming. AmyQuinn felt some of her nervousness pass away. "I am Sorev Ael Ferrith. I am your Counselor."

The group of apprentices accepted this in silence. It seemed clear that no one had any idea what that meant.

The man's eyebrows quirked up in apparent amusement.

"Your first lesson: if you have a question, you must ask it. If I cannot answer, or will not, then I will tell you. There is no reason for you to be here if you choose to remain silent; if you are not prepared or not courageous enough to seek out knowledge, then you might as well leave now."

Another beat of silence followed this mild admonishment, and then one of the boys at the front of the group raised his hand.

"What's a Counselor?"

"Ah!" the Sorev Ael said, his eyes twinkling. "A very good question. It is the person to which apprentices like yourselves must come if you are having trouble, or if you have any questions about your training. The first few weeks here will be... grueling. Do not feel afraid to come to me if you feel the need."

The group shifted as they absorbed this, but no one raised a hand to ask another question.

"Let me take a step back," Ferrith said. "You are here to learn, and my job today is to outline for you how you'll learn and also _what_ you'll learn. As your sponsors may have told you, we do not teach magic here. We teach knowledge, and there are seven areas of such knowledge that combine to make up the Minor Arcana. They are called the Seven Schools."

He waved his hand. A flash of light pulsed out of his ring, summoning up seven bright points of light that swirled in on themselves and then formed a seven-pointed star. AmyQuinn's heart beat excitedly in her chest. This was it – this was magic, regardless of what the Sorev Ael chose to call it.

"This is, of course, simplistic. There are many _more_ schools of knowledge, almost as many as you can imagine, but most of them are grounded in what are known as the Major Arcana and the Minor Arcana. There are other, darker arts as well, known as the Barred Arcana, which are not taught at Var Athel. This is your first and only warning – delving into the Barred Arcana is forbidden, and should you do so you will be cast out."

The room grew cold, and a number of the apprentices shifted uncomfortably. Ferrith continued on before they could ask a question.

"Each of the Seven Schools represents the study of a different branch of the Minor Arcana. As an apprentice, you will take lessons in all seven. They have simple names to remember: Healing, Illusion, Naming, Enchantment, Herbalism, Sagery, and Magery."

He motioned in turn to each of the seven points of the star he'd conjured. As he did, the points changed from the soft gold of candlelight to blue, gray, violet, green, red, white, and black respectively. He then flourished his staff, and the first row of apprentices drew back and gasped as the long piece of wood, nearly as tall as the Sorev Ael himself, shrunk in on itself, becoming smaller and thinner until it was barely a foot long and only about as thick around as his finger.

Ferrith smiled kindly at the amazement on their faces, and then continued.

"You will take a class in each School every day. Your schedule will make more sense to you soon – there are many apprentices, and therefore many Sorev Ael under which you will be studying. I, as Counselor, am your contact should you have questions or concerns. And on that note, are there any questions you have before we continue?"

A hand shot into the air just in front of AmyQuinn, coming so close that it actually clipped the end of her nose. She recoiled, trying not to show that it had startled her, and glared at the offender – a small boy, short and black-haired, who was so skinny he looked as though he might never have had a full meal in his entire life. His head was enormous and far too large for his tiny body, and he spoke with an over-articulated precision that made him sound like a precocious child pretending to be an adult.

"I have heard that there are other schools like Temperagy and Hematology that are not considered dangerous. Will we be learning those while we are here at the Citadel of Var Athel?"

It took so long for him to ask the question – he hit every 't' and rounded every 'o' – that by the time he'd finished, AmyQuinn had already decided she disliked him and would not forgive him for her nose.

"Mmm," said Ferrith, watching the boy with a keen eye. He seemed impressed by the boy's knowledge, and AmyQuinn had to stifle a brief flare of frustration. "Temperagy and Hematology are numbered among the Major Arcana, and can be studied after you have earned the title of Deri'cael. But they are specializations, and we will not deal with them for now."

The boy put his hand down and frowned.

"Speaking of which," Ferrith continued, "to earn the right to try for the rank of Deri'cael, you must be able to demonstrate suitable knowledge of each School of the Minor Arcana. Once you do, you will be recommended to a master who will mentor you as you try for your staff. Should you succeed in earning a staff, you will become a Deri'cael."

Another boy raised his hand, one on the far side of the group that AmyQuinn couldn't see. "What's a Deri'cael?" he asked, hesitant and unsure.

"It is the rank between Sorev Ael and apprentice," Ferrith said, with the quick, practiced tone of oft-repeated speech.

Another hand rose; Ferrith nodded to the boy.

"What about rings?"

"The ring is the symbol of a full Sorev Ael. Should you do well in your apprenticeship, and then as a Deri'cael, you will go through the Trials, which earn you the right to bear a ring."

Immediately, there arose a clamor of questions about this dire sounding event, but Ferrith refused to elaborate further.

"You will learn more in time. For now, we must go over the Citadel."

He took his wand and waved it through the air; the star disappeared with a sharp snap, leaving behind the faint smell of geraniums. He moved into the center of the room, and the crowd of apprentices parted to let him go. He stopped in their midst and squinted hard, then moved the wand and the fingers of his right hand in a series of intricate motions while muttering words under his breath. Finally, he threw his hands down toward the floor.

Lines of light streaked from his fingers, light of all different colors. It fell to the ground and began to coil and weave around itself, directed by the birch wand, and AmyQuinn realized that the sourceless light that lit the room had begun to dim. A shape rose slowly from the floor, a sprawling construction with high towers and what looked like an enormous wall surrounding it.

The Citadel.

AmyQuinn was the first to realize it, and she gasped and took a step forward, eagerly drinking in the sight. The others caught on soon after, and then they were all crowding forward to see. Ferrith remained concentrated on the lines of light, and though the wand in his left hand held steady, the fingers of his right twitched and jerked in constant motion, like a weaver perfecting a tapestry.

The glowing replica of Citadel rose from the floor layer by layer. When finally it was done, Ferrith let out a sigh of satisfaction and addressed them.

"This is a type of light-bending illusion," he said. The drawn and narrow look of concentration was gone from his face, and he spoke easily again. "It is similar to magelight in its essence – it is a simple bending, a refracting and separation of colors to give the illusion of something solid. Do not try to do this on your own – it is difficult, and requires years of training. Should you fail you won't hurt yourself, but you'll end up with a nasty headache for the better part of a week and the Healers won't help you with it. They like teaching lessons that way to overeager apprentices."

Warning given, he moved on.

"The Citadel is centered on the Tower." He pointed to the huge, looming spar of stone in the center of the structure. "It is where you have your sleeping quarters, where you will eat, and where you will stay during the free time given you."

He looked around at the faces of the apprentices, examining them to see that they were listening, and then continued.

"Around the Tower, the Citadel is divided into seven sections. Each section is called a wing and named after what is studied there. The Naming Wing, the Enchanter's Wing, the Illusionist's Wing, and so on. Each is organized differently, and each has its own quirks, so be on the lookout. The Illusionists in particular enjoy fooling the newer apprentices. Do your best to travel though the Citadel in pairs at least for now – it is easy to get lost here, and if you're caught wandering around the upper levels where the full Sorev Ael keep their quarters, you may very shortly find yourself back in the Tower visiting Mistress Taliana, the Dean of Apprentices. For those of you who enjoy sitting down for your meals, I'd suggest you do your best not to end up on her bad side."

A few of the boys shifted nervously and glanced at each other.

"Each wing houses the masters of the various Schools – it is where they stay when they are in residence at the Citadel if they do not wish to use the rooms set aside for them in the upper Tower. Your schedule is as follows."

He raised his hand and the points of light from before suddenly reappeared, the bright seven-pointed star, and in a swirl and flash of movement the points rearranged themselves and expanded, becoming a full list of class titles with times next to them in standard notation. He pulled out his staff-turned-wand again, and as he pointed to each class title in turn, the words increased in size and brightness to highlight themselves, and then they faded back and away when he moved on.

"You will wake at sunrise," he said quickly, highlighting the first section of the schedule. "You will be expected to dress and report for meditation with the rest of your class."

He flicked his wand down the list, and then down again.

"You have half an hour for breakfast, and then you will report to your first class of the day – Herbalism."

He motioned then to a section of the model Citadel, one covered in ivy and heavily shaded. As he moved on, he motioned to each of the other wings in turn as he continued down the schedule.

"Next is Naming, then Enchantment, and finally Magery. You will have an hour to eat at midday, and then you are free until the afternoon, when you have Naming again," he pointed again to the Naming Wing, long and lofty, with flying buttresses that reached up even higher than the wall that encompassed the Citadel. "After dinner is Healing, then Illusions, Sagery, and bed.

"Mistress Taliana, the Dean of Apprentices, and I will come by to assure that you are in your beds and sleeping each night. There is no wandering the corridors after hours – if you are caught doing so, Mistress Taliana will have words with you. I would highly recommend avoiding confrontation with her whenever and wherever possible. She is a lovely woman until you cross her. Questions?"

There were a slew of questions, but none important enough for AmyQuinn to pay attention to, and many of them the Sorev Ael refused to answer anyway. Ferrith waved a hand over the Citadel replica; the light winked out, and the sourceless illumination that lit the room slowly returned again.

"Very well then. Please go with Deri'cael Juwel and Tyquin. They will show you to your assigned quarters and answer any questions you may have. Should you need me, you need only ask for Counselor Ferrith. Any apprentice or Deri'cael can point you in my direction. I'm usually in my quarters in the Tower."

He nodded a final time and moved off toward the door of the small chamber, then paused and turned back suddenly.

"Oh, and welcome to Var Athel."

Deri'cael Juwel and Tyquin led the group as they'd been instructed, though they didn't take them back through the long circular passages that connected the far flung parts of the Citadel but instead through a number of smaller side passages that looked as though they were for common use. The group passed few other apprentices or Sorev Ael along the way, and AmyQuinn wondered if that meant that the others were all still in training for the day.

The Tower itself was an astonishing sight, so tall and wide that it seemed like something from a dream. They entered it to find an enormous staircase, wider than the whole of the Fairfield Inn, leading up the inside in swirling layers that disappeared up into the heights. It was an impossible feat of engineering, and AmyQuinn was baffled as to how it was held up. The staircase was one smooth piece of creamy white stone that circled up and up forever with no visible supports, save for the walkways and landings that branched off of it at regular intervals. All of the apprentices gawked at it as they ascended.

There was no way that they could take in all of what they saw, but it did not stop them from trying. AmyQuinn knew she couldn't be the only one who felt as though her neck had suddenly become a swivel around which her head seemed to rotate uncontrollably. At every full turning of the massive staircase that went up and up forever, there was a landing that branched off and splintered into a mass of corridors, and there moved in and out of these corridors and up and down the staircase large groups of Sorev Ael, Deri'cael, and apprentices.

They ascended three levels, which meant countless steps, and then moved off to the left of the third level landing, heading down a long corridor. The two Deri'cael led them silently, until finally they turned right at a fork. They turned left again after a short passage, and then stopped at a shorter corridor that had a number of doors all on the right-hand side. A cluster of men and women stood waiting for them there, all wearing simple livery – gray wool with the gold sigil of Var Athel on the right breast. Beside them was a large stack of gray- and cream-colored blankets.

"Your rooms are here," one of the Deri'cael said simply – the taller one, with bronze hair and a smattering of spots across his cheeks. "When we call your name, take your bedding and go inside. Make your bed, then come back here."

They proceeded to do just that. A number of others went first, names she was too dazed to take in, and then:

"Stonewall, AmyQuinn."

She moved jerkily, as if her body was not quite sure how to function in this new environment. She picked up her bedding and went to the indicated door.

The room was very small, with just enough room for a raised pallet-bed along the left-hand side and a small bar across the opposite wall that held two extra sets of clothing. The only redeeming feature was a window at the end of the bed, though it was so narrow that calling it a window would be overly generous.

"Hurry up, apprentices!"

She remembered what she was supposed to be doing and quickly unfolded the blankets and sheets to make the bed, tucking in the corners so that it was tight enough to bounce a coin off of, just as her mother had taught her.

She hurried back out into the corridor, and soon the rest of the group was with her. Some of the boys were talking to each other now, but when the Deri'cael in their black clothing gave them a cold stare, they quieted.

"Good. We will take you to dinner and show you the mediation room, and then return you here. Get what sleep you can tonight – your training starts tomorrow."

Chapter Twelve: The Minor Arcana

AmyQuinn woke early the next day and was unable to fall back asleep. It was still dark outside, but the kind of silent, expectant dark that comes just before dawn. She had fallen asleep easily enough, but now that she was awake her heart was hammering against her ribs like it was trying to kick its way out.

She pulled the covers up around her and turned so she was facing the wall, but the change in position did nothing to help. It felt as though springs had been attached to her eyelids: every time she shut them, they would invariably snap back open again.

Finally, she gave up trying and sat against the wall to watch the thin slice of light that came through her window slowly brighten. With each second that passed, her nerves wound tighter and tighter, until there was a knock at the door and she jumped. She dressed quickly and followed the rest of the apprentices to breakfast and then to morning meditation in an enormous room on the opposite side of the Tower from the Sorcerers' Court, where gathered everyone in the Citadel.

There were hundreds of people, but no one spoke. The only sound was the swish of clothing or the accidental scuff of a boot on the stone floor. Everyone acted as if they were alone, and a weight of solemnity weighed down on them to such a degree that the new apprentices barely dared to breathe.

Simple cushions lay over the floor of the enormous, bare room in perfect rows and columns, and the only illumination was the reflected light of the sun as it rose over the hills of Aginor behind them. The view through the open wall on the far side of the room was breathtaking – they could see all the way out to the Shining Sea over the last stretch of land around Var Athel. After a few minutes, a small bell was rung, and everyone sat, legs folded beneath them, and watched the sunrise.

What must have been half an hour later, the bell rang out again, its shivering laugh bouncing around the room to wake the guests from their meditation and hurry them on their way.

AmyQuinn and the new apprentices were led away by Deri'cael Pyrce, hurrying off with none of the measured calm with which they'd entered.

They whispered excitedly to each other about what they might expect. There were wild rumors – one of the taller boys quite stoically told them that he'd heard they would be tested first thing, and that those who failed would be asked to leave. A smaller boy, the one who had been brave enough to ask questions the day before, told them that he knew for a fact they would not be kicked out until the second week of training, and only if they showed no aptitude or could not keep up with the work.

AmyQuinn found neither of these possibilities comforting. In any case, what would the training be like? In all the stories she'd ever read or heard, Sorev Ael were always pouring over heavy tomes and writing notes with quill pens, and it was always the oldest who were the best and knew the most because they had spent so many years reading everything they could get their hands on. She felt horribly unprepared.

But when they arrived at their first Naming class, she found that there was no parchment, quill pens, or books of any kind. Instead, the Sorev Ael who led the Naming class told them that it was expected by each of the Seven Schools that the apprentices memorize all that they were taught, for a very simple reason:

The Words could not be written down.

The Words were what Master Rewit, the Sorev Ael who taught Naming, called the sounds of the deep language. He explained that they that bypassed spoken noise altogether and went straight to the level of thought.

Rewit himself was a kindly older man wrapped in dark green robes over simple gray breeches and boots, and, after he'd introduced himself, he spoke only in Words. He was a Master, the title given to specialized Sorev Ael who taught apprentices, and as such the Words came as easily to him as the common tongue of Aeon came to the apprentices.

That first hour of instruction was punctuated by long, frustrating bouts of silence, wherein Master Rewit asked them questions or spoke a sound to them that they were asked to repeat back. It was like trying to speak a language you had once been taught but that you could no longer remember. Like trying to think as a newborn does, or to reason like a madman. When the apprentices did manage to form one of the Words, managed to imbue the nonsense sounds with meaning and thought to give them power, the Master Namer immediately asked them to repeat themselves, a feat which none of them managed. By the time they left, it seemed to be the general opinion that they had learned not a single thing that day.

Next was Enchantment, taught by a tall, fair woman with lines about her face that placed her somewhere in her late thirties. She was dazzlingly beautiful and also had an air about her that quite clearly said she could beat anyone senseless who dared to trifle with her. By the end of the day, she was by far their favorite.

Her name was Esmaldi, and she captivated them with a sense of wonder and excitement about what they could do with the talent they'd been given. She began that first class by demonstrating how to imbue everyday objects with the power of the Words – giving them the ability to move on their own, making them burn when touched, transforming them from one shape to another by enchanting them with new names or making them forget what they were. She did all of this while singing and chanting in various rhythms and beats, and when she was done she would flourish her hands up and out and bow to riotous applause from the apprentices.

"Each and every thing in the world knows what it is and what it's supposed to be," she said, after she'd made a boy's boots hop off his feet and chase him around the large central teaching room to gales of laughter from the rest of the class. When he'd finally turned around and confronted the boots, they'd rolled over like chastised dogs, at which point the boy in question joined the laughter and glanced sheepishly over at Master Esmaldi. Most of the boys seemed to look at her that way.

"Knowledge of Enchantment allows you to convince a thing to be more than it is," she continued, vivacious enthusiasm coloring and lifting her voice. "You can tell a ring that it is also a music box, can even give it a song to sing; you can tell a cloak that it is made of shadow, make it hide the wearer; you can tell water that it is as smooth and hard as stone, even make it solid enough to walk on."

They left at the end of the hour with their heads buzzing, and already there was talk about what they might enchant. Esmaldi had told them they would begin the following day, and they all had lofty ideas of what they would end up doing and were once more convinced that the dream of being a Sorev Ael was attainable, even after the terribly disappointing Naming class.

They next encountered the mad whirlwind that was Master Owain.

Magery was far and away the class to which they were all most looking forward. They left the beautiful Enchanter's Wing and moved off to the dark, bleak Mage's Wing, and along the way their talk turned to the most storied art of the Sorev Ael: Summoning fire, calling the wind, and shaking the very earth with words of power.

The Mage's Wing was different from the rest of the Citadel. It had no soaring arches or ivy-covered walls, no soft golden light or welcoming floor rugs. It was instead simply carved and constructed from stone that faded from gray to black the farther into the wing they ventured. There were no candles, oil lamps, even sunlight from the bright fall day outside. The light instead came from heatless balls of fire hung up near the ceiling that cast strange, shifting shadows. The effect was chilling, and their conversation trailed off as they moved deeper into the wing.

Plain doors and hallways branched off to either side as they went, completely lacking any sign of ostentation. The doors were all wood, well-cut but uncarved; the simple flagstone floor was perfectly fitted but faded with age; and the air was thin and cool and seemed to proclaim a kind of proud, intentional neglect.

The corridor ended in the same large central room that the other wings had, around which the corridor split and continued on. The door was made of ironbound oak set in a doorframe that tapered to an arch, and over which was carved a shrieking raven, shouting a silent piercing cry into the empty corridors.

No one seemed eager to approach it.

"We have to go in," one of them said – a tall, dark-skinned boy.

"After you," said a different boy, this one with spectacles and a nervous, shifty demeanor.

"Let's all just go together."

"It's a door," AmyQuinn chimed in. "We can't all go together _._ "

"Then you open it!"

"Let's draw straws or something."

"That's stupid, let's just –"

The door flung open of its own accord and crashed against the stone wall with an explosive bang that shocked all of them into immediate silence. But as the reverberations echoed up and down the corridor and nothing else happened, they slowly regained their composure and one by one gathered the nerve to slip inside.

The room itself was very tall, so tall that the ceiling was lost in shadow. The walls were made of the same creamy white stone that lined so much of the Citadel, but here they were also flecked with darker patches of black and gray. There was a fireplace on the far side of the room, and inside was a roaring fire that did not quite succeed in driving away the chill that filled the air. A wide carpet lay before it, on which was situated a large wing-backed chair.

There were no little balls of light here to provide illumination, and yet the very air seemed thick with otherworldly sensations, as if any movement or sound might consume them all in a rush of power. Marble statues lined the room in wall sconces – simple, elegant, images of men and women holding aloft handfuls of stone fire or frozen orbs of light, all watching, impassive, as the last of the apprentices slipped inside the room.

A single figure stood waiting for them by the fire. He had short white hair that matched his well-trimmed white beard, and he was dressed in a flowing white shirt, a charcoal-gray vest, and black breeches that tapered into black leather boots. He was of middling height at best, and the bottom of his vest strained against the beginnings of a late-life paunch, but his back was straight and his gray eyes flamed with intelligence.

"Welcome," he said.

The door slammed shut behind them. They all jumped, and might this time have actually broken and run for it if there'd been any way to escape the confines of the room. Instead, they huddled together, as if this might protect them.

"I am Master Owain. Come forward."

After a long pause, wherein he watched them expectantly, they did as instructed. When they were close enough, he motioned for them to sit around him in a half-circle and they complied.

"Magery is not like the other arts of a Sorev Ael," he said once they were seated. He began to pace – a slow and steady walk that took him from one end of the fireplace to the other, and his silhouette loomed over them, frightening and larger than life. "Magery is not the study of herbs, nor the clever creation of tricks and illusions. These things have their place, and some Sorev Ael see them as higher arts. I do not."

He stopped and turned, flourishing with an upraised hand. There was a flash in the darkness and an emerald light came from the ring on his left hand; the blank stone wall above the fireplace suddenly swirled and churned, and on it appeared words in the common tongue of Aeon, words that slowly wrote themselves one at a time in shining emerald light.

"This is the oath a Sorev Ael must swear if he chooses to earn his ring in the art of Magery. It tells you much about what you will be learning here. Read, and then we will continue."

AmyQuinn did as told. The inscription said:

I swear to protect all those in need; to speak for those who have been silenced; to stand for those that have been forced to kneel. I am the light, and I shine through deeds, not words. Should it be required of me, I swear to lay down my life in the service of the world. I am the sound of the Word and the burning bright light of Flame. I am the light that shines on the darkness of the world.

After a suitable silence, he continued on.

"A Mage is a Sorev Ael of the world. What you learn here is what you will take out from Var Athel into the lands beyond. Sages contemplate; Enchanters modify; Illusionists bend; Namers categorize; Herbalists brew; Healers mend. All are noble pursuits in their own right, but they mean nothing without Magery. Nothing without the Sorev Ael who go out into the world to be the guiding lights of change."

His gray eyes took in their every movement, every subtle intake of breath or nervous shifting. The energy of that room, the heaviness, ebbed and flowed through him. It was the same power AmyQuinn had felt in Valinor, the same power she had felt in herself when she'd touched his staff. Her pulse thrilled in her veins at the thought of it, and she felt incredibly light.

"As such, your time here will not be spent in rote memorization or clever word play. Your time here will be spent _doing_."

He flung out an arm.

Several people screamed, and then all of the apprentices recoiled and clutched at each other as an enormous shadow detached itself from the wall over the fireplace and broke into the air. Wings the size of a full-grown man's torso exploded in a halo of feathers as the shadow shot toward them; there was a screech, a predator's cry of triumph, and light from the fire glinted off of razor-sharp talons.

" _Azfar!"_

The command cracked out and solidified the heavy feeling of power, pulling it down and away from the center of the room and cloaking the figure of Master Owain. The creature changed course in midflight and shot up into the air over them, then banked and flew back to the Sorev Ael.

Shaking, the apprentices watched the shape with wide eyes, and the illusion set in place not by sorcery but by fear faded away. The creature landed on Owain's outstretched arm, and it clung to him with talons slightly smaller than a man's hand. The wings were not several yards wide, but were indeed of normal size and proportion, and as they folded neatly into place on the creature's back, the sleek body and beak of the raptor came into better sight, and they saw that it was a falcon with silver and black plumage. The bird shrieked once more, letting out that terrible piercing cry, and then was silent.

"I need to test your fitness," Master Owain said as if nothing extraordinary had happened. "Azfar will assist me."

AmyQuinn felt the beginnings of fear, and a number of the apprentices shot each other uneasy looks.

"You," he said, motioning with his chin to Balin, a short boy with a mop of brown curls. "Run across the room and touch the door before Azfar can grab you."

There was a stunned moment of silence. Owain arched an eyebrow.

"I assure you, his talons are quite deadly. I'd suggest you start now."

The bird opened its wings, let out a screech of what AmyQuinn could have sworn was excitement, and then lifted into the air.

Balin took off running as fast as his small, slightly chubby frame would go.

The falcon raced after him, gaining height and soaring over him, watching with fierce golden eyes. The apprentices, who at first were dead silent in shock, began shouting encouragement. The words seemed to buoy Balin's sinking sprits, and he redoubled his speed, but it did not seem like it would be enough. The falcon screeched once more and dove.

Balin touched the door seconds before the raptor's steely claws passed over his mop of curly hair, and the bird gave a disappointed cry and veered away. Balin, seeing his pursuer give up the chase, promptly collapsed, his shaking legs unable to support him any longer. Master Owain called for him to return, and Balin managed to push himself to his feet and do so, though when he arrived his face was so white and bloodless that he was made to sit by the fire and take deep breaths before Master Owain turned and pointed at random to another apprentice.

"You. Go."

He went through the class one by one. The flashing silver talons caught none of them, but there were a few dangerously close calls. AmyQuinn noticed, however, that even when the bird was so close it should have been unable to miss, the apprentices still just managed to evade it. After she went and returned – breathing heavily, but not as nearly as winded as some of the others – she realized that there wasn't a trace of worry in Master Owain's expression.

_Is it all a game?_ she wondered.

"Very good," Master Owain said finally when the last two, twins named Tyl and Wyl, had gone. "We'll end early today. I'll see you tomorrow."

They went to lunch and were returned to their rooms for the short afternoon rest period. AmyQuinn passed out almost as soon as her head touched the pillow, only to woken by a new Deri'cael she did not know and taken with the rest of the apprentices to their second Naming class of the day. It went much as the first had, leaving them just as frustrated as before.

Next was Healing, which was the only class that seemed traditionally straightforward. It was taught by Master Spall, a young man with dirty blonde hair and spectacles who seemed to know every nuance of the human body. To begin with, they were expected to memorize lists of body parts and their locations, something on which they would be tested the following week.

Illusions began when the tall, brooding Master Yurer met them at the large entrance to the Illusionist's Wing and told them to follow him if they could. They tried and quickly became lost, turning down corridors that dead-ended, walking into doors that were actually walls, and generally bumbling around hopelessly for the better part of an hour. Master Yurer reappeared periodically, popping out of thin air, or, once, out of what they had all assumed was a solid wall, to give them guidance with a calm, encouraging smile. Other apprentices, Deri'cael, and even full Sorev Ael, passed by them at times, but all refused to help, and indeed seemed rather amused by their predicament.

By the end of the period, they were all arguing with each other, and they only stopped when Master Yurer reappeared and told them they were done for the day. He dismissed them, and wished them better luck next time.

Sagery, which was last and took place well into the evening, was the opposite of Magery: the Sage quarters were full of the orange light of flickering candle flames, and the whole wing was done in pure white stone and marble. The circular teaching hall was high and arched, and full of countless candles in ascending rows. The Master who taught them was a man named Vero; he dressed in long white robes that, with his white hair and beard, made him look frighteningly ethereal and in danger of being blown away by a strong breeze.

When they arrived, they were instructed to sit on a smooth, raised platform in the center of the hall, on which had been placed a number of thick black cushions, the same cushions that were used for morning meditation. Looking up, AmyQuinn realized that the silver glow that suffused the room came from above: the roof was open to the night sky, and the light of the night's moon, close to full and slowly rising, was filtering down to them through a series of flying buttresses and columns, giving the room an other-worldly beauty.

Vero told them that Sagery was not about strengthening the body, but about strengthening the mind. As they began, each of them trying to stay awake though their aching bodies and heads yearned for sleep, Vero asked them questions about the nature of life and the balance of the world. None of them knew what to say, but Master Vero did not seem put-off; on the contrary, he told them that the point of the Sage was to ask the right questions, not to necessarily find the right answers.

After gently waking those that had begun to snore, he ushered them to sleep with a kind, grandfatherly smile.

That first night, and all the nights that followed for the next several months, saw AmyQuinn fall into bed absolutely exhausted. Often times she was barely able to wash her face, remove her clothing, and crawl beneath her sheets before she drifted off to sleep.

The days began to blur together as the seasons changed and the blustery wind-cold of autumn became the wet, freezing-cold of winter. The constant demands of the Masters and the mental and physical stress the training entailed all took its toll, and those who neglected rest in order to explore the Citadel or to read or to simply enjoy each other's company were often the ones who lagged behind and had to work even harder to catch up the following day.

As time passed, some of the apprentices began to pull ahead. Rylin, the small, black-haired boy from the first day who looked like a bundle of sticks given skin and motion, was far and away the best Namer. He picked up the Words so quickly that he was soon holding rudimentary conversations with Master Rewit.

The other girl in the apprentice group, Emia, was fantastic at Herbalism. She was the daughter of a midwife, and as such she knew many of the herbs and potions even before Master Poer introduced them. Many of the older apprentices excelled at Enchantment, something that was perhaps related to Master Esmaldi and her dimpled smile. The twins, Tyl and Wyl, were excellent at illusionists, perhaps because of all the time they spent pretending to be each other. No one was any good at Sagery, a fact that did little if anything to discourage Master Vero, but most everyone did tolerably well in Healing, though Master Spall, perhaps advisably, had yet to let them around any actual patients.

That left Magery.

From the first class onward, AmyQuinn excelled. She did not know as many Words as Rylin, nor was she as clever as Tyl or Wyl, but somehow she still outpaced them all, and when Master Owain began to teach them to control the elements, she was the first to hold fire in her hands. The nerves that still plagued her in the other classes simply disappeared when she stepped into that dark, fire-lit room, and as the days passed into weeks and she continued to surpass the others, she felt her confidence grow.

It would have been perfect – except for Xaior.

He was a short, skinny boy, with brilliant hazel eyes that gave the impression of constant vigilance and calculation. Added to his high, sharp nose and ever-present sneer, his overall look was one of near-universal disdain for the other apprentices and the world at large. He had long, thick black hair that he pulled back behind his head, and which seemed to glisten even in the shadows. Like the other apprentices, he wore white clothing, but he wore it with contempt, as if it were a foregone conclusion that he deserved more and would not long be appareled thus.

As the weeks wore on, it became clear that he did not approve of AmyQuinn's presence. At first, she was baffled by the apparent contempt he showed her – and many of the other apprentices seemed baffled too. When she would sit with them at meals, Xaior and whoever else was sitting with him that day would abruptly stand and leave to eat elsewhere; when she was paired with him or one of his friends in class, they would switch immediately to be with someone else.

She did not understand it until she saw him do the same to Emia.

Her suspicions raised, she began to look more critically at the makeup of the overall Citadel population. Almost all of the Sorev Ael were men; most of the Deri'cael were men too; and though there were some girl apprentices, it was clear that they were in the minority.

And most of them were routinely ignored, or even shunned.

She began to hear snippets of rumor from the others over meals that Xaior came from a long line of Sorev Ael who clung to the old ways, from before the Sisters. Once, she even overheard him directly say that women who dared to join the Citadel were an affront to basic human decency.

But what had pushed him over the edge, what seemed to have made AmyQuinn in particular so unforgivable, was that she routinely outperformed him.

If she was the best, Xaior was next in line. In everything she did, she could almost feel him breathing down her neck trying to overtake her. When she managed to summon flame for the first time, beating everyone else by at least a week, the success angered him so much that he stalked out of the room claiming he needed to use the bathroom. When she was able to lift a feather by heating the air beneath it, Xaior tried to convince Master Owain that she had blown on it herself until she simply repeated the feat and put the debate to rest.

At first, she did as she knew her mother and father would have expected: she took the high road and ignored him. When it was clear he was getting away with his mounting abuse, though, he began to openly berate her in the hopes of getting her to react. He began whispering behind her back in the corridors that girls couldn't be Sorev Ael, and when she turned to confront him, he fell silent and looked at her with mock-innocence before asking in a sickly-sweet voice what was the matter. He banged on her door in the middle of the night to wake her up and ruin her sleep; he tripped her so that she spilled her food in the dining hall.

In class, he would routinely try to sabotage her work: In Enchantment, he kicked her when Master Esmaldi wasn't looking so that she sent a rock she was supposed to be convincing to roll over shooting through a nearby window instead. In Herbalism, he switched her herbs so that when Master Poer came to inspect her, she had nothing but diced celery to show for her hour's worth of work.

And so she began to hate him.

Their rivalry, unlike the other petty rivalries that sprang up and disappeared within the group from week to week, never abated. It grew stronger with every class, to the point where she felt waves of loathing overtake her every time she heard his high, sickly-sweet voice.

She began to fight back. When he said something to her, she would turn and remark on his appearance, saying that his oily black hair made him look like a drowned rat. When he tried again to switch her herbs yet again in Herbalism, she pretended not to notice and then switched her brewed potion with his when he was not looking, so that she received top marks for the day by passing off his potion as hers, while he received a disappointed shake of the head from Master Poer.

The others saw it happening and began to take sides. In fact, she wasn't Xaior's only target: he went after Rylin as well, and even Lalin and Balin – both of whom, it turned out, were named Alin and had simply used their last name's first initial to distinguish themselves.

His dislike of these other unfortunates followed a similar theme: they were from the outer provinces, from the Forts that held the passes to the Wilds, and as such not deemed members of polite society. Sorev Ael did not typically come from beyond the Peninsula or Aginor, and so Xaior proclaimed them backwoods pretenders.

The four of them joined together and began operating as a unit, in opposition to Xaior and his group. Emia joined them as well, though as the weeks passed by she became more and more withdrawn until it was all they could do to coax her into making a single comment on any given topic.

AmyQuinn took it on herself to act as a barrier between Xaior and the others, drawing his taunts to her instead of letting them land on them. She could take it, and every time she did, she paid back with interest.

Finally, the escalating conflict came to a head. As the top apprentices in Magery, AmyQuinn and Xaior often competed with each other openly in Master Owain's class – a rivalry that the Mage himself encouraged.

"Xaior's holding flame in both hands now," he would goad her. "You must catch him." He wasn't one-sided though; as soon as she passed Xaior, he turned it back on the boy: "AmyQuinn has managed to rotate her flame, Xaior. Why haven't you?"

So it came as no surprise to anyone that on the day of their first in-class examination, the two were paired up against each other.

The format of the examination was simple: having completed their first course on fire, the first and simplest of the five elements, Master Owain wanted to evaluate their overall progress. One by one he asked them to stand and conjure flame from thin air, then to multiply it, enlarge it, shrink it, and finally to extinguish it. Those that made it through the whole routine would be allowed to advance to air, the second element, while those that did not would stay with flame for the time being.

They were called forward one by one to the area in front of the fireplace – off the wide embroidered rug, as only Owain was allowed to stand there when handling flame – and put through their paces. A few of the apprentices were asked to do something extra – create a wheel or juggle – but all passed, even poor Jolend, who exceled at Healing and almost nothing else.

And as they all passed, it became clear that Xaior and AmyQuinn were being left for last. Whispers flittered between the apprentices who'd already finished the examination, and they eyed the pair eagerly. Gar and Cath, Xaior's similarly conceited friends, gathered around him while Owain tested Tyl and eyed her wickedly.

"AmyQuinn," Owain said finally. She rose. "And Xaior."

She glanced over at Xaior, who was looking back at her with thinly veiled contempt. A surge of hot anger bubbled up inside her, and a titter of whispers went through the gathered apprentices.

"Come forward," Owain said.

They did so, both of them pointedly ignoring each other. They were close enough that one or the other could have whispered a biting comment, but neither did; Owain was watching them far too carefully for that.

"AmyQuinn," the Master barked without warning. "Summon flame."

" _Aduro,_ " she said immediately, imbuing the Word with power.

There was a loud crack and a flickering red-orange ball appeared over her out-stretched palm. She concentrated on holding it steady, and when she was certain she had control of it, she looked up at Owain.

"Xaior – do the same."

" _Aduro,"_ Xaior said – his own flame appeared, slightly darker than hers but just as hot and full.

"Both of you: split the flame in two," Owain said.

This was harder – there was no Word to use, there was only thought and intention. AmyQuinn focused on her flame, and after a hesitant waver the red-orange ball split. Xaior's did as well, but a second after hers did. She felt a rush of vindictive pleasure, and from the corner of her eye she saw anger flash across his face.

"Again," Owain barked, now pacing back and forth before them.

She took a deep breath and concentrated harder, already feeling the exertion; sweat was dripping down her back, slicking the white cotton of her dress to her skin, and her hands had begun to shake. Maintaining flame like this without doing anything with it was like hefting a heavy weight and holding it out at arm's length.

Her flame split again, and so too did Xaior's.

"Turn to face each other."

Startled, she shot a look at Xaior and almost lost control. The red-orange flame, now split into four but controlled as one, wavered over the palm of her hand and almost winked out. She gritted her teeth and hung on to the Word in her mind, trying to keep her concentration.

She and Xaior were only a few paces away from each other, and as such she could see the sweat beading on his forehead, just below his hairline. They'd already gone further than the rest of the class – the best anyone else could do was to split a flame the one time – but she had a feeling that this was only the beginning.

"Good," Owain said once they were facing each other. "Now, both of you hold onto your flame and try to extinguish the other's."

There was a short beat of silence that followed this pronouncement, and then AmyQuinn felt a rush of panic. They'd never done this before – was such a thing even possible?

She had no time to think; the Word that would extinguish the flame came to her lips automatically, and she saw it form on Xaior's lips in the same instant.

" _Suf!_ " they shouted in tandem, spitting the Word at each other.

It felt as though a huge weight had suddenly slammed down on her shoulders. She staggered and barely managed to keep her feet. The rotating flames on her palm flickered and shrank, but did not go out. Through a haze of sweat and growing fatigue, she saw that Xaior too had staggered back as through struck.

She concentrated harder, trying to hold both Words in her mind, keeping one to herself and mentally throwing the other at him.

Aduro – Suf! – Aduro – Suf! – Aduro –

Her red-orange flames grew; his blue-orange ones shrank.

Xaior grimaced and began to mutter other Words under his breath. His flames grew and hers shrank. Gritting her teeth with the effort, she began to mutter aloud as well. They teetered back and forth like that for longer than she would have thought possible, each vying for control.

She felt as though she'd been detached from her body and was now floating in a strange blank space – all emotion gone, all thought disappeared. All she could think of was the bright ball of energy inside her and the flame it was feeding.

Finally, Xaior's flames began again to shrink.

His wild hazel eyes fixed on hers with manic concentration, sweat flowing freely down his face. His arms shook, and then his back began to bow as if the weight on him had increased to the point where he could no longer fight against it. She could feel her victory approaching; she would win, she knew she would, she would beat him and show she _did_ belong in the Citadel –

" _Aduro!"_

A new flame blue-orange appeared in front of Xaior, bright and uncontained, and shot straight toward her.

Forgetting everything else, she dove for the floor. The fire rushed through the air where she'd been only seconds before, and when she looked up again she saw that Xaior still held a palm full of flame. Hers, along with her concentration, had disappeared.

Rage boiled up inside her like nothing she'd ever felt before, and before she knew what she was doing, she strode forward, knocked his hand aside, and punched him right in the nose.

There came a heavy crunching sound, and then Xaior stumbled backward, clutching at his face. The flames he'd conjured disappeared, and blood started flowing freely between his fingers and over his lips.

" _Aduro!_ " she screamed. A dozen balls of flame burst into life in the air around all around her, flaring bright and out of control. She had no idea what she was doing; her anger had taken her over, and through the gasps of the other apprentices and Xaior's sudden look of disbelief and horror, she pulled back her fist again.

"ENOUGH!"

AmyQuinn was abruptly picked up and thrown through the air. She crashed to the ground twenty feet away from where she'd been, and the air immediately rushed out her lungs. Heaving and gasping, she tried to suck in a full breath but found she simply couldn't. People appeared and tried to help her to her feet; she glanced up and saw bat-eared Rylin and blonde Lalin.

"That was disgraceful."

Everybody froze. Gar and Cath had helped Xaior to his feet, and there was blood all down his front from his still-bleeding nose. He was staring daggers at her, and she was quite certain that if Master Owain had not strode forward to separate them, the fight would still be raging.

She shifted her gaze to the teacher, and his face was enough to cool her rage completely. He was looking between them both with such a terrible expression of mingled fury and disappointment that she couldn't stand to hold his gaze. It was only then that she realized how stupid she'd been, letting Xaior provoke her like that. If she'd just kept calm...

_It was worth it,_ said a savage voice in her head, a voice she did not understand. It spoke the way a wounded animal might, and she could hear desperation below the fury. _He deserved it._

"My two best students decide to try and murder each other in the middle of a routine examination," Owain said in the deadly quiet of the room. AmyQuinn felt her cheeks begin to burn with embarrassment.

"You both just attacked another apprentice," he continued. "You specifically violated the code of conduct you swore to uphold when you placed your hand on the Book of Names. I should have you thrown out of the Citadel."

Sudden panic crashed through her as the gravity of the situation became perfectly clear. He was right – she'd sworn never to harm another person save in direct defense of her own life. They both had.

The silence of the room deepened even further as Owain continued to glare. Finally, he broke the moment and strode over to Xaior. He muttered a Word under his breath and there came a sharp snap and then a cry of pain as Xaior's nose reset itself. The bleeding stopped, though the swelling remained.

"Both of you report to Mistress Taliana," Owain snapped. "Tell her what you've done."

That broke the dam inside her. Suddenly the fear was gone and the anger was back. The injustice of it all was just too great. Xaior had attacked first, all she'd done was react. She didn't deserve the same punishment he did, even if they had sworn an oath. She surged forward, breaking past the others and pointing her finger, dagger-like, at Xaior. He echoed the move, pushing away Gar and Cath and pointing back at her.

"But he – !"

"She – !"

"Speak another word and I will tell Mistress Taliana to expect you every day for the rest of the month," Owain said. "And I will also tell her to double the lashes she gives you in order to help you learn to mind your tongues."

They both fell silent again, staring at each other with utter contempt. The anger would not go away. Every detail of the arrogant, snotty _brat_ who stood before her just made her want to hit him all over again.

"Leave this room," Owain said. "Now."

They both turned to go. When they reached the door, Owain spoke one last time: "AmyQuinn. Return when Mistress Taliana is done with you."

He gave no further explanation, and so AmyQuinn and Xaior left the room. It took everything in her power not to turn and punch him again as soon as they were alone, but she knew that someone somehow would find out, and so she forced her hands to remain at her sides. They walked through the Citadel corridors so far apart that they were almost touching opposite walls, and then ascended the Tower to Taliana's room on the third level and knocked.

A stern-faced woman with brown hair pulled back in a tight bun came to the door and looked them over. She took in Xaior's nose and AmyQuinn's slightly ashy braid and seemed to understand immediately what had happened.

"You first," she said to Xaior.

AmyQuinn waited outside in sullen silence until it was her turn. The door to the room was so thick that she couldn't hear anything of what was going on inside, which was just as well: she was starting to worry about what the punishment would be. A few apprentices and Deri'cael passed by and looked her over; she glowered at them in response, but that just seemed to make them grin, so she stopped. She began to shift her weight from side to side as anxiety crept through her.

Finally, the door opened. "Enter," said a hard voice.

She did as told and found herself in a small, round room, in the center of which had been placed a chair. There were tapestries on the stone walls, and a fire burned in the grate to her right, pushing back the early winter chill. There were two other doors, one that looked as if it might lead out into another passage and one that looked as if it led into Mistresses Taliana's personal quarters.

"I sent your compatriot out that way," Taliana said, pointing with her chin toward the door opposite the one AmyQuinn had come through. "I had the feeling it would be better if the two of you didn't met again so soon."

AmyQuinn refused to look at her and pretended to be fascinated with the embroidered rug in the center of the room.

"Tell me what happened," Taliana said, crossing her arms beneath her rather considerable chest and examining AmyQuinn with such a pointed, penetrating stare that she would have given Azfar the falcon a run for his money.

AmyQuinn took a deep breath and told the story. When she finished, Taliana nodded and motioned to the chair.

"Let's get this over with."

AmyQuinn crossed to the chair and bent over, gritting her teeth.

She returned to Owain much the worse for wear.

Everyone else had left by now for dinner, which, as far as AmyQuinn was concerned, was a very good thing. She hobbled along the long corridor to the Magery teaching hall, trying not to wince or hold her backside, very grateful that she did not have an audience. She did not think she would be sitting down comfortably for at least a week; Taliana had quite a strong arm.

At first, she thought the teaching hall was deserted. The fire had died down to nothing more than a bank of embers, and the room had been plunged into a kind of twilight. It looked strange – almost as though the room itself was sleeping. Had Master Owain forgotten that he'd told her to return? Maybe he was gone, eating at the upper dining hall with the full Sorev Ael and other Masters –

"You took your time. Come here."

The voice rang out from the direction of the fire, and it made AmyQuinn jump. She immediately regretted her lack of control: a fresh wave of pain made her backside feel like it was on fire, and she only just managed to stifle a groan.

She hobbled forward in the direction of the voice. When she was at the edge of the carpet, she stopped, as she always did.

"Come," Owain said imperiously.

Wary, AmyQuinn reached out and put a white-booted toe on the edge of the carpet, unsure. When he didn't protest, she continued forward and then rounded the side of the tall wing-backed chair. She stopped when Master Owain was in plain sight and waited. Slowly, he moved his eyes away from the dying fire and caught her in his gaze. "Sit if you'd like," he said.

She grimaced and shook her head. "I'll stand."

He smiled then – almost a smirk – and she felt a sudden urge to punch him too.

"Who brought you to us?" he asked with no preamble.

"Master?"

"Who brought you to Var Athel," he clarified.

"A – Sorev Ael," she said, surprised by the question. "Named Valinor."

His eyes widened and his eyebrows rose. "That explains much and more," he said, his voice colored with an emotion she couldn't decipher. A long moment passed wherein he stroked his short gray beard, and then abruptly he seemed to decide something. He spoke again: "Do you know who he is? Do you know what it means that you were brought here by him?"

She frowned.

"He's... a Sorev Ael," she replied. Owain nodded encouragingly, but she had to stop there. What else could she say about him? What he wore? That he'd helped save Dunlow? None of that told her who he was. Why had she thought she knew him? They'd barely talked the entire journey to Var Athel.

But then something in her mind clicked. It was like a puzzle with a simple answer that, once you saw it, became perfectly clear: Valinor calling the flame, Valinor extinguishing it; Valinor's ruby ring shining like fire in the sun...

"He's a Mage."

Owain nodded slowly, still watching with the full intensity of his gaze.

"Anything else?" he prompted. It seemed clear that there was something specific he was waiting for, some answer he was wondering if she knew, but she could not for the life of her guess what it might be.

"No," she admitted, and then decided to tell as much as she could. "He saved my family. He was going south and stopped in my village – Dunlow. It was attacked, and he... well, he saved it."

Owain was nodding again, and he did not seem at all surprised; instead, that look of pronounced concentration had increased to the point where she felt as if she were on display, her every move cataloged and filed away for later examination.

"Do you know his last name?" Owain asked. "Do you know what he's called?"

Through the distance of memory she heard vaguely the name the stable boy had said when they'd arrived at the Citadel, though she couldn't quite recall it fully. Thin? Ther? She shook her head slowly, and Master Owain nodded.

"Then I will tell you," he said. "His full name is Valinor Therin, and he is the only living Sorev Ael to have visited the Eryn-Ra. He followed the path of the Sisters into the farthest Wilds, and came back with the ring he now bears."

AmyQuinn's whole body went slowly numb. She felt like she should say something, but nothing came to her. Owain, strangely enough, didn't notice her reaction. He'd looked away, gazing once more at the embers of the dying fire.

"Valinor is known in stories up and down the Peninsula, and all throughout Aeon. Have you never heard his name?" He looked back at her.

Dumbly, AmyQuinn shook her head. She thought frantically through all the stories she'd heard from Lenny, all the stories she'd heard from her father, but nothing came to her. She'd never heard of a man named Valinor Therin. Had she just not listened carefully enough?

"I think perhaps you have," he insisted with a growing smile. "He's better known by the name he was given after he returned from the north and earned the title of Sorev Ael."

He paused, and she barely dared to breathe. When he said the next words, they were almost like a sigh, and his gaze was intense and far away.

"They call him the Mage of the Eryn-Ra."

She absorbed the statement and felt the insane urge to tell him he was lying. Surely it couldn't be true. The taciturn, grumpy man who traveled with her for a week... that couldn't be the same person. It couldn't be.

She'd never heard of Valinor Therin, but she'd heard of the Mage of the Eryn-Ra. Trickles of the stories filtered into her mind, and then the floodgates opened and they all came pouring in together. He was the hero of a dozen tales, each wilder than the last, and she knew them all. The Sack of Cartino, the Peace of the Southern Isles, the Last Journey of Ronan.

It's impossible. It can't be. I did not argue with the Mage of the Eryn-Ra. I did not shout at him and throw a temper tantrum. That's impossible. I... no.

Master Owain was speaking again, and she tried to listen.

"He and I were apprentices together. We were rivals, as are you and Xaior. We hated each other – until we went our separate ways and met again as Mages. He does not waste his time in anything. He is a hard man, and callous, but he is the best this era has ever seen... the best, they say... "

His gaze was far away again, but he shook himself and smiled briefly as he focused back on her.

"If Valinor Therin brought you to us, then I would encourage you to live up to his vote of confidence. The next time you strike another student – even if that student has done something as underhanded as Xaior did just now – you will not get off with fifteen lashes and a sore backside. We learn here Words of such power that we can shake the very foundations of the world if we are not careful. You will not be allowed that power if you cannot show you are worthy of it."

He watched her for a moment, examining her face as if looking for an answer to a silent question, and then finally raised a hand and motioned to the door. Numb, she nodded and walked away in a haze of forgotten memory, making her way out into the hall that led to the Tower Court.

The next thing she knew, she was back at the center of the Citadel, looking at the Tower. The sun shone on the white stone, making it glow. The sky was gray and clouds were coming in from the northwest – winter was taking over the world, and the smell of rain was in the air.

A sourceless sense of movement rushed through her, though she stood stock-still, and the world seemed to tip and turn around her as thoughts and questions chased each other through her head, culminating in a single litany that went around and around inside her, repeating the same words over and over again:

Mage of the Eryn-Ra.

Chapter Thirteen: Valinor Therin

The mage strode across the Sorcerers' Court, hood drawn against the rain.

He had what was left of his cloak wrapped around him, and more than one of the Var Athel traders looked up at him in surprise as he passed. The cloak flapped with his movement and the wind of the late winter storm; the burned holes gapped like hollowed-out cheeks, showing the teeth of his torn and bloodied breeches. He strode with purpose, though, easily; the rain pounded from the sky, but did not seem to touch him.

He ascended the stairs, taking them two at a time, and left a small hush in the usual rush of the morning Court behind him as the gathered merchants and traders watched. The Sorev Ael of Var Athel were a weathervane of sorts – they pointed to the conditions of the world. If this man came wounded, in obvious haste, what kind of wind did that mean was blowing?

Valinor would have slowed if he'd had time, but he knew he didn't. Var Athel was run like an enormous clock, with each gear perfectly oiled, cut, and fitted together for a specific purpose. The Circle would meet an hour after sunrise – whether or not the sun rose – and he needed to be there before they cloistered themselves.

As he neared the top of the stairs, he had a sudden thought that surprised him: _I wonder what happened to the girl?_

He hadn't thought of her in months. It wasn't surprising – he'd had quite enough to deal with since then, and little time for idle thought. Now that he'd returned, though, he let himself wonder what had become of her. She'd been able to hold his staff, had even used it to open a powerful, albeit crude, elemental channel. Yew was hard enough for fully trained Sorev Ael to wield, and for a girl barely into her teens it should have been nigh on impossible.

He thought briefly of what Owain would do when he got his hands on her. Or rather what he was already doing.

Bloody bastard. Haven't seen him in ages. Should say hello if I can.

He cleared the final step and glanced over at the Book of Names across the Servant's Court, completely dry beneath its small stone shrine and untouched by the raging winter storm that had coated the whole coast of Aeon with rain and sleet for the past several days. The Stewards, Tamora and Ruthe, stood beside it, waiting for a perspective apprentice to appear, though Valinor would have thought that anyone crazy enough to be out in this storm who didn't have to be might not be mentally fit for training in the first place. When they saw him, their eyes traveled quickly over his clothing, missing none of the burns, rips, and bloody tears. They left their positions and moved to intercept him as he advanced.

"What happened?" Tamora asked, anxiety and concern showing through her calm and friendly face.

"The Kalac Kull," Valinor said simply, not slowing. He moved toward the corridor that split off from the court on the right-hand side, though the choice mattered little: either path would eventually take him to the Tower. The unwelcome Stewards shadowed him, and he tried to bury his annoyance. He chose to saw it as a blessing. He would need patience today, and now he had a chance to practice.

"So it's true?" Tamora continued. "What you found out from that man you brought and questioned – it's true?"

"You should not leave your post."

"No one is coming in a storm like this," Ruthe said, matter-of-fact.

"They might. I did."

"You are not others," Tamora said with a touch of amusement.

"Don't let him change the subject," Ruthe snapped. " _Is it true_?"

They rounded the first turn together, past a group of Deri'cael rushing to get somewhere. One of them had cast an enchantment to ward off the icy rain, but it wasn't quite working the way it was supposed to. Either that, or the storm was just too strong. Likely they'd forgotten to say the Words against wind and had just focused on warding off the water.

"Yes," he said aloud. "Yes, it's true."

"How many? And where?"

"You know I cannot say. I must report to the Circle and they will decide what should or should not be shared. I must get there before their session begins."

But the Stewards would not be put off.

"Do they owe their allegiance to Charridan?" Tamora insisted.

"I do not know."

"You know something, else you would not be back," Ruthe reasoned coolly.

"I do. But I cannot tell you yet, as I have said."

"Valinor – stop, please."

They had just rounded the final curve and emerged at the foot of the Tower. Visible inside was the massive, impossible staircase that twisted up into the heights, and it was packed with people seeking refuge from the rain.

Valinor turned back to Tamora and saw her looking at him with those bright gray eyes that he'd found so intriguing when they were younger. They were still smiling and laughing, but that laughter was aged now and touched with sadness.

"Tell us at least that you are sound in body and soul," she insisted.

He took a breath, trying not to let his impatience sharpen his tongue. _See? A chance to practice._ "I am sound. The fire burned my clothing, not me. I will need a new cloak and breeches, but that is well – I've stunk ever since passing through Tharace."

Ruthe snorted. "You've stunk for years before that."

He spared a small smile for the barbed comment, like a fencer acknowledging a well-placed touch, and then turned again to go; this time, they stayed behind. He felt Tamora's eyes on him as he crossed the inner courtyard to the staircase, and the smile faded from his lips as soon as his back was turned.

He brushed past a large group taking up too much space at the base of the stairs, and their conversation dropped off noticeably as they caught sight of him. He passed another group on the first landing and they watched also. He did not slow and engage them, though, and it seemed that they either knew him well enough not to bother hailing him or else they were too shocked to think of doing so. Eddies of whispered conversation swirled out behind him, though, and he could hear the fear in them.

And then on the third floor landing his head suddenly throbbed in pain, and he stumbled. He reached out for the wall nearest him and caught himself before his knees gave way. His vision swam, but he managed to push himself upright, and then the strange pain passed as quickly as it had come. The only sign of its previous presence was a slight ringing in his ears.

Confused and wary, he focused on where he was and found himself staring down a corridor that branched off of the landing. It was one of the apprentice levels, a place he hadn't been in a very long time.

He shook his head, dismissing the bizarre turn of events, and hurried on.

The Tower clock rang out the quarter hour, and he increased his speed still further. The enchantments woven into the very rocks of the Citadel prevented him from using Words to ascend the Tower by faster means, and the only other alternative, transforming in order to fly up the outside as he often did, was a recipe for disaster in this storm. So, he was left to climb like the men of old.

He passed dozens of landings, then scores of them, and still he kept on going. The founders had expanded the Tower to hold a maximum capacity of Sorev Ael at the height of the Charridan War. There'd been thousands then, and there'd been those who thought thousands more might follow once the joined force of Caelron and Var Athel led Aeon against the might of Charridan. But the Zystorin had been more capable than expected, and their dark arts had taken a heavy toll. By the time the war had ended, the ranks of the thousands of apprentices who'd flocked to Var Athel to serve had been severely thinned. Now, a hundred years later, the Tower was still recovering.

When he finally reached the uppermost landing, his heart was pounding and he was sweating more than he'd have liked to admit. The guard station was occupied by two of the red-armored _talin,_ as it always was, and they in their strengthened armor with their ceremonial spears stopped his passage.

"I come to speak with the Circle," he said, catching his breath as best he could between the words. "I bring them the report they asked for."

The two _talin_ paused only briefly before they nodded and let him pass.

The clock rang out the hour just as he stepped through the door. The thick, impenetrable slab of wood sealed itself in its frame behind him, and he found himself trapped in the long passageway that led to the Circle's meeting chamber.

There were no side door or passageways, nor even any tapestries or wall hangings. It was a blank corridor of white stone, and the only thing that broke that was a single door at the other end, through which a number of important-looking men and women were walking. He strode toward them with purpose, thinking how inconvenient it would be if he ended up trapped in the corridor until the session ended.

Holder Flynn was the first to notice him. The old sage was the last into the chamber, as was custom, and when he turned to look back at the sound of heavy boots on the wood floor, he saw Valinor striding up toward him.

The Circle was up made of thirteen Sorev Ael: eleven men and two women. They were called the Speakers, and they represented among them each of the seven schools of the Minor Arcana as well as the five best-recognized arts of the Major Arcana. The many Sorev Ael who belonged to each School or Art nominated them, and the members of the existing Circle confirmed them. The thirteenth member of the Circle was chosen by the Circle alone to lead them. Often, he or she was a Sage. That thirteenth member had no more power than any of the others, but he or she was the deciding vote in cases of abstentions or ties, and should an emergency ever occur, it was into his or her hands that leadership would fall until the Circle declared the emergency over.

Holder Flynn was the current Thirteenth Speaker. He held the official title of Master from the Sagery School, and he'd been on the Circle for most of his life. He and Valinor had enrolled in the Tower as apprentices on the same day, years and years ago – Holder as a young man, Valinor as little more than a child. The years had bleached the color from Holder so that his short, well-trimmed beard and hair now matched his snowy white Sage robes. But despite the outer trappings of age, he did not stand bowed but straight-backed, and his vibrant blue eyes had yet to soften, so he had no need of spectacles.

"My friend," Holder said with a crooked smile that revealed straight, worn teeth. "I wondered if we would see you. I heard you arrive."

Valinor let the comment slide without question. Sages were known for intuition that went far beyond anything that might be considered natural. Holder was head and shoulders above the rest – he knew on gut and instinct alone what others could never see or prove. It drove Valinor and the other Mages mad.

"Speaker Flynn," he said with a formal bow and a hard smile, for what he had to say was hard and dissemblance had never come easily to him. Holder's eyes narrowed, and he took in Valinor's burned and bloodied clothing with a quick look that seemed to size up exactly what had happened and what Valinor had to say. Then, without further ado, he turned aside and motioned for the Mage to enter the chamber ahead of him. Valinor did so, knowing that as soon as the last member of the Circle entered, the room would seal itself until the meeting was finished.

The chamber itself was small and rather simple. There were thirteen sitting places of varying height, weight, and sturdiness. Most were little more than meditation cushions, though one was of the straight-backed style of old Caelron, made of good, sturdy oak, and two others were cushioned chairs.

But what walled the chamber was what drew the eye.

The door through which Valinor had come was the only part of the room set in the solid, white stone that made up most of the Citadel. Before him and all around were floor-to-ceiling windows that tapered to points in the high arches that rose to meet in a center peak that became the Tower's spire above. Through the windows was a view over the Citadel walls of all the surrounding land. This room was the highest point of the ancient fortress, and one could see for miles in every direction.

The storm was visible that day in all its glory. The waves of the bay lashed against the shore, and clouds roiled in the sky, letting loose their torrent of winter wind and rain. Caelron, across the narrow mouth of the bay, was just visible in the distance; it looked like an ancient beast, crouched on its collection of hills, hunkered down in an effort to weather the storm.

Valinor strode to the center of the room and stood on the bare patch of stone that had been worn down over the years by countless pairs of feet. The Speakers took their seats, conversation dying away as they noticed him.

"Your report?" Flynn asked as he assumed his own seat, his usually informal demeanor now covered with a veneer of propriety. He sat directly across from the door on a large raised platform that held a single cushion, upon which he knelt like a man half his age, his hands resting lightly in his lap.

"I apologize for my intrusion," Valinor began, reminding himself about all the patience practicing he'd been doing. "But what I have to say cannot wait. When I left, none of us were sure what, if anything, I would find, and while I know more now than I did, there is still much that is unknown. That being said, I can tell you that the rumors are true. The raids we've heard tell of happened all up and down the coast on the same night, and all with the same intent: to capture the young and the strong."

A few of the Circle members exchanged significant looks, and more than one of them examined Valinor's torn and bloody appearance with a calculating gaze.

"What of the ring?" asked Holder Flynn.

"The Ring of Eman Vath," Valinor said with a nod. "It has been returned from Londor. The appraisal was a success. It is the ring."

A series of sharp indrawn breaths greeted this pronouncement, but Valinor continued on before they could ask another question.

"It is important for me to note that whatever purpose may have inspired the raids, it was not an effort to find the ring. The man I interrogated didn't tell me much, but he did tell me that. They didn't know I was rumored to be traveling with it. This was something else, something bigger. However, they know about it now, and it seems they have taken great interest in it."

"Did you learn more of what happened to it? Where it's been?"

"I did. I returned to Aldred and... convinced him to come with me."

"Ah, so that is why you were gone so long. You traveled on foot?"

"Yes. He took me to where he found it – up in the villages north of Tharace. We traced it as far as we could, through his contacts and up over the Barrier. A soldier stationed at Fort Curin found it on a routine patrol through the Northern Wilds. There were rumors that some of the barbarian tribes were on the move, and it seems that much is true. They're migrating east, away from the coast. The soldier in question found the ring left behind in the ashes of an abandoned campsite – it looks as though it may have come from one of the barbarian chieftains, likely a Curl by the state of the site. They may have tried to burn it, who knows why."

"How would it have come to one of them?" Flynn asked, face drawn in thought.

"I don't know," Valinor admitted. "But the ring was rumored lost in the Wilds when Eman Vath went there after the Peace was signed with Charridan."

"It does not bode well that it has been found now," said Therias, the Speaker for the Seers. He was staring off into the distance out the western window, across the Shining Sea toward where the Empire of Charridan ruled the continent of Idan.

The rest of the Circle shifted uneasily.

"While in the north," Valinor continued after a pause, "I kept an eye on the coast as well. I was surprised to find nothing there – no raiding activity whatsoever. I was surprised too when I returned and found that there have been no further attacks while I was gone. "

"It has been a quiet winter," Speaker Yolin, the Namer, confirmed. He was a short man of stocky build, and his dark, heavy brows were drawn in concentration.

"As was expected," Valinor said, picking up where he'd left off, "but not this quiet. It made me nervous, so when I had returned with Aldred, I took a ship north to the Floating Isles."

The council stiffened, and the weight of their complicated history filled the air. They had tried before to control him, and he had refused, every time, to be controlled. He continued quickly in an effort to forestall any attempts at a rebuke.

"We never made it. We sailed both night and day. The crew I hired was hardy, and with the wind I called we were able to move with great speed. We came close enough to see the Isles themselves, arriving just at dawn when the mists swirl apart and you can see the broken string of land itself. Then we were attacked. It took all of my skill to help us escape alive, and all the skill of the ship's captain to lose those that followed us after I'd exhausted myself. We landed in the Wilds, and I disembarked and told them to make for the safely of Caelron. They did, and I led the pursuing force after me. I lost them in the forests, but I had to go farther north than I've been in many years, and while I was there I found this."

He reached into his torn and tattered vest and pulled out a bundle of dark cloth. He undid the bindings and unfurled what turned out to be a torn scrap of flag; he tossed it to the floor of the chamber at his feet, where all could see it.

The cloth was a faded black, and it bore a single grinning skull picked out in white in the center. Its chin was tilted upward, and it was surrounded by a thick white circle. The skeletal grin seemed to mock them as they studied it.

"Varanathi," said Yolin softly, Naming the flag for them.

A shiver passed through them all, running around the Circle and then through Valinor, too. The name rang true, though they'd never heard it; Yolin had simply found the Word, as was his talent.

Valinor took a fortifying breath and continued on:

"From what I learn from the captured raider, Tholax, to what I saw in the Isles, even to the men I had to fight my way through in order to return here, there is but one conclusion. This is no raiding band looking for plunder. This is a sizable, well-armed, well-coordinated invasion force from north beyond the Isles. Somehow they made it through the Channel. I do not know if they work alone or if they are but the precursor to a larger force – but this threat is very real, and their fleet is large and growing. The island we saw that morning – hundreds of trees had been cut down over the mountainside. They're making ships, building a fleet. The winter closed the sea to them, but it will not remain closed for long. When spring arrives, the attacks will come again, and they will be worse and harder to repel."

"What about the ring? How do they know of it now if they did not originally?"

"Of that I'm not certain," Valinor replied, "but I can only assume they know of it the same way that the others did: rumor and speculation. Someone somewhere talked. Maybe even was forced to. And now they are after it in earnest. It may not be why they came, but it may very well be why they stay."

"Explain your reasoning."

"It is the most powerful Sorev Ael ring ever discovered, and also the ring worn by Eman Vath, who used it to create the Peace. With his death, it lies dormant. But if they succeed in waking it, there is a chance they could use it to weaken the Peace, if not break it entirely. They have with them sorcerers of an unknown origin – sorcerers of the dark arts that call themselves the Kull."

"How do you mean? Some form of necromancy?" asked Speaker Yolin.

"In part, yes," Valinor said. "I am certain they know that art as well."

"As well as what?"

"As well as thanomancy."

A shocked silence engulfed the room, and then the intensity with which they were all watching him redoubled, until it was almost like a physical weight bearing down on him from all sides.

"Have you seen evidence?"

"No," he admitted immediately, "but I have heard enough variations of the same rumors to piece together the truth. They are led by a man that calls himself the Kalac Kull; all I know is that he is a sorcerer of great power, a thanomancer that draws power from the pain, suffering, and even death of others. He has heard of the ring and now he seeks it. We must stop him at all costs; the Ring of Eman Vath in the hands of such a man would bring danger and destruction not seen since the war with Charridan."

Many of the Speakers nodded in agreement, and a few of them exchanged words in low voices. They all quieted again, though, when Holder Flynn spoke up:

"What about Charridan? Have you seen evidence of their presence?"

"None. It may be that they have no hand in this at all. I cannot know for sure, but they may even have suffered similar attacks. Or... they may have sent an envoy to these Varanathi to encourage them in their pursuits. Perhaps they wish to break the Peace after all this time."

"We will know more when the others return," Flynn said simply, acknowledging to Valinor that he was not the only Mage they'd sent. He wondered who else they'd chosen – Jaqulin? Retlow?

Please don't let it be Retlow.

"This is grave indeed," said Speaker Kerrin, the Healer. "We must think on it. Do you have more to add?"

"Only that I would be gone again within the week," he said with a hard inflection. "There is more to know. I have the feeling this has only just begun."

"You have your leave, of course," said Flynn, "but where will you go and when shall we expect your return?"

"North, and I do not know how long I will be gone. When I went there first, there was no sign of these Varanathi, but when I returned on my flight from the Isles, I found a cove that bore remnants of a large encampment. It was several weeks old at that point, but the attempt had been made to hide it. It can only mean that they landed there, ventured farther north, and then returned some time later. There is something afoot I do not understand, and I mean to find out what it is."

The Circle nodded along with his words.

"If you had not suggested this, we would have," Flynn said easily, taking in the mood of the room and the looks on the faces of his fellow Speakers. "You have your leave to go – and may you go with the Creator's grace."

Valinor bowed his head at the dismissal and turned to leave.

"Wait."

He paused, surprised. He had not expected resistance; if anything, the Circle more often then not wanted him elsewhere, where he could not cause trouble, a solution that suited them both.

He turned to Holder, but to his surprise saw the Sage looking to his right, toward where Speaker Therias was still staring calmly out the window. A sudden jolt of apprehension overtook him. Seeing was the least understood of the higher arts that made up the Major Arcana, but those with the gift were not to be ignored.

He glanced at the other Speakers and realized that they were all as taken aback as he was. The silence lengthened, and Therias turned to face Valinor, tearing his eyes away from whatever he saw out the western window. His heavily lined face, unnaturally old for so young a man, bore in it two deep green eyes that caught Valinor and held him; the man's gaze pierced him, and left him feeling naked. He repressed the urge to shiver, reminding himself that he had nothing to hide.

"You cannot go alone."

Valinor felt a surge of relief followed quickly by frustration. This was not a Seeing after all, just the old argument from a new source. He was not sure how Therias had been convinced to speak on behalf of the others, but it didn't matter.

"I don't have time to care for a half-trained pupil," he growled. "There are plenty of Sorev Ael to train the next generation. I refuse, as I always have."

He trailed off as he saw the open surprise on the faces of the others. Speaker Kerrin in particular, often the chief instigator when the Circle tried to urge him to take an apprentice, looked dumbfounded.

Valinor's heart began to thump apprehensively in his chest.

Therias' green eyes grabbed him and wrapped him up, pulling him apart, Seeing him down to his very soul. The man's black hair fought back against the gray light that came through the window, refusing to be aged or cast in pallor. He was younger than Valinor, younger than all the others in the room. But the frown lines on his face, and the weathered, creased line of his jaw, showed the weight of his mind, the weight of the Sight that constantly pressed down on him.

"You are in need," the Seer said, staring at Valinor as though he were a book that had revealed an interesting, hidden chapter.

"I am not. I am as I have always been," he replied with effort. His breathing was coming quicker now, and he had to force his voice to stay even.

"You are not the same," Therias said, his eyes traveling wildly over Valinor's face. "You are in need. You must take another."

"I have no time for apprentices."

"Then this will be your last visit to this room."

"Are you threatening to take away my ring? That hasn't been done to a Sorev Ael since the war! We've had this argument before, and nothing has changed. I refuse to –"

"You are in _need_ ," Therias hissed, the final word coming from him with such insistence that Valinor felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. "If you do not fulfill that need, then you will no longer be."

Dead silence.

"What are you Seeing?" Valinor asked, forcing his voice out, holding it tight to keep it from trembling.

"You need another – that is all I know. And they," he turned and extended a hand toward the western window, toward the distant, hunkered form of Caelron, weathering the storm, "they are in need as well. The need... it is the same."

Valinor swallowed hard. He felt as though a hidden well of energy had been tapped in his chest, and he knew it came from fear. Seers did not see the future – they saw the present. They saw the world as it was, and as it wasn't.

"What am I right now?"

"You are dying," came the soft reply.

There was a sharp intake of breath from all corners of the room; Valinor took a jerking step forward. "How? What is wrong with me?"

He heard whispered Words and felt a rushing sensation like wind blowing over him. "He is sound in mind and body," said Master Kerrin, examining him with the critical eyes of a Healer. "There is nothing about him that suggests –"

" _HE IS IN NEED!_ "

Valinor pulled back and gathered fire in his hand before he came back to his senses. Master Therias was on his feet, his eyes bulging, a single finger outstretched, his whole body shaking with conviction.

"There is a hole in you," he said, his words hushed and full of pain. He grimaced and gnashed his teeth as if he could feel what he was talking about – as if by seeing it in Valinor, the Seer felt it in himself. "There is a hole. You must fill it, or you will not return. This is your last visit to us unless you change it, unless you fill it. There is a piece missing from you, and from _them_."

He gestured again at the window, a sweeping move that encompassed the city and also the open waters of the Shining Sea beyond it.

"There is another," the Seer continued, his chest heaving up and down, his breathing ragged. "There is another here – she arrived with you, before you went. You came together – you must leave together. She is not whole, either, she is missing."

"The girl?" Valinor asked, incredulous. "What does the girl have to do with –?"

" _She must go north_ ," Therias broke in, giving no sign that he even knew Valinor had spoken. He was truly in the grip of a Seeing now. The fit was building, and with it came manic energy that filled him to the brim and threatened to spill over, threatened to burn the rest of them like a raging bonfire. "You must go north – both of you. That is where the hole is – the hole in you will be filled, and the hole in her with be filled."

"And if I don't?"

"I cannot see." Therias shook his head frantically. "I cannot see."

He stopped, sat down again, and leaned back in his chair, shivering violently. The fit passed as quickly as it had come: the burning eyes cleared; the clenched jaw loosened; the muscles, bunched in pain, relaxed.

"Stonewall," he concluded, gasping. "The girl is named Stonewall."

The Seeing ended, and silence descended. Slowly, the first to move, Valinor glanced at Holder Flynn, whose mouth was drawn tight. The Sage turned his head to look back. "You know the girl," he said. It was not a question.

Valinor took a shaky breath and let the conjured fire in his hand disappear with a snap. "She was there when I was traveling south. The night of the raid."

"How did you know she was ready for training? Why did you bring her here?"

"She held my staff and spoke the Words for fire and protection."

There was shifting and muttering, but it was Holder who spoke clearly what the rest of them were thinking: "Your staff is yew wood," he said quietly. "It is hard for the best of us to handle yew."

"She did it without thinking."

"Why?"

"To save her family. And... me."

Angry exclamations greeted this pronouncement from all sides.

"She saved your life and you didn't think to tell us?" Holder demanded, once again silencing the room by speaking their objections for them. His face, so often open and smiling, was full of anger, disappointment, and even a touch of betrayal. Valinor reminded himself that he was not a small boy to be chastised by such a look, but it was still hard not to fold under that blazing blue gaze.

"I did not think it important until now," Valinor admitted. "It still doesn't matter. She's an apprentice and no matter her potential, she is of no use to me now."

"She _saved your life_ , Valinor," Holder said, enunciating every word and watching him with something verging on exasperation now. " _With your own staff_. She is bound to you! You should have _told_ us this!"

"That way of choosing apprentices is a ridiculous practice of the past," Valinor said, letting some of his own contempt show. "We are not fools of the old ages, conjuring with animal blood and dark intent –"

"You are in _need_ ," Therias interrupted again. "And so is she!"

Valinor grimaced and fought back the urge to turn and leave without their say-so. He'd done it before and gotten away with it. But not this time. No, he needed to resolve this now; else they might very well do to him what they'd done to Leora years ago when she'd refused.

"Valinor has never taken an apprentice before," Master Kerrin said in his soft voice, addressing Therias, who looked as if he had finally come back to himself. He seemed aware of the others, and though sweat still stood out on his forehead and his breathing was short and ragged, his eyes were focused and clear.

"You know my thoughts on the matter," Kerrin continued. "But you, Therias, have been actively against the proposal. What has changed?"

"War."

The word rolled out of the Seer's mouth and around the room, but for once none of the listening Sorev Ael seemed surprised. If anything, it was as if they'd been waiting for it. The weight of the word flowed into the air and pushed down on them, but they refused to bow under the heavy load.

"There is something different and deeper here," he continued, wiping away a bead of sweat as it rolled down his temple. "I cannot see it all; there is too much happening. But there is nothing of Charridan in this. These invaders, the ones who last touched that flag... they are not trying to reignite an old war. This is new. The feeling is... dark. As dark as what I've sense of Charridan, but different. As alike and different as two midnights: dark, but separate. And now the Ring of Eman Vath, a ring forged in a time of war... the youth and inexperience of our new king, untried and untested... worsening relations between Calinae and Laniae. The world is moving on – it is stirring."

"Did you See anything else?" asked Holder Flynn. His sparkling eyes were fathomless, his whole vast mind focused on Therias as if trying to draw further information from him by sheer force of will.

But the Seer shook his head, and Holder Flynn turned back to Valinor.

"Then there is something else I must ask before I consent to send one of the apprentices into potential danger, even on the strength of such a Seeing," he said. "I almost let it pass, but you have just shown us that we should perhaps take more interest in your doings. You come to us now in torn and tattered clothing: How were you attacked? What happened that you, the Mage of the Eryn-Ra, suffered burns?"

Valinor stifled the impulse to shout at the man. This was beyond ridiculous. They had not dared to treat him in such a way since he'd returned with his ring nearly twenty years ago.

But he saw a glimmer of hope. Holder had just admitted he was not convinced. If Valinor explained fully the danger they would be putting the girl in, perhaps they would not saddle him with her after all.

His mind made up, he abruptly pulled off his cloak and threw it on the floor before them – the open holes singed and gapping like the dull and empty sockets of sightless eyes. With the cloak gone, there stood revealed the tears in his tunic and faded red vest, the rent fabric of his outer breeches, and the bloodstains that coated his left side.

The Speakers drew in a collective breath, and Kerrin the Healer moved forward out of reflex, reaching to examine him, forgetting he had already done so; Valinor held up a hand and forestalled him.

"I am well," he said simply. "I was able to heal myself. The curse was simple, though effective. But it was a _curse –_ not an enchantment. The Words were dark, and I'd never heard them before. I only barely figured out how to reverse them before they passed the wards I'd woven around myself. These Varanathi come with dark intent and purpose. You know me – you know my power and the ring I bear." As if aware it had been mentioned, the fiery ruby burned brightly before fading back to its normal brilliance. "You are right, Speakers, to ask the questions that you have. And one of them in particular. The last time I was hurt by flame I was still an apprentice. Speaking the language of fire is like breathing to me – it something I simply do."

He held up his right hand, letting the sleeve of his long coat, torn and ripped, fall back and away to reveal his forearm. There was a collective intake of breath, gasps, and sudden movement.

A large patch of burned and blackened skin, only matched in color by the fierce burnt-black quality of his eyes, gleamed at them. The skin glistened in the light like a burn, but the muscles moved easily, and there were no blisters or signs of swelling. If not for the discoloration, there would have been no sign of injury.

"What happened?"

"Why did you not speak of this before?"

"Valinor, what –?"

He flexed the burned and broken hand, and it moved easily. The skin was crisped and cracked, but when he moved and turned it the wound did not pull or break open. The Circle fell silent, watching closely.

"I am well," he repeated, "but thank you for your concern. It is a scar from the curse. The arm functions, and my ring protected the hand. It has already begun to fade – when it was new, it was black as pitch. It has begun to lighten, and if I'm not mistaken, it will soon be gone entirely. In the meantime... I never intended to win a beauty contest. I care little for the look of it, so long as it continues to function."

He lowered the arm and let the edges of his sleeve fall back around it; they floated down to cover the burned skin so that all that was visible was the upper half of his hand, which was still the coppery tan of his face and cheeks.

A number of the Speakers exchanged looks, but it was Speaker Huolon, the Illusionist, who spoke first: "Who was it that practiced this power? Who attacked?"

"I never saw him," Valinor said. "He spoke in Words I had never heard, as I said. They sounded... wrong. I could not understand them. They were harsh and burning, though, like a fire heavy with smoke."

He paused, and then let his final argument fall.

"If I go north, I will likely meet a member of these... Kull... again. I will fight them if I must, and bring them here if I can. It will be dangerous. There are certainly more than the one I met – and they are led by this man of whom I've only heard rumors, this Kalac Kull, who may very well be my match or greater. In light of this consideration, I urge you to reconsider the idea of asking me to take a defenseless apprentice along with me."

One by one, each of the Speakers turned to look at Therias. The Seer's eyes were fixed on Valinor again, and he was shaking his head. The gray pallor of the stormy day crept around him, like calm and soothing fingers, washing away some of the premature lines that had come to him and making him look younger. Making him look innocent and naive. But when he spoke, it was not with the voice of a young man – it was with the measured solemnity of a Speaker.

"She must go. You have only served to show why you need her. You are right that this man might be your match or greater. _You need her._ If you leave without her... I do not know for sure, I cannot See the future, only the now. I cannot tell you that you will find and confront him; I cannot tell you that you will be defeated. Such things are not written. But I can see the truth of you, the truth of you as you are at this moment – and if you leave without her, there will be a piece missing from you, and a piece missing in her. If you find and confront this Kalac Kull, you will not be whole – and that may make all the difference."

"She excels in Magery, does she not?" asked Master Kerrin suddenly.

"She does," said Holder Flynn. Valinor opened his mouth to ask why the Thirteenth Speaker of the Circle of Var Athel knew the particulars of a single newly arrived apprentice, but he stopped short because he already knew the answer: Holder Flynn possessed the kind of mind that had not forgotten a name or a face since he'd first opened his eyes and looked upon his mother. If a student was doing particularly well, he would know about it.

"And she outpaces her classmates, does she not?" Speaker Kerrin continued, whose mind worked along similar lines. The man could not work a complex enchantment to save his life, but he understood people better than Valinor ever would.

"She does," Holder Flynn confirmed. "In Naming and Enchantment as well, if I recall correctly." There were several other murmurs of acknowledgement throughout the room – from Speaker Revlen the Enchanter and Speaker Yolin the Namer in particular.

"Then her place is in the Citadel, where she can continue to excel!" Valinor insisted, losing his temper. The sleepless nights of travel and the lack of anything approaching solid food had already sapped his strength. He needed to end this. "I cannot train her – she needs teachers like Owain."

Holder Flynn raised an eyebrow, poorly concealing a smile.

"Are you actually recommending Owain? Are you _sure_ you suffered no lasting damage from that curse?"

There was a smattering of reluctant grins at the joke, and Valinor tried not to let his annoyance show.

"You're right – he and I couldn't agree on the color of the sky if you gave us a year to hash it out. But I would be a fool not to know that he excels at teaching and I most certainly do not. If the girl truly has a gift, the worst thing you could do would be to take her out of his care and put her in mine."

He looked around at the others and saw nothing but closed faces. He felt a swell of panic rise up in his chest – they couldn't actually be thinking of forcing this on him, could they? "You cannot be serious! My side is no place for a fully trained Sorev Ael, let alone a half-trained girl! I _will not take her!_ "

"No... no, you won't."

Everyone turned back to the Seer, whose eyes had once again unfocused.

"I don't understand, Therias," said Speaker Huolon, his small black eyes crinkled at the edges as he examined the Seer in confusion. "Did you not just say–?"

"Good, that's enough of this nonsense," Valinor interrupted. He had learned long ago to leave immediately when he received the answer he wanted. He turned on his heel, picking up his cloak as he went. "I will send the regular reports when I can – "

"Stay where you are, Valinor."

Holder Flynn's voice carried with it a steely edge now, and it was this more than anything else that made Valinor pull up short. His hands clenched into fists before he could stop them, and it was only with a supreme effort of will that he managed to keep his temper from bursting out of him in a long litany of curses.

"Therias," said Holder Flynn. "Have you changed your mind?"

The Seer shook his head.

"You must both still go," said Therias. "But there is something that is not yet in place. I cannot explain it further – it is like the smell of a storm. The time is not yet, but it is coming. Over the past weeks I have sensed it building, but slowly – too slowly for you to take her yet. There is something in motion, like a tree about to bear fruit, that will be spoiled if we act too soon."

"Very well, then when will the... fruit... come to ripeness?" asked Flynn.

"Soon," Therias replied. "Weeks if I had to take a guess, though I cannot say exactly. The pieces are not yet in place – I can only counsel patience. When the time comes, I will know it. Valinor need not stay in Var Athel, but he must stay close enough that he can come when I send word."

"That sounds like a good plan to me," said Speaker Kerrin. Valinor was amazed at how much the man's voice made him want to jump off the top of the Tower. "The girl has not been tested yet; we will have time to assess her fully and deliver a report to Valinor before he –"

"Do not speak of me as if I am not present," Valinor snapped.

A beat of silence.

"Very well," Holder Flynn said, his calm composure returned. "You are correct. Your instructions are simple: you are to wait in the city of Var Athel if not in the Citadel itself until such time as we send word. When that time comes, you will take her as an apprentice, and train her as is expected."

Valinor seethed in silence, watching the Sage's face. There was nothing he could do, and everyone in the room knew it. He was bound, as all Sorev Ael were, to follow the Circle. This was a direct order; he could not simply walk away as he had done before, not without risking serious repercussions.

A bloody apprentice about my feet. Creator give me strength.

Finally, spending every ounce of willpower he had not to snap and berate them all for their damn foolishness, he nodded, a sharp jerk of his head that showed his disapproval as much as he tried to hide it by staying silent.

"Good. Next we must deal with the news of these Varanathi," said Master Kerrin, turning back to Holder Flynn as if nothing had happened. "There is much we must think on – and the first thing we must do is send news of this report to Baelric in Caelron. He and the new king should know what is happening."

"The Ring of Eman Vath must go to Baelric as well," said Therias suddenly.

"No!" Valinor almost shouted, his temper finally breaking in full and crashing out on everything around him like a violent wave. "No! After all the time it took to track it down, after the miles I traveled, the years I've spent looking, you _cannot_ tell me you can also See the future of a ring. It has been lost for nearly a century, and now that it is found, the safest place for it is here – it must stay in Var Athel, it must stay safe! Imagine what would happen if it fell into the hands of these Varanathi. Their power is not like ours – it is dark, dark as we have not seen – "

"It cannot stay in Var Athel," Therias insisted, speaking easily over him and not even acknowledging it as an interruption. His green eyes were once again far away, taking no notice of anything but what his gift was showing him. "It must go to Baelric, and Speaker Flynn must take it to him – tonight."

There was another general uproar at this, and Valinor was viciously pleased to see that he was not the only one offended by the idea of letting the ring leave the Citadel. If it fell into the wrong hands, it could be a tool of destruction on a massive scale. Surely this was something that would be beaten down, surely –

Holder Flynn silenced them.

"Master Therias sees more than we all ever will," he said. Waves of calm radiated from him, though Valinor's anger fought them as best it could. How was everything going so differently from the way he'd planned?

"The next safest place for the Ring of Eman Vath is in the hands of Baelric the Wise," he continued, looking around at them one by one, subduing their passion with the warmth and calm of his deep blue eyes. "It is clear that this enemy – these Varanathi – want it, and if they come for it here, there is a chance we will not be able to defend against them. The castle in Caelron is protected with enchantments as well, and is protected too by the force of arms. It is the only place as safe as Var Athel, and we must make use of it."

"Master Therias speaks sense," said the Enchanter over a number of other voices raised in protest, chief among them Speaker Ailin and Speaker Loiall, the two women who represented the Arts of Veritacery and Animagery. "I worry having it here. It is said that it is a harbinger, that Eman Vath forged it to give him strength in war and that he cursed it so that it could never be found in peace. Of all Sorev Ael, Baelric is the man I trust most with it."

There was more murmuring here, but some of it had changed to assent, and Valinor saw that he was once again outnumbered. He clenched his jaw and forced himself to silence, though what he wanted more than anything else in that moment was to shout and rage.

"It shall be done – and I will take care of it myself," said Holder Flynn. "We cannot move forward lightly, and this news is grave. Let us take the time now to send messages and missives where we must, to inform those who have need of knowing. A shadow threatens the land of Aeon. Tell them to be ready and watchful, and to send word immediately if anything should happen."

His gaze centered again on Valinor.

"You will take the girl when we call," he said, softly but with such conviction that Valinor knew the argument was over. This was not his friend speaking – this was the Master Sage, Head of the Circle of Var Athel. "Had you taken a position on this council when you were asked, perhaps you could have avoided this, but in your current position you know you cannot refuse. Therias sees what the rest of us do not – and if you do not trust him, then trust me. I do not possess his sight, but his words ring true to me. There is something here that none of us understands. We must move forward deliberately, step by step. Perhaps when this has ended and we look back, we will see the entire path and marvel that we ever doubted its straightness."

All attention centered back on Valinor as they waited to see how he would respond. He knew he had to acquiesce, but the words stuck in his throat. The tension in the room mounted with every second he delayed, and his mind worked at lightning speed in an effort to find a way out of this predicament. Nothing came to him, though, and the realization stole over him that he was well and truly trapped.

"So be it," he said finally, not trusting himself to say more.

"Very good," said Holder Flynn. "We are adjourned."

The Circle rose as one and began to file out of the room. Valinor waited for them, giving himself time to gather himself back under control. What did they expect him to do with a helpless girl? She didn't even have a staff yet. And what would happen if he took her north to find one and she wasn't chosen? What if the staff didn't come because they'd forced her out too soon? Then he'd be stuck with a useless, half-trained –

"Valinor," said a creaking voice that reminded him of rusted door hinges.

His thoughts stopped dead and his concentration shattered. Nerves gathered in the pit of his stomach, but he cleared his throat and tried to regain his composure, forcing his mind back to the time and place at hand. Most of the Speakers were gone – all of them were, in fact, save for the final member of the council.

The Mage Speaker. His father.

Julien Therin was by far the oldest Sorev Ael on the Circle. His hair and beard were both hoary like unto the Master Sage, but he had the other trappings of age that Holder Flynn had not yet garnered: his back was bent and his limbs shook; his eyes were dimming, and his gums were toothless; his skin was loose, and he never seemed to sleep. Yet there was still a sense of power to him, the same power that had made him feared in his youth, the same power that had made him a hero in the eyes of many young boys, and now the same power that was slowly rusting over, like a worn sword long since laid aside and left unused.

It broke Valinor's heart anew to see it.

"Ah, my young one," Julien Therin said, smiling at Valinor so deeply that his face turned into a mass of wrinkles as his long and flowing beard twitched. "You always look so sad when you see me. You really should not. The end of a life well-lived is not cause for mourning but for celebration."

"Yes, father," Valinor said quietly, glad that they were alone now. He itched to leave too, but he forced himself to remain.

Julien Therin smiled, and Valinor tried to smile back. His father rarely spoke when the Circle met, and most times Valinor came and went without a single word exchanged between the two of them. But when they did speak, the conversation was always the same.

"You have more gray hair than when last I saw you," Julien Therin said in his blunt manner. A manner he'd passed on to his son.. " If you are growing old, what does that make me?" He watched Valinor with a twisted grin and a twinkle in his burnt-black eyes.

"Ancient," Valinor replied, affecting joviality.

Julien Therin laughed, a good-natured bark that in his younger days had been deep, resonant, and rolling. Now, however, it was a shadow of its former self, a harsh wheezing cackle that shook the whole bent frame of its owner like a heavy wind through a dilapidated house. Valinor held out a hand for support, but the old man waved him away and then stood steady, leaning against his own yew staff, almost the mirror of Valinor's.

"Ancient indeed," Julien Therin said, turning a still-keen eye on his son and watching him from under wild white caterpillar eyebrows. "So ancient in fact that I cannot help but wonder what will happen when I die, which must be soon."

He turned away and crossed the room, looking out the southern-facing window, over the bay and the shore on the continent side and out toward the blowing grain fields of Aginor. He looked beyond as well, to where the peaks of the Barrier Mountains would be, many miles distant, fresh with the snow of winter. Valinor followed him, steeling himself for what was to come, readying all the old arguments and trying to think of new ones.

"Ancient enough that I will not live much longer – and ancient enough that I remember a time when my seat on the Circle was held by unworthy hands."

"Father – "

"Do not speak yet, son. You will have your turn, and I know that you will put off that which I request of you. You will win, as you always do, because you know and I know that I would not force this office on you, though you know and I know that I bloody well could."

He turned back, his limbs shaking slightly, to raise a wise old brow at his son and smile roughly. There was melancholy in that smile, along with resignation and hope and a thousand shades of emotion that Valinor could not sum up together.

"You are the natural choice," Julien Therin said softly. "You deserve a seat on the Circle after all your years of service, and what is more, the Circle deserves _you_. Var Athel deserves you."

"The world deserves me more," Valinor said, launching down the oldest and best-worn track of the argument. "I have years left to be of use. I cannot be holed up here, cloistered away and sending out other men to do what I would fain do myself."

"Is that how little you think of me and what I do?" his father asked, but with a wry smile that softened the blow of the words. Valinor flushed and tried to backtrack, but couldn't because it was true. He'd never seen the value in sitting here behind the walls of the Citadel.

"No, no," Julien Therin said. He raised both hands and grabbed Valinor's strong shoulders with his shaking grip. "Do not explain, I understand. I was just like you when my old teacher came to me and told me my place was here. I refused him adamantly, and yet here I am. There comes a time for everything, my son; and when you are as old as I, you will find the humor in it. The humor in how hard I struggled and how hard you struggle now against that which is meant to be. There will come along someone to replace you in your worldly duties, someone who can do the job you no longer can – and then you must come to me. I only hope that it is not too late. If I am not alive to hand over this seat, then it will be voted on – and if you are not here or cannot return to stand for the election, then you may never sit here where you deserve to be. I do not hold this ambition for you, nor do I hold it for me; I hold it for the good of the order to which we both belong, and for the good of the land of Aeon that we both love. There is a time of trials coming. That is what you feel, and what the others feel, but I'm the only one old enough to have seen such times before and to know them as they come back again, spinning out of history into the present."

The old man's burnt-black eyes grew distant. The ring on his finger, a fiery topaz like and yet unlike his son's glowing ruby, flared briefly.

"Whatever happens," he said, "I am proud of you. Know that you are the joy of my life, and that seeing you strong and capable is reward enough in my old age. You are my greatest achievement by far."

Valinor swallowed hard and looked down. It had been decades since he'd last needed the praise of a teacher, and here he was choking up at his father's words. Uncomfortable, unable to face his own emotions, he buried them and tried to tell himself they did not exist.

"I only urge you not to let it go to waste," Julien Therin continued. "You have a beautiful life in you – and you can do more than roam the Wilds. You are nearly half a century old; you are no longer the young Mage that spoke with the Eryn-Ra. This girl – she may be as important to you as you are to her. It is no accident that you were the one to bring her here, and now the one to take her north."

Valinor opened his mouth, but he found he had no words.

Julien Therin patted his son lovingly on the cheek, rough skin rasping against many-day's growth of beard. He let go and moved toward the door, his walk quick and slow in equal measure, a strange wonder all its own. He turned back once more before he left, leaning heavily against the doorframe.

"You have an apprentice to look after," the old man said with a wide smile that again turned his face into a mass of wrinkles. "Perhaps she will show you the way that I could not."

Valinor was alone then, save for the _talin_ who had come to flank the inner door. He looked out the chamber window to the west; he looked through the storm, out across the roiling sea. He thought of all that would come next, and all that had gone before. He stood in the center of his life, with no way to go but forward. How was it possible that time had gone by so quickly? How was it possible that so much of the world had stayed the same, and so much of it was poised to change?

He pushed such thoughts away, walling them off in a corner of his mind. He was no Sage – he would find no answers to these questions in contemplation.

The world needed him. That was all that mattered.

Chapter Fourteen: The Last Thief

Wren barely escaped East Square, and he was one of only a handful of others who did as well. Pip was not among them.

The face of the dead man stuck in his mind's eye as he fled through the city, blindly making his way back to the safety of the Waterworks. Every corner he turned, he saw the face of the man who'd given him the lute. Every shout or cry made him think that the man was calling him back to question him – to ask him what he'd done to deserve death.

You did nothing, Wren thought as he stumbled through an alleyway, trying to answer the man's ghost and send it away. You did nothing. You did nothing.

The litany pounded through him in time with his heartbeat, as if the knowledge of the death had infected him and was being carried by his blood through his body. He felt too warm, as if he had a fever, and he kept touching his chest and side, where the weight of the lost lute was most noticeable.

The loss was not the loss of a possession. It was a physical break, a tearing away akin to losing an arm or a leg, and he was still bleeding from it. His fingers still itched to touch the wood, his head still spun with the last melodies he'd played, and his whole body felt too light and somehow lopsided.

What remained of the Thieves Guild congregated beneath the Waterworks that night. After the botched job, they knew the guards would crack down across the city in a final push toward eradication. Many Thieves had already been taken, even those who hadn't followed Bruth. The bare handful left, including Wren, weren't enough for anything. Many of them were almost hysterical as they conveyed the rumors they'd heard on their way back to the hideout: those who'd been taken and who could be convicted of murder were scheduled for trial the following day and would doubtless hang soon after, while those that were less guilty had been thrown into the castle prisons, from whence they might never return.

There was no reason to stay in the city. They had to flee.

Wren listened as avidly as he could, trying to staunch the hemorrhaging of thoughts and feelings that threatened to cripple him. There were no Guild leaders left – Bruth himself had been taken by the guards, and had died resisting – and there was no one to convince them to stay. They pooled what gold they had and went for the gates, toward the one guard they agreed could still be bribed. They took everything they could carry, which was not much.

Wren sleepwalked after them. It was as though the thread holding together his thoughts had been cut, and the result was a jumble in his mind that he could not sort out. He followed the others and they seemed to take it as a given that he was one of them. No one knew the details of what had happened in the center of the Square; no one had made it out from that far in save for Wren.

They escaped through the northern gate, but the guard who could still be greased knew the predicament they were in. He demanded a king's ransom, and when the money changed hands the Thieves were destitute in truth, with barely two coppers to rub together.

They crossed the bay with difficulty. It was a dismal night, wracked by storms that swept over Caelron and the whole Peninsula, turning the normally placid waters into rough, choppy swells and sending rivers of rain crashing into the lower towns. Even the pilot of the ferry looked green in the face, and he muttered to himself under his breath every second they were in the water.

They reached the other side alive, but so wet they might as well have swum. They disembarked in pairs and faded into the city, then met again and holed up until the morning turned to afternoon and the storm began to blow itself out. It wasn't hard to avoid notice. There were few guards in the city around Var Athel because few were needed. Everyone knew that to commit a crime in sight of the Citadel was to be the lowest kind of fool: enchantments were woven into the very stones of the fortress that sought out wrongdoing, and the justice of the Sorev Ael was swift and final.

But the truly desperate are willing to tempt fate.

They had not eaten more than salvaged scraps during their escape, and many were still smarting from the beatings they'd taken and thus eager to cause mayhem. All that remained were the worst of the lot: the cowards, the truly evil, and those blessed with simple, dumb luck.

"Wake up!"

It was deep into the night when they were roused, but they did as commanded. The man doing the waking was known simply as Oak, one of Bruth's lieutenants, and he was not to be trifled with. He'd lost an eye during the escape – a clean slice that was on its way to healing, but he would never see out of it again – and he'd covered the useless socket with a black patch. His pockmarked cheeks and chin were covered with several weeks of scruff that was the grizzled gray-black of late middle age, and yellow-brown teeth sneered out between his twisted lips.

"What's going on?" one of them muttered groggily.

"Shut it," Oak growled. The offender did as told, and the rest took the hint and stayed silent as they came to their feet. They'd hidden themselves in a dark and grimy alley that smelled of refuse and waste, just beside the road that led south. Oak turned back to the alley's opening and looked out, watching with hungry, wolfish eyes. Wren followed the gaze and saw the object of his attention: an approaching merchant train.

It was a simple gilded wagon with a single driver, and only two men on horseback to guard it. There were two others as well. The first, a servant, was not worth noticing, but the second was dressed in finery and rode a mount burdened with bulging saddlebags that were carefully secured.

"That's a lordling if I ever saw one," whispered another strongarm named Lopin. "We can take him easily."

Oak smiled.

"Send the boys out front to distract," he growled, gesturing to Tiar and Squeak, the twins that had come to them only a few months back and who were somewhere around ten. "They look half drowned – little lordling will stop to help. You three – you're picks, yeah?"

He was speaking to Wren and two others – Dice and Hop, both of whom were older thieves in their late twenties. They were the last true thieves left – the ones called pickpockets by the strongarms like Oak. Dice and Hop grunted their assent before Wren could say anything, and Oak turned away.

"Good – circle around," he said. "Rob 'em quiet if yeh can. We'll distract 'em, you cut the strings. Got it?"

Dice and Hop murmured their agreement, and Wren felt himself begin to slowly waken. He had not eaten in nearly three days, save for water and mildewed bread. They needed this – they needed what that lordling had. A thrill rushed through him, and his mind started to work again. The face of the man in the Square began to fade; this was not like that. This lordling was not an innocent. No man who rode a fine horse and led a gilded wagon was an innocent.

Dice and Hop moved off along the alley, ready to circle back around, and Wren went with them. His heart had begun to beat quickly in his chest, and his head was clear and his eyes wide. The air was cool and misty tonight after the faded storm – perfect cover – and a thin film of dew coated his skin, mingling with the sweat and grime that had become as much a part of his attire as the clothes he wore.

They passed through a cluster of single-story wooden houses, careful not to make a sound, and stayed away from the center of the road, lit as it was with oil lamps that spread a flickering golden glow across the scene. They turned down the cross street and heard noise ahead of them.

Wren's pulse pounded in his ears, and he realized he was smiling. This was what it was supposed to be like – robbing from those who could spare it, robbing from those who could buy a hundred thousand lutes and yet kept all that money to themselves. This was what had gone missing! It was a good start to a life outside of Caelron. A fresh start. This would set them up, this would get them food and shelter.

They slowed to a stop several yards behind the train as it too came to a halt. There was some deliberation, and then the lord rode forward, flanked by his two guards, to examine the boys that had emerged from the alleyway in front of them.

Dice turned back to check that Wren had followed, and as he did he caught a glimpse of Wren's ghostly smile. He spoke contemptuously: "Wipe that smirk off your face, lute-boy. You do this job and you give us whatever you get. There's no Guild now – you do this and you do it right, or you'll answer to me."

As the words sank in, the heady thrill of the chase was replaced with a numb, hollow feeling. Dice turned back around, his greasy black hair swaying over his shoulders and hiding him in the shadows. There was no time to say or doing anything in response though, no time to protest even if he'd wanted to, because just then Oak and the others attacked.

They ran for the two guards and unhorsed them before they knew what was happening, gnarled old Oak in the lead. He struck the first guard with a plank of wood that was warped and cured with age, bearing him to the ground. The second guard followed soon after.

"Go!" Hop whispered fiercely. He took off running for the horses, ready to catch them. Wren took a step back.

But Dice must have sensed what Wren was only just beginning to contemplate, because he turned and grabbed him. With his free hand he unsheathed a thin stiletto dagger, exactly the same as the one Pip had used, and pressed it against Wren's throat.

"You take one more step and you die this very second."

Cold fear washed through Wren, like ice injected into his veins, and he swallowed around the blade.

"Follow Hop," Dice hissed, pushing him forward. "Go! Now!"

Wren went.

The wagon was tall and long, with a covered canvas top and flaps down the sides that hid from view whatever was inside. The strongarms had succeeded in unhorsing the lord, but something seemed wrong. Wren slowed just enough to see that one of the guards was on his feet again and had managed to unsheathe his sword. His dark cloak had been torn off by the first attack and his subsequent fall, and Wren could now see the colors of his clothing underneath: red and green in a strange pattern, not like a guardsman at all but like a... like...

Viretorum.

A new kind of fear rushed through him, one that bordered on terror. His thoughts scattered like startled quarry, and a ringing filled his ears. He pulled up short in his rush toward the stray horses, just long enough to see Hop get picked up and thrown a dozen feet through the air.

No one and nothing had touched him.

Wren spun back around and saw Dice standing a dozen paces back behind him, just barely concealed in shadow. He hadn't seen Hop go flying, and he was staring murderously at Wren.

There was no way out.

The sudden sound of pounding hooves filled Wren's ears. The lord's horse, riderless and as startled by the flying Hop as Wren had been, went racing past him, away from the wagon and back toward the way they'd come.

"Get it!" Dice hissed at him, flashing again the thin, deadly dagger.

Wren at the horse just in time. It reared back, frightened of what it couldn't see, and kicked out wildly. Wren dodged the flaying hooves easily and then reached up to grab for the reins, turning the beast's head to keep it under control.

Shouts came from the other side of the wagon, and the ring of swords.

Wren steadied the horse as best he could and went for the luggage. The saddlebags were tied shut. He plunged his hand into his shirt, pulled out the curved pick knife he kept there, and cut the straps. Something heavy shifted inside the bag; he caught it with the practiced, dexterous twist, slide, and pull of a life-long thief, and then pushed past what felt like cloth to find a box made of metal and wood. His hand closed over it, and he pulled it out with a heavy tug.

He had a split second to disengage from the horse – to pull back, look down at the box in his hand and realize it was covered in some strange foreign language – before the searing pain raced through him.

He could not have said if he cried out, or fell, or did anything but stand there. All he knew was that every part of him, his entire being, was suddenly flooded with pain from where his hand had touched the box. His vision blacked out and then came back, tinged with red, and he found himself on his knees, slapping his hand against the ground, trying to dislodge the source of the agony.

It would not go.

He stumbled to his feet, puling at his wrist, his hand, screaming for someone to do something, shouting for someone to cut it off, to end the pain, but it was no use. It felt as though someone had fused the metal to his skin.

A single thought crossed his mind in the middle of the scene, a single snatch of song that made no sense at all. He thought, with whatever dim corner of himself that was not consumed by pain, that his mind had broken and he'd gone insane, but the notes wouldn't die. They kept playing themselves over and over again in his mind, inexplicably reminding him of running water.

Unconscious of the effort, his lips rounded themselves and let out a thin stream of air. The whistle echoed the notes in his head perfectly, and the melody seemed grew until it enveloped him.

The pain cut off as quickly as it had come, and the box fell from his hand.

Gasping, Wren looked through the film of tears that had welled up in his eyes and begun to stream down his cheeks. Where he'd expected to see a blackened, burned stump, he saw instead a fully functioning hand that, though it looked slightly red where he'd clutched the box, was completely unharmed.

He looked down at the box and saw that it had split in two where it had hit the ground. The metal and wood had retreated, curling out to form what looked almost like a claw, and inside was a shining piece of metal.

There came sound from behind him – shouts from the knights.

He grabbed the ring. A sharp sensation raced up his arm and disappeared in a flash of heat that left him gasping. He ran for the lord's horse, which was still nearby; it shied away from him, hesitant, but Wren grabbed the reins and pulled it around. He unsheathed the pick knife again, sliced the straps holding the heaviest bags to the saddle, and vaulted onto the horse's back. Deprived of the excess weight, the beast whirled around easily, and Wren dug his heels into its flanks. It shot off up the street, rushing past Dice as he lunged out of the alley in a futile attempt to stop them, and raced out into the dark and stormy night.

Holder Flynn watched the boy disappear. The initial panic that had flared inside him was gone now as if it had never been, and that age-old sense of well being that some called wisdom was with him. It was so strong now, watching the boy disappear into the night, watching the flash of the horse's hooves as the mount disappeared around a distant corner, that he almost shook with it.

One of the Viretorum reined in next to him.

"Speaker," the knight said breathlessly, "you wish us to lay chase, yes?"

Holder Flynn did not respond immediately. There was a war going on inside him. If he'd been a younger man, he would have immediately said yes; he would have told the guard to chase the boy down, to bring him back at all costs. The ring he bore was the Ring of Eman Vath, and it did not belong in the hands of dirty urchin.

A dirty urchin like Eman Vath. An urchin boy who spoke a Word of Unbinding with no training and no staff to channel it. Not even spoke it – sang it.

"No," he said quietly. Shock and alarm passed over the knight's face, and Holder Flynn turned to him. "No, Gaolin. Thank you, but there is no need."

The knight's mouth opened and shut soundlessly as he stared at Holder Flynn, but finally he settled back on his horse and gave in. The other two Viretorum – one dressed as a minor lord – were bent over the would-be-brigands, all of whom were on the ground, bound by the young Sorev Ael Pore, who had disguised himself as a servant.

"Shall we take care of them, sir?" Gaolin asked. He was hesitant now, clearly questioning what was happening and whether his instincts were correct. Holder Flynn smiled brightly and in a way he hoped was reassuring.

"Yes, thank you, please do. Bind them and lead them back to Var Athel. We will all return there, I think."

"But sir, weren't we on our way to Caelron? I do not mean to question you, only to understand. You said you had urgent business with Baelric the Wise – "

"It would seem that I no longer do," Holder Flynn said with another wide smile. "Yes, sir," Gaolin replied, turning to the other knights to help them bind and gag the captured thieves.

Holder Flynn turned back in the direction the boy had gone. He muttered Words under his breath and his vision strengthened until the mist and shadows of night parted and lifted for him so that he could see the boy as he rode through the city. Something about the fleeing figure struck a chord in him, and as he watched him run, clutching the ring various Sorev Ael had sought for a hundred years to find, that deep sense of peace came to him again, enveloping him like a warm blanket.

This was as it should be.

Therias said that there were others. That there was need. That Valinor and the girl must go north, and that I must take the ring to Baelric this specific night.

A thrill went through him, and his smile widened. Holder Flynn, Thirteenth Speaker of the Circle of Var Athel and Master of Sagery, watched as Wren, dirty urchin boy and aimless thief of Caelron, ran into the darkness.

Watched as he ran north.

Chapter Fifteen: Captive

Samson shouted into the face of the raider as he brought his axe ripping down into the man's chest. He watched as the light in his eyes died, then kicked the body away with a bare foot and freed the axe with a frantic twist that wrenched the muscles along his side. His breath ripped through his dry throat like fire, and his thin clothing was drenched with sweat beneath his leather armor.

He pushed past the downed man, up and through the short hall and out the door of the ship's small hold. He emerged on deck in the middle of a rainstorm. The water poured down in waves that were almost as vicious as the ones rising beneath the ship. There was motion everywhere, and the ironbound lanterns that lit the deck at night were being lashed and blown about so much that they did more harm than good, throwing distorting shadows across the deck.

His men were up and fighting – many of them bedded down at their oars, beneath the rowing benches that doubled as sleeping compartments and contained belongings and bedrolls – and they were engaged with a dozen attackers clad in black and wielding weapons with flashing blades. Samson shot a look over the side of _Longrider._

A huge, two-masted, double-decker frigate rode beside them, flying black sails that drank in the little light that illuminated the stormy night.

They found us.

He hefted the axe and swung hard at the first man he saw; the blade bit deeply into his exposed back, and the raider went limp and fell, revealing behind him Selor, white as a sheet and desperately holding a spear with shaking hands.

"Get back!" Samson yelled, sweeping his brother behind him. He raced forward into the fray, saving another of his men as more of the crew came to life and joined the fight alongside him. But the Black Ship was tied to them with long, thick ropes attached to grappling hooks sunk into the wood of _Longrider's_ deck, and more raiders were crossing over. He had to cut the hooks away – the Black Ships could hold more than a hundred men, and there was no way _Longrider's_ surprised and sea-weary crew could fight them now.

"Jolly!" Samson shouted into the night. His voice had grown with him over the past several months, and the sound of it boomed out like thunder across the deck. He turned around wildly, looking for the first mate, only to find instead a fresh wave of raiders washing over the side, ignoring the howling wind and rain.

Samson felt more than heard something whistle through the air toward him, and he dropped immediately. Two slim arrows rocketed through the place he'd been only seconds before and bored into the wood of the ship's wheel, their broadhead points twisting in deeply.

"Shoot the archers!" Samson shouted over the wind and rain. Two of the crewmen nearby heard him; they strung their sea bows, nocked, drew, and loosed. Samson didn't see if they hit their targets, though; he was already on his feet again, ducking and weaving and making his way toward the form of Jolly amidships.

The big bear of a man was laying about him with a cutlass, attacking two raiders who'd crossed the divide of the ship. There was a third behind him who'd been stunned but not killed and had just regained his footing. A long dagger gleamed in his hand by the bare light of the swaying lanterns, and Samson dove for it. He caught it just as it plunge toward Jolly's back, then managed to turn the blade aside and knocked the man down.

"What the hell is going on?" Samson shouted over the noise.

"We found our Black Ship!" Jolly called back.

The sea surged beneath them and threw the ships together. There came a sound like a whole forest of trees slammed together in a high wind, and _Longrider's_ angled battering-ram prow slammed into and through the lower deck of the frigate.

The impact knocked both crews off their feet and to the deck. Samson lost his borrowed axe in the process as an enormous wave swept up and over the starboard side and washed it away into the darkness.

"They're taking on water!" Jolly shouted.

Samson spun to look, pushing himself to his feet. _Longrider's_ prow, stronger than the side of the Black Ship and with the propelling power of the swelling sea behind it, had slipped into the black behemoth as easily as a naked blade into bare skin. Black water was gushing into the hole with every swell, and _Longrider_ itself had seemed to come alive, holding down the Black Ship with its weight, forcing it lower and lower as the water flowed into the breach.

Lightning flashed through the sky, illuminating the scene in its entirety and searing the image onto Samson's vision, along with the sudden realization of what must happen next. A gust of wind roared through the tangled ships like the voice of an ancient god, just as the pirate ship's mainsail unfurled and flapped about.

They were trying to disengage.

"Push them back!" Samson roared to his crew, all of who had taken heart with the sudden change of fortune. Thunder echoed him and seemed to swell his heart inside his chest. He bent to retrieve a cutlass and then launched himself with renewed fury at the few raiders still alive aboard _Longrider._

There was another flash of lightning, and then a roar of thunder, and the two ships were slammed together once more. Thrown to the deck, Samson knew they were running out of time.

If we don't disengage, we're both sunk. How do we pull her back?

He jumped back to his feet, and then, with a savage overhand cut, he dispatched the raider who'd fallen to the deck beside him. He ran to _Longrider's_ side to see if they had clearance between the ships...

They did.

"Let them go!" he shouted, spinning back to his crew. "Man the oars! Reverse beat – pound the drum, Selor!"

His crew scattered immediately, leaving the last half-dozen raiders either dead or dying on the deck. The wind was whipped fiercely against them, but they fought it manfully. Samson turned back to the Black Ship. They'd succeeded in unfurling their mainmast.

There's too much weight and the angle's wrong – the next big wind that comes will tear right through that. Fulking piece of –

He shouted again for the crew to man the oars, and saw them fall finally into place, exhausted and scared for their lives, but strong enough to fight. Selor began pounding the drum, his young face pale but determined. _Longrider's_ prow pulled back from the side of the Black Ship as the grappling hook ropes went slack and disengaged.

But it wasn't fast enough.

The wind swelled again, roaring down on them with such fury that Samson almost lost his footing yet again. He grabbed for the railing, caught it, and just managed to hold himself upright.

With a sound like the sky split asunder, the Black Ship's mainmast broke in twain. Samson watched it, transfixed, as a single question raced through his mind:

Which way will it fall, which way will it fall, which way will it fall...

The heavy mast, as thick around as a sizeable tree, swayed and toppled... away from _Longrider._ It landed against the opposite railing with a crash that tore through Samson's ears. He shouted at his men anyway, walking up and down the deck, calling for them to row for their lives. The mainmast continued to roll, and then it fell over the side and into the sea.

"It's going to act as a sea anchor!" called Jolly from the wheel.

"I know!" Samson shouted back. "Take the far side – we need to cut loose _now!_ "

Jolly handed off the wheel and rushed to where the grappling hooks were still embedded. Samson turned back just as two raiders who'd been left behind attacked him with wickedly curved swords. He rushed them and bowled them both over. Immediately, a half-dozen roaming members of the crew were on them, and Samson passed by as the bodies were rolled over the side into the sea.

He reached the first grappling hook and looked around desperately for something with which to cut the thick rope – almost as thick as his fulking leg – that held it in place. Something nudged against his foot as the waves swelled and tilted the deck. He looked down.

It was the axe he'd lost.

He grabbed it up without a second thought and brought the blade crashing down on the rope, driving it through the taut fibers and into the side of the ship. The rope snapped away into the night, and _Longrider_ shuddered and twisted, ripping its prow through yet more of the Black Ship as it went. Jolly cut another rope on his end, leaving only two between them. Samson cut the next one, and then the final rope snapped on its own as a swell came up between the two ships and pushed them apart.

The last Samson saw of the Black Ship was it sinking quickly beneath the stormy sea. Selor continued beating time for the oarsmen, and with their sail stowed, _Longrider_ was able to pull away with relative ease, bucking the wind and slipping threw the worst of the waves. The Black Ship, by contrast, slipped slowly but surely beneath the waves.

Three. That's the third.

He collapsed against _Longrider's_ own mainmast, the weariness of a dozen sleepless nights and now this unexpected fight suddenly crashing down upon him as the heat of battle passed. It was the same as it had been the last two times. Maybe less so... nothing could be worse than that first time, when he'd been forced to...

He pushed the image of that first man from his mind. The staring eyes, the pleading mouth that had gaped back at him after he'd unmasked the raider. That face haunted him enough in his dreams; there was no cause to let it plague him during his waking hours too.

Jolly came up beside him and rested one of his huge hands on his shoulder. It was strange to see now that Samson was nearly as tall as the first mate. The realization frightened him to some degree, as it had when he'd first noticed it a week or so prior.

"We need to put back into Gol," he told the first mate with a grimace. He looked up as the rain lessened by degrees. The storm was blowing north as it often did in winter, and the rain was tapering off as the clouds were dragged up and away, following the flotsam left by the drowned ship. He turned his gaze to _Longrider_ and took in the damage: their own mainmast was solid, but stress cracks had begun to form along the pressure points at the base, and the oarlocks and bow rail were heavily scarred from where they'd been thrown against the Black Ship by the waves. They were in no shape to go chasing after another ship.

"Should we wait until sunrise?" Jolly asked. Something about his voice was odd; Samson looked at him and saw that the big man's face was pained and that he was holding his side. There was blood there, and his skin was unnaturally pale.

"What happened?" Samson asked. He grabbed Jolly and turned him so that he could look at the wound, and saw it was a clean slice along the ribs. It was bleeding freely, but it wasn't deep.

"Bloody bastard caught me in the ribs," Jolly grunted. "I'll be right as rain soon as Rebin has time to sew me up. Just answer the question."

He grinned at Samson with some of his usual humor, and the young captain was reassured. He let the edge of the bloody shirt fall but made a mental note to check it again soon. It needed to be washed and wrapped, and Jolly was not the most trustworthy man where his own health was concerned.

"We don't have time to wait for dawn," Samson replied. "We need to get as far from the shipping lanes as we can – if more Varanathi stumble on us now, we won't be fight them off. We row for an hour at least, south and east."

The first mate's face tightened and the lines around his mouth and across his forehead deepened, but he nodded. "The men are dead tired," he said, leaving it at that. Samson grimaced and ran a hand through his long hair – it had been months since he'd last had time to have it cut. Months since he had last seen his mother. He tried not to think of the welcome she'd give him when they put into Gol again.

"Quarter shifts," he said finally. "You and I can take the wheel, Rebin can spell Selor on the drum, and we'll all take it in turns to get some rest."

Jolly nodded.

"You're becoming more and more like your father every day," the man said, his voice gruff. He looked away from Samson out over the sea. There was some light now through the clouds – patches of moonlight filtered through to play about the calming waves. "I'm glad to see it. And... sad he couldn't be here to see it with me."

He looked back at Samson, seemed to become aware that he'd uttered these sentiments out loud, and shook himself. He cleared his throat loudly, as if the sound could block out the feelings, and fixed his rakish smile back on his face. He clapped Samson on the shoulder, rather more roughly than he might have done normally, and went to give the orders.

Samson went to Selor and told him to hand over the drum to Rebin, the medic and former coxswain they'd taken on after Timlin's death. He retreated to the wheel, pulled off the rope restraints that had kept the ship running straight, and turned them back into the wind as the oarsmen changed the stroke to accommodate the shifting course. His younger brother came up beside him.

"How much longer?" Selor asked quietly. Samson did not respond, and Jolly, who'd just joined them, didn't either. Selor moved around the side of Jolly and stood in front of Samson, blocking his view of the ship and the water beyond.

"How much longer?" he repeated, this time up in Samson's face. "Don't ignore me Samson, don't!"

Jolly stepped up then as the younger boy's voice carried; he caught Selor by the shirt and pulled him around to slam him against the heavy bulwark of the stern. The boy, to his credit, did not cry out or try to resist – he let himself be pulled and thrown away, but he never took his eyes off his older brother.

"Watch yourself," Jolly growled. "Everyone's a mite tetchy right now, and I'm flaming _bleeding_. I like you, boy, but this is a ship, not a fruit stand – you want to mouth off to the captain, you'll get a lashing just like everyone else. Try it and just see if you don't."

But Selor never even paled – he ignored Jolly's threats entirely and focused on Samson, his gray eyes bright and gathering the light of the lanterns as they flared slowly back to life, free of the drowning influence of the drenching storm.

"We're a few days out," Samson said finally. "You should know that by now, even with the clouds. Off in the distance there you can see – "

"That's not what I _fulking_ meant and you know it!"

Jolly looked ready to go get the whip, but Samson held up a hand. The big man growled deep in his chest, for all the world like an enormous guard dog, but made no further movement save to clap a hand to the wound along his side.

"Jolly, go see Rebin," Samson said. "Get Lisle or Carthin to take the beat until he can stitch you back together, they can keep us going straight. You're not to die – that's an order. And don't faint either."

"Women and children faint," the big man said with a touch of his normal humor. "Men fall unconscious."

Samson arched an eyebrow at him.

"Then don't _fall unconscious_ until Rebin sees to you."

Jolly left, and Samson turned back to the wheel. Selor hadn't moved; he was still staring at Samson as though trying to burn a hole in him with his eyes.

"How long?" the younger brother repeated as Samson turned the wheel and held it carefully against the shrinking swells.

"As long as they keep raiding," Samson said through clenched teeth. Now that the shock of sudden battle had worn off, his body was slowly shutting down again. He had barely slept the last three nights, and had slept only marginally better the three before.

"We've been patrolling the sea lanes for _months_ , Samson!"

He stopped focusing on the waves and tried to listen to his brother. His fatigue was almost too much, but he managed to push it back. A few of the words slipped and got lost between his ears, but he followed the rest of the diatribe.

"We're chasing _shadows_. After we outfitted _Longrider_ for battle, we were out here all bloody fall and there wasn't a ship to be seen. And then when winter came, which was supposed to be when they _wouldn't_ come, we found scores of them! Sure, they aren't going close to the mainland or the Archipelago, but they don't mind trying to kill us out in the middle of the sea! There're too many, Sam. Everyone knows it. Even _Jolly_ knows it, but he won't admit it because you're Clan Captain. We can't keep doing this on our own. We've lost half of the fleet from Gol, and the other islands aren't doing any better. After you and that Caelron prince told the Clan Heads what happened with Solom and they authorized use of the fleet, they said you couldn't have any more unless the Black Ships came for the islands themselves. We've been fighting them all winter, but they haven't gone for Gol or anywhere else. We _have_ to send more missives to Caelron for the Great Ships. That prince said we'd have them, but there's been _no sign!_ It's just like mother said before you stormed out on her and the full council – mainlanders never keep their word!"

"Be silent."

The sharp command cut through his brother's words. Selor was being reckless saying all of this to the captain of a ship, much less his Clan Captain, and if he'd been any other person than Samson's brother, he would have been whipped immediately. But even in his anger, Selor had kept his voice down and his back turned to the rest of the crew. They could see the two arguing, and Jolly was staring murderously at them from where Rebin was stitching him up, but they couldn't hear the words, and so Samson could afford to be lenient.

"They're not ready yet," he said, repeating to Selor what he'd been saying to himself ever they'd receive the missive from Caelron saying they needed more time. Prince Rewlyn had promised they would send the fleet – he'd promised that he would tell his brother, King Malineri, everything he'd seen.

But Selor was right. No help had come.

"He said that Caelron would help us," Samson continued, relentless; he was trying to drown out his own thoughts as much as he was trying to contradict his brother. "Prince Rewlyn saw what happened. He saw what they did to Sol –"

He cut off and looked away. He tried to keep talking, but his voice shook and failed him. He turned the odd sound into a gruff throat clearing and then lapsed into silence. Selor stiffened beside him, and when he spoke, his voice was quiet, all anger and heat gone out of it.

"Sam... whatever we do... it's not going to bring Solom back."

" _I know that!_ "

Jolly pushed Rebin away, making for the wheel, but Samson held up a hand to forestall him. The first mate fell back, but the look on his face quite clearly told both brothers that this was the last time he would be put off.

Samson took a moment to examine his brother. He was going through the same growth spurt Samson had undergone at his age. His clothes, oft-repaired and threadbare as they were after months at sea, were too small for him now. His hands had grown heavy callouses, and his arms were slowly gaining the muscle that came from heavy rowing. His gray eyes, so like their mother's, were tired, and his young face was prematurely etched with lines of worry and lost sleep.

"I know that nothing will bring him back," Samson repeated, more calmly. "I know too that mother's never going to be the same, no matter how many of them we find and take. But every one of them dead is one less chance that someone else's brother will die. We need to do this. Besides – you're right, we're going back to Gol. We'll rest up, and when _Longrider_ is ready to sail again, we'll come back and – "

"Sighting a larboard!"

The interruption took both brothers by surprise, and for a moment neither did anything but stare at the other. And then together, in a sudden rush of movement, they were up and looking over the side as Jolly disengaged himself from Rebin and went to grab the wheel.

There was a ship coming toward them, the wind stretching its full panoply of sails wide across both masts. Black sails. Black sails over a narrow body with a double row of oars.

"No," Selor whispered under his breath. "No – no there was only supposed to be one in this area, the Thalin ship was supposed to draw the other one off! Pollar and his crew, they – "

"They didn't make it through the storm," Samson said. He took a breath to fortify himself, knowing as he saw the ship come bearing down on them that this might be the last action any of them ever took again. They were bloody and beaten, going on little to no sleep, and the Black Ship bearing down on them was fresh and fully armed, with oars to fight against the wind once they engaged.

"Battle stations!" Samson called out, flying back to the wheel. Jolly handed him control and then went down to the main deck and began calling orders. The crew shipped the oars and secured the lines, and the Samson readied _Longrider_ to turn against the wind.

"They're coming up fast!" shouted Linur atop the mast. "There's light... braziers!"

"Damn damn damn damn," Samson repeated under his breath. _They're too fast for us with our mast compromised and the men tired. We can't outfight them, we can't outrun them... what do we do?_

His mind felt like a wet sponge that had been twisted, turned, folded over, and twisted again until every last drop of thought had been wrung from it. He could think of nothing to do, not a single way to survive this. He could feel desperation coming off of his men in waves and knew they were all looking to him for answers, for a plan. He looked around desperately, trying to fight off the despair that threatened to swallow him as well.

From the corner of his eye, he caught sight of the storm moving northward.

He took a shaky breath, and pushed it out.

"Unfurl the sails!" he shouted. "Beat to quarters – all men to the oars, every last hand! We make for the storm!"

The crew rushed to obey, but a heavy hand caught Samson's shoulder. Samson glanced back at Jolly; the first mate's face was ashen gray. He knew exactly what Samson was doing, and knew just how impossible it was. Samson tried to say everything he could to the man with a single look – tried to thank him for all he'd done for him, to tell him it had been an honor sailing with him like his father had.

The moment passed, and Jolly turned and began shouting further orders, calling out men and directing them around the ship. The crew looked shaken, and they moved with a lethargy born of desperation; more than one face was blanched to the point that even the deep bronze of true Golish stock looked pale with fear. Before Samson knew what he was doing, he'd given Selor the wheel and strode to the edge of the quarterdeck. Raising his arms into the air, he called for their attention. He felt the strands of their emotions, felt them like the strings of a lute, and without knowing how he knew he had to make them sing a song of defiance.

"Stand fast!" he said with a savage intensity that took even him by surprise. "Stand fast! We've taken down three of those ships and we're still here. They think they own the waves because they come in their Black Ships – but we are the men of Gol, and we were _born_ of the sea! Salt runs in our veins, not blood! If we go down, if we are taken in the final embrace of our ancient mother, we go down reminding them they've broken their backs on the island of Gol. Fight them! Fight them with every last ounce of strength in every last inch of muscle and bone – do it for every child that was taken, for every daughter or son, wife or husband that they stole. Every one of them that we end is one more Golish soul avenged. Remember why we're here – remember that we fight to keep Gol safe, that we fight to keep them from _ever_ setting foot on our island – our _home_ – again! They aren't hunting us, _we're hunting them!"_

The feeling of power that had come to him left as suddenly as it had come, and the savagery that swelled from inside him, the certainty of his words and of himself, faded away abruptly. But it didn't matter: the job was done.

The crew cheered their approval, their faces flushed with anger now instead of white with fear, and they threw themselves into furious action. The Black Ship continued to gain on them, though, and Samson squinted at the upper deck and saw the bright, unnatural light of their braziers.

Sorcery. This ship isn't like the others. This one has a witch man onboard.

It should have daunted him. It should have made him cower and question himself. But the odds were already so overwhelming that it only made him more determined. He snarled silently at the ship and vowed to himself that if he did nothing else, he would kill one of their sorcerers.

With her oars out and sail unfurled, _Longrider_ raced back northward, hastening toward the storm. The heavy beat of the drum consumed those who rode her, knocking their hearts together into the same, inexorable rhythm, and they flew over the sea like a strange bird made of wood and flesh.

The Black Ship raced toward them on an intercept course. The distance began to shrink between them until the two ships were racing through the edge of the storm and veering dangerously close to one another. _Longrider_ began to pull ahead, though, and the Black Ship was forced to slip in behind them, losing precious time. Flaming arrows blazed through the air, but they were taken by the wind, and the few that touched down on _Longrider's_ deck found only soaked wood and fizzled out. Samson sneered at the pursuing hulk, standing openly at the wheel on the upper deck, daring them to shoot him.

His eyes slid down the larger frigate, and by the light of the lanterns from both ships, he saw the name written on the Black Ship's side:

Desecration.

A chill rushed through him that stilled his heart, and he looked up from the name along the ship's side to the high deck, where stood a man masked by a cruel and laughing skull, a man that had haunted his dreams for nights uncounted.

The man in the bone mask saw him too, and smiled.

Samson's mind broke. The fatigue, the fear, the lack of sleep, and the utter hopelessness of the coming fight all came together and consumed him in a rush of sound that then disappeared into complete silence. He saw his men rowing frantically; he saw Jolly shouting at the top of his lungs and Selor rushing toward him, pointing at the distant storm bank and shouting something. But all of it was too slow, like something seen through the haze of memory.

Abruptly, time resumed its normal pace, and sound came rushing back in on him. The crashing waves continued to grow, and the surf was rife with white breakers. He looked up at the storm and saw what Selor was pointing to: it had gained in power and fury, and had also slowed its pace.

Wind and rain lashed them, and in the distance there came a flash of light and a ripple of thunder that cracked the sea and sky.

"Samson!" Selor was screaming. "We have to turn back! We'll both go down if we go into that! There's no way we come back out again!"

Samson glanced back again. _Desecration_ was behind them, tacking against the wind and running out their own set of oars. They had more, but they also had a bigger, heavier ship. With the wind, they could match _Longrider_ and even overtake her, but under oars alone they were even.

She'll be coming at us. Straight at us. If we turn and run with open sail –

"Turn to starboard! Turn!"

It took a moment for Samson to realize that the voice that was shouting this command into the night was his own. When he did, he spun the wheel, throwing the ship into a hard turn. The coxswain, Rebin, keeping time for the rowers, was the one who saved the ship from capsizing – he heard Samson's cry and immediately changed beat and shouted new directions. The oarsmen, like true Golishmen, turned on a dime, accepting with perfect equanimity all that was happening and trusting in their captain to see them through.

How am I going to do this how am I going to do this how am I going to do –

The world narrowed in on him, his vision flattening and stretching. He saw again the giant mast of the Black Ship, the central mast that held the most sails, and flashed back to what had happened to the other Ship just hours before. _Desecration_ was running toward them with full sail, sail that was soon to be caught in the heavy winds of the storm...

_Longrider_ finished its turn, and the two ships raced toward each other.

Something tickled the back of his mind. Yes, the Black Ships could outrun them and chase them down with a favorable wind, but in this storm, it made no sense to have full sail... and yet, the other Ship had done it too. They both... they both had...

"Sails down and slow the beat!" he roared, then, "Battle stations – keep us mobile, but get the arrows! Light when you can! We're going head-on; use the ram!"

"What?!" Selor shouted from his place beside the coxswain. He'd unlimbered his bow and was readying to light it as the two ships raced toward each other, but as second mate he was close enough to Samson still to shout out and be heard.

"Trust me!" Samson roared back over the wind.

The wind – the wind had changed.

He spun, keeping the wheel in check, and saw that the storm was expanding.

The higher wind that had been driving the storm north must have hit a pocket of cold air and twisted around. It began abruptly to blow from all directions, shifting and changing, swirling around them in a huge maelstrom. The rain was caught up in it, and fat droplets began striking the ship's deck so hard they made it ring, like stones thrown against a hollow box.

"We're in firing range!"

_Desecration_ was flying toward them, and once more Samson saw the mast rising up above the deck, the sails already overtaxed by the wind.

"Selor! Take the wheel!"

His younger brother came forward immediately and seized the wooden spokes just as Samson released them. Samson grabbed up the axe he'd used before, the haft strong and solid in his hand, and hurried toward the bow. The crew not busy rowing had strung their short, compact sea bows and nocked arrows; Jolly was shouting orders to hold steady, for those who could to take cover under the high bulwark edge of _Longrider's_ side. Arrows began to fly from the _Desecration_ , which had enough height on the Golish ship to turn the arrows into deadly rain. They were not aflame now – the rain prevented that – but they were no less numerous. They fell like rain themselves, slicing through rope and rigging and uncovered flesh.

"Return fire!"

The Golishmen rose as one and loosed their first volley. Trained at shooting sharks and fish in the treacherous, shifting waters of the Archipelago, they were excellent shots, and nearly every arrow found its mark, even in the storm. It in no way slowed the larger ship, though, and the two of them continued rushing toward each other. The Black Ship tacked one final time, bringing its port side to bear and shipping its oars just in time to prevent a collision.

The grappling hooks came next – huge iron claws nearly the size of a man attached to ropes as thick around as Samson's arm. They gleamed from their place in enormous ballistae mounted along the _Desecration_ 's upper deck, and the gunners fired just as _Longrider_ came alongside. The massive iron claws found purchase in the hardened wood of _Longrider's_ deck, digging into the oarlocks and under the rowing benches and even catching and pulling a screaming crewman against the side, where he was impaled like a fish.

"Fire!" Samson roared again, ducking as more arrows sliced through the air toward them. The men obeyed and again found their marks, but now they'd given themselves away and the raiding archers honed in on their positions. The enemy attack came again, this time more deadly, and a half-dozen Golishmen cried out in pain, and Samson knew fear.

Now. Now or never.

He reached down, hefted the heavy sailing axe he'd let fall beside the wheel, and raced straight for the nearest grappling hook. He raised the axe high and brought it down savagely, using the whole long frame of his body for leverage. With that single blow, the rope snapped.

The ships jerked as the tension between them changed, just as it had when he'd done the same thing against the previous ship. The rain and wind had increased to a howling gale, but through it all Samson saw the _Desecration_ pulling closer as the crew reeled in the grappling hooks so that the two ships were nigh on abreast. The more courageous or foolhardy members of the Varanathi crew braved the gap and jumped for _Longrider's_ deck; three of them landed, but one fell short, sinking to his death in the churning sea.

Samson rose to meet them and found Jolly by his side, the seasoned first mate wielding a makeshift wooden shield to fend off arrows along with his accustomed cutlass. They met the invaders and cut them down, but not before the ships were close enough for another dozen Varanathi to cross over. More of the Golishmen rose to meet them, abandoning the useless oars, and battle was joined.

It was like a horrible nightmare, the scene of barely hours before repeating itself. Expect that this time they were losing.

Samson saw only flashes of the battle, and none of them were encouraging. There were more attackers this time, and they were fresh, while the Golishmen were forced to struggle under the heavy weight of exhaustion.

He looked again at that central mast on the Black Ship, and his plan came back to him, fully formed. He glanced at the crew around him – at the two men there, Tirn and Lire who were dying with arrows through their chests; at the dozen or so archers still firing back but barely able to raise their heads for fear of being shot down themselves; at Selor on the high deck holding the wheel with trembling hands and terror in his eyes.

"Jolly!" he yelled. The first mate cut down the man he was fighting and spun toward Samson. His expression turned to one of dismay before a single word was spoken, but Samson gave the first mate no chance to talk him out of it.

"Get Selor back to Gol! Get _Longrider_ back safe!"

"Sammy, wait! Don't – NO!"

Samson ran across the deck toward the hulking form of the Black Ship. Arrows flew past him, though few were aimed at him directly. The power of the wind and water was in full force, and it threw everything awry. He cut down two raiders as he went, the axe handle warm and solid in his hand, and then he was at the rail. He climbed up and onto it, and then threw himself at the attacking ship's deck.

For a long second of suspended time, he didn't think he would make it. The rain and wind whipped his face so that he was forced to narrow his eyes to little more than slits, making him nearly blind. The two ships were close together, but the shifting rage of the water below made them jump up and down erratically, pushing them apart and slamming them back together again in a strange arrhythmic dance. There was nothing to hold onto, no rope or spar to catch, only a heavy black hull –

He crashed into the side of the ship and caught something with his left hand by sheer dumb luck. Stunned by the impact, the elements, and plain fear, he could barely understand where he was or what was happening. Still, he managed to pull himself up with one arm and flip over the rail of the deck.

He landed heavily on the deck, gasping for breath, and lay there for half a second too long, staring up at black sails against a black, raging sky. And then men were shouting and rushing for him, but only half a dozen or so. Most of the others had crossed over the other way, taking the fight to _Longrider_. Samson raised the axe, astonished he'd been able to keep hold of it, and blocked a thrust from a cutlass he could barely see. He turned and slammed his elbow into something hard that crunched and broke, then spun back and sliced into the gut of a black-clad form.

He pushed toward the middle of the deck, toward the mast.

The wind was whipping the full sails mercilessly, and it was only now that the captain had sent men up to pull them down. More than one of the Varanathi fell to their death, thrown about by the heaving ship and the towering waves. The thick mast already showed strain, and Samson was almost there...

A man interposed himself. His face was cruel and scarred, not just with old wounds but with old pain and hatred. He sneered at Samson and his bright eyes seemed to glow in the dark. Samson had no room left for apprehension, though, and any second thoughts he might have had had been left behind on _Longrider._ So, without pause or pretense, he bull rushed the man.

The raider raised a heavy cutlass and turned aside Samson's axe, then somehow twisted and dug into his hip, which sent Samson sprawling. He managed to hold on to his axe, though, and he turned back just in time to catch the cutlass as it came for his head, using his height and strength to counteract the man's speed. He rolled to his feet, closed the distance, and slammed the haft of the axe into the man's chin, sending him reeling. He then followed with a savage swing for the man's neck, but the raider dodged away just in time, dropping beneath the blow, and riposted with an effortless thrust that raked the cutlass blade along Samson's side. A thin red slice of pain shot through Samson before it disappeared in the rush of battle.

The scarred man pushed him back, thinking him finished, only to have Samson catch his arm and break his grip. The man's eyes widened in shock as his cutlass fell to the deck, and then Samson sunk his axe deep into his stomach.

"You should never have touched my brother," Samson hissed. The man couldn't respond – he tried, but all that came was blood without words. Samson pushed him back with a contemptuous shove and then turned to the mast.

His way was clear; the others had made for the side, for the Golishmen, leaving the scarred man to take care of Samson. The men aloft were still trying to pull the sail in and still hadn't made much headway.

Samson raised the axe high over his head and brought it slicing down in a diagonal swing.

The metal head buried itself deep in the wood of the mast, slicing right through the tension cracks that had already begun to form. Samson pulled the axe back out with joint-popping force, freeing the blade before it could bind, and almost cried out as pain raced through his side. He staggered and grabbed at the cut the raider had sliced across ribs, then gritted his teeth, and forced himself to go on.

He hacked again at the mast, using the torque of his long body to sink the blade in deeper and deeper with each swing. But on the fourth swing, he couldn't pull the blade free. The pain in his side was too intense, and the axe was bound too deeply in the wood.

But then the mast creaked, and the hair on the back of his neck stood on end. He swayed where he stood and looked up just in time to see the sails fill with another gust of wind as lightning broke through the clouds above them.

With a terrible burst of sound that was echoed by the booming cry of thunder, the mast snapped.

Shouts and cries went up, and the next few moments were lost to Samson. With the mast went half the lanterns and the braziers that had illuminated the deck even in the midst of the storm, and in the darkness he could see and feel almost nothing. All he knew was that somehow he made it back to the railing.

He saw _Longrider,_ saw the Varanathi abandoning it to race back desperately across the ropes to _Desecration_ , back to salvage what they could. He moved about the rest of his work mechanically, pushing through the pain that made him retch even as he forced himself to go on. He raised the axe that he'd managed to salvage from the wrecked stump of the mast and brought it down on the first of the ropes holding the two ships locked together. It took three swings, but he snapped it, and the ships shifted ominously. He moved to the next one, and then the next, sending dozens of Varanathi falling to their deaths.

He came to the last rope, raised the axe above his head, and saw Selor and Jolly and all the other members of the crew watching him in horror. Samson paused for the briefest of seconds, knowing that this was the end, and then he let the axe fall.

The last rope snapped, setting them free. Jolly began shouting orders immediately, and the surviving crew raced about the deck, sparing glances for their doomed captain when they could but fighting for their lives, trying to run from the storm and the crippled Black Ship.

Samson turned back, ready to fight to his death, ready to plunge overboard if that was his only hope and to seek out his father in the depths of the sea, but he never had the chance. The man in the bone mask had appeared before him.

Every bone in his body ached with hatred at the sight of his brother's murderer. He ran forward, raising the axe for a killing blow, but the man held up a single hand, and something invisible caught Samson and held him in place. Another casual motion knocked the axe away, and then all Samson could see was a pair of bright eyes from deep within the bone mask's empty sockets.

Chapter Sixteen: Need

AmyQuinn woke gasping from a horrible dream. As it faded, she tried to gather the edges of it around her, to piece it back together, but found she couldn't. There had been a storm, and a man without a face... was that right?

She pushed her sheets off of her and sat up, placing her head in her hands. It throbbed horribly, and she could hardly bring herself to contemplate another day of exhaustion. She'd lost count of how many dreams she'd had like that in the last month – horrible dreams, all of them. Bodies floating in the sea, bloated and distended; women taken as slaves and used for their bodies; the dead rising and calling out to her. Even one of a young boy crying over a dead man in a street.

She shivered and took a deep breath, trying to push it all away, but it was no use. She already felt as though she were losing her mind, and now she could not even find solace in sleep.

She thought about the day ahead of her, of the work, and only barely won her battle against despair.

With each passing week, more and more was expected of the apprentices, and two of the original twenty were already gone. The other girl, Emia, had been one of them. She'd excelled at Herbalism, but the demand of the other classes had been too much. She'd been counseled out the week before and was already on her way back to her home village. The second had been Sofin, a dark-haired, quiet boy no one really knew, who broke down inexplicably during Naming and refused to continue on. He'd left barely two days prior.

She pushed herself up and out of bed and began to dress mechanically. She knew from experience now that she wouldn't be able to fall back asleep. She thought again of the full day of training laid out before her, and her hands began to shake.

Ever since the talk she'd had with Owain, she'd pushed herself harder and harder to excel. It was as though a flame had been lit in her, an urge to prove herself that nothing could quench. Add to that the fact that she was now the only girl in her class, and she had all the more reason to push herself.

But she didn't know how much longer she could keep it up.

It was not the training alone that had so affected her; it was the solitude of her position. She was lonelier now than she had ever been in her life, and her hopes that over time the others would become friendlier with her had been dashed. With the departure of Sofin and Emia and the growing fear among the apprentices that they too would be asked to leave, Xaior had come to control most of the group, and he had succeeded in separating her from the others.

Her father was the type of man who could spend hours alone without even realizing that time had passed. He would often emerge from his workshop late in the evening completely surprised to find that supper was cold and Jaes Stonewall was saying goodnight to the last of the patrons. Left undisturbed, many in Dunlow joked that Eldric would get lost in a book and forget to eat or sleep.

AmyQuinn was nothing like that.

As long as she could remember, she'd longed for human connection. She'd always had friends, even outside Lenny and Liv who were her best friends. Her mother always invited her to come along to Hall meetings, her father always welcomed her into his workshop, and she was known throughout Dunlow for showing up unexpectedly and lending a hand to anything that needed doing.

But now, left alone, she spiraled down – deep, deep down – until she felt as though she were being buried alive beneath her own thoughts. The weight of her solitude was so heavy that it threatened to crush her.

The single bright point of solace, the last bit of hope that kept her from losing her head entirely as Sofin had done, was the knowledge that soon the apprenticeship had to end.

Requests had begun to come in from older Sorev Ael for new apprentices. It was the way it was done in Var Athel: after a student showed proficiency in the Minor Arcana, the Masters made note and alerted the wider Order. Those who were furthest advanced were taken first; those who lagged behind could spend years in training.

And girls were often taken last.

Of those who made it past apprenticehood, their stint as Deri'cael often took an even heavier toll. Where the time as an apprentice was limited only by the student's ability, Deri'cael were apprenticed to specific Sorev Ael for a traditional minimum of five years. Those five years were said to be intensely grueling, as the Deri'cael accompanied the Sorev Ael who chose them on all of their official duties and were required to learn still more at the same time. Many simply couldn't take it, and there was a sizeable chunk of each class that never made it to the rank of Sorev Ael but left the Citadel to live other lives.

All of this went through her mind for the thousandth time as she sat staring at her wall. The thin slice of light that spilled through her tiny window grew inexorably as she watched it. Pieces of her dream came back to her as she waited: something about the sea, and something about the north.

When the time came, she left for Meditation, and threw herself into her studies for the day. She returned exhausted to bed that night, and dreamed again. She woke again well before the hour of dawn, and again couldn't get back to sleep. Too tired to even remember what she'd dreamed about, she lay there in a kind of stupor, trying to hold back the panic that threatened to flood her mind.

The pattern continued as winter turned to spring. The only consolation she had was the thought of being taken as a Deri'cael. She threw herself into her studies with such a vengeance that a number of the Masters, including Owain, pulled her aside and inquired after her health. She told them she was fine. After all, there was nothing they could do to help. And, as she walked away from them, she would tell herself, over and over again, that if she proved herself, if she truly excelled, then she would be chosen and she'd show she could handle herself. It wouldn't matter that she was a girl.

But more time passed, and nothing changed.

She began to wake in the dead of night, disoriented and drenched in sweat so heavy it was as though her skin was weeping. Breathing as though she'd run a mile, she would force herself to her feet, where the room would spin about her and she would have to hold out a hand to steady herself against the nearest wall.

And underneath the physical sensation was an emotional pull that rang through her – the feeling that she was needed somewhere else. With it came the uncontrollable urge to go for the door and _run_ , though she didn't know where or how far or even in what direction.

She would try to push it away, to bury it as she had buried her loneliness, and eventually she would manage it, though it grew harder every time. And as she sat in bed, shivering as she tried to regain her composure, she would be forced to admit, if only to herself, that she was terrified that she was losing her mind.

The fits began to occur with greater frequency. Some nights they were worse, and when the morning came she would find herself barely able to work through her classes that day. Some nights it appeared as if they were gone altogether, and she slept firm and sound, waking refreshed and bright-eyed. On those days, her relief was so great that she was able to throw herself into her studies with such skill and confidence that she earned the commendation of the Masters and the resentment of her classmates, further deepening the gulf between them.

But invariably the dreams returned.

Finally, she worked up the nerve to stay after class and ask the Master of Healing for help. Spall looked at her with concern and ushered her to a nearby chair, where she was told to relax. The Master chanted Words over her; AmyQuinn recognized maybe one in ten, and hoped that the others were of the Major Arcana – surely he would be able to tell her what was wrong.

But when the chanting was done, she opened her eyes to find Master Spall shaking his head. He told her that, as far as he could see, there was nothing wrong with her aside from sheer exhaustion.

"It may be advisable that you delay your studies – "

"No!" she immediately protested. "No – I can't!"

"Your tenacity is admirable," Spall continued, eyeing her with consternation, "but your health must come first. Resting now may help prevent a longer period of rest later."

But she was adamant: she would not rest. Finally, Master Spall relented, on the stipulation that AmyQuinn come to see him during the mid-day free period once a week in his private quarters. She did as requested, and found herself in a small apartment full of dried herbs and bubbling potions. The Master examined her again, but nothing had changed. He gave AmyQuinn an enchantment to say at night to bring on dreamless sleep, and herbs to take before bed.

It worked, for a time. After a week of solid rest, she was back to the height of her abilities, and was so buoyed by her recovery that she earned acclaim in all of her classes and even managed to correctly distil lempre flower spirits in Herbalism, a subject in which she'd never done very well.

Per Master Spall's request, she took the herbs faithfully every night and spoke the enchantment before bed, taking the time and effort to imbue every Word with the full force of concentration required – making not just the sounds, but giving them intention to make them true. She slept soundly, and her relief was palpable.

Until the eighth night of the regiment, when she woke screaming and found herself up against the wall opposite her bed, ramming her fist over and over again into the stone. As soon as she returned to full consciousness, pain flooded through her arm. She swayed back and looked down in horror to see her hand torn and bloodied, the skin ripped away and blood dripping onto the floor. The hand began to throb horribly, in time with a headache that sprang up behind her eyes.

She staggered under the weight of her dream as it came flooding back to her. There had been a young oak tree on a distant island, standing tall and strong against a wind that tore down everything else around it. A young bird had flown to it, beaten and bloodied, feathers grimy and bent, and managed to rest in the branches. And beneath it all had been a dull throbbing beat, like that of a sickly heart, somewhere far, far to the north.

She sat on the edge of her bed, cradling her bloodied hand for the rest of the night, thinking nothing but horrible thoughts over and over again. She briefly contemplated going to see Master Owain or Master Vero, thought too about returning to Master Spall to fix her hand, but the idea of what they might say when they found out what she'd done... what they might do if she were truly mad...

No, she would go to no one. She would continue taking the herbs and hope the dreams would stay away. And if they didn't... if they didn't, then dreams were just dreams and she would find a way to deal with them.

She shivered violently and hugged herself, trying not to weep.

She grew more and more distant from the other apprentices, even Rylin and the Alins, who were at least still polite to her. She began to sleep poorly even when her sleep was dreamless. Soon she was getting barely an hour of sleep a night.

Finally, she made up her mind to speak with Counselor Ferrith, the only person she could think of who might listen to her and not have her thrown out. She found him in his private quarters, the anteroom of which doubled as a counseling office for the apprentices he supervised. She told him everything she could.

"Am I going crazy?" she concluded.

"No," he said immediately. She should have felt a rush of relief, but she did not. He was examining her critically, and his expression was anything but reassuring. She did her best to blink away her emotion.

"Then what is it?" she asked.

"You are a Sorev Ael," he replied easily. He smiled then, but it did little to comfort her. The answer was too easy, somehow. "That feeling is not common – some Sorev Ael go their whole lives without knowing it – but it _is_ common among those who show great aptitude for Magery. I've not heard of it coming to anyone as strongly as it seems to have come to you, and particularly without a ring or staff to channel it, but that does not mean such a thing is impossible."

She must have still looked confused, because he gestured her over to a cushioned chair, and once she sat he continued, watching her carefully to judge the impact of his words.

"We do not use the word _magic_ to describe what we do here," he said, "because it is not like what is talked about in stories. What we do is not something that exists inside us alone; it is not a quality, like green eyes or blue, that comes from our parents. The name, _magic,_ is even problematic in itself, because what we do is not a single _thing_ , like courage or strength. It is like music, or poetry – an unending series of combinations, feelings, and sensations, which have an unending number of interpretations based on the Sorev Ael who uses the Words. The true Sorev Ael, the great ones, are not students so much as artists – they do what they do because it moves them on a level deeper than thought. It is why the Words cannot be written down. We comprehend written letters with a rational part of our minds, but we cannot comprehend the _knowledge_ inside them without an extra step."

AmyQuinn understood maybe a third of this. Try as she could, she was only just barely grasping the edges of the concept. Going on as little sleep as she was, her whole body seemed to be throbbing, and she had to once again blink back tears.

"But – then why do I feel the way I do? I haven't _done_ anything."

Ferrith shook his head slowly.

"No, as I said, the power you have does not exist _inside_ you," he said, looking beyond her, perhaps thinking quickly of an answer to give; he appeared as frustrated by his lack of ability to explain himself as she was by her lack of ability to understand. "Think of light. Light does not come from us – it comes from the sun, or the moon, or fire, or any number of things. But we see the light with our eyes – we see it, understand it, and use it. Knowledge of the Words is like that. It is a quality of the world and of all things in it – like color. My eyes, they are a very light blue-green, almost gray, yes?"

She nodded, still confused but glad to have a question she could answer.

"How can you see them, though?" he asked, suddenly eager. "How can you see my eyes? If it was dark, would you see them then?"

"No," she said, though still confused. "If it was dark, I wouldn't be able to see anything. Unless there was a lantern or something."

"The feeling you have," he continued, slowing to give his words weight, his face clearing as the clouds of his own frustration drifted apart, "that feeling is light coming into you from outside. It is like... a ray of sunlight coming through a drawn curtain that lets you see a shadowy room. You can't see all of it – you can only see maybe a slice of the room – but the light lets you see at least a little. These dreams... they are knowledge, coming into you from the outside world."

She shook her head and covered her face with her hands. Her whole body hurt. She felt the calm, strong hands of the Counselor grab hold of her shoulders, and she sagged against them.

"But more than anything else, it means that there is something growing inside you, and something growing in the world as well. It means that you may have a part in it."

She looked up at him again, trying to understand. He smiled gently.

"But you must learn patience. It is not for a Sorev Ael to force the world. The name, Sorev Ael, is part of the older language of Aeon, before it became what is means today. It meant, in the beginning, 'Servant of All.' We serve the world, and those who come to us in need. The answers will come, and the right path will open before you. If the path has not yet opened, it is because something is left undone, or because something still needs time to develop."

"But that's – "

She cut off and her fatigue suddenly turned to anger. She uttered a mingled growl and sob and pushed him off of her. She stood and turned on her heel, ready to walk out the door or else maybe break something, but the only substantial belongings in this outer chamber were the two cushioned chairs, neither of which seemed appealingly fragile.

"I'm sorry," he interrupted. "That is the best I can do to explain. The dreams may continue to come, but you know you cannot leave until you have a Sorev Ael who wishes to take you on."

"But there aren't any Sorev Ael who want me!"

She spun to face Ferrith, who was watching her with ill-concealed pity.

"I'm a _girl,_ remember?" she said, investing the word with all the bitterness she'd been feeling. "No one wants a _girl!_ There aren't any Sorev Ael who are girls! I'm going to be stuck here until..."

She trailed off, unwilling to finish the sentence. The thought of more months – more years – spent in forced isolation, existing apart, unable to connect with anyone or anything, unable to do anything important... it was too much.

A small thought nudged at her, though, and she slowly turned her exhausted mind to examine it. There _was_ a female Sorev Ael. As a matter of fact, the second Sorev Ael she'd even seen had been a woman, and she'd been out of Var Athel, which meant that –

"Staci!" she exclaimed. She whirled back to Ferrith, who looked slightly alarmed by the outburst.

"There _was_ a girl," she explained. "She was with Valinor when he came to Dunlow – he said she was a Healer. So that means he took her to help him! He takes girls sometimes – that means that he might take me! He brought me here in the first place. When will he be back in Var Athel?"

She moved back to her chair and sat down, leaning forward eagerly, her whole body on fire with the knowledge of how events would now progress. This made sense. There were no murky dreams to interpret or foolish herbs and enchantments that were supposed to work but didn't. She was ready for action. She was ready to find Valinor, to tell him she was ready, and then...

Counselor Ferrith looked as though he'd swallowed a lemon.

"Valinor Therin," he said slowly, "is a great Mage. He is one of the best that Var Athel has ever produced, and his name is known up and down the Peninsula and throughout all of Aeon for good reason. He is... a great man."

AmyQuinn knew what was coming before he said another word. She waited for the other shoe to fall, trying to buttress herself against the blow, but she wasn't quite able to do so, and so the words stung her as he spoke them.

"But Valinor Therin is not a _reliable_ man," Ferrith said. "He is sometimes gone from Var Athel for long periods of time, only communicating with the Circle. Sometimes he leaves without word of any kind, off doing he only knows what. He... there have been times when he was not seen in Var Athel for years. Some of us even thought him dead. And in all that time, he has never taken an apprentice. He has worked with Deri'cael, yes, and other Sorev Ael on occasion. But only as the situation requires."

She gritted her teeth and tried to hold on to the optimism that had so recently suffused her; she sunk her mind into it like claws into fresh meat, but still the thoughts pulled away, slipping free of her grasp.

"When... when was the last time he was here?"

"He did return recently," AmyQuinn's heart began to race again – what had Ferrith been thinking? He should have told her that first! – "but he left the next day. There is no word of when he will return; the Circle has said nothing either. Perhaps the Mages themselves know more, but no one else does."

Her renewed surge of hope sank like a shot bird.

He'd been there. He'd been in Var Athel and he hadn't come to her.

_Maybe he didn't know I was ready,_ a small part of her mind said resolutely. _Maybe... maybe he..._

But it was no use. Her last hope was gone.

Slowly, defeated, she asked the only question other she could think of: "Would anyone else want me?"

Counselor Ferrith took a short breath and blew it out. He seemed relieved that the conversation had moved on, but when she glanced at him, the skin around his eyes was tight and drawn. It put her in mind of a doctor telling a patient there was no cure for what ailed them.

"There is a shortage of Sorev Ael who wish to take on new Deri'cael," he said.

"Will any of them take a girl?"

"Some of them might. You just have to continue to work hard."

"How hard?" she asked, her voice very small now. She hated the way she sounded. "How much longer?"

Ferrith did not seem inclined to answer at first, and she knew what that meant. When he did open his mouth, she stood abruptly, shocking both herself and him. His gray eyes were wide, and she realized in a dim corner of her mind that she was glaring at him. Anger was easier – anger was hot and burned away the pain.

"You should tell girls when they come here not to even bother," she said quietly, but with a heat in her voice that lashed out like a whip. Ferrith suddenly looked very small and very young; before he could say anything, she strode to the door, pulled it open, and slammed it behind her. She was gone before the echoes and the shocked looks of the Sorev Ael outside had time to dissipate.

The Tower clock rang the hour through the stone – four in the afternoon. She had an hour and a half before she needed to report to Naming.

She began to wander aimlessly. She went through the library, picked up a few books, put them back down again. She ventured out into the Servant's Court and watched a new apprentice take the oath in the Book of Names. A boy, of course. She thought back to the time she'd stood there and wondered what she'd been thinking. She looked at the two woman Stewards, tried to remember their names, and realized she couldn't. The smaller one turned, and AmyQuinn almost went to her, but, at the last second, a strong male voice called to the Steward from the other side of the Court, and she turned away, leaving AmyQuinn alone.

She left.

She thought about all the other female Sorev Ael she'd seen or heard about –Master Esmaldi, the Sisters – and wondered how she could ever have thought she would be like them. How had she not known this would happen? She was just an ordinary girl from an ordinary town – she was not a ravishing beauty like Esmaldi, nor was she some prodigy like the Sisters. She was not even a skilled Healer like Staci.

Maybe she just had to be stronger. Maybe that was the answer – maybe she was just being weak. Others had learned how to be alone – surely it was a skill, just like whistling or dancing. If you trained at it enough, then it must come. But how much longer would she have to wait to be good at it? How many years could she wait here in this Citadel, isolated even in a sea of other apprentices?

She sleepwalked through the rest of her classes. Naming was a blur, and she left with the distinct feeling that Master Rewit had noticed her disinterest. Illusions was much the same, and when the day finally ended with Sagery, she had lost all hope. The others left as usual – most yawning and already half asleep – but she could not even find the energy to stand. She seemed to have sunk into her meditation cushion, as though her legs had melded with the soft black fabric.

She only came out of her stupor when she realized the Master Sage had approached her. She could not muster up the effort to look at him, though; she knew he was there, but all she could do was stare at the marble floor. He stood silently beside her for a moment and then easily lowered himself to the floor in front of her, folding his legs beneath him.

"What is it that troubles you?"

She did not respond at first – she could not. The energy that speaking would take, the energy that _any_ action would take, seemed insurmountable.

"Please," he said softly. "Speak to me, child."

With a staggering effort of will, she looked up into his eyes, and that soft, caring gaze, so earnestly concerned, brought forth the emotion that she'd been fighting back all day. The tears that she had choked down in Counselor Ferrith's room, the tears she'd hidden beneath her anger, began to fall. But even then, she held back the greater part of the flood; even then she refused to be weak.

"I wondered if you would come to me," he said.

He was watching her intently, his eyes focused yet calm. His white beard and hair gave him a halo of luminescence, and through it shone his simple face, completely open and full of understanding. The effect was such that she felt as though he alone, of all the people in Var Athel, could actually see her.

"What do you mean?" she asked through stifled sobs.

"The art of Sagery is the art of acceptance," he said, repeating one of his central lessons. "People pull veils over their eyes so that they do not have to see what they do not want to see. The art of Sagery is to pull back those veils, so that you can see the world as it is; so that you can see the truth of what exists around you."

His face creased into a slight smile, tinged with sadness.

"You are isolated from your classmates. It is partly your doing and partly theirs. You are a young woman, trying to be that which many women cannot be, and you are headstrong. You refuse to bend, as even the best of us must do from time to time, and so it will be only a matter of time before you break."

Tears continued to leak from the corners of her eyes and slide down her cheeks, and though she would not acknowledge them, the despair inside continued to well up until she could not contain it anymore. It escaped in the form of three simple words:

"It's too hard."

They came out as barley more than a whisper, but they were clear. They seemed to echo around the room and mock her, even though the sound had been so soft that anyone more than a few feet away would have heard nothing at all.

"It is only through challenge that we grow," Master Vero said. His face glowed in the moonlight, and his robes were as white as fresh fallen snow. "If the path were easy, then everyone would travel it. When it is lined with rocks and brambles, when trees have fallen and you must find a way around them, that is when the destination becomes worthwhile."

"Please," she said, trying to make the words come out straight, fighting them with everything she had so that they came out as words and not as sobs. "Don't – don't talk like that. Just tell me. Tell me what I need to _do_ –"

He moved forward, shifting through the moonlight, and laid a hand on her shoulder. She felt her eyes pulled to his, and though she continued to fight the tears flowing down her cheeks, a soothing calm emanated from him, and she found it easier to breathe.

"The way forward will come. Breathe; it may be here already."

He stopped and suddenly his eyes were looking over her shoulder.

"Can I help?"

"Yes Master, Counselor Ferrith sent me," said a voice. "He has a message for an apprentice named Stonewall – am I too late?"

Master Vero smiled.

"By a happy accident, you are not. Please tell me the message."

"We've received a request for an apprentice. For Stonewall in particular."

AmyQuinn's heart shuddered to a stop inside her chest.

"I see," said the Sage, his voice clearly showing his amusement. He looked down at AmyQuinn, holding her eyes. "From whom has this request come?"

"I'm not sure, Master. Counselor Ferrith told me to come immediately, though; he said the request was made directly for an apprentice named Stonewall... I don't remember the first name. His new master is waiting in his room. I apologize."

"There is no need," the Sage said with a still wider smile at AmyQuinn. He looked as if this were the most amusing thing he'd experienced in years. "I will make sure the message gets to the apprentice in question."

"I – are you certain, Master? Your class has left – I can track down the apprentice if he is not here – "

"The apprentice _is_ here," the Sage said, looking up at the Deri'cael. "And _she_ has heard everything that she needs to know."

There was a long beat of silence, and then the Deri'cael began apologizing with a real note of panic in his voice, though Master Vero cut him short by saying simply he was forgiven and dismissed. When the young man was gone, the Sage looked down at her once more.

"I'd suggest you hurry," he said softly. "You don't want to keep your new master waiting."

She stood on numb legs, hardly daring to believe it could be true. She made her way to the door of the airy hall, and just as she was about to leave, the Sage spoke again:

"You've learned a great lesson today."

She stopped and turned back. Vero had risen to his full height and looked like a beam of moonlight made corporeal.

"What lesson, Master?" she asked, her mind so stunned that no new information seemed able to penetrate it. Vero smiled.

"Life will provide."

The words shook her and somehow unstuck her mind. She did not remembering saying anything else after that, though she vaguely thought she'd made a farewell of some kind before leaving – at least she hoped she had – and then she was rushing through the halls toward the Tower, gaining speed with every step.

Shouted reprimands followed her as she pushed rudely past faceless masses of Sorev Ael, but the words did not stick. The sounds were distant and muted, as if she were hearing them through a long tunnel. None of them made sense or even seemed to register as more than noise. She raced past it all, never stopping.

It was only when she came to her room that she slowed. The other apprentices had gone to bed, shut away by the Deri'cael who came to check that they observed their curfew. The long hall was silent and shut, each door flush with the walls, closed like the eyelids of the sleeping apprentices inside.

All but her door, which was slightly ajar.

Her chest still heaving as she caught her breath, she took a step forward and reached out. Her fingers grazed the smooth, solid wood, and a thrill rushed through her. She leaned her weight in, and the door swung slowly inward, creaking at the midpoint as it always did.

The light inside the room guttered out, and she found herself looking into a room suddenly dark and full of possibility.

As her eyes adjusted, she realized that she could make out a dark figure standing by the slit window on the far side of the pallet bed. It was turned away from her, but she could just make out a dark traveling cloak and a thick mane of hair. The figure was tall, and its shoulders were wide.

She spoke the Word for light and a small magelight appeared, wavering and flickering like a candle flame over the palm of her hand. She let out the full breath she'd finally managed to take and stepped into the room. She smoothed the skirt of her long white dress with her free hand, and then stopped when she realized what she was doing. Slowly, she closed the door behind her; the latch snapped into place with a muffled click.

Valinor Therin turned to face her.

His dark cloak swirled slightly with the movement and sent a ripple of air through the room that made the magelight waver and throw shadows about them. His face was just as striking as she remembered it, with the sharp angles and high cheekbones. His thick black hair, graying at the temples, was swept back and away from his forehead in a messy tumble that fell down his neck, and his rugged face bore several days worth of stubble. His burnt-black eyes were just as she remembered.

He looked her up and down, and his expression changed.

"What's happened?" he asked, his voice touched with concern. "You look exhausted."

"Bad dreams," she said. He absorbed this comment, and then, nodding slightly, spoke again:

"How often?"

"I... almost every night now."

"Did you do anything about them?"

"I took herbs to sleep. They worked in the beginning, but not anymore. And then... I thought... I was afraid that – "

"That you were mad?"

She nodded slowly, feeling a surge of relief mingled with apprehension. Was he about to confirm her fears? Would he refuse to take her if he knew that she could not handle the stress of the training?

"You're not," he said. "Mad, that is. No – you're a Mage."

She felt the knot of tension that had wound itself tighter and tighter between her shoulders suddenly loosen, and her knees unlocked. She sagged slightly, and caught herself against the wall with her free hand, trying as she did to pull her thoughts together.

"Mages... they feel like that? A lot? Like... they're needed somewhere?"

Valinor's face was grim. "I feel like that nearly every time I stay in one place for more than a week. It is only to be expected that you would feel the same. Owain says you have all the makings of a proper Mage – says that he hasn't seen a talent like yours for years."

Her lungs seemed to clench together in her chest like a pair of clasped hands.

"Your other teachers, though, are less forgiving," he continued, moving to the bed and taking a seat there. He examined her critically, as one might examine a new possession. "Your Herbalism needs work – poisons, specifically poisons and their cures, are essential to work in the field. Enchantment is good, Esmaldi says you show promise and that you're clever enough if you manage to apply yourself, and your Illusions Master says you have the knack for sensing traps, but you've recently fallen behind in Naming and Healing, both of which are very important for a Mage. Sagery is... well, no Mage does very well at Sagery, so we'll put that aside for now."

He took a breath and let it out.

"Some of us are not meant for a life of study," he said, watching her as he spoke to judge the impact of his words. "Some of us are not meant for a life of contemplation in an ivory tower. The work here is important, and you will return here every year of your time with me so that you can learn more – do not argue," he said, correctly interpreting the suddenly obstinate look on her face, "because it is a condition of your study as a Deri'cael. You must return and you will – but you will only be here for as long as you must. You will go with me whenever I leave – you will be like my shadow – until such time as I deem you fit to test for the ring that will make you a true Sorev Ael. It will take years – and I will work you harder than you've even been worked in your life. I will take you farther away from your home than you might have ever thought possible. But you will be out in the world. You will be where you are needed."

She tried to say something back but found she had no words.

"The Circle knows I'm taking you," he continued, "and I've told the head of the Mage Order as well as Counselor Ferrith, so it is all arranged. You are my apprentice now, and I am your master."

She nodded numbly again, and realized she felt curiously empty. She could only assume that with everything that had happened, she was in shock. Only an hour earlier she had been contemplating giving up, and now...

"I have a question for you," he said. She managed to unstick her tongue from the roof of her mouth long enough to croak out a "yes?"

"What is that feeling inside you saying now?" he asked. "That feeling of need – what it is telling you?"

"That... that it bloody took you long enough," she said.

She could hardly believe her own daring. The words had come unbidden to her lips, and in her dumbstruck state she'd been unable to pull them back before they slipped out.

But Valinor did not reprimand her; on the contrary, his impassive expression slipped, and the corner of his mouth turned upward in a grin.

"Is that any way to treat your master?"

She suddenly felt like laughing, but the feeling disappeared as he turned back to look out the window, muttering something to himself. Again speaking before her numb mind could think better of it, she asked, "Something is wrong, isn't it?"

Valinor was quiet for a moment before he turned back from the window. "Yes," he said simply. He gestured for her to sit. She did so, moving jerkily, her body not quite responding correctly to her thoughts. She stared straight ahead, not knowing what to do or say, and felt more than saw him turn to glance down at her from the corner of his eye.

"What were your dreams about?"

Dread rushed through her, and she suddenly had the very odd urge to shout at him that she'd never had any dreams at all. Instead, she very calmly looked up at him and did her best to answer.

"They don't make sense. There's a tree that stands up against a wind that smells rotten. There's a bird that ties strings together and then picks them apart. There's a – a... "

The words stuck in her throat, the image of the real dream that drew her, the final one that she had barely even acknowledged to herself, but his burnt-black eyes pulled it out of her:

"... a bleeding heart. Somewhere far to the north."

If the words meant anything to Valinor, he gave no sign of it. He watched her for a long time, holding her gaze, and as he did she realized that the breath was being pulled out of her, that she had not inhaled since before she'd begun talking and that she didn't dare do it now, not until he –

He looked away and stood.

She pulled in a deep lungful of air, trying to do so as silently and stealthily as possible so as not to gasp stupidly in his presence. He went to the wall opposite the bed and turned back to her, leaning against it.

"Dreams come and go," he said slowly. "All Sorev Ael have them – they are a side effect of the Words; a side effect of using them."

"Did you have them too?"

He made a soft sound that seemed self-depreciating.

"I have them still."

A heavy relief rushed through her that left her temporarily speechless. Her shoulders rolled back and her head fell into her hands; she breathed heavily into them, trying to hold herself together.

A hand came to rest on her shoulder, and she realized he was trying, awkwardly, to comfort her. She looked up, and saw that he was just as surprised by the action as she was. He looked suddenly worried that maybe he was the crazy one.

"Did you ever see something like my dreams?" she asked.

"Who, me?" he asked with a mischievous glint in his eye. "Of course not. I'm the soul of sanity."

The words, unexpected as they were from a man so serious, took her completely by surprise, and she let out a quick laugh before she could stop herself.

"I have something to confess," he said. "I have... never taken an apprentice before. This will be as new an experience for you as it is for me. I work best alone."

"I've ... never been an apprentice before," she replied. "I mean – it's new for both of us, right? So... yes. It will be fine."

This statement was greeted with silence, and the moment lengthened until Valinor cleared his throat. He straightened his cloak about him and shot a glance at the door, as if wishing he could go.

"We leave tomorrow for the Northern Wilds, where you will work to earn the staff that will make you a Deri'cael. I will tell you more along the way. Once you succeed, we will return here briefly."

"Return? Why?" She could not entirely keep the panic from her voice; her thoughts had immediately gone to the prospect of more classes, of more time spent alone with nothing but herself. Had not he said they would be gone for a while first? Had not he said – ?

"You need to be confirmed," he said slowly.

"I – what?"

He shook his head. "That can wait. All you must know is that we leave tomorrow. I will give you instructions on the journey."

"What? But – why not now?" she asked, hurt in spite of herself. "I'm going to be your apprentice – doesn't that mean you need to tell me everything?"

Valinor barked out a laugh that shocked her with its forceful intensity.

"You're a handful," he said, watching her with twinkling eyes, his expression that of an adult watching an unusually clever child perform a trick. She stifled a sudden flare of annoyance. "No, I don' need to tell you everything. But, I promise you this: every word I speak to you will be the truth. There are some things that are not mine to speak about, just as there are some secrets that are not mine to reveal, but I will answer what questions I can, and teach you everything I know – in its own time, as I decide. Agreed?"

AmyQuinn pursed her lips and narrowed her eyes.

"All right. So what can you tell me?"

"I can tell you that I've been looking into the events that brought me to your village – and that I've been journeying the Wilds trying to find answers to what has brought these raiders to our shores, and what we might do to stop them."

AmyQuinn leaned forward eagerly.

"What have you found?"

He considered her a moment before answering.

"You will not have known, but the raids have increased in frequency since you've been here. Oh, no," he said, noticing her look of alarm, "not on the Peninsula, but on the northern coast of the Wilds, and in the Archipelago. For months there was nothing, and then as soon as spring came these Black Ships appeared again. There may even have been attacks in the southern nation of Calinae, but our reports are sketchy. Still, the Caelron Great Ships have been gathered and are preparing a force to sail north to the Floating Isles even as we speak."

She could see it in his face – the worry line that creased the skin between his brows, and the far-off look he wore. "You don't think they'll be enough."

"No," he said curtly. "No, I don't. There is something deeper here that I have not been able to see – something that is hidden in the Northern Isles." He shook his head as if to dislodge an irksome fly. "But all that matters is that our next step is clear: you need a staff. More will come to us then."

"But why?" she asked, frustrated. "What does that have to do with anything?"

"I do not know. You'll soon find that being a Sorev Ael opens up a shocking number of questions and gives, at best, a handful of answers, many of which only lead to further questions. All I know is that it is no coincidence I met you on the night the raiders first attacked; it is no coincidence that the Ring of Eman Vath has resurfaced now; and it is no coincidence that you, a girl of no background or standing, are going north with me. I've had... some time to think about all of this."

"The Ring of Eman Vath?"

"Indeed," Valinor said. "The ring worn by the last of the true Battle Mages from the Charridan War. It has been found, at the same time a young girl from a backwater village picked up the yew staff of a full Sorev Ael and, untrained, spoke of Word of power that should have killed her. A young girl with the same feeling of need that drives me – a young girl who excels in Magery."

Her cheeks were growing warm.

"Where is the ring?" she asked.

"It is with Baelric the Wise. Holder Flynn, Thirteenth Speaker of the Circle, took it to Caelron himself for safekeeping."

"But how does all of this fit with the men who attacked Dunlow?" AmyQuinn's head was spinning, and none of these pieces seemed to fit together the way Valinor seemed to think they did. "If they're gaining in power, and Caelron is launching the Great Ships, doesn't that mean we need someone to wear the ring now and fight?"

"No. The ring can only be worn and used by a powerful Sorev Ael, and he or she would need to be bonded to it first. A bonding that will be for life. That is a heavy burden. I cannot see how all these pieces come together, but I know they will. I feel what you feel – I am needed in the north, and so are you. I don't know why, or what purpose I will serve. But the Master Seer told me that I would need you, and you would need me. And for us to move forward, you need a staff."

"So... what do we do?"

"We move one step at a time, as all people do."

"And where do we step?"

"The Wilds."

Chapter Seventeen: The Northern Isles

Samson did not again see daylight for the better part of three weeks.

He emerged into consciousness only briefly during the voyage. The Black Ship was badly beaten, and it barely rode out the storm. Samson missed the struggle, though: the blow to his head combined with weeks of exhaustion put him in a sleep approaching death.

When he did wake, it was to the worst smelled he'd ever experienced. It was burnt flesh and decay, so sickening he almost retched. His eyes snapped open, and he rolled over onto his side, dry-heaving.

He was below deck somewhere, he knew that immediately. What little light there was came from above and behind him, but when he tried to turn and look, his head throbbed horribly and sent a wave of pain down his spine as a hard fist of nausea slammed into the pit of his stomach. He gasped and looked back down, the way he had woken, and when his vision cleared he saw that heavy iron manacles chained his hands together. His clothing was gone and all he'd been left with was a thin flap of cloth wrapped around his waist and upper legs. Salty grime covered him, and it was clear he had not been washed since the night they'd taken him.

He heard the echo of other chains shifting and clinking all around him, and so he lifted his head again, inch by inch lest he suffer from the same horrible pain again. In front of him a bare wooden bulkhead, on which the only ornament was a solid iron ring through which dozens of chains had been looped – chains so thick that individual links were the size of a man's arm. He heard noise from behind him, words he didn't understand, and then something was pulled down over his head. He struggled as best he could, but it was useless. Still, he pushed against his assailant, until a heavy thud resounded through the back of his skull, bringing back the pain and darkness.

He woke intermittently to people feeding him – people who were naked save for ragged loincloths and black iron manacles pinching their hands, feet, and necks. Whatever they were feeding him tasted vile, and he tried to spit it out but they wouldn't let him: they forced his jaw open and poured more in so that the only thing he could do was swallow. They spoke to him in encouraging tones, but he couldn't understand the words. He fell into darkness again.

When next he woke, he was in chains again, and this time bound at neck and feet as well. Smell was once again the first sensation to come back in full force: it assaulted him like a physical blow, almost knocking him back into unconsciousness with its raw, animal might. He shuddered and looked up and around, blinking to clear his eyes.

Row upon row of men, naked save for loincloths, were packed into the below-levels of the ship on which they sailed. Samson's space was at the farthest end of what looked like a cargo hold, and there were others around him that looked as if they'd been injured or otherwise needed care. It was by far the most spacious part of the hold: those closest to the walls were piled nearly on top of each other, shoved into thin shelves and chained in place. More than one of them looked like they might have died and no one had noticed.

"STAND!"

The roar of sound was accompanied by a slash of light on the far side of the space. The beam was bright in the dark netherworld into which Samson and the others had been thrown; so bright that those nearest it cried out and recoiled as if burned. Samson too was forced to turn his head away, despite his position at the opposite end of the hold. He couldn't help it: it was like looking into the sun.

Men emerged from the slash of light, descending in a rush. They were dressed in black, with cloths tied over their noses and mouths, and they bore heavy cudgels that looked well-worn with use.

Another man appeared behind them, a man in shining silver armor covered by a long black cloak. He was holding a cloth to his mouth but had not tied it in place, and his long chestnut hair fell down the back of his head in a spray of handsome curls. He lowered the cloth long enough to reveal a sneering, haughty mouth, and then he said something to a smaller, brutal-looking man behind him. The armored man turned to go, and the second one strode forward; he was scarred, and looked made of solid muscle, as though any last trace of fat had been bled out of him.

"STAND!" he roared again.

There came a cacophonous shifting and clanking of chains as those able to obey did so. Samson swayed as he tried to follow suit, but pain reached out and clamped his head in a vise-like grip. He staggered and let out a sound that was half moan and half grunt. His knees would not lock; he was about to fall...

A strong pair of hands caught him, and he turned in time to see a face he thought he'd dreamed: a man with a ragged cloth tied over his wide nose and mouth, clad only in a loincloth, and chained beside him among the other wounded.

There was more noise from the front of the hold, and then shouting from the others. Men were being pulled from their places, unchained from the walls and led up through the stairs into the shaft of golden light with shouts and blows.

"Go with them – do not resist," hissed a voice in Samson's ear.

He turned and saw the black eyes of the man who'd saved him blazing out from above the protective cloth. The man's accent was strange, and it was clear he was no Islander. His voice was clipped and fast, precise, unlike anything Samson had ever heard before.

"Go," the man said. "Go – now – _do not look at me!_ "

He tore his eyes away, and though the man kept a strong hand on him to help him stand, they in no other way acknowledged each other. The men in the black leather armor pulled them all out of the hold, one by one, only pausing to uncouple those men who had died on their shelves. The bodies were left where they lay.

When they reached Samson, his breathing had turned ragged as he tried to control the pain. His head was throbbing violently, and it took everything in him not to be sick on the men who pulled him roughly forward. They thrust him toward the staircase with their cudgels, and he ascended, blinded by the flood of light.

He emerged on a crowded deck, and the sight of it brought the battle between _Desecration_ and _Longrider_ crashing back in on him. There were the two braziers, now burned down to banked coals, fore and aft; there were the masts, one shorn off clean but the other whole; and there, standing beside the railing, was the man in the bone mask, watching the captives.

Samson and the others were forced forward, pulled along by the chains that connected them each to other in a long line, right past Solom's murderer; but either the man had forgotten him, or Samson was unrecognizable in his bruised and bloody state, for the green eyes slid past him without stopping.

Before Samson could think to throw himself at the man, or to cry out, or to do anything at all, he was forced down the gangplank to the dock, and as his bare feet hit the waterlogged wood, he stumbled forward and looked up.

They had landed on an island cloaked almost entirely in mist. The sun was directly overhead, and it was this and only this that had dissipated the fog enough to reveal the contours of the landscape. The isle stretched up thousands of feet at its apex in a huge rocky crag, and also stretched out far to either side, the tapered ends cloaked and hidden in mist. Samson couldn't have said how he knew it was an island, but somehow he did. It was a feeling – the feel of a man from the Archipelago who'd only ever set foot on the mainland once.

There was a fortress at the base of the mountain – a squat, far-flung structure that loomed menacingly beside a river that led from the mountain to the sea. It was constructed of freshly hewn wood, and the edges of it were still undone – huge scaffolds had been erected there, and it looked as though whole sections of the mountain had been excavated and moved to make way for the expansion.

He found his eyes drawn away from the fortress to the huge forest of stumps along the upper ridges of the island. He had seen such patches before: trees, cut down by the hundreds, were being harvested. He looked around the harbor in which they'd landed and found, among a dozen Black Ships, a score of half-built hulls under furious construction.

His observations were cut short, though, when he was unceremoniously shoved forward. He stumbled after the man in front of him, trying to keep his balance, and was forced to once again fend off an overwhelming wave of nausea. He kept his head down save for sidelong glances now and then. He saw men throwing dice and playing cards, heavily dowsed in drink; women in little more than strips of cloth, chained to stakes outside wooden buildings that offered the service of their bodies; and bare-chested men with cudgels fighting in a ring while others cheered and placed bets.

Goaded inexorably forward, the chained captives were marched toward the fortress, and as the sun left its zenith and descended toward the distant side of the island, the huge structure seemed to grow in power and menace. It rose from the rocky ground above the lower town in layers of stone and new-cut lumber. The road that went up to it was newly blazed, that much was clear: there were still holes where boulders had been uprooted and trees cut away.

They crossed an invisible dividing line, and the chaos of the docks changed to the formal air of a military encampment. The soldiers that passed them were all in various shades of black with traces of silver. The cut of the armor and the clothing varied dramatically, but the one unifying feature was a silver skull sewn on every left breast – the same grinning terror that looked down on them from flags flown atop the fortress.

The captives were led then down into the earth through a heavily guarded door below the fortress. Dirt tunnels became stone-lined passageways that branched out in various directions beneath the roots of the mountain. They passed scores of cells – hundreds even – and the air was thick with the stench of unwashed bodies. Not only men were held captive there, but women and children as well.

The captors with their silver skulls began to separate out the captives, laying about them unnecessarily with their cudgels to force them into various cells. The group began to dwindle as they continued on their way, still deeper into the mountain's underground. Samson was one of the last dozen to be separated out. They threw him in a cell that was thinly padded with a filthy layer of straw, deep in the bowels of the fortress. There was food there – thick gray gruel and water that rats had been at – and nothing else.

He watched them place the rest of the captives in their cells, watched them turn to go. They slammed a heavy wooden door at the end of the cellblock, taking their torches with them and leaving him in darkness save for a single flicking lantern set in a metal bracket on the wall.

Stunned, he sat in his cell, trying and failing to ward off despair.

They returned a long time later – A day? Three days? – and took him and the others out again. They unlocked the chains that bound their feet so that they could walk more freely, and pushed them back into the corridor. They met with more captives outside, though none of them spoke in greeting. The men of the silver skull walked up and down beside them with whips and rods, striking any who dallied. The captives were pushed through the long halls and corridors of new-built wood that still smelled like fresh-cut pine and cypress, and then out into the open air.

It was morning. The mist and fog were thick, so thick that they lay over the island like a blanket and repelled the sun's light. Samson, slowly regaining his wits, looked at the other captives nearest him; the pounding in his head receded enough to allow for thought, however stunted.

He knew immediately, though the thought was dull and sluggish, that the other captives were from all across the land of Aeon: they had skin that ranged from the pale white of old Caelron stock to the dark hue of Archipelagans, none of whom, Samson was relieved to see, were men he recognized from Gol.

None of them were women, either – that much was certain and easy to tell. He realized too that this group was smaller than the group he'd come with, and that many of the men looked, if not healthy, at least alive and strong. They were all tall, some even taller than him, and many looked as though they'd put up a hell of a fight in being taken: several had serious wounds that looked newly healed.

There was no sign of that fight in them now.

They marched out into the forest, over rocky terrain that cut their bare feet, and by the time they'd walked several miles, even Samson's sea-hardened soles were red and raw. When they finally did stop, he wished that they had continued walking. With simple instruction and the threat of whips and cudgels should they talk, they were set to work felling the huge trees of the isle's deciduous forest.

Samson didn't know how long he spent there. The mist kept the sun away, and washed everything in a cold, endless gray light. They were fed – gruel that was barely better than nothing – and watered, and all the while forced to continue on. Samson kept up with the work, but his mind was blank. He acted and reacted, but the horror of the situation made it impossible to contemplate fully.

Finally, his hands raw and blistered by the heavy wood of the axe he'd been wielding and his limbs shaking with fatigue, he and the others were led back to the fortress through the falling night. They were fed and watered once more – gruel again, but this time Samson ate it eagerly – and thrown back into their cells.

The next day was the same, and so too the day after that. In fact, time seemed to have stalled and stuck in place: that first day seemed simply to repeat itself, over and over again. Soon, Samson had lost all track of time, and he knew only the freezing cold of night and the painful labor of day. All of his effort went into the bone-breaking work in order to avoid the whips and cudgels; and when he was returned to his cell to sleep at night, he wept silently, aching and shivering.

Days passed into weeks and nothing changed. He hoped at first for rescue, hoped that the Great Ships that Prince Rewlyn had promised would come and break the power of his captors, but it never happened. As he lay in his cell at night, trying to find sleep though his whole body ached and throbbed no matter how he turned or lay or curled up on his filthy patch of straw, he clutched desperately at that hope, telling himself that the possibility was real, that it truly did exist. But with every day that slipped by, with each hour of breaking rocks and cutting trees and hauling wood, the hope receded, like the sun setting inescapably over the horizon.

The only change of any kind was that the pain in his head lessened with each successive day. Soon it was gone for good, and his thoughts, though fogged by fatigue and despair, were mostly lucid. He noticed changes outside of himself: that the season was changing from deep winter with the pelting rains, stinging hail, and consuming fog, to a lighter air that signaled spring; he noticed that the slaves were being forced to work steadily up the mountain, cutting trees as they went; and he noticed that the men he worked with were broken, body and spirit.

It was this last that most affected him. He could bear his own punishment – he was young and strong, and his body could take the beatings. But some of the others were older – even by a few years – and if they slowed or stopped or faltered, they were whipped back to work with merciless cruelty. Those who couldn't be goaded, though – those who had faltered out of such extreme exhaustion that they had no energy left to force their limbs to move – were beaten bloody and then cast aside, where they lay, dead or dying, until someone came to drag them away.

Samson watched this when it happened, for it happened at least once a day. It seemed important that he watch it, even if no one else did. It seemed important that someone witness the dying – that someone witness these poor men's last moments.

Something deep and strong began to fill him. And every time he saw a man beaten to death by one of their captors – by Scarred Face, the one who smiled as he did it; by Funny Boy, the one who laughed; by Stone, the one who hacked at flesh the way the captives hacked at tree wood – he felt it fill him even more. It was an ugly, red, pulsating thing – a formless entity that pushed out from the center of his stomach and consumed him inch by inch, feeding on him as it gave him strength.

He'd been empty since his brother's death. He hadn't been able to admit it – had tried actively to hide it, in fact – but looking back now, he couldn't keep it from himself. The endlessly repetitive work forced him into an uncomfortable state of self-reflection, and though he was careful to track the movements of his captors, he had time for musings such as he never had before. He examined himself and that emptiness, and this new thing growing inside him, as if they were strange rocks he had come upon on a distant shore. It was something harder than hope, something sharper than anger, and something deeper than both.

Solom's death had begun it. It had eaten away the innocence of the boy he'd been – an innocence that had survived even the death of his father. His father's death had been horrible, but it had made sense. It had fit into the framework of his life, and so he had been able to deal with it and process it. His father had died as many others had died – on the open sea. A hard death, but a good death – a sailor's death and a fisherman's death, and the death his father no doubt would have wanted. A death earned by a life of hard work doing what a man was meant to do: fighting the elements, pushing beyond the body's limits, bringing home food and profit from dangerous shores.

But Solom's death had been a useless death.

The thought of it plagued him. There was no one to talk to – the isolation, even among hundreds of slaves, was absolute – and the only path for Samson's mind to turn was inwards.

He was strong and growing stronger, but what was the point?

He was tall and growing taller, but what was the point?

His brother was dead, and what was the point?

He was enslaved, and what was the point of fighting?

His brother had died and he'd led _Longrider_ north to fight those responsible, confident he and the others would stop the raids – that the Archipelagans together could rise up and defeat the invaders. And so he'd fought and killed and fought still more. And nothing was different. The men of the silver skull, the men who called themselves the Varanathi, still rode the Sea, and his brother was dead, and he was enslaved, and there were hundreds more silver-skulled monsters waiting to take the place of those he'd sent to the bottom of the sea.

He lived, and _there was no point to it._

A man beside him faltered, stumbled, and fell.

Surprised, Samson only had a chance to look down, to feel the extra weight on the chains that bound them together, before a shout went up.

"Move!" called Stone. His heavy fist slammed into Samson's side even as Samson tried to obey; pain flared in a sharp burst and he stifled a grunt.

"Get up," Stone said, standing over the fallen man. The man tried to obey, and as he struggled he turned enough for Samson to see his face: it was screwed up in pain, and he was clutching his chest as though trying to rip through the skin. The tendons in his neck stood out like high-tension ropes, and his uneven teeth were bared in a grimace of shock, pain, and terror.

"Get up," Stone repeated. His face was blank and impassive, as if he were watching a machine of some kind that refused to work properly. The man tired again to obey, but his left arm shook and refused to lock, and so he fell back, a moan escaping through his clenched teeth. His eyes rolled up in his head, and his lips began to take on a bluish tinge, as though he couldn't breathe. Still he tried to obey: he pushed himself against the rock that they'd been working to uproot, trying to lever himself to his feet, but that didn't work either. None of it was any use. The strength of his body had failed simply him.

Stone raised his arm dispassionately and brought down the whip.

The crack echoed through the deadly silence, shattering into a thousand pieces. Every captive in the area flinched, and the motion broke Samson from his stupor. Something cleared from in front of his eyes, and he looked over at his captors. He saw Funny Boy and Scarred Face coming closer with a number of others behind them. Funny Boy was watching eagerly, his black clothing matched by the black pits of his eyes; Scarred Face was watching the other captives, scowling at them as though their very existence were a personal slight against him.

The whip cracked again, and the man bellowed in pain.

"Stand," Stone repeated, his voice still devoid of emotion.

The other captives were all watching now, horrified. None of the Varanathi seemed keen to force them to resume work; instead, they were looking between them and the fallen man with smirks and sneers.

That ugly red entity in Samson's gut began to burn with a low, steady heat.

The whip cracked again: this time it hit the man's shoulder, ripping clean through the bare skin and drawing blood that began to flow down the man's right arm. He was still trying to stand and still failing. There were tears rolling down his face now – tears of panic and fear and desperation.

Samson fought to keep himself from crying out.

"Stand," Stone said again, the word exactly the same in cadence and inflection as before. His thick, muscled forearms stood out in stark contrast to the downed man's withered limbs.

The whip cracked again, and the man fell to the ground completely.

Samson took a step forward before he knew what was happening.

_Don't!_ screamed a voice inside his head. _Don't! There's nothing you can do!_

He stopped, but not in time. Funny Boy and Scarred Face had just come even with him and the others in the group, and they both saw him move. Funny Boy came to him first. He grabbed Samson by his long hair and wrenched his head back so that his knees buckled and it was hard to breathe.

"You want to help, do you?" he hissed. His black eyes were bright with the light of killing, and his ever-present sneer was fixed hungrily upon Samson's face. "You want to help?"

He tittered a high, girlish laugh that made Samson's teeth ache and his skin crawl. "No, no, no," Funny Boy said, waggling a finger before his face, "you can't help. In fact, let's have you watch."

Samson found himself suddenly inches away from the body of the dying man, held in place by the iron grip of his captor. The man's struggles were growing weaker and weaker. His left arm was flopping around uselessly, as though it had no muscles, and his right hand was clutching at his heart.

"What?" Funny Boy hissed in Samson's ear, holding his head so that he couldn't move an inch. "Isn't this what you wanted? To be closer?"

Stone raised the whip and brought it cracking down once more, only just missing the tip of Samson's nose. That final lash hit the man's eye, and the hand holding his chest flew to his face as blood gushed freely. His body gave a final convulsive twist, and he shuddered, arched up as though he might simply fly away, and then fell to the ground and moved no more.

Ringing filled Samson's ears as the body fell, and his vision narrowed in on the mutilated face. Funny Boy was wrenching him back, pulling him to his feet as he cackled, but somehow in all that time – it felt like years – Samson could only see the ruined eye staring up at him.

He'd never been that close before. He'd never seen...

Never seen what? This is what happens every day.

The voice pounded against him, forcing out the last of his hope.

There's no point in being here. One day – maybe years from now – you'll die too. You'll be beaten, and you'll fall, and no one will save you either.

Shame washed over him in heavy, successive waves; each breath he took submerged him further, and the sound of the world around him faded away until it was nothing more than a dull throbbing in his head.

He'd just stood there. He'd watched a man beg for help, watched him die, and done nothing.

"Keep moving," said Funny Boy with a wide grin that dared him to disobey. His black eyes were blazing as though the death had kindled a fire there.

"No."

A deadly silence fell on the clearing. Funny Boy's smile deepened, and Stone raised the whip.

They'd been working that day on the upper slope of the island, and the time it took them to drag him back to his cell, fighting as he did, was considerable. The lash whipped him with every step, and he roared at them and it like a wild beast. Even later that night, after he'd been forced into his cell and tied down, he had only small flashes of recollection of what had happened. He remembered breaking free at one point and slamming his fist into Funny Boy's smile, knocking out several teeth. He remembered Stone smashing him in the ribs with his club, having discarded the whip once it was clear it was having no effect. He remembered the looks on the faces of the other captives as he fought, tooth and nail, against every black-clothed body that had thrown itself against him, like waves crashing against a rock. And every breath he took as they forced him down beneath the ground, every flash of pain and every beat of his still-living heart, was a shout of raging defiance.

By the time they finally managed to throw him in his cell, he had bruised and bloodied a dozen armed men, and given Funny Boy a broken jaw to go with his missing teeth. And the only thing that had sunk in – the only bit of speech he'd heard – was what the cellblock guard had hissed in his ear:

"You're a dead man, Islander. Tomorrow you'll swing."

As darkness closed in on him, Samson felt a swelling in his chest that had nothing to do with pain, and he knew that he would fight back against them with every ounce of strength no matter what they did next. He would fight them with every step he took up to the gibbet if that was where he was truly bound.

The swelling in his chest continued, pushing away the pain.

His death would have a point, even if just for him.

Chapter Eighteen: Little Bird

Wren's captors threw him into the cell headfirst. The last thing he saw was the stone floor rushing up to meet him, and then his chin hit rock and his neck snapped back. At first he was half under the impression his bad luck had gotten even worse and he'd somehow broken his neck, but when he tried to move and found he could, he realized that wasn't the case.

That being said, his vision was fading out, and he dimly recognized, with unfortunate familiarity, the process of falling unconscious.

"Should we change him? He _stinks._ "

"No – leave him in those rags. No reason to waste good clothes on a scrawny one like that. He'll be dead before the week is out."

The first voice said something in response, but Wren didn't hear it. The throbbing in his neck hit his head and everything faded away.

He came to sometime later. He didn't know if seconds had passed, or minutes, or maybe even hours, but the time between sleeping and waking was enough that his body was stiff, and his neck felt as though it had been wrapped in something hard and sticky.

_But at least it moves,_ Wren thought with a grimace.

He sat up and looked around. A cell – grimy, rough-hewn, and hardly big enough to pace about in. Not the worst place he'd ever spent a night, but certainly still low on the list.

_Never trust a merchant_ , he chided himself. _Never!_

He'd thought himself lucky when he'd come across the man after he'd fled Var Athel. There had been a small bag of gold attached to the saddle of the horse he'd stolen, and he'd used it to get as far along the road as he could from Caelron to Fort Turin in the north. On the way, he'd met a merchant named Aldred, who had offered to take him the rest of the way if he sang for his supper. The man had heard him on the road, and said his men would like a bit of music. Wren had agreed, even though he didn't like the idea. An empty stomach makes for foolish decisions.

The merchant had said he was returning from the south – he'd said Calinae, but Wren hadn't believed that for a second – and that he was heading north to Fort Turin. Wren had fallen in easily enough – sang a little song, did a little dance – and kept them in music and merriment for the rest of the journey north.

And then the merchant had tried to take the ring.

It had been the last night, just outside the city of Turin, and they'd made camp down the road in a nearby field. There'd been others as well – Wren as a city boy born and bred hadn't realized people actually enjoyed sleeping outside and such in the country, but it seemed people were peculiar and that was the way it was. The guards had been relaxed and easy with him that night. He'd sung a few songs – his voice was good, even without the lute – and that was that, or so he'd thought.

They came for him in the night.

He woke by accident – one of them tripped over a pot in the darkness, sending it clattering away under the merchant's wagon, and Wren was up and moving before he knew consciously what was happening. They shouted for him, tried to circle around, but he was too fast. He escaped into the woods and raced away into the night.

He ran hard and fast – straight north to the city. The guards that had enjoyed his songs showed no preferential treatment as they chased after him, though he supposed that shouldn't surprise him. Guards were simple like that – they liked you and then they didn't. That kind of thinking seemed to come with the package.

He slipped them easily enough once he found his way into the minor city of Lower Turin, south of the famous Fort Turin that held one of the three passes through the Barrier Mountains. He laid low for as long as he could, stealing when he dared, singing for his supper in a pinch, but they found him anyway. In the end, he took what he could, retreated one last time to the eaves of the _Rolling Pin_ inn where he'd been sleeping _,_ and stole a coat and a pair of boots on the way out of town.

He struck out for the coast, staying south of the Barrier – only madmen went into the Wilds, everyone knew that – and made for one of the tiny fishing hamlets that dotted the shore. He found his way to backwater armpit of a village called Pot – like the cooking utensil, which Wren did not doubt would be considered high-end technology to those who lived there – and tried to figure out what next to do.

In all that time, he never thought of selling the ring.

He never wore it, of course – he would have been apprehended in an instant, a shabby boy wearing a ring like that – but he did slip it on a strip of rawhide and tie it loosely around his wrist, an old thieves trick that would hide it if anyone were to catch him and slide up his sleeves.

He liked to look at it – the way the band gleamed, the way the carved black runes contrasted with the showy gold and gave it weight, the way the sunken diamond seemed to sparkle even in the darkness. Even when he had no food – and not for want of trying – he didn't think of selling it.

Because it gave him music.

Whenever he looked into the depths of the sparkling diamond, whenever he ran a finger over the carved runes that spelled out who-knew-what in some who-knew-which language, melodies came to him, springing fully formed into his mind. And even when his stomach was empty and his head pounded with hunger, he could hear the music and soothe the pain. When it was too cold, the music seemed to warm him, and when he fell into the ugly type of despair brought on by hunger, the sound of it made him smile again.

Of course, now he was in a damn cell somewhere.

You never should have taken it out to look at it in the first place – it's how the bloody merchant knew you had it. And after all that, now you're a captive, in Delsur knows where, and your new hosts will bloody take it if you don't think of something!

He pushed himself up and turned around, careful not to twist his neck too far. It felt all right – nothing broken, but everything tender. He touched the ring on his forearm – his captors had done just as they all did, sliding up the sleeves of his shirt to check for daggers, never imagining there were valuables to find – and tried to think through the fog of exhaustion and hunger that always seemed at work upon him.

The Black Ships had raided Pot the same night he'd arrived, and they'd taken him along with half the village. He'd heard stories of them: They left the women and children – hopefully they just left them, though Wren wasn't sure of that – and took the men, chaining them below deck. Most of the others ended up stripped of any finery they wore, even just their sturdy-made wool clothing, but Wren was so ragged and dirty they hadn't even bothered. They'd left him in the torn and tattered remnants of clothing he'd managed to scrape together, taking only the newly stolen coat and boots from Turin.

The trip had been mercifully short. Only days later – though even days in that putrid ship's hold was enough to make Wren believe in the stories of the old god Delsur and his Underworld – they'd arrived at a forsaken rock of an island, chained and held captive with nothing to look forward to and no hope of escape.

He was used to hopelessness, though.

He reached again for the rawhide strip concealed beneath his grimy wool sleeve and ran his fingers along the smooth metal of the ring, thinking hard. He looked around his cell again, this time taking it in, sizing it up. Two body lengths across, barely a body length deep, floor covered in dirty straw, single bucket in the corner. Carved of rock – a cave? They'd gone down when they'd come in, which meant he had to go up to get out... what about the lock?

He moved to the door, keeping an eye out for a patrol but seeing none. He tried to examine the lock, but it was a single-sided deal, and he needed to see it from the front. He looked both left and right as best he could – careful not to twist his neck too far – but he couldn't manage to see the door at the end of the chamber. The cells were offset so that it was hard to see anyone else in the narrow earthen hall, and the hall itself was slightly curved, so that with the angle the guard was invisible.

Damn.

Taking a deep breath, he reached through the bars, touched the lock face, and then quickly pulled his arm back. He waited.

There was no cry of alarm or shouted remonstration. He reached out again, felt the lock once more, and then pulled back, taking slightly more time to perform the maneuver. Still no response. He snaked his hand out again, this time confident he had some time to examine the locking mechanism, and traced the opening. It seemed simple enough. The keyhole was small, but not terribly so –

Noise.

He retreated immediately back into the dank cell, clinging to the shadows that cloaked the walls. He couldn't see the door, but by squeezing against the left-hand side of the cell he was just able to see what was coming through.

The door swung open with a bang, presumably kicked, and three guards pulled in a big hulk of a man who was fighting them tooth and nail. The guard by the door moved up and into Wren's line of sight from where he'd been sitting, raised a heavy cudgel, and smashed it down on the back of the man's head. The blow rebounded with a solid, sickening _thunk!_ , and the man being held gave out a moan and his struggles notably weakened. Wren was shocked that the blow didn't knock him out cold – the fact he was still conscious enough to struggle at all was something of a wonder, which, it turned out, was not lost on their jailers:

"Damn – he's still awake!"

"Tough bastard," one of the others said in the same strange accent, so thick it was almost a foreign language. "Did you hear what he did to Smiley?"

"Funny Boy? No – I'd've thought he'd take care of an oaf like this."

"He didn't. This one smashed his teeth in – broke his jaw too. He'll be lucky if he ever smiles again."

"No! Bastard... "

The guard raised the cudgel again, and Wren winced in anticipation, but the blow never fell.

"Wait! He has to be conscious tomorrow."

"Why? He'll be much less trouble if he isn't."

"He swings," came the grim pronouncement. "He's to be made an example."

There was a grim silence after this, and then the guard chuckled deep in his chest, a sound that made the hairs on the back of Wren's neck stand on end.

"Fair enough," he said. "He's the cell at the end – throw him in."

He spat on the man they were holding and bent down low enough to hiss something in his ear. The man flailed back weakly, but it seemed the fight had finally gone out of him. The other two guards grabbed him and pulled him along.

Wren retreated, watching as closely as he could without appearing to watch at all, and then moved forward again as soon as they'd passed. He quickly felt the lock again and confirmed for himself what he'd already suspected. Cheap – the kind that would keep a strong man in but let a skilled man out. All Wren needed now were tools.

He ran his hands through his hair, pushing the ragged blonde strands of it out of his face. He tried not to think about how long it had been since he'd had a bath – _By the old gods, a bath! Now wouldn't that be heavenly_ – and instead focused on the man who'd just come in.

There were sounds of a struggle, and then a heavy object fell to the floor.

There was a short pause, and then he heard the sound of rusted hinges bearing the weight of a swinging door, followed by the crash of weight on metal bars. Wren heard too the jingle of keys, and then the guards were coming back up the cellblock. He turned back inside his cell and sat casually against the earthen wall. As the guards passed, one of them glanced into his cell and he smiled and waved cheerfully. The man – a brute for sure, with a scar that crossed his whole face and a grimace that could curdle milk – sneered at him, but kept walking.

When they got back to the door with the guard, they spoke:

"He's out cold," one of them said.

"Thought you said you had to keep him up?"

"He'll wake by then – boy's as strong as an ox."

"What'd he do?"

"Led a bloody insurrection in the middle of the work camp," one of them growled. Wren would have bet anything that it was the scarred brute: the voice matched him perfectly. The speaker hawked and spat before continuing. "He attacked us, and then another dozen up and did the same. The others were put down – they're dogs, nothing more. Not him, though – he's to be purified on the morrow, and then he swings."

This pronouncement was met with a cold, ringing silence that immediately pricked Wren's ears. It was the kind of universal quiet inspired by fear, and if the guards were scared of whatever being "purified" meant, then there was a goodly chance the man at the end of the row would not much like it either.

_Not my problem,_ he thought as he moved back to the door. Looking through the bars, he could now see that all three men were turned toward each other and away from the long cellblock. Wren cut his eyes the other way to the cell at the end of the hall, and realized he could see the far corner of it, and coincidentally the man they'd thrown there.

He lay spread-eagle on the floor, and though he was breathing, his head was bloody and a lump was forming beneath his thick dark hair. His bronze skin – _what's a bloody Islander doing here? –_ looked strangely red and bloated, and though he was breathing, he wasn't moving.

_Focus,_ Wren reprimanded himself.

He reached his hand through the bars and diverted his attention to the lock again. He felt around the edges, trying to measure how deep it was...

A sudden flash of realization hit him: It wasn't even a tumbler-and-pin lock, just a simple deadbolt. He could unlock it by sticking anything in the hole and turning, so long as it was strong and skinny enough with a bent piece at the end.

He looked around quickly, searching desperately for a spur of rock, a forgotten piece of wood, anything he could use. The guards were still talking – their voices were low, but they'd fallen into the same trap guards always did of thinking that just because people were shut in cells they were also deaf: Wren could hear every word. He listened as he moved quickly about the cell, touching the walls and floor, looking for anything loose.

"Was _he_ there?"

"Yes, he gave the order."

"No!"

"Quiet, idiot. It was the Skull himself."

Wren stopped, curious, as he heard the fear in the speaker's voice. The Skull? What did a man have to do to earn a name like that?

"When he says purified – does that mean like the last one?"

"Yes," growled the voice of the scarred brute. "Strengthen your stomach, boy. You'll see more of that before the end of this."

Whoever he was talking to protested, and then the conversation continued but began to dim. Wren realized that they must have stepped through the door at the end of the hall and were speaking on the other side of it, leaving the cellblock temporarily unattended.

Great. The perfect time to pick the damn lock and there's nothing to use...

His eyes fixed suddenly on the iron manacles that had been fastened to the arms and legs of the man in the other cell, though what use they served now while he was unconscious and bloody, Wren could not discern. Perhaps the guards were reassured by their cosmetic value.

They were simple manacles, simple like the iron locks, and meant to resist strength, not cunning. They were made of a circular bit of metal, with iron pins stuck through them to keep them shut.

Long, thin, iron pins.

Wren thought quickly. He didn't have a lot of time. It would be easy to pick the lock with the crossbar from the manacles, but while escaping the cell was relatively easy, escaping the _guard_ was not.

The big man stirred and gave out a hollow moan, coming back to his senses.

Wren rushed to the bars, looking between the stirring man and the entrance to the long cellblock. Straining – his neck shouted angrily at him, but he ignored it – he pushed his head against the cell bars and saw that the main door was still ajar. The guards were just on the other side of it. Feeling his heart thump in his chest, spurred by the familiar spike of manic excitement that came with risk and danger, he turned quickly to the man stirring on the floor and made a sharp plosive sound with his tongue.

The man in the cell turned slowly and looked up. His face was streaked with grime in addition to thin rivulets of dried blood, but his eyes, though clouded with pain, focused easily enough on Wren.

"Hey big man," the thief said quietly, speaking as loudly as he dared. He knew that there were others in the cells farther down the row, and knew too that the guard could return at any minute and see them talking. "Looks like you're in a bit of a bind."

The man's eyes cleared and he sat up the rest of the way. He then tried to stand, but his body swayed dangerously and he was forced back to his knees. Wren grimaced but said nothing about it – he pushed his face into the bars of the cell, straining to get an eye on the door, and just managed to see the guard's hand close on the edge of it. The conversation was ending.

By Delsur's bloody bulge –

"Hey!" he hissed at the Islander, "look at me, come on!"

The man looked up, confusion in the bright blue-green eyes that looked strange and unsettling against the bronze skin, and just that quickly Wren realized he wasn't a man at all – he couldn't be more than sixteen or seventeen years old. He had a man's growth, though: wide shoulders and a thin waist, thick arms and legs, and all of it looked like it could be put to use in a potential prison escape.

"What do you want?" the Archipelagan finally whispered back, his eyes, rimmed with pain, watching Wren warily. "You shouldn't talk. They'll hurt you."

"I don't intend to be here long enough for that," Wren hissed back, speaking quickly and quietly. He was keenly aware of how little time there was.

"You can't escape," he said. He turned away.

"Idiot!" Wren hissed, drawing the young man's attention back to him. "I've already found the way – I need your manacles. _Now!"_

"What?"

There was sound from down the cellblock, and Wren wrenched his neck around – _you're fine, you're fine, pain is a part of life, deal with it –_ and looked down the hall. The guard was coming back in, bidding farewell to the others; he stopped at the last second, halfway across the threshold.

"You need to give them to me _now!_ " Wren said, suddenly frantic. "I'll use them to get out of my cell, and then I'll get you out too!"

The other boy's expression seemed torn between hope and suspicion.

"How do I know you will?"

"Bloody Iofina's tits," Wren hissed, shooting one last look at the guard, "I'm barely a hundred pounds soaking wet, you think I can get around the guard without you? I get us out of the cells, you get us out of the block, then we get up to level ground, and we can go our own ways. We need each other – and in case you didn't hear when you were unconscious, you don't exactly have a lot of time. They're going to hang you tomorrow. We do this now, or your time's up and I'll have to bloody find someone else!"

The young man listened to the full tirade, weighing him with his eyes. The second after Wren fell silent, there was a heavy swing and a thud, and then the sound of a guard's boots. Wren threw himself back away from the bars of the cage, back to the pile of straw that was thickest and least filthy, and lay down. Affecting nonchalance, he looked up at the ceiling as if bored.

He heard the guard stroll past him, heard him move down to the end cell where the other boy was, and Wren held his breath. How much of a fool was the Islander? Was he smart enough to pretend to be unconscious?

A long moment passed.

Finally, boots scraped the ground as the guard turned and made his slow way back up the cellblock. Wren caught one last glimpse of him, the silver and black of his livery gleaming even in the dim torch lighting, and then was on his feet and moving silently to the bars, straining to see the other boy.

The Islander was just sitting up. His eyes found Wren, and they looked at each other for a long moment. Wren felt the sweat on the back of his hands cooling in the breeze of his breath; he felt the aching in his neck and head, felt the gnawing hunger in his gut; and the whole length of the moment seemed to contain lifetimes of suspense.

The Islander nodded, and Wren smiled.

Chapter Nineteen: Escape

Samson watched the scrawny pale boy for long time, taking in his grimy face, the long, thin fingers of his hands that seemed graceful and dexterous even when still and unmoving, and tried to think through the pounding pain in his head. The headache was so intense that he had to fight back the urge to be sick.

After all he'd gone through, after everything he'd resolved to do on the morrow, was he being given a way out?

If he can pick the lock...

Almost without willing his head to do so, Samson nodded.

The boy shot him a frighteningly manic smile, and then motioned toward Samson's wrist. Samson shot a glance down the cellblock, toward the guard he could just see around the curve of the hall. He shifted to the right hand side of his cell, toward the thicker patch of darkness there, and grabbed the manacles, trying to concentrate in spite of the throbbing pain that suffused his body and the ball of agony that was his head.

The iron cuffs were heavy and clinked when he touched them, but he muffled the sound with the flesh of his palm as best he could. He paused, and saw the boy watching him intently, but the guard made no sound from down the hall.

Samson held out his wrists to look at the metal. It was thick black iron, and there was no chance of breaking it.

A flash of movement caught his eye – he looked back at the scrawny boy with the blonde hair so dirty it was basically brown.

He wasn't lying when he said he was maybe a hundred pounds soaking wet. He looks like he's never eaten a full meal in his entire life.

The boy was making a strange twisting motion with his own wrists, which were free of restraints. Samson stared at the movement, feeling quite stupid as he tried to make his mind work through the haze of his recent beating, and then he realized what the boy was trying to tell him.

Quickly, careful not to clank the metal, Samson twisted the chain that connected the two manacles in just the way the boy was showing him. He looked back up. The boy was nodding eagerly, miming applause, and then he quickly hurried to the bars of his own cell and mimed another complicated motion that seemed to involve twisting the manacles against the metal rods.

Samson did as indicated, and twisted with a sharp jerk.

The links in the chain pulled against each other, and the right hand manacle flexed. The boy nodded vigorously, and Samson copied him as he performed yet another complicated movement – a twist and pull, and then a sideways lean –

The heavy iron bar that held together the manacle on his right hand slid out and fell to the floor, where it cracked loudly against a bare piece of rock.

For a long second, the sound vibrated through the room, and Samson and the boy stared at each other, waiting to see what would happen. Then there came the sound of a scraping boot and a grunt as the guard pushed himself to his feet. This was followed by the thud of quick footfalls rushing down the cellblock hall.

Samson bent, picked up the iron bolt, and in one easy underhand motion threw it to the boy.

The moment stretched out far too long as the bolt tumbled through the air, making it through the bars of Samson's cell, flipping through the heavy, subterranean air of the hall, and just barely missing the bars of the boy's cell as the guard rounded the curve. The boy caught the bolt and spun away; Samson slipped his hand back into the broken manacle and held it closed against his thigh.

The guard's eyes locked onto him immediately, and his hand fell to the heavy cudgel hanging at his side.

"Get down away from the bars," he said, his eyes alight with malicious intent. He was a heavy man – heavy from fat, not muscle – but he carried himself with dangerous self-possession. Samson did as he was told, but out of the corner of his eye he caught the boy shaking his head, just out of the guard's line of sight.

What?

"Good," the guard said, watching Samson. He looked crestfallen, and it was clear he'd been hoping Samson would give him a reason to use the thick, gruesome-looking club. "Stay there. Don't give me any trouble."

The boy's motions were growing more violent, and though Samson kept his eyes glued to the guard, he thought he saw from the corner of his eye the boy miming something that looked like a fit.

_The bolt will make noise when he puts it in the lock,_ Samson realized in a blindly flash of understanding. _He needs a distraction._

He grabbed hold of the bars and spoke, loud and challenging.

"What happens if I do give you trouble?"

The guard paused, and then turned back to Samson. A gleam of excitement flared in his piggy eyes, and Samson smirked at him, even as his head throbbed horribly.

That's right you dumb bastard, come and get me.

"You wouldn't like it," the man said with a sneer. He swung the cudgel eagerly and walked past the boy's cell, focused the whole time on Samson. The boy immediately threw a hand through the bars and held the bolt over the lock. He was watching Samson expectantly, and this time Samson didn't need to be prompted.

With a violent heave, he thrust his palms against the door of the cell, making it slam against the hinges. The resulting clang echoed up and down the corridor, and the guard jumped back, startled. Samson did it again, but the resulting rush of blood was too much, and his vision went sideways. He winced and staggered back, though he kept his feet, if only just.

The guard, fully provoked, strode forward with a sudden viciousness and slammed the cudgel against the bars, producing an even louder and somehow more bestial sound. He bellowed a wordless torrent of foreign words that shocked Samson into retreat: he took a hurried step back into his cell, staring with wide eyes at his antagonist, all thoughts of the boy suddenly forgotten.

"Yes!" the man snarled, taking in Samson's fear, sucking it in like a long drink of water. His dark eyes were wide and mad, his face a snarling rictus of rage, and there was foam at the corners of his mouth. "Yes! _Learn your place!_ You have too long known peace. Now you'll learn how to succumb!"

He let out another roar and slammed the cudgel against the iron bars once more. The sound of it echoed up and down the corridor and only seemed to enrage him further. Samson could only watch in shock as the fit continued until the guard was red in the face and fully lathered. Breathing heavily but finally satisfied, he spat at Samson through the bars of the cage, and took a step back, sneering.

Samson's shock turned to rage. Forgetting his injuries, he launched himself back at the bars and began shouting at the guard, roaring at the smirking face.

"I am a man of Gol! I succumb to _no one!_ "

The guard only watched him as one might watch a disobedient pet.

"The very mark of your skin shows you inferior," he said in a soft voice, his dark eyes gleaming in the light of the cell's single flickering torch. "Your grasp of language too – your drawl, your pidgin accent. You have no idea where your tongue came from, nor the way it should be spoken. None of you. You're a brute – good for nothing but work, and when you won't work, good for nothing but dying. You and all this land are fit for nothing but life as slaves. You will learn your place _."_

He turned his back and left.

Samson's head throbbed with equal parts pain and indignation. His vision had narrowed in on the man's back, and from deep inside him came the savage need to rip into it, to pull back the black leather and sink a blade into the man's pale –

There was a soft clank, and the door of the boy's cell opened just as the guard passed by.

Faster than the guard could follow, the boy grabbed the ring of iron keys attached to the man's hip, ripped it free of its tie, and threw them to Samson. Shocked, Samson reached out and grabbed them on instinct as the guard turned and grabbed for the boy, shouting all the while.

But the boy was too quick: he ducked the man's hands, slid back into his cell, and slammed the door. The lock clicked back into place.

The guard slammed himself against the door, shouting now and brandishing the cudgel, but there was nothing he could do. The boy took a step back, just out of range, and waved at him. This only enraged the guard further, and he threw a hand to his hip for the keys – found them missing...

Samson was at the door of his cell in seconds, hastily shoving the first key into the lock. By some miracle, he chose right on the first try, and the key turned. The door swung open as the guard continued shouting at the scrawny boy, demanding that he give back the keys. He never even heard Samson come up behind him.

The guard's head slammed into the metal bars, and he was out cold before he hit the floor.

Samson slid the key into the boy's cell lock and turned. There were shouts echoing up and down the corridor now; the other prisoners knew what was happening and were yelling to be released as well.

"Wren," said the small boy, holding out his hand.

"Samson."

"Great. At least now if we die, we've got the niceties out of the way."

Samson turned away and moved down the hall, the boy following close behind him. He stopped along the way just long enough to pull a curved sword from a scabbard by the guard's post. It wasn't anything like the spears he was used to, but it was something, and he felt a lot better with solid steel in his hand than nothing at all. He glanced back at the cudgel, but left it where it was. It was a brute's weapon, heavy and iron-tipped, and he could barely see straight. His chances of swinging that solid piece of wood hard enough to do damage were little to none. At least with a sword there was a pointy end.

Holding the sword ready, he pulled the door in and looked out. The earthen hall outside was deserted. With a low moan, he tried to push back the terrible throbbing in his head and the sharp sting of the various cuts and bruises accumulated from the beating he'd received barely an hour before. He motioned for Wren to follow him. They left, shutting the door behind them, but not before Samson threw the keys to the nearest of the captives. The man caught them, stunned, and then the boys were gone.

"We could have used those," Wren said.

"They need a chance to get out too," Samson retorted.

Wren muttered something under his breath but didn't protest further.

They rounded the closest corner, and immediately ran into two Varanathi in the black and silver. One shouted, and the other drew a sword and rushed them.

Samson and Wren retreated, racing back past the door to the cellblock and taking the other turning, one that Samson had never been down before. They rounded another corner, and this time had a choice: left and up, or right and down.

Together they moved toward the left-hand passage, but just as they were about to take it, they heard the sound of echoing shouts above them. Samson spun and saw the first two guards rushing toward them from behind, still shouting.

"This way!" He grabbed the boy and pulled him down the right-hand passage.

They raced down into the earth, spurred on by fear. Shadows began to reach out and cling to them as the torches that lined the halls became fewer and farther between. They continued down, taking turns at random. The sounds of their pursuers faded with each turning, and Wren had the foresight to pull out random torches as they went and throw them down, darkening side passages and slowing the Varanathi as they tried to decide which way to go. Samson grabbed his own torch from a bracket to light their way, and when finally the shouts of alarm had faded to a distant clamor, they slowed to catch their breath. Neither of them was in any condition to keep running, but they pushed through their collective pain and exhaustion and continued their descent, knowing that the only way to go was forward.

There were no more doors or turnings. They'd left the last of the cellblocks far behind them, and the myriad tunnels had all coalesced into a single passageway. Their pace slowed; the air was freezing and damp here, so far underground.

"We need to make our way back up," Wren gasped, clutching at a stitch in his side. "The way out is up there."

"Guards are up there. Tunnels have to go somewhere. Let's keep moving."

They pushed on, and the sloping, curving passageway suddenly leveled out, continuing not down but straight ahead. It widened as well: it was larger than the tunnels they'd come from, and much straighter.

"Where are we?"

"I don't know."

Neither of them questioned the fact that they were both whispering.

A dreadful sense of foreboding began to fall on them. They shivered: the cold here was so intense that it would have pierced even heavy coats, and the two of them – Samson in his loincloth, Wren in his tattered rags – had no chance at warmth.

They came, in the end, to a door.

"Bloody hell of the old gods," Wren cursed.

The double door was made of some kind of thick, indistinguishable wood. It was wide and carved with a runic language neither of them knew, and it seemed to pulse like a living thing. Their ears began to ring, and the stink of sulfur hung heavy in the air. They shivered and drew unconsciously closer together.

"We have to go back," Wren said, still watching the door.

"Right," Samson said slowly, holding the torch high.

Shouts came from behind them.

They tore their eyes away and spun back to look behind them. Through the dark shadows that cloaked the tunnel they could just see, far, far away, a spot of light, wavering and flickering as it raced toward them.

"Damn damn _damn_ ," Wren whispered. "We're bloody trapped!"

"We have to go through the door," Samson said, forcing his voice to stay even. "It has to open – it wouldn't be here if it didn't open."

He leaned against it, pushing on both sides as there were no handles with which to pull. An unnatural heat came from the carved symbols, but in his fear and desperation he ignored that. He pushed harder, throwing as much of his weight against the wood as possible, though his beaten body protested with growing vehemence. The doors wouldn't budge. There was no evidence of a lock, nor of any other stopping mechanism, but the door was stuck fast.

"It won't open," he gasped, turning and leaning against it as he grabbed his side. The muscles over his ribs were crying out in agonizing counterpoint to his throbbing head, and he had begun to worry that something was broken.

Wren cursed and looked back up the tunnel. The light was brighter, and the shouts were easier to hear. Samson could almost make out individual words, and none of them sounded pleasant.

Frantic, he turned back to the door and once more threw his shoulder into it, ignoring the wave of sickness and the pounding in his head that threatened to make him retch. Still, the door wouldn't budge.

"It has to open," Wren insisted. "Try it again!"

"You try!" Samson snarled, losing his temper and pushing the smaller boy against the door. Surprised, Wren threw up both hands to keep from crashing into the solid wood, and in doing so slammed both forearms against the door. Mere seconds later, a song sprang up from nowhere, echoing all around them. It swept through them both and then seemed to pass into the door. There was a brilliant flash of light that seared their eyes, and Samson heard Wren gasp and clamp a hand over his wrist as though he'd been burned.

The wordless song cut off as abruptly as it had started. The carved runes disappeared from the wood and the door swung open, the two halves folding inward together. No light came from the room inside. The opening looked like nothing so much as a yawning mouth, waiting to swallow them whole.

The boys looked at each other for a beat, and then rushed inside.

The doors slammed shut behind them, and the torch guttered out.

Chapter Twenty: Blood of the Eryn-Ra

To say Wren's nerves were frayed was to understate the situation.

Surrounded by sudden darkness in the bowels of a fortress from which he was trying to escape with his life, he could not help but think that he had made an error in judgment somewhere along the way. More likely, though, his luck had simply run out.

_Delian,_ Wren thought, praying silently to his favorite of the Old Gods, _master of wine and dice. If I've offended you and you're punishing me, then you can go shove a hot poker up your –_

"They're still coming," came the voice of the young man through the darkness. His breathing was ragged like Wren's, but strangely muffled. Wren realized that Samson had gone back to the door and had his ear pressed against it.

"Help me!" the Islander said, and then Wren heard him moving around.

"Help you?" he asked incredulously. "I can't see my own _nose_ , what the bloody hell am I supposed to be _helping_ you with?"

"There's a bar for the door! Just come here – "

A strong hand grabbed his wrist and pulled him through the darkness. Sightless, he groped downward until his hands came upon something long and rectangular. With a grunt of effort, he threw his shoulder under the heavy wooden beam and panted back at Samson: "Now what?"

"Forward," the Islander said, strain clear in his voice. "Toward me – away – toward me again –"

Wren could hear the sounds of pursuit through the door now too, and he felt a rush of relief as the beam slid into place. A second later, a series of heavy thumps, as of bodies thrown against wood, rocked the door in its frame. Wren's heart skipped a beat, but the door held, and the muffled sounds from the other side, though raised in anger, did not seem sure about breaking through the door.

Wren felt movement behind him.

He spun, but could of course see nothing in the darkness. It was so black in the room that he felt as though he had gone blind, and it terrified him. For a beat of time, he simply stood there, pressed up against the cold stone wall beside the door, listening. But no sound came to him except the shouts of the guards outside.

"Did you feel that?" he asked Samson. He didn't understand what was happening, but he there was terror growing in the pit of his stomach and he couldn't understand why or where it was coming from.

Why was the door locked?

"No," Samson said, his voice carrying as he spoke at normal volume. "We need to find a way to light the torch – "

Wren felt the movement again, almost as though something had passed over him in the darkness. "Be quiet!" he hissed.

" _Why?"_ Samson asked, exasperation clear in his tone.

"There's something in here," Wren said, speaking barely above a whisper. His knees were shaking and a cold sweat had seeped out over his body. He tried to pierce the darkness with will alone, but it was no use. They needed light.

No – no, it'll see us –

It? What was it?

There came a heavy crash from the direction of Samson, and Wren nearly wet himself. The young man cursed, and then there came the sound of something scraping along the floor.

"There's another torch. And flint and steel."

"Don't light it," Wren said immediately. He could feel the darkness watching them – could feel the nebulous _it_ waiting.

"Don't be a fool," Samson retorted, and with a snap of steel on stone, sparks hit wood freshly coated in pitch. The torch blazed to life, nearly blinding their dark-adjusted eyes, and sent flickering shadows across the large cavern in which they found themselves.

But all that Wren saw was the enormous eye staring at him: an eye with a slit pupil like a cat's, in a long, scaled head – a head with long jaws on a sinuous neck.

"Eryn-Ra," he whispered, using the word from legend.

The creature turned its head, opened its mouth to reveal rows of dagger-sharp teeth, and let out a roar that shook them both to the core. Without any conference, they ran in opposite directions, Samson taking the torch while Wren leapt into the shadows. The Eryn-Ra roared again, and this time sent a torrent of flame through the space they'd occupied only seconds before. Wren could feel the heat of it even as he raced away: a raging, consuming inferno.

The wild flame illuminated patches of the cavernous room: it was large, that much was clear, but the edges were lost in shadow, and all Wren could see was a series of broken pillars in a ring. He raced for the nearest one and threw himself behind it. There was another roar, a rattling of massive scaled wings, and then a heavy percussive sound as something beat the air. The light from Samson's torch flickered across the empty space, and then suddenly went out.

Wren gritted his teeth and slammed shut his eyes, like a small child convinced that if he tried hard enough he could will away his nightmares. There was no way out of here. How was he going to escape? How could he possibly?

The impossibly wide wings beat the air, sending wind ripping through the chamber like a heavy gale. The creature screeched as it took flight, and then the there followed the heavy thump of its body as it landed again, nearly beside Wren.

Scrambling, unable to think for the terror that had completely consumed his mind, he rounded the broken pillar, clinging to it for dear life, trying to keep it between him and the creature –

A heavy crunch, a horrible screech as of metal on rock, and then the top half of the already broken pillar was sheared clean off.

He tried to run, but he went the wrong way, and the pillar knocked him sideways with the wind of its fall, disorienting him completely. He tripped and stumbled, fell to his knees, then tried to regain his feet. His shaking legs wouldn't support him: he ended up facedown among dirt and stone. His whole being was filled up with the singular desire to _run, run away!_ , and so he reached out with his hands, pulling at the cracks in the ground, and wrenched himself forward in a frantic crawl-walk, shouting nonsense as he went, begging and pleading for his life.

Fire ripped through the darkness, and Wren flipped over just in time to see the creature above him, its massive wings lost in darkness to either side, its powerful jaws spread wide as it shot flame past him, melting the rock of the wall.

The flames snapped off, but the light did not disappear. By chance alone, the creature had lit a single torch in another wall bracket, and that single point of light gave off just enough illumination for Wren to see the creature as it stooped down over him. He watched the scaled jaws open, saw the long red throat behind teeth as long as his arm, and he could do nothing but shake and cry.

A figure launched itself from the newly shorn column, a curved sword held in two hands. It slammed into the creature's back, and Wren lost sight of it.

The Eryn-Ra let out a piercing scream totally unlike its previous roars and spun away from Wren. It writhed and rolled about on the floor, screaming all the while, and Wren saw the figure of Samson thrown from its back.

Without thinking, his limbs still shaking but suddenly workable, Wren was up and running. The creature recovered quickly: its screams died away, the impetus behind them changing from pain to bestial rage. Wren didn't waste time trying to watch how it might respond, though – he ran as fast as his legs could carry him, ran through darkness toward the opposite side of the room.

A patch of shadows off to his left resolved into the figure of Samson, who'd been thrown nearly across the room by the writhing beast. He was trying to prop himself up against a wall, and Wren, not knowing what instinct drove him, diverted his course and ran for the young man. He could just see the Islander by the light of the single flickering torch, now far distant behind them, and though his lips were pulled back in a grimace of intense pain, his limbs were intact and he could move.

"Give me your arm!" Wren cried.

Samson did, and together they levered the young man to his feet. Samson still held the stolen sword clenched tightly in his other hand; there was blood on it, a blood so dark that it seemed to drink in the already dim light of the torch.

"Don't let it touch you," Samson gasped. "It burns – ah!"

Wren opened his mouth, though he would never be quite sure what he intended to say – perhaps that he'd had no intention of touching the black, viscous liquid in the first place – but at that exact moment, the door to the cavernous room was blasted apart and blown inward by a force so explosive that it tore out half of the rock wall in which the wood panels had been set.

Light suddenly flooded the room as a ring of torches set in brackets all the way around what was now revealed to be a circular cavern, burst spontaneously to life. In the center of the newly illuminated space, Wren caught sight of a single enormous iron stake, driven into the rock, from which came a chain that had been attached to the neck of the Eryn-Ra.

Shocked, Wren turned his attention to the door – or what had once been the door – and saw a skeleton standing there.

No – not a skeleton: a man dressed entirely in bone. He towered over those beside him, and two limp forms dangled in his grip, one in either hand, forms that had once been guardsmen. Even as Wren watched, the man clothed in bone let the bodies fall, and they tumbled to the ground and lay still.

The Eryn-Ra roared and attacked the newcomers. Flame raged from between its jaws and engulfed the man and the dozen or so others behind him. But then an inexplicable note of music filled the chamber, and then another, and then a third. Together they formed a minor chord that pushed at Wren's chest, forcing his breath from his lungs. Gasping, he struggled to his feet, helping Samson stand as the fire raged. Where were they going to go; how could they escape?

He frantically raked the chamber with his eyes, seizing the opportunity to search the now-illuminated cavern. They had to find something – anything at all – that might hide them, that might keep them safe...

His heart shuddered to a stop, and then started beating twice as hard. There was a second door, located on a narrow ledge on the far side of the cavern. Unable to gain enough control of his tongue to speak, he pointed frantically toward it, forcing Samson to look. By common unspoken consent, they started shambling toward it, Samson staggering as fast as he could, Wren pulling and pushing and shoving him in an attempt to help. Almost before he realized it, they were taking the stone stairs that would lead them up to the ledge, but so slowly – too slowly – going one at a time as Samson hobbled up as fast as he could...

Wren heard shouts, but he didn't look around to determine the source of them. All that mattered was the door. They needed to get out. There were roars as well, from the Eryn-Ra – roars that were becoming louder as it retreated back into the room.

Retreated?

Compelled by fear, he looked back.

The stone around the opening where the door had been had melted and begun to crack and even drip down onto the chamber floor, so intense was the fire that poured from the creature's mouth. But still standing there, in the middle of the opening, was the man in bone armor. He strode forward into the room, dozens of men flooding in behind him, completely unscathed.

"We have to go," Samson groaned. "Come on!"

Pulse hammering in his throat, Wren helped Samson hobble up the final steps to the door. He reached for the handle, only to realize there wasn't one. He slammed his wrist against the solid wood, thinking of how the other door had opened, but nothing happened. He unlimbered Samson from his shoulders, propped the Islander against the wall, and unwrapped the ring from around his wrist.

He slapped it into his palm and slammed it against the door.

Nothing happened; the ring stayed cold upon his skin.

"No," he hissed, slamming his hand against the door again. "No! It bloody worked on the other one – it worked! It has to work again – "

"What are you doing?" Samson gasped.

"The ring," Wren almost sobbed in desperation. "The ring – it opened the other door! It – it needs to open this one!"

He slammed it against the solid wood again, ignoring the pain in his hand, but still nothing happened. The action only produced a dull, hollow thud that in and of itself seemed to rebuke him for even trying.

"Wren!"

He spun to see the nightmare bearing down on them. Turned away from the main door, the creature had retreated across the room and spotted them. Its slitted eyes were rolling in its head, and Wren knew that this creature, if it had ever thought, was thinking no longer. It was a beast in the true sense of the word – a mindless, broken being driven by nothing more than base instinct.

It lunged for them, jaws open; flame kindled in its maw and shot out toward them, burning the air and blinding them.

Wren threw his arm over his face, and, unbidden, the three notes of the minor chord he'd heard not minutes before came to his mind and formed on his lips. Sudden heat rushed through him that had nothing to do with the flame, and his voice flooded from his throat as if forced through by an outside power. The chord rang out impossibly loud, as if he'd somehow found the frequency of the room, and the three notes repeated themselves over and over again.

The flames parted harmlessly to either side of them. The heat in Wren built until he felt as though he were on fire even though the inferno hadn't touched him. He couldn't stop. He sang the notes over and over again, faster with every repetition, and the sound of them somehow cut through the flames and diverted them like a boulder set in the middle of a stream.

When the blaze cut off, the music died from Wren's lips. The heat left him and he felt suddenly numb; a wave of weakness rushed over him, and he staggered back against the tiny door – only to realize that there was no door: it had been burned away.

He fell into a stone passage so small that even he could barely stand up in it. There was more shouting from back in the room, but he couldn't tell who was speaking or what was being said. The mad eyes of the Eryn-Ra were still locked on him, and it thrust forward its long, sinuous neck, snapping its teeth, trying to pull him back. He pushed back farther into the passageway, scrambling like a crab, and felt the wind of the dagger-sharp teeth as they snapped inches from his face. The Eryn-Ra roared in anger and began to tear at the rock wall, forcing its head deeper into the hole it had burned, widening the tiny passage as much as it could –

The head stopped, and the body shivered.

For a long second, Wren just watched, dumbfounded, and then the creature pulled back, screaming as it had when Samson had first struck it.

Samson – I left Samson back in the room – he's distracting it –

It took all of Wren's willpower not to turn and run up the passageway, leaving the Islander behind. He could have done it – he could have escaped, could have used the distraction to save himself...

He saved your life.

His memory of the man who'd died in Caelron flashed before his mind's eye, and then his broken lute and the memory of receiving it so long ago. The way he'd been helpless to save the man, the way he'd watched him die.

This time I can help.

And so, sobbing and calling himself a hundred types of fool, Wren pushed himself up, steadied himself against the rock wall, and stumbled back toward the chamber, his limbs shaking so violently that he could barely stand.

The Eryn-Ra was writhing around on the floor of the cavern, black blood pouring from a wound in its chest. The Varanathi had retreated to the edges of the room and even back through the main door, trying to avoid the lashing tail and clawed limbs that swept the room. The creature's scaled wings beat the air, buffeting them all with wind, and fire shot in dying streams from its open mouth.

Samson lay on the stone ledge screaming in horrible pain. The entire right side of his body had been coated in blood, and the black liquid was eating away as his exposed skin like acid. The sword he'd used to pierce the creature's chest had melted and run like glass under high heat, and it was just beginning to cool and re-solidify, but Samson couldn't drop it: the metal had melded to his skin.

The Islander screamed in time with the Eryn-Ra's convulsions down below, and they both writhed and twisted about as they died. Samson rolled to the edge of the stone ledge as he twisted and shuddered, and before Wren knew what he was doing he dove forward and grabbed the young just before he went over the side.

Pain raced through hand, up his arm, and straight into his head. He cried out in shock and pain and fear, and then sudden light bloomed from where his hand had grabbed hold of Samson's burned and blackened shoulder. The ring, still on the cord wrapped around his palm, flared with a light so intense that he was forced to look away from it. The pain in his head redoubled, and music came, not from Wren, but from the ring itself, and from the blood that coated Samson's side.

The light flared brighter still, flashed a final time, and then disappeared.

Samson stopped screaming, and, mirrored down below by the dying Eryn-Ra, fell still. A long, echoing silence suddenly filled the room, and Wren felt his gaze drawn to the floor of the cavern, where stood the man dressed in bone, watching. He lifted a single arm and pointed at Wren. His words, unnaturally loud in the sudden silence, echoed out perfectly clear:

"Bring him to me."

Lightning raced through Wren's blood. He grabbed Samson and tried to pull him up; the Islander slipped from his numb fingers and fell back to the ground. Wren grabbed him by the neck and slapped him; the young man sputtered back to life, his blue-green fluttering open –

One of them had turned completely black.

"What – what happened ...?"

"Running now, questions later," Wren gasped.

They made it into the passageway, and Wren knew immediately that they were finally going the right way. The passage quickly began to ascend, and though there were no branching passages that led away from it, the tunnel twisted and turned with such frequency that their pursuers could hardly be going faster than they were. Still, as they continued up and up and up, Wren's breath came faster and heavier. Sweat began to pour down his face, making little rivulets in the grime and dirt that had collected there, and their pace began to slow.

They were both gasping and staggering when they broke through to open air.

At first, Wren couldn't understand what had happened. He looked back at the way they'd come and saw only a slight indentation in a solid rock wall. He ran his hands over it; the rock glowed briefly, and then his left hand, the one bearing the ring, sunk through it. He pulled his hand back out again, touched his other hand to the wall, and found nothing but solid rock.

He heard sounds from down below, though, and realized that their pursuers were nearly on them. He grabbed Samson again, slinging a thickly muscled arm over his shoulder, and heard the Islander cry out in pain. Something _clanged_ against the rocky ground _;_ Wren glanced down.

The sword had fallen from the Islander's hand, somehow ripped from his skin by the weight of the blade. It rested now between a pair of broken black boulders, and Wren's breath shook as he examined it. Somehow the metal had settled back into the form of a sword, though its transformation had lengthened and widened it, and there were swirls in the metal from where it had melted and run. Whatever blood had coated it had either dried up or been absorbed, and every inch of the blade was now a horrible burnt black.

Samson grabbed for it.

"Leave it!" Wren hissed.

"No!" the Islander insisted just as vigorously. He pushed away from the boy and grabbed up the sword. Wren winced as the burned skin touched the metal, but Samson did not. He shivered, and his muscles relaxed as if the pain of his burned and cracked skin had been at least partially soothed. Whatever strength he'd managed to regain, though, was exhausted by this effort. He swayed on his feet, and Wren only just managed to catch him before he face-planted on the ground.

"Go ... to the harbor," Samson gasped.

"The harbor? We can't stow away, they'll search every ship before we – "

"I can sail," he protested. "And I need clothes. Get to a ship – a small one, with a single mast and no oars. If we – if we get – on board, then we can – sail."

"Where?" Wren gasped, though he was already directing them toward the harbor. They had come out on the far side of the mountain, and if they continued on their current path they would be able to sneak around the back and come out at the docks unseen. "Where are we going to sail?"

"Anywhere but here," Samson gasped, groaning and whimpering as he clapped a hand to his right side. "Anywhere but fulking here."

It was hard to argue with that kind of logic.

Chapter Twenty-one: The Wilds

Valinor led AmyQuinn north. They traveled quickly, riding on borrowed horses, and stopped no more than necessary. Once again, after the first few days, AmyQuinn was so saddle-sore that she could barely walk, but she recovered faster from it this time. As they started out, she was also worried that they might ride through the nights like they had from Dunlow to Var Athel, but that fear, at least, proved baseless: they slept in modest accommodations – very modest – but stopped every night.

On the final morning of their journey, they woke early from the lodging they'd taken in Fort Turin, the last civilized outpost south of the Barrier Mountains, and Valinor packed her horse with extra provisions – nearly two week's worth. He did not pack his own horse in a similar fashion, though.

To AmyQuinn, this did not bode well.

They crossed through the wide pass that Fort Turin protected, and the road they took became progressively wilder as they went. The passage took most of the day, but by the afternoon they found themselves looking down over the vast forested landscape of the Northern Wilds: rolling hills and hidden valleys, the distant sea to the west, and endless forested land that concealed in its shadows thousands of secrets only spoke about in legend. The Wilds were the subject of more adventures and stories than a person could ever have or know in a lifetime, and as she looked out over the sight, she felt more than a touch of fear and apprehension.

"I have to go on my own, don't I?"

She spoke so quietly that the whipping wind almost tore her words away. The thought of what might exist behind those trees – what legend said had been forced out of Aeon long ago – had taken away the confidence with which she'd begun the journey.

"Yes," he said, watching her carefully for her reaction. She shivered, but tried to tell herself it was the cold.

"You'll do fine," he reassured her. "Most of the stories aren't true."

"Most?"

"Most," he repeated. "Danger is part of the task, though. All those who would be Sorev Ael must earn a staff this way; it is a tradition dating back centuries, and there are some who believe that only when you are alone will you earn a staff at all. If you stay close to the Barrier you won't encounter anything you can't handle. But that doesn't matter, what is important is this: your staff will choose you."

He paused to let the words sink in, and she felt like the most comprehensive fool for not understanding them. How could a stick choose anything? The confusion must have shown on her face: he cleared his throat, furrowed his brow, and tried to continue in a way that he must have thought would make more sense.

"A staff is the way a Sorev Ael grounds himself – or, herself in your case. It is a focusing tool, but it is also a living thing."

"Living?" she repeated, incredulous.

She glanced dubiously at Valinor's staff. It just looked like a slightly too-large walking stick. The crown was as gnarled and clawed and lifeless as always, with no shoots of greenery or leaves or anything.

"Living," Valinor confirmed. "It is as much a companion as a tool – and it can only come to you willingly. You cannot make a staff, cannot take a branch and whittle it down and force it to work for you. The staff has to choose you."

"I... but then... does the wood matter? What kind of tree... ?"

"It depends on the Sorev Ael. I was certain an oak would choose me – it's common enough, with several desirable properties – but the oaks I came across wouldn't have me. I must have laid my hand on three score just to be certain, and not a single one of them gave me so much as a twig. In the end I was chosen by a rather stately yew – I sat against it to rest and a limb fell from above and hit me over the head. Almost knocked me unconscious, actually. Possibly a statement about my stubbornness, though that's neither here nor there. There is meaning behind the tree that chooses you – it tells you who you are and how you'll grow."

Trying to absorb this fact with equanimity, AmyQuinn took a deep breath.

"Yew... what does that mean?"

"It means a few things – particularly in conjunction with my ring. It means in large part that I will stand alone, as do yew trees, and that I will be gnarled and aged before I fall. All yew is born from the same tree – in a lineage going back thousands of years. It is a hard wood, like the oak, but it is also poisonous, which shows I am not meant for protection but for something sharper and deadlier."

He shifted his shoulders and looked away.

"Truthfully, it means I am meant for battle and strife. It means that I hold equal chance for life and death. I suppose that's the way it's meant to be for someone known as the Mage of the Eryn-Ra."

She was ready to press forward with more questions, but he held up a hand even as the first words formed on her tongue. His face had taken on an ashy gray quality that had little to do with the wan light of the cloudy afternoon.

"Not now," he said simply. "There is a task at hand."

She stilled her tongue.

"There are other woods, of course, and other trees," he continued, taking a deep breath and looking down over the sloped, curving road that would lead her down into the forest. "Some of the most common are hawthorn, blackthorn, apple, cedar, oak, cypress, pine, and sometimes even holly."

AmyQuinn followed his gaze, and though he continued to speak, she found her thoughts pulled inexorably to the task itself, and the place in which she was meant to carry it out. The lower hills at the foot of the Barrier Mountains rolled out for several miles, blanketed in tall pines, stout oaks, and towering redwoods, with cypress, birch, and others spaced throughout. She could see a river running northwest to southeast through them. With an effort of will, she brought herself back to Valinor, whose voice had changed in quality: it was slower and more pointed, and she tried to listen.

"Part of the reason we bring our apprentices here is that this forest is made up of thousands of different trees. It is unique to the Wilds, in that way – farther north the weather culls the more delicate species, and farther south the heat does the same – but here there is virtually any kind of tree you could imagine."

Any kind of tree... why couldn't there just be one? That way she wouldn't have to go down into the Wilds at all.

And yet... wasn't this what she'd wanted ever since she could remember? Wasn't this the kind of adventure she'd always played at with Lenny and Liv? Here she was, about to cross the Barrier from Aeon to the Wilds. Why hadn't she ever stopped to consider how frightening such a thing could be?

"There are other types of trees elsewhere?" she asked.

"Across the sea in Charridan, I'd suspect, and possibly beyond the Eastern Wilds if you made it through to the Untamed Coast where the majority of the federated tribes live. But neither, I think, is a desirable alternative."

He turned to her and caught her eye. His cheeks were once again their normal color, the sudden pallor having passed, and he was concentrating on her with fearful intensity.

"It matters not which tree chooses you," he said simply. "Your talent is strong, and it will be strengthened by any staff you find. There may be choices, even – you may have an affinity for both oak and ash, or for neither. Part of this trial is determining who you are and who you want to be. Listen to the feelings you have when you touch the trees – listen to where they'll take you."

"But how will I know if I have an affinity for anything? I just... go touch random trees?" She tried to keep the anxiety out of her voice as she contemplated the absurdity of such a task, but some of it must have come through. Valinor ignored it, though, and continued on, slowly and firmly. Perhaps he realized the absurdity as well and knew that addressing it would only make it seemed that much more absurd.

"You'll know the tree when you find it – like the dreams and how you knew you were meant to come here. When you find a tree you think looks right, approach it and lay your left hand – this is important, your _left hand_ – upon the bark."

"Why the left hand?"

"Your dominant hand is the right, correct?"

She nodded.

"The staff is your anchor – it is not what you use to amplify the Words, but what helps you _channel_ them. It connects you to the elements, connecting air and earth with the water and heat of your body. Your casting hand is your dominant hand – the hand that will wear a ring when you are ready for it."

She nodded and tried to keep her breathing even.

"You will have one week," he continued. "The provisions I've brought should last you twice that if you're careful, but that is only for emergencies. I will return to Fort Turin, where I will wait for you."

Panic raced through her. Fort Turin? He would be all the way back there? What would happen if she got into trouble? What would happen if – ?

"Calm yourself," he said firmly. "Breathe. This is meant to test you. If you cannot care for yourself, how are you to care for others? Use the training, particularly your knowledge of herbs and your ability to manipulate the elements. Stay warm and dry, that's the most important thing, and purify any water or food before you eat it. You have everything you need, it is now your job to make use of it."

He took a deep breath, examining her carefully.

"This is where I leave you."

He turned and made to spur his horse away, but pulled up short at the look on her face. "Do you have a final question?" he asked.

She shook her head, because though she did have questions she couldn't in that moment seem to remember a single one of them.

"Then this is the last thing I'll say: Remember that these are the Wilds. They were not given that name lightly. There are beasts that live here, and the farther north you go the more of them you'll find. Do not stray far. Stay within a few days ride of the Barrier Mountains and never lose sight of them. I will not lie that there is danger here – but if you are smart, you will avoid it. Light only small fires with very dry wood to reduce smoke and cover any unnecessary tracks. Use common sense. May the Creator be with you, and I will see you when you return."

He nodded once, impressing some of his certainty onto her, and then heeled his horse away. She watched him go with a hollow feeling until he turned the closest bend in the mountain pass and disappeared from sight.

She was alone.

Slowly, she turned away from the pass and looked back out at the sea of trees before and below her. A wind moved among them, shifting branches here and there and rushing up the mountain to play fitfully with a few long strands of hair that had come loose from her thick braid.

In a sudden burst of movement, she screwed up her eyes, balled her hands into fists, and vigorously shook herself. The mare she rode, startled by the movement, whinnied anxiously but then calmed again when she laid a hand on its head and slowly stroked it. The breathing of the animal's bellow-like lungs was somehow reassuring, and she felt better. She looked over the mare's black mane at the trees that lined the foot of the mountain.

There are beasts in there.

She pushed the thought from her mind and grabbed the reins. Her hands were shaking and her whole body seemed to jerk awkwardly when she tried to move, but she told herself she was being a fool. She dug her knees into the horse's flanks, and they trotted down the hill along the winding road.

Over the next three days, she touched what felt like hundreds of trees.

She tried to remain composed, tried to remember that this was an important right of passage, but she still felt incredibly foolish and was glad no one was around to watch her. She fervently repeated to herself over and over again that she did not look stupid going up to every tree she came across; she did not look like an idiot when she tried to cajole them into dropping a branch; she was on a quest to become a Sorev Ael, and that was a noble thing.

But the nobility seemed diminished when she found herself berating an apple tree, and instead of receiving a staff ended up slipping on a rotten early-spring apple and smacking the back of her head against a vengeful root.

The end of the third day found her curled up at the foot of a towering redwood, listening intently for any sound of a monster crashing through the forest, though she had seen sign of nothing but deer and smaller, common woodland animals since her arrival.

Still, three days of constant anxiety and poor sleep came together that night and dragged her into unconsciousness. She slept so deeply, in fact, that the dreams came back to her, and this time even more vividly. One in particular came again and again, repeating through the night: a tall tree, shorn of limbs on one side, leaning dangerously as though it might fall, with a small bird that flitted amongst the branches and somehow kept the tree from falling, singing all the while in a voice that echoed over, around, and through her.

She woke with a start to gray skies, and, shivering, splashed water on her face to clear the images. They made no more sense now than they had in Var Athel; were not they supposed to be gone now that she was in the Wilds doing what Valinor said she was supposed to be doing? Were not the dreams about need?

Though the skies were gray, and had been gray since the clouds had rolled in the afternoon after Valinor left her, there was no rain, and so the weather, determined to be indecisive, swung back the other way: by noon, sunlight was streaming through the trees, warming AmyQuinn's face and hands, and transforming the forest. The colors that had before been washed out and hidden behind the sallow, pallid haze of mist and fog stood revealed in innumerable shades of green, brown and gold. She rode, mouth agape, through this alien world, and marveled at the beauty, forgetting, for the first time, the danger of where she was.

But that afternoon too faded into night, and still she had no staff.

Looking for a place to camp, she pushed her way into a small grove atop a hill. It was made primarily of redwoods and punctuated every so often by smaller pine trees and cypress along with hardy oak and resolute ash and birch. Flowering foxglove with its bell-shaped flowers of pink, gold, and white grew here and there amidst clusters of hellebore and wild ferns; long stalks of wild grass covered and intertwined with ivy and berry bushes held the perimeter; and the light of the setting sun came to her though the gnarled branches of a yew tree, standing slightly apart and solitary as Valinor had said it did.

She froze.

A yew tree.

She slid slowly off the back of the mare, her fingers tingling. This was the first yew she'd found. She hadn't wanted to admit it, even to herself, but she'd been looking for the gnarled, sinewy wood, keeping an eye out for dark green leaves and round red berries. She knew it was foolish to think that the same tree that had chosen Valinor might choose her too, but wasn't this whole endeavor a little foolish?

She dismounted and tied the mare to a nearby oak. The heavy layer of leaves and pine needles that coated the ground rustled around her white boots as she hurried forward, her breath high in her chest. The golden light of the falling sun outlined the tree, setting it in magnificent contrast to the darkening sky behind it.

She grew more certain with each step, until finally the tree's shadow fell upon her: this was it, it had to be. It was the only tree Valinor had mentioned that she'd yet to find. Her palms began to sweat and she wiped them against her white skirt, which was by now quite dirty.

She reached out and touched the rough bark, stepping between the gnarled roots that broke from the ground to curl up and around each other. The trunk was warm to the touch, and she felt her stomach soar. Surely that meant it was the right tree, surely this meant she'd found it.

But nothing happened.

Well, many things happened: a squirrel popped out of its hold higher up the tree and shot her a contemptuous look; a bird took flight from the brush, rushing up into the heights; and the mare behind her watched and snorted, apparently amused by the stupid, nonsensical things this human was doing. And though the tree stood tall and magnificent, though sunlight continued to stream down through its branches like gold bars set aflame, no branch fell dramatically into her hands, no root unearthed itself, and, generally, nothing happened of any dramatic note.

Anger and disappointment welled up in her in a rush so abrupt and strong that she was taken completely by surprise. She took a step back, removing the offensive hand from the obstinate bark, and kicked a gnarled root.

This did not persuade the tree.

Frustration boiled up and over inside her, and she surprised herself by shouting a challenging yell at the beastly yew, and the cry grew in strength and pitch until it ended in a yelp. She threw up her hands and spun away, wiping her sweaty palms on the front of her skirt again and trying to bring herself back under control. She returned to the mare, pulled it over to a solid oak root that had formed something of a seat, and threw herself down, dropping her head into her hands.

She spent the next hour like that, stewing in her misery as the sun set. She'd touched every damn tree she could find for four days straight – even a yew! – and she still had no staff and nothing to show for her trouble but saddle-sores, sleep deprivation, and the generally pathetic air of failure.

She thought of what Valinor's reaction might be if she returned without a staff and her panic increased tenfold. Would he keep her? Would he take her back to Var Athel and leave her there, maybe say she hadn't studied hard enough after all?

She began to shiver violently. She clutched herself about the stomach and pushed herself to her feet, trying to counter the feeling of helplessness with action. She set about lighting a small fire and then pulled out her nightly meal.

She ate woodenly, knowing that she needed to eat but taking no joy in the deed. The flatbread, water, and hard cheese all sank like stones in her stomach and clumped together into an angry ball. She tried to get up again and move about the grove – she even forced herself to touch some more trees, trying very hard not to call herself twelve types of idiot as she did so – but finally gave up and led the mare down to the stream at the bottom of the hill for a drink. She washed her face vigorously, hoping the cold water would shock away some of her bad thoughts, but it didn't really help. A dark cloud of failure rolled with her wherever she went.

She returned to the grove, not knowing where else to go, and tied the mare to the oak tree she'd sat on earlier. She then cleared a space for her bedroll and blanket, sat, and tried to admire the grove. It looked just as wonderful in the flickering light of the small fire as it had when she'd arrived, with all the trees, the foxglove, the elegant ferns... but the beauty didn't help. She tried talking to the mare, but the beast did not even do her the courtesy of pretending to listen. Instead, it turned its back to munch on grass at the farthest extent of its tether, an action that seemed to AmyQuinn in her fit of anger and resentment a clear and pointed insult.

She refused to cry, but she wanted to. Not out of fear or pain or anything childish like that, but out of sheer frustration. What was she supposed to _do?_ What was the _point_ of all this?

Her entire future with the Sorev Ael depended on finding a staff; what would she do without one?

She decided to try for sleep. She muttered protective enchantments under her breath that she hoped would wake her if something came near in the night. She said them with the right Words – the ones for protection and awareness and sound – but as she bundled herself to keep warm, she thought bleakly that if she couldn't even earn a staff, then would her wards work at all?

She dreamed again of the tree and the bird.

She woke the next morning to another gray day, feeling as though she hadn't slept a wink, and decided to leave the grove. She wandered aimlessly for a time, trying her best to clear her mind, and then decided too to skip breakfast, thinking that maybe an empty stomach would lead to an empty mind. It did help a little, but soon the empty stomach was growling at her so loudly that the empty mind was filled with thoughts of food. She saw deer that day, and some big black thing that looked like it might be a bear and which she gave a wide berth. She saw dozens of squirrels as well, and birds of every color, size, and song.

She came back to the grove that night to sleep again. She didn't know why – she'd just found herself heading back there halfway through the day and figured it was as good a place as any to camp.

Clouds began to roll in, thick and heavy with rain, and she began to truly despair. On the morrow she would have to begin her journey back to the Turin Pass, and unless she found a staff walking back then there was nothing she could do.

She decided to light a fire, a bigger one to truly warm herself with despite Valinor's warnings. She'd seen nothing but ordinary animals so far, and she didn't think any of them would be drawn by a fire anyway – more likely they'd be kept away. Maybe the truly dangerous beasts were just too far north to bother with her.

I'm not even important enough for magical wolves to try and eat me.

But in a continuing theme of frustration, the fire did not flame well, even though she used the Words for "light" and "fire" and "heat," and so she threw the sticks in a pile and retreated beneath the overhanging branches of the largest oak tree, over which were layered a couple of pines and a redwood, and all of which she hoped would keep her dry if it began to rain during the night.

No wonder the trees didn't want to talk to her – she couldn't even make a stupid fire. She'd had no trouble with that kind of thing before – what was happening to her?

She sat wrapped in her gray cloak and her grayer misery, watching the mare crop grass on the opposite side of the grove. The horse was pulling at what must have been a particularly tasty bit of something, and in doing so began to pull down ivy bushes and other plants, which it promptly and happily trampled underfoot.

"Stop that," AmyQuinn said, loud enough for the horse to hear. The mare ignored her and kept pulling at the bush – it was quite large, almost as big as the mare itself and taking up the entire space between two redwoods on the far side of the grove from the oak.

AmyQuinn came to her feet with a surge of anger, muttering to herself under her breath. The mare shot her a resentful look and then turned back to take another bite. But before just then the leaves rustled all on their own.

AmyQuinn stopped dead.

After a beat of stunned silence wherein all the stories of monsters and beasts came crashing back in on AmyQuinn, the mare burst out with a neighing cry and reared up on its hind legs, showing its front hooves. It shied away from the bushes, no longer trying to tear them down but instead trying to get as far away from them as possible. Whatever was beyond the foliage moved again, shaking the bush as it tried to come through; AmyQuinn heard the sound of heavy breathing, and her heart abandoned its post in the center of her chest and fled to her throat, where it beat insistently, telling her to run. She tried to think of a Word to use, casting her mind back to Magery, to fire and wind, to anything at all, but the only thing she could do was stand there frozen.

Finally, the bush was parted, and two figures burst through it.

After a second of confusion, she realized that they were not beasts at all: it was teenage boy and a young man. She looked at them, and they looked back at her. They were quite possibly the most unlikely pair of people she'd ever seen in quite possibly the strangest place she could have met them: One was short and fair of face, with blonde hair so dirty it was basically brown and ragged clothing covered in grime and sweat and blood. The other was clearly of some sort of southern stock, with dark hair and skin, and though he had a man's height, he had also the thin and sinewy look of a late-age teenager, and the whole right half of his body was a mess of bloody clothing that clung to him, slicked down with some dark, viscous liquid.

The smaller one looked up at her, swallowed once, and squeaked out a single word: "Help?"

And then together, they crumpled to the ground.

Chapter Twenty-two: Binding

AmyQuinn rushed forward, heedless of her safety. The smaller boy detached himself from the larger one and managed to regain his feet. While clearly exhausted, he didn't appear injured. He gestured frantically at the tall, dark-skinned young man, though, trying to form words but unable to do so through his gasping attempts at a full breath. AmyQuinn bent to look at the tall, dark-haired one, and saw again the seeping black wound that seemed to have covered his entire right side. It had soaked into his clothing – some of the fabric even seemed _burned_ –

"What – how – what happened to him?"

"Help!" the other boy repeated; it seemed the only word he could manage. "Help!" He continued gasping for breath, and it was clear that she would get no more from him for the time being. And then, without any warning, he sank to his knees and his eyes rolled back in his head. He caught himself against a gnarled stump, though, and managed not to pass out. He shook as if in the grip of a terrible fever, but he continued waving her toward the young man groaning on the forest floor.

She stopped between the two, thinking desperately. She seemed unable to remember a single one of her Healing lessons; all the Words that had been painstakingly drilled into her head had simply disappeared. She was useless.

_Stop that!_ she shouted at herself, her anger and frustration cutting through her confusion, panic, and self-loathing. _Pull yourself together! You can do this – you know what to do._

Cudgeled into action, her mind opened and the Words started rushing out, just as she had learned them. She staggered under the weight of them and then turned to the downed young man, who was writhing and moaning in terrible pain.

Pain – right – take away the pain – take away the pain and then – what, reduce the burns? What's the word for burns... be careful you don't get the inflection wrong, you don't want to bloody set him on fire –

She raised her hands into place as Master Spall had showed her: she cupped his cheek in one hand and touched the skin over his chest with the other in order to connect herself to the wound.

Pain, searing hot, rushed through her in a flash of white. She recoiled, gasping, and staggered away. The boy hurried to her side, reaching out a hand to steady her and help her stand.

"Leave me alone!" she hissed, pulling herself out of his grasp.

"No, wait, it's – "

" _Thyrelin!"_

The Word rolled out of her on instinct alone, one of the first words of Magery that Master Owain had taught them – the word for air. This time she imbued the Word with power effortlessly, and it cracked out of her and struck the boy in the chest, sending him flying backward. He landed on his back and began to cough as if he'd been winded.

"By the old gods," he croaked. "That was thoroughly horrible."

A crack of thunder split the world behind her, and she spun. There was a hole in the grove now, where the bush had been pulled down by the boys' passage, and through it she could see out over the side of the hill atop which the grove stood to the surrounding forest. Storm clouds had begun to roll in from the coast, and they were creeping over the land so quickly that they would soon block out all light from the already waning moon and stars.

But... the clouds weren't yet dark enough or thick enough for lighting.

With a growing sense of fear she realized that she hadn't just heard thunder. There'd been a Word wrapped up in that crack of sound, one she didn't recognize.

She spun back to the newcomers, suddenly wary, and clutched her hand tightly to her chest as it trembled with flashes of pain. Who were they? What did she know about them? And why were they in the Wilds by themselves?

"Why are you running?" she demanded.

"Well that's a damn stupid question – we're being bloody chased!"

The boy was hovering between her and the young man, who was shuddering as he tried to breathe. He looked awful, and the very sight of him lessened some of the fear in AmyQuinn's mind and replaced it with confusion. These were just boys, even the bigger one – they couldn't be much older than she was.

" _Please!_ " the smaller one exclaimed, pushing dirty hair out of his eyes and beseeching her with a convulsive contraction of his entire body. "He's hurt and we..." He trailed off as he actually seemed to see her for the first time. He took in her white apprentice clothing with the gold seal of Var Athel on the breast just visible beneath her dark gray traveling cloak. All of her clothing was dirty and travel-stained, but he would've had to be a fool not to still see quite clearly who and what she was.

"You're a Sorev Ael. You have to help."

She said nothing. She wasn't a Sorev Ael yet, not really, so she didn't have to do anything. She hadn't sworn the vows – she didn't even have a staff.

_What would Valinor tell you to do? You didn't take the final vow but you did take_ a _vow – you swore on the Book that you would help the helpless._

Another crack of thunder sounded over the land, and she whirled back around. The clouds were rolling in faster still, unnaturally quick, and they were accompanied by flashes of lightning along the coast. It was all still miles distant, but a feeling of foreboding stole over her, and she only just repressed a shiver.

Something's coming.

She made up her mind. She hurried over to the young man on the ground, who was now curled up in a ball and in such pain that every tendon and vein in his body seemed to be straining to free itself from beneath his skin. She took a deep breath, readying the Words, and shot a glance at the other boy.

"You still haven't told me what happened. I need to know. These look like burns, but I don't know – they're not normal. If you don't tell me what happened I could really hurt him – "

"Fine, fine! Right, so we were trying to escape from these raiders, those men in the black and silver uniforms – with the Black Ships! We were taken as slaves – I don't know where he came from, but he was there when I got there – we broke out together – his name is Samson – and we couldn't go up, so we went down, into the earth beneath the fortress, and there was a bloody _Eryn-Ra_ , and we –"

" _What?!"_

"Yes! That's what they were holding on the isle! But it's dead –"

" _You killed an ERYN-RA?!"_

"Not me - him! And then – "

"What – but how – ?"

"I don't bloody know, he took a sword like some fool idiot out of a story book and the damn crazy fire lizard thing fell on him and then he was covered in blood – "

"You're lying."

"I'm bloody _not!_ " the boy protested, looking utterly mad with his halo of dirty hair surrounding his sweat-streaked face from which peered two deep-blue eyes full of shock and wonder. "But we escaped, and we took a boat – he couldn't walk – we just out-ran them – but you need to heal him, he's got Eryn-Ra blood all over him and it's killing him!"

AmyQuinn looked down at the young man again and took in the black, burned quality of his entire right side. If the boy was telling the truth, then this was way beyond her skill – so far beyond that if she even tried to heal him she might just end up killing herself and him as well.

But the thought of what Valinor might do flashed through her mind again, and then in rapid succession what all of her teachers back at Var Athel might say to her. She was a Sorev Ael. She had sworn the oath on the Book.

I have to try.

But she didn't even have a staff. She didn't have anything but the Words, and she hadn't been able to even light a fire with them an hour earlier. What could she do? She was no good at Healing – that was, if anything, her _worst_ subject.

_No,_ said a deeper voice that sounded almost like her mother. It rose up and pushed all these thoughts aside and took hold of her, like an adult grabbing a ne'er-do-well child by the ear. _No. You have to do this. He's dying and you're his only hope._

"Fine," she snapped. She spun around, looking for a place to lay him out. The grove was too tight and covered with roots and rocks beneath the fine layer of grass – she needed room, she needed to see the wound entirely.

"What are you looking for?"

"A place to lay him out, I need to look him over – "

"This way!"

She watched the boy pull his wounded companion to his feet with surprising strength and then head back the way they'd come. The young man moaned and shook as he went along, helping as best he could, his eyes rolling in his head like those of a frightened horse. He hissed in pain with every step, and then he began to cough – a deep resounding cough that wracked his whole body.

"Help me!" the boy said.

AmyQuinn dove forward and grabbed the young man's other arm. It was slick with black blood, and a visceral feeling of revulsion swelled up in her, telling her not to touch it. She threw the arm over her shoulder anyway, resting it on her cloak so that the blood wouldn't directly touch her skin, and tried to support as much of his weight as possible. Together the three of them pushed through the partially torn ivy curtain to a wide ledge. It was clear of rocks and debris, almost as though it had been swept clean, and there was an incline on the far side, up which the boys must have ascended.

At the head of the ledge, on the highest raised point of the craggy hillside that overlooked the land below, was a tree. The trunk was simple enough, but it grew into a massive collection of branches bright with glints of white flowers just visible in the dying light of the moon and stars. Its exposed roots clung to the cliff with ancient strength, and there was a sense of majesty to it that sent a thrill racing to the tips of AmyQuinn's fingers.

The boy directed her toward the tree, and when they were amongst its roots he deposited the young man in the soft, flat grass with an abrupt shrug of his shoulders.

"Now what?" the boy asked, glancing nervously beyond the tree, down the slope. There was no one there, yet, but AmyQuinn thought she might hear shouting in distance, at the very edge of hearing.

Heart pounding in her chest, she bent over the young man's prone form and started muttering incantations. Over and over again she said the Words, running her hands over the burned and blackened skin, but nothing changed. The young man continued to moan in pain, and though the boy tried to hold him still, he began to thrash and shake as well, and AmyQuinn realized that he was barely moments away from a full-blown seizure that could quite likely kill him.

The distant shouts came again, closer now. The boy heard them too and looked over the craggy side of the hill into the darkness of the forest, panic quite clear on his face, though even that was becoming hard to see. The light was fading: the moon was almost entirely hidden by the gathering storm clouds.

"Light, I need light!" she whispered in frustration.

It was only when a small patch of the clouded sky above broke open and let through a thin shaft of moonlight, straight and pure, that she realized she'd spoken in Words without realizing it. She looked up, and her racing heart suddenly jerked to a stop. She stared straight into the stream of moonlight and spoke again:

" _I need help_ ," she said in Words, imbuing them with power. " _Show me how to help him_."

The illumination widened, and then changed: the soft fall of moonlight shifted to the tree, which flared suddenly with internal brilliance. Its thick, rough skin glowed, and the knobby growths where the limbs met the trunk seemed to shift and flex. The white flowers winked at her, opening and closing under the influence of some supernatural power, and then the world fell away.

She held up her left hand and touched the trunk. Heat rushed through her and wind buffeted her, springing up from nowhere. She gasped as the fiery sensation coalesced into a ball in her stomach and then exploded into a thousand points of light that saturated her skin. She was rocked back on her heels, and when her hand came away from tree, something heavy and solid came away with it.

She fell to the ground as the world spun, and the heavy thing fell on her in turn. It cracked against her head and threw stars across her vision, but she managed to grab it, and as her hand encircled the staff she felt something awaken in her that had lain dormant all her life.

It was like opening a second pair of eyes, one that could see a spectrum of light beyond the everyday. She saw streams of color rushing all around her, rushing through her – saw a halo of light around the boy in front of her that was deep violet with bursts of green and the sounds of singing – saw the tree behind him, the tree that had given her the staff – saw the dark-skinned young man, an Islander, lying on the ground at the foot of the tree –

Dying.

She was on her feet again in the next second, all thoughts of anger and frustration gone. The Words she had learned in Var Athel were clear and constant in her head, and the lessons in Healing came back to her completely and all together:

In an emergency, use the Names you know. Assess the damage first; heal what is hurt, not what is imperfect; preserve the life, then worry about the condition of it.

"What's his name?" she asked quickly, throwing off her gray traveling cloak so that she could more easily use her hands. Her dirty white garb shone dully in the moonlight that came through the crack in the clouds above them.

"Uh – he – Samson, I think –"

"You _think?_ "

"Look, that's what I think he said, I only just bloody met him!"

She bent back to work. Reaching out toward the blackened, burned skin, she remembered the pain she'd felt when she'd touched him last, but forced herself to touch him again regardless. She winced as the pain flared again, racing through her, but she kept her hand where it was. It was wet, and she tried not to think about the fact that the blood was touching her skin.

All the stories say that Eryn-Ra blood is death to touch – you shouldn't be –

She shook her head as if dislodging an irksome fly and began to speak in Words, the simple ones first – _always start simple, then work up to what is needed –_ using the Minor Arcana since she did not know the Major.

She repeated the incantations over and over again, checking each time to see if they'd had any effect, but nothing changed. She gritted her teeth and grimaced in frustration, then grabbed the edge of the ragged tunic the young man wore and pulled it, ripping it open to reveal the terrible burns beneath. It was clear that the burns had happened without the fabric – wherever the clothing had come from, it had been placed over the burns, and yet the blood had still seeped through it. How long had the wound been oozing? Days? A week? How was he still alive?

A waft of smell came from him, rotting flesh, and she nearly retched.

She laid her right hand against his bare skin and repeated the incantations again, making sure all the Words were in the right place, holding onto her new staff with ferocious determination. Heat rolled into her from it, and the Words she used seemed easier to make than they had ever been before. They crackled in the air and sizzled like water dropped in fire.

She heard humming behind her and realized that the tune worked with the enchantments she was muttering – that the humming was a harmony. As soon as the realization clicked in her mind, the heat in her body began to swell, somehow amplified. Shocked, she fumbled a Word, paused, and then started a different chant, one that felt right. The humming flitted up and down like the song of a bird and intertwined anew with her Words, giving them strength.

She missed a phrase, and the enchantment fell apart. She rocked back, catching herself on her staff as the Islander let out a ragged cry from the ground. He tried again to open his eyes, but when he did the whole right side of his body seemed somehow to _flex_ as if in counterpoint; he gasped and threw his head back to the ground, writhing in pain.

Panicked, AmyQuinn turned to the source of the humming and saw the other boy: he was wringing his hands and pacing back and forth. As his eyes met hers, he fell silent and the humming cut off, taking with it the swell of heat that had suffused AmyQuinn even after she'd stopped chanting.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I – I didn't mean to – I hum when I'm nervous – "

"Do you know the Words?" she asked, shocked.

"N – no?" he said, clearly not sure what she meant. "I was just copying you?"

That answer made no sense – it was impossible to just _copy_ the Words – but she didn't care. The swell of energy she'd felt was all that mattered. "Whatever you're doing, don't stop," she said. His eyes went wide, but when she turned back and started the enchantment again, he hummed in harmony with her.

She spoke faster this time, more sure of herself. She spoke all the Healing enchantments she could think of, all the ones she'd been taught, and then began making up her own, recombining the Words in any way she could, cursing herself for not paying better attention.

Despite her efforts, the young man's life began to fade away.

"No!" she exclaimed. She took a firmer grip on her new staff and felt again that reassuring pulse of energy. Her right hand, now coated to the wrist in black blood, burned and throbbed horribly.

"What's the matter?"

"The blood – it's Eryn-Ra blood, it's resisting the Words. I – I can't... "

"Can't what?"

"I can't drain it away! I can't pull it out like poison, and I can't just heal the burns because they're there _because_ of the blood, and every time I try to heal them they open up again... "

Her vision went sideways suddenly, and she only just caught herself before she collapsed. Her hand throbbed again, and the throb was echoed by a shooting pain that raced up her arm into her head. From there it shot down her spine, forcing her back to arch. The boy threw out a hand to help her, but then recoiled immediately, yelping in pain. She watched in horror as the black blood formed bubbling blisters in her skin that made it look as though she'd dipped her hand in burning oil.

"Come on!" the boy was shouting in her ear. "Come on! You're a _Sorev Ael!_ You can do this, you can heal him! You _have_ to!"

Her whole body began to throb, beating in time with the Islander's cries.

"Come on – use your staff or something!"

She opened her mouth and Words started pouring out of her in combinations she'd never even heard before. It was a running litany of what she wanted to happen, not even a spell – there was no rhyme or reason to it, no carefully measured chanting, just pure, blind intention.

" _Heal him, heal me, use the power – let the power heal us, let him be healed, let me be healed, let us withstand this pain, let the pain fade, let the blood not harm us, let the strength be in us, let the blood be in us without pain –"_

The heat in her swelled, and so did the Words. With a rush of movement, the young man's body was lifted up and off the ground so that he floated in the air at chest height. AmyQuinn, too focused to be shocked, only reached out and grabbed him with her burning hand to steady him, forcing her blistered fingers to close over his burned right arm, feeling again the blood there, the deep black blood that was still hot like the burning embers of a dying fire.

The Words became thoughts only, sounds that she couldn't understand, only desires and hopes and yearning to be healed, to be strong again, and she heard the boy humming behind her, a melody that floated up and above the Words and at the same time flitted through and between them.

There was a flash of light, and a blow like a horse had kicked her in the chest.

She felt her feet leave the earth, and then she crashed to the ground several yards away, the breath torn from her chest. She managed to cling to consciousness with whatever small bit of willpower she had remaining, and then all was silence.

The forest rushed in to fill the void. An owl hooted somewhere; leaves rustled in the slowly growing breeze; tree limbs creaked and rubbed against each other. She could smell the grass and dirt beneath her nose, the clean smell of growth and life, and it convinced her that she was still alive.

And then she realized the pain in her hand was gone.

Barely daring to hope, she pushed herself up and swayed to her feet. She looked down: the skin of her hand was whole and unblemished. She searched the ledge for the boy and saw him getting back to his feet some dozen yards away.

And at the base of the tree, the Islander was moving. The force of the final spell, in whatever shape it had taken, had thrown him onto his stomach, facedown like AmyQuinn. He slowly pulled his hands in and pushed himself up to his knees, then managed to sway to his feet. He unfolded himself to his full height and gripped something in his hand that had been hidden beneath his body up until then: a sword. It was slung at his left hip, opposite his wounded right side, and it was ill-sheathed in a borrowed scabbard that looked like it had seen better days.

His eyes, one the clear blue of water under cloudless skies and the other a dark, midnight black, looked as shocked as she was. He glanced at the boy, seemed ready to say something, but then ended up staying silent. For a long moment, the three of them just stood there staring at each other, and then the scene shattered.

Shouts came echoing through the forest up toward them, much closer than they'd been up until then.

"Wren, they followed us?" Samson asked, looking down over the ledge. His voice was solid and had deep roots. AmyQuinn watched his easy movement with a kind of dumb amazement. Was he fully healed? Had she really managed it?

"Uh, yes!" the boy, apparently named Wren, retorted. "It's not like I could out-run them, I've been hauling your big Islander butt ever since we hit land! You're bloody welcome, _by the way._ "

"Why are they chasing you?" AmyQuinn broke in.

She stepped forward in order to confront them, keeping a tight grip on her staff and eyeing Samson's sword. She felt weak, drained, and the extra sense of sight she'd been granted when she'd first held the staff had disappeared. The world looked as it always had, and currently it looked dark and frightening.

They were spared answering. The trees at the bottom of the hill shifted with motion, and figures burst out of them, waving torches that sent the night's shadows skittering away. One of them shouted something in a foreign tongue, pointing up at the ledge where they stood illuminated by what moonlight still streamed through the encroaching clouds.

"Damn," hissed Wren. "Time to run!"

"We can't," said Samson grimly. "They've got horses."

He was right – even as the man in front moved up the path that would take him to the ledge, a dozen others appeared behind him, all mounted and wearing armor beneath dark black cloaks.

"No," Wren said, retreating back behind Samson. "We can't fight them. We have to run – we can climb the trees!"

"It's too late for that," Samson snapped back. "We have to – "

But AmyQuinn never found out what they had to do. The trees behind them that led to the grove echoed with sound, and they all three realized other men had rounded the hill and were coming up the other side. They were surrounded.

AmyQuinn stood frozen in the center of the clearing, her whole world turned upside down. She'd finally earned a staff, and now she was in the middle of an ambush having healed someone she knew nothing about, with an enchantment that should not have worked.

The world burst into motion, and there was no time left for thought.

The mounted men raced up the path to the ledge in a matter of seconds, and the sounds from the grove grew closer. The night was burned away by bright haloes of torchlight, and then came the sound of swords being drawn from their sheathes.

Two of the attackers broke off and made straight for AmyQuinn.

" _Thyrelin!"_

The word was out of her mouth before she had time to think about it, and as soon as it leapt from her lips it took on a will of its own. She felt the staff warm in her hand, and then the Word swelled and widened and struck both men in the chest, knocking them off their horses and flattening them to the ground.

"They have a mage!" roared a voice in an accent so thick it was almost unintelligible.

_Damn right they do,_ she thought fiercely.

She spun again and raised her staff before her.

" _Crainlith!"_

The sound turned into a Word, a thought that sounded like burning flame, and she brought the staff crashing back down to earth as she threw her right hand out before her. A ball of flame shot through the night and hit a man square in the chest, exploding over him and catching his tangled beard on fire. He screamed in pain, and the two men beside him dove away as he fell to the ground.

"Watch where you're throwing that stuff!" Wren shouted as he beat his tattered clothing. She ignored him, keeping her staff firmly connected to the ground.

"Get him – no, watch the sword – _Argh!"_

She turned to see Samson fighting beneath the tree on the ledge; her mouth dropped open, and she gaped in shock. His whole right side was awash in golden light, and the sword in his hand glowed as if on fire from within. The steel was pockmarked with black stains along one side, and the point was covered in black liquid that disappeared even as AmyQuinn watched, sucked into the metal; soon the whole blade appeared again unscarred.

Samson turned and spun faster than any of his attackers, and with the staff in her hand AmyQuinn could feel the power coming off of him in waves.

How is that possible? How is he using... is he using Words?

Rough hands grabbed her from behind and hauled her back, and she screamed out, " _Thyrelin!"_

The hands released her as the men attached to them were thrown away by the power flooding through her. Wren ducked as they flew past, diving and rolling over the burned body of another man, from whom he slipped a dagger. He held the small piece of metal before him, looking around, trying to see everything at once. Two men rushed for him, and AmyQuinn motioned with her staff, ready to unleash another Word, drawing on the power inside her –

But Samson was there, interposing himself between them and her, swinging the sword in a deadly arc that knocked aside the clumsier broadswords of the attackers and stopped the men in mid-stride. They tried to recover, turning the attack into a chance to regroup, but Samson ran forward and threw his shoulder into the closest one.

The shoulder he used was the one that had been wounded, and both Wren and AmyQuinn winced in anticipation of pain. There was none. Instead, the light that suffused Samson's right side swelled just as he hit the armored man, and a crunching sound filled the hillside. The attacker shot through the air, twisted, and landed in a heap several yards away. He did not rise.

His fellows suddenly backed away, watching Samson as if he were a lion that had escaped its cage. The echo of the Word for force ran through AmyQuinn's mind, and she was staggered.

How did he do that?

Samson, for his part, looked as shocked as she was.

Lightning flashed through the sky directly overheard, and she felt the supernatural quality of it echo all around her. She looked back down the slope, fear squeezing her lungs like a fist. A man in a black hood stepped forward from the path up the hillside. He brandished a small, pointed object in her direction, and then spoke a phrase that burned and hissed as it crossed the distance between them.

A ball of black fire appeared from nowhere shot toward them.

Wren, Samson, and AmyQuinn dove away in three separate directions, scattering as the black fire tore past them to crash into the underbrush nearby, where it lit natural red and gold flames that began to eat away at the grove despite the rain and wind.

Rain and wind?

It was only then that AmyQuinn became aware of the dark clouds above. The storm had finally rolled in all the way, blanketing the sky so thoroughly that had not the light of the sorcerous fire and the torches been lit, the grove would have been in utter darkness. The rain that fell from the black clouds hissed and whispered in the soft grass and clumped the dirt into mud.

The man in the black hood stepped forward. Ever his gait seemed wrong and dangerous: he walked as if on a stroll through a park, as though he knew that there was no danger for him here. He raised the object in his hand again, and spoke another dark, twisted phrase.

Samson reacted first. He threw Wren behind him as another ball of black fire shot through the night. He swung his sword, and the glowing metal sliced through the ball of fire, sending it shooting into the darkness.

The man in black stopped and fixed his eyes on Samson.

"You," he said simply. Then, all pretense thrown aside, he rushed them with renewed intensity, shouting burning enchantments that AmyQuinn couldn't even try to understand. He threw a constant stream of black fire at Samson, and the young man only just managed to evade it, swinging his sword as quickly as he could to fend it off. Wren rolled out from behind him and flicked his wrist, throwing the small dagger he'd stolen. The sorcerer flicked his hand and sent the gleaming metal shooting away into the night.

" _Crainlith!"_ AmyQuinn cried, smacking the foot of her new staff against the earth and focusing the Word into the palm of her right hand. She thrust out her fist, and a wave of burning power rippled through the air and crashed into the dark sorcerer; flames licked at his clothing, caught at his hem, rushed up his body as if eager to consume him... and then abruptly died.

The hood of his cloak fell back, and a mask of bone stared out at her, horribly lifelike, as though the man had stripped away the flesh of his face to expose the skeleton beneath. A pair of malicious eyes glittered deep in the dead sockets, and she gaped in horror as they turned their gaze on her. He raised his hand and opened his mouth to speak a curse, to unleash some terrible dark power, and she knew it was the end, knew that there was nothing she could do to block him.

Wren rushed from concealment and leapt onto the man's back, digging his reclaimed dagger into the man's exposed neck. The gleaming metal slid easily beneath the skin, and the skeletal green gaze suddenly lost its brilliance. The sorcerer jerked where he stood and then fell to his knees. Wren clung to him all the way, holding the dagger where it was, his eyes wide and teeth bared. The man fell facedown against the earth, shuddered once, and then was motionless.

Wren looked up at the other two, and then slowly stood back from the man, leaving the dagger where it was.

"I... I've never... "

He cut off, swallowing hard. His face was bloodless, and he looked as though he might be sick.

"You had to," AmyQuinn said. "He would have... if you hadn't... "

Wren was nodding, but that horrified look never left his eyes.

A flickering, golden glow caught her attention, and she turned to Samson. He was holding up the sword and staring at it in wonder. It glowed with golden light, and so did the hand that held it. The right side of his face, torn and scarred, was illuminated as well, and the single black eye had turned a deep, burnished gold. More light seemed to leak out from beneath his clothing, all along his right side.

And then just as quickly as it had appeared, the light winked out.

Samson staggered as though he'd been hit upside the head, and then fell to his knees. AmyQuinn rushed for him, and Wren was not far behind. She reached him just as he fell and helped lower him to the ground, grabbing and turning him over so that he rested on his back. His eyes were closed, and he lay limply, but his breathing was steady, if hurried, and the signs of pain he'd showed before were gone.

She felt his chest, then held two fingers to his neck. His skin was covered in deep red-purple scars that appeared almost black in the night.

"Is he –?"

"He's alive," she said.

"Then what happened?"

She swallowed hard, trying to work moisture back into her mouth.

"I have no idea."

She looked up, and they stared at each other for a long moment, not sure what to do, until the next shout brought them back to reality. Both of them were on their feet again immediately, spinning about to look back down the way the men had come. There was a new figure there, this one on foot and bearing a torch just like the others. He saw them and pointed, and then pointed beyond them at something else.

AmyQuinn and Wren spun back the other way, and saw that the black fire the dark sorcerer had thrown had not sputtered out in the rain, but instead slowly begun to eat away at the sheltered underbrush of the grove. Smoke was rising into the air, and flames had begun to leap to nearby patches of dry leaves.

"By the old gods," Wren whispered.

"We have to go," she said. She ran back through the torn ivy curtain into the grove, searching through the growing haze of smoke for her mare. She found it almost immediately: her eyes were rolling in her head, and she reared back as AmyQuinn approached, frightened by the fire and the shouting but unable to slip the knotted rope that kept her tied in place.

Wren followed, pulling Samson with him, and for the moment they lost the pursuing men, who were exclaiming over the fire and the downed men on the ledge.

"Where are we going?"

"To my master," she said quickly, not knowing what else to do.

"Your _master_? What does that mean?"

"He's a Sorev Ael, just trust me – "

"Trust you? Look, I'm not going anywhere – "

"If you stay here you die."

He watched her for a beat.

"You make good points," he said.

"Wait – catch that horse!"

One of the horses of the downed men had just raced into the grove past them, trying to avoid the flames, rearing and stamping its feet. Wren dumped Samson and caught its reins, calming it as best he could and pulling it toward the mare. A second horse, following the first one's lead, burst into the clearing too. AmyQuinn rushed for this one herself and grabbed it.

"Help me get Samson up!"

Wren hurried over to help, pulling his horse with him.

"Hold his leg!"

"I _have_ his leg –"

"That's his arm –"

"What – no, it's a leg!"

" _JUST GRAB THIS APPENDAGE!"_

" _FINE!"_

They got the unconscious Islander on the horse, where he swayed dangerously. The flames continued to grow and the heat that poured off of them was so intense that they were forced to retreat as far as they could to the other side of the grove. Wren pulled himself up and tied young man to the horse by wrapping Samson's hands around the animal's neck and tying them together with a torn strip of his shirt.

"We need to go!" AmyQuinn insisted.

"By the – _do you want him tied down or not?!_ "

"Just make it so he doesn't fall off!"

"Look, I'm trying to, lady!"

"Follow me," she said, "and make sure he doesn't fall!"

They raced off into the night, the sounds of pursuit ringing out behind them.

Chapter Twenty-three: Fort Turin

Wren was starting to wish he'd stayed in prison. Bouncing up and down on a stolen horse, racing through the night after a girl who looked like a Sorev Ael but, now that he thought about it, couldn't _be_ a Sorev Ael because she was a _girl_ , and running from who knew how many soldier-pirate-bastards intent on killing him or worse?

Yes. Prison had been better.

"Hurry up!" the girl snapped, throwing a glare over her shoulder at him, that thick brown braid of hers whipping as she turned her head.

"I'm bloody _going!"_ he retorted, desperately holding onto the horse with his knees. He had never been a good rider – he'd barely had any practice – and though he was fine on streets during the day, riding through an untamed forest at night was a whole different thing. In fact, he was quite certain that he was doing such a bad job of it that he might as well have sat backwards and tried to steer with his mind.

" _Hurry!"_ she snapped again.

"Wha – _crazy person, I'm trying!"_

"Shh! They're following us, don't be so loud!"

"What – I'm not – you're the one – !"

" _Shhh!"_

"Bloody hell, your braidness!"

The light of torches behind them gave away the position of the men that were following them, though the clouds above had closed up and were darkening further. The rain had slackened and then cut off, but the air was heavy with moisture, and Wren was relatively certain that the deluge might start up again at any moment.

The maybe-a-Sorev-Ael-maybe-just-crazy girl had whispered something that sounded like music to Wren's ears and produced two flickering balls of light that flitted ahead of them and lit their way. They gave off just enough light to see by, and the horses, as eager as their riders to get as far away from the burning grove as possible, leapt rocks, trees, and forest debris with alacrity as they sought to follow the bouncing progress of the witchlights.

The girl pulled up short out of nowhere, and Wren hauled back on the reins of his horse, trying to stop. The beast let out a snort of anger and nearly fell over backwards as it reared up in alarm.

"Whoa! What are you _doing?"_ the girl hissed. "Don't pull so hard, it's a horse not a _cart!"_

Wren calmed the horse with a hasty petting and glared at the girl.

"I dislike you," he said.

She ignored him and looked forward, whipping that braid of hers back around as she did. Wren looked over her shoulder and saw where and why they'd stopped: they were at the bottom of a short ravine, near a brook. Wren supposed it would have been a babbling one, like in the stories, if they weren't running for their lives from soldier-pirate-bastards. And beyond that brook were two woodland trails that led off in two very different directions.

"Which one do we take?" Wren asked quickly, looking up them both. They looked the same to him, but that was all right – the girl knew where they were going. He glanced at her to see which way she was looking, and then took in the confusion on her face. The bottom dropped out of his stomach.

"Oh, by the – _you don't know which one?"_

"No – I do, it's – it's that – no, this – "

"Maybe if someone had kept her eyes on the _trail_ instead of badgering me about my _horse_ – "

"I'll remember!"

There were crashing sounds behind them, and they both spun to see the torch flames of their pursuers closing in as their horses kicked through the underbrush.

"Pick a way, pick a way, pick a way!" Wren said.

"I – but I don't know – what if we pick wrong?!"

"That's it," Wren said, "this one!"

His sank his heels into the flanks of his horse, grabbed tightly the reins of Samson's horse, and tried to ride forward. But before he got anywhere, the girl's hand shot out and grabbed him, pulling him back. His horse whinnied in protest, and he was about to echo its sentiments, when the girl held up a hand.

"Wait," she said, her voice completely different now.

"Wait?! Oh, of course. We're on the run for our lives, but let's just _wait!_ "

She ignored him. The look on her face deepened, almost as if she were listening for something. The thought that she might actually be insane crossed his mind then, and honestly he wouldn't have been much surprised with the way his luck had been going. A girl out in the middle of the Wilds with nothing but a horse and a stick living in a grove of trees? If that wasn't the very picture of insanity, then he was a stuck pig.

"This way," she said, and then continued up the way he'd already chosen.

"What – that's what – hey!"

She ignored him, and there was nothing to do but hurry after her. They raced along the path and then down another, the girl seemingly more confident with each new turning. The sounds of pursuit were still behind them, though, and it was clear that should they stop again they would risk being overtaken.

They burst through a final tree line and found themselves looking up at the Barrier Mountains and the Turin Pass, a huge cascade of frozen rocky waves ascending to the sky until they were lost in cloud. The rain that had been threatening to fall made good on its promise as thunder cracked and the skies broke open again. They hurried up the mountainside, fighting against the rushing wind that blew raindrops in their faces and forced them to narrow their eyes to slits.

"There!"

He followed the outstretched finger more than the word, which he barely heard before the wind tore it from her lips and tossed it away. They made for the pass, the wide stone mouth that was the only way into the land of Aeon from the Northern Wilds, and only there did they stop and look back.

They saw a swarm of motion down below, just past the tree line, and Wren's heart leapt into his mouth when he picked out a figure clothed in skeletal armor.

A second sorcerer.

This figure, eerily like the first, raised a finger at Wren, and he felt sweat break out all over his body even in the freezing cold night. The men surrounding the sorcerer heeled their horses up the slope, racing toward them.

"Quick!" the girl shouted over the wind. "Into the pass!"

Wren followed her.

They out-raced the rain, that much was certain; for whatever reason, the clouds massed low over the Wilds could not make it over the Barrier itself, and so as they passed through steep slopes covered in blooming grass and flowers, and even through the higher, rocky switchback passes that still bore the evidence of winter snow, they found themselves moving from wet to dry.

They raced on through the night, staying just ahead of their pursuit.

AmyQuinn tried to still her breathing, but it was no use. She continued to gasp, and the stitch in her side seemed ready to split apart.

The darkness and rain that had given them cover were both now fading away: the sky was lightening, to the point where her magelights were hardly necessary. They'd made it almost all the way through the Pass, pushing their horses as hard as they reasonably could, and she was certain that they were nearing the other side. The light of the sun had just made it over the edge of the horizon when she glanced back and saw their pursuers gaining: men in black armor headed by a man in a dark cloak, the hood of which had been whipped back by the wind to reveal a bone mask.

_How is there another one?_ she thought desperately.

She swung her gaze back around forward and saw the final bend of the pass, and felt also the mare shudder beneath her even as it kept staggering onward. If they didn't make it soon, they might not make it at all. They crawled forward, seeming to move slower with every step...

"I see it!"

AmyQuinn followed Wren's outstretched finger. He was right – the Fort had come into sight. It glistened as the light of the morning sun hit the gathered dew that lay thick on its roofs and gables, and she could just see the sleeping figures of the villagers who lived in the nearby town making their way to work.

And, as if by some miracle, a lone figure was making its own way through the gates on some errand or other – a figure that was just distinguishable in the morning light by the gray cloak and faded red vest it wore.

"VALINOR!"

She knew that they were too far away for him to hear her, but they wouldn't be for long. Pulling the horse with the still-unconscious Samson behind her, she raced down the road that led inexorably to the gates of the Fort, between the two gaping ravines that yawned on either side of it.

"VALINOR!"

The Sorev Ael stopped his progress as if he'd heard, and she felt a rush of relief that was so heady it made the world spin. He turned to look behind him, back through the gates, and when he didn't see anyone he looked the other way around the Fort, obviously convinced that it was someone nearby who'd hailed him.

Wren took up the call as well, and they raced down the slope as fast as their exhausted mounts could carry them. Between them they raised such a racket that AmyQuinn was surprised the whole town didn't come out to see what was the matter.

Finally, the Sorev Ael's rugged face turned toward the pass.

"Help!" she cried out, gesturing wildly. "HELP!"

But by then they were close enough that she could see details of his face, and she was certain he could see them and knew something was wrong. His eyes focused on her and widened, taking in the other horse she led and the shouting, desperate Wren riding along beside her. A chill of fear rushed over her, but she pushed it down. They would be safe inside the Fort; they would be safe there with the stationed guards and Valinor himself to look after them.

"Help!" she cried again as she rode up, barely slackening her pace at all, trying to keep the mare moving as she desperately fought the stitch in her side that made it almost impossible to take a full breath. "We're being followed!"

Without another word, Valinor beckoned them and disappeared back inside the Fort's massive gate. She heard shouting from behind the huge wall, saw faces appear above clad in silver helms, and then they were through, passing beneath the portcullis and beyond the thick iron-studded doors.

The sound of the shouting redoubled on the other side with no walls to block the noise, and AmyQuinn recognized Valinor's clear and carrying baritone calling for speed, urging the watch to man the walls and sound the alarm.

She reined in her horse and shot a glance over her shoulder back up the road to the distant pass. She caught a single image before the doors slammed shut and the gate was lowered: a lone figure with the hood of his cloak thrown back to reveal a mask of bone, wrapped in an air of power and darkness that surrounded him even in the growing light of day.

Suddenly the Fort seemed no more than a paper castle.

"There!" she cried up to the men on the wall. "There – do you see him?!"

The portcullis clanged into place, and a heavy wooden bar was lowered into brackets to lock the door. The men atop the wall heard her and followed the line of her gestures. She watched them freeze and then pull back; their hands dropped to their weapons, and they began to shout to others up and down the wall to ready for an attack. Somewhere a horn began to blow high and clear, and AmyQuinn turned toward the center of the Fort to see the barracks divest itself of a flood of eager soldiers. They made straight for the wall, spears in hand, and as they went they called for the people inside the fort to return to their homes and stay there.

"Where have you been? What's happened?"

AmyQuinn turned at the sound of Valinor's voice. She dismounted, pulling her staff out from behind her saddle where she'd tied it, and quickly turned to face her master, trying to think of the words to explain what was happening.

Valinor pulled up short, though, several yards in front of her, and his burnt-black eyes fell on her staff. She would have expected praise in normal circumstances, and maybe even a hasty 'congratulations' now, but she was totally unprepared for the look of shock that crossed his features. His eyes widened to the point that they threatened to pop from his head, and his mouth fell open in a comical "o" of surprise that gave her the insane urge to point and laugh. She looked down at her staff, and for the first time took it in herself, having only seen it so far in the dark of night.

It was black, far darker than the bark of the tree had been, and though it started out slim and smooth at the bottom, it widened as it grew, and then split into three distinct branches that were woven tightly in among each other in an intricate pattern that was both elegant and somehow savage. There were two spaces where the branchings became one solid piece again, the places where, if she held the staff before her, her hands would be perfectly placed for balance, but then the weaving grew more intricate still, each of the three strands flowing in and out and around the others until they came together once more at the top. The crown was cupped, like Valinor's, but where his was a gnarled claw, hers was a woven web of a dozen smaller branchings that joined together in perfect symmetry, all sheltered beneath a single arch of higher wood that looked almost deadly, like a farmer's sickle.

She looked back to Valinor, stunned herself, and saw that his eyes were not following the elegant twistings and weavings, but were instead staring at a single, fixed point – the crown.

"Master," she said hesitantly, "what – ?"

"What tree did you touch?"

"I don't know –"

He grabbed her roughly by the shoulders and brought her closer to him, so close that his burnt-black eyes filled her vision and she found it hard to breathe. "What tree gave you that staff?"

"I – it was too dark to see – "

This seemed the wrong thing to say. His face blanched and he gnashed his teeth together before he looked away, took a breath, and pulled himself back under control. She was shocked to see such open distress, and when he spoke again, she felt like a small child caught stealing.

"You took it at night?" he asked, but with a tone that said her answer almost didn't matter. Not knowing what else he expected of her, she nodded, and his jaw tightened as his burnt eyes blazed with heat.

"Master, what's happening? I – the staff isn't even – is there something wrong with it?"

"It's elder wood, isn't it?" Wren asked.

Master and apprentice both turned to the boy, who immediately caught their expressions and realized his mistake. "I mean – nevermind. Psh, elder what? Don't listen to me, I'm just a – "

"Elder wood?" AmyQuinn asked, but even as she spoke the word, the wood warmed beneath her hands, and she felt the rightness of it. She thought about the Word that would mean elder in the language of the Sorev Ael but realized she'd never learned it. That was strange. She hadn't even been able to recognize the tree when she'd found it, which meant they'd never covered it in Herbalism.

"Master," she said, trying and failing to keep a note of frantic anxiety from her voice, "I don't understand what's happening. You told me the staff would choose me and it did – and I used it, too!"

Valinor's eyes widened, and, taking this as need for proof, she turned and gestured to Samson, still unconscious on the horse behind her.

"I was able to heal him with it," she said, "and it worked when we were attacked, I was able to fight back the sorcerer who came for us – "

"You were attacked by a _sorcerer_?" Valinor asked, the color slowly returning to his face. This seemed the safer course of discussion – this was something he could deal with, it appeared.

"Y-yes," she said, thrown. "He was following them – Samson and Wren – and when he came at us he threw black fire. He wore a bone mask – and there was another one – he's the one that we just saw in Turin Pass –"

Valinor left her and raced for the wall. AmyQuinn and Wren stared at each other dumbfounded for half a second, and then raced after him, leaving Samson in the care of the women who'd just come from the infirmary to examine him.

When they caught up, they found the Mage at the top of the wall between two men that bore the stripes and good armor of commanders. All three of them were looking out over the battements; Wren and AmyQuinn followed their gaze.

The dark man was there, and with him were several dozen soldiers in the silver and black, all mounted. They were wet and disheveled, but looked fearsome all the same, and the man in the bone mask sat his horse at their head, watching the fort. An unnatural darkness seemed to descend around them, encasing them in their own space and turning aside the light of the rising sun. AmyQuinn gasped and felt Wren stiffen beside her.

Suddenly Valinor pulled back and grabbed her hard by the shoulders again; his rough fingers dug into her skin, painfully tight. "That man," he said quickly, "that man in the bone mask – is he different than the first one? You said there was another one, what happened to the first?"

"I – we – Wren stabbed – "

Valinor shot a burning look at the boy and seemed to truly see him for the first time. One of his hands released her, only to grab Wren and pull him close.

"You stabbed him where?" Valinor demanded.

"The neck!" Wren gasped, too scared to do anything but tell the truth.

"Did he fall? Did he bleed?"

"I – I didn't see blood, it was dark – but he fell! He was on the ground and he didn't get up. He was just there, and then the others were coming for us, and Samson passed out, so we had to run – "

Valinor released him and turned back to AmyQuinn.

"You said there was another one – _are you sure this isn't the same man?_ "

AmyQuinn stared at him blankly, not understanding what he was asking. The man had died – Wren had stabbed in the neck and he'd fallen and...

The image of the man racing behind them through the Pass suddenly flashed before her mind's eye. He looked almost exactly like the man who'd died, but she'd just assumed that was because... because...

Her face must have relayed her thoughts, because Valinor was moving again before she could confirm his fears. He turned to one of the officers farther along the wall who was giving orders.

"Send the men out," the officer was saying. "Standard formation – "

"No!" the Mage cut in. "You must keep them in."

The commander turned to him and seemed to swell; he was a tall man, and quite large. "You are not in charge of this Fort, Sorev Ael," he said with an effort at civility. "These men are infringing upon the land I've sworn to hold and protect. I will not stand for it."

"If you send your men out there they'll die, which will help you neither hold nor protect this land as you have sworn to do," Valinor replied easily. The commander didn't make a sound of concession or retreat, but AmyQuinn saw the determination in his small eyes flicker and knew that Valinor had won.

"Sir," the younger officer said, the three stripes of rank on his shoulder beneath the rising sun emblem of Fort Turin catching the light, "what do we do if they attack?"

"Leave that to me," Valinor said. He reached into his cloak and pulled out his thick yew wand. AmyQuinn felt something swell in him, almost like watching someone take a deep breath before singing, and the rod lengthened, the bottom tip narrowing and tapering to a point and the crown forming into the accustomed gnarled claw. He raised the staff high over his head and murmured an enchantment that AmyQuinn did not know, one that sounded like a booming waterfall.

A clap of thunder split the air, and then Valinor's voice was booming out over everything, echoing inside the wall and bouncing off the mountains, loud enough to be heard for what must have been miles in any direction.

"Your presence here is unwelcome," he boomed loud and deep, vibrating AmyQuinn's entire body. "I am Valinor Therin, the Mage of the Eryn-Ra, and I stand in protection of this fortress and the lands beyond with the brave men of Fort Turin at my side. Do not attempt to cross this border – do not attempt to cross me."

He fell silent, but the hum of the Words still filled the air. And there was something else as well, something beneath what Valinor had done. She glanced over at Wren and realized he was watching Valinor with glassy eyes. He'd picked out a harmony, somehow, that he'd layered atop the enchantment the Sorev Ael had made. Valinor's attention was too focused on the men below to notice.

"YOU HAVE SOMETHING THAT BELONGS TO MY LORD."

The voice that rolled out this time was not Valinor's, but it echoed through the fort and the pass just as loudly. The quality was metallic and biting, and it seemed to drill into AmyQuinn's skull, setting her teeth on edge.

"I know not of what you speak," Valinor said slowly and firmly, each word rolling out clear and unmistakable. "I am a Sorev Ael of Var Athel, a Master of Magery, and I know no lord but the King in Caelron, King Malineri of the –"

"I CARE NOT FOR YOUR _BOY KING!"_ The voice broke through Valinor's firm assertion with a savage undertone that brought with it ghostly feelings of pain and fear. "MY LORD IS MORE POWERFUL THAN YOUR KING COULD EVEN DREAM TO BE – AND HE REQUIRES THAT WHICH YOU HAVE TAKEN! DO NOT PAUSE TO RETURN IT; DO NOT SHELTER THOSE THIEVES THAT HAVE STOLEN IT. WE HAVE TRACKED THEM HERE, AND THERE IS NOTHING FOR YOU TO DO BUT TO GIVE THEM TO US NOW."

Valinor paused long enough to glance at AmyQuinn and Wren, and his eyes narrowed. He asked them no questions, though, but turned back to the raiders.

"Who is this lord and what has been taken from him?"

"MY LORD IS THE KALAC KULL! HE RETURNS FROM FOREIGN SHORES TO MAKE A NEW HOME OF THIS LAND YOU CALL AEON – AND YOU KNOW WHAT YOU HAVE STOLEN, CHANTER! JUST BECAUSE YOU SENT YOUR MINIONS TO BRING IT TO YOU WHILE YOU LAY IN WAIT, SAFE BEHIND YOUR WALLS, DOES NOT MEAN THAT YOU HAVE FOOLED ME INTO THINKING YOU ARE IGNORANT."

Valinor paused again, and though this time he did not look at them, it was clear that he was thinking of AmyQuinn and Wren, and also Samson down below, thinking over what they'd told him and where they'd been. Wren began to pull away, to try and escape down the stairs, but she grabbed him, holding him where he was even though his eyes shot daggers at her.

"I do not know of what you speak!" Valinor repeated. "And even if I did, the people of Aeon do not respond to threats. The Sorev Ael of Var Athel do not deal with those who practice the Barred Arcana. Take off your mask, cast down your weapons, and then we shall talk. Thanomancers are not welcome in this land."

The man snarled, and as he spoke again AmyQuinn felt the heat behind the words, and she couldn't keep herself from shaking. "WE WILL FIND YOU!" he roared, his voice dripping with promise. "WE WILL TAKE WHAT YOU HAVE STOLEN, AND WE WILL TAKE THIS LAND. YOU WILL _BURN –_ ALL OF YOU!"

He spun his horse around, raised his hand, and shouted a Word of power AmyQuinn had never heard before. It seemed wrong, somehow corrupted: it ripped and tore at the air like a knife instead of ringing like a bell, and all the men on the wall of the fort gasped and took a step back, clutching at their ears.

A sudden pressure descended on them from nowhere, as though the air itself was trying to crush them. AmyQuinn gasped as she tried to breathe and found she couldn't. Panic ripped through her; she tried to think of what to do –

Valinor calmly raised his right hand. The ruby in its enchanted gold band flared with brilliant, burning light, and the Sorev Ael spoke Words that brought peace to all who heard them.

The crushing pressure eased, and all along the wall AmyQuinn saw men stagger and clutch at their chests. She took a full, deep breath and tried to still the panic racing through her body. Looking over the battlements, she saw the dark sorcerer stagger.

"Leave," said Valinor in his amplified voice, "or you will face the Mage of the Eryn-Ra and the brave men of Turin."

The man stayed where he was for a long moment, and AmyQuinn couldn't help but wonder what he was thinking. Was he contemplating an attack? Was he so confident in his power that he would mount an assault even though he was terribly outnumbered?

Finally, he turned his horse and retreated with his men back through the pass.

A ragged cheer went up along the wall, but AmyQuinn couldn't help but notice that Valinor did not join it. Instead, as soon as the dark man was out of sight, he caught up AmyQuinn and Wren and pulled them with him to the staircase.

"Tell me everything that happened," he said quickly. "Everything since after I left you."

She did, leaving out no details. When they reached the bottom of the stair, Valinor called for the women who'd just taken Samson to the infirmary and told them to bring him back immediately. They looked bewildered, but none of them seemed ready to contradict a Sorev Ael, and so they went for him while AmyQuinn continued her recitation.

"... that's when they came through the ivy the mare had chewed – they burst in through it, and Wren – that's him – said they needed help! And I thought about the vow, and I knew I had to help them, and so I did my best –"

Samson arrived, still on the horse to which he'd been tied, and Valinor turned to him. He reached up to touch the boy's cheek, and then to touch his side, where the stain of the blood was still clear –

The Sorev Ael recoiled in shock, hissing like a cat.

"What is he?" Valinor asked, almost to himself.

"He was burned," Wren said.

Valinor turned to the boy.

"Explain."

Wren did as told. He detailed their captivity and their escape, explained finding the Eryn-Ra, and then about the boat, and finally how they'd come to find AmyQuinn in the Wilds.

Samson stirred weakly from atop his mount, and his eyes opened for half a second as though he'd heard them and was attempting to corroborate the retelling. But he fell back across the horse with a moan before he could form any words.

"What did you do?" Valinor asked, rounding on AmyQuinn. She shrank back, though his voice was no longer harsh but firm – he needed information, he was not accusing her. "You cannot heal damage done by the blood of an Eryn-Ra."

"I – thought I healed him," she said haltingly. "I don't know how."

"You used the Minor Arcana?"

"Yes – yes I did at first, but it wasn't enough."

Valinor eyed the black wood of her staff.

"Not enough?"

"No – I had to use other Words."

His burnt-black eyes were suddenly piercing.

"Where did you touch him?" he asked harshly, looking her over. Confused, AmyQuinn held up her right hand, and as soon as she did Valinor recoiled, shaking his head as if he smelled something foul.

"How are you whole?" he asked, watching her with wide, disbelieving eyes. "What Words did you use?"

"I don't – I don't remember."

"Try."

"I am!"

" _Try harder._ "

"Wait – "

"" _Heal him, heal me, use the power – let the power heal us, let him be healed, let me be healed, let us withstand this pain, let the pain fade, let the blood not harm us, let the strength be in us, let the blood be in us without pain –"_

AmyQuinn turned slowly as the exact Words she'd said were spoken behind her by the clear tenor voice of Wren. He finished quickly, and then seemed to realize he had spoken out loud. "What?" he asked, his eyes wide as he looked between the two of them. "That's what she said. Why does everyone have a stick up their – you wanted to know what she said, _didn't you_?"

Valinor moved so quickly that AmyQuinn thought it quite likely he'd simply disappeared from one spot and reappeared holding Wren by the scruff of the neck instead of taking the time to actually cross the intervening distance. The boy squawked a sound of protest, but Valinor spoke over him.

"How do you know the speech of Var Athel?"

"I – I don't – no, wait, I swear – I just know sounds!"

"Master!" AmyQuinn said; she hurried over but stopped short of physically puling Valinor away from the boy. "No – it's not like that. He doesn't know the Words, he just makes sounds – he was humming them earlier, he does that a lot, I don't know why! But he was humming when I healed Samson, and it – I don't know, it made it easier somehow – it felt like the Words were easier to use!"

Valinor continued to hold Wren, scrutinizing his face with such intensity that AmyQuinn suddenly worried the gaze alone would set the boy on fire. She had no idea whether or not her words had penetrated, nor whether what she'd said had helped or hurt Wren's case, but as the moment lengthened, she began to fear the worst. She swallowed hard, thinking about what else to say –

The Sorev Ael let the boy go. Wren fell and turned like a cat in midair so that he was right side up when he landed on all fours. He was up and scrambling away as soon as he was in contact with the hard-packed dirt, but he only got a few steps before the Mage was after him.

"Stop," Valinor said, but Wren wanted nothing to do with him now. He did not obey in the slightest, but instead turned for the long main street that led through the shops and civilian houses of Fort Turin, ready to make a run for it.

" _Bae selnat!"_

The boy's feet stopped moving, and he pitched forward, crashing to the earth. Valinor walked quickly up to him, then waved his hand and dispelled the force holding the boy in place. Wren was immediately back up again, but before he took another step, Valinor spoke:

"If you run, the same thing will happen again."

The boy stopped and shot a look back at the Sorev Ael, his dirty, matted hair swaying into his eyes. He looked at least to be taking in what Valinor had said, but his face was screwed up into a scowl and every muscle in his body still looked primed to run.

"Turn and come back to me," the Mage said.

"So you can yell at me again?" Wren retorted. "That sounds inviting."

One of the soldiers from the wall came up to Valinor – a group of them had followed him down, nearly a dozen strong, and they were looking at Wren with disapproval. "Shall we take him, sir?" the man asked. He had a knot of rank on his chest beneath the rising sun emblem.

"No," Valinor said quietly, "but we must be gone within the hour. Send messengers for horses – we need fresh ones for the two boys and the girl – and see that they are packed with provisions. We will leave by the southern gate as soon as it's all gathered – we ride with haste for Var Athel itself. Do not touch the boy on the horse – you risk your life in doing so. Go."

The soldier handled all of this with surprising professionalism. There was a brief flash of confusion and surprise, but it was quickly smoothed over, and then he was motioning to those nearest him and sending them running about the Fort. New horses were handed to AmyQuinn and Wren, and their saddlebags were rushed away to be filled with provisions.

"Well," Wren said awkwardly. "You don't need me anymore, so I'll just – "

"Take one step more and I'll turn you into a newt," Valinor said, his tone completely serious. "And not one of the cute green ones – a fat one covered in warts and slime that offends even the other newts."

Wren squinted at the Sorev Ael and turned his head slightly to one side.

"You're a persuasive man."

"Get on the horse."

After a brief hesitation, he did, muttering, "Just like home!" under his breath.

"Master," AmyQuinn said, turning back to Valinor as he undid the binding that held Samson to his saddle and transferred the Islander to a new horse. The Sorev Ael was very careful not to touch the young man with his bare hands and took great pains to make sure the clothes stained with blood were carefully wrapped in further layers. When finally he finished the maneuver and Samson was tied in place, AmyQuinn pressed on with her questions: "What's happening? What's going on?"

The Mage paused before responding.

"What is happening is that this boy is dying. That much Eryn-Ra blood should have killed him – and the fact that it hasn't yet makes me more fearful, not less. What is happening is that you're being pursued by a thanomancer of great power. Possibly even something darker – some new combination of necromancy and the other arts of the Barred Arcana that I cannot yet explain."

"But he stopped," Wren said, unable to help himself. "We're safe – he can't come into the fort. He's gone!"

AmyQuinn thought as much as well, but Valinor made no comment. He instead went to Samson and caught up the checkrein of the horse, pulling him along. Already there were soldiers rushing in their direction with bags packed. It appeared that they had taken the Sorev Ael at his word and wasted no time in fetching him what he needed.

"Water and provisions, sir," said the officer from before. His face was flushed and his sandy hair wind-blown; clearly he'd run at least one of the errands himself.

But Valinor did not respond. His face had darkened and turned inwards, and as they watched, he slowly turned away. The soldiers followed his gaze, looking toward the fort's northern wall.

A heavy sound like a struck gong assailed their ears, and something crashed into the fort's massive main gate. A ripple of force rocked the whole of the northern wall, and AmyQuinn watched in horror as half a dozen men fell from the battlements.

Valinor spat out a series of Words before anyone else could react, and the air solidified beneath the falling men, stopping their descent; but seconds later the same sensation came again, shaking the world around and beneath them as though it might tear apart, and though Valinor spoke more Words, cracking them out so fast that AmyQuinn could not hope to follow them, the wall continued to shake and tremble.

The rumbling built, growing louder and louder until it was almost unbearable. AmyQuinn threw her hands over her ears, unable to stand the sound. Men around her were dropping to their knees in much worse condition: many of them were bending over to be violently sick; others were clutching their chests and gasping for breath as though they'd lost the ability to breathe; and still more were holding eyes, noses, and ears that were bleeding freely.

The sound stopped as suddenly as it had come. They looked around, stunned, and many men regained their feet, whipping their mouths or pulling in deep breaths. The silence lengthened, and she thought maybe it was over.

A single, booming explosion rocked the dawning day, and the doors of the fort blew inward with such force that they were thrown through the walls of the houses nearest them.

Beyond stood a single figure, his dark cloak gone, his bone mask and armor revealed. He was gasping for breath as though he had run a mile, but his eyes were searching through the fort, searching for Wren and Samson and AmyQuinn.

Valinor threw himself astride his horse and shot a blazing look at them.

"Follow me – run!"

Chapter Twenty-four: Pursuit

They raced through the southern gate and into the forests south of Fort Turin with all the speed they could manage. The fort was mobilizing as they left, horns and drums beating from both within and without the walls, all movement flowing in the direction of the northern wall save for them.

AmyQuinn turned for one last look and saw the man in the bone mask walk through the broken gate and begin throwing handfuls of black fire at the approaching soldiers, while dozens of armored men in the silver-and-black rode in hot on his heels and began laying about them with swords and spears.

"Master, we have to help them!" she shouted as they raced away.

"The only help we can give is to lead him away!" Valinor shouted back, holding his staff high in one hand as they rode. A pulse of light emitted from it that was soundless and yet somehow heavy – it rippled through the air back toward the pass, and with every ripple there was a brief hitch in the sound of battle.

"What they want is us!"

"But _why?_ "

Valinor shook his head.

They took the main road for as long as they could, urging their mounts into a sprint for the first few hundred yards and then easing up into a trot, eating up distance but sparing their mounts. They hurried through the forest Valinor and AmyQuinn had so leisurely passed through only a week before, and then continued on as quickly as they could, not stopping for food or rest. The morning slid quickly into noon, and then just as quickly into night, and though they saw no sign of the thanomancer behind them, none of them seemed eager to stop.

"Come here," Valinor said quickly as they reined in by the light of the setting sun. She dismounted and hurried over; Wren came more reluctantly.

The Sorev Ael muttered something and laid a hand on her, then touched a single finger to her brow, right between her eyes. Energy rushed through her, and she felt suddenly as if she could run a hundred miles. She realized she'd been slouching, her exhaustion pulling down her shoulders, and she stood up straight and shook her braid back over her shoulder.

"It is false energy," he said as he did the same for Wren and then the horses. "It will get us through the night, but we will be doubly tired on the morrow. It is a risk, a terrible one to take, but if we put enough initial distance between us and him, there is a chance we will evade him entirely until we reach Var Athel."

They mounted again, and AmyQuinn felt a swell of excitement rush through her that was completely unexpected. It was the enchantment, she knew that, but still she could not help but lay herself out over her horse's mane with a grin, feeling the wind as it whipped through her hair.

The enchantment lasted until sunrise. They rode all through the night, dogged by fear and uncertainty, waiting every second to hear the sound of pursuit hot on their heels, though it never did. When dawn came, she felt as though every muscle in her body had been pulled out, sounded beaten, and then replaced haphazardly, so that no limb functioned quite correctly and no motion was smooth.

"Rest," Valinor said, motioning to a grassy clearing by the side of the road. They were on the official King's Road now, the one that went from Fort Turin all the way to Var Athel and Caelron, but there was no foot traffic at this hour. They were far from the other villages that lined the road, and it was too early for other travelers to be awake. "I'll wake you in a few hours."

AmyQuinn did not need further encouragement. She was asleep immediately after lying down, and her last thought before she nodded off was the distant realization that she'd been awake for almost three days straight.

The Sorev Ael woke them barely a handful of hours later and forced them into their saddles again, refusing to let either of them help him retie Samson, who still had not re-woken since the Fort. Before they left, he pulled AmyQuinn aside and spoke to her in a quiet voice.

"Do you feel it?"

Reeling from lack of sleep and general disorientation, it took her a second to realize he had asked a question to which she was expected to respond. His eyes had heavy shadows under them, and the lines around his mouth and across his forehead were more deeply etched than she had ever seen them. But his gaze still held that the same blazing power that it always did.

"What do you mean?" she asked, trying to pull the disparate parts of her mind together and collect her thoughts into a coherent whole. "Feel – the wind?"

"No" he said impatiently, shrugging against the mentioned breeze as though it were an impudent passer-by disrupting his thoughts. "Not the wind. The need – do you feel it?"

She opened her mouth to say she didn't know what he meant, but just then, as if the word had provoked the thought, she realized that she did feel it. It was the same sensation she'd felt when in the Citadel, the same need to go north, except now it was pulling her south. It was like a sound just on the edge of hearing, a vibration almost, that struck her and made her ring like a tuning fork.

She looked south, the way they were going, past the rolling hills carpeted in waves of green. Spring was coming now in earnest as the cold of winter and the heavy rains off the ocean eased. There was something south, something that pulled her...

"Something's happening in Caelron," she said, not knowing how she knew. She pulled her gaze away and looked back at Valinor, who nodded slowly. Her thoughts suddenly fell into place and her mind raced forward.

"The Black Ships," she said. "If the man in the bone mask is following us, then they're not trying to conceal themselves anymore. And you said that when the winter ended and spring came – "

The grim look on his face was confirmation enough for her.

"The need, though," she continued hurriedly, "the feeling – we wouldn't have it if there was nothing we could do, would we?"

He shook his head, and the fear that had existed around the edges of these thoughts broke free and encompassed her entirely. Any last vestiges of sleep were pushed away as she realized what might be happening at this very moment.

"I'm afraid we might already be too late," Valinor said. "But the feeling – you're right. It goes away when there's no hope left. So we run – we outdistance the thanomancer, this _Kull,_ and we make it Var Athel with the boy. There is a chance that somehow we will fulfill the need without even knowing that we're doing it."

"But if the Black Ships attack, how will it help to get to Var Athel?"

"I don't know," he said. "But it is the only thing I can think to do."

He turned away, hurried to grab up the reins of the Samson's horse, and then they were all speeding down the road once more.

Towns and villages flashed by as they continued south on the King's Road, and with every step they took, the sense of need continued to pound in AmyQuinn's head. Now that Valinor had alerted her to it, it all she could think of. She felt like a piece of metal being pulled by a magnet, and it gave her the strength she needed to stay awake through that day and to badger Wren into keeping up with them.

Still though, with all their speed, it was not enough.

"He's on our tail," Valinor said, looking north when they stopped that night.

They were weary beyond belief. AmyQuinn had not known it was possible to be so tired, and even Wren, who had known his fair share of deprivation, was having trouble keeping up with the iron-willed determination of the Sorev Ael. They had stopped by the side of the road again to rest – they would not sleep, AmyQuinn was sure, not tonight. At this speed, they would reach Var Athel soon, but it was still days away, and they needed to keep out of their pursuer's grasp.

She grabbed her staff and felt warmth flow through her, pushing back some of her fatigue. She leaned on it heavily as she tried to walk some of the stiffness out of her legs, but it was no use. She'd lost feeling in the lower half of her body hours ago, and pins and needles seemed to be the only thing she could feel even now that she had dismounted.

Samson stirred in his sleep and let out a pained moan.

Immediately, Valinor went to him, AmyQuinn hot on his heels; it was the first time in hours the Islander had stirred. Valinor checked the bandages and AmyQuinn saw that the blood had begun to seep again, oozing out of his skin.

"I thought I healed him," she said, worried. "Did I only make it worse?"

"The wound is gone, that much is clear, but Eryn-Ra blood is tricky," Valinor said, hovering his right hand over the side of the unconscious form, careful not to make contact. "You may have healed the wound but kept some of the blood inside him. The rest may be coming out now – perhaps that will be enough to save him. I do not know. Either way, I think you did the only thing you could do – you contained it."

"I did?"

"Yes. The Words you used could be construed to mean that."

"Construed?"

"Yes – you didn't heal him, but you helped him deal with it."

"Will it – will that help him?"

"It gives him a chance," Valinor said. He reached for the straps tying the young man to the horse and carefully but quickly undid them. He slid Samson off the horse and onto the ground. The horse was breathing heavily, and AmyQuinn realized with alarm that she could see ribs through the creature's skin.

"Master," she said, startled.

"I know," he said. "The spell affected them more than us – much more. The poor creatures may not last the journey, but we must keep moving. I would save them if I could, but we have no other choice."

He muttered something over Samson's form, but nothing changed except that he stopped stirring and seemed to fall more deeply asleep. The Sorev Ael quickly pulled him up and slid him back into place, handling the body with surprising ease despite the young man's size, and minutes later they were off.

They continued at their suicidal pace, but they never outdistanced their pursuit. They could not see them, but Valinor insisted they were close and pulling closer, and AmyQuinn felt it too. It was like coming down with a cold: at first it was a slight imbalance, as though she were a step behind in everything she did, but then her eyes began to water, and then came phantom chills and even waves of sickness that raced over her and almost had her retching over the side of her horse.

It hit Wren even harder than it hit her, and he was violently sick on more than one occasion. Between him and Samson, they were forced to slow even further. They stopped again at night to get another few hours of sleep, but this time when they woke even Valinor looked as though he was ready to simply keel over.

The trip became nothing more than a haze of black and white – nights and days that passed before their eyes as they counted down the miles until they would see the shining white walls of Var Athel. To gain extra speed, they ate in their saddles, and they rested only when they could not physically take another step. They left the King's Road as they drew closer to Aginor in an effort to lose themselves down back paths and dirt trails that sped them through the countryside, but still they were followed. Once they heard behind them the clash of arms, far off in the distance, and AmyQuinn knew that the force led by the man in the bone mask had been attacked or held up by a King's Guard garrison, and she hoped against hope that this would be what stopped them – that the man in the bone mask would lose too many men, or that he would encounter another Sorev Ael that might hold him back just long enough...

But such luck was not theirs. When they were no more than a day from Var Athel, AmyQuinn's horse fell out from underneath her.

She had just enough warning to throw herself free and so avoid being crushed, but when she came again to her feet, even her panicked heart beating in a sluggish way, she saw immediately that there was nothing she could do for the fallen beast: yellow foam was falling from its open mouth, flecked with red, and though its sides heaved to pull in breath, it was clear that there was no hope for it.

She felt a rush of despair and terrible sorrow for the horse itself as it stared at her with eyes that were already glassing over. What could she do?

"Onto the horse with the boy," Valinor said gruffly, trying and failing to mask the growing fatigue in his voice. "Ride with him."

AmyQuinn mounted behind Wren, who had regained enough consciousness now that he was able to at least steer the horse himself, and they set off again, leaving the dying creature behind. They left the last of the already patchy forest and began to ride through grain fields. She realized dimly that they were officially in Aginor, the province just across the bay from Caelron.

_We're close,_ she thought. _We're so close. Just a little farther. Just..._

But the horses could not make it.

Samson's was the next to drop, and Wren's refused to go another step after they already stopped. Valinor threw himself off his own mount and cut loose the straps holding their provisions to the saddles, not even willing to waste the time it would take to untie them.

"Boy!" he called to Wren, who shuffled forward. "Take these."

He threw a few of the bags to Wren, who dropped them and then bent hurriedly to pick up what he could, as AmyQuinn and Valinor went for Samson.

Together they threw their weight under the boy and lifted him to their shoulders. He woke but only just: his eyes tried and failed to pull back and allow him sight, and his legs moved, helping the smallest bit to keep him on his feet, but that was all. She wondered for a minute why Valinor did not cast a spell to lift his weight and cause him to follow them, or why he did not lessen the burden and make him easier to carry – but then she saw the slump in the Sorev Ael's shoulders, saw the deep shadows beneath his eyes and the set line of his jaw, and realized that even he was barely holding on.

They made their way up the side of the final hill, and crested it.

Maiden's Bay lay spread out before them, shining like a jewel in the falling light of day. Var Athel, white and towering, stood firm and strong on the northern short, and opposite it, on the head on the Peninsula, lay the city of Caelron, surrounded by the Black Ships of the Varanathi.

Chapter Twenty-five: Blood, Word, and Song

Despite his fatigue, Wren could not help but stare. The crest on which they stood was perfectly placed so that they could gaze out uninhibited over the bay to where Caelron was outlined in the light of the setting sun. The Shining City: his home.

The great Sea Wall built during the Charridan War still held, and it was this alone that had prevented the city from being overrun by the massive fleet of Black Ships that had sailed against it. They were seeking access to the city's soft underbelly, fighting for the mouth of the bay against the Great Ships of Caelron, and it looked as though the weight of the Black Ships alone would crush the defenders.

But the Great Ships were holding. Flashes of light came from the high tower of Var Athel, pulsing from the very top of the grand Citadel itself, and Wren heard what he thought was music rolling through the air with great power. Smaller lights echoed the pulse on each of the Great Ships, from the high mainmasts that bore the white sails with the red and green of Caelron, and the ships moved as one, attacking the larger enemy fleet, forcing them back.

An answering note sounded, one that made Wren feel as though he had been punched in the gut. It rolled out from deeper in the sea, and he knew without question that it had come from the heart of the Varanathi fleet. The ripples of it sliced through the Sorev Ael enchantments, dispelling the building power like a blade through unguarded flesh. The sound crescendoed, growing until it was nearly unbearable –

Another sound came – the sound of battle horns.

Tearing his eyes away, Wren looked farther south, past the Sea Wall and over the mountains that lined the Peninsula, to the very edge of visibility, and saw another fleet approaching. It was made of smaller ships, some of galley make, others long and sleek like frigates but only half the size, and from them flew a multitude of flags, waving in the furious wind.

"The Archipelago fights with us."

Wren heard the Sorev Ael speak but could not quite grasp the meaning of the words. He turned to look at the man with the red vest and ruby ring and saw that he was looking out fiercely over the scene, like a bird of prey ready to swoop.

A discordant, cacophonous bellow, dark and insistent, came from the Varanathi, but the battle horns of the Archipelago and the rising, chanting wind that whipped off of Var Athel met it and forced it back, crackling the air with energy. Wren clapped his hands to his ears, whimpering as he tried to force it all away from him. It was in him, drowning him like water, making his bones vibrate beneath his skin...

He heard the crunch of a boot on dirt, and turned.

Wren knew it was their pursuer, knew it was the man in the bone mask without even needing to look. But even when his eyes managed to focus on the Kull, even when he forced his exhausted mind to contemplate reality, he was confused. He was alone. There was no band of men in the silver-and-black, no fearsome raiders on lathered steeds, no shining forest of spear tips slowly lowered toward them as a charge was prepared.

There was only the single man in a bone mask, unhorsed, walking with the easy tread of one well rested.

He could not put the pieces together. The man the Sorev Ael had called a thanomancer and a Kull had assaulted Fort Turin with several dozen men. He had followed them day and night across half the land of Aeon, had fought through a King's Guard patrol... so how was he now alone?

Wren's weary mind caught on to something that seemed odd. He looked down at the man's hands. They were dripping long, thick ropes that were being blown about and twisted by the wind. The ropes seemed to move and churn on their own accord, thick and black as tar. As wind blew up the side of the hill, coming from the distant grain fields, the smell of sulfur assaulted Wren so strongly that it was almost like a physical blow. He gagged and staggered back under the force of it.

It's blood. He killed them. He killed them to give himself power.

The Sorev Ael stepped forward, pulling himself up to his full height despite the exhaustion visible in every line of his body.

"You are not welcome in these lands, Kull."

But the words sounded horribly small in Wren's ears. He could not take his eyes off of the blackened hands and the long, dripping ropes of blood.

The Kull stopped a dozen feet from Valinor at the top of the long trail that led up the hill. He began to laugh.

The sound of it tore at Wren's mind and he could not help but start to whimper again. It was the worst sound he had ever heard – iron nails pounded into rock, children crying as they were put to the sword – every and any horrible image he could imagine came into his head at the sound of the man's laughter, and he realized that there was no hope for them. With every step they'd taken, they had grown weaker while he grew stronger.

Finally, the laughter died away, and the man smirked beneath his bone mask. "Soon this land will belong to us," he said simply. His voice dripped deadly promise, and the sound of it was the hissing of a snake. "There is but one thing left undone. I know you have it. Give it to me."

Wren moved instinctively toward Samson at the same time the girl did. He caught her eye and realized they were both going to lay down their lives to protect him. How on earth had they come to that decision?

No – no, you don't have to stay. Run! He doesn't want you, he just wants the big oaf who couldn't even get himself out of prison on his own! You could run and never look back. You could save yourself and no one would ever find you again!

But his body would not listen to the craven incoherencies of his mind, and he did not waver from where he stood beside Samson's unconscious form. Maybe it was the fatigue of the journey and the certain knowledge that he could barely go another dozen steps before he keeled over; maybe it was some residual need to be free of the debt he owed the Islander for saving his life. Either way, he would not run. He was certain of it this time.

A version of these thoughts must have flashed through the girl's mind as well. She was watching Wren, and watching Samson too, and the look of her face was hard as iron. Her grip was firm on the black staff she held, and the other was tightly curled into a fist. Her eyes were bright and clear like the sky on a sunny day, and her mouth was set in a straight, unbreakable line.

Valinor had not moved when they did, and he did not move now. He spoke again to the Kull, and even in his exhaustion his voice carried power and promise, and Wren felt a small spark of hope rekindle in his blood.

"Your ships sink even as we speak," the Sorev Ael said. Wren looked back out at the harbor and saw it was true. The black-masted fleet was surrounded by the Great Ships and the smaller, sleeker Archipelagan vessels. Where before the fight had seemed inevitably lost, now it seemed that the people of Aeon stood an even chance. The Black Ships were surrounded, caught in a vice grip, and the power of the Varanathi sorcerers was being slowly beaten back by the constant waves of light flowing from the tower of the Citadel.

"Var Athel and Caelron will stand even if you kill us all and take the boy," Valinor continued, his voice now dripping venom and derision in equal measures. A sneer crossed his face as he watched the Kull.

The thanomancer paused.

"The boy?" he asked, confused.

The question was jarring in tone as much as it was in fact. Even Valinor was thrown: he shifted his stance, almost as if to look back over his shoulder at Samson, but he stopped himself.

But it was not the Sorev Ael that Wren was focused on – it was the Kull across from him. True surprise had crossed the face beneath the bone mask, and the green eyes in their black pits flew from Valinor to the unconscious Islander behind him. As soon as his eyes touched Samson, the look of confusion turned to one of understanding, and then opened up like a blossoming flower to reveal mirth.

The Kull threw back his head and laughed again, the pure power of his voice sending spikes of pain into Wren's skull. He cut off abruptly this time, taking a casual step toward Valinor. He raised his hand, holding what Wren finally realized was a wand, made of thick, linked bone.

"I admire you, playing games moments from your death. But you know I am not after the boy, and your jest is over."

It was Wren's turn to look back at Samson, wondering what this could possibly mean. He glanced at the girl and saw she was watching the approaching Kull with a furrowed brow that spoke of intense concentration.

"You would have me believe that you followed us all this way for nothing?"

The strain had begun to show in Valinor's voice; Wren could hear it. There was an undercurrent of something else there as well – something that sounded like the beginnings of uncertainty – but it was coupled with the hard, flat ring of determination.

"Give it to me!" the man roared, clearly under the impression Valinor was lying. "Your act does not deceive me. You sent these boys into the stronghold of the Kalac Kull, my master, to complete it, to activate it again for new purpose. How you found it, how you found the way to activate it, I don't know, but I felt its power the second it was used. Did you think you could bring it beneath my nose and I wouldn't know? Wouldn't know, too, why these seeming _boys_ went deep underground to the creature my master took such pains to capture instead of making for the surface, for their escape?"

Wren was utterly bewildered by this speech, and so, it seemed, was Valinor.

He thinks we went for the Eryn-Ra on purpose. He thinks we infiltrated the island just so we could... could what? What does he think we did?

"Give it to me," the Kull continued, holding out his hand as he pointed the bone wand threateningly at his exhausted quarry. "Give it to me now, and I might even show you mercy."

A long beat of time passed where they all just dumbly stared at him – too long of a beat. Valinor was the first to realize the void needed to be filled; he quickly opened his mouth to speak, but Wren knew the damage had been done.

"What we have is ours," Valinor said, clearly stalling, "and what is not ours is the property of Var Athel and in our guardianship and keeping – "

The Kull seemed to finally put together the pieces and surged forward with a sudden movement. The hellish green eyes flew from the Sorev Ael to the others, and then the man took another lunging step forward, pointing the bone wand so forcefully at Valinor that Wren and AmyQuinn gasped and drew back.

"You do not know," he said, staring at Valinor open-mouthed. "You _fool,_ you have no idea what you carry, do you?"

And then, to Wren's horror, the scorching gaze turned to him, and burned him where he stood. His heart began to beat against his chest so hard that it was a wonder the motion was not visible. His breath came hot and fast, and he felt some small remnant of energy surge through his body, readying his feet to run.

" _That_ one has it," the masked man said, in a voice that forced painful shivers through Wren's body. How could a sound be so _wrong?_ "That one has what was stolen."

"All three are under my protection," Valinor said immediately, shifting himself so as to better interpose himself between the mad sorcerer and them. Wren racked his brain:

What do I have? What do I –?

As if in a dream, his right hand clutched his left forearm, and he felt the hard circle of the stolen ring through the fabric of his shirt. How had he forgotten about it? How had it survived the journey?

The Kull saw the movement, and his eyes narrowed. He smiled, a gleeful leer of triumph that chilled Wren through and through, and then he charged.

Wren threw himself back, but the man never made it to him. There was a flash of light and then a bang so loud it made Wren's ears pop, and he found himself thrown to the ground. He rolled to his feet as quickly as he could, the world spinning around him, and looked up just in time to see Valinor grasp his staff in two hands and swing it at the temporarily stunned Kull. There was a flash of light, the hot red of new fire, and the masked man was thrown to the ground as the staff crashed into his side. Wren turned away without waiting to see what might happen next.

His resolve had broken; he was running.

He caught sight of the grains fields at the bottom of the rise, blowing fiercely in the wind, and knew how easy it would be to hide in them. He saw the way down – a rocky trail off to the side that led to the base of the hill. He moved for it, his feet finding the way without conscious direction –

The girl anticipated his move and thrust out a leg to trip him. Exhausted as he was, he couldn't react in time; his shin connected with her boot, and suddenly he was airborne. He hit the ground, tried and failed to roll, and in the end found himself sprawled out in a heap beside the unconscious form of Samson. He pushed himself up, snarling like a cornered animal, but the girl spoke before he could do or say a thing:

"You idiot, we have to stick together!" Her eyes were blazing with anger, though there was fear behind them that echoed Wren's. "If we separate, he'll pick us off one by one. Our only chance is together!"

There was another bang, but this time it was muffled, and the sound of it hit Wren's chest and made him shudder. He was filled with the sudden overpowering urge to weep as minor chords rang in his head in a descending scale that seemed to go on and on forever, down down down so deep they must go right through to the heart of the world.

Hands were on his shoulders, shaking him, and he came back to reality.

"We need to wake him up!" the girl was shouting in his ear, motioning to Samson. "He can use the sword again and help us!"

Slowly, Wren's mind began to move faster, the gears clicking into place. The sword, sheathed in its simple leather scabbard, had been slung beside Samson on the horse to which he had been tied. When the beast had fallen, Valinor had thrown the sword to Wren with the rest of the baggage, probably without thinking, and he had brought it here. The rest of how it had arrived there, how it had made it all the way from the island, how it had made it through Fort Turin, was a mystery to Wren. It seemed as though his memory was a patchwork quilt eaten by moths, and there were holes in it big enough to fit a wagon train. But the girl was right: the sword had saved them in the Wilds.

He lunged for it.

"No – wait, don't!"

He grabbed the scabbard, clasped the handle, and pulled.

Pain surged up his arm and into his neck with such force that he felt as though he'd been struck by lightning. He cried out in agony and released his grip; the sword clattered to the ground. Smoke curled up from the hilt, and he looked down to see that the shining steel, halfway free of the scabbard, had turned a deep midnight black, as if it had been burned anew.

"It's etched with the blood," the girl said, "you can't touch it!"

There was a roar of pain from behind them, and they both spun to see Valinor pull back from a successful attack. He retreated several steps and leaned heavily on his staff, gasping and wheezing as he regarded a charred heap that had once been the body of the Kull.

None of them celebrated, and the fears that held back their jubilation were confirmed seconds later:

The burned, bloody heap twitched.

Wren could only gape in horror as the holes in the black-robed chest filled in with a deep red light the color of blood. The limbs twitched again, and then moved with purpose. The body righted itself, and the hands closed around the bone wand that had fallen aside – closed too on the bone mask that had been thrown off.

The Kull stood, and his face, bare and unmasked, was terrible.

It was scarred and twisted so that it bore barely any similarity to its human origin. There was no nose, only a hole left where one should be; no ears framed the head and no eyelids rested atop the searing green eyes. The lips were intact, but thin, and the cheeks were so sunken that they looked like thin sheets of paper drawn across a metal frame.

He replaced the bone mask and smiled at Valinor, who looked so weary he could barely stand.

The resurrected Kull shouted something atonal that fit into holes in Wren's mind, and suddenly all was agony. He fell to the ground, screaming, trying to get away from the terrible music as it twisted deeper into him like a knife.

Valinor was blasted from the spot on which he stood and thrown down the side of the hill to land on a cross-section of trail fifteen feet below. The Sorev Ael managed to hold onto his staff and even looked as though he were about to rise, but then the Kull turned to him again and shouted another curse; there was a flash of deep violet, a huge wave of sickness that passed over them all, and then the Mage crumpled to the rocky ground and did not move.

AmyQuinn turned to Wren.

"Wake up Samson," she said. "I'll buy you time."

Wren, only just emerging from the haze of agony that had consumed him seconds before, saw that her face was white with fear, and her lips were trembling. Her hands though, clutching tightly the black wood of her intricately woven staff, were steady, and when he nodded she stood and turned toward the Kull.

Wren dove for Samson.

"Wake up, you bloody idiot!" he shouted in the Islander's ear. "WAKE UP!"

He shook him then, so hard that Samson's head twisted painfully and smacked against the ground, but still he would not wake. As if from far away, almost in another life, Wren heard the girl shout something that sounded like wind and flame, and then heard the Kull shout something back.

He continued to shake Samson's unconscious form. He slapped him, punched him in the gut, and shouted curses in his face, but all with no effect. Almost sobbing in fear and frustration, Wren's eyes fell sideways to the half-sheathed sword, the black metal staring at him mockingly.

Black.

Silence ripped through his mind as everything disappeared and that single thought drowned out the world. He turned and saw the girl's staff: black, even though the Sorev Ael had confirmed it was made of elder wood, which at best was dark gray-brown. So slowly it was as if he were dreaming it, he pulled back the left sleeve of his shirt, baring the ring on its long, rawhide cord.

The Kull, as if aware of what he'd done, shot a fiery look past the girl, straight at Wren, and an accompanying flare of pain raced up his arm and into his head, then back down to the skin beneath the ring.

He grasped at his arm and pulled the wrappings off, the fire of the ring burning into his skin with such intensity that it drowned out all thought. He unwrapped the rawhide band he had threaded through the open mouth of the ring and pulled it from his wrist – the ring burned through the rawhide with a sizzle and dropped to the ground with a heavy thud that was out of all proportion to its size.

Wren gaped at it. It was a different ring than the one he had come across on the road to Var Athel what seemed so long ago: the beautiful snowy white diamond that capped the golden band was now black, with glints of red and blue and green all swirled deep in the center like an eye. The band itself was no longer simple gold with dark, worn markings, but instead showed fiery runes along its sides in long, angular script, and as he looked at them, music filled his mind, beautiful music such as he had never heard. It felt like hearing thoughts, like pure injections of some deeper sense than sound. Melodies with soaring harmony lines and deep throbbing bass and percussion – cracking battle horns and sweet lilting strings.

He slipped the ring over the middle finger of his left hand.

The music stopped; there came a flash of light and a dull percussive _bmph_ from behind him; he turned.

The slight girl with the staff stood silhouetted against the distant sight of Var Athel and Caelron, and the Kull across from her was backed by the waving amber fields of Aginor. There were people moving there now, far off in the distance, the size of insects – rushing in from the fields, taking shelter, eyeing the battle that could be seen over the edge of the bay.

The scene shifted: AmyQuinn fell to her knees.

White light and sourceless noise enveloped Wren's mind.

The Kull was barely a dozen paces away now – he was moving past the girl, who still had her grip on her staff and who was trying desperately to pull herself to her fee. His hand was extended toward Wren.

The music filled him again – filled him to the brim, so much and so beautiful that he thought he would burst with it. He held up the hand with the ring and spoke a thought he had heard the girl say, a word that sounded like the high treble of his lost lute. It came rolling off his tongue, past his lips, ripping from his throat in a spray of power:

" _Crainlith!"_

The Kull was barely a foot away, hand outstretched and triumph in his eyes, when flame exploded into life, picked him up, and threw him back across the hilltop. Wren suffered a similar fate: uncontained, the blast picked him up and threw him back the other way with equal force. He landed, rolled, smacked his head against a half-buried rock, cracked his ribs against a loose tree stump, and finally came to a stop.

Groaning, he tried to rise and only just managed it. As soon as he was vertical, pain ripped through his right side and he could not help but clap a hand over his ribs. He cried out in pain and staggered forward, his vision going red around the edges. He looked for the form of the Kull, trying to find him through the haze...

The thanomancer was also rising. Wren watched the man push back to his feet, and though at first he seemed to shake, his motions steadied, and he began again to advance.

Wren tried to hold the ring hand forward again, but with a rush of shock he realized the music had disappeared. The word he'd said was gone as if it had never been. A ripple of horror raced through him, and after it came more pain.

He cried out again and staggered forward several more steps, trying to reach the girl, to help her rise, but this time he tripped over a rock outcropping. He staggered even farther, leaning dangerously, and in the end landed splayed out on the barren mountaintop, several feet away from Samson.

He saw motion and knew the Kull was coming for him. Not knowing what else to do, he rose up on hands and knees and went for the Islander. Groaning in pain, he shambled forward, racing against the approaching tread of the Kull, and reached out a hand to grab for Samson's exposed side. The man in the bone mask was closing in – he was there –

Wren's fingers touched the blackened, burned scar that lined the Islander's side, and a rush of energy left him like a heavy breath. The black stone of the ring flared, shooting out brilliant rays of light.

Samson's eyes flew open.

They were completely black, as if they had been coated in a layer of tar; but even as Wren watched, the ring flared again, and the eyes cleared, until only the right side pupil was that deep, terrible color. The metal of the ring was so hot that he began to worry that it might burn all the way through his finger.

Hands grabbed the back of his ragged shirt and hauled him to his feet; he cried out in surprise, and the last sight he caught of Samson was of his head and chest rising as breath and consciousness returned to him.

"Give it to me!"

The bone mask dominated his vision. The Kull was sneering at him as he reached for Wren's hand. Wren struggled against him, writhing in his grip, but the man's wrists were like iron and would not let him go. He grasped desperately for the Sorev Ael spell he'd said only seconds before, but it eluded him. There was too much going on – he couldn't hear the music, couldn't even hear his own thoughts –

"Drop him."

The two words rolled out from behind the Kull and made the man freeze. Wren froze as well, barely able to believe what he was hearing.

The Kull turned and saw Samson standing behind him, the blade of his sword just below the thanomancer's neck, a few short inches and pounds of pressure away from a deathblow.

The golden light that had encompassed Samson in the Wilds was gone, but there was still a sense of power about him, almost of strength untapped, and the Kull must have sensed it too.

"I want nothing with you," he spat. "Leave. Take the girl if you want. Take this boy too – I need him not. All I require is the ring."

"You are taking nothing," Samson said with cold, controlled anger. His bronze skin had a slight pallor to it, as if he had just emerged from a terrible sickness, but he held the heavy sword in both hands, ready to drive it home, and the point never wavered. "Release him."

"You do not know who I am, boy."

"I do not care who you are, devil _._ "

The moment grew thin and stretched with tension, and Wren realized with a terrible sinking feeling that neither of them would give an inch.

"No!" he said desperately. "Wait – wait – don't – !"

The Kull dropped Wren and thrust away Samson's sword with the thick bone wand, sending the Islander stumbling back. He righted himself just in time and spun for the Kull again, swinging wildly for his head.

Wren scrambled away, circling to the right, and saw AmyQuinn levering herself to her feet just beyond the two fighters. As soon as he saw her, the music started up again, ringing in his head. He could hear her speaking the sounds that were more than words, could hear her chanting as she'd done in the forest.

Samson was thrown back by a blast of air that issued from the bone wand. AmyQuinn threw up her staff in response, and the black elder wood shot out power of its own, spinning the Kull around.

Samson roared and rushed in again; the Kull was forced to turn to confront the sword. There was a faint golden glow to it now, much less than it had been in the forest north of the Barrier, but still there, and with the light seemed to come an infusion of strength. Samson pushed harder, grunting with the effort.

Wren felt the music swell in him, and he began to sing.

He did not speak in words like the girl – he could not, he did not truly know them – but the sounds felt right, and the ring seemed to guide him. AmyQuinn heard and stepped forward, raising her right fist toward the embattled thanomancer.

" _Crainlith!_ "

The Word combined with Wren's music and slammed into the Kull, throwing him off balance; Samson's blade swung through the air only inches from his neck, and the Kull recoiled and tried to turn away, but AmyQuinn spat out another Word and managed to bind him in place. He shuddered violently, and the bone mask slipped, once more revealing the disfigured wreckage of his face.

"All of us together!" cried Samson. Wren's heart was beating furiously in his chest; AmyQuinn's grip on her staff was white-knuckled and shaking.

"NOW!"

As one, all three strode forward and struck. AmyQuinn hit with the base of her staff, as if it were a spear; Wren struck out with the hand that bore the ring; and Samson brought the curved sword down in a heavy arc that bit through the man's collarbone and lodged in his chest.

A cry of pain shot up into the sky as the Kull threw back his head, and then everything ended: The bone wand cracked and crumbled into pieces; the mangled, disfigured body collapsed; and the bone mask fell and shattered against the rocky ground.

Silence descended, sharp and sudden.

The three of them stood in a vague triangle around the body, shocked and unable to speak. Slowly, they looked at each other: all torn and bloodied, all clutching at various wounds, all wide-eyed and stunned.

Sound came back to them next, and they turned as one, ready to fight again.

What they saw was Valinor at the edge of the hilltop trail. His vest was torn, and his face was a mass of bruises, but he was alive and moving.

Wren was the first to break the tableaux: he fell to his knees, clutching at his chest, and then fell the rest of the way to the ground, unable to hold himself up. Samson was next: he staggered as if under a large weight, but just managed to maintain his feet and shuffle toward the smaller boy. Then AmyQuinn began to cough violently and was forced to lean on her staff. Valinor hurried forward, already murmuring something that eased pain and spoke of dreamless sleep.

Wren remembered nothing else.

Epilogue

Valinor stood at the window, watching.

His hands were behind his back, and he was standing easily now without the aid of his staff, which he had stowed as a wand inside his vest. He had always healed well, and this time had been no exception.

For a long time, he stood in silence, just watching. The young man was still moving slowly, but that was to be expected. The boy was staring around, ferrety, as if waiting for someone to show up and clap him in irons. The girl was sitting between them both, looking excited but trying not to show it.

He felt movement behind him as someone entered the stone passageway that ran above the gardens. The newcomer did not speak, so Valinor turned to see.

Holder Flynn, Thirteenth Speaker for the Circle of Var Athel, Guardian of the Gates of Aeon, and Master Sage of the Minor Arcana, was watching him with a friendly smile. "Not ready to take an apprentice?" he said softly, his sapphire eyes glowing in the low light. "Perhaps we should have listened to you."

Valinor scoffed and turned back to the window. The Sage came up beside him and they stood in silence, watching. It was an amiable silence, the kind that exists between two old friends; in that moment, they were not Mage and Speaker, but the two young men who had met decades before and taken a liking to each other.

"Where will you take them?" Holder Flynn asked.

"For now, they will stay here."

"Here? She has a staff and the boy needs training – you should take him to someone who can help him and take the girl yourself."

"Both boys need training," Valinor corrected, glancing at Holder, who hid a smile and nodded in approval. "Just because his staff is made of metal, does not mean I cannot see it for what it is."

"Then why not send him to the Viretorum?" Holder asked, his eyes twinkling. "Surely that is the place for a boy with a sword."

"Because I would not part them; they must stay together."

There was a pause and then a heavy sigh; suddenly the grin was gone from the Speaker's voice, and Holder Flynn's gaze was solemn. "Yes, they are. In such a way as has never happened before."

Valinor nodded slowly, watching the bigger boy as he stood and picked up a stick. He twirled it easily in his hands and then pretended it was a sword, holding it out toward the others, inviting them to play along. The girl arched an eyebrow and settled herself more comfortably, as if to say such foolishness was beneath her, but the younger boy stood and found another, shorter stick. The two squared off; the smaller whistled a sudden martial tune that sounded like drumbeats and battle horns, and the bigger struck a pose. The girl laughed before she remembered her decision to be indifferent.

"We must be careful not to condemn what we do not understand," Valinor said quietly. Below, the boys crossed sticks and battle was joined, and the girl, despite herself, watched with interest, the book in her lap temporarily forgotten, her hands twitching as she followed the moves. The larger boy was only fighting at half strength, though the smaller was putting up a surprisingly decent fight.

"They cannot go through the traditional training," he continued. "The Islander has strength in fits and bursts that he cannot yet control, but he is as much a Sorev Ael in his own right as the girl is. And the other... we have not seen one of his kind in a long, long time."

"I was wondering which of us would bring it up," said Holder Flynn. "It has been many years since a... what shall we say? A binder? An amplifier? A long time since such a one has stepped through our doors. And one with gifts strong enough to wield the Ring of Eman Vath."

"It's been many years since one was needed," Valinor continued as the mock sword-fight broke off and the girl and the shorter boy started arguing with each other about something that left them both exasperated. "He holds them together. I don't know how."

"Perhaps it is the Ring," Holder said softly. "It has chosen him as surely as that elder staff chose the girl. That's two things that have not been seen in over a century – and if you include the Golish boy, a third thing that has never been seen at all."

Valinor knew, as he had known all along, that this would be the sticking point. The girl and the smaller boy both had talent, true, and a staff and a ring through which to channel it. Yes, they had been exposed to the blood of an Eryn-Ra and bound by it to the bigger boy, but they were still Sorev Ael in the traditional sense. They fit into the world of the Citadel, strange and different though they were.

The sword did not, and neither did the boy who wielded it.

"So tell me," Holder Flynn continued, leaning against the short railing. "If you do not plan for the boy to go train with the knights – or eve the _talin_ – then what is it you plan? He cannot stay as he is, and I think you know it."

Valinor nodded, and spoke slowly.

"There is one that we can go to."

Holder paused, apparently unsure, but then his face cleared and he understood. He snorted and shifted his grip on his staff, sliding his hands easily over the well-polished mahogany.

"Leora al'Nikhail. You're a braver man than I thought. Will she consent to help?"

"The only thing to do is ask."

"I suppose if she sees the boy, that might force her hand."

"You know as well as I that she never does anything because she has to," Valinor sighed.

Holder grunted in agreement.

"I cannot help you find her; she has not returned to the Citadel since her rather... exciting visit some years ago. It took all my power at the time to convince the others to let her go. She would not welcome me or anyone else from Var Athel if they were to come in an official capacity. And if you somehow manage to convince her, then you know that she will insist on the old training, and there will be a price. There always is with her."

"I know," Valinor said quietly. "But thank you for reminding me."

"Very well. You will be gone from Var Athel for some time then."

"I will return once a year as is required."

"So it will definitely be you then?"

Valinor grimaced but nodded. Holder chuckled under his breath.

"From no apprentices to three," he said softly. "Quite a change for the mighty Mage of the Eryn-Ra."

"It has to be me – there's no one else."

"There is no one saying that but you," Holder said with an amused look. "You could pass them off to another if you truly wished. By the Creator, you nearly died! If you made an appeal to the Circle, particularly in light of what you've told us of the Varanathi and these Kull, I'm sure they would –"

"The Varanathi are in retreat," Valinor cut in, "and anything else I made up would be a lie, as you well know. They have the blood of an Eryn-Ra in them, Holder. It is dormant now, but it will not remain so. They are my responsibility."

Silence fell between them, allowing the sounds from below to float up to where they stood. The boys were talking about something, and the girl was interrupting with questions every so often. She had retained her seat on the low stone bench; both boys had sprawled out on the ground before her. They looked like some painter's idea of an idyllic summer retreat: three young people in the prime of life, surrounded by greenery and blooming flowers that spilled over arches and along walkways all around them.

"It's just as well," Holder said mischievously. "You always were the only one who could stand up to her. If anyone else took them, they'd never be heard from again."

Valinor barked out a laugh. "If a tree can be said to stand up to a storm by simply surviving, then yes, you could say I stand up to her."

Holder laughed, a full-throated, pleasant sound. As it tapered off, he took a deep breath and sighed it out as he examined the passage in which they stood, the simple stone and whitewashed walls. Valinor turned to watch him carefully.

"Will you give me your consent to do this?" he asked the older man carefully.

Holder Flynn turned his head just enough to catch Valinor's eye, and then arched an eyebrow at him that quite clearly mocked both his friend and the question. Valinor could not help but smile.

"I'm a Speaker of the Circle and a Master Sage," he said softly, "and part of my talent lies in knowing when my opinion means nothing at all."

Valinor snorted and turned back. Watching them, it was clear that despite what they had seen and done they really were still children: the girl was just past the first blush of womanhood, all awkward elbows and half-formed curves; the taller boy was little better, though his height was deceiving and his long work as a fisherman had given him grace and strength; the smaller boy just looked like a duck in the middle of a desert whenever he did anything but sing.

"They are three, and they are bound together. If I go with them alone then we are four, and we will come to misfortune. We need her – we need our fifth. Three to guide and two to teach."

"The old way," said Holder Flynn. "I am not gifted with Sight, but I do know that what we have gone through is but the beginning of more trouble to come. We have had a hundred years of peace, but we all knew it couldn't last. Charridan stirs across the sea, and the Eryn-Ra have come down out of the Northern Wilds. Calinae and Laniae have begun to stir as well – new factions have risen there and they once again eye each other as they did before. This will come to a head all at once, I fear."

"The pieces are in motion," Valinor agreed, "but we are strong. We have Malineri on the throne and Rewlyn bridging the gap between Archipelago and mainland. The Forts hold and Var Athel and Caelron have never been closer."

Holder Flynn nodded, but did not meet Valinor's gaze.

"Still... I have never felt this uneasy," he said.

Together they watched the three below as night began to fall.

About the Author

Hal Emerson lives in the San Francisco Bay Area, where he works as an author. He graduated from UCLA with a BA in Musical Theatre, and he has an undying obsession with raspberries and dark chocolate.

A Preview of The Prince of Ravens, available on all e-readers

Chapter Three: The Giant and the Girl

The Prince wasn't sure what happened next. All he could remember were brief flashes of images, scents, and sounds. He'd wake to see glimmers of light, and then blink and find himself in a shadowy world of darkness. Flames from torches once, and then a sickening blow to the head that caused the world to heave and spin. He smelled horse sweat and the stink of unwashed bodies. Felt something on his wrists, keeping his hands from moving. A pounding in his head, a sickly sweet scent in the air and salty, metallic stickiness on his lips.

He opened his eyes and found himself in a strange new world. It was a forest clearing, of that he was sure, though he'd only seen pictures such as this in books and dreams. He was laying on ... grass. He couldn't see the green color of it _-_ _green, yes, grass is green, I've heard so_ \- because it was dark, but he could feel it, could feel the dirt at its base, could smell it - what a smell! He heard water flowing past him somewhere to his right and saw a deep ravine cut roughly into the ground, at the bottom of which must be flowing water ... a river. He tried to turn his head, to see more of what was around him, more of this impossible world, but a bony hand reached down and forced him to look the other way, not letting him move. Fear seized the Prince, true terror, for perhaps the first time in his life.

The hand was rough, with nails that were filed to look like claws that dug painfully into the side of his head. The other hand reached down and roughly pulled at the front of his robes. There was a prick of something being stuck rudely into his skin, and the Prince let out a gasp of pain as fire flooded his veins. It cleared his mind momentarily, and he looked up.

The clawed hand was gone, and a group of men were moving away, disappearing into the distance on horses. There was one man left, watching the Prince with amusement. The Prince, not knowing what to do, started to crawl toward the man, pulling himself forward with jerky, half-formed motions. He tried to speak, but a choking, gasping sound was the only thing that managed to escape his throat.

The man laughed. He stood up, came toward the Prince, drew back a heavy booted foot, and smashed it into his chest.

The Prince cried out with pain as his ribs broke. The boot pulled back once more, swung forward, and again the Prince felt red-hot daggers of pain pierce his body, shooting up and down his limbs in time with the poison quickly killing him.

Killing him. The Prince was going to die.

Darkness closed in on him, and the Prince's vision narrowed. The boot swung back once more, the man laughing still. Instinctively, the Prince grabbed the leg as it swung into him, and clung to it.

The Prince wasn't sure how he hung on, but he did. And slowly his shoulders and chest began to itch, as if with a heat rash. The fire searing his veins seemed to pause, questioningly. There was a cry of pain from the man, and the Prince pulled on the leg; the man overbalanced, and fell to the ground. The Prince, with a jerking, unseeing grope, found the man's throat, and began to squeeze. The fire in his limbs began to recede, flowing quickly back to the point where it had entered his body as the breath and life began to drain out of the man beneath him. But the Prince wasn't strong enough, and with a harsh kick that smashed into the Prince's already broken ribs, the man succeeded in dislodging him, and the fire of the poison returned with a vengeance. The man left, fear spurring him onward in a shambling half-run, but before he'd gone more than a dozen paces, he tripped and fell into the partial-hidden ravine. He screamed, but the cry was cut off by a harsh _crack!_ and then all was silent. The Prince lay there, gasping for breath, his chest heaving but unable to fill his lungs properly, his shoulders and back burning as he reached desperately through the Raven Talisman in the hopes it would save him. He tried to rise, but the effort sapped any strength he had left and he fell back to the ground, colors swirling senselessly about him before fading to the gray-black shadows of unconsciousness.

* * *

The Prince woke to a dull ache in his head and too bright of a light shining on his closed eyelids. He rolled over to hide his face – and rolled right off the bed onto a rough wooden floor with a painful thump.

His eyes sprang open, and he immediately regretted it. Breath hissed into his lungs, cold and crisp, as a lancing stab of pain shot from his eyes to the back of his head, down the length of his spine and all the way to the soles of his feet, before returning to pound like a mad carpenter on his closed eyelids. The sensation made him shudder and gasp like a drunk doused in a bucket of ice water.

"Good morning!"

The voice that called to him was very deep, and as it entered through his ear it paused to rattle around the inside of his head a bit, before abruptly leaving through his clenched teeth. It was a thoroughly unpleasant sensation.

"I would offer you breakfast," the voice went on to say, the Prince moaning as the deep rumbling quality of it continued to twist into his skull like a rusty screw, "but dillixi venom does not react well to food. And when I say does not react well, I mean you'd start vomiting all over me and then die. Highly unpleasant for me at least, whatever you may think."

The Prince finally managed to get his eyes open, and he tried madly to find the source of the voice. For that matter, he also tried to find his own voice, which seemed to have gotten stuck somewhere around his stomach and wouldn't come out of his mouth no matter how hard he tried to force it.

The first thing he noticed was the floor, because his nose was pressed up against it: it was made of rough-hewn planks of wood, fitted poorly together and warped by the elements into curving, twisted lines. He managed to raise his head slightly, despite a nasty throbbing ache in the back of his neck, and saw that the wall, barely a foot in front of him, was in the same state; indeed, it was so warped that he could see brief flashes of colors from outside, though his eyes wouldn't focus enough to allow him to discern definite shapes.

"Here," said the voice. An enormous hand descended on the Prince and yanked him into the air. His stomach twisted violently and he was almost sick as the hand deposited him unceremoniously into a rickety wooden chair. The world finally stopped spinning, and the Prince gaped at what he saw in front of him.

The man whose voice he had heard was no man but a giant – that was the only way to describe him. Swallowing noisily, the Prince tilted his head back to look up into the man's face, which was broad and rough with a square, well-kept black beard that was so thick it almost looked like an extension of his chin. The man was so tall that his head nearly scraped the ceiling of the small wooden shack; the Prince was no stranger to giants - he'd been surrounded by Guardians, the elite fighting force of the Empire, since his infancy, all of whom were no less than seven feet tall – but this man would have towered over even them. His clothes were simple, made of brown, gray, and green cotton, though they seemed to fit him oddly, and he looked strangely bulky in places. The long sleeves and pants were worn at the cuffs, and the man's boots – enormous leather affairs that looked as if they could have been made of the entire side of a cow – were old and well broken in.

The Prince, who had never seen such a sight in his life, couldn't make any sense of it, and for a brief moment began to question his sanity. But the strangest thing wasn't finding a towering hulk of a wild man holding him captive in a shack. The strangest thing was that this towering hulk of a wild man who was holding him captive in a shack was bustling around a makeshift kitchen brewing tea.

At that same moment, the Prince also realized that his heavy palace robes had been removed, and he was now dressed in his simple linen under-tunic and a pair of heavy brown pants he'd never seen before.

"Who are you?" the Prince managed to croak out, finally finding his voice. "And where are my clothes?"

The behemoth of a man ignored him, and instead reached over and placed a small tin cup full of some steaming liquid in front of him.

"Drink it," he growled, his voice deep and implacable as a rushing avalanche. The implication seemed to be that if the Prince did not drink, drinking would be thrust upon him. So, the Prince reached for the cup and downed the liquid contents in a single, long draught, his head still fuzzed and he unable to decide whether this was all a dream. His memories were only splintered impressions of sights and sounds that helped him not at all in deciphering where he was or how he'd come to be there.

As the liquid hit his throat, it began to burn, causing him to gasp and choke. The feeling of pins and needles being pushed into his skin burst into life at the tips of his fingers and toes before the sharp, stabbing sensation behind his eyes gave one final parting throb and all the pains disappeared together. The man chuckled as the Prince continued to cough and sputter, and he reached over with an arm as thick around as the Prince's entire torso and thumped him on the back, nearly knocking him off the chair and onto the ground.

"Good, right? Dillixi venom - sorry you had to go through a bout with that nastiness. But hey, you get to drink spirits to clear it out of you. Strange, don't you think? That a venom can be purged by alcohol mixed with mint and ginger tea..."

The Prince recoiled, knocking over the chair as he retreated toward the bed where he had awoken.

"How - how _dare_ you touch me?" the Prince choked out.

The big man rolled his eyes and turned back to the makeshift stove, where sat roasting what looked like the entire leg of some unfortunate animal. The Prince took the opportunity to look around the shack while the man's back was turned.

It was small, barely large enough to fit the wooden table, the metal stove, and the large bed. It had only a single door, which was hanging precariously from a single hinge beyond the giant man. The coal and clockwork pieces that would normally power the stove were missing, and it was instead powered by what looked like the most rudimentary of energy sources: a wood fire. There was a large pack in the corner that had a roll of some kind of fabric and two large bulging things that looked to be made of animal skin attached to it.

But what drew the Prince's eye was the enormous sheathed sword propped carelessly against the stove. It was a sword the size of which even a Guardian of the Fortress would have had trouble wielding, the biggest greatsword the Prince had ever seen.

The sight of the blade seemed to flip a switch in the Prince's head, and suddenly his memories caught up with him. In a flash he remembered his kidnapping in the Fortress, and the attempt on his life.

"It was you! You kidnapped me!" he shouted at the giant. His hands balled into fists as he dropped into a defensive stance.

The big man didn't even look up as he responded, but kept right on cooking, turning the leg to brown the other side as he packed away the metal canister he'd used to brew the tea.

"Not originally," he rumbled, vibrating the very walls with his voice, "but yes. Now I have. Because judging by those marks on your and shoulders and back," he motioned without looking to the Talisman markings visible beneath the Prince's loose tunic, "you've been marked as a potential Bloodmage, maybe even begun the training. And yet here you are, far from Lucien. That's of interest to me."

The giant took a poker and broke up the fire before turning to look the Prince in the face – just as the single wooden door was flung open so quickly it almost fell off its single rusted hinge. A shaft of oddly colored light pierced the gloom of the cabin as a young woman rushed in; she had light olive skin and midnight black hair and wore the same simple browns, greens and grays that the giant wore.

As she entered, her eyes, bright green, flew to the Prince, took in his appearance in one swift glance that missed nothing, and hissed like a cat flung into a tub of water.

The Prince took in her appearance just as quickly, and suddenly all of the pieces fit together. Who else would kidnap one of the Children from the Fortress? Who else would have the audacity to do something of that magnitude in defiance of the Empress, the proper ruler of all of Lucia?

"Exiled Kindred!" hissed the Prince, recoiling. Again, his hand dropped automatically to his side, though his sword was still missing. Shadows and Light curse them all! He needed to find a weapon!

"Bloodmage!" snarled the girl, having caught sight of the black markings under his tunic. In a flash of movement, two remarkably long, curved daggers appeared in her hands, and she launched herself at him.

"Peace!" roared the mountain of a man. He caught the young woman around the waist and threw her back across the room, where she landed with the nimble grace of an acrobat, daggers still held menacingly.

"He is not to be harmed, Eshendai – he is not a danger to us!"

The Prince's ears perked up at the strange word. The way he'd said it didn't sound like a name – a title perhaps? He filed it away in his mind to deal with later. His eyes never left the twin daggers, following every small twitch of movement as the Exile girl paced back and forth across the opposite side of the small cabin. The blades themselves were beautifully smithed, over a foot long and three fingers wide. From the way they gleamed in the light and the casual tension with which the girl held them, the Prince had a sneaking suspicion they were well used.

Out of his peripheral vision, he saw a glimmer of light flash through a crack in the wall of the wooden shack and another piece of the puzzle clicked into place as he realized with a shock that the light streaming through the door couldn't be artificial. The color was off and the angle was all wrong ... it was coming from the sky.

How far away from the Fortress am I?

No matter – he would have time to wonder about his whereabouts after he'd freed himself from the hold of his captors. The girl stood in front of the door - he had to get past her and out. The Prince feinted left, then rolled under the table, as the two Exiles moved to follow him with cries of alarm. As he emerged on the other side, there was a sharp _whisk!_ sound, and the Prince dodged just fast enough to feel the air from one of the girl's daggers ruffle his hair. The door was there –

The Prince was pulled straight off his feet into the air and flung back across the room to land on the pile of blankets upon which he'd woken. He spun to his feet once more, only to find the girl's second dagger pressed against his throat. How had she crossed the room so quickly?

"Do it, Exile!" taunted the Prince. "It would be just like you to kill an unarmed man."

Her eyes flashed with rage, haunting green eyes that watched him with hatred and contempt, and he could see her desire to end his life. But the dagger remained completely steady and unwavering, neither cutting into the flesh nor pulling back.

"Remember your oath, Eshendai," the big man said slowly and firmly. He seemed to sense her desire to kill as well. The Prince remained silent, staring at her with arrogant defiance.

"We are not to kill innocents, not to kill victims of the Empire's injustice."

"This is not an innocent!" the girl responded through clenched teeth. "This is one of the Empress' Bloodmages! This is not even a man, it's an animal!"

"He's barely older than you, if at all," the man pointed out calmly, "and it takes years of training to become a Bloodmage. If anything, he is barely a novice. But that's irrelevant; I know that he is not part of the Empire. I found him unconscious, left to die from his wounds by a group of the Empress' men at the bottom of the mountains. He'd been beaten, severely; several ribs were broken and he had been concussed – "

" _You mean you've had him ever since I left?_ "

The Prince felt a chill go up his back. _What? But that's impossible; his Mother's soldiers would never even dare to –_

The memories of the events since he'd been attacked in the Fortress rolled through his head in a rush that made his ears rings. The soldiers who had left him to die by the stream, they had been dressed in uniforms of the Empire ... no, it was a ruse. They had to be traitors; it was easy enough to change clothing. He felt his anger rise. Did they truly think he'd fall for a trick like that?

"I've seen markings like those before, Tomaz, and he's a Bloodmage, old enough for it or not! And if he'd been beaten like you say, he has healed remarkably well."

The Prince had seen and heard enough. He was the rightful son of the Empress, and these Exiles were nothing. It was time to put an end to this farce.

"I am not a Bloodmage," spat the Prince, silencing the two of them, "I am the Prince of Ravens, Child of the Empress, Seventh Son of the Diamond Throne – and you will release me, now!"

Silence fell. For a moment there was no reaction, the two Exiles staring incredulously at the Prince. And then their eyes grew wide and the temperature in the room seemed to drop several degrees as they saw the truth of the statement in his eyes. The muscles in their bodies became tense and ready, as if he would at any second leap forward, shooting fire from his eyes and cursing them into a thousand pieces. The Prince allowed himself a small smile at the pleasure of knowing the name of one of the Children still struck fear into the hearts of the Empire's enemies.

"Release me," said the Prince, his voice snapping out like a whip.

The girl took an involuntary step back, watching him with superstitious horror and awe. But the big man shook his head like a bear dislodging an annoying fly, and the Prince watched with surprise as he stepped forward, lifted the greatsword from where it had been resting, unsheathed it, and pointed it directly at the Prince's heart.

"Do not lie to us," he said. The Prince looked from the bared sword up into the man's eyes. No, not eyes – dark black chips of stone. Staring into those eyes, the Prince felt a strange sense of uneasiness.

"I am not lying," he said calmly. Slowly, very slowly so as not to frighten the Exile and make him do something stupid, the Prince took a step forward. He held the man's gaze with his eyes as he had seen Symanta do when she was reading someone, watching for the slightest hint of emotion. The man began to relax, and the Prince was certain he had won.

But then the man shook his head once more and actually stepped forward to rest the point of his blade against the Prince's chest.

"Stay where you are," he rumbled.

"We need to leave," the girl said. "We need to leave now!"

"No," the big man said. "No, something is not right here."

"He's a Child of the Empress, Tomaz, shadows and fire, he's the Prince of Ravens! Those markings are the Talisman of Death! If he's here, the Empire is not far behind!"

She moved toward the door, panic and terror clear in both her voice and her manner, but the big man remained still. The Prince locked eyes with him again. There was something strange in the depths of the black chips of stone. This was a hard man, the Prince could tell, hard by nature but hardened by a life of exile, a life lived in the shadows. As he watched, the big man's eyes seemed to light up as he contemplated the Prince, and small bits of fire and life sprang into being where there was nothing but coldness before.

The moment passed, and the big man took a deep, calming breath, then spoke.

"I found him in a clearing at the far end of the mountains. He was lying on the ground with only the barest hint of a pulse - I almost didn't check. That was nearly a week ago, the day after you left."

The girl stopped in the doorway, then slowly turned back to face the man, and the Prince could tell her mind was suddenly working very quickly. She looked at the Prince – and not just at his face, but at his clothing as well, his chafed wrists, his dirty hair. Her eyes roved over him, from head to toe, and the Prince had the distinct impression the girl was cataloging every detail of his appearance. Her demeanor changed completely. She stopped backing toward the door and instead took a few steps toward the two of them, her fear evaporating like an early morning mist.

"What do you see?" the big man asked her slowly, almost ritualistically.

"His shirt," she responded immediately. "It's certainly finer linen than most of what even the Most High would wear, but it's torn and dirty. His face is dirty – there's dirt in his hair, too. His wrists look as though they were recently bound together with a rough material. He's favoring his left side, but only slightly, so the ribs you said were broken have healed, implicating accelerated healing time that could come from a number of different blood practices." She looked over at the big man. "How many times have you seen the Children?"

"More than I'd like to remember," the man, Tomaz, responded darkly, "and more than once up close in person."

The Prince's head jerked to him in surprise.

"Have you ever seen this one?"

"No," said the big man, "but he was born after my time."

"Have you ever seen one of them looking anything less than immaculate, though?"

The big man shook his head, his bearded face drawn in concentration.

"You said he was left over a week ago? There's been no activity here, not even the hint of a whispered breath. Have you seen anything?"

"No," the big man said as if that settled matters. A look passed between them.

The Prince looked down and realized they were correct: the clothing he was wearing was ripped and torn where he'd been bound and thrown to the ground. There was also the mud and sweat stains from the journey he could barely remember.

"He was brought here against his will," she said. She was reexamining him quickly, glancing again at his wrists, his clothing, his bare feet. Her voice was coming quick and breathless now. The Prince had the sudden feeling he was on an examination table. "He was in a struggle – against a group I would guess. He certainly put up a fight – those rips in his elbows are from escaping their grip ... wait a minute, what's that on his ... "

She let out a gasp.

"Hold him!"

Immediately the big man sheathed his sword and grabbed the Prince, who, despite his years of physical training, was no match for such overwhelming strength and size. Before he could resist, Tomaz had wrapped a single arm through both of the Prince's and placed his other hand on the back of the Prince's head, rendering him completely immobile.

"What are you doing – stop this! I'm the Prince of Ravens! Do you not understand that?!"

The man shifted and the second large hand covered his mouth.

"Quiet for a minute, Prince ... " started the man before tapering off. There was a jerk and the Prince assumed it was Tomaz looking up at the girl.

"I can't say his name."

The girl opened her mouth, but only a small noise of surprise escaped.

The Prince felt heat flood his cheeks in embarrassment and shame at being handled in such a way. He stopped struggling and tried to strike up an air of dignified silence, attempting to appear as though he was indifferent to his plight, though as his face was slowly becoming tight and hot from lack of circulation, he was fairly certain it wasn't working. The girl stepped up to him, and for the first time he was able to take a good look at her, and was surprised to find she was not a girl at all but a young woman, at least his age. Her eyes were boring a hole through a spot on his neck.

When she was barely a step away, she reached up with her dagger and slashed the skin. The Prince drew a sharp breath, but the cut was shallow. She reached out and pulled something from his skin with a sharp tug. The Prince just managed to suppress a groan and even kept his body from tensing, though whatever it was she had removed had hurt like a _kreoling_.

His eyes slowly focused on what the Exile held in her hand. It was a small three-pronged dart, made of steel with blackened tips. The end was rounded and meant to slide beneath the skin on impact. She held it up to her eyes.

"The tips are hollow – and it's barbed."

She looked up and the Prince felt the big man's head shift so they could exchange a glance.

"He showed all the signs of dillixi poisoning," the mountain of a man rumbled, "but there was a puncture wound - "

"I see it," the girl confirmed. "He must have been drugged again after they arrived. The skin here has only partially healed, so the dart must have come first."

"It makes sense he was captured by surprise, and then taken to where I found him. Where was he supposed to be delivered?"

"All of that on top of his name being taken away..."

"Death Watch," finished the big man. The girl looked at the Prince and considered him for a long time. Fear and curiosity were warring in her eyes ... but slowly the fear died away, and when it was gone completely, her lips began to slowly move into a smirk, her wide, green eyes making her look almost demonic.

"If you were the Prince of Ravens," she said, "then it looks like you aren't anymore."
