

Quest of the Messenger

Paths of the Shadow

### By Hannah Ross

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are entirely the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, persons, or anything else is entirely coincidental.

No part of this book may be used, reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any manner by any means, known or unknown, without express written permission from the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Copyright © 2015 by Hannah Ross

All rights reserved.

ISBN-10: 1537205552

ISBN-13: 978-1537205557

Chapter 1

Dr. Nicholas Swift, thirty-eight years old, could not pretend to be very fond of company. Rather, if he had to use definite terms to describe himself – not that he was ever tempted to – "socially awkward" would probably be the most accurate. Exceedingly serious, sporadically prickly, with a dry, sarcastic wit that was sharpened by extended bachelorhood, Dr. Swift was painfully aware of his stand-outishness in the social events he had to attend, in the course of his work or otherwise.

Tonight was to be otherwise.

It was a reunion of old school friends, most of whom he hadn't seen for the past twenty years. _Has it really been that long?_ He asked himself incredulously as he was getting ready. Has it? He asked again as he stared at his image in the mirror, at the trim figure in a modest but well-cut dark grey suit, at the thick black hair with no shade of silver, nor any hint of beginning to recede, at the nearly lineless face. He couldn't say he felt young, because he doubted he ever felt _that_. But he felt no older than he had at seventeen - nor any fonder of the schoolfellows, the subject of whose taunts he had been during his teen years. Well, at least he had to thank fate, or God, or whoever ruled up above, for giving him enough intelligence to shine at every exam. It sparked envy, but it also helped him pull through school without his spirit sinking too low. It helped him keep his head above water.

That, and Andrew.

Andrew, damn the man, was also the one who roped him into going to this reunion tonight. Nicholas tried to wriggle out of it – he had a mountainous pile of work waiting for him at the office, he thought he was beginning to feel the onset of a cold, he promised his mother he would visit and he couldn't foresee another opportunity of doing that this week – but all was in vain, just as he knew it would be. Somehow, Andrew always had his own way... which was often to the good, Nicholas was forced to admit.

Andrew was the only real friend he made in school – why him of all people, nobody could comprehend, as the two boys seemed the perfect opposites. Andrew was blond, boisterous, easy to laugh, the soul of every company; Nicholas long, lanky, black-haired, glum, slinking into the shadows at the first opportunity. What they had in common wasn't easy to understand at first – but there was the goodness of basic nature, the integrity of character, and above all youth, which so often endears two very different people to each other. Andrew became the protector of Nicholas, which caused sneers and jokes about "little Nick hiding behind Mommy's skirts"; but Andrew, without actually declaring it, recognized and admired his friend's superior intellect – although in some matters, as he always claimed, Nicholas remained woefully ignorant.

In the past five years, they have not seen each other quite as often as before. The paths they chose in life were as different as their personalities. Andrew went into car tire manufacturing, and after a decade of steadily rising found himself the owner of a successful company, while Nicholas became a historian specializing in the study of the Middle Ages – and more often than he cared to admit, slipped off the solid land of fact into the murky waters of myth and legend. Still, he and Andrew were bound by mutual affection and met fairly regularly – up until the latter's marriage. The charming Emily, blond and pretty and as well-suited to Andrew as a woman could be, did not have to try very hard to snare him, as he was quite ready to fall into the trap himself. Five years and two children later, Andrew passed his days in vast contentment, master in both his home and his work place, and the only thing he had to complain about was the length of commute – upon marrying, he left the City center and moved into a handsome suburban house of, as he insisted, his choosing (although it was really Emily's). Nicholas, in the meantime, stubbornly remained a bachelor.

He could have married, of course. Perhaps he should have married, as Andrew kept insistently reminding him – himself being a perfect rosy illustration of domestic bliss. While not what one would normally call a charmer, Nicholas was not unattractive, and his salary, though not lucrative, was perfectly fit to live on. He was highly respected in the academy, already had several published works under his belt, the most intriguing of which probably was _"A Trail of Blood – Why the Vampire Myths in Bosnia were so difficult to dispel?"_ It was this book that brought him to the knowledge of the general public, although admittedly, it also caused criticism from some of his colleagues for "perpetuating a myth that should be dead and buried just as the so-called vampires are." But as the ever-cheerful Andrew told him, envy dies hard.

So why didn't Dr. Nicholas Swift, a reasonably successful, potentially pleasant man marry? Admittedly, he did not feel any particular urge to. He did not recall the feeling of burning desire, except perhaps once, when he was very young... half a boy, in fact, and in a co-ed school one could hardly expect not to... but it was over and done with before it even began. The girl was in her senior year and didn't even notice his existence. She left school at the end of term and, as he heard, married early. He never knew what became of her, and her features were hazy in his mind's eye now. He could not even recall her name.

He doubted she would come to this reunion. If it depended on him, he wouldn't be going himself. The only person he wanted to see there was Andrew, and he didn't need to drive two hours to see Andrew. They could meet any old time, like in days gone by. In fact, he was about to pick up the phone, dial his friend's number and suggest just that, when he heard a ring. He heaved a sigh and answered, knowing who it must be before he even heard the familiar voice.

"Nick!" it sounded as though Andrew was in the highest spirits. "I just decided to ring you before I get into the car. You ready?"

"Not quite," Dr. Swift replied evasively.

"Aren't thinking of not going, now, are you?" he could practically see Andrew squinting in suspicion. While not a man of outstanding clairvoyance, Andrew was quick to pick up on anything that concerned people he cared about. And Nicholas knew he couldn't say what was on the tip of his tongue a minute ago.

"Of course I'm coming," he said quickly, "I just... got detained a bit. Choosing a tie."

"Choosing a tie," Andrew repeated sagely. "I see. Now, Nick," his voice was different now, brisk, the kind of tone one doesn't argue with. "If you don't get going now, you'll miss out on the best part of the evening, and I won't have that, do you hear me?"

"I'll be on my way in five minutes," promised Nicholas.

"Emily can't wait to see you," were Andrew's first words after a warm handshake. "She says it won't hurt you to have some fun, and I happen to agree with her completely."

"Emily is always so thoughtful," replied Nicholas with just a tinge of sourness, but his friend didn't miss that. A finger rose into the air like an exclamation mark as the two proceeded towards the open area outside, where tables of refreshments and drinks were laid out.

"You don't know my wife as I do," declared Andrew, shaking his raised finger at Nicholas and mercifully missing the double meaning of his own words. "Emily is always concerned about everyone. And," he paused meaningfully, "there might be... others, who are just as interested in meeting you."

"Oh yes," Nicholas nodded vigorously, "such as Jeremy Logan, for example. Or... what was his name? Robert? Or Rupert? Allen, I mean. I'm sure the fun they derived from sticking my head in the toilet was a peak of amusement life never threw in their way again."

Andrew laughed. "I didn't know you still remember _that_ ," he confessed, "although of course, I realize you have less fond memories of school than I do. But it's not just schoolfellows here... there's someone – someone who has read your book about vampires and was highly impressed."

"It was not a book about vampires," Dr. Swift corrected him. "It was a book about how vampires, as lucrative as the myth may seem, _never existed_. Which point, I believe, I should have done a better job in clarifying."

Andrew waved a dismissive hand. "I think we discussed the matter at least a dozen times. It makes no difference. Emily has a – a niece," under his friend's piercing stare, his voice lost a notch of its cocksureness, "a young lady who came across your book as background reading for a college assignment, and, ah," he shifted his weight from one foot to the other, "expressed a wish to meet you in person, once she knew we were friends."

Nicholas faintly raised his eyebrows. "You didn't bring her with you?"

It must be said to Andrew's credit that he had the grace to look abashed. "I saw no reason not to – "

Nicholas stopped walking and sighed. "Look, Andy," he said, dropping pretence of coolness, "we can be honest with each other, can't we? I know what you are trying to do, and I appreciate your good intentions. But seriously, a college girl, you can't think – "

"No, no, no!" Andrew protested vehemently. "This is not what you think! I would never – "

"No? Well, then, what about that friend of Emily's, who just _happened_ to pass by that restaurant you two dragged me to on New Year's eve? And you, you filthy hypocrite, you had the audacity to tell me –"

"Oh, alright, alright," hissed Andrew, "I admit we set it all up, and it was foolish of me, I should have known Laura is not your type, but for heaven's sake keep your voice down, Nick, there's everyone... and there's Emily."

And sure enough, in the crowd milling by the long tables stood Emily, looking as fashionable as ever in a cocktail dress of shocking pink that made a stunning effect against her highlighted blond hair. She was such a squeaky clean image of prettiness it almost made Nicholas smile, that is, until the young woman standing next to her turned to the sound of their footsteps, and –

And he saw a ghost. Not someone returned from the dead, but someone who nevertheless was no more.

A very lovely, very lively ghost with short, soft-looking chestnut curls and eyes of deep blue, that looked so like – but no, of course it couldn't be her, and the resemblance was not exact, well, at least he _thought_ so, he could not be sure now after all these years, and the blue dress she wore was so becoming he nearly blurted out something to this effect, which of course would have been perfect idiocy, and –

Andrew cleared his throat.

"Nicholas, this is Kate Nuland, Emily's niece."

Dr Swift's black eyes burned into Emily's laughing pale grey ones, almost accusingly. "I was not aware that you had a niece, Emily. I didn't even know you had a sister."

"Oh, I do," she didn't seem remotely aware of his perturbation. "I mean... Terry is a half-sister, and her relations with the family are somewhat strained, which is why you didn't see her at our wedding. But perhaps you know Terry?" her inquisitive look was innocent and wide. "She went to this same school, only a few years above you – isn't that so, Andy? She regretted not being able to come tonight, but hoped her daughter would prove to be a worthy substitute," Emily gestured towards Kate, who grinned nervously. Nicholas could only nod vacantly, his mind in a state of furious work.

Terry. Yes, of course her name was Terry. How could he have forgotten? But of course, it was all so long ago. And Andrew, wasn't he aware that... he cut this thread of thought abruptly. _Stop it. No one but yourself knew of that teenage agony. You would rather die than tell even your best friend, don't you remember?_

He forced a smile, which she uncertainly returned. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Miss Nuland."

"The pleasure is mine, Dr Swift."

He was still thinking about her – and chastising himself for it - when the phone rang mid-morning the day after.

"How's it going?" asked Andrew with unconvincing nonchalance.

"Oh, just fine," replied Nicholas in equally unconvincing airy tones. Then there was a silence, each waiting for the other to break it. Andrew was the first to do so. He _harrumped._

"Aren't you glad you came to the school reunion after all, Nick?"

"If you are glad, that's enough for me," Dr Swift replied diplomatically.

"How touching," by Andrew's voice, it was plain that he was grinning. "Kate was very pleased to make your acquaintance, too," he added off-handedly.

"I am honored," was Nicholas's solemn answer.

"In fact..." Andrew hesitated, weighing his words, "in fact," he repeated, "she expressed utmost enthusiasm to – well, in short, she would like to work for you."

For a heartbeat, Nicholas was certain that his ears deceive him; for another, that this is some kind of a ludicrous joke.

"To work for me?" he repeated. "To _work_ for me?"

"Well, yes," said Andrew, apparently unaware of saying anything very shocking. "As your personal assistant," he explained.

"My..." Nicholas spluttered. "I have no _need_ of a personal assistant," he said reasonably, ignoring the sudden violent beating of his heart at the whole wide range of possibilities Andrew's suggestion presented. _Stop it, you miserable old fool. Whatever is going on, you will not allow it to proceed any further._ "I never had one, and even if there was work enough for an assistant, it would be the faculty's prerogative to choose and hire one for me."

"Now, now, Nick," Andrew went on placidly. "I know how much respect they have for you. If you said you need an assistant, they wouldn't argue. And if you said you know a person of excellent qualifications for this job, a Miss Catherine Nuland, I'm sure your opinion would be taken into consideration."

Nicholas was seized by a sudden vision of a young woman in a dress of blue satin, shaking her chestnut curls and laughing softly as she stirred her martini. _To see her again..._ but to concede to what Andy was offering would be, he realized, an act of utmost foolishness.

"Why would a lively young woman like your niece want a boring job such as being a researcher's assistant?"

"You might say it's a boring job... but Kate is hoping for some vampire-hunting," said Andrew jovially.

Nicholas let out an exasperated sigh. "I wish the idea for the stupid book about the stupid vampires had never occurred to me," he said. "Andy, even if I had an assistant, the work would be answering phone calls, copying documents, organizing files... things like that. And to be frank, I'm getting on just fine by myself."

"I know you are," agreed Andy, "that is why you are thirty-eight with no prospects of settling down, isn't that so?"

"That's neither here nor there," Dr Swift replied haughtily.

"Alright, alright," Andrew sounded different now, more serious, "your bachelorhood isn't the issue here. The truth is, I'm asking this as a special favor for Kate and her family. The girl is very young," he lowered his voice, "just completed her degree in social studies, but that's nothing. She has no idea what she wants to do next. Now she got it into her head that she would like to study history, or perhaps archeology. She isn't sure which, but whichever it is, her poor mother seized upon the idea gratefully. There were some very disturbing moves she made recently," Andrew's voice was reduced almost to a whisper now, so that Nicholas caught only snatches of words here and there. "There was a Hindu sect... a hippie camp... a French boyfriend, and no good came out of it..."

"Strange. She seemed to be a reasonable young lady," remarked Nicholas.

"She's young, and has a warm heart. That by itself is enough to make her gullible."

Once more, it appeared to Nicholas in plain view that Andrew's will was going to overpower his own – and despite his rigid self-control, the hint of a thrill broke through. "Let's say I agree," he said, "what am I to do with her?"

"Well," Andrew hesitated, "Kate speaks French, surely that counts for something? Set her up to translating documents, gathering materials... I'm sure you can come up with things to keep her occupied, at least for a while."

"Her interest won't last long, once she realizes I'm dealing with fact, not legend," warned Nicholas.

Andrew snorted. "You really believe you can unearth fact when you dig through ten centuries of legend?"

"You'll be surprised," Nicholas replied in his prickly manner. He could afford to be prickly now; he knew Andrew would not be offended. After all, he got what he was asking for. Nicholas promised to speak to the administration the following morning.

His application proceeded smoothly, all needed documents were procured, and Miss Catherine Nuland was appointed as Dr Swift's research assistant. She was to begin her work on Monday.

The night before, Nicholas tossed and turned in his bed, unable to sleep. _You are being ridiculous,_ he admonished himself. _She is a girl, of an age when the world seems wide and confusing. She has no true interest in your work, and even less in you. Don't be such a fool as to think something depends on tomorrow._ And yet he could find no rest.

She was more punctual than he expected, and at nine o'clock sharp she presented herself at work, almost childlike eagerness in her every gesture. It will be gone soon enough, thought Dr Swift almost sadly, but he greeted her with as paternally cordial a smile as he could summon. She was wearing loose beige slacks and a pale pink turtleneck sweater, with pale pink shoes to match. Nicholas would have wondered what madness possessed her to cut her beautiful hair so short, if Andrew hadn't confided at him that it was a fit during which she made the most serious plans to pledge her life to a monastery in Tibet. And again, Nicholas found it difficult to believe that of this particular young woman standing in front of him. She seemed so collected, so well-balanced – more than is usual at our age, in fact. A woman who would make an excellent wife someday to some lucky man. _Stop it this instant, you idiot. How long are you going to continue standing outside the office? It's about to rain._

"Good morning, Miss Nuland," he greeted her.

"Good morning, Dr Swift. Oh, and please call me Kate," her smile showed an adorable dimple in one of her cheeks.

Kate is too brisk a name for her, he thought. Cathy would suit her better, but of course he only nodded. He avoided looking into those blue eyes, lest he be lost, and cursed Andrew for putting him in a situation that would only rob him of peace.

"Please, Kate," he gestured towards the glass door, "let's go inside."

There was no space for a proper office or even a reception area for Kate, of course; a mere spare desk was shoved into a hastily cleared corner of his office. A phone and some office supplies graced its bare surface in an obviously insufficient way. He stole a quick glance at Kate, to determine whether she looks disappointed, but couldn't figure it out. His own desk looked so cluttered he felt ashamed of himself for not having made any attempt to clear it before the weekend.

"That is your place, Miss – Kate," he hastily corrected himself. "Not much, I'm afraid, but I hope it will make do. There are some documents," he gestured towards a pile of papers neatly stacked at one corner of her desk, "that I would be grateful if you translated for me. There are some essays by French colleagues of mine, and I've been meaning to look through them for a while now... but my knowledge of French is woefully poor. You, on the other hand, speak and read fluent French, or so I understood from your uncle?"

"Yes," Kate nodded matter-of-factly. "I spent some years in a school in France," she gave the French articles a fleeting look. "Before I begin... would you like me to make you a cup of tea, Dr Swift?"

He looked genuinely shocked. "Oh no," he said hastily. "No, no, there's no need of that. I have a little kitchenette just beyond that wall, and I've always managed perfectly fine to make my own tea. You are not here for such... mm... such tasks, Kate. You are a research assistant."

"Whatever suits you, Dr Swift," she said lightly, with a resolute shake of her short curls. She took a deep breath. "I do want to thank you, however," she blurted out. "I believe I owe you a confession... I'm a fair worker, but my attention is shallow, inconstant. I have never really been able to interest myself in a single thing over a reasonably long span of time. That is why I admire your concentration and determination so much... I realize that the amount of research you must put into your written works is staggering. And that is why I feel so thankful for getting this opportunity to work alongside you," she added with a faint blush.

"We'll see how thankful you are when the day is done," Dr Swift said wryly. Without another word, Kate slid gracefully into the chair behind her desk, one with lumpy and leaking stuffing, and commenced her work. A short while later, she lifted her face from the desk, and Nicholas saw that her eyes shone with the expression of pleasant surprise.

"It is about a legend I know," she said, indicating the article on the translation of which she was working. "The source of it is in Avignon, and it is still told locally among the elder inhabitants of the town. I've heard it personally; one of my best friends from school lives there, and I visited several times during the holidays."

"What legend is that?" asked Dr Swift.

"Well, you know, of course, that for a time Avignon served as the seat of the Roman Catholic church," Kate said matter-of-factly, and Dr Swift was inwardly impressed. "Sometime in the thirteenth or the fourteenth century, the town came under threat of heretics who wanted to bend the church to their will. So the Pope himself raised his arms up to the sky and prayed, and an hour later, a thick cloud descended from the sky and covered the town in impregnable shadow, which lasted until the threat passed."

"Ah, yes," nodded Nicholas, "a well-known legend. Only there is another part to it, Kate. Before long it was discovered that the merciful shadow was not at all the work of the holy Pope, but the subtle deed of an evasive local sorceress. She was discovered, interrogated, arrested, tried and condemned to burning at stake for practicing witchcraft."

"But why?" Kate exclaimed indignantly. "She saved their city!"

"It is only a tale," Dr Swift reminded her. "As modern, intelligent people, you and I of course know that there were never any witches."

"Of course," Kate deflated, looking abashed. "So what happened to the poor woman? Did they really do it to her?"

"To her, and to countless others. Those were ruthless times, Kate. But some claim she never burned," he added after a pause, "some say that when they approached the witch with torches, she cast a spell and hid herself beneath the same black shadow that formerly engulfed Avignon. And that no one was able to discover a trace of her since."

Kate shuddered. "I wish the burnings were only a legend," she murmured.

"Alas, they are not," said Nicholas, not unkindly. "But who is the author of this article? Ah yes, of course. Michel Dubois, I've had the chance to meet him several times. I hope the legend only serves as background to content of more solid substance."

Kate resumed her work. It was a dreary morning, with grey rain beating in a monotonous lull against the window-panes. Around noon, when Dr Swift was about to suggest they take a lunch break, footsteps sounded in the usually deserted corridor, and the silhouette of a man appeared behind the glass door. A brisk knock was heard.

A fountain pen fell from the slackened grip of Kate's fingers. The startled Dr Swift noticed that her face paled and her eyes widened in the same characteristic expression he wore when he met her for the first time – that of seeing a spirit.

"Etienne," she whispered, seemingly unaware that her lips formed any word.

Now, as it happens, Dr Swift was already acquainted with the man, and he knew he was _not_ the mysterious French lover who nearly drove the susceptible Miss Nuland to a Tibetan monastery or to jolly life in a trailer park. But her involuntary exclamation made him understand that the visitor looked like that Frenchman, and he couldn't say this pleased him.

"Come in," he called nevertheless.

The door swung open, and the man walked in. He was the type of tall, dark-haired, broad-shouldered Irishman that is not at all uncommon, but looks striking all the same.

"Good day to you, Dr Swift. I hope I don't come at a very inconvenient time," said the young man, with every air of confidence in being cordially received. His eyes lingered, curious, on Kate Nuland, who was not there last time he visited. Nicholas didn't fail to notice this look.

"Mr. O'Keeffe, this is Kate Nuland, my new research assistant." Kate nodded, calm and composed again – but her breath was still quick, as of someone who narrowly escaped a grave danger. "Kate, this is Jim O'Keeffe, a reporter who is fond of wasting his time – and the time of others," he added with savage pleasure.

"I can return in the afternoon, if you prefer," said the unabashed Jim.

"I believe I have already told you it would be better if you didn't return at all," said Nicholas. "You are not looking for professional opinion. You are looking for a headline. Mr. O'Keeffe," he turned to give an explanation to the curious-looking Kate, "works for one of those shallow little papers which supply their readers with a constant stream of fabricated myths, supposedly-true urban legends, UFO sightings, and other such unfortunately popular nonsense."

"I work for _The Oyster_ ," explained Jim O'Keeffe with a charming smile.

" _The Oyster?_ " Kate looked confused.

"Our name hints at our confidence of being able to pry open any mystery," Jim supplied in a phrase that was obviously recited many times before.

Dr Swift snorted. "The less a man claims to know for certain, the more reliable he is," he said. "And therefore – "

"Well, I consider _you_ a reliable man, Dr Swift," said Jim O'Keeffe, "and if you consented to accompany me to the Stone Circle, it would lend credibility to my article."

"I have not the least bit of interest to give credibility to an establishment such as the paper you work for," said Nicholas with icy courtesy.

"What _is_ the Stone Circle?" interjected Kate.

"It is a place not far from here," explained Nicholas. "And as its name implies, it consists of a small mountain clearing with several reasonably even-looking rocks encircling it. No one knows precisely when and why it was built, but local legend attributes magical properties to the place, in particular during nights of full moon in May. Of course, there is no sound basis whatsoever to such claims. Do not get me wrong," he raised a finger, "I love the way history is always spiced with myths, legends, tales, details that may or may not be true, but lend flesh to the cold bones of the past. However, it is not, strictly speaking, my province. I deal with fact, Mr. O'Keeffe," he raised his voice slightly, "with solid, reasonable, proven fact."

"The fact," said Jim O'Keeffe, "is that now we're in the month of May."

"What do they tell about the Stone Circle?" asked Kate.

"According to the country folk legend," began Jim O'Keeffe, seizing the opportunity to speak, "if one stands in the middle of the Stone Circle on a night of full moon in May, in particular when the moon is not obscured by clouds, that person will experience... curious things. Last year, for example, a local farmer named Bob Tanner tried to do just that. He waited just outside the Stone Circle until midnight, and then stepped in. He claims he felt as though the air began shimmering all around him, as in a haze of heat, although it wasn't particularly warm... and he heard voices saying things he could not make out, and saw things – among them, an open gate which seemed to lead someplace which was definitely not Willow Creek, in the direction of which it supposedly stood."

"Why didn't he walk through the gate, then?" Nicholas demanded in tones of derision. "Oh, but wait. I think I know the answer. He probably stumbled backwards, fell, and found his way to the village pub for another pint."

"The man swears he wasn't drunk."

"If I had a penny for every drunkard in the country who swears he wasn't drunk on a particular occasion – "

"I should like to see the Stone Circle," Kate interrupted their discourse in a dreamy voice. Upon seeing his expression, she hastened to add: "I'm not saying I believe this legend. It sounds bizarre, to be sure... but I love old places that have strange tales connected to them. And it isn't far, is it?" she turned to Jim.

"No more than an hour's drive from here," O'Keeffe said firmly. "I'm writing an article about the place, and I hoped to obtain Dr Swift's assistance in some background materials... but if he refuses," he added with a half smile, "so be it. Full moon is two nights from now, and you can be sure that if it doesn't rain, I will be standing right in the middle of the Stone Circle, waiting for the gate to open," his grin was almost wolfish. "If you would like to accompany me, Miss Nuland, I will be delighted."

Nicholas looked from Kate to Jim O'Keeffe, and a terrible realization bolted into his brain. She would go with him, he knew. And the foolishness of the suggested expedition didn't matter one bit. This young woman, who was - despite her obvious intelligence, her good head and gentle heart - still an innocent, trusting child, would gain another Etienne in her life. This smug, arrogant, vain little jackanapes would carry her off as a prize.

And he should be damned if he let this happen.

He cleared his throat. "On second thought," he told Jim O'Keeffe, "I believe I will join you on your little excursion as well. You can put my name in your article, but don't you dare to make it sound as though I agree with a single word you say."

"Let me get this straight," said Andrew next time they talked. "You are going to take Kate for a moonlit stroll in the Stone Circle?"

"It isn't what you think," Nicholas said defensively. "If I didn't volunteer to visit the wretched legendary site, she would have gone with Jim O'Keeffe, and we both know how this would likely have ended."

"Of course. And you couldn't permit that, could you?" the smirk in Andrew's voice was audible. Nicholas fought the urge to tell him to get lost.

"You placed your niece under my charge. I believe it is my duty to keep an eye on her, and this O'Keeffe type looks like a rascal."

"Kate is of age," Andrew pointed out, but it was obvious he was pleased, and this, perhaps, was what annoyed Nicholas the most.

"If you prefer, I might not take part in this... expedition after all," he said through gritted teeth, "I will be quite glad to remain behind."

"I would rather that O'Keeffe remained behind."

And that was precisely why, as much as he tried, he could never be angry with Andrew.

The unlikely trio of a Middle Ages scholar, a UFO chaser and a college graduate who very nearly joined a hippie community set out next evening. In a fit of politeness Dr Swift suggested that they all go in his car, but as he didn't know the way, he had to admit Jim O'Keeffe as navigator. Jim sat next to him, and Kate in the back seat – an arrangement the honorable doctor would very much like to reverse. Fortunately, O'Keeffe didn't lie about the length of the drive. Scarcely more than an hour after they set out, the country road they have been following reached an abrupt end at the edge of a forest, and Dr Swift, not expecting this, stopped the car rather abruptly.

"It seems we have reached a dead end," he said, fixing O'Keeffe with an accusing stare.

"No, this is just right," said the ever-confident O'Keeffe. "There's a path right in front of us, see? It leads through Pinewood forest, and is supposed to bring us to the Stone Circle within five minutes."

"Did you bring a flashlight, then?" asked Dr Swift rather less sourly than he normally would have done. "Because I did not, and I certainly don't intend to drag Miss Nuland and myself through a dark forest, following the trail of some crackpot story."

"I have a flashlight right here, Dr Swift," Jim declared triumphantly, taking one out of the pocket of his coat and brandishing it in the air.

When they got out of the car, Nicholas immediately wished he had brought a coat as well. It was a chilly night for May, and although he zipped his light jacked to the top, it was not enough to ward off the sudden gusts of wind that sneaked between the trees. The sky was clear, though, and the moon swam above their heads, huge and luminous, a perfect circle of solid gold.

As they followed the path clearly visible in the white beam cast by Jim O'Keeffe's flashlight, Nicholas wondered why anyone would name this place Pinewood forest, as it was obvious pine was among the few trees that did not grow here at all. The wood was a mix of oak and elm and birch, no tree too old and gnarled and imposing, and the growth was not too dense, almost like in a park. It seemed to be a young forest. Perhaps there was an older one before; perhaps it was a forest of pine.

The path started uphill. It was not very steep, nor very long, and just as promised, within minutes a circle of smooth rocks loomed before them at the hilltop, enclosing a small clearing overgrown with soft grass and bluebells. The grass was springy under their feet, the earth damp with dew or the residue of the last rain – Nicholas couldn't tell. Finally, he stopped right in the middle of the clearing and looked about him.

Kate's face was solemn as she ran her hand over one of the rocks. "This place looks ancient," she murmured.

"It's like a miniature Stonehenge, isn't it?" Jim said brightly.

"I might as well throw a few pebbles in a circle and call is Stonehenge," snapped Dr Swift. He walked slowly around the clearing. Over the other side of the hill – the opposite to the one they came from – the lights of a village twinkled invitingly. It wasn't too late yet, and no doubt the first clear night after a week of almost incessant rain lured people outside. If one listened carefully, a murmur of indistinct voices could be heard from the direction of the village. There were a few solitary scattered lights here and there across the valley, too – no doubt the thriving farms of this fertile area. Nicholas would probably have appreciated the view if he were brought here during a fine day and without the unwelcome company of the young Irishman.

"Well," he said with badly disguised irony, looking about him, "we're standing in the middle of the Stone Circle, and it's the night of full moon in May. Shouldn't something happen now? A giant fire-breathing dragon soar from the sky? The earth open up its mouth and swallow us? The headlines will be magnificent. "Three people disappear in the middle of the famous Stone Circle." Intriguing, isn't it? A pity we won't be here to read the papers."

The derision wasn't lost on Jim O'Keeffe, but as always, he did not let it bother him. "I never said something would actually happen," he put in. "And anyway, Bob Tanner's evidence spoke of a much later hour, if I remember correctly," he added with a swift glance at his watch.

"Oh, certainly. Midnight is the proper time for fairies and leprechauns, isn't it? So why don't we wait here another four hours or so, and then we'll be in much better position to asses the truthfulness of this local farmer's," he snorted, " _testimony_."

"We don't have to stay here," said Jim O'Keeffe, in an obvious effort to make peace. "We can go down to the village and see what we can learn from a visit to the local pub. People usually like to talk to investigators about unnatural phenomena, and who knows, we might even meet Bob Tanner himself."

Dr Swift's lip curled as he heard the word "investigators", and he was about to say something along the lines of not coming here for a pint in the local pub – but then Kate, who appeared to have a slight head cold, chimed in and mentioned that it would be nice to get something hot to drink.

"Do we have to walk?" asked Dr Swift, appraising the distance from the hilltop to the village, which seemed to be a good deal longer than the walk they took from the road to the Circle.

"Oh, no," said O'Keeffe. "It will make much better sense if we go down to the car again, turn around and take the little fork left that we passed on the way here. It should run around the bottom of the hill and take us straight to the village."

The local pub and inn, "The Red Rooster", greeted them by a breath of warm air and a raucous laughter that froze on someone's lips, trailing into an unconvincing cough. A gentle murmur of voices and more than their fair share of curious looks followed them as they made their way to the bar. Jim smiled genially, taking it all as his due, but Nicholas's shoulders stiffened. He wasn't any more comfortable in the presence of strangers than the local patrons of "The Rooster."

The landlord, a portly, balding man was just filling a large mug with ice-cold foaming beer when they approached. He neatly slid the mug in the direction of a gruff-looking villager, casually accepted a few coins in payment, and looked at them without the least sign of curiosity.

"How may I help you?" he asked.

"A beer for me," said Jim in his friendly manner. "What about you, Doc?"

"A whisky," Nicholas consented dryly. "And for the young lady... what would you like to drink, Kate?"

"Some hot tea," she said, smiling apologetically at the barman. If he was at all disappointed by her order, he didn't let it show.

"A beer and a whisky, and tea for the young lady," he repeated, just as Kate hastily reached into her handbag, pulled out a tissue and muffled a violent sneeze in it. "And may I suggest a shot of cognac in your tea?" he asked politely. "May is chilly this year – quite unseasonable." Kate accepted with a grateful nod.

They took the table nearest to the bar, and when the landlord himself came over, carrying a tray with their drinks, Jim gave him his most ingratiating smile.

"On second thought," he said, "I'm feeling somewhat hungry. Do you serve fish and chips?"

"The best you'll find in the county," the landlord said warmly.

"I'll have that, then," nodded Jim. With a surprisingly energetic stride, the man shuffled off, empty tray under his arm, to bellow orders at his kitchen workers. Before long, a plate of crisp fried fish and potato chips was placed before Jim. The portion was big, and he offered to share, but both Nicholas and Kate declined, saying they weren't hungry. Jim shrugged and, with the healthy appetite of a young man, crunched vigorously into a wedge of potato. He didn't talk again until his plate was clean, which didn't take a very long time. After he had eaten, he got up, hands in his pockets, and sauntered in the direction of the bar, which was now empty. He leaned his elbows on the reasonably clean counter. Since the bar was so close to the table, Nicholas and Kate were able to hear every word of Jim's conversation with the landlord.

"Everything's to your taste, I hope?"

"Oh, excellent," Jim said enthusiastically. "You have a fine establishment here."

"Thank you, sir. I'm not a man to go halves," the landlord said with a touch of pride. "I put my heart and soul into this place."

"It shows."

"You aren't from around here," noted the landlord, sizing Jim up and down in the first display of his curiosity. "We don't get many visitors this time of year."

It was doubtful that the little village got many visitors at any time of year, but O'Keeffe did not remark on that. "I'm a reporter," he said. He wisely omitted the name of the paper he worked for. "We came to see the Stone Circle."

"Ah," the dawn of understanding loomed over the man's pudgy face. "Yes, of course. Many are interested in seeing it, and tonight's the full moon of May. There are many tales surrounding that place, there are."

"Such as?" Jim prompted eagerly.

"For example, young girls from the village believe that if they step into the Circle on a night such as this one, the face of their future husband will appear in front of them," the man permitted himself a chuckle. "I never saw much sense in superstitions such as that, but there you go. You visited the place already?"

"On our way here," said Jim, making it sound as though the chief purpose of their evening drive through the country was to stop and have a drink at "The Red Rooster".

"And you met no one?"

"Not a soul."

"That's strange," the landlord said ponderously. "On May's full moon, if it doesn't rain, one's almost certain to meet a girl or three wandering around that hill."

"Are you familiar with a man named Bob Tanner?" Jim inquired casually. The proprietor grinned.

"Yes, of course I know him. I know everyone in the area. And now you mention it, last year Bob came out with some cock-and-bull story about what happened to him at the Circle. I don't remember exactly what he said, but we all laughed him down, and old Bob has been keeping real quiet ever since, which no doubt was a relief to his wife. Actually, come to think of it," the man screwed up his face in concentration, "I don't recall seeing Bob ever since. Seeing him here, I mean. I passed him at the market a time or two, but he just nodded and walked off. I could have thought he was angry with me for mocking him, but no, it was clear he just wants to do nothing with no one."

"Is there a way for me to speak to Mr. Tanner? He lives on one of the farms in the area, doesn't he?"

"Yes, but Bob also keeps a little shop around here. He sells mainly building supplies, paint and brushes, things like that, but also fishing rods and some odds and ends. Three times a week he comes himself, on other days his missus. You can find the shop if you drive down the main street."

"Thank you," Jim said courteously, "you have been most helpful." When he came back to the table, Nicholas discovered with annoyance that the bill had already been paid.

"You needn't have," he said dryly.

"It's nothing," Jim waved an airy hand. "You drove us here, Dr Swift, didn't you? And just saying I toured the place together with you will give a much better ring to anything I write. I believe I will pay a visit to Bob Tanner's shop tomorrow morning."

"Then you will have to drive yourself," Nicholas warned him.

"Oh, there will be no need of that, I think," said Jim. "The inn has free rooms, I believe. Wait a minute," he went back to the bar and made proper inquiries. Yes, there was a room, the pleased proprietor said. It hasn't been occupied in a while, but if he just consents to wait a bit, he'll send the lad for some clean bed linen.

"That's settled, then," said Jim with unsurpassed cheerfulness as he turned back to his companions. "It's lucky experience taught me to always have the necessities with me, in case I don't come home for the night," he indicated his small black briefcase. "A clean shirt, a change of underwear, a toothbrush and a razor – and I'm good to go," he smiled.

"I applaud your foresight," said Nicholas. Jim yawned unashamedly.

"I hope the room is ready soon," he said. "I could sleep on my feet, and I don't want Bob Tanner to close for lunch before I even have the chance to drop by."

Soon enough it was announced to Jim, with polite wishes for a comfortable stay, that his room is ready and he may go upstairs. He took leave of his companions, and for the first time in the course of the whole evening, Nicholas found himself alone with Miss Catherine Nuland.

"I hope you didn't find the whole affair too tiresome," he said solicitously.

"Oh, not at all," she said. "As a matter of fact..." she hesitated."Do you think we might pass through the Stone Circle again, before we had back? Even if none of what is said about the place is true, it feels – it's hard to explain, but it _feels_ magical. I'd like to see it once more."

"Are you sure?" Nicholas frowned. "The chill is deeper now, and you already have a cold."

"I feel fine now," Kate assured him. "The shot of cognac in my tea was an excellent suggestion."

"Well, then..." Nicholas trailed off and shrugged. He would not, of course, argue with her.

The place's eerie beauty was even more obvious now that they stood in the middle of the Circle alone, without Jim O'Keeffe. The moon floated high above their heads, bright and clear, accentuated by the wisps of silvery clouds that ran over part of its face from time to time. It was a still and beautiful night, and Kate let out a sigh of contentment as she looked about her.

"To think," she mused, "that these stones stood here for many centuries before either of us was born, and will continue to stand here long after we are gone from this world..."

Such sentiments were not altogether foreign to Dr Swift, but just at that moment, something more urgent captured his attention. Without warning, he felt unsteady on his feet; it was almost as though the earth moved underneath them. He had to spread his arms to steady himself.

"Did you feel it?" he asked Kate. "Or was it just me?"

"Feel what?" she seemed confused.

But there it was again. This eerie, unsteady feeling; and just as the uncouth farmer Bob described, the air swam before him as on a hot summer day, fashioning itself into shapes his eye could not quite capture. He fell to his knees.

"Dr Swift!" Kate cried urgently, and then, "Nicholas! Nicholas, what's going on?" But her voice sounded as though it reached him from a great distance, and even her shape was growing distant, as though he was on a train that was speeding away, and she was left behind on the platform. And yet he couldn't say he was moving. Rather, something grabbed hold of him, took him, decided it won't let go of him, and plunged him into something that was more than air but less than water, so that he could breathe, but just barely, and then not at all... a heart attack, was his last coherent thought. He was dying, and that was all there was to it.

And like many times in his life, Dr Nicholas Swift was wrong.

The queer, disconcerting, almost painful sensation was gone. He could stand up on his feet again, and look about him. He turned around, expecting to see Kate, to assure her that he felt fine – but she was not there... nor were any of the Circle's massive rocks. He stood on a flat grassy plain, and heard the sound of waves breaking against a rocky shore. But no, it was impossible, he reminded himself sternly. Willow Creek was many miles away from the sea.

Only, as he walked his first few uncertain steps in this unknown place, the impossibility presented itself determinedly, in all its mass of salty, foamy, black water.

Nicholas Swift had to face the inevitable. He was as far away from Willow Creek as he could possibly be.

Chapter 2

Several years prior to the landing of Nicholas Swift on shores that were unknown to him, a young man stood in the very same place, a place he had known all his life.

He made a striking figure against the pale blue sky, just now lightening in sight of the new day. His hair rippled in the wind behind him, unruly brown waves. The early morning chill would have made anyone retreat, but he only wrapped his cloak more tightly around him.

He could not quite say what made him get out of his warm bed before the first streak of dawn was seen outside his window. But all of a sudden he was wide awake, and knew there was no point trying to fall asleep again. He got up, full of vigorous energy and anticipation – of what, he could not quite tell if he were asked, or perhaps would not.

Today was to be the day of the annual fair. As in the beginning of each summer, a giant makeshift marketplace would be spread on the shores beside Rhasket-Tharsanae, not far from the place where he was standing now. In the quiet of the early morning, he could hear the salesmen already beginning to work, setting up trestle tables, hauling merchandise, squabbling for the best places. Some of the voices were familiar to him, others bore the accent of other parts of the country. This annual event traditionally made the people of north and south, east and west of Tilir flock to the small port town that was his home.

The voices fell in strange harmony with the stillness of the morning, interspersed by the sound of waves and the trill of birds. Thadorn – for that was the man's name – knew he ought to be heading back home, where he would be expected at breakfast. He was not usually one to wander off without explaining himself. As a rule, in his life every deed and every word had a purpose.

With a last glance towards the sea in which the sunrise was reflected pink and gold, Thadorn started in the direction of the town walls, his home, and the day which felt as though he carried some fateful purpose with it.

He loved this town. It was built in the finest Tilirian tradition, well before King Alvadon the First united the scattered clans of Tilir into a single people. The walls and streets were rounded, and so were most of the houses, at least those belonging to the more respectable town inhabitants. No harsh paints were permitted on the house walls, the doors, the shutters or the signposts; the favored colors were delicate blue and green. The overall effect was of gently rippling waves, and the smell of sea was never far. Salty and invigorating, it penetrated one's lungs in healthy sharpness. Thadorn never tired of breathing it, or of feeling sorry for the people who had to live inland.

Most of the town still slept, but here and there bakeries already began to open their doors, and the enticing smell of fresh bread drifted out onto the street. "Bread and buns," chanted a stout woman with a clear voice, "rolls and cakes, tarts and pies!"

A sudden rumble of his stomach reminded Thadorn that he has been up for a while, but did not break his fast yet. For a moment he was tempted to stop and buy himself a hot pie fresh out of the oven, but then he remembered he took no money with him, nor anything else for that matter, when he quietly slipped out of the house. He just pulled on his boots and cloak, thinking he is going for a quick stroll. He did not expect to be gone for hours.

Without a thought on the direction in which he was going, his feet carried him in the direction of his family's house, an old, finely built manse that could accommodate many people, but was now home to only three: Andorn, leader of the Tionae, his wife Faelle, and Thadorn, their only son. There was also a maid, a young timid girl who did the washing and cleaning, but she came and went. Faelle took it with as good a grace as she could, even though her frail health would benefit from a live-in servant. She never hinted at it to her husband. The Tionae were an ancient clan, proud and esteemed and excellently connected, but their purses were never heavy.

The walk back home took a longer time than he thought it would. His mother and father were already sitting at the breakfast table when Thadorn walked in. Murmuring an indistinct greeting, he shed his cloak, wet with dew, and proceeded towards his seat.

"Great Spirit, Thadorn," his mother admonished him, "where have you gone to? We didn't know what to think." Faelle was a wispy little woman, yet she could command a stern voice.

"I fancied a walk," said Thadorn, patiently. With his mother, he was ever patient. He knew that, as the Great Spirit did not choose to bless Faelle with more than one child, he was the only outlet to her generous, protective love.

"You could have left a note," she said.

"Leave him be," intervened Andorn, who was as solid as his wife was ethereal. Not too tall and wide, but of a compact muscular build, he was strong and agile, and even though his hair was well-salted pepper, he possessed the lineless face and smooth movements of a much younger man. "Thadorn is three-and-twenty, for a long time now a man grown. He can take perfectly good care of himself, Faelle."

"I never said he cannot," his mother said defensively. "It just seems as though he hadn't slept at all."

"Of course I have," Thadorn replied in his mildest manner, reaching for the pot of steaming hot porridge. He ladled some into his bowl and poured honey over it. "I just woke early, that's all."

"So have I," said Andorn. "And we had better not dally over this meal too long. If we want to take a stroll around the fair, it is best to do that before noon, when the crowds become insufferable."

"Some say the crowds are what makes the fair so attractive," observed Thadorn, "Everyone are going to be there."

There was no particular reason for his parents to exchange a meaningful glance, but it seemed to Thadorn they did just that. To cover up his embarrassment, he spooned some porridge and blew on it long after it cooled.

What he said was true. Upon going to the fair, you could be certain to see the whole town pouring down towards the sea... and furthermore, the air was more fraternal than at any other time throughout the year, except perhaps the Spring Equinox.

The town of Rhasket-Tharsanae was founded by three ancient seafaring clans: the Tionae, the Kamtesir and the Kotsar. At first each clan kept to itself, seeking only safety in numbers. But naturally, after a while the clans began to mingle, and there was also some intermarriage, although this did not become frequent before the Union. Prior to that, there was also strife, some of it bloody, over the position of highest power along the dwellers of the northern shore. The Kotsar were ever the rivals of the Tionae, while the Kamtesir wisely kept out of the conflict. The Union put an end to this circle of intrigue, struggle and revenge, but one cannot force love between people who have mistrusted and oftentimes feared each other for so long.

A knock sounded on the door. It was too energetic and vigorous to be the maid, a little mousey girl of fourteen. "I'll get it, Father," said Thadorn, and was at the door in three long strides. He opened it, and found himself greeted by a smiling face.

It was Rogell, his cousin and friend. The two young men were of an age, and did everything together, as far back as they could remember. The fraternity of children's play, of swinging from apple trees in the orchard, of sledding in winter and diving into the salty waves of the sea by summer, forged a bond of friendship that only increased as the years went by. Thadorn Tionae now occupied the honorable and responsible post of Commander of the Sea Guard, a fleet of swift boats that patrolled the waters around the harbor of Rhasket. Rogell was an officer under his command, and his right hand. Some evil tongues called Rogell a shadow, a sidekick, but they couldn't be further from the truth. Rogell was a man of high intelligence, but his nature was milder, softer than that of Thadorn. For the latter, Rogell was the brother he never had, and for Andorn and Faelle, almost like a second son.

"Come in, Rogell, and sit with us," Andorn called. "We're just having breakfast. How does my good-brother fare today? Does he think he might venture out to take a look at the festivities?"

Rogell was the son of Faelle's brother. The fate played a cruel jape on his parents; his father, sadly as frail and wispy as his entire family, married a good-natured, good-looking, stout girl whose ample hips made the promise of a dozen sons. But alas, she died in the very first year of their marriage, giving birth to Rogell – while the man continued to live on and on, with his weak heart and weak limbs and seasonal coughs and sniffles. Fortunately, Rogell took after his mother and, while not as tall and powerful as his cousin Thadorn, grew up to be a strong young man, and handsome besides. He had eyes the color of the sea, and hair like jet, and was quick to smile and laugh and sing. His manner was much livelier than that of Thadorn, and did much to brighten up the latter's rather stern nature.

"My thanks," said Rogell, sitting at the table. He took a slice of bread and let some honey drip on it. "Father sends his greetings, but says he isn't certain yet of whether he will be able to venture out today or not. He spent a rough night, he says. Coughed through half of it. He bid me to go forward and enjoy myself, though."

"I thought you must already be down at the fair," said Faelle, looking fondly at her nephew, who now reached for a succulent early pear and bit into it.

"We arranged to go together," explained Thadorn. "There will be so many people down there that finding each other might be a tough task."

"Too true," his mother nodded. "With all the new arrivals, the town has been buzzing like a beehive this past week. For those of us who don't sleep very soundly, the noise is a source of irritation."

"It will feel empty soon enough," promised Rogell. "After today, the visitors will be gone... and some of the residents as well," he added, with a quick sly glance in the direction of his friend.

"What do you mean?" Andorn sounded curious.

"Rohir Kotsar is taking his family to Aldon-Sur, to participate in the festivities in honor of the royal wedding," explained Rogell. "My father mentioned it to me just this morning."

Thadorn looked none too pleased. He didn't say a word, but brooded over his clay cup of herb tea, which was getting steadily cooler. No one, however, seemed to notice his darkened expression.

"Have they been invited to the king's wedding, then?" Faelle asked incredulously. "Why, it doesn't seem possible, when we ourselves – "

"I don't think so," Rogell shook his head, and Faelle visibly relaxed. To have the Kotsar leader invited to the royal wedding when she and her husband got no invitation would have been a hard blow to her pride. "But the king's bride is arriving soon, you know, and it will be a splendid sight, and there will be a great tourney and festivities all over the capital. Those who wish to show themselves in Aldon-Sur will have no better chance."

"That is just so," nodded Faelle, "there is no limit to the vanity of the Kotsar."

She seemed ready to go forward in this venue, but Andorn chilled her with a look. "What does it have to do with vanity?" he asked reasonably. "I daresay young Kohir will want to enter the lists, and I have no doubt of him doing well. Of course, you two could easily outdo him," he looked plaintively at Thadorn and Rogell, "if you decided to go."

Rogell looked tempted by the notion, but Thadorn knitted his brows together and said, "I don't think it will be possible. We can hardly be spared from the Sea Guard."

His mother's relief was visible, but he was too busy spearing a slice of goat cheese on his fork to notice. "I know I can always count on your good sense, my son," she said. "Especially now, with the roads so perilous, going on such a journey would be unwise. As a matter of fact, in the place of Rohir Kotsar, I would not dare take the children with me. Kohir and Jadine are all grown up now, to be sure, but Kelena is scarcely sixteen, and Nog just turned twelve. It would be both safer and more profitable for them to stay behind with their mother."

"Hinassi Kotsar wouldn't miss such a trip for the world," said Andorn, "but what dangers are you talking of, wife? It's high summer, and the road is full of travelers. People from all over the west and east will come to Aldon-Sur for the tourney."

"But my dear, with the south all in uproar again – "

"The riots in the south, I am sorry to say, have become a matter of course," Andorn said patiently. "It should not have an effect on the road between here and the capital, though."

"Oh, well," sighed Faelle, "what does it signify? If at least some of the Kotsar are going, and my boys are staying, I am content."

Rogell swallowed the last of his bread and honey, licked his fingers, swigged down his herb infusion, and cheerfully got up from the table. "Aunt, Uncle, we had better get going," he urged them. "The fair has already begun, I can hear it by the noise."

"You go forward, boys," Andorn urged them. "Faelle and I will never keep up with you." He, of course, could easily stride along his son and nephew, but with his wife leaning on his arm, his walk was bound to be slow. Thadorn and Rogell weren't difficult to persuade. They walked out into the brilliance of the morning, their light cloaks thrown open to the warm wafts of summer air.

Thadorn couldn't help but notice that his friend put an unusual effort into his appearance that morning. "Is that a new tunic?" he asked with a knowing look.

"Not quite," replied Rogell off-handedly, but Thadorn wasn't fooled. Sparing his friend's feelings, he suppressed a smirk.

The annual fair was a jolly event, as always. Tables, stands, tents and pavilions were erected underneath a bright blue sky, streaked with light feathery clouds. Countless merchants were calling and haggling, singing praise to their bounty and inventing bawdy mocking tunes about their rivals. Pyramids of fruit and colorful bolts of silk, fine leather sandals and cages upon cages of live fowl, dangerously glittering steel of knives, swords and armor, rows of sweets and barrels of beer and wine, fresh pastries and newly-caught fish, necklaces made of shell and coral, copper jugs and intricately woven baskets and mats – anything one wanted to buy at today's market, it was there for the taking – for those who had the coin.

Later on, there would also be games and contests, with handsome prizes for the winners. It was not the king's tourney, to be sure, but it was always fun. Mummers and singers and pipers and fiddlers came as well, to collect the coins of those more generous, and a jumble of tunes rose into the air from several corners, mingling with many excited voices.

Thadorn and Rogell were milling around, enjoying the sight of unfamiliar faces and colorful clothes, not in a particular hurry to do anything. The coolness of the early hours was dispersing rapidly, to be followed by cloying heat, and although the hour was not even close to midmorning yet, a mug of iced beer was beginning to seem very appealing. The friends were just debating which of the beer sellers they should go to, when Thadorn gave his cousin a light nudge in the ribs.

"What?" asked Rogell, looking in the direction Thadorn pointed.

"Look who's here," said Thadorn in a wholly unconvincing tone of surprise. "I had no idea Lya had already returned from the visit to her aunt."

Rogell turned faintly pink and absent-mindedly tugged at the sleeve of his new tunic, while mumbling something about not expecting Lya to be home for at least another week.

"Come on," Thadorn said decidedly, "I know she will be happy to see you." He marched ahead, and Rogell had no choice but to follow.

Lya Tionae was of their clan, therefore a relation of theirs – though in her case the kinship was so distant it could hardly be traced. Perhaps she was the daughter of a third cousin, or a niece by marriage, or something of the sort, but it didn't signify much. What mattered more was that seventeen-year-old Lya was fair of face, with shiny dark hair and big soft brown eyes, with a slim waist and a willowy grace. She was gentle-natured and kind-hearted too, and as a child was much in awe of Thadorn and Rogell, who then seemed all grown-up and terribly strong and wise to her. Much has changed in recent years, and now Rogell, as Thadorn well knew, gazed at Lya with more than abstract wistfulness.

"Good to see you, cousins," she said with a warm smile, looking from Rogell to Thadorn. "Oh, I am glad I was able to get home in time for the fair. The Pear Islands are dull at this time of year."

Thadorn, who privately thought the Pearl Islands were dull at any time of year, came up with some sort of inconsequential reply, while Rogell shuffled his feet and looked down, seemingly at a loss for words.

"Have you put your names down for the bowmen contest?" asked Lya.

"Rogell has," said Thadorn.

"You should give it a try as well, Lya," said Rogell, finding his voice at last.

"Truly?" she sounded surprised.

"I have seen you shoot. You have a good eye and a steady hand."

"But not the strength to wield a bow like those heavy ones they keep for the competition," said Lya with a wry smile. "I prefer to watch it all from the stands. What about you, Thadorn? Surely you can outshoot them all."

"I have the strength, perhaps, but not the aim," he said. "I know my capabilities, and archer I am not. I will take part in the wrestling match, though."

"Which means that the rest of the participants won't be from around here," Rogell chimed in. "None of the locals would dare to face Thadorn."

"That is true," nodded Lya, looking swiftly and furtively at Thadorn's massive chest and muscular arms. "But the competitions don't begin until noon, do they? We have plenty of time still. Let's have a look around."

And so they walked slowly, Thadorn and Rogell flanking Lya on both sides. At times they stopped to greet someone and exchange a few words, or to watch a juggler, or to listen to a singer improvising a new song about the beach of Rhasket, and toss him a few coppers. They walked through the fabric rows with Lya, then toured along the fruit stands and bought some juicy plums and grapes to refresh themselves. And all the while, from time to time Thadorn's glance wandered astray, above the crowd – for he was exceptionally tall – as if he was looking for something, but didn't want it to be noticed. And every time he didn't find it, the crease between his eyebrows deepened. He didn't notice it was mirrored on Lya's face as well.

Finally, after they went around the place thrice and he was disappointed in his search, he thought he might as well leave Rogell alone with Lya and take a break from the suffocating crowd, which made the heat of the day near unbearable. When he made his excuses, the look on Rogell's face was part excitement, part fear.

"Come back soon, won't you?" his friend called after him. He waved and nodded and walked off, and didn't stop until he reached a small cliff a little way ahead. The merriment of the fair sounded muffled here, and the waves were making a soothing sound as they licked the wet sand. Thadorn stood there for a while, his lungs expanding with fresh salty air, deep in contemplation.

But then, although the soft sand swallowed any footsteps, he felt that he is no longer alone. Something compelled him to turn around, and once he had, he stood rooted to the spot.

A woman stood in front of him, her hair a wave of fire, her eyes the color of the sea on that impossibly vivid border between blue and green on a sunny day. A few summer freckles spattered the delicate skin of her face, enhancing its fine paleness against the colorful silky wisps she was wearing. Her lips, although soft and full and made for kissing, were now pressed together.

"What are you doing here?" she demanded, as if the place belonged to her. Jadine Kotsar always acted as if any place belonged to her. Unknowingly, she chose just the right way to embolden Thadorn, who never acted quite as composed as when he was attacked.

"What am I doing here?" he replied. "Why, the same thing as you, it appears. Taking a break from the noise and mess, and preparing for the midday games. You will enter as well, will you not? Into the shooting competition at least."

"Why do you think I would?" demanded Jadine with narrowed eyes.

"You always do," he said simply, and in the vast stillness around them, his heart began to hammer. Jadine's look betrayed the shadow surprise.

"I did every year," she said, "but this time I did not enter my name. I did not have time enough to prepare. I was... busy with other things," she concluded with the air of someone who almost said too much. Thadorn nodded.

"You are going to the capital soon, I have heard," he said. He wondered where the sudden ease of his words had come from. He had known Jadine since the day she was born, of course – it could hardly have been otherwise between three ancient clans in so small a town – but this was the first time he had actually talked to her without anyone else present. "You are looking forward to that, I daresay."

"Looking forward," Jadine repeated, "yes, you could say so."

"Aldon-Sur will soon hold many attractions. The arrival of the royal bride, the great tourney... it will be a splendid sight, people say."

"All that is a matter of fascination and awe for my little sister, Kelena," said Jadine with the faintest hint of disdain. "As for me, though... well, those things will be amusing, no doubt. But there are other attractions in the capital as well," she stopped, hesitating, as if wondering how much she should say in his presence. "Aldon-Sur is a place of learning," she said, "it is also the source of Stormstone, the magical substance that can, as the learned ones say, be fashioned into gates between our world and The-World-Beyond. And there is other knowledge too, more secret perhaps... but you do not believe it, I can see that," she snapped suddenly, and was silent. Thadorn sensed she had half a mind to turn around and walk away, and hastened to speak.

"It's not that I don't believe that," he said, "I just feel we have more than enough work to be done in our own world."

"I would have loved to meet someone from The-World-Beyond, though," Jadine said staunchly. "Wouldn't you?"

"I don't know," Thadorn admitted, lowering his voice one notch. "Everyone I love are right here."

There was a tinkle of bells, and Jadine turned her head abruptly. But it was only a flock of goats, hastening ahead of the old goatherd – a grey-haired stooped man who belonged to no clan. No one knew exactly who he was, or why and when he came to Rhasket-Tharsanae. He lived in a small seaside cave just off the beach, and came into town once a week to sell his milk and cheeses.

"See?" said Thadorn, gesturing towards the goatherd, who passed by at some distance from them. "There's a mystery for you, if you like one. Who is this man? Where did he come from? Does he have no family? So long he has been here, since before you or I were born, and yet what do we know of him? Nothing. So why go far in search of the unknown?"

Jadine made a mocking sound. "This man's name is Lafgar, he was born in Opi-Kir and ran away from home because of a strife with his brother. He took nothing with him but a she-goat and a buck, and with diligent care made a herd of them in the course of the years. He loved a woman once, but she went north beyond the sea, so he stays here and looks out, waiting for her to return all this time. Or perhaps he has already forgotten why he is here. The quiet life suits him, and he feels no particular need to see people."

Thadorn gaped at her, open-mouthed. She spoke assuredly, and it didn't sound like she is just making this up. "How..?" he said.

"I followed him once, a few years ago, just out of curiosity. When I peered into his cave he heard me and grabbed his walking stick and I thought he was going to hit me, but when he saw who I was he asked me in and gave me some cheese. I have been visiting him from time to time ever since. I learned more from him than of all these prudish books my father made me read," she added, and again she turned in the direction which the goatherd came from. "And what are _you_ doing here?" she asked sharply.

A slender brown-haired girl of about ten stood sheepishly in front of them, accompanied by a heavily freckled boy with hair the color of rust. The girl looked faintly embarrassed, and the boy shuffled his feet awkwardly. "We're looking for tracks of gulls," she finally supplied, with all the air of innocence.

"Well, off with you then, Jada," Jadine waved her off imperiously. "My cousin," she explained to Thadorn when the girl and her companion got farther away. "And her friend, a boy of the Kamtesir... Ned, I think he is called."

Thadorn looked after the boy and the girl, shielding his eyes from the sun. They stood just at the edge of water, and he could see the tracks of their bare feet in the wet sand. "Those two will end up married, you'll see," Jadine went on. "And none in my clan will be too happy about it. The Kotsar still look down on the Kamtesir, remembering they had to pay tribute to us once, before the Union."

"That is foolish," Thadorn blurted out. "Tilir is now united, and no clan pays tribute to another." He was afraid of insulting her, prickly as she was, but Jadine calmly nodded her assent.

"I agree with you. Those petty squabbles from within are the last thing we need when we are facing so many dangers from without."

"To be sure," said Thadorn, letting down his guard a little. "There's always the southern threat."

"At least you acknowledge the _always_. The savages are pressing in on us from all borders, and the Malvians – whatever someone else may say – condone this, because it means less trouble for them, and because our defeat is always their triumph. The Malvians themselves may be more civilized than their wild tribes, but it doesn't mean they bear us more love. If a time comes when we are standing at the brink, you may be certain they will give us a shove."

"You have obviously given this a lot of thought," said Thadorn. To his surprise, Jadine's eyes instantly became cold and hard as a frozen shore in the dead of winter.

"You sound surprised," she said, "did you think someone of my age and position spares no thought but to dress, company, and eligible men?"

"No," he hastened to say, "no, I only – " _Great Spirit, I feel as though I must defend myself._ And yet Jadine remained standing in front of him, feet planted firmly in the ground.

"I am only a woman," she said mockingly, "yet the blood of the Kotsar flows strongly in me. For better or worse, the Kotsar have refrained from taking brides of other clans, and only rarely and reluctantly gave their daughters away to strangers – even if those were just the clans of Rhasket, with whom we share a blood bond anyway. You know that, Thadorn, do you not?"

He did. Although unquestionably loyal to the throne now, the Kotsar withstood the Union for as long as they could – and when it became unwise to do so openly, they went into mute opposition. Even within the last century, there were instances of brother and sister marrying in that clan – a practice that had been declared an abomination by people of faith. Yet he was stricken by something else now, something that send a sudden warm jolt all through his body – the fact that she said his name.

"Anyway," Jadine went on, apparently oblivious to his struggle. "Let us put our unruly neighbors aside for a moment. What do you say about this royal bride, the foreign princess who would be our queen?"

"What do I say?" Never in his life had Thadorn felt so stupid. "I know the princess Maviel of Adrinor is a maid of seventeen, fair of face and gentle of spirit. Or at least this is what I heard people say."

"That is all I heard as well... which means, to put it simply, that we know nothing. But how many realize this is the first time a prince or king of Tilir takes a bride who isn't the daughter of our local nobility?"

"I have heard that when the portrait of the princess Maviel was brought before the king, His Grace instantly fell in love with her image and sent envoys for her hand."

Jadine looked contemptuous. "What can be said of a king that acts upon such a whim?" she threw a question into the air. "Let us rather say that His Grace saw a chance to form a valuable alliance, and seized it... without considering the price, perhaps. There are at least three noble clans who hoped to wed their daughters to the king. Had he chosen either of them, all would be content. But King Alvadon chose a bride from across the sea, and so his local allies see it as a slight."

"There may have been matters of state unknown to the likes of you and me," Thadorn said reasonably.

Jadine shrugged. "Perhaps. I am curious to look upon the face of this Princess Maviel, though. And soon this wish will be granted."

She turned to walk away, but Thadorn called after her.

"And then what?"

She looked across her shoulder at him. "We shall see," she said.

With light, surefooted steps she began to walk back towards the fair, where the games were already assembling. Thadorn stood rooted to the spot for a long time, looking after her. Vaguely, he felt that they had dueled with words, and that Jadine won. And her last phrase nagged at his mind. _We shall see._ What could she possibly mean?

Only after a minute or two did he recall that he put his name in for the wrestling match, and thus should be heading back as well.

When he arrived, the crowd was already assembled, and Peyr Kamtesir was reading out the names of the contesters in his booming voice. Hastily, Thadorn took off his tunic and went forward to the stand where the wrestlers anointed themselves with the traditional oils. Within minutes his body shone, smooth and powerful, and he felt strength surging into his limbs, such as he had never known before. He clumsily tied his shaggy hair at a knot at the back of his head, then looked for a place to hang up his tunic, but Rogell pushed himself through the crowd and took it from him. Just behind his shoulder, Lya was standing. "Good luck," she said breathlessly, but Thadorn could only manage a vague nod. He was wholly focused on the smooth arena of polished stone, and did not even notice the fiery head that appeared at the back of the stands. He went into a tent where all the contesters were waiting, and sat there, half-dazed, oblivious to the jokes and wagers made all around him. He reacted to nothing until he heard the blow of a horn, followed by his name. "Thadorn, son of Andorn, of the Tionae." Then the name of the man who will oppose him. An unfamiliar name. For all he knew, his opponent could be a mountain of a man, a fearsome mass of muscle and sinew. It made no difference, though; without false modesty, at that moment Thadorn knew he was invincible.

He didn't see his opponent's face, did not hear the crowd cheering, did not feel the bruises that blossomed on his arms, his back, the side of his face. Agile and powerful as a young panther, sleek of body and quick of limb despite his menacing size, Thadorn viewed the man facing him as simply a foreign entity to be overpowered, tossed aside, and forgotten. And so he did, time and time again, until he stood there, all alone, victorious, his chest heaving, and the smug-looking Peyr Kamtesir (who doubtless wagered more than a handful of silvers on his victory) took him by the hand and proclaimed him the wrestling champion of the day. He was given a leather pouch full of coins, but he did not even bother to open it. He thrust it into Rogell's hands as he took his clothing back from his friend and put it on. Rogell weighed the pouch in his hand, a frown of concern upon his face.

"Is anything the matter, Thadorn?" he finally asked, as Thadorn splashed water upon his face from the washing basin that was placed near the oil stands.

"Nothing," Thadorn replied curtly.

"You look dead on your feet," said Lya, whose congratulations froze on your lips. "Were you very badly hurt? That looks nasty," she pointed at a sore red stripe, courtesy of an unevenly clipped fingernail.

"That?" Thadorn looked at the red scratch that ran from his arm to the inside of his elbow. At several places, blood seeped through the broken skin. "This is nothing. No, I... I'm fine. Just tired. I think I will go home and rest."

"You won't stay for the archery competition?" Rogell said in disappointment. "Oh, well. I suppose you _are_ exhausted, and to be sure, I won't pull off as splendid a performance as you."

Thadorn nodded, too tired to speak, raised a hand in farewell and began walking off. Within seconds, Rogell caught up with him and thrust the leather pouch into his hand. "Don't forget your winnings," he said.

"You'll stop by later, and tell me how you've done, won't you?" Thadorn asked, and without waiting for the answer, continued to walk. Rogell glanced after him once or twice, then hurried to fetch his bow and quiver. When he surveyed the crowd, he was disappointed to see Lya wasn't there. She seemed to have gone, too.

At first Thadorn thought to go straight into town again, but on an impulse, decided to pass by the beach once more. And he wasn't very surprised to see Jadine again, this time standing just at the edge of the waves, her intricately woven leather strip sandals held in one hand.

"Well fought," she said when he approached.

He acknowledged her words with a nod. For some reason, this victory did not taste as sweet as he thought it would. "What of the rest of the games? Won't you watch them?"

She hesitated. "Won't you?"

He shook his head. "I'm going home. As far as I remember, we still have a box of ice in the cold storage. I need to apply some to these bruises, or by tomorrow I will become impossible to recognize."

"Oh, no," Jadine said slyly, after a pause, "you can hardly be confused with anyone else, Thadorn Tionae. But you know what? I think I will go and watch the archers after all." And just like that, she leapt lightly on her feet, turned away from him, and made to go.

"Wait," Thadorn surprised himself by calling out. And once more, she was looking at him across her shoulders.

"What?" she asked.

"When are you going to Aldon-Sur?"

"A week from now," Jadine said, and was gone.

That night, Thadorn and his parents ate alone, as they did so often, and supper was a silent affair. Halfway through his chicken leg, Thadorn laid aside his fork and knife and said quietly:

"I think I will go to the king's tourney after all."

His father looked up at him in surprise. "Will you? I thought you decided against that, son."

"I changed my mind. I believe it will be... interesting."

"To be sure. But if you go, you will be absent for weeks. Who will command the Sea Guard while you are gone?"

"Rogell," said Thadorn. "He will manage very well."

"Of that, I have no doubt. But won't Rogell wish to go as well?"

To tell the truth, Thadorn hadn't thought of that. They have always done everything together, he and Rogell, and this tourney promised to be a splendid event. Something told him, however, that Rogell will want to remain close to Lya. "We can't both go," he told his father. "One of us will have to stay here, for the Sea Guard, and Rogell is the only one I would trust to leave in my stead."

"On that I agree with you," said Andorn. "Many good men of the City Watch have begged leave to go to the capital as well. All this will leave Rhasket-Tharsanae rather poorly protected, I fear."

Thadorn gave him a sharp look. "Why? Do we fear an assault?"

"No," his father said mildly, "nothing in particular, at least. But... oh well, I suppose at least half of the men will remain on duty. And there's Fort Sand as well, just a little way to the south. A port must ever be protected. It is too precious to be loosely guarded."

"A few more words like that," said Thadorn, "and you will convince me I must remain, Father."

"Oh, no," Andorn said hastily. "No, this wasn't my intention, not in the least bit. You go, son, and you enjoy yourself, and bring honor and glory to the clan of Tionae."

Pleasure and honor and glory. Those things hold great value in the eyes of young men, yet they didn't come close to Thadorn's true purpose.

After the meal was over, his parents retired early, and Thadorn went into the study – a cozy, carpeted round room, its walls lined by bookshelves filled by row upon row of leather-bound tomes and ancient scrolls. He seated himself in one of the low armchairs by the fire and attempted to amuse himself with a book, but it was no good. Restless, he laid the book away and closed his eyes. Jadine's face appeared vividly before him, her hair a cascade of fiery copper, her eyes at one moment green, at another blue, and ever unpredictable. Today was the first time he ever spoke to her in earnest, and he didn't know whether he should feel more or less hopeful for that conversation. Her words echoed in his head. _The Kotsar have refrained from taking brides of other clans, and only rarely and reluctantly gave their daughters away to strangers_. Was there a message hidden just for him, and was it meant to discourage him, or the other way around?

The door creaked, and Thadorn turned abruptly, interrupted in his musings. His mother stood in the doorway, wispy and frail in her thick embroidered sleeping robe, her hair falling in one thinning braid across a thin shoulder. She was holding a candle, and a draft of air from the corridor made its light gutter. Without waiting for an invitation, Faelle Tionae entered the room and almost furtively closed the door behind her.

"Mother," Thadorn said, rising. He noticed she looked troubled; she looked troubled all through supper, now that he came to think of it.

"My son, do not go," she said abruptly.

He did not expect this. "I'm sorry?" he asked, confused. "Do you mean – "

"If you love me even the least bit, do not go to Aldon-Sur. Your place is here, and you very well know it."

"I know my duties," said Thadorn. "With proper arrangements, the town can spare me for a couple of weeks, I trust."

"I..." his mother hesitated, considering her words. "Yes, to be sure, but on this occasion I wish you to stay."

"But why?" Thadorn didn't understand. "Why now?"

"Because," Faelle said forcefully, "this girl will be the death of you."

Thadorn gaped at her, open-mouthed, and blushed like a child caught with his fingers in the honey-pot. This was very unlike his mother's usual mild and timid manner.

"I'm afraid I don't understand..." he began, but his mother cut him off.

"Please, Thadorn. It would be useless to deny it. I understand you better than you think... there are some things a mother knows. Some things a mother always knows."

He took a deep breath. "Well, then," he said, "if it is honesty you want, Mother, I see no reason to conceal my intentions from you. Yes, I intend to ask for Jadine's hand."

He saw her mouth constrict itself into a thin, grim line; she looked like a person whose worst suspicions were confirmed.

"I know it is probably useless, but I beg you to reconsider," she said.

The quiet, commanding tone of those words angered Thadorn. Being an only son, he often felt as though he has to walk on eggshells, step around truths, guard his every word. So much was expected of him, so much depended on him. But he was no crown prince, after all. He had the right to a private life.

"There is nothing to consider," he told his mother, "I will follow Jadine to Aldon-Sur, and will try to win her favor at the tourney. If I succeed, I intend to marry her. _If_ I succeed," he repeated, "which is by no means certain."

Faelle placed her candle upon a low table of smooth polished wood. She approached him and laid a gentle hand on his sleeve. "My son," she said softly, "you are a man grown, and there is no denying you are in want of a wife. But Jadine Kotsar is not for you. Look about you, and you'll see that all you need is quite near at hand. Lya would make you a far more suitable bride."

Thadorn shook his head. "Lya belongs to Rogell," he said. "I love her, but we have always been like brother and sister."

His mother sighed. "If you would be blind, so be it. I know that if you asked her to marry you tomorrow, she would accept, and gladly, and would make you a happy man. But I see it is no use. All I'm asking is that you keep your eyes open. There is something queer about that Jadine – and no, I'm not saying this just because she is of the Kotsar," she talked across him as he opened his mouth to protest. "She is not like other young maids. She is..." she struggled for words. "Willful? Rebellious? Self-satisfied? But no, you know all that. There is more. I have heard disturbing things about her. She disappears for days on end, and no one knows where she goes. She speaks languages, and no one knows where she learned them. She can call to animals..."

Thadorn silenced her with a gesture of his hand; a tired gesture it was, yet there was no mistaking its finality. "As to where she disappears," he said, "I believe I can satisfy your curiosity on that account, Mother. She visits that old goatherd you often see outside the city walls. The man's name is Lafgar. She told me so today."

His mother sniffed disapprovingly, wrapped herself more tightly in her robe, and picked up her candle again. "Do not imagine your father will be very pleased to hear this," she warned, turning away. Her soft slippers made no noise against the carpet, and there was only a faint thud when the door closed behind her again, and Thadorn was left alone once more.

The morning after, quite early, he knocked on Rogell's door, and the friends took a long, slow circuit on foot around town. The expression of puzzlement didn't leave Rogell's face, which was a relief to Thadorn. He didn't think he could bear it – not yet, at least – if his cousin would read into his intentions as clearly and easily as his mother had done.

"You look troubled," he was forced to observe.

"No, it's just..." Rogell rubbed his forehead with a knuckle. "I suppose I _will_ be able to stand in your stead while you are gone..." he sounded uncertain, though, and looked at Thadorn questioningly.

"Of course you will," said Thadorn firmly. "I trust you completely. Otherwise, I would never have thought of going."

"Right," Rogell nodded, looking slightly more cheerful. "What will you apply for in the tourney, though? I mean, we have been more on the decks of ships than on horseback, you and I. You won't joust, then, or am I mistaken?"

"No," said Thadorn. "I would only make a fool of myself. I will have to enter the melee."

Rogell shook his head ever so slightly. "You are as good a blade as I have ever known," he said, "but please be careful, Thadorn. I know the edges of tourney swords are blunted, but still, many a man had walked in whole and walked out a cripple. It would not do to get yourself injured – or worse – all for the sake of a game."

Thadorn gave him a sharp look. "I thought you knew me better than that," he said.

"I thought I did, too," nodded Rogell. "I know you as a man whose decisions don't shift easily. A week ago, you said quite firmly that nothing in the world will induce you to go to Aldon-Sur. Now you are all set out and ready to leave. So, as a friend and brother, I am asking you – what has changed?"

Thadorn's look made it quite plain that a stone wall could be questioned with better success.

A few days later, from the deck of one of the patrol ships, Thadorn watched the departure of the Kotsar people in the direction of the capital. Many of Rohir's kin were going with him, so they formed a loud and jolly column of riders. Rohir's wife, Hinassi, was seated on her mare sideways, in a lady's fashion, and so was her daughter Kelena, a maid of sixteen so fair and shy it was hard to believe her Kotsar blood was undiluted. But Jadine was mounted like a man, and rode beside her father and her brother Kohir, gaily shaking her fiery curls and wearing her plain riding clothes as if they were a queen's mantle. Her younger brother, twelve-year-old Nog, did his best to keep up, but it was plain this was the first time for him on a full-sized horse. Little Jada ran after the procession as far as her skinny legs would carry her, vexed beyond words at being left behind. Only when the riders disappeared in a column of dust did she stop, and stood looking after them for a long time, laughing and calling out and crying, and waving to those who could no longer see her. Her friend Ned caught up with her and stood by her side, and later they turned around and made their slow walk back into town.

Thadorn stood motionless, looking after the two children, his hair rippling in the sea wind. Now that the Kotsar were gone, it was time for him to leave – keeping a safe distance behind them, so that they would not meet him on the road to the capital. He did not mean to be seen until he reached Aldon-Sur. He would pack his things tonight, he thought. It should not take very long. He didn't have more than his sword and shield, his plain mail and leather and helm – and all that, as a lonely rider, he would be prudent enough to wear on the road. Other than that, he didn't have much. Nothing to distinguish him, apart from his determination to win.

Chapter 3

For a long while the main road went south and south, straight as a lance, running together with the path of land meeting sea. The glitter of salty water was never quite gone, which made Jadine feel she is not so very far from home after all. All her life, wherever she went, the sea and rush of waves were there. Still, as they progressed south, she noticed something foreign in the sights. Near Rhasket-Tharsanae, after one passed the fields and farms and holdfasts close to the town itself, the land stretched in sunlit wild moors, grassy heels, and an occasional clump or two of trees. Here, nearer to the Middle River, the land was far more cultivated. Each farm and hamlet was well in sight of the next, and when the great curving bend in the road revealed itself to their eyes, they glimpsed three round smoking chimneys of an inn. There was no elegance in it; it was a long and dark log house, and its shape was a simple and purposeful rectangle. Yet it was a welcome sight; the summer ride has been pleasant enough, and apart from a slight drizzle on the third day of their journey the weather favored them well enough, yet Jadine wasn't used to riding for long periods of time. She was beginning to develop saddle sores and winced every morning when time came to mount her horse, but she would be damned if she let out a complaint to her father or to Kohir. Their pace was slowed now, because her mother and sister soon got tired of riding and allowed themselves to be carried in a palanquin. Many times they urged Jadine to join them, but she rejected their offers disdainfully. She maintained she could ride perfectly well all the way to Aldon-Sur... yet there was no happier than her to see the rustic-looking inn.

"Oh, thank the Spirit," sighed Kelena from atop her cushions. "I am _so_ tired."

It was late when they arrived at the inn. A cold supper was served to them – mussel stew in trenchers of black bread, cold chicken, a jug of good beer for those who had the stomach for it, and a small flagon of wine for those who did not, such as Jadine's mother and sister. Kelena kept yawning all throughout the meal, but she did it delicately, covering her mouth with the back of her hand. Still, their father wasn't fooled. He bade his daughters to go up to their room and settle down to sleep as soon as they can – another long ride awaited them upon the morrow, and the morning promised to be foggy and grey, with a threat of rain.

Jadine scowled at the prospect of sharing a room with her sister, however briefly. Kelena was a sweet child, yet there was never much understanding between the two sisters – not that Kelena was aware of it, Jadine thought. _She probably has no notion of sisterly closeness apart from prattling about gowns and parties and gallant suitors._ She was doing just that right now as she sat in front of the crackling fire, brushing out her fine fair hair. She kept going on about the tourney, how splendid it was supposed to be, and how much she longed to have a glimpse of the princess Maviel, and how fortunate that foreign princess was for marrying His Grace, such a brave, gallant, handsome man, and such a noble king.

"Only think," said Kelena, braiding her hair, "the champions of the tourney, both in jousting and melee, will win prizes of a hundred thousand golden crowns apiece!"

"Impossible," Jadine said dryly. "The throne will beggar itself if that is the case. I say they will get no more than ten thousand crowns each."

Kelena looked almost offended. She swung her thick golden braid across the shoulder, so that it rested on her back. The Kotsar were mostly light of skin and fair of hair, or else had red hair like that of Jadine and Nog – although, to be honest, the color of Nog's hair was reminiscent of rust more than of anything else. Kohir was fair-haired like his father, their mother Hinassi had hair the splendid hue of burnished copper, and Jadine was the true fire.

"Well, the money doesn't signify much, I suppose," said Kelena. "But to think of the glory the champions will win! Songs will be sung of them for years to come. And oh, to think that one of them might be handsome and gallant, and might glimpse one of us in the stands and fall in love..." she giggled. "Wouldn't that be _beautiful_?"

Jadine scowled. No one would notice them in the crowd, she knew. They were just a drop in the flood of people who made their way to the capital now, to take part in the festivities. No one would care whether they came or not, and no one would notice when they left. This chafed her pride. In her mind, she saw herself receiving a particular invitation to court, and coming there in all splendor – not only as a wife of a powerful noble, but as a great lady of her own worth. Kelena might be content with a seat somewhere among the rest of them; for Jadine, being one of a crowd made sure that pleasure would have a bitter taste.

By the time they reached Aldon-Sur, her muscles have gained more strength than they ever had, the skin of her thighs had bruised and blistered and burst and finally healed, and she felt triumphant as she rode through the city gates by the side of her father and elder brother. Her traveling clothes were dusty, her hair tangled, but her head was held up proud and high.

"I have never imagined myself to be so out of shape," she said lightly, "I shall ride every day while we are here."

"You won't have _time_ to ride every day," Kelena pointed out. "We will be much too busy. There will be visiting and shopping, and of course, Princess Maviel is supposed to arrive by sea any day now! And then the tourney will begin and surely you wouldn't want to miss any of that."

Jadine didn't bother to answer. She looked about her, and for once, unacknowledged vanity and dissatisfied ambition were set aside. In all her life, she seldom left Rhasket-Tharsanae, and did not feel any particular urge to travel. She was satisfied by the hills and the sea, the quiet solitude of her private corners, the small choice company her parents kept, their beautiful family home and the strict elegance of their neighborhood. It suited her perfectly that the streets weren't crowded and the buildings didn't rise more than two decks high. But now her breath was caught in her throat by the splendor spread out before her, the tall watch towers with their shining spikes and the many flags of united Tilir, bedecking all in blue, green and white. The streets were wide enough for six horses to comfortably ride abreast, at least here, and the streets were teeming with people – walkers, riders, carts, palanquins, each clamoring to pass first, each shoving its way through rows of those of lesser rank, and it was sheer wonder no one got trampled. The din was unbelievable, but the air was purer than could be expected in a city of this size. This came as no surprise to Jadine, though; she had read that the king Alvadon the Fifth installed an intricate system of waste drainage below the city. And yet she, who knew nothing but the cool clear air of Rhasket, could only come to the merciless conclusion that the capital stank. The awe she felt made her slow down her pace, and for a while, she fell back to the side of her mother and sister.

"Isn't it _magnificent_?" said Kelena with her charming stupid little smile. "Oh, Mother, look at that – isn't that a fabric shop? Look at those bolts of silk on display! Have you ever seen such colors? Oh, pray let's stop and have a closer look."

"Hush, child," said dignified, still handsome Hinassi. "We shall have plenty of time for shops later, tomorrow, if you will. Now we need to get settled, and to do that, we must get to the other side of the city, to the Upper Esplanade."

"The Upper Esplanade?" Jadine turned her head sharply, more interested in that than in anything her mother had said this morning. "Are we going to stay there?"

"Uncle Derrien lives there," said Kelena with maddening smugness. "Didn't you know that, Jadine?"

"No," said Jadine with crisp coolness, "but then, at least once in a lifetime you are bound to know something I don't." She dug her heels into the sides of her horse and rode forward to join her father again, leaving her sister open-mouthed in the palanquin.

Derrien Mokkar was one of the noblest connections the clan of Kotsar had in the capital. The disdain of the Kotsar for foreign blood did not extend so far as to prevent them from forging profitable alliances. The Upper Esplanade itself was without doubt the most distinguished street outside the court gates; it had a splendid high view of the Lower Esplanade, which was located right below it, the port, which was even further down, and the sea.

The city itself was built in the form of a spiral, or a tall cone with levels that got progressively higher and narrower, though not always in symmetrical perfection. Silly Kelena kept going on about streets that were all paved in white marble sparkling so brightly in the sun it hurt the eye that looked upon them, but Jadine knew it could not be true. Every city had markets and workshops and gutters and quarters where the poor men lived, and those most often stood on packed earth, not marble. And ports, whatever nonsense her sister might have professed, were more likely to smell of fish and seaweed than of rose and lavender.

The Upper Esplanade, though, did not fall in the least bit from its extravagant descriptions. Its marble tiles were white as snow, lightly veined in cool blue, and looked as though they were swept and washed every day. Two formidable guards flanked each side of an ornately carved gate, behind which a beautifully proportioned park and a splendid villa could be seen. The well-trained guards stood quite still, and did not betray even a faint sign of life before Rohir Kotsar rode up quite close and told his name, and that he was awaited by his kinsman Derrien. It was only then that the guards sprang to the sides and opened the gate.

Not all of the companions were going to spend their time in the city in such comfort and luxury, of course. Uncle Derrien's invitation only extended to his niece Hinassi and her immediate family. The rest of the Kotsar who came for the festivities had to arrange a place for themselves in the homes of other, less distinguished relatives, or else stay in the overcrowded, overpriced inns.

Uncle Derrien, who came to the doors to greet them himself, was a portly, clean-shaven, good-natured man who spread his arms in a gesture that plainly showed he had no higher pleasure than to receive them all here.

"O Great Spirit! Can you believe fifteen summers have passed since I last saw these children? You, Kohir, were fond of climbing trees, and you, Jadine, when you set your little mind to hiding, no one could find you! Kelena, of course, was a babe in arms, and this one wasn't even born then. Pardon me, my boy, I forgot your name."

"It is Nog, Uncle," said Nog with all the timid courtesy he could muster. Kelena curtsied very prettily, and Kohir made a sweeping bow, but Jadine could summon no more than cool politeness. She could not agree that her mind was to be called _little_ , at any point in her life.

"And you, Uncle, you are looking as young as ever," said Hinassi graciously.

"Ah," sighed Derrien, obviously torn between pleasure at the comment and the unfortunate need to disagree. "Perhaps you mean to say as _old_ as ever, child – for to me, you shall always be a child. Alas, not even the beneficial air of the provinces could blow away the worries which are a necessary part for anyone who keeps the destiny of the kingdom close to heart."

While they were speaking, he led them forward, through the heavy iron-bound, bronze-studded doors and into a splendidly lit hall, warm and inviting, too large by far for a man who lived alone – for Uncle Derrien was many years a widower, and his children have all grown up, married and left.

"What are those worries, Uncle?" Jadine asked, intrigued. Her mother shot her a furious look.

"Jadine, may I kindly ask you to remember your courtesies," she said icily.

But Derrien did not take this as an affront. "Do not chide the girl, Hinassi," he said. "Interest on the part of young ones flatters me. You should know, child," he turned to Jadine, "that I was many years at service in court, advising our king, and his royal father before him, as Minister of Interior Affairs. For long years I have given good and true counsel, doing my best to be just and prudent, and only two years ago retired due to my advanced age. My son replaced me, but while I am now at leisure, I cannot stop my mind from dwelling on matters of state which have been my life so long. Lately, there was this matter of the insolent rebels who barricaded themselves in a keep beyond the Dust River."

The Dust River was a dried-up river than ran only in spring; it marked the southern border of Tilir, and beyond it began Malvian lands.

"Ah," said Rohir, "I have heard of it, I believe."

"I daresay you might have. There was a group of stubborn pigheaded farmers, illiterate men who know little about borders, who crossed the Dust River, built a mud keep on a strip of fertile land there, and refused to retreat back across the border, even when a runner from the capital brought an explicit decree. No doubt they couldn't read it. It took an armed force to evacuate them, and my son was furious, as well as he should be."

"Why should they have been evacuated?" Jadine slightly raised her eyebrows.

"Child," Derrien said patiently, "surely a clever maid such as yourself knows her own country's borders. Beyond the Dust River, Malvia begins. That settlement was a flagrant breach of the truce between our countries."

"There is no truce," Jadine said matter-of-factly, "just attempts on our side to close the border. The Malvians bear us no love or loyalty, and it is common knowledge the area beyond the Dust River used to belong to Tilir until a hundred years ago. I still don't understand why it was given away. Our country is not that large as to give valuable land for nothing."

"Jadine," her father said sternly, in a forbidding tone. Uncle Derrien was looking scandalized.

"Not for _nothing_ , child. It was a token of peace."

"A peace that never came," argued Jadine. She would have said more, but her mother broke in with a strained smile.

"That will do, Jadine. We are all weary, and will be grateful to be shown to our rooms."

"Of course, of course," said Derrien, bouncing on the soles of his feet. "You still have time to change and wash before dinner. Rod! Vyk! Now, where are those two rascals when I need them? Ah, there you are. Where have you been loitering about? Our guests are tired. Take their things up and show them to their rooms."

Hinassi and her daughters were given a spacious wing of three adjoining handsome chambers, with a shared dressing room and a bathhouse made all of white marble. Once their trunks were brought up and the door was locked behind them, Hinassi rounded on her daughter, her lips white with anger.

"How dare you display your insolence and ignorance in such a manner!"

"I am not the ignorant one," Jadine said calmly, casting her traveling cloak down to the floor and not bothering to pick it up. "Those who bow to our enemies, and forbid to ask direct questions, and abhor clear speech, are ignorant."

"Enough," Hinassi's voice was like a whip, and Kelena's smug furtive stare was even worse. "That is quite enough. I will not have you confront your great-uncle, a noble man thrice your age, within five minutes of arriving under his roof. Your rudeness was bad enough at home, but here it cannot be tolerated. I know you would ruin, without second thought, your brothers' chances to succeed in society, your sister's prospects of marriage, and your own as well. But I will not have it. You will go and make yourself presentable now, and in half an hour you will go downstairs to supper and sit by my side. You will constrain your remarks to the weather and common acquaintances, and you will not contradict anything your father or uncle say."

"What about Kohir?" Jadine asked slyly, baiting her mother. "Can I contradict him, then? To keep the supper from being too dull?"

But a twitch of a muscle in her mother's jaw told plainly that just at that moment, she is not to be trifled with. Jadine wisely retreated to her room and began rummaging in her trunk in search of a proper dress that didn't get too wrinkled in their long road to the capital. A curtain of long red hair hid the smirk on her face.

The high bells began to rang a couple of days later, just as they were having their breakfast. Ding, ding, dong, dong, they sang in silvery voices that came from high above, from the tallest castle towers. Not ominous their sound was, but filled with the sweetest promise. Kelena dropped her egg spoon, and it fell onto her porcelain platter with a delicate tinkle.

"What is it?" She asked excitedly, as the murmur of a crowd began to be heard from the street outside. "What is it, Uncle? This ringing is for good news – isn't it?"

"Yes, child," said Derrien. He laid aside his knife and fork and got to his feet lightly, despite his rotund belly. "Those bells bring happy tidings. Unless I am much mistaken, they herald the coming of Princess Maviel. Let us go to the window and look."

The family got up. The breakfast room had a splendid wall-wide window overlooking the sea, and from it, the harbor and shore could be seen clearly. Looking down, Jadine saw a fleet of ships foaming the mirror-smooth sea water, flying swiftly towards Aldon-Sur.

"Yes!" Kohir exclaimed, sounding almost like a boy, with none of his customary haughty air. "That's the flag of Adrinor, I see it, isn't it, Father?"

"Oh, let us ride down at once," begged Kelena, "I so want to see it."

"You hardly ate anything," noted Hinassi.

"I'm not hungry, Mother, truly I am not, I just want to see the princess – the whole city is going to be there, I wouldn't miss it for the world, let me just fetch my cloak – no, not this one, the new one – "

"I wouldn't put on too much finery, if I were you," warned her mother. "As you said, everyone is going to be there. You don't want the mob tearing at your new silk cape. Save it for the tourney."

"You are right," said Kelena, casting aside the new cloak and accepting her old one from a maid. "But do tell Jadine to hurry, Mother, or it will be too crowded to see anything!"

"I am ready," said Jadine. Without fussing, she already stood by the doors in her cloak and riding boots. "I just gave orders for the horses to be saddled."

When the city of Aldon-Sur was just built, its constructors didn't plan for any way to move throughout the streets than in the great spiral, up or down. But in the course of the years, shortcuts were made and paved and became streets of their own right, serving to connect all parts of the city in a more convenient way. It was down one such shortcut that the party rode now, and soon they were at the Lower Esplanade. From there, the ride to the harbor was short.

The ship that bore the princess had already taken anchor when they arrived. There could be no doubt it was the one to bear the royal bride, for it was the biggest and most beautiful of all the fleet. The docks teemed with people so that making their way through was a challenge. Fortunately for the Kotsar and their kinsman, they had the advantage of being mounted. On horseback, at least they could breathe and see.

Several people – nobles, by the look of them, dressed in a foreign but beautiful fashion – went down from the ship first, no doubt happy to have firm ground under their feet after so long a journey. They looked splendid, like colorful butterflies in the bloom of spring, but Jadine found the style was too flamboyant for her liking. Then the princess herself appeared, flanked by even more nobles. By Jadine's side, Kelena let out a gasp of delight.

From their advantageous point, Jadine could see her well. The princess wore a gown of pale green silk with slashed gold-lined sleeves, snug at the waist and falling down to her feet in a great cascade of skirts. A slender golden tiara sat atop her chestnut hair, fashioned into an elaborate design of braids. She had a pale heart-shaped face, eyes that looked dark from the distance, and a very noticeable air of awkwardness. No one could have said she was uncomely, but Jadine would never have believed King Alvadon fell instantly in love upon seeing this girl's likeness. _Unless the artist's work told a gross lie._

"Isn't she _beautiful_!" Kelena whispered ecstatically. "Oh, Jadine, look at that dress! What wouldn't I give to have something like that made for me! I believe it might be contrived, might it not, with several petticoats all worn one on top of the other – "

For the life of her, Jadine couldn't understand why a sensible woman would put on a ridiculous dress that made walking hard and riding impossible. But then, those foreigners probably had more pride than sense. She was about to tell her sister as much when Kelena's effusions were stopped by the approach of their uncle. He was looking unusually pleased.

"My dears," he said, looking from Hinassi to her two daughters, "I have the great honor to present you my particular friend, the noble Dankar Gindur. I would never have spotted him in this crowd," he allowed himself a small chuckle, "but for his magnificent destrier."

Only then did Jadine notice with a start the mounted man that now appeared from behind their uncle's broad back. _A black man on a black horse_ , a wild thought struck her, though it was far from being precise. The splendid destrier, although in the most part black as night, had a fringe and tail of smoky silver, and the man himself, of course, was not black – merely dark-haired and olive-skinned, with eyes as cool and hard as pieces of onyx. He had a small, neatly trimmed black beard, growing more thickly towards the jaw line. His ungloved hands, resting on the reins of his horse, showed long artistic fingers of unquestionable strength, one of them weighed down by a beautifully carved silver ring with a fiery opal set in it. Due to the summer heat, he wore shimmering green silk, and a light cloak trailed from his shoulders, rippling in the sea breeze. Striking and formidable he looked, but not old – Jadine estimated his age at no more than thirty. She wondered how this man could be a friend of her uncle.

"Well, in truth, the noble Gindur is friendly with my son Beryen," explained Uncle Derrien, as if reading her thoughts, "but he is dear to me as well, like a second son. Dankar, this is my niece Hinassi, of the Kotsar of Rhasket-Tharsanae – her husband Rohir – and their children," he made a sweeping gesture to include Kohir, Jadine, Kelena and Nog.

Dankar Gindur courteously inclined his head. "It is a great pleasure for me to make your acquaintance. I have distant kinship to the Kotsar myself, through my mother's side."

"Do you indeed?" asked Rohir with the liveliest interest. "I _thought_ I saw a resemblance to our clan in you, actually." Jadine didn't know how that could be, as most of the Kotsar were fair and this man strikingly dark, but she knew that was her father's way of complimenting the stranger.

"Perhaps your relative, the noble Mokkar, can once help me trace the exact relation through our two family trees," said the noble Dankar Gindur without a trace of a smile. "Just now, though, I believe we must all be on our way. The procession is forming to go up to the castle, do you see? His Grace himself is awaiting his bride there, and the tournament shall begin upon the morrow. I hope you will stay in the city long enough to see its end?" he asked in a much livelier manner.

"Oh, at the very least, and probably longer," Hinassi assured him.

"I hope to see you again before long, then," he nodded with cool satisfaction, took his leave, and trotted away. His cloak, made of rippling green and blue forming the pattern of waves, flew behind him as he spurred his horse on. The bright sun reflected off the beast's glistening sides.

"A very impressive man," Hinassi said shrewdly.

"Oh, yes," Uncle Derrien nodded vigorously. "One of my son's most fortunate connections, without a doubt."

"Does he serve at court as well?" asked Jadine.

"No," said her uncle, "he doesn't need to labor to acquire more consequence for himself. The Gindur are ancient nobles... they even toyed with a hope to offer one of their daughters as a wife for the king, which would have distinguished the whole clan – but this plan, of course, was disrupted by the loveliness of Princess Maviel," he smiled sweetly. "This doesn't diminish their consequence in the least, though. And Dankar himself, although not leader of his clan, is fabulously wealthy. He has a splendid house in the city, at the other end of Upper Esplanade as a matter of fact, and owns a chain of arms-and-armor shops. Several beautiful summer houses in the provinces, too. Some would say he needs an heir almost as badly as the king himself," Uncle Derrien added as if in an afterthought.

"Is he unmarried, then?" Hinassi asked shrewdly.

"A widower," Uncle Derrien replied succinctly.

"Oh, how dreadful," Kelena put in.

"Just so, child," their uncle nodded sagely. "You have seen the sorrow upon his face, it is easy to notice. Of course, not a year has passed since his young wife died. He is still grieving."

Jadine didn't believe that even for a moment. Dankar Gindur's face was harsh, formidable, stern, unsmiling – but not sorrowful. She didn't believe in this accidental meeting upon the docks, either. She was certain the rich widower sought a bride, and that was precisely why Derrien Mokkar introduced him to his relations, among whose number were two pretty young maids. As plainly as if direct words were exchanged, she saw the same calculations pass through her mother's mind. A look of unmistakable avarice came into Hinassi's pale green eyes.

"I am sure your poor friend doesn't wish to pass the rest of his days alone, though," she told her uncle. "He would make a splendid match even for a princess."

"Oh, I am not at all sure he is seeking a noblewoman," Uncle Derrien said lightly. "Most of the nobles reside here in the city, and while the attractions are obvious, I have heard the noble Gindur lament, more than once, as to what the crowds and noise and constant irritation do to the mind and spirit of young maidens. His late wife had been from one of the provinces, a daughter of a respectable and wealthy clan, but not close to the throne. She was a pretty, unspoiled thing."

_And now he seeks another such like,_ Jadine thought savagely. She hoped she didn't catch his eye. As noble and rich and handsome and refined this man was, something about him made her revolt. _They will never marry me off,_ she decided. _I won't let them. I can run off. I can slit the bridegroom's throat._

"But now we had better hurry up," said Uncle Derrien. "I suppose you do want to go to the castle and witness the first meeting between the king and his bride, as long and tiresome as the ride is likely to be?"

"Could you get us in?" Rohir said in flattered tones.

"Oh, Uncle, do let's go, it's going to be so splendid," Kelena echoed rapturously.

"Yes, let's go," said Hinassi, "but let us not linger long. We have many preparations to make yet. The tournament begins tomorrow, and we must look our best," she added, throwing a significant look at her daughters.

The morning of the tournament dawned bright and early, but the house was yet quiet and still, and only the faintest stirring could be heard upstairs. Therefore, Jadine was startled when she ran into Kohir while she crept up, barefoot. Her brother was fully dressed, and his new gilded bow – a gift from Uncle Derrien – was slung across his shoulder. He looked as surprised as she felt to see her.

"Where have you been?" he asked her bluntly.

"To see if breakfast is ready," she said.

"You liar. I just had breakfast, and I ate alone."

"You're heading out already?"

"I must hurry. I entered the lists both for jousting and archery, you know. But don't you try to shrug me off. Where have you _been_?"

"To the Halls of Learning," Jadine admitted with a scowl.

Kohir studied her face, and seemed disappointed to realize she isn't lying. "Is that where you have been sneaking?" he asked. "I thought there was something more interesting... a suitor, perhaps... what is there in the Halls of Learning but thousands upon thousands of dusty old books?"

"Those dusty old books hold a treasury of knowledge, brother," said Jadine. "They tell of how the worlds were created, and how gates open between our world and the Other, and which selected men crossed them. They tell of the Spirits that are One, and of kings and queens, of heroes and monsters, and of what shall be in the end of all things."

"The Messenger will come," said Kohir with an indifferent shrug. "Everyone knows that."

"No one knows anything," snapped Jadine. "Although perhaps the warlocks of the Emerald Mountains know more than some."

"Why don't you go and learn from them too, then?" laughed Kohir. "I'm sure that will make Mother happy."

"Oh, shut up," said Jadine with a charming smile, yet a shadow flitted in her eyes. "And get going already. It won't do to miss the tournament. We all want to see you unhorsed and splayed in the dust."

"Careful, it's a champion you are speaking too," warned Kohir, but without undue seriousness. He was twenty, a man grown, a fair rider and not a bad sword, but he knew the realm is full of more seasoned warriors. He must have entered the tournament for sport, Jadine thought.

Uncle Derrien procured a very good booth for them – not in the front rows, but in a spot that commanded perhaps an even better view of the field. The tournament was about to begin, and the air was abuzz with excited chatter, the blow of trumpets, and the call of heralds.

Most eyes were drawn towards the royal seats, where the king already took his place, with his bride-to-be by his side. Princess Maviel was resplendent in a gown that was a torrent of peach-colored silk and foamy lace. Her hair was teased up in an elaborate fashion, and twinkled with gemstones – from the distance, it was impossible to make out which. Young King Alvadon, compared to her, was simplicity itself in his snow-white silken tunic, thinly embroidered upon in golden thread. Golden was his hair, too, and his closely cropped beard, and his eyes were like the sea.

"I have never seen such a handsome man," whispered Kelena rapturously in her sister's ear, and for once, Jadine could not but agree.

"Smile," a whisper reached their ears. When the girls looked up, they saw their mother following her own advice. A simpering smile, very much at odds with her cool green eyes, appeared on her face; by her side, Uncle Derrien was re-arranging his belongings like a fussy old lady.

"Gather up your cloak, Jadine, and you, Kelena, move to the side. Your uncle's noble friend is coming up, and I hope he will join us."

Startled, Jadine looked in the direction her mother's chin indicated. Sure enough, there was Dankar Gindur, dark and handsome and slender as she recalled from their meeting yestermorn, walking over to their booth and smiling pleasantly. He made a very flattering bow in Hinassi's direction.

"Come and sit, Dankar," Uncle Derrien said familiarly, patting the empty space between himself and Rohir. Hinassi joined the entreaties, although it was obvious that if she had her way, she would have had the nobleman sit next to her daughters. Dankar accepted the invitation with smooth acquiescence and slid onto the indicated seat with catlike grace.

"It promises to be a delightful spectacle," he said, and yet all throughout the joust, while people all around gaped and gasped and oohed and aahed, he sat with his eyelids half-closed, almost bored, sometimes tapping his foot as if the inability to get up and walk about was extremely restrictive. He exchanged but a few words with Uncle Derrien, Rohir and Hinassi, and even fewer with the girls and Nog, but still, his silent presence seemed oppressive to Jadine's acute senses. She wasn't even able to concentrate properly on watching the performance of her brother – who, just as she had predicted, was soon unhorsed.

Then the jousting was over for the day, and the herald called out the first two melee fighters. "Thadorn, son of Andorn," he called, "of the clan Tionae of Rhasket-Tharsanae!"

The name of Thadorn's opponent was lost in the murmurs that erupted by Jadine's side.

"It really is Thadorn!" Kelena peered forward in excitement. She didn't know him well, but he was generally well-liked. "Thadorn from our town, yes, it is him, look!"

"Of course it's him, they said his _name_ ," Nog rolled his eyes, sounding for a moment more mature than his sixteen-year-old sister. "Did you think there is another Thadorn Tionae of Rhasket?"

Hinassi tilted her head to the side and observed Thadorn coolly, as a mildly interesting specimen. "I didn't know Andorn's son was going to come," she told her husband. "I didn't know any of the Tionae were going to come. They are harder to move from Rhasket than seaside rocks. Why is he here?"

But no one of her party could have supplied a satisfactory answer – no one but Jadine, who sat with her hands clasped upon her knees, her eyes fixed upon the field, her eyes bright and her cheeks flaming. She was no longer irritated by Dankar Gindur's haughtiness, Kelena's stupidity, her mother's presuming interference. She knew Thadorn came for her, and the certainty of that knowledge went to her head like wine. She watched her townsman take upon opponent after opponent; brilliant he was, young and fierce and strong, and when the fighting was done and he was proclaimed to be the day's winner of the melee, among the clapping and cheering he lifted up his gaze and sought something in the crowd, and when he was satisfied to have her eyes upon him, he brandished his sword and sun sparkled upon steel in blinding whiteness.

It was Kohir, bruised but smiling good-naturedly, who led the victorious Thadorn to their booth. Even though the Tionae and the Kotsar often submitted to petty rivalries, here away from their home town they could almost consider themselves the branches of one clan. Kohir clapped Thadorn on the back in the friendliest manner, and even Hinassi found it in her to offer a cursory nod. Thadorn stood before them, and towered over them all, and perhaps that was why Dankar Gindur got up to his feet as well. He was not a man who liked to be towered over. Following his cue, they all rose.

"I greet you, Rohir," Thadorn said formally, with a slight bow. Now that he was so close, he could not help but see Jadine, and yet he was not looking at her.

"And I congratulate you, Thadorn," Rohir said. "That was very well fought. Your father shall be proud. Is he in the city as well?"

"No, no. My father stayed behind. Such a journey would not have agreed with him."

"Well, I daresay word will reach him soon enough. You have already distinguished yourself; you may very well end up the champion."

"May victory go to the deserving," Thadorn said humbly. He did not stay long. He received a nasty hit to his wrist that needed tending, if he were to carry a shield tomorrow. His eyes sought Jadine's only for a moment before he left, and again, her heart beat in a rush of fierce pride.

Hinassi was in very good spirits – as much as she was capable of being in good spirits – once they were back in Uncle Derrien's mansion and she was upstairs with her daughters.

"The noble Gindur will sup with us, and it can be said he practically asked for the invitation. Your uncle says it is unheard of – he almost always has to be solicited for a good long while before he consents to commit himself for an entire evening. Uncle Derrien is certain his noble friend means to marry one of you."

" _Means_ to marry one of us?" Jadine's nostrils flare. "Do we, or even you and Father, have a say in the matter?"

"Well, as long as no declarations have been made, we mustn't act as if we are expecting them," Hinassi said briskly, and a little frown creased her smooth white forehead. "I wish there was a way to know which of you he prefers."

"He is welcome to Kelena," Jadine said with a feigned yawn of boredom. "As for me, I shall never marry that man."

Hinassi shot her a look of cold anger. "I cannot help but hope that he _does_ prefer Kelena, as you are sure to make a botch of this marvelous opportunity," she said contemptuously.

But Kelena did not seem thrilled by the prospect either. "Jadine is older," she pointed out. "I am sure that if the noble Gindur has his sights fixed on one of us, it must be her."

Hinassi stroked her younger daughter's golden hair with a smile of indulgence. "Jadine is older, but you are cleverer, my dear. You know what is good for you."

It was one rare occasion when Jadine sympathized with her sister. It appeared that, as awed and impressed as Kelena was by Dankar Gindur, she did not entertain the notion of becoming his wife. Her mother's suggestions left Kelena childishly frightened.

"Before you promote a match, you should hear what is said of that man," said Jadine. "Did you know he was married not once, but twice? Both his wives were young and pretty, both from rich families, and both brought a very handsome bride gift just as our noble Gindur _happened_ to be in debt. Both conveniently died soon after the debt was paid. You never miss a shred of gossip, you must have heard of that, Mother."

Kelena now looked positively frightened, and Hinassi glared at her eldest daughter furiously. "Ridiculous slander!" she sputtered. "How can you be stupid enough to listen to such tales, let alone spread them further?"

Jadine shrugged. "The deaths of those girls are a fact," she said.

"You are insufferable," said Hinassi in cold haughtiness. "Well, I suppose we should consider ourselves fortunate, then, that whatever bride gift we can give with either of you will seem insignificant to noble Gindur. If he wishes to marry one of you, it shall be a match of pure affection."

Jadine didn't believe the man was capable of affection. "If he wishes to marry Kelena, you mean," she corrected her mother, and flashed an apologetic smile at her sister. "Sorry, Kel, but if this man wants a bride from our family, it will be your fate that – "

"Listen to me," Hinassi cut across her daughter, and her voice had the force of a glacier, "this is an opportunity we will not squander. If the noble Gindur wants Kelena, he will have Kelena. And if he insists on having you, Jadine, then he shall have you, and don't you dare look at me that way. I would let him have _both_ of you, if he wished it, and if law still permitted it. And now, to work. We have exactly an hour till supper, and we must make the two of you as handsome as possible. Call the maids, Kelena."

Cousin Beryen, Uncle Derrien's son, joined their supper party together with his wife. He was an insipid young man, she a little grey mouse to match him, and neither of them left the smallest impact on Jadine's imagination. Not so Dankar Gindur, who appeared fresh and alert despite the sweltering heat of the night, which threw almost everyone into languor. All windows were wide open to catch a drift of wind, but the pleasant, steady sea breeze that normally ventilated the houses of the Upper Esplanade was nowhere to be found. The air hung sultry and still, and even the enormous fans Uncle Derrien's servants operated through a hidden opening in the wall brought little relief. But Dankar brought with him a fresh scent of pine and lemons, his walk was springy, and not a hint of sweat could be noticed on his smooth brow. He wore a suit of rippling black silk, and his silver belt was studded with black amethysts. His hair was black silk too, his smile a flash of white in his dark face. Jadine didn't know whether to feel annoyed that his clothes seemed finer than hers, or to mock herself for minding it.

"I am relieved to see I am not late," he said with one of his smooth courteous bows, "it would have been a crime to keep such fair ladies waiting."

He spoke expressly to Hinassi, and she accepted his words with a simper that made Jadine's stomach churn with revolt. The man was impeccably polite and well-bred, yet somehow, every word out of his mouth seemed a mockery. Try as she might, she could not understand his designs. Did he really wish to marry one of them, and if so, which one? And why? Half the highborn of Aldon-Sur threw their daughters in Dankar Gindur's way, she learned that too. Why would he seek a bride from the provinces, and with little money to offer at that?

Meanwhile, everyone were seated around the smoothly polished table, and the first course – a light cold fish stew – was served. Jadine tasted it. It was much too salty. Dankar seemed to have reached the same conclusion, because he set his spoon aside and spoke to Rohir.

"That townsman of yours – Thadorn Tionae, I believe he is called – was very impressive today. The king himself noted his prowess, and Princess Maviel urged His Grace to name this Thadorn a member of his personal guard."

"That would be a great honor for him, to be sure," replied Hinassi, but then a hint of suspicion must have darted into her mind, because she gave Jadine a swift, stern look, and added with a sweet smile, "you mustn't presume we are always on such familiar terms with the Tionae, though, o noble Gindur. We exchanged greetings as fellow townsmen chance met in the capital, but we really don't have much to do with the Tionae at all."

He inclined his head ever so slightly, his solemnity too deep to be real. "I see."

It was so hot no one felt like eating much; the mushroom-stuffed salmon was barely touched, the roast duck sent away before it even reached the table. Several flagons of iced wine were consumed, though, and Rohir was in a rather good mood by the time the fruit and frozen cream were served.

"Music would help to lift us out of this languor," he said.

"We can have music," said his wife with silken complaisance. "Jadine, you will humor us with a song, will you not?" she indicated the large gilded harp standing in one of the corners.

"I don't fancy playing, Mother," said Jadine with a faint shrug. Her mother didn't dare to berate her in front of everyone, but her lips turned thin and white, and her eyes were like chips of green ice.

"I shall play," Kelena said meekly and went to the instrument, and it was clear to Jadine her sister did that to prevent a row, not to show off her own talent. Kelena has been unusually silent since their mother declared she means to marry one of them to Gindur if only she can, and during supper she laid aside her knife and fork more than once, looking queasy. When Dankar chanced to speak to her, she was unfailingly polite, but none of her usual gayness was present in her voice. After almost sixteen years of misunderstanding, Jadine finally felt she is warming up to her sister.

The conversation turned to the upcoming royal wedding, which was to take place a week hence – a fact that threw all the court into a fit of feverish preparation. Gowns were sewn, courses planned, cooks, serving girls, singers and dancers hired.

"It is going to be a splendid event," noted Beryen Mokkar's wife in her insipid little voice.

"Splendid, but small," Dankar replied in his alert manner. "Traditionally, only ninety-nine guests will attend the wedding feast... myself among them, I have that honor. The three tournament champions will be honored guests as well – the jousting champion, the melee winner, and the best archer."

"How lovely," Hinassi chimed in. To Dankar's credit it must be said he seemed faintly bored with her simpering, which was so unbecoming to that cool pale face.

"Your fair daughter plays very well," he said to her, dramatically lowering his voice just enough to attract everyone's attention. Kelena, not taking her eyes off the harp, blushed crimson.

"Oh, yes," Hinassi nodded eagerly, "but then, my Kelena does everything well," she added with a look that was meant to convey motherly fondness.

Later that night, Jadine was surprised to hear a timid knock on her door. Following her response, her sister slipped into the room quietly and sat on the edge of her bed. In the weak flickering light of the oil lamp, Kelena's eyes looked dark, sad and haunted.

"What is the matter?" Jadine asked. The two sisters never shared nighttime heart-to-heart talks as girls are prone to do. They never shared anything, much.

"They are going to marry me to him, Jadine," Kelena whispered, sounding like a scared child. "I know it. I know it."

"Calm down, you silly," said Jadine, propping herself up on her pillows. "So far, it is all Mother's fantasies. Why would he want you if he can have anyone he wants?" This was meant to lighten up the mood, but Kelena bit her lip in worry.

"I don't know," she breathed out. "I just know he frightens me. All the rumors about him... you are cleverer than I, Jadine. You always have been. Do you believe he is a bad man?"

"I don't know," said Jadine. _I am certain he is a dangerous man, though._

"You are the one who should marry him," said Kelena. "You fear nothing."

Jadine yawned. "I fear I shan't be able to get up tomorrow if you don't let me sleep," she said, yet Kelena remained seated.

"He is very handsome, is he not?" she mused. "And noble and rich besides. But somehow... somehow, there is something about him that unnerves me. I feel I could never understand him, even if I knew him a thousand years."

Jadine laughed softly. "And is that why you think he might be a good match for me? Because you will never understand me, either?"

Kelena got up, and her final words were no more than a murmur. "I understand you better than you think," she said, and got out of the room.

Chapter 4

When the champions' names were announced, Kelena tore her gaze from Thadorn's tall, broad and striking figure, and instead looked shrewdly at her sister's face. Jadine was flushed with excitement, her lips slightly parted, her eyes sparkling... fierce emotion was in her face, but no tenderness, and this disquieted Kelena.

No matter what Jadine thought, she was not stupid. She knew her sister was going to marry Thadorn. It was an unexpected, but nevertheless appropriate match. Jadine would marry Thadorn Tionae, and go home, and if she forgot her odd books and the blood-chilling theories she sometimes shared with Kelena for lack of better companions, she could be happy. Kelena envied her. She wished she could go home, too; marry someone of the Rhasket-Tharsanae clans, and live in happy and respectable obscurity, as her parents had, and their parents before them. A dazzling success in the city and a marriage to a famously rich nobleman seemed like a fantasy of a foolish child now that they were materialized in the form of dark and handsome Dankar Gindur. She didn't want him, and if she dared, she would have screamed it in her mother's face.

His Grace himself descended onto the field, lithe on his feet, golden of hair and so beautiful that he took Kelena's breath away. The winners of the tournament knelt before him, and he helped each of them to their feet, clasped their shoulders, and said:

"Well fought, brave men. I am thankful for the tourney which made me see your skills, and appreciate your value. I need men such as you about me. I offer you a place by me, in my personal guard, and I promise you, you shall rise high. What say you?"

The jouster merely inclined his head in thanks, too stupefied by his good fortune to put his thoughts into a coherent phrase, and the winning archer distinctly said, "there is no higher honor, Your Grace."

But Thadorn Tionae remained standing, solid and unmoved. "Your Grace," he said, "by giving me a chance to pledge my life to yours, you honor me beyond belief. But I am afraid I cannot accept your generous offer. I am the Commander of the Sea Guard at Rhasket-Tharsanae, and at present, without undue humility, I do not see who would replace me. I must humbly ask your leave to return home."

There was an intake of breath, and tension rose high in the air, as if people were expecting an outburst of anger, or a fit of cold sullenness. But the young king smiled, and rested his hand upon Thadorn's shoulder once more.

"Good and loyal man!" he exclaimed. "I shall sleep easier, knowing the Sea Guard of Rhasket is headed by you, Thadorn Tionae. Still, I wish to honor you. How shall I do that? Gold you shall have, like all champions. But what else would you ask of me?"

For a moment, Thadorn hesitated. "Your Grace," he finally said, "this tournament was held in the honor of your upcoming marriage, may it be long and fruitful and filled with joy. If it is possible, I wish to be included among your wedding guests."

"Done!" called the king with an easy smile. "You shall have a place of honor at the table of my wedding feast."

Thadorn bowed low, and did not straighten until the king resumed his seat in the royal booth.

"He did really well, didn't he?" said Nog.

"Better than could have been expected," said Rohir.

"Thadorn is a great warrior," his eldest son contradicted him.

"A great fool, perhaps," snapped Hinassi. "And with his fool's luck, he pushed through. Much good it will do him, though, if he threw away a splendid opportunity of court service."

"Oh, I don't know, Hinassi," Uncle Derrien said. "This boon he asked for, of attending the wedding... it was shrewd. To be seen at the king's wedding feast is enough to lift one from obscurity."

"I wish we could all go," said Hinassi, somewhat petulantly. Dankar, who shared their booth once more, gave her the most fleeting half-glance, and averted his eyes once more.

Later, after they all returned home and had a quiet luncheon, Hinassi insisted that the girls retreat to their rooms, to rest after the morning's activities. "You must give yourself a respite," she said, "or you will look tired and listless, and we cannot have that, can we?" Jadine tried to protest and said something about having things to do in town, but her mother cut across her with her usual disdain for the opinions of others. "Anything you might want to do can wait," she said. "And if you go out in this glaring sun, your skin will become red and freckled. That must be avoided."

And so, the sisters spent their time in the upstairs sitting room, which was small but as lavishly decorated as the rest of the house. Kelena took up her embroidery, while Jadine tried to immerse herself in several books in turn, before tossing them all aside in exasperation and beginning to walk from door to window.

"I looked forward to coming here, but now I wish we were home already," she said impatiently. "I feel like a prisoner."

Kelena's needle hovered in the air for a moment as she contemplated her sister. "You may go home," she said sadly, "I have lost hope of doing so. Did you hear that?" she strained to listen, and shuddered. A door was opened downstairs, someone descended in a rustle of silk, a few words were exchanged in a low voice. "It is him again, I know it is," Kelena whispered fervently. "Why did he have to fix his eye upon us? Why won't he let us be?"

Dankar Gindur did not stay long, though. Soon, their mother herself went upstairs and came into the room, looking buoyant. She was rarely seen in such a good mood.

"Daughters," she said, clasping her elegant white fingers together, "this is a great day for us all."

Kelena looked at her mother with sudden fear, yet Hinassi Kotsar said only, "the noble Gindur procured places for us at the royal wedding feast!"

"Did he?" exclaimed Jadine with the first display of real enthusiasm Kelena had seen from her since their arrival in the capital. "Did he really? Does this mean we are going, then?"

"Yes – yes, and it is a great chance for us to distinguish ourselves. We must go down into the city at once. Even our best clothes are too shabby for an event of such magnificence; new ones must be sewn with all rapidity. We must look our best... all of us... and especially you, Kelena," Hinassi turned to her younger daughter, who seemed to shrink in her seat.

"Me, Mother? Why me?"

"Because I believe," Hinassi said impressively, "that the noble Gindur has finally made his choice. I believe it shall be you, Kelena!" If she expected a display of joy on her daughter's side, she was disappointed. "What is the matter?" she asked impatiently. "You aren't going to let your stupid childish prejudices get in the way, are you? It will be a splendid match, better than I could hope for either of you. You will be settled in the city, and will become a very great lady."

Kelena nodded stiffly, hoping against hope her mother's splendid plan might yet go askew.

She knew her sister always considered her vain, shallow and silly, yet something was changing within her. A mere fortnight ago, a match with someone rich and noble was without a doubt the height of her ambitions – and she would have given anything to attend the royal wedding. Now, she was willing to give it all up, if only it meant she could forget about Dankar Gindur forever and go home, safe and sound.

Still, she could not help but be affected by the splendour of the Great Temple, bedecked in exotic flowers from floor to its high vaulting ceiling. Colored panes were placed over the clear glass windows, and the place bathed in all the colors of the rainbow. By design, only one patch of white sunlight remained in the middle of the temple, where the king and his bride stood facing each other, every eye in the crowd upon them. _It is like a picture from a story or a song_ , Kelena thought. The king was all in white, apart from the trimming of his cloak, which was done in a pattern of blue and green waves. His golden crown glimmered brightly on his golden hair, and he had never looked happier. Princess Maviel looked radiant too, and resplendent in her many-layered gown of golden yellow satin, with intricate embroidery of leaves and trees upon it. She dispensed with the elaborate hairstyle she was usually seen wearing, and allowed her hair to fall upon her back in dark waves, soft and gleaming, only partly collected in twin braids that met at the back of her head. A stout, slightly balding yellow-haired man whom Kelena knew to be the king's uncle was given the honor of performing the marriage ceremony, in place of the king's deceased father.

"Do you, King Alvadon of United Tilir, Ninth of your name, take the Princess Maviel of Adrinor to be your wife and queen, now and for all time?"

"I take the princess for my queen," the king replied in a solemn voice.

"And do you, Princess Maviel of Adrinor, take our good king Alvadon to be your husband and your liege, now and for all time?"

"I take the king for my husband," the princess called out in her sweet clear voice, accentuated by foreign tones.

"Then I proclaim you man and wife." The king's uncle was a prodigious choice for the task, as his voice was deep and booming. "No force on earth or in heaven, in this world or the Other, shall separate you. May your union be joyful and fruitful and bring blessing to the land of Tilir."

The temple erupted in clapping and cheering, far louder than common politeness required, and the king gently took his bride's face between his hands and kissed her on the lips. Queen Maviel looked up at him, shyly and adoringly, and the innocence in her eyes nearly broke Kelena's heart. What wouldn't she have given to stand like this in front of everyone and say the wedding vows with a man she loved. He didn't have to be king. In her dreams, she couldn't clearly distinguish her lover's features, but he was always kind and generous as well as handsome and brave. She would have closed her eyes so as to picture it better, but she was too perturbed by the presence of the dark man who now stalked her family like a shadow.

After the ceremony was over, those who were invited for the wedding formed a slow procession out of the back doors of the Great Temple and in the direction of the castle. They passed the Upper Esplanade on their way, and Kelena threw a longing look at her uncle's house, thinking of her comfortable little room with its books and cushions and harp. She wished she could remain there, alone and undisturbed; she ought to have felt flattered beyond words at being included in the select party who would attend the wedding feast, but fear turned any happy feeling to ashes in her mouth.

Their dresses were sewn in record time. Silk, of course; no other material would have done in the prolonged heat of the season. Her dress was dark purple, which enhanced the fairness of her skin and the gold of her hair, and made her eyes look almost lilac. Her sister wanted a red dress, but their mother wouldn't hear of it, so Jadine settled on a striking gown of emerald green embroidered in silver; it was, in Kelena's opinion, far too low cut, but she held her tongue. Jadine did look beautiful, though. She drew every eye to her as she had always done, it was plain to see.

Dankar Gindur was ever at her elbow, and his pleasant banter brought such a sense of doom upon her that she hardly paid attention to details of the castle – a place she had long dreamed of seeing. She was merely stunned by its enormity, its elegance, its many round turrets and towers and vast echoing marble halls and the silvery song of many-tiered cool fountains. They passed a hall in which the floor was made of thick clear glass, and colorful fish swam in a pool under it, forming an ever-changing tapestry.

Finally they reached the feast hall, and Kelena's breath caught in her throat. She had never seen such elegance in a building; could not even imagine it existed. The walls and ceiling were all covered with mother-of-pearl and shone softly in a thousand different colors that changed every time she tilted her head. There was a raised dais for the king and queen, and a hundred small round tables lined along the walls – apparently, the number of guests was larger by far than was originally planned – with plenty of room for dancing in the middle of the hall. The sweet sounds of music, of harp and flute and delicate small silver tambourines, poured from a tall white balcony above, just near the ceiling, so that it seemed the melody came in from the sky.

Their party was seated in a respectable place, somewhere in the middle between the royal dais and the back of the hall. At a table just below the king's, Kelena noticed Thadorn Tionae, and envied him – not because he was seated so close to His Grace, but because he seemed so straight and powerful and free. He noticed them too, she saw, and Jadine returned his glance.

Resolutely but with no rush, Thadorn got up from his place and came over to their table. He bowed, and was greeted warmly by Rohir and civilly enough by Hinassi. He solicited Jadine's hand for a dance, and was graciously accepted. The dance floor began to fill with couples assembling in a spiraling chain traditional for the wedding dance.

"Ah," said Uncle Derrien lightly, mopping his brow with a perfumed handkerchief, "the day has left me fatigued, to be sure, but the young are ever tireless. Dancing is such fun for them."

Kelena saw her mother smile benignly, yet her eyes were the eyes of a huntress intent upon her prey as she glanced meaningfully at their noble companion, and Dankar Gindur did not disappoint her. He turned to Kelena and gallantly said:

"Nothing shall make me happier than having my lady honor me with a dance."

After that, there was nothing to do but take his hand and be led by him to the dance floor. His fingers were thin and strong and radiated dry warmth.

The wedding dance contained some rather complicated figures; each couple began at the outer end of the spiral, and was supposed to find itself in the very middle of it by the time the paces ended, while making all the gracious maneuvers accompanying the dance. It has been a while since Kelena danced it, and the presence of noble Dankar made her so distraught she felt clumsy. Thadorn _looked_ clumsy, she noticed him with her sister a little ahead in the chain; he was obviously an inexperienced dancer, but Jadine's easy fluttering grace compensated for his bulky movements. Dankar Gindur, on the other hand, danced smoothly and effortlessly just as he walked and talked. He tried to engage her conversation, but with trying not to seem distressed, and keeping her mind on the paces, Kelena replied infrequently and not very eloquently. She half hoped and half feared he would find her dull.

He did not, apparently; because after the dance was over and he led her back to her place and they all had some cold oysters and a glass of iced wine, he declared he fancied a walk, and solicited Kelena to accompany him.

She felt harassed, like an animal caught in a snare. She would have refused, if she dared; she could have said she was too tired. But her mother looked at her meaningfully, and her voice was honeyed when she said:

"Oh, I am sure a walk would do you all the good in the world, Kelena. You appear flushed from the dancing."

She was flushed, but it wasn't from either dancing or heat, and her heart felt like a fluttering bird in her chest when she was forced to take Dankar Gindur's arm and step out with him into the cool silence of the Inner Garden.

The Inner Garden was located within the castle walls, and in the summer provided a cool green respite from the heat radiated off the stone walls. Elaborately designed tall hedges separated it into a hundred shady groves, and the soft thick grass underneath muffled every step when one stepped off the shell-lines walks. The music sounded softer here, a diminished presence, and the only light came from the bright half-moon and the myriad stars arranged around it in an imperceptibly shifting tapestry of velvet and diamonds.

Dankar Gindur looked above. "The Maid is shy tonight," he observed, pointing at a constellation that was momentarily hid behind a silvery wisp of cloud, "she found the single cloud in the sky and drew it to her."

"It becomes her," replied Kelena, glancing up, and Dankar's well-defined mouth twitched in a satisfied smile.

"She needs no ornament to bring out her beauty," he said, and for a minute or two, they walked in silence. Then Kelena stopped abruptly, for behind the hedge nearest to them she heard voices which unmistakably belonged to her sister and Thadorn. She was about to speak or make her presence otherwise known, but Dankar Gindur slyly pressed a finger to his lips, and she wordlessly obeyed.

"You must have known," Thadorn spoke hotly and earnestly, "you must have known for a while now. I came for you; I entered that tournament..."

"You appeared civil to my family," Jadine put in with a trace of amusement, "that was a deed that doubtless required more effort than standing up against all those warriors."

"I never had anything against your clan," claimed Thadorn. "There is a breach between the Tionae and the Kotsar, I cannot deny it, but it runs so far back none of us can even tell how is started. It is beside the point, however. I care not for petty misdeeds of someone a thousand years past; I only care for you. I love you, Jadine, I have loved you since you were half a girl. I don't believe you have been blind."

The silence that followed those words constricted Kelena's heart so that she almost forgot about the man standing next to her. "I have not," Jadine finally said, in a voice softer than her usual tones. And again there was silence, tangible and strained. "You are sweet, Thadorn," Jadine said finally, "but I am not made for what you offer me. I cannot marry you."

"Why?" such pain and anger was conveyed in that short word that Kelena's heart went out to him; she wished she could go to him, and press his hand like a sister... and warn him to walk away as fast as his feet could carry him.

"It will be better for us both," said Jadine with a tinge of sadness in her voice. "Trust me. You shall thank me before all is said and done."

For a moment Kelena fancied to hear Thadorn's receding footsteps, but she should have known better. He did not waver so easily.

"I do not believe you," he said stubbornly, "do you not love me, Jadine? Say you do not, and I will go. But say whatever else, and I will stay."

And still the music played, sweet and insistent, and there were no more words from beyond the hedge. Then there was a soft wet sound that was, without a doubt, a kiss. Kelena blushed to her ears, belatedly thinking how badly mannered it was to stand there and eavesdrop in such a manner. Wordlessly, Dankar pressed a finger to his lips once more and motioned for them to get going. They slipped away as quickly and quietly as they could, and when they were safely on the opposite side of the garden again, he said:

"Well, it appears your parents will hear a very satisfying declaration before the night is over."

The ambiguity of his words was not lost on Kelena, but she made herself face him boldly.

"We shall all be happy for Jadine," she said.

"Just so," he nodded. "Would you care for another dance?" he asked casually. "After the middle courses are served?"

"You honor me, noble Gindur, but I fear I shall be too tired by then."

"You can call me Dan," he suggested, unabashed by her refusal. Kelena looked at him, faintly shocked. She could never presume to use this address with a man so little known. He seemed to read her face like an open book, and was amused. "Ah. We in the city have grown too used to familiarity, I'm afraid. Let us go back, at any rate. Another cup of iced wine wouldn't go amiss in this heat, don't you think?"

At night, back in the comforting solitude of her room, Kelena tossed and turned restlessly. The sparkling black gaze of Dankar Gindur's eyes as he bent over her hand in his leave-taking was before her. She would delude herself no longer; there could be no doubt now that she was the object of his attentions, and he certainly put on a very good show of playing the gallant lover with her, yet something was amiss... she couldn't even tell what, and it unnerved her.

Before dawn, she heard Jadine creep quietly out of her room and go downstairs. She was used to it by now. She knew her sister visited the Halls of Learning; what she could possibly find to do there every day, Kelena could have no idea. Jadine made a point to return in time for breakfast every day, and her moods at table were ever shifting. Sometimes she was complacent, almost unusually docile, sometimes she fell into fits of irritation, as if such a commonly expected filial duty as breakfast with her family was annoying beyond words.

There was no point in trying to fall asleep now. Kelena got up and put on one of her morning dresses, a simple light blue linen that made her look sweet and innocent and perhaps a little girlish, though today she looked older than her sixteen years. Her face was pale, and there were blue shadows under her eyes.

The early hour made her surprised to hear a knock on the door, so brisk and rapt that it could only belong to her mother. Hinassi entered, elegantly dressed and wide awake and with a triumphant smile on her lips.

"You are ready to go downstairs, good," she said, measuring her daughter with a critical stare. "I presume you heard the front door open just now?"

"I thought it was Jadine coming back from her walk," said Kelena with a sense of foreboding.

"Ah," her mother said coolly. "I assume Jadine won't return until breakfast time. Thadorn Tionae is to come as well. You have guessed everything is settled on that account, have you not? Thadorn took your father aside at the wedding feast and asked for Jadine's hand. They are to be married in Rhasket soon after we return home." She shrugged, faintly disapproving. "It is not a disgraceful match, of course, but your sister could have done better, if only she was cleverer."

"Jadine appears... fond of him," Kelena said cautiously.

"I assume she is, because what other inducement could there be for her to marry him?"

"I think half the girls in Rhasket would have gladly married Thadorn," said Kelena with unusual firmness.

"In Rhasket," her mother repeated derisively. "Perhaps. Well, to _your_ good fortune, you need never make your home in Rhasket again."

Kelena's face went from slight pallor to chalk whiteness. She knew what her mother was going to say; knew who was the early visitor sitting downstairs.

"The noble Dankar Gindur came over as soon as he could reasonably suppose we were awake," her mother went on, the grin of vicious triumph prominent on her face once more. "His purpose was to talk to your father and ask for our approval of you and him joining in marriage."

"And what did Father say?" Kelena asked in a small voice. She had a vague notion of her father understanding her true inclination better than her mother.

"What did he say?" Hinassi didn't appear to understand the question. "What could he say? The noble Gindur – Dankar, we may call him now – was very gracious and charming, and the proposal was made in a very respectful manner. Of course, there was nothing left for your father to do but embrace him like a son."

Kelena's heart missed a beat. Her fate was sealed and done, then.

"Now come downstairs," her mother said briskly, "he is waiting. I understand your... perturbation of spirits," she added, "but do try to seem a little less confused and a little more excited. And pinch your cheeks. Your betrothed will want to see some color in your face."

"Please, can't I at least be married at home, at the same time as Jadine?" begged Kelena later that day. "It would not be a long delay."

"At home?" her mother sounded incredulous. "Be sensible, child. Here, you shall have a splendid feast, and all your wedding clothes can be made promptly. Besides, Dankar is eager. We must seize upon this eagerness, and move forward."

"Lest he change his mind?" Jadine put in slyly. Hinassi shot her elder daughter a furious glance.

"Do not be so preposterous, Jadine. Of course he isn't going to... to... to go back on his sworn word, and the betrothal has already been publicly announced. But this is a brilliant match for your sister, and I don't want to keep my future good-son waiting."

"You are actually going to make her go through with it, then?" Jadine turned to her father, smoothly talking over her mother's head. The incredulity was plain in her voice, and Kelena felt a sudden rush of gratitude toward her sister. "Even though you know very well this is the last thing she wants?"

To the credit of Rohir Kotsar, at least he had the honor to look abashed. "Kelena wants to marry Dankar Gindur," he said, sounding none too certain. "Don't you, daughter?"

Kelena's long golden lashes were cast down as she replied, "it is settled already."

"You are being ridiculous, Jadine," snapped Hinassi. "Young women all over the city are going green with envy for Kelena's good fortune. This proposal is a dazzling success. It is more than we could have hoped for when we came here. By the way, Kelena, your bride's gifts arrived not an hour ago, and I permitted myself to have the swiftest peek at them. I have never seen such sapphires, my dear." Her tongue ran over her lower lip, almost lustily. Hinassi Kotsar was mad for jewels, the grander the better. "You must wear blue," she told her daughter decisively. "Blue satin and gold embroidery, and gold and sapphires all about you. You will be a sight to remember."

"Yes, Mother," Kelena said meekly. What did it matter, after all? If the man she were to spend the rest of her life with was chosen for her without considering her opinion, it didn't make the least difference that her mother should choose her wedding clothes and the bed linens of her dowry.

Days rushed by, and even though she was always on the move – always going to this place or that, to see one thing or another, to bend with her mother over fabrics or flower arrangements – it felt to her as if she was in reality a passive spectator with her hands folded in her lap. She wasn't needed, except as a piece of decorative furniture, or a pole around which the wedding flowers would be wrapped. And Dankar Gindur's profuse admiration and declarations of the tenderest passion only convinced her more completely than anything else that he didn't really care for her. She only happened to cross his path when his mind was set on marriage. It could have been any other suitable, gullible girl. Kelena envied beyond words her sister, Jadine, who chose her wedding clothes with superb indifference. Jadine needn't fret; she would marry at home, and live a good life... or so at least Kelena hoped, for Thadorn's sake as much as her sister's.

And then the dreaded morning of her wedding dawned, bright and crisp. It promised to be cooler than it had been in weeks, for which Kelena was thankful, as the luxurious satin of her wedding dress – on which her mother had insisted – would have been unbearable in the heat of the previous fortnight. The dress was the product of feverish labor on part of two seamstresses and four apprentice girls, and looked magnificent, she contemplated detachedly as she viewed herself in the mirror. The bright blue glow of sapphires was attractively displayed against her pale skin and elaborately arranged golden hair – tall and complex hair arrangements were a new fashion instilled in the city by Queen Maviel, and her mother insisted she must do something similar. It didn't matter either. This was the last time her hair would be seen uncovered, anyway. The custom declared a respectable married woman must cover her hair, and Kelena's dowry included a staggering amount of richly embroidered caps and scarves and thinly woven hair nets, to match her many new gowns.

The morning of one's wedding was to be a jolly affair – the bride's clanswomen and friends were to be gathered around her until the wedding ceremony, to eat breakfast and drink wine and tell stories and make good wishes for the upcoming marriage. Kelena felt a lonely chill as she sat by the window in front of a sumptuously laden breakfast table, with no one but her mother and sister for company. Jadine was silent as she picked absent-mindedly at fish fried in breadcrumbs, and their mother was too agitated to talk. She was looking splendid herself that morning in a new gown of purple silk with an abundance of lace, lovely in her pale cool way.

It was Dankar who several days prior to that voiced the idea that it would be refreshing to take the wedding procession outside, rather than hold the ceremony in the lingering heat of the city. Kelena could tell her mother didn't like the idea, as it would mean less distinguished guests would bother to attend, but still she smiled benignly, as she was apt to do whenever her future son-in-law made a suggestion.

"Of course that is just what we'll do," she said. "Everything will be conducted with the most beautiful simplicity."

Well, simplicity was not exactly the word that came to Kelena's mind as she allowed herself to be carried in the palanquin – walking or riding, of course, would render unthinkable damage to her costly wedding gown, and to be frank she wasn't certain her wobbly legs would carry her – and peered through its heavy embroidered curtains. The procession of velvet-draped palanquins went on as far as the eye could see, to a lovely gold-green meadow where servants were already bustling about the feast being laid out on long trestle tables. A natural clump of wild vines was stretched across a small clearing and decorated with flowers artfully twined through the boughs and leaves, to form the effect of a flowering canopy. It was there that the young couple would soon say their vows. Kelena saw her bridegroom, resplendent in green and silver, and his handsome black horse tied some way aside.

They were close to the Spring of Spring, she realized, the magical place whence came the enigmatic substance of Stormstone, which was fashioned into Stormglass, and which enabled the mystery-shrouded travels between their world and the Other. How she longed for a Stormglass gate to carry her away, beyond worry and doubt, beyond fear and mistrust, beyond treachery and deceit!

She stepped gracefully and walked forward, drawing herself as tall as she could, her head held proud and high beneath the weight of golden braids and shining blue sapphires. She could feel a collective draw of breath, an admiring sigh that went through the crowd like a ripple. Before, she indulged her vanity with dreams of a moment such as this. Now it was no more than a muted background. Her eye cast around for members of her family, hoping to draw some inspiration or comfort – not from her mother's satisfied countenance, nor from her father's abashedly grave expression. But Kohir looked angry, which was something, and he placed a restraining hand on Nog's shoulder, to prevent the lad from bursting out and saying something inappropriate. And Jadine was as near as propriety would allow, with Thadorn's silent bulky form faithfully by her side. When Kelena's eyes met those of her sister, she saw a dark blaze. _She cares,_ she told herself. _Perhaps for the first time in our lives, she cares what will become of me._ This filled her with a strange satisfaction. Suddenly she felt she is ready to face anything, even the carefully measured voice of her father.

"Do you, Dankar of the clan of Gindur, take this woman, my daughter, Kelena of the Kotsar, to love and protect, to honor and cherish, for now and all time?"

"I take this woman," Dankar replied solemnly.

"Then I give her to you, and pledge her to love and obey you, to honor and cherish you, for now and all time."

And so it was done. Kelena was given away, without a chance to speak, without a chance to even show the wavering of her heart. Smiling placidly, her bridegroom took hold of her hand.

"Accept this as a token of my love," he said, slipping a ring on her finger. It was of beautifully wrought deep yellow gold, with a black diamond in the center, and its weight instantly made her slender hand uncomfortable. She would have torn it off and thrown it on the ground if she dared, but she did not. Instead, she meekly leaned on the arm of her new husband and allowed him to take her away to the head of the long table, where was spread a magnificent feast not a bite of which she would taste. Minstrels strolled around and played and sang, but she was impervious to it all. She sat there, beautiful and silent, unmoved and unmoving, and did not tear her eyes from the brilliant blue sky, strewn with light white clouds, until the sunset colored it in a hundred hues of red and gold, pink and orange and purple, and it was time to head back to the city. Kelena made an uncertain motion back toward the palanquin, but Dankar detained her.

"It would take too long," he said, smiling. "Ride double with me, my lady."

So she placed herself behind him on the tall black horse, with her hands clasped safely but stiffly around his waist. She had no doubt what it was he was hastening back for, and she knew he could feel the fluttering of her heart. Dankar spurred the magnificent black stallion, and within moments they had left everyone behind. Now she was really and truly alone with him, at his mercy.

The Upper Esplanade was empty when they reached it, and for a moment Kelena had the comforting vision of her uncle's house with its golden lit windows, but of course they weren't going to stop there. They proceeded toward Dankar's house, the splendid mansion she had never set foot in before. Her mother visited once, and came back all in raptures.

A servant heeded their knock and promptly opened the door, but scurried away just as hastily after taking their cloaks. For all Kelena knew, they could be alone in the eerily dark house. Only a few oil lamps illuminated their progress up the stairs, and on one occasion Kelena nearly tripped over her trailing skirt. A strong hand steadied her, not allowing her to stumble.

"I sent them all to bed," her husband explained. "I though it would be more comfortable if we had the house all to ourselves."

Heart hammering, Kelena followed him through the remainder of the carpeted hall. A very heavy, very finely polished door opened almost soundlessly, into a spacious bedchamber with a high, imperceptibly slanting ceiling. Its center was occupied by an immense silk-covered bed, wide and low. Intricately woven straw mats covered the floor, with a few embroidered sitting cushions spread here and there. Despite the heat, a low fire was crackling in the grate, and for this Kelena was happy, for a shiver crept up her spine, and gooseflesh covered her arms all of a sudden. Dankar promptly closed the door and barred it behind him, which did nothing to reassure her. She was all alone with this man now, in the luxurious room that felt like a tomb.

A stick of fragrant incense was sending a thin tendril of smoke into the air from a lacquered box on which it stood, along with a heavy jug of wine made of colored glass.

"Would you like a cup, my lady?" asked Dankar, going over to pour one for himself.

"No, thank you," she said, shaking her head rather jerkily. "I... I doubt wine would agree with me right now."

"Surely not," he said, with a dark twinkle of his eyes. They were like liquid coal, and seemed to drink all source of light in the room. "You scarcely touched the food."

Cradling his cup in one long-fingered hand, he lightly sat down, cross-legged, on one of the cushions by the whispering fire and motioned her to take a seat by his side. Stiffly, Kelena took a cushion for herself as well and sat, facing him. He took a sip of wine and smiled, then set his cup aside and lightly touched her face.

"You are beautiful, my lady," he told her. "Even now that you are frightened."

"I am not," Kelena protested, fully aware of how unconvincing she sounds.

"Oh, you are," his smile widened, "but you needn't be. I am no threat to you, Kelena."

This was the first time he spoke her name with such familiarity, and it did something to rouse her senses more than anything else that had happened that day.

"I do not understand," she said bluntly.

"You will in a minute. Your face is all sweet innocence, but you are a clever girl – if I thought otherwise, I would not have married you."

Blood rushed into Kelena's pale face at the vague insult, but she remained silent.

"You must have heard I was married before, not once, but twice," said Dankar. She nodded. "And you must have also heard all sorts of fear-inducing rumours about me."

"I never for a moment believed – "

"Oh, but you should," he said lightly, reaching for his wine cup again and taking another sip. "Very choice," he remarked. "It is a pity you declined to take a drink. Do let me know if you change your mind... but I digress, of course. My wives. Two silly women who were offered the world at their feet – and threw it all away for a stupid whim."

Kelena sat very straight, listening intently. Her eyes bore into his, and her hands clasped in her lap.

"A man of my position in life is expected to marry," said Dankar. "I've been desired prey of the bridegroom hunt since I was a boy. When I was twenty, I could have any highborn maid in the country. It is a pity," his mouth twisted in amusement, "that none of them interested me in the least."

She was still as far as ever from understanding, because there was a hint of impatience in his voice as he talked on.

"You are innocent, Kelena, I know, and you have lived a sheltered life. Yet I... oh, very well," he snapped. "Milling around won't do. I will speak clearly once and for all. Women never met a thing to me. But... the same cannot be said about men."

"Men?" Kelena repeated, dumbstruck. A thought darted into her mind; she heard some men were – but surely not him – it was too grotesque –

"Boys, actually," said Dankar, flitting back into his easy assured manner. "They are sweetest when their voice is yet unchanged. And once they begin to shave, they are a lost cause."

Finally, the truth sank in at once, horrible and unyielding, and terror crept in with it. "Your wives..." she said in a faltering voice.

"Threatened public disgrace, yes," he nodded. "Both persisted in this folly, and sought separation and exposure. I deeply regretted what had to be done... yet I had no choice," he sighed, and took another sip of wine.

Kelena got up to her feet. Strangely, now that the mystery of this man was unveiled, she was no longer afraid. With a cold hard look she stared at the beautifully dressed, refined monster in front of her. The message of contempt, clearly, was not lost on her new husband, for he got up as well, so as to stand taller than her.

"I understand what you must be thinking," he said, "yet in my way, I am an honorable man. I care about reputation, mine and my clan's. All I sought was peace and privacy; in return, I was ready to give these women anything – as I will give you, if you do not break faith with me. I have learned from past mistakes, you see. I no longer attempt concealment. I am honest with you, and I expect you to reward this honesty by helping me keep appearances."

"So this is what I am to become," Kelena said rather loudly, in undisguised bitterness. "A painted screen."

"Do not make it sound so unsavory. You shall be my true friend and constant companion, and in return, you will have all my wealth can buy. The finest clothes and jewels will be yours, and any renovations you might want to make in one of my houses – well, you need only speak. Travels abroad, court attendance, the best society... whatever you want, you shall have. I promise you, you will be the envy of every woman in Tilir. Your freedom will belong to you as well, to a large degree, although," his eyes flashed threateningly, "I must warn you against indulging certain dangerous affections to the point of making them visible to the public. Discretion must be kept at all costs."

This suggestion was too foul to even begin to contemplate, and her rage was mounting. Kelena wanted to scream. This was what he wanted from her, then. He wanted someone gullible and tractable, someone who wouldn't dare to reveal his secret... a prisoner to be kept in a gilded cage out of which there is no escape.

"My freedom," she replied calmly. There was nothing to be done, and she knew it very well. Even if he consented to dissolve the marriage now, there would be no return for her to the home of her clan. Her mother would make sure of that. "My sister Jadine is to be wed soon," she said. "I want to be present."

"But of course," he said magnanimously. "Anything you want, consider it done... as long as you remain as wise as I know you to be," he added with the most unpleasant smile she had ever seen.

Later, much to Kelena's aggravation, he insisted on settling down in bed by her side. "It would seem strange if we spent our wedding night in separate bedchambers," he wisely pointed out, "but you can keep your own rooms later, the manse is large enough. Although of course, I will be obliged to visit fairly regularly," he added.

He turned his back on her and went to sleep soon enough, cat-quiet, while Kelena remained awake in the dark, her eyes wide open. She didn't know what to think or to feel. Despite the fact that she had been threatened quite openly, her fear was gone now, to be replaced by anger and – as much as she was loath to admit that – a touch of wounded pride. She didn't ever fancy this man was in love with her, of course, but she thought that perhaps there was something about her which attracted him. It was all a lie, though. He wanted nothing from her but obedient meekness.

The worst of it, perhaps, was that she had no one to confide in. Her friends were all in Rhasket-Tharsanae, and though she expected to see them soon, at Jadine's wedding, former intimacy would be made impossible. Her mother, if she knew the truth... she would side with Dankar once more, Kelena thought bitterly. She would tell her not to be a fool and to hold her tongue and to take advantage of all her new position had to offer. Jadine, though... once more, Kelena thought more warmly of her sister. She, at least, was not afraid to speak her mind. On the night before the wedding, Kelena overheard Jadine speaking to their father, telling him he should call off the match. To be sure, her sister didn't tear her clothes as a sign of mourning on her behalf, but at least she said what she thought.

Their farewells to Uncle Derrien were cordial and, at least on his part, spoken in a tone of much satisfaction, as he was pleased to see his nieces settled – one respectably, and one brilliantly so. He expressed his remorse for not being able to follow them to Rhasket to attend Jadine's wedding, but as he said, "at my age, such travels would induce unhealthy fatigue. No, no, I shall part from you here, and wish Jadine every happiness. I think it would be reasonable to expect dear Kelena back before long, and of course you all shall come and visit her in due time. Then we will meet again."

And so they were back on the road, heading back to the place which had been home for so long, and now would never be. Kelena rode a new horse, a beautiful white filly which stood out in her stark brightness against the midnight-black stallion her husband mounted. She hoped Dankar would remain behind, but he cheerfully assured her that he wishes to pay respect to his new relatives, and meet the rest of her clan. This didn't convince her. She rather thought he didn't want to let her out of his sight until he became quite sure he could trust her.

Jadine trotted over to them, tall and straight on horseback. True to her word, she practiced riding during their stay in the city, between wedding plans and sneaking off to the Halls of Learning. Now she looked as though she could ride all day, while Kelena already felt weary. In the background she saw Thadorn, who was ever near his betrothed, following her like a shadow.

"Mother sends word she is in the palanquin now, due to the dust on the road," said Jadine rather indifferently. "Perhaps you would like to join her, once you are done showing off this pretty horse of yours."

"By all means," Dankar said courteously, "do rest in the palanquin, my lady. As loath as I am to dispense with your pleasant company, it would not do to have you fatigued so soon. In the meantime I can ride forward and explore the countryside. There are some spots of exquisite beauty here, so I've heard."

Kelena obeyed, as always. She dismounted, handed in the reins of her horse, and allowed her husband to hand her into the palanquin. Once there, she settled opposite to her mother, who reclined luxuriously on the cushions, her green eyes sparkling with delight.

"This is the most triumphant return I could dream of," she said, gazing at her daughter fondly. "When we were going to Aldon-Sur, I had my hopes for you, of course, but I never imagined... you have done better than I expected, whereas Jadine... well, she has done better than I expected as well," Hinassi said disdainfully. "At least she is finally going to get married, and it can be hoped Thadorn will keep her in rein."

"No one will keep Jadine in rein," Kelena blurted out. Her mother didn't seem to hear.

"I suppose I shall have to pay a visit to Andorn Tionae's house," she went on musingly. "It will only be appropriate, after all. But at least we can skip the betrothal celebration, as the wedding will take place so soon."

Kelena had not the slightest interest in her mother's talk of indulged ambition. She set the palanquin curtains slightly aside and saw her sister's figure from the back. Jadine's cloak was rippling in the wind, her flaming hair streamed freely behind her. Her profile was turned to Thadorn, who looked on her with tender adoration especially touching in such a big man. _Great Spirit, let her love him,_ a sudden earnest prayer sprang in Kelena's heart. _Let her love him enough to be happy in the duties of a wife, in the bearing of children and keeping of house. Let her love him enough to be happy for us both._

Chapter 5

When Jadine opened her eyes on their first morning back home, their stay in Aldon-Sur already seemed like a dream. It was as though they had never actually gone, so much everything was the same – everything but the small wooden box of her bride's gifts on her bedside table, much more modest than her sister's had been, and the disturbingly lingering voice of the old man in her head.

She met him in the Halls of Learning; he startled her out of perusing the crumbling pages of an ancient leather-bound volume. "It is so late," he said in a soft voice, "why won't you go home, child?"

He wore a dark hooded cloak, and his face remained in the shadows. She resolved against showing how much it unnerved her. "I am no child," he told him, "but a woman grown, and soon to be wed."

"Then I find it even harder to understand what you are doing here," he said with a smile in his voice.

"These are the Halls of Learning," said Jadine. "I am _learning_."

"The knowledge you are seeking isn't here," said the stranger. His stooped posture belonged to an old man, yet his voice was clear and young. "I think you understood this already."

Jadine snapped the book shut. "Who are you?" she demanded sharply.

He sighed. "May the Great Spirit have mercy on you and you never know this, child," he said, and turned away. Jadine got up to follow him, to ask questions, to seek answers, but he was gone, quiet as a shadow. Heart thumping, she searched and searched along the rows of old books, but no one was to be found, and when she asked the guards, she was told no one saw a stooped little man in a dark cloak.

It didn't matter, she told herself. No one could hope to unravel all the mysteries of life, she knew that well. And yet... and yet... he was right. The dusty volumes and scrolls in the Halls of Learning were an enormous store of knowledge of land and sea, of birds and animals, of lands far away and the human body... even of Stormstone they told, and of the passage between worlds, and of kings and queens and heroes – yet none of it was what she was seeking. None of it was true magic. She learned far more by herself, using her natural gifts to read what was written in blood and flame, in salty waves and starry skies, in the chants of half-wild people living along the shore, in the tales of her odd friend Lafgar. She had a gift, she knew, a gift that was unrecognized by most of the people surrounding her... except perhaps Thadorn. He understood the Gift – yet he did not love it.

_He loves me, though,_ thought Jadine, and a faint smile touched her lips. _He loves me more than anything, as he has for a long time now. And I love him... don't I?_ Of course she does, she soothed an unexpected prickle of anxiety. For a while she had been stealing admiring glances at Thadorn, so tall and strong and proud... yet they were like two stars following entirely different paths across the sky. They could hang close together upon the velvety black tapestry, yet they could never meet – or so it seemed. Once the barrier between them was broken, it was laughable to look back at it and think of what petty things might keep two people asunder.

Soon, her clanswomen would enter to spend the morning with her, and starting from this day she would no longer be a Kotsar, but a Tionae. She would move to the house of Andorn and Faelle, that big empty elegant house. She didn't relish the prospect, but neither did she mind very much. At least she made her choice, unlike her sister Kelena. It still appeared singularly cruel to Jadine that her sweet little sister, with her head full of love tales, should be made to marry a man she could never love, despite her soft and yielding heart. At least she would have wealth and power and honor – and Jadine hoped for her sake she would learn to be content with her lot, because it didn't seem likely to change.

There was a rush of footsteps, and then the door was opened and the Kotsar women came in, carrying sumptuously laden breakfast trays. There was bread hot out of the ovens, large bowls of berries and jugs of thick cream, heels of cheese and crocks of butter and pots of honey, flagons of milk and pots of fragrant herb tea. Jadine sat up on her bed and smiled lazily at them all. She knew a bride of good taste is supposed to have too fluttery a stomach to be able to eat anything on the morning of her wedding day, yet she didn't feel remotely nervous. After washing her hands, she accepted a chunk of cinnamon-scented bread and dripped honey onto it. The crust crunched under her teeth.

"We are going to take you to the bathhouses after we finish breakfast," her little cousin Jada piped in enthusiastically. "Then we're going back up to help you dress."

Jadine was amused. "With _your_ help, I should probably be ready by tomorrow evening," she said, making poor little Jada turn crimson.

"I should hope not," her mother said sternly. "It is ill luck to be late to one's wedding." Jadine didn't pay her the slightest attention, and serenely poured a cup of milk for herself.

"'Course it's ill luck, the bridegroom might have time to change his mind and run away!" quipped another of her cousins. Everyone laughed – everyone except Kelena, who offered but a shadow of a smile.

It didn't take very long, even though Jadine indulged herself in a long lazy bath. Her dress was lovely but simple, and she didn't really need help getting into it. The lustrous red fall of her hair she kept down, contradicting what the latest fashion dictated, and her bride's jewels weren't very multiple and elaborate like Kelena's had been. Jadine noticed her mother pursing her lips, as though the prevalence of silver over gold was viewed by her as an example of the Tionae's stinginess, and a personal insult to the Kotsar. She didn't care, though. Thadorn might not have been able to give her many jewels, but the ones she did get were beautifully designed and expertly crafted, and she loved each one of them. Her favorite was a pendant of silver and jade that hung about her neck on a finely woven silver chain.

"There is still a little while before we have to go downstairs," said one of her cousins, a perky slim girl named Tyra. "Shall we uphold the tradition and tell some tale of your famous namesakes?"

"I was not aware I _had_ any famous namesakes," Jadine said.

"What of the girl who was the closest companion of Queen Thasiella?" Kelena spoke up for the first time in the course of the morning. "The one who threw herself down trying to prevent the queen from taking her own life?"

"Oh, her," Jadine replied carelessly. "I always thought her a bore."

"She was a true friend," Kelena said solemnly, "true and loyal."

"She is mentioned in that song about Queen Thasiella," said Tyra, "how is it called? Ah, yes, _Upon a Stony Shore._ "

And she sang. She did have a pretty voice.

One night, when waves were rolling in

And moonlight was no more

She wept, the lovely golden queen

Upon a stony shore.

"My love is gone," she cried in pain,

"My husband and my king,

But I shall walk with him again

Upon the fields of spring."

A cup she filled with bitter brew,

"Leave me," she gave command.

But there was one with her who knew,

And dared to thwart her hand.

"My queen, if you would take your life,

Than mine shall go with yours."

And out she took a silv'ry knife,

This maid of no remorse.

"Your love shall wait, a golden crown

Like sunlight on his hair;

In Lands of Everlasting Dawn

He dwells, he goes nowhere.

Your people need you, my fair queen,

'Twon't do to lose you both.

Unbar the doors, let people in,

Tell them they have your oath."

The poisoned cup fell from her hand,

She thought of death no more –

And thus did Thasiella stand

Above a stony shore.

"Inspiring," Jadine said rather dryly, "yet if I remember correctly, the rest of her life did not bring Thasiella any happiness. To strengthen her royal seat, she was made to marry against her heart's wish... and when her new husband realized the child she was carrying was the dead king's, his jealousy flared up and he persecuted the poor prince into his grave."

"These are not tales to speak of upon one's wedding day," her mother said decisively, getting up in a rustle of skirts. "Let us go down. It might be a little early, but I am certain the eager bridegroom is waiting for you already, Jadine."

And so he did. When Jadine went down into the garden where the ceremony was to take place, her eye was caught by Thadorn's figure, broad and tall and powerful, and by his face, shining with the tenderest love, and her heart expanded in her chest until it almost hurt. He took her hand and led her to where her father was waiting. Rogell, her bridegroom's best friend, was there as well, along with Lya of their clan, that pretty little girl. She looked somewhat glum and forlorn that day, quite unlike her usual cheerful self, and Jadine couldn't fail to guess the reason. It was common knowledge around the town that Lya Tionae cherished secret hopes involving the young and handsome captain of the Sea Guard. _We cannot all have what we hope for, though,_ thought Jadine. _He belongs to me now._

"Do you, Thadorn of the Tionae, take this woman, Jadine of the Kotsar, to be your wife, to love and honor, to protect and to cherish, for now and for all time?" Rohir Kotsar asked solemnly. Her eyes were detached from his daughter, as though she was someone he hardly knew.

"I take this woman," said Thadorn, loud and clear, yet there was a tremor of emotion in his voice. Jadine didn't wait for her father to turn to her before speaking.

"I, Jadine of the Kotsar, take you, Thadorn Tionae, to be my husband, to love and honor and cherish, for now and all time."

Her father was red-faced with mutiny, her mother looked sour; no doubt they didn't miss her omitting the traditional part of the vow, the one that dealt with obeying her husband. Yet it didn't matter; the deed was done, she and Thadorn were joined for a lifetime, and for once, as she leaned on her new husband's arm, Jadine Kotsar was radiantly smiling in her satisfaction of the simple things in life.

After the feast, she expected him to take her to the house of his parents, yet to her surprise Thadorn turned his horse towards the town gates, and she followed. In a little while she realized they are going towards a summer house, no more than a log hut really, that Thadorn built with his own hands when he was just a lad. It was placed upon a hillside facing the sea, and cool breeze engulfed it even on the hottest summer days. Jadine knew of this secret refuge of his, much as she knew of everything going on at Rhasket-Tharsanae, and envied him slightly for having a place all of his own, as little as it may be. And now he wished to share it with her.

It was a simple but beautiful home, and it was evident efforts were made to make it especially comfortable for this night. A wide mattress stuffed with fragrant grasses rested in the middle of the floor, by the side of the narrow bunk where Thadorn usually slept. The mattress was covered with silken sheets and fluffy blankets, making it a luxurious bed. Oil lamps burned low, casting a warm red glow upon the room, yet Thadorn, shy as a girl, extinguished them, so that they both were left to fumble with their clothing in the dark.

"Do not fear," he whispered in a voice full of tender concern as finally they were together in bed, facing each other. Jadine could just make out the outline of his face in the faint silvery light of the moon and stars that came in through the hut's small windows. "I will be gentle, I promise."

Jadine sighed and pulled him towards her, impatient to feel the heat of his body on hers, to be crushed beneath him. She did not have the heart to tell him she was not a maid. She surrendered her virtue two years past, to a traveling singer who fleetingly charmed her with his blue eyes and sweet voice. Now she would be hard pressed to recall the boy's face. Some knew of this little adventure of hers, though few would dare to speak of it openly... and Thadorn, of course, had no doubts she was as pure as untouched snow. _He_ was probably such, Jadine thought as he kissed her; he was eager, but more shy than skillful. His passion more than made up for his obvious lack of experience, though, and soon she ceased to think of her past adventures, follies born out of boredom. Nothing mattered anymore save her and him, and the soft words whispered in the dark, and the waves crushing against the shore. A new life was beginning, and neither Thadorn with his blissful blind faith, nor Jadine with her vague doubts, could imagine how soon it would come to an end.

When she missed her moon's blood once, then twice, she felt an unexpected surge of fear which had little to do with the thoughts of birthing a child. But there was exhilaration too, and she was careful to let it alone shine through her face as she placed Thadorn's hand on her belly and smiled.

"I am going to give you a son, my love," she said, and he beamed.

"I had hoped it would happen," he confessed, "but I didn't think it would be so soon."

"He was conceived on our first night together," Jadine said. "I know it."

"The first of how many?" Thadorn was half-teasing, half-serious.

"There shall be just one son for us," she said without a shadow of a smile, and Thadorn's face clouded.

"Why do you say so, my love?"

She shrugged her shoulders. "I know it," she said again, "I simply know it." He looked so uncertain, so thrown off balance by these words that she hastened to reassure him. "We will have girls, though," she lifted up a hand to touch his face, "and they will be beautiful as our son will be brave."

The crease between Thadorn's brows disappeared, yet still he seemed troubled. "It doesn't signify much whether we have one son and a dozen daughters, or the other way around..." he said. Jadine laughed.

"Is that the destiny you have in mind for me, my love? A litter of fox cubs? But no, it shall be a herd of fawns, for I belong to the Stag now." For the Tionae had a proud stag for their clan Spirit, whereas the Kotsar elected the fox, or as they claimed, the fox chose them in days too long-gone to remember. The Kamtesir, the third large clan of Rhasket-Tharsanae, had the lily as their sacred symbol. Long ago there were those who mocked the Kamtesir for being under the Spirit patronage of a dainty flower – until a famous warrior of the Kamtesir called Vykkar the Great rode into battle with a lily pinned to his breast. After the battle was over, he presented the blood-spattered lily to the king... it evaded Jadine's mind which king it was. _One of the Alvadons, no doubt._

"As I said," Thadorn persisted, although it was evident he would have been much happier just to fall silent, "it does not signify much to me how many children we have, or whether they are boys or girls, as long as all are hale and healthy. What puzzles me is those claims you sometimes make, of _just knowing_ something."

"You wouldn't pay any mind to it if these claims weren't true," Jadine said firmly. "Confess it, Thadorn. You know I'm not just a silly blabbering girl who claims to have seen her future husband's face in a mirror on a midsummer's night of full moon."

This seemed to have brought on another disconcerting thought. "Did you do that as well?" he asked. "Did you look into a mirror or a lake or stream, and see my face?"

"No," Jadine said softly. "I didn't need to. I knew that if there would be someone, it would be you. I have known for a while before we spoke for the first time, on that day when you won the wrestling match."

Thadorn's expression softened as well, and he took her in his arms. "I have known as well, my love," he said. "I have known it for years, without possessing any unusually clear sight into the future." He paused and kissed her tenderly on both eyes, then on her lips. "Now we had better get ready," he said, "or we will be late for Rogell's wedding."

To Rogell's wonder and delight, his silent admiration of Lya yielded the most satisfying results, soon after the marriage of his best friend. The fair maiden, who prior to that didn't treat him with anything more than cousinly cordiality, began to show a different, and far more agreeable side. She expressed her pleasure in his company, praised him for his bravery in thwarting a pirate attack, and turned a listening ear whenever he spoke. He only dared make timid advances at first, but when it became plain to him he is encouraged he took the plunge and asked for Lya's hand – and to his joy, was accepted. The betrothal was sealed, the wedding arranged, and two months after Thadorn and Jadine's wedding, Rogell and Lya were about to become man and wife as well.

Jadine no longer felt pity for the slender dark-haired girl as she looked into her bridegroom's face and said the wedding vows. True, Lya Tionae might not have gotten the man she wanted most, but hers was a nature that was apt to be content. As she stood by Rogell's side she looked perfectly ready to be happy with her new husband.

The bigger the child within her grew, the more restless Jadine became. It was greensickness at first, harshest in the mornings, somewhat bearable during the rest of the day. Her breasts swelled and ached, her waist lost its slender outline, her bladder was in need of relief several times during the night, and what annoyed her most of all, the milky-white delicate skin of her shoulders and upper back erupted in foul pus-filled boils. They ached and itched, and when ruptured, they burned, yet she still would have the burning over the throbbing. With the help of her clanswomen she punctured the ugly white heads with a fire-heated needle and washed the wounded skin with sea water, which hurt so much it made her clench her teeth, yet she didn't relent. And on her nights with Thadorn, it was now her who insisted all the candles should be blown out before they got into bed.

No matter how fat and ungainly she felt, her husband found her beautiful, and her passion for him grew. And no matter how fatigued she was, somehow she always found her way into his arms. His huge hands were always tender when they touched her, and in the dark he would rest them on her stomach and whisper to his unborn son.

It was beginning to seem to Jadine that this would never be over and she would be pregnant forever when, like all things in life, it finally came to an end. It was a spring day, so warm it felt like summer already, and she was reclining on silk cushions in the house of her parents, lazily nibbling on some early strawberries. The baby's kicks and movements were less vigorous than usual, as though he was lulled to sleep by the warm sun and gentle wind.

"I cannot stand this anymore," Jadine complained to her mother, in absence of other listeners. She wiped a trickle of strawberry juice from her chin. "The wisewomen said this baby was due to be born a week ago, and I don't know what he is waiting for, because I sure am ready to – "

She stopped abruptly, overwhelmed by a sudden feeling of wetness in her lower regions. As she glanced down, she realized she is sitting in a puddle of water. Then deep pain knotted her from within, and she knew it has begun.

It was her first time, but Jadine knew no fear. She went out into the garden and told everyone to leave her alone. Their presence annoyed her as she paced back and forth, and knelt and rocked and breathed, and hugged herself and sang to her son. When Thadorn came running, flushed and breathless, she welcomed his presence, but she refused the assistance of midwives until the very last, when they were only to catch the babe that slid out from between her thighs, wet and slippery, red of skin and red of hair and bawling vigorously. They wrapped the boy in swaddling clothes and brought him to her, and she, laughing and crying, took him to her breast.

Later, she placed the boy in Thadorn's powerful arms. Her husband sat silent with awe and wonder, afraid to move a muscle so as not to hurt the baby. Jadine picked up his cloak and wrapped herself in it. Her own bloodstained clothes she discarded at some stage of the labour. When her son came into the world, she was as naked as he.

"Name him," Thadorn said in a voice hoarse with joy.

"Are you certain?" she hesitated. It was usually the privilege of a man to name his firstborn, especially with the Tionae.

She took a deep breath. "Korian," she said. "His name is Korian."

No man between the desert and the sea had ever looked happier than Thadorn Tionae at the Motherhood ceremony held for Jadine and her firstborn. It is a tradition of Tilir that a new mother, in celebration of the life that was brought through her into the world, is given a special bracelet. The poor men carve arm-bands out of wood or beat them out of copper, and the nobles have delicate bracelets or even anklets made from gold and diamonds, but the design is always the same – the coil of a fruitful vine, heavy with grapes. The bracelet Thadorn had given his young wife was new silver, delicately wrought and beautifully sparkling, adorned with clusters of small opals set into the grape frame. As the bracelet was received Jadine passed the boy into her husband's arms, and then each of the present, both of the Tionae and the Kotsar, held the boy and proclaimed him blessed, and predicted to him a great future as a man and a warrior. When the child became restless, he was turned over to his mother once more. Jadine went aside with her son and opened the front of her dress to nurse him, while the singing and dancing and drinking went all around them.

Not long after, a similar ceremony was held for Rogell and Lya's son, a strong healthy boy with a head full of black hair. The child was named Jorrel, and it was predicted – or rather, wished for – by both fathers that the two boys, too, would grow up to be the best of friends.

In the middle of the celebration, Jadine with little Korian in her arms walked over to Thadorn and Rogell, who looked deep in conversation with a clansman of hers, a young man by the name of Akira. It surprised her to see the three of them huddled together in such a manner, since she knew Akira was not exactly a bosom friend with any of the Tionae, although the intercourse between the two clans has been warmer ever since she and Thadorn married.

"What are you three talking about for so long?" she asked in a would-be offhand way. To her surprise, she saw a frown on her husband's face, as if he'd rather not answer. Rogell, faithful sidekick that he was, naturally remained silent as well.

"I've had news from the south," replied Akira. "There has been some trouble across the Dust River again."

"Trouble?" repeated Jadine. "What kind of trouble?"

"Settlers again," Akira explained succinctly. "Some southerners decided they would cross the border and set up some shacks and tents and call it a village by the name of... well, it doesn't signify much. The king asked leave of the Malvians and ordered some troops to march across the border and put it all to torch."

Jadine looked livid. "The Malvian savages are wreaking havoc in the south, and he wastes strength on battling his own people?" she asked incredulously.

Akira shrugged. "It is the law," he said.

"They were putting themselves in danger," said mild-mannered Rogell. "His Grace did it as much for their protection as for anything else."

"We wouldn't need protection if we didn't show the savages we fear them," argued Jadine. "And how can the Malvians say anything about us being on the land supposedly theirs, when they constantly invade ours, and make claims on it?"

"The Malvian King insists he has nothing to do with the savage raids north of the Dust River," Thadorn spoke for the first time.

Jadine's nostrils flared. "And yet he will spare no strength in order to stop them," she said, rocking the babe in her arms. None of the men bothered to answer her. Before, they might have had, as she was famous for her cheek; but she was only a woman now, only a mother, and the milky mist that settled on her since her son was born had dulled her edge. She was expected to be quiet and content, compliant and trusting of the judgment of others. She was supposed to wish for nothing but the safety of her family, the comfort of her home.

She was supposed to be something she was not.

That night, after the babe had settled down to a sound sleep, Jadine slipped out of the house. Thadorn was on guard duty and she knew he would not be back until morning. No one ever need know she had gone, and she wasn't even aware of where her feet were carrying her. She merely wanted to experience, once again, the fleeting freedom of a lone wolf or a seagull in the sky.

The town gates were closed, but this was never a hindrance to her. She had lived in Rhasket-Tharsanae all her life, and had her secret paths. Soon, she took off her sandals and carried them in one hand, treading lightly on the tightly packed wet sand. In the distance, she could see the faint lights of Thadorn's patrol ship, and smiled to herself. It was a calm summer's night, and she was a good swimmer. She could swim over and call to her husband as he paced up and down the deck of the ship. He would be startled; perhaps old legends would spring up to his mind, tales of the Daughters of the Sea, who were the offspring of the Great Spirit and the Great Water Mother. Today scholars would say it is profanity to think the Great Spirit had ever fathered children of flesh and blood, but folk up and down Tilir would not part from their old lore so easily.

She walked on. No, she would not dare to play such a trick on Thadorn; she might be taken for a smuggler, and that would lead to her capture and to awkward questions regarding what she is doing outside her bed at an hour like this.

And then she realized that she had made, without knowing it, the familiar route to Lafgar's cave. She expected him to be asleep, but there was still a fire in the small neat hearth he had built from stones polished by the sea, and he did not express the slightest surprise at seeing her standing there, although they have scarcely spoken once or twice since her marriage. He just sat there, playing a slow tune on a roughly carved wooden flute, and set it aside only when her silhouette blocked the moonlight and shadows played on the cave walls, like in old times. A plain man he was, Lafgar, with his broad freckled face and straw-colored hair and his clothes that always smelled of goat, yet there was something imposing about him all the same, a quiet authority that was impossible to ignore.

"You needn't have come," he said quite calmly. "I never had much to teach you, and what I did have, you took long ago and multiplied a thousand times."

"I did not come here to learn," said Jadine, settling down across from him, on the other side of the fire, cross-legged. The sand was fine and dry here, legacy of a thousand sea winds. "I came here to be still and quiet, to look into the flame and see waves, to gaze upon the waves and see fire, to read in the stars what had been and will be."

"There is no _will be_ ," Lafgar contradicted her, picking up his flute again. "There is only _might be_. I thought I had taught you this years ago, child."

_Child_. This stroke a chord of memory she would rather lay aside for the time being; she shook her head obstinately. "And yet you were awake, waiting for me because you knew I would come, even though I did not know it myself. Go on, deny it."

"I will do no such thing," said Lafgar with one of his rare smiles. Challenging him was never any good.

"You will not tell me to go, though?" she asked with sudden trepidation.

"You are always welcome here," he said, drawing a few notes on his flute. "Yet why do not you tell me, Jadine, what is it that you see in the flames and waves and stars?"

She closed her eyes.

"I see fire," she said, "dark fire, and all-consuming; I see dark water, speeding up, crashing down. I see the glint of sun on steel, and the wet redness of blood. Yet I do not know what to make of it all." She balled her fists in frustration and opened her eyes. "I do not know, Lafgar."

He played another serene tune on his flute, then fixed her with a fearless stare.

"Then I suggest you put it all out of your mind," he said.

"Out of my mind?" she repeated incredulously. "Are you like all men now, then? Don't think of it, don't bother your pretty little head with it when you could be cooking meals for your husband or embroidering cushions or rocking your babe, because there is nothing you can do anyway."

"I did not say there is nothing you can do," Lafgar contradicted her calmly. "But you _would_ do more harm than good, may the Spirits of the Sea and Sand and Forest be my witness."

Jadine looked at him furiously. "You know our king Alvadon is a good king," she said. "He is noble, he is generous, he is valiant. Yet he isn't enough to shield us from the treachery of the Malvians, from the wild tribes east and west, from the world that would have us torn apart. Being noble and generous and valiant is no good."

"Then what is?" inquired Lafgar, seeming mildly amused. He did not wait for an answer. "This is the last time we see each other," he said abruptly, "at least for a good long while," he added.

"Are you going somewhere?" Jadine asked, or rather, demanded to know.

"I'm going home," he said, and paused, "to the Emerald Mountains."

An expression of shock flitted over Jadine's face.

"The Emerald... yet you always said you were from Opi-Kir."

"I was born there," he nodded, "yet my mother was from the West. Some of your kin must have been from there too, else how would you account for your gifts?"

"All gifts are given by the Spirit," said Jadine.

"That is true... though some places are favored more than others. At any rate," he got up now, sounding brisk, "come morning, Lafgar's cave will be empty, and not many here will remember me once the moon has turned."

"I will," promised Jadine, looking torn apart by an internal struggle. "But why must you go?" she burst out. "What are you – "

He raised a hand, and she stopped abruptly. "In good time," he said, "we might meet again. To find me, and perhaps other things that will matter more, all you have to do is go west and west and west, until you reach a place where the mountains touch the sky."

"I cannot go west and west and west," she told him, annoyed. "I am a married woman now. A mother."

"That is true," Lafgar shrugged. "You have no choice."

"I should have been born a man," said Jadine.

He laughed in his quiet way. "Perhaps it is all to the good the Great Spirit decided to make you a woman. Farewell, Jadine. We might meet again someday... or we might not. By now you should see clearer than me on that account."

"I see nothing," said Jadine. "Not about this."

He nodded. "So be it," he said. "Now hurry home, child. A rumour reached me that the Sea Guard will be changing shifts earlier than usual tonight. You don't want your husband to come home to an empty house."

No, Jadine did not want that, and she hastened her steps as she walked back across the wet sand, up until a place where she stopped and put her sandals back onto her feet. The sun wasn't up yet when she arrived back at the empty house, crept slowly upstairs, and fell back to sleep to the sound of her baby's even breathing.

Next thing she knew, light was streaming in through the windows and Thadorn was shaking her gently by the shoulder.

"Wake up, my love," he said. "It is early, I know, and I would have left you in peace while the babe sleeps... but your sister is here."

" _Kelena?_ " Jadine rubbed the sleep away from her eyes. It has been a year since she saw her sister; since she was married, the only intercourse between them was by gradually dwindling correspondence. "When did she arrive? And why is everything so quiet?"

"She asked it to be so," Thadorn said. "Why, I do not know," he added with a frown. "She was waiting on the doorstep when I got back from duty, all wrapped up in a cloak that hid her face. There was no one else with her, and she begged of me and my parents not to tell anyone she is in town – not even your mother. I fear there is some sort of trouble, Jadine. You had better see her at once."

Jadine wanted to dress first, but Korian began to squall in his crib, and she picked him up and brought him to her swollen breast. The child sucked lustily, and her milk came in with a rush and squirted into the little mouth, which gulped it down eagerly. The other breast leaked milk as well, and Jadine reached for a folded soft cloth to prevent the milk from dripping all over her nightgown and sheets.

"Tell her to come up," she said to Thadorn as she reclined on the cushions, embracing her babe.

Kelena did not look good. It was obvious she chose her plainest clothes for traveling, so as to be less conspicuous, yet still those looked more expensive than most of what Jadine owned. There were dark shadows under her sister's eyes, and her face was pale.

"What happened?" Jadine asked bluntly. Kelena cast down her eyes.

"I had nowhere else to go," she said quietly.

"You ran away," Jadine said sagely. It was not a question.

Her sister looked up again, anguished, tormented. "I couldn't take it any longer," she said. "Yet he is looking for me, I know. He will find me."

Jadine made a sound that was half exasperated, half commiserating. "You haven't told me yet what made you leave, yet somehow, I am not surprised. Don't worry, you can stay here while we think what to do next, and none of us will breathe a word."

Kelena let out a tremulous sigh. "Then there is still a chance I might not have to go back to Aldon-Sur," she said.

"Not unless you want to," Jadine promised, and her eyes were piercing when they bore into her sister's. "Or... perhaps you feel you have to? Are you with child? Tell me the truth."

"No," Kelena took a deep breath, and went on bravely. "I'm a maid," she said, "and I am likely to remain that way until I die."

This left Jadine dumbstruck. "I do not understand," she said. "Are you saying Dankar never – "

"Never," said Kelena vehemently, "nor did he express the slightest wish to."

Jadine shook her head. "I would never have thought," she said, "from how vigorously he pursued you..."

Kelena's mouth twisted in uncharacteristic bitterness. "You would never have thought," she repeated. "That is precisely what he was after."

She gave a brief, succinct explanation that left Jadine speechless.

"This..." she shook her head. "This is humiliating. I don't know how you have put up with it even this long."

"He will murder me if he knows I told someone," Kelena lifted her tormented eyes so that they were level with her sister's. "He killed his first two wives."

Jadine was clearly unimpressed. "Let him try to hurt you," she said. "You are mistaken, Kelena - you needn't hide, not here where you are surrounded by friends and kin. You must let all stand by your side. Thadorn will protect you as well, and all the Tionae with him."

"Mother will be mortified to have this tale go beyond our clan," murmured Kelena.

"It needn't, if this bastard of a Gindur has an ounce of sense. You promise him to keep his secret, he arranges a quiet separation and writes down that he renounces all rights on you, and that is all. Your disjoining will be complete and you can go on with your life, while he can find himself another victim."

Jadine consciously made it sound simple and straightforward, although she knew Dankar Gindur is a dangerous man. She instantly saw Kelena wasn't fooled, though. When she looked into her sister's eyes, she saw fear.

All through breakfast, Jadine was vaguely annoyed by the solicitousness Andorn and Faelle expressed towards Kelena in every gesture. It was as though they already guessed, however vaguely, what was going on, and were feeling certain smugness at the looming dissolution of the glorious union the Kotsar have made.

During the day there was a knock on the door. Kelena, who sat immersed in some little sewing task Jadine gave her mainly to keep her from fidgeting, leapt up trembling and bounded upstairs, before Jadine could say it was probably only Rogell, come to exchange a few words with Thadorn before the beginning of his shift.

Yet the young man who was let it was unfamiliar, and clearly not of the Provinces. His clothing, though dusted by a long ride, was fine and well-made in the latest fashion, and the long dagger on his hip had splendid amethysts gracing its pommel. The most prominent thing about him, though, was his paleness. His hair was pale, and the skin of his face, his eyes and his hands. Yet he was without a doubt a handsome man, and his air was strong and vigorous, despite his mild well-bred manners.

"I probably have the honor of seeing Jadine Tionae, wife of the valiant Thadorn," he said with a polite bow. "I am Emmet of the Nimedor."

He didn't have to say more to introduce himself. The Nimedor were one of the most influential clans in the capital, with usually at least one seat reserved for them at the King's Council.

"To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?" Jadine asked briskly, suppressing a smirk at the thought of how much her mother would have groveled before this man, if only she had the chance.

"To see your sister," was the direct reply of Emmet Nimedor. Jadine hoped she managed to keep her face impassive.

"Kelena is in Aldon-Sur," she said matter-of-factly. "I don't know what made you think she – "

"Please," he interrupted her mildly but firmly. "I know she is here, and so does Dankar. I need to see her."

There was no use in pretending anymore, so she placed her hands on her hips.

"And what do you need to see her for, pray?"

"To convince her she must return," Emmet said.

"Oh, must she?" Jadine no longer hid her irony. "What will happen to her if she does?"

Emmet looked genuinely surprised. "What would happen to her? No, listen, I know there are some horrible rumours circulating about Dankar, and I'll grant you this, he is a quick-tempered man, but he is not unkind... nor is he without understanding. He would never begrudge his wife a visit to her family, even if she didn't bother to let him know. He only hopes Kelena will return in good time, in a fashion proper to a lady of her rank."

Jadine squinted in suspicion. "And what is the relationship between you that he sends you here, to be his eyes and his voice?" she demanded. "Are you kin?"

"Not directly, although there is a certain bond of blood between the Nimedor and the Gindur," confessed Emmet, "but Dankar and I are friends. He would trust me with his life."

Jadine scrutinized him. _Is that the way of it?_ She wondered. _Light and dark, sunshine and shadow?_ Emmet looked as though he could be a few years younger than Dankar, yet there was an ageless maturity to the fine lines of his face.

"Friends," she repeated. " _Close_ friends, I presume?"

"More like brothers," Emmet readily replied. "I owe my life to Dankar... which is a story of its own, though I'm afraid I would bore you with the details."

"How very considerate of you," Jadine said icily. "But if you and Dankar Gindur are such _intimate_ friends, perhaps I need not gloss over certain details of his, ah, private life that my sister revealed to me in confidence." When Emmet did not protest, she went on. "I confess my sister and I were never particularly close. We are too different, I suppose. Yet she is my only sister, and I am not prepared to sit back and allow an unworthy man to make use of her as an ornamented mask, when she is a girl of warm feelings, made to be happy and to bring happiness to others."

"You are being unfair to Dankar," insisted Emmet Nimedor, "but at least your frankness makes it easier for me to explain myself. He might not have a burning passion for your sister, yet he is grateful for and appreciative of her qualities as an excellent wife. As a friend and companion, she means a lot to him. He said his vows with her; she is under his authority and protection. Naturally, he expects her to come back."

"Would you come back?" Jadine shot at him. "If you were her?"

For the first time, Emmet looked faintly uncomfortable, yet he had no opportunity to give an answer to this, because all of a sudden, Kelena's footsteps sounded down the stairs. She was standing there, pale and frail and resolute.

"I recognized your voice," she told Emmet. He didn't answer, merely made a bow, staring at her intently.

"I will go with you," she said in a horrible quiet voice. Jadine turned and looked at her sharply.

"Why would you?" she told her sister. "You have nothing to fear here."

"I..." Kelena hesitated. "I do not fear."

Jadine snorted. "You have always been a lousy liar."

"To separate... there would be an uproar. Mother and Father would be grieved. I... I cannot do this to them. This way, at least I am respectable, and I have connected myself in a way that brings honor to the clan. I shall try and be content with my lot," Kelena said, and the bravery in her voice was entirely missed by Jadine, who thought she had never met such a coward.

"Suit yourself," Jadine said briskly. "I confess, I cannot see the point in coming all the way here if all you do next is running back, but the decision is yours."

At these words, Kelena looked up and reddened with anger. "The decision was never mine," she said quietly. Then she turned to Emmet. "Will you be able to escort me back to Aldon-Sur?"

"As soon as it is your wish to go," he told her, "although perhaps it may be advisable to trespass upon the hospitality of your parents for just one night."

Jadine watched intently. A look of understanding – however perverse it might have been – passed between Kelena and her husband's friend. There was an odd contrast between their faces. Kelena was fair, but her face was a sun-kissed rose, her hair a field of ripe wheat. Emmet Nimedor was pale and crisp as snow. That he was Dankar's lover, Jadine had no doubt. Yet there was something compelling about him all the same.

After Kelena made herself ready and went to the house of their parents, Jadine sat still for a long time, brooding, Korian on her breast once more. It was not in her nature to grieve for others, but Kelena's behavior, uncertain, fearful and blundering, was like the sting of a wasp stuck under her skin. It irritated her, and she could not get it out, no more than she could pretend she didn't notice it. _It must have taken all her courage to run away and come here,_ she mused. _Yet what good did it do, if she would just go back?_ She could not pretend she didn't see her sister's point, though. Dankar Gindur was not a man to trifle with, and it took courage to stand up to him... courage that Kelena never possessed.

It would have made more sense if their roles were reversed; Kelena was much better suited to marry someone she had known her whole life and live quietly at home, while Jadine would have done well with a brilliant connection that would allow her to stay in the city and perhaps be of some influence at court. Yet fate chose to toss its dice differently. _At least I have Thadorn, and the babe, and the promise of more children,_ Jadine told herself. Yet to her, it could not be a source of complete satisfaction as it would have been for Kelena.

The events of the next few days put the plight of her sister out of Jadine's mind somewhat. It was announced up and down the country that King Alvadon is going to sign a treaty with Malvia, giving the Malvians access to lake Trygven, the most important water resource of the water-deprived south. Enormous pipe lines were going to be built to carry the water across the southern border – all at the expense of the Tilirians.

"I do not understand," Jadine shook her head in disbelieving outrage. "What do we gain from this?"

"Peace," said Thadorn, with the air of a man who does not believe his own words.

"Peace?" Jadine repeated mockingly. "Yes, the Malvians shall give us peace... because they are in no position to attack us. We have a better army than them, sharper swords, stronger spirits. But why should we give them gifts?"

"The Malvian king proclaimed he will make his best effort to get the wild tribes under control," said Thadorn.

"He will never do that. The tribesmen do not recognize his authority, and he won't bother enough to impose it by law of sword and blood."

Thadorn sighed. "You are right," he finally said. "Yet it is easy for us to speak of this, safe behind the walls of our house. King Alvadon was under tremendous pressure from Adrinor, Selfinor and Letaria to sign this treaty. The conflict our borders are fraught with is bad for trade, it makes travel unsafe, it isolates Tilir..."

"Would that it really isolated us," said Jadine, "then we would have to answer to no one. We should answer to no one. We are an older people than the Letarians or the Adrinorians; long before Selfinor was even settled, we were masters of this land, even though we had no true kingdom yet. Our heroes walked the earth and the Great Spirit smiled upon them, and it is here where He still dwells, even though his children might be hidden in lakes and streams and forests. We have lost our pride, and if anyone thinks that will bring us peace, they are deluded."

Thadorn took hold of her hand. "Your love of this land does you honor," he told her, "yet there are some things which are far above are station. Politics are not our province, Jadine. Our task is to stay here, unseen and unheard of, part of the people doing their work... doing their duty."

Chapter 6

It was mid-morning, and Kelena was sitting at her sunny writing-table, poring over a letter. She was just about to pull paper, ink and quill towards her to begin drafting a reply, when her husband came in.

He was fully within his rights, of course, but she still wished he would have knocked.

"It is a fine morning," he said by way of greeting, polite as ever.

"It is," Kelena nodded. And waited, for it seemed there was something else he wanted to say.

"How are you planning to spend the day?" Dankar inquired. That was an unusual question, but she tried not to show her surprise as she replied.

"The carpet in the downstairs sitting-room seems a bit shabby," she said. "I thought I would go to the Weavers' Way today, to look at carpets and perhaps some woven mats as well."

"You do that," nodded her husband. "Choose whatever colors and patterns you like, I trust your taste without reservation. And make sure you order the very best."

Kelena always did. Money was of no consideration, and she was given free reign in setting up the house just as she liked. Here she was a natural; she had good taste which appealed to almost any visitor, and the house of Gindur hosted many splendid suppers for distinguished guests who came with a rustle of silk or a whisper of velvet. She tried to find some solace in that, in being a noble lady and having more money than she could ever spend, yet neither her elevated position nor the envy she inspired were enough to change the fact that she was miserable. And alone, so alone.

"A letter from Rhasket?" asked Dankar, nodding towards the broken wax seal depicting the stag of Tionae.

"From Thadorn," she replied. "He writes that Jadine had been safely delivered of a strong, healthy daughter, with red hair like that of Korian. They named the girl Datrine."

"A fine name," Dankar nodded ponderously, and it seemed to Kelena a cloud flitted over his face. "Well, you had better write back and send our congratulations to your sister and good-brother, before you head out."

"I will," said Kelena, "it will not take long."

Her letter of response was indeed short, but during the day, as she looked at intricately woven grass mats and touched luxurious soft carpets, her thoughts went back to Rhasket, to her sister's family. During her brief visit home, she was enchanted with the red-haired babe Jadine placed in her arms. Now she thought she might as well contrive an opportunity to visit her sister once more, in honor of the birth of her new niece.

This, more than anything, made her burn with jealousy. Jadine had never cared much for children, yet she now had two, only a year apart. Whereas she would have given anything for a child of her own, to fill her heart with love and her life with meaning, and yet her hands were empty. _But of course, one doesn't beget children by sleeping in separate bedrooms,_ she told herself, blushing.

Two years after her marriage, she remained a maid, although she and Dankar did all it took to maintain a façade of a respectful and affectionate relationship. The arrangement seemed to suit him, and she didn't dare to break through her cage. Going to her sister once was as much as she could do. Anything more was beyond her courage.

To her surprise, come evenfall supper for two persons was brought upstairs to her rooms and served on a small folding table, covered with a silk tablecloth. Dankar came upstairs soon after, wearing his pleasant and dangerous smile.

"I thought we might eat here tonight," he told her, as she looked at him, wary as a deer. "We have no guests, and the big dining room downstairs is too grand for just the two of us."

To this, Kelena had no word of objection. The house of Gindur was grand and luxurious and well set-up, yet it was sparsely populated. Their servants were few, efficient and quiet and quick, and often it seemed to Kelena she is alone in that great big almost-empty house. Yet there was a taste of suspicion in her mouth, so strong it drove away the taste of roast quail and fine red wine.

When they were done with the honey-glazed chestnuts, Dankar sat for a long time in front of the fire, hands around his knees.

"Come, sit by me," he said to her, like on their wedding night. Kelena approached warily and took a place by his side.

"Your sister," he said after a long silence, "has been married for about as long as you and I, yet she has two children, while we have none."

It was strange how this resonated with her earlier thoughts. "That is unsurprising, given the nature of our... arrangement," she said without a shadow of a smile.

"Yes," he nodded, "yet our _arrangement_ is not written in stone. It can be changed."

Kelena looked up at him, and met a steady dark stare.

"People are beginning to indulge awkward thoughts," he went on, "and before long, they will ask awkward questions. We both know the only way to thwart this. We must beget a son. This way, our union will be beyond suspicion. And of course, you will have someone to love, and I will have someone to inherit my wealth."

He sounded perfectly reasonable, yet Kelena could not shrug off a sense of betrayal and humiliation. She said nothing, just looked at him.

"You married me thinking you will have to share my bed every night," he told her when it became clear she had no reply for him. "It will not be so terrible to share it just once."

"It might not take just one time, my noble husband," she told him with sudden boldness. "Some women conceive only after months, even years of trying."

"Well, then, we had better get started," he gave her a thin-lipped smile, got up, and held out his hand to her.

Yet when he closed the door of the bedchamber behind them and leaned against it, Kelena saw that his usual swagger was gone, and in his eyes she noticed uncertainty that would have induced pity, if only she had some to spare for him.

"You have never done this before, have you?" she asked. She thought she might have insulted him, not that she would have minded too much, but his face betrayed no hint of hearing her.

"Get undressed and in the bed," he said. She obeyed without a word, but her fear was gone as she watched him fumble with his clothing. She had never seen him undressed before, yet he was just as she imagined, of a lean and graceful build, supple and smooth-skinned. When he slipped under the blankets next to her and blew out the candles, the darkness was complete. He put a tentative arm around her waist, and she smelled cinnamon and other, more exotic spices.

His breathing came out in tense, heavy puffs as he fumbled with her body, and this was so uncharacteristic of him that Kelena could have smiled, only then he finally found what he was seeking and she felt a sharp pain between her thighs. She let out a gasp and he said a word she could not quite make out, and then he became silent.

It was all over very quickly. It did not hurt more than it had to, and Dankar's hands had a certain deft gentleness to them once he got comfortable with the situation, yet as she laid in the darkness by his side Kelena knew that she could never have loved this man – this handsome, rich, nobly bred man – even if their marriage had not started in such an unfortunate way.

Just before dawn, when grey light filtered into the room through the curtains, Kelena woke and found him staring at her. It unnerved her. In the dark she could not find her nightgown, and now she clutched the blanket to her chest, hiding her nakedness. But Dankar sat on the bed cross-legged and nude, and did not look in the least uncomfortable in her presence. As always, there was something indecent about him. He reached for a silken bed robe and handed it to her.

"I never thought I should be any woman's first man," he said ponderously. Kelena said nothing, just looked at him with big blue eyes, hoping to convey as much contempt as she could muster.

"I don't recall I ever told you about _my_ first man," he went on. She did not move a muscle in her face, attempting to conceal the morbid interest that suddenly sprang up on her. "It was Trygmun, my cousin and clansman. He was eighteen and I was twelve, but we were closer than brothers that summer. He taught me to ride and hawk and joust, better than any teachers I had before, and we would disappear for days on end into the forests and mountains, hunting, bathing in streams, laying down onto their grassy banks and staring into the sky. Like a forest god Trygmun was, so beautiful no maid, wife or widow could pass him without turning her head to look at him once more... yet he was too proud to notice any of them, I thought.

One morning, we rode far into the country and took our midday meal in a sheltered grove, then crossed swords – just for play, of course. Tryg could have flattened me in half a minute, but he laughed at my clumsy efforts and let me get quite close to him before he parried my attack with a lazy flick of his blade and sent me tumbling down into the grass. Then he lifted me up and said he would have something of me, for his victory. I told him warily he could have whatever it was in my power to give – and it wasn't much compared to what he had, for he was a man grown, and rich, and I was a boy who only had his allowance to spare – but he laughed easily, and said it was not gold or jewels that he wanted, only a boon that would make us closer still. We stayed in that grove all day, and he taught me about love."

"Love!" Kelena did not mean to speak, yet the word broke scornfully from her lips. "Do you really think – "

"I was only a boy," Dankar went on solemnly. "There were many things I did not understand, and many things that perhaps could have been different if it weren't for that glorious sunny day – but yes, I did love Tryg, and he loved me. That one summer was all we had," he went on after a moment of silence. "Later he led an attack against a Totoki tribe that dared to threaten one of our clan's holdfasts. He could have allowed other men, more seasoned and less valuable, to take this job – but he was brave and gallant. And so he died."

Kelena watched her husband, genuinely mourning a man that made a boy whore out of him, and tried to prevent pity from stealing into her gentle heart.

"Emmet reminds me of Trygmun sometimes," Dankar said. "Not in looks, for Tryg was dark like me, but in nature. I can only pray it does not lead to his ruin."

_I can only pray this leads to the ruin of you both, you twisted bastards,_ Kelena thought savagely. The place between her thighs did not hurt now, exactly, but still throbbed faintly whenever she moved.

"I want to go home," she said abruptly.

"Home?" Dankar raised an eyebrow. "To Rhasket, you mean?"

"Yes." _I want to go home, to the place where once I was happy, to the place where I could still have been happy, if you hadn't snatched me away from it forever._ "I want to visit my parents, my brothers and sister. I want to see Jadine's new babe."

"If the Great Spirit blesses us," said Dankar, "you will soon have a babe growing inside you as well."

Dankar was compliant enough to allow her to make all the arrangements for her departure soon after that night, though. To Kelena's great relief, her noble husband would be remaining behind. There was some uprising of wild tribes in the east, and although Dankar was never more than a tourney fighter, somehow he managed to contrive for himself a reputation of a brilliant strategist. His counsel was sought at court, and there was even talk of him leading part of the troops dispatched to stem the bleeding border.

"It is only talk, though," he assured her, although she did not voice the least objection. "I was not made to command troops. His Grace has wisdom enough to see that."

In the meantime, Dankar visited her bedchamber several times more – to make sure the efforts had not been in vain, as he said. There was only a certain time, a few days each month when the Great Spirit saw fit to place a child in a woman's womb, but the exact time – the time of the Full Moon, it was delicately called – was shrouded in mystery, and like most women, Kelena could only make vague guesses as to hers. When they parted, she did not know whether she was pregnant or not. She did not know what to wish, either.

It was a relief to be free of burdensome obligations, to be on the road, heading for home with no concern in the world, at least for a short while – although Kelena knew very well that the man escorting her were all Dankar's, meant to serve as his eyes and ears around her. _Meant to make sure I shall ever be bound to his will,_ she reflected bitterly. The place between her legs ached again, courtesy of her husband's last visit. Kelena rather suspected there was something more than cunning design in his embraces in the last two times, but this did not make her any more kindly disposed towards Dankar. If anything, it made her shudder.

In the house of her parents, everything was as usual. Her father was dignified and a little aloof, as ever; her mother immersed in ambition, thinking how to show their family and all the Kotsar to the best advantage during their next visit to the capital. Her brother Kohir distinguished himself in his service in the City Watch, while young Nog did all that was in his power to emulate his elder brother. Seeing them all was a joy to Kelena, yet most of all she longed to meet the children – her little nephew and niece.

Thadorn met her with brotherly cordiality. He was not aware of the particulars of her last visit, but some vague rumours must have reached him, because there was special care in the way he inquired after her well-being. Kelena was struck anew by the open bravery and unrefined handsomeness of his face. _Here is a good man,_ she mused, _a good and honest man._ Little Korian, now just beginning to toddle, tailed his father whenever he could, and Thadorn obliged the boy by letting him ride upon his shoulders, touch the scabbard of his sword, and examine his shiny gold-and-blue badge of the Sea Guard.

Her sister was still weak from the birthing bed, yet seemed frazzled and restless at the same time. There were dark circles under her eyes, and when little Datrine squalled in her crib, Jadine let out an exasperated sigh as she picked up the infant and started to unlace the front of her dress.

"Can't you stay quiet for an hour or so, just for a change?" she told the girl irritably, yet the babe continued to cry until a milk-heavy breast was offered and her little mouth had found a nipple. "Oh, I do love them," Jadine said, noticing Kelena's reproachful look, "and I am grateful to have two healthy ones, especially after Taria Kamtesir had a stillborn last month. But I just wish... I wish I could be free, for just a little bit, just a little while. Not so long ago, it seemed to me as though I can do anything – well, almost anything. And now, I'm no more than a milk cow."

"They will grow," Kelena said reasonably, "sooner than you think." Tenderly, she smoothed a strand of fine red hair on her niece's head. She was a beautiful little thing.

"What about Dankar?" Jadine asked. "Was he reluctant to let you go?"

"He was as generous as can be," Kelena said cautiously.

"Oh, that I know. The gifts he sends us are magnificent, and Kor's toys are so expensive I have half a mind to hide them till he is old enough to stop trying to break whatever he sets his eyes upon. But what if he goes east? Will you stay here?"

"For a while, perhaps," Kelena said, "yet this is only talk. For now."

"For now," repeated Jadine. "Sending men to fight the savages is no good – not like this, at least. As long as the king and his council are unprepared to acknowledge that our real enemies are all around us, fighting the tribes is like trying to put out the mere fringes of a flame, without touching its heart. We can demonstrate our power, which is good... but we must also show we won't hesitate to use it."

"I don't know," Kelena shook her head. "I don't want war." That was all she could be certain of. Matters of diplomacy and politics, of strategy and battle were not beyond her comprehension, yet she could not relate to them. She was a gentle-hearted girl made to live and love, to laugh and give comfort, to extend her arms to those near her, to be a good wife... and mother. _A mother, yes. If the Great Spirit blesses me with a child, it will all be worth it – the secrets, the lies, the humiliation._ As she looked at little Datrine, Kelena's heart was overpowered with such deep longing she knew she would invite Dankar into her bed herself, time and time again, whatever it took to carry that blessed weight of life in her body and in her arms.

Thadorn most hospitably pressed her to stay with them at least during part of the time allotted to her visit, and Kelena did not hesitate to accept the invitation. She rather thought her mother saw it as an affront – even though she was sensible enough to keep silent on that account, it was common knowledge she never grew fond of the Tionae – she was past caring. She indulged herself in a few quiet days during which she humored her nephew, held her niece, and sat in peace with her hands folded over her belly, wondering whether new life has started there.

Then there was the day when she heard a knock on the door in the middle of the night. It was not a very loud knock, and Kelena could not say why it startled her so, but she sat bolt upright on her bed, heart hammering. She knew it was not her brother returning from night duty – he was supposed to be back already, and besides, he would have knocked. She heard a rustle of steps downstairs, and the sleepy voice of a newly hired servant murmuring some words she could not quite make out. Then another voice sounded, polite but unembarrassed at the lateness of the hour.

"May I see the lady Kelena?"

To spare the serving girl some awkwardness, Kelena dressed as quickly as possible and wrapped a scarf over her head – for in honor of the ancient custom, she covered her head as befits a respectable married woman of Tilir – and started descending down the stairs.

She did not know the man who waited for her. He was young and had the look of a soldier. His face was broad, with a smattering of freckles, and a mop of thick chestnut curls sat untidily on top of his head.

"You were asking to see me," said Kelena. He looked a little taken aback, she was not sure why – perhaps he expected Dankar Gindur's wife to look different, grander, more impressive? She didn't know. "Who are you?"

"I – " he shook his head, as if shaking off unwanted thoughts. "My name is Torwen Mattar, but it is of no consequence. I came here bearing a message for you, my lady. The eastern campaign is to be more forceful than was thought at first, and men are summoned from all over Tilir, your noble husband among them. I am going to serve under his command."

"You come from Fort Sand?" asked Kelena. He nodded. He was not a handsome man in the usual sense of the word, but there was something vigorous and decisive about his air that was appealing.

"A hundred men ride with me. The recruiting is to be kept secret for now, as much as possible, but I was told to see you if I could, when I pass through Rhasket and gather more recruits. Your husband might not be able to see you or write to you for a while, as I'm sure you understand. Do you have anything to say to him, or pass to him, through me? I could wait while you write a letter, if it is a short one."

"I thank you, but no," said Kelena, "there will be no need of that. Tell him... tell my noble husband I received the message. That should suffice."

Torwen nodded briskly, although a question flitted for a moment in his eyes. They were the color of hazel, and very clear. Suddenly self-conscious, Kelena forced a heavy lock of golden hair back under her head-scarf.

The young soldier made her a curt bow and bade farewell.

Sleep was gone, and back upstairs, Kelena was left alone with the night's quiet and her thoughts. The campaign had turned serious, then, and Dankar is going east. He might be gone for a long time... and although she refused to indulge the thought, it came back, unbidden. _He might never return at all._ Kelena was unsure how she felt about it. She never wished her husband any harm; she never wished anyone any harm. _Dankar doesn't wish me any harm either,_ she thought. _He simply uses me without the least consideration of what it does to me._

Suddenly, solitude became unbearable, and with a jolt of pleasure she heard footsteps in the small sitting room on the upper floor. It was a snug and cozy room, and Jadine liked to use it instead of the small cavernous library. Judging from the lightness of the footsteps, it was Jadine there, alone. Perhaps she was woken when Thadorn returned from duty, or perhaps she is pacing back and forth, rocking a babe to sleep, Kelena thought. Suddenly, although the barrier that was always present between her and Jadine did not melt away, Kelena felt she would like to share with her sister what she just found out. Stepping softly and quietly, she made her way to the small sitting room. It did not occur to her to knock. She just pulled the handle, and the door opened soundlessly.

The first impression upon her was that of a dancing, purple glow. In the next instant Kelena realized the glow is cast by a circle of purple flame that burned on the floor and cast shadows upon the walls and ceiling. A very precise, very beautiful circle it was, and it burned evenly, without expanding, even though the floor was covered with woven straw mats. In the middle of the circle stood Jadine, her hair redder, her eyes greener than Kelena had ever seen, her hands stretched to the sides like wings of a bird about to take flight. But the moment Jadine noticed she is not alone, her hands dropped and the circle of flame disappeared. Kelena dropped her gaze to the floor, disbelieving – yet there was no trace of soot or ash, not a single glowing ember. The circle was just gone, and if it weren't for the furious expression on Jadine's face, Kelena could have thought that it was all merely a fancy of her.

"That," she struggled for words, "that was – "

"None of your business," snapped Jadine with her usual courtesy. "What in the name of the Spirit are you doing here at this hour, anyway?"

"Didn't you hear someone knocking on the door?"

"No," Jadine said curtly. "I was... occupied. But who could have come at this hour?"

"It was a message for me. The Eastern campaign is now open in earnest, and Dankar is going there in the position of a Commander."

"So," an expression of odd, grim satisfaction appeared on Jadine's face, "the fools are choosing their Commanders according to status, not capability. I did not expect anything different. But be thankful, Kelena. This might be just what you need to have your freedom back... then you can come back home, marry Akira Kotsar, and settle down in Rhasket for the rest of your life. That is what would make you happy, isn't it?"

"I am not sure marrying Akira Kotsar would make anyone happy," Kelena replied coolly, "but that is beside the point. Jadine, what have you been _doing_ here?"

Jadine's face darkened. "Nothing that ought to concern you," she shot back.

"What about Thadorn?" said Kelena. "Ought this to concern him, or not? Or perhaps I will allow him to decide for himself, after I tell him?"

"You would not," Jadine said with exaggerated confidence. "And even if you did, he wouldn't believe you."

"Oh yes he would," Kelena said knowingly. "So perhaps you just cut it short and tell me what you have been up to."

Jadine folded her arms upon her chest. "You and Kohir are a pair of nosy busybodies," she declared. Kelena remained silent, waiting.

"All right," snapped Jadine. "I have been practicing."

"Practicing what?"

"Things I have learned. Gifts I have been given. Spells I have composed. Nothing very significant... for the time being, at least. I will appreciate it if you don't mention this to Thadorn – not that it matters very much, really, but he does have a superstitious fear of anything that does not pertain to the mundane."

Kelena bit her lip. For a long time, she suspected Jadine was... but no, surely, it was nothing serious, it could not be... "What do you want with all that?" she asked, gesturing with her hand towards the place where the circle of flame had been.

"Perhaps nothing," Jadine replied with a shrug, "perhaps everything. One never knows, before the dice is tossed and the game begins in earnest – and that it will happen very soon, I have no doubt of."

"You think the campaign in the east will be so dangerous?" Kelena asked tremulously.

"I think it will amount to nothing. The wild tribes of the east _are_ nothing, compared to our well-armed and orderly troops. As soon as they see the first glint of sun on fine Tilirian steel, they will melt back into the sand. But then they will appear again someplace else. And again. It will be like battling against shadows – and only shadows can fight shadows. That much is obvious."

Kelena's eyes widened almost imperceptibly as a sudden understanding dawned upon her.

"You have not been learning Paths of the Shadow, have you?" she asked her sister uncertainly. "It has been forbidden for many centuries now, even for Learned Men, and the knowledge died with the last warlocks."

"If the knowledge died, surely you needn't be concerned that I might have learned it," Jadine countered with a sly smile. "After all, dead men cannot talk... or so common wisdom says."

"I..." Kelena shook her head. "I only want what is best for everyone, Jadine, you know it, and if you are doing something Thadorn wouldn't approve of, wouldn't it be better – "

Suddenly, Jadine had her upper arm in a very firm grip. Her sister's savage and beautiful face was very close to her own, and it seemed to Kelena that the purple flames were still dancing, dancing, dancing in Jadine's eyes.

"If you want what is best for everyone," Jadine said in a low voice, "you will forget what you saw here tonight. You saw nothing. _Nothing._ Do I make myself clear?"

Soon after that scene, Kelena made her excuses as politely as she could: she didn't know how much time she had left in town; she might have to go back to the capital sooner than she expected, to take care of the household during Dankar's absence; she hardly saw anything of her brothers since her arrival, and now Kohir was planning to go east as well, she wanted to spend time with him before he left.

One afternoon when she was sitting across her mother and politely sipping mint infusion, she off-handedly asked about the clan of Mattar.

"Mattar?" her mother repeated indifferently. "I think I may have heard the name once or twice. A small clan of no consequence. They might be from Tallbridge Town, or perhaps one of the villages just beyond the Middle River. Why do you ask?"

"Doesn't matter," sighed Kelena.

"You look pale," her mother remarked mercilessly, "and otherwise less well than you were last time I saw you."

This was more than Kelena could bear. "It is probably because I am new with child," she informed her mother icily. For now she was sure of it; her moon blood did not come, her breasts were already beginning to tingle with the anticipation of heaviness, and overall, the most peculiar feeling crept over her body. There could be no mistake. Kelena did not know whether this made her feel relieved or terrified. If she gives birth to a healthy son, she might never need to share a bed with Dankar again. If not, though... no, she would rather not think of it.

Her mother nodded with dry satisfaction. "I thought as much," she remarked. "And about time, too. I was beginning to wonder what might be the matter. The Kotsar women have always been known for their fertility."

Unbidden, Dankar's words sounded in her mind. _"People are beginning to think awkward thoughts, and before long, they will ask awkward questions."_ _Well, no one will think anything awkward of me now_ , she thought with an odd mixture of triumph and bitterness. _I will be a wife and mother, a noble and rich lady, and no one will be able to see through this screen into the depth of my misery._

And it was then that Kelena felt she had really better be on her way. Besides seeing her nephew and niece, being home in Rhasket did not bring her the joy she expected. It was as though no one truly wanted her, no one truly needed her here; and although the same could be said about Aldon-Sur, which held nothing for her but a glamorous life and an empty house, at least she hoped the sense of awkwardness she felt ever since her encounter with Jadine would dissipate there.

Kohir, who was due to join the Eastern campaign, volunteered to safely escort her all the way back to the capital. Kelena pointed out this would hinder his progress eastward, but he appeared unconcerned about the prospect. She rather suspected this had something to do with the fact that if her brother rode east with full speed, he would have to accompany Rogell Tionae, who was to set forward on the same day. Despite becoming related, and the closeness in age and interests, Kohir never became bosom friends with Thadorn or Rogell.

Kelena welcomed Kohir's company. She still felt at ease with both her brothers, if not with her mother and father – and what's more important, she could still ride, if not for a full day. Soon, her condition would prohibit that.

It was a fine day when she and Kohir set forward. The scent of autumn was already in the crisp clear air, and for an unknown reason Kelena felt her heart lift. Strangely, she felt she is riding into the unknown, and this could only be an improvement... yet there was a nagging worry at the back of her mind, and she spent the morning alternately dwelling on it and trying to put it out of her thoughts, until finally she decided to share it with her brother.

"Kohir," she said, drawing his attention. Her elder brother was all of a warrior now, trained and geared for battle, and she didn't dare to use his childhood name _Ko_. "How often have you all been seeing Jadine lately?"

He frowned. "Funny you should ask," he said after a moment of hesitation, "because I felt something about her lately. Something queer. She has grown... evasive. Well, you know how she is, she has never been the affectionate type, exactly, but lately I got the impression that she deliberately avoids us, and everyone she knows. Even Father noticed that. Mother tried to tell him Jadine is busy with the children, but that won't fool me. I ran into her on the beach not long ago, you know. She was walking uphill quickly, and her cheeks were burning, and her eyes sparkled, like she was extremely pleased with something she saw or did. But when she noticed me she backed off, and her face had gone all stony. I would think there was a man involved in all this, if I didn't know Thadorn better. I wonder..." Kohir gave her a sharp look. "Have you noticed anything strange while you were staying with them?"

"Do you remember how she said, when she was little, that she was going to learn magic and become the greatest sorceress that ever was?" asked Kelena. Her brother laughed out loud.

"Yes, I do. And do you remember the frenzy she flew into, when Mother told her the warlocks are dead and gone?"

"She never believed that," Kelena said quietly, "not really."

Kohir looked at her, oddly disconcerted. "You're not trying to tell me she's still meddling about with such nonsense?"

"If it's nonsense, we needn't worry, isn't that so?" countered Kelena, almost echoing Jadine's words.

"That is right," nodded Kohir, but he appeared unconvinced. "It is known some wisps of the Power still remain," he added, "and I know there are some people who can do queer things... but none of it is _serious_ , Kelena. The only things that matter now are swords and alliances and strategy... and the eye of the Great Spirit watching upon us, as people of faith remind us at every opportunity."

They made good speed, traveling as swiftly as possible by day and taking refuge in roadside inns and hospitable households well before dusk set in. The roads were perilous; the eastern border was bleeding, and wild tribes penetrated Tilir from the east as well as from the south, taking the Middle Road as their prey. They didn't have the audacity to attack a well-armed man in broad daylight, but come nightfall they would swoop upon the road like vultures, robbing unfortunate late-night travelers and throwing heavy jagged stones at passing caravans simply out of spite. The atmosphere on the road was tense; whereas before, travelers chance met liked to stop and chat and exchange news, now everyone hurried on without sparing a word, anxious to complete their business and reach a place of refuge before dark. Even hooded cloaks, a customary travel garment, evoked suspicion, and it now became a matter of good manners to throw back the hood of one's cloak upon seeing people approaching. Fear grew in the dark like a poisonous mushroom.

Kelena was relieved when they reached the tall walls and sound gates of Aldon-Sur, flanked by well-armed guards. She had hoped her brother would ride into the city with her and help her dispel the gloom an empty house was apt to inflict, but Kohir bade her farewell at the city gates.

"You will have safe passage from here, I am sure," he said, "but I must ride on east. I am late as it is."

"I know," said Kelena, "and I know it was for my sake." Following a sudden impulse, she stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek. Last time she kissed her brother, his face was smooth; now she felt the prickling of a young golden beard.

"Write to Mother and Father," Kohir asked her, "and tell them I will send a message as soon as I can. Tell them to keep an eye on Nog, too. They don't want to have him run off on his own, not now when the roads are so perilous."

Fourteen-year-old Nog was tall and strong for his age, and almost a man – almost, but not quite enough to be allowed to join the fighting alongside his elder brother. This led to an angry outburst the night before their departure, and Kelena knew Kohir's warning was not in vain.

It was dark when the palanquin she hired – she was rather tired and sore of riding, and handed the reins of her horse to one of the footmen attending the palanquin – brought her to the gates of the house on Upper Esplanade. To her surprise, all the windows at the lower level were lit, and some of the upstairs windows as well. Someone was home, and it could only be Dankar, since none of the servants would keep so many lights on. But how could it be, when the fighting was still going strong, and she received no notice of his arrival?

This mystery was solved the moment she walked through the door. Her husband himself welcomed her; he wore a traveling cloak that had once been handsome, but now was muddy and tattered. Plainly, he had just arrived. He was exhausted, and his right arm was in a sling, but upon seeing her, his face lit up with an ironic smile.

"Well, isn't this a surprise!" he exclaimed. "I have come home not half an hour ago, and was just about to cast off this filthy cloak and sit down to write to you about my arrival; I did not expect you would come back so early, though. I thought you would stay another fortnight at least. What happened to shorten your visit so? Was it less pleasurable than you imagined?"

It was, but Kelena wasn't going to give him the satisfaction of knowing it. "I have had an enjoyable time with my family," she said, "but my brother Kohir left to join the fighting in the east, and riding with him back to Aldon-Sur gave me the safest escort and the pleasantest company I could wish for." It was then that courtesy required her to ask about his injured arm. "Have you been wounded, my husband?"

"This?" Dankar looked at his bandaged arm, as though he forgot all about it. "This is nothing too grave, my lady. But it very well could have been. A savage axe nearly took the top of my head off, and if it weren't for a boy who pushed me away and rushed forward to spear the bugger on his lance, I wouldn't be standing here now. The brave lad nearly paid the price of his life for saving mine, though. He was grievously wounded, and by the way it looked, had half his blood spilled that day. I took him home with me, to give him better care than he could have had at the garrison, and summoned the best healers to attend him. I figured I owed him that."

"That was very good of you, my noble husband," Kelena said courteously. '

"I know how to pay my debts," replied Dankar, "and let no one think of me otherwise. I will do everything for the boy's recovery, and will use my influence to have him promoted to a lieutenant. So," he added briskly, "you will find one of the upstairs guest rooms occupied, but this should be of no inconvenience to you."

"I am sure of it as well."

"Your brother had gone to join the lines, then? I thought he would. I hope for his sake that he comes under Emmet's command. There could be no better place for him."

"Emmet Nimedor is there as well?" asked Kelena.

"If a man of noble birth chances to find himself someplace else these days, he will be dubbed a craven," Dankar said with a hint of irony. "Well, my lady," he went on, "I don't doubt you want to take a bath and change your clothes before dinner. I am in dire need of the same. I shall meet you downstairs in, say, two hours?"

But after Kelena bathed and dressed, she still had plenty of the time allotted to her, and for a few moments, she paced up and down the room, taking in the familiar luxurious surroundings. There was no joy for her here, yet there was comfort, and she reclined upon the plump embroidered sitting cushions with pleasure, relishing the warmth of the good fire on an unseasonably chilly evening.

Then she heard a moan across the corridor. _It must be the wounded man._ She decided to take a look, to offer the healers her help, in case anything is needed to make him more comfortable. She crossed the corridor on tiptoe and opened the door behind which the voices sounded. A middle-aged woman in mouse-grey robes of a healer was wringing out a cloth in a basin of warm water; when she saw Kelena, she made a polite bow.

"Is there anything I can do to help you?" Kelena asked, although the sight of the blood-colored water made her queasy. Then again, much and more made her queasy these days. To her relief, the woman shook her head.

"The Great Spirit brought him out of danger," the healer said in a low voice. "With rest, he should be fine. He woke just now, and for the first time, remembered who he was."

Kelena's gaze wandered to the bed. The young man lying upon it under a heap of blankets was pale and drawn and covered in sweat, but she recognized him all the same. It was Torwen Mattar. She approached the sickbed with soft footsteps and knelt by it. When he saw her, a weak smile appeared on his lips.

"Lady Kelena," he said in a barely audible voice, "I hope you will forgive my not being able to rise."

"You need not speak," she replied, lowering her voice as well. "You were very brave," she said. He seemed faintly surprised by that notion.

"Brave?" he croaked. "Not... not brave. Just... could not let that bastard get the Commander. Your husband... he was good to us. All along. And I knew... I knew he would want to go back home, with you waiting for him. If I were him... I would have wanted that... very much."

Having said that, he looked aside, seemingly embarrassed. Kelena smiled a sad little smile and smoothed the wounded man's bedcovers.

"You just rest," she told him, "rest and grow stronger. I am sure many are waiting for your safe return as well."

"Yes," he said. "My mother and... everyone. Mattar is a small clan. Every man is... important."

He closed his eyes, and seemed to have gone to sleep again. His face was tired now, but peaceful. Kelena rose from her knees with a rustle of skirts, and left the room.

It seemed that Dankar made special efforts to be pleasant, and so their solitary dinner passed in a better manner than she could have hoped.

"Will you go back east?" she asked. "After you can use your arm again?"

"The fighting in the east will be done by then," he assured her, "and the wild men will be driven back across the border where they belong. But not..." he searched for words. "We can ward them off, but we cannot defeat them, not without venturing deep into the Eastern Wastes, and no man of a sound mind will do that. So we will throw them off... knowing they will strike again some day, sooner or later."

_Fighting a shadow,_ Jadine's voice sounded in Kelena's head, and a chill crept down her spine. Dankar must have seen her discomfort, so he added, "fear not. They are no threat to us, merely a nuisance." Still she was unconvinced, remembering how many fears accompanied her during the journey down the Middle Road. Then they talked of other things, ordinary things, matters of family and house and servants, and the wounded man upstairs, the one who nearly died saving the life of her child's father.

Still, she found no right opening in the conversation to tell him of the new life growing in her womb. She thought that if he decided to make his way into her bedchamber again she might tell him there is no need of that anymore, but he never did. He courteously bade her goodnight and went to his own room. _Still, he must know,_ Kelena decided, and resolved to tell him upon the morrow.

Yet when she made her way downstairs to breakfast, she met one or two of the servants, and they hurried past her with a frightened look on their faces. As she hastened onward with a terrible feeling of premonition, she heard horrible sounds. And only when she saw Dankar, she realized that it was him. He was sobbing, on his knees, a letter crushed in his hand. He was alone, for no one had dared to come near him, and when he heard her enter he turned to look at her and his eyes, dark and bottomless and full of tears, were terrible to behold.

"A runner just came," he said hoarsely, answering her unspoken question. "There was a letter..." his fingers unclenched, and shreds of cheap thin paper scattered upon the carpet. "It is Emmet," he went on with tremendous effort. "He... he stepped into the Land of Dawn."

Kelena didn't know what to say. As repulsive as the relationship between her husband and Emmet Nimedor had been to her, she realized the value of Emmet as a good man, true and brave. And Dankar's suffering was so palpable that she could not help but feel sorry for him. "How did it happen?" she asked.

"He was captured by the Lyaki," said Dankar, his fingernails digging into the flesh of his palms. "They tortured him, trying to find out the plans of the next attack... and when it became clear to them their efforts were futile, they burned him alive. I don't know if it is true, but it was said he... he did not cry out, not once." A great shuddering gasp escaped his mouth, and he buried his face in his hands.

"I will call for an infusion of calming herbs," Kelena said in a hushed voice. "I will say it is for me."

She was about to ring for a servant, but Dankar caught her wrist. "No," he said. "No... want nothing. Nothing will help. Not now. He was brave, Emm... he had courage, like Tryg... and brave men are always favoured by the Great Spirit. I should never have left him," he went on, savagely. "He was taken captive on the same day I went home. I should have stayed by his side."

"You could not have," Kelena said reasonably but gently. "You were wounded."

Her husband looked at her through a haze of pain. "I know what you think. I am an abomination, an insult to the essence of the Spirit, and so was Emmet. But I loved him – by all I hold sacred, I loved him."

"As he loved you," said Kelena with a sigh, looking directly into the black eyes she once feared. "I do not think you are an abomination, Dankar. There is simply something about you which is... unusual... out of the ordinary. And the way of the world is such that you need to hide it, or be an outcast. I understand this. But at least within your house, and on an open road, and in your own heart you can be free." She was silent, warding off untimely bitterness. _I can never be free,_ her silence implied. _You made sure of that._ Dankar was good at reading between the lines, though. He fully understood her meaning, and when he looked at her, for the first time ever Kelena saw a hint of remorse.

"All men deserve to be free," he said. "All women, too. My first wives chose not to accept it, they tried to bend me to their will, to correct my path, but you... you were always good, Kelena. I can find no fault in you. If you wish, I can make you free. I realize the dissolution of this marriage might bring trouble upon you, from your clan and especially your mother, but I can give you enough gold to be respectably settled all your life – as close to or as far from Rhasket as you would wish."

Kelena could not suppress a bitter smile. _If only he had made this offer before taking my maidenhood,_ she mused, _everything could have been different._ It was too late now, though. Too late for so many things.

But he was brittle, broken, shaking with grief, and an impulse made her reach out for his hand. "Emmet was a man of worth," she said, "a man of valor. Perhaps," she hesitated for a heartbeat, then went on, "perhaps it will give you some comfort to name our son after him."

It took a moment for her words to sink in. He looked at her, his face tear-stricken, his eyes wide with astonishment. "Are... are you..." he struggled for words.

Kelena nodded.

"Are you certain?" he blurted out. "Absolutely certain?"

She nodded again. "Of course," she said, "if it is a girl, we can call her Emma. But I don't mind either way. It is a good name."

Wordless, Dankar turned aside and wiped away his tears. Then he took her hand and, for the first time since they were married, brought it to his lips.
Chapter 7

Thadorn smiled indulgently as he bounced the babe on his knee. With a small soft hand, the child grabbed his fingers and looked into his eyes. She was a beautiful girl, one year old now, and her name was Tari. Unlike her siblings, her softly curling hair was chestnut, not red, her eyes a placid grey. Little as she was, Thadorn saw more of himself, and more of the Tionae, in this girl than he did in his two elder children.

"May I hold her?" asked Kelena, and stretched her arms towards the little one. Tari went to her aunt, not the least bit reluctantly. Although this was only the third day of Kelena's visit, she had already made fast friends with her little niece.

There was quite a bit of noise in the room. Four-year-old Korian and three-year-old Datrine enjoyed taking the lead in their games with little Emmet, who was now just two years old, and did his best to keep up with the older toddlers. The children have been romping about all day, occasionally joined by Tari, who crawled after them on her chubby little knees.

"Where is Jadine?" Kelena asked, and it seemed to Thadorn there was hidden meaning in this innocent question.

"She was tired," he said, "she asked me to tell you she will not be coming down to supper, she prefers to rest. It is understandable," he added with a hint of defensiveness in his voice, although his good-sister did nothing to question his claim.

The truth was, as much happiness as he found in the children, as busy as he was kept by his new duties as Head of clan – both his parents passed away a year ago, his mother of her lingering sickness and his father of a broken heart – he could not help but notice something was amiss with his wife. He tried to reason with himself, tell himself it is nothing but the overwhelming demands of motherhood taking their toll on her, but it was no good. He knew Jadine too well not to notice something was wrong. She was restless, moody, dissatisfied, disappointed. With their quiet life in their beloved seaside town, with the way things were going downhill in the kingdom, with... with him. This hurt, but he knew it was true. She had expected something more of him, though he could not be sure what. Perhaps she expected him to be a stronger leader, a bigger man, someone with aspiration to influence the highest circles... but he was never like that. Home, it was enough for him, it always had been. He thought it was enough for her, too... or at least so he willed himself to think.

He and Kelena ate a simple supper with the children – fresh bread and warm milk, dried figs and slices of cheese, apples baked with honey and cinnamon. After the children were full and tired, the level of noise subsided. Korian, Datrine and Emmet ambled into their nursery and went to sleep together in the big bed the three of them shared at night – the four of them, whenever Jorrel, Rogell's son, joined them in their play. After tucking them in, Kelena went back to the main hall. Thadorn was still holding Tari in his arms; the child was very sleepy, her little body lax and warm, but her eyes were still open wide, looking around the room.

"Are they asleep?" he asked his good-sister.

"Korian and Datrine are, and Emm was just nodding off when I left," Kelena said fondly. Thadorn felt sincere joy for her at the birth of her son. He knew as well as anybody that there had been precious little happiness for Kelena in her first years of marriage, but Emmet's birth had breathed new life into her. He was named after a friend of her husband who was captured and killed by the wild Lyaki of the Eastern Waste, and a fine boy he was, handsome and clever. He had his father's fine dark hair and his mother's warm blue eyes, eyes that shone like calm lakes in his bronze-colored face. "You look tired," she told him. "Here, let me take Tari. I will put her to bed."

Thadorn accepted the offer gratefully. Putting a child to bed was a task he regarded as a mysteriously difficult one. No matter how tired they were, they would always cling to him, keeping their eyes open by sheer will, asking them to sit by their bedside, to tell them stories and teach them the names of heroes. He found it curious they never tried this with their mother... and now that Jadine seemed so detached, Kelena's presence brought welcome relief to the atmosphere which would otherwise be very tense. _She is a good woman,_ mused Thadorn. _Good and kind and artless._ Between Hinassi's scheming, Rohir's aloofness, Kohir's cocksure arrogance and Datrine's ambition, Kelena stood out as a virtuous example of a simple, tender heart.

When his good-sister went upstairs carrying the child, Thadorn stepped out onto the balcony and breathed in the cool clear air. Everything was quiet. Two figures crept outside in the dark, furtively... in a well-trained motion, he gripped the pommel of his dagger, then relaxed. He recognized them. It was his wife's little cousin, Jada, who was not so little anymore. This was her fifteenth year, and she had grown to be a beautiful maid, shapely and slender, doe-eyed, with the skin of her face like fresh cream. Her perennial admirer, Ned Kamtesir, was with her, and this explained the need for secrecy. The Kotsar frowned upon this courtship, Thadorn knew; for reasons unclear to him, his good-mother in particular took it as a personal affront, and hinted to Jada's parents they would do much better to forbid their daughter to see Ned ever again. _No chance of that,_ Thadorn mused with a wistful smile on his lips as he heard the murmur of two voices and the sound of a chaste kiss. _These two will marry, or I am no judge of human nature._

When Thadorn went upstairs, he found his wife sitting and staring at the fire. She did that often; and sometimes she stared into a mirror, or into a glass of wine, in a way that unnerved him. It was as if she saw something there, something beyond flame or glass or liquid. But that, of course, was impossible.

"I hope you feel refreshed now?" he asked. For a moment, she lifted her impossibly vivid eyes towards him as though she did not understand what he was talking about. Then she nodded.

"I am quite rested," she said, "thank you."

"Then you should go downstairs and spend some time with Kelena. You hardly saw anything of your sister since her arrival."

"Oh, but it seems you have been getting along splendidly without me," Jadine pointed out. "And judging from the voices of the children, they have never had a better time."

Thadorn hesitated, almost ready to be silent once more, to change the subject, to delay the inevitable for another day, another hour. But it was not to be. "Jadine," he said, "is anything wrong?"

" _Wrong?_ " she snapped. "You had better ask, is anything right?"

"May I ask what – "

"We are on the brink of destruction, that's what," she cut across him. He heaved a sigh. He should have seen it coming; during many of her moody silences, Jadine sat poring over maps – something else he'd rather she didn't do.

"You are taking this too far," he said in a tone of forced calm. Forced, because he had to acknowledge there was a grain of truth in what his wife said. The kingdom of Tilir found itself in a tight corner, that much was certain. King Alvadon was pressed by Letaria and Selfinor to make peace with the savages and do more and more to appease the Malvians, who were growing smug and insolent behind their bare rocky mountains and desert dunes. Tilir gave them water and wine, copper and wool, horses and timber – all on the off chance that the wild tribes would be brought under control. And now there came up the question of land again – of letting some parts of the south go to Malvia for good.

"Don't you find it infuriating," said Jadine, "that we, who have so little land, should be giving some of it to Malvia, who has so much?"

"Most of the Malvian land is no good," Thadorn pointed out, "it's all desert, fit for nothing but the wandering of nomadic tribes."

"That does not give them a right to _our_ land," Jadine argued.

"I did not say it does, but you need not get yourself so worked up over it, Jadine. We must put our trust in our king – our good, strong king, who is guided by the Light of the Spirit."

"A king who won't live long," shot Jadine, "a king who will have no sons. How long do you think the kingdom will hold then, before plunging into chaos?"

Despite the warm fire burning in the grate, Thadorn suddenly felt chilled to the bone. The things she sometimes said... the way she said them, as if she _knew_... but this made no sense, he would not succumb to fear of the unknown –

"Why would you say that?" he demanded. "King Alvadon is young and strong, and so is his wife the queen. True, it has been a while, but if the Great Spirit's blessing should be upon them, they will beget many children yet."

Jadine shrugged. "Suit yourself," she said, "you know I have powers and knowledge I cannot fully explain, not to your satisfaction, at any rate. But I do know this – steel and poison will kill young and strong men just the same as they would old and feeble ones. As for Queen Maviel... the king thought he would win the unwavering alliance of Adrinor by marrying her, but he was mistaken. Adrinor will never stand against Selfinor, certainly not for us. And she cannot even give him a child. The king and queen were married before us, don't you remember? We have three healthy living children, but all the king got from his foreign princess was three miscarriages and a stillborn boy. Or do you deny it? If he doesn't cast her aside, he will never get an heir, and he is too proud to send the queen back where she came from and marry a Tilirian noblewoman, as he was meant to do from the start."

"Even if the king has no children of his body, he has two brothers," Thadorn reminded her. A mocking laugh was his answer.

"Who do you mean, the craven or the lackwit? One will never be fit for marriage, the other will probably fear it too much to undertake such a venture. No, I am well past putting my hope in the king."

"What do you suggest, then?" Thadorn said with a hint of impatience.

"You mentioned the Light of the Spirit before," Jadine replied readily. "There is your answer. Where there is light, there is shadow, and in the Shadow we can find our refuge."

Thadorn did not know whether he ought to laugh. "You are making no sense," he declared.

"You do not want to see sense," said Jadine, "because, like most men, you are ruled by superstitious fears. A shadow is just the other side of light. You think the ancient power was abandoned, forgotten; it was not. It was merely biding its time until an hour of need would come. Now the hour is upon us. If we find the right way, we can close the borders of Tilir, close them for sure, close them forever, and never again be bothered by those who don't understand the essence of the Spirit."

Thadorn looked and looked at her, and for the first time, he feared his wife had gone mad.

"You are speaking of an old legend," he finally said, "a legend that would turn the lands bordering Tilir into sea, and leave us an island stranded among drowned wrecks – "

"It would be the best solution by far," said Jadine. "We do not need anyone. Not the Malvians, surely, and not Letaria or Selfinor or Adrinor. We would be far better off the way we were in the Olden Days, when we kept our borders sealed and our blood pure. I can help bring this about. This is why I'm going."

She got up, and Thadorn saw she was wearing her traveling cloak. This small detail made him fear more than anything she ever said or did.

"Going?" he repeated weakly. "Going where?"

"West," Jadine said curtly. "I need not ask, of course, whether you are coming with me," her mouth twisted bitterly. "I know the answer already."

"Jadine," he said imploringly, reaching out to her, only a thin berth of air between his fingertips and her arm. "Whatever folly you have in mind, consider it again, I beg you. I know it hasn't been easy on you lately, but you and I have work to do, our work which can be done by no one but us. The children – "

" – will perish with the rest of us if things continue going as they have," said Jadine. "There is no use trying to stop me, Thadorn. If you wish to find me, all you have to do is go west and west and west, until you reach a place where mountains touch the sky."

He simply stood there, his hands hanging limply down his sides, like a man watching an avalanche of snow or the outburst of a volcano, horrified and helpless. _I am losing her,_ a thought pierced him like a knife, _but perhaps I never had her at all. Perhaps it all had been a dream._

Quiet and dark as a shadow, Jadine slipped through the door without a word of goodbye, without a look at him. He knew she would never return.

Thadorn couldn't remember how long he stood there, dumbstruck, numb. He looked around, seeing Jadine's things, her dresses, her hair combs, her jewelry box. She took nothing with her, it seemed. It could have made him hopeful for her return, but there was a finality about her leave-taking that he could not mistake. Dazed, he made his slow way back downstairs, where he was greeted by Kelena. His good-sister's arms were now empty; presumably, little Tari had fallen asleep.

"Thadorn, what happened?" she asked urgently upon the sight of him. _I must look drunk. I sure feel drunk – on sour, strong wine._

"Have you seen Jadine?" he asked in return, struggling with every word.

"Why, yes, she just walked past me, hardly mumbled a word of greeting – I thought she was heading outside for some fresh air, but – _what happened_?"

"She left," said Thadorn in a low voice, powerlessly dropping his weight on a low carved sitting bench piled high with cushions.

"Left?" Kelena did not seem to comprehend. "What do you mean, left?"

His dark eyes met her innocent blue ones. "I mean she left me," he said quietly but distinctly. "She left our children and our home, our life and our vows, and everything I thought she held dear, to go west and dabble at some obscure sorcery I thought she had long abandoned." Kelena's hand flew to her mouth; she looked horrified, which was to be expected, but he made another observation. "You are not surprised," he noted with a tinge of bitterness.

"I..." Kelena shook her head. "Jadine had always been willful, you knew that, and she was fascinated by some – some – things better left in the dark. But I had hoped this was all left in the past... that she is happy now... the Great Spirit showered so many blessings upon her, and I thought surely..."

"I thought so too," Thadorn said abruptly. "Apparently, we were both wrong."

"But what does she intend to do?"

"Save Tilir," he let out a short little laugh that was worse than a sob. "Or attempt some crackpot spell and get herself killed in the process, more like."

"You must find her," Kelena said forcefully, resting one hand on his sleeve. He gave her a long look, then nodded. In his heart he knew it would probably do no good, but even the attempt of doing something senseless appealed more to his practical and active nature than doing nothing at all.

"You must help me," he told Kelena.

"Tell me what to do," she said earnestly.

"People will notice before long that Jadine is gone. They will begin asking questions and I... I could not bear it. You must leave upon the morrow, go back to Aldon-Sur, and take care to be seen by as few people as possible as you ride out of Rhasket. We will say Jadine had gone with you for a visit. It will buy us some time without gossip, at the very least. You will have to take little Tari with you, too," he added after a brief inner struggle. "Under normal circumstances, Jadine would not have gone without her babe."

The look of pity in her eyes made him burn with shame and humiliation. "Oh, Thadorn," she said softly, shaking her head. "Perhaps it isn't necessary to – "

"Do not say more," he entreated her. "I know Tari will be in good hands... and before long, she will return home. I am shamed to say this, but I will have to ask you to leave very early, before the children are up. You can take Emmet while he still slumbers."

"And what will you tell Korian and Datrine?" asked Kelena.

"The same I will tell everyone else. That their mother had gone to an extended visit with her sister; that she loves them and shall miss them, and promised to bring them many presents upon her return."

A shadow of uncertainty passed upon his good-sister's face. "And if she doesn't return?" Kelena asked tremulously.

"Then it will be a cruel blow for them," Thadorn said darkly. "But... let us not speak of it yet, while there is still hope, however faint."

Kelena pondered the matter a little while longer. "May I ask Nog to accompany me?" she asked. "I will feel safer with him along the way."

Kelena's youngest brother was seventeen now, a lad of little training, but strong and skilled with sword and bow. As much as her request made sense, though, he felt he could not allow it.

"Forgive me, but I would rather find someone else to escort you. If Nog goes with you, your family will know within an hour of his return, and then all the Kotsar, and after them the other clans... I know it is much to ask, Kelena, but for the sake of the kin's bond between us, and for your sister..."

"I understand," Kelena interrupted him softly. "I wouldn't mind going on my own, Thadorn; I could rent a good solid cart and there are inns along the road... with the children, though... who do you think could escort me?"

"There is a good man," Thadorn said. "You will recall him, I am sure – he spent some time in your home recovering from wounds he received during the Eastern campaign. His name is Torwen Mattar."

As unobservant as personal concern and anxiety have made him, he could not miss the brilliant blush that suffused Kelena's face all of a sudden at the mention of the name. "To be sure," she said, "I remember Torwen, but we saw nothing of him ever since he was recovered and made a lieutenant. I thought he had gone to South Watch."

"He did, but then he returned to Fort Sand. It is usually Rogell's work to go there on Sea Guard business, and it was there that they became friends. I know Torwen is in Rhasket-Tharsanae now, looking for new soldiers among the city dungeons. It is an important task, but Torwen is a man not insensitive to the plight of others, and he thinks most highly of you and your husband, I know this for a fact. If he can contrive any possibility of conveying you and the children to Aldon-Sur, he will be happy to do that."

"I am sure he will," Kelena acquiesced. He didn't understand why she looked so anxious, but there was no time to dwell on that. He had to go and speak to Torwen Mattar now, alone and undisturbed.

Torwen proved to be as good and obliging a friend as he was a brave soldier. The lateness of the hour was no trouble at all; and the request, though unexpected, could be easily fulfilled. Nothing could give him more pleasure than safely accompanying Lady Kelena and the children to Aldon-Sur, and all he required of Thadorn is that a message be dispatched to his superiors in Fort Sand, depicting his mission as a special favour asked by the Commander of the Sea Guard. Then surely there could be no objections. It was to be kept a secret? Then he would carry it to his grave, and trust that Thadorn Tionae would never get a man involved in anything dishonorable. He asked no questions, either, although his curiosity was plain to see.

Kelena did her best not to seem too discombobulated, or to steal more glances at Torwen than would be appropriate for a noble lady with a humble escort. Resistance was proving to be difficult, though; his was one of the faces that don't stand out at first, but later draw the eye again and again. And his eyes were true hazel, very bright, pure and clear like a mountain lake in spring, dappled by sunlight.

The last thing she expected was to find herself alone with him, except for a toddler and a babe in arms, on a long road. After that fateful day when the notice of Emmet Nimedor's death reached them, Torwen stayed in the house at Upper Esplanade for another three weeks, but they had little chance to talk. Once he recovered, he went away carrying a letter of the warmest recommendations from Dankar. He had been promoted, Kelena knew, but she heard nothing of him since. _He had grown handsomer,_ she reflected, _but not at all self-assured. And what of me? What have I become? What am I becoming, slowly, day by day, hardly noticing it?_

Torwen was ever courteous, helping her mount and dismount, making sure she and the children were comfortable when they stopped at inns, pointing out the beauties of the countryside. He asked few questions, and for that Kelena was grateful; she suspected it would not endure, though, and was proven right.

One time at midday, the weather was so lovely they stepped off the road for a while to sit in the shade of a magnificent oak tree. Road provisions were brought out – bread, cheese, dried apples – and after having a bite to eat, little Emm wandered off to splash in the little stream nearby. It was shallow, but Kelena still kept a careful eye on her son, ready to call him off. Little Tari, lulled to sleep by the swaying motion of the ride, was sprawled on a blanket next to them.

"I don't know your good-brother well," began Torwen, "but I have great respect for him, and I know I owe it to him to make all the way to Aldon-Sur and back without displaying the least bit of curiosity. I am only human, though," he flashed a smile at her. "If there is anything at all you can tell me regarding these... peculiar circumstances, I promise to tell no one."

Kelena looked at him, wondering how much she should say. "You wouldn't ask," she finally said, "if you didn't, at the very least, guess the answer already."

"I am a man of logic, not guesses," said Torwen. "You come to stay with your sister, then all of a sudden you have to leave before the break of dawn, only a few days after you arrived. Your sister does not come to bid you farewell, and your brother does not accompany you, although he would be the most natural choice, since he is in town. Thadorn asks me to take you safely to Aldon-Sur, as a personal favor to him, and he seems upset when we say goodbye. And most curiously, you take your little niece with you."

"And what do you make of all this?" inquired Kelena.

"Only this: that something is amiss, and it has to do with your sister."

She sighed. "Jadine left my good-brother and the children," she said. "Thadorn is going to search for her, and in the meantime, he asked me to help him make it seem as though Jadine is going to Aldon-Sur with me. If he finds her and brings her home soon, no lasting damage will be done and no one need know what happened."

"Ah," Torwen looked understanding and commiserating. "I should have guessed. Thadorn did not look like himself when he came to see me... he seemed all wrought with anxiety. I could not have refused him, even though it means I will be flayed alive when I return to Fort Sand," he smiled to make light of the jape, but Kelena's eyes still widened reproachfully.

"You said it would be no trouble for you," she reminded him.

"Nothing I did for you could ever be called trouble," he said, and all of a sudden his smile was gone, and his eyes were anxious and serious when they probed hers, and she felt a hot prickle in her heart that spread instantly to her face and the tips of her fingers. Then her hand was between both of his, and something exploded in the pit of her stomach – thrill, fear, exhilaration. _It was not all in vain, it was not. He did not forget me, as I could not forget him._ Yet they were close enough to the road to be seen and perhaps recognized, and her sense of propriety made her gently pull her hand away.

"You forget yourself," she said, "I am a woman wed."

Torwen appeared supremely unconcerned. "Of course you are," he nodded, "and your son is proof of that, as the blood of Gindur can be plainly seen in his face. But I know your noble husband never loved you the way he ought."

He sounded so certain, and when Kelena glanced at him nervously, his face was quite calm. "Do I speak too openly, my lady? Forgive me, I did not mean to offend you. But there were certain – certain _rumours_ surrounding your husband, back when we fought in the east. Mostly those were whispers I did not take to heart, as I am not at all fond of gossip, but when I saw your noble husband mourn Commander Nimedor, I knew it was true. One does not grieve this way for a friend, or even a brother. Only for a... lover."

Kelena drew back from him, frightened. "You must never mention it to anyone," she whispered.

"I have never done that, and I never will," Torwen assured her. "Commander Gindur had been good to me, and besides, what goes on in his chambers behind barred doors is none of my concern – or would be none of my concern, if it weren't for you."

Without quite knowing how it happened, Kelena realized they were both on their feet. Torwen's hand reached out to softly cup her cheek, and she did not find the strength to pull back.

"When I first saw you, your eyes were sad," he said quietly. "Now they light up at times... but only when you look at your son. You deserve better. You deserve a man to love you with the passion of his heart, not merely to do his duty by you."

His face was so close to hers she could count the freckles on the bridge of his nose. She was falling, falling, falling – and she would have fallen gladly, if suddenly she had not recalled that she has let little Emmet out of her sight for the past couple of minutes. She looked about her with a jolt of fear, but the little boy was happily occupied floating dry leaves down the stream's current. Tari stirred on her blanket and murmured in her sleep, and Kelena knelt by the babe and laid a tender hand on her.

She looked at Torwen, desperate to lay her heart bare, to be vulnerable and young, to be cherished and protected, desperate to convey by a single look all that she could not put in words.

"We must head on if we are to reach the next inn before nightfall," she told him. He nodded. He looked as awkward as she felt as he began to gather their things. Little Emmet came running towards them, barefoot, his arms full of red-and-gold leaves. Kelena chided him for leaving his shoes by the stream, and Torwen, who had taken a fancy to the boy, hoisted him up on his shoulders – and thus they went in pursuit of the shoes.

Torwen did not speak to her again until they reached the inn.

It was to be their last stop on the way; tomorrow, they would reach the capital. _I am going back,_ mused Kelena. _Back to my home, back to my life... or perhaps I have never really been away._ The thought filled her with a heavy, leaden feeling, and she had hard time falling asleep at night. Restless, she tossed and turned on her goose-feather mattress, unable to find comfort even in the slow steady breathing of the children next to her in the big bed. Eventually she got up, unable to bear it. She threw her thick cloak over her nightdress, took a candle in hand, and silently slipped outside into the corridor.

The door of Torwen's room was right next to hers, and when she knocked he came forward to open it with such promptitude that she suspected he hadn't been able to get any sleep either. His eyes rested on hers, wide and questioning and beseeching, and when she stepped into the room and closed the door behind her and shrugged off her cloak, Kelena was sure she could hear his heart hammering alongside hers. She kissed him, running her fingers through his thick soft hair, inhaling his oddly and pleasantly familiar scent. She buried her face in his chest and allowed his hands to press her closer, ever closer, much too close, until they were both melting into one. The candle was resting on the sideboard and in its flickering light she saw Torwen's smile, sweet and uncertain, and she knew it was mirrored on her own face. She allowed him to carry her into bed and guided his hands under her nightgown, and then slipped it over her head. His mouth tasted her jaw, her neck, the curve of her shoulders; he kissed her fingers one by one and held her small feet in his hands, and rubbed the stubble of his cheek against her smooth calf; and Kelena laughed, gaily, effortlessly, free for the first time in years. In the dark, each of them whispered each other's name.

"My love," said Torwen when they lay entangled in each other's arms, in the middle of the sagging mattress and the rumpled sheets. "My sweet lady, queen of my heart." His hand touched her cheek with tenderness that made her breath catch in her throat. She kissed him quietly and smiled. _I am such a wanton,_ she chided herself. _A selfish, reckless woman, unfit to carry out the obligations that were placed upon me._ Yet much as she tried, she could not bring a sense of uneasiness into her heart. Light as a feather, filled with bubbling happiness, it seemed to her she floated above the surface upon which she lay, wrapped in her lover's arms and in the exhilarating feeling of pleasure she had just experienced for the very first time. She was a married woman, a mother, but this was nothing like her awkward encounters with Dankar in their seldom shared bedchamber. Her husband never hurt her, but after they lay together she always felt soiled, despoiled, ill-used. She always felt the need to cover herself and to have a scalding bath. Now she felt comfortable and at ease with the warm caress of air and Torwen's hands upon her bare skin.

They kissed once more, but already the perfection was ebbing away, tainted by anxiety and guilt and the need to plan for that unspeakable enemy, Future.

"For so long I have dreamed of you," Torwen said, "and it was enough to know that you exist, that I can recall you in my memory and think of you, and conjure images of how things could have been. I never dared to presume... but what are we going to do now?"

"Love each other," Kelena said simply, "until the day we die."

"You know what I mean." Yes, she did, but she would rather not think of it now, while the sweet afterglow of their lovemaking still lingered in the air. She wanted to savor every last breath of it. "I will duel your husband," he said decisively.

"You must not," Kelena propped herself up on her elbow and stared into his face in sudden fear. "No, you must not, Torwen. He will kill you."

She did not so much see the frown upon his face as heard it in his voice. "Do you think so little of my skill with a blade?" he asked.

"It is not a question of... you don't know Dankar, not as well as I do. He might lose the duel, but he will never give you your life, or me my freedom. If he lives he will poison you, or arrange a lethal incident, or pull strings to get you prosecuted for some made-up fault. And if he dies by your hand, his whole clan will combine their efforts to serve you in the same way. Dankar is prickly about his pride, and he is not a man of honor. He always claimed freedom in his... his personal affairs, but I do not reckon he will allow me the same."

"Then we must leave," he said decisively, seizing her hand. "Go back to Rhasket and take a ship for Adrinor. You will not be expected back in Aldon-Sur for a while yet, it will give us some days of peace. By the time Dankar looks for you, we will be far away, and little Emmet with us."

But Kelena shook her head. "I cannot take Tari back home yet," she said. "I made a promise to Thadorn. And I cannot leave Tilir while my sister's whereabouts are unknown. We will have to wait," she said placatingly, cupping his cheek. "For a while, at least."

"I do not like it," he caught her fingers. "To have you go back to that home – to that man."

"I like it very little myself," said Kelena. "But Dankar and I don't really live as a husband and wife, you know that. He hasn't asked to share my bed ever since I was with child, and that was almost three years ago."

"And what if he decides now is the time to make another child?"

Kelena shuddered. "He wouldn't. He won't. We had an agreement... I give him an heir, and he asks nothing more of me but the appearances we have been keeping. Nothing more."

"An agreement," repeated Torwen, "but as you said, he is not a man of honor."

The dishonorable man was waiting for her on the steps of the house she had so unwillingly shared with him in the past five years. When they reached the city gates and bid their farewells, Kelena sent a runner ahead with the message of her return.

Dankar was in his customary black, which went so well with his black hair and beard. Today it was black velvet with intricate embroidery in red and gold thread, supple shiny black boots, and a black cloak lined with ermine. His lips formed his customary self-assured smile, and when he stretched out his arms towards little Emmet, the boy did not dare to hide his face in his mother's skirts, although it was plain he would have gladly done that. Even at his tender age, the toddler understood his father was not a man to be trifled with.

Kelena saw the mute question in her husband's eyes when he looked at the babe in her arms, but it was not in Dankar's nature to show surprise.

"This is my niece, Tari Tionae," Kelena told him. He responded with a slight raise of his eyebrows.

"This is the babe, then," he repeated. "I would have thought to see your sister here as well, in that case."

_There is no point to hide this from him,_ Kelena told herself. "That is what people will think, yes," she said, "that Jadine had gone here with me. Thadorn asked me to do that for him. She left him, you see," she added as matter-of-factly as she could.

Again, Dankar did not show surprise. "I thought this might happen someday," he said.

"Truly?" Kelena was puzzled.

"Yes. As a couple, they always seemed singularly ill-suited to me."

Her clear blue eyes met his unfathomable black ones, unflinching. _If Thadorn and my sister are ill-suited,_ she thought, _what does it make us?_ And like so often, Dankar had the unnerving ability to respond as if he were reading her thoughts. "Surely, if they wanted a fine example of domestic harmony, they should have come here. Five years, and not once had your good-brother honored us with a visit."

"Thadorn has his duties at the Sea Guard," said Kelena.

"To be sure. He is a man of duty – while your sister is a woman of passion. Great passion and power and daring, and this doesn't go well with quiet life in the Provinces."

_He makes this sound like a compliment._ "Jadine did not leave out of boredom," said Kelena. "No, she... this will sound ridiculous, I know, but she went to – to practice some art of sorcery that would, as she claims, aid Tilir, thwarting King Alvadon's intention to yield more land to the Malvians." She tried to make light of this, but there was nothing to it – her voice sounded rather nervous.

"Oh?" Dankar exclaimed with lively interest. "Is she a sorceress?"

"There are no sorcerers," Kelena reminded him.

"There is a fine line between _is not_ and _isn't supposed to be_ ," countered Dankar.

"But no man of logic and reason would believe – "

"In that case," he cut across her with another of his sly smiles, "there is no need to worry."

"I worry for her more than about what she might do," said Kelena.

"Your good-brother will set out on a search, I presume?"

"Yes. He will put out a rumour that he decided to go and join us here."

"Secrecy does not suit Thadorn," observed Dankar.

"No, but it is a matter of honor. If he succeeds in bringing Jadine back, no one need ever know she left in the first place."

"And if he does not?" Dankar let the question linger. "Where did she go?"

"West, she told Thadorn."

"West," he repeated. "Presumably, this means the Emerald Mountains. Well," he shrugged, as if casting off worries that did not pertain to him. "Can I at least hope you had a smooth journey?"

"Yes," she said, trying to keep her face blank. _Smooth_ was just the word to describe Torwen's hands on her body. "The children seem to have borne it well, too."

"Someone was dispatched to see you safely all the way through, I hope?"

"Yes," she said again. _Say his name,_ she urged herself. _Say the name, or he will suspect._ "Torwen Mattar."

"Oh, him?" Dankar sounded not at all displeased. "A good fellow. He should have come here with you for a visit."

"It was not possible. He was on call of duty."

"Another man of duty," sighed Dankar. "Well, you will want to tend to the children first, I suppose. Then supper will await us."

During supper, Dankar seemed to be in good spirits. He filled her in on news that happened in the capital in her absence. There were the social matters which were of little interest to Kelena, but there was something else, too: the learned men of the Stormstone observed that soon will be a period favorable to the opening of the Stormglass gates.

"And these gates mean an open road between our world and the Other," concluded Dankar. "I should have loved to see a man from the Other world," he said. "It is said their hair is green and their eyes violet, and that they walk upside down, on their hands rather than on their feet," he laughed, "should be terribly uncomfortable."

Kelena's attention had begun to wonder, and she didn't quite catch his last words. "As you say, my noble husband," she said. He seemed faintly displeased.

"After such a long time, you might at least call me Dan."

"Dan," she nodded in acquiescence, but she didn't know what else to say. He gave her an intent look.

"There is little joy for you in coming back here, isn't that so?" he observed shrewdly. This was perfectly right, but Kelena knew better than to say so.

"Life is not merely about immediate joys," she said. "It is more often about – "

"Duty? Say this word again and you will run the risk of displeasing me," he said tongue-in-cheek.

To her mounting sense of disquiet, her husband followed her upstairs when she made an early end to supper, skipping the nuts and cheese.

"It has been too long since we shared a bed," he said, "and as often as we tend to forget it, servants are human too, in possession of eyes and ears. We must keep up appearances."

"Must we?" Kelena blurted out. As soon as the words came out of her mouth, she stared down in horror. Her own voice had sounded so harsh it almost seemed to her someone else spoke. Dankar, however, seemed amused, not angered.

"Fear not," he said, lightly touching her cheek. "Appearances are only appearances, and I do not intend to claim anything more. Although I could, if you wished it," he added as an afterthought, "I believe I have proved myself capable."

Kelena tried her best to keep her face blank, but her contempt must have seeped through the artificial placid look, because Dankar's smile faded somewhat.

"You hate me, do you not?" he asked frankly.

Kelena gave the question a moment of pondering. "No," she finally said, "but nor will I ever love you."

And having said that, she turned her back on her husband and began to undo her braid in front of the mirror.

The sounds of the night came alive around her, magnified tenfold in the tense silence. The chirping of late crickets in the garden, the creak of a stair under a sleepy servant's foot, the soft murmur of a slumbering child, Dankar's easy, even breathing in the bed next to her. Instinctively, she edged away from him. Her eyes were wide open, drinking in the darkness. Was it only the night before that she was entwined in Torwen's arms, melting against his body, kissing his lips? Torwen was still in the city, she knew, but she realized she can't see him now, not for a while. She could hardly bear thinking of him, so instead she tried to think of Jadine; but Thadorn had become more of a brother to her than Jadine had ever been, so it came more naturally to worry on his behalf, and that of the children. _Korian will perhaps believe Mother had only gone to visit Aunt Kelena, but little Datrine is too sharp not to notice something is amiss._ Kelena remembered the child's eyes, emerald green, bright and penetrating. _That one is her mother's daughter,_ she thought with a dark sense of foreboding.

Dankar's voice startled her out of her thoughts.

"I suppose I deserve this," he said.

"What?" she said in an insipid voice, to conceal the violent beating of her heart.

"Your disdain," he explained, and although she could not see his face, she knew a sarcastic smile played upon his lips.

_Yes,_ she wanted to tell him. _Yes, you deserve this and more –_ but she never had the chance. The sheets rustled abruptly as Dankar got out of bed, threw on his bed robe, and padded barefoot towards the door. He walked through it and shut it behind him, and Kelena remained alone.

... When Thadorn came back home, he was dragging his feet. _Like an old man,_ he reflected dully. He set out with a miserable load of worry and anxiety upon his shoulders, but now it was far worse. Much as he searched and asked, he hadn't found Jadine, and something told him she would never return to this house again, to live life by his side as his wife and the mother of his children. Soon, all would learn of the misfortune that fell upon his family... yet only the Great Spirit might know what his wife is up to. This was not the worst of it, though, and he knew it.

The worst would be to tell the children.

He was met by Lya, who took upon herself the task of looking after the children in his absence. Her face stood out in its anxiety among the laughter and frolics of the children in the large hall behind her.

"What news?" she asked in a low voice. He merely shook his head dejectedly, which was answer enough.

"Where is Rogell?" he asked.

"On duty." This did not surprise him. With a pang of guilt he recalled that his friend took double shifts in order to cover up for his absence. And although Thadorn knew he could find no better man to fill his position as Commander of the Sea Guard, he realized he ought not to have gone for so long. He had hoped, though... against the odds, against the voice that sounded so ominously within him, he had hoped. "Do you want me to send for him, tell him that you are back?"

"No need," said Thadorn. "I will go and see him myself before long. But first," he took a deep breath, "first I will need to speak to the children."

_They are so little,_ Thadorn reminded himself. _If I cannot fully comprehend this, how can they?_ But although he realized lengthy explanations would be futile to soften the blow, his few words sounded brutal and harsh as he gazed into the wide eyes of Korian and Datrine, so alike and yet so different, and waited for them to say something in response.

Korian was the first to break the silence.

"So where is Mother?" he asked.

_O Spirit, have mercy on me._ "I do not know," Thadorn said slowly and patiently. "If I knew, I would have brought her back."

"Perhaps she doesn't want to come back," whispered Datrine, and her voice, the dainty little voice of a three-year-old girl, held such solemnity and such wisdom in it that Thadorn felt his skin crawl with fear.

"You told us she is with Aunt Kelena in Aldon-Sur," Korian said. The accusation in his voice was heard only faintly, yet it stung Thadorn, for his conscience was guilty.

"Perhaps I should have told you the truth straight away," he said. "But I thought your mother might be back, and didn't want you to worry in vain."

"Did she take Tari with her, then?" demanded Datrine. "It isn't fair, I'm older, she should have taken _me_!"

"I'm older than you," Korian pointed out. Datrine scowled.

"Tari isn't with your mother," said Thadorn. "She truly is with Aunt Kelena, and soon I will arrange for her to come home."

"Perhaps she will never come back, either," said Korian, and his lip quivered.

"Children, that is enough," said Lya, placing her hands upon their shoulders. "Your sister is safe with her aunt, uncle and cousin. Now, you see your father is tired. He needs some peace and quiet, so come along now, all of you. Come, Kor. You too, Jo."

The boys obeyed, but Datrine lingered behind, and her eyes were fixed upon her father, oblivious to his torment.

" _I_ will find Mother when I grow up," she declared.

Lya doubled back, took the girl by the hand, and firmly marched her away.

It was a relief to have a task that would take him away from the house, even for a short while – otherwise, he would surely have sat until sunrise with his head in his hands. Thadorn could not make his step springy and energetic, but he could at least be brisk in his walk, and keep his back unbent. He breathed deep, inhaling the salty sea air, and despite the searing pain in his heart, there was also some measure of relief. At least he knew now, and his duties were clear before him. Several men of the Sea Guard, recognizing their Commander, hailed him as he approached the harbor. He curtly acknowledged their greetings and succumbed to the comforting lull of the small boat that took him to a patrol ship, on the board of which he would find Rogell.

Rogell's look of sympathetic inquiry was the same as Lya's, and Thadorn spoke before his friend could even voice a question.

"Nothing," he said. "I did not find her, or perhaps she made it so that I could not. I should have known, Rogell," he added as his friend's hand grasped his. "I should have known from the start."

Chapter 8

His head was spinning as he fell onto his elbows and knees, knocking them painfully against the flat stone. As the world around him stopped swaying and swimming, he lay very quiet, motionless, drawing deep, heavy, ragged breaths. After a little while, he dared to try and get up. His legs were as wobbly as jelly, and one of his hands was throbbing where skin had been scraped off by the fall.

He looked about him. He stood on a small strip of flat beach with very fine, very clean white sand. Sun sparkled on the gently rolling waves. At some distance, a little white town could be seen behind rounded walls. He squinted. Something was odd about this town; picturesque, to be sure, but he as a professor of history ought to have been able to discern straight away to which period it belongs, yet he could not. The sun was shining above him, the gulls were crying, the air smelled of salt and seaweed, yet there was something inexplicably foreign about it all the same. This was not England. This was not even...

A girl walked towards him, but not purposefully. It seemed she was simply wandering down the beach, looking rather downcast and dejected. She was brown-haired and slim, and her light dress flapped just above her bare feet. When she came within sight of him, she stopped in her tracks and regarded him as an outstanding oddity. She eyed him up and down, and nervously threw her long braid back. Then she said something, and it was very odd – although in his mind, he knew her words were spoken in a tongue he did not know, as soon as he heard them they penetrated his mind and, by a queer alchemy, transformed into a phrase he could comprehend.

"Who are you?" she repeated.

He cleared his throat. "Nicholas Swift," he said.

"That is a strange name," she replied placidly.

"What is yours, then?" he countered. And to his astonishment, although he definitely spoke English, the words that came out of his mouth sounded quite different.

"I am Jada Kotsar," said the girl.

" _That_ is a strange name."

"It is not," the girl seemed more amused than offended. "The Kotsar are one of the founders of Rhasket-Tharsanae, and there were _hundreds_ of women named Jada in our clan."

"Your _clan_?" Nicholas repeated. "Who – what – where are we?"

Now the girl looked at him as if he was some sort of moron. "That," she said very slowly and clearly, pointing in the direction of the nearby town, "is Rhasket-Tharsanae."

"Do you live there?"

"Yes," she nodded. "Is that where you meant to go?"

_I meant to go home,_ thought Nicholas, _to take a good hot bath and get into my nice comfortable bed._ To say so would have appeared petulant, though. "Can you take me there?" he asked. She nodded.

"Where are you from, anyway?" she asked curiously. "We have a port here, see, so all sorts of people come to land, but it doesn't look like you arrived by ship."

"I am from England," said Nicholas.

"Eng... England?" repeated the girl, looking puzzled. "I have my lessons with a learned woman every day, but I have never heard of such a place. Is it near Adrinor? Letaria? The Eagle Islands?"

_I have gone mad,_ Nicholas thought dryly. _Or perhaps I am dead after all, and this is what the Other Side looks like. If so, it is not too bad._

"Take me to the town," he repeated.

Before long, he was admiring the curved streets and neat little plazas, the overhanging branches of unfamiliar trees and the familiar smells of new bread, freshly caught fish, and horses. People hurried past, talking and laughing, chicken clucked, salesmen haggled, and if someone cast him a curious look, it was not very obvious. The townspeople were dressed in a fashion very unlike his own; a fashion that seemed to be both practical and beautiful, and he took an instant liking to it.

"Where are you taking me, exactly?" he asked the girl, Jada, who seemed to have some purpose in mind.

"To the home of Rohir, our Head of clan," she replied. "It is just here around the corner, do you see?"

It was a handsome manse, built in accordance with no style of architecture familiar to Nicholas, and although the foreigner in him was somewhat intimidated, the historian and anthropologist in him wanted nothing more than to walk through the doors and continue his observations.

The man to whose presence he was admitted was tall, fair and handsome, yet he had the look of someone who had had to deal with a lot of trouble in a short time.

"Who is it that you bring me, Jada?" he asked the girl. "You know I have no presence of mind for strangers."

"He said he came from Eng-land," she said. "Where is that, Uncle?"

The man's cool eyes were fixed upon Nicholas with a more active display of curiosity. "How queer," he murmured. "But perhaps I should not be surprised. It has been told that the Gates were opened, and according to legends, our coast is notorious for such apparitions. Tell the servants to bring refreshment," he told his niece, "and help them while you are at it, if you would be so kind."

He stared without speaking, and this unnerved Nicholas. He gave a small, tense nod of the head.

"Was it your purpose to come here?" asked the man.

"I assure you I had not the least intention of it," said Nicholas, "and I would be extremely grateful for directions that would enable me to return home."

"I'm afraid it isn't possible," said the man impassively. "Limited though my knowledge of the Stormglass gates is, I do know they cannot be opened twice in a short span of time. You will be here for a while... but fear not. I am sure your stay here will turn out both enjoyable and profitable."

"Where is _here_?" asked Nicholas. "And, not to sound rude, but who are you?"

"You find yourself in Rhasket-Tharsanae, an old and venerable town in the United Kingdom of Tilir, and I am Rohir, Head of the Kotsar, the greatest clan in this Province."

A woman entered, handsome and haughty and proud – yet she, like her husband (for Nicholas could only surmise she was Rohir's wife) looked dejected, deflated, as if the largest measure of her vital energy had been sapped from her.

"Jada told me we have a visitor from The-World-Beyond," she remarked, looking at Nicholas but not speaking to him. He did not find this very pleasant. "It is going to cause great interest, I am sure."

"Shall we offer him to lodge with us?" asked Rohir, but again, over the head of Nicholas, as though he forgot his words were heard and understood. The handsome elegant woman coolly shook her head.

"I am in no mood for visitors," she said, "and it seems to me we have more urgent matters on our mind."

"Please don't go to any trouble on my account," said Nicholas with the iciest courtesy he could muster. "I will be perfectly fine with an inn or – well, whatever it might be – until I get a clearer picture of how I came here and, more importantly, how to get away."

"Take him to Thadorn," said the woman. "Let him concern himself with this matter. It was all his fault to begin with. Jadine needed a firm hand, but he did not understand it, he gave her free reign in everything, and the result is before you. Our daughter has disappeared without a trace, and _he_ is to blame."

"Be reasonable, Hinassi," Rohir sighed wearily. "If you could not control Jadine, why would Thadorn succeed? But I will do as you wish. I'll take this man from The-World-Beyond to our goodson, and Thadorn will decide what to do with him."

Nicholas did not like the idea of anyone deciding what is to be done with him, but he did not protest. He had a vague feeling this Thadorn, however scornfully Hinassi spoke of him, could not be more unpleasant than his two present companions.

Thadorn was the biggest man Nicholas had ever seen – and the gravest, too. Where Rohir was listless, Thadorn was downright mournful. His attitude bordered on indifference which would have been offensive to Nicholas if he had taken it personally.

"I beg your pardon," he said after some minutes of broody silence. "I am sure the circumstances of your arrival were outstanding, and no doubt there was good reason for it. But I simply have too much on my mind to pay close attention to all your inquiries. I will leave you at the hands of Rogell, my kinsman and my second-in-command at the Sea Guard.

Nicholas was getting rather tired of being tossed about hither and thither by men who had no possibility or inclination to explain anything, and was prepared to become sulky and sarcastic – but upon his arrival in the home of Rogell and Lya (those, at least, were the names he heard, and he hoped he heard correctly) he very soon understood there would be no need of that.

The house was relatively small, but elegantly built and beautifully decorated with a mosaic of smooth colorful sea stones on one of the outside walls. The garden, too, was tiny but well-tended, and the woman who walked forward to open the gate for them had the pleasantest air Nicholas had ever sensed in a person. She was small of stature, slim of waist, her back straight and proud, her step akin to dance. Her shiny dark hair was collected in a bundle at the back of her neck. A fine-looking small boy who bore a strong resemblance to her clung to her skirts, peering curiously at the unknown man.

"I am sorry to bother you, Lya..." began Thadorn.

"A visit from you is never a bother, Thadorn," she said mildly. "Do you want to see Rogell? He is home."

"I figured he should be. I am going on duty soon myself, but before... do you see this man? If what we heard is true, he is a visitor from The-World-Beyond."

The woman's eyes widened, and her hand absent-mindedly stroked her son's black hair.

"Are you certain?" she replied in a hushed voice. "But... why here? Why now?"

"As to the why and how, I cannot be certain," said Thadorn, "but I thought this might have something to do with... with Jadine." Nicholas assumed the last word was a name, and if it was, he had never heard a man speak a name so reluctantly. This did nothing to help him understand, though.

A brittle silence hung in the air. Lya seemed afraid to speak.

"Which is why I would rather not have anything to do with it," added Thadorn. "Nothing personal against you," he looked at Nicholas, then back at Lya again, "but I have washed my hands clean of Jadine. I searched for her, I sent messages for her begging her to come back, but she did not. She had chosen her path... and mine will not go near it again, if the Great Spirit has the least bit of mercy on me."

"Have you thought she might... might be... held in captivity?" Lya suggested timidly. Despite understanding so little, Nicholas found himself listening intently. Thadorn made a noise of disdain.

"I will not believe there is a man on earth, within or without the borders of Tilir, who can hold Jadine captive. Let us go inside and see Rogell."

Rogell, Lya's husband, was a pleasant young man with blue-grey eyes and raven-black hair, who took unfeigned interest and ready involvement in the situation.

"You needn't worry, Thadorn," he said. "The Spirit knows you have had enough on your mind lately. In the meantime, this poor fellow looks like he had never been so confused. We need to make inquiries with the Learned Men, but first, he seems in dire need of something to eat and drink. Isn't that so?" he turned politely to Nicholas.

"Some refreshment wouldn't go amiss," he admitted. His throat felt as dry as parchment, and although he was never a great eater, there was a feeling of emptiness in his stomach that indicated it is time for some food.

When Thadorn was gone, the atmosphere lightened considerably and almost instantly. Lya hurried off to return with a platter of fresh bread, garlic sausage, olives, grapes and figs, flat honey cakes and a jug of pink wine. Nicholas ate and drank and answered Rogell's many questions about his identity and homeland and the manner of his arrival, and in turn, posed his own questions.

"I am a sane man," he said, "I have always flattered myself by thinking I am also a man of logic. Yet how can it be that I am, as you claim, outside the physical borders of my own word?"

Rogell shrugged. "I am not one of the Learned," he said, "and I doubt even they fully understand the nature of Stormstone and the gates that sometimes open between our world and yours. But it is definitely true that you cannot reach your homeland by land nor sea, and it would be futile to try."

"What is going to become of me, then?" asked Nicholas rather gloomily. _Andrew must be going beside himself with worry, because Kate had surely told him of my disappearance. By now the police is searching for me all over, but they will not find me, and then Jim O'Keeffe will make another fabulous story out of it._

"I completely understand your concern," Rogell said sympathetically, and poured him more wine. "If it were me wrenched outside my world without warning, without even being able to send a message to my wife... are you a man of family?" he asked.

"No," said Nicholas, "I am not." For some reason it seemed to him that he saw a softer sympathy in Rogell's sea-green-and-blue eyes, and he hastened to switch the subject.

"Are you related also to... mm... Rohir? And the girl who was the first to meet me... a sad-looking girl. Jada, I think her name is."

All of a sudden, Lya spoke up, and her voice quivered with suppressed indignation. "No wonder she is sad. You do know Ned Kamtesir's parents sent him away?" she spoke to her husband. "To learn about Stormstone and trace the Path of the Messenger, they claim, but I know the truth. The Kotsar went all haughty and prickly at the notion of a betrothal between Ned and Jada, as if the Kamtesir aren't good enough for them. It was Thadorn's good-mother's doing, I'm sure. Jada's parents were perfectly likeable to Ned all along. They have known him from infancy."

"Yes, well," Rogell seemed uneasy. "If the girl is persistent enough, she can stand up to her parents... or at least evade their plans of marrying her to Akira Kotsar."

"They wouldn't do that!" Lya looked horrified. "He is their clansman, I know, but he is cold and cruel and certainly not a fit match for a tender-hearted fifteen-year-old girl."

"Wouldn't do that?" repeated Rogell. "Under Hinassi's supervision, why not? Remember how she had served Kelena? But we digress," he turned to Nicholas again with an apologetic smile. "You will stay with us, of course?"

"I," Nicholas stammered, overwhelmed by this open-hearted offer, so unlike his own moody and secretive nature. "I would not want to be an encumbrance..."

"Nonsense," Rogell cut him off warmly. "The house isn't large, to be sure, but there is a guest bedroom which is scarcely used. We will be honored to have you here, and in time, I am sure, your situation will be clarified. Visitors from The-World-Beyond are rare, but you are not the first – and I am pretty certain all but a few return where they came from in the end."

"All but a few?" repeated Nicholas, not at all encouraged.

"Well," Rogell seemed sheepish. "I think there are stories of a man or two who stayed... but that was so long ago, and besides, I am fairly sure it was their choice."

Nicholas could only hope this was true. Another question was on his lips before he could think twice of it.

"Who is Jadine?" he asked. Rogell and Lya exchanged a quick look which did not escape him. "Did I ask something wrong?" he said. "If so, I take it back and – "

"No, no," Rogell hastened to reassure him. "It is only natural for you to wonder, for her name came up in connection with yours... personally, I am entirely unconvinced this connection exists, but there you go. Anyway, Jadine is Thadorn's wife."

"Or was Thadorn's wife," said Lya with an unexpectedly hard glint in her eyes. "And alas, from the start I suspected this union will bring him little happiness."

Rogell looked distinctly uncomfortable. "Be that as it may," he said, "the marriage was not dissolved, nor has Thadorn called for a dissolution, so it remains valid. They have three children, the eldest of whom, Korian, is of an age with our Jorrel," he gave a reassuring nod to the boy who lingered about the room, nibbling at a fig and looking ready to walk out at the first reprimand. Instead, Rogell held out his hand and drew his son closer.

"By the way," he said, looking at his wife again, "Tari was brought back home last night. I wondered how come Thadorn did not mention it to you, but then, he seemed to be in such a hurry."

All at once, the hard look was gone from Lya's eyes, and they shone with warm sympathy. "How wonderful!" she cried. "Finally, at least all the children will be together. Did Kelena come with her?"

"No. Apparently, Dankar was reluctant to let her go, for some reason that Thadorn could not quite make clear. Instead he hired two guards and two nurses to convey the babe safely."

"Something is very fishy about this," said Lya, pursing her lips, but after one glance at the bewildered Nicholas, who understood very little of this conversation, she smiled politely again. "Do forgive us," she said, "it is usually just me and Rogell here, we are not used to having a lot of company, and naturally we talk of matters which are close to our hearts."

"Anyhow," Rogell picked up the thread again, "Jadine is, or considers herself to be, or is believed to be a sorceress... a witch... a magic-woman... do you have such in your world?"

For the first time, a brief smile touched Nicholas's lips. "It is odd that you should ask me, of all people," he said. "There was a time in our history when people saw, or claimed to see, witches and sorcerers left, right and centre, and people suspected of the practice of such arts were cruelly repressed. But now it is plain to all with an ounce of sense that this was merely superstition of the Dark Ages."

"Well, in our world, we know with fair certainty that sorcery _did_ exist," said Rogell. "Nine thousand years ago, when the Great Spirit first breathed life into this bare and barren world, particles of its Essence flew away unnoticed, infusing rivers and mountains, forests and lakes. Thus the magical beings were brought forward into the world, Children of the Wood and Water and Wind. Some find comfort in the thought that they still exist, someplace humans dare not tread. Smaller particles of the Essence bestowed themselves on mortal men, sometimes appearing in a seemingly random way, sometimes passing from father to son, from mother to daughter. But it is widely believed that the last spark of this legacy had been extinguished hundreds of years ago... or at least so it was believed until recently."

"Thadorn is still of that opinion," Lya chimed in. "He says he can readily believe that Jadine is up to no good, but he doesn't believe in sorcery or shadow or fortune telling."

"Thadorn is my clansman and my closest friend in the whole world," replied Rogell, "and I usually trust his judgment without a second thought. But here I am only repeating what people say. Some say sorcery is not all that dead, that some men and women still have the Essence, although it is often difficult to crystallize. It is said that an army of warlocks and their servants in rising in the Emerald Mountains in the west, and that Jadine is not the least among them. It is said that one day soon they will march out of the mountains and bind Tilir to their will, and begin a new epoch, and deny the Messenger entrance when he knocks upon our door."

"The messenger? Who is that?" inquired the confused Nicholas.

"Our men of faith say that one day, the truest bearer of the Spirit's essence will descend into this world, in a form we cannot know or imagine, and will bring understanding in the highest form, and the world – ours and The-World-Beyond, out of which you came here – shall be changed forever."

"Fine," said Nicholas, "let us suppose, for the sake of the argument, that sorcery is experiencing some obscure rebirth. What would I have to do with it?"

"Ah," said Rogell, "but the Stormstone and Stormglass and the gates-between-the-worlds are the closest thing to sorcery that is still openly acknowledged and practiced. The Gates have not been opened in a very long time, and now that they have, it is only natural some will make a connection between you and the warlocks. No sane man will think to blame you, of course," he hastened to add, "but..."

"But the world is full of insane men," Nicholas finished in his dry wit.

Despite the uncertainty of his situation, his stay at the home of Rogell and Lya had proved to be one of the most enjoyable times of his life. Everything was neat, pleasant, beautifully arranged, and a peaceful welcoming atmosphere lingered over it all. Lya was a motherly woman who took great pleasure in the work of her hands, and at any time of the day she could be seen doing something, calmly and patiently and steadily: hanging her washing on ropes that were strung beneath the large grape vine behind the house, sweeping the front steps, stirring a large pot on the stove. Little Jorrel accompanied her wherever she went, and when his cousins Korian and Datrine came to visit him, all the children often flocked around Lya, asking for plums or apples, or pieces of dough to knead, or bits of chalk to draw upon the paving stones of the yard. At other times Jorrel spent the day in the house of Thadorn, lending, together with Korian and Datrine, some merriment to its echoing walls.

There was a time, not long after Nicholas's arrival, that Rogell took all the children – except little Tari, who was left behind in the tender care of Lya – to the harbor, to watch the Sea Guard ships assembling for patrol. A ride in the boat, a great treat, was promised to them as well, and perhaps a splash in the waves.

"Only if the water isn't too cold!" Lya called to her husband warningly as he was walking off. Rogell held Jorrel's and Korian's hands in his, while Datrine was already walking ahead, looking back across her shoulder and tapping her little foot impatiently, waiting for them to follow. "You know Thadorn has enough on his mind without children's coughs and sniffles!"

"Don't worry, Lya," Rogell said indulgently. "These never get ill, you know them," he nodded towards the boys. "And that little vixen over there," he looked at Datrine, "runs barefoot winter and summer, and only grows stronger and prettier for it. Do you want to come too, Nicholas from The-World-Beyond?"

"Thank you, but I am a little tired," he said. "I have been out all day, exploring your fine hills. I have found at least ten specimens of plants the likes of which I have never seen before."

"Ah, is _that_ where you disappeared since breakfast? You could have earned yourself a heat stroke. Before the year's heat breaks it is pleasanter in the afternoons, just before sunset, like now. But suit yourself. Stay here in the shade, and I am sure Lya will be kind enough to pour you a cold drink."

Lya was standing by the little stove, clad in a crisp white apron, stirring a pot of rose petal jam that filled the little kitchen with a wonderful aroma. She paused her work to hand a goblet to Nicholas. It was cold water, with slices of lemons and oranges floating on top and chunks of ice clinking gently. He took a grateful sip.

"Your husband works under the command of Thadorn... Thadorn Tionae, isn't that so?" he asked.

Lya nodded. "Yes, Thadorn is the Commander, but he always listens to Rogell's counsel and gives him free reign in everything. He knows he can trust Rogell. They are as close as brothers, always have been. Inseparable."

"It is funny," murmured Nicholas, "how friendships can be that way... between people who are so dissimilar."

Lya shot him a look the meaning of which he could not quite fathom. It was not anger, not annoyance even, and yet... "I know what you must think of Thadorn, but I assure you, you are not doing him justice. You only met him a couple of times, and it is a time of his life that does not... does not bring out his merriest side. He is a good man, an excellent man, a man of pride and principles and valor. He was... very dear to me once – he still is, of course... as a kinsman and brother."

A blush akin to the rose petals she was simmering in the pot effused the delicate skin of her face. She continued to stir and add sugar.

"Well, you know him better than I do, I suppose," said Nicholas with cautious awkwardness.

"I have known him all my life," said Lya, nodding. "When we were little we were inseparable, much like our Jorrel is now with Korian and Datrine. Of course, then there was that awkward age when boys and girls don't feel very comfortable around each other, but even so. Within a clan, especially in a town so small, one always knows what goes on in the others' lives... and I've always known Jadine Kotsar was no good. Oh, don't get me wrong," she amended, stirring rather more vigorously than was strictly necessary. "She is beautiful and clever and charming and talented, but she is a harpy." At this last word, Lya's hand shook and her stirring spoon jerked violently, making the pot nearly slide off the stove. She hastened to put it right. "Some say she truly has the Essence, the magic, whatever it is... I couldn't care less. No matter what, she had no right to do this to Thadorn and her children. She abandoned them without so much as a second thought."

She put out the fire and carefully slid the pot off the stove, and placed it on a rough wooden platter which was meant to protect the surface of the table from being scorched. She spooned some rose petal jam onto a glazed clay saucer and offered it to Nicholas. He carefully sampled it, cautious not to burn his tongue. He had never tasted rose petal jam that was as fragrant and delicious, and was about to tell as much, but unexpectedly, the words that escaped his mouth were completely different.

"Perhaps she regretted this," he suggested.

"Jadine?" scoffed Lya. "I hope so. I hope she regrets it until the day she dies."

When Rogell returned that day, it was in the company of a man Nicholas had never seen before. The little hair that remained on his head was white, and his spotted scalp shone through it. He was small and frail-looking and wizened, yet his eyes were bright and clear as those of a young man, and there was no hesitancy of old age in his movements. He was wearing a long purple robe with white sleeves, held at the waist with a white-and-silver sash, and unabashedly stared at Nicholas with an expression of liveliest interest.

"Curious," he muttered to himself, "very curious."

Nicholas didn't think much of being ogled that way, but his reserved nature permitted him to do nothing but purse his lips.

"Nicholas, my friend," said Rogell, after sending the children off to their mother's arms, supper, bath and bed, "I am very much pleased and honored to introduce the learned man Geynir, of our clan, who by strange coincidence arrived from the capital a mere few days after your arrival and..."

"... and only just learned of it, else I would have been here sooner," said Geynir with a polite smile. "You cannot know, of course, how I have longed to meet someone from your world again."

This last word caught Nicholas's attention. "Again?" he repeated. "Do you mean to say you met someone from my world once already?"

"Oh yes," said the old man decisively. He was urged by Rogell to take the most comfortable cushioned seat, but waved it away and preferred to sit cross-legged on the newly woven mat of fragrant grass. Lya came in, carrying a finely carved wooden tray with hard-boiled eggs sprinkled with salt, flat bread, pickled beets and a clay jug of hot apple cider. She did not stay, but excused herself by some pretext of being busy with the children. In private, Nicholas rather thought she was feeling uncomfortable with how much she told him that afternoon. She had been extraordinarily silent ever since he proclaimed her rose petal jam excellent.

Rogell poured the cider; Lya brewed it herself, and it was good and strong. Geynir took a sip and praised it. Meanwhile, Nicholas waited impatiently for him to go on.

"Yes," he finally repeated, "I once met a man from your world. Many years ago it was, when I was a lad about half your age, with not even dreams of learning... truth be told, I didn't even bother to learn my letters properly. I ever was a man of modest nature, and even as a boy I didn't dream of glory. The obscurity of my fate did not bother me, and I enjoyed life day by day, helping my father plough his fields, riding my horse, splashing in the waves when the weather was fine, dreaming of the maid who would one day become my wife... and yet, for reasons that remain unknown to me, the Great Spirit chose me to be the one to meet the visitor from The-World-Beyond, a man named Marcel Dubois."

"That is a French name," said Nicholas with the slight disapproval of anything French which was a national trait.

"Fr... yes, France was the name of his land. Now, that was a horrible summer. The gates above were shut against the rain that was meant to bless our crops, and the sky was a pale burnt blue. My father, here up north, lost half his crop, and the farmers of the south lost almost all. Even the mighty Middle River shrank within its banks to a slow muddy strip of brown water. By mid-summer, it was clear we are lost... and it was then that Marcel appeared on our cracked, parched earth."

"That was the year of the Great Drought, wasn't it?" Rogell put in.

"Your father taught you well, lad. Yes, it was that year. We had many adventures, but I doubt they would be interesting to anyone but me. The important thing is, it turned out Marcel had a talent for finding water. He went south and directed the farmers there to dig new wells, for the old ones have all dried out... and lo and behold, clear pure water gushed out of the dried land, and the south was saved – a harvest was reaped before the autumn chills, and people who were preparing to abandon their farms and villages stayed. Had it not been for Marcel's wells, the south might have been abandoned altogether, and then an invasion of savages from across the Dust River would have been only a matter of time. He was proclaimed a hero and was offered to stay in Tilir, in a beautiful fertile valley the king himself had granted him, with a household and servants... and yet the man longed for his home."

"Did he ever go home?" asked Nicholas, somewhat anxiously.

"He did," nodded the learned man Geynir. "Part of me hoped that he would stay, because I had grown to love and admire this industrious energetic man, and look up to him as if to the elder brother I never had – in a family of five children, I was the only son – but I knew his place was not with us. And so, when the Stormglass gates were finally opened to let him go back, I watched him go with great sadness, but great joy too. Marcel went home, and I don't know what became of him, but I hope he lived a long and happy life."

"It is comforting to hear this," said Nicholas. "How long did it take until he was able to go back?"

"Several months," said the old man. "But what I mean to say, there was obviously a reason for him finding himself here. Like in your case, it was completely unexpected. He was helping his brother guard his flock of sheep; one of the ewes squeezed into a cave, and when Marcel tried to squeeze in after her, he found himself here."

"So," said Nicholas, "do you mean to say you think there is a reason for me being here, too?"

"I am certain of it," replied the old man confidently. "It might not be clear now, or ever, for the Great Spirit has a thousand thousands eyes and sees what we never will, but nothing happens without a purpose, certainly not an event as rare and special as the work of Stormstone."

"Let us suppose it may be so," said Nicholas, who was still not entirely convinced, and sipped his apple cider. The old man did the same, then set his cup aside with a sigh.

"These are dark times too," he said. "You do know of the warlocks gathering in the Emerald Mountains?"

"Do you believe in that, Learned Geynir?" interjected Rogell. "In the past centuries, it has been known as a fact that the Essence of the Spirit was spread so thinly that warlocks have ceased to exist."

"Perhaps, rather, that was what people wished to think," said Geynir. "Myself among them. It was thanks to Marcel that I began to find pleasure and purpose in learning, and when I perused old scrolls and books and learned about the warlocks, it was with relief that I thought of them being gone. People have always been wary of powers they could not properly understand, and the warlocks were said to possess many of them... not all were equally powerful, of course. There were some who could do a little Spirit magic, predict the weather and make a storm pass by, but there were also those who could plunge their hand into a vat full of boiling water, and make it freeze instantly; there were men who could stop another man's heart by sheer force of will, without even moving their lips – and many miles away, their enemy would drop upon the floor, scathed in no way but obviously dead. Those who are gathering now, though... I cannot answer for them, but I have an ominous feeling about it. The Shadowbinders, they call themselves."

"What does it mean?" asked Rogell.

"It means they want to draw the borders of the Shadow all around Tilir, shutting it completely and irrevocably from the rest of the world. They want Malvia and all our adjacent lands to be destroyed and sink into the sea, in a rush of black smoke and salty water, never to appear again."

"But that is impossible," protested Rogell.

"Is it?" Geynir raised his eyebrows very slightly. "Very well. In that case, all we have to do is sit back and wait, and then very soon we will find out what is possible and what is not."

Dankar sat on his wife's bed, waiting.

A train of conflicting emotions crowded in his chest: vague suspicion, faint guilt, unexpected tremor. Most importantly, he cared much more than he wished to, and this made him feel vulnerable. _She was not where she said she would be, and she should be back at any moment now. I needn't ask her question. One look upon her face will suffice to know._

The door creaked, and his heart beat in anticipation as her little light steps sounded over the floor. He didn't announce his presence by word or movement, and so it was only when Kelena closed the door behind her that she noticed him.

She sprung back, unable to conceal her surprise and displeasure – nor the warm glow that still lingered upon her cheeks and on her lips, the slight disarray of her hair under the elaborate closely woven hair net, the warmth that radiated from her fair young body.

Dankar smiled in grim satisfaction, and saw how she drew herself up, straight and taut as an arrow. She was prepared for whatever was to come, and this pleased him.

"My lady," he said with a courteous bow, taking one step towards her. He knew the only reason she did not retreat was because the door was behind her. "You have had a pleasant walk, I trust?"

"A – a walk?" she repeated uncertainly. "I thought I told you – "

"That you were going to call upon your uncle, yes. You should have chosen a more likely sounding lie." The last word had the crack of a whip to it. "But you passed through the Upper Esplanade without stopping, and when you thought yourself to be well out of sight, you threw on a simple cloak of roughspun brown wool, one that concealed your face and figure well... and no one would have thought a lady of such loveliness hides beneath it."

"Did you follow me?" she asked with mingled anger and fear.

"Would you blame me for it?" he replied with raised eyebrows. "This is not the first strange disappearance of yours that I have witnessed lately. Yes, I did follow you long enough to see you descend into the lower streets and mix with the commoners. Then I doubled back, for I would have been too conspicuous."

"I could tell you – "

"Where you went? There is no need of it," he said quite calmly. He approached her and brought his face close to her hair. He closed his eyes and inhaled the earthy scent that drafted up in fragrant waves from her body. Of youth and love she smelled, of sin and secret and defiance. He opened his eyes and lifted her chin with his finger, forcing her to look into his eyes. He knew it was only by force of will that she did not recoil.

"Who is the man?" he asked mildly.

"The man?" she repeated, playing for time, feigning innocence she no longer had, penetrating his whole being with that offending scent that awoke lust in him, lust that was as foreign as her body had been the night he planted their son inside of her.

"Or is it a woman?" he asked mockingly. "I wouldn't put anything past anyone, and yet I have a hard time believing it of you... no matter. You won't tell me, but I will find out, and when I do, the bastard will be heartily sorry he had ever been born."

She ducked aside in one smooth, supple movement, walked over to the window and stood there, chest heaving. Dankar turned around, but made no move to approach her again.

"I did no wrong," she said, her beautiful clear blue eyes sparkling with rare fury. "Or at least, nothing more wrong than what you have been doing openly since the day of our marriage," she added with a bitter twist of her lips.

Only now did Dankar feel a true surge of anger, yet not a muscle moved in his face, and he knew he appeared as calm as a still mountain lake, the lake in the hidden valley which he and Tryg had so favored one magical summer. He tried to bring Tryg's face before his mind's eye again, but could not. The beloved features kept shifting, as if seen through a shimmering veil of water, and he gave up. "Openly?" he said quietly. "No," he said. "I have observed caution. I have kept propriety. And so will you," he finished with abrupt savagery, crossed the chamber in one graceful leap, and took his wife forcefully by the shoulders, digging his nails into the fine fabric of her gown. "I will not let you shame me."

Kelena stood before him unflinching, beautiful, glistening, fertile, like a fresh flower after an invigorating spring rain. She said nothing.

"You will not get out of the house again without my leave, nor send any messages that have not met my approval. You will receive no one when I am not present. Is that understood?"

"Yes," she said defiantly. "Anything else, my noble husband?"

"Do not attempt to bribe any of the servants into cheating me. It would be futile. I have always been generous with you, but you will never be able to offer them as much as I can."

She hesitated and then, in a gesture of appeal, placed a soft hand upon his arm as he let go of her shoulders.

"You offered me my freedom once," she whispered. "Do you remember?"

"Yes," he said. "And you refused. Do you remember?" he challenged her. "For duty, for shame, for the babe that had begun to grow in your womb... it matters not. The decision was made, the path chosen. We have a son now. I may not be the most affectionate father, but I care about little Emm. Whatever I do, I do with his best interests at heart, and I will not permit his mother to commit acts that might make him cringe with shame when he is old enough to understand."

"And what about his father?" Kelena blurted out, and he could tell she instantly regretted her words.

"You might not know that," he said in an icy voice, "nor perhaps believe me, but since Emmet's death there has been no... I have done nothing that could compromise either of us. I expect you to do the same. I am not being unreasonable, am I?"

"Oh, surely not," said Kelena, and her tone was the closest to sarcasm he had ever heard from her. "That is entirely reasonable, especially since I am going to be locked up inside the house."

"Don't..." he balled his right hand into a fist, and his black-stoned ring shone upon it ominously. "Do not twist my words," he said. "I make no excessive demands. You are my wife, and... and you have been a good wife." He finished abruptly.

"To be sure," Kelena nodded understandingly. "A good little wife. Obedient and convenient."

It stung all the more because it was the truth; that was the reason he married her – he wanted a _good little wife_. She did all that was expected of her, but now...

"Do you remember the night we made our son?" he asked.

She flinched. "I did my best to forget," she confessed.

"So did I," he said savagely, and stepped towards her once more. "You know it was all only for obtaining an heir, but I... I found pleasure in it." He met her eyes, and when he saw revulsion in them, his anger flared up. "Do not look at me as if I said something twisted. Yes, I found pleasure in bed with _my wife_. It is not so very perverted."

She raised her eyebrows, and there was only a faint hint of tremor in her voice as she replied, "you never tried to repeat the experiment after Emm was born, though."

"No," he said, struggling for words, "no, but this can be changed." She paled and looked greensick, but this only made the odious mixture of anger and lust burn stronger in his chest. "Lately, I have often wondered what would have happened if... if some girl had made a man out of me as it usually happens. Boys are... impressionable. I loved Tryg and wanted to adopt his views on everything, in everything, and still think he was one of the noblest men to have ever walked upon this land. But I am a man myself now. I could come to your bed tonight," he said, and he realized that if he had said, _I could kill you_ she wouldn't have seemed more terrified. "We could try and make a brother or a sister for Emmet, it would be good for him. And we could see if there is any... any pleasure to be found between the sheets."

She only stared at him blankly. He knew she would have slapped him if she dared, but of course she did not.

"Do you truly believe," she finally said in an incredulous voice, "that it would be possible, after all that had been?"

"To share a bed?" he replied promptly. "Certainly. We can do it tonight, and every night I wish. I am your husband."

"In name only," she retorted. "You can have my freedom, you can have my body, but you can never have my soul."

Her eyes glistened with furious tears. He sneered.

"No," he said, "that belongs to this mysterious lover of yours, does it not? But your soul will not follow his into the Land of Shadows, where he will soon be sent by my hand."

He had crossed some invisible line, for Kelena was quivering with rage as she began to undress. She took off her cloak and her hair net, her gloves and her gown, her stockings and her underclothes, until she stood before him beautiful and golden and naked, her mouth drawn in a thin line, gooseprickles all over her skin.

"What are you doing?" he asked too late, confused.

"You mean to claim your rights, do you not?" she asked sharply. "I would rather get it over with quickly."

He reached out to touch her golden hair, but withdrew his hand quickly, as if he could not bear the caress of the silken tresses.

"Not like this," he shook his head. "I will make you want me, just as I have grown to want you. I swear it."

He turned on his heel and walked out of the room, and as he was closing the door behind him, he might have heard her whispering _never_.

Alone, in his room, he reflected. Locking up his wife will not do, he decided. It would only embitter her and make rumours circulate all through the Upper Esplanade. No, he decided, what he needs is someone to keep an eye on her, at least for a while. Someone loyal, but not someone who would be so obviously his creature that she would suspect. But who? Thought knotted his brow. Any of the servants is out of the question, for obvious reasons, and he had no friend he could confide in. And then a brilliant idea hit him – of course! Torwen Mattar is in town, he heard, and he would be the perfect choice; a good and honest man, one who owes him a debt of career advancement, but not anyone so utterly dependent on him as to raise Kelena's suspicions. He knew where to find the lad and, because with him action was never far from thought, called for his horse to be saddled at once.

Torwen Mattar had taken modest rooms in a respectable but unpretentious quarter of the city, and the arrival of Dankar on his splendid horse, naturally, caused a sensation. Fishmongers and washerwomen stared after him and whispered behind their hands, and little children in patched clothes stood watching him with their mouths open. Dankar drew a handful of coins from the pouch on his belt and scattered them on the cobblestones, to distract them while he rode on.

Finally he reached his destination and dismounted. He handed the reins of the horse to a servant he took with him, and knocked on the door which might once have been blue, but was now covered with only shreds of peeling grayish paint.

Torwen's eyes peered at him in astonishment.

"Commander," he said uncertainly, "I am most – "

"Yes, yes, I know," said Dankar, waving the courtesies away with an impatient gesture of his hand. "But my presence here is conspicuous, and if I remain standing on your doorstep, it will be even more so. May I come in?"

"But of course," said Torwen, stepping aside. Dankar walked in after him and barred the door. The place, he noticed, was shabbily furnished but spotlessly clean. "May I offer you refreshment, Commander? There isn't much, to be sure, but I have freshly baked bread and new cheese."

"Thank you. I am not hungry. I would rather get straight to the matter." Did he imagine this, or did the young man seem to waver?

"I am most honored and delighted by this unexpected visit," said Torwen, "and yet, may I ask to what do I owe –

"I will make this clear in a minute. It is a singular stroke of luck, I must say, that made me learn you are in town. I was not aware that you left Fort Sand."

"Only for a while," Torwen said. "I will have to return soon," he added, somewhat reluctantly.

"But while you are here," said Dankar, "can I count on your assistance in a delicate matter?"

"My... assistance?" Torwen looked wary. "To be sure, Commander. Whatever you require."

Dankar favored him with a satisfied smile. "Listen, then," he said.

# Chapter 9

Like Thadorn, the sea was frowning. Or so at least it seemed to him. The sky was overcast and grey, the heavy clouds pregnant with rain. But the air was quiet, almost eerily so, and the deck shifted only slightly beneath his feet as he stood talking to Rogell.

"You needn't have come so early," he told his friend. "Your shift does not begin until at least an hour later. I could stand until then."

"I know you would want to see the children before they are sent to bed," said Rogell.

"They are fine with Lya, are they not? Unless," added Thadorn, his brow knotted by sudden concern, "unless you believe it is too much of a trouble for her to continue looking after them."

"No trouble at all," Rogell placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "You know how she dotes on these children. Besides, Jo is lonely. We have asked the Great Spirit to grant us the boon of another child, but in the meantime... Jorrel found a brother in Korian, and he is very taken with your little Datrine. It is for the good of everyone."

"Look," Thadorn said suddenly, looking towards the shore. "A boat has just set out, and it seems it is heading here. Who could that be?"

"No idea," shrugged Rogell, squinting. "I don't know that man," he declared when the boat came closer, "but he has an official look."

So it was. The man was but a messenger whose task was to deliver a letter personally into Thadorn Tionae's hands. The letter was a tightly furled scroll sealed by the royal stamp in golden wax.

"Go on, open it," urged Rogell eagerly, and Thadorn obliged his friend's curiosity. He broke the wax seal, scanned the contents of the letter, and his frown deepened.

"What is the matter?" asked Rogell. "What is it about?"

Thadorn was shaking his head, still immersed in the letter, which was rather brief. "It is a summons," he said. "I am to arrive at court, escorting the visitor from The-World-Beyond."

"Nicholas?" said Rogell. "Well, I figured it is only a matter of time until he is summoned. Visitors from Beyond have always held a special interest for anybody with an ounce of imagination, and King Alvadon is a well-read man."

"Yes," said Thadorn impatiently, "but why me?"

"You are the leader of the Tionae now," said Rogell. "His Grace must know that he can have no truer servant in Rhasket, and loyalty would be of great value in these troubled times."

"That must be it," said Thadorn, feeling slightly reassured. "That is what is said here exactly... _the leader of the Tionae_... I am not even sure His Grace knows it is me. He might not have heard of my father's passing. For a moment I..." he rolled the scroll again, "I thought it might be because of Jadine."

"She does not have that degree of importance," Rogell assured him promptly, "I am certain the king did not have her in mind."

"All the same..." said Thadorn heavily. "All the same, I do not see how I can go."

"I do not see how you can refuse."

There was good reason in that. "But my duties?"

"Your supreme duty is the king's command, is it not?" Rogell said reasonably. "Rest assured, I will stand in your stead until you return."

"I do not doubt it, my friend, but it might take time. And then there are the children..."

"You can safely entrust them to Lya," Rogell dismissed this little difficulty as something of no importance.

"Again, I do not doubt it," sighed Thadorn, "but how can I burden you and your wife so? Lately, Lya has been more than a mother to these children... she is their friend, their companion, their guardian, whenever I am on duty. They have no one else. Their aunt is an excellent woman, but she is far away, my parents are gone into the Land of Dawn, their remaining grandmother is not particularly tender-hearted, and thinks more of her pride than the welfare of her kin... within the clan, I have no one closer than you and Lya, and I..."

"Lya loves them. You know that well. She has a motherly heart."

Thadorn frowned. "She does, without a doubt, however..."

"And I am not blind," added Rogell, looking distinctly uncomfortable. "I know it was... it was you she wanted in the beginning. Lya. We never spoke of it, but..."

Thadorn looked up in alarm. "I never – "

"You never did anything to encourage that attachment," Rogell went on, nodding wisely. "I understand that. Nor will I ever resent you provoking the love that was so well deserved. But I know Lya will always care for you... with sisterly affection, as is due to my brother. Because you are my brother, Thadorn, just as much and perhaps even more so than if we had been borne into this world by the same mother. You know there is nothing I would not do for you, and I know that, if need arose, I could always count on you to take care of Lya, and to see Jorrel as if he were your own son. Isn't that so?"

"Certainly, but – "

"Well, that's settled, then," Rogell clasped his shoulder. "You go; you go in peace, knowing all will be taken care of while you are gone, and that you will have nothing to worry about. May the Great Spirit speed you on your way, so that you can be back soon."

Rogell's words were reassuring, but they wouldn't make it any easier to break to the children that soon, he would be gone, and – Thadorn could not deceive himself, and he knew he would be unable to deceive them – the Spirit only knows how long.

"Another thing," Thadorn remembered, "with the addition of Kor, Datrine and Tari, your house will be too cramped for comfort. I think you would do better to move into mine while I am gone."

"It will be done," Rogell readily consented. "I am sure Lya won't mind in the slightest."

"Good," nodded Thadorn, "now all is left is to tell the children."

"And Nicholas," Rogell put in, "you are forgetting Nicholas."

True, for a moment Thadorn had almost forgotten him, this man because of whom he received these summons in the first place. "Just so," he nodded, "but you can tell him. He is a friend of yours, is he not?"

Rogell nodded. "He is not a man of easy charm, but there is something honest about him... and he is lonely. Not only here, but in his world as well. This was enough to make Lya grow fond of him. You know how she is; she will feel sorry for, and take interest in almost anyone. She is more anxious about this man than he is for himself, and to tell you the truth I cannot see the reason. There is nothing particularly special about him, as far as I can see. I believe the king will be disappointed when this visitor from The-World-Beyond comes before him..."

"Be that as it may," said Thadorn, "my duty is to bring him safely to court."

"You need not go alone, though," said Rogell. "Take men with you."

Thadorn shook his head. "A large party will only hinder our progress. I want to go there and come back in as short a time as I can manage."

"A couple more men will not hinder you," Rogell said reasonably, "not more than Nicholas himself will, anyway. The man thinks he is a fair rider because he chanced to be on horseback once or twice in his life, but I have seen him in the saddle and I can tell you you cannot hope for much speed. So take more men with you. There are many who will seize their chance to appear at court, and it will promise you safer conduct, and make your party look more dignified besides."

"And whom do you think I should take?" asked Thadorn.

"Take Kohir. He is your good-brother, and son of the Kotsar leader."

"He went off towards South Watch last week, or have you forgotten? The Malvians are growing restless, and so did Kohir in the past years. He got tired of living in his father's shadow, and I cannot blame him for that."

"Take Nog, then. He is a compliant lad, and it will mollify your good-parents, who put a very unfair share of blame upon you. And then there is Akira Kotsar – "

Thadorn wrinkled his face in distaste. "If there was one thing this order of going to court made me look forward to, it's getting away from the Kotsar – and here you would have me take half of them with me..."

"I do not like Akira Kotsar any more than you do. He is arrogant, impertinent and hard-hearted, but he is a good sword, trustworthy, and I know he is at leisure. With him you will have nothing to fear on the road, and anyway, he will probably prefer your good-brother's company. The Kotsar, they like to stick together, you know."

"Well, then, suppose it's settled and – "

"Not yet," Rogell stopped him. "There is someone else you had better take with you. The learned man Geynir."

"The learned man Geynir?" Thadorn repeated, staring at his friend incredulously. "With some luck, I will reach Aldon-Sur before next year."

"You would be surprised. He is tougher than he looks, and he can give wise counsel. He also knew a man from The-World-Beyond once before. I think having him with you will be beneficial; a soft saddle, a gentle-tempered horse, and there is no reason why he would hinder you very much."

Thadorn sighed and rubbed his brow as of extreme weariness.

"Is anything the matter?" Rogell asked with concern.

"Nothing," said Thadorn. He smiled a crooked smile. "I mean to say, nothing but that my wife left me, and though she is probably still alive somewhere, I am for all intents and purposes a widower with three children, only one of whom is blessedly too young to understand at least to some extent all that is passing. But I will be fine," he clasped Rogell's hand and avoided looking into his eyes, unwilling to bear pity. "I am thankful for your counsel... and for your friendship, my brother."

Korian was a child – a fine, quick and clever child, but a boy like all boys nevertheless. Datrine, though... often she would run around and jump and caper like a kid goat, but sometimes she would curl up with her hands around her knees, and her emerald green eyes were big and solemn, and Thadorn would look at her and be lost in those eyes, and in his fancy he saw his daughter growing, growing, becoming a woman of terrible beauty and a proud, savage heart... and then he would shake his head, warding off the illusion. _No. No. She is only like Jadine in looks. I will raise her well, I will never allow her to become so – so selfish and foolhardy and..._

"Are you going away for a long time?" inquired his daughter. Her voice was clear and well-defined, with none of the mis-proununciations three-year-olds were so notorious for.

When he heard his little sister speak, Korian dropped whatever toy he was holding and stared up at his father too, with eyes wide and beseeching. Only little Tari was oblivious to the importance of the occasion. She gurgled happily as she took her finger out of her mouth and tried to climb up her father's breeches. Thadorn reached out and pulled the baby into his lap.

"Couldn't we come with you?" Korian said wistfully.

Thadorn shook his head. "I'm afraid not," he said curtly. "I would much rather stay home, too, if it weren't the king himself summoning me."

"I want to go and see the king," pouted Datrine. "The queen, too. I'm old enough."

"It is not a question of being old enough, little one," sighed Thadorn, smoothing out her fiery red hair. "It is a question of being called. The king called me. It is my duty to go. One day you will understand what duty means."

" _I_ know what it means," Korian said brightly, "it's when you're never home."

Thadorn looked at his son intently and felt his heart contract. _I was not made for this. These children need a mother. A mother's heart. But I must do my best, I must be everything to them now._

"Your uncle Rogell and his family will live here while I am gone," he said, "I expect you to behave yourself and obey your aunt Lya in everything."

Korian looked dejected yet resigned when he was put to bed that evening, yet little Datrine slipped out of her bed and came into her father's room, stepping silently. Thadorn, who had just given up trying to comb the tangles out of his hair, looked at her in surprise.

"What are you doing out of bed at this hour, child?" he asked.

His daughter edged towards him, looking half furtive, half determined. She sat by his feet, hugged his knees, looked into his eyes.

"Father," she said, "are you going to look for Mother again?"

Thadorn ground his teeth. He tried to smile at the little girl, yet the smile came out strained, as he knew well. He decided to speak the truth, though. Nothing but the truth.

"Not unless I have no choice," he said.

Next day, just as dawn highlighted the horizon in a pale shade of pink, the five unlikely companions set out.

Thadorn was riding at the head of the company, grim and stern, facing ahead. His younger good-brother, Nog, rode a little behind him, and next to him was his kinsman, Akira Kotsar, dark-haired and dark-eyed and lean as a spear. The dark coloring was rather unusual for a Kotsar; Akira was fond of boasting that all his ancestors for ten generations past were from the same clan, but that was something hard to verify, and besides, blood played queer tricks sometimes. However, even though his hair was raven black instead of gold or red or ginger, Akira was doubtless a Kotsar through and through, and if one looked carefully, in the fine features of his face a resemblance to Rohir and his sons could be seen.

The learned man Geynir, old and venerable, rode behind those two; his queer saddle looked like a pile of cushions with covers of soft leather, but there was no doubt he felt comfortable in it. He leaned back leisurely and engaged himself in a friendly conversation with Nicholas, the man from the Other world, urging him to keep his horse at a good pace and not fall back. The horse did not prove to be very cooperative; it sensed an unskilled hand and willfully battled down the strange man's clumsy attempts to make speed. Thadorn's jaw was clenched tight; this man from the-world-beyond was proving to be a lousy rider, and doubtless their time on the road would be needlessly lengthened, which was something he was striving to avoid.

He truly wished they would not need to spend more time on the road than they had to. Not only because of the royal summons; the journey did not please him one bit. Most of his companions he did not like, and none of them he trusted. The man he truly needed by his side was Rogell, his friend and brother, a man of loyal heart and sound counsel... but of course he could not be spared. Rogell had to remain behind, to hold the Sea Guard, just as his wife now held the hearth of Thadorn's home, or what remained of it... she did it willingly, with kindness and compassion, yet Rogell not once displayed a bit of jealousy. _Neither should he,_ Thadorn told himself firmly. _What might have been will never be. Rogell was ever wiser than me. He chose the better woman, the better destiny... or perhaps it chose him._

Intent on making the most of the morning, Thadorn pressed forward without stopping to eat. They broke their fast in the saddle, with flat bread and hard sausages and dry figs, and each of the men took a few swigs from his own hip flask. Thadorn's flask contained herb tea, brewed by Lya the night before, a strong, invigorating draught of peppermint and sage and rosemary, but he could bet that Akira's flask held something else, judging from how his eyes began to sparkle and how he relaxed in the saddle after taking a few hearty swigs. Nog, too, became merrier after a drink, talking and japing. Geynir smiled indulgently at the folly of youth, while Nicholas maintained a surly silence that perhaps suited Thadorn best. He wanted no friendship, no laughter, no wine – just to do this duty, and to be told what his next step will be.

Close to midday, however, he had to concede that a break is needed. The old man Geynir mildly suggested that if they keep going at such a rate, they will ride past the inn in which they were to spend this night, while there is no chance of getting to the next inn on the road – so unless they wanted to sleep in the open field... Akira and Nog firmly declared they are not at all fond of this idea, although Thadorn did suspect they said so on behalf of the old man rather than on their own. Be that as it may, they dismounted and led their horses to a small grove of trees just off the road, where they unsaddled their mounts and let them browse while they leaned against the trunks of trees and consumed a simple meal of cold chicken, hard-boiled eggs, dried apples and pickled olives. Nog declared there must be fish in the nearby stream, but none of them thought to bring a fishing rode, and Thadorn made a surly face and said they need not waste their time looking for food when they have enough to keep them going until they reach Aldon-Sur.

After a few more swigs from his hip flask Akira grew even more self-satisfied than usual, and obviously presumed that everyone else had a burning interest in his affairs.

"I do hope this business can be concluded successfully and rapidly," he said, "for I am going to be married, you know."

_No one forced you to partake in this business,_ Thadorn thought privately, but his good sense judged against provoking a fight with one of his roadside companions, especially a prickly Kotsar, so he said instead, "I did not know we should speak of your marriage already. I was not aware that your cousin Jada seemed so very well-disposed towards the idea."

Akira waved a negligent hand. "Girls of that age," he said, "can rarely make up their mind about anything. But we are well-suited, no doubt about that. We are both of the Kotsar, after all," he added meaningfully, took another sip from his flask, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Thadorn ground his teeth in a taciturn silence.

_Kotsar with Kotsar,_ he thought bitterly, _and doubtless he wishes to provoke me._ His good-brother seemed uncomfortable, and slightly apprehensive, as if he feared Thadorn might swallow this bait, but he was not so stupid. Above all he felt sorry for the girl Jada. He knew her parents were trying to settle this match in Ned's absence; had he been present, their plans would be blown to smithereens.

"Did you notice how lonely the road is?" asked Nog, speaking suddenly with a hushed voice. "We have met almost no travelers, and those we did meet seemed too intent on their business to stop for more than two words."

"I see no reason for us to exchange words with strangers," Thadorn said brusquely.

"The lad is right," Geynir said mildly. "The Middle Road had always been merry, even in my day. Something had changed recently, as though people are expecting something ominous."

_And I wonder what that could be._ "It is naught to us," said Thadorn, "I was called to escort this man, Nicholas Swift, to His Grace." The strange man Nicholas acknowledged the mention of his name with a noncommittal grunt. "You were kind enough to accompany me on the road. I take interest in nothing else unless I am told to."

Yet this was a falsehood, he realized later that day, when they already settled into their rooms at the inn and he stood before the washing-basin, preparing to wash the travel dust off his face before going down to dinner. The pain within him remained, persistent and gnawing and black as the Dark Lands punished souls are said to depart to. _She killed me,_ he thought bitterly as he abandoned the attempt to run a brush through his thick shaggy hair. _I might walk and talk and think and plan and make decisions, I might have a clan to lead, children to raise, a city to guard, but I am empty of that which had filled me so briefly. I would have been better off if I had never known it._

Their arrival at Aldon-Sur brought a brief happiness to him as he recalled that the hour is too late for being admitted at court, but not too late to pay a call at the Upper Esplanade and see his good-sister – or so Nog claimed, and he agreed despite the slight pangs of his conscience.

Kelena's eyes glowed with genuine delight upon their arrival on her doorstep. She embraced Nog with warm sisterly affection and exclamations of surprise, pressed Thadorn's hand and inquired after the children, gave her polite respects to old Geynir, greeted Akira with the cordiality due to a kinswoman, and expressed the expected interest in Nicholas, the man from The-World-Beyond. And yet something was wrong, Thadorn could not help but sense it. Kelena had always been unaffected, sincere, warm and gentle, yet now there was a tension to her that seemed almost unnatural. Once or twice Thadorn's glance wandered towards Dankar Gindur, who professed his warmest friendship and brotherly hospitality towards the relations of his wife, and he wondered whether something had passed between Kelena and her husband to make her smiles seem a little strained. He had always known it was not a match of affection, to be sure, yet now it seemd as though there was something more.

Nicholas felt as though he was being dragged along. In a strange world he still knew next to nothing about, in a situation that made him question his own sanity, he found himself an appendix to people who bothered themselves with him only because they thought him mildly curious. That was why he was summoned by their king as well, he was certain.

But the most disturbing thing about this feeling was that it wasn't exactly new. For most of his life he felt as though he was being dragged along, following a respectable career, living a respectable life... and what did he have to show for it? He was thirty-eight, single, disillusioned, firmly attached to his loneliness, for it was the only way of life he was familiar with... and even now, when all the familiar things remained behind, he stayed the same.

He always prided himself for having an analytical mind, yet now he had to face the fact: he was an historian, not a mathematician, and this meant something. He spent a large portion of his life confronting, dissecting and dismissing myths with contemptuous exclamations such as "pagan nonsense" or "silly medieval tales". Or if he were in a more kindly mood he might say, "yes, this is very interesting, but I deal with history, with facts that have been recorded and proven" – and only in the privacy of this thought he would uncomfortably admit that the reliability of thousand-year-old records could be questionable.

He wished he knew more about physics; he wished there was some kind of theory, however far-fetched, that could enable him to begin to understand what happened to him. Could it be that a cosmic whirlpool descended on him, sucked him in and instantly transported him to a world which was not so very unlike his own, but in which the stars above his head formed constellations that definitely did not belong to planet Earth? And what of the language? What chemical reaction in his brain enabled him to instantly speak a language he had never known before? The people of Tilir treated all these unbelievable things with a natural air – to them, he was unusual, but not incredible. They knew of his world, and these giant cosmic whirpools were named "Stormglass gates" by them. It was all part of the Essence of the Spirit, as they said. He was not the first, nor would he be the last, to cross the borders between the two worlds, borders that consisted of more than space and time...

_Perhaps I have lost my mind_ , Nicholas thought dully. _Perhaps all this bending over ancient scrolls and reading of legends and a solitary life that felt as though it was lived in the Middle Ages had taken its toll. I might be in an asylum for all I know, and all these people around me, and all this world might be but a highly detailed work of my inflamed imagination._

But at least the food in the asylum is good, Nicholas told himself wryly as he tore a wing off a capon and took a sip of very fine wine.

He was a quiet man and an observant one. Right now he watched his hosts, a handsome but unlikely couple if ever he saw one.

The man Dankar was dark and very good-looking, and all his movements had the smooth dangerous fluidity of a panther. Nicholas had already begun to understand something of Tilirian customs to see that the elegance of his clothes, his speech and his manners surpassed anything he had seen so far. His house, too, was splendid and very carefully furnished, and everything seemed to be new, selected with excellent taste and meticulously cared for. The fare laid on his table would not have disgraced a king.

His wife, Kelena, was fair and delicate and beautiful and had a sweet air to her, and her features were animated with gladness for seeing her brother and her townsmen, yet it was plain this was no true happiness. _There is a story here,_ Nicholas decided, _but it is one I am unlikely to ever read._ For all his benevolent and gracious air, Dankar struck him as a man who zealously guards his private affairs.

This did not prevent him from meddling in the affairs of others, however. Just before the sweets were served, along with a light golden wine of a fruity scent, he inclined his head sideways and looked at Nicholas with a smile of benign curiousity.

"It is a great honor to have you under my roof, distinguished guest," he said ceremoniously. "I wish you to make yourself quite comfortable, especially as tomorrow will be a grand day. I will present you at the court myself, along with my kinsmen Thadorn and Nog, and you shall bask in the radiance of His Grace, the king Alvadon."

"I can scarcely wait," said Nicholas with barely disguised sarcasm. He displayed less interest than he felt. In reality he had never seen a king face to face and was rather looking forward to it, but if he had been given a choice between this foreign court and an instant return to his homeland, there can be no doubt as to what he would have chosen. Interestingly enough, the thing that bothered him perhaps most of all was leaving Kate without a warning. He pictured her on the night of his abrupt departure, standing in the middle of the Stone Circle and calling out his name, alone and frightened in the stillness of the night... he wondered what she did next, after realizing he was gone without a trace. _Hastened down to the village to tell it all to Jim O'Keeffee, and allowed him to soothe her fears,_ a bitter voice in his head said. _Then he might have obtained her help for writing his story, and that might have led to other things by now. And why not? Why should you care? What is it to you if the insolent Irishman gains more than an article in his ridiculous magazine?_

The windows were closed, and the air inside grew stifling. Nicholas excused himself and made his way back through the doors and into the garden. It was chilly outside, as he knew it would be, but the cool breath of air upon his face was refreshing, and the quiet solitude was a balm to his nerves, which were irritated by the prolonged company of people he cared little about.

There were cypress trees growing along the rounded stone walls of the garden; they looked old, as if they were planted here at least a century ago, when neither the handsome man Dankar, nor his father, nor perhaps his father's father were born. And yet the house was built by the men of Gindur, their host had boasted of it during supper; they had roots, they had a pulsating net of blood attaching them firmly to this land. They were not like him.

Drifting through this world, through any world, alone, always alone... he was truly needed by no one. If he never returns home, he will be remembered for a while because of the unusual way he disappeared – but then that, too, will be forgotten, and not even a mossy headstone in a cemetery will remind the occasional passerby of his name.

The stone balustrade caught his eye. It was expertly carved and chiseled, beautifully polished. With the simple tools the Tilirians used, he could just imagine how much this work cost... and this was only the outside wall of the garden.

Suddenly, he noticed movement behind that wall.

The people who were fortunate enough to live on Upper Esplanade seldom walked. They either rode or were carried in palanquins; but now a young man paced back and forth restlessly, and once in a while he threw an anxious, longing look towards the house of Gindur. He had the air of a soldier, but although his face could not be seen in the shifting weak light, it was clear he was almost a boy. He did not notice Nicholas when he finally stopped his pacing and leaned against one of the posts that carried oil-filled streetlamps. It seemed as though he waited.

But what for? No one seemed likely to come out of the house. Then, as Nicholas looked up by a chance, he saw a dance of a candle in one of the windows... as though someone brought it close to the windowpane, then drew it back, then brought it closer again. It seemed like a signal, a sign, and the man stood still. Then the candle was extinguished, and he quickly walked away.

When Nicholas came back inside, the party was already dispersing, and with the most ceremonious graciousness his host wished him good night.

"Your chambers are humble, but I hope you will not be too uncomfortable," he said with the solicitousness of a man who knows his 'humble chambers' are fit for a prince.

As Nicholas was ascending the steps, he stopped at the sound of voices, speaking together in a low murmur. One he recognized as Thadorn's; the other belonged to a woman, and by its simple elegant speech he knew it could not be one of the maids; it had to be Kelena, then - Dankar's wife.

"... hope you pardon me for taking the liberty," Thadorn was saying, "but I just thought I would inquire whether all is well."

"As well as can be, Thadorn," said the woman. "Do not trouble yourself."

"You retired from the table early."

"I was afflicted by a sudden headache. I thought I would come down now, offer my excuses to those of the guests who might still be remaining downstairs."

"You are too scrupulous, my good lady. No one should blame you for being a little tired, and anyway you will find no one downstairs. Everyone dispersed to their chambers, your brother the first among those. He was yawning so violently it seems a wonder his jaw didn't break."

"Nog was always that way," Nicholas could hear a smile in the woman's voice. "He is like a young animal. He needs his sleep."

"You had better rest too."

"I will. Thank you, good-brother."

"I..." Thadorn hesitated, then went on with difficulty. "We both know it is unlikely I will remain your good-brother for very long."

Nicholas held his breath. Suddenly he realized he is eavesdropping, and that Thadorn most likely would hate to be overheard. But he did not know how to move forward without causing embarrassment, and he was afraid they would hear him if he started back downstairs. His best bet, he decided, would be to remain in his place, wait until they dispersed, and then pretend he just came up.

"You will always be my good-brother," said the beautiful and sad woman Kelena, her voice quivering with emotion. "My _brother_ ," she amended.

"A true brother would not have left you in distress."

She tried to laugh it off. "If you mean what I felt when I realized the cook had overbaked the pies again – "

"Please," the softness in Thadorn's voice was unusual. "I would not presume to be taken into your confidence. But do know that if there is anything at all – "

He stopped abruptly and Nicholas guessed, more than seen or heard, that his good-sister had kissed him chastely on the cheek.

"Sleep well, Thadorn. Tomorrow will be a long day."

Nicholas heard the faint rustle of silk against a luxuriously soft carpet and the sound of a closing door. A sleepy child's voice could just barely be heard behind it, and the woman's voice responded in soothing tones. No doubt Kelena went to look at her son in his bed.

He thought it would be now safe to go upstairs, but when he made a few cautious steps up, he found himself against the threatening burly form of Thadorn Tionae, standing in the middle of the corridor with his arms crossed and an expression on his face which was far from benign.

"Despite several occasions which might have indicated otherwise," the big man said, "I am not blind."

Nicholas tried to say something, but Thadorn clearly was not in a mood to listen. Nicholas was quite unnerved to find a thick finger stuck in his chest.

"You," said Thadorn, "have been eavesdropping on me."

"It is not – " said Nicholas. "I could hardly care – I mean, I have no interest in hearing other people's – "

Thadorn dropped his hands, as if deflating under the influence of some external force which had nothing to do with Nicholas.

"I had better hope so," he said darkly. "You make the impression of a decent man. I have been wrong before, of course," he added with a hint of bitterness in his low rumbling voice.

"I assure you it was an unfortunate coincidence," said Nicholas, "I was just coming upstairs, and..."

Thadorn waved a dismissive hand.

"Forget it," he said. "I know you meant no harm. I have a feeling no harm will come from you... even though I don't believe you are very important."

Although Nicholas was loath to admit it, this frankness stung. Prompted by his pride, he said,

"Your king believes otherwise."

Thadorn shrugged. "I was not told to think for myself, beyond the scope of my duties. I live to serve, to obey. But if you ask me, I believe that the Stormstone is a tricky substance. It sometimes chooses people to move between the worlds for no apparent reason, and I believe that at this time, His Grace would do better to concentrate on what is going on at his borders."

"Especially in the west?" Nicholas asked slyly. He did pick up some things during his stay with Rogell and Lya.

Thadorn looked uneasy. "Yes. That is, no one really knows... but if there is a congregation of people practicing some obscure art, even if it all is nothing but a rumour... it is certainly worth investigating."

Nicholas knew, if a little vaguely, why Thadorn would pay such close attention to what is happening in the west. His wife was there, or so it was rumored... but Nicholas was not a fool. He knew there are some things one had better not say.

"Are you a man of family?" Thadorn asked abruptly. Nicholas hated this question, but this time he thought this has an importance beyond idle curiousity.

"I have no one," he said pointedly. "No wife, no children, no parents, no siblings. I am all alone."

Thadorn nodded, satisfied. "Then you believe you are not missed?"

It was strange how this coincided with his very own thoughts of earlier. Then Andrew's face came into his mind... and Kate's. _Perhaps this is a folly of a man on the point of becoming an old bachelor... but if it is, so what? It is a folly that makes me feel alive. Perhaps I will never go home again, perhaps I will never see her face again, but this doesn't forbid me from thinking of what could have been._

Nicholas slept fitfully that night, and once a ray of moonlight fell on his face and made him thrash in his sleep and cover his eyes with the back of his hand. Several times he rose almost to the surface of wakefulness, only to sink back into the black uneasy currents of strange evasive dreams. Finally, in a conscious effort he made himself wake up.

The air was crisp, and the summer song of the crickets could be heard no longer. Something in the black stillness around him told him that it was still the death of night. His throat felt parched, so he felt around on his bedstand until he found a water jug of glazed clay, and a cup of similar design, and poured himself some water. He drank slowly, feeling strangely in peace with himself.

As detached from this world as he insisted on being, he could not help but like its people. He admired their simple faith; and true to his nature, he could not help but study their history whenever he could. As far as he could learn, they had always believed in the Great Spirit, and the shades of its Essence. They had no rivaling conclaves, no religious wars over fine hues of their belief, no high priests with almost unlimited power in their hands. He was told, however, that their neighbours, the Malvians and the savage tribes of the borders, worshipped idols of stone and wood, and beasts they revered as gods. For the Gorgors it was the mountain bear, while the Lyaki believed the grass snake represented and guarded their people. The chief deity of the Totoks made flesh was the formidable cave lion. But according to the Tilirians, all of them, even the most brutal savages, still acknowledged the presence of the Great Spirit, even if they had a different name for it in their tongue, and grudgingly admitted that the people of Tilir were the closest of all to it.

He padded over to the window. The nights were already chilly, and so the luxurious carpets were already brought out of their summer storage and spread over the cool smooth floor tiles; the velvety carpet caressed his bare feet as he walked across the room. He wasn't sure what he expected to see, but he was not surprised to notice the same silent sentinel as before, the young man that gazed up at the house with such poetic wistfulness that it seemed to Nicholas as though someone lightly touched the strings of a harp, and a song sounded faintly in the night air:

Alas, my love, you do me wrong

To cast me off discourteously...

For some reason he found it easiest to believe the young man's presence had something to do with their host's wife, the beautiful Kelena. Whether this was merely platonic admiration or a more earthly affair, however, he did not and wished not to know. If it was the latter, and the noble man of Ginudr knew of it, Nicholas pitied the young man, whoever he was. Dankar Gindur struck him as a man not to be trifled with.

He drew the curtain over the window, plunging the room into complete, soothing darkness. He lay down on his bed again and closed his eyes, and his dreams were sweet, and when he woke the room was full of sunshine and his heart was easy.

The easiness did not last long, though. He remembered his presentation at the royal audience chamber which was scheduled for that day, and his immediate sensation strongly resembled what he felt as a student before a formidable exam. He could not satisfactorily explain this, though; after all, it would not be about any skill or knowledge of his. The king of this strange land merely wants to acquaint himself with an other-world oddity. _It makes no difference who I am,_ Nicholas told himself. _It makes no difference what I have learned, what I had done. All they care about is the place where I came from._ The Other World, they called it. To the Tilirians, it was far and almost unattainable but still possible to reach, much like an other planet would be for those who live on Earth. There were Tilirians who went "there" and came back; they were increasingly rarer in every generation, but they existed. Nicholas wished he could meet one of them, and then perhaps some of his questions would be answered.

Breakfast was an early and quiet affair. None of his companions seemed in the mood to talk. Dankar, sitting at the head of the table, ate his cold fish stew and sipped his herb tea in dignified silence; his wife was pale and didn't seem to have much of an appetite. Thadorn was somber as a cloud threatening rain, the learned man Geynir looked to be deep in thought, and even Nog and Akira were affected by the overall atmosphere of oppressive silence and bent their heads over their bowls of stew.

"Well," said Dankar once everyone had eaten, briskly clapping his hands. "It is time to prepare. Audience only lasts until midday, and we still need to get our friend here properly attired," he added, looking over Nicholas with a critical eye.

"I did not know anything was wrong with my attire," Nicholas said defensively. His old clothes were discarded long ago, of course, in the home of Rogell and Lya; the clothes he wore now were very generously pressed on him by Rogell. They were a little loose to begin with, but Lya made a few alterations and now they fit well. They were unpretentious good wool and linen, which reconciled him to the loss of his unchanging English style.

"Oh, not wrong," Dankar said easily, looking over him again. "But when one comes before the king, one must make an effort to look his very best."

When Nicholas stepped out of the doors half an hour later, he was walking a little stiffly, because his garments were so fresh and crisp, so newly sewn, and so surprisingly well-fitting that it made him feel self-conscious. He was dressed in black from head to toe, in a black tunic of the finest, smoothest silk, with a black doublet over it, black breeches held by a black silver-studded belt, supply shiny black boots and a billowing black cloak, livened slightly by its lining of silvery ermine and its silver brooch, shaped like a raven with eyes of glittering black stone, jet or onyx, he could not tell.

He was a little unnerved how they all seemed to form an escort around him; the glib-tongued, dangerous-eyed Dankar, somber Thadorn, the handsome young Nog and the old venerable Geynir, and Akira Kotsar, restless, arrogant and proud. Dankar's beautiful wife, Kelena, waved them all away from the doorstep, raising her hand in a rather helpless manner, then turning on her heel and closing the door behind her.

They rode just a little way forward and were about to leave the Upper Esplanade and begin their ascent to castle and court when a rider crossed paths with them and pulled the reins of his horse, halting. Dankar Gindur rose his hand in a gesture of welcome, looking pleased.

"Lieutenant," he said, "the very man I had hoped to meet."

The rider inclined his head politely.

"This is Torwen Mattar," Dankar turned to his companions. "A bold warrior and a promising young man. I am glad you were able to extend your leave," he turned to his acquaintance.

"Only for a short while," said Torwen. "My duties at Fort Sand call me to return before long."

"To be sure," Dankar said, "to be sure. But in the meantime, is it too presumptious to ask you to pay a brief call at my house? It should not take more than a few minutes. We are going to court, and I would rather be certain my wife wants for nothing. Also, I forgot to tell my lady that I will most likely be gone throughout most of the day, and I would wish her to be forewarned so that she does not worry."

Nicholas stole a look at his companions, then at the young stranger. There could be no mistake; this was the same young man he had seen from his window the other night. But if he is acquainted with Dankar, why would he hide? An impenetrable pleasant smile played on their host's lips, while the rest of the company looked politely unconcerned – all except for Thadorn, who frowned and gave a barely perceptible shake of the head.

"Of course," added Dankar, "only if it is not too much trouble."

"No trouble at all," said Torwen Mattar, the young man who had looked up so desperately at Kelena's windows the night before. "It will be a high honor to call upon the lady Kelena and deliver your message."

Dankar gave a satisfied nod and spurred his horse forward. The company rode on, and so did Torwen Mattar after a polite salute, only in a different direction – down the Upper Esplanade.

"It is good to have friends one can trust," said Dankar in such a pleasantly unconcerned voice that no one dared to make a comment except a nod and a few incoherent sounds; it seemed to Nicholas that Thadorn wished to say something but restrained himself.

Further on their way up, they had another encounter. The streets were busy and lively here, but in a respectable way – expensive shops attracted dignified customers, and palanquins with costly embroidered silken hangings blocked their path every now and then. One such palanquin was so large and bulky and moved so slowly that it was a sore trial to their patience. It was carried with difficulty by six big-bodied burly servants who looked enough alike to be the children of one man's loins, and who were sweating so profusely that Nicholas though the man inside the palanquin cannot weigh less than half a ton.

But then a white hand pulled the draperies aside in one swift motion, and it became plain that the only passenger of the palanquin was a young woman, fair and slender, who rose from the silk pillows on which she reclined, and beckoned her servants to help her descend. She was smiling, and so was Dankar, who opened his arms in cordial recognition. Nog and Akira, too, rushed forward to greet the woman, who had a look of importance and wealth about her, but the learned man Geynir hung back, and so did Thadorn, who wore an unpleasant scowl on his face.

"Rani," Dankar said, "you look more beautiful than ever. The summer at the Provinces did you good. I was not aware you would be back so soon, though."

"Oh, my house at the Provinces was good enough for a month or two," said the woman called Rani, "but I could not bear to stay there longer. It was too boring, I was growing restless. And so here I am, back at Aldon-Sur."

"Where your friends no doubt have been waiting anxiously for your return," Dankar said with very polite courtesy, but there was an amused twinkle in his eye which Rani seemed to miss. For all her slenderness, she was extremely buxom, fair of hair and pink of cheek, and reminded Nicholas of sugary sweet pictures of Swiss milkmaids.

"This is Rani Kotsar," Geynir whispered in Nicholas's ear. "She is originally from our town, but was married very young to a very wealthy childless man, inherited all his fortune, and has been a widow for nearly a decade now."

"Yes, that is what often happens," said Rani, who apparently overheard him, but was not the least bit offended, "when a fourteen-year-old girl is taken to the bed of a seventy-year-old man." She was a Kotsar, then; this explained her familiarity with Nog, whom she was now kissing as she would a little brother. "And where might you be going in such a hurry so early in the morning, Dankar?" she asked curiously.

"Oh, the business is not mine," he explained modestly. "I am only escorting someone to await the king's pleasure. A visitor from the-world-beyond," he added with would-be indifference, gesturing toward Nicholas.

Rani's hazel eyes lit up with unfeigned interest, and she brushed a lock of strawberry blond hair from her face as she stared at him.

Chapter 10

_The rate we are going, we are never going to make it in time,_ thought Nicholas. The woman Rani, the one who looked like she came out of a scene in pastoral Switzerland, abandoned her search for the most sumptuous drapes she could find for her sitting-room, and insisted on accompanying them to the king's audience chamber. Dankar was too corteous to refuse her – or perhaps deemed it is best not to. From Geynir's hurried and somewhat vague explanation in his ear, Nicholas understood that she was not only Dankar's kin through his wife's clan, but also the widow of some very rich and powerful nobleman, and the sole heiress to his exceedingly large fortune.

Evil tongues took pleasure in whispering wicked tales of Rani; she was married very young to a man who was old and ugly, but by no means feeble, and it took many as a surprise that he died soon after they were wed. A decade passed since, and Rani still lived a life of easy wealth and continuous amusement. She did not marry again, but neither did she find it in herself to be too cruel to the many suitors that courted her favour – she took many of them into her bed, and made no secret of it, which earned her a doubtful reputation. However, she had many friends, and could be formidable when a caprice of hers was met with refusal, which was well known. And so, her sumptuous heavy palanquin hindered the progress of their horses, and when they came up at the castle gates, it was almost high noon and all petitioners would soon be dismissed.

"We had better hurry," said Dankar Gindur. He rode up to the guards, not bothering to slow. His confidence was well-justified – the guards knew him well by sight, and promptly sprang apart to allow him and all their party to pass.

They dismounted and handed in the reins of their horses to serving men who hurried towards them. Rani's own servants helped her descend from the palanquin. As soon as her dainty feet touched the ground, she dismissed them with a gesture of the hand; they lingered behind, but did not go far, ready to depart again at her first call.

"Well," she said, looping her arm through Dankar's and glancing at Nicholas with badly concealed curiousity. "Hadn't we better go forward?"

When the doors before them swung open, Nicholas saw a long, splendid hall with rounded walls and a vaulted ceiling, full of noble-looking people in all their finery. Closer to the back of the hall, a flight of steps led up to the joining thrones of the king and queen – the queen's throne, the lower one by the king's side, was empty. Dankar had told earlier that Queen Maviel did not often choose to grace the king's councils and audiences with her presence.

As they approached the stairs, Nicholas could not take his eyes off the man on the throne. King Alvadon the Ninth was young, and his face was smooth and unlined, but there was noble power and courage and wisdom in his handsome face. His eyes were fixed upon the approaching party, but he did not move, holding his head up tall and proud as the sun glittered upon his crown and the silken mantle of the Tilirian colors of red, green and white.

When they reached the base of the stairs, everyone knelt – Rani gracefully spreading her skirts. Nicholas hastened to go down upon one knee as well.

"Rise," said the king in a pleasant voice. "Which one of you is the visitor from The-World-Beyond?" His glance swept the party, all the members of which were dressed in respectable Tilirian fashion. Nicholas cleared his throat.

"It is I, Your Grace," he said, rather louder than he had intended. A whisper broke out throughout the hall; he saw people craning their necks, trying to get a better look at the inconspicuous stranger whom they let pass without a second glance a few moments earlier.

The king's handsome face wore an expression of deep fascination. "It is true, then," he said. "Be welcome, o alien nobleman. Your arrival is a boon from the Great Spirit."

This made Nicholas blush uncomfortably. "If I may be bold enough to say so, Your Grace," he said, adjusting his speech to fit the occasion, "I do not see myself as anything very special, that is to say – "

"I understand your meaning, my friend. Yet the opening of the Stormglass gates had ever promised great happenings in this land. I wish to confer in private with you," the king went on. "With you and with the brave Thadorn Tionae, who was charged with the task of bringing you here. Let him step forward."

Thadorn made a clumsy step, placing one of his feet upon the first stair, his head bowed in reverence. "Your Grace," he murmured.

The king swept downstairs and placed a hand upon his shoulder. "I have heard much good of you, bold warrior," he said. "Come with me." He began to walk. The guards attending his royal person moved to follow, and so did his Councilors, who stood in a small, splendidly garbed group near the base of the throne steps. The king made them halt with a gesture of his hand. "My loyal Councilors. Do remain here, and see to the rest of the petitioners. We shall meet later." The noblemen, Nicholas noticed, looked none too pleased, yet none of them dared to protest.

They were led into a small, splendidly furnished chamber with an oval table. A serving man poured them goblets of light golden wine. A platter of dates, dried figs and white cheese with a coat of blue mould was brought forward as well, but not one of them spared the food so much as a second glance.

"I hope that your stay at Tilir has been both safe and enjoyable," the king said to Nicholas graciously.

"I have not lacked for hospitality or comfort," he said. King Alvadon gave a satisfied nod.

"That is good to hear. I do not know you, but I know you must be a friend of Tilir. Those who pass through the Stormglass gates are always such. And you, brave Thadorn, Commander of the Sea Guard," he said warmly to the big solemn warrior, "I thank you for responding to my summons with such promptitude."

"I came as soon as I could, Your Grace."

"You have done well. Even though we only met once before, I know you well by report, and I know that in Rhasket-Tharsanae there is not another man I could trust as much as you."

"That is kind of you to say, Your Grace."

For a moment, the king sat silent, apparently deep in thought. "I confess," he finally said, "that there is a – an office – I had in mind for you."

Thadorn looked wary. "I am yours to command, Your Grace."

"I did not doubt it, good and loyal man. I will put further trust in you and admit that I am troubled," he sighed. "We are besieged by enemies on all our borders, there are the queerest rumours about what is happening in the Emerald Mountains... and what is perhaps worst of all, I have no heir."

"Your Grace," Thadorn ventured to say. "You and Her Grace the queen are young yet. The Spirit may bless you with many sons still."

The king's smile was sad. "I fear that the Spirit revealed himself to me, my friend. The surface of the lake is still and bright under the summer sun, but the waters are deep and dark. I fear I will not live as long as my natural health may promise... and if I die childless, the land will be left in turmoil."

This was not an optimistic notion, and yet Nicholas did not understand why Thadorn suddenly appeared so concerned, so... yes, fearful, that was the only world. His brows were knitted together, and he went visibly pale.

"I have heard reports," the king went on mildly, wishing to smooth over the ominous effect of his words, "of people in the West, who claim to be warlocks, who call themselves the Shadowbinders, and who plan to bring Tilir under the hand of a dark and evil sorcery. I know your wife is with them," he spoke to Thadorn.

"Your Grace," Thadorn said with obvious difficulty. "My wife may have ideas that will yet be the ruin of her, but I would never betray – "

"I know," the king said, not unkindly. "If I questioned your loyalty, would I have brought you here? Rest assured, Thadorn, Head of the Tionae, I know you are a good man and true. And Rhasket is closer to the West. It is in Rhasket and Fort Sand that I wish you to assemble an army that will put a stop to whatever these Shadowbinders are doing."

An expression of uncertainty passed upon Thadorn's face. "An army, Your Grace? But would it... pray forgive me, but wouldn't that be an excessive measure? I mean, those might just be rumours, and..."

"Yes," said the king. "These so-called warlocks might be simply rebels. But either way, they are challenging me, and this challenge will not go unanswered."

"But why me, Your Grace? Why not one of your own commanders?"

"You would know the west better than commanders from Aldon-Sur; and the commander of Fort Sand, while a good man, is getting on in years and will not wish to stir from his place unless he can help it. And so, Thadorn, I temporarily release you from your duties at the Sea Guard and bid you to go west, stopping at Rhasket-Tharsanae and Fort Sand only long enough to gather your men."

Thadorn seemed to teeter on the verge of speech, then thought better of it. He dropped onto one knee and bent his head.

"Your Grace. I am your man. Sword and spear and shield, hand and word and thought and deed, I pledge myself to your service. There is no higher honor."

The king drew Thadorn back up to his feet again and kissed him on both cheeks.

"All my hopes are pinned on the loyalty of brave men such as you," he said. Then he turned to Nicholas.

"I do not know much about the lore of Stormstone," he said, "and therefore, I cannot tell why you are here, nor for how long you shall have to remain. I do know your coming must have had a good reason, though, and I ask that you accompany the brave Thadorn as he goes west."

Nicholas, who was already contemplating the tempting prospect of returning to the comfortable home of Rogell and Lya, was at a loss for words but thankfully, none were needed. Thadorn bowed his head again and said, "it shall be as you command, Your Grace."

Once they were shown out of the council chamber, the look upon Thadorn's face became deeply troubled. "No," he murmured in a low voice, shaking his head. "Surely not. A coincidence, yes, it can happen..."

"Is anything the matter?" asked Nicholas. Thadorn looked at him as though he forgot he was not alone. He was silent for a long moment.

"No," he finally said. "I had better hold my tongue. You will think me a fool – or worse. But how," his voice was reduced almost to a whisper as he spoke to himself again, "how did she _know_?"

They rejoined the rest of their party, which was showing signs of impatience. Dankar was obviously dismayed at having been excluded from the audience, and Akira Kotsar gave Thadorn a look that could have curdled milk once he heard of how he had been honored.

"And what will you do," he said plaintively, "if you find Jadine?"

"Akira," said Nog, rising his voice in a warning. Thadorn said nothing, but his face was stony.

The only one who seemed to be in good spirits was Rani, who insisted they must have their share of frolics before they are obliged to leave the capital, and insisted that they all sup with her at her manor. It was not at the Upper Esplanade – she had inherited a manse that had belonged to her late husband. It was located on the very outskirts of the city, and had large parks and pleasure grounds. Some whispered that she chose to remain there because the privacy of the place permitted her things that the fashionable buzz of the Upper Esplanade would not.

"And bring that lovely wife of yours, Dankar, did you hear me? I know I must be awfully boring for someone as clever as Kelena, but I do enjoy her company so."

"Kelena will be delighted to accept your invitation," said Dankar with a smile that did not extend to his eyes.

To Nicholas, however, it seemed that the fair lady Kelena seemed anything but delighted. Her face was a mask of cool politeness when she heard of the evening engagement, and it was evident only her breeding and courtesy prevented her from saying what she truly thought.

Instead, all she said was, "Rani Kotsar had never been very solicitous about seeking my company."

"You are being unjust to Rani," Dankar told her. "I am not saying I would like you to be bosom friends with her, but she had always been fond of you."

"And besides, she is of our own clan," said Nog, as if it settled the matter. He seemed taken with Rani himself, as a boy on the cusp of manhood can be with a woman of worldly experience.

"I declare it is all a waste of time," Thadorn said briskly. "If I had my way, we would be gone this very night, armed with the royal decree His Grace gave us."

"And you would have galloped back all the way to Rhasket-Tharsanae, only to sweep over the town, gather every suitable man, and rush onward to Fort Sand," Dankar said with an ironic smile. "I admire your dedication, Thadorn, but I doubt His Grace expects you to ride by night."

"His Grace expects me to do his bidding with all promptitude."

"All the same," Dankar gave a lazy shrug of the shoulder. "You will not be able to set out before tomorrow, so why not enjoy this last free evening in Aldon-Sur?"

Thadorn, however, seemed not at all disposed to frolics. "Gathering men..." he muttered, shaking his head. "It will take time, too. I will be delayed. If His Grace had deemed me fit for command, it would have been better if he provided me with at least some swords..."

"But surely you understand, good-brother," Dankar said with a barely perceptible touch of haughtiness, "that King Alvadon cannot rid himself of swords at this time? He needs his men about him.'

"To be sure," said Thadorn. At that moment, a knock sounded on the door.

"Whoever it is, they had better be quick," said Dankar. "We must get ready for the evening." But at the sight of the man who was ushered forward by the servants, his face brightened. "Torwen, my friend," he said. "What a marvelous opportunity to thank you for the service you rendered me this morning. You saved my lady quite a bit of needless concern for our long absence, I am sure."

"It was my pleasure," said the young man, and made a very correct bow in the direction of Dankar's wife, but his eyes were downcast, as if he knew he could not hide the warmth and shame and tremor in them if he lifted them up. "In truth," he went on, "I am here to speak to Commander Tionae."

"To me?" Thadorn seemed surprised.

"Yes," said Torwen. "I heard you are going west, Commander. It is my wish to go with you, if you would have me."

"I thought your intention was to return to Fort Sand, lieutenant," Kelena said civilly and carelessly, but the little colour that was in her cheeks drained from them.

"And so it shall be, lady Kelena... for Commander Tionae will stop at Fort Sand on his way. Once there, I am certain I will be able to obtain permission to continue west among his troops."

"But how," said Thadorn, who was rendered momentarily speechless by the promptitude of this request, "how did you know so soon?"

"Rumours spread fast," said Torwen. "Half the city knows of how you had been distinguished..."

"... which is no more than my good-brother deserves," Dankar said graciously.

"I am certain that at dawn, men will assemble at the city gates, to wait for a chance to join you. Those who can be spared, that is. There won't be many, but they'll be willing."

"Which is just what I need," said Thadorn. "Willing men, and speedy. I do hope, my father," he turned politely to the learned man Geynir, "that you will not resent too much our necessity of leaving you behind."

"Oh, not at all, not at all," said the old man lightly. "I shall stay here very comfortably a few more days, trespassing upon the generous hospitality of my good kinswoman Kelena, and will make my way back to Rhasket in good time. You go upon the morrow, Thadorn, and may the Spirit speed you on your way."

"To have good speed, I had better have good sleep," Thadorn said grudgingly. "I am not at all in the mood to drink and jest half the night."

But now it was the lady Kelena who convinced him. "Do come," she told him, loopign one of her arms through his, and the other arm through that of her brother, while she looked with tender affection from one man to the other. "It will be a comfort to have both of you near me, even for just one more night. Who knows when I might see you again, my brothers."

To this, Thadorn could offer no more resistance.

The road to Rani Kotsar's manse was long and tedious, but once they reached their destination Nicholas understood why she chose to remain on the outskirts of the city when she might have lived in the centre. The manse was splendid and the grounds vast, though he could not appreciate their beauty in the dark. He only saw that they passed many fantastic black shapes, and guessed those were masterly clipped bushes, and once or twice heard the faint high trill of a night bird.

Lively music already sounded from the house as their carriage came to a halt. "I know very little of Rani if she only invited us," Dankar commented, as one of the serving men held up the lamp so that they will be able to dismount. "She is fond of a large company."

Sure enough, a large and lively party was assembled inside, composed of people whose manners did not at all times match their finery. Nicholas heard at least one loud belch, and someone hastily pulled his feet off the table at their approaching.

Rani Kotsar was in her element; she wore a crimson dress with many layers of rustling skirts, in the fashion introduced in Tilir by Queen Maviel; the skirts were wide, but the dress was very snug about her waist, and decorated with golden embroidery of fantastic birds and beasts around the hem, sleeves and rather low-cut bodice. Her strawberry blonde hair was twisted up and decorated with chains of rubies; other than that, in defiance of the ancient custom, it was left uncovered.

She looked pleased to see them.

"How very kind of you to join my little party," she said. "Dankar, I declare you have not set foot in this house above three times, even though now we are kin. And you, sweet Kelena, we really ought to see more of each other, we are of the same clan, after all. How beautiful you look – I could never hope to look so elegant. Brave Thadorn, I know you were charged with an important task by His Grace the king. It means even more to me, then, to have you here. Come along, all of you; no, a little further. I want you all to be seated by me."

_You all_ , she said, but it so happened that Nicholas found himself seated on her left side – which meant that the greater share of Rani's conversation was for him, because Kelena sat on her right, and she was very determined to talk to no one but Thadorn, who was seated on her other side.

Rani rested her chin on the palm of her hand and stared at Nicholas with undisguised curiousity for a moment or two, but whatever her reputation was, she at least knew enough to act the part of the hostess. She kept a good cook, or several of them, as seemed more likely judging from the quantity and variety of the food; there were foods Nicholas got used to seeing at almost every dinner in Tilir, like shellfish broth, but there was also roast swan and quails in jelly and a big dish of snails with garlic and herbs; there was fish baked with butter and mint, and many blackened skewers with crisply grilled, spiced meat, and when the sweet came, Dankar Gindur's house seemed the epitome of moderation, for the table was covered with various pies and tarts, fresh and dried and jellied fruit, cakes and figures of spun sugar of so many different kinds that one didn't know where to look first.

Even though supper was supposed to be nearing its end, the jugs of ale and wine and strange thick sweet liquor kept on being refilled by the serving men, and no one seemed in a hurry to leave the table - some because they were having a good time, goading the minstrels to sing bawdier and bawdier versions of famous songs, and some because they were too drunk to move.

Rani herself had drunk a good deal, and her face was flushed, but she looked perfectly composed as she looked at Nicholas and said,

"It would please me to show you my gardens."

He could hardly refuse, even though he would much rather have stayed and waited for Dankar Gindur to finish bandying words with some exuberantly and preposterously dressed nobleman with a jeweled gold ring in his nose, dull as it all was. Be that as it may, he nodded politely and got up, and walked out after Rani.

Outside, the scent of her perfume was not so overpowering, and the rustle of her skirts was akin to the autumn leaves that drifted down gracefully from the trees onto the withering grass, where wind tossed them to and fro.

"It does not look as though you are enjoying yourself very much," Rani remarked in a pleasant tone, picking a late blooming flower from its pale green stem and twirling it in her fingers. Nicholas was startled, and fumbled for a proper reply.

"I am very flattered – " he began, but she cut across him with a laugh that seemed, unlike most of her behavior, quite unaffected.

"Oh, to be sure. Everyone feels very flattered to know me... but cautious as well. Being a frequent visitor to this house has tarnished many an unblemished reputation, have you heard of that?"

Nicholas didn't know whether to feel pleased or annoyed at this newfound ability to blush.

"My reputation," he finally said, "does not matter much. I am not here to stay."

Rani looked satisfied. "There is a bold man," she said with a nod.

"I am not bold. Merely reasonable." He was going to expand on this, but she pressed a finger to her lips. "Listen," she whispered, "it seems we are not the only ones to enjoy a breath of fresh air in my gardens tonight."

She made a few carefully measured steps in a certain direction, pulling him after her so that they finally stood, concealed, behind a tall, expertly clipped bush. On the other side of it, voices could be heard, hushed but apparently deep in heated conversation. Nicholas wouldn't put it past her to eavesdrop, of course, but he wished with all his might he could have pulled away and walked quickly and quietly back to the crowded stuffy hall with its floating fumes of alcohol.

"... I do not understand why you must go," a woman's voice said, pleading, almost tearful.

"It is a noble mission," a man's voice responded, unnaturally dull.

"It is, but it is not yours. You volunteered for it, and why? Why do you wish to get away?"

"I would have stayed by your side always, no matter what," the man's voice spoke again, so low and passionate Nicholas felt intensely ashamed of himself for hearing it, while Rani listened with rapt attention, "I would have asked to be liberated from my duties at Fort Sand and sought a place here, but I cannot do this anymore. Your husband trusts me; he thinks it is me who ensures his security in you. I would challenge him to a duel, but these lies, this concealment make me feel like half a man. It cannot go on forever. A decision must be made, my lady."

"Do not ask me to... no, please. You do not know him, you do not know the things he is capable of. And my son... he will take him away from me, he will..." she trailed off, and it sounded as though a sob was muffled.

"My love," the man said with reverence, and Nicholas could imagine him gathering just enough courage to touch a silken sleeve or a stray lock of hair. "Please, do not distress yourself. You know I am yours – but you also know that I speak reason. You shall have time to think of how to arrange these matters in the best way. When I return, I will be a disengaged man. I will take you away with me. I am all for doing things in the open, but if we must, if you insist, we will run away."

There was a long silence. After it, when the woman finally spoke, she sounded as if she composed herself. "May it be so," she said quietly. "And now, my love, I will go back inside. It will not do to raise suspicion right now. Do not walk after me, wait a while."

There was a sound of light receding footsteps, and a minute or two later, another pair of feet began walking slowly in the same direction.

Only then did Nicholas chance another look at Rani. It unnerved him to see how satisfied she looked.

"That was..." he said, shaking his head. "You should never have..."

He had no doubt as to the nature of the conversation they had just overheard; it was like a final piece of a jigsaw falling into place, forming a picture that makes sense. The woman, whose voice he recognized, was Dankar's beautiful wife Kelena, and the man none other than the young Torwen Mattar, the soldier who seemed so humble and honest.

"Have no fear," said Rani, smiling enigmatically. "I have no office in mind regarding what we just heard. I simply love to know things when no one else does... and with the amounts of wine I always have served at my feasts, I got to know a great deal of such things, some of them of a nature so dangerous I would be killed if anyone suspected I found out about them. This, however... it does not surprise me. Dankar is handsome and dashing, but there were the most _shocking_ rumours about him some time ago, and Kelena was very young when her parents had given her away to him."

"Given her away?" repeated Nicholas. Her smile became a little strained.

"You have met some of our clan, have you not? The Kotsar are ambitious and proud, and they have none of the languour of some established noble clans. When they can climb another rung, they will, whatever it takes. Kelena's mother, Hinassi, would never have bypassed the chance of such a marriage, but I very much doubt Kelena herself had any say in it... no more than I did when I married."

"I..." said Nicholas, who had no idea what to say. In the pale moonlight, Rani did not appear so rosy anymore, or so gay.

"I was fourteen when my betrothal was arranged," she said. "Of course, I was a silly, vain little thing, and I had my head filled with notions of what a great lady I would be, how rich and powerful a man my future husband is, how lucky I should consider myself... I even believed some of it, but when I arrived in Aldon-Sur and met that old wrinkled fat man with his sagging jowls and foul breath, I wanted to retch or run away. Neither of which I did, of course. I smiled pleasantly and made a graceful bow, and married him within a fortnight.

My husband was rich and noble, yes, and was even fond of me in his way... but he was soft of body and soft of mind. Even his cock was soft, and three times out of four he would grunt in frustration as he rolled off me, unable to have his way. He persisted, however, and I think it is this exertion that killed him so soon... not any ministrations on my part, despite what you might have heard."

The air was chilly, but Nicholas's face was burning hot, and he could think of absolutely nothing to say.

"I forget myself," said Rani, returning to her former easy, laughing manner. "I shocked you, which was the last of my intentions. You seem to be a good man, and honest, which is a rare trait. I will trust you not to repeat any of my words... just as I will not repeat Kelena's. Not that it will do her much good," she added with a sigh. "She underestimates Dankar. He is too clever for her, and she will not be able to fool him for long. Whether this poor boy Torwen challenges him to a duel or they run away, it will all be the same. Dankar will kill him."

A chill went through Nicholas, and once more, he was speechless. Rani was smiling as if she made nothing more than a comment about tomorrow's possible weather. She looked up at him, and in the moonlight her rubies seemed purple. Then she looped her arm through his and began steering him back towards the hall.

When it was time to say their farewells, the party was still in full swing, the laughter more raucous, the singing bawdier than before. A few couples broke into dance on an improvised platform of a table haphazardly cleaned from its dishes and cloth. Rani herself showed them to the door and did a gracious curtsey which made the rubies twinkle in her fair hair. Kelena curtseyed in response, while the men bowed.

"Well," said Rani with a smile, "it has been a pleasure to have you all here. Dankar, Kelena, I hope this is the beginning of times when we all see each other more often. As for you, my brave warriors," she looked at Thadorn, Nog, Nicholas, her kinsman Akira and Torwen Mattar, "I wish you speedy journey... and a safe return." She pinched Nog's cheek, which made the lad turn crimson and stutter, then looked at Torwen with a hint of amusement which lingered in her eyes when they flickered towards Nicholas. She extended her hand to him, and he took it and bent over it and touched it briefly with his lips. He let go soon, but was left with the thought that perhaps this woman was not at all as vulgar and coarse as others would make her out to be.

Although they were scoffed at for being party-breakers and spoilers of good fun, more than half the night was already gone when they returned to Dankar's manse on the Upper Esplanade, and the cold scent of dawn wafted in the air. Nicholas staggered upstairs to his bedroom, his head buzzing and spinning from wine and liquor and the scent of spices and the echo of merry songs and overheard secrets. He fell almost instantly into a sleep so heavy and restless and so full of hazy dreams that it was a relief to be woken from it after a few short hours.

A faint pink line of dawn could just be seen on the horizon when the serving woman opened the shutters and went to stock the fire. His breakfast was left right there next to him, on a little lacquered tray next to a small copper washing basin and a soft clean towel. After washing his face and hands, he ate two boiled eggs and a small loaf of morning bread fresh from the ovens, with soft yellow butter. There was also a small silver pot of herb tea, scalding hot, and he burned his tongue in his haste to make ready for going downstairs, where the others, he was certain, waited for him already.

He was not wrong. There his companions were, bleary-eyed after a night of much merriment and little sleep – the fearsome Thadorn Tionae, stingy with his words, and the handsome lad Nog, and Akira, who alone did not look unrefreshed... and young Torwen, who looked more impatient than anybody else to get away, although he did not say a single word as he stood by the door, tapping his hand against the polished wood.

"Well," said Thadorn, looking over the company, "everyone ready? Everyone had breakfast?"

"If you call this breakfast," scoffed Akira. "After such a short night, I woke hungry as a wolf and hoped for a dish of fried eggs with onions and peppers, and perhaps a few slices of cold meat, but..."

"Well, then," Thadorn ignored him, "we might as well head out. Dankar is still sleeping, and so is the learned man Geynir – there was no reason for them to get up so early on our account."

But just as they were heading for the door, a figure appeared at the top of the stairs. It was the lady Kelena, pale and drawn, in a simple dress of dark wool, her golden hair pulled back beneath a cover of the same material. She desceneded so lightly she might have flown or swam rather than stepped, and stood before the men, vulnerable in her ethereal beauty.

"There was no need for you to be up at this hour, Kelena," said the embarrassed Nog as she kissed him on the cheek.

"I could not sleep," she responded, and Nicholas could not help but notice that her eyes, unwilling and unbidden, wandered in Torwen's direction once or twice. "I thought I might as well go down and see you off before I have a pot of morning tea." She proceeded towards Thadorn and kissed him on the cheek as well. "Farewell, my good-brother," she told him, "I will pray to see you again soon, safe and whole." Jadine's name did not pass her lips, for which Thadorn must have been grateful. Then she said her polite goodbyes to Nicholas and her kinsman Akira. To Torwen Mattar she merely nodded, while he made a curt bow. Then she turned her back on them and went back upstairs, willowy and graceful in her simple garb.

"Well," Thadorn said again, "we had better be off."

They were joined by a few more men as they left the Upper Esplanade just when the sky was lightening. They were soldiers spared for Thadorn's cause by His Grace, well-trained but yet unseasoned by battle. They kept a little apart from the original companions, and did not exchange more than a few words with them as they began their journey along the empty open road.

There was something refreshing in the clear air, the chirping of birds, the stillness of the morning... but once again, Akira Kotsar displayed his annoying tendency of bringing everyone around him into his affairs.

"I believe I will marry my cousin Jada before we go west," he said so. "She is a pretty thing, and what good are lengthy betrothals for anyone? There will be time to hold a wedding before we march, isn't that so, Thadorn?"

The Tionae leader spared him a disgusted look. "To say your vows and rush off, maybe," he grunted. "But there is no need to be so excessively dutiful, Akira. I believe you may be spared."

Akira pretended not to notice the sting in these words. "That is generous of you, Thadorn," he said. "But I believe I am capable of holding up all my duties... to my betrothed _and_ my country."

Thadorn scowled but said nothing.

When they stopped for their midday meal, Nicholas saw the young Torwen take a letter out of the folds of his cloak. He only stole a brief look at it, then glanced around, thought better of it and hid the letter again. Pretending he noticed nothing, Nicholas offered the lieutenant a chunk of bread and a piece of hard cheese.

"Thank you," said Torwen with a wan smile, taking the bread and cheese but seeming uncertain as to what to do with them.

"Not feeling hungry?" Nicholas permitted himself the expression of slight surprise. "It has been a while since breakfast."

"No, I... thank you," Torwen repeated again, and took a bite of the cheese. He continued to chew in moody silence, and Nicholas continued to steal glances at the young man, thinking of him and his forbidden love with sympathy. _If I dared, I would have warned him, but he would probably scorn my advice._ Even so, he realized his thoughts are becoming more and more involved with this land, the people around him, the mission ahead of them.

He looked at Thadorn, the leader of the Tionae, with his long silences and unfathomable expression upon a grave face, and was struck by a realization that this formidable man is younger than him.

"Will we reach the inn on time?" called out the cocky Akira. "I don't fancy sleeping in the open field, Thadorn. I have a feeling we might get frost tonight."

"We'll sleep in the open many a night when we head west," said Thadorn, "and it will be far colder than it is now. Another reason why you had better stay behind, where you can sleep in a soft featherbed."

"With my pretty little wife, aye," laughed Akira. "But a man who wishes to serve the realm is unafraid of necessary difficulties, my Commander. I will not object to sleeping under the open sky when there is no other option. Now, though, when there's a good inn with soft beds and hot food ahead of us, it would seem a terrible shame."

Thadorn said nothing, but Nicholas was almost certain he could hear him grind his teeth. One of the soldiers who came with them from Aldon-Sur began packing their things, and a few other men took his cue. Before long, they moved on.

At the hour when the walls of Rhasket-Tharsanae loomed ahead of them, Nicholas found himself riding side by side with the Tionae leader. This was not something that happened often; Thadorn was a man who liked his solitude.

"It will be good to come back," Nicholas ventured, "if only for a little while."

The look Thadorn gave him was so odd he wished he had not spoken. Then he sighed.

"This is my home," he finally said, "the home I thought never to leave. I could have spent my whole life looking at those rolling waves, at that familiar coastline, and I would have never gotten bored. But now..." he trailed off, shaking his head. "My children, it will be sweet to see them. And Rogell – we have always been together before this mess, and then I have been pulled away, and now am come to tell him I will burden him further by placing the entire responsibility of the Sea Guard upon his shoulders. He will be understanding, I know, but I wish I could – " he trailed off abruptly. "Well, there is no use talking of it," he said in a brisk voice. "I do not even know why I bother to tell you this. Perhaps because you know Rogell, if only a little. You must know what kind of a man he is."

"A good man," Nicholas ventured cautiously. His somber companion nodded and spurred his horse onward, desiring to regain his solitude for a little while longer.

It was strange, but after his spell at Aldon-Sur, the return to Rhasket felt a little like a homecoming to Nicholas. When they rode up to Thadorn's house, and he saw Rogell on the front steps, his arm draped around Lya's shoulders, and the children running and jumping about in the garden, his heart gave a momentary leap as though this was his own family he was returning to. The sensation was short-lived, though, and when they approached and dismounted, it was with a pang of jealousy that he watched how Thadorn's children bounded towards him in the ecstasy of reunion. Little Tari clung to his legs while the great bear of a man lifted up Korian in one arm, Datrine in the other. After kissing his two eldest, he put them down on the ground and scooped up Tari, his littlest daughter, and buried his face in his soft hair. Finally, the last of all, Jorrel came forward as well, to have his hair ruffled and to be tossed in the air, an equal to those he considered his brother and sisters.

Rogell stood there, fingers tucked into his leather belt, smiling. Lya watched with a tender, almost vulnerable expression, smoothing her apron unnecessarily.

"I trust all is well?" Thadorn finally asked them. Meanwhile Korian, agile as a monkey, climbed up his father's back and straddled his mighty shoulders.

"Of course all is well," Lya assured him, lightly touching Datrine's red hair. "The children have been good as gold, everything in the house is ready for your return, and my only concern is that my own garden might be a little overgrown by now," she said with a faintly apologetic smile.

"I am sorry I had to ask you – " Thadorn began, looking shamefaced, but she silenced him.

"Another word and I will be wroth with you. And you, Nicholas," Lya was now looking at him, "have you found any answers?"

He shook his head. "So far, only more questions," he said.

"Well, I am sure you have much to tell, but it can all wait until we have supper," said Lya. "Come. There is roast duck with crunchy green beans."

"Makes me glad I don't have to go on duty until later," Rogell put in, and they all went inside.

"When do you have to go?" asked Thadorn as they all sat down to the table, the children squirming happily in their seats, delighted to be allowed to stay up and eat with the adults.

"In an hour and a half or so," said Rogell.

"I will go with you, then."

"There is no need to," Rogell told him. "You are just come. You need your rest."

"I need to see the shores of home," insisted Thadorn, "the cliffs, the pines, the boats on the water. And we can talk."

"Very well, then," said Rogell, exchanging a look of understanding with his friend.

"How is Kelena?" asked Lya, who was ladling thick onion-and-fish soup into everyone's bowls. Nicholas did not have to be asked twice to pick up his spoon. He had missed Lya's cooking. "And little Emm? I do wish I could see him again, he is a lovely boy."

"Kelena and Emmet are both in good health," Thadorn said, and by the evasiveness of his reply Nicholas guessed that he, too, might hold a suspicion or two regarding his good-sister.

"How are things here?" asked Thadorn as the roast duck was being served. "Have there been any tidings from the west? From Fort Sand?"

"Now that you ask," said Rogell, laying his carving knife aside, "there has been something – someone – an odd man," he concluded almost apologetically.

"An odd man?" repeated Thadorn.

"It was strange business, but I am sure it meant nothing," Lya hastened to add, laying a steaming slice of roast duck and a heap of green beans on his plate.

"Tell me what happened," said Thadorn, ignoring the food.

"Well," said Rogell, "it happened not long after you have gone to Aldon-Sur. A man came one day through the city gates. He was gaunt and thin, dressed in filthy rags, his hair loose and tangled about his sallow face, his bare feet bloody and blistered. No one knew his name, or where he came from, and it seemed he was beyond telling this. He kept repeating just one thing. _The Shadow,_ he was saying. _The Shadow is going to wrap itself around the borders of Tilir and never lift again. Never again._ Then he collapsed right at the plaza, and when people rushed to aid him, to pull him up to his feet and pour water down his throat, all he could do was repeat those two words, _never again._ He kept on repeating them... until he died."

"What did he die of?" asked Thadorn, frowning.

"Exhaustion, said the healer who tended to him in his last moments. He had run a long way, without shoes, without proper clothing, without food or water. His skin was all shrivelled up like a prune, but those were not the wrinkles of old age. And his hair was part white and brittle, in patches, as if it lost color and vigor all at once."

"I do not like this," declared Thadorn, "not one bit."

"Your food is getting cold," Lya said plaintively, pushing his plate towards him. Thadorn ignored it once again, even though the aroma of the roast duck was tantalizing.

"Neither did I," nodded Rogell. "But then, what could be done?"

"What was done with the body?"

"We burned it, just in case he was carrying disease, although to me he did not look sick. Just... tired and frightened beyond belief. Death must have come as a relief to him, poor wretch."

"Death will come as a relief to many, before all is said and done," Thadorn said bluntly. "Did you search the body before burning it? Did he carry a letter, a message, a seal, a piece of jewelry, anything that could give a clue as to who he was, or where he came from?"

"He had nothing upon him but that roughspun shift, and I looked it over. It had no hidden pockets sewn onto it, and it was crudely made, old and stinky. The sort of garb that might be appointed to a... prisoner," Rogell finished uncertainly.

"You think that is who he was? A prisoner? But whose? He spoke of the Shadow... he must have come from the west," Thadorn rubbed his temples, trying to concentrate despite the raucous noise the children have been making for the past few minutes. Lya took the cue and began guiding the little ones towards the stairs. "Come along now, Jo, Kor, Datrine. It is past time you were all in bed," she picked up little Tari and carried her upstairs, and the men were left alone at the table with the greasy remains of the duck and a mound of beans in their congealed sauce.

"He was obviously frightened. Of what? He came all this way trying to give a warning. Against what? Did anyone wonder?"

"To be sure," said Rogell, "but we could do little more than wonder. Some of the Kotsar declared Rohir must be told, but he took one look at the body, wrinkled his nose and said he cannot be bothered, old and tired man as he is," Rogell smiled sarcastically. "You know your good-father. He is fond of complaining, but like as not he will outlive us all. Your good-brother Kohir was more impressed. He had gone pale as death, but said nothing. Shortly after that, he went south."

"Kohir went _south_?" repeated Thadorn. "What for?"

"You know there is always need of people to guard the southern border against the savages, as the Malvians won't pull their weight in this. So Kohir went. He has been planning this for some time, I gathered. I figure he had grown a little bored hanging around his father's halls. He is five-and-twenty, after all, and restless to prove himself."

"That is so," conceded Thadorn, brooding. He speared a piece of duck with his dagger, brought it to his mouth, and chewed absent-mindedly. Then he tasted some of the beans, after which he resolutely pushed his plate aside.

"It is all no good," he said resolutely, getting up. "I cannot eat, I cannot rest. I keep on thinking that – that His Grace the king is wise. Prodigiously so, way beyond his years."

"What do you mean?" Rogell sounded confused as he got up as well. Nicholas, who was ignored by them both throughout this exchange, did not wonder to see the two friends begin to walk towards the door side by side, without sparing him as much as a look. He saw Thadorn put an arm around Rogell's shoulders.

"Walk with me," the Tionae leader said, "and I will tell you all."

Chapter 11

The Shadow was no stranger to Rogell Tionae, or so he thought. He had, after all, lived in a shadow his entire life.

Judging from plain fact, it was not meant to be so. He was an only son of a distinguished man, and therefore, while he knew he would never have clan headship, achievements were still expected of him... but he also had a reasonable mind, and he knew he was not carved of the same stone as the leaders which stirred his imagination as a boy. He resigned himself to the fact that he would always be eclipsed by his cousin Thadorn – Thadorn, who probably stood taller than any man in Tilir, Thadorn, who could bend iron with his bare hands, Thadorn, whose few curt words always fell on eager ears, for his voice, while not loud, was powerful and commanding; Thadorn, whose bravery was unmatched and who slipped effortlessly into the shoes of a clan leader after his father's death.

He truly loved Thadorn like a brother, with all his heart, and stifled the feelings of envy and petty jealousy, deeming them unworthy of a man and a warrior. Even Lya - though she was all he wanted, he was resigned to smile and offer his congratulations once Thadorn took her hand in marriage, but it so happened that Thadorn unexpectedly fell for Jadine Kotsar, and Lya... he saw his chance, and was not too proud to seize it, even though he knew the truth of what she felt for his friend – and so, it seemed to him, did everyone else.

But even though Lya was his wife now, jealousy was never far. It preyed upon him, ever lurking in a shadowy corner of his mind, where he had resolutely pushed it. And the malicious whispers about his son actually being a child of Thadorn's loins seemed as evil to him as poison poured into a cup.

_Lies, disgusting lies, that is what those whispers are,_ he told himself firmly. _Only the Kotsar are capable of spreading such ridiculous slander. Thadorn should never have connected himself with them. And it doesn't even make any sense. So what if there is resemblance to Thadorn in Jorrel's face? We are all of the same clan, Thadorn, Lya and I. We are related not through one bloodline, but probably a dozen times over. And Jo has my hair, and Lya's, black like raven, like jet, like midnight shadow._

Still, he waited anxiously for the birth of other children, such who would look undisputably like him, and who would quell the ugly rumours once and for all... but years passed, and Jorrel was the only son the Great Spirit chose to grant him – a son he dearly loved... but he was forced to admit that the boy, indeed, looked very much like Thadorn, though within the boundaries of a clan it was nothing extraordinary. _Certainly not enough to justify the waggling of evil tongues. Besides, even if Thadorn and I weren't like brothers, he is too honorable to... to... no, I won't think of it. I will not._

After that fickle wife of Thadorn left him the Spirit knows for what purpose, his friend could only be pitied, left as if a widower with three small children. Therefore Lya's anger at Jadine and her concern for the well-being of Thadorn and his children were entirely understandable, and yet sometimes Rogell, to his own shame, found himself resenting Lya's attentions to his cousin and the poor motherless little ones. Lya became all but a mother to Korian, Datrine and Tari, and sometimes, a twisted shadow gripped his mind and made him think that she is trying to fill the void Jadine left – not only as those children's mother, but also as Thadorn's wife. And just the other day, Lya drew him aside and explained that it would be better if they all continued living in Thadorn's house a while longer. _I miss our home too, Rogell, but the children have grown to rely on me, and Thadorn has plenty of room._

And now, when Rogell stood on the shore, listening to the peaceful rumble of waves and to his cousin and leader's words, he finally felt that he had had enough.

"So what is it that you are saying?" he prompted Thadorn to speak.

"His Grace has entrusted me with this mission, which he deems important," his friend said.

"An important mission," repeated Rogell, nodding. "To be sure. I must go with you this time," he went on.

"No," Thadorn said. "I will sorely miss you, but you are needed here, Rogell. Someone must hold the Sea Guard."

"Someone else can hold the Sea Guard."

"For who knows how long? And which man? I am sad to say this, but the Tionae don't have too many prepared warriors. There are greybeard, green boys... to be sure, it doesn't have to be a Tionae, although the Sea Guard has traditionally been our responsibility."

"You could offer the task to Akira Kotsar," suggested Rogell half-heartedly. "I am not fond of him, as you very well know, but he seems to be capable."

Thadorn snorted. "If I thought offering him command of the Sea Guard might hold him back, I would have done it myself. Alas, he is determined to join me, and it is not in my power to reject him. I'm afraid I will have to attend the spectacle of his wedding, too, although I would much rather not... in any case, Rogell, you will have to stay here."

That, too, was familiar to Rogell. It has been this way since they were boys, when they were playing at war, sieges and fortresses, battles of mighty heroes... _I will go forward, Rog, and you stay back and hold the fort. Don't let anyone come through the gates, I'm counting on you._ But he was a man grown now, and tired of this role that has been foisted on him for so long. He shrugged off the condescending hand Thadorn had placed on his shoulder.

"No," he blurted out.

His cousin and leader looked confused. "I do not understand," he said.

Rogell took a deep breath. "If I am to remain behind," he said, "I wish to remain as the Commander of the Sea Guard. Not second-in-command, not Commander-in-place, but _Commander_."

"What?" said Thadorn. He was wearing his customary frown now.

"If you need me to command, I want you to yield the command to me, in the face of all the Sea Guard man," said Rogell all in one breath, before his courage could fail him. "I will give it back to you when you return, if that is your wish, but while you are absent, I want my authority to be undisputed."

Thadorn was shaking his head, thoroughly bewildered. "I do not recognize you, Rogell," he finally said. "Since when do you care about titles?"

"Not everyone can care about titles and posts and honors as little as you do, of course," said Rogell with the barest hint of sarcasm, "especially as they all seem to fall into your lap without the least effort."

Finally, the beginning of understanding seemed to creep into Thadorn's mind. "All I do, I do for duty," he said after a moment of contemplation. "Or do you not know I would have traded places with you in an instant, if only I could? To have a life such as yours, peaceful and untroubled, to build a solid home with an excellent wife like..."

"Lya," finished Rogell. "You could have had her. She favoured you. Do you think I could ever forget that?"

His voice must have been very bitter, because Thadorn looked up in alarm. "I would never have..." he trailed off. "You loved her for a long time, and I knew that, and to me she was out of bounds, so I never would have thought... and besides, I was foolish enough to..."

For a long and tense moment, both of them were silent. Then Rogell bowed his head.

"Forgive me," he said.

"There is nothing to forgive," Thadorn said firmly. "Gather the men, and I will yield the command of the Sea Guard to you."

"No, no," Rogell hastened to say. "I should never have asked for it, it was pure vanity speaking out of my throat..."

"I will do it," insisted Thadorn. "You deserve it more than any other could, and it is only appropriate. You have held the command for a while now, as well as I did or better. I will not ask for the title back, either. I have quite enough on my plate with clan leadership," he tried to smile, but his smile came out wan. "Surely you know you are the lucky one, Rogell."

Rogell nodded, ashamed of himself, and they grasped hands.

"There is something else you must know," Rogell said when they let go.

"What is it?"

"Your good-brother, Kohir Kotsar. I did not wish to say this in front of Lya, especially since I'm not supposed to know anything, strictly speaking... but Kohir never reached South Watch."

"He didn't?" Thadorn looked troubled.

"His last message was sent from Tallbridge Town, and ever since, his traces vanished. No one knows where he went... although I do have my suspicions."

"You think he went west," said Thadorn. It was not a question. Rogell nodded.

"To look for... for his sister," he said. He did not dare mention Jadine's name.

"Do you think he is with her?" asked Thadorn.

"It is likely," Rogell said cautiously. "They have always been fond of each other. They might have made common cause."

"Well, if Kohir is with Jadine, I might see him again soon," said Thadorn in a crisp, decisive voice.

"Do you mean to say..."

Thadorn's hand gripped his own again, and this time, his smile was less strained. "Call the men, Rogell," he said. "It is time they met their new Commander."

Thadorn didn't think he added much merriment among the wedding guests, standing aside, somber and solemn and silent as he was, his arms crossed upon his chest, his eyebrows locked in a frown. He doubted Akira had any particular desire to see him. _It is all part of his boastfulness, to have anyone with a hint of prominence in this town attend his wedding._ He would have thought of some pretext to excuse himself from being there, but Akira had seen him not two days past, and explicitly and repeatedly pressed him to come. _We are going to be brothers in arms, Thadorn, and our clans share some of the same blood. It is only fitting that you should partake in our happiness._ Thadorn merely nodded and strained out a few polite words, omitting to mention that as far as he can see, at least one person, and perhaps two, are going to be rendered miserable by this wedding.

This conviction only strengthened when he saw the bride come out. Jada Kotsar was a pretty girl, with her thick brown hair and doe's eyes and slim waist, but her face was pale and her lower lip trembled from time to time, and in her wedding finery she looked even younger than she really was. _She looks hardly fit to be married – certainly not to this man._ This was no business of his, of course. Jada's parents had every right to dispose of her hand the way they saw fit, and they chose to give her to Akira and keep her in the clan, rather than have her marry into the Kamtesir, whom they held in contempt. He could not help but pity the sad and trembling girl... although his own grief and burden would not let her linger in his thoughts for long. Still, this tearing apart of a pure and innocent love struck him as nothing short of a sacrilege.

The ceremony was pompously drawn out, and Thadorn shifted his weight from one foot to another several times while memories of his own wedding day flooded him, made bitter by what came later. How beautiful Jadine had been, how radiantly the happiness shone within his heart... and why, oh why, you fool, did you not heed her words of earlier? _You are sweet, Thadorn, but I am not made for what you offer me. It will be better for us both._ Why hadn't he believed her? He would have been spared much pain... but even now, when his very being filled with sorrow and anger whenever he thought of her, he could not bring himself to say he would rather have never known Jadine.

"I take this woman," proclaimed Akira in a tone of bold confidence. "I take this man," replied the bride's small voice. When time came to congratulate the new couple, Thadorn lingered behind until the crowd of well-wishers dispersed, and only then made his way towards them and briefly grasped Akira's fingers.

"I wish you long years of joy," he said stiffly. "Your bride shone with unsurpassed loveliness today," he added with a polite bow in Jada's direction.

"You are kind," said the girl in a strained voice. Truth be told, she looked rather forlorn as she stood there, nervously fingering the heavy pearl-fringed belt that was no doubt one of her bride's gifts. Thadorn nodded once more and made to retreat when Akira's voice caught him unawares.

"It is said that you gave up command of the Sea Guard," he said, and after a brief pause went on, "to your cousin Rogell."

The subtle but unmistakable tone of disdain in Akira's voice made Thadorn feel a prickle of anger. "There is no one more capable than Rogell," he said coldly.

"Why, you are," Akira corrected him. "That is why I was surprised to hear you gave up the command."

"One can only do so much," Thadorn said, resentful at having to explain himself. "As of now, Rogell is suited for the task far better than me." The truth was, he felt a burden roll off his shoulders once he surrendered the command of the Sea Guard to Rogell. He had his responsibilities as head of clan, and he had to prepare for the march west... and there were the children, who sensed their father would soon be gone again, and consequently clung to him whenever he was home – and he, with his heart full of guilt and sorrow and worry, could hardly refuse him. He drew comfort from them, too – from Korian's antics, Datrine's funny speeches, Tari's plump little arms around his neck. He ached for them. Lya was as good and kind to them as anyone could be, but still she was not their mother, and he... he was failing as a father, or so he felt whenever he saw Rogell's light-spirited play with the boys. _Not made for what you offer me,_ the words rang bitterly in his mind once more.

"When are we going to march?" Akira asked.

"As soon as I assemble the men from Rhasket who will be going with us. I need to peruse lists, make a few calculations, think how many men must be left behind to keep the harbor prudently guarded... but do not trouble yourself with that right now, Akira. This burden is not fit for a man on the day of his wedding."

"I am not a man to forget my duty," Akira boasted, "even when the fairest of women had just become my wife," he took the hand of his bride, who only smiled nervously. Thadorn seized the moment of silence to hastily take his leave and go, before he is detained by more questions.

Akira's inquiry was, in fact, a perfectly fair one. He needed to hurry, he knew; valuable time was wasted every day he remained at Rhasket, and the tale of the strange man who dropped dead at the plaza disturbed him more than he was willing to let on. They need to march as soon as they can, he made a resolution, and thought with a mixture of gratitude and guilt about Lya's convenient offer to continue living in his home and take care of the children.

When he got home he tended to the sitting-room fire himself, and sat cross-legged on a cushion, gazing moodily into the flames. He hardly noticed when a pot of herb tea, a plate of salty biscuits and a sliced orange appeared by his side.

He looked at the tray, puzzled, then looked up and saw Lya.

"You were very quiet," she told him, "but I still heard your steps."

"Where are the children?" he asked.

"Playing at the back garden," she said. A jumble of gay voices and contagious laughter from that very direction confirmed her words. "I have just been to check on them."

"And Rogell?" he asked, although he could very well predict her answer.

"On duty," said Lya with half a sigh and half a smile. "He is hardly ever home these days."

That much was true. Once he had been appointed Commander of the Sea Guard, Rogell plunged into his commitment with boundless enthusiasm, as if trying to dispel the bitter mutterings of those who claimed he only got the position thanks to being Thadorn's cousin and friend.

"And our visitor from The-World-Beyond?" he inquired. "Where is Nicholas?"

"He went on a stroll to acquaint himself better with the surroundings," she said. "I think you can find him at the beach if you care to look."

"There is no need," Thadorn grunted, taking a sip of tea.

"You look displeased," remarked Lya.

"I have just been to Akira Kotsar's wedding," he explained.

"Oh," a crease appeared between her eyebrows as she, too, lowered herself onto one of the sitting cushions by his side. "Yes. I feel sorry for poor Ned."

"What about the girl?"

"Her." Lya pursed her lips. "Well, mayhaps it is unkind of me to say so, but I think this Jada is a fickle little creature. A girl may be pressured, implored, intimidated even, but no one, truly, can make her marry if she set her heart and mind and will all against it. Women have more power to choose than they usually let on."

That last remark might have been innocent, but somehow, to Thadorn's ear it didn't sound so. Like much else, it was connected in his mind with Jadine. _Power to choose,_ he mused. _She had it, to be sure. And she chose to leave us. To leave me._

"I will be leaving soon," he said.

"I know," Lya nodded, sounding resigned and a little melancholical. "Rogell told me it would not be long."

"I..." Thadorn took another sip of tea, just so she wouldn't feel she prepared it in vain, and set his cup aside. "I should like to thank you, Lya. You and Rogell both. If it weren't for Rogell, I would have been wrecked with guilt about surrendering the command of the Sea Guard, and you... I don't know what I would have done if you weren't there to look after the children."

"To Jo they are like brother and sisters," said Lya, "which makes me feel as if they were my own. You need not thank me, Thadorn."

"I wish more than to thank you," he said slowly, looking into her eyes. "I... I ask you, Lya, to take care of them, should it turn out that I am going to a place of no return."

Her eyes grew wide with fear, and she shook her head in protest. "No," she said, "you must not speak this way, Thadorn. You will be back, I know you will."

"It is a hope that we share," he told her with a faint smile, "but the fact is, I am going to look for the Shadowbinders, and no one knows what exactly it will entail. I might find myself face to face with... with an enemy I am no match for."

"You are not going alone," Lya said firmly. "You are going to have men with you. The best men."

"Good men," he corrected her. "The very best are staying behind, according to King Alvadon's prudent strategy."

"That is not fair," she said hotly, "it sounds as if you are being sent forward because you are... dispensable."

"I am," he confirmed, and when she opened her mouth to protest, he raised his hand. "Please, Lya, there is no need to be offended on my behalf. His Grace knows I am a loyal man, and no craven. And yet I am not one of the well-known battle commanders he relies upon for matters of his own safety, and for the holding of his borders. He didn't want to send someone very important to this shady campaign, and as far as I understand, he did not wish to utter the word _sorcery_ in front of his Councilors."

"His Grace wouldn't have given you the decree to gather so many men if he did not trust you," Lya said. "I know you are likely going to a dangerous place, but – "

Thadorn heaved a sigh. "If there is danger, it grows graver with every day we linger," he said. "So it appears to me we had better set out as soon as we can."

"You just be careful, Thadorn," Lya told him. "Don't do anything reckless."

"I have no right to. I am responsible for the lives of the men who are going to come with me. As for myself, I only wish to do my..."

"... duty," she completed the phrase, smiling a little sadly. "I know." And it seemed to him her proud back was not as straight as usual as she collected the dishes and swept off towards the kitchen.

He did not hear the front door open because he was immersed so deeply in his brooding. Well, to be truthful, it seemed he did little more than brood lately. He walked away from company, from gatherings around the table, even from his children's laughter, because much as he loved them, he felt awkward around them. He was never a light-hearted man, never easy to laugh and love like Rogell, but now he knew he was becoming sterner, gloomier, more somber by the day. For hours he sat hunched over maps, marking his planned march with the tip of a quill dipped in ink. Sometimes he got up and began to pace the room impatiently, counting days and hours until his departure for Fort Sand, then west. _At least I will be useful,_ he told himself. _Every minute of the day will be filled with things that require my attendance. It will be better that way._ No conscious part of him wished to acknowledge the faint lingering hope of seeing Jadine, making her repent, and bringing her back.

And so, he did not hear the front door open.

He did hear steps that were not Rogell's or Lya's, a knock, and the voice of the man from a world that was, no matter what anyone else said, of little interest to him.

"May I enter?" Nicholas asked.

Thadorn gave a resentful nod, because he could not think of a valid reason to refuse. His curiousity was vaguely stirred, as he knew the foreigner did not come for the pleasure of his company... few men would come to him for the pleasure of his company these days, he had to confess.

Nicholas came in and placed himself awkwardly on the sitting cushions, his long legs making an uncomfortable-looking angle. He looked a little wary, and somewhat troubled.

"Is anything the matter?" asked Thadorn.

The man cleared his throat. "Those you call the Shadowbinders," he began without preamble. "They are supposed to practice some sort of... ah... dark sorcery?"

Thadorn nodded. "Do not come to me for knowledge of them, though," he said. "For I know as little as anyone, and less than many. All I know is that they are somewhere in the west, and that I am bound to find them." _And my wife. Yes, my wife. Jadine._

"I must say," Nicholas went on, sounding uncomfortable, "that during all my life I dealt with fact, not myth; with history, not mystery, although now that I look back on it, the two are interlinked so tightly that sometimes there were things I had to ignore, elsewise I would open a Pandora's box of..." he stopped himself. "Well, I will not waste your time. I just thought of something as I was walking, and I thought it would do no harm if I shared it with one of you – you or Rogell – and as Rogell isn't here, I thought you might be at leisure..."

"I am," Thadorn encouraged him, if somewhat drily. "What is it that you thought of?"

"In the world I come from, there is a place called Avignon. It is an old city, and I once traveled there to peruse some ancient scrolls... they spoke of a legend that made no sense to me then, perhaps not now either, but..." he puckered his brow in an effort to recall the exact words. "This was how it was recorded: _And the Shadow descended upon the borders of the town, and all beyond them was lost in darkness, in a sea of black mist... and the dark did not lift until the pure voice of consecrated prayer reached the skies...'_

Thadorn raised his head and felt a prickle of fear. "The Shadow?" he repeated.

"It is an odd... an odd coincidence, isn't it?" Nicholas said. "It makes absolutely no sense, I know," he hurried to add. "But I thought it is interesting that what supposedly happened in the thirteenth century in Avignon is what your Shadowbinders are allegedly trying to do now."

"Yes," Thadorn said slowly, "it is interesting."

Dankar hastened his pace. His steps echoed off the rough cobblestones, and his black cloak twirled behind them in the sudden gusts of cold night air that rushed in through the narrow gaps between the dilapidated houses. This was not an area of the city he frequented, and he did not much like walking here in the middle of the night, on foot, the hood of his cloak drawn over his face as if he were a thief. There was not much choice, though. He could hardly prance through the city on his magnificent horse, his gilded armor reflecting the light of the streetlamps, without his footsteps being traced by anyone who cared to look outside the window. Well, no matter. He does not have to go far now – soon he will be at the Upper Esplanade again, he will open the door with his own key, and no one need be any the wiser that he –

His path was blocked by a black figure. It stood at the end of the narrow path solid and unmoving, the hems of its cloak nearly touching the walls of the two adjascent houses.

He whirled around. Another figure, identical to the first one, stood behind him, blocking his way back, and beneath the folds of its dark cloak, Dankar saw the unmistakable glint of steel.

He had no choice. In one fluid motion, he bared his own long, flexible sword and drew back the hood of his cloak. _Let these bastards see my face. Let them see I am not afraid._

"Dankar Gindur?" a voice growled from beneath the hood of the figure in front.

"You know who I am," he snapped, gripping the hilt of his sword tighter. "Now show yourselves, you cowards, before I spill your guts out."

"I wouldn't be so quick," drawled a younger, smoother voice from beneath the other hood. "There are two of us, and we did not come unarmed."

"You did not _come_ ," sneered Dankar. "You slithered like snakes."

"We aren't here to banter," rasped the first voice. "Only to ask questions."

"You will get no answers."

"We will see about that," drawled the second voice.

"Who are you?" demanded Dankar.

"It matters not," said the first voice. "Our faces may be many, but we are all one and the same... the true believer, the true servant, the true bearer of the Spirit."

_It is as I suspected,_ thought Dankar. _They are much closer than most want to believe. They are right here... but I might not live long enough to tell this to anyone else._

"Where do you come from?" drawled the second voice again.

Dankar let out a mirthless chuckle. "I thought you might be better informed."

"I did not say I do not know."

"Why bother to ask, then?"

"To see whether you know what is good for you."

"Oh, but I do," Dankar assured him, then lunged. Steel pierced flesh, steel clanged on steel, a body slumped against a lopsided wall, and Dankar ran like he had never run in his life, one hand gripping a bloodied sword, another, though he was hardly aware of it, pressing against his ribs, where a stain was spreading, dark and wet and red.

On the doorstep of his own home, he collapsed. He forgot he carried a key. With his last remaining strength, he hammered against the door with the hilt of his sword, as the fingers of his other hand were growing wet and hot and sticky with his own blood.

The door was flung open, and the frightened face of one of the servants loomed above him.

"M-master," the lad stammered, "master, what – "

Dankar tried to say something, but his tongue failed him. His hand gripped that of the boy, smearing him with blood, and then all was black.

Next thing he knew, he was lying in his bed, feeling more weakness than pain. He sensed the side of his body was bandaged, and a basin full of sickeningly red water with a pile of used cloths still stood on the sideboard. He was both clammy and feverish... and at the same time cold, yes, very cold, despite the crackling fire and the thick blankets that covered him.

Kelena was sitting on a stool by his bed, wearing her nightclothes. He could not read her expression, but she was looking directly at him.

"What happened?" she asked.

"I might as well ask that," he replied evasively, trying to feel his side, which was stiff with bandages.

"Your wound, you mean? You were fortunate... you lost quite a lot of blood, but no long-lasting damage was inflicted."

He was silent.

"Who did this?" persisted Kelena.

"Someone who will never lift a sword again," he said.

She frowned. "You never stop bandying words, do you?"

"Why should I?" he gave a weak, one-shouldered shrug. "It is fun."

"It is near dawn," Kelena spoke across him. "Where have you been?"

"Ah," he sighed and looked away in mock shame. "I was afraid of that question. I will confess. One of my old friends held a party – rivers of wine, illusion-inducing herbs, dancers, girls, boys... something for any taste, but nothing suitable for noble gently bred wives... I hoped, however, that you would leniently overlook my – "

"Dan," she got up, looking down at him, blocking the warmth of the fireplace as she stood with her back to it so that her face was all in the shadow.

"What did you say?" he squinted, trying to make out her expression despite the shifting light and darkness. "Did you just call me _Dan_?"

She sighed. "Someone had tried to kill you."

He smiled. "Is that regret I hear in your voice?" _And what is it you regret, my lovely wife? The attempt to get me out of the way, or the fact that it did not succeed... this time?_

"Who did this?" repeated Kelena.

He feigned surprise. "Why, I thought we could be honest with each other now. You sold a fraction of your collection of jewels and sent men to get rid of me so that you could be free, but once you saw me wounded you took pity on me and didn't finish me off."

She sat down again, and the crease between her eyebrows deepened. "This is no time for japing."

"And there you are mistaken, my beauty. There is no time like this for a good jape."

She reached out, quick as a cat, and placed a firm hand over his wound.

"I am going to hurt you if you don't speak now," she threatened.

His eyes widened in mock amazement. "You wouldn't," he chided her, but merciless pressure shot a stab of pain through the whole of his side, and he gasped. "Stop it. Touch me all you want, but not there."

"Who?" she did not relent.

He caught her wrist and pulled her closer. "What right do you have to question me?"

"I am your wife. Did you forget that?"

"No, but as I recall, you tried to make me forget," he shot back, and let go of her hand. "I was at court tonight," he deflated. "I was summoned to a secret Council session."

"Ah," she nodded, "I thought so. This is not the first time, is it?"

"Only the first time for me to get a blade between my ribs on my way home," he said, "not to mention the first time I meet Shadowbinders in Aldon-Sur."

Kelena's hands flew to her mouth. "Shadowbinders?" she repeated in a hushed voice.

"Or their servants. They cannot all be sorcerers. Some must do the dirty work of sneaking and spying and spreading terror."

She was silent for a moment, looking frightened. "What did they want from you?"

Once more, he shrugged. "To find out the royal strategy for the Western campaign. To recruit me to their cause. To disembowel me and cook me in a stew pot. I did not linger long enough to find out."

She bit her lip. "They might come after you again. And not just you... there is little Emmet too, and..."

"And you," he said. "I would send the two of you away from Aldon-Sur if I had thought you could be safer elsewhere... but I don't. I think it will be better if you stay here and never leave the house without guard."

She was looking, if anything, even warier now. "There is no need – "

He would have laughed out loud if his side wasn't hurting so much. "Not because I mean to have you followed. No... I know you haven't been seeing your mysterious lover lately. He must have left the city together with your good-brother."

Try as she might to make her face impenetrable, she was unsuccessful. He had never seen fear etched more clearly upon someone's features. _I have hit the mark. The bastard is among the men who had gone with Thadorn._

"Fear not," he said in the tone of ironic reassurance. "Even if I were in a fit state to fight right now, I wouldn't chase the son of a bitch across the country. If he has the sense to never come near the capital again, and if he gives up any hope of seeing you, his worthless hide should be safe."

"You spoke differently before," Kelena said breathlessly. "You promised to make him sorry he had ever been born."

With effort, he propped himself up on his elbow. "You admit he exists, then?" he asked in a tone of deep satisfaction. She flushed crimson, bit her lip, and looked down. Dankar shook his head. "He makes no difference," he told his wife. _I'm still going to find the whoreson and give him a taste of what it means to mess with the clan of Gindur, though._ "If you promise to put him out of your mind from now onward, I vow to do the same." _After I kill him._

Kelena stood up in a movement of cool grace. "Do I have your leave to go, my noble husband?"

"No," he blurted out, "stay."

She looked flustered. "You need your rest."

"So do you. This bed is big enough for three. Come and rest with me."

"I sleep easier when I am next to little Emm," she said icily. "He might have need of me."

"That boy never wakes at night, and the house is full of servants and nurses. Damn it," he exploded, frustrated at his own weakness, which suited him so little. "I am your husband, and I command you to come to bed and lie next to me. There is no need to look so fearful," he tried to flash a smile at her, but pain shot out from his wound once more, and he winced. "I am in no condition to consummate my... spousal rights at the moment."

She obeyed. Stiffly, she sat down on the bed and carefully slipped under the blankets, with her back to him. Weak as Dankar felt, he still had strength enough to shift closer to her and wrap an arm around her waist, placing himself awkwardly on his good side. She did not move, but the stillness of her posture spoke of a grudge that ran deep. _And she is right, damn it all. In her place I would hate me. But she is not me. She has a tender heart. I will be able to make her forgive me. I must._

Her hair tickled his nostrils, and he inhaled her scent. The smell of woman, the smell which held an attraction that for so many years was alien to him... _Tryg, your disdain was unjustified. There is a reason why the Great Spirit created men and women after all._ But then he abruptly cut off this train of thoughts. He did not much like to think about matters of faith.

"Say it again," he murmured, already sleepy.

"I beg your pardon?" Dawn was already creeping through the window, but it mattered not. To him, night was just beginning... and this night, and every night that followed, he would spend with this woman in his arms. _She might not want me now, but she will._

"My name," he told her, "say it again."

He expected her to turn and look at him in surprise, but she remained facing away from him, her golden hair piled softly against his cheek.

"I do not understand."

He closed his eyes, worried, in pain, in need of rest, afraid to sleep, afraid to dream. "There is no hidden meaning," he said sincerely. "You said my name tonight, remember? I liked that. You said _Dan_."

"Dan," she repeated, grudgingly perhaps, but he was satisfied. He smiled into his pillow, winced with pain again, and felt it fade away as blissful sleep took over.

... The road south and west, and south and west and south and west was beginning to tire him. And this inn, in one of the lake villages just before South Watch, was cramped and lopsided and drafty, the beds were full of fleas, and as for the food... there was lake fish, obviously, and bread and milk and cheese that smelled like fish, and chunks some unrecognizable meat that he didn't dare to taste. It was charred almost black, dripping brown juice, and it smelled... yes, like fish. The only thing that didn't reek of fish here, it seemed, was the ale. It smelled like piss.

Still, Kohir Kotsar didn't dare to complain. He knew this inn would be his last respite on the way. Upon the morrow, he would turn straight west – giving South Watch a wide berth, naturally, since he could not allow himself to be glimpsed by any of their outriders – and ride through the arid autumn of the south, all wind and only a few specks of rain, ride south and west again... west and west and west, to the Emerald Mountains, where he hoped to meet his sister.

Here, in this dunghill of a village, was his last chance to send a message to his family, but he did not bother. By now, he knew, his disappearance has been discovered, and he could just imagine his father, Rohir, putting on the face of polite concern. _My son must have suffered a misfortune,_ he almost heard the calm, well-bred voice. _I will pay handsomely for any knowledge of him, and am willing to ransom him if need be._ But in truth, there were seldom any secrets among the Kotsar. They all must know, or at least suspect, that he had gone to find Jadine.

_They had given her up as a lost cause,_ he mused bitterly. Not because she betrayed a sworn alliance, but because she had chosen a side that cannot win. Sorcery used to be powerful once, when the essence of the Great Spirit was not yet so scattered. Now... now it is an impressive play for those with a delusion of grandeur. A few bangs, a few sparks, some vague predictions... he could comprehend Jadine's fascination, but for the life of him, he did not understand how his clever, calculating sister could get involved in something so shifty.

His mother and father blamed it all on Thadorn Tionae. _He did not keep her in check,_ they told each other. _He took so little interest in her he hardly noticed what is happening under his nose,_ Hinassi would add with pursed lips. But Kohir, in all fairness, believed they weren't doing justice to the poor wretch. Of course, the steady, hard-working, predictable, reliable, boring Thadorn was no fit match for his sister, who was destined for greater things. Jadine was never meant to settle down in the town where she was born, marry a man she had known since childhood, and be contend with bearing a brood of children. She was meant to go far away and high up; she was meant to shine. This much Kohir understood about his sister.

Despite the Union and the marriages that now happened freely among all clans, a Kotsar would still always be better off with another Kotsar, and they had a cousin, a rich merchant who could take Jadine across the sea and show her foreign lands, Adrinor and Selfinor and Letaria, take her as far as the Eagle Islands... and one day he would bring her home in a shower of gold and trumpets of glory. Jadine could have had anyone she wanted, she only had to choose right. Even that queer type, Dankar Gindur with all the mysterious rumours surrounding him, could be tamed by Jadine, rather than being given poor Kelena for his prey.

Instead, Jadine had married into the Tionae, whelped three children, and left without so much as a goodbye.

Something hit his nostrils. Cheap perfumed oil. Roses and lavender, of the sickeningly sweet type peddlers manage to sell in villages too tiny to have seasonal fairs. And _fish_.

It was the innkeep's daughter. She stood over him, untying the strings of her filthy apron. The common room was almost empty, and embers glowed red in the sooty grate.

"You finished, pretty boy?" she asked, turning her head aside to spit out a piece of green bark on which she liked to chew to freshen her breath.

Kohir gave her a crooked smile. "Boy?" he repeated. He did not think she was older than him, and likely she was younger. But it was true she looked matronly, with her big breasts and wide hips and thick arms. She had a wide freckled face and a mop of hair like tangled straw and, he heard people say, a bastard son about five years old, planted in her belly by a rascal who promised to marry her and never showed his ugly face in the village again.

"You're a boy till you've proven you are a man," she said playfully, twirling a strand of greasy hair around a thick callused finger. Kohir got up from his seat, lithe, fair-haired, graceful, too amused to feel contempt. He pushed his plate toward her. Most of his supper was still there, congealing in a pool of grease. _I don't need to prove anything to creatures like you,_ he wanted to say, but he remained silent, and when she collected the dishes to carry them off to the scullery, he followed her wordlessly and grabbed her around the waist as she was bent over the sink. When she squealed, he clasped a hand over her mouth. His other hand was having its way under her stained roughspun skirt.

It was half dark, and her filthy hair, her chewed nails, her thick neck didn't matter anymore. The cheap perfume was drowned in the smell of sweat, and there were her breasts, buttocks, tighs, and what's between them.

When he was done, he laced himself up, calm and pale as she was flushed and breathless, and gave her another crooked smile.

"If that is the proof you meant," he said, "I first gave it many years ago." And a lovely girl she was, too; soon after that she was sent off and made to marry a very rich man who was old enough to be her grandfather, but a respectable silence on certain matters was kept at all times. The Kotsar were always loyal to those of their own blood.

His little escapade with the innkeep's daughter left Kohir feeling slightly repulsed, but more importantly, he was healthily tired, and this served him well in regard to falling asleep in his flea-ridden bed. In the morning, as he pulled on his clothes and splashed cold water on his face from a grimy washing basin, he resolved to be gone as soon as possible for his long and lonely ride west. He ignored the grumpy looks and pursed lips of the innkeep, who shuffled grudgingly towards him and asked him how he wished to break his fast. "Bread, two hard boiled eggs, and a couple of sausages," Kohir told him. "Be quick about it, I'm in a hurry." _And don't look so resentful, you old fool. If my seed quickens in your daughter's womb, you are likely to have a handsomer grandson than the poxy little brat she brought you last time._

An unscrupulously washed plate was slammed down in front of him and the innkeep shuffled off without saying a word. Perhaps the bad-tempered old bastard expected to be asked for his daughter's hand, mused Kohir with dry irony as he speared a sausage on the blade of his knife and took a bite. _I could stay here, let my sword go to rust, become a fisherman, and father a brood of freckled straw-haired boys. I'm sure my father would love that._ His father and half the female population of Rhasket had been pressuring him to marry for years now, and he had entertained the notion himself, but somehow had never gotten around to it. He did not like to think that was because of his first woman, because he was not fond of waxing sentimental, but he did suffer cruelly as a boy when she was sent away. _And all these years later, I have not found her equal, although perhaps I did not truly bother to look._ He heard she was widowed, though; perhaps, a sudden thought struck him, he could go and see her... he had always known where to find her, after all. But almost immediately he shook his head, annoyed with himself for entertaining such thoughts when he ought to be focused on reaching his sister.

He did not quite know what he would do once he found himself face to face with Jadine, he confessed to himself once he was in the saddle again. She was not the type to allow someone to drag her by the hair back home, or he might as well have joined Thadorn's armed forces which, as he heard, would soon follow him west. Neither did Jadine like to be chided. But perhaps he could convince her to leave it all and just slip quickly and quietly away. _I could help her disappear beyond the sea,_ he told himself, _and when time is right she can return and play the innocent as she knows so well, and convince everyone she never had anything to do with the Shadowbinders._ Yes, Kohir resolved, this is what he is going to do. His father had become too lax, and his mother too vain and proud to move a finger, but he is Jadine's elder brother, and he will not fail her.

Two days after he left the village he dubbed Reeking Fish, he found shelter for the night in a solitary farm nestled on the curve of a little rocky hill surrounded by beehives. It might seem surprising that someone decided to keep bees in an area so apparently barren, but Kohir knew that in the short southern spring flowers burst into bloom in a riot of color, and presumably this was enough for the beehives to survive and even provide their owners with some honey. The honey sure was fine; dark and fragrant, it was served with chunks of black bread fresh out of the oven, and he licked his fingers and gladly paid the farm owner a silver coin, and did not even mind being sent to the barn to sleep. He made himself a cozy bed in the hay and sighed with contentment, because it was soft and warm and nothing in his surroundings stank. There wasn't anything in the way of entertainment, though; the farm was run by a rough-looking old man of few words, his pudgy middle-aged wife, and their three sons, a young man about his age and twin boys who looked to be around sixteen.

When he woke everyone were working at the meager fields, and he did not bother looking for them to take his leave. He left another coin on the rough wooden table, sadled his horse himself, and was off before anyone was any the wiser.

The narrow road had turned into a narrower path, and the path finally disappeared and he was out in the open when he saw the hooded rider.

Chapter 12

"Yes," the chief Commander of Fort Sand told him solemnly, "I gladly give permission for Lieutenant Mattar to go with you. He is a loyal and valiant man, and I am certain he will be a valuable companion."

Thadorn inclined his head and made the proper thanks, although he knew that this authorization had little to do with the old Commander's real will. The kingly decree opened many doors for him; Fort Sand was his for the taking, and he could have left it almost deprived of men and supplies, had he decided to do so. Which he did not, of course. It would have been utterly irresponsible.

"You have been very helpful," he told the fort commander, "and I, in turn, commit to take good care of the soldiers you have entrusted to me, and to take no unneeded risks."

The man nodded solemnly. "For His Grace the king," he made a formal salute.

"For His Grace the king," Thadorn replied gravely.

_The man is sly, though,_ he mused as they rode out of the fort gates, _he gave me boys as green as spring grass, and left more seasoned men to himself. Nor can I blame him. Fort Sand is what stands between the Middle Road and the wilderness of the West. In his place I would likely had done the same._

Thadorn had enough experience to realize that fewer, more disciplined men were better than a more numerous company which would always need to be corrected, put in order, and spurred on. He did not have time for that. He needed to get to the Emerald Mountains, and he needed to get there fast. Therefore, he could not be blamed for the slightly irritable tone his voice took as he turned to Nicholas.

"You know," he told the man from the-world-beyond, "it is not too late to turn back."

"Indeed?" Nicholas cocked his head slightly, as if he found this suggestion mildly interesting. "How so?"

"You are not a soldier. You do not really need to go with us. From here, the road is still short and swift enough to Rhasket... you could stay with Rogell and Lya, watch sunsets over the sea and listen to the waves until we return."

"May I remind you," Nicholas told him drily, "that it was _your_ king who expressed his wish for me to go with you."

"Yes," Thadorn said, a little embarrassed, "I never meant to – to contradict the will of His Grace, of course, I just wondered – "

"Whether I will be any use to you. I know. I have wondered the same," Nicholas offered him one of those thin-lipped dry smiles he sometimes had. "But certainly I will be no use to anyone if I stay beyond the walls of your town, listening to the waves, watching sunsets and sampling Lya's excellent cooking."

"Did anyone mention cooking?" came up the cheerful voice of Akira Kotsar from behind them. "To be sure, this is as good a time as any for lunch. The weather is pleasant enough for this time of year, and see, there's a nice place just at the foot of that hill. We could have a camp fire, cook some sausages and toast a few bits of cheese. Some waybread, figs soaked in wine and – "

Thadorn's mouth tightened. _Speaking of men who are no use. I would have been much better off if this one had agreed to stay behind the walls of Rhasket with the rest of his clan._ Very few of the Kotsar had come with him; even his good-brother Nog had stayed behind. As far as he was concerned, it was all to the good; he had a vague notion he would have an easier time dealing with Jadine without half her clan sniggering behind his back. _This one, though..._ "We are not on a pleasure ride, Akira," he said curtly. "We will lunch in the saddle. There is no time to be wasted."

Akira shrugged. "You will gain yourself saddle sores. You are a big man, and aren't used to riding long distances. By evenfall your cheeks will be all chafed and raw."

"That is none of your concern," Thadorn flared up.

"To be sure. Well, then, I will just pull something out of my saddle bag and have a bite or two – if I have your leave, Commander."

"You have my leave to get lost," Thadorn murmured, but Akira had already fallen behind. He shook his head. "Those Kotsar," he said in a low voice. "Why I ever allowed myself to get involved..."

"The Kotsar are the clan of your... your wife, isn't that so?" Nicholas asked uncertainly. Thadorn gave him a sharp look. Only then did he realize that the man was still riding beside him.

"Yes," he said curtly, and spoke no more. Yet the longer he remained silent, the more insistently vivid Jadine's image became in his mind's eye. He saw her red curls, the shapely curve of her shoulder, her mouth... her red, laughing, cruel mouth, her sweet soft mouth that he so loved to kiss. He saw her walking along the beach, a light silken dress flapping about her ankles; he saw her nursing their children as they lay nestled in the crook of her arm; he saw the earnestness of her face at the moment when she took him for a husband. _She did not vow to obey me,_ he reflected, _but she did say, for now and all time. Does she remember that?_ He gritted his teeth. He hated weakness, and he knew he would have chided any of the soldiers under his command for having such thoughts. _I must overrule mine,_ he told himself, but it was no good. _The king himself chose me for this mission. I must not be swayed. I must not falter. I must not fail._ But he recalled the sweet scent of Jadine's hair, and he wanted to shout at her, to slap her for what she had done to their family, to erase the past and bring her back and live as though nothing ever happened. _Impossible. You know it is impossible, you fool._

Akira rode up to him several more times that day, offering self-confident and entirely unwanted advice regarding the route they ought to take, the pace they were making, the best place to set up camp for the night, and so on. Thadorn thought he was rid of the man in the evening, when he was alone in his small tent, hunched over his maps once again – but then a groan nearly escaped his lips when he saw Akira's silhouette in the dimly lit entrance.

"You ought to have supped with us," he said. "Granted, the provisions we were given won't make a feast, but there are a few decent hunters among us, and that cook Kerr really does make a savory stew out of wild game and some roots."

Thadorn shrugged. "I did not have much of a hunger," he said. "I had some salted meat and flatbread, and that was enough for me."

"You won't last long at this rate," Akira warned him. "We still have quite a way to go until we reach the Emerald Mountains. And did you even consider where we are going to look?" Unceremoniously, he bent over Thadorn's map, squinting. "I've never been there, but judging from all the maps I have ever seen, it is a large area. We might go round and round in circles for months and never find them."

"Unless they find us first," Thadorn pointed out.

"I wouldn't take solace in that thought," Akira said grimly, and paused, perusing the map for a while. "Listen, Thadorn," he spoke a little later, with the air of someone who made up his mind to say something uncomfortable. "It is true that I am Jadine's kinsman, but this doesn't mean I don't understand. What she did was... well, I would not tolerate it from _my_ wife, and all I can say to you is, we have our differences, to be sure, but you are a man of worth, and I hope that next time you marry, you might do better."

The temperature inside the tent might have dropped all at once, despite the glowing coals in the brazier, and Akira must have sensed he stepped over some invisible line, because he made an almost imperceptible step back.

"I only meant – " he began apologetically.

Thadorn's face was inscrutable. "What do you mean, _next time_ I marry?"

"I just – " Akira squirmed. "Well, it is only – oh, damn it all," he exploded. "Haven't you ever thought she might be – well – dead?"

The silence was thunderous. "Dead?" repeated Thadorn, and it was as though someone dropped a piece of lead into a deep and still well.

"Or not," Akira hastened to say. "But... think of it this way. She disappeared, and no one ever heard anything of her again, and the roads are perilous."

"If she were dead, I would know," Thadorn said abruptly.

"Indeed? Do you believe her noble companions, if she had any, would send you a letter expressing their condolences?"

Thadorn gave him a look that could have curdled milk. "You should have stayed in Rhasket, Akira," he said. "It is not fit to leave a new bride the way you did."

"Why?" Akira said indifferently. "I took her to wife and claimed her maidenhood, what more could she ask for? She is mine now, and no one else can undo it... not even that silly Kamtesir boy."

Thadorn turned away from him. "You had better go to sleep," he said, "we are marching on before dawn, and before the next day is over we will all wish we had rested more."

But even after Akira had gone, peace was not restored to him. _Haven't you ever thought she might be dead?_ Hasn't he ever? His mouth contorted in a bitter grimace. Many nights he had lain awake, wondering this very same thing. Many nights he fell asleep only to be sucked into a haunting illusion of Jadine's arms around him, her soft breath on his shoulder, her hair brushing against his face... only to wake up alone, cold and empty. Ever since she disappeared there was no shred of evidence that she is alive, but something told him, just as he said to Akira, that if she were dead he would know – although he could not quite explain how.

He will know for sure soon enough, he told himself. Of course, he was on a mission now, and the mission was clear enough: find and stop the Shadowbinders. It had nothing to do with Jadine... but he had a shrewd idea that if she is out there somewhere, it is in the Emerald Mountains that he will find her...

... and perhaps Kohir as well.

Kelena rose from her seat as she saw the Healer walk towards her. In a gesture of nervousness, her fingers were twined together. The look upon the old man's face did not bid well.

"Lady Kelena," he inclined his head. "I fear what I say will not bring you comfort."

"What is it?" she asked. "I had thought the wound – "

"Oh, the injury itself does not pose a serious threat to a strong and vigorous man such as your noble husband," the healer said. "But this infection... although the treatment was speedy and proper, the wound still festered, and in a way that makes me suspect the offending weapon was poisoned."

"Poisoned?" Kelena's voice faltered. "Can you tell which poison?"

He shook his head. "Alas, no. I did all I can, tried all the antidotes in my possession, as well as any combination of them... yet the infection seems to be spreading, slowly but imminently. If it was a limb affected in such a manner, I would suggest amputation, but the way things are... all we can do is wait and see. Oh, and pray, of course. The Great Spirit can do wonders, even when the arts of healing fail."

Kelena nodded, feeling a chill of fear. "You are saying that – "

"That you must be prepared for any outcome," the venerable old man said gravely. "Any outcome," he repeated, briefly touching her hand in a gesture of polite sympathy. He was about to take his leave and go when he abruptly stopped in his heels. "I thought the following might be of interest to you. The city guards caught a man who might have been suspected to be one of your husband's attackers... but before he could be questioned, he swallowed something he pulled out of an inner pocket of his robes, and a few minutes later his eyes rolled in their sockets and spit frothed in his mouth, and he dropped dead."

Kelena flinched with horror. "He poisoned – "

"Himself, yes. It was without a doubt a very strong substance he used, and one can only wonder what secrets he concealed if he disposed of himself in such a fashion, so as not to risk the smallest chance of revealing them. The body was searched, and I strongly hoped for a clue that would help me in finding a cure for your noble husband, but alas, there was nothing – or at least, nothing that would pose any interest to us."

Kelena nodded again, distraught. "Thank you," she said, "when shall you return?"

"In the evening. Although, of course, by all means send for me earlier if there is any unexpected change in the condition of the noble Dankar."

And with these words, he bowed and was gone, and Kelena was left alone. She lowered her face into her hands and sat like this for a long time. She thought of Torwen, of the last time they were alone together, the last time they lay in each other's arms, and how their passion was tainted with the grief of saying goodbye. _I cannot go on like this any longer, Kelena,_ he said to her. _Regardless of how I feel about him, he puts his trust in me. He thinks his honor is safe because he assigned me to follow you. Lying goes against my nature, and against yours. This cannot continue. We must reach a decision._

Now all might be decided for them, Kelena thought to herself, half crying. If Dankar dies, she will be free. Free to go wherever she wishes, do whatever she wills, love whomever her heart desires. She will be able to marry Torwen, and raise little Emm together with him, and bear him more children, and have the sweet and simple life she was always made for. A life with no secrets, no intrigue, no betrayal. There was now just one barrier between her and that life – the man writhing in feverish agony on the bed in the room upstairs.

But when she came up, he was asleep; his complexion was so pale and grey, his face so still, that for a moment her heart skipped a beat. Uncertain, almost ready to flee, she approached his sickbed. "Dan?" she said quietly.

His eyes slowly opened, and the ghost of a smile appeared on his lips. "Still here," he croaked. "Did the old bugger say how long it might be before this hell is over?"

"Before – " she was confused.

"Do not pretend," he whispered, "I am dying, Kelena."

"No," she shook her head. "You are strong, and you have been given every remedy. And besides, do you recall what the healer told last time? Every day you hold on improves your chances, and you have lasted this long – "

"This long," he repeated, "but not much longer."

He extended a thin hand; it was as though all flesh had melted off his bones. Kelena gingerly took the skeletal fingers.

"Forgive me," he said, "for all that had been."

"Save your strength," she told him, "this is not the moment..."

"On the contrary," he coughed, "this is the perfect moment. Before I go, I need to know that you had forgiven me."

Two tears rolled down her cheeks as she replied in a choked up voice, "I forgive you."

He nodded and closed his eyes, and for a moment she thought he would go back to sleep, but then he spoke again. "Be happy," he told her, "and raise little Emmet well. And if you would," he paused, "if you would, seek kindness in your heart when you speak to him about his father."

For two days and two nights, Dankar hovered between life and death. The healer came and went, his face grim his lips pursed, sometimes accompanied by younger assistants; smells of smoke and sulphur, herbs and blood rose from the sickroom, smells that Kelena could not bear, and so she stayed away, mostly in the company of little Emmet to keep her from gnawing her nails in anxiety. But when she entered the room two days later, Dankar was still there – pale, wan, worn, exhausted, stick thin, hardly able to raise his head from the pillow, with deep purple shadows circling his eyes, yet without doubt out of danger.

The healer gave her a modest smile of satisfaction as he washed his hands in the basin.

"It is very soon yet, to be sure," he said, "but I believe we can expect a full recovery in time. Your excellent constitution is to be thanked, o noble Gindur."

"And your healing arts," Dankar spoke from his pillow. "You will be well rewarded, Master."

"We do not seek reward," said the old man. "Those who can heal, must heal. That is what is right in the eyes of the Great Spirit."

"Of course it is. Yet no one shall ever say Dankar Gindur is not generous. I never forget those who did right by me... nor those who crossed paths with me. Those who attacked me that night shall rue the moment they dared to raise steel against me, I swear it."

"One of them is already dead," said the healer. "But you, of course, are clever enough to know that the two men who attacked you were not the source of the trouble."

"I imagine the entire Council knows that by now," said Dankar. The healer nodded.

"Security had never been so tight. No one passes through the city gates without an identity verification, not even a peasant come to sell his turnips at the market."

"What of the harbor?" Dankar asked sharply. "Is the entrance closed to boats as well?"

"The harbor?" the old man blinked rather stupidly. "No, I believe – "

"To be sure. Well, of course His Grace cannot think of everything, burdened as he is by troubles... and his Council is full of lackwits."

The man looked scandalized. "This is not for me to judge," he said cautiously, tying the string of his bag of remedies. "I shall, however, advise you to put such matters out of your mind for the time being. You need your rest, my lord, and proper attendance and care, if you are to gain your strength and recuperate."

"Not to worry," Dankar gave a smile – rather weak, but still mischievous. "My fair wife will see to my every need."

The healer took his leave. Kelena meant to walk out of the room as well, but her husband's voice stopped her. "Wait," he said. She turned.

"Is there anything you want?" she asked. "You must eat. I know you don't have much of an appetite, but perhaps some broth? It would do you good."

"Yes, perhaps it will," agreed Dankar. "And... if you would, bring Emm to me before he is sent to bed. I wish to see him."

Kelena nodded. "He will be glad of that. The poor boy has been confused. He did not understand why nobody let him in."

Once again, her hand was already on the door handle when his voice called her name.

"Kelena," he said. She spun around.

"Is there anything else I can do for you?"

He hesitated. "Is that disappointment I see upon your face?"

For a moment, she didn't understand; then, she flushed instantly, as if she had been slapped. "You haven't changed," she breathed out.

"No. Why should I? I am still the same two-faced, black-hearted villain you had the misfortune to wed. And you were so very near to be rid of me."

"You know I would not want that," she whispered, shaking her head. "Not that way."

"Of course not. You would much rather have poisoned me yourself."

She could have stomped her foot in anger, or slapped him, but she made herself stand very still, and drew herself to her full height. "You are unfair."

But then the flair of unexpected strength had left him, and his eyes closed, revealing two dark sunken sockets in his waxy face. "I know I am. I have always been," he said quietly.

"And yet I said I had forgiven you. Do you remember?"

"I do. You had forgiven a man who was about to die. Can you forgive a man who will live, though? That is the question."

But Kelena was not there to give an answer. She had already walked out.

She was going to go and fetch little Emm, but there was a commotion downstairs that suggested visitors... and sure enough, when she entered the hallway, she saw Rani Kotsar, splendidly dressed in red velvet and cloth-of-gold, and bedecked in gold and rubies. When Rani kissed her on the cheek, Kelena felt the scent of orange flowers.

"No, no, I shall not linger long," her guest replied to the offer of refreshment. "I came only to inquire about Dankar... I understand, of course, that he is not yet well enough to see anyone, but I heard he was recovering, and I thought I might drop by and congratulate you." It seemed to Kelena there was a hidden knowledge in Rani's eyes which she did not like one bit, but of course, she dared not offer anything but the most gracious response.

"Dankar will be very pleased by your attention, I know it," she said. "If you honor us with a visit again in a couple of days, he might be able to receive you."

"I will come," promised Rani. "And..." she halted for a moment. "While I am here, may I ask if you heard anything about Kohir?"

Kelena gave her an anxious look. "Until we know otherwise, we must assume he is still on his way to South Watch. The road is long. He could have been delayed."

"Yes," said Rani, "but by what? Or by whom? Don't you believe it is about time to make inquiries?"

"That is for my father to decide," said Kelena, casting her eyes down.

"I know Rohir. He will not bestir himself, unless he believes the precious honor of his clan is in jeopardy," Rani said bitterly. "Sorry for being so blunt, Kelena, but I might just take this matter into my own hands."

Kelena met her eyes again, looking fearful. "Rani, it would hardly be proper – "

Rani laughed curtly. "Proper!" she exclaimed. "What do I care about proper now? I allowed the elders of our clan to separate me from him, I consented to marry a man who could have been my grandfather, I lived here all these years and allowed dust to accumulate over what was left of my heart, and now you say I am not even entitled to know whether Kohir is alive or dead?"

Kelena caught hold of a cold, smoothly polished marble column, to gain some support. "Of course he is alive," she said in a low voice, blinking away unbidden tears. Rani paused, probably sensing that she has gone too far.

"Of course he is," she agreed, and kissed Kelena on the cheek again. "Forgive me, Kelena. I forgot myself."

And in a swish of silken skirts she was gone, leaving behind nothing but the smell of orange trees in bloom.

For a while Kelena sat in her quarters, brooding over the brief visit. _At least Rani is brave,_ she said to herself, _whatever else may be said of her._ Kelena had been a child when Rani was sent away and given in marriage to an old and failing man, and back then she did not quite understand the hushed whispers, the accusing glances... or her brother's anguish. Now, however, she felt angry on Rani's behalf as well as on her own. _How many lives were ruined, how many loves trampled for the sake of pride and ambition of the Kotsar?_

After Emmet was in bed, she thought it would be appropriate to check on Dankar once more, but she hovered in front of the door, her fingers upon the handle, unable to make herself come in. His words rang in her ears once more. _You had forgiven a man who was about to die. Can you forgive a man who will live?_

Can she?

Dankar was regaining his strength rapidly. Although he was yet in no condition to travel through the city and attend military councils himself, a couple of days after Rani's visit Kelena went out with Emmet to visit her uncle Derrien, having ensured all her husband's needs are attended to, and when she returned and went upstairs she heard voices from behind the door of the chamber. They were male voices, and one of them she was surprised to recognize as belonging to her own cousin, Uncle Derrien's son, Beryen Mokkar.

"Let us just go through this one more time," spoke another, skeptical-sounding voice which she did not recognize. "What is it exactly that these Shadowbinders are threatening to do?"

"The Shadowbinders don't _threaten_ ," Kelena heard Dankar's voice. "Had there been demands, declarations, fist-brandishing, I do not believe the Council ought to have had reason for much concern. But no; they act silently, secretly, and no matter how much we tried, we could only obtain scraps of information regarding what they might be up to. Why don't you fill the noble Adrik in, cousin? You speak so eloquently."

"Well," Beryen cleared his throat., "the Shadowbinders are supposed to be trying to revive the black art of sorcery called Paths of the Shadow – and in the course of doing so, they mean to cast a spell which would enclose the borders of Tilir in darkness, leaving us virtually isolated from the rest of the world."

"A _spell_?" The man called Adrik gave an incredulous dry laugh. "Councils gather for endless sessions, His Grace sends an army to the blackness of the Emerald Mountains, and the noble Dankar here narrowly escapes murder – all because someone somewhere is supposed to try some crackpot _spell_?"

"Sorcery is not all of it, perhaps not even the most important part," Beryen said reasonably. "They are a congregation of people with clearly rebellious intentions. No matter what exactly it is that they are trying to do, someone must stop them. At once."

"My good-brother Thadorn is moving forward to do so as we speak," Dankar said. "He will stop the Shadowbinders."

"Or perish in the attempt," Beryen put in.

"Better him than other men, of higher value," Adrik said indifferently, almost lazily, and Kelena felt a stab of anger at the tone of his voice. "If he succeeds, all will be well; if he fails, his efforts will pave the road for someone of higher rank. I daresay His Grace was wise enough to see that when he gave this mission to a loyal but unremarkable man such as Thadorn Tionae."

Beryen murmured something incoherent, whereas Dankar said, "we had better continue another day. Forgive me, my lords, but I feel that what little strength I have gained is exhausted for now. Pray give my excuses at court."

"None shall be required, cousin," Beryen said, and there was the unmistakable shuffling of men about to leave. Kelena hastily fled to the chamber across the corridor and listened to the receding steps of two pairs of feet.

When she did enter her husband's room, she was taken aback by his words of welcome.

"How long have you been listening at the door?" he asked, with the ghost of a smile playing upon his lips. Her blush was answer enough for him; he waved a languid, dismissive hand. "No need to look so embarrassed. I know everything that goes on in this house, and I would not have spoken freely if there was anything I didn't want you to hear."

"Who is Adrik?" asked Kelena.

"A scion of a noble clan who pretends to be more important than he really is," said Dankar dispassionately.

"He had no right to speak this way of Thadorn," Kelena said hotly. "My good-brother is worth a dozen of such like him."

"Do not expect your views to be shared by anyone from court," said Dankar. "Thadorn is a man of simple words and loyal deeds. In Aldon-Sur, this doesn't count nearly as much as finesse, intrigue, the ability to get close to the right people at the right moment, and noble ancestors."

"And do you think this way too?"

Again, an almost imperceptible smile touched Dankar's lips. "I am not known for saying what I truly think," he pointed out.

"And the spell?" Kelena blurted out. "Do you believe it's true? Do you believe they are capable of – of – of performing some sorcery which will affect us all, or..." she trailed off.

"There is no need to be so anxious, now," Dankar said, reclining upon his pillows. "There is always a chance that the Shadowbinders are deluding themselves with ambitions for power which has passed away from this world, or else, throwing dust in the eyes of those who believe too easily. They _are_ gaining strength and numbers, from what we know, but all should still turn out well... provided that Thadorns finds them soon."

With every step, the rope chafed deeper into the raw skin of Kohir's wrists. In another hour or two, he was certain, he would see blood.

"There is no need of that," he protested at first. "You had taken my weapons and my horse. I cannot escape."

"Where would I go?" he reasonably asked some hours ago. "I no longer know this area. I could wander in circles until I die of hunger and thirst. You can untie me."

"I am Jadine's brother," he tried as a last resort. "Jadine, do you know her? If you come from where I think you come, certainly you do. I am Kohir, her brother. She will not take kindly to what you are doing to me."

But all was in vain. His captors – a strapping young red-haired lad, and a burly middle-aged man - remained silent, as if mute, and did not even exchange word among themselves, as long as he could hear. They just shoved him in the back, to signal to him that he ought to keep walking. And Kohir kept walking. What choice did he have? He asked no more questions, either. He knew who they were and where they were taking him.

To the Emerald Mountains.

The trees grew taller around them, the road narrower, the forests wilder, the mountain peaks dazzlingly white and covered with everlasting snow. Sometimes he rode double with one of his captors, his wrists still tied together, but not in as mercilessly tight a fashion as before. Then, lulled by the swaying motion of the saddle, were the only times when he could snatch bits of fitful sleep. At other times, even on rare occasions when cold and discomfort were kept at bay, he tossed and turned with anxiety.

When they came to a halt, he didn't know after how many days and nights, Kohir looked up incredulously. _Ruins,_ he thought when he saw the broken towers, the hollow windows, the crumbling parapets, the bridge that was nearly rotten through. But then he noticed signs of life: a clatter of an opened window, a thin tendril of smoke, some men calling to each other in muted voices... and banners. Banners with color changing from dark purple to midnight blue to deepest black. _Every shade of darkness._

He knew now where he was. He had heard of this place; in all of the Emerald Mountains, just one castle was ever built. It was the ancient stronghold of the sorcerers, one that time had reduced to the sorry condition he now saw with his own eyes... but unlike for many hundreds of years, it was now habited again. _By whom, though? I will find out soon enough._

They did not walk across the drawbridge, which was all to the good, because Kohir was pretty certain the entire construction would collapse as soon as someone put his feet on it. There was a way around, it turned out, and two sullen guards in motley armor let them pass through with hardly as much as a grunt. Then he was given a shove in the small of his back and made to walk many lengths of drafty corridors, crumbling staircases, chambers strewn with rubbish and a vast ruined kitchen blackened by smoke of coking fires from centuries ago.

And then, he perceived, they were approaching the habitable part of the castle. It grew slightly warmer, or at least less drafty; human voices sounded around several corners, along with the clang of steel on steel – presumably someone was practicing in one of the inner yards. The walls looked sounder, rubbish piles were pushed aside, and although rain began to patter, he could feel no drops, which must mean that the roof has been recently repaired.

Finally he was led to a cavernous, dimly lit hall with walls of roughly hewn grey stone and a ceiling so high Kohir saw nothing but vast darkness when he looked up. Several doors led off the hall, and just as he stood there and wondered what is going to happen next, one pair of them swung open and several people filed through. Then Kohir raised his head with a jolt.

It was her. He succeeded; he found her... or rather, he was captured and brought to her, but what did it signify really? There he was standing in front of Jadine, his sister – who wore an expression of extreme surprise, but seemed none too pleased, as Kohir noted to himself.

"Kohir," she breathed out. "What – " but she checked herself, and rounded on his captors instead. "Untie him at once," she snapped. "This is my brother, you fools. What were you playing at, manhandling him this way?"

"We doesn't know he was your brother neither," said the young lad appeasingly.

"And if we knows, it wouldn't make things any dif'rent," grunted the older man. "We had orders. See a lone scout from South Watch, bring him. That's what we did."

In the meantime the lad pulled out his dagger and began cutting the rope that bound Kohir's wrists. In his haste he prickled the skin with the blade, and a thin trickle of blood ran from raised wrist to elbow. Kohir was too eager to have his hands free to mind much, though. With an effort he tore the last remaining strands of coarse rope, and groaned in pain as blood rushed to his wrists in a full flow that had been denied for so long.

"Now go," she snapped at the two men again. "And while you're at it, tell someone to bring us something to eat and drink. And to pile some more wood into this fire, too. My brother will be cold, hungry and thirsty."

"As are we," grumbled the older man, "yet we don't get so much as thanks for following orders..." at this point the tall lad whispered something in his ear, and together they walked away through another door.

Jadine hurried to Kohir's side and took hold of his chafed and bleeding hands. "Kohir, my sweet brother," she said in an unconvincingly mellow tone, yet her eyes were like chips of greenish ice. "Please forgive this very discourteous misunderstanding. It is a great pleasure to see you here."

"A great pleasure to us all, I daresay," said one of the men who came with his sister, an older man of small stature with kindly eyes and a mild voice. "I would have known you for Jadine's brother even if nothing was said, the familial resemblance between you is so prominent."

Then Kohir had a moment of leisure to examine his sister's other two companions as well. One of them was a formidable-looking, silent barrel-chested warrior clad in armor from head to foot, his face concealed by the lowered visor of his helm. And the other... he wore a queer black robe that seemed almost seamless, embroidered in purple thread around the hem, and his face...

"I know you!" Kohir exclaimed suddenly, looking directly at the man. "You have been in Rhasket for many years. You are the hermit goatherd!"

"This good man is called Lafgar, my brother," Jadine said, looping her arm through his in another unconvincing display of sisterly affection, "and he is no longer a goatherd. He has moved on to bigger things."

Kohir nodded. "So I would imagine," he ventured, not daring to say more in front of these men who, he had a vague notion, would kill him in the blink of an eye if they believed he posed any threat at all.

"The warrior here is Brave Garon," said Jadine, gesturing towards the armor-clad tall man, who merely inclined his head and said not a word. "And this," she said as she looked at the kindly little man, "is Vyolen, my teacher and mentor, and the greatest sorcerer Tilir had seen for the past thousand years."

"You know I do not wish to be called _sorcerer_ , child," Vyolen said in his mild and polite voice. "I posses several aspects of the Gift, it is true, but..." he trailed off and spread his arms as if showing he had nothing to conceal – a notion Kohir highly doubted.

While he was being thus introduced, someone tended to the weak fire in the grate and it roared and leaped, filling the hall with pleasant warmth; and two men came in, bearing trays of bread, cheese, sausages, small pickled onions and dried apples. A stocky woman followed them, gingerly carrying a jug and several cups.

"Let us sit and eat and drink," said the little man Vyolen; he was the first to begin as he tore off a chunk of bread and cut a thick slice of cheese for himself. And, much as Kohir would have liked to be cautious and reserved, he was too famished to be so. He sat down and crammed food into his mouth, and washed it down with several cups of ale, until he finally leaned back, a little drunk and drowsy but nevertheless wary.

"I pray you excuse us, good men," Jadine said with one of her most enchanting smiles, "but I believe my brother and I will retreat to my chambers now, to dicuss some... _family_ matters."

"Of course," Vyolen said courteously. "You didn't see each other for a long time; there must be so much each one of you has to tell," and his eyes twinkled with the light of hidden understanding.

Lafgar merely nodded, and Brave Garon showed no sign of having even heard them. Jadine, who hardly ate a bite, rose from her seat and took Kohir's hand again. He wondered whether anyone else noticed how tightly her fingers were squeezing his own as she led him out of the hall.

When a heavy wooden door was closed and barred behind Jadine's back, she faced him and he saw that the mellow pleasantness was replaced by a mixture of anxiety and cold fury.

"What in the name of the Great Spirit," she said, "are you doing here?"

"I could ask you the same question," replied Kohir, refusing to lose ground.

"The men who brought you here were right, you know. They _do_ seize any lone scout from South Watch... but South Watch hasn't sent out lone scouts for many weeks now. Not anywhere near the general direction of the Emerald Mountains, anyway."

"You are my sister, Jadine," said Kohir. "You should have known I would not abandon you, even if everyone else did."

"No one abandoned me. I came here to be with people who care for the fate of Tilir, and have power enough to change it."

"Who?" he gave a small, forced laugh. "The little grandfather? Or the man who spent twenty years living in a cave strewn with goat pellets? Or perhaps the warrior who did not say a word throughout the entire meal, nor raised the visor to taste a morsel of food?"

"Brave Garon can be a little shy around strangers," said Jadine. "If you once chance to see his face, you will understand why."

"This doesn't answer the question – what are you doing here, Jadine? Up and down the country, the most ridiculous rumours are circulating..."

"That we are a group of insane sorcerers who intend to plunge Tilir into a world of darkness? That we are in open rebellion against the throne? That we mean to overthrow the king and seize the rule ourselves?" her mouth twisted. His silence must have been answer enough for her, because she went on. "Contrary to what some may believe, we acknowledge that King Alvadon, Ninth of his name, is the rightful king and ruler of United Tilir, Head of all clans, and Warden of the land from sea to desert."

"We, you say. Who are _we_?"

Jadine hesitated. "Men and women who have powers that have been needlessly discarded for too long," she said. "Soon, however, all will see that we still are a force to be reckoned with."

Kohir opened his mouth to say something sensible, but she cut him off. "Think about the king," she prompted him.

"The king?" he was bewildered. "King Alvadon?"

"Do we have another? Tilir had seen worse rulers than King Alvadon. He is reasonable, just, and not wholly a craven. The trouble began when he bypassed the many noblewomen of Tilir, each of whom could have been a good and true wife and a gracious queen, and married his foreign princess. Years have passed, and all she had given him are stillbirths and miscarriages."

Kohir shifted his weight from one foot to the other, uncomfortable. After the surfeit of food and wine, he would gladly have slept, but Jadine was restless, determined to speak. "It is known that the queen's health is delicate," he offered, "yet as far as I know, the Healers have declared there is still hope. The king might yet have an heir."

Jadine made a little noise of derision. "Yes, there is still hope... if the queen dies during a subsequent miscarriage or stillbirths, leaving His Grace free to remarry – or if the king seeks annulment for the marriage. He knows it may be granted to him, reasons of state taken into consideration, but he is too noble to commit something like this. And so, our king remains locked in his fruitless marriage, without an heir of an unbroken male line."

"There are his brothers," Kohir suggested feebly. This time, Jadine laughed out loud.

"Do you refer to the lackwit, or the cripple? There is also the king's sister, to be sure, and she has children of her own – but alas, a long time has passed since Queen Thasiella was crowned, and I'm sorry to say that Tilir is unlikely to accept a woman as a ruler... the king's daughter maybe, but not his sister."

"There is other kin. Uncles, cousins..."

"No one with a claim which would be stronger than that of the others, and do you imagine the rest would step aside? No, upon King Alvadon's death they will brawl like dogs with a bone, and this, coupled with the rising of the clans, and with the pressure the rest of the world is putting upon us... I regret to say this, Kohir, but there will be war and terror and chaos, and the land will bleed."

"So you would plunge it into darkness?" he prompted, attempting to sound ironic and aloof. "Because to the best of my knowledge, that is what you mean to do." He lowered his voice and made an attempt to get hold of Jadine's hand again, but she crossed her arms upon her chest and looked him directly in the eye.

"The best of your knowledge is worth nothing," she said disdainfully.

"Indeed? Well, it matters not. I did not come to bicker with you, Jadine, but to help you."

"Help? Whoever said I need help?"

"Your actions," he paused. "Hiding out in a half-ruined castle with rogues, rebels and men of dubious reputation would have been unpardonable even if you were an unattached woman, but you are not. You have a husband and three children, or have you forgotten?"

Her eyes flashed. "Does it seem likely that I have forgotten? Despite what you may think, I love my husband and children, but I cannot just flee back to Rhasket and rush into Thadorn's waiting arms."

"As far as I know, there will be no need of that," Kohir said drily. "He is on his way to find you."

Jadine paled slightly; he managed to surprise her, Kohir noted with satisfaction. However, she soon recovered her composure. "Alone?" she asked quickly. "Or with an army?"

"Don't your far-famed powers allow you to know that yourself?" asked Kohir, ironically arching one eyebrow.

Jadine's nostrils flared. "I knew it. He is not coming to find _me_ at all; he was sent here, and he is doing what he was bid... as always."

"You aren't doing Thadorn justice," Kohir said fairly. "Granted, I never understood why you married him, but he is a decent man, and he has suffered cruelly since you left. He has three children on his hands, people snigger behind his back, and almost our entire clan shuns him because he supposedly didn't watch over you well enough."

"He watched all too well," said Jadine. "That was one of the things that made me tired. But Thadorn will learn and improve, I hope... once things are set to right and I am free to return home."

"I agree it might not be wise for you to return at the moment," nodded Kohir. "You might not be aware of it, Jadine, but your cozy little gathering here reeks of rebellion and treason. You must leave... at once, quietly, and alone."

"Truly?" mirroring his expression, she arched an eyebrow. "And where would I go... alone?"

"Not alone. With me," Kohir corrected himself. "There are many places beyond Tilir where we could go, many lands that I know you have always wanted to see. If you stay away long enough, it can be fairly safe for you to come back once the dust settles over all of this ridiculous business."

But Jadine shook her head. "I came here with a purpose," she said. "It has not yet been fulfilled."

Kohir felt his anger rising. "Your purpose may cost us all our heads," he spat.

"This needn't have been _us_ ," she told him. "No one asked you to meddle, Kohir."

He looked at her, incredulous. "So you are going to stay here? Here in this... this rubble heap? To do what?"

She turned her back on him. "That is my business," she replied curtly.

For a moment he stood there, wondering what to do. Arguing was no use; he knew Jadine well enough to understand when her mind was set. "Well," he said slowly, "the Great Spirit knows I tried to save you, but you are too obstinate to know what is good for you. I wash my hands of this. I will leave you here, and send word to Father that I have done my best – "

"Leave?" Jadine repeated, and the tone of her voice sent a chill through him. "I think not."

"Not?" he echoed rather foolishly. "What do you mean, Jadine?"

Her smile flashed like steel. "I don't know how to tell you this, Kohir, but we weren't exactly counting on visitors. You came, however... and as my brother, you will be an honored guest. But try to escape, and you will become a prisoner. Do I make myself clear?"

He felt anger within him, rising, surging, threatening to overpower him, to cloud his judgment. His hands balled into fists. "You cannot prevent me from going when and where I please," he said.

"No," agreed Jadine, "but neither can I prevent you from dying if you do."

She opened the door and made to leave, but turned at the doorstep and faced him again. "I will send for someone to prepare chambers for you," she said. "I hope you will not be too uncomfortable."

Chapter 13

Jadine took a sip of wine.

It was too sour and too strong and had a foul odour, but there wasn't a lot of choice. They were fairly well provisioned, but when it came to drink there was either water, yeasty cloudy ale, or this sour wine. She wrinkled her nose and set her cup aside.

She wished she could have set her thoughts aside half as easily.

The truth was, they were in danger. They have tried to maintain secrecy for as long as it was possible, but now they were recognized for what they were: a force that menaced the current equilibrium, a group which was capable of making much needed changes... and of course, trying to bring change would always cause resistance.

And then there was Kohir.

With shaking hands, Jadine pushed herself up from the sitting cushions and paced restlessly from the window to her writing desk and to the door and back again. _It was his own fault,_ she told herself over and over. _I warned him. I told him what would happen, and he didn't listen to me._

Her gallant but foolish brother made the unfortunate decision to confront Lafgar, speaking to him as if he were still a goatherd in a smelly cave just off the shore of Rhasket-Tharsanae. _He threatened us all. There was no other choice. It had to be so._

Also, though she might not want to admit it even in her thoughts, there was the fact that she couldn't have done much for her brother even if she tried. Had she attempted to side with Kohir, she might just have shared his fate.

Still, there was the grief that tore through her like a cruel knife. She remembered the boy she had played with, the companion of her childhood, the one in whose ear she whispered secrets in the dark, the only one in whom she could confide, because Kelena was too silly and Nog too young. And she thought of her parents. _They will grieve,_ she told herself, _if they still remember how._

She could not allow herself to succumb to pain, though, and the only remedy against it was to act. _We are ready,_ she thought. _There is nothing more to wait for. Our power should suffice. It is time to make true of our promises and act according to the plan._

Still, some vague doubts remained, and to resolve them she needed Vyolen, and she weren't sure when the man would come. The sorcerer's aid proved to be valuable, but Vyolen was not truly one of them. He had his own dwelling, he came and went as he wished and, it seemed to Jadine, often listened far more than he talked. She learned a lot from him, but she couldn't pretend she understood him.

And there was also Thadorn. Thadorn, whom she hadn't seen for so long. Thadorn, who was now marching towards her at the head of an army loyal to the dwindling but still fearsome power of the throne. Thadorn, who must hate her because she left him. And the children... no, she could not think about the children, nor wonder who is raising them now. _Thadorn cannot do it on his own._ Who would lend him a helping hand? Her mother? Unlikely; she was too deeply steeped in her bitterness. Kelena was a kind-hearted and motherly type, but she was too far. _It must be Lya, she who coveted my husband for so long._ This thought disturbed Jadine perhaps more than all the rest. _No matter. It will all be over, and I will return, and all will be... no, not as before, it is impossible, but we can be together again. I will hear Korian laugh, I will look into Datrine's eyes which are so like my own, and I will hold Tari, who probably doesn't remember me at all._

She reached for her cup again and drained it quickly, so as not to taste the tart wine. She felt her head swim, which was all to the good. She knew what must be coming, and she knew she cannot face it entirely sober.

Nearly hating herself for it, Jadine slipped out. _The others would take it all wrong, I am certain,_ she thought to herself... and she was loath to admit that her secrecy stemmed partly out of fear. But to succeed, they needed more power, and they needed it soon – and to have it soon, they needed Vyolen.

She didn't saddle a horse. They only had a few, and if one were missed it would be far too conspicuous; going on foot, though, she can always pretend she only went for a short walk. _If I return in one piece._ Fearsome things lurked in the forest of the Emerald Mountains, and some of them Jadine was not at all in a hurry to meet face to face.

She lowered her face beneath the raised hood of her dark cloak, and fastened her grip on the hilt of a dagger that hung from her belt. That was a present from Lafgar, a finely wrought piece of deadly sharp steel, but she was not certain how much use it would be to her. Against a large beast it would probably be useless, and as for men... she had never killed a man before. _Not with a dagger, anyway._ But the lithe piece of steel on her belt made her feel more secure nevertheless.

There were powerful barriers guarding Vyolen's humble dwelling, a small sturdy-looking timber house with a steep roof, but they were not meant for her. She simply waved her hand and walked through a shimmering wave of air charged with complex sorcery, and found herself near the little hut. Two stocky mountain goats were grazing on clumps of withered grass next to it. Vyolen often complained of how pesky the animals were, but Jadine knew he appreciated their company. Even an old warlock such as Vyolen could feel lonely at times.

Jadine knocked, and the little man opened almost immediately, as if he were expecting her. As she had predicted, Vyolen did not look remotely surprised.

"Child," he said, and Jadine wrinkled her nose in dismay.

"I wish you would all stop calling me that," she said. "I might have been a child once, but no longer. I am a woman, a mother, and a sorceress."

His expression were inscrutable. "As you say. You will indulge an old man's habit, I hope. You are half my age, and therefore, to me you are a child. Would you care to share the offerings of my humble table?" he gestured towards his rough scrubbed table, where she noticed a basket of berries and a small jug of cream, resting next to an old and heavy book with pages that had begun to crumble. She shook her head.

"I am not hungry," she said.

"Well," said Vyolen, "this is more than what some people can boast of."

"Have I interrupted your studies?" asked Jadine, gesturing towards the book.

"Not really. My mind was beginning to get distracted, anyway. But this is a fabulous tome... _Ancient Days of Tilir,_ written by King Alvadon the Third, also named the Scholar. It covers the entire history of Tilir, from the Old Days and up to the Union, initiated by that king's fabled grandsire. Marvelous work, truly. Reading it leaves one deep in thought."

"To be sure," Jadine conceded drily, "but I have always wondered how it could be that King Alvadon the Scholar found time for his literary works when he had a country to rule."

Vyolen spread his hands slightly in a gesture of humility. "It is a great question, indeed. But King Alvadon the Third had good councilors, true friends, and a wise and gentle queen. And those were peaceful times. The Union was finally accepted by all the clans, after some harsh measures taken by King Alvadon the Second, and the wild tribes were not nearly as impertinent as they are these days."

"Yes," said Jadine, "back in those days, the world still had some respect for Tilir."

"Unlike now, you imply."

"I never imply. I say what I think, and I know you understand me perfectly. Alas, no one respects us now; no respect can be gained by weakness. But this is something that may be changed... with your help." He seemed to be listening, and the moment was as good as any, so she plunged on. "I believe the time is ripe. The Circle can be made and the enchantments performed even tonight, if you come and join your strength to ours. It should suffice for what we need to do."

But even before she finished speaking, she saw him shaking his head, and she knew it was no good.

"I have told you before, Jadine," said Vyolen with the kind of mild politeness that hides a will which cannot be bent, "I sympathize with your cause, I applaud your sentiments, I understand your anxiety. But you are trying to do something that cannot be accomplished... nor would I wish to help accomplish it, even if I could."

"It _can_ be done," Jadine said hotly. "It is the only way – "

But again, he was shaking his head. "Tilir could face any external foe," said the warlock, "if only we were united from within, but we are not. Your very own actions prove that."

Jadine approached him and laid a hand on his arm, something she had never done before.

"You must help us," she said in a low voice, "the king had sent an army after us."

"That was to be expected," Vyolen said calmly. Then he asked an unexpected question. "Who leads the troops?"

It was only reluctantly that Jadine met his eyes. "Thadorn Tionae," she said.

"Ah," he gave a little nod, as if something had just been made clear to him. "Your husband. He is very angry with you, I imagine."

"Yes," Jadine said defiantly, "because he doesn't understand – "

"And what if," Vyolen paused, "what if it turns out _you_ don't understand nearly as much as you think, child?"

Jadine paused for a few moments, scrutinizing the man's wise, lined face. Almost ageless he seemed, as if every year that passed only added vigor to his mind. "Is this your final word?" she asked.

He appeared almost sad as he spoke. "We had been through this before, Jadine. The Essence of the Spirit will shine as before, the Messenger will come, and the dominion of Tilir will rise once again... but not now, nor in many years from now. Alas, neither you nor I will live to see that."

Jadine's eyes flashed in hot anger. "You might not live to see that, old man," she hissed spitefully, "but I will. I swear it. I swear it," she repeated once more before she turned her back on the old warlock and walked through the doors of his home, never to return again.

When Jadine came back, brave Garon was eating, but upon seeing her, he hastily pushed his plate aside, slide the visor of his helm over his face, and stood up, which Jadine found difficult to understand. _Yes, his face is a grisly sight, but it is one I have seen several times before._ Lafgar was in the common room, too; he was pacing back and forth, looking nervous.

"There you are, Jadine," he said to her. "Where have you been?"

For a brief moment, she hesitated. She could not quite explain it, but she would have rather concealed the truth from Lafgar... if she thought it was possible.

"I went to see Vyolen," she told him.

"Vyolen?" he repeated. "What was so urgent? He is supposed to come by in a few hours, just before sunset."

"He will not come," said Jadine, paused, then went on. "He will never come again. He lost faith in our cause. He abandoned us."

Lafgar looked up with the air of someone who received mildly unpleasant news, and raised his eyebrows a little as she stood before him, trembling with anger. Garon uttered not a word, but cracked his knuckles.

"You needn't have gone," Lafgar told her, "but either way, it matters not. Vyolen is an old man, and he is alone. I can deal with him."

"This old man can kill both you and me without breaking a sweat if he puts his mind to it," snapped Jadine. "And besides, _dealing_ with him cannot make him help us."

Lafgar considered this for a moment, then signed resignedly. "You are right, of course. I got carried away for a moment. I thought... but no matter. Let us dismiss any thought of Vyolen, then. He might not be an ally, but either way I doubt he will go against us. We will simply have to do without him."

"How?" demanded Jadine.

"Be patient. If we wait – "

"What for? The longer we wait, the more our power dwindles. I believe we must do just the opposite. We must strike. On _both_ fronts."

Lafgar looked at her, his face full of doubt. "You believe – "

"Yes," Jadine said forcefully. "It is not beyond your power to send a message to all our men at once, is it?"

"No," Lafgar said, faintly displeased by the question. "What I am worried about is the second part of the plan. Frankly, Jadine, even if you and I and all those who are with us now join their powers, I doubt it will be enough to make the spell work."

"Waiting won't better our chances," she insisted. "There will be risk, of course, but so what? It is better than condemning ourselves to failure by being too insecure to try."

Unexpectedly, Brave Garon spoke. His voice came out harsh, guttural and raspy, almost like steel on stone. At times he was hardly intelligible, due to the deep wound he had once received to his throat and which had almost cost him his life. "I think Jadine is right," he said. "We waited in this cold miserable hole for too long, and for what? We might as well have struck back then. And you overrate Vyolen, Lafgar. Soon, it will be he who rues his breach from us."

Lafgar switched his gaze from Jadine to Garon, looking annoyed and resigned at once. "Very well," he said. "It might be that the two of you are right, that I am too cautious... or it might be the other way around. Either way, once a coin had been flipped, I have no control of the side that comes up. I will send the message."

"Wait," rasped Brave Garon, "I will do it."

"You?" Lafgar sounded slightly incredulous.

"Do you believe me incapable?"

Lafgar crossed his arms and stepped aside. "Suit yourself," he said.

Slowly, without raising the visor of his helm, Garon turned to Jadine and held out an open palm. Jadine reached into a small leather pouch that hung from her belt, took out three shriveled black pods, which she placed in Garon's hand. Garon then walked towards the burning brazier and dropped the three black pods there. The flame instantly changed color, from leaping red and orange and yellow to blue and violet, which filled the surroundings with a cold glow. Even the heat seemed to be sucked out of it, because when Garon lowered his hand and placed it in the fire, he let out no gasp of pain.

Slowly, he raised his hand, cupping it as if to scoop some water, but instead of water there was violet and blue flame in his palm. He whispered and whispered, and the flame changed its color from blue to green, light as grass at first and then dark as wet moss, and in the end, it was the darkest violet, almost pure black, and it spread darkness the way a flame might spread light. Jadine shivered slightly. Then Garon lowered his hand once more, and let the dark flame spill back onto the brazier like water, and the fire leapt red and orange once again.

"It is done," Garon said in his deep harsh voice.

"Done, for better or worse," Lafgar echoed grudgingly, and clapped his hands. "Bring us some mulled wine," he told the serving boy who poked his head in, "and don't forget to put some raisins in it."

When their cups were filled, he raised his. "The Shadow is coming," he said.

"The Shadow is coming," echoed Jadine and Garon. Lafgar and Jadine took a sip of the hot spiced wine, and after a moment of hesitation, Garon took off his helm and drank as well. Jadine tried to avoid looking directly at his face as he did so, although the sight of him provoked queer fascination in her. One of Garon's eyes was missing, and the rest of his face was so badly scarred and mutilated that his own mother might not have recognized him. Not did it seem likely to Jadine that this man ever had a mother; absurd as it is, she could never imagine him in any other way than what he was now – a scarred shell in which silent anger was burning.

She went back to her chambers and nursed another cup of hot wine, trying to calm her thoughts. Lafgar's skepticism was well-justified, she had to admit that... yet what choice did she have? None but to believe that what they were planning would succeed; none but to go forward. Soon, up and down the land Death would strike... an unfortunate sacrifice, but necessary to set the scene for what they were going to do next. All can work out... unless Thadorn reaches them first.

_No,_ she told herself. _I do not fear Thadorn. I will not fear a man who worshipped the ground I walk on._ She must not underrate the threat he poses, though, and she knew it; Thadorn might be her husband, but when duty clashes with passion, there can be no doubt as to what he will choose. _That one will tear his heart out with his bare hands if his king commands it._ Jadine did not know whether to admire or to despise him for it.

All she knew was that she missed him. The enveloping power of his arms around her, his deep voice, the smile that would light up his face like sun shining through a break between two clouds. Most of all she wanted to simply go back, rest her head on Thadorn's shoulder and let him take care of the rest. But she could not. Not yet, and perhaps not ever. The thought filled her with anguish, yet there was nothing she could do, nowhere she could go. _Nowhere but forward._

On and on they rode, rain and shine, mist and hail, dust and frost, morn and noon and eve, until the night fell and Thadorn would be forced to give the order to dismount, upon which the men hastened to unsaddle their horses and make camp. Tents were erected, but whenever it didn't rain, many would fall asleep right by the cooking fires, bowls and spoons falling from slackened grip. Exhaustion was taking a toll on them all, though Akira was one of the few who still vocally complained about the hardships of the ride. Most of the others were shamed into silence by Thadorn's steadfast determination. The Commander set his jaw and gritted his teeth and ignored the poor food, the hard road, the lack of sleep – and so did most of the others. The rest muttered quietly into their cups come evening, but did not dare to complain aloud.

Nicholas had surprised him in a positive manner. He never struck Thadorn as a man likely to withstand such a rigorous ride with no complaints, but the man from the-world-beyond seemed to accept the many discomfort of their journey with no word of protest. Interestingly enough, he was now often seen in the company of Torwen Mattar. The two of them sat many an evening by the camp fire in companionable silence, each man apparently immersed in his own thoughts.

Not that Thadorn paid much mind to the thoughts of other men. He had enough on his mind as it was.

They were now following an ancient road in the arid plains of the southwest, just along the border; it was paved many centuries ago, back when Tilir didn't have a king and clans clashed together in bloody battles. The area was greener once, and the road was used by merchants who traveled between the flourishing villages, but that was a long time ago. Mountains have crumbled, rivers had dried up, villages were abandoned, and the road had long ago fallen into disrepair. Some of the paving stones were missing, and thorny brown weeds grew in those places, sometimes tall as a man's waist... but still the road was good enough to take them south. Straight as an arrow it was, so straight that some believed it could not be made this way without the help of sorcery. This notion unnerved Thadorn when all was considered. _A road paved by sorcerers in ancient times, washed by the blood of countless men, leading to the Everdark Forest and the Emerald Mountains... an ill omen._ But of course, his duties did not include paying attention to omens and old wives' tales. He had to take the swiftest and safest route, and he was doing just that.

Or so he thought.

The Western border and holding it were not considered a matter of high strategical challenge; true, the Totoks and Gorgors were numerous, but have learned it is not in their interest to challenge Tilir. An occasional battalion from South Watch was enough to keep them in check, and they were usually immersed in their own petty rivalries, which was all to the good, as far as Tilir was concerned. The Lyaki, in the east, were much more vicious – and more audacious besides, and the wild men of the Malvian desert were the biggest threat of all, because the Malvian king played a two-faced game: for every rebel he arrested were another two that he armed. All in all, Thadorn did not believe they will encounter any trouble until they reach Everdark Vale. He was mistaken.

On the third day of this uneventful and rather boring stretch of their journey, the earth shook with the thunder of hooves, and all the men sprang up in their saddles and looked east. Expressions of shock crept upon each face as a large host of wild men was seen approaching; swords were pulled out of their scabbards, arrows drawn, commands barked. Thadorn, who rode in front, squinted as he looked at the approaching riders. _Horsehair trousers and belts, strips of leather in their hair. Those are Gorgors._ They rode short and lean sturdy horses with shaggy manes, and were getting closer by the second. Thadorn filled his lungs with air.

"Stop!" he shouted. "In the name of King Alvadon and Tilir, stay on the far side of this road if you do not wish to die!"

He was not sure that the Gorgors ever learned any language besides their own rasping and guttural tongue, but the intonation of his words, and above all, the glint of sun upon steel, did its deed. The wild men brought their horses to a halt just before the road – so close that when Thadorn looked into the face of their leader, he saw the whites of his eyes. He was a broad-shouldered man, his skin red-brown from sun and dirt, and a fine layer of dust powdered his hair as well, making it look almost grey. He raised his right hand, and it did not hold a sword, and in the harsh lines of his bushy eyebrows and square jaw Thadorn thought he saw fear.

"Do not want blood," the Gorgor leader said thickly in Tilirian, halting after every word as he searched for the next one, "but must pass."

Something in his voice – the earnestness, the urgency, the terror – made Thadorn's skin crawl. The wild tribesmen, he noted to himself, did not remotely resemble a band heading for a raid. There were not only warriors, but also elderly men and green boys, and women too – young and old, maids and crones and mothers with babes in their arms. Some rode double and triple with their children, others hid behind the broad backs of husband and brothers and fathers, and upon every face he saw the same expression of terror.

Still, it changed nothing. Even if they weren't raiders, there was no way he might allow them to pass. As a representative of the armed forces of Tilir, he had to act upon the letter of the law.

"I do not want blood, either," he told the leader, "but you must go back."

The wild man shook his head and said in a flat voice. "Will not. It is coming."

"What is coming?" Thadorn did not understand, but the Gorgor merely shook his head again, unable or unwilling to explain.

"Must pass," he said again, then, unexpectedly, took off his belt and threw it at Thadorn's feet. Not the horsehair belt made for holding his trousers in place, but a different one, clumsily forged of heavy metal links looped one through the other. When Thadorn gingerly picked it up and examined it, he saw that it was made of very old, very yellow gold. He looked up in surprise.

"Take it," the wild man said. "Will give you more. Give our swords, horses. Will walk. Will not fight. It is coming."

_It is coming._ The hairs on Thadorn's arms and the back of his neck prickled, and secretly, irrationally, a part of him grieved for what he knew he would have to do, yet what choice was there? _If I simply let a tribe of Gorgors cross our border, it will make me a traitor._

"You must return where you came from," he told the Gorgor leader flatly, throwing the belt of gold back at him.

He saw the wild man nod briefly and exchange grim looks with those who flanked him from right and left. These looks did not bid well.

A moment later, chaos broke out as the wild men rode headlong into their columns, swords bared. From behind, bows begin to sing their deadly song.

_They stand no chance against us,_ Thadorn told himself as he gave the war cry and rode on, and their bright steel clanged against the wild men's dinted curved swords.

_They stand no chance against us,_ he told himself as shields split and crude helms were knocked off and lethal arrows found their target.

_They stand no chance against us,_ he told himself even as a battle axe swung in a mortal arc which was intended for the back of his neck.

Someone's warning cry made him turn abruptly; one stroke of his greatsword made the attacker lose both the battle axe and his hand. But then something hit him on the side of the head, and all went dark.

When he woke, he was lying on his sleeping furs in his tent, which looked like it was erected rather haphazardly. He felt a little dizzy and weak, and when he reached out with his hand he discovered a nasty, painfully throbbing bruise on the side of his head, but otherwise it appeared he was unhurt. He supposed he ought to consider himself lucky.

The face of one of the Healers loomed above him, looking concerned.

"My Commander," he said, "how are you feeling?"

"The Gorgors," Thadorn replied, "did we drive them off?" _Of course we did, you fool. Otherwise, do you truly think you would be lying here, with your own men about you?_

"Oh yes," said the man, relieved. "The battle did not take a long time. The moment you made their leader drop his battle axe, it was all but won. Many of their men were killed, and those who remained chose to flee back across the border, taking their women and children with them... as they should have done from the first."

"Just so," Thadorn winced as he took a look at his helm, which sat discarded upon the straw mat. A deep dint could be seen in the previously smooth steel, and he marveled at the strength of the blow which left a trace like this. Had it not been for the helm, doubtless his skull would be split open. "And on our side?" he asked the Healer. "Any losses?"

"No one killed," suddenly, the Healer looked nervous. "But several men were wounded, my Commander, and one of them... worse than others."

Driven by a sense of foreboding, Thadorn propped himself up on his elbow, then sat up. "Which man?" he demanded.

"I believe you are acquainted with him personally. It is Torwen Mattar, of Fort Sand... my Commander, I must advise you against what you are doing, it is most unwise – "

For Thadorn, ignoring the dizziness and the throbbing pain in his head, already stood up on his legs, which shook slightly.

"No," he said decisively, "it was unwise of me to pass out. Now take me to Torwen. I must see him at once."

The Healer underestimated, it became clear to him as soon as he entered the tent in which the wounded men were tended and Healers and their helpers moved busily back and forth. Torwen was as good as dead; he saw it in the young man's pale, bloodless face, but when he bowed his head in silent pain and turned to leave, he heard Torwen speak in barely more than a whisper.

"Thadorn," he said, "I need you to send..." he coughed, and his lips reddened with bloody spittle. "Send message," he went on weakly. "In Aldon-Sur... there is someone..."

But who that someone was, Thadorn did not hear, for the effort of speaking exhausted what little was left of Torwen's strength. He closed his eyes and was silent again, drawing shallow breaths with tremendous difficulty. Thadorn felt a gentle hand on his arm. It was another Healer, older and more experienced than the one who tended to him previously.

"He feels no more pain, Commander," the Healer told him. "The Spirit blessed him by choosing to soften his passage into the Land of Dawn."

_Blessed,_ Thadorn repeated to himself bitterly. That is one way to describe the end of a man who held no land, built no house, took no wife, fathered no sons. He wondered who it was in Aldon-Sur that Torwen spoke of, and also about the young man's family. It was never discussed in detail, but Thadorn thought he once heard him mention relatives in Tallbridge Town. He turned away and walked out of the cramped tent, because there was nothing more he could do and he did not wish to disrupt the Healers' work. And with every step he took, he felt more and more that he had put to shame his title as Commander.

_No, it is not true,_ he said to himself firmly. _None of the men who rode out with me were forced to go. They knew they were heading out to war; they knew they might fall sick, be wounded or taken captive or killed. They swore their oath of service willingly._ Yet nothing could assuage the bitter grief he felt for the destiny of Torwen, a boy who died before they even reached their true enemy.

Nicholas seemed close to Torwen lately, he recalled. Perhaps he knew something about the young man's family. More to give himself something to do than for any other reason, Thadorn set out to find the man from the Other world.

He found Nicholas near the cooking fire, gloomily prodding the remains of a hastily thrown and rather unappetizing stew. His left wrist was bandaged.

"Were you wounded?" asked Thadorn. Nicholas looked surprised at being asked.

"No, not really. I made a clumsy move and sprained my wrist; otherwise I came out unscathed. I consider this to be pure beginner's luck."

"Do you wish you had stayed behind now?"

Nicholas shrugged. "Would it have made a difference?" he mused. "You heard what the poor wretch said. _It is coming._ "

Thadorn felt a sickening sensation of dread. "Do you think those words held any... meaning?"

"Don't you?" Nicholas threw back. "Those men were frightened. They were clearly fleeing from something, and perhaps if you sat down to speak with their leader instead of being in such haste to draw swords and bows, you could find out what it was."

Thadorn welcomed the hot upsurge of anger, because it helped to assuage his guilt.

"I had no choice!" he thundered. "They were storming across the border, and I had to stop them. I did warn them, I told them to go back – "

"Perhaps," Nicholas said quietly, "perhaps what they left behind was more frightening than you and your men."

Thadorn looked grim, but said nothing for a moment. Several thoughts stormed through his mind, each more vague than the last, but before he could grasp any of them and put it in words, they were interrupted by the older Healer, who approached with soft steps.

"Commander," he said, "I have come to tell you that the brave lieutenant just passed on. He is now in a place of no pain."

Thadorn gave a curt nod of acknowledgment. "And the others?" he made himself ask.

"They will make full recovery in time, I daresay, although there are two men who will need to be dispatched to South Watch. They will not be able to ride forward."

Thadorn nodded again. "See that it is done, good man," he said. "I thank you for your service."

"I will need to write to the clan of Mattar," he said when he and Nicholas faced each other again. "Tell them that Torwen died bravely, as befits a warrior... that they should be proud. And also – he tried to tell me, but couldn't – he wanted to write to someone in Aldon-Sur. I wish I knew who it was."

"I know," Nicholas said quietly. Thadorn stared at him in surprise.

"You do?"

"Oh yes," he assured, "but I do not believe Torwen would have wanted me to reveal her name."

And having said that, he abandoned his half-empty bowl and walked away without another word.

They would march no longer that day. It would be dedicated to rest and tending to the wounded. Yet when Thadorn announced that, Akira still found reason to complain.

"Rest, yes," he said with a bitter laugh, "if one can rest with that beastly storm coming at us."

"Storm?" Thadorn frowned. "What are you talking about, Akira? The air is still, and I see no cloud in the sky."

"Have you looked west, Commander? Do you not see that line of black storm clouds on the horizon?"

Thadorn looked west. Akira was right. It seemed that a host of thick black clouds was advancing rapidly towards them. Still, there was nothing they could do; trying to evade the storm would only exhaust their remaining strength, and bring them even further from their destination.

"We will stay," he declared. "The storm might miss us, and if it doesn't, pull out the oiled hides and put them over the tents. That should stop the worst of the rain and hail."

Nicholas squinted, looked west as well, and paled.

"Are you blind?" he said quietly.

Thadorn's head snapped in his direction. "What?"

"Look carefully, Commander. These are no clouds."

With a sinking feeling in his stomach, afraid to look again, Thadorn asked, "What is it, then?"

"The Shadow."

The king was furious.

His face was pale, his lips bloodless, his hands, which grasped the handles of the throne, white in the knuckles. His eyes sparkled with rage and his chest heaved up and down as he spoke.

"I want them caught," he proclaimed. "All of them. I want them captured and executed in front of everyone, and I'll have no proper burial for them, either. They will be given to feral dogs and carrion crows. Do you hear me?"

"I do, Your Grace," Dankar said, "yet may I point out that getting hold of them might not be easy."

Adrik let out an almost imperceptible snort. "Not easy? Almost impossible, I would say. A river of blood was spilled in just one day, and no one saw anything."

"Nothing but a message, noble Adrik," the king corrected him in a somber voice. "The same message up and down the country, in the north and south, east and west, in towns and villages, wherever my loyal men were slaughtered: _Servants of the Shadow,_ written in blood. Or at least, this is what your lieutenants would have you believe... I, on the other hand, think that some men, at least, are bribed or threatened, rather than merely blind."

"There is a pattern, of course," Adrik said ponderously. "All the murdered men were those who showed undisputed loyalty to the throne... even if they were no longer directly involved in matters of the court."

"Yes," King Alvadon nodded gravely, "like the good man Derrien Mokkar. An old man he was, one who had given a long and leal service, and now liked the quiet life of retirement. He did not deserve to die in a bath of blood. I want his murderers punished."

"There is talk of... sorcery," Adrik ventured cautiously.

"These are old wives' tales," Dankar contradicted him calmly. "Derrien Mokkar was my wife's uncle, and I was one of the first to be summoned when the body was found. He was killed by steel, not sorcery."

"It matters not," the king said abruptly. "It makes no difference, whether those who conspire in the Emerald Mountains are warlocks and witches or not. People believe in the power they possess; thus, it exists in the minds of men, and that is what makes it real for all intents and purposes."

"If only we could figure out," Adrik said plaintively, "what they meant to achieve by these murders – "

"To me, it is clear enough," said King Alvadon. "They want to disrupt life in every place in Tilir. They mean to undermine my authority, to show that I am incapable of defending those who are loyal to me, to tell in the most blatant terms that it doesn't pay off to be the king's men," his hands curled into fists; his eyes shot daggers. "But they are mistaken, oh yes. By the Great Spirit I swear, I will make them see their mistake soon enough."

Later Adrik was dismissed, and Dankar expected the same; he was surprised when the king asked him to remain behind and sent the servants away after the wine was poured. He had never been one on one with King Alvadon before.

Minutes passed, however, and the king acted for all the world as if he were alone in the chamber. He sat pondering, his brows knitted together, his eyes staring into the fire that danced in the polished grate. Once in a while, he took a sip of wine, and Dankar did likewise, waiting.

Finally, the king looked up at him.

"What do you think?"

Dankar put on a look of polite puzzlement. "I wish I had any advice to give you, Your Grace, but what can I add to your wise words? Yes, the culprits must be punished; only their deaths will atone for the murder of all those good men."

King Alvadon looked faintly displeased. The crease on his brow deepened. "Many things are told about you, Dankar Gindur," he said, "and half of them are too despicable to be repeated."

Dankar couldn't suppress a smirk. "Indeed. Just as we were waiting for audience, a certain honorable man struck a conversation with me and attempted to find out whether it is true that I can read the minds of snakes... no doubt next he would have asked me whether I can turn into one."

The king turned his empty goblet absent-mindedly. "Yes, many things are told of you," he repeated, "but even if I might believe some of them, I do not doubt your loyalty. I wanted you to know that."

Dankar inclined his head politely. "Thank you, Your Grace. I am greatly honored – "

"You were the first these Servants of the Shadow came after," the king spoke across him. "No message was written in blood that time, but we both know those were the same men. You fought bravely. You nearly died. You are a man of worth, and I want to know what you truly think."

"What I truly think?" repeated Dankar, taking a deep breath. "In that case, Your Grace, I might humbly suggest that we are about as close to capturing those Servants of the Shadow as we are to bringing the Final Dawn. You can try to trace them down, offer ten thousand crowns for the head of each murderer... but we may as well lay down our swords and spears and embark upon the Quest of the Messenger, for all the good it will do us."

"Thank you, Dankar," said the king wearily. "Like a black cloud this truth has haunted me in all my waking and sleeping hours, but somehow, hearing you say it aloud makes me feel better. Something tells me that the fate of this land will be decided soon, but not here... in the Emerald Mountains. I am useless," he finished bluntly.

"You are the rightful ruler of Tilir," Dankar said diplomatically, "descended in an unbroken male line from King Alvadon the First."

The king gave a smile that seemed a little wary and sad. "Unless a miracle happens," he said, "I will be the last link of that chain."

"You must not despair, Your Grace," Dankar told him, "there are ways – "

"My queen has the purest soul and the tenderest heart of all women," said the king solemnly. "She was willing to sacrifice herself by besmirching her honor in the eyes of all and going to live the rest of her life in exile and penance, shamefaced. This, she said, was the only way to give me freedom and the chance to beget trueborn sons, and she was ready to do it for me, because she loves me with all her heart. But I could never do that. Neither could I bring myself to sire a bastard and legitimize him later, making him my heir. Something tells me no good would grow out of secrecy and shame."

"You are wise, Your Grace," said Dankar, "especially remembering that a bastard's claim to a throne is always dubious at best. Tilir never had a bastard king, and the noble clans would find such a liege disgraceful. And pardon me for saying so, Your Grace... but it appears to me we have far more pressing matters to solve."

"You are right," the king said resolutely, "you are right. Shadows and sorcery or steel and poison, we must be prepared for whatever is to come. And it is a comfort to know that I shall have you by my side, Dankar. I am glad to see you so well recovered, because otherwise, the task I have for you would not have been possible. From this day forward, you will occupy a seat on my Council."

Dankar was taken aback. "I am honored beyond words, Your Grace," he began cautiously, "but I strongly doubt whether I am fit – "

The king looked displeased by his lack of enthusiasm. "Fit for what?" he demanded.

For the daily tedium of council work, for reading petitions and endless sessions, for exchanging pleasantries with boring greybeards, for the begging of favors and for knowing that I am not doing anything truly useful.

"It is too lofty a position for someone like me, Your Grace," he said diplomatically.

"You speak nonsense. You are a Gindur."

"I am, Your Grace. But I do not have a reputation for excelling in the sort of work being on the Council requires. I am more inclined - "

"I could not care less about your reputation," the king was beginning to lose patience, "or your inclinations, for that matter. I say that I require your presence on the Council, and thus, on the Council you shall be."

Dankar recognized a lost battle, and bowed his head in a dignified manner. "I am at your disposal, my king."

When he came home, he encountered a peaceful scene. Kelena was at her needlework by the big oval window in the sitting-room, and little Emmet was playing with wooden blocks at her feet. For half a heartbeat, she did not notice him, and he quietly stood in the doorway, enraptured by the gentleness of her profile, the outline of her lips, both innocent and sensual, the long downcast lashes as she was immersed in her work, the lush waves of golden hair, the delicate fingers that moved deftly, threading the needle... but then a draft of wind from the door made her look in his direction, and her expression instantly changed. She set her embroidery aside on the small working-table and got up, smoothing her skirts, as she faced him.

"My husband," she said.

_Damn you,_ Dankar thought with sudden brutality. _Damn your courtesies and your lies, your beauty and your gentle words, damn it all... and me first of all._

He said nothing of the sort, of course. Instead, he approached her and the boy, and motioned for little Emmet to come to him. His son let go of his toys, somewhat reluctantly, and slowly came forward. Dankar picked him up and inhaled the sweet clean scent of the small boy's hair. He bounced Emmet in his arms, a little awkwardly perhaps, but still Emm laughed – and then he placed his son down on the carpet again, and told him to run and tell the nurse to get him some milk and biscuits. He saw Kelena's eyes following the boy as he disappeared from view, until they were alone together and there was nowhere else for her to look.

"How did your audience go?" she asked him.

"My _private_ audience, you mean," he corrected her with a half-smile. He was somewhat gratified by how her eyes widened slightly as she perceived his words.

"I did not realize it was supposed to be private."

"I did not expect it... no more than I expected to be thrust headlong into the Council."

"The Council?" she repeated. "Do you mean to say that – "

"Yes. Daily attendance will be demanded of me from this day onward," he shrugged. "Not a very thrilling prospect, I admit, but I will try to make the best of it."

The look she gave him was calculating. "You do not sound pleased."

"Why should I be? I am rich, I have a honorable position in society, and there is more than enough to occupy my time. I might consider myself a man of diplomacy, but I am not made for the company of court lickspittles. So why would I want to join the Council?"

"For pride," Kelena said, "for power."

He considered her words for a moment. "Once, it might have gratified my ambition," he said. "Now, though... I have grown older, and perhaps a little less foolish. Other things hold more importance to me now."

She hesitated briefly before asking, "which things?"

He was almost tempted to reach out and touch her, but he knew it was no good. _It will never be any good._

"My freedom," he said instead. "My peace of mind, the ability to say what I think without the fear of having my head roll."

"Not many of us can boast of having all that," Kelena pointed out. It stung more than he meant to allow it.

"But I do," he said, "or at least, did until today. So why would I be willing to give it up?" he let the question hang in the air for a moment or two, then changed the subject. "Have you received no news of your brother yet?"

Kelena shook her head, and a cloud of worry shadowed her face. "None. It is as if the earth opened up and swallowed Kohir." She paused, as if wondering whether she should say more, and finally went on, "Rani came too, asking about him."

"I take it that she hadn't found out anything either?"

"No," Kelena said, "Although she did all that she could... and more than my father did, at any rate."

Her voice was shaking with suppressed anger, and the distress upon her face was so evident Dankar found it hard to go on.

"I do not know whether I should say this at all," he finally said slowly, hesitantly, very much unlike his usual manner, "but the South Watch patrols found a man's body on the outskirts of Everdark Forest. Apparently, he was murdered."

Their eyes met, and Kelena flinched. "You do not mean to say – " she whispered.

"I mean to say nothing, so far," he hastened to add. "He... the body was not in a state that would make immediate recognition possible."

"It was not Kohir," Kelena said firmly. "Kohir had nothing to do in the Everdark Forest. He didn't go there. Why would he, unless – " she stopped, and her eyes widened in horror, and she shook her head, silent. Dankar looked aside, allowing her a moment to compose herself.

"For now, there is no evidence that man was your brother," he told her reassuringly, "chances are, it was just some poor wretch who accidentally – " he stopped himself. He would not talk nonsense; surely no one in his right mind would _accidentally_ wander near Everdark Valley. But what was the unfortunate one looking for, then? "I will make all inquiries," he said firmly, "just in case. So that you can be certain it was not – not your brother."

Chapter 14

Thadorn's mood was blacker than the shadow that hung thick and dark beyond the western border.

"We might as well move on," Nicholas told him, "there is no point in sitting here and staring into the black, is there, Commander?"

He was right. There was nothing they could do; anything west of the old road simply went black... not black as night, or even as the bottom of a deep well, but... black as _nothing_ , the true nothingness that could not be penetrated by light or touch. When Thadorn gritted his teeth and stood on the edge of the old road and stretched his hand beyond, into the blackness, he sensed a barrier that did not let his fingers pass through. In a way he felt relief, but also a creeping fear that stemmed from the consciousness of the power they were facing. He ordered a fire to be lit right next to the shadow's border in the evening, but while the flame leaped and roared and lit everything in a wide semicircle east of it, it seemed to have no effect to the west. It was like a wall – a tall, impenetrable wall of evil black non-substance.

"Do you think there is anything behind it?" Thadorn wondered aloud. "Or does it just go on infinitely?"

"I couldn't tell you," Nicholas said truthfully, "but one thing is certain – this is what those poor refugees were attempting to flee from... until you made them go back."

"Do you have to repeat that?" snapped Thadorn. "I could not know. I was doing my duty as a Commander; if I had simply let a Gorgor clan into Tilir, it would have been a direct violation of my purpose."

"It stopped, though," intervened Akira, who seemed to be omnipresent around the camp. "It stopped at the border of Tilir, and it does us no harm, as far as I can tell – and moreover, it appears that those wretched wild men knew it would be so."

"How, though?" demanded Thadorn. "How could they know what was coming, and what it would do, while we had not the least idea?"

"Perhaps you underestimated their knowledge," suggested Nicholas. "Civilized people have often sinned in this manner towards the so-called primitive tribes." He stopped in time, realizing that another word might goad Thadorn into one of his fits of anger.

"We need to know what is happening in other places," said Akira, who alone of the entire company seemed almost unperturbed. _That is his Kotsar blood,_ Nicholas heard someone whisper, _they never truly gave up on sorcery, those._ "Here this... this _shadow_ , for lack of a better word, crept in from the west. What is going on at the shores, in the east, in the south?"

"We have no way to know that until the runners we dispatched with messages return," Thadorn said curtly. "And even once they do, it cannot be promised that they will find us, for we won't stay here waiting for them."

"Well, in that case, we must go on," Akira said briskly, "and continue sending scouts forward. Any hint would help us decide what path to take, for soon there will be many."

"Yes, Akira, _thank you_ ," said Thadorn in a voice that plainly suggested he would be glad to strangle the Kotsar man. Yet Akira did not seem to take the hint.

"You do know what we are looking for, don't you?" he lowered his voice. "If there was doubt before, it is clearer than ever now. They are practicing sorcery, and quite successfully, it appears, along with your – "

Nicholas cleared his throat almost imperceptibly, but this faint sound went unheard as Thadorn spoke across Akira.

"Our purpose has not changed since the beginning of the march, as far as I can recall," he said. "We are looking for a group of conspirers suspected of rebellion... they must be stopped and interrogated, and even more so if they attempt to use Dark forces."

"Attempt?" Akira gave a hollow laugh, shaking his head. "You do have an admirably steadfast outlook, Thadorn. You don't believe in magic, and you won't believe in it even when it's staring you in the face," he gestured towards the blackness in the west.

"I might believe," Thadorn explained grudgingly. "It does not mean, however, that I want anything to do with it."

Akira shook his head again. "Then you ought to be marching in the opposite direction," he remarked. Having said that, he stalked off, in the direction of a cooking fire where two men were turning a wild rabbit on a spit.

"He does have a point, you know," Nicholas said, watching Akira's receding back. "It is always easier to deal with what we can explain logically, but it appears that in this instance, the rules change."

"The rules disappear," Thadorn corrected him glumly. "I wish I had listened to Jadine more closely when she attempted to describe the effects of this dark spell to me, but I was too angry and fearful... and too intent on tryint to convince her to put it out of her mind. Tell me again, Nicholas. This has happened in your world too, didn't it? There was a Shadow, but it dispersed, isn't that so?"

"It was only a myth... or so I believed," Nicholas said, rather weakly. "I'm afraid I never took it seriously. I thought it was nothing but a tale spread by ignorant people."

"And you underestimated their knowledge," interjected Thadorn with an attempt of a smile.

Nicholas did not have time to think of a proper answer; he was interrupted by one of the soldiers who came up to them. He was a young man, scarcely more than a boy, and again he was reminded with a pang of Torwen, and wondered whether this young one would survive to come home and tell the tale.

"Commander," he said hesitantly, "I am sorry to disturb you, but one of the scouts is back. He is asking for a word with you."

The man came up to them short of breath, the look upon his face grim and excited at once.

"My Commander," he panted. "I found them... or, at least, I am fairly certain I did. There is a path I followed which leads to an old castle... it is supposed to lie in ruins, but certain signs make me see it is not so."

Thadorn nodded. "You will take more men and follow that path."

But Akira was standing behind his shoulder again, holding a roast haunch of rabbit that was dripping grease. "More men? Why not take all our men, Thadorn? We could make an end to this once and for all."

But the Commander shook his head in refusal. "No. I will not have bloodshed if it can be avoided. You will send envoys. Ask... ask Jadine to come to the edge of Everdark Forest," he said, pronouncing the name of his wife with difficulty. "As long as she comes unarmed and does not attempt to thwart us, I give my solemn word that no harm shall come to her at that hour, and that she will be free to go back where she came from... if she so chooses."

A queer chill passed down Nicholas's spine as he reflected on Thadorn's careful choice of words. _No harm shall come to her at that hour. He makes no promises for what will happen later, though._

"This is folly, Thadorn," Akira persisted. "They will be forewarned of our coming."

"They are forewarned anyway," Thadorn said with a mixture of irritation and weariness. "And what are you still doing here, Akira? I thought you were going to sup."

"I am," said Akira, indicating the haunch of rabbit.

"Better eat sitting down, with a mug of good ale," Thadorn suggested in a way that all but spelled _bugger off._

"We don't have any good ale," said Akira, "and even the piss-poor stuff we have been drinking for the past weeks is running low."

Thadorn was the one to walk away this time, rather abruptly, and Nicholas hesitated before following him, as that seemed a dangerous thing to do at the moment – but still he found himself stalking the Commander, lengthening his strides to match his. Thadorn attempted to ignore him for a couple of minutes before turning his head towards him so quickly his neck cricked.

"What?" he snapped, stopping.

Nicholas stopped as well. "What are you trying to do?" he asked.

Thadorn looked ahead of him again, and it was as if he stared into a distant mist. "Make her come to me," he said with an imitation of coolness. "It will be a start."

"And then?" persisted Nicholas.

"If there is still some conscience and goodwill left in her, I will appeal to them. I will try to help her choose the right side."

"Assuming the right side is yours."

The look Thadorn gave him could only be described as menacing. "Assuming the right side is _ours_ ," he corrected. "Or do you believe they are justified in practicing Dark sorcery?"

"I judge no one," Nicholas said cautiously. Thadorn snorted audibly.

"That is a convenient way of saying _I don't give a damn,_ " he said decisively.

Nicholas pondered this for a moment. "It is not..." he struggled with words. "I am seeing things I never thought could exist, and I – but yes, although we didn't actually witness this Shadow _doing_ anything, it feels... wrong. Very wrong."

"So?"

"Can Jadine lift the enchantment on her own?"

"I doubt it. It is unlikely she managed to accomplish something of this magnitude alone."

"But I am certain there are some men among your troops that will say you ought to make her try."

Thadorn frowned. "If... if she doesn't regret," he spoke slowly, "and if she chooses to go back to her – her comrades, I intend to let her. I am a man true to his word."

"I know that," said Nicholas, "and so, no doubt, does she."

They waited for the return of their envoys for three days and three nights, during which they marched at a slow pace in the direction of Everdark Valley, stopping as many times as it were required in order to tend their wounded properly. The food was sparse and the weather dismal, but they encountered no more misfortunes, and those who were hurt in the skirmish with the Gorgors were recovering.

On the third day, Thadorn looked in the direction of Everdark Forest, and his breath caught in his throat as he saw two of the men he sent walking out from beneath the trees and towards the light – and walking between them and slightly ahead of them, proud and tall and with her head held high as if she were a queen, was the one to whom his thoughts turned so often, the one whom he loved and hated with such passion. Like a flame in the dark, she drew all eyes to herself – but many of the men, he noticed, stole furtive looks in his direction, as if to see how he will react. Each one of them knew Jadine was his wife.

The distance between them was now only a few strides, which he covered in a matter of seconds. And once again, after so long, he found himself standing before her. He had pictured this moment in his mind so many times, and had many words, careful and clever and bitter, which he planned to say to her – but just like that, as if in a puff of smoke, it all vanished, and he was once more awash in the glow of her beauty, unable to speak. He paused instead, trying to read the expression of her face. He failed, and this frightened him. He allowed her to speak first instead.

"Thadorn," she said, "you called for me. Here I am."

_Is that all?_ He wanted to shout at her. _Is that all you have to say to the husband you left behind, to the father of the children you abandoned, to the servant of the king you betrayed?_

"I knew you would come," he said solemnly, but her lips curled in a mocking smile that was like a whip.

"You have an admirable sight into the future, then," she said, "because I did not know I would come, myself. I didn't know until the very last moment whether this is wise."

"Yet here you stand," he persisted, "but where are the rest of the men I sent? I only see two."

"The rest are in our stronghold," Jadine told him. "They do not lack for comfort, and will be released soon... as soon as I return."

Thadorn's face darkened with anger. "You kept them as hostages," he said. "There was no need of that."

Jadine shrugged. "It is always good to have a safeguard," she said. "Although, of course, I believe I can flatter myself by saying I am more important than them, so you might still capture me... or try to, at any rate," she finished in a tone that was as lethal as it was quiet.

Thadorn had to resist the powerful urge to shake her by the shoulders. "You ought to know me better than that," he said. "I said you will be able to return, and so you shall... if you persist in this folly. I hope that you do not, though."

Jadine looked around her, then back at him. "Is there a place where we can speak privately?"

Thadorn led her to his tent and closed the flap behind her. She looked around with a shrug. "This will have to do," she said, "although there are still ears all around, of course."

"I have no secrets to keep from my men."

"But _I_ might have a thing or two to keep from your men," she said pointedly, then remained silent for a long moment. Her next phrase startled him, for the smooth calm tone of her voice was lost. Instead, oddly, she sounded hoarse and gentle at once as she asked, "how are the children?"

Thadorn felt something inside him tighten. "Do you truly want to know?" he demanded. Her eyes remained wide-open, questioning. "Datrine still asks about you all the time, and Kor... he doesn't speak of you any more, but I see how he sometimes stops in the middle of his play and stares wide-eyed into space, then shakes his head. He thinks of you, and he grieves. The only one untroubled is Tari, who no longer has memories of you."

This last remark of his made her flinch, yet she kept her voice steady. "I expected this. They cannot understand."

"Neither can I," he said abruptly, his anger rising and bubbling inside him once more. "Neither can I, Jadine. Why did you leave? What for? What do you intend to do?"

"What must be done," she said quietly, almost sadly. "I think you already saw part of it, Thadorn."

"I saw an evil thing," he said, "in which I hoped against hope that you took no part."

"You need not fear the Shadow," she told him almost gently. "Only fools and children see evil spirits in the dark. Dark may be a blanket, covering and sheltering one at a time of need."

"A blanket can be cast aside," he said. "Is the same true of the Shadow you brought upon the borders of Tilir? Is it, Jadine?"

She said nothing, and her eyes were downcast.

"You don't even know, do you?" he shot at her. Then he did something he would regret for years to come. The anger, the frustration, the loneliness and hurt pride and shame all came onto him at once, and he was powerless before them. Possessed by a sudden madness, he lunged at her and brutally seized her by the wrists, pulling her closer so that her face was inches from his. "You asked about the children. What about me? What about _me_ , Jadine? Do you not care a whiff about the man who was bound to you by the Spirit and the laws of men?"

She flinched, trying to pull away from him, but he was stronger. "You are hurting me," she told him through clenched teeth.

"That was my intention," he growled, twisting a fragile wrist, but suddenly her skin felt red-hot to the touch, and he instantly let go. Jadine went to the opposite side of the tent and stood there facing him, furious, cradling her wrist on which scarlet bruise marks were already blossoming. Even though he let go of her, Thadorn's fingertips still burned, and when he looked down at them he saw that his skin was red and hot and beginning to blister.

"You have always been a brute," Jadine said dispassionately, eyeing him with an expression he could only describe as detached fascination. "But even you must see, surely, that I have learned a thing or two."

Thadorn laughed hollowly, doing his best to ignore the searing pain in his fingers. "Such things indeed," he nodded. "Tell me, then, Jadine. Was it worth it? Are you happy for having abandoned your family to practice dark magic in a ruined castle? Are you proud?"

"This is neither about my happiness nor my pride," she replied. "There are a few who have been singled by the Gift, and I am one of them. But since you ask... yes, I am proud. I am proud of what we have accomplished. Our work is not complete, and yet the western border, at least, is closed to all threats that might have come through it."

"Yes, such as bands of ragged, underfed men and women on starving horses," said Thadorn forcefully. "What happened to them, pray tell? What happened to the men and women who are now within the borders of the so-called Shadow?"

For the first time, Jadine looked uneasy. "The Shadow does not reveal its secrets to each and every one," she said loftily, but Thadorn sensed her uncertainty, and pressed his advantage.

"You do not know, do you? Jadine," he did not dare to allow his voice to soften, for fear it should break, "I will be the last to deny that Tilir is facing grave dangers... and the people you have associated yourself with are one of them. I beg you, let those who rule resolve what must be resolved. You have other things waiting for you. There are children who need a mother, a home that is empty without a wife... and there is me. I am empty too, Jadine. My heart is empty, and my arms and my bed... you look uncomfortable. Did you doubt it would be so when you went?"

Slowly, she shook her head. "I was never made for this kind of life, Thadorn," she said. "I tried to tell you this once upon a time, but you wouldn't listen. Perhaps I should have insisted that you do."

He took a step towards her. "Do you regret having married me?" he asked. She hesitated.

"If I had to marry someone, I know it couldn't be anyone but you," she finally said. "I know it," she repeated.

"I know it, too," he echoed. "I am your husband, Jadine, and I am telling you that you will not go back. I will leave the command to Akira and take you home to Rhasket and smooth things over, and we shall try to forget all that had been." Another step, and another, and he was quite close to her, and her hands were in his, and this time his touch was gentle, and he felt her fingers run through his hair, over his face. He caught them and kissed them with a delicacy that was meant to make up for his fury of a few minutes before. He pulled her towards him and she leaned into him, kissing him, his face, his lips, his neck, running her hands down his shoulders, across his chest... but not even the ecstasy of holding her in his arms once again, not even the heat of her breath and her kisses and her body pressed close, were enough to drown the words she whispered in his ear.

"I cannot go with you, Thadorn. Not now. There are still things that I must do here... and you will understand in time, I swear it. I must go back."

Abruptly, he pulled himself away, away from her treacherous touch, and stared at her face as if he saw it for the first time. "You will not. I forbid it."

"You solemnly swore you would not detain me if I came to parley," Jadine reminded him.

"So I did, as a Commander. But I am also your husband, and I say that you will not go."

And again there was this look she gave him, a look that was almost sad, but also defiant. "I never swore I would obey you, Thadorn," she reminded him while she smoothly rearranged her dress and wrapped her cloak around her. He was numb as he watched her proceed towards the entrance of the tent.

"Jadine," he called, "wait."

She turned around.

"You might walk out now," he said, speaking with difficulty, "but you must be aware that we will meet again – very soon."

She nodded, resigned. "If it must be so," she said. Once more, her hand reached for the flap of the tent. Already she set it aside, and a gust of cold air filtered in. Thadorn's burned hand throbbed.

"Jadine," he called again, "did you ever love me?"

But she was already outside. It took him a few moments to gather his senses and step out after her, and when he did, she was already getting close to the edge of the forest. He filled his lungs with air. "You will regret this," he promised her, not sure whether she can still hear him.

She turned her head slowly, almost lazily. "Not as much as you will, Thadorn."

"So, all in all, it wasn't a smashing success," said Akira, sauntering forward. Thadorn gave him a withering look and said nothing.

"I believe no commentary is needed," Nicholas put in, but Akira had the unpleasant habit of saying whatever wandered into his mind.

"Well, to be truthful, I don't know what you expected, Thadorn. The Kotsar are stubborn; once they vouch for a cause, they go with it until the very end."

"The end which is very near," spat Thadorn, whipping towards his wife's kinsman. "But since you say it so admiringly, Akira, why don't you go and share their fate? Hurry, and I believe you can still catch up with Jadine if that is your wish."

"Now, Thadorn," Akira's voice rose threateningly. "You aren't being fair to me. Have I ever given you reason to question my loyalty? We are on the same side, you and me, and as it happens, I believe Jadine is more than half mad – but you surely cannot deny she has style."

"I wouldn't put it that way," said Thadorn through gritted teeth.

"Have you decided what you are going to do next?" asked Nicholas.

"Well, it's obvious, isn't it?" Akira put himself forward again. "We have only two possible choices. Either we retreat, or we storm their castle... and since the first possibility only counts for traitors and cowards, it is clear what we must do," he finished, then looked up at the Commander expectantly.

"I do not recall passing the command to you, Akira," Thadorn said sourly.

"Of course," Akira said quickly, with an apologetic smile that was more annoying than any open taunt. "I eagerly wait to hear your wise decision, my Commander."

"There is at least one option you didn't mention," said Thadorn, "a siege."

"A siege?" Akira sounded incredulous. "What good would that be? As far as we know, their castle is half-crumbling. Its defenses cannot be very strong, and their armed forces are small at best. To take it quickly and with as few losses as possible, we would do best to storm it at once. A siege, on the other hand... they might have few people, but be well-provisioned – in such a case, a siege might take months, and winter is coming. Besides, arrange your troops around their strongholds, and you give them an opportunity to practice on you every bit of foul sorcery they know."

"I do not fear sorcery," growled Thadorn.

"Then, my Commander, you are either a liar or a fool," said Akira, smiling pleasantly, "for we already saw what the warlocks are capable of. The king fears sorcery, too – if he did not, why would he send you here?"

Thadorn gave it a moment's consideration. "You are right, Akira," he admitted reluctantly. "It will be better to end it once and for all. We will march upon the morrow, and may the Spirit help us do what must be done."

Akira nodded, satisfied. "You can count on me to help you assemble the troops, Commander," he said. "You can put your trust – "

But he had no chance to finish his phrase, because a soldier came up to them, looking anxious. He was followed by a small, portly man who was wearing a long patched cloak and a serene expression of mild politeness. Thadorn was quite certain he had never seen him before.

"Commander," said the soldier, somewhat hesitantly. "This one here just came up, asking for a word with you."

Thadorn turned towards the stranger with a frown of deep suspicion. "Who are you?" he demanded.

"My name is Vyolen," said the man pleasantly. "It doesn't tell you much, I know – but more importantly, I am someone who cares."

"Cares for what?" interjected Akira, quick as a whip.

"For peace. For justice. For the fate of innocents."

"Let us have a word together, then," said Thadorn, gesturing forward. "In my tent, if you please. You stay here, Akira," he snapped at the man who made to follow him. All of a sudden, the stranger who called himself Vyolen turned around.

"I believe it would be best if he comes as well," he said, fixing Nicholas with a beady stare.

"Me?" said Nicholas, confused.

"Why, of course. My senses are seldom deceived. You are a man from the-world-beyond."

"Who are you?" Thadorn repeated once the three of them were inside the Commander's tent. _He came not an hour after Jadine left. This cannot be a coincidence._ Before Vyolen had the chance to speak, he shot another question. "Are you one of them?"

"Them?" the man raised his eyebrows. "Oh, I believe I understand whom you refer to. Yes, you could say that I am one of them, in a way," he concluded. Thadorn stared at him, puzzled.

"What are you doing here, then?" he asked.

"Allow me to explain myself. When I say _one of them_ , I mean that I, too, were marked with certain... special abilities that I have cultivated for many a year, reaching a level of capability which makes me, if I may say so myself, the only authority in certain obscure matters."

"In other words, you are a warlock," said Thadorn.

"If you wish to put it that way, yes. More than that, I can understand the ones you stand against. Some of them – not all, mind you – have noble motives. They want to see the Rebirth of the Spirit, the Dominion of Tilir, the Coming of the Messenger... but alas, their lust for power blinds them, making them unable to see that they cannot succeed."

"Well, if they cannot succeed, we might as well pack up and go back north," Thadorn said sarcastically.

"They cannot make the long night end before its time and bring the dawn," Vyolen said patiently, as if explaining a simple truth to an obstinate child, "but they can cause chaos and devastation. The blood they spill will be the blood of death, not birth, but they refuse to see it."

"You seem to know them well," Thadorn observed.

The little man sighed. "I will not deny that I have been in contact with them," he said, "nor that they tried to recruit me. I refused, however."

"How would you prove that?" demanded Thadorn. "For all I know, you could be their spy."

"I do not ask you to tell me secrets," said Vyolen. "I only wish you to listen to my warning. I know Jadine was here not long ago, and I know she is your wife. Now that I have met you I can tell you I am truly sorry for what she has become."

Thadorn paled. "How... how you..." he stammered. Vyolen shook his head and continued to speak.

"You intend to go against them in open battle." It was a statement, not a question.

"I never said that," Thadorn told him.

"You do not need to. What else could you intend to do, a brave man of decisive action? But you must know, young one, that against them it will not serve... or rather, it will not be enough."

"What will be enough, then?" asked Thadorn. Instead of answering, Vyolen looked directly at Nicholas.

"You and I must talk," he said.

"Of what?" Nicholas said warily. "I do not know you."

"I do not know you either," said Vyolen, "but I know that the link between the two worlds never occurs by chance. If you please, there is something I want to show you... in my home. Will you come with me?"

"He goes nowhere alone," Thadorn interrupted rather rudely. "This man is under my protection, and I will not permit that any harm should come to him."

"What an admirable sentiment," quipped Nicholas.

Vyolen spread his arms in a gesture of surrender. "I might be a sorcerer," he said, "but I am also an unarmed man who lives by himself in a place of quiet retirement. You may send an escort with him, of course, but don't you think that if I were an enemy I would be aiming first of all for _you_ , Commander?"

"Will you go?" Thadorn asked Nicholas.

He shrugged. "There is nothing to lose," he said.

"Very well. I will send two men along with you."

Vyolen looked rather amused. "Would two men be enough against the sort of power you believe I have?"

Thadorn was unconvinced. "It will be this way, or not at all," he proclaimed.

On the way to his solitary home, Vyolen was unusually silent. He did not appear tense, or mysterious, or even very interesting, though; for all Nicholas could see, he was simply a middle-aged man who values his privacy and looks forward to returning to the quiet of his humble retreat.

They were welcomed by the bleating of goats and the wind blowing through the pines. Vyolen took a large key out of his robes and opened the door. Moving with surprising quickness, he arranged on the table a loaf of bread, a small wheel of cheese, a knife, a jug of ale and a couple of mugs.

"Stay here," he told the soldiers. "Eat and drink. I hope you will not become too bored by the time we return."

"But..." Nicholas looked around in confusion. "I thought we were going here."

"We were," confirmed Vyolen.

"Well, then..?"

"This way," the sorcerer gestured towards a door at the back.

Down and down the slippery stone steps they went, down and down and down, and the air was getting steadily colder around them, until it stung Nicholas's face – and then the sorcerer Vyolen lifted the torch he was holding in one hand, and a circle of light illuminated the surroundings, and Nicholas gasped.

They were standing in a wide and circular underground grotto, and the red flickering light of the torch was reflected off the surface of a very still black lake.

"What is this place?" asked Nicholas, trying and failing to keep awe out of his voice. Vyolen noticed that, and offered him a half-smile.

"Many names it has had over the years," he told. "Some have called it the Womb, some dubbed it The Sanctuary... and other names there are, more than I know myself. I am honored to be its guardian, and to dwell in my humble home right above it. Consider it a great privilege to be allowed a glimpse of it."

"I am thrilled," Nicholas said with an attempt of his usual dry manner. "But what am I to do, now that I am here?"

"Undress," said Vyolen. Nicholas blinked.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Just what you heard. Take off your clothes and get in the water."

Despite the cold, which made his skin erupt in goosepimples, it did not occur to Nicholas to protest. He began peeling off the clothes he had been given in Tilir – his cloak and his boots, his belt and breeches and tunic, until he stood naked in front of the black water, and probed it with his toe.

"It's cold," he complained, thinking to himself he sounded like a child. _Did I expect it to be warm?_ Vyolen did not offer an answer and so, after taking a deep breath, he resolutely began striding into the water. It came up to his navel, then up to his chest, then his shoulders, and yet the sorcerer's silence plainly hinted that this isn't enough. He was shivering violently by that time, but nevertheless it was clear to him what he had to do. He filled his air with lungs and plunged his head through the cold black rippling surface of the lake.

And then he had an image, so unexpected he could hardly refrain from gasping. He managed to bring himself to senses in the last second – he did not fancy a foolish death by drowning.

Yet what he saw was unmistakably death. His own death.

He was looking from above, from very far above, and the unusual, unnatural clearness of his sight left no doubt that it is his own body he is looking down on – pale and still and peaceful and cold, curled up as if he were sleeping and covered in the morning dew.

He was right where he came from, in the middle of the Stone Circle.

Someone was stepping lightly, quickly towards him. A woman. He knew he recognized her, yet... and then his memory stirred, suddenly very much alive. Of course! This was her, Cathy, and with her she brought all that could have been, and now would never be. When she saw him, she slowed her step and very gently, as if not to wake him, lowered herself onto her knees by his side. Her hand reached out and brushed away the black hair from his brow.

"Nicholas," she said softly, "I knew I would find you here."

He was running out of air. He raised his head above the surface of the water and took deep breaths, panting, gasping, willing himself to forget what he just saw, and yet involuntarily clinging to every detail, wondering whether he witnessed the future or just some remote possibility.

Not giving himself time to consider this, he began wadding back towards the shore. His skin was wet and clammy, and it was unpleasant to pull his clothes back on, yet he was too cold to allow himself the time to dry properly. He had to get dressed, and he had to turn his back on the lake, for if he did that, he would forget – and yet he knew he couldn't.

Vyolen was looking at him with something that was very much like compassionate understanding, yet instead of appreciating it, Nicholas felt a prickle of anger.

"Did you see what I saw?" he asked abruptly.

The warlock shook his head. "The images of the black water are beheld by no more than one," he said solemnly.

Nicholas pondered this for a moment or two. "Will it come true?" he asked. "What I saw?"

"That, I think," said Vyolen, "will be for you to decide."

"For me?" he asked with a dreadful sinking feeling.

"Just so."

There was a short silence, during which he squeezed out some drops of water from his black hair, which he didn't cut since arriving in Tilir.

"Do you know that you wouldn't have come here without a purpose?" asked Vyolen.

"Is that truly so?" Nicholas asked doubtfully.

"Of course. Every life has a purpose. Although in some instances," the warlock paused, hesitated, "the most important part of one's life is one's death."

Nicholas shivered, but not from cold. _The most important part of one's life is one's death._ Was it so? _He is lying, lying,_ he thought. _He knows what I saw, he saw it too, or perhaps he made me see it – and who knows why._

"If I didn't know I still have many years left on this earth," Vyolen went on, "I would think that my purpose is to die in the upcoming battle, aiding this brave lad Thadorn. It isn't so, however. Others, I fear, might have to give up their lives instead."

"Such as me?" demanded Nicholas.

"That is not for me to say," the warock said mildly.

"And if I refuse?"

"My good man," Vyolen said, gently touching his hand. "I am not the one to tell you which choice is right, and which is wrong. I am only here to teach you that the choice is yours."

When Nicholas approached the camp again, he was so deep in thought that at first he didn't even understand where he is going. Only when he saw Akira's pert and curious expression, and by contrast Thadorn's somber frown, did he compose himself and mutter the expected greetings.

"Well?" Thadorn prompted him impatiently. "What was it all about? What did he show you?"

"Nothing very crucial," said Nicholas. "We sat talking for a long time. He has some extraordinary scrolls, a few of which he deciphered for me." It was not a lie, and he saw no reason to tell them more. _It will hardly raise their morale if I tell that I stepped into a cold lake and saw myself lying dead upon the ground. The last thing I need is to be seen as a lunatic._

"What was written in the scrolls?" asked Akira.

"Some things about the Paths of the Shadow," said Nicholas. "Apparently, centuries ago there were warlocks who tried to practice just what we are facing now. Some of their writings survived, and I can only presume that is where today's fellowship of sorcerers got their ideas from."

"Those writings should have been burned," grumbled Thadorn.

"Perhaps. But who knows what other dark knowledge could have come up in their stead?"

"This is cheap word-bandying," scoffed the Commander.

"At any rate, what I read suggested that we fight fire with fire."

"I do not understand," Thadorn was frowning again.

"Do you mean that we should practice magic as well?" Akira was quicker to grasp the concept.

"Not quite. But it seems that the..." Nicholas cleared his throat. "The Spirit, as you call it, might appreciate a sacrifice."

"A sacrifice?" repeated Thadorn. "Sacrifices are not made for the Spirit. That is done by wild people, those who worship the dark demons of sand and sea and stone. When King Alvadon, First of His Name, united the land of Tilir under his rule, some parts of the country were overrun by savages who practiced the darkest rituals one might conjure in his imagination. Our noble king gave them the choice – give up on their savage customs or leave, and most chose to cross the borders of Tilir. There they have remained ever since, unwilling to change their vile traditions. They give their own children to their dark gods, and bathe in blood in the hopes of acquiring – "

"No, no, no," Nicholas hastened to make his point clear. "I mean nothing of the sort. Nothing as crude as blood sacrifice."

"Well, then, why don't you explain," Akira said condescendingly. Nicholas shot him a dirty glance. Then he looked around him. Some of the soldiers were eyeing them furtively, no doubt attracted by Thadorn's discourse on blood sacrifice.

"I think we had better talk in private," he said, cautiously lowering his voice.

"In my tent, then," said Thadorn.

"Or you could use mine," volunteered Akira all of a sudden. "You might despise me for not mentioning it sooner, but I still have a skin of wine that doesn't taste like piss."

"You sly bastard, Akira," said Thadorn as soon as the three of them were gathered in Akira's tent, which was slightly smaller than that of the Commander, but also advantageously less drafty. "All these weeks you go on complaining about the quality of drink, and here you have wine that must have cost a small fortune."

"Men have been killed for less," Akira nodded sagely, and laughed. "Drink up, Thadorn. The occasion merits it. This is the first time I hear from you anything even remotely resembling wit."

"Before we begin," said Nicholas in a voice that made both men push their cups aside and look up at him in tense expectation, "I must pass on a message from Vyolen. Kohir Kotsar is dead."

Akira swore dirtily. Thadorn was still as a stone, the expression of his face unmoved, but Nicholas could sense he was deeply disturbed. "Is this certain?" he asked eventually, after a long silence.

"I fear that it is," said Nicholas. "We suspected it, didn't we?"

"Yes, but there was hope," said Akira. "He was my kinsman. A good, brave man. A little foolish, to be sure, but – "

"How did he die?" asked Thadorn.

"Does it matter?" snapped Akira.

"I fear that it does," said Nicholas. "His body was found by forces of the South Watch, but they were perplexed as to what caused his death. Quite simply, he seemed unscathed."

"Servants of the Shadow," Akira said gravely.

"Masters of the Shadow, more likely," Thadorn corrected him. And then he added, looking as if he would have given anything not to say these words, "Jadine knows. She must have known even as she sat here, talking to me. She might even have done it herself."

"Her own brother?" Nicholas said in disbelief. Akira shook his head.

"The Kotsar will never go against one another," he proclaimed.

"She turned her back on me and on her own children, blood of her blood," Thadorn said gravely. "Why not her kin?"

"Rohir will be heartbroken," Akira said, staring into space.

"Rohir Kotsar does not have a heart," Thadorn replied harshly.

"You do not know him. You do not know us. I doubt you even ever truly knew Jadine."

"That much is true," Thadorn told, raising his voice just a notch. "She was always what she is now – arrogant, vain, proud, selfish. Yet I was blind to it, or perhaps I chose to be blind. But now that is at an end."

"Much more than your marriage might be at an end," Akira reminded him. "We are facing a battle, and the outcome is all but certain."

But then Thadorn said something utterly unexpected.

"There will be no battle," he told them in a tone that suffered no objections.

"What?" Nicholas stared up, startled. Akira was looking just as confused as he felt.

"I thought we decided – " he began, but Thadorn raised a mighty hand, silencing him.

" _We_ decided nothing. I am the Commander here, and I say that there will be no battle."

"What do you intend to do, then? Wave some green branches at them as a sign of peace?" Akira suggested ironically.

"I intend to send them a challenge for single combat," said Thadorn.

"But – " Akira tried to put in, yet Thadorn wouldn't let him speak.

"There had been enough bloodshed already. It will be better to end it this way, once and for all. Me against..." he stopped, realizing he can supply no name.

"Go on," Akira prompted him. "You against whom? You have not the remotest idea as to whom they can send."

"Whomever they choose," said Thadorn decisively, "it is all the same to me."

"Are you sure?" Akira raised his eyebrows. "They are warlocks, not warriors. They might send someone who will kill you with a whispered word, like they did to Kohir."

"Better just me than all of us, then," said Thadorn. "If I die, my death shall serve as a warning. If I win, though..."

"Even if they accept your offer, and even if you win, who can promise that they will stay true to their word? For all you know, the death of their champion might serve as a warning to _them_... a warning to strike in other ways."

"They want to rule. To do that, they must win the people... and to win the people, they must fight with at least some measure of honor."

"Honor," Akira repeated, smiling twistedly and shaking his head. "You really are hopeless, Thadorn. Well, as you said, you are the Commander. So go on, send them your offer, fight and die."

"I will send for a messenger straight away," said Thadorn. "No, two messengers," he corrected himself. "One will go south, to send my word to the warlocks... and another to Rhasket-Tharsanae, to bring the dark news to your clan, Akira. I might not be very fond of Rohir and Hinassi, but they deserve to know the truth... and so does Kelena, my good-sister. She is as fine a woman as ever lived."

"You know," Nicholas said after a brief moment of hesitation. "I hate to say this, but Akira is right. You might die."

"I will die one day, as all men do," said Thadorn. "Tomorrow, maybe, or in fifty years. It is not the time of my death that matters, but the purpose." And once again, Nicholas heard the words that chilled him to the bone. _The most important part of one's life is one's death._

Lafgar crushed the letter in his hand. "What does this signify?" he demanded of Jadine. "Is this some sort of trick?"

She shook her head. "When it comes to Thadorn, you need not look for hidden traps. His style is different."

"In that case, he must be either very brave or very stupid."

"He is both."

Lafgar looked at her intently. "Do you have regrets?"

"Never," Jadine said curtly. "That is not _my_ style."

"Very well, then. You know the man. What do you say we should do with his offer?"

"Accept it, of course. Dispose of him, and his troops will scatter in disarray. That will buy us enough time to see our work through."

And again he looked at her, silent, studying. "Dispose of him, you say. So easily you utter these words... and yet he is the father of your children. Will you not grieve for him if he dies?"

Jadine met his eyes bravely. "I will grieve for my husband," she said, "and rejoice for our cause."

"Very well, then. I shall call Garon."

The huge fearsome warrior arrived in his usual attire of dinted mail and boiled leather, the visor of his helm lowered as was his custom.

"What is the matter, Lafgar?" he asked.

"Here," Lafgar smoothed out the letter and laid it back on the table. "The leader of the king's troops challenges us to single combat."

"Whom of us?" asked Garon.

"Anyone we choose."

"What is the man like?"

"As tall as you, and maybe wider in the shoulders, a bloodthirsty warrior and a fearless leader."

"Sounds like a task for me," said Garon with a short laugh that sounded like a bark.

"Are you certain?" Lafgar asked him. "Not many men in Tilir would be willing to cross swords with Thadorn Tionae."

"No doubt about it. But when he looks at me, he will think he sees someone like himself... a seasoned warrior, a skilled swordsman perhaps. He will not know that there is more... oh, so much more.

Chapter 15

Kelena looked at the flower arrangements that stood upon the elaborately curved, scrupulously polished side table. A few of the stems looked droopy, the petals dry as thirsty lips. She reached out to pull away the flowers offending the general harmony of the arrangement, but stopped, seized by a sudden pity for the withering blooms. _They have been plucked to grace my rooms, and now that they are beginning to lose their freshness and beauty, am I supposed to throw them away? Let them live what little life is left to them._

There was a knock on the door. She recognized her husband's steps. She couldn't tell why her heart stirred ominously, then began to beat furiously, so that she heard the pounding of blood in her ears. _Thump, thump, thump_ it went. Kelena hastened to her sitting cushions and pulled the forgotten embroidery into her lap. Only then did she call out,

"Come in," she said serenely, and lifted her head slowly, for all the world as if she were immersed in her work until moments before he came.

But the look upon Dankar's face made her instantly drop the needle and silken thread, blanch and stand up.

"What is it?" she whispered. "Oh, do not be silent, tell me at once."

Dankar lowered his eyes. "Kelena – " he began.

"There is no need to prepare me. My own thoughts have prepared me for the worst, haunting me in the black of night. O Great Spirit, just _speak_. Is it Kohir?"

He bowed his head, and in the terrible silence Kelena's arms went around herself and she stood there, shivering, ensconced in her grief as if in a shell. "Kohir," she whispered. "I... go on. I want to know all. Where was he found?"

"On the border of Everdark Valley," said Dankar. "But I have not yet told you the worst."

"You have just told me that my brother is dead," she whispered, "what could be worse?"

"He was murdered, but... it appears something dark and sinister was involved, and I think we all understand whom he seeked in the Everdark Forest."

"Jadine," said Kelena. "Yes, but you could not mean... no, I will never believe she had anything to do with – he was her own brother, she had always been close to Kohir, she would never – "

"As to that, I value your judgement more than my own," said Dankar humbly. "Yet the rumours spread around like black crows, and I thought you must be prepared for the ugliness of what you might hear when we head to Rhasket-Tharsanae for the funeral."

Kelena nodded vaguely, still hardly comprehending the enormity of what happened. "And Thadorn?" she suddenly remembered. "Has there been any word of him?"

"Yes," said Dankar, and she could hear the relief in his voice. "I am glad to tell you that your good-brother is alive and well, as is Akira and most of the soldiers who went with Thadorn."

Kelena's heart stopped beating, replaced by a cold black chasm that opened all of a sudden. "Most?" she repeated quietly.

"There was some sort of skirmish with the wild tribes on the border, apparently," said Dankar. "A trivial incident in itself, but unfortunately, it resulted in bloodshed, and I was grieved to hear of the death of someone I knew and liked well."

The word she sought was short, but Kelena's bloodless lips could barely form it. "Who?"

Dankar hesitated for the briefest moment. "You will recall him, I am sure. Torwen Mattar, that brave and honest young lieutenant. A great pity, to be sure, but you need not distress yourself at the moment – "

And then all went black.

When Kelena woke, she was lying in her bed, wearing her nightdress. The curtains were drawn, dispersing the sunlight and making it look dim. A pitcher of water and a drinking cup stood by her side, and Dankar sat opposite her, the look upon his face grave and grim and satisfied and angry and pitying all at once.

"I understand," he said when he realized she was awake and looking at him, disinterestedly, not waiting for him to speak because there was nothing he could say that would comfort or bestir or frighten her. "It was him after all. What a blind fool I was. I ought to have seen it a long time ago."

She averted her face. She wished she had never met Torwen. She wished she had run away with him when he suggested that. She wished his seed had quickened in her womb on the last time they were together, so that at least she would hold a child that is her and him, together, blended into one... a child that will never be. A life that might have been, and will never be.

In a corner of her mind that was as dimly lit as the room, she expected Dankar to work himself into a rage, to throw accusations, to gloat at her grief, but when he spoke, his voice was gentle.

"Cry, Kelena," he told her. "Cry, for he is worth every tear you shed for him. Had it been anyone else, I would feel humiliated."

When she lifted her eyes back at him, they were brimming with furious tears. "You killed him," she hurled at her husband. "Yes, you did it, and there is no need to look at me as if I am insane. Torwen was an honest man. Lying and hiding frustrated him, made him feel as though his hands are dirty. That was why he went with my good-brother. If you had given me my freedom when I asked for it, he would never have gone. He would still be here, alive."

"I know it is much too late," said Dankar, "but you shall have your freedom now, if you ask for it."

Again she looked away from him. "Freedom is nothing to me now," she whispered.

It was then that Dankar surprised her with a question, a question that required a decision, a decision that would bring her back to life, however horrible and dark and empty it might have seemed to her at the moment.

"Do you wish to go to your brother's funeral, or to Torwen's?"

She lifted her eyes up at him - empty eyes.

"I do not understand," she said.

He stepped closer and took her limp, cold hand in his. He held it as if it was something extremely fragile, which could break with any careless move. "I do not grudge you your love," he said, "nor will I grudge you your grief. If that is your wish, you can go to Tallbridge Town, to attend Torwen Mattar's funeral, and no one need to know of that. I will go to Rhasket myself, pay my respects to the Kotsar, and say that grief has left you in a state so delicate that your attendance was made impossible."

Kelena weighed this possibility. Yes, she wanted to go to Tallbridge Town, to see how the departed soul of her beloved is sent off to the Lands of Dawn... it would not assuage her grief, but she still felt a need to do it, to comprehend that he is really and truly gone, that he is at peace now, that their happiness and suffering and all that filled the vision of their life together has turned to ash and bone together with him... yet at Tallbridge Town, there would be no one for her to see but Torwen, and he was dead. In Rhasket, the living were waiting for her.

"No," she said. "I will go to Rhasket. My father and mother and Nog need me, especially with Jadine gone."

He looked at her intently. "Are you certain?"

She nodded. "That is my wish as well as my duty."

"Will you permit me to accompany you?"

"That would only be proper."

"I do not ask what is proper," he said, a frown creasing his smooth brow. "I ask whether you prefer me to go with you, or remain behind."

She thought about it for a moment, then said, "I think I would rather go on my own, if it's all the same to you."

She could see, of course, that it was not all and the same to him, but he gave his acquiescence as graciously as could be expected. "Of course. You do what suits you best, Kelena." Then a sudden thought struck him. "What about Emmet?"

"What about Emmet?" she echoed.

"Will you take him with you?"

She considered this for a moment. She could sense the tension in the muscles of her husband's face as he waited for her answer. "I believe I will, if you do not object," she finally said. "I know it is probably unwise to take him on such a long and sad journey, but I don't think I could bear to part with him at the moment."

"I understand," he nodded. "You intend to leave as soon as possible, of course?"

Now was her turn to nod. "As soon as I talk to Rani. She will want to go as well, I know it."

"I hope so. Her company along the way will do you good." He paused, weighing his words, then asked, "When will you be back?"

Despite her will, her eyes filled with tears again, although she could no longer say for whom she is weeping. "I do not know."

Looking almost dispassionate, he acknowledged her words with the briefest inclination of his head. "Take as much time with your family as you need," he told her, and made to walk out of the room. Her next words caught him when his back was already turned to her.

"You are kind."

He turned around. "You know I am not," he said. He opened the door and walked through it and closed it behind him, as gingerly as if it were made of glass. His footsteps were so soft Kelena did not hear them receding down the corridor.

On the morning Thadorn were to meet his opponent, it seemed that the Shadow had grown even darker.

"The sun shines dimly," observed Akira. "It is as if night is still upon us."

"Those are only clouds," said the reasonable Nicholas.

"Where is your armor, Thadorn?" asked Akira. "Shouldn't you be ready by now?"

"I am ready."

"Are you?" Akira's eyebrows rose incredulously. "Where is your breastplate? Your gorget, your gauntlets, your greaves?"

"I cannot abide bulky armor. It will be more hindrance than help."

"You need to wear a hauberk, at the very least."

"I do not. A helm and shield will suffice."

"How a fool such as this one could be made a Commander, I fail to comprehend," muttered Akira. "Well, go on then, and may your sword and shield and helm and the Great Spirit protect you."

"What about you?" Thadorn turned to them. "Are you ready?"

"Yes," said Nicholas.

"For all the damn good it will do us," Akira added skeptically.

Thadorn began pacing back and forth anxiously, looking towards the treetops of Everdark Forest.

"They are late," he remarked. "One hour after dawn, we said. Now two hours at least have gone by."

"They might have overslept," said Akira. "Are you so impatient to die?"

"The Shadow has lingered long enough, do you not think so?" Thadorn demanded of him. "I want to end this, and I want to do it now."

"Now, Thadorn," Akira raised a finger. "Be careful. It you get yourself killed, the king will be so furious he might just try a bit of sorcery himself and bring you back from the dead to lock you in a dungeon."

"I wonder why Vyolen is not here," Nicholas said in a low voice, looking around him. "He said he would come."

"What does it matter?" snapped Akira. "That old warlock is not really one of our men."

"But he did say he would be here," insisted Nicholas. Then the three of them were silent, and their heads turned back to Everdark Forest at once.

"I think they are coming," Thadorn said quietly.

People were moving among the trees. Voices could be heard, murmuring, muttering, arguing. Many voices. Presumably, that was a good thing. _It is better that none of them remain hidden,_ Thadorn said the evening before, _even if it means rivers of blood will run before the day has ended._

Then they came out. Only three people did, to be exact; the rest remained hiding among the trees, ominous sentinels in the dark, their faces covered by the hoods of their cloaks. A cold wind stirred the heavy clouds in the sky, and a few drops of frozen rain dropped upon the ground. The clouds threatened more, but Thadorn no longer heeded threats.

Three people were standing in front of him. One of them, he knew, he realized with surprise; it was the odd goatherd he had seen numerous times in the vicinity of Rhasket-Tharsanae. Yet he could not even tell how he recognized him, for the man's face was highly altered; there was power in it, and pride as well, but paradoxally it did not make Thadorn fear him. On the contrary.

The other was a mighty-looking, tall, broad shouldered man with his face hidden by the visor of his helm.

The third was Jadine.

He did his best not to look at her. _She needn't have come,_ a thought flashed through his mind. He knew they had to meet again sometime, yes, but he could not know it would be so soon. _Did she come to watch me kill, or to see how I die?_

Instead he looked at the man whose face he knew. "I see you received my summons," he told him.

"We received your offer," the former goatherd corrected him. "And, having taken due consideration, decided to accept it."

Thadorn kept any muscle in his face from stirring, to avoid letting this man know that he derived satisfaction from his words. "Have you chosen your champion, then?" he asked.

"Yes," said his opponent. "Have you chosen yours?"

"I shall be the one who stands for King Alvadon and United Tilir," Thadorn said. "Who will stand against me? You? Or him?" he looked at the silent warrior whose face was covered.

But then she stepped forward, and her voice rose horribly clear. "I will," said Jadine.

Something within him was falling, falling, falling into a black bottomless chasm, but his voice was quite calm. "That is impossible," he said.

"Is it?" Jadine raised her eyebrows. "We can choose anyone we want as champion, you said. Doesn't the message say so, Lafgar?" she turned towards the man who spoke earlier.

"It does indeed," confirmed Lafgar, pulling Thadorn's letter out of the folds of his cloak. "We counseled, and although we had our doubts, ultimately we chose Jadine."

"Choose again," Thadorn said abruptly, not looking directly at any of them. "I cannot kill a woman."

She laughed derisively, in that manner which made him hate her so. "Fear not, Thadorn. I doubt you will be able to kill this particular woman. You are welcome to try, though."

He looked at her then. She was standing in front of him, her cloak open slightly to reveal nothing but plain everyday clothes. Despite the cold, her arms were bare, and she didn't seem to feel the chill. Her hands were empty, all the jewels he had once given her gone.

"You are mocking me," he declared.

"Do you go back on your offer of single combat?" she challenged him.

"What do you propose to defend yourself with?" he hurled at her.

A corner of her mouth curled. "Who said it is me who will need defense?"

"I refuse," his voice was firm. "Anyone but you." _You are the mother of my children. I loved you once, and found brief happiness in the illusion that you loved me._

As if responding to his thoughts, she said, "I am not Jadine of the Tionae now, nor Jadine of the Kotsar. I am nothing and no one but a servant who walks the Paths of the Shadow. And it will be me you face today, Thadorn, or no one at all."

Then she turned to her two companions. "Go," she told them.

"I thought the matter was not settled," said Lafgar.

"It _is_. Now go."

His enemies stepped back, as did his allies, and then only the two of them were left, Jadine and he, prowling in circles around each other, backs tense, movements cautious. Her eyes were deep pools with barbed steel at their bottom, and Thadorn was afraid not of her power, and not that he might have to kill her, but precisely because all of a sudden, a desire to strike her, kill her, rip her apart filled every muscle and vein of his body. Yes, he wanted to kill his wife, the mother of his children, and his fingers were sweaty as they gripped the sword hilt.

"Thadorn, you fool," she sneered, "do you really think you can beat me with that?"

The steel glowed white-hot, and his immediate urge was to drop it, to let go, but he made himself close his fingers around the hilt. He felt his skin blistering and gritted his teeth, but did not let go, and in a moment, it passed – the steel cooled, and so did his fingers. They burned no longer.

They were looking at each other.

"That was but a small taste," said Jadine. "You can still go back, Thadorn, and stop interfering with our work. Go back, and by the time you get home, the entire land of Tilir shall be renewed. Go back, and you give yourself the chance to participate in great beginnings. Go back now – " was it just his imagination, or did her voice become ever so slightly softer for a fraction of a moment? – "and all may yet come right."

He did not speak. His answer was etched in his face.

"Very well," she said silkily. "I see it will take more than this to convince you, Thadorn."

She raised her arms, and something appeared out of thin air... a shadow, thick as dense smoke, dark as night, and within seconds it assumed the shape of a man – a man who resembled the silent giant who accompanied Jadine. The shadow-man raised his shadow-sword, and when Thadorn charged at him, there was no sound of steel on steel, but his blade stopped at mid-air, unable to cut through the smoke-black sword. Another blow of his was parred by the mighty smoke shield, and then his dark opponent moved forward, as if to strike, and Thadorn threw back his head and laughed derisively, as she taught him.

"I am a man, and a warrior of Tilir!" he shouted. "I do not fear shadows!"

And the shadow-man vanished in a puff of smoke, and he and Jadine continued to prowl, he with his sword, she with her white arms exposed and bare and vulnerable-looking. She seemed slightly paler now, and there was burning in her cheeks, and her eyes gleamed in a way that plainly told him she is as determined to kill him as he is to kill her.

Back at the camp, Nicholas tugged at Akira's sleeve.

"Come," he said quietly, "we won't do him any good by looking at him."

"I cannot help but look," snapped Akira.

"But there is something else we must do," Nicholas insisted, "or have you forgotten?"

Reluctantly, the Kotsar man turned and went with him aside, to a place where several of the soldiers were standing in a circle. Some faces looked blank, others solemn, others disbelieving... but then there was the sound of hurried steps, and all heads turned in one direction. A short, portly man was advancing towards them, panting, as fast as his legs could carry him.

"Vyolen!" exclaimed Nicholas. "We thought you would be late."

"And he bloody well almost were," muttered Akira mostly to himself. "What good it will do I cannot tell," he went on, "I thought it would be combat, it might get our Commander good and dead, but at least fighting is something we can all understand, but this, this, I can hear nothing and it's driving me mad, and who will tell me for whose death I should wish, for that of my Commander, or my kinswoman's?"

"Let us not waste any more time," said Vyolen, offering each of his hands to Akira and Nicholas. Within moments, the circle was locked, and Nicholas felt a strange tingling in his fingertips.

"Great Spirit," Vyolen began solemnly.

"Great Spirit," they all repeated in unison.

"I do know I might not live past this day," we went on.

"... past this day," they echoed.

"I give up my dreams of the future. I give up my hopes. I give up ever seeing my loved ones and my home land again. I offer it all to you, to do with as you will, for the sake of You and all that You have set as good and right in this world."

"Ours lives are yours," they chanted, and no one knew whence came the sound of low, rhythmic drums.

"Help Thadorn, our Commander, in his battle against the Shadow."

"We are prepared to lay down our lives for him," the voices spoke as one, and because of that, it was impossible to detect whether any of them hesitated.

And then, as Nicholas knew it would, came his turn.

"I shall be the first to offer my life's blood for Thadorn," he said loudly and clearly. "May the blow that strikes him, strike me instead, giving his life back to him. May this chance be what keeps the Shadow at bay."

Not letting go of the fingers of his companions, the sorcerer Vyolen lifted his arms up, and so did they all. It was an illusion, of course, but it seemed to Nicholas that the circle was spinning, that blurry images were rushing past him.

"It is done," declared Vyolen.

"It is done," they all echoed.

"Done, and done, and done," he repeated, "and may it seem fair in the eyes of the Great Spirit."

Thadorn and Jadine continued to prowl around each other, looking as though each of them would like nothing better than to get away from the other, and yet it was as though they were pulled together by some invisible but overpowering magnet. Thadorn's sword was poised in his hand, and he looked ready to strike, but in reality he was never more confused in his life. _Kill her,_ a powerful voice told him. _Kill her and be done with it._ Another voice, no less powerful, told him just as insistently, _drop your sword and let her kill you. Let her kill you, and your suffering will be over, and you shall pass on to the Lands of Dawn. Perhaps when crows are done picking at your carcass and grass grows through your bones you will finally know peace._

Perhaps that is what he would have done, if he didn't have to take anyone but himself into consideration. But there were his people, his soldiers, his _duty_ , his children and his home and his king, the vows he took. He could not allow himself to give up –

He stopped, for Jadine's face was suddenly terrible to behold. All at once it became the way it was when he caught a glimpse of it while she was laboring to bring their children forth into this world – strained and pained and anguished and ecstatic all at once. She threw back her head and screamed.

A giant black serpent slithered upon the ground, and it was only possible to know it was made of smoke and darkness because it left no shadow. Deadly, unstoppable, it moved towards Thadorn, and although the Tionae leader hacked and slashed at it, it was in vain. Steel passed uselessly through smoke, and the serpent continued on its deadly way, unhindered and undamaged.

It stopped right before Thadorn and coiled and drew itself up, swaying, and Thadorn found himself looking into the foul spirit's eyes. Blacker than black they were, empty as only a true nothingness can be, a nothingness that doesn't exist in either of the words... and all of a sudden he realized that it's into this black nothingness he is going to fall, and that there will be no way back.

Before he could do something, the snake bared its black fangs and, lightning-fast, struck them through wool and leather right into Thadorn's heart... and Thadorn screamed, or at least he tried to, but his voice had drowned in the infinite blackness, and he was falling, falling, falling into the cold black world from which there could be no return.

When he woke, he knew that he was dead, and for a moment he felt nothing but gladness that it was over, that he need not do or think or feel anything, or be responsible for anyone. It was done, he had lost, and all was fading, and even the guilt felt vague... until the pain in his chest began its merciless work of bringing him back to his senses.

He placed a hand above his heart. The area next to it hurt as if someone forcefully struck it with a shard of ice, sharp and deadly as steel. Yet his heart was unmistakably beating, and the consciousness of that forced him to open his eyes, then prop himself up on his elbow, then slowly, clumsily get up on his feet.

The snake was gone, and the day, while still cloudy, was brightening, and Thadorn knew – irrevocably, without doubt – that someone had just died for him.

Jadine was lying face-down a few steps away from him, immobile, frozen, her arms sprawled in a gesture of death, her fiery red hair spread upon the ground like a blanket of bright fall leaves. Thadorn was mute, he was numb, he was done for, and yet he was alive, and all he wanted to be was dead, dead, dead.

He began walking, and each step took him more effort than the entire march south.

He stood above her, not daring to bend and touch her, not daring to confirm what he already knew.

And then Jadine inhaled, shuddered and moaned. Slowly, very slowly she turned herself around and was looking at him steadily, emptily, with those terrible eyes of hers, hateful and empty in the pale, waxen, powerless face that looked like a candle which had gone out.

"You did... you did _something_ ," she coughed. "You are not... not as ignorant as I thought you were."

"I thought you were dead," he said.

"I am." While he spoke quietly, her voice was barely more than a whisper. "Do you not see? I am dead, Thadorn. Now I want to be gone. You will help me, won't you? Do it. Do it now."

He knew what she meant, and he knew what had to be done, and he raised his sword again. The sun shone through the splitting clouds and glinted upon the blade that shook in his hand.

"Do it," Jadine hissed at him, looking up, broken but still defiant. " _Do it_ , damn you."

Thadorn lowered the sword and looked west. The horizon was clearing, the blackness fading. Gradually, it was true, but the deepest black had shifted to grey fog, and it was visibly dispersing.

"You will go," he told her abruptly, before he could give himself time to regret his words. _Some will curse me for a fool, aye, and some will whisper behind my back and accuse me of treason, but I will not soil my hands with blood that need not be spilt._ "You will go back to your – your ilk, and you will disappear. All of you. No man, woman or child in the land of Tilir shall see you ever again."

She looked at him as though she could not make sense of what he was saying. The disbelief and contempt etched upon her face made Thadorn's rage boil again, and he forcefully took her by the elbow and pulled her up, knowing that he hurt her, and being glad of it.

He knew he would never touch her again.

"Did you not hear me?" he said. "Go, before I change my mind and kill you."

"You would not dare," Jadine snarled at him, prying her elbow out of his grip. "You are not man enough to kill your enemies."

"Is that so?" he laughed hollowly. "You had better not try me. Next time I see you, I will kill you, and those who came with you today, and those in whom I sense so much as a whiff of your Shadow. So go, and disappear as though you have never walked upon this earth."

Her eyes lit up with a mixture of defeat and malice. "You will never see me again, Thadorn," she promised. "Neither you nor any who live in Tilir today, man or woman, maiden or crone or a suckling babe. I do swear this – I, Jadine, who was once of the Kotsar, but now am of no clan. I belong to no one, and am no one and nothing. The Shadow is fading, and I with it."

And with those words, she turned her back to him fearlessly and began walking away, away, away, until she stood on the brink of Everdark Forest. Then, quite suddenly, she turned around and looked at him one last time. That look lasted no longer than a second, but it made Thadorn wish he had killed her after all.

And when she looked away and faded among the trees and was finally gone forever, Thadorn dropped upon his knees, and let his brow touch the cold hard ground, and stayed like that for a long time because he knew he was alone, truly and completely alone, and he knew that the Shadow that left the west settled in his soul instead.

Then he walked – no, staggered back. He was dragging his feet, as if he had half-forgotten what it is to walk. The Shadow was overpowering him, clouding his vision, standing across his path, and although the camp was only a short distance away, it might have taken him weeks to reach – and then, as if through a fog, he saw people rushing toward him, calling his name. Someone took his right arm, another took the left, and so Thadorn walked on and on, until a soft voice gently urged him to sit and he found himself in his own tent, and a cup of wine was pressed into his hand, and he must have taken a sip because he felt the liquid in his throat, but no taste – it seemed he had forgotten how to taste, too.

"Thadorn?" the gentle, cautious voice didn't fit the blurry vision of Akira Kotsar's face before his eyes, but then the sorcerer Vyolen stepped from behind Akira's back, and Thadorn blinked several times, which seemed to help his eyes return into focus. "How are you feeling?"

"I... I am well," he said numbly. _My wife, she was my wife. I could have killed her. I should have killed her. Or perhaps I should have taken both her hands in mine and told her to stay._ "What happened? I did not understand – "

"You did well, son," said Vyolen, his voice full of satisfaction. "And you," he added, looking a little to the side, and only then did Thadorn notice Nicholas, who was sitting by his side. He looked pale, and his cup of wine was shaking slightly in his fingers. He put it down.

"I do not understand," said Thadorn. "What happened? I didn't do anything, and all of a sudden – "

"Did you kill her?" Akira demanded, speaking across him.

"The spell was complicated," Vyolen went on serenely, ignoring the interrumption. "To put it in a few words, we asked the Great Spirit's favor on your behalf, and one of us agreed to tie his life to yours, so that he would die in your stead if it came to that."

Thadorn stared at him in horror, a terrible and unspoken question on his tongue.

"You never told me – "

"Have no fear. It is Nicholas here," said the sorcerer, gesturing towards the man-from-the-world-beyond, "and as you can see, he isn't dead."

"There was a moment when I felt I was dying, though," mumbled Nicholas. "I almost... almost returned to my own world."

"And if you had returned, you would have been dead," Vyolen explained matter-of-factly. "For a short while, you hovered between the gates, between this world and the world you came from... and this suspended state was what left both you and Thadorn alive, for the Shadow cannot cross borders between worlds."

All of it was so complicated that it made Thadorn's head ache. He attempted to take another sip of wine, but it nauseated him. He turned towards Nicholas. "Thank you," he said. Nicholas waved his hand vaguely in acknowledgment.

"Did you kill her?" Akira asked again. Thadorn looked at him, trying to figure out which answer he wants to hear.

"The Servants of the Shadow will never trouble us again," he said. "They have left Tilir."

Akira stared at him with incredulous indigation. "Do you mean to say you let her go?"

"Were you so very anxious to see her dead?" Thadorn asked drily.

Akira shook his head as if he couldn't believe Thadorn's stupidity. "She will be back," he declared, "they all will. And you will be the one to answer for that."

"Let it be so, then," said Thadorn, who was feeling too exhausted to be truly angry, yet a tiny prickle of annoyance against Akira was beginning to bubble up again.

"I do not think they will be back," said Vyolen peacefully. "Not in this generation, at least, and perhaps not in the next one either. Do you not see, Akira? The Shadow is gone, the horizon clear once more. You did it all just right," he told Thadorn kindly, and horribly, absurdly, Thadorn felt he could hardly breathe. With difficulty, he drew short, ragged breaths, and wished for nothing more than to be left alone.

Akira decided to swallow his objections and was now talking about going home, about stopping in South Watch on the way, about sending an urgent message to the capital, to let the Council know about the end of their campaign... but Thadorn did not listen. He could not, not at the moment. Vyolen looked at him understandingly but did not say a thing, and for that he was grateful. He was even more grateful when the three other men walked out of his tent, leaving him alone once more.

He lay down upon his sleeping furs. Exhausted as he was, sleep would not come. Not long ago, Jadine sat there and talked to him, and there was still hope. Now he had done what he was meant to do, and he felt spent, wasted, dry and barren like the desert lands they marched through. And soon they would leave, but he cannot do that. _I might sit on my horse and ride to the capital and bow before the king and make my report and hear words of praise, but a part of me will always stay here, in this tent in the dreary wilderness, next to the Shadow._

But then he thought of his children. Quick, clever Kor with his antics, beautiful Datrine who could sing so well, and Tari, who cried when he left, and refused to take her pudgy little arms off his neck until the very last moment. _Soon, I will see them again,_ he told himself. _I will have my children, the Sea Guard, the clan leadership. I will have a decent life, a quiet life, a life in which nothing will ever happen again._

He didn't really believe that, but he still had to say it, to think it, to convince himself that all would be well very soon. He had to, because he had to sleep, had to make sleep come to him. He tried to picture his children's faces in his mind, and saw them with surprising clarity... but he found that he could not look at Datrine, because it was too painful, and Kor's red hair was just like hers. That left only Tari, and on the border between waking and dreaming, he looked into her eyes and reached out to her. Out of a hazy cloud her soft little hand reached back and grabbed his callused fingers, and Thadorn slept.

Through the haze of slumber, he dimly heard two voices talking just outside the tent.

"What would have happened if he had killed Jadine?" Nicholas asked quietly.

"My dear man," Vyolen said in his mild and pleasant manner, "no one can ever know what might have been."

"But what do you think..?"

"I am hard pressed to tell. Jadine's death might have changed nothing... or everything. I believe I can tell with fair certainty, however, that it is better for Thadorn not to have killed her."

"I hate to say it," Nicholas began cautiously, "but Akira is right. They might be back."

"They might, but I do not believe they will. Not for a long time."

"What do you mean by a _long time_?"

"Enough for all who live in Tilir today to pass away from old age, even a suckling babe who rests in his mother's arms."

There was a moment's silence.

"So is that it, then? Is my deed here done? Can I go home now?"

Another silence.

"It does not work this way, precisely," said Vyolen.

Nicholas's voice sounded mutinous when he spoke next. "How does it work, then?"

"You need to wait for the gates to open. It will happen, I sense it, I know it, but I don't know exactly when."

"In a long time?" Nicholas asked ironically.

"That," said Vyolen, "is something only you can define for yourself."

"Please do not speak in riddles. After all that happened, I still know little and less about how I came here, and why, and when I will be able to leave."

"If I speak in riddles, my dear Nicholas, it is because all of this is a riddle for me just as much as it is for you."

Kelena stood at the water's edge, inhaling the salty breeze. One of her arms was looped through that of Nog, the other through Rani's. Her head was resting on Nog's shoulder, and Rani's head on her shoulder, and so the three of them stood looking at the funeral boat that would carry Kohir on to his final journey.

Despite the cold, Kelena was barefoot, as the ancient customs of mourning declared. The water was icy as it lapped her feet, but although she shivered, she didn't step away from the salty waves. For the last time, she wanted to be as close to her brother as possible.

Rani, by her side, was barefoot as well. Although only the close kin of the dead – his parents, spouse, siblings and children - were required to put their shoes away for the funeral, and Rani wasn't even Kohir's cousin, she had allowed herself to grieve. _She is like me,_ Kelena realized as she felt the warmth of Rani's tears on her shoulder. _She grieves for the life that could have been, but never was. She grieves for how senseless our suffering is, and how easily it all could have been avoided, if only..._

Her thoughts trailed off. Instead, she looked at her mother and father, who stood a little to the side. Rohir was upright, proper, grave. Hinassi's face was pale, her eyes puffy as though she hadn't slept in days, but her most prominent expression was that of disappointment, as if her most sacred principles had been betrayed, and she couldn't understand how it happened.

"They never loved him," Rani blurted out.

"Please be quiet, Rani, they will hear you," Kelena said firmly but gently, wiping her friend's cheek.

"She is right," Nog said all of a sudden, fiercely, firmly, as if he became a man all at once. "They grieve the loss of an heir, but they knew not a single thing about Kohir. About any of us," he concluded, and Kelena tugged anxiously on his sleeve and pressed a finger to her lips, imploring him to stop. People were already beginning to stare.

"Please, Nog," she said. "We can talk later. Look, they are going to... do it." Her voice quivered.

Someone passed a torch to her father, and Rohir Kotsar lowered it to the bed of straw and dry wood on which Kohir's shroud-wrapped body lay. The fire took on at once, and with a firm, smooth motion, he untied the boat and pushed it away, entrusting his eldest son to the strong wind and the swift current.

"Kohir, son of Rohir," he said loudly and clearly, and his voice didn't quiver. "You were born to the noble and ancient people of the Kotsar, and from the day of your birth, you were destined to lead this clan some day. Alas, it was not to be. The Great Spirit decreed that you would be taken from us in the prime of your days. We shall find comfort in the thought that you lived, fought and died as befits a noble man and warrior. You left no sons, but all the people of the Kotsar shall always carry a part of your spirit."

"I carried more than his spirit," Rani whispered, so that only Nog and Kelena could hear. "I carried his child once."

They looked at her, grief mingling with shock. "Rani, you cannot mean – " Kelena began.

She nodded. "Yes. It was when we both were half-children ourselves. They killed it, of course. They made me drink some vile herb infusion, told me it would calm my nerves... they killed my babe, and I never had another."

Kelena didn't know what to say. Tears blurred her vision as she looked at the burning torch of Kohir's boat glide further and further away, a speck of flame on the seeming stillness of water under which strong currents were running.

People were beginning to crowd around Rohir and Hinassi, murmuring meaningless words of comfort, saying what a brave man Kohir was and expressing hopes that their youngest son, Nog, would soon be fit to step in his brother's shoes.

"I grieve for Kohir," Nog said abruptly, "but I will not live my life as his replacement." And having said that, he turned and walked away, leaving a stunned silence in his wake.

"I do not blame my son," said Rohir, shaking his head solemnly. "It is pain speaking through him." But his eyes blazed with cold anger, and Kelena wasn't fooled.

When the crowd dispersed and the boat burned and sank and went down, down, down, and it was just the two of them staring into sea and space, Rani raised her head from Kelena's shoulder and asked her:

"What are you going to do?"

"I will go to Jada and thank her for staying behind and looking after Emm," said Kelena.

"I think she was only glad for an excuse to remain at home and nurse her sickness," remarked Rani. "She is new with child, did you know that?"

Kelena nodded. "What news for Akira when he comes back," she said.

"Never mind that, though. You did not answer my question. What are you going to do?"

"I just told you – "

"You know perfectly well what I mean. After mourning is over, and everything is taken care of, and you don your shoes again, what will you do? Will you go back to Aldon-Sur?"

Kelena considered this for a moment. To go back to that house, the luxurious comfortable house that she hated and thought to escape forever... and yet what else was there? Torwen was dead, Kohir as well, Jadine was lost, her parents, her entire clan forever altered... in the whole world she now had nothing but little Emmet and – as much as she inwardly squirmed at the thought – her husband.

"Do you realize that Dankar is half prepared for the possibility of never seeing you again? He told me so himself."

Kelena looked up in surprise. It was very much unlike Dankar to share his thoughts in this manner, especially with someone like Rani, who was not known for keeping secrets.

"Where does he think I might go?"

Rani shrugged. "I have not the least idea. Dankar is a sly bastard, I could never quite figure him out. I do believe you have tamed him, however, though how you did it I cannot understand."

"I assure you I had no such intention."

Rani smiled for the first time. "Perhaps that is the secret," she said.

"Perhaps," agreed Kelena, her thoughts drifting elsewhere, to another funeral which might, for all she knew, be taking place at this very moment. "What about you?" she asked Rani, just to think of something else. "Will you be able to go back to your old life?"

"Oh, of course not," the other woman assured her. "That would be impossible. No, I will shave my head and wear a hair shirt and find myself some dreary cave to spend the rest of my life in remorse and penitence."

Absurdly, desperately, they began to laugh, clinging to each other and wiping their eyes.

"Why didn't you seek him before?" Kelena finally asked. "After your husband died, I mean. No one could have prevented you from doing so then." She stopped, worrying that her words might inflict needless pain, but Rani merely furrowed her brow, as if pondering the right answer.

"I think I was still a frightened, gullible girl," she said. "I allowed the clan elders to coax me into silence. I would never see Kohir again, even if I were free, lest the shame of our first liaison came out... and later, of course, there was my infamous reputation," she smiled again, defiantly. "Your father in particular made it clear he would never allow such a disgraceful match for his eldest son. So I allowed them to convince me, threaten me, frighten me... while in truth, they could do nothing worse than what they had already done." She stopped, and her eyes grew dim, as though all light had suddenly gone out of them. "I allowed them to do it to me," she concluded, "and then came a time when I thought it is too late. It wasn't, but I didn't understand. It is now, though. Too late. Much too late."

Kelena thought she would cry, but Rani smiled again – a terrible smile that spoke of a lifetime of suffering. "Let us go," Kelena urged her. "It is getting chilly. Come with me to Jada, and we will have something to drink. Hot tea with herb liquor, and perhaps some dried figs and apples to regain our strength. You ate nothing today yet."

But Rani shook her head, and looked out to the sea again. "I will stay here for a while longer, if you don't mind," she said.

"As you wish," said Kelena, "but do not linger too long. A bitter wind is rising, can you feel it?"

"Yes," said Rani, lifting her face up to the sky. "It feels good. It feels as though I am alone with Kohir again, for the first time in too many years. Oh, do not worry about me, Kelena," she added. "I will come back soon, I promise."

After Kelena walked some distance away, she turned around and looked. Rani's hair was rippling in the cold wind, and she stood motionless, her arms stretched out to the sea, as if she wished to embrace the one who had gone forever. Her eyes prickling, Kelena turned around again and kept on walking.

She did not linger long at Jada's; her cousin, as Rani rightly noted, looked quite ill and pale, with dark circles under her eyes. Kelena did not know whether this sickness should be attributed to pregnancy, or to the fact that Ned Kamtesir returned to town, and decided against asking. She thanked Jada profusely for watching the boy, took little Emm by the hand, and walked to her parents' house.

She found her father perusing a letter. He was so deeply immersed in reading that he did not hear her steps immediately, and for the first time, she was struck by the thought that perhaps she was mistaken in labeling her father's grief as superficial. Rohir was always fair, slender, smooth, elegant, but the man sitting in front of her now was hunched and bent, the lines in his face prominent, the silvery hair at his temples making him look almost old.

A gust of wind stirred her skirts, and the rustle startled her father. He looked up from the letter.

"Kelena," he said. "I have just received some satisfying news. That eerie Shadow is gone... and so is your sister, it appears. It seems she had something to..." he ran a hand over his eyes, a gesture of extreme tiredness. "Well, no matter. It is all over now, and hopefully, Jadine will finish her life in humility and regret."

"Was it Akira who wrote to you? Did he tell where she is?" Kelena walked over to her father's writing-desk and lifted Emmet in her arms, to feel the comforting warmth and weight of his little body. Her son put his arms around her neck.

"No, but it matters not. I forbid you to ever look for her, do you understand? She was a dark sorceress who connected herself with rebels and traitors, and our clan is better off without her."

_Was,_ Kelena noted her father's choice of words. _He speaks of Jadine as if he knows she is dead._ But even if she wanted to defy this command, she had no idea where to look for Jadine, and so she decided it is best not to argue.

"Yes, Father," she said like the meek, obedient daughter that she was.

Chapter 16

When Thadorn's troops walked through the gates of Rhasket-Tharsanae once more, a large crowd assembled to meet them, and at first, the sight of so many familiar faces welcoming him, shouting out his name as if he were a hero, was overwhelming. He lifted his arm in a salute and tried to keep his shoulders and back straight, to answer the cheers and shouts as was proper, but he just didn't have it in him. He wanted to go home, and see his children, and rest.

And then he saw them, and knew they saw him. There was his good-sister, Kelena, holding her little boy by the hand – and next to her Rogell and Lya; Lya, like a mother hen, was surrounded by children – her own son, Jorrel, and Korian and Datrine. Tari was held in her arms, squirming around to be able to see the interesting procession better.

Thadorn jumped off his horse and gave the reins over to someone whose face he didn't quite make out, in such a hurry he was. He began striding towards the people who were now the dearest to him in the whole wide world, and they began moving toward him as well, and then his hand was clasped in Rogell's, and Kelena's wet cheek was pressed against his, and Tari was handed to him by Lya, who smiled through her tears. Korian and Datrine were clinging to him, jumping up and down, and shouting, "Father! Father!"

He passed Tari back to Lya, mussed Korian's hair, lifted Datrine up in his arms. The little girl looked solemnly into his face and caressed his cheek, running her fingers along the creases and lines that appeared all of a sudden when he chanced to stare into the looking-glass.

"What about Mother?" she asked all of a sudden. "Did you bring her home this time?"

Thadorn felt as if the day was darkening around him once more, and he put his daughter down upon the ground. "No," he said.

Datrine chewed on her lip, clearly wondering whether she dare to ask more. "Will she ever be back?" she asked eventually, hopeful and fearful, but Thadorn's mercy had run out.

"No," he said, not bothering to soften his voice.

"Now, child," Lya said sternly to Datrine. "Your father is tired. Let us all go home and have dinner, and then you will leave your father at peace and let him rest. He needs that."

And so they did. They all went together, and Thadorn was thankful to the people around him for breathing life into his home when he could do that no longer, to the children for playing and laughing and capering around like little monkeys, oblivious to his guilt and grief.

There was thick, hearty fish stew and fresh bread with melting butter on it, and a jug of hot ale and plum cakes, and he ate and drank and talked and answered questions, but when evening came and the sky darkened outside the windows, and Lya ushered the children out of the room, and Rogell went on duty, he felt relieved as well. It was strange; he craved the quiet, but he didn't wish to be completely alone, either – and when Kelena remained sitting at the empty table across him, her eyes sad and gentle, he realized he didn't want her to go. Despite all that had happened, and perhaps because of it, she was like a sister to him. He only wished she wouldn't begin asking him about Jadine, for he did not think he could bear it.

"How do you feel, Thadorn?" she asked him, and he heard the sincere concern in her voice.

"I am well," he told her. She shook her head in disbelief.

"No, you are not. I can see that."

"Neither are you," he said, observing her carefully, suddenly seeing her pallor, the dark shadows under her eyes, the defeated, wounded look. She smiled at him wanly.

"I lost a brother, a sister..." she stopped, as if recalling something, "a hope I cherished," she concluded. "No, of course I am not well. But I will be. I have my son, who needs me. And your children need you."

"I know," Thadorn said gravely. _They need me, and all that I cannot give them. Thank the Spirit for Rogell and Lya._

"You will need to go to Aldon-Sur soon."

"I know that as well," he paused. The royal message was already waiting for them as they passed through Fort Sand. Great honors awaited them, festivities and ceremonies and congratulations, and although his heart's dearest wish would have been to remain at home, at peace, he knew he could not refuse. "Will you go with me?" he asked Kelena. She reached out and took his hand in hers and pressed it warmly.

"I was only waiting for your return to make my way back to the capital," she told him, and for a few moments the two of them sat like this, holding hands, each taking solace in the other's presence. But Thadorn felt she was expecting something more, she waited for him to speak, to tell of what he wished with all his heart to forget – and although he could have evaded an open question, he could not resist her silent plea.

"Jadine lives," he told her, "but neither you, nor I, nor anyone will ever see her again."

Kelena let out a deep, shuddering breath. "You don't have to speak of it, Thadorn. I know what it must have been like – "

"I had hoped," he murmured, his head bowed. "I told myself I did not, I tried to harden my heart, but deep inside I had always hoped."

"Say no more," whispered Kelena, holding his hand between both of hers.

But he looked up in sudden resolution. "You are her sister. You have the right to know, and I want you to know."

They sat at the table for a long time, until the candles burned low and sputtered and went out, and only the soft steady little light of the oil lamp remained. And when Lya came back to announce that all the children fell asleep in a single tired heap and to suggest that Kelena and Emmet had better stay for the night, she saw Thadorn and Kelena crying in each other's arms, and held her breath and her words. Softly, she closed the door behind her and walked away.

Later that night, after the women have gone to sleep as well, Thadorn and Rogell stepped out of the house and walked down the streets where, despite the lateness of the hour, muffled sounds of celebration could be heard. Now and then a late passerby approached them, smiling broadly, and shook Thadorn's hand. Thadorn tried to accept this attention in good spirit, but he wished he could have become invisible.

Finally they reached the shore, where the sea stretched out before them, black and glittering, reflecting the bright moon and the thousand stars strewn across the cold, cloudless sky. The waves rushed forward, then receded, rhythmically – a soothing sound that was mournful to Thadorn's ears that night, reminding him of all that had happened, all he had done, all he had lost. He was thankful for the silent understanding that existed between him and his friend, the knowledge that he would not be tormented with questions he could not face. Rogell did not speak about his march south, nor about Jadine. Instead, he asked:

"Will you return to the Sea Guard now?"

Thadorn thought of that for a moment. "Yes," he said, "I will have to travel to Aldon-Sur first, as I told you, but as soon as I am back I will resume my duties."

"Good," said Rogell. For some reason, he sounded hesitant. "Good," he repeated, "because I... I will be going on a journey, Thadorn."

Thadorn looked at his friend and kinsman in surprise. Rogell had never been outside the province. "Where did you plan on going?" he asked.

"I have a distant cousin, not of our clan, who started a trade of spices in Kanterra. He takes his cloves and saffron to Strafked Islands sometimes, and at other times he goes further north, to the Letarian coast and the entire continent of Syvidia. There he loads up good wool and wax, amber and copper, and takes that back to Kanterra. He has written to me several times before, telling me of how good his trade is going, and how glad he would be if I joined him, at least for a while."

"Oh," Thadorn did not know what to say. "But only going there and back would take months. Lya is a strong woman, I know, but would she be willing to stay on her own with Jo for so long?"

"No, to be sure," Rogell said quickly, without hesitating, as if that was something he had thought over a long time ago. "Lya and Jo will come with me. That is already settled. And... it will probably take more than a few months, Thadorn," he ended cautiously.

Thadorn looked at him, still not understanding. "How long will you be gone, then?" he asked Rogell.

"I do not know," his friend told him.

Only then did it begin to sink in. "Do you mean to tell me," Thadorn said, "that you are planning to quit the Sea Guard and leave Tilir for the sake of shuttling spices between Kanterra and Letaria?"

Rogell looked half embarrassed, half defiant, and a little sad. "Look, Thadorn," he said, "in my vanity I demanded that you give me the command of the Sea Guard – "

"You were not vain – "

"I was. I was vain and foolish, and we both know it. I might be named Commander, but the Sea Guard could not truly belong to anyone but you. And... for the first time in my life, I want to try something new. Something I would do on my own," he added, sounding almost ashamed of himself, but Thadorn clasped his shoulder reassuringly.

"There is nothing wrong with that," he said. "Nothing wrong," he repeated. "Only... I do not know what I shall do without you," he added, feeling lost. Throughout his entire life Rogell had been near, supportive and faithful, and ever since Jadine left he counted on Lya's help with the children... _this is why Rogell wants to leave,_ he thought. _He does not want Lya's attention to be divided between their family and mine, especially since he knows..._ but then he stopped himself. He must not think that, nor will he. He made an effort to smile at Rogell.

"You are Commander once again," Rogell told him, "there could be no other."

"I wish your good fortune," Thadorn said, "in whatever ventures you undertake. But... you will remain until I return from the capital, won't you?"

"Wouldn't think of leaving before that," Rogell assured him. "Lya wants to make sure all is well before we take sail, and you know how she dotes on the children... we will go after you are back home and settled, and return when Jorrel is a man, to marry him to Datrine."

This was meant as a friendly joke, but Thadorn didn't look amused. "They are only children," he said. "We cannot plan their lives for them. Look how much damage this custom had already done."

"Oh, I did not mean to broach the subject of solemn engagement," Rogell said lightly. "Only Jo adores your little girl, you know. When I finally succeeded in explaining to him that we will be going without Datrine, he cried himself to sleep."

Thadorn nodded silently. "Take care of Lya and Jo," he told Rogell after a pause. "And... remember where your home is, Rogell."

"Should anything go wrong," Rogell said, "I will send Lya and Jo back, of course. You will look after them, won't you?"

"You needn't even ask," Thadorn said firmly, and they clasped hands briefly before turning back. Thadorn sensed that Rogell is already immersed in thoughts of his journey, and he felt more alone than ever. _With Rogell and Lya gone, it will be just me and the children, and may the Great Spirit help me then._ But he squared his shoulders and kept on walking. This cannot be any harder than what he had already faced. And he will do what he must, what is right, what is expected of him. _As always._

It has been many centuries since the Great Plaza of Aldon-Sur saw such an assemblance. Rich and poor, old and young, locals and foreigners, well-known and obscure, noblemen and commoners all came to see the ceremony done in honor of the heroes who conquered the Shadow.

It was surprisingly quiet. Few people talked, and those who did only exchanged a few quick words in a muffled voice. Now and then a child cried and was promptly soothed by its mother.

King Alvadon himself, splendid and regal, with his head held high, descended down the many marble steps, his retinue hurrying along behind him. Upon beholding His Grace, the heroes went down to one knee and remained with their heads bowed.

The king approached them. First he placed his hand on Thadorn's shoulder, lifted him up to his feet and kissed him on the cheek like a brother. Then he did likewise to Nicholas, and last of all to Akira.

He stood looking at arm's length from them, looking at them fondly.

"Beloved friends," he told them, "we are all in your debt." There was a momentary uprise of excited murmuring that soon died down, and people listened with rapt attention.

"Valiant Thadorn," the king spoke on, looking directly at the Tionae leader. "I placed the fate of us all in your hands, and you endured, and did not fail. From this day onward, there shall be no man, woman or child in Tilir who does not admire you and the entire clan of Tionae. Your bravery saved us all."

"Your Grace," Thadorn said quietly. "I deserve no such praise. There were other men alongside me, whose deeds carried no less weight – "

But the king only smiled and said, "Your modesty does you honor, Thadorn Tionae," and kissed him on the cheek again. Then he turned to Nicholas.

"Nicholas, you from the World Beyond," he said, "I knew it was not in vain that the gates opened for you and admitted you into Tilir. May the day on which you stepped upon our land be blessed forever."

Nicholas merely bowed his head in acknowledgment and said nothing.

"Akira Kotsar," said the king, and murmurs and whispers erupted again, for the name of Kotsar was on the tongues of everyone from desert to sea; some spoke it with curiousity, others with fear and anger. Akira did not miss that, and blood rushed into his cheeks as he awaited the king's word. "You show us all that one clan is not one man. Each of us chooses his own path, and each can elect the right side, even if those around him are doing otherwise. The throne's gratitude is with you."

"Thank you, Your Grace," Akira said, much relieved.

The king now spoke to all of them. "How shall I reward you properly?" he said. "Gold you shall have, enough to make you prosperous until the end of your days. Honor you have already, and glory. Minsterls will make songs of your valiant deeds, and everyone from the littlest child to the king of Tilir shall know your names. But I know that gold and glory alone do not mean much to righteous men such as yourselves."

Nicholas and Thadorn exchanged a fleeting and almost imperceptible look. Nicholas had the notion that Thadorn, just like himself, could not help but notice the smug expression upon Akira's face.

"You did what had to be done, and what was good and right," said King Alvadon, "and may the Great Spirit bless you and protect you and reward you, in this world and in the world to come. May your hearts, and the hearts of us all, be filled with light and joy upon this day."

Nicholas looked at Thadorn's face, grave and stern, clouded with sorrow, and felt uncertain that this man can ever be happy again. The king must have noticed it as well, because he drew Thadorn close again and said quietly, frowning, "you give me concern, friend. It is as if part of the Shadow lives on in you."

"Your Grace," Thadorn said with dignity, "forgive me if I am not as joyous as the occasion merits. I am relieved more than words can tell that all had come to an end, but the road was long and hard, and many good men died. We are still mourning our... losses," he finished quietly.

The king clasped his hand. "Of course," he said, "let us speak no more. Instead, before we feast and make merry and celebrate this new beginning, let us honor the fallen with silence."

From the corner of his eyes Nicholas could see Kelena in the crowd. Tears were flowing freely down her cheeks, and although her husband offered her his arm, she did not lean on it.

And silence fell, so deep and still that the chirping of rare birds in the sky above the Plaza could be heard, and when someone sneezed, several dozen people instantly turned their heads toward him, looking accusingly. The quiet lasted for a few minutes, until the king made a gesture with his hand, and Queen Maviel herself came forward, and placed a wreath of winter flowers upon the brow of each of the heroes. She looked radiant and especially beautiful that day, and Nicholas thought he knew why. Rumours of the queen's pregnancy have already reached many years, and although she had suffered miscarriages before, the recent victory filled hearts with hope – for many things.

As for himself, all he wanted to do was go home. On their last day near the Everdark Valley, he talked to Vyolen for a long time, and learned, it seemed to him, more than he had in a lifetime. A few things that came up in the conversation he would reveal later on; some, he would carry to his grave. At any rate, Vyolen had promised to him he would go home, and soon, but he did not say exactly when, and Nicholas was getting impatient.

It wasn't only that he still felt like a stranger; and he did, despite Rogell and Lya's warm hospitality and their sincere happiness at seeing him safely back. He was surprised to discover he feels compassion and even an admiration of sorts for Thadorn, with his gruff manners, iron-clad loyalty and the heartbreak that he tried and failed to conceal. Their land, however beautiful and enchanting, could never be his home – yet something inside him also tightened when he realized that once he left, he would never return here again.

"There will be no way back," Vyolen's voice echoed in his head once more, "not for you, anyway. The gates might open for some of your descendants, as it is often in the blood... blood is a curious thing, yes..."

"I don't have any descendants," Nicholas had told him then.

"That might be remedied," said Vyolen.

"It is unlikely," he had said rather drily, but the sorcerer only smiled, and now Nicholas thought that if so many things he could never have believed came to pass, and if everything about him was forever changed, and if he could never now go back to believeing only in the boring and correct and predictable – perhaps other miracles can happen, too? For example, that a beautiful and charming woman fifteen years younger than himself might awaken to his charms.

Somehow, this prospect appeared to him as supernatural as his journey to Tilir.

That evening, they were invited to Rani Kotsar's manse once more. This celebration had a more dignified air than the previous one, but Nicholas was disturbed as he looked at their hostess. In a low-cut gown of burgundy velvet, with chains of rubies and black diamonds around her neck and in her hair, Rani looked more beautiful than ever – but her face was still as a mask of white marble, and he had guessed that great suffering must lay underneath that mask. Although he did not know her story, he guessed that it must be connected in some obscure way, like all their stories were, to the eviction of the Shadow.

Courses came and went, but Rani ate nothing, and the servants did not bend to fill her wine cup, for it remained untouched since the beginning of the meal. Toasts were said and many courteous words spoken, and she lifted her cup, but her lips never touched it, and eventually Nicholas felt he was bound to say something. He leaned towards her.

"You ought to try the pigeon pie," he said.

She gave him a distracted, indulgent smile, the way a busy mother might smile at a toddler who is pulling on her skirts. "You are very kind," she said, "but I am not hungry."

"Are you certain? It has been a long day, with the procession and ceremony, and you have attended it all. Surely you haven't had time to eat."

"No, nor drink," she confessed, then finally took her cup and drank from it, as if to appease him. "Right now, though, I crave fresh air more than I crave food. Would you accompany me for a stroll in the garden?"

He hesitated, flooded by memories of their previous stroll. "To be sure," he said politely, but it seemed she detected the doubt in his voice. "Fear not," she told him with a short laugh, "there will be no eavesdropping this time."

Arm in arm they walked down the moonlit paths of the still winter garden. Rani walked gracefully, but it seemed to Nicholas she was hardly aware of where she was going. She simply concentrated in putting one foot in front of the other, as if the important thing was to keep on moving, as if she could not bear to stop.

But at some point, it was as if her feet gave in, and she sat on a bench expertly carved in a form of many interlocked seashells. The stone was cold, but he sat by her side and watched her profile as she stared into space ahead of her.

"Last time we met, you said you would tell me of your world when you return," she reminded him.

"I did," confirmed Nicholas, "but are you certain you wish to hear of it right now?"

"Oh, I do," she assured him, but when he attempted to speak, she silenced him with a kiss.

One of her hands caressed his cheek, another rested on his chest, and however bewildered Nicholas felt, he knew she was kissing not him, but a dream, a memory, a fantasm, something that was once and is no more, or perhaps something that could have been but never was.

"I," he said rather stupidly when she finally pulled away from him and sat across him, smiling serenely. "I believe this is – "

"What?" Rani prompted him. "Are you about to recall that you are wed and have a brood of children?"

"No," he said. "I have no family, but I – there is someone. Worlds apart, that is true, but I still have a hope – "

"There is someone for me, too," said Rani, getting up gracefully. "In another world, yes... but I, too, have a hope that someday, some way, we will be together again... as we all enter the Lands of Dawn."

And, nodding slightly to him, she turned around and walked slowly back towards the house.

Nicholas stood rooted on the spot, and recalled some rumour someone once told him about her... he didn't listen in too closely, but apparently there had been some tragedy, some scandal which involved her being shipped off to marry her elderly husband -

He shook her head. To be truthful, he wasn't sure he really wanted to know, and he vaguely guessed there isn't much he can do anyway. _I can do something about my own life, though,_ he resolved. _If and when I manage to return home, I will ask her... I will ask her..._

He didn't know, really, what he would ask. But it would be something that makes all the difference in the world.

They walked through the door in silence. A sleepy servant rushed forward to attend them, but Dankar waved him away and helped his wife out of her cloak. Kelena removed her hairnet, and her golden hair cascaded down her shoulders. He felt a faint scent of mint; she liked to add mint and sage to her bathwater, and the fresh scents have permeated the house anew now that she had returned.

For a while, Dankar thought she would never be back. He braced himself for it, he prepared to accept any outcome with philosophical coolness – and yet he could not suppress the rush of relief that washed over him when he saw her on the doorstep. She was sad, she was wan, she was distant – but she was back, and their son with her.

Little Emmet was Kelena's only source of liveliness these days. Only with him did she smile. Sometimes she even laughed as they walked or ate or played together, but this brief joy was like a phantom – it vanished the moment he approached to take a closer look.

Yesterday he stood by the window of the solitary bedroom he occupied ever since his wife was back, and looked down. It was an unseasonably warm afternoon, and Kelena was sitting in the garden with Emmet. His head was in her lap, and she was stroking his hair, bent over him, her face close to his. She planted a kiss on his nose, and the little boy giggled and squirmed, and when his mother tickled him, he laughed out loud, and she laughed with him as well. Dankar treasured the sound of that laugh, for it had been long since he heard it.

But now Emm was in bed, and it was just the two of them, and Kelena was pale, distant, vague – as if she were here, but not truly, as if the best part of her had gone to a place where he could never hope to reach it.

"You look tired," he told her. "We needn't have gone to that feast."

"I wanted to," she assured him. "I will be easier if I keep an eye on Rani for a little while."

"You don't have to worry about Rani. She wouldn't..." he stopped, searching for the right words, "do anything foolish," he concluded.

"I know," said Kelena, "but the thought of her destiny torments me. If only the Kotsar weren't so proud and ambitious, if only they didn't care so much about what is said of them, Rani could have happily lived on in Rhasket, and Kohir with her."

"And you as well," Dankar ventured to say.

Her eyes were guarded when they met his. "I hardly think it is worthwhile to discuss..." she began.

"Of course," he readily agreed. "The proud Kotsar thwarted a youthful love, and found Rani an old and wealthy husband... and they also sent you to Aldon-Sur and married you to me. You have every right to be resentful. If I were you, I would likely slit the unwanted husband's throat in his sleep a long time ago," he smiled, but she did not. She looked toward the stairs.

"I believe I will retire for the night," she told him. "The last few days have taken their toll."

_To be sure,_ he wanted to tell her. _Go and rest, and may your dreams bring you peace and comfort._ But surprisingly for himself, another word escaped his lips. "Wait," he said. "Wait just a moment."

Kelena turned around, waves of wheat-golden hair shining softly in the light of the oil lamps. She waited.

He took a step toward her, struggling. He wanted to take her in his arms. He wanted to bow his head and tell her to go, to leave, to stop the needless torment of them living under the same roof. He wanted to ask her why she came back, but he didn't. It didn't matter. She was here, and he would take whatever chance still remained to him.

"What can I do?" he asked her.

She seemed confused. "I fear I do not understand your meaning."

"I offered you your freedom," he said slowly, clearly, "you didn't take it. Perhaps out of fear, perhaps for the sake of our son, perhaps because you do not want to cause your parents further distress... but whatever the circumstances may be, you chose to come back, and you still call me your husband. So I am asking you, Kelena – tell me, is there anything I can do to... not to make you happy, for that is impossible right now, but to ease your heart at least in some measure? Say it, and if it is in my power, it will be done."

She did not answer immediately, but her eyes focused on him, as if she had just fully realized what he was offering her, and why.

"I will never be easy here," she said, looking around at the polished wooden panels, the luxurious carpets, the ornate windows, the silken tapestries. Her eyes did not convey hate, but cool detachment. _This was never her home,_ Dankar thought. "I want to go," she said, and he felt that all breath had gone out of his lungs.

"Where?" he asked her. She gave a small shrug.

"I don't know," she said. "To Sambeara, perhaps. Or to the Eagle Islands. Far away, to a place that holds no memories. Would that be possible?"

"I could book passage on a ship, to be sure," he said. _Far away._ Another question burned on his tongue, but he didn't dare to ask it, not directly. "It might have to wait a while, but not too long. Winter will be over soon, and many of the spring currents are favourable."

"You sound willing," she said with surprise, "and yet it would mean quitting the court. It would be akin to exile... comfortable exile, I trust, but exile nonetheless."

His heart was hammering, and his eyes never left hers. Did she just answer his unspoken question?

"Did you mean for us to go together, then?" he asked quietly.

She nodded. Reservedly, and without smiling, but it didn't matter for the moment. She had just said they would be going away together, to Sambeara or Adrinor or the Eagle Islands... it didn't matter, really, as long as they sailed far away and left everything well behind.

It wasn't a promise, but it was a chance, and he was ready to take it.

He took her hand in his and bent over it and kissed her fingertips, and perhaps he only imagined it, but it seemed to him her fingers briefly pressed his before she turned around and began walking upstairs.

Thadorn sat with his head bowed. He wanted to cross his arms and put his head over them, and close his eyes and sleep, but he knew he could not do that. He had to keep going. He had to do this last thing that had to be done.

He lifted his eyes from the letter to Kelena.

"Is it certain that it was her?" he asked.

His good-sister's eyes filled with tears. "Nothing is certain, Thadorn," she whispered, placing her hand over his. "I only know what this letter says – that a South Watch patrol witnessed a red-haired woman throwing herself off a cliff."

"Did Dankar tell you whether they attempted to search for..." he intended to say _the body,_ but couldn't bring himself to do that.

"Yes, they did," Kelena said readily, "but they soon gave up. That chasm is inaccessible."

_It is,_ he thought. _The chasm that separated me from her._

"Do you believe it was her?" Kelena asked tremulously, after a moment's silence.

_No,_ he was about to say. _Anyone who says it was Jadine did not know her. Jadine would never have taken her own life. Jadine would never have admitted defeat, not until her last breath._ And yet he needed to believe that it was her. He needed to believe that it was finally over.

"Yes," he said, and Kelena closed her eyes for a moment, opened them again, and nodded gently.

"What will you do now?" she asked him.

"I will bury her," he told her.

"But," she said gently, "they didn't find her – "

"I know," he nodded. "It matters not. I can still give her a proper funeral. I will bury my wife, and I will assume again my duties at the Sea Guard, and I will try to be a good father to my children. And if the Spirit is merciful, I will never leave Rhasket-Tharsanae again - for as long as I shall live."

Wet ribbons shone on Kelena's cheeks where her tears had fallen down. "If you wish me to delay our journey, say it, and I will tell Dankar to postpone so that we are able to go back with you to Rhasket."

He shook his head. "There is no need to. Your passage is already booked, and I know you have no great desire to return to Rhasket so soon after... after Kohir," he finished quietly.

She looked at him with sadness and gratitude, and fresh tears welled up in her eyes. He said no more. In his heart he knew that she had to go, for a long time, perhaps forever, and he could only hope time and distance would heal her. _She will be fine,_ he attempted to tell himself. _She will be with her husband and son._ And yet he dreaded all the goodbyes. _First Kelena, and then Rogell and Lya, and who knows if and when we meet again._ In a way he envied them, their ability to get away from the pain, to break off the familiar, to look forward to something new. Yet he also knew himself well enough to realize he could never do that. His roots were too deep and strong, binding him firmly to his land, his home, his clan. He could never leave the places that brought him so much joy and pain. Like a ghost of his former self, he was forever doomed to wander the spots where he once thought he could be happy forever.

It was then that Kelena did something unexpected. She dried her eyes and placed a hand on his cheek, and looked at him tenderly.

"Thadorn," she said, "you must marry again."

He was taken too much off his guard to feel indignation. "You cannot talk about that right now," he told her.

"I can," she said. "It might well be the last time you and I talk like this, in peace, before our ship sails away. And so I am taking my chance to tell you that you must marry, Thadorn. I know you will not be able to think of it soon, and perhaps not for a while, but one day or another you must see that it is best for everyone – you and the children. Promise me that day will come."

He looked into her eyes and, knowing that he is lying, said "I promise."

She nodded, satisfied, and her fingers brushed gently against his cheek.

"I must go now," she told him. "I have to supervise the packing, or it will never be done in time. Would you like to join me? Dankar will be glad to see you, I know."

"No," Thadorn attempted to speak as courteously as possible. "I thank you, but there is... something I must do."

There was one more goodbye to be said.

He walked with Nicholas beyond the city walls, through a shady grove and up a hill where the mysterious Spring of Spring took its source. They walked in silence, shoulder to shoulder, and Thadorn felt not that they are friends, but that they could have been friends in another life. _A life in which I wouldn't send my own wife into exile. A life in which I wouldn't have to wonder whether she is alive or dead._

"The Learned Men have crafted a sphere of Stormglass for me," Nicholas told him. "It is fascinating, truly. I am only sorry that once is works, I will be sent home and won't have further opportunity to explore its properties."

"You still hope it will work, though, do you not?" Thadorn asked him. The man from the-world-beyond nodded. "I wish I could have gone with you," Thadorn said abruptly. Nicholas looked at him in surprise.

"You do not strike me as a man who would ever willingly leave his homeland."

"You are right. But I..." he shook his head. "Sometimes I let my fancy wonder. Not the best of habits, true, but there you go." He stopped, facing Nicholas, and extended a hand. "You have been a faithful comrade," he said brusquely. "I thank you for everything."

They didn't break the handshake for a long time. "I will never come back to Tilir," said Nicholas with a tinge of sadness, "no one comes more than once, as far as I know. But my son or grandson might come after me. I do not know whether I will live to see that, but I hope I do. It would be good to hear word of you. All of you. And," he paused for a moment, "when you go back to your home town, thank Rogell and Lya for me. Tell them I did not know the goodbye we said was final, or I would have taken more pains to express my gratitude. You are fortunate to have friends such as them."

"They are leaving," said Thadorn, averting his face so that his distress would not be too obvious.

"Not for another world, though, are they?" Nicholas said softly.

"No," said Thadorn. _But it is as if they were._ An evil little voice he tried in vain to silence told him that Rogell is leaving to get away from _him_ , to get from underneath his shadow – a shadow the existence of which Thadorn vehemently denied, but which existed nevertheless, whether he liked to admit it or not.

"Look," said Nicholas, pulling something out of his robes. It was a beautiful hunting knife with silver inlay, its handle of ebony encrusted with amber and onyx.

"That is a fine knife," Thadorn said appreciatively.

"One of the gifts of King Alvadon," explained Nicholas. "Your king has been most generous, but I can hardly imagine I will ever need this. I want you to have it."

"No," Thadorn shook his head. "No, one does not just pass a kingly gift on to someone else. Even if you never use it, keep it. For the sake of remembering."

"I have more keepsakes than I will be able to carry," Nicholas assured him. "Brooches and rings and scrolls and..." but Thadorn kept on shaking his head, adamant.

"It holds too much value," he said. "Look at the handle, see how masterly it was carved? And no one makes knives like that anymore. This is from before the Union, I can tell."

"Well, in that case, I will give you the bow," relented Nicholas. "I was given a freakishly big blackwood bow, and what shall I ever do with it?"

"I am not a bowman," protested Thadorn.

"Perhaps not, but your son might be."

Thadorn was startled at the thought. To tell it true, he still wondered as if in a limbo, at times thinking of nothing but his children, at time almost forgetting that he had a son and two daughters. But in ten years or so, Korian might just hold a bow and hunt.

"Thank you," he conceded as graciously as he could.

When Kelena finally looked back, the land of Tilir was no more than a faint line on the horizon. Through mist and tears, it appeared blurry. She swept the tears away with the back of her hand, but there was no halting the wind, no slowing the ship. They were at sea, the water sparkling blue ahead and behind and on all sides, and the sky blue likewise, dotted here and there with oddly shaped clouds that threw shadows upon the sparkling waves.

"I heard it is beautiful in Sambeara," Dankar told her, looking at their son. When they first boarded the ship, little Emmet refused to stand on his own unless he was holding his mother's hand, or his father's, but now he got used to the swaying of the deck beneath his feet, and was now keen to explore the ship, curious and excited at the novelty. "Fish with scales in all the colors of the rainbow jump out of the water there, I was told," her husband went on, "and hover above the water like butteflies."

Kelena smiled, weakly but distinctly. "Emmet will like that."

"So will you, I hope," Dankar said seriously, studying her face. "But if you are disappointed in our first destination, there are other ports and other ships. We can go wherever you like, you only need to say the words."

She looked at him and saw the solicitous concern his face lately assumed every time they talked. Feeling a sudden need to reassure him, she reached out and took his hand.

"Thank you," she said simply.

She was looking at the sea. Its vastness, its infinity comforted her. She did not feel happy or excited, exactly – she couldn't, not yet, anyway – but something inside her was growing, growing, expanding, insistently telling her that everything would be fine. _In the end – though where is the end, I do not know._

It was a relief to leave everything behind. The memories, the concerns of her clan, the intrigues of Aldon-Sur. Her parents didn't need her, for all their hopes and ambitions were now pinned on Nog. Her remaining brother was a man grown, with a life of his own. The only one on whose behalf she felt anxious was Thadorn, and she kept telling herself he would recover. _He will be well,_ she said to herself. _He is a strong man, he is unbroken._ She believed it because she wanted to, and because she needed to. She needed peace of mind.

A sudden wave and a tilt of the ship made Emm momentarily lose his balance and fall. He scraped a knee and was now clutching it, bawling at the top of his lungs. They hurried to comfort the child, and when Kelena picked him up in her arms, his touch soothed her just as her presence soothed him.

"Wind is picking up," Dankar said. "It might become a little stormy soon, I was told. Nothing to fear, but it would be good for the two of you to go down to the cabin and rest a while."

And as they were descending down the stairs, Kelena blessedly, wondrously realized that she has no regrets.

Chapter 17

"It is time," said Rogell, and Thadorn nodded. Together, they easily carried the coffin at the beginning of the procession. Almost the entire clan of Tionae followed in their wake. Many of them held a grudge for Jadine, but there was none who failed to pay their respects to Thadorn. Only the very old and very young and those who looked after them remained behind, such as Lya and the children.

The coffin was almost empty, but not quite. There was no body to bury, of course, so instead they placed inside it some of the things Jadine was fond of: several of her dresses, flowers from her garden, some scrolls and books written in the ancient language Thadorn did not know – and did not wish – to decipher. There were some of her writings, too, and although he knew they might help him understand, he no longer wanted to. He didn't want to reconcile himself to what she did, or to search for motives, reasons, justifications. Right now, he simply wanted her gone.

They walked past places where Jadine had walked, past places that she loved. _Here I used to wander, dreaming of her. Here we were joined as man and wife, for now and all time._

And wherever they went, people joined the silent wake. Some of them from the Kamtesir, less of the Kotsar, for it was known that Rohir and Hinassi still, despite everything, unspokenly cherish the hope that their daughter lives.

They went out of the town gates and slowly but steadily made their progress toward the sea. The day was almost windless, the waves all but gone, but it did not signify much. _The current is there. The current will carry her away, forever._ He needed to believe it would be forever. He needed to believe there would be no more pain.

Gently, as if not to disturb something that had fallen asleep, Thadorn and Rogell lowered the coffin into the small fragile boat, which was tethered like a wild deer prone to run away.

The two friends exchanged glances, and Rogell nodded encouragingly. Thadorn lifted his head up high, looking first at the assembled silent crowd, then at the calm grey sea. He feared his voice would fail him, but when he spoke, the words sounded clear and strong.

"Jadine, daughter of the Kotsar," he said, "once upon a time, our souls were joined together, to be done apart by nothing but death. I did not know how short a time we would have, nor how bitter the parting would be, but despite everything that had happened, you lived and died as my wife, and as such you will leave for the Lands of Dawn."

There was a brief, low murmur that died almost instantly when Thadorn spoke again.

"No one knows for sure where your body is, but it matters little, for what is a body other than an empty shell, once the soul has left it? Your soul departs today, from the place that was your home... from the place you should never have left."

He bent and untied the rope that held the boat in place. He hoped no one would notice that his hands were shaking.

"You leave now," he said, gazing in the direction of the boat that was being swept away by the current. "I release you, and set your soul free, and wish that the Eternal Dawn wraps you in peace you never had in the lands of mortal men."

Then he turned around and faced all those who were looking at him, some sympathetically, some mutinously. He expected someone to say something, to comfort or challenge him, but none did. Several men of his clan approached him and shook his hand in awkward silence, but only a few managed to squeeze out a word or two. It appeared that no one knew what ought to be said.

He began to walk along the beach, his head bowed, no longer looking at the boat that was gliding further and further away. Some minutes had passed before he realized he was not alone. He turned around. Rogell was following him, albeit from a respectful distance. He stood and waited, and let his friend come to him.

"It is over now," he said, as much to himself as to Rogell. Rogell nodded. Thadorn feared questions. _Do you truly believe she is dead?_ He might ask. _Or do you only wish it to be so, to be certain that you will never see her again, that your fragile peace will not be disturbed?_

_I do not care,_ Thadorn might have answered. _I do not care whether her body is broken and rotting somewhere, or whether she is still alive in some distant place across the borders of Tilir. For me, she died today, and I never wish to know anything that says otherwise._

But Rogell asked something different. "Did you forgive her?"

Now it was Thadorn's turn to look mutinous. "What do you think?"

"I think you did not. I also think you should. Not for her sake, but for your own, and for that of your children. She is dead, Thadorn, I feel it in my bones – but she will never be truly gone unless you let her go."

Thadorn weighed this for a moment and nodded. "You are right," he told his friend. He was silent for another moment and added, "I never want her name to be spoken in my presence again."

"Very well," said Rogell, and put a hand on his shoulder. Together, they continued walking. They now talked of other matters – their families, Sea Guard duties, Rogell and Lya's departure, which was due to take place in a couple of days. Thadorn spoke, he asked questions and gave answers, offered advice and made promises, but only a part of him was there.

The other part was at sea, drifting towards the Lands of Dawn – or the Lands of Shadow – together with Jadine.

And all too soon, a ship was bobbing upon the waves, impatient to be gone from the harbor of Rhasket-Tharsanae. The usual commotion was taking place: parcels and chests raised on board, tearful goodbyes exchanged, orders shouted. But the sights and sounds of it all were almost lost on Thadorn. He saw nothing but the people he came to see off into the unknown.

Rogell was trying hard to conceal how excited he was as they shook hands; he clearly couldn't wait to be on his way, and Thadorn fought to bring down a tide of bitterness that threatened to sweep him. _He is perfectly within his right,_ he said to himself reasonably. _Our lives began together and had gone on together for a good long time, but no one ever promised it would always be so._ He couldn't be selfish and petty. Rogell did not deserve this.

"Look after Lya and Jo," he told his cousin, "and whatever happens, no matter how long you are gone, remember that you are loved and awaited here, Rogell."

They embraced. Next to her husband's excitement, Lya's face was obviously careworn. She was holding Jorrel's hand, but absent-mindedly, as if she had almost forgotten what they all were doing there. She looked at Thadorn with a mixture of understanding, anxious concern and... what else was it? He wouldn't dare to guess even if he could, but this last warm pressure of her hand was insistent like never before.

"Take care of the children," was all she told him, quietly, and Thadorn nodded.

And then they were climbing up on the deck and he remained below, and the sails were filled with wind, and they were waving to him and he was waving back, until their figures were swallowed in the distance, until the ship itself became nothing but a small black spot on the horizon, and the black spot was gone, lost in the blue of the sea and sky.

His cousin – no, his brother, the man he trusted more than anyone else in the world, his friend and companion, the one who knew him perhaps better than he knew himself, the one who shared every step of his life – was gone, and an ominous, inexplicable but unceasing voice kept telling Thadorn that he would never see Rogell again.

He remained alone.

Then he shook his head and looked around him. No, he was not alone. Here were his children, and they needed him – now more than ever, because they had no one else left.

At his feet, Datrine was sitting with her face in her hands, sobbing her heart out. Until the very last, she kept hoping that a miracle would happen and Lya and Jorrel, at least, would stay. Thadorn had to confess that deep in his heart, he had hoped as well. _The children need Lya,_ he thought. _They need a mother._ But he knew, of course, that it was not to be. Lya would follow her husband wherever he went, even if she herself never wished to stir from her home. Her loyalty and devotion were precisely what made them all need her so much.

But now all his children had was him – and as inadequate as he felt, he would have to step up and make the best he could of what they had.

Slowly, carefully, he approached Datrine and placed a hand on her shoulder.

"They will be back," he said quietly. "A few months, a year maybe, and you will be playing with Jorrel again, and Lya will be making us fig jam."

Datrine lifted her tear-glazed face up from her hands and gave him a long, calculating stare that was anything but childlike. "You are lying," she hurled at him.

Then, as if afraid of his reaction, she scrambled up on her feet, turned her back to him, and began marching in the direction of the town. Thadorn picked Tari up and held her in one arm, and offered his other hand to Korian - and together they went after Datrine, whose head was held stubbornly high in the air, as if she was ashamed of her weakness and her tears.

Everything was in meticulous order in their home, and the last meal Lya had prepared for them was set on the table. As they sat down for their supper, Thadorn spent a few minutes with his head bowed, as if waiting for someone. Then he berated himself, shook his head almost imperceptibly, and began to eat. In the past months he ate almost mechanically, allowing himself to pass meal times in broody silence, but now this was no longer possible, as Korian and Datrine kept bickering, and Tari knocked down the milk jug and began to bawl.

Clumsily, with unskilled hands, Thadorn stripped Tari's drenched frock and carried her up the stairs. For the first time, he supervised the children's baths and put them to bed. Tari, exhausted, fell asleep almost at once, and Datrine turned her face to the wall and pretended to be sleeping; Thadorn thought it best not to bother her. Korian, however, kept holding on to his father's hand. His lids were heavy, but he pried them open by sheer force of will and stared into his father's eyes.

"What time is it?" he asked in a whisper.

"It is late," Thadorn told him. "You are tired. Go to sleep, son."

Korian looked away for a moment, then back at him. "Will you be here tomorrow when we get up?" he asked anxiously, and Thadorn felt something inside him tighten.

"Yes," he promised, stroking the boy's hair. "I will be here tomorrow. I will be here for as long as I live."

Soon after that, the sleepy breathing of the three children filled the room, and Thadorn tiptoed out.

For a long time he sat at the verandah, which was weakly illuminated by the light of a single oil lamp.

His grief was natural, he realized, but to hold on to it would be selfish. He could not evict the pain, but he would have to shut it in a dark corner of his mind, to force his thoughts away from his losses. He was a man, a father, a soldier, a clan leader. He had duties which could not be compromised, and he would fulfill them.

Now, and tomorrow, and until his last day.

The first thing Nicholas felt was a sharp pain in his knees. All air went out of him, and he was bent in a fetal position. He did not look up yet, but he already noticed it was dark around him, and somehow, unmistakably, the quality of the air he breathed, and the smells and sounds, and the imperceptible familiarity he felt in the land that supported him – all combined together told him that it worked, that the Stormglass gate was opened, and that he was now home.

He lifted his head up. He found himself, once more, in the Stone Circle. The air was cool, but it was the cool of an evening, not a pre-dawn chill, and the position of the half-moon in the sky convinced Nicholas that the night was just beginning.

Slowly, he got up, probing his shaking feet. They managed to support the weight of his body. His ribs were hurting on one side, and he felt as tired as if he were just forced to walk an entire day without a stop for food or drink. Fittingly, his tongue was parched, so much that it hardly wet his lips when he attempted to lick them.

_It was a dream,_ he told himself wildly, _stress has taken its toll and I've had the strangest vision, but now it's gone._ But when he opened the pouch on his belt and looked once more at the items in it, he was forced to admit that this was real, and that his world was changed forever.

He held a hand to his side, clutching his ribs, and began limping in the direction of the village.

The pub owner's eyes widened perceptibly upon his appearance, and Nicholas could not blame the man. He was still wearing his Tilirian clothes, including the new – a little extravagant, in his opinion - ermine-trimmed cloak he received from the city elders as a parting gift. And quite apart from looking like the most rabid Tolkien-inspired fan, he was dirty from his fall, exhausted-looking, and needless to say, he had no identifying documents with him.

The landlord did not appear to recognize Nicholas, which as far as he was concerned was all to the good. Under a scrutinizing gaze, he plunged into a dramatic story about a stuck car and an urgent appointment, and finally managed to obtain a grudging permission to use the telephone. With shaking fingers, he dialed Andrew's number.

At first, the deep silence after his "hello, Andy" convinced him that the line must have gone bad, but then his friend's voice erupted with such force that he had to hold the receiver at some distance from his ear.

"Nick?! Is that you? Where are you? _Where have you been?_ Do you have any idea – "

"Andy," Nicholas interrupted him, "I need you to pick me up."

"What you need is a good beating for not having appeared earlier!" boomed Andrew's voice.

"I will explain to you, you will understand – "

"Hold on," Andrew said across him forcefully. "I don't want to waste time. Tell me where you are, and I'll be there as soon as I can."

Nicholas dictated the address and, to make the wait a little more bearable, ordered a tankard of hot ale. He hoped Andrew would not mind paying the bill, as he didn't fancy trying to discharge it with Tilirian coins.

He must have dozed off over his half-empty tankard, because he was startled by a sharp blow to the back of his head.

"Ow!" he exclaimed, his voice slurry with sleep, and turned around. Andrew was standing in front of him, his face shining with a mixture of indignation and excitement. Nicholas got up slowly and spread his arms, so as to display his magnificent cloak, expertly sewn tunic and muddy breeches. For a moment Andrew stared, speechless, and then Nicholas was pulled into a bear hug that put further strain on his already hurting rib. He winced but bore it bravely, and gratefully allowed Andrew to steer him in the direction of the car.

Once they were sitting inside it, Andrew did not even make a move to put his hands on the steering wheel, but instead looked at Nicholas intently, studying his friend's face.

"You promised to explain," he reminded him. But at the moment, it was the last thing Nicholas felt like doing. His leaned his head back on the seat cushion, and would gladly have fallen asleep if it was possible. "What happened?" demanded Andrew. "We didn't know what to think. That idiot Jim O'Keeffe and his stupid paper created a sensation with the story of your disappearance, but of course the Scotland Yard experts couldn't take him seriously – they didn't believe, naturally, that you just vanished into thin air... but then, it seemed that you did exactly that! All those months, and not a single call, nor a letter – "

"I didn't go to a place I could call or write from," Nicholas said quietly.

"So you are saying that you _went_ somewhere?"

"Went," Nicholas shrugged, "or was taken. It depends on the outlook."

"Would you be so kind as to elaborate?" Andrew said impatiently.

But instead of elaborating, Nicholas looked straight at him and asked, "how is Kate?"

Andrew stared back at him with a mixture of incredulity and satisfaction. "You vanish," he said distinctly, "for months, you wander God knows where, without showing the slightest sign of life – and then, all of a sudden you return, and instead of explaining what the hell is going on, you ask about Kate?"

Nicholas said nothing.

"If you must know," Andrew continued in softened tones, "Kate was terribly affected by your disappearance. In some twisted way I believe she even felt guilty for it, poor girl. It will be a relief for her to know that you are fine."

"... You are mad," Andrew told him in an awed whisper several hours later, just as Nicholas had finished his tale. "All that digging in ancient scrolls and medieval texts has taken its toll. You have gone utterly, irrevocably mad."

That was just the response Nicholas expected, and he was not in the least put off by it. He kept staring steadily, seriously at his friend.

"Aren't... aren't you?" Andrew added hesitantly, in a faltering voice.

"Well, then," said Nicholas, putting the tips of his fingers together, as always when a mysterious ancient proceeding applied to the cold logic of his thought. "Suggest another explanation. Where, in your opinion, have I been all this time?"

"In a madhouse," Andrew said quickly. "You have only just escaped from there, and they are probably looking for you. Tomorrow we will see the ads everywhere. _Mad and dangerous,_ they will say. _A peril to himself and the society. Anyone who knows something of his whereabouts, call without delay."_

Nicholas offered him an amused smile.

"Or you might have decided the strain of work is too much for you," Andrew went on ponderously. "You took a flight to Brazil, enjoyed the carnival, got drunk, knocked yourself on the head, and only regained your memory recently."

"What you suggest," Nicholas said patiently, "is more unbelievable than what I just told you. You know me, Andy."

Andrew took his hair in his hands, in a gesture that suggested he was about to tear it out, and was looking at him with something akin to despair. "But if it is true," he said slowly, " _if_ it is true... then the world as we know it does not exist... has never existed..."

"Why? Of course it exists. It is only that another world exists as well, and it is, alas, a reproach to ours. A world with medieval technology, but such nearly perfect harmony! A medieval world, but without religious wars! Such peaceful worship, such unrepressed social structure. It makes me blush with shame for our own world, Andy."

"Well," declared Andrew, "if that is true, anything is possible."

"Precisely," Nicholas nodded in decisive agreement, "anything."

Kate, Andrew had told him, has taken a secretarial job in an insignificant accounting company located in one of the greyest districts of downtown London. After Nicholas had bathed, changed, and made one very long call to work, that accounting company was his first destination.

He pushed the glass door and found himself in a small reception area. It was poorly heated and lit by glaring fluorescent bulbs. He cleared his throat at the sight of the empty reception desk in front of him. There were piles of papers and files, and a small potted plant with squeaky clean leaves which made Nicholas's heart beat faster, because there he saw a touch of her hand, and knew that she was near.

Behind his back he heard a noise of scattering papers, as a large pile of them fell out of Kate's hand, to cover the cheaply carpeted floor. She was standing in front of him, her hands empty, her face pale.

"Dr. Swift," she whispered, wide-eyed.

He stepped towards her. "Miss Nuland," he said. He bent to help her pick up the papers, and she bent as well, and the two of them remained this way, looking at each other, Kate mesmerized, he fearful.

"I have looked for you everywhere," she said, still whispering, staring at him almost as if he were a ghost. "I did not know what to think."

"Nor I," said Nicholas, finally gathering his senses and the fallen papers. "Nor I," he repeated, handing the papers to her. She gave him a nod of thanks, rose, and absent-mindedly put the papers away.

Now she was looking at him, and Nicholas was struck anew by the spirit-filled beauty of her face, the clear blue eyes, the luscious waves of chestnut hair, the soft contours of her cheekbone and jaw and neck. The first hint of a smile appeared on her lips.

"You look well, Dr. Swift," she said.

... Half an hour later, when Nicholas went out of there, he felt younger and happier than he had ever remembered. He felt like a man who conquered the highest peak, who fulfilled his wildest dreams, who achieved what he hardly dared to hope.

Logically speaking, such celebration was perhaps unmerited, for nothing happened but that Kate – no, Cathy – agreed to have dinner with him. But in his heart he already knew that he had won, that his destiny had sent him a gift the equal of which he could not imagine, that this loveliest and fairest of all women would be his – he could not have defined all these thoughts, and if someone put them in words he would have vehemently denied them, but nevertheless it was true. He was no longer the man he had been, and his life would never again be what it once was. The new part of his own history was beginning today.

One day, the Messenger would arrive, the Essence of the Spirit would no longer be obscure, and the Dominion of Tilir would come again. In his mind Thadorn Tionae did not doubt these absolute truths, yet in the practical course of his life they now held little and less meaning to him. Between his resumed duties as Commander of the Sea Guard, the clan headship, and taking care of three children who felt as if they were orphaned anew, days and nights and weeks passed as if in a blur, and Thadorn kept delaying what he knew he had no right to delay any longer – his meeting with Rohir and Hinassi Kotsar.

His wife's mother and father have been unfair to Thadorn, they had accused him unjustly, they had spread slander about him, and this hurt his pride more than he cared to admit. Yet he had to confess that he, in his turn, had been unfair to them as well. They gave great importance to the status of their clan, but that was not all they cared about. They had lost two of their children, and he had underestimated their grief. He knew that well.

Rohir and Hinassi received him in a formal manner, in the spacious marble hall of their luxurious home. Hinassi was well-dressed, her handsome and arrogant face smooth as though she had never known care nor anxiety, yet Thadorn knew it for the lie that it was.

"What are you doing here?" Hinassi asked him in her smooth, cool manner.

"Whether you like it or not," Thadorn told her, "I was your daughter's husband."

Rohir raised his eyebrows slightly. "Jadine had committed betrayal and dark sorcery," he said. "Even if she still lived, she would not be considered our daughter. We have nothing more to connect us with her... or you."

"Nothing but three links," Thadorn said, "called Korian, Datrine and Tari."

"We recognize our grandchildren, of course," Hinassi said reservedly. "Their kinship with the clan of Kotsar is undisputed."

He should have turned and walked away then, of course, but he insisted. "That is not enough," he said. "We have all suffered great losses. You have lost a son and a daughter, I..." he stopped, then nodded resolutely, "I have lost my wife, and the children have lost their mother. But they still have me, and they still have you. That is important. I love my son and daughters dearly, but I am a man, with a man's duties. I cannot tend to their needs in the proper way. They need more attention. I need help."

The expression on Hinassi's face was suspiciously like a sneer. "How very touching. Precisely now that your faithful sidekick and his wife are gone, yes? Until now you had someone to tend your home and take care of the children... Lya was her name, was it not? I believe you made a mistake, Thadorn. You ought to have married _her_. Jadine was never made for you."

Rohir put a hand on his wife's sleeve. He, at least, had the decency to look slightly guilty. "Forgive Hinassi's harsh words, Thadorn. It is grief speaking through her. Yet I believe she is not without reason. Perhaps _we_ were the ones to make a mistake, reversing the better order of things... if at the right time we had promoted a match between you and Kelena, and Jadine and Dankar, everything might have turned out differently."

_Nothing would have turned out differently,_ Thadorn thought. It was hopeless, hopeless from the first moment he saw Jadine the way a man sees a woman. He might have been happy with Lya, with Kelena, with a thousand other women – but he would not listen to the voice of reason, he would not stop until he had the one who was destined to ruin him.

He made a curt bow, turned around, and left.

He walked on, cursing himself for a fool. He should never have come. Now, with Kelena gone, it was easier than ever to finalize his breach with the Kotsar.

When he came home, he found Datrine in tears over a torn rag doll. Little Tari pulled on one of the doll's legs, it turned out, and the sawdust stuffing spilled out.

"No matter," said Thadorn, wiping his daughter's tears with a callused thumb. "I will sew it up for you."

Datrine looked up at him, forgetting to cry in her incredulity. "I didn't know you could sew," she said.

He offered her a smile. "Who do you think patched up my cloak and boots when they got worn out during marches?"

"One of the soldiers?" guessed Datrine. He shook his head.

"Not at all. If I want a job done well, I do it myself... and my boots held together all the way home."

"Will you tell us about the march?" Korian asked hopefully.

"I will," promised Thadorn, "in a minute. But first, we need to find a needle and some thread."

Nicholas and Catherine were walking, not quite knowing where they were going, but it did not matter much. Over half the night was already gone, the streets were emptying, but it did not signify much to them, so immersed they were in their conversation. It seemed to Nicholas that never before in his life he had spoken so eloquently, nor had his step ever been so springy and graceful. While she walked by him, and her head was turned towards him, the spirit of pure beauty, of longing and dreams, of poetry and wonder enveloped his world and promised to never let go.

"Is that the whole story?" Catherine asked timidly once they found themselves standing beneath the apartment building where she lived.

"Far from it," Nicholas assured her. "It is only the... outline." She nodded, satisfied. The night air was chilly, though neither of them had noticed it until this moment. Catherine buttoned up her jacket.

"Would you... would you like to come up, Dr. Swift?"

"Only if you call me Nicholas," he told her firmly.

"Nicholas," she smiled shyly. "Would you like to come up and have a cup of tea? You can use my phone to call for a taxi."

Catherine's flat was small but neat, with a welcoming look that did not suggest, however, that she often hosted a large company. She gestured for Nicholas to sit by the small, square, neatly arranged kitchen table that stood right by the window, and put out a plate of ginger biscuits while the tea was boiling on the two-burner stove. She added a dash of cinnamon to the tea, and its scent touched Nicholas like a warm caress.

She was sitting in front of him, holding her cup of steaming tea in both hands for warmth. Her blue cardigan brought out the color of her wonderful eyes and contrasted with the milky paleness of her face and neck. He realized he had been staring at her for a whole minute and lowered his eyes, blushing like a boy.

"You aren't drinking," Catherine remarked. "Is the tea too hot?"

"No, not at all," he hastened to say and took a careless gulp, scorching his tongue and the back of his throat. He suppressed the urge to cough. If she noticed, she pretended not to. He took another sip, more carefully this time.

Catherine took a biscuit but did not eat it. "Will you tell me the rest?" she asked.

"Does that interest you?"

"Very much," she said earnestly, and her faith warmed him and filled him with pride and joy. "It sounds like a fascinating story," she added.

"It is," he nodded.

"Will you tell it to me?" she prompted again.

Seized by a fit of sudden bravery, Nicholas reached for her hand. "I am prepared to spend the rest of my life telling it to you, Cathy," he said.

Chapter 18

Nicholas was pacing back and forth as if he could not bear to stop, until he felt a hand on his shoulder. He spun around. Andrew, his best man, was grinning.

"Relax," he said, "there is time yet."

He eyed Nicholas critically from head to foot, and with a concentrated frown reached out to correct the position of the boutonniere. Nicholas slapped his hand away, and Andrew abandoned his attempt.

"I'll wager she won't be here for at least thirty minutes longer," Andrew went on. "The guests are just now beginning to arrive. Why don't we sit down and relax?"

But Nicholas could not sit down and relax, no more than he could stand, sit, eat or sleep in the past fortnight. He was in the state of emotional upheaval when one does not need, nor even thinks of sleep and food.

Still, Andrew dragged him off to the bouffet, where he poured a tall glass of lemonade for each of them. Almost mechanically, Nicholas took a drink. The ice cubes clinked together in his glass. He wiped the sweat off his forehead with a snow-white handkerchief.

"Do you see how good it is that you two listened to me and decided to go for a garden wedding?" asked Andrew, determined to be complimented on his endeavours regarding the wedding plans. "It's still the hottest summer I can remember, but it's going to be a little cooler here, outside the city."

"Yes," Nicholas replied absent-mindedly.

"You sound as if it doesn't even matter," Andrew remarked, offended. "If it were up to you, your guests could cook in their suits."

Nicholas's eyes finally focused on Andrew's face, and a faint smile played on his lips. "But it _doesn't_ matter, Andy," he said. "Not compared to – to – "

He stopped. He could not define in words the enormity of what was happening to him today, but Andrew understood and clapped him on the back.

"That is how I want to see you," he assured Nicholas, "silly with love. But you are still going to have the classiest wedding in town, I've made sure of that... wait, does it only seem to me, or are we called?"

Before he was done talking, Nicholas had already abandoned his half-empty glass of lemonade and nearly ran forward. The priest was motioning for them to take their places at the front of the aisle.

He was a small, elderly man with horn-rimmed glasses he now balanced on the bridge of his nose. Through the thick lenses, he eyed Nicholas benignly.

"I thought that, as we still have a few minutes before the bride is due to arrive, we might go through the steps of the ceremony one more time – "

But there was no more time, for Catherine just appeared, leaning on her father's arm.

Nicholas couldn't take his eyes off her as she walked towards him, but he did not really _see_ her; rather, he saw everything around her illuminated by her light, changed, softened – himself most of all. He thought he had nothing to look forward to, and now he had been given the greatest gift of all. He thought he would never see her again, and now he was about to marry her. He thought his life was nearing its obscure end, but now he realized it was just beginning.

She stopped and stood in front of him, smiling radiantly. He attempted to return her smile, but it appeared he had forgotten how to control the muscles of his face; he had forgotten how to breathe. _Too good,_ he thought almost incoherently. _This is too good, all of it. She cannot want to marry me._

And yet the priest was calling for Andrew to prepare the rings, and the two narrow golden hoops, identical but for their size, loomed in Nicholas's vicinity; and Cathy's smiling eyes suddenly filled with tears of joy as she reached out for his hand. Steadying himself, he pressed her fingers and finally managed to take in the sight of her face, aglow with emotion.

The dress she was wearing was very elegant, and a lot of thought, time and effort had been put into choosing the fabric, the design, the lace, the pearls, the gloves and the veil, but Nicholas did not see all that. For him, the dress, the decorations, the sumptuous flower arrangements – all of it meant little, it served but as a shimmering white background to this greatest moment of his life, and almost unconsciously he had given his reply while being asked whether he takes this woman to be his wife, in sickness and in health, in wealth and in poverty... his eyes asked her, _"Do you?"_ and hers in eloquent silence replied, _"I do"_ – and they exchanged rings, and people all around them were clapping and cheering and rushing to congratulate them, and it was done.

Slightly dazed with his happiness, Nicholas did not quite know whether his young wife was leaning on his arm, or he on hers, but one thing was certain – today was more wondrously magical than anything he had experienced in his journey through the worlds.

No one quite knows the origin of the clans that have come to form the kingdom of Tilir. Some say they have migrated from the southern part of Ilsiola, the continent to which Tilir belongs; many of the Tilirian scholars reject this version vehemently, as it equals the clans of Tilir with the wild tribes surrounding its borders. Some say that the Spirit himself gathered the people of Tilir in His mighty hand and placed them upon the land He chose to bless; this version of the events has some fervent believers, and some who reject is as lacking many explanatory parts. Still others, more reasonable, say that the Tilirians have come from Syvidia many thousands years ago, and seek proof in similarities of language and habit. One thing is certain, though: there are no traces of a culture older than that of the Tilirians upon their land. Like a virgin bride it was awaiting them, its mountains and forests and rivers and shores untouched. And like a bride, it rejoiced upon the arrival of its groom; unlike the nomad tribes, that did little but trample the land with the hooves of their horses, the Tilirians began to cultivate it, and the land repaid in bountiful fields, orchards bursting with fruit, vines heavy with grapes.

At first the Tilirians were no more than a host of assorted tribes, similar of language, culture and custom, but strangers to one another all the same. Slowly, the tribes grew from fiercely guarding the independence of each, to discovering the benefits of trade and travel, and even intermarriage, although that was frowned upon. Once in a while, a few tribes would unite under one powerful ruler, and several of them have even called themselves kings. But it was not until King Alvadon the First that the true revolution of a Union had taken place. He was a man to unite all the clans of Tilir, great and small, hunter and farmer, friend and foe – into one land, one people, one kingdom. Others have attempted it before him, but he succeeded in such a manner that the Union remained standing even in his death. And thus, a new line of kings was born, and continued in an unbroken male line through the centuries.

And now a new scion of this line was being born.

"Who is the father of this babe?" asked the Man of Spirit solemnly, and all around him, thousands upon thousands of people listened, holding their breath, craning their necks to get a glimpse of the small bundle of swaddling blankets that was resting in its mother's arms.

"It is the son of King Alvadon, Ninth of his name," rang the kingly voice, "rightful king of Tilir, Protector of the land, Shield of the realm, chosen by the Great Spirit to guide and rule the kingdom until his last day."

"Who is the mother of this babe?" a new question sounded, sterner still.

"It is the noble and lovely queen Maviel, princess of far away Adrinor, who came to Tilir to give her hand to King Alvadon in love and faithfulness. She was the one to bear forward this life, this gift from the Spirit, a child who will one day rule over all of Tilir."

"What shall be his name?" a third question was asked.

"He shall be called Alvadon, Tenth of his name," was the answer. "King of Tilir, Defender of the realm, Guardian of its people, chosen by the Great Spirit and anointed by men of faith."

"And so it shall be," proclaimed the Man of Spirit, raising his hands high. The wide white sleeves of his robe fluttered in the light breeze, and the rays of the sun shone off the metal disks sewn upon it – bronze and copper and silver and gold, yellow gold and red and white. "May the Great Spirit look kindly down upon this child, and bless him, and give him the strength and wisdom and kindness a king needs. And may we now all kneel in prayer, so that it may be thus."

There was a rustle of fabric as many people went down to their knees.

"All hail Alvadon, Prince of Tilir!"

"Alvadon, Prince of Tilir," echoed countless voices, and the young king exchanged a glance with his queen and smiled.

... The tale of King Alvadon and Queen Maviel could have seemed happy had it ended here, but it does not. Sadly, both of them died young, much younger than the circumstances of their age and health could have indicated. But their trueborn son and heir, King Alvadon the Tenth, lived to accomplish great deeds, which had later been recorded in the scrolls for the posterity to remember always, until the Coming of the Messenger and the Final Dawn and beyond it.

Dankar Gindur, too, grew in the spirit of bravery and greatness of heart, and he and his son Emmet lived a life of adventures too numerous to count.

Nicholas and Catherine were happy in one another and raised a fine family together. To an outsider, it might have seemed that they have simply an ordinary, respectable fate, but Nicholas had learned that his own world, too, has much of the extraordinary to offer. He also knew that, although fate seldom grants more than one opportunity to travel between the worlds, Tilir is not quite done with him yet – and he was right, for great deeds awaited his son Septimus as well, and other descendants of the Swifts deep in the vast sea of the future.

And for the sake of those who would sail this vast foggy sea, Nicholas often hoped that Tilir would remain what it was for him – a land of beauty and splendor, mystery and valor, bravery and secret knowledge, from now and until the end of days, until the world as we know it comes to its faraway but inevitable conclusion.

Next books in the trilogy:

Warriors of the Realm

Guardians of the Gates

A Call to Readers

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