 
### Paths of the Chosen

Book 1 of _The Godswar_

Kenneth McDonald

km4101@netzero.net

Second Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2010 Kenneth McDonald

* * * * *

Prologue

An old man sat beside a brook, fishing. His bare feet poked out from the edges of a worn, familiar robe, spread out under him atop long strands of grass that swayed slightly in the faint hints of afternoon breeze. To either side of him were trees that leaned out over the water, their branches dipping low toward the rippled surface, as if they were trying to reach down into the gently flowing stream. Behind him more trees stood in clusters, deepening into a forest farther back from the meandering edges of the brook. But little could be seen of the forest, for a dense gray fog rose up to shroud the ancient trunks, forming a wall that obscured from view anything that might have been hidden within.

The fisherman appeared unremarkable enough. Tired lines of age creased his brow, and tired strands of wispy white hair flanked his rugged but otherwise common features. He seemed entirely concentrated on his activity, gently coaxing his line as if that would will the fish to bite the lure at its end.

After a time, a light appeared from somewhere within the depths of the forest, within the uncanny bank of fog. It flickered briefly on and then off again, as though it came from a moving source periodically obscured by the thick trunks of the forest trees. After an interval it grew stronger, though, and it was clear that the light was drawing nearer to the small clearing at the edge of the stream where the fisherman waited. He paid it no heed, continuing his intent focus upon the waters before him.

Finally the source of the light emerged from the fog, taking on distinction as it entered the clearing. At first glance it appeared to be a lantern or torch, except for the fact that no person bore it forward, but rather it floated through the air, seemingly of its own volition. It drifted nearer to the man, an intangible wisp of soft light, with no clear definition of form or substance. It was no larger than the flame from a torch would have been. As it came closer, its light shone out in a bright nimbus around it, a glowing halo of energy. Where that light touched the forms of trees and grass they grew momentarily indistinct, like ripples disturbing an image reflected in a pool of water. Then it passed on, and the environment returned to solidity once again.

The light paused in its course a few steps from the fisherman. The soft glow it cast played upon the back of his robe, yet there was no shimmering there, no loss of clarity in his form. Rather, it seemed to caress him, and in turn the light grew slightly brighter in intensity, like a lamp freshly filled with oil.

Finally the old man looked up. His eyes shone brightly, suffused with a deeper glow that made the illumination coming from the floating light seem pale by contrast. When he spoke, his words were weighed, powerful, somehow louder in the quiet peacefulness of the surroundings.

"What have you learned?"

The light flickered, briefly, then steadied. The fisherman nodded, his brow furrowing, and for an instant, he truly did look old.

"Hmmm," he said. "It is as I suspected—and feared—then." To himself, in a manner that would have been absent-minded coming from anyone else, he said under his breath, "It was inevitable, I suppose—but that it had come later! Ah, the strange conundrums of fate. We see so much, and at the same time so much remains hidden to us."

Looking up again, he said to the light, "Summon the Nine to a conclave."

The light flickered momentarily as if in response, and then vanished.

A few moments later, so did the stream, the grass, and the forest. The old man lingered a moment longer, a single form in a vague nothingness now that the illusion of reality had faded. His features were creased with hard lines of concentration, and he ran a hand over the craggy lines of his face as he pondered what course of events this news would set into motion.

* * * * *

Chapter 1

Izandra Colton walked swiftly home along a narrow, winding path. It was mid-afternoon, getting over into evening, and her strides grew longer as the remnants of the day slipped past. It was overcast, the clouds an unbroken bank of gray from horizon to horizon, and a crisp wind blew, moist with the promise of a coming storm.

The girl's steps were sure, the dried mud of the path cracking under her boots as she walked. She knew the route well, although the trail showed few signs of recent passage. The old Quarry Road had fallen quite into disuse since the pits at its end had closed. Ethander said that once Sindelar had been quite a busy town, flush with the activity of the quarry and the payroll of the hundred or so miners who had worked there. That had all died down long before she had arrived at Sindelar, and now the place was little more than a hamlet, with a few dozen families eking out a modest living there. Now Sindelar could not even be found on most maps, just another isolated village on the rugged frontiers of Limbrock. It wasn't much, but it was the place that she and her brother called home.

The thoughts of home caused her to hasten her pace still further, although her steps were slowed by the heavy burden she carried in the bulky leather satchel across her back. She had spent most of the day collecting the ore for her master, and her muscles protested from the hard activity even as her thoughts turned ahead to her warm bed and the bowl of hot soup that she knew Martha Colton would have waiting for her. That is, if Ethander didn't already have plans for her tonight, she mused, regretting the thought even as she accepted the possibility. She spent as many nights sleeping on the pallet in his workroom as in her bed at home, at least of late, and despite the disapproving comments of Martha and Loehm Colton. Not that they would ever say such things to Ethander's face, of course. No one did, as far as she knew, in Sindelar, although she also knew that there were many who whispered unpleasant things about her master in private.

The wind kicked up a little bit, causing the girl to try to tug her cloak tighter around her. It was a futile gesture, with the rough straps of the pack holding the garment hard in place, but she didn't want to stop to remove her burdens and adjust her clothing. It was at least another mile to the outskirts of the village, and she knew that if she stopped for a rest now she wouldn't want to start again. She called up one of Ethander's equations and started working through the mathematics in her mind, to take her mind off of the cold. Her feet knew the road, and she didn't fear stumbling or losing her way in the growing dark. She and her brother had taken this road dozens if not hundreds of times in the past, and they knew every track and trail in the surrounding area as well as they knew the muddy streets of their own village. They'd always been more curious and wandersome than most of the other villagers, who seemed content to live out their lives in quiet content, uncaring about what happened in the larger world outside of their little home. Maybe they were different since they'd come from outside, Izandra thought, a line of thinking that she'd explored as often as these little-used trails around the village.

She was tall for her years, and her lean frame belied the not inconsiderable strength she possessed. She'd often wondered if that was why Ezran had been so frail, when the two of them were growing up. It was as if she'd been given an extra dose of vitality, while her brother had been left short.

She stopped and looked around her. She'd gotten carried away in her thoughts, and lost touch with her surroundings. That happened often, especially when she was engaged in menial work or another activity that failed to engage her mind. Martha had often called her a dreamer, with her mind always wandering off to some faraway place. She always smiled when she said it, but Izandra knew that the unspoken message was that people were better off staying in the present, and attending to one's tasks.

The road ahead was passing through a copse of widely scattered trees, connected by dense clusters of brush that crowded in close along the trail. She knew exactly where she was, but as she looked around, she realized that something was wrong. There was something alien in this place, otherwise so familiar, even in the murky light of a gray afternoon.

Then a man appeared out of the brush and stepped into the road in front of her.

She started but quickly regained her composure, although her body tensed involuntarily as she watched the newcomer. He hadn't exactly been hiding in the bushes, for they were easily tall enough to hide an upright man in many places, but he hadn't exactly been walking straight up the road, either. She noticed immediately that he was armed, with a short, slightly curved sword slung against his right hip. He was dressed in an unremarkable leather coat over dark breeches and a mismatched yellow tunic, all stained with dirt and indeterminate grime.

The stranger met her gaze squarely, his arms crossed before his chest, obviously not as surprised to see her as she was to see him.

Izandra stared at his face, trying to make him out clearly despite the poor light. He was not a villager, that she'd known instantly. But there was something else about him, something... _wrong_... with his features, his expression. She couldn't name what it was, until he smiled at her, revealing a broad mouth full of uneven, jagged teeth. Then she knew.

He wasn't a man at all.

She took a reflexive step back as the brush to either side of the road stirred again, and several more of them appeared, all ahead of her, blocking the road to Sindelar. She counted six in all, all dressed in similar fashion as the first, all armed. Two carried heavy boar-spears in addition to their swords, and one held a wicked-looking flail, its lumpy iron balls jangling against his side as he moved.

_Kobalos... here!_ her thoughts whispered, a chill forming that ran down her spine like an icy breeze.

The six of them spread out facing her, forming a crescent around the first, who still stood watching her, his smile belied by the look in his eyes. It was now obvious, now that there were six examples facing her. The dusky red tinge to their skin might simply be bad sunburn, although that was unlikely given the recent weather. Their large ears and pudgy, splayed noses might just be an unlucky inheritance from ugly parents. But that feral smile, and the look in those eyes, belonged to no human.

Kobalos... the word meant "rogue" in the old speech. To most humans, it was a name that fit, a proper title for a degenerate, uncivilized race. She had never met one, had never wanted to meet one, and now there were six facing her, their appearance and attitude confirming all of the grim tales spoken by men of their kind.

"What do you want?" she said to them. Her voice did not tremble, but there was a clear tremor of fear underlying it. As if they sensed it, the six strangers leaned forward, a bestial hunger shining in their eyes. They reminded her of a pack of wolves, eagerly surrounding their trapped prey.

The one who had first stepped out onto the road seemed to be the leader. "Take her," he said. Two of the kobalos stepped around him and came toward her, their swords still in their scabbards but no less menacing for that.

"Leave me be," she said, walking backward away from them. They followed after her, in no apparent hurry, confident in their ability to catch her. She slipped the pack off of her back and dropped it into the dirt of the roadway as she retreated, not taking her eyes off of the two kobalos as they approached. She saw the others were moving as well, one fanning out into the brush to each side of the road to keep her from running past while the others followed after the two in front of her, clearly taking their time, fearing no danger from a solitary human girl. There was only one place to go, and that was back up the road, further away from Sindelar. She considered calling for help, but she realized that she was still too far away from the village for anyone to possibly hear her.

"This is your final warning," she said. Clearly it would have no effect upon her attackers, but she knew that Ethander would have wanted her to make the effort. As she expected, the two coming at her only smiled.

"Give it up, girl, and we'll take it easy on you," one of them said, the words hard and guttural coming from that twisted mouth.

She stopped retreating, fixing her position solidly in the center of the road and facing the two kobalos. They paused and exchanged a glance, as if surprised that she had complied with their order. Then they came forward, arms outstretched to grasp her, eyes eager.

Suddenly her arms came up, a palm outstretched toward each of the two onrushing kobalos. A rush of sound, like a hard blast of focused wind, filled the space between them, and in an eyeblink the two of them were flying roughly backward, knocked from their feet as if struck by a battering ram. The two landed hard on their backs in the packed earth of the road several feet away, stunned, small clouds of dust flying up around them before settling back to earth.

The other four kobalos started in surprise, but she was already running, her long strides carrying her back down the road toward the quarry.

Within moments, they were racing after her.

Izandra's heart pounded in her chest. Her earlier weariness was gone, flooded in the rush of adrenaline, but she knew that her renewed energy was but a phantasm, and that the exhaustion of a hard day's work would catch up to her swiftly. She'd hoped that her display might give the kobalos pause, but it seemed to have only encouraged them. She did not have to look back to see that the four of them—and perhaps all six, if she'd not injured the two others enough—were behind her. She could hear the sound of their boots on the packed earth of the trail and the jingle of metal on metal as they moved, even over the rush of air and the hard sound of her own hurried breathing. They did not cry out for her to stop, or issue more challenges, but the other sounds were enough to drive her on faster. Momentarily she considered leaving the path, drawing them into the trackless routes she knew well, but quickly discarded the thought. Here, at least, the tangled brush that flanked the road, dry with the delayed anticipation of the autumn rains promised by the forbidding sky above, would slow her more than them, with their bulky forms and leather garments protecting them from thorns and briars.

Suddenly she stumbled, her boot catching on a small runnel in the road that had been hidden by the deepening gloom. She nearly went down, staggering forward a few steps before catching herself. Even as she nearly fell, however, something sliced close past her, and when she had recovered she saw a spear stuck into the road ahead, its long shaft quivering.

She heard a cry behind her. It was the leader, his voice stuck in her mind. "We're not supposed to kill her, you fools!" He sounded close, perhaps close enough to reach out and grasp her, and it was only with difficulty that she resisted the urge to look back over her shoulder. She ran on, her pursuers chasing after her.

She recognized a familiar bend in the road ahead, and her mind raced as she tried to calculate her best chances for escape. Already her legs were beginning to throb with the extra effort she was demanding of them, and her breath rattled in her throat as she fought on. She knew she would never make it back to the quarry, and doubted what gain would come of that in any case. No, she needed to get around her pursuers, and somehow circle back to the safety of Sindelar. Already the afternoon was fading into evening, and soon the pale light of the overcast day would give way to the darkness of night.

As she rounded the bend she turned without hesitation and dove into the brush that rose in a curtain to her left. A narrow break there opened onto a faint animal track that ran into the line of trees that began a stone's throw from the road; not quite a forest, but enough perhaps to aid her in eluding the kobalos. She heard them crashing through the brush along the track just seconds behind her; apparently her diversion had not been fast enough to escape their notice.

Then she was in among the trees, and the evening gloom deepened into shadow. Still she knew the trail enough to maintain her course, although she had to slow her headlong flight lest she stumble on the maze of roots and scattered growth that protruded here and there beneath her feet. Luckily the kobalos faced the same difficulty, as she heard the sounds of someone stumbling and a muffled curse from behind her. The sound did not seem as near as it had on the road, but she dared not stop to rest. From what she had learned in her studies kobalos had excellent senses of hearing and scent, and so perhaps the gathering night would not hinder them as much as she hoped.

She was feeling a little bit light-headed, and she knew it was not just from the exertion. She bit back her own curse—another habit Martha frowned upon, and she'd tasted enough soap in her day to confirm it—and shook her head to try to clear it. It sometimes happened when she used her talent, although the display back on the road should not have affected her so. Perhaps it was the fact that she was so tired, she said to herself. She would not admit, even in the privacy of her own thoughts, that she was terrified, and the fear of running for her life might have affected the orderly progression of her thoughts. Fear of losing control, of her discipline failing her, was a greater terror for her than the creatures following, although she would not have been able to put that fear into words, or consciously recognize it for what it was.

She slowed slightly as the trail wound around a large boulder that blocked the way. Here the trail gained some ground as the terrain beyond rose some, the path around the edge of the boulder climbing like a spiral staircase. Using the boulder to steady herself, she scampered up the rise, and paused at the top, leaning out over the upper edge of the rock, looking back over the way she had come to catch sight of her pursuers.

She saw them immediately, working their way quickly toward her position. Apparently they were having no difficulty following her trail, even though she had gained some ground on them. They moved silently and efficiently, and the fact that their dark garments helped them blend in better with the shadows of the forest made them seem even more menacing. There were only the four of them that she could see; apparently she'd managed to hurt the other two enough to make them desist from their pursuit. The thought gave her a moment of guilt, despite the circumstances—it went against everything she'd been taught—but there was no time to ponder ethics and what Ethander called "the moral consequences of our choices." She was young, but she'd lived long enough and seen enough of the world to have few illusions about what the kobalos would do with her if they caught her. If she'd had doubts, the thrown spear and the leader's words to take her alive had cleared them from her mind. There was something else that nagged at the edge of her thoughts, something about what he'd said, but right now she did not have the luxury to sort out the puzzle in her mind.

Trying to remain as quiet as possible, she pulled back from the rock and starting running again along the trail. The ground grew more rocky and uneven, and she found herself slowing again out of reflexive caution. Suddenly, she slowed and came to a stop. Peering ahead into the shadowy depths of the forest, she cast around, looking for a familiar sign. She remembered the big boulder, and the spiral-staircase rise around it, but... Where was the trail? She felt a numbing tremor of persistent fear thrill along the length of her spine despite herself.

_Come on, Izandra! You've walked this route dozens of times—you_ know _where you're going!_

Only now, she wasn't sure. It was too dark to mark the trail, and each of the winding routes through the trees and rocks ahead looked identical to her.

The renewed sounds of steps approaching from behind finally decided her. The kobalos were coming. Picking a route at random, she pressed on ahead. She tried to judge the direction based on the ground she'd covered since leaving the quarry road, but it was difficult to be sure which way she was facing after the twists and turns in the forest. The setting sun was masked by the maze of trees rising up around her, and the light that filtered to the forest floor was a dull blanket, leaving details hazed and shadowed. Soon, she knew, even that would fade, leaving everything cloaked in blackness. She'd been in the forest after dark, and knew its ways, but it was not the forest or its denizens that she was worried about this night.

She stumbled on a jutting root and this time fell hard, knocking the air out of her lungs in a whoosh. The pain that flashed through her arm as she landed on it seemed to reawaken the protests of her tired body, and she was slow getting up as she forced her muscles to obey her commands through a sheer force of will. Biting her lip to keep from crying out, she pressed on.

A distance later—how far, exactly, she could not even guess—she was forced to stop again. A broad ravine, too wide to leap, appeared in front of her. It ran directly perpendicular to her path, as if mocking her intent to escape her pursuers. The bottom of the trench was deep in shadow, but it looked like it was at least twenty feet down to the uneven floor below. Rather than risk climbing down, she followed the edge of the ravine to her right, careful to stay far enough back from the crumbling rim.

The forest grew quiet again, silent save for the soft crunch of her boots on the undergrowth and the sound of her own labored breathing, thunderous to her own ears. The gaping opening of the ravine ultimately narrowed and then closed, and she continued on her originally chosen direction. She really had no clear idea of where she was actually going, but she hoped earnestly that her instincts were leading her well. She knew that the main road that connected Sindelar and Limbrock was somewhere to the south, and if she could keep moving in that direction she would be bound to reach it on the far side of the forest. The rational side of her mind could not help but remind her that it was also possible that she could lose her direction and wander aimlessly in the woods for the entire night, not even realizing that she was treading the same paths again and again.

She came to a clearing, and spared a glance at the sky up above. It was now deep twilight, the overcast sky promising not even the aid of the moon and stars in finding her way home. It would be a dark night indeed. She imagined Martha lighting the lamps in the house with a tinder from the fire, and Loehm walking out to the covered porch, looking out into the evening and wondering why she was late for supper. Neither would likely worry at her absence, she realized—she had been late so often that there was adequate precedent, and there had even been numerous times when she'd been caught up in a task for Ethander or some other lonely activity or her own, and forgotten to return home at all until the following morning. She'd been scolded by Martha on those occasions, although Izandra had recognized the memory of fear in her eyes that belied the anger in her tone. Now that she was older, and working almost full-time for Master Ethander, she was given more latitude—or perhaps the Coltons had recognized the impossibility of fixing her to a set of structured rules. While she relished that newfound freedom, tonight it would mean that no one would likely worry at her absence, if they even remarked upon it at all. Darker thoughts popped into her mind for a moment, thoughts about what the kobalos would do to her if they caught her, but she ruthlessly squelched those with that same force of will that had carried her on this desperate flight.

She saw a steep rise up ahead, with dark knobs silhouetted against the darkening evening sky, and let out an audible sigh of relief. Keepers' Ridge was a familiar landmark, a dense collection of huge boulders and broad juts of stone that lay just north of the main road. She and Ezran had played there often as children, their curiosity overcoming the warnings of their elders about the dangers that resided in the nearby forest. To Izandra the rocky towers of the ridge reminded her of mighty castles, where powerful kings and princes lived, and its dozens of caves called to mind mysterious lairs, where evil monsters protected fabulous treasures long hidden from the eyes of men. Narrow trails ran in and around the rocks, tight corridors carved by wind and water over the centuries, leaving hundreds of crevices and hideaways that winnowed through the ridge. Izandra knew them all.

The trees began to thin out as she approached the ridge, but as she ran past an ancient oak someone leaped out and grabbed her.

Reflex took over and she struggled madly to break free, but the grip that held her was hard, like a band of iron around her middle. Her captor spun around as he absorbed her momentum, but held her weight easily despite her efforts. She slammed her head back as hard as she could, grunting as she hit something and heard a sharp groan of pain. The arms around her loosened, and she wrenched free, her legs already moving as she stumbled to the ground.

"By the gods, Izandra! What are you doing?"

The words, and the voice, so familiar, struck her like a cup of cold water in the face. She rose and turned, eyes widening in surprise.

"Criminy!" the voice continued. "I think you broke my nose!"

"Dannil?" she ventured.

"None other," he ventured, sheepish despite the wry look on his face as he felt at his battered nose.

Even in the poor light, there was no mistaking Dannil Leyden.

He was tall and broad-shouldered, but those features alone did not mark him, so common they were among the men of the rough frontier. An unruly shock of brown hair topped his head, matched by a typical several day's growth of beard. Dannil seemed to breed a casual disregard for his personal appearance, but Izandra knew that this impression was belied by a not-inconsiderable self-confidence that sometimes crossed over into arrogance. She had not seen him for months, and his sudden appearance now, given the circumstance, bordered on providential, and she found herself offering an inward prayer of thanks to Elisandra before she could catch herself.

"Hey, I'm sorry I started you," he said, running one hand through his hair. The gesture added to the impression of a boy caught in the act, being scolded for something he shouldn't have done. He regarded her with a quizzical look in his eyes, as if finally recognizing that something was wrong. "What's the matter, Izandra?"

She didn't answer him directly, coming a step closer and scanning him with her intent gaze. "Where's your bow?" she asked. "You weren't fool enough to lose it in another card game, were you?"

"It's right over here," he said, his tongue clucking in exasperation as he led her back toward the tree where he had been hiding. "Are you going to tell me what's going on, or am I going to have to play one of your guessing games?"

Despite the reassuring presence of her friend, she was all too aware of the danger that still threatened. She had gained some ground on the kobalos in her rush through the forest, but she did not believe for an instant that she had eluded them completely. As Dannil recovered his bow, a massive yew shaft nearly as tall as he was, she grasped his arm tightly, to try to convey some of her intensity to him.

"A group of kobalos attacked me, on the Quarry Road," she told him. "There were six—I knocked down two, but I don't think they were seriously hurt. They followed me into the forest, and may follow my track here at any moment."

"Kobalos?" he said. "That's unusual." His look was somewhat dubious, but he didn't question her as he quickly strung his bow and tugged out a long-shafted arrow from the leather case at his hip. He crouched a little and turned toward the forest, starting down the track from which Izandra had appeared.

"Shouldn't we take cover among the rocks?" she said, gesturing back toward the ridge. "They wouldn't be able to surround us, and they'd have a harder time getting to us."

Dannil looked back at her, intensity warring with another expression in his eyes. She knew that he didn't take her entirely seriously, and she knew enough to respect his skills with the bow and the long dirk, almost a sword, that he wore opposite the quiver. But she'd encountered the kobalos, not he, and she respected the threat posed by them as well.

For a moment, she thought he was going to say something, to put her in her place. But then he nodded, and directed her toward the rise.

The ground rose quickly, and soon massive boulders that dwarfed them both appeared ahead. They both knew their way, though, and even in the afterimage of the day they found their way quickly up into the higher reaches of the ridge.

For several minutes they climbed in quiet, then she asked him, "What are you doing here, Dannil?"

"I was passing through the region, and thought I'd visit you and Ezran in Sindelar," he said. She wasn't that surprised to see him; Dannil was always "passing through" one area or another, and he didn't stay long in any one place. At least as long as she'd known him, which was—how many years now? It was hard to place a date, although she remembered that he'd been little more than a boy when they'd met, and he was already living on his own, then, as free—and alone—as anyone she'd ever encountered.

"I decided to walk along the ridge," he continued. "Remember, all the times you and Ezran and I came here?" He waited for her nod before he went on, "Anyway, I heard something coming from out of the woods—you never paid attention when I taught you how to move stealthily through the forest—and came to investigate. I saw it was you, and then—well, you know."

"I was more intent on speed than silence," she said, her tone sharpening at his rebuke. He was having his usual effect on her; her earlier fear was fading, replaced by a mixture of amusement and annoyance at his cavalier attitude toward her situation.

She noticed that he'd stopped, and she turned to see that he'd taken up a position atop a boulder overlooking the point where she'd emerged from the forest. Their brief climb had already taken them some distance, and they were now at least a full bow-shot away from the nearest trees, if not more.

He looked up as she joined him, then turned back to the open expanse below. "Doesn't look like anybody's following you," he said.

"They might not have found my track yet," she replied.

"It's going to be pitch black within an hour," he said, looking up at the sky. "We'd better get on our way to Sind-"

"Look!" she hissed, interrupting him with a hard tug on his arm. She crouched lower against the flat surface of the rock, and pointed with her other hand at the dark shadows of the line of trees.

Dannil peered intently into the gloom.

"There," she said, whispering into his ear.

"I see it," he replied.

They were faint shadows, flickers of movement that moved in and out of the firmer outlines of the surrounding trees. They came cautiously, slowly, as if sensing somehow that the nature of the chase had changed. It was impossible to make them out distinctly, but Izandra knew that they were her pursuers.

When they reached the final edge of the forest, they became a little more distinct. Izandra saw that all six of them were there, spread out in a broad line. The foremost, apparently the leader, gestured to the others, and their formation broke, the six spreading out to form a large curve that seemed to sweep slowly onto the ridge, centered firmly on their position. She did not know how they could track her so effectively in the twilight.

"Kobalos have good senses, and a gift for the hunt," Dannil said. Izandra wasn't aware that she'd spoken her thoughts aloud—or perhaps Dannil had sensed what she was thinking. The latter would have been difficult, given the tumult dancing around in her brain at the moment. Her earlier fears had returned swiftly once she had seen the kobalos again, and it was with difficulty that she swallowed and pushed the fear back under the blanket of self-discipline and control that sustained her.

"What do we do?" Izandra asked.

But Dannil was already fitting his arrow to his bow, making the motion slowly so as to not draw the eyes of the hunters to his action. "Stay low, and head up along the trail to the crest," he told her between clenched teeth. "Don't let them see you, if you can help it."

She hesitated, but when he turned to look at her, she caught sight of the earnest seriousness in his eyes and expression. The look caught her by surprise—it was so the opposite of what she was used to seeing in Dannil's face. But she supposed that having spent so long relying on his own wits and skills for survival, that look had to have been there, somewhere, if buried under a demeanor of jocular frivolity.

She crawled back from the edge of the boulder and bent low, scurrying quickly yet carefully along the route higher up the ridge. She used her hands to steady her as the way grew steep, and her boots grabbed for purchase on the weather-beaten stone. The path they'd chosen ran up a cleft that would leave them hidden from the ground below, for the most part, but she kept Dannil's warning to remain unseen close to mind. Her pursuers would know where they were anyway, in a moment, she thought.

As she neared the top of the cleft she secured herself in a niche in the rock and looked back. She could see the boulder where she and Dannil had seen the kobalos, but he was nowhere to be seen. She was too deep in the cleft to see the open ground south of the ridge, where the kobalos would be approaching. As she watched, though, she saw a shadow detach itself from the rocks and rise up atop the boulder. It was Dannil, his bow bending in one smooth motion until the feathered end of the arrow was flush against his cheek. Even as he completed his motion the bow twanged and the arrow sped into the dark. She heard a cry an instant later, a hard, painful sound that ended quickly and suddenly. She could not see where the arrow had gone, but in the instant she looked away and back Dannil had vanished again from view.

She did not hesitate further, turning and continuing her way up the ridge. As she reached the top of the cleft she emerged onto open rock, with the whole great spectrum of the forest and surrounding lands visible far below. Mindful of Dannil's orders she darted quickly into the shelter of a leaning rock face, following a worn pathway that ran along the length of the crest of the ridge. She knew that a path down the far side lay just a few yards ahead, a path that would ultimately lead down to the main road to Sindelar.

Her head turned as she heard another cry from down below. This one was not a cry of surprised pain, but had the tone of a command, shouted just loud enough to carry to waiting ears nearby. The words were hard, guttural, unfamiliar; she supposed it was the speech of the kobalos, about which she knew nothing. They sounded like they came from directly below, where she had just left Dannil. Despite his commands, she found herself torn, with the instinct to flight balanced by her concern for her friend. She took a hesitant step back toward the opening of the cleft, crouching low to avoid forming a silhouette against the night sky to those below.

He appeared so suddenly that she almost shouted in fright; then he was beside her, pulling her back toward the relative shelter of the leaning rock face.

"What..." she began, but he forestalled her.

"They're coming," he said. The change in him was now more than just strange; it was alarming. He seemed almost a stranger, not the youth whom she and Ezran had spent so many days with in their youth, whittling away the hours in exploration and games. He reached down and pulled out two more arrows, leaning one against the rock at his feet and fitting the other to his bow.

"Go on," he told her. "Make your way down the trail on the far side of the ridge. Wait for me at the outcropping that overlooks the main road. Stay hidden."

She hesitated, but he fixed her with his eyes, and she nodded. He turned back toward the cleft, but she stopped him short with a hand on his shoulder.

"Be careful," she told him. Then, before he could respond, she turned and ran along the side of the rock face.

After a short distance the stone wall to her right dropped away and she was running along the flat summit of the ridge, vast space opening out before her to each flank. In past days she had run along this very surface with wild abandon, heedless of the deadly plunge to each side, leaping across gaps as wide as she was tall, her steps sure on the wind-smoothed stone. Now she was slow, cautious, trying to remain as small and invisible as possible, aware however that she was broadcasting her position to anyone below looking up. Every second thought was a command to look back, to see what was happening behind her, but she forced herself to ignore those whispered suggestions. She had wanted to stay, to help Dannil face the kobalos, but she admitted to herself that there was little she could do. She had her talent, but it was not a weapon, not something she could wield like Dannil's bow. It had not even helped her get away, remembering that the two she had knocked down had quickly rejoined the chase after her. Perhaps even now one of them was clambering up the bluff, naked steel in his hand, seeking Dannil's life with his weapon. The thought sent a strange tremor of feeling through her, and she almost faltered, halting for a moment and looking back behind her. She could see the rock face that rose up near the cleft they had used to reach the summit, but all she could see in and around it was shadow. Reluctantly, she turned back and continued on her course.

She saw the path she was looking for up ahead. Carefully she clambered down the steep slope to the narrow gap that wound its way down the far face of the ridge. Below, although she could not see it clearly in the darkness, lay the road that stretched between Sindelar and the other towns and villages of Limbrock. Sindelar was the end of the line, the border between civilization and the wilds beyond.

The night was silent behind her, the absence of sound more foreboding than the clash of battle would have been. Again she felt a tremor of fear for Dannil, and again she considered turning back, to lend whatever aid she could. Logic told her that she was as likely to place him into danger as provide help by her presence, however. If she was safely away, he could focus on defending himself from the kobalos. She remembered his skill with the bow, and his lessons to Ezran on the use of the blade. Her brother had been a poor student, but Dannil had never mocked or derided him. She also remembered that look he had shown her moments ago, the hard look she had never before seen in his eyes.

Dannil was a survivor.

But there were six kobalos, and their eyes had been equally hard—and dangerous.

She stumbled some as the path descended into a hollow between two walls of sheer rock, and she had to steady herself with her hands as she climbed down into darkness. She felt as though she'd fallen into a pit, and that irrational tremor of fear crawled at the edges of her consciousness again, threatening. She bit her lip and concentrated on making her way through the tunnel formed between the walls of rock. When she emerged on the far side, even the faint light of the deepening evening seemed bright to her eyes, and she could clearly make out the jutting promontory of the outcropping ahead, a great fist of stone that broke out from the ridge into the open terrain beyond. She knew that the road ran directly around the base of the outcropping, and that an easy descent led down its far side to its flat surface below. She could be down there in minutes, and home after a half-hour's jog along the open road. The thought gave her a sudden surge of energy, but the temptation came and went in the same instant. She would not desert Dannil.

But what if he didn't come?

The thought did not bear contemplation.

She made it to the edge of the outcropping, and hesitated. The surface of the stone promontory was flat and smooth, rising gently until its end, when it rose up like the crest of a wave about to break over the flat terrain below. She had never been afraid of heights—Ezran had always called her "crazy brave"—but now suddenly the forty-foot drop to either side spooked her.

Something struck her on the face, and she started in surprise, almost losing her balance. She realized that it was a raindrop, a fat speckle of water that was joined by another, then another. It was just a light drizzle, but it promised more ahead, the storm that the sky had hinted at all afternoon. Had all things been equal, she would be at home now, warming herself in front of the fire, stretching her tired muscles as she drank a mug of hot chocolate.

Well, no sense pondering the what ifs, as Ethander put it. Pulling up the hood of her cloak to shelter her head from the plodding raindrops, she started forward.

She almost didn't sense it, but her instincts whispered a warning at the last instant. She spun and folded into a wary crouch, her hands outstretched in a warding gesture before her.

The kobalos halted just a few strides away, his beady eyes fixed on her. She didn't know how he'd managed to cross the ridge so swiftly, but he must have seen her atop the crest and hurried to catch her here, where the trail emerged above the outcropping. His short sword was still in its scabbard, but he looked wary—understandable, given her earlier display of power. In fact, he might have been one of the ones she had struck down. It was impossible to be sure; with the exception of the leader, the others all merged together in her memory. She had been trained to spot details, and pay attention to nuance, but such things were often forgotten in the rush of danger and the moment.

The kobalos reached down with one hand and touched the hilt of his sword; then, as if reconsidering, he let his hand drop and instead reached out toward her, his arms wide as he sank into a threatening stance.

"Don't make it hard, girl," he said, the words thick and accented coming off of his tongue.

"Stay away from me," she said, her own voice filled with deadly earnest. She doubted he would be able to hear the undercurrent of fear beneath it—perhaps she could even convince herself that it wasn't there. She backed up slowly toward the outcropping, and the rock fell away to either side of her, leaving a corridor some ten feet wide along which she retreated.

The kobalos followed. He, too, spared a quick glance for the drop, but if he was afraid, it did not show. Instead, his eyes showed only a keen hunger, and in fact he licked his lips as he came toward her, as if savoring some delicious morsel he was about to sample. She saw it and it disgusted her, but it only confirmed her fears of the kobalos's intent.

She considered calling out for Dannil, but did not. It was likely that he was in dire straits himself, and a distraction now might be deadly. So she gave ground, the kobalos following her step by step. The rain continued to fall, making the rock slick with its moisture. Perhaps that was why the kobalos did not rush her, and risk a scuffle that could lead to a fall. Or maybe it was wariness at her power, already demonstrated on the road. Izandra preferred to think it was the latter, although in her current exhaustion, she doubted that she had the concentration to even move a pebble at the moment. Ethander would have berated her for her lack of focus—gods, what she wouldn't have given to have him here right now! she thought.

She felt hard stone behind her, and came to a stop. She had reached the end of the outcropping, and the rocky jut rose up behind her, hedging her in. She had allowed herself to be backed into a corner. She could see the narrow cleft that gave way to the climb down to the road—but now the kobalos stood between her and it, between her and safety. His mouth twisted into a savage grin as he regarded her.

"Come along quiet, and I'll take it easy on you," he said. "Otherwise..." he added, letting the thought hang in the air.

Then, before she could respond, he launched himself at her.

Instinct kicked in before conscious thought, and she ducked low under his sweeping arms. She only had a vague idea of getting to the cliff path, but before she could even take her second step something hard crashed into the side of her head, and she fell roughly sideways. She felt pain twist through her side as she landed hard on the wet stone. Suddenly aware that she was sliding, falling toward that deadly edge, with a much greater fall beyond...

Scrambling desperately for a purchase, her probing fingers found a crack and held on. A roaring filled her ears that could have been either the rushing wind of the coming storm or her heart pounding in her chest. She looked up, knowing that danger still lurked nearby.

And promptly lost her grip, and fell over the edge.

A new pain joined the medley that filled her as she landed hard on her back, slamming the breath from her lungs. Belatedly she realized that she was not dead, that she'd only fallen a few feet. The edge of the cliff hung just a few feet above her—she must have fallen onto the pathway she'd just been seeking, she realized. Hard rocks poked into her back, but she didn't feel as if anything was broken. She'd suffered enough broken bones in her life to know, she thought grimly.

Then a shadow appeared atop the edge of the cliff, looming above her.

It was the kobalos, staring down at her. He looked angry, and grimly wiped a line of water mixed with sweat from his brow as he regarded her.

"Couldn't make it easy," he said to her. Even over the rain and the wind, she could hear him clearly. "All right then, girl. The Seer wants you in one piece, but I'm sure he won't mind if the merchandise is a little the worse for wear."

Her thoughts jumbled by the battering her body had taken, she could not make sense of his words, although the overall meaning was crystal clear. She tried to move, but found that her muscles refused to obey her commands. She was beyond fear, now, stark terror pounding through her veins like the blood rushing to her head.

The kobalos looked her over for a second longer, a hunger sparking in his eyes as they greedily drank in her supine frame, defined by the damp clothes stuck to her body. Then he jumped off the edge, poised to land right next to her on the narrow trail.

Only he never reached it.

Instinct and fear broke through her exhaustion, and brought clarity to Izandra's mind. Even as the kobalos began to fall toward her, her hand came up, and she felt the power flowing through her. It wasn't much—perhaps not much more than the energy required to move the pebble she'd thought of earlier—but it was enough to alter the falling kobalos's course. He landed awkwardly on the edge of the rocks, just a few feet from where he'd aimed, but in this case a few feet was the same as miles from his target. For a moment she thought he'd recover, regain his balance, but then, as a terror to echo hers filled his eyes in realization, he tumbled back and fell off the trail into the darkness. He didn't scream, and the sound he made striking the hard ground far below was muffled in the wind.

Sobbing, and still fighting for her breath, Izandra pulled herself upward into a semi-standing position, leaning hard against the comfort of the rocks. The rain was picking up slightly, and she could feel the cold wind probing at her, as if seeking a weakness that it could exploit to steal the heat of her body away. As control over her body slowly returned, but still not quite knowing what she was doing, she pulled herself back up to the top of the outcropping, and crawled over to the relative shelter offered by the natural obelisk that rose up out of the flat surface at its end.

"Zan!"

She looked up, confused. Where was she? Was someone calling her name?

"Izandra!"

She looked up again, and when she saw Dannil, it all came crashing back, her awareness sharpening with almost painful speed. Her head spun as she pulled herself up, but she ordered her legs to remain steady. She couldn't quite walk away from the support of the stone, however.

"Dannil!" she cried as loud as she could. The sound seemed to carry away on the wind in an instant, but a few moments later his form emerged out of the darkness.

"Izandra, are you all right?" he said, rushing to her side. She noticed that his eyes still darted about, wary, like a wolf suspecting a trap.

"I—" she began, but her voice faltered. What could she say? For a moment she just hovered there, shivering. She wanted Dannil to hold her, to tell her that everything was all right, and with that realization came shame, at her own weakness. Then she noticed that his bow, still clutched tightly in his left hand, was broken, the long shaft shivered and bent half-way down its length, the string dangling along behind.

His gaze followed hers, and he almost seemed surprised to notice that he was still carrying the weapon. As he shifted, she could see his other hand, pressed close against his side. His long knife was bare in his fist, and even in the rain and dark she could see the cold wet touch of fresh blood along its length.

"What happened?" she asked him.

"They were good, but they didn't know the terrain like I did," he offered. "I killed three of them, at least—perhaps four, I couldn't see whether I hit the last." He wasn't boasting, not like he usually did. The words were simply statements of fact, delivered in a calm, even voice. She shuddered at their sound.

"A few of them tried to circle around, to flank us," he continued, still looking around in a smooth arc, eyes like beacon lanterns cutting through a fog. "They may still be out there."

"One attacked me," Izandra said, and she was surprised to find that her voice was like his, in control. "It fell off the bluff, and landed below."

She gestured with her hand, and he carefully approached the edge of the bluff, looking down below. Slowly, she joined him.

"I can't see anything," he admitted, "but if he fell from here, there's likely nothing down there but a corpse."

The last word somehow seemed to fracture her self-control, and she let out a stifled sob. He noticed, and concern replaced feral wariness in his eyes. At that moment she was glad that he didn't hold her, for if he did, she would have lost all control. Instead, he slipped off his outer coat, and wrapped it close around her shoulders.

"You're soaking wet," he told her, as if she could not grasp the obvious. Her own cloak had suffered from the rough treatment she'd had, though it still hung—barely—from the simple bronze clasp at her throat. "We've got to get you back to Sindelar, before you catch your death."

"There's still one more out there," she said. Given what she'd seen, she thought she'd give him the benefit of the doubt on the one he'd attacked but possibly missed.

"I know," he said. "But I doubt he'll follow us into the village."

He took the lead and directed her toward the path, both of them careful not to slip on the rough rocks. Izandra pulled Dannil's coat close around her shoulders, trying to ignore the continuing patter of the drizzle. She thought that will alone kept her exhausted body moving, but she buoyed herself with the thought of returning to the shelter of the village, and safety. But another thought troubled her, and she raised it to Dannil as they worked their way cautiously down the steep but navigable climb down the outcropping to the road.

"Dannil, what do you think those kobalos were doing here?"

A long pause ensued, and at first she thought that he hadn't heard her. "I don't know," he finally said. "They are probably stragglers from a bandit raid, or somesuch—kobalos live in the Wistere range, and there are a number of bands in the hill country north of the lake."

"That's far away from here," she prodded him.

"Yes," he admitted. "But they are not unheard of in these parts. It is not long past that kobalos raided Limbrock itself."

"In the aftermath of the wars, you mean," she said. It was actually longer than Dannil intimated—the last major conflict in the region, the Hunger Wars, had ended almost fifty years ago. And even that had only been a minor conflagration in comparison to the Dark War, but that epic struggle was in the far past, beyond the lifetime of anyone living. Perhaps the Ilfann remembered it, she thought. She reflected on all of the lessons, the histories that Ethander had provided for her studies. The words had caught her up, but she'd never fully understood the emotions, the urgency of great battles and epic causes. Perhaps, after today, she would understand better.

"Yes," Dannil was saying. "Some have noticed that things have been stirring, of late. Signs of trouble on the horizon. Kobalos appearing within the borders of Limbrock—that may be part of that."

His words raised questions, questions that would have ordinarily provoked her interest, but her mind was distracted with questions of her own. Like some of the things that the kobalos had said to her. Rather than say anything to Dannil, she decided to keep these thoughts to herself, until she'd had more time to ponder what they might signify. One of the things that Ethander had taught her was to never launch into any course of action precipitously. Perhaps her master could help her restore some order to the confusion spiraling around in her mind.

They reached the bottom of the trail without incident, and saw the road just before them. They also found the body of the kobalos, lying dead, face down in the mud. Izandra just stood there for a long moment, looking at him. She had never killed anyone, not even a deer or a rabbit for food. Her brow furrowed in thought. She figured she was supposed to feel something, regret, or sympathy, or even just a sadness at the loss of a life. Even a lingering anger, at what the kobalos had tried to do to her, or what he had made her do in self-defense. She only felt a numbness, an empty feeling like she'd lost something. Maybe it was just the cold, or the exhaustion that seeped into her bones and threatened to drag her under.

"Zan," she heard a faint voice say.

"I'm sorry," she said, looking up into Dannil's sympathetic expression.

"You're dead on your feet," he began, and she saw him flinch as he realized what he'd said. "Come on, let's get you home, and into some dry clothes."

She let him lead her onto the road. Stumbling slightly, she leaned against him. He flinched from her touch. She was hurt for a moment, before she realized the significance of his action. Pulling him to a stop with a gentle touch, she peered at him intently.

"You're wounded!"

"Just a scratch," he said. A thin trickle of blood ran down his side from under the crude bandage tucked under his right arm. She berated herself for being so wrapped up in her own thoughts that she had not noticed her friend's injury. Shaking her head slightly, she bent close to examine the wound.

"Stupid manly thick-headedness," she said. "Pretend it doesn't hurt, and maybe it'll go away." Maybe if she turned her feelings onto him, he wouldn't notice her shaking, or the way she bit her lip as she pulled back the bandage despite his sigh of protest.

"I tell you, it's not bad. I've taken enough hurts to know. There's nothing that we can do about it here, anyway."

She could not fully stifle her sigh of relief as she saw that he was right. He'd need some stitching, but the cut in his side had not torn deep enough to damage anything major. She refused to agree with him, though.

"Let's get back to Sindelar," she said, turning and trotting quickly ahead, as if he was the one holding them up.

"Izandra, you never change," was all he said, his voice filled with its old humor as he joined her. The two of them continued in silence for a time, walking side by side as they hurried through the night and the steadily growing rain toward the village.

* * * * *

Chapter 2

Izandra welcomed the quiet, even though she had a hundred questions for Dannil. It gave her a chance to think more about what she was going to say when she got home.

The rain had settled down to a more-or-less constant patter, more than a drizzle but not quite a downpour. She was already sodden and miserable, but she refused to show it. Dannil had given her his own coat, and had to be feeling the elements worse than her, but as he trudged along beside her, he seemed completely unflappable. She noticed that he still carried his sundered bow in his left hand, and his dirk in his right, and that he frequently looked around, scanning the dark fringes of the wood to either side of the road.

"I'm sorry about your bow," she said.

He glanced down at the broken weapon. "I can always make another one," he said. "At least I didn't lose this one in a card game," he said, his tone light and slightly prodding.

"Yeah, well, you deserved that," she told him. "Look, Dannil," she began, faltering a little but needing to go on.

"I know, Izandra," he said. "Don't worry about it—look, let's get to Sindelar, and get warm, and a good night's sleep under our belts, and then we can talk about it."

"All right," she said. She opened her mouth to say something else, but saw that he had fixed his gaze on the road ahead, and the hand holding the dirk had risen reflexively into a ready position. "What is it?" she asked him, forgetting for a moment her discomfort and exhaustion in the surge of possibly renewed danger.

"Someone's coming up the road," he said. He gestured for her to move behind him into the shadows along the edge of the road. The thick brush offered good concealment there, although the mud sucked at her boots and made her footing unsteady.

Izandra felt that most unwelcome sensation of creeping fear return. She told herself it was irrational; how could the kobalos tracking them be coming from the direction of the village? But the dark and the rain gave the otherwise familiar stretch of road a feeling of macabre unease. She began a mantra taught to her by Ethander, schooling her breathing as she looked out over Dannil's shoulder at the road.

They did not have to wait long. The vague shape materialized out of the murk like an apparition, nearly invisible in the dark. It was moving swiftly and efficiently, skirting the muddy puddles that were already starting to appear in the road. Dannil tensed, but abruptly Izandra rose and pushed past him, rushing toward the road and the intruder.

"Zan!" he hissed, in warning.

But she knew exactly who the newcomer was, recognition coming through a bond and familiarity that trumped Dannil's trained and experienced senses. The cloaked figure turned warily as she rushed toward him, but let out an exclamation of relief as the young woman embraced him.

"Izandra! By the gods, you're safe!"

"Ezran, what are you doing here?"

Izandra regarded her brother with curiosity, but he returned the look with an intensity that took in her torn garments and the mud that slicked her body. His eyes darkened as he noticed the bruise growing on the right side of her face, where the kobalos had struck her.

Ezran was a few inches shorter than his sister, and slight in frame in a way that could not be fully concealed in the folds of his winter cloak. He wore simple farmer's clothes under the bulky garment, plain colors that blended with the mud and the night. When the wind stirred his cloak the snub form of a small bow could be seen poking out from within, its string carefully protected from the rain by its owner. Izandra knew that the weapon, in Ezran's hands, was more show than menace, for unlike Dannil he had little skill for archery. He was nimble, and quick of foot, but despite many hours of practice the talent of marksmanship would likely never be something her brother could boast about.

He acknowledged Dannil with a nod as the hunter joined them, but his eyes never wavered from Izandra's. He did not say more, but his expression clearly read a question— "what happened?" The two of them could often speak that way, with subtle changes of expression and gesture that allowed them to read each other's thoughts. It was a language well known throughout history to professional thieves, long-married couples, and siblings who had been through a lot together.

"I was attacked, by kobalos, on the Quarry Road, a few hours ago," she told him finally, in a single hurried breath. It seemed like days, at least, had passed since that first man—or not-man, as it was—had stepped out from the brush in front of her. "I ran through the forest to the main road, and encountered Dannil there," she continued, forcing her words into more deliberate order as she went on. "We fought them off at Keepers' Ridge. Dannil killed several, but there might be more in the woods, or tracking us along the road."

Unlike Dannil, Ezran accepted her words without doubt or question in his eyes, only nodding slowly as he assimilated her story. Izandra had always remarked the thoughtful way he seemed to approach everything, whether it was a new chore in Loehm's shop, or learning his sister had been attacked by kobalos brigands on one of the roads just outside of Sindelar. His eyes seemed like scales as he regarded her, weighing her words, but the concern writ there was no less for that.

"You're hurt," he said.

"Not badly," she said. She had, in fact, forgotten the injury to her face, until Ezran's scrutiny had brought her attention back to it. She did not doubt that she would feel it tomorrow, however. "Dannil's been cut, though—and like I said, there might be more of them about."

Ezran nodded, taking her arm in his hand as he led them back toward the village. Izandra had always thought her brother's protectiveness of her somewhat amusing, but she didn't feel much like laughing now, tired and soaked and hurt.

"Ezran," she said, "How... I mean, how did you know to come looking for me?" There was no need to question that he had been doing exactly that; she'd seen it instantly in his eyes when he'd turned to face her back on the road. She didn't ask him what he would have done had he encountered one of the kobalos in the dark; that was a thought she didn't want to have to confront.

"Somehow I knew that you were in trouble," he said. He didn't need to say more; she just nodded and accepted the vague explanation. It wasn't the first time the two had shared such a connection, the indefinable "somehow" that Ezran had mentioned. Nor was this the first time that he had tried to seek her out to protect her, despite the fact that she was better equipped to defend herself than he was. Still, at this moment, she had to admit to herself that she felt better with him there, leading them back to the relative safety of Sindelar.

He prodded her gently for more details about what had happened on the road as they walked quickly back toward the village, but Izandra was able to add little to her initial account. The events were wrapped into a complex knot in her thoughts, although there were tantalizing hints of memory that nagged her. Currents running beneath the surface... but they would have to wait until morning, until she had rested and fed, before they could be effectively explored. It was ordinarily hard for her to turn off her inquisitive mind, to command her thoughts to rest when a puzzle faced her, but in her current state the wind and the rain seemed to soothe her, urging her to let her mind drift while her tired feat trudged wearily on. Had she been more alert, she would have noticed Dannil's silence as unusual, but as it was she was barely aware of him, walking a few steps behind her, his footfalls all but absorbed in the brewing storm.

And then, so suddenly that it surprised her, they were home.

The town materialized out of the darkness, the blunt shapes of its buildings taking solid form out of the insubstantial mix of rain and wind-swept leaves that played across the view of the three travelers. A few lights were visible, faint glimmers that played through tightly latched shutters or under heavily bolted doors. Despite the fact that only the foundation of a wall surrounded the place, its stone blocks long since cannibalized for other purposes, Sindelar was still a frontier town, and its residents knew that unpleasant things crept through the surrounding woods at night. Now they would have something else to fear, Izandra thought grimly. Despite the fact that rest and comfort was now just a few steps away, her feet felt suddenly leaden, her steps heavy. Perhaps it was that the full weight of exhaustion and the battering she had suffered was finally settling on her now that the safety of the town took the edge off of her fear. Or maybe it was hesitation at confronting the Coltons, at having to explain what had happened. She saw in her mind's eye the scenario that would likely develop, and winced slightly in anticipation.

"I'm going to Ethander's," she said, abruptly, stopping her companions in their tracks.

"Zan, no," Ezran said, crossing his arms in front of his chest in a gesture that was intended to show his resolve. To Izandra, the familiar movement had always been amusing, bringing up memories of their childhood, and Ezran's stubbornness in the face of things beyond his power to change. It endeared him to her, in a way, but now that she had made her choice, she would not be swayed.

"You need rest, and hot food, and attention to your injury," he said, trying to be reasonable in his tone and barely succeeding. "And Dannil, too, look at him, he can barely stand!"

"I can take care of myself, Ezran," Dannil said, the first words he had spoken since they had met Ezran back on the road. He was pale, with one hand pressed against the wound in his side.

Ezran glared back at Dannil, but his eyes softened some as he recognized the true pain in their friend's expression. "We can't stand here in the rain like fools, Izandra. Be reasonable."

Izandra summoned a look of resolve and met his gaze. "I know what I'm doing, Ezran. I can treat Dannil's wound at Ethander's place better than at the Coltons'— you know he has better materials there." She hesitated, and then reached out to touch his arm. "Please, Ezran," she said. "Tell Martha and Loehm that I'm fine, that I'm over at Ethander's tonight. And don't say anything about the kobalos, at least until tomorrow."

"Zan, the people deserve to know there's a threat," he said, letting out a sigh of exasperation. When he did that, she knew that she had won, although the final few exchanges of the battle had to be fought—that was how the game was played.

"I promise, we will let the mayor know, in the morning," she told him. "I think it was just a group of renegades we encountered," she added, although even as she spoke the words she knew inwardly that they were not true. Her thoughts were beginning to sharpen as her mind focused on her chosen course, but she still wanted to rest, and consider—and, if possible, speak to her master about the matter. Ethander would have his own insights on the incident, and his questions would help her sort through the jumble currently filling her thoughts.

"At least let me walk you over there," he said.

"It's not far. We'll be fine, trust me. Please, Ezran."

Reluctantly, he nodded. "I'll be by in the morning," he said. "I'm glad you're all right," he added, embracing her quickly before turning back into the gloom, heading down the path that led to the Colton home and shop.

She immediately set out for the far side of the town, Dannil following silently behind. If he had an opinion about her choice, he did not express it.

They passed through the town quickly. Sindelar was not a sprawling place, most of its structures still confined within the oval once demarked by the town wall. Even within that limited area there were occasional buildings that stood abandoned and derelict, their walls occasionally gaping where they had been cannibalized to support their aging neighbors. Perhaps three hundred residents remained in the town proper, with perhaps half that many more living in the outlying settlements. Tonight Sindelar huddled in upon itself, its residents climbing into bed early as they waited out the brewing storm. From the clouds she had seen earlier, and the way that the wind had intensified, Izandra suspected that there would be hard rain and perhaps lightning later that night.

On the far side of the town the road became a narrow track showing little sign of use. Izandra was one of the few who used this route. Even the local hunters seemed to prefer using other trails, avoiding the area around Ethander's isolated home altogether. While she scoffed at such behavior, she understood the reaction. It was a truism of human nature, Ethander had always told her, that people feared that which they could not understand.

The trail wound into a copse of trees that did not quite thicken into a forest. They were still close to the town, and most of the old-growth trees had been cleared for building or firewood generations ago. Still, the trail passed through enough growth to cut down the impact of the rain and wind somewhat, and she could see a little better. Even so, had she not known every step of the trail, and known her destination as well as she knew her own home, she might have passed within ten feet and never known it was there.

Ethander's house was a squat, homey little place, a cottage snuggled in between several stout oak trees. It was larger than it appeared at first glance, with an additional wing behind the structure and a large cellar beneath—in all, over a dozen rooms. Large stones, each about as big as a man's torso, formed a sort of fence around an area in front of the building, with a narrow gap that faced the front door. The slat roof projected out over the front porch to form an overhang, deep enough for a fair company of people to take their rest there on a pleasant day. In all, it looked like a simple peasant cottage, like thousands of others throughout Limbrock and in the surrounding lands.

Like so many things connected to Ethander, looks were deceiving in this case.

She ignored the porch and the front door, and instead circled around to the left side of the building. Tangles of thorny brush surrounded the cottage and pressed close up against its walls, but she knew the faint trail that ran through the hazard and was soon approaching the rear of the structure. There, she walked straight to a narrow door recessed in a dark shadow of the wall near the corner, built so cunningly that it appeared merely to be part of the construction of the wall. It was locked, but she also knew how to get around that, and so after a second's delay the door opened and she ushered Dannil inside.

She closed the door behind them, and they were plunged into darkness so pure that it made the night outside seem bright by comparison.

"Izandra?" Dannil asked tentatively.

"Just a moment," she said. A speck of light flared into being, steadying into a flame atop a small brass lamp. It illuminated a small workroom, cluttered with various simple tools and a long workbench that ran along the outer wall. Brooms, gardening tools, and a wood axe hung from hooks across from the workbench, which in turn held smaller items in wooden cubbies in a row across its top and in slots in its face.

"Come on," she said to Dannil, directing him to follow her through another small door into another room deeper in the building. This chamber was only slightly larger than the first, but contained an old couch that had clearly seen better days. "Sit here," she said to him, as she turned toward one of two other doors that exited from the room on either side of the couch. She paused to light another small lamp lying on a small end table beside the couch.

"What about the wizard?" Dannil asked, forestalling her.

"He's not here," she said. She didn't offer how she knew that, and he didn't ask. He clearly looked uncertain, though, and she seemed to read it in his expression, for she turned back to face him for a moment.

"It's all right," she said. "We're safe here."

"I've never been here before. The place has a feel to it, I don't know, somehow strange," he said.

"I know," she said. "Wait a minute, I'll get some salve and bandages." With that, she turned back to the door and vanished into the next room.

While Dannil waited for her, Izandra quickly gathered up the items she wanted, lighting several more lamps until the somber air of the house was replaced by the bright glow of life. She particularly needed that feeling tonight, even though she wanted nothing more than to crawl onto her pallet and drift off into sleep. With that thought she paused to grab a few blankets from a linen closet, intending to prepare the couch as a bed for Dannil for the night. Stopping off in the kitchen she piled some wood into the stove and put a kettle of water on its surface to boil. It was then that she allowed herself a moment of rest, now that she was in relative safety, to collect herself. She didn't want to leave Dannil alone too long, but she no longer felt the need to have him there, the reassuring comfort of his presence.

She looked around the kitchen, so plain and ordinary at first glance, but with the subtle signs that hinted at the unusual identity of its owner. Ethander was not a khemeia mage, so at least they were spared the collection of odd powders and potions, the cauldrons of bubbling solutions with their strange smells and explosive tendencies. Ethander's laboratory was his mind, its chambers and corridors deeper and more expansive than any alchemist guildhall. The practice of phuskios had always fascinated her for that reason, had drawn her despite—or perhaps because of—its abstract nature and intangible quality. She wondered where her master was. There was no way of knowing, really, where he was or when he would be back. When he had asked her yesterday to travel to the quarry for him, he had not mentioned leaving, and had she asked he would have only responded in his usual way, with a raised eyebrow and that penetrating look that could give the most determined questioner pause. One didn't pry into Ethander's business. Izandra knew just enough to begin to understand why. Phuskios magi tended to be solitary and introspective, and even in the company of peers they shared little and kept much hidden.

Not that Ethander was a bad master, she thought to herself. In the three years that she had studied under his tutelage, she had learned a great deal. His method of teaching was rather informal. Often she had arrived at the cottage to find him in the middle of some project, or deeply involved in a question of philosophy or mathematics. At times he would not even acknowledge her presence as she went around her chores, but more often than not he would invite her to join him, discussing the problem or using her as a sounding board for his ideas. He never talked down to her or was impatient when she could not readily grasp a topic; instead he waited while she worked through the logic of a solution in her mind. Frequently he had asked her to name a topic she was interested in studying, and then, a few days later, a book or two would appear on the workbench near the outer door, old folios bound in weathered leather with crinkling pages of aged parchment inside. He never mentioned where the books came from, and she had never asked, returning each to the place where it had appeared once she had absorbed its contents.

The sound of steam whistling in the kettle stirred her from her thoughts. She reddened slightly, embarrassed that she'd let her thoughts wander away so while Dannil was waiting for her. She knew that he would not admit to pain or discomfort from his wound, but she had seen the look in his face and hurried her steps as she gathered the last of the items she wanted and then poured the boiling water into a bowl to carry in to him. She paused to take a pair of earthenware mugs down from a shelf near the stove, filling each with a spoonful of tea from one of the long row of small white ceramic containers that lined one of the kitchen's several pristine counters. She used the last of the water to fill the mugs, and then put everything onto a flat tray and returned to where she had left Dannil.

"I'm afraid I've dirtied the couch some," he said as she reentered the room. She looked down at her own soiled clothes, and the multiple lines of muddy footprints that criss-crossed the carpet that covered the floor of the chamber. Izandra put the heavy tray onto the small table next to the couch, and handed one of the mugs of tea to him.

"Smells good," he said before taking a sip.

"Take off your shirt," she said to him, taking some clean towels and a small cloth bundle from the chaotic pile atop the tray.

She had to help him, and he grimaced when she finally pulled away the sodden bandage and started cleaning his wound. She could not help but notice that several other scars marked his torso, which was corded with lean muscle. For all his light banter and the casual attitude that he projected, Dannil chose a difficult life for himself. But at least he had freedom and self-sufficiency, two concepts that Izandra, in her own way, prized as much as he did.

"Why did you want to come here, instead of going home?" he asked her while she worked.

"I... I don't know," she began. "I just didn't feel like facing them, after everything that happened. I needed to be alone, to rest and collect my thoughts." And talk to Ethander, she added inwardly, again regretting his absence.

"I didn't know that you knew how to do that," he said as she unfolded the cloth bundle and took out a long, slightly bent needle trailing a length of thick thread.

"I'm sure there are a lot of things I know how to do that you don't know about," she said, and he grimaced again as she started sewing shut his wound. She lowered her head so that he could not see that her own jaws were clamped tightly shut to keep her from trembling. Martha had taught her both how to sew and how to treat injuries—the skills were related in this case—but she had only watched this being done, never actually treated someone. Before she had started working for Ethander, Martha had encouraged her to consider becoming a healer, perhaps even applying to the hospital in Woodhaven, the next large town several days' travel to the south. Martha herself had never been formally trained, but had learned from her mother, who had been a midwife. Sindelar was too small and isolated to warrant a professional healer, but Izandra remembered seeing the occasional itinerant priest or priestess of Amelira passing through the town in her youth, treating the sick and comforting those approaching death before moving on to the next place requiring their services. The blue-robed servants of the Goddess of Mercy had always seemed to have a sort of glow around them, an air of purpose and commitment that had impressed her. Her road lay in a different direction, though, and Martha's aspirations had gone unfulfilled.

The two of them remained silent while she finished her work and then fixed a fresh bandage over the wound.

"Thanks," he said, as she piled the bloody bandage and the dirty towels back onto the tray.

"Are you hungry?" she asked him.

"No, I just feel like sleeping about a week."

"You can rest here. I'll be in the next room." She unfolded a blanket and handed it to him as he tugged off his boots and then lay back on the couch. "Try not to make any sudden movements for a few days," she told him, "or you'll tear the stitches."

"Are you going to be all right?" he asked her, yawning.

"I'll be fine," she said, pushing the door open with her foot and leaving Dannil to rest. He didn't even bother to douse the lamp, drifting off almost immediately into an exhausted sleep.

Despite being equally tired, Izandra didn't go to bed immediately. She first put away everything she had used to treat Dannil, careful not to make any noises that might disturb him. She found a jar of unguent that she rubbed into the bruise along the side of her face, wincing as the pressure reminded her of the pain she would likely feel the next morning.

She considered making a meal, as she had not had anything to eat since the sandwich she'd brought to the quarry with her for lunch. But her exhaustion was creeping up on her, winning the battle between her body and her ever-active mind. Blowing out most of the lamps as she did so, she retreated to the small room that was her dwelling within Ethander's home. There wasn't much to it, only a simple, compact bed with a few folded blankets atop it, a shelf running along the opposite wall that held a few books, and a night table with an earthenware ewer and bowl atop it. And yet at the moment she was happier to be here than in her comfortable room back home. Home with questions, and concern, and yes, even love.

She removed her coat—Dannil's coat—and hung her own battered clothes from hooks attached to the wall under the shelf. Shivering slightly from the chill in the house, she wearily crawled into bed, letting her body heat soak into the cold comfort of the linens. But unlike Dannil, she could not drift off immediately into sleep. Words kept coming into her mind, words she could not dispel, words that she knew she would hear for a long time.

We're not supposed to kill her, you fools!

The Seer wants you in one piece, but I'm sure he won't mind if the merchandise is a little the worse for wear...

Who was this Seer, and what did he want with her? And who was he to send kobalos into the backcountry of Limbrock to get her?

The questions followed her into the merciful embrace of sleep.

* * * * *

Chapter 3

Baron Arghus Hrathgar looked into the mirror and glowered.

It wasn't any one thing that put the baron into a foul mood this blustery autumn morning in the hill country of western Roron. He wasn't a patient man, and yet he had to keep three other barons, each controlling lands at least as large and significant as his own, waiting in the audience room three floors beneath his private chamber, where he stood facing his mirror. It wasn't his style to delay—he was the sort to run in and confront something, be it a drake he'd hunted to its lair, a problem with the peasants, or a meeting with peers. But Hevrah had advised him to wait, and Hevrah was usually right in these matters.

The thought galled him somewhat, but he was used to that.

Another source of his bad mood presented itself as he paused to adjust the straps of his armor. Eight years he'd owned this suit of mail, and the smiths had never been able to adjust the straps to keep it from chafing him. The armor had belonged to his father, as had the heavy broadsword dangling from his left hip. He was familiar with both—it was rare to find a male scion of the Roronian nobility that was not—but was not entirely _comfortable_ with either. It wasn't just the fact that they'd belonged to his father, although that certainly had a lot to do with it. He looked deeper into the mirror, past his own reflection, at the trophy wall behind him. Hunting was, to him, more than a hobby, almost a vocation unto itself. Only his most valued trophies were here, with him in his personal chambers, not for the view of his underlings or the mob. He could start a museum with what he had here, he thought. In fact, he often danced between that thought, between building such a place for his treasures to stand after his death, or simply consigning them to the flames of his pyre, to follow him into death as he made his way to join the eternal battles of Hailidel's army of the underworld. Even if he was not the soldier his father had been, those victories marked him as a warrior in his own way, worthy of a command in that dark host.

It was not an honor he was eager to undertake, not for some time yet.

Finally his gaze turned back to the mirror itself, its smooth metal surface marred by imperfections and ringed by a mahogany frame. Expensive, were it not for the cracks and poorly-repaired breaks in its length. It was a reminder that the Kol Hills comprised a poor barony, its peasants even more bent and dirty than those of his neighbors as they tried to eke out an existence out of the rocky soil. He knew all too well that his neighbors—his rivals—called the place the "Frost March," and he knew that the mirror was just one of many reminders that the appellation was an accurate one.

Taken together, each of these reasons combined to produce the scowl that only deepened as the baron waited. All sources of frustration and anger, but the last one, perhaps, could be changed. The thought cheered him somewhat as he paused and ran an armored finger along the cracked edge of the mirror.

No, he was not the soldier his father was, charging into melee with his broadsword, clearing a path forward in blood and gore. He was a hunter, who followed his prey until it had exhausted itself, until it was time to strike the killing blow. He turned to the wall of trophies, and walked over to the heavy recurved bow resting in its lacquered—but also cracked and old—case. His gaze drank in the sight of the massive skins that were affixed to the wall, rising all the way up to the timbers of the ceiling fifteen feet above the floor. His greatest treasures, his drakes. The majestic pale-skinned winddrake, its wings spanning a twenty-foot arch, resident of the mighty cloud-draped peaks of the Ralos Mountains to the west. Next to the winddrake was a small but nimble firedrake, native to the volcanic Black Mountains far to the east. This specimen was barely larger than a man, but possessed of deadly claws and powerful jaws that had not availed it against the hunter. Above these two was a sea serpent, its thirty-foot length stretched across the full length of the wall. He'd had to go to the coast for that kill, ostensibly on a mission to meet with his father's merchant interests in Khandalor after his death, but in reality for the opportunity to brave the caves where the blue-green creatures were known to lair. And finally at the point where the wall meet ceiling, dangling from padded cords attached to the rafters, his greatest pride, a rockwyrm. It was the largest of his kills, although he knew that the creature's forty-foot length from nose to tail made it a mere adolescent of its species. He'd carefully prepared the skin and head until the creature seemed almost alive, curling around the heavy shafts of wood that supported the roof above, staring down at those below. It was very similar to the look that the creature had given him when he'd finally caught up with it, two weeks' distant in the inhospitable country along the borders of the Gray Forest. Rockwyrms were among the fiercest and deadliest creatures that lived, capable of burrowing through solid rock with claws that could rend steel armor with equal dexterity. This creature had been as fierce and tenacious as the stories said, drawing it into the traps Hrathgar had set for it. It had not even seen him until the final moment, just before the long barbed shaft from his bow slammed into its eye and the brain behind.

That was the way of the hunter. The prey did not know it was being hunted until it was too late.

He smiled as he turned and left the room.

* * *

The Seer waited atop a dappled horse. The morning was bracing, the grass beneath his horse's hooves shimmering with fresh-fallen rain turned into droplets of ice. The storm had come and gone the night before with a strange ferocity, bringing in its wake the cold that presaged an early arrival of winter.

The horse shifted beneath him, as if anxious to be moving again, where at least the motion of activity could help stir the blood into producing warmth. Its rider did not stir or fidget, nor did he appear affected by the cold. He wore a heavy mantle of furs apparently taken from several different animals, fashioned together more for the sake of strength than appearance.

He was alone, and not alone. His kobalos prowled the nearby woods, close enough for him to sense their presence, but far enough away so that none might be called to attend him, or to risk his displeasure. It had been necessary to instill in them that mix of fear and respect that was often necessary, but which could also be inconvenient when he needed something done quickly. At that moment, however, he neither needed nor desired company. It gave him time to think, to turn over plans and ideas in his head, to explore thoughts within the inspiring solitude of the morning.

A spiderweb of tattooed symbols covered the right side of his face, from the crest of his bare forehead to the hard line of his jaw. The patterns were both marking and warning. They drew attention from his other features, the subtle things that marked him as a member of the same race as those that served him.

There was a commotion in the forest below, and the Seer turned his attention from his thoughts to the point where the faint hint of an animal track emerged from the dense cluster of trees and brush at the base of the hill ahead. He did not have to wait long, as several of his kobalos quickly emerged and came swiftly up the hill toward him. He dismounted smoothly and waited for them. Freed of its burden, the horse moved a few steps away, bending to crop some of the wet grass.

He recognized two of the approaching figures as part of one of the groups he'd sent out just over a week past. He also recognized the look in their eyes, and he noted with a disinterested air that one had a fresh puncture wound, hastily bandaged and still oozing, in his left shoulder.

"So, you failed," he said simply.

"We waited until she left the town, as you said, master," the uninjured one said. "She fled, and we gave chase. We caught up to her, but she had found aid, and escaped. The rest were killed."

The Seer said nothing, regarding them intently while unreadable thoughts flashed behind his dark eyes. The kobalos that had spoken said nothing more, but he fidgeted nervously, the Seer's silence affecting more than shouts of anger would have. The latter, at least, would have been in character for the leaders they'd served in the past.

"She has power, master," the wounded one added.

A flicker of interest showed in the Seer's eyes. "Power..." he said, not to them but more as if testing the sound of the word in his mouth. "Interesting."

Then, as if remembering that the kobalos were still in audience before him, he turned his attention back to them. "I do not take well to failure, nor do I enjoy excuses." He made a casual gesture with his hand to dismiss them, but even as they backed up, the pale light of the morning glistened off of something that floated in the air for an instant, as if his hand had held a sprig of dandelions, set free by his motion. It was there and gone in an instant, and only an attentive observer would have noticed it at all.

The uninjured kobalos made a sucking sound that seemed to come from deep in his throat. His hands came up to clutch at his neck as he staggered backward, eyes bulging out in their sockets. The others backed away as he lurched in a small ring, the choking sounds growing more desperate as the hapless creature fought for air that he could taste but not inhale into his burning lungs. His stumblings brought him around again to face the Seer, but when his eyes fixed on his master, and saw the emptiness reflected in them, he knew that no hope resided there. A few seconds later he collapsed onto the cold, wet grass, and a few seconds after that fell permanently still.

"Your wound testifies to your effort, and has granted you a second chance to redeem yourself," the Seer said to the other kobalos. The others that had escorted the two up the hill moved further away, facing outward as if they had all spontaneously decided to watch the surrounding forest for signs of danger. The wounded survivor said nothing as the Seer strode casually closer, and motioned for him to follow him down the hill. He absently gestured for one of the others to bring along his horse.

"Now, tell me everything about the girl and this 'power' that she possesses," he said, in a tone that made the wounded kobalos's blood run cold.

* * *

Approximately two hours had passed since he'd left his private chambers when Baron Hrathgar emerged from his council hall. His face felt sore from having to fix an amiable expression on his face during the talks with his neighbor barons. Relations between them had always been rather neutral, mostly because there was little in the Kol Hills that anyone wanted, save for a few iron mines whose production had been constantly declining since the days of his grandfather. Some of the men had made a few casual probes of his barony after his father had died—a few raids, a little "unofficial" banditry—but that had been just the usual testing of the new leader. He'd responded adequately, and things had been relatively cordial since then.

Well, he was sure that Cathor was scheming behind his back, and maybe Dorthin, but that was just a fact of life in Roron. Its nobles seemed to have intrigue in their blood. That had been true even before the Dark War, when Roron had been a single powerful state, and its name had created fear in the council halls of its neighboring states. Those days were gone, however.

Hrathgar started as he turned a corner and nearly collided with Hevrah. He collected himself quickly, however, and turned his hard gaze upon the small woman.

Hevrah might have been a pretty woman once, but the weight of hard experience had marked her. She had a slight frame, perhaps not much more than half the baron's weight, and the top of her head barely came up to the level of his shoulder. She was always wrapped in layers of wool and fur that seemed haphazardly piled one atop the other, as if someone had dumped the contents of a closet on top of her. Her hair was a unkempt mishmash of black and gray, more the latter than the former, now, despite the fact that she was still shy of fifty. At least that was Hrathgar's calculation, from what he knew about the time that she had come into his father's service. That had been during his early childhood, and although Hevrah's appearance had changed since then, some things had not. The way she dressed was one, and the hard, dangerous look that came into her eyes when she thought no one was looking was another. He knew next to nothing about her life before she had appeared in Kol Castle, but since replacing his father as baron he had come to learn a great deal about her talents, and her usefulness. She had a sharp mind behind her plain appearance, and more as well.

"Well, my lord?" she queried, her voice a parody of humility that she knew raised his ire. He refused to rise to the bait, however. "How did the council go?"

"About as you predicted," he admitted. "They've been affected by the bandit raiding more in the past few months, and are feeling the pinch on their activities. They've agreed to support my campaign against the bandit groups and their bases in the northern hills. Though I expect that most of this support will be in the form of provender and mounts, rather than men and weapons."

"Food and horses can be weapons as surely as a sword or bow," she told him. "And you have sufficient stores of weapons, even with the poor performance of the mines over the last few years. Just make sure that the supplies are durable enough to last a while."

"I'm not a fool," he said. "I'm not going to go through all of this just to have moldy grain and rotten potatoes in those new storehouses you bid me build."

"Of course, my lord," she said, inclining her head toward him briefly in a gesture that was somehow less than deferential.

"What are you doing here, anyway?" he asked her.

"Our friend is here, waiting for an audience with the baron."

This time she succeeded in shattering his calm control, and it was only with an effort that he kept his voice a mark down from shouting. "What! Are you mad, bringing him here during the barons' council? What if someone sees him coming or going?" Realizing that his words were echoing off the stone walls of the corridor, he took a deep breath and steadied himself. "Why didn't you tell me about this sooner?"

"I figured it would distract you, in the meeting with the barons," she told him. If she was perturbed by his display of anger, she gave no outward sign of it.

"One day your games will cost you dear, witch!" he hissed between clenched teeth.

"I am not the one engaged in playing games, my lord baron," she replied. She leaned in closer, and her voice dropped to match his. "I merely see to it that you are on the winning side."

With that she turned and strode down the corridor away from him, not waiting to see if he would follow. Of course he did, but his eyes narrowed, and dark thoughts passed through his mind.

He knew where she was leading him, and before they reached her destination he overtook and pushed briskly past her. She hovered behind him like a dark cloud as he descended a winding stair down to the lowest level of his castle, to the cellars and supply rooms that burrowed through the very foundation of the place. He passed several of his hirelings, but after taking one look at his face they bowed and quickly scurried past on an current or instantly invented errand. At the bottom of the stair daylight was replaced by infrequent torches set in wall sconces, but even without their light he would have had little difficulty making his way. Kol Castle was his home, and furthermore in a childhood dedicated to staying as far away from his father as possible he'd come to learn very well the less-traveled corridors and chambers of the fortress. He passed open doorways beyond which lay rooms packed full with crates and barrels, and others that contained only dust and dirt and perhaps a fugitive rat or two. As he progressed deeper into the cellar he passed a few doors that seemed incongruous with the casual dirtiness of the place, doors of thick wood reinforced with bindings of forged iron and expensive locks to which he held the keys. Beyond these doors lay stores other than foodstuffs and casks of cheap ale.

Finally he came to the place he sought at the end of the corridor, a dark, smelly chamber that he knew lay directly underneath the stables. The long chamber was used to store supplies and equipment for his horses. It was hardly ever used, as the stable housed only about a dozen mounts, and most of the gear needed to support them was kept in the stable proper, where it was more convenient for the grooms to access. A broad stone stair led up to the ground floor, culminating in doors that emerged onto a quiet alley behind the stable. These factors made the storeroom a convenient place for meetings when either or both parties did not want to draw attention to themselves.

Even with Hevrah's forewarning, it took him a few moments to realize that the room was occupied.

The one he had come to meet stepped out of the shadows, his cloaked form taking on definition as he entered the ring of light faintly cast by the chamber's single struggling torch. He was tall and broad, the silence and grace with which he moved incongruous when juxtaposed with his apparent bulk. The baron, Hevrah still a step behind him like a shadow, stepped forward into the room and paused at the far end of the circle of light, facing the newcomer whose face was still lost in the shadows of his cowl.

"I trust your meeting with the other barons went well, lord baron," the other said. If Hevrah's tone held hints of sarcasm, never clear enough to fully grasp, his fully dripped it. He laughed slightly, as if remembering some old joke, or perhaps enjoying the irony of the current situation.

"Well enough, Karluk," the baron responded, his own voice iron. "I trust you are here to tell me that everything has been arranged according to plan?" He stood squarely, his arms crossed across his chest, but somehow he still seemed the hunter at that moment, tensed to strike at the slightest tremor of fear on the part of his prey.

Karluk seemed to sense this, for he shifted uncomfortably before responding. "We have carried out our part of the bargain. The raids on your neighbors down in their fat little lowland baronies have increased, and we have avoided your caravans and outposts. But our new activities have been costly." He pointed a fat finger at the baron to punctuate his point. "We need more weapons, and better stuff than the slag iron you have been giving us. Crossbows, good ones, and plate armor."

The baron laughed. "You'll get your weapons, Karluk. But don't give me any whining about costs and expenses. Your raiding has given you treasure the likes of which your sons of whores and dogs have never seen, and as for 'costs,' my men always took a higher toll on your undisciplined rabble than you've ever lost to Cathor or Dorthin. Speaking of which, I'll want a few more major raids on both of them before the winter snows begin in earnest. They were still a little reluctant in our talks today, and need a little more convincing of the need for our cooperation."

He didn't need to see Karluk's face to read his scowl. "You are well-informed, baron." His words promised woe if he ever found out who among his men was supplying Kol Castle with information, but Hrathgar was not worried about that. Hevrah's informers were always efficient, and always right. "You'll get your raids, as long as you keep feeding me information about caravans like that last one."

"As long as we understand each other," the baron said, and it was clear that there was much not said but clearly intentioned in that statement. Karluk nodded; the message was received.

"Remain here until after sunset," the baron commanded. "If I know them, the barons will be slow in leaving, and may have a few of their retainers about to see what they can see. It would not do for a footman or mercenary to see you, and recognize your fair features."

Karluk snorted but did not reply. The baron knew he would obey, just as he knew how far he could push his dubious ally. That knowledge was part Hevrah's counsel, part his own hunter's instincts.

"When do I get my weapons?" he finally asked after an awkward silence that Hrathgar allowed to drag out for a moment.

"You'll hear from me," the baron promised. "And remember to let your men be extra destructive when raiding Cathor's caravans, that man's really been getting difficult in his old age." Why not let the bandit think he was getting a little bloodthirsty? To Hrathgar, this wasn't about personal vendettas, at least not the petty squabblings that he'd inherited from his father.

"As you say, baron," Karluk replied.

Hrathgar turned and strode out of the room the way he had come. Hevrah, who had been silent throughout the entire interview, was still close behind him, and he knew that she would have comments on what was said—and what was not—later. Right now, however, he wanted to get out of his damned armor and into a warm robe. He loved the hunt, but after a morning of this damned political dealmaking and dealbreaking, he felt as though he needed a hot bath. Hevrah and her counsels and attitude could wait.

Karluk watched the baron and his pet witch go and stood silently until a few minutes after the heavy door to the storeroom had closed behind them. Whatever thoughts were traveling through his mind were his own, for his face betrayed nothing. As he finally turned away, though the torchlight briefly caught on his face, revealing a maze of crags and ridges on a face worn by a lifetime of hard weather and harder experience. The red tinge of his skin was not caused by the ravages of outdoor life, however, and even the shadows could not hide the corded bands of muscles that rippled across his frame as he moved. When he finally looked back at the door and smiled, it was a grim smile marked by uneven rows of jagged teeth in a face that wasn't quite human.

"You have grand plans, baron," he said to himself. "But my people have a saying, the higher one rises, the farther one has to fall."

Chuckling slightly, the bandit chief vanished again into the darkness.

* * * * *

Chapter 4

The gathering was held at the Fane of the Nine, situated somewhere along the border of the realms of Thought and Reality. It was a place where, by mutual agreement, the same rules applied to each of those had been summoned to the conclave.

Each arrived in their own fashion. The first arrival had been the old fisherman who had called the meeting, who sat alone in a high-backed chair that wasn't real yet still felt comfortable nonetheless. He looked out into the entry to the Fane, where the abstract lines of the gathering place faded into blurry unreality.

The place itself might have been a majestic temple or great library, save for the fact that there were neither altars nor books present. Great pillars of pale marble marched around the perimeter of the chamber, although they supported nothing, as no ceiling existed above, only a diffuse light that suffused the place with its pale glow. The décor was subdued, the only furnishings the simple chairs that ringed the gathering area within the circle of pillars, and a small marble basin in the center of the place that held a still pool of dark water. Nothing could be seen within the pool, for the light that came from above and all around reflected off the sheen of its surface, but its depths seemed to draw the eye, as if something _was_ in fact there, if only one looked hard enough. With the exception of the water, everything else in the place was a soft white, more an absence of color than a particular shade. That too, was another compromise, the god thought, momentarily wishing for the quiet natural beauty of his brook and forest. This place favored no one, nor did it reflect the preferences of any of the beings that would gather here.

He looked up as a soft chime sounded. Where it came from was impossible to determine, but it was just another function of the place, designed to announce new arrivals. The shape that took form in the entry resolved into an old man, who strode forward into the Fane. He was dressed much like fisherman, in a simple robe that swirled around his ankles as he walked across the floor, and he carried a great book under the crook of his arm. The book was a leather-bound folio, with no title or marking atop its cover, and seemed remarkable only in its considerable size. Yet the old man carried without difficulty, and as he seated himself at one of the nearby chairs he settled it on his lap before him.

"Greetings, Xanthus," the old man with the book said finally, looking up as if just noticing that he was there.

"And welcome, Barsis of the Book," he replied to his peer.

Barsis inclined his head slightly in acknowledgement. For a long moment, there was a silence between them. "Then it has come," he offered.

"I fear that it is so."

"And who is behind this? Some mortal being, one of the elder powers... or perhaps one of the Nine?"

"That I cannot see," Xanthus admitted. He did not have to explain more; the answer itself suggested a certain possibility. Barsis nodded.

"It should be an interesting gathering," he finally said.

Xanthus silently agreed.

The chime sounded again, and this time two figures drew substance and appeared in the entry to the Fane. Both wore forms of sublime beauty and subtle human perfection, and their voices as they spoke to each other were of a melody softer and sweeter than the most gifted human song. Xanthus was not surprised that they would arrive together, although the two were opposites in their own way. The first was a beautiful youth of indeterminate gender, with features smooth and perfectly proportioned, as if lovingly etched from marble by a master sculptor. The youth was of powerful build, muscles rippling smoothly under a robe of soft silk. Despite the plain raiment, he moved with a martial step that evoked the sounds of horns of battle and the noisy clash of metal on metal. His brilliant eyes, as he scanned the room, possessed the power of command, of inspiration and leadership. That look ultimately settled on the two old men already present.

"Greetings, brothers," the youth said, with a voice that sounded a note of power as it filled the confines of the Fane. Had such been allowed, Xanthus would not have been surprised to see the youth borne to the meeting by a golden chariot, and announced by heralds dressed in elaborate livery.

"Welcome, Merikkose," Xanthus replied. Had it not clashed with the placid look he carried about him, one might have supposed that there was a hint of exasperation in his tone. While the fair youth moved to sit, taking one of the a chairs adjacent to Xanthus, he shifted his attention to the second newcomer, who had stood back demurely, waiting for the young man to present himself and take his place.

Her beauty was of a different sort than that of the martial youth. She was a tender maiden, clothed in a flowing garment of gentle blue cloth. Her expression was one of benediction, and peace seemed to flow from her in the same way that an aura of war erupted from her companion. And yet there was a certain strength in her eyes, eyes that showed the same depth of perception as the others. When she spoke, it was as if cares and worries, be they mortal or immortal, were banished by the soft sound of her voice.

"Xanthus, Barsis," she said with deference.

Despite the worries that burdened his thoughts, Xanthus could not help but smile at the young woman. "Amelira," he said, with a gentle nod.

As Amelira selected the other vacant seat flanking Xanthus, others arrived in quick succession, the chime sounding its faint greeting with each one. As each appeared and took their places in the circle, they greeted and were in turn received with the deference and respect due their stations. Elisandra was an aged matron, cloaked in a robe patterned in shades of green and brown. The greens evoked the colors of grass and leaves, the browns the richness of earth and the hard texture of bark. Her smile was that of a loving mother greeting her children at the end of a long day, welcoming them to the warmth and shelter of the hearth. The fragrant smell of flowers and freshly-tilled soil seemed to fill the room as she entered and took her place in the circle.

Following Elisandra came Laesil, who took her seat adjacent to the older woman. If Elisandra was a caring mother, Laesil was the carefree child, containing an almost boundless energy that seemed barely contained. She appeared as a young woman—this time, Xanthus noted, for her form changed as often as her moods—garbed in a suit of brown leather scuffed with the dust of an imaginary trail. Jangles woven into the outfit filled the air with a teasing melody as she moved, and the brightly colored scarves tucked here and there gave her a lighthearted manner tempered by the twin dirks that protruded from her belt. She could have been a thief, a performer, a gambler, or and adventurer, and she was in fact all of those things, for Laesil was changeable as the wind and just as impulsive.

As the new arrivals took their seats it was clear that there was some structure to the circle, with three clusters of three seats gathered around the central fountain. Xanthus sat with Merikkose and Amelira flanking him, with just enough space to mark a break to the next arc where Barsis was bordered by Elisandra and Laesil. The third section was significantly vacant, until another chime sounded in the Fane. This time, instead of a form taking shape in the foyer, a wisp of smoke spun out of the air directly within one of the three remaining chairs, a spiral that formed into a woman who faced out into the circle.

"Welcome, Niedra," Xanthus said, and this time the impatience in his voice was not subtle or shielded.

"Of course," the newcomer said, taking in all of the other gods with a single expansive wave of one hand. "I hope you weren't talking about me in my absence."

Niedra wore a shape that was both provocative and languid, leaning back into the comfortable depths of the chair with one leg draped over one of its arms. She was a beautiful woman, but lacking the simple innocence of Amelira or even the rakish unpredictability of Laesil. Niedra's form was pure seduction, her generous curves contained within a skein of black silk that was barely enough to protect basic decency. Her eyes flashed with amusement, but within their depths there was something more dangerous there, like a serpent coiled and waiting to strike. Xanthus, watching her, wondered if she truly felt the emotions that she evidenced in her behavior, of if it was just another part of the persona that she had adopted for herself.

"What of Turquos and Hailidel?" Elisandra queried.

"They won't be coming," Niedra said, holding up one hand to the light and examining it, as if checking for imperfections on her impeccably manicured fingernails. There would be none, of course.

"Not coming!" Merikkose's firm voice resounded through the Fane. "Not even they would ignore a summons to a council of the Nine!"

Niedra did not respond, but she turned her gaze to the powerful youth and, with a slight shake of her head, smiled coyly at him.

"Enough," Xanthus said wearily, raising one hand to draw the attention of the others to him. "Regardless of our absent brothers, we must continue. It is I who called this meeting, for I have important information that must be shared amongst this council. All must have a say in determining how we react to this news." He paused for a moment, as if gathering strength.

"Someone is trying to release Destruction."

The response was immediate and chaotic Several of the Nine tried to speak at once, filling the room with a babble of confusion. A few voices rose above the general ruckus.

"Who would countenance such madness?" Merikkose all but shouted, rising from his chair, one hand raised in a clenched fist.

"Whoever it is, they must be stopped!" Elisandra said with surprising ardor. "It would mean the end of all life on the mortal plane, were that power to be loosed!"

"Not to mention all of us," Niedra added smoothly. That statement cut through the room like a knife, stilling the clamor.

"Tell us what you have learned, Xanthus," Amelira's soft voice followed upon the silence.

"I must put the matter into context," Xanthus replied. Barsis, would you read the account from the Book? The elder figure nodded, opening the vast volume across his lap; the thick parchment pages glowed in the soft light as they settled into place. He started reading, the words forming a narrative that caught up all of them into the flow of his words. Each of the Nine knew the tale that Barsis recounted, but the telling of it gave them a chance to recover from the announcement that Xanthus had thrust upon them, allowing them the opportunity to restore their equilibrium.

"In the beginning, two forces Prime at work in the universe were equally balanced, their constant struggle against each other the motive force that drove existence forward. Creation and Destruction were matched, ever at odds. Their battles ended always in stalemate, as Creation built new worlds and new levels of existence and Destruction tore them down. With this balance nothing permanent could exist, and no thing in the universe could evolve to a higher degree of being. Finally, in an effort to break the stalemate, Creation laid a trap for Destruction, painstakingly generating a new masterwork from its motive impulse, a new world, infused with the stirrings of new life. This prize was too rich to resist, and Destruction eagerly launched itself upon the new making. Its lust for undoing what had been done, in consuming the life energies of Creation's weaving cost it dearly, for within this world Creation had prepared a carefully engineered prison, a complex binding that relied upon Destruction's own power to create the bonds that would hold it. Caught in this web, Destruction's struggles tightened the constraints around it, sealing it off from the universe without. Too late it realized what had happened, and it railed uselessly against the bonds that kept it penned safely away within the very fabric of the new world."

"And thus we came into being," Merikkose interjected, having once again settled into the tall-backed chair.

"Just so," Xanthus acknowledged. With a nod to Barsis, he bade him continue.

"Whether as a conscious being like ourselves, or simply a motive force behind the very workings of the universe, Creation could not exist without its balancing equal, the negative of Destruction counteracting its positive energy. Although now the universe could evolve freely, Creation alone would eventually lead to a new imbalance in the structure of reality. How could life exist without death? The instability of one force existing without the other could undo everything, including the prison that held Destruction confined."

"So having laid the basis for life to evolve in the universe, Creation sundered itself. The rendered elements of Creation solidified into nine separate beings, entities of the realm of Thought. Eventually, they became the Nine. There is a part of that Creation impulse in each of us, but as separate beings we allow for the balance between positive and negative, and the balance between the two realms of Thought and Reality."

"And the decision, once made, was final," Barsis concluded, looking up from his Book. "Once sundered, the whole can never be made again."

"Bah, who would want that anyway," Niedra chimed in from her position across the circle. She appeared disinterested in the whole proceedings, but none of the others were fooled. But none of them could see what lay inside any of the others, what thoughts ran through their heads as they pondered the implications of Xanthus's revelation.

"Sundering the prison would be madness," Merikkose said, returning the discussion to the more immediate topic.

"Who would seek such an act?" Laesil asked.

"That I have not been able to divine," Xanthus replied. "You all know that everything regarding the prison is murky to us, as it is an antithesis to everything that is part of what we are. The Compact prevents us from penetrating too deeply into the affairs of the mortal plane, where time itself has a different meaning than it does to us. Still, despite the difficulties, long have I observed, suspecting that such a thing could be possible. Perhaps even time alone could erode the prison, allowing Destruction freedom. After all, it is a fundamental paradox that one of the constants of existence is that nothing is constant."

"Of late I have sensed stirrings, disturbing hints that someone or something was seeking to interfere with the prison. I investigated more, and just before I summoned you, I learned that this was in fact the case. Someone, or something, is seeking to unravel the secret of Destruction's constraint."

"You are the First among us," Merikkose said. "your sight is sharper than that of any of us, and your wisdom keener. If even you cannot detect the secret of this action, then surely a being of Thought must be involved. This is a matter beyond the simple understanding of mere mortals."

"You underestimate the abilities of mortal kind, but I agree with your conclusion," Xanthus admitted.

"One of us, then," Elisandra said, her gaze turning to regard the two empty chairs. In its course, it settled on Niedra in a gesture that was noticed by all. If she was perturbed by the implication, she gave no sign, and met their stares with calm aloofness.

"This sounds like the work of Hailidel," Merikkose said, with the bitterness of a long rivalry sounding clear in his voice. "Turquos is too chaotic, I think, too divorced from the complex machinations both of our realm and that of mortals. While equally chaotic, the same cannot be said of the Battle Lord. Of all of our company, he is most akin that which is imprisoned, and farthest from that mother force that gave us all existence. You know him to be in many ways my adverse, and I think that perhaps I know him best."

"And you know yourself so well, god of honor, to know your reflection so intimately?" Niedra said, prodding him with her words as she shifted into another languid stance within her chair. "Do you know what he is thinking? Do you know what drives him, what fuels his ambitions, what goals he may seek?"

"If you know anything, speak it now," Elisandra said.

"I know as much, or as little, as you, but at least I'm ready to admit it," Niedra replied. "And I'm not afraid to admit that the prospect of Destruction loosed upon the universe frightens me."

"But why would anyone—even one of the Nine—contemplate such a thing?" Laesil said. The seriousness that had fallen over the gathering had deflated her typically carefree demeanor, and now she fidgeted uneasily within her chair.

"Such an action would lead to his ruin, the first in a long chain," Barsis said. "It is illogical for any sentient being to seek its own destruction."

"Perhaps we are not talking about a being motivated by logic," Niedra offered.

"There are, of course, other possibilities," Amelira said. The others turned their attention to her, serene in the inner quietude seemingly invulnerable even to the dire prospects raised in their discussion. "The first is that these efforts could be the actions of another creature of Thought, not one of our company. We sometimes think of ourselves as the sole occupants of this higher realm, which of course is not accurate." She looked around at them, and some of the others grudgingly nodded in acknowledgement. Xanthus was the last to do so, and after filing away a thought to meet with Amelira privately later gestured for her to continue.

"Secondly, it is possible that this someone or something is meddling with the prison without intention or awareness. Xanthus himself admits that our knowledge of this whole issue is muddled and incomplete. As independent beings, we were born into the universe with great abilities and the capacity for reason, but with only the sparsest knowledge of what came before. Our own history is as rooted in myth as the stories that the mortals weave about us." At that, Barsis's expression darkened slightly—as much emotion as he ever showed—but none of those present challenged her assertion.

"I sense that there is one more possibility in your litany, and that we will like it least," Niedra prodded her.

"Indeed," Amelira replied. "The third possibility is this. That the being seeking to access the prison is not doing so in an effort to release Destruction, but rather to siphon off some of its power, for itself."

Merikkose nodded in sudden realization and broke in, saying, "If such a thing were possible, it could potentially unleash incredible power. Dangerous, yes, and very risky," he added, cutting off Barsis as the old man opened his mouth to speak, "but just the sort of thing that Hailidel would do."

"I can think of others as well, who would think along similar lines," Elisandra said. This time all of them had the grace not to stare at Niedra directly.

"The question is, what are we going to do about it?" Niedra asked, ignoring the implication of Elisandra's statement.

"The Compact cannot be violated," Barsis said. "The consequences of sundering the barrier between Thought and Reality would rival even the prospect of releasing Destruction from its prison." He spoke with the finality of hard fact, and none of the others disputed him.

"But what if we are not the ones to break it?" Merikkose said, his voice tinged with a growing hint of anger. "We are the ones who inherited the responsibility for this matter. We are Creation's children, and if it is one of our own who is risking this course, it falls to us to do something about it."

"What can we do about Hailidel, and Turquos?" Laesil asked. "Is there a way to confirm whether either are involved in this?"

"These events are focused on the mortal plane," Xanthus said. "Our power to interfere there is limited. Here, in our own realm, we are all equals. We can seek to contact our two absent brothers, but if they do not wish to be found, then there is little we can do to compel them. But at the same, they are bound by the same restrictions and restraints that govern us."

"So in the end, the only law that determines our actions is our own self-restraint and subjective perceptions," Merikkose said sourly. "Any mortal kingdom would crumble in a week under such a code."

"True, but we are not mortals," Xanthus told him. "And such is the burden of free will, both for them as terminal beings of substance, and for us as immortal beings of thought. But do not underestimate the rules of which I spoke. The Compact is not arbitrary, but it is binding. Even one of our realm bent on contravening it cannot easily subvert its rule. Such is the nature of the universe, and of our two realms, and the collective of such is a construct far greater than even such as ourselves."

"So what is it that we can do?" asked Elisandra.

"We cannot interfere directly, but perhaps we can influence events indirectly," Xanthus replied. "Each of us does already, in our own way. We draw strength and energy from the plane of Reality, and in turn our Thought is reflected there as faint echoes. Most of us have connections to particular mortals, not as individuals, perhaps, but in their societies, their philosophies and religious systems, the myths and stories that Amelira referenced. After all, we are in many ways reflections of them, which in turn makes them reflections of us."

He could see that several of the others were not fully willing to grasp even that simple connection that he'd grappled with for so long in his own thoughts. Perhaps that was proof above all that they'd been shaped so by the lives that they collectively touched. For now, however, that was a puzzle that would have to be contemplated at a later time. The current moment required action, the beginning of a chain of events the end of which even Xanthus could not see.

"I suggest a limited intervention," Xanthus said to them. "One within the outer edges of the limits of the Compact. Barsis can confirm that this action will not violate that fundamental rule, and risk drawing down adverse consequences upon us." He glanced over at the god, who was already opening the great book before him. The other nodded, already divining where Xanthus was going with his proposal.

"We cannot intervene directly in the affairs of the mortal plane. But we all have mortals with whom we share a connection, whether by the parallel directions of our thinking or the shared philosophies by which our own identities are shaped."

"Each of us will select one mortal agent to work through. That being may be any individual of our choosing, save only that they be beings of Reality and not of Thought. I will send the Avatar to contact each, and therefore minimize the damage done to the barrier between our realms of existence. These mortals may then use their resources to investigate the danger, and through them we can better learn the nature of the threat, and in turn what action, if any, we must take in course to prevent disaster."

"A bold plan," Niedra commented, "but how shall we be sure that we are all in compliance to its dictates? We have already been reminded how limited our collective powers are in that respect."

"A fine one you are to speak of compliance and respecting agreements," Merikkose said.

Again Xanthus raised a hand to forestall them, and inclined his head toward Barsis. The god glanced down to the open book before him, and the spidery lines of the writing within, words that seemed to shift and crawl across the page even as he scanned them. "If we come to an agreement, there is a way. If we voluntarily commit to a communion of our minds, we can accept a binding agreement that will seal our acceptance of this plan. It would not limit us in any other way, but such an acceptance would be the equivalent of a binding oath, holding us to our commitment until the same collective body met to release the obligation."

"Very well," Niedra said. "I seek to avoid destruction with the same fervency as any of you. Let us seal our commitment to such a bargain, and be on with our choosing."

Xanthus was slightly surprised to have the strongest agreement coming from Niedra, but he said nothing as the others considered the plan. It was not, perhaps, the best course of action, but it was one that they could all agree to, and it was a plan that they could put to work immediately.

It did not take long for an agreement to be reached. Several of the Nine spoke openly of who they would choose, while others, he noticed, kept conspicuously silent on the topic.

As they stood and came together, forming a circle around the boundary of the pool in the center of the place, Merikkose asked, "What then of our absent brothers?"

"I suggest we each do what we can, here in our realm, to locate them," Xanthus offered. "I recommend against individual confrontations, but if we can bring them to council, perhaps we can learn more about their role, if any, in this." It really wasn't anything to answer Merikkose's question, but it was true that there was little any of them could do against a peer who was unwilling to be confronted. Here, at least, where they were all on equal ground. On the mortal plane, their agents would be able to work together, or at cross purposes, but there would be real consequences to their actions. Certainly for the mortals involved, whose existences were like the brief flicker of a flame in a breeze, flaring briefly before vanishing into nothingness.

"Let us then certify our agreement," Barsis said, leading them in the joining.

Within an instant, it was done.

* * * * *

Chapter 5

Izandra strode through the streets of Sindelar with a barely concealed impatience hastening her steps. Four days had passed since the recent storm had unleashed its deluge upon the village, and the unpaved streets of the town were still thick with mud. Periodically she had to detour around wide, stagnant puddles that had to be avoided, lest a boot get stuck in their mire. The day was cold, the storm's passage leaving behind a wintry chill and a sky often as not coated in an expansive layer of flat gray clouds. It would be weeks yet before the night chill grew hard enough to freeze the water in the puddles, and whether snow would fall from the skies this year remained anyone's guess. By the way that the wind plucked at her cloak as she made her way through the town, it seemed to Izandra that winter was making an aggressive bid for a long visit this year.

The last four days had been difficult, though nothing had occurred to match the terror and action of the night of the storm. True to her expectations, her arrival home the next morning had led to a seemingly endless barrage of probing questions from a well-intentioned Martha. Ezran had held her to her promise to warn the mayor about the kobalos bandits that had attacked her, so she'd had to tell her tale not once but several times. She'd managed to keep to herself the details of what the kobalos had said to her, and the apparently personal interest they'd had in her in particular. She could not see what benefit there could be in sharing that, at least not until she'd had a chance to discuss the matter with Ethander. But the few times she'd been able to break away to check his cottage, the place had been silent and empty. Her current visit was the first time she'd been able to check since the evening before last, and it was the first she'd been able to make unescorted. Even now Ezran or Dannil would be dogging her steps, if she hadn't been able to sneak out of the house undetected.

She was used to indulging Ezran's protectiveness of her, but since the night of the ambush his attentions had intensified several times over. He was like a hawk, seemingly there whenever she turned around. If it wasn't him, it was Martha, asking about her needs as if she'd broken every bone in her body. She even caught the taciturn and guarded Loehm looking intently at her when he thought she wasn't aware of it, his eyes narrowing when they passed over the still obvious bruise across the side of her cheek. The salve she'd applied at Ethander's had helped speed the healing of the injury, but it could not work fast enough to salve the solicitous attention of those around her.

She sighed. They meant well, all of them. Their attitudes reflected their feelings for her, their concern for her safety and well being. Taking care of herself was more than something she'd had to get used to, though, it was an ingrained part of her personality. She was accustomed to making decisions for herself, and could not help but feel that the intense focus on her over the last few days took something away from her, stole a little of the freedom that she so fiercely needed.

She noticed the changes in the village as she passed through. Homes and businesses that showed recent signs of repair; not against further storms, but against the possibility of intruders. Doors were shut more often than open in welcome, now, and shutters were tightly closed and latched over windows that had been wedged shut. Men whose martial knowledge consisted of a few days' practice each year in the militia carried weapons openly, and even children hurried quickly from building to building in groups, escorted by women with hawk eyes that darted from shadow to shadow. Patrols and sentries had been set by the mayor and the constable to ward the immediate area of the town, and word had been sent to Khebarim, notifying them of the threat of brigands on the roads.

She felt a little guilty, spawning such fear. Not that it was that foreign to the people of Sindelar, for the village was in truth a border town, and caution was ingrained into the blood of those who lived there. But she knew that this particular threat was not aimed at the people around her. She wished that she understood why it was aimed at her.

At the moment, what she really wanted was for Ethander to be home.

It wasn't at all uncommon for him to disappear like this, for weeks or even months at a time, on whatever private errand called him away. It was only the uncertainty of what had happened, the chaos a few spoken words on a lonely road had stirred into her life. None of the others could help her. Most of the villagers had rarely left the village in their lifetimes, and then only to travel to the southern towns, to quickly complete their business and then return home. Ezran would listen, but his would not be an unbiased opinion, and she needed cold rationality if she was to grapple with what had occurred. Dannil had seen more of the world and experienced more than most men twice his age, but his too was a face that was difficult for her to confront right now. Martha had insisted on boarding him in the guest room in the back of Loehm's workshop while he recovered from his injury. He hadn't been as overbearing as Ezran about it, but she'd caught him watching her too, moving about when he should have been resting. Yesterday morning she'd found some newly gathered branches stuffed into the space between the bed and wall in the guest room, probably the raw materials for a new bow. Between the way one or the other of them—her brother, and her friend—kept popping up around her, she would not have been surprised if they'd formed some secret cabal to keep watch over her. Of course, they could not have known what the kobalos had said to her, could not know that the event had been anything more than an unfortunate stroke of chance. But there had been something in Dannil's expression that morning after they'd rested at Ethander's place, something that told of questions and puzzles working around in the mind behind those dark brown eyes.

She left the borders of the town behind and continued on down the trail that led to Ethander's cottage. She had barely left the buildings of the town out of her sight, the outer edges of the woods beginning to wrap around the trail, when she paused. The air was cold and damp, the lowermost branches of the trees bending slightly with each successive gust of wind. The forest was still, peaceful in the quiet of the day, but it was not that which had alerted her.

Cautiously, choosing her steps as she worked her way along the muddy trail, she started forward again.

She was not surprised when she smelled the smoke, or when she rounded a bend in the trail and saw the wisps of it rising through the trees ahead. Still, it was a shock when she finally reached the cottage. Or rather, what was left of it.

The structure had been ravaged by fire, its walls gutted by whatever conflagration had swept through it. By the smoke still rising in whirls around the building, she guessed that the disaster had been fairly recent, perhaps the night previous. Far enough away from the village for quiet and privacy, the demise of the cottage had apparently not been noted by the inhabitants or the sentries set to watch over the village. Of course, they would have been focusing their attention on the roads that ran in the opposite direction, not on a faint trail that led only to a place shunned by the village's inhabitants.

Wary, she approached the ruined structure.

The area around the scorched cottage was still, the surrounding forest free of the typical sylvan sounds that she was so familiar with. Their absence gave the place a certain foreboding above and beyond the destruction of the fire. This time she came directly up through the rock garden to the front porch. She had to duck under timbers that had been heavily damaged by the fire and fallen to partially block the entry. The doorway itself was a gaping hole, the mortared stone scarred by the black touch of the flames that had consumed the once sturdy front door.

She took a steadying breath. She already suspected that she knew what had happened here. The feel of power was so strong here that she could almost taste it, an afterimage to what had been wrought not very long ago. Soon those tendrils of remembered energy would fade, leaving no evidence other than the burned rubble of the house. Of course, there were few, very few indeed, who could sense what she could.

She came across the first body shortly after entering the place. It lay half-buried under a pile of timbers from the collapsed ceiling, burns covering all of the exposed skin. With grim resolve she pulled aside some of the loose boards and bent to examine the corpse. She knew what it was even before she was able to turn the body and stare down at the flame-ravaged face.

Leaving the kobalos to his eternal rest, she continued her search.

The next room, Ethander's workshop, contained several more corpses, all in the same condition as their fellow in the front room. She could see the flash points here, places where Ethander's wards had been triggered by the careless raiders. The flames had scored the walls until the bricks themselves had begun to melt. The wooden workbenches that had lined the walls and their contents were ruined piles of ash and debris. Gaping holes in the roof above let in swirls of wind, stirring the faint whispers of smoke that still rose from places in the rubble.

Just to be thorough, she quickly finished her search of the upper level, then proceeded to the true destination since she had first seen the ruin, the stairs that led down to the cellar. She had to pause to clear away some singed boards that had fallen down from the level above before proceeding. She learned that the kobalos had not gotten this far when she encountered a still-intact ward on the door at the foot of the stairs. She bypassed it and pushed at the door. It resisted some, having been warped by the heat of the conflagration upstairs, but she finally was able to work it open enough to slip into the room beyond.

The ceiling above had settled some, but the room was intact. She knew that Ethander's home had been constructed with deliberate intent to keep things hidden. It would appear from what she had seen that others knew of those secrets, although apparently the kobalos had not known that secrets sometimes held a hidden edge that could cut, if one was not careful.

The place beyond was dark, the faint light that filtered down from above barely enough to identify the small casks and sturdy crates stacked in neat piles along the walls. With her nerves stretched tight and adrenaline flowing through her veins, Izandra felt as though the very air of the place flickered with power. She picked up a small lamp from the niche next to the door, its wick flaring into life as she raised it in one outstretched hand. She gave the storeroom only a cursory look before moving on to the next room, and then the next, where she encountered another set of stairs. This staircase was cut from the solid rock upon which the foundation of the cottage was settled, and twisted in upon itself, descending steeply, before depositing her in front of another door.

Despite the reassurance of the intact ward above, she felt a thrill of relief pass through her as she saw that door. Set in a deep threshold fashioned of solid slabs of granite, the door was a single stone block without handle or keyhole. She reached out her free hand and passed it across the face of the block, her fingers passing a hair's breadth from the cold surface. She felt the tingles of power that infused the stone, and drew back. She could not enter, nor could anyone else, save Ethander. Even in the years she'd known the magus she'd only passed into the space beyond the door on a few occasions. She remembered every single one of them.

Beyond the door lay power.

She retraced her steps back up to the cellar level, not relaxing her guard for an instant. There she hesitated. Slowly she made her way back to the stairs, thoughts forming into a plan of action in the back of her mind. She knew that the kobalos had not made their way into the lower levels of the place, and had not reached the stone door far below. But it was possible that others would come, and if that happened before Ethander returned, it was only a matter of time before enough of them made it through the protections and could threaten the hidden place, wards or no.

She slowly made her way up the stairs, careful again to avoid slipping on the loose fragments and sharp edges of wood. Once at the top of the stairs she took a few minutes to look for the best place to put her plan into effect, carefully examining the damaged upper room and then pulling over a heavy table from the workroom—its surface was stone, blacked with soot but still solid—nearly over to the doorway where the staircase began. It took some effort to turn over the table, and then she checked again to make sure that nothing sharp or dangerous was in close proximity to it. She paused again as she looked up at the ceiling, battered and partially collapsed. There was no way to be sure that what remained would not give way, burying her, but it was chance that she had to take.

She had to do her best to keep the secrets under Ethander's house hidden until his return.

Having completed the few preparations that she could make, she took a deep breath and walked slowly over to the head of the stairs, the edge of the stone table only a few strides away just within the threshold of the adjacent workroom.

Then she summoned a thread of power and launched it at the still-intact ward on the door at the base of the stairs. Even as she sensed its power being triggered, she launched herself over the top of the table, rolling hard on the debris-covered floor and then slamming herself against the hard shelter of the stone tabletop.

Even as she completed the motion a great explosion wracked the remnants of the building, and a rushing sound of flames and blasted air rushed out and around her meager shelter. She felt heat wash over her, and imagined that she could feel the tongues of flame themselves, probing mercilessly at the cloak that she clung tightly around her as she huddled closer against the stone of the table and the battered hardwood of the workshop floor. The whole building seemed to tremble and then shake, as if caught in a seizure that sought to tear what was left of the structure to pieces. Then the table lurched and slid into the threshold as the floor sagged under her, and she let out a cry of alarm as she tumbled roughly after it and slammed hard into the irregular edge that had turned toward her. She fell hard to the ground and lay there, fighting for breath as her lungs filled with soot and dust.

Finally, after a long minute, she felt her senses return to normal. Still coughing, she levered herself up. It was difficult, since a part of the floor had collapsed and settled a few feet lower, giving the part of the room she was in a definite slant. The well-crafted floor was mostly intact, although the closely-fitted boards had cracked in a few places as the room settled into its new position. She recoiled as she saw one of the kobalos corpses a few feet away, having moved with her as the floor slanted.

The table now blocked the doorway, but she stepped forward over the uneven floor and looked over it at the results of her actions. The staircase was now completely blocked, the explosion caused by the trigger of the ward having collapsed both side walls and leading a significant part of the cottage above to fall inward. Now it was difficult to even tell that stairs had existed there at all, and it would take a lot of work to clear a way through to the cellar below.

Perhaps she should have left the ward, and hoped that it would catch more intruders with it, but she felt better leaving the cellar blocked behind her. It was possible that some of the villagers might eventually discover what had happened and come to investigate, and she didn't want the guilt of accidental deaths on her conscience.

The remnants of the ceiling sagged a little as the cottage settled from this new damage, the wood letting out a loud creak as it did so. It was a reminder that the cottage was still dangerous, that what remained was tenuous and could decide to finish its collapse at any moment. Feeling that she'd done at least what she could, she carefully picked her way through the rubble and existed the structure through the front entrance.

As she left the ruined cottage behind her, and started back down the forest trail toward Sindelar, Izandra could not help feel a suffusing melancholia that flowed into her as the intensity of purpose she'd felt while searching the ruins faded. She'd spent a lot of time in the quiet little cottage over the last few years, and while she understood that it was not a typical home, she'd always felt safe and at peace there.

It had not started so, she thought to herself as she hurried briskly along the path, not wanting to linger in a forest that had suddenly taken on a malevolent air. Suddenly her decision to come here alone did not feel wise, and she kept her senses focused on her surroundings even as her thoughts traveled back over the memories she'd kept about the now-ruined home she left behind.

* * *

It was impossible to grow up in Sindelar and not know about Ethander. The magus and his isolated cottage were fertile ground for the rumors and stories spread by children. Despite—or perhaps, because of—an injunction from the Coltons to avoid the place, and the woods behind Sindelar in general, she'd felt herself drawn there, curiosity overcoming her natural sense of caution. Of course, even before she'd reached adolescence she'd already begun her wandering ways. She had explored every secret and back lane the village had to offer, before expanding her territory to include the surrounding trails. For a time she'd run with the older children, but eventually her wanderlust and daring had exceeded theirs, and she's spent more and more time either alone or in the company of her younger brother. Even at that age Ezran had been serious, and always protective of his older sister. It was around this time that she'd first met Dannil Leyden, who at fourteen was already independent and very grown up, showing up from time to time in his travels. He was working as a forest guide, helping traders and peddlers along the little-known back roads that connected the isolated rural communities that dotted the frontier of Limbrock and the North Coast.

But Dannil's visits were infrequent, and as she grew older, Izandra's boredom with what Sindelar had to offer her grew. The other girls her age were beginning to talk about futures that included marriages, children, and building households in Sindelar. Maybe, if one had aspirations, she might talk of helping her husband run a business, or learning a marketable craft like weaving or healing. There wasn't much else of a future to be had for a woman in a place like this, even if life on the frontier meant that gender expectations were a little more fluid than in the settled areas of the central barony.

Izandra's thoughts turned back to that fateful day when curiosity had finally overcome caution, and she'd decided to see for herself what transpired at that little cottage in the woods. She could not remember what specifically had provoked her that day. Perhaps it had been teasing from the other children, or one of Martha's gentle but insistent remonstrances that she should begin thinking about the idle things that so fascinated the other girls but which held no attraction for Izandra. Whatever it had been, she found herself walking on one afternoon along the very same trail that she was on now, alone with her thoughts and the surrounding beauty of the forest.

She'd seen the cottage before; most of the children had, usually on a dare from their peers. But for some reason, on this day she walked right up to the front porch, through the rock garden that formed unusual patterns in front of the building. Something about those patterns had seemed... familiar, and she had spent several long minutes admiring the careful arrangements before she found herself standing on the porch itself, right in front of the heavy door.

She didn't know what was supposed to happen next. She certainly wasn't going to knock on that door, and as she considered the enormity of what she had done rushed in at her. The fear that had been missing came rushing back, and she turned to flee.

And almost ran into the magus himself, standing right behind her.

Izandra could not help but chuckle softly to herself, despite the more recent memories of scorched stone and collapsed wood. She still did not know what had possessed her to boldly introduce herself to the mage, towering over her with his heavy robes and hard eyes set within the powerful lines of his face. He was old, although even now Izandra could not put a number to his years. For a moment he'd regarded the twelve year old girl with an inscrutable expression, then he'd invited her into his home for a cup of tea.

Even though accepting such invitations from strangers was at the absolute top of the list in every child's "do not do" list, Izandra felt no sense of danger or threat coming from the old man. The tea had been spicy and unusual, although she would not recall until later that he had lit no fire or done anything else to heat the water in the bulbous silver pitcher. He'd just taken it off the counter, pouring her a steaming serving into one of the same earthenware mugs she'd served Dannil with the night of the storm. Then he'd asked her a few questions about herself, and she'd found herself sharing her personal feelings about the other children, her thoughts on her future, Martha's well-intentioned prodding, and a variety of other topics that escaped her mouth before she could even think to watch what she was saying. Ethander had listened patiently, then gestured for her to follow him into his workroom.

That place had been full of curious sights, and it was a long minute before she saw that he was indicating for her to sit on a small stool situated across from a high-backed chair, the latter apparently mounted on small wheels so it could move across the hardwood floor. She continued her visual examination while he sat and then watched her, then finally spoke.

"I have a number of chores that must be done around this place, which I have no time to attend to. Would you like to work for me?"

She was too surprised to say anything, but she found herself nodding.

"You would have to secure permission from your guardians, of course," he said. "I will speak with them, if you wish."

Still struck mute, she nodded again.

"Perhaps, if you prove yourself able, I can teach you a few things, as well," he went on.

That comment restored her powers of speech. "Magic?" she asked.

The magus smiled slightly. "One must learn to walk before one can fly," he said. Then, standing, he indicated a workbench across the room from where they were sitting. On top of it was a large rock, a hunk of basalt the size of a large man's head. It looked as though it had been carved, with one side cut and polished into a series of angles that reflected back the light that filtered in from the narrow skylights in the ceiling above. Ethander made sure she'd gotten a good look at it, then drew her attention back to him with a gesture of his hand.

"This stone needs to be placed in the garden," he told her.

She waited, unsure for a moment, but when it was clear that no further instructions would be forthcoming she nodded and jumped up. She didn't even go to the rock—it was obvious that she would not be able to lift it—but turned and ran from the room, and out of the house, and down the trail that ran back into town. She was so fixed on her task that she didn't even notice the villagers who called out to her on her way, but when she approached the Colton home and its attached workshop, she slowed. This matter might be hard to explain, she thought. Better to attend to the task first, and then explain later, when there was more time.

The sound of a hammer pounding on metal told her that Loehm was in the workshop, attending to his trade as the village cooper. Checking first to make sure that no one was about, she circled around the back of the building and entered the rear storeroom. The sounds from the front of the workshop grew louder, but she quickly recovered what she'd come for—the small toy wagon that belonged to her and Ezran, and a length of rope—and crept slowly back out the door, the rope in the bed of the wagon behind her.

"What'cha doing, Zan?" a voice called right behind her.

After jumping about a foot into the air—why did people have to be surprising her so much today!—she turned and regarded her brother. A slight and somewhat frail boy, Ezran possessed the same curiosity and intelligence as his sister, but without the physical stamina of his sister or the other children, his realms of exploration lay within the mind. He'd read every book in Sindelar by the time he was eight, and had even made arrangements with several of the merchants who regularly visited the village to borrow books from them when they came to Sindelar. Even then he'd possessed an open frankness of manner that was very winning. Izandra loved him dearly, although he had a gift for finding her out whenever she was doing something that walked that fine line between acceptable and forbidden.

She knew that no dissembling would work with him. They'd always had the talent for sensing the other's thoughts and feelings, and that gift included the power to instantly penetrate any deception. That reality was reassuring, in a way, for it meant that each always had someone that they had to confide in, a necessity that masked an otherwise potent need.

"I'm doing an errand for Ethander," she told him, plainly, and it was not without some considerable effort that she kept her voice level.

His response was a raised eyebrow, an expression curiously adult coming from a ten year old boy. She returned the look earnestly, and finally, he said, "I hope you'll tell me all about it later. I have to bring these tools to Loehm." It was only then that she noticed for the first time that he was carrying a leather toolbelt full of tools. He could barely manage the weight of the iron implements. She could tell that he wanted to go with her—their ability to read each other often extended to things left unspoken—but that he trusted her as well. She nodded at him, and their relationship grew a bit more in that moment, and she paused to hold the back door of the workshop open for her brother so that he wouldn't have to put down the heavy tools. Then, the wagon bouncing behind her as she ran, she started back to Ethander's place.

He was still there in the workroom when she returned, barely looking up from a sketchbook laid out across his lap as he leaned back comfortably in the wheeled chair. She managed the wagon carefully, making sure that she did not bang the door jams or scuff the floors of the cottage as she wheeled it over to the bench. It took her a few tries to get the rope over one of the crossbeams that supported the sloping roof above. The rope was difficult to manage, but in a flash of inspiration she removed one of her boots and used it as a weight, tying the end of the rope around it and then tossing it through the gap in the rafters. After replacing the boot she fastened the rope to the rock, careful to secure it tightly, then after looping the rope through the solid framework of the workbench, she levered the rock off the bench and lowered it down into the bed of the wagon. It was hard, and she cringed slightly when the rock scuffed the wood facing of the bench, but the task was soon done. The whole time Ethander seemed to pay her no heed, working on his notes or equations or whatever, but when she returned from the yard, her hands dirty and her clothes marked from the effort, the old man looked up and fixed her with his gaze.

"Not the most efficient way, but I appreciate your self-reliance," he said to her. "Come back tomorrow, and I will demonstrate another method."

* * *

Izandra's memories filled her as she reached the edge of the forest and sensed the familiar sights and sounds and smells of the village ahead. Now she was grown, or at least at that age where others recognized her ability to make decisions for herself, and the memories were just shadows in her mind. The loss of the physical reminders only confirmed her desire to keep those memories fresh and alive, at least within. That day moving Ethander's rock had opened up a new reality for her, a new path that she knew would eventually wind away from the confines of Sindelar. He'd taught her not only the secrets of phuskios magic, of manipulating the natural forces that governed the operation of the world, but also the secrets of self-confidence and the deceptively complex art of choosing a worthwhile path through the brief journey of life.

As she left the fringes of the forest she saw someone coming toward her on the path that led out of the village. She was not surprised to see that it was Dannil, a distracted look on his face that switched to frustration when he caught sight of her.

"What are you doing going there alone?" he said when he got close enough so that his words would not carry back to any curious ears in the village. For that discretion, at least, she was grateful, but she let him stew for a moment, not responding as she fell in beside him, continuing back toward the village with a measured pace.

"Well, Izandra?" he finally said, not quite touching her with the hand he pushed in front of her to stall her course.

She let out a sigh, and looked up into his eyes. She knew there was good intention there, but at the moment she did not want to be treated like a delicate porcelain doll, the sort that some of the villagers kept on their highest shelves, far from the curious hands of children.

"Ethander's place has been raided," she told him. "The cottage is all but ruins now, burned through."

"No one's said anything about this," he said, surprised.

"No one knows anything about it, apparently," she said, mulling the matter over in her head as she talked to him. "It happened last night, probably."

She noticed that he hesitated, as if a momentary battle had been fought inside his thoughts. There was no telling who had won the engagement, but he finally said, "Was there any sign who did it?"

"I found several bodies in the building, burned to death. Kobalos."

"What happened to them?" he asked, though he clearly had an idea.

"They set off some of Ethander's wards, causing the fire."

Dannil nodded. It was clear that he felt uncomfortable at the mention of magic. Did he feel the same way about her own talents? Izandra could not remember working any phuskios magic in his presence, but she'd often spoken of her apprenticeship to Ethander.

"Maybe the raiders are connected to the ones that attacked you on the road," he said.

It was too obvious for her to deny it, even if she had wanted to avoid making the connection.

"Izandra," he said, earnestly, as this time he did grab her shoulder gently, drawing her to face him. "What's going on?"

"I don't know, Dan. You have to believe me, all of this has been as much a mystery to me as anyone."

"Why have you been so secretive about it? You've been acting like you don't want anyone to know about what's been happening. I wager you would have kept this news about Ethander's house secret, if you could."

"I'm not trying to keep any secrets, Dan. I'm just trying to figure out what's happening, just like you. And I don't want everyone to treat me like some sort of child, like I can't take care of myself."

Dannil let out a small sigh that sounded of exasperation. "I know you can take care of yourself, Zan. But you need to remember that people care about you, and that concern doesn't always equal pity. And accepting help is not always a sign of weakness."

She nodded, a little surprised at the words, coming from Dannil, at least. He'd changed, or she had, or maybe just the situation had changed both of them. What he'd said seemed the opposite of the way he'd chosen for his own life, always moving, never relying on anyone else. Or maybe he'd discovered something in his travels, a new perspective born of maturity and experience.

"So, tell me," he said.

"I think that the kobalos were looking for something," she said, choosing her words carefully as she tried to fit the scattered pieces of the puzzle together. "Something of Ethander's, or maybe something he knows, or... I don't know what." She shook her head, as if frustrated by her lack of understanding of the situation. "I don't think it was an accident, meeting up with them on the road."

"You think they knew who you were, and where to find you?" he asked.

"I don't know. But I think they knew I was connected to Ethander in some way, and wanted to use me to get to him, or to help them find what they wanted."

"How would they know these things?" Dannil asked.

"I don't know," she said again. "But Ethander knows a lot, Dan, and knowledge is valuable." She hesitated, torn over whether to reveal more to her friend. In particular, she thought of the kobalos' reference to this "seer", whoever—or whatever—this individual was. It wasn't that she didn't trust Dannil, but although he was being patient now, she worried that he might overreact if she shared the specific comments that the kobalos had made toward her.

He looked pensive, as though sensing that she was holding something back from him. Or maybe she was just imaging that, she thought. Finally, he shook his head, and said, "I don't like it, but I suppose there's little in this situation to like. So what do you want to do now?"

"I don't think there's much that I can do, at least until Ethander returns."

"Did he say when he would be back?"

"He rarely does," she said. "It could be tomorrow, or it could be six months from now. He didn't say anything, the last time I saw him, to imply that anything was wrong, though. I think he would have said something, at least to warn me, if he'd expected something like this."

"Well, maybe they found what they were looking for, or for that matter, maybe they couldn't find it, and have moved on."

She knew him well enough to know when he was saying something he didn't believe was true.

"You are right, though, Dan," she said. "The villagers have to be told. Would you please tell the mayor? You can say that you discovered the raid while scouting the woods. I just want to go home, and rest."

He looked at her with a raised eyebrow in a gesture that reminded her again of her younger brother. "All right," he said. "I'll walk you home, then I'll visit the cottage, see what's to be seen. Maybe I can tell from the signs if there are more of them about, or if all of them were killed in the fire."

"Thank you, Dan," she said. She did indeed feel suddenly tired, as though talking about what had happened had drained her remaining energy, the adrenaline rush she'd felt upon seeing the cottage fading into nothingness. A part of her wished she could lean on him, shelter herself in his strong presence, but that thin gap was still there between them. She couldn't tell him everything, not yet. But she was glad he was there beside her as they walked together through the village, winding their way through the still-muddy streets toward the Colton home.

They arrived at their destination just as two people were coming out of the front door of the house. Ezran saw them and hailed them, waving his hand and motioning to his companion, an unfamiliar youth dressed in traveling clothes and wearing the dirt of the road on them. The horse tethered to the front of the workshop was probably his, Izandra realized.

"Dannil!" Ezran said, "This fellow was looking for you, says he has an important message."

Dannil regarded the youth, who appeared to be about Ezran's age. Weariness was evident on his features, but an almost unsettling intensity burned in his dark eyes.

"You have been looking for me?" he asked him.

The youth nodded. "I have been looking for many days now," he admitted. "This was the last place on my list."

"Well, you have found me," Dannil said. "What is the message?"

The youth straightened slightly, as if to add import to his message. "It is Mother Ilrien," he said. "She is gravely ill, and she has tasked me to find you, to attend upon her."

Izandra looked up at Dannil, and she saw that the message had made an impact on her friend. She hadn't seen grief on his face very often, and she instantly moved close to him, reaching up to touch his shoulder in support. He flinched slightly at the touch but then looked down at her, nodding at the gesture and covering her supportive hand with his own.

"What's your name, lad?" Dannil asked the messenger.

"Gedran," he replied.

"You are one of hers, too?"

The youth nodded. Dannil sent him a look of sympathy, then dug out a silver coin from his pouch and handed it to him. "Go into town, and get some supplies for the journey. Meet me back here in half an hour."

Gedran silently accepted the money and then hurried off on his errand, leaving Dannil alone with the two siblings.

"I... I have to go," he said to them.

"We know," Izandra said. Ezran stood opposite her on Dannil's other side, nodding in agreement and understanding.

She didn't know what caused her to say what came next to her lips, but as soon as she said it, it felt right.

"We will go with you."

* * * * *

Chapter 6

It was a silent, dark place, enfolded in rock and hidden far from the eyes of men.

From most men, anyway.

The utter black was shattered by the approaching light of a candle, a single taper that only accentuated the depth of the darkness all around. The tiny flame did little more than cast illumination upon its holder, and even then the details of his features were lost in the deeply hooded cowl that hung about his face. The cowl was part of a simple brown robe that concealed whatever lay beneath, leaving only an indistinct outline of its wearer. The only clear detail was his hand, covered in a skintight glove of soft brown leather and which grasped the candle with long fingers that were slender and delicate in appearance. The candle-bearer moved silently forward, the light flickering with his movements.

Then the light of the candle fell upon the dark robes of a second individual, and the candle-bearer halted. For a moment there was silence between them, then the one carrying the light finally spoke.

"You summoned me, my lord." His voice was smooth, almost melodic, but tilted with obvious deference to the silent shadow before him.

The object of that deference said nothing for a long moment, then the second robed individual shifted to face the other. The light failed to penetrate beyond the edges of his form, revealing nothing about his identity. The outlines of another black cowl might have been filled with more empty darkness for all that could be seen within its depths. The speaker knew that this was not far from true, and he shivered slightly as he awaited the response of his master.

"Yes," the master finally spoke, his voice masculine and deep, the single word filling the silence as if drawing power from the surrounding darkness. He shifted slightly, the still-invisible face within the black cowl turning to face him directly. The candle-bearer felt the attention of the other focus on him as if it were a tangible thing, a heavy weight with physical force impossible to resist.

He had his own not-inconsiderable power, but any thought of using it against his master was beyond contemplation. It was all he could do to remain upright against the intensity of that gaze.

"The Nine have elected to intervene, after all," the master said. "They will act through mortal agents, to try to counter our plans."

The candle-bearer considered this for a moment. It was not wholly unexpected, this news, but it would complicate matters. He knew there would be more, that this news would not come without instructions, so he waited for further elaboration.

"We must take action, Arxes," the master said. "I await your command, my lord," Arxes said, inclining his head slightly. The candle flame wavered briefly in his hand. "If I may ask, has there been progress on the other initiative?"

There was a pause, and for a moment Arxes thought he had pushed too far, too fast. "The Seer has...not yet succeeded in his directive," the master finally said.

Arxes nodded. He would not have shed tears had the Seer been removed from the picture; he did not like the half-breed and considered him a rival. But even if the Seer was not going to suffer the ultimate punishment, his difficulties would not draw favor. And perhaps they would create opportunities, opportunities he'd awaited for some time.

He was not disappointed. "The time has come to put your skills to use," the master said to him.

"Will I be journeying west then, master?" he asked.

"No. You will return to your homeland, and your normal activities. The objective of your mission will come to you, and through you, to us."

Arxes nodded and bowed deeply in acceptance of the charge. He knew better than to question the master further, knew better than to question the source of his information. Sometimes he wondered privately—when far away from here, where even the occasional stray thought could be dangerous—about the origin of that mysterious knowledge, and just what Praxus and the other leaders of this cabal saw in their private visions. Audiences, really, to forces beyond even them.

Beyond any mortal.

For now, though, his goal was clear before him. He held his bow for an instant longer, waiting to see if further instructions would be forthcoming, then smoothly retreated back until his master was lost again in the darkness.

"Ixus has created a new breed," the voice said out of the void, calling his attention back. "You may take some of them with you, for your purpose. You may also have Carix, and Tharyx. They await you in the chambers above."

Arxes bowed slightly again. These instructions were not entirely welcome, but he would find a way to integrate them into his plans. He had no liking for the vicious creatures the diminutive Ixus formed, although he could not critique their lethal ferocity. Carix was a brute, without subtlety, but that should help him to follow orders. Tharyx was another matter, and the possibilities presented by his use offered potential. Ideas were already forming in his mind, ideas that he did not doubt would come together into plans that would advance his position and grant him the thing that he craved, the simple ambition that kept this entire brotherhood tenuously united.

Power.

Nothing further was forthcoming, and he sensed the attention of his master shifting away from him again. He turned and quickly strode away, almost eager now to be gone from this place. His thoughts continued turning over possibilities, and he began composing a mental list of things he would have to do to set at least the preliminary steps in motion. He thought he might need the use of some muscle, but such were easily available and their hire a matter of little consequence. He wondered how much time he had to prepare, but ultimately figured it would be better to assume nothing.

That was usually safest.

He hesitated at the edges of the underground chamber, the candlelight catching on the stone lintel that promised exit and relief. But despite his desire to be away he paused and turned back toward the room and the unbroken darkness. He could not see beyond the radius of his candle flame, but he did not need it to sense what lay beyond. He had been in this place three times in all, and had seen in bathed in the light of bright lamps, busy with the work that had been done to subtly alter the natural shape and purpose of the chamber.

The workers had all had nightmares, and three had killed themselves, he'd later heard.

The dark shape hovered above him, outlined in a darkness even deeper than the pure absence of light. As he looked upon it, sensed it with a perception that was more basic, more elemental than simple mortal eyes, he could feel the power of its presence descending upon him, a pure and basic force that threatened to absorb his entire being in a single violent sweep.

Trembling, he staggered back, breaking the connection and nearly dropping the candle. Its flickering flame was like a lifeline, steadying him as he retreated to the relative security of the doorway and the rough-hewn corridor beyond. He glanced over his shoulder briefly as the heavy stone doors closed of their own volition behind him, but they could not fully shut out the memory of the terror that he had felt in that instant of confrontation.

_How can the masters remain in the presence of that and not go mad?_ he thought to himself as he hurried back toward the upper chambers of the fortress. There was no denying that there was power in that room, a power great and terrible at the same time. As he started up the stairs, he heard the ringing of metal on rock. The sound was reassuring, real and substantial, but his thoughts lingered on what lay below. His question was a troubling one, and not one that he was comfortable in confronting.

What if they were already mad?

* * *

Baron Hrathgar strode through the muddy streets of Kol Daron, a scowl writ large on his face. It wasn't the mud that soured his mood, nor the persistent not-quite-fog, not-quite-rain that hung over the village. Both were just common reality this time of year in Roron, and he didn't begrudge the elements their activities. No, it was the 'summons' from Hevrah that had angered him. Or perhaps, that here he was, swiftly answering it.

He was alone. He'd left from the castle just a short time earlier, with two men-at-arms as escort. They'd ridden from the hill upon which the fortress perched down the short road into the village that sprang up along the edges of the main road. His escort had remained with the horses at the crossroads at the end of the lane on his command. They had been eager to comply, he noticed, but didn't suppose he could blame them. Hevrah's place gave him the chills sometimes too.

The lane was quiet, the few humble shacks along its length huddled in on themselves as if the buildings too were seeking protection against the weather. Their roofs of wattle and sometimes, if the family was doing well enough, thatch, leaked horribly and left the inhabitants cold and miserable. There was nothing that could be done about that, though. Kol Hills was a poor barony, and its people were resigned to the hard life that existed here on the frontier. These back lanes were particularly low, dismal refuges for the poorest of the poor.

When he was halfway down the lane, almost close enough to see his destination, two children ran out into the street in front of him. Half-naked, their lower torsos splashed in mud, they looked almost more than beasts than humans. They saw him and huddled back into the shadows of the huts, having already learned the necessary lesson of fearing those bigger and stronger than you.

Hrathgar forced himself to smile at the two of them, and even winked at the boy, perhaps a year younger than the girl, herself no more than six or seven. It was the exact opposite of what he felt inside, and his jaw tightened as he hurried his pace and left the children behind.

There it was, up ahead. The ground rose some, forming a small dell into which the path twisted and turned. A few more huts were visible along the base of the rise, but it was clear that those had long since been abandoned. Some were just piles of rotting mud and straw, and by the smell that reached his nose as he walked past, at least one had been turned into a cesspit by the inhabitants of the neighborhood.

Hevrah's cottage rested squarely in the middle of the dell, and the road ended at her door. It was a low building with a broad front facing the road, and it looked like a giant's hand had pushed down on the roof until just before the point of collapse. A few wisps of smoke rose from the lopsided chimney that ran along one side of the structure. The only windows were tightly shuttered.

Hrathgar strode directly up to the covered porch, and without hesitating shouldered his way through the heavy door. The portal was swollen with damp and resisted him, but he forced it roughly open, nearly tearing it off its hinges in the process. He did jam it shut behind him, careful not to brush his head on the low ceiling as he rose and turned into the interior of the place.

Most of the building was taken up by a single large room, the low roof barely held up by heavy timbers pocked by damp rot and the efforts of insects. The walls and interior space were crowded with arrays of shelving and heavy tables, the latter more workbenches really, with leather bags and a variety of strange and unfamiliar items dangling from hooks set in virtually every vacant space of the walls and ceiling. At least a half-dozen lamps, all of different make and style, provided an uneven illumination of the interior. The room had a musty smell, like a root cellar, mixed in with dozens of less familiar scents. The place was nominally a herbseller's shop, but Hrathgar could not remember ever seeing a villager close enough to the cottage to be considered even a potential customer. No, the witch had only one patron, and at the moment he was not pleased with the service he was receiving.

"Ah, baron...." a voice came out of the clutter from deeper in the room. "So pleased that you could come." As she spoke the voice grew louder, and the woman finally appeared from behind a row of standing shelves that separated off one corner of the room.

"What is the meaning of this 'summons', Hevrah," the baron said. "It is I who summon you, not the other way around!" As he stepped forward his head glanced off of a gourd dangling from a ceiling beam, and he knocked the offending article across the room with a loud crash.

Hevrah winced as the gourd fell and shattered, but she did not flinch from the baron's harsh words. Instead, she said, "I understand you are very busy, my lord, but I thought that you might find what I have to show you particularly interesting." Without waiting to see if he followed, she turned and retreated back to the sheltered corner where she'd been working when he arrived. Hrathgar scowled at her back, but followed.

He found her again sitting on a high stool in front of a workbench that apparently ran along most of the length of the rear wall of the cottage. Dozens of clouded vials and small trays containing unidentifiable substances sat on shelves or in niches set into the wall itself. Hrathgar saw a few things that moved as he approached, but he ignored them and turned to regard the woman, ducking to avoid another row of objects hanging from a low beam.

In front of her on the bench was a clean white cloth, rather incongruous in contrast to the disorderly mess that otherwise filled the cottage. Lying on the cloth were what appeared to be six small bronze medallions. They were fashioned with some sort of design, but from where he was standing, and in the poor light, it was impossible to see any details.

"What are they?" Hrathgar asked, his curiosity easing a small portion of his earlier ire.

"A gift, for baron Cathor," she told him.

Hrathgar's scowl returned at the mention of his greatest rival. Cathor had been a thorn in his side ever since he'd proposed an alliance against the bandits—the same ones he'd been secretly supporting—several weeks ago. Of late the baron of Rockridge had been demanding joint leadership of the forces gathered to raid against the bandit encampments, even though the men involved would be overwhelmingly Hrathgar's. That concession would wreck everything he'd planned, but things were rapidly coming to a head and he wasn't sure how to resolve the situation. He'd thought about killing Cathor, but that would unite all of the other baronies of the region against him in an instant.

"A gift," he said, hefting one of the medallions and examining it briefly before tossing it back on the cloth. It was light, of less weight than even a gold piece, and didn't seem of sophisticated make, when seen close up.

"Well, not specifically for the baron himself," Hevrah said, with a slight chuckle. "For his dogs."

Hrathgar looked at her. Cathor enjoyed hunting, although not to the degree that he did, but his pride and joy were his hunting hounds, six great border hunters that he'd raised from puppies. Rumor had it that he loved the dogs even more than his son, although that wasn't especially implausible, Hrathgar mused, since the youth, the only one of Cathor's sons to survive adolescence, was known for his effeminacy and laziness. In fact, he'd once considered killing the dogs just to spite Cathor; he had the means, but doing so would have had only short-term benefits, at potentially high costs.

"What do you have in mind, you old rag?"

If Hevrah felt any slight at his comment, she kept it carefully hidden. Instead she shifted so that she was facing him, looking up from the stool with a look of craftiness on her features. "The medallions bear a subtle enchantment. If placed around the dogs' necks, they will warp their canine minds, until that which they love most is perceived as their most hated enemy. It does not take a leap of imagination to see what might happen, does it?"

"Clever," he said, looking at the devices with a new appreciation. "But how will you get them in place?" He already knew the answer, but he wanted her to say it.

"Well, you will, of course," she said, confirming his suspicion. He'd never told her that he had an agent in Cathor's household, or that the man worked in the baron's kennels. But somehow she already knew, and had crafted her scheme to take advantage of that knowledge.

"I can only be of use to you if I know your strengths and your rivals' weaknesses," she said coyly, as if reading his thoughts.

He did not respond. Behind his neutral expression, however, he was thinking about the day that he no longer needed the witch, and could kill her and be done with it.

He was looking forward to that day.

"An excellent plan," he finally said. Hevrah wrapped the medallions up in the cloth and handed them to him. He accepted the package, but added, "And what if someone notices the devices, either before or after they have taken effect? Can they be traced back to you?"

Her look hinted that he should have known better, but she shook his head. "They don't have to be visible to be effective. They can even be slipped into the lining of a leather collar, or for that matter, if it can be managed, swallowed by the beasts in their food. Once they have had their effect, they will cease to be anything more than what they appear to be, cheap knickknacks without value or consequence. Even a skilled bios mage would have a difficult time sensing their influence at that point."

"Seeing them properly used I leave to you," she concluded, turning back toward the workbench in a way that made it seem like a dismissal.

"I will see that they are," he said. He was already thinking of the possibilities of the devices, and the instructions he would send to his agent. The witch was already fading from his thoughts before he'd even left the building and started back toward the crossroads and his waiting horse. If the medals worked, there would be hints of payment and favors, but he would worry about that when it came to it.

If they did have the desired effect, it would be worth it.

* * * * *

Chapter 7

A brilliant autumn sun shone down from a bright blue sky upon Sindaron, the capital of the mighty empire of Rigal. Perched on the edge of Anchor Bay, the city sprawled out over the hills that rose back from the shore. Three concentric rings of defensive walls protected the city, the outermost stretching almost halfway around the rim of the bay, weaving around the hills over a distance of several miles. The outer walls were successively less imposing and fortified, as if the city had grown more contemptuous of an outside force threatening its security as it had grown. Sindaron supported a population of some three hundred thousand within its walls, making it the largest city on the continent by a fair margin.

Sea birds rose up in flocks over the wharves along the water's edge, where fishing ships and merchant vessels from all over the known world docked side by side along crowded piers. Just inland from the docks, but still within sight of the bay, stretched the city's busy merchant district, with six major squares through which swarmed a seemingly unending press of humanity. From above, the city appeared to be laid out in a massive grid, even the contours of the land itself forced to conform to the underlying sense of order that guided the sprawl of the city. Ravaged by fire several times in its history, each time Sindaron had been rebuilt and its outline refined. The streets were broad and frequently cleaned, at least in most sections of the city, and the repeating pattern of boulevards and buildings was occasionally broken by an open space, a patch of green park or open squares where people could gather and enjoy themselves. Sindaron was a city at peace, and its inhabitants were enjoying the fruits of national power and economic prosperity.

On the northern edge of the city, as the land rose and jutted out toward the mouth of the bay, stood the towering outline of the palace that was the home of the Rigalian monarchy. The place was both fortress and architectural wonder, enclosing a space larger than entire cities in less prosperous lands. Built by one of the founding kings of the monarchy, it had become tradition for each successive ruler to add to the great fortress, adding another tower or a new wing to represent their contribution to Rigal's strength. The result was that the palace complex looked almost like a seamstress's needle cushion, with dozens of pinnacles that reached up into the sky. The towers currently flew the flag of the Roghan dynasty, the twenty-third in Rigal's history as a monarchy. The current king, Talmar Roghan, was the fourth in his line, and in one corner of an open yard a crew of laborers were already working on his addition to the palace, a multi-level wing that would be added to the Halls of Justice. The great outer walls of the fortress extended all the way to the cliffs that overlooked the bay, and stood almost a hundred feet high at some places. No enemy army had ever breached those walls.

Rivaling the great fortress was the great Cathedral of Merikkose, situated in the center of the city, surrounded by parks and a broad canal that set it off from the surrounding districts. If the palace complex was an architectural marvel, this structure was a breathtaking impossibility. Many said its construction had been augmented by magic, and that experts from the Ilfann and grul-grach had both contributed to its design. The cathedral's roof reached a peak nearly two hundred feet above the level of the flagstones of the great square below. Statues and carvings graced the walls and roof of the building, and huge windows of painstakingly designed stained glass faced east and west to catch the rays of both the rising and setting sun. The front entry, twin doors twenty feet high and almost as wide, was warded by statues of divine Merikkose in the two incarnations of the god, the robed Lawgiver on the left and the armored Bringer of Justice on the right. Each statue was carved from a single block of marble, and each stood as tall as the heavy doors.

Within the cathedral stood the Hall of Honor, a great chamber where a thousand worshippers could gather without feeling crowded. At any time of day or night, hundreds of people could be found here, ordinary citizens of the city seeking inspiration, intervention, or just the reassuring sense of belonging to what was represented here.

The great hall was so incredible that it was easy to forget that it was only part of a great complex of buildings and rooms that served as the temporal headquarters for the Rigalian clergy. The church was in a sense a government in and of itself, with a small army of clerks, scribes, officials, and miscellaneous craftsmen at its beck and call. Men in brightly colored robes wandered the halls, wrapped in the authority of one of the major religions of the known world. These halls were never silent, regardless of the time of day, and the whole complex seemed to thrum with activity like the tone of a well-wound clock.

Standing at the window of his office, looking out over this beehive of activity, Ahlen Corander sighed softly to himself.

Ogren, his secretary, immediately looked up from his desk. "Is there anything wrong, Primus?"

The head of the church, nominally one of the most powerful men in the empire, shook his head without turning. "Nothing, Ogren," he said. "Just collecting my thoughts."

"My apologies for interrupting, Primus," the man said. Ahlen heard the scratch of quill on paper resume, and he turned his attention back to the world outside the window. He knew the view intimately, but had forgotten when the sights beyond had started to feel mundane. A broad square, considerable but nothing in comparison to the great one in front of the cathedral, was visible through the window. Ornate old buildings like the one he was in ringed the square, full of offices, dormitories, audience chambers, and all the other places necessary for the administration of the church. Carvings and stone statues were visible everywhere, ignored by the people who lived and worked here every day, in some cases for their entire lives.

He turned his gaze to the left, where he could just see the rear wall of the cathedral, looming over the paltry lesser buildings around it. Not as majestic as the front facing or the stained glass enhanced sides, the sheer size and monumental design of the building was still impressive.

_When that fails to stir my blood, then it is time to quit,_ the Primus thought, staring up at the cathedral. The light of the afternoon sun caught brightly on the marble statues that formed a row across the top of the foundation, about level to where he himself was standing. They were not as dominating as the twin statues of the god that flanked the front doors, each just larger than life-sized, but they were still beautiful in their own way. They represented the Nine, shaped according to human perceptions and expectations of what each embodied. Merikkose held pride of place in the center, of course, sculpted as if looking benevolently down on the others. Hailidel, the vicious Battle God and eternal rival of the Lord of Honor, cowered at one end of the row, huddling as if afraid of the light cast by that great beacon of divine might in the center.

Interesting, the Primus thought, that the sculptures had been located here, on the rearward face of the cathedral, where the fewest number of people would see them. Mostly, it was just administrators of the church itself who spent any time in this part of the church complex, and few of them bothered to look up at the ambitious effort. He realized that he didn't even know the name of the sculptor. Could it have been the same Karpathos, who had completed the twin marvels out front that had greeted visitors to the cathedral now for three centuries? Perhaps he could find out, the next time he visited the church library.

Turning back to the office, he regarded the pile of paperwork stacked nearly in a lacquered mahogany box on the corner of his desk. Most if it was just symbolic matters, just miscellaneous church business requiring his signature. While there was a great deal of authority resident in the titular head of the faith, important issues had to travel first through the Council of Bishops, where his voice was just one of many, and where power flowed in circles, not just from the top on down. It seemed that over the last few years he'd had to work harder and harder to secure a majority even on fairly innocuous matters. Of course, when the perceptions of power were concerned, no topic was truly trivial.

He let out another sigh and did not pull back the comfortable chair that faced the desk. Ogren looked up again, but did not say anything this time. Not for the first time, Ahlen wondered if his efficient, always deferent secretary was also working for some of the bishops, keeping an eye on him to make sure that the Primus was not overly... _taxed_... by his responsibilities.

Suddenly he felt an urge to be alone, not only from his staff but also from the physical reminders of his office.

"I am going to visit the chapel, Ogren," he said, already heading for the door. He saw that his secretary looked up, his gaze shifting meaningfully to the stack of papers awaiting his attention before he could catch himself and nod respectfully.

"Of course, Primus," he said. "I will tell Bishop Olinder that you are in meditation."

He'd forgotten that appointment. A glance at the expensive water clock on the mantel told him that there was at least an hour until his meeting with the chairman of the committee on Missionary Outreach. Probably wanted to talk about his pet project of converting the kobalos tribes that lived in the rough foothills of the Ralos Mountains to the southwest. The recollection only confirmed his desire for a little time alone with his thoughts first.

"I will be back well before the scheduled time," he said, a little annoyance creeping into his words. Ogren, of course, said nothing as he left, the door swinging shut behind him. He disliked letting frustration get the better of him, but he let those feelings go as he walked through the quiet halls.

He doubted that the chambers and corridors of the adjacent building where the bishops had their offices were as quiet on a typical workday such as this one. Occasionally a scribe or custodian passed by, bowing deeply as they noticed the Primus coming their way. Ahlen mumbled the traditional acknowledgements, but allowed his attention to drift over the beauty and effort that had been put into these halls over centuries of the church's growth and prosperity. Even that could not fully distract him from his preoccupied thoughts, however.

It wasn't that he minded being a figurehead, so much. A devout man, and an honest one, he'd nonetheless spent long enough as a bishop to understand how the inner workings of the upper levels of the church hierarchy operated. Still, as a bishop, he'd had the freedom to engage in the projects that meant so much to him, projects that the former Primus had encouraged, perhaps with a little amused tolerance, he now thought. An example had been his annual excursion, a two-week trip to an isolated province where he spent his time living and working among the poor of a rural village. Those trips had always energized him, and kept him in touch with the lives of the common people. He'd tried to continue the practice once he'd been raised to the station of Primus, but that had only lasted two years. The first year it had gone tolerably well, perhaps because the Council had been too shocked to do anything about it, but the second year...

Oh, there had been plenty of public support; in fact, he suspected that a number of the bishops who had participated had been shamed into doing so. But he'd been all too aware of the ridicule lavished on him behind his back—that was before the leading bishops had learned to keep him more isolated from the mood of the Council—and the whole affair had been transformed into a sort of joke. The peasant village had been deluged with a body of people: bishops, attendants, guards, and hangers on, that had more than tripled its tiny population. By the end of the two weeks the place looked like a carnival had been held there, which, he supposed, there had. That was the last year that he held his annual "great crusade of the unwashed," as some of the less-circumspect bishops had called it.

He supposed he could take some solace that the commons still appreciated him, and that he was one of the most popular Primuses of the past century. His public events, although carefully choreographed, were always successful, and he drew a certain satisfaction from being among the people whose lives he'd dedicated himself to helping. He could point to a long series of enactments that he'd personally shepherded through the Council, programs administered by the church that had materially bettered the condition of whole classes of people in Sindaron, and to a lesser degree, all of Rigal. Sometimes, though, he could not shake the suspicion that some of the bishops viewed these accomplishments as a balm, given to him to keep him placid and content in his role as the public face of the church.

He sighed and pushed at the ornately carved wooden doors that led into his private chapel. He liked the solitude of this place, undisturbed except when attendants came in to clean or to change the candles that were always left burning around the simple altar. He'd brought in enough of his own possessions to make the place familiar, a sanctuary where he could come and recover his equilibrium. The coarse, plainly dyed woolen altar cloth, a gift from a small village he'd visited some thirty years ago. Brass candlesticks that he'd received as a gift from his family upon his confirmation to the ministry. A small, simply carved miniature of the god, fashioned from sandstone rather than marble, given to him by one of his closest friends, now long since gone from this world to Merikkose's grand temple in the next. He smiled as he let the memories associated with each of these mementos wash over him and push away the darker feelings of before. He walked forward past the three rows of simple wooden pews, polished so attentively that they almost shone with the light of the candles and the daylight that filtered in through the three small windows high along the walls. The room was small, its ceiling slanted at the far end above the altar from the natural curvature of the building's roof.

Ahlen knelt on the simple padded cushion that sat on the edge of the slightly raised partition that supported the altar. Behind it, the wall was covered with two simple arrases, hand-woven with designs that represented the core elements of Merikkose's teachings. Mercy and strength, knowledge and justice: the components of each were supposed to go hand in hand. Taken together, they represented the code of honor that the church embodied, the moral outline that guided the ideal of a perfect human life.

As he so often was, Ahlen felt humbled as he was confronted with that simple and yet so complex idea, and he lowered his head in prayer.

He did not at first see the light that began to flicker in the air above the altar. It appeared like a slash in the very fabric of existence, broadening into an opening that glowed with a fierce bluish intensity that filled the room. The light penetrated the focus of the priest's prayers, and he looked up with eyes that soon widened in amazement. Startled, he fell back, stumbling slightly and falling on his rear, facing the flare that continued to grow in brightness, forcing him to raise one robed arm to protect his eyes from the light.

Before he could think to cry out or take any other action, the intensity of the light faded enough for him to lower his arm and look upon the space above the altar again. His shock deepened as he saw a woman there.

It was no mortal creature that faced him, he realized. While formed in the shape of a female human of perfect proportions and simple beauty, everything else about her, not forgetting the manner of her appearance, was unreal in nature. She wore garments of purest white, and over them was clad in breastplate and helmet likewise without hint of color in their shining surface. She bore a sword in her hand, a blade seemingly fashioned of light rather than any metal born of forge and shaped by mortal hands. Her skin was pale and unblemished, barely more substantial than her garb and equipment. Even her hair, which ran in long channels out from the edges of her helmet, was a silvery-white color that he'd never seen the likes of before. Even after all that, he might have doubted. But when his inspection of her met her eyes, then he was certain, and he felt a sense of awe and wonder fill his heart as he regarded her.

She came toward him, slowly, and he belatedly realized that her feet did not touch the ground. She hovered a few inches above the level of the burnished hardwood of the chapel floor. He pulled himself up, mindful again of his dignity, but he did not take his eyes off of the angel as she drew nearer. All thought of retreat or calling for help had vanished, and he felt the tingle of anticipation fill him as the glorious figure stopped and opened her mouth to speak. Her voice was like music, purer than the purest hymns that filled the great open space of the Hall of Honor during the grand ceremonies held therein.

"Hear me, mortal, and through me heed the words of the Nine. I am the Avatar, sent to deliver unto thee knowledge of their will. I bring news of a great calamity, the threat of a danger to all that is the existence that you know and understand. For mortal beings in their hubris have undertaken to tamper with powers beyond their ken, and threaten the very structure of the universe with their actions."

"It has been elected by the Nine in their wisdom to choose mortal agents through which this course may be averted, and the balance between the realms of Thought and Reality preserved. Know this mortal, and be humbled by this knowledge. You have been chosen by to undertake this course. Upon your shoulders rests the fate of your world."

The angel paused, and Ahlen reeled, the import of the words staggering him even more than the manner in which they had been delivered. He wondered for a moment if he had fallen and injured his head, or perhaps had been affected by madness, or a drug, or some other impediment to clear thought. The thought came and went in a moment, for confronted by the power of this experience, and the depth of his own personal faith, his doubts crumbled. Perhaps they would return later, but for the moment he could only try to absorb what this creature, this self-proclaimed messenger, was imparting to him.

"Ahlen Corander," she went on, her words filling the chapel with the resounding power of their sound, "this is your mandate. Pay heed and obey the words of Merikkose, who has chosen you."

The woman trailed off, and looked down on the priest with something approaching tenderness in her otherworldly eyes. She dropped lower, the tips of her bare toes almost touching the polished wood from under the hem of her long robe. When she spoke again, her voice was different, and Ahlen felt the new power that flowed from her words. The voice was neither male nor female, and even more than the words the Avatar had spoken were beyond mortal speech, each syllable echoing and building until it filled the room and infused his mind, taking hold there until he knew that he would never forget a single word, that the memory would remain fresh in his thoughts until the day he died. He could not tell how much time had passed before the sounds faded from his mind and the echoes that filled the chapel likewise passed into silence. He looked up, not remembering how he had come to fall prone to the ground, and realized that he was alone. The insubstantial presence of the Avatar was gone, the sliver of light from which she had appeared now just an afterimage that would soon fade into nothing.

He sprang up, filled with an energy born of renewed purpose that he hadn't felt now for years, perhaps decades. He could not now deny what had just happened to him, not with the words of his god burning still in the back of his mind. He turned briefly and regarded the altar, then, his steps feeling as light as those of the floating Avatar, he crossed to the altar and reverentially bent to kiss the rough-woven cloth atop its surface in front of the icon.

Then he turned and almost skipped from the room.

Ahlen nearly ran back to his office, startling a few clerks who belatedly remembered to offer a few words of respect before he was past. His mind was racing, his thoughts free of any idea of hindrance or limit to the plans he was already beginning to conceive. His was a divine mandate, and the mission entrusted to him one of vital importance not only for him and his people, but also for all the residents of the world. He would move the considerable power and resources of the greatest nation in that world to this cause. He supposed that was why he had been selected. It would be excessive pride to think that it had been his strength of faith that had drawn this choice, but it was perhaps a slight undercurrent of such hubris that kept his thoughts fixed on the goal, rather than the means by which it would be attained.

When he burst into his office he had the satisfaction of seeing Ogren almost jump in surprise, nearly dropping an armload of papers. His mood slipped just a little when he realized that his secretary had been hovering over _his_ desk. Looking for something, perhaps? But even his officious assistant could not dim the fire he felt burning through his veins, and perhaps that was evident in his manner, for Ogren regarded him curiously, and even straightened slightly, his respectful bow deeper and quicker than usual.

"Primus...ahh... is something the matter?"

Ignoring him, Ahlen crossed to the door of the outer office, a long, narrow room where a half-dozen additional clerks were working. Six pairs of eyes turned to meet his as he pushed the portal noisily open, and several of them hurried to rise.

"Pargas! Summon whatever pages are about, and a crown messenger too, at once! And fetch a Council clerk, and the regulation books on proclamations and Councilar edicts... and brew a pot of strong tea!" he added. Pargas, a skinny but bright young man Ahlen had brought up with him from his bishop's office, immediately launched into action, giving orders to the others even before Ahlen returned to his own office. Ogren had retreated back to his own desk, confusion writ clear on his face, although he didn't say anything. Ahlen was already preparing a new list of commands, but he turned to the window to collect his thoughts for a moment.

Striding briskly across the square below was Bishop Mican, surrounded by two other bishops he could not immediately identify and trailed by a string of clerks and lackeys. Mican always seemed to have a small host of such in his company, like dogs who were used to receiving scraps from their master. The sight of the tall, angular man was like being dosed with a glass of cold water in the face. Suddenly the great plans that had taken over his thoughts were confronted with dark reality. The impact almost took away his breath, and he leaned up against the jam of the window to steady his suddenly weak knees.

What was he doing? As momentous as it sounded for him to rally the entire state apparatus of Rigal behind his new cause, he suddenly realized just how unrealistic his initial instincts were. His power was couched in rules, tradition, and the simple practical realities of power within a bureaucratic system. Even within the church, which supposedly he represented and led, his power was shaded and overshadowed by the processes of the Council of Bishops. And the sight of Mican had indirectly reminded him of the... _limits_ of his influence within the monarchy, or at least within its current incarnation. The thought was a sobering one.

And—here his thoughts took a darker turn—what if it went beyond simple questions of power and influence; what if the clergy _refused to believe him_? He knew that the idea of divine mandate was just an abstract to many members of the church, even a legendary myth to many even in the highest ranks of power. And there were others who would find it convenient to shed doubt on the claims of revelation by the Primus. Even many who trusted him and respected his leadership would doubt, he realized, assuming that he was taking this action for personal political gain. Such was how the system worked, and even those who were of true faith and good heart had learned to play according to the rules of that system.

Furthermore, there was the possibility that the open and direct course he'd considered would threaten the mission itself. Suddenly the clear design he'd constructed became a tangled web of possibilities.

No, he thought, this would require thought, and time.

He became suddenly aware of Ogren looking at him, even though his back was still toward the office. He steadied himself, forcing his body straight in the face of the passing weakness brought on by this deluge of realizations. Then he turned and walked back out into the outer office.

He had to think of some excuse to undo the commotion he'd just created.

Then, he needed time to think.

* * *

In a dingy but very well constructed stone cell in the main prison of Laukempt, another man had plenty of time on his hands to think. He was not in a very comfortable position for pondering, with his arms stretched back behind him by short lengths of chain secured to a single mooring high on the wall, and equally heavy manacles fixing his legs far enough apart so that he could not possibly settle himself in a comfortable position.

He was of average build, not an especially notable man at first glance, especially with his features currently marred by several prominent bruises and a gash above his left eye that had swollen and healed unevenly, almost forcing that eye closed. His jet-black hair and close-cropped beard were both matted with dirt, sweat, and blood, and he stank of captivity, although he'd only been in this place for a few days. He would not be here much longer, or at least that was what he'd gathered from the Thorines who'd given him the marks that covered his face and, under the torn remnants of his clothing, his wiry body.

He spat, and it was blood as much as saliva that dripped from his mouth at the motion. From the awkward way his limbs were stretched against the hard stone behind him he had to be in agony, yet he made no sounds as he tensed abused muscles and pushed against the strict limits of his manacles. It was not an effort to escape—the people of Thorin built their prison accommodations to exacting standards—but rather a deliberate motion to force the pain, to keep his body from folding under the pressure it was under. Blood flowed from newly opened cuts as he completed the cycle of motion, and new pains replaced familiar ones, but at least his body had responded to his commands. There would come a point where it would not, the battered man knew.

He had many names, some widely known and others whispered in only a few carefully chosen ears. He'd been partial to the moniker he'd adopted in the last few months here in Thorin, the Gray Shadow. It was catchy, he thought, and he'd even taken to wearing gray outfits in his capers, at least when he could get away with it. Perhaps he'd gotten too cocky, had begun to take the limitations of the Thorines for granted. It would not have been the first time.

No, that wasn't it, and he forced himself to confront the truth even as he'd confronted the physical pain of his current torment. In his last job he'd had to kill a man, a guard, just a lowly, faceless member of the local guild. It was certainly not the first, and while he prided himself on avoiding killing in his work—it always complicated things—he had not hesitated in the slightest when the man had stumbled across him in the baron's private larder where the rare wines he'd been hired to steal were kept. No, he'd done what was necessary, and he hadn't lost any sleep over it, either. But he had allowed himself to drink a few more glasses of wine than his customary one the next day, in the tavern where he'd thought himself at least relatively secure, where no one knew enough of him to connect him to any illegal activities. He did not get drunk—he never got drunk, even when completely alone—but he had completely missed it when the drug was placed in his glass, and he hadn't even been able to put up a respectable struggle when the guardsmen had appeared to cart him off. He still wasn't sure how they'd found him out, but the simple fact was, he'd allowed himself to become careless.

No, the responsibility for his capture lay entirely in his own hands.

And now the Thorines were going to stretch his neck, not even bothering with the formality of a trial. His appearance before the magistrate had taken all of three minutes, and even though his captors knew nothing of the crimes he'd committed in his other identities, the "Gray Shadow" had accumulated enough of a reputation even without this current matter. The baron was very fond of his wine collection, and none of the stolen bottles had been recovered, despite the very thorough working over he'd received from the baron's own men and the jailers here at the city prison. The latter seemed to know their work rather well, and even took evident pleasure in it, but they hadn't really tried that hard to make him talk. It seemed like the baron took solace in the fact that the thief would soon be dangling from the end of a rope, a not-ideal but acceptable trade for the loss of his prized vintages.

If he knew that his son had been one of the three nobles who'd paid his fee, he might think otherwise, the thief thought, letting out a chuckle despite the pain it caused his bruised face. None of the three men had seemed worth his silence, but it more was a matter of principle. Although he could not have put it into clear terms, even in his own mind, the difference was a subtle one that made him, for all the fact that he was a thief and a rake with no name and no title, better than they were, for all their noble trappings and wealth and power. The fact that he might take those principles to his grave, and sooner rather than later, was little consolation, but he was a man who'd had to confront the realities of life from a very early stage of his life, and while he would have preferred to avoid death, he'd known it was there waiting for him, known that he would meet up with its eager clutches at some point.

Even so, he thought, as he forced himself through another series of painful muscle exercises, he would have rather it had come _later_.

Suddenly the cell grew brighter, and he twisted his head to avoid the painful surge of light. His first thought was that his jailers had come for him, and that the light was from their torches, but how had they entered without him hearing them approach? Then the glow intensified, drawing a groan from him as it penetrated even his tightly closed eyes.

"What the..."

Then the light faded somewhat, enough for him to open his eyes, and he realized he was not alone. He started, but his bonds held him fast, and the sudden motion only sent new tendrils of pain through his battered frame. That paled, though, compared to his surprise at who stood before him.

It was a woman, but unlike any woman he'd ever seen before, and he'd seen quite a few. She was short, although in his current position they were eye-to-eye. She wore simple traveling clothes of leather and wool, but the fabrics were so pale as to be almost white, more so than any bleach or dye could make them. Furthermore, his expert eye noted almost unconsciously that they were perfect; not so much that they'd been well-crafted, but that they were impossibly so, with no thread or weave that he could distinguish.

But his attention was not drawn primarily to her garb, but her features. Her skin was pale, soft in the light that still seemed to suffuse the space around her. Her short, silvery hair framed a face of simple perfection, matching the make of her garments, but somehow more profound. Her eyes were pools of... something, he could not explain, but when his gaze reached them his pain faded from perception, and he felt himself drawn into her.

"What's... what's happening?" he said softly, unable or unwilling to turn from that sensation of connection.

She spoke to him; the words a lilting cascade that flowed over him like refreshingly cool water. "Hear me, mortal, and through me heed the words of the Nine. I am the Avatar, sent to deliver unto thee knowledge of their will. I bring news of a great calamity, the threat of a danger to all that is the existence that you know and understand. For mortal beings in their hubris have undertaken to tamper with powers beyond their ken, and threaten the very structure of the universe with their actions."

"It has been elected by the Nine in their wisdom to choose mortal agents through which this course may be averted, and the balance between the realms of Thought and Reality preserved. Know this mortal, and be humbled by this knowledge. You have been chosen to undertake this course. Upon your shoulders rests the fate of your world."

For a moment, he just hung there, stunned. Then he stirred, and his chains rattled, and he glanced up, as if surprised to find himself still bound to the wall. "Okay..." he said. "Um... how 'bout a little help, then?"

She took a step closer, and he could not be sure if he shifted toward her, or drew back. "Robert Small," she went on, her words filling the cell with the resounding power of their sound, "this is your mandate. Pay heed and obey the words of Laesil, who has chosen you."

Then she spoke again, but the voice and the words were completely different.

When he blinked his eyes and looked out into the cell again, she was gone. He tried to rise, but again the chains limited his actions. He had to admit, though, that he felt reenergized, as if the visit from the...Avatar?...had been a salve that had eased his pain and fueled his ragged body.

"Lady Luck helps those who help themselves," he grumbled, but behind the sour comment his tone was upbeat. Even the incredulity of the whole thing seemed to fit in logical order in his mind—why shouldn't the Mistress of Fate choose him for her little errand? He almost laughed at the enormity and craziness of it all, but his motion caught him short and gave him a little reminder of the pain that still hovered in the background of his body. It was a sobering reminder that he was locked up but tight, and that there were a lot of people on the other side of that door who were quite looking forward to seeing him dangle at the end of a rope rather shortly.

He felt another twinge of pain, this one separate from the rest. He traced the sensation to his left hand, right where his wrist emerged from the heavy iron manacle. Respecting the limits of the chains he slowly brought his hands together—it was awkward, given the way that the manacles were fastened—and probed with his right hand for the source of the pain.

He found it immediately, an uneven length of metal that protruded from the edge of the crude but tough lock that held the manacle shut. It had poked into the flesh of his hand, but he now barely felt the pain or the small flow of blood that ran down over the iron band and dripped down to the stone floor below. Careful not to rush and risk losing his prize, he clasped his fingers on the sliver and pulled it free from both the lock and his flesh.

It had not been there before; the locks had been one of the first things he'd checked. He supposed that the metal could have been worked free by his struggles against the chains, but he doubted it.

He smiled in the darkness as moments later a faint _clink_ filled the cell and his left hand popped free of its manacle. Seven seconds later, the right hand was free as well. Then, taking a moment to savor the freedom of unrestricted motion of his arms, he crouched and went to work on his legs.

My thanks, Lady...

When the jailer arrived for his daily rounds, juggling a torch and the bucket of slop that he used to feed all the prisoners on this level of the prison, all he saw was a vague slash of movement and then crumpled as a blow landed hard on the back of his neck.

No one else saw anything at all.

* * * * *

Chapter 8

The village of Kapalis, situated at the base of the Black Mountains in the southern regions of Crista, lay in ruins.

It was a brisk but clear day, cold winds edging down out of the mountains and promising hard winter storms ahead. Several plumes of smoke rose from the outskirts of the village, swirling in the winds before vanishing into the vast expanse of open sky. Small clusters of people probed carefully through the ruined structures and the rubble left by rockslides that had all but buried large sections of the place, looking for the bodies of loved ones, or, just maybe, survivors of the devastating earthquake that had struck the region without warning. That hope was a faint one, for the damage wrought here had been done over a week ago, and few of the searchers truly expected to find anything living in the rubble.

On the outskirts of the village, far enough into the open so that further rockslides would not threaten it, a sprawling encampment had been set up. Several fires burned here in open pits, each surrounded by a knot of tired and cold people seeking warmth. The wind tugged constantly at the tents that had been erected until more permanent shelters could be constructed. A few wagons were clustered at the edge of the camp, their open beds now empty; the supplies they had carried had already been distributed among the survivors. The threat of hunger added a new danger to the sad story of Kapalis, although parties of hunters were already scouring the neighboring hills for game.

Alec strode heavily through the camp, returning from a visit to one of the outlying tents that had occupied him for most of the night. He was tired and hungry, having missed both sleep and the communal meal cooked around the fires in the early light of morning.

The wind whipped him mercilessly, tearing at his robes as he half-stumbled toward the tent where he and his companions were staying during their work in Kapalis. He was young, barely over twenty years of age, and the strain of that work showed clearly upon him. Kapalis was the fourth village they'd visited since they'd learned of the earthquake, and it had been both the largest and the most devastated. They'd been here for three days now, and he calculated that he'd gotten less than six hours of real sleep in that time. Or a good meal, for that matter. It was impossible to take pleasure in food, though, when surrounded by the suffering, and the need, that they'd encountered here. The extra supplies they'd brought had been quickly consumed, and already they had to stretch what remained when they prepared the common meals for the survivors of Kapalis each morning and evening.

Despite his exhaustion he nearly turned aside from his destination as he saw everywhere people in need. Women with small children huddled in makeshift lean-tos built against boulders or propped up by loose boards, the mothers trying to keep the children protected from the cold wind. Elderly villagers rested in even more primitive shelters under piled blankets, the fire in their eyes as they struggled for life dampened by the harsh sights they'd seen recently. Few at least still showed signs of injury or sickness, and that at least they could attribute to the desperate efforts of Alec and his companions over the past few days.

Ultimately convincing himself that he needed rest if he was going to be of any use to anyone, he turned from the needy and continued toward tent occupied by his party. The low structure, fashioned out of durable wool dyed a pale blue, was surrounded by a small open space, for although the healers were respected and appreciated by the suffering people of Kapalis, they still practiced magic, and magic was something these frontier folk feared.

He looked out over the camp one last time and then ducked into the low opening of their tent.

The thick walls of the tent muted the cold force of the wind, although it was still a little chill inside. The space within was large enough to sleep half a dozen people, but only one of his companions was present at the moment, dressed in a robe of soft blue cloth almost identical to his own. Lorraine looked up as he entered, and concern appeared on her face as she got a good view of him.

"By the gods, you look wrung out, Alec. Get some rest."

Alec forced a smile. Lorraine was like a mother to all of them, even to the venerable Master Healer Kiros who led their small company. Her features were creased with the recent strain, much like his, but although her hair had begun the shift from black to gray she was still attractive, her plain features accentuated by the warmth in her eyes and the always-ready brightness of her smile.

"It was a luh-luh-long night," he admitted, sitting down on the folding cot that had been his bed for the last eight days, ever since they'd arrived in the region affected by the earthquake. It sagged a little under his weight, but held.

"The old man?" she asked.

"He won't survive the duh-day," Alec said honestly, although it was clear that the admission cost him.

Lorraine regarded him tenderly, then quickly rose and came over to him. Her hug was warm, and he gave himself over to it, sharing the sympathy of their common cause. Kiros always said that death was an intractable enemy, and that _how_ one faced it was as important as when and why. Alec had done everything he could for Stellos, the man he'd met for the first time just three days ago, and whom he'd spent long hours with since then. At least he could say that the fear and pain he'd found in the old man's eyes had been replaced by peace. His daughter, the only family he'd had left before the earthquake, was still in Kapalis, and from what he'd seen of the man's house, he didn't expect that they'd find the body anytime soon.

"I have to go buh-buh-back," he said to Lorraine. She nodded, understanding. No one should die alone.

"Get what rest you can," she said to him, easing him back onto the cot like he was a child. He saw that tears glimmered faintly in the corners of her eyes.

In moments he was asleep.

* * *

Night had fallen over the encampment when Alec returned from the now quiet tent where Stellos had met his death. He'd managed to grab a hurried meal of beans and rice earlier in the day, but his belly still felt like a cavern, grumbling in protest as he walked back toward their tent. The few hours of sleep he'd gotten had kept him through the day, but he knew that tonight he would have to rest more fully. Although the past day had not been as frenzied as their first two in Kapalis, what he'd seen and done had nonetheless forged its own strain on him. He knew that Kiros would frown on him—on any of them—abusing their bodies, risking their own strength and therefore their ability to help others. Still, the old man would understand; he always did.

When he got to the tent, it was deserted, to his surprise. He'd expected at least a few of the others to be resting, grabbing sleep where they could before confronting a new day. There was little they could do after dark in any case, with little oil for their lanterns and only slightly more wood for the campfires. Maybe the others were just doing what he'd spent the day doing, comforting people in need, giving them strength as they faced the pain of loss or the fear of an uncertain future. Often that kind of aid was as important as the healing of injuries, he'd learned.

For now, though, he needed rest, to regain enough of his strength so that he could again be useful to the people who needed the support that he could offer. He crossed over to his cot, careful to duck beneath the low central supports that held up the tent, and began to shrug out of his robe. The blue fabric was about as ragged as he felt, having suffered from the hard exposure to the elements over the past week. Kiros stressed the importance of maintaining a clean, organized appearance, for it was the unflappable calm in the midst of chaos that was a large part of the healer's magic, he said. People needed to be able to look to them as beacons of support and strength, a source of solace when confronted by extreme hardship in the form of injury, disease, or even impending death.

He shook his head. He would tend to the robe on the morrow. For now, he just wanted to sleep.

But when he lay under his blankets, he found that he could not. Something was tugging at the edges of his awareness, like the way some people he'd known could sense a coming storm. Or the way animals seemed to sense the growing pressure of an earthquake about to strike; he was reminded of that by what they'd seen here, and the comments of a few of the villagers he'd spoken with who'd said that their animals had behaved strangely the day before the quake. He could not put his finger on what tickled at his senses, but it made him feel uneasy, and he considered getting up again and seeking out his peers despite his exhaustion.

Then he felt it.

It was a sense of... _power_... something intangible and indefinable, yet no less real for that. It came from somewhere nearby, although he could not have closed his eyes and pointed in the direction of the source. It was more diffuse, an overlay of something not natural that filled the area of the camp.

Then it was gone. He realized that he was staring up at the ceiling of the tent, and that his bedclothes were damp with sweat. He did not know how long he'd been like that, or how long he'd felt the strange sensation of power. Now that it was gone he did feel an unexplainable feeling of familiarity, as though a part of him not accessible to his conscious mind knew what he'd felt, understood it on a different level. Perhaps it was the part of him that lived in the world of dreams, and only his close proximity to sleep that had allowed him to sense that otherworldly presence that had come and gone in the encampment just now.

Only he still felt a sense of vague foreboding. Something was not right.

Silently he rose and dressed again in the dark. The sounds of activity were still audible throughout the camp from the other side of the tent's heavy fabric, but he sensed no alarm, no commotion as a result of what he'd sensed. He considered that maybe it had just been a dream of sorts, a false vision born of his exhaustion and the stress of the last week.

But he went out into the camp anyway.

He didn't really know where he was going or what he was looking for, but he found himself walking toward a small hill that ascended some distance from the rear edge of the camp. The ground there formed a low ridge that partially shielded the place from the wind, without being high enough or steep enough to threaten more rockslides if there were further tremors. As the tents began to thin out he saw a small campfire ahead, burning in a sheltered area at the base of the hill. By the flickering light of the flames he saw that his colleagues were sitting in a ring around the fire, talking in low voices.

"Alec, come join us," a voice said as he approached close enough to be seen. Lorraine, of course. Several of the others made a space for him, and he sat down at the edge of the circle, grateful for the warmth of the small fire. He noticed that Kiros was not with them, but he let his questions wait for a moment.

There were five of them, all dressed in the simple blue robes of their order, a marking clearer than an emblazoned sign that they were healers, followers of Amelira, goddess of mercy and healing. Their robes were identical, as all were journeymen, men and women of maturity and talent who had volunteered to be here, sacrificed whatever plans or goals they'd had to accompany Kiros to this desolate region affected by the earthquake. His own robes were subtly different, although no one but another healer would have noticed the difference. Technically he was still an acolyte, a learner building his knowledge and expertise, but he knew that his skills had already advanced to a point that belied his youth and relative inexperience. The others treated him like an equal, and he was grateful for that respect. And he was perhaps equally grateful, though he would not admit it openly, that they paid no heed to his stutter, or his clumsiness, or even the fits that would sometimes steal over him, taking away even his control over his own body like a thief that struck when no one expected it. Here he felt at home and comfortable, among a family of brothers and sisters who judged him for what he was, more than the sum of his all-too-frail parts.

Cerek handed him a small wooden cup full of steaming herbal tea, and he nodded gratefully. The man was a giant, with the dusky skin of a Roronian, or perhaps one of the border lands on the edges of the mountains that ringed the great Cinder Desert further south. He looked fierce, the flickering light of the fire highlighting the ridges in his face and the old scars that marred his features. But Alec knew Cerek to be one of the gentlest men he'd ever known, always patient, often silent but radiating peace and solace. His huge hands could heft a wagon wheel with ease, but he'd also seen them holding a newborn baby, cradling the new life with the gentlest touch. Lorraine had once told him that he'd been a warrior in an earlier life, which could explain the scars.

Lorraine was sitting next to Gustav, talking quietly on the other side of the fire. Gustav was a few years older than Lorraine, and was the senior of the group, save for master Kiros. He was a former sailor from the Lindle Isles, and had spent many nights sharing tales of the sea and the varied adventures of his youth. Gustav was a warm yet understated man, and Alec could not help seeing him in his mind's eye on the deck of a fast trading raker, laughing in the face of a wild winter storm.

As for Lorraine, she was his closest friend among the healers, but he suspected that the others would have said the same. Mother and sister at once, she had been the one to guide him through his first frightening weeks at the hospital. She'd never mocked him for his halting way of speech, nor doubted the ability of his frail body to handle the demanding work of a healer. He'd always suspected that his parents had paid a fair sum to convince the healers to accept him as an acolyte, but none of his new companions had ever said anything to confirm that, or given him cause to believe that they were treating him with bought sufferance.

The other two journeymen he barely knew, but they had treated him with the same deference and respect as his close friends. Sedra and Garon were both Rigalians, from another hospital to the north of Limbrock. Adelmar, he thought he'd remembered one of them saying. They'd come even further to lend their assistance to the relief mission, appearing on the doorstep of the hospital even as Alec was packing the last of their wagons for the trip. He did not know how they had learned of the disaster so quickly, but he had seen enough over the last year to not be surprised at the strange and sometimes wondrous ways of the brotherhood that he'd joined. Whatever his parents had intended by sending him there, he now knew he'd found his life's calling, and he didn't regret for a moment the other paths not taken, the other possibilities that he might have had if only his physical failings had not limited his choices.

"Where's master Kiros?" he asked, when a break in the conversation appeared.

"He went up to the hollow, to pray," Lorraine told him.

Alec nodded. A short distance down the length of the hill, in a broad cleft that ran down the far face, was a rocky hollow formed out of the natural evolution of the landscape. Alec had been there himself a few times, as it was both quiet and peaceful, a place where all of them could go to be alone and recenter themselves before confronting the stress of their mission again. The healers had adopted the place as their shrine, although Kiros told them that their holy places were wherever they were amongst the people they were helping, and that servants of Amelira did not build temples or monuments to mark the greatness of man's aspirations and accomplishments. Still, the hollow had a certain natural beauty, a hidden nook that faced out toward the mighty splendor of the Black Mountains. The people from the Old Kingdoms called those mountains the "Vaults of the Gods," and sitting there, looking out over the grandeur of creation, it was possible to understand what had motivated them in that belief.

Feeling a little uncertain, he met Lorraine's gaze, and leaned over to address her quietly. "Did you... _feel_... anything, just a little while ago?" He didn't stutter when he spoke, but he would not notice that until later, when he had time to think.

"No, nothing unusual," she told him. Then, as if turning the question over in her mind had revealed a new thought to her, she added, "But now that you mention it, Kiros did leave rather abruptly, said he needed some time to sort out his thoughts. It was, I don't know, perhaps a quarter-hour ago?"

Right around the time he'd felt the strange phenomenon, Alec thought.

"Is everything all right?" Gustav said, sensing the change that had come over Lorraine at the look in Alec's eyes. Alec forced himself to maintain a neutral expression, and waved a hand dismissively.

"No, it's nothing," he said. He rose, reluctant as even the small motion lifted him from the warmth of the fire and back into the evening breeze. "I think I will check on Kiros, though."

"I'll go with you," Lorraine said, starting to rise herself.

"No, please," he said to her. "Stay by the fire. I'll just be a few minutes..." he trailed off, and she understood. He could use the time alone as much as Kiros did, and he could use the short walk to try to clear his head.

After bidding a quick farewell to the others, he started off up the gentle slope of the hill. The night was cold, but his robe was warm, and he didn't feel threatened by the chill that swept down off the mountains into the foothills. He left the campfire and the more distant lights of the village encampment and pressed on, checking his steps carefully to avoid stepping on loose rocks or small depressions in the hillside. He had a good sense of direction, so he managed to hold a clear course to his destination even with only the faint light of the stars above him. Scattered clouds had drifted from out over the plains over the late afternoon, but he hoped that they would pass on into the mountains without deepening into a storm like the one that had battered Limbrock shortly before they had left on their journey south. Winter was coming, but he prayed for the sake of the survivors of Kapalis that it would hold back its fury for a little while longer. The villagers seemed a tough and determined people, but even so he knew that they would be taking a number of the infirm aged and newly orphaned with them in their wagons when they returned north. Kiros would find places for them, he knew, for the man had the ability to seek out the goodness present in anyone's heart, even if it was deeply buried or a little rusty from lack of use. Perhaps a few of the children here would find their way to Ilrien's Children's Home, or one of the other such places that existed here and there in Limbrock, serving the needs of a population many in better circumstances seemed often more willing to forget. Well, if salving their conscience took a few silver coins, or a package of food, he supposed it was still mercy, in its way. While the Way of Peace was one that he had chosen willingly and even eagerly, he knew that for most, it was incredibly difficult for a wide variety of reasons.

He had followed the line of the ridge atop the hill, remaining just below the crest line to shelter himself from the full force of the wind. He stumbled slightly as he crossed over to the steeper slope on the far side and headed down to where he knew the hollow waited in the dark. Despite his earlier exhaustion he felt almost energized now, as if the sense of anticipation he'd felt earlier had restored a measure of his strength. He hastened his pace slightly, despite the more treacherous nature of the far slope of the hill.

Before he could cover ten more paces, though, a shape appeared out of the darkness in front of him. He started back in surprise, nearly losing his footing on the barren slope, before he recognized the leader of their company.

"Master Kiros! I'm... I mean, I'm sorry, you just startled me."

The old man looked at him in some surprise, as if just then realizing that someone was in front of him. "Alec..." he said, as if reminding himself of the young acolyte's name. Then, abruptly, he turned and deliberately started back along the trail back to the encampment. Alec heard him mutter something under his breath as the master healer passed him, but he could not make out what he was saying.

Bewildered, he hurried to follow. While Kiros was quite old, well into his seventh decade of life, Alec had never known him to be absent-minded or confused. He was still full of vitality, a seemingly bottomless well of energy that let him manage the everyday affairs of one of Limbrock's most significant centers of healing and medicine. Now, though, he seemed distracted, and as Alec caught up to him he thought he could hear the old man mumbling more to himself, the words lost on the sound of the night breeze.

They had covered a fair bit of ground already, Kiros's steps eating up a fast pace that even Alec had to hasten to match. Finally, Alec hurried to pass him and said, "Master, is something wrong?"

Kiros stopped suddenly, and the young acolyte caught a good look at his face. Although the starlight was faint, it was enough to see the intensity that burned in the old healer's eyes. It was a look that sent a chill down Alec's spine. But then Kiros steadied, and his gaze shifted from whatever distant sight they had been remembering to the young man in front of him, and some of his familiar mien returned.

"I'm sorry, my son, but something has happened... I cannot explain it, for I do not fully grasp its significance yet myself..." He trailed off, as if frustrated in his search for words that would not come. More to himself than to the young man, he added, "Why was I chosen? Oh, to have youth once more!" Then, meeting Alec's eyes again, he said, "Forgive my mutterings, my son. You were coming to see me for something?"

Alec felt less hesitant about what he'd sensed earlier in the face of Kiros's strange behavior. "I felt something, master," he said. "A source of power of some sort, that descended upon the area around the camp. It remained for only a short time, but then it was gone. I spoke with the others, but none of them felt it, so I came seeking your counsel."

What he said clearly had some impact on the old man, for he smiled and grasped his arm with one hand. "Thank you, Alec," he said.

"Was what I felt connected to what happened to you?" he asked.

"Yes, my son," the old man said. He still sounded weary, but the sense of purpose that had been a part of him since Alec had known him had returned, and the earlier confusion was gone. "Come with me back to the camp," he told him. "There is much that must be done, and time, I am given to understand, is fleeing fast."

Alec did not understand, but he nodded, and the two healers continued on their way back to their campsite. Behind them the wind from the mountains picked up in a sudden gust, swirling around them as if it wanted to catch them up in its grasp and hurl them out into the darkness beyond.

* * * * *

Chapter 9

Izandra woke with a start, feeling the cool chill of sweat sticking to her skin. It took her a long, wrenching moment to remember where she was, and another minute to calm herself to where she could slip out from her bedroll and begin dressing.

The dream faded some as she moved about. She could hear Dannil and Ezran already up and active outside the narrow confines of her small tent, but she took her time, letting her thoughts turn the dream over in her mind before it slipped back into the void of memory. Although it had clearly been frightening, Ethander had once told her that dreams were a window into the subconscious mind, and she didn't want to fail to take heed if her subconscious was trying to tell her something.

She'd had bad dreams several times since that night outside Sindelar, and she knew enough to know that this wasn't that unexpected, given the trauma of what had happened. She was used to analyzing things with her sharp mind, in the way that Ethander had encouraged her, but it was a little strange, analyzing herself and her emotions in this way. Still, she didn't feel comfortable talking with either Dannil or Ezran about it, though, so with Ethander gone it was up to her to work out the puzzle in her mind.

The dream had been of a dark place, blacker than night but still alive with motion and power within the darkness. A particular image stood out, of a great presence within the dark, a thing so black that it stood out as a hole in the shroud around it. She had perceived it as a solid object, all angles and uneven edges. It had loomed over her, and then it was as if it had moved, or she had, or maybe reality itself had, for it was directly above her, pushing, _taking_...

That was when she had awoken. Even remembering the feeling from her dream caused her chest to tighten and her heart to quicken, so she put the memory aside and concentrated on gathering her belongings.

Finally she crawled out of her tent and regarded the day. The morning was cold, but at least the skies were clear and promised easy traveling. Gedran was a short distance off tending their horses, while Dannil and Ezran were preparing breakfast and coffee over the fire. Both looked up as she emerged from her tent. Her brother rose and took a few tentative steps toward her.

"Is something the matter, Izandra?"

The dream. No doubt it was written on her face, or at least her distress was clear enough for her brother to sense it. She glanced behind him and saw that Dannil had looked up with concern as well, but that he quickly hid it behind a neutral mask of attention to the biscuits he was frying over the fire. She turned her attention back to Ezran.

"It's just that after the last few nights staying in comfortable inns, my back's gotten unaccustomed to sleeping on hard ground." She cracked her back to accentuate the statement.

Ezran smiled, but she could see that it, like Dannil's mask of unconcern, was faked. "Well, the Home is a little off the beaten track. Dannil said that we should be able to make it there by late afternoon, if the weather holds."

"Great," she said. "How about a little coffee?"

While her brother prepared her a cup, she started to pack up her tent. The others had already packed up, but none of them had bothered to wake her. She had been sleeping deeply, that was true, not to hear them moving around, but their letting her sleep late grated a little. She could handle her share of the responsibilities on this journey, in fact, she was probably more experienced in wilderness travel than either Ezran or Gedran. The youth who had brought Dannil the message had been unfailingly polite to her over the course of the journey, and had become friends with Ezran, but she had expected nothing different from someone raised in the same environment as Dannil.

Dannil had been another matter. He had changed, she realized, growing more mature in the year since she'd last seen him. She saw right through his efforts to conceal his concern for her, of course, but she also noticed how easily he took command of their small company on the road. For the first few days after leaving Sindelar they'd moved quickly and kept watch in shifts over their campsites, which were always in carefully chosen, easily defensible locations. Ezran and Izandra had not complained, both understanding the potential threat of more encounters with the kobalos who had been traveling the back trails around the village. They were not molested, though, and after a few nights of camping they reached the more populated areas of Limbrock, and they could start spending the nights in warm inns and soft beds. She was surprised at first at how many people Dannil seemed to know in the villages and towns they passed through, always greeting innkeepers and shopkeepers by name, but she supposed it made sense. Dannil had always had wanderlust in his blood, and she knew that he had traveled widely throughout the region since reaching an early adulthood five years ago.

And yet a shadow had hung over her friend since they had left Sindelar. She supposed she understood, after a fashion. Both of them were orphans, and both had been fortunate enough to find others who would give them the love and care that young people needed to grow into well-adjusted adults. He had told her a great deal about his time at the Children's Home, and she had learned enough to understand the fierce devotion to the Lady Ilrien that her charges possessed. She had never met the woman personally, but she had to be quite a person.

After a hurried breakfast, they struck camp and continued along the little-used wagon road that ran into the southern marches of the barony of Limbrock. They only had the two horses, the one that Gedran had ridden and Loehm's old mount, given to Izandra and Ezran to use on their journey. Still, they made good time, the two siblings riding together occasionally, but mostly alternating on the horse while the other walked alongside to avoid overtaxing the old beast. Although Gedran had similarly offered to share his mount, Dannil walked the entire time, and yet never seemed to grow fatigued, despite setting the pace to the horses rather than to the slower humans.

The countryside they traveled through was lush and green, with rolling hills covered in thick grass alternating with copses of solid oak trees and thickets of flowering brush that filled the air with their scent. Birds and insects were everywhere, enjoying this perhaps last respite before the full force of winter arrived. They were not high enough to see the blue expanse of Lake Crista to the east, but from the route they'd taken they could not be far from the shores of that great inland sea that connected Limbrock, Crista, and the forest-kingdom of the Ilfanni, Maletai. She would have asked Dannil about it, but she did not want to interrupt his private thoughts, whatever they might be, as they neared their destination.

It was the first building they had seen since they had struck camp that morning, and Dannil's prediction of time was accurate; the sun was just shy of touching the tops of the hills to the west when the Children's Home came into view.

Ilrien hadn't been sure what to expect. From Dannil's descriptions, half of the time the place sounded like a sprawling town, the other half just a simple rural orphanage with maybe a few simple wooden buildings. As was so often the case, the truth was somewhere in between.

It looked a little like a farm at first glance, admittedly one with a lot of children about. The first thing she noticed was that the youngsters were uncharacteristically sedate, going about their chores in small groups of two or three, with none of the play or laughing or shouting one expected from small children. They ranged in age from around five well up into their teens, children of every shade and combination of characteristics that were common among the different peoples of the surrounding lands. A few saw them approaching, and one older child ran into one of the buildings as they drew nearer to the main compound.

The place _was_ sprawling, with a cluster of three wooden buildings and a larger two-story stone structure making up the core. A five-foot masonry wall connected these central buildings and formed a small open square inside. Other outbuildings were scattered around the area, mostly wooden huts more often than not surrounded by fenced-in pens for animals, or vegetable gardens already picked clean for the coming winter. Clearly in addition to being an orphanage this was a working farm, and from what she saw it probably produced most if not all of its food right here on-site.

They rode up to a gate in the wall and into the square beyond. As they passed inside Izandra saw a wooden sign attached to the wall on one side of the gate. Expertly carved, the sign read, "CHILDREN'S HOME OF LIMBROCK." Inside the confines of the wall there was a well and an open stable that contained several horses. Dannil said something to Gedran, too quietly for her to hear, then he gestured for Izandra and Ezran to accompany him. Gedran waited for them to dismount, and then took both mounts to the stable.

Izandra noticed a few things as she and her brother followed after their friend into the large stone building. One of the horses in the stable was a warhorse, tended by a youth dressed in a tunic trimmed in blue and silver and marked with a subtle yet unmistakable crest on one shoulder. Izandra had never seen that crest, but she was knowledgeable enough to recognize the colors of the Knights of Rigal.

"I wonder what a knight's doing here," Ezran said to her, under his breath so that Dannil would not hear.

So her alert brother had noticed it, too. In any case, the mystery would be solved shortly, she figured, and entered the building on the heels of Dannil.

She immediately felt the sense of sadness that permeated the place. Maybe it was the quiet of corridors normally full of bustling energy, or the way that the shutters were all drawn instead of letting in the brightness of the late afternoon sun. Or maybe on some level she could even sense the power of the emotions here, as if Dannil's mood had been multiplied several times over.

They crossed the foyer quickly enough so that Izandra and Ezran did not have much time to look around. The two of them had to hurry to keep up with Dannil's quick steps. It was clear, though, that the place had been carefully and cheerfully decorated to create a homey and welcoming atmosphere, from the hand-crafted rugs that covered the polished wooden floors to the vases of flowers that covered the small wooden tables in the corners of the rooms. There was nothing fragile or delicate about the place, not with a house full of children, but it felt warm and comforting.

They passed a kitchen and a sitting room, then headed up a wide set of stairs, each step carefully padded and carpeted, the wooden banister polished so that it shone even in the fading light of the afternoon. Dannil seemed to know exactly where he was going, and the few children they passed in the halls, while curious in their looks, neither said anything to them nor hindered them in any way.

At the top of the stairs ran a carpeted hall that ran the length of the second story. Dannil led them directly to one end of the hall, past several side doors that were all closed, to where double doors marked the end of the corridor. There, he hesitated.

Izandra laid a hand on his shoulder. He glanced back at her, and smiled in gratitude. Then he took a breath and opened the doors.

Beyond was a small sitting room, with wide windows that faced out into the courtyard below. It was dark, since that side of the building faced east, and the sun had already fallen below the western horizon. It took Izandra a moment to notice the old woman sitting in a comfortable chair beside one of the windows, a neglected embroidery hoop sitting in her lap.

"Ah, Dannil, you have come." the old woman said. "She will be glad to see you. She has spoken of you several times, over the past few days."

"How is she, Lira?"

The old woman let out a soft sigh. "Not well, I am afraid, child. She is old, older perhaps than any of us realized. The fire is still there, in her heart and in her mind, but her body just cannot keep up any longer."

Dannil glanced at another door on the wall to the right. "Can... can I see her?"

"Of course," Lira said. "As I said, she is waiting for you. But be careful, child, there is a storm brewing in that room." And with that mysterious comment, she turned her attention back to her embroidery, although she made no stitches.

Dannil led them to the door. Izandra thought that maybe she and Ezran should remain here, but he looked back at them and motioned for them to remain with him. So she followed him, careful to remain in the background. She would give Dannil whatever strength she could, but this was a private moment, and for him alone.

The next room was a bedchamber, and as clearly a sick room. A large four-poster bed was the dominant feature, with several plain but well-made pieces of furniture against the walls: a wardrobe, dresser, and a small writing desk with a simple chair. Pictures covered the walls, most of them clearly drawn by children, although they had been framed and carefully preserved as if they had been precious works of art. The room was not large, although there was an open space between the door and the bed where a large, plush carpet covered the floor. Two small windows rimmed by bright curtains let in enough light to see clearly.

Although there were several people in the room, Izandra's attention was drawn to the woman in the bed. Lira was right, in that the woman was old, her age impossible to determine from her appearance, although Izandra would not have been surprised to learn that she was eighty, or even ninety. She was propped up against a small army of pillows, a blanket tucked up close under her arms to ward off the chill. She wore a plain wool robe, its color faded, and while she had clearly been resting when they entered, she stirred and opened her eyes to look at them.

"Ah, Dannil," she said. Her voice was soft and faint, but it seemed to fill the room nonetheless. Even aged and ill, she had a presence about her that was powerful enough for Izandra to sense still. She reminded her of Ethander, in her own way, full of confidence and control that belied the fragile shell in which the spirit was contained.

"Mother Ilrien," Dannil said. His attention was wholly on the old woman, and he slowly crossed to her side. He paid no attention to the others in the room, but as Dannil and Ilrien exchanged their moment of reunion,- Izandra regarded the others who watched the scene as she did.

She recognized the knight instantly. It wasn't just his clothes, which were simple traveling garb bordered in blue and silver—had she really expected him to be clad in armor?—but something in the way he carried himself. His blond hair was cut short around the front and sides, and tied in the back into a ponytail that ran down between his shoulder blades. He wasn't that much older than Dannil, in his mid-twenties, perhaps, but where Dannil was strong and lean, this man was built like iron. He stood stiffly and was obviously uncomfortable, pretending to examine one of the drawings while Dannil knelt at the side of Ilrien's bed and took one of the old woman's hands in both of his own. He wasn't carrying any weapons, but he didn't need them to radiate a sense of danger.

Exactly on the opposite side of the room from him was another man, about the same age as the knight, leaning against the wardrobe, his back to the door. Perhaps that was why she had not noticed what he was immediately, but when she did, she nearly started in surprise. He was dressed in a long cloak dyed a red so dark as to almost be the color of rust. Like the knight he tried to be respectfully indifferent to the emotional exchange between Dannil and the old woman, but Izandra saw that this was a man who noticed everything, all the time. His garb was unusual, leather traveling clothes covered in dozens of small pockets and pouches including no less than three belts, one worn across his torso like a baldric. Those would have indicated his identity to Izandra even without the elaborate epaulets half-hidden by the cloak and the small silver medallion he wore just under his Adam's apple.

The man was a khemeia mage. His features were southern, although he didn't bear any of the facial tattoos often worn as markers by the khemeia magi of the southern kingdoms. Of course his presence here probably meant that he had been fostered here in the north, and probably was attached to one of the northern guilds. Like the knight he carried no weapons, but Izandra knew this man needed none. They were a strange pair, and the fact that such men were here caused her to further refine what she knew about the woman resting on the bed.

She thought she now understood Lira's comment. The storm that the old woman had mentioned was brewing between those two men, the knight and the mage, for all that they appeared quiet and deferential. The way that each studiously avoided watching the other, the tenseness in their manner that went beyond the circumstances, bespoke a deep rivalry. It was so obvious that she didn't need Ezran's empathy to sense it.

The last occupant of the room hovered near the bed like a guardian spirit, although he made room for Dannil to attend to his foster-mother. He was old too, perhaps in his sixties, and his feelings for the dying woman were obvious and unambiguous.

"And who is this you've brought, Dannil?" Ilrien asked, gesturing for Izandra and Ezran to come closer.

"These are two friends of mine from the village of Sindelar, mother." Dannil said. "Izandra and Ezran Colton."

Izandra bowed in respect, and Ezran muttered something. Her brother had never been good in social situations, but if the old woman took no offense. Instead she smiled so warmly that Izandra could not help but smile as well.

"I am pleased that my Dannil has such friends," she said. "Unusual, too, a magic-user, even..." Her smile took on a slight twist, and Izandra saw something twinkle in her eyes as she looked at her. Izandra must not have been able to hide her surprise, for Ilrien added, "Ah, I've seen more than my share in my day. Perhaps someday I'll tell you tales of Alderan, and of a magic that burns deep in the blood of men." She sighed, and it was a sigh of memories long past, of friends and loved ones lost and lives gone by. "Forgive the ramblings of an old woman," she said, fixing her attention back on Izandra in a way that made her feel a little uncomfortable. "Don't worry, child, your secret is safe with me."

Suddenly feeling as if every eye in the room was on her, Izandra flushed and retreated back to the edges of the room.

Ilrien coughed thickly, drawing the attention of everyone in the room back to her. For a moment, pain crossed her face, and Izandra saw that it was something that this woman was familiar with. Aged and sick she might be, but feeble, never.

"Gindar, get the healer," the knight said to the old man beside the bed, his tone the stentorian voice of command, but Ilrien forestalled him with a raised hand.

"They have not yet found a cure for old age, Ticos," she said chidingly. She made a slight gesture and Gindar brought her a glass of water from the bedside table. She took a small drink, and laid back for a moment, but it was clear that she had something to say to all of them. They waited for her, patiently.

"You are the last to come, and in many ways my best," she began. "Old enough to be men, yet not too old to be set in your ways. Well, perhaps some more than others," she added, with a glance at Ticos, the knight, that reminded Ilrien like a mother exasperated with the misbehavior of a toddler.

"I have summoned you three, above all others, to me. I am dying." She looked around sharply, as if daring any of them to contradict her. None of them said anything, so she continued, "I don't have any regrets. I've lived a long life, and am comfortable with the decisions I've made during its long course. Besides, I'm looking forward to seeing all my old friends, and I'm sure my husband is getting a little impatient for me to be coming along."

The way she said it was so matter-of-fact, that Izandra could almost see him, though she did not know the man to whom Ilrien was referring, sitting in a rocking chair on a quiet porch, looking expectantly down the road.

"There is one thing that I am concerned about, however, and that's this place. I know all three of you are bound to the Home, and since all three of you have done pretty well with yourselves since leaving here, I feel it's only fair to ask for a little something in return. Certainly all three of you gave me your fair share of gray hairs when you were growing up here. More than your fair share, if my memory serves me correctly. Now, I won't go embarrassing you in front of these strangers, but you all know exactly what I'm talking about."

This time even the knight looked a little sheepish, and Izandra marveled at the power of this woman to temporarily transform these men back into little boys, caught doing something they weren't supposed to be doing.

"Name what it is that you want, mother Ilrien, and it will be done," the knight said earnestly.

"I have been preparing for this for some time, of course," she said. "It's not like this day turned out to be a surprise. I have made arrangements with some interests in Adelmar to put funds in trust for the Home. And I have chosen a successor... well, at least someone I trust enough to run this place now that I've gone. Her name is Caewynn Tahel, and she lives in Lake Heights, in Crista."

"But, mother Ilrien," the khemeia mage—who still had not been given a name—interrupted. Izandra thought his voice was a little thin and edgy, although his demeanor did not annoy her as much as the knight's. "Why not ask your relatives for aid... surely the—"

"You know I don't like to talk about such matters, especially in front of strangers, Martin," she said, cutting him off in mid-sentence. "Suffice it to say I have decided on the people I've decided on, and for good reasons of my own. Now, if I may be allowed to continue?"

"Wynn has already accepted the position, and will be expecting the person I send to bring her back to Limbrock. And matters have all been cleared with the current administration of the barony," she added, with a darted look at Martin. "What I need from you boys, is to oversee the transition, and make sure that everything goes well for the Home. It don't want my death to affect the life path of any child dwelling here. In fact, I've sort of taken on a lesser role for myself for the last few years, so the children could start looking to others."

Izandra didn't believe that for a minute. She suspected that if she could (or if the protective old man by her side let her) she'd be up and around even now, until the final moment that her spirit decided to leave its body for good.

"I'll need you to go to Adelmar, and make sure that everything goes smoothly with the merchants I've arranged with there. They'll need to meet with Wynn eventually, but for now I want them to see that the Home has strong leadership. And of course, one of you will have to go to Lake Heights and bring Wynn here. It's not the best time of year for travel on the lake, so you might have to take the Coast Road around, the long way. In either case, I leave it to you to work out the details. Gindar can help with your plans, and Lira has my notes and written instructions in case you need any clarification."

Martin and Ticos exchanged a quick look, the first time Izandra had seen them even acknowledge each other since she and the others had come in. Ilrien saw it too, and she leaned back against the pillows, closing her eyes. Suddenly, she looked old.

"Tell me I can count on you boys for this," she said.

"Of course, mother Ilrien," Dannil said. "I swear to you, all will be done as you said. It is the very least we can do, after all that you did for us."

The knight and mage added their assurances as well, and Izandra almost chimed in herself before recalling that this matter was really none of her concern. Well, Dannil was her friend, and she supposed that it made it her business as well. She didn't have to look over at Ezran to know that he would feel the same way.

"Thank you, boys," Ilrien said. Gindar was already urging them out, saying that she needed her rest. Dannil was the last to leave, bending over her to gently lay a kiss on her forehead. Then he, too, joined them in the adjacent sitting room. Lira had disappeared, leaving the three of them with the knight and mage as Gindar closed the door to the bedroom behind them.

"I'm sorry, Dannil," Izandra said, offering her sympathy. But while her friend smiled at her and Ezran, he immediately strode toward the knight and mage, who were doing their best to look at anything except each other. Izandra could feel the tension that crackled between them, like the sparks that came when you walked across a plush carpet. As Dannil came toward them they shifted their attention toward him. It was clear that they didn't consider him an equal, Izandra saw that at once just by looking at their eyes.

"We should plan how we are going to do this," he said. "Are you two staying here, or in Westmere?"

The knight looked uncomfortable, but only in the instant it took for his hard self-control to reestablish itself. "I cannot stay even the night," he said, pulling his leather gloves from his belt as he spoke. "It took great dispensation to even gain release for this brief visit. Even so, with hard riding, it will be two weeks to Sindaron."

"So much for your knightly codes," the mage said, his lips curled in a sneer. "What of loyalty? What of honoring the last wishes of a dying parent?"

"As if you would understand such things, Martin," the knight said. "Or 'Razmartin,' isn't it? Yes, I'd heard that you had added your childhood nickname to your name. I'm sure it sounds very magi-like, full of power, and mystery! Or do you tell your masters where the name comes from?"

"Now it is you who speaks of things beyond your comprehension, Ticos," the mage said. "You never did understand, you tin-plated fool."

Ticos opened his mouth to retort, but Dannil interjected, pushing between them as if he believed that they would come to blows right there. "Quiet, both of you! What is wrong with you, fighting like this, when the woman who raised us is dying in the next room!"

His words seemed to humble the two of them for a moment, but then Ticos turned and stormed out of the room. Razmartin paused a moment, then admitted, "You're right, Dannil. You know, I still think of you as that runt who was always stealing pastries from the kitchen, but I think maybe you've gotten some wisdom beaten into that thick head of yours. If only Ticos Gewehr could have the same done for him," he added to himself in an undertone that Izandra was just able to make out.

He clapped Dannil on the shoulder, but his look grew serious. "Unfortunately, Dannil, I cannot remain long either. I have only recently been elevated to master status in the Guild, and my first independent assignment awaits me in Roron."

Dannil said nothing, but even though his back was to her Izandra thought she could guess what look was on his face. "I see," he finally said.

"I am sorry," Razmartin said. "I suppose I am guilty of the same failing of which I accused Ticos, just a moment ago. But life sometimes limits our choices, no matter how we would wish the contrary. I would think that was something you would understand, if anyone could."

"Life is a collection of choices," Dannil said. "Do not worry, mother Ilrien's charges will be carried out."

"I know, Dan," the older man said. "And despite our feud, I know I can speak for Ticos in this. We lead lives that put great restrictions on us, but if you need us..."

He didn't finish, didn't have to, for both of them knew that although the feeling was there, the time that both the knight and the mage were needed was now, and neither could be counted on for their help. But Dannil didn't rub in the point, only nodded and took the mage's offered hand.

Then he, too, was gone.

"What was that all about?" Ezran said, softly enough so that his words would not penetrate the door to the bedchamber.

"Their battle is one that goes back many years," he said to them, clearly distracted. "They left soon only a few months after I arrived, so I did not know either especially well. Although I was told that at one time, they were the closest of friends. I guess that sort of intimacy, when soured, makes the anger that much stronger, and deeper."

"Come on, Dannil," Izandra said, softly. "Let's get some rest."

Dannil nodded, and let her lead him out of the room.

* * * * *

Chapter 10

Lady Ilrien e'Donnel died that night following her final reunion with her three former charges, passing on quietly shortly after midnight. Gindar was there, as was Lira, the two of them watching an almost ceaseless vigil despite their own exhaustion, the last of the lady's close friends, excepting those children she had raised. Forty years she had made the Children's Home her life's work, following the death of her husband, Kerel. Her relations considered her life there a sort of exile; they were glad just to have her out of the way of their management of the barony. Her great-nephew, Kelvan Thoros e'Dolnor, was the Baron of Limbrock, ruling the region as fief from the mighty king of Rigal as had generations of his lineage stretching back hundreds of years. Ilrien had loved Kerel with all her heart, but she'd never been able to grant him a child to continue his line and the Donnel name. There was precedent for the wife of a dead ruler to rule as Baroness in the absence of male children, but after losing Kerel to sickness she'd lost all interest in managing the barony. It was not through lack of ability; she'd been a true helpmate in his two decades of rule, and her sound advice had helped guide his hand during that time.

The Children's Home had given her a renewed sense of purpose. One of the issues she'd been an advocate for during her husband's time as baron was the welfare of children. She felt that issue no less keenly for her lack of her own offspring, and had always believed that the events that shaped a child's first few years primarily determined the course of their future life. Thus after Kerel's death she had abdicated in favor of her nephew, the adult son of her husband's younger sister. It had not taken long for her innate strength to reassert itself, at least to prompt her to do something meaningful with her time and energy..

Taking some of the money left from her personal fortune, a sum earned rather than inherited, she had purchased the isolated site a day's ride northeast of Westmere and went to work. Several of her closest friends and long-time family retainers had freely volunteered their help, and soon the run-down farm had become a haven for poor children who'd suffered the ultimate loss at the hands of fate. The more superstitious said that Laesil cried when she placed such a heavy burden on such innocents, but who could say? Certainly that belief offered no consolation to the young souls suddenly left alone in the world.

Ilrien had insisted that none of her helpers use her full name or title. She wanted to be known for who she was, not who she had been, or who her husband had been. Her nephew's son, who took over rule a scant four years later, seemed quite content to leave matters at that, and soon thereafter Ilrien stopped paying heed to the rest of her family. Her new family consumed all of her time, and she started living again, keeping her grief but placing it aside for quiet, lonely moments.

And now, she was gone.

The household was draped in grief again, everyone, even the smallest children somehow understanding that now was not the time for play or games. About sixty people lived at the Home, the overwhelming majority of them under the age of fifteen. Older children helped the younger ones, and the few adults tried their best to keep the farm running smoothly despite their own grief.

"I can't believe she's really gone."

Dannil slumped against the high-backed bench that ran along the wall of the abandoned kitchen, adjacent to the exterior door. The room was dark, the lamps in sconces along the walls and hanging from the ceiling rafters unlit, leaving only the faint light of the morning that crept in through the still-shuttered windows. Breakfast had been served hours ago, and now the kitchen was still except for the faint sounds of a large kettle of soup left bubbling on one of the large cast-iron stoves against the far wall.

"She was glad that you came, Dannil, and she died knowing that her final wishes would be honored," Izandra said. The two of them were alone. She'd left Ezran to sleep late in one of the guest rooms above. Her brother, less suited to long-distance travel than she and Dannil, had suffered more from the strain of the rapid journey, and needed his rest. For that matter, it had taken some effort for her to rouse herself that morning, but when she had first awoken she had immediately sensed the change that had come over the household over the course of the night.

It had taken her a little time to find Dannil, but knowing his habits she finally came upon him in an isolated corner of the farm, staring disconsolately out into the face of the dawn. Neither said anything, just sharing companionship and support in the way of two people who had known each other for a long time. Finally, after some time had passed, Izandra led Dannil back here, to the back entrance of the house and the quiet of the kitchen. They'd missed breakfast, but neither felt really hungry in any case.

"What sort of services will they—" Izandra said, trailing off as the awkward words caught in her throat. She knew how people in Sindelar handled the death of one of their own, but was unsure what would happen in this case, what with all the children.

"I only spoke to Lira and Gindar briefly," he said. "I suppose there will be a memorial, and perhaps a ceremony, with a priest. They'll bury her in the simple cemetery here," he added. "I know that's what she wanted, would have told her friends."

"To be close to her children."

Dannil nodded. A moment of silence stretched on between them, then he shifted uncomfortably, and said, "I don't understand, Zan," he said, and the emotion was thick in his voice as he struggled with the words. "Why did she choose me? I mean, I can understand Ticos and Razmartin, they are grown men, and already powerful and influential. I... I mean, I've never done anything of note, and I've never been considered... reliable."

"I don't think that's true," Izandra said, "and I don't think the Lady Ilrien believed that either. You mentioned the knight and the mage, yes, they might have standing and status, but they are not here, and you are." She let the simple truth of that statement hang between them for a moment, then continued, "And I've always known I could count on you, Dannil. You were there for me with the kobalos."

"That was just luck, being in the right place at the right time."

"I'm not talking about you happening to be in the area," she told him. "True, you might have been a hundred miles away that evening. I'm referring to everything that happened after we ran into each other, that involved choices, and not 'luck'. If you had been a hundred miles away, you could not have helped me, but I know that if you had encountered someone else in need, in another place that same night, you would have helped them as readily as you helped me."

"Thanks, Izandra," he said, looking up to meet her gaze directly. "It means a lot to me that you think so of me. You've always been a great friend."

She embraced him, and when they separated, he looked as though he wanted to say something else, but was a little reluctant to do so. Izandra already knew what it was, but she waited for him to get it out in his own time.

"I could use a friend, in what lies ahead," he finally said.

"Of course, Ezran and I will come with you to Adelmar," she said. It was an easy commitment to make, but in the back of her mind she was still preoccupied with her own questions, the mysteries of what had happened to her, and the circle of strange calamity that had been woven around her and her mentor. She wanted to seek out the answers to those questions, but right now, her friend needed her more.

The questions would have to wait.

* * *

Ezran stretched his back as he stood in the late-afternoon sunshine on the front porch of the main building of the Children's Home, letting the light play over him. When he walked out across the courtyard to check on their horse, it was clear that he was still suffering slightly from the strain of travel, for his movements were a little halting and uneven. The horse had been well-tended, brushed down and fed by one of the children, in all likelihood, so he crossed to the gate and went exploring. The Home was a working farm, he found, and everything was kept in good order, tools hanging in their proper places, animals fed and content, and metal gleaming when stray rays of sunshine struck it.

The young man was oblivious to the eyes that watched his progress as he wandered about the grounds of the Home. From the shaded boughs of a tree that had not yet lost its foliage to the coming of winter the Seer watched patiently. His dirty-brown cloak matched almost perfectly the husk of the tree's bark and the withered color of its leaves, making him almost completely invisible. He'd been there since early that morning, far enough away from the buildings of the farm complex to avoid possible detection by the children that seemed to infest the place, but close enough to see the entire scene clearly.

He was alone, for the moment. It had been necessary to send his kobalos back to their hidden camps in the hills to the east when the trail of his quarry had led him deeper into Limbrock. He could easily avoid detection, but it would have been all but impossible to slip even a small company of the unpredictable savages into the civilized lands where he had to go. In a sense, he was glad to be rid of them, for despite the bond of shared blood that he felt with them, they were also a reminder of what his own heritage had cost him. His lip curled at the thought. He was prescient enough to recognize that his perspective was somewhat slanted, but his anger and bitterness—and his craving for power—were too deep for him to shift his attitudes.

He watched the youth as his wanderings carried him around the edges of the complex, pausing here and again to help one of the young orphans with their chores. The Seer toyed with the idea of taking him, and considered the possibilities that would offer, but the thought was fleeting and quickly discarded. No, patience was the better course. He would watch, and wait. He knew—all too well, he knew—the dangers of waiting too long, but he would not risk everything by letting himself be forced into precipitous action.

So he watched, and waited.

* * * * *

Chapter 11

Cedric Dorthin, baron of Rockridge, quit his pacing and frowned. The slight curl of his lips was about as close to an expression of emotion that he came, but to those who knew him, it was as expressive as another man's wild shouting.

He was in a richly paneled room, a private study. The aged and weathered wood of the walls and floor was covered with finely woven tapestries, mementos of hunts and battles, and plush carpets. A brisk fire burned in the open hearth, banishing the chill that swept in through the cracks in the window moldings. The cold was from the wind that came down off the mountains. It had always blown here, at the fortress appropriately named Stormhold, and the baron supposed that it would continue to blow long after he was gone.

The fortress had once been a border stronghold, marking the edges of the power of Roron and warding the dangers of the Ralos Mountains. Now Roron the empire was gone, and Stormhold was the seat of an independent barony, but the wind and the dangers remained. Rockridge had always been the gateway into the mountains, a place that fierce beasts and equally fierce men called home. Sometimes some of both came down from the mountains into the warmer lands below, seeking to prey upon the softer—from their perspective—people of the hills. That had gone on until the people of the borderlands had become hard as well, tempered by the rough life on the frontier.

Dorthin walked across the room to one of the windows and brushed open the heavy curtains. The glass was cloudy—the stuff was expensive, and due to the storms frequently replaced—but he could see the great forest that stretched out to the west, rising up until the hills gave way to the steep rock faces of the mountain range. Those mountains seemed to loom over Stormhold, as if mocking the fortress's pretensions at durability and permanence. The forest, too, was dangerous, but it also provided the people of Rockridge their living. Sawmills all along the streams that ran down out of the mountains on their way to the plains below were constantly edging that forest further back, but it would take generations until the forests had been cleared, and Rockridge truly reflected the barrenness of its name.

Such matters were not his concern, Dorthin thought. He glanced down at the letter he held in one gloved hand.

The baron was tall and angular, almost as if he'd been stretched slightly until his limbs appeared not quite fully proportional to his body. That sense was accentuated by the slight awkwardness in the way he moved, with a limp caused by an old wound from an arrow that had never properly healed. He wore neither beard nor mustache, but let his hair fall freely down to his shoulders. That hair was thinning and slowly shifting to gray, but did not diminish the authority that hung about him like an old cloak.

The baron lifted the message, looked at the crumpled parchment. He put it down on the table in the center of the room, smoothed it out, and read it again, making sure that he hadn't missed anything in his first hurried scan of the document. He frowned as he read the words a second time.

"You are certain this intelligence is accurate, Reed?" the baron said.

"The informant is reliable, my lord baron." the other occupant of the study said. He was a notable contrast to the baron, short and favoring stoutness. He wore a simple tunic and trousers without fancy trim or other adornments, yet a second look would show that the garments were very well made, with double stitching and a warm lining against the cold. His puffy face was red either from exertion or the heat of the fireplace, and he looked like a cook's helper, or perhaps an unlucky stableman pressed into delivering an unpleasant message to the master of the fortress.

Those were inaccurate and dangerous assumptions, in this case.

"Blast the man!" Dorthin said, again uncharacteristically letting his emotions show as he turned from the window and strode across the thick carpet. "He has to know that this will bring the full fury of all the barons upon his head!"

"With all respect, lord," Reed prodded, "there is little open provocation for such a response. It was very artfully done, when considered as a whole."

The baron turned and focused a hard gaze on him, but he said nothing. Reed continued, ticking off a series of points on the stubby fingers of one hand as he spoke.

"First, he invites you and Cathor, and a few of the lesser lords, to his castle to discuss the bandit problem. For all that you are all rivals, you all suffer equally from the depredations of the hill bandits, so you agree to pool your resources to seek out the bandit camps, and eradicate them. The Kol Hills are closest to their hidden strongholds..."

"Except for those devils who lair within the Ralos themselves, and come down to the plain via Rockridge!" the baron broke in.

"Of course," Reed said. "But for that very reason, you cannot afford the men-at-arms needed for such an expedition. Hrathgar agrees to shoulder most of the burden of raising the necessary levies for the task, so leadership of the campaign devolves upon him."

"And he has done all of that well," the baron reluctantly admitted. He was surprised when news came that Hrathgar had decided not to wait until the coming of spring to act. Hrathgar's men had raided two bandit camps in the lower reaches of the range. Dorthin had a few paid spies in the force, of course, and they reported that while the bandits had numbered only a few dozen and had been in pretty haggard shape, they had fought with desperate fury. For all that, Hrathgar's veteran soldiers and the new levies had effectively annihilated both camps. Most of the bandits had been put to the sword or captured to brand and sell into slavery in the south, with only a few stragglers escaping into the hills to tell the grim tale of what had happened.

Reed nodded, to acknowledge the baron's point. "Just so." He raised his hand again, however, and ticked off another point. "But then, second. A month ago, Baron Cathor dies in a horrible accident, mangled by his own hunting hounds. Beasts that, to all observers, loved him like a father."

"Certainly more than his own son," Dorthin muttered. There was a tinge of jealousy there, though, Reed knew. Dorthin had never had a son himself, and it was not for lack of trying. He'd married six of his seven daughters (by three wives) to lowland nobles, and while the connections he'd won through those matches had brought him influence and money, neither seemed proof against the ambitions of his aggressive neighbor.

"Third, and this brings us to the message that you just received. As I said, it all fits into part of a pattern, when you look at the events of the past two months collectively. Yesterday, just two weeks after his father is laid into the ground, the new Baron Cathor signs a treaty of alliance with Kol Hills, placing his forces under the joint command of Hrathgar. Not an entirely unreasonable action, from the young baron's perspective. He's at least clever enough to know that he's not the leader his father was, and with his barony's rich agricultural lands, there would be no shortage of parties interested in carving out a piece, from the remaining bandit lords to the other barons."

_Including you_ , he didn't have to say.

"Yes, it all makes sense," Dorthin said, berating himself for not seeing it sooner. He'd made overtures to the young Cathor, but it seemed that the young man had heeded the deep rivalry between his father and Dorthin, and he'd been just enough full of himself to haughtily reject Dorthin's proposals. How Hrathgar had brought him around he couldn't fathom. Maybe he'd flattered the silly brat, he thought.

"And now..." Reed trailed off.

"And now," Dorthin finished for him, "Hrathgar borders us on two sides, with the mountains and the bandits forming the anvil against which he can smash us at will."

"My lord should not underestimate his own influence among the barons," Reed said. Dorthin raised an eyebrow; the statement was similar to his own earlier comment, which Reed had rejected.

"But what can I do, until Hrathgar acts?" Dorthin asked, more to himself than to his advisor. The plump man recognized that the question was not directed at him, and held his peace while the baron worked out the problem for himself.

"If I act precipitously, I risk alienating my possible supporters, who are already suspicious of Hrathgar, even if they consider him little more than a frontier lord of little account."

Reed knew that many felt the same about Dorthin, but he wisely said nothing.

"We need to know what Hrathgar is planning," the baron concluded, and Reed was quick to nod his agreement. "There is a rumor that he has sent for a guild war mage to bolster his forces," the baron added.

"Yes, I have heard that as well," Reed admitted. Reed had in fact been the one who had seen to it that the baron had heard that intelligence, although the baron did not know that his advisor was the source of the information. Reed privately considered the baron's own advisor, the witch Hevrah, to be a more significant threat, but he knew that Dorthin would not look at an old woman as a true danger, even if she was a bios mage of considerable power. Reed had his suspicions that the witch was involved in what had happened to Cathor, but he kept those thoughts to himself. Like many of the Roronian barons, Dorthin clung to some of the old superstitions about sorcery, and while it might be useful to raise some doubts about Hrathgar with the other barons on that score, to do so openly without evidence would risk creating a backlash against them. Reed had already taken steps to see that such seeds would be planted quietly, in such a way that they could not be traced back to their source.

"What significance do you attach to that, if it is indeed true, Reed?" the baron prodded, pulling the man out of his private thoughts.

"It is a risky course, but fits in with what we know of Hrathgar," Reed replied. "Unless he has some source of revenue that we do not know about, it would tax his resources dearly, to hire a guild mage for even a brief period of time. Ostensibly, his rationalization will be that he needs the services of the mage for his final push against the hill bandits and their main camps with the coming of spring. But his action will alarm many of the barons, and will probably turn a few of the fence-sitters against him."

"Most of the lowland baronies are far richer than Koll Hills, and it is unlikely that Hrathgar's new alliance will give him anything more than a temporary advantage," Dorthin mused. His pacing took him over to the hearth, where a heavy steel battle-axe was hanging above the mantle. He ran his hand over the polished wood of the haft, a symbolic gesture, really, for no Dorthin had hefted such a weapon in three generations. It was not that the baron was a coward, but his family had evolved past the point where leadership came from brute force and the legitimacy born of strength. Although the mountain predators were always present, Cedric Dorthin believed his legacy to be more significant than leading a company of doughty hillmen into battle. He was more a general, who used his strategic understanding to chart the course for the men with swords and axes to follow.

Arghus Hrathgar, unlike his father, was much the same sort of leader, Reed mused.

"So how do we respond to this action, this provocation, from Hrathgar?" the baron asked. Again it was toned as a rhetorical question, but Dorthin turned his gaze to Reed, seeking an answer.

"Openly, you congratulate Hrathgar in taking young Cathor under his protection and guidance," Reed said. Dorthin's eyes narrowed dangerously, but he held his tongue, knowing that there would be more. "You continue with the alliance as planned, and support Hrathgar in his continued action against the bandits. If nothing else, that will help give Rockridge a stable frontier at your back, when Hrathgar chooses to act against you."

"If his campaign against the hill bandits doesn't stir up the mountain folk against us," Dorthin interjected.

Reed nodded deferentially. It was a simple connection to make, but he was glad the baron had drawn it himself. It would help him to adopt the rest of Reed's program as his own. "Meanwhile, you prepare for the inevitable confrontation. The baron's actions have already given many of the other nobles pause, and with a little subtle..."

He broke off as the noisy sound of iron-shod boots clattering nearer in the hall outside the door interrupted him. The baron had turned to the door, a distracted frown creasing his face, when someone burst into the room. It was Kel Thorp, the commander of Dorthin's two-score guardsmen. The man was dressed in mail, and his sword clattered noisily against his armored hip as he came to an abrupt halt just inside the doorway.

"My lord, I have just received word that a large group of bandits has raided the village of Catheria, and is riding hard for Eagle's Watch. If my scouts report true, they will hit the town before nightfall."

Dorthin shot a hard look at Reed, and the plump man reddened involuntarily. His agents among the hill bandits had been silent of late, but the trickle of information that came from them had always been sporadic, and he had not attributed any more sinister implications to that silence, until now. He tried to come up with something to say, sound advice that did not sound like an excuse, but the baron's attention had already turned to the commander.

"My troops are already preparing for a hard ride south," Thorp was saying, as he and the baron strode swiftly out of the room. "The townsfolk will of course be forewarned, but they will not be able to stand against the raiders. My scouts say that the raiders are commanded by Karluk himself, and number over a hundred warriors."

"We must reach the town before they do," the baron said. Reed was only just able to make out Dorthin's words, for the two men were already well down the hallway that led away from the study. The baron's advisor knew he would have to hurry to follow, but he was still surprised at being so caught off guard, and he also recognized that it might be a good time to remain in the background, out of the baron's attention.

And there were a few other thoughts that came to mind, as well. Perhaps it was time to make a few preparations of his own.

He left the room moments after, but headed in a different direction down the hall that led away from the baron's study, to another part of Stormhold.

* * *

The last rays of the setting sun blazed off the metal armor worn by the men who surrounded baron Dorthin. The air was full with the sound of horseshoes clattering on the packed mud of the wagon track that ran from Stormhold to Eagle's Watch. The baron did not wear armor, but was clad instead in a warm fur cape over a wool tunic that was brightly emblazoned with the crest of Rockridge, a fierce eagle clutching a lance and a shield in its talons. He wore a slender longsword on his hip, but the war axe of his forefathers remained back in its place atop the mantle in his fortress, a relic of a time that no longer was.

The town of Eagle's Watch came into view below them as they crested the last hill. Situated in the center of a wide dell, surrounded by low hills, the town was a modestly prosperous trading community of some two hundred souls. It marked the southernmost extent of Dorthin's barony, a day's ride from Stormhold. And it had been a day of hard riding, with Thorp pushing his men and driving their horses to exhaustion. They'd seized remounts at the scattered villages along the road, but even so a few men had been left behind, their horses faltering on the hard ride, the men left to follow the hurriedly assembled army as best they could.

They'd left Stormhold less than an hour after Thorp's hasty announcement, taking every able-bodied man and every sound horse they could assemble. Dorthin had only taken a few minutes to leave instructions to Reed for the defense of the fortress, just in case. With their conversation about Hrathgar fresh in his mind, the baron had quickly realized that his rival might move to take advantage of this bold play on the part of the hill bandits. Apparently Hrathgar's raids had made an impact, though it was out of character for the bandits to move so aggressively into the heart of his barony. Dorthin vowed to himself that they would pay for their arrogance in this case.

The town looked unchanged as the twin column roared down the hill toward its gates. Like every town on the frontier it was surrounded by a tall stockade, and while at first glance the place seemed ready for a quiet evening, as the baron's forces drew nearer they could see armed men walking the parapets. Others were returning from the outlying settlements, bearing heavy burdens with them as they filed into the town in a steady procession. Apparently the town had not been wasting the day, and they were at least prepared to fight to repulse the raiders, if they chose to make an appearance.

That would be foolish now, even if Karluk had been able to assemble a force as large as the scouts suggested. Although Dorthin's army had been hastily assembled, it still represented a significant fighting force. At its core was Thorp's cadre of forty skilled guardsmen, trained and disciplined men-at-arms who were veterans of the tough life of fighting along the frontier. They were augmented by another score of armed scouts, hunters, and trappers, men who lacked the training of the soldiers but who were still tough and hardy, and well skilled in the use of the heavy composite bows that hung from the saddles of most of them. Finally, there were about a dozen more men at the rear of the column, militia they'd raised along the way. Poorly armed and equipped in comparison to the others, these men had one thing in common. Their eyes burned with the fire of anger, and their held their medley of weapons in hands that did not tremble. Dorthin knew these men, whom he had not refused when they had volunteered to ride along with the relief force to meet the incursion. Theirs was a common enough sort in Rockridge, men who'd suffered personally from bandits and their ilk in the past, men who bore a personal grudge against all those who lived in the deep fastness of the hills and mountains. The hill raiders considered these men prey, and they'd had enough of the surprise attacks and sudden raids. They were not expert fighters, but Dorthin hoped that their anger would help infuse them all with a spirit of vengeance that could be unleashed upon Karluk's horde.

Some of the townspeople let out a cheer as the baron's company rode into the town at a full gallop. Some of those carrying burdens had to hurry to get out of the way of the charging horses. Dorthin waved to some of the locals, but let his column ride straight through the outskirts of stout wooden shacks and low stone structures into the open central square of the town. The baron immediately saw the mayor of Eagle's Watch, a portly man named Eckard Wordt, conversing with a pair of armed scouts adjacent to the broad stone well in the center of the square. Wordt was a former merchant, who'd earned his current position of power through three decades of helping to fill the coffers of Rockridge. In the process, he'd built his own personal worth considerably. Even now, he ran the chaotic scene as if he were shouting directions to a gang of laborers assembling a cargo for a last-minute shipment. He occasionally broke off his conversation with the scouts to shout orders or point directions, and people changed course, rushing off to attend to a new task. Townsfolk were all about the square, moving in all directions, but there was a sense of purpose behind it all, of things getting done despite the obvious tension and fear that was reflected in the faces of the people.

Thorp was already giving his men orders to tend to their horses and their own needs, then he dismounted and joined the baron as he strode quickly over to the mayor. The former merchant stepped forward to greet his liege lord, gesturing the two scouts back behind him with a wave of his hand.

"My lord baron," the man said, bowing deeply. "We are so grateful that you have come. With your leadership, surely we will drive the impudent scum back into their mountain holes!"

"What news, Wordt?" the baron replied simply, tugging off his gloves and tucking them into his belt.

"Apparently, the filth have heard of your coming, for my scouts report that the band has altered its course, turning its attention onto the scattered outlying settlements. I have already had those evacuated, and everyone—or just about everyone, at least—has taken shelter within the stockade."

The news wasn't really anything new to the baron. He'd kept well informed throughout the ride by Thorp's own scouts, who had been tracking the progress of the bandit force throughout the day. The fact that they'd entered his barony without being detected grated on him, but he had no intention of letting them slip away, 'back into their mountain holes,' as the mayor had put it, so easily.

"Where is the main body of the bandit force now?" Dorthin asked.

"As far as I can tell, they've pulled back to Tanner's Ridge," the mayor said, gesturing vaguely with a sweep of his hand toward the ever-steeper rows of hills to the west. "I don't suppose they'll stay there long, though," he said.

"How many men do you have here?" the baron asked.

"Including all those who've come in from the outlying settlements, about one hundred and twenty," the mayor said. "Planning on going out after them?" he added, rubbing his hands together nervously.

The baron purposely ignored him, turning back to Thorp. "Find quarters for the men, and gather supplies. We'll leave with the dawn."

Thorp nodded and turned away to put Dorthin's orders into practice. Later there would be more consultation between the two men, including talk of strategy, but they would not discuss their plans here on the open street, where ears belonging to anyone might be about.

Dorthin turned back to the mayor, who looked uncomfortable at being ignored, his dry-washing of his hands picking up pace in an unsettling way. As the baron focused back on him, he said, more timorously, "How many of my men will you be wishing to take with you, my lord baron?"

"Just a half-score, or thereabouts," the baron replied. "Gather men who know the hills to the west, and know how to get around quickly without being seen." He regarded the mayor once more, then added, "You've done a good job here, Wordt," he said. "See to it that my men are fed and provisioned, and given fresh mounts when possible, and you'll be rewarded when all this is over."

The merchant-mayor started to say something in acknowledgement, but the words were lost as Dorthin was already well distant, his retreating back disappearing into the press of men, women, and horses that filled the open space of the square. Wordt brushed a slick of perspiration off of his brow, then started grabbing familiar faces to issue new orders.

* * *

When the sun rose enough to shed its rays on the roofs of Eagle's Watch, the newly resupplied and reinforced column of men was already well on its way into the hills west of the town. Scouts had been dispatched well before dawn to seek out the location of the bandit force, but even without their reports the rising plumes of smoke that emerged from the hills offered a grim marker as to the progress of the raiders.

Rather than head for Tanner's Ridge, the last reported location of the main bandit force, Dorthin and his column headed further south, following the course of an old, currently dry streambed that wound between the knobby hills. The stream would become a rushing torrent with the onset of the spring rains, but that was half a year ahead. Now, in the interim between the fall drizzles and the falling snows of winter, the land was covered in a brown coat of dried scrub and dead growth, the earth beneath packed and easily negotiated by the horses of the baron's men.

They rode on with determination, rarely stopping and then only for a few minutes to tend to the horses, the men stealing time to eat trail rations while in the saddle. Some of the horses would be ruined by the hard treatment, but the men needed little encouragement from Thorp or the baron to press even harder. Most of them had either friends or relatives among the people of the southern hills of Rockridge, and all had either personally witnessed or heard tales about the depredations caused by the bandits over the years.

They had not seen a single bandit when they reached their destination, and the reports from the scouts said only that the enemy force was engaged in ravaging the area north of them in small bands, scouring the terrain for settlements and isolated farms they could raid and then destroy. They would not find much. The word had gotten out, and the people of Rockridge would be clustered in armed groups at defensible villages and steadholds, proof against raiders and marauding gangs of men and kobalos.

Thorp spoke briefly with the baron and then rode out among the men to set up their defenses. Dorthin rode up atop a small rise and dismounted, appreciating the quiet majesty of the farthest edge of his domain.

He knew the place, although the last time he'd been here was in his youth, when his father had taken him on an extended tour of their family holdings. The Twin Fists, the place was called, and the two peaks that loomed above him did in fact look like the massive arms of a giant, steep ridges of stone that ended in jutting knobs resembling clenched fists. The Fists warded one of the few navigable passes that led into the mountains. Once through the pass, the route split into a maze of hidden paths and trails that led deep into the range. Only a fool would ride into that maze, even with a body of armed men, unless exceptionally prepared or exceptionally brave. For the mountains were the realm of hunters and predators, intelligent or otherwise, and they knew every bend and trick of the trails.

But the men of Rockridge weren't going into the mountains. They were going to stay right there, and wait for the bandits to return, loaded down with stolen supplies and loot and confident in the success of their raid. Now it was the enemy who were caught between hammer and anvil, for the only other easy way into the mountains was to the north, in the passes that ran west of the dense forests around Stormhold. And that country would not be friendly to them, not now, not after what they'd stirred up here in the south. The only other way to go was east, further away from their bases and the sanctuary of the mountains. If they went that way, well and good. It would take longer, perhaps, Dorthin thought, but destruction lay at the end of that road as well.

"We should set up camp, my lord baron," a voice said, disturbing his musings. He looked up to see one of the men-at-arms, whose name he'd forgotten, reining it near the crest of the hill where he waited.

"Aye," the baron said, his attention not really on the soldier. He was looking into the pass, where the ground rose in a steep but manageable slope until it disappeared deep within the embrace of the Fists. The terrain was well-suited to defense, with a multitude of sheltered positions from which the baron's men could launch arrows and crossbow bolts and even heavy stones upon the bandit forces. His gaze shifted to the rocky funnel that formed the floor of the pass, where the final clash of arms would occur, if the bandits did not break and seek to flee at the first sign of resistance. With Karluk leading them, Dorthin did not expect that to be the case. He knew that Thorp would recognize the same things that he did, and would deploy their forces appropriately, but something else nagged at him, a worry that teased at the edge of his thoughts but would not come fully into clarity in his mind. He shrugged it off as the soldier addressed him again.

"Do you think they'll come tonight, my lord?" the guardsman, who could not have been much older than twenty, asked him.

_How am I supposed to know?_ the baron thought, but he'd been a leader long enough to know the value of presenting an illusion of omniscience to those who followed. As he mounted his tired and reluctant horse he said, "Tonight, or tomorrow morning." The soldier nodded sagely, as if Dorthin had done more than simply recite the obvious.

When he reached the bottom of the hill he immediately saw Thorp, who had ridden some distance into the mouth of the pass, and was already setting up positions for his men. Several more scouts had already ridden north to provide updated information about the movements of the bandit force, but Dorthin knew that they would be coming. He'd spent a lifetime fighting the incursions of the mountain bandits, and the experience won from those encounters had taught him something of the mentality of those hard folk that scratched out a cruel life in the depths of the Ralos.

An hour passed, and then a second, the sun following its inevitable course toward the uneven edge of the mountain horizon that loomed over them. A wind sprang up, its chill driving away complaints about tired muscles or saddle sores as the men found a new enemy that fought to steal away hoarded warmth. Each man knew that the bandits would be worse than any such mundane complaints, however, and that thought steeled them as they prepared their defenses.

Thorp stationed men in twin rows along the sides of the Fists, in concealed positions high enough along the sloping sides so that they would be very difficult to dislodge by men either mounted or on foot from below. He chose a point several hundred yards into the pass as the final redoubt. There, promontories of rock and clumps of fallen boulders narrowed the gap between the ridges to just under fifty feet across, offering a bottleneck where a few defenders could hold against a much larger force. There he stationed the bulk of his guardsmen, thirty armored men well-armed with swords, axes, and spears. Their task was to block the bandits, should they try to force their way through the gauntlet of hidden bowmen. It was the same site that Dorthin had observed from his hilltop vantage. They concealed their horses deeper in the pass, under the watchful eyes of a few men assigned to the task, where they could be brought forward for pursuit of fleeing bandits if necessary.

Dorthin had selected a new vantage point, atop a sheltered ledge perched about fifty feet above the floor of the pass, just beyond the point where the stone walls narrowed and the main body of Thorp's men watched and waited. The location gave him a clear view of all their defensive positions and of the lands beyond the mouth of the pass, where their enemies would come, if Dorthin had judged their intentions clearly. Each time a scout rode into the pass his eyes narrowed, as if the man brought news that he'd guessed wrong, that the bandits had headed in another direction, or had somehow learned of their ambush and sought escape via another path. If that occurred they would alter their plans accordingly, but Dorthin knew that his standing with his men would suffer with that disappointment. He led, he was supposed to know what the enemy would do.

They would come, he knew that they would.

Then, with less than an hour left to the day, another rider rode hard into the canyon. Men looked up in interest from their rest, perhaps sensing somehow that this scout brought news of import. Dorthin felt it as well, and he started down the narrow, rocky path that led back down from his perch to their headquarters just behind the chokepoint in the pass.

When he finally got there, Thorp had already met the rider, who seemed as winded as his horse. Dorthin heard him clearly, though, as his words sent a tremor of anticipation through the assembled men.

"They're coming, sir, right on my heels! All of them, by the looks of it, over a hundred, perhaps six, seven score. Only a few of them are mounted, but they're moving fast on foot..." The man paused to steal a hurried breath, then continued, "They'll be here in minutes!"

"Did they see you?" Thorp asked.

"Not that I could tell, sir, but they don't seem that intent on anything, except getting back to the mountains."

"Did you see Karluk?" Dorthin broke in, as he reached the gathering of men.

"I think so," the scout replied. "He's a big brute, looks like he's got a whole score of kobalos with him. They sort of stand out."

"Fifty silver pieces to the man who brings him down, whether by sword or arrow," Dorthin said. The assembled men exchanged a quick look at that, and the baron smiled inwardly. The sum was about twice the annual wages for a skilled guardsman, and a worthy incentive to bring an end to the career of the infamous bandit captain.

"All right, to your positions," Thorp growled, and the men sprang into action, returning to their assigned posts. Those whose job it was to block the pass took shelter amidst the boulders and debris, to remain in hiding until the bandits either tried to force their way through, or turned tail and tried to retreat. In the latter case, the horses would be brought forward, and the chase—not a long one, with rested horses pitted against tired men on foot—would begin.

Dorthin quickly returned to his vantage point. His role was to direct, not to lead from the front of the fighting. Thorp, he knew, would be in the thick of it, but Cedric Dorthin was not a warrior lord of the old Roronian style, and he knew it. It would not do for his forces to decimate the bandit army, only for him to be struck down by a stray arrow.

By the time he'd regained his position, he could see them coming. Not an orderly column like the one he'd led here, but a chaotic mob, crawling forward over the hills like an army of ants rushing toward the safety of their burrow. They were still too distant to be seen clearly, but he confirmed the estimate of the scout, that there were at least six score. Only a handful of those were mounted, visible in a tight cluster in the center of the force. They would not remain so long, he knew. The archers would focus their fire on them, assuming the mounted men to be the bandit leaders.

Dorthin sensed a stirring pass through the assembled men around him, although most of them were invisible behind the concealment of boulders and carefully piled rocks. Their position was like a large "V", with the narrow gap below him forming the anchor of the trap into which the bandits were riding. The baron tensed, willing his men to be patient. Part of him was expecting a clatter of loose rock, an inexperienced archer loosing too soon, or some other accident of fate that would warn their enemies of their presence. Thorp had planned well, however, placing the militiamen alongside experienced soldiers in their positions, and no sign or alert warned those coming into the pass from below.

The bandits were a varied group, the baron saw from his position of concealment. Dressed in all manner of garb, from valley-made woolens to crude furs to iron mail, they all carried weapons of every imaginable shape and manufacture. There were even women among them, tall and armed and as deadly-looking as the men. Most were burdened with varying sorts of loot taken in their raiding, but if the heavy loads burdened them, they did not show signs of slowing as they drew closer to the Fists. The mountain folk were hardy, toughened by their life in the rugged lands beyond the frontier, and few who were weak or fragile survived long in that environment.

He was able to pick out the kobalos quickly. They traveled in a close band, with an obvious distance marking them off from the more numerous humans. At this distance the reddish tinge of their skin was the only obvious feature setting them apart, but it was something more than that that distinguished them. Maybe it was an untamable wildness about them, even more stark than the men of the mountains. In their midst strode a hulking figure that Dorthin could only suppose was Karluk, the nemesis whose raids had made his name hated among all of the barons whose territories abutted the mountain range. He wore a mantle of thick furs that protected his entire body, and carried a great wooden shield the size of a wagon wheel on one arm. In fact, it appeared that a fair number of the bandits were so protected. It would make the task of the archers more difficult, but then, they would be firing from both sides of the pass, and even the best shield could only face one direction at once.

Onward they came, seemingly oblivious. They slowed slightly as they entered the confining walls of the pass, but still gave no indication that they sensed the danger awaiting them.

Then, so suddenly that Dorthin could not tell exactly when or how it began, chaos exploded in the pass.

Arrows slashed through the air like birds in flight, darting down into the ranks of the bandit force. Cries of pain and surprise filled the canyon and echoed off the steep stone walls of the pass. Horses fell hard to the ground, dropping riders, and men staggered about, arrows jutting from their bodies.

But the bandits reacted quickly to the onslaught, recovering and responding with a speed that caught Dorthin by surprise. From the center of the bandit force a wedge formed, men coming together in a compact formation with their shields raised to protect each flank from the continuing barrage of arrows. For every long shaft that found a home in a vulnerable body, two others stuck in the hide-covered wood of a shield or bounced off of a metal plate that formed part of a jacket of haphazard but effective armor. Some of the bandits unlimbered their own bows and returned fire, and while most of their shots were deflected from the rocks that sheltered the attackers, several found targets, and archers fell from their perches, clutching at the deadly missiles.

Dorthin heard rather than saw Karluk within the press. The bandit leader's shouts carried clearly over even the din that filled the center of the pass. The kobalos had taken heavy damage from the first attack, four or five dropping from multiple hits, but the rest of them had rallied around their leader. They charged deeper into the pass, toward the prepared positions held by Thorp's men. The wedge of human bandits followed close behind, leaving behind just a few groups of stragglers and wounded.

Perhaps two dozen of the bandits were down, either dead, dying, or seriously wounded, but the rest, still numbering nearly a hundred, came on. More flights of arrows continued to strike them, tearing away at the edges of the enemy rush, and as the pass narrowed, small boulders came down on top of them as well, smashing through shields raised in defense and leaving broken bodies behind in their wake. The bandits did not hesitate or try the fool's tactic of trying to climb the slopes in the face of the barrage. Instead they followed their leaders forward, driving toward the narrow gap that marked the entry into the pass. Once there, they would have the advantage of position, and could either escape into the mountains or turn on their attackers and strike back.

Except that the line of Thorp's men rose up to meet them as they neared the gap, leaping to prepared positions and forming a solid line that blocked their way. On seeing them the kobalos let out a cry of battle lust that promised blood and revenge, and they surged forward in a wave at the human defenders. Thorp's men were outnumbered two to one, but they held the advantages of height and position and were set to receive the charge, a bristling wall of spears and blades awaiting the charging foe. A final wave of arrows and stones struck the front ranks of the bandit force, the steel arrowheads piercing both shields and armor at such close range, and fully half of the kobalos vanguard just seemed to melt away, collapsing to the ground and rolling back down the rocky slope. The others, though, the burly form of Karluk in their midst, roared and launched themselves at the defensive line, the rest of the bandits close on their heels. Karluk's shield and coat were both stuck with arrows, but if he was hindered by wounds, he did not show it. He was the first to strike the enemy line, sweeping out with his heavy double-bladed waraxe. Two guardsmen fell with his first attack, one struck hard to the ground with one side of his body crushed, the second staggering backward with a jet of blood fountaining from the side of his neck. More guardsmen rushed into the fray to plug the gap, but within seconds the two sides were engaged in a wild melee, struggling for their lives in the press of close combat.

For an instant, Dorthin thought his men would be overrun, and his hand dropped to the sword at his belt. He had not thought to bring a bow, and he was not an expert shot in any case. But his high perch was fairly secure, and he could see the entire battleground from his vista. He saw Kel Thorp at the head of their small reserve rush into the battle to bolster the defensive line, while archers along both flanks rose up and came forward almost to the edge of the melee, firing their bows point-blank into the bandits.

Then, almost imperceptively at first, the battle began to turn. The gap was too narrow for the full force of the enemy's numbers to meet the defenders, and as row upon row of foe fell it became harder for the bandits to come to grips with the well-positioned guardsmen. The elimination of most of the kobalos vanguard had taken some of the fury out of the bandits, and they began to retreat, still holding their shields up as arrows continued to pick out victims among the force. Karluk still stood, although he was covered in blood and gore that did not belong entirely to his enemies, and he was driven back along with the others. Dorthin felt a surge of primitive emotion fill him as he drank in the blood and excitement of the scene, and he saw the inevitable doom of the bandit army flash before his eyes. At least a dozen of his own men from the force blocking the pass were down, but the line still held, and Thorp's men kept to their positions, driving back those bandits able to reach them while the archers and stone-hurlers continued to decimate the enemy ranks.

Then, the clarion note of a horn sounded over the cacophony of violence that filled the pass. It took Dorthin a moment to realize that the sound had not come from the plains below, but from somewhere behind.

From the depths of the pass.

Even as the echoes of that blast faded, the sound of hooves clattering on stone filled the air. Turning, a sense of dread building within him even before he could see what was happening, the baron saw a column of armored horsemen explode from around the bend in the pass and charge at full gallop toward the rear of their defensive line. There were at least two-score of them, and although they wore no colors or livery, the held their formation with a precision that bespoke skill and cavalry training.

Thorp had heard as well, and looked back too to see his doom riding down upon him. The bandits, as if waiting for this, now surged back with a new fury. The line of defenders faltered at the sight of the armored cavalry riding down fast upon them, and several tried to flee to the shelter of the rocks, only to be cut down by the bandits charging at them from behind. The rest of them formed a nucleus around Thorp, who was trying to create a defensive line when the horsemen struck.

The charge swept over the guardsmen like a wave, swallowing them up in a confused welter of smashing hooves and sweeping blades. Several horses went down, their riders either crushed beneath their weight or dashed hard enough against the stone to break bones. Most swept on, though, a few even riding down bandits who had not the time to get out of the way of the charge. The battle raged on, but now it was clear how it must end, and it was not the way that Dorthin had expected just a few moments ago.

Dorthin watched the scene with horror, his muscles frozen with terror. The sound of shod hooves clattering on the steep slope that led up to his perch shocked him out of his reverie, however, and he looked down to see an armored rider driving his mount up toward the ledge. Dorthin quickly retreated, looking for cover or escape, but before he could reach the far edge of the ledge the horseman reached the summit and drove his mount roughly toward him.

Dorthin drew his sword, but before he could strike the horse reared back suddenly, its hooves slashing out at the open air just a few feet from where he stood. As it resettled he saw the rider fall backward, a long arrow jutting from his chest. The impact must have made him pull back on the reins, halting his deadly charge. As Dorthin watched, unaware of where the blessed arrow had come from, the horseman slumped and fell from the saddle, the reins of his horse still twisted around one gauntleted hand.

Dorthin needed no further impetus to take advantage of this opportunity. Hurriedly sheathing his sword, he rushed ahead and tugged the reins free from the dead man's hand, then quickly mounted the still-skittish but clearly war-trained animal. Although he wore no spurs the animal responded to his prodding, and he turned it toward the front of the ledge, facing the open entry of the pass. The way down was steeper and more treacherous that way, the rocky slope almost vertical in stretches until it reached the floor of the pass, but there was no other choice. The way behind contained a still-raging melee, as pockets of desperate Rockridge men fought on. A few tried to surrender, but they were hacked to pieces by the bandits.

Dorthin forced the horse over the lip of the ledge, and hung on for dear life as the animal skidded down the slope. One stumble, a hoof striking a loose stone, and it would be all over. He nearly lost his balance, but held on as the horse finally leveled out. Dorthin tugged its reins, turning it toward the open end of the pass. The horse sped toward that gap at a full gallop, riding through the carnage created just a few minutes ago by his archers. The sounds of ongoing battle were behind him now, centered on the narrow gap through the pass. A few wounded bandits, most with arrows jutting from vicious wounds, tried to stop him as he rode through, but the swift horse breezed past them before they could block his way. He let the horse have its head and focused on staying alive, bending low to make himself less of a target.

He was aware of some of his own men as he fled, archers whose positions of concealment high among the rocks were now making it difficult for them to escape. Some of the bandits had already turned back from the battle at the gap to take their revenge upon the ambushers, who found themselves now outnumbered and alone. A few cried out to the baron as he galloped past, but he could not, dared not stop to aid them. There was nothing he could do for them now, nothing he could do to change the outcome of this battle.

The walls of the pass fell back to either side as he reached the open hills, and the sounds of battle that had been trapped and built up within those confines faded somewhat. He turned the horse toward a dell between two of the hills to take him out of sight of the pass quicker, to hopefully gain an edge over the inevitable pursuit.

He did not see what happened next, only felt a sudden sensation of flying as his horse dropped out from under him. He was barely able to react enough to roll with the impact as he landed hard. The wind was knocked from him in a sudden rush, and he was lucky that he'd landed on packed earth and dry grass rather than the bare stone of the pass. As it was, he felt ribs buckle and pain slash through his body as he rolled, and finally came to a stop a few yards away. He tasted blood as he lay there, face down in the dirt, his body an agony. Still, he knew he had to get up. He tried to rise, despite the new tendrils of pain the motion caused him. He reached for his sword, only to fall back to his knees as his muscles ceased obeying his commands.

He looked up as he heard someone approaching. It was a single rider, carrying a composite bow easily in one hand, his cloak blowing around him in the wind. Dorthin recognized him, and with that recognition everything became clear.

"How—" he was able to gasp, between teeth clenched around the pain.

"A good hunter always studies his prey carefully," Baron Hrathgar said, as he casually pulled another arrow from the quiver at his belt. "When you understand what motivates it, how it thinks, it becomes easy to predict how it will react."

Dorthin tried again to rise, to draw the sword at his belt, although he knew it was a hopeless gesture. He opened his mouth to say something.

Whatever it was, it remained unsaid as the long arrow slammed into his chest, piercing his heart and driving him roughly back to the ground.

* * * * *

Chapter 12

Alec shivered and tried to pull his cowled woolen cloak tighter around his frame. The gesture did little to shield him from the patter of rain that had been an almost constant companion for the fast few days. They were traveling on the north road that ran all the way from the frontier marches of Crista, through Limbrock along the western shore of the Lake, and then up into the wilder regions to the north until it met up with the east-west Crown Highway. That road in turn led the traveler into the rich core lands of Rigal, or by turning east out toward Adelmar, and beyond that, the wild forest of Maletai. Few travelers went that far, though, for the Ilfann did not welcome visitors to their lands.

At least the winds had dropped, Alec thought. When the wind was blowing, the damp found its way into every crack and crevice to steal every hoarded bit of warmth, no matter how many layers of clothing one wore. Cerek might be invulnerable to such mortal concerns, but Alec was not cut from the same fabric, and the bad weather made him miserable.

He glanced at the big man sitting beside him on the plank seat of the wagon. Cerek's attention was on the road ahead, difficult now with the sodden mud from the recent rains. The paving on the road was not kept in good repair in these lands, where there was little trade and infrequent regular travel between the isolated village communities. Since leaving Limbrock behind the going had gotten more difficult, as they had also left behind the frequent inns that would gladly provide shelter to a pair of healers. The last such resting place had been two days previous, and the innkeeper at that establishment had been vague about when they would encounter the next one along the desolate stretch of road to the north. People traveled through the region, and lived there, too, he supposed, but they had encountered few of either sort since they had left the borders of the barony behind them.

While he was quite unhappy with the weather, Alec could not find it in him to complain about their mission, even in the privacy of his own thoughts. Lorraine and Gustav had been sent along a much longer and harder road, west across the Thalmoth Plain to Queshtar. Their exact duty there he did not know, for Master Kiros had taken each of them aside and discussed privately with them what he wanted them to do. Both parties carried letters that Kiros had hurriedly written and sealed and passed on to them before their departure. While Alec had been curious, as had all of their company, none of them had questioned Kiros's mandates or broken his confidence by discussing the matter with each other. Such secrecy was not typical within their sect, nor was it common to Kiros, but Alec loved and trusted the old man like a father—better than such, in his case—and if he ordered him to travel to the end of the world on an errand, he would gladly do so.

As for Kiros himself, and the other two healers he'd kept with him, all Alec knew was what the old man had told them before they left on their respective missions, that they would finish their work in Kapalis, then return to the hospital in Limbrock. Alec had understood the inference that they would go elsewhere after that, although he'd given no clues as to what that final destination might be. Alec suspected that more letters and more messengers would be sent in the coming weeks, though, carrying news or instructions or whatever it was that Kiros was doing in pursuit of that strange mandate he'd received that night in the shadows of the Black Mountains.

He'd thought often of his disjointed conversation with the master healer that night, and the strange perception he'd experienced in the tent before. He did not share those thoughts with his companion. They were making good time despite the weather, and despite the fact that they were frequently obligated to stop briefly and assist the people in the scattered communities they passed through in their travels. Healers did not refuse the needs of the sick and injured, unless a greater need called them onward, but Alec was still impatient. It would take weeks yet for them to reach Adelmar, where he could deliver his messages to the healers at the hospital there. Then another destination waited, one that filled him with both anticipation and trepidation. Everything would sort itself out in time, he knew. Such was the nature of faith.

Cerek tugged at the reins, and the two horses of their team slowed. Alec peered into the rain, wondering why the big man was halting here. He would have been glad for a stop and a night in a warm bed in an inn, but he knew that the possibility of a village ahead on this stretch of road was slim, and even in the half-light of the rainy day he could tell that they were still well short of evening.

"Wuh-wuh-what is it, Ce-ce-cerek?" he asked. The other man didn't answer, but looking ahead, Alec could see what had alerted his companion. A heavy log had fallen across the roadway, big enough to form an absolute barrier to the progress of their wagon. From the brush to either side of the road several men emerged, lean figures reduced to vague shadows in the dim light and the rain. They wore heavy cloaks against the weather, but as they moved closer, Alec observed the subtle bulges that indicated that they were armed. Bandits, then, or worse, he thought, a cold pit developing in his stomach that had nothing to do with the cold and the rain.

Cerek set the brake, and dropped down to the side of the wagon in an easy bound, keeping his hands within plain sight. Alec followed more slowly, his legs a little unsteady after hours of being jostled on the hard bench of the wagon.

The men—there were four of them, he could see now—formed a row in front of their makeshift obstacle. One had shifted enough to show Alec that he carried a small crossbow sheltered under the protection of his cloak, a steel-tipped bolt cocked and loaded. Alec walked forward, while Cerek came round the other side of the team, patting the horses to steady them.

It was easy to identify the leader, once he and Cerek were close enough to clear see their faces. He was a gruff, hard looking man, with a casual growth of beard marred by a scar that ran down the left side of his face from just below his ear to his chin. Alec recognized that as a wound that had never seen a healer's attention. The man wore a shirt of chain links under his cloak that had clearly seen better days, but none of the others were so protected.

"Wuh wuh wuh what do you wuh wuh want?" Alec said.

The four men laughed at his stutter. He was used to that response, even sometimes from the people he helped with his talents.

"Shoot the big one," the leader said. "He looks like more trouble than he's worth. Bag the little one, and take the wagon."

Alec opened his mouth to protest, to warn the bandits about the consequences of attacking a healer, even though he knew immediately that such warnings would not be taken seriously by these men. But before he could even start to form the words over the knot that had suddenly formed in his throat, the crossbowman lifted his weapon and fired at Cerek.

The big man dodged aside with an agility that belied his bulk, but the bolt still caught him high on the shoulder, knocking him back into the tangle of harness that held the two horses. Two of the others came forward—Alec saw short swords had appeared in their hands—and lunged at the big healer, to finish the job. The crossbowman pulled back the cord of his weapon and reloaded from the leather case at his hip. The leader just stood there, watching, but ready to intervene if necessary.

Alec felt paralyzed, his muscles frozen with fear. His instincts told him to flee, but even if he could get his legs to obey his commands, he knew that he could not leave Cerek behind.

The wounded healer extracted himself from the harness and stood, still imposing despite the bloody shaft that extruded from his injured shoulder. The two bandits launched themselves at him in a clumsy but effective rush, their swords held like spears before them. Cerek moved faster, despite his wound, dodging their thrusts. He grabbed onto one of them by the edges of his cloak, and with a surge of brute strength hurled him into his companion. The two bandits fell in a clump on the side of the roadway, their swords clattering away and their cloaks tangling around their arms and legs.

Cerek looked at him, their eyes meeting briefly, and Alec could see the pain there. "Run," the big man said, simply. Out of the corner of his eye, the young man saw the crossbow, another deadly bolt ready in its grasp, coming up again.

"No," Alec said, the barrier that had held him finally shattering. He could not physically strike out against the crossbow or its holder; even if the precepts of his calling did not expressly forbid such a course, he lacked Cerek's strength and agility, and had never touched a man made weapon in his life. But he could not allow the bandit to kill his companion. Acting on instinct rather than thought, he focused on the man holding the crossbow, extending his senses to envelop the other in his own awareness. He felt as though he was wading in a pool fouled by filth and debris, so tainted was the man's aura by hatred and violence. What he did was similar to what he did when he healed someone, to ease pain and repair damage done to the body. Without really knowing how he did it, he altered the man's aura slightly. The point of the crossbow bolt directed at Cerek wavered and then lowered. A moment later the weapon fell to the ground, followed by the bandit, lost in a deep slumber.

"Shades and demons," the bandit leader said, but it was anger, rather than fear, in his voice. He drew his own sword, a slightly curved single edged blade. He launched himself at Cerek, moving in a manner that bespoke the skill and experience lacked by his companions.

The wounded healer dodged back, but he was not quick enough to avoid the bandit leader's attack. The scimitar sliced through the air, tearing a red line across Cerek's chest. The wound was not deep, but it was enough to knock Cerek to the ground. The bandit loomed over him, the blade coming up for a killing strike.

"No!" Alec said again, and this time the word had the force of command behind it.

The bandit's blade stopped in its descent, hovering in the air. His face tightened with strain, but he was frozen there, much as Alec had been paralyzed by fear and surprise just moments ago.

"Ah," the man said, the word a hiss that came through clenched teeth. "So it was you. Serves me right for underestimating the little one."

"Why are you doing this?" Alec said, fighting his own strain of maintaining his hold over the bandit. He could sense that this one was not like the others; he was no inexperienced casual hedge thief making a little cash by robbing travelers on isolated stretches of the north road. It was a violation of both law and custom to attack a healer, for even the lowest of the low sometimes found themselves in need of their aid, and it was well known that the men and women in blue could see into the hearts of those they treated. Alec could have understood if they'd stolen the horses and wagon, but this man had deliberately sought to kill Cerek, and take him prisoner, for what purpose the young healer could not fathom.

"You can't hold me forever," the man said, and the blade did in fact dip another few inches as he hissed the words. "And you can't harm me, not permanently, not being what you are." The last statement was spoken with a contempt that shocked Alec, even through the strain of maintaining his tenuous command over the bandit leader.

The bandit suddenly lurched backward, letting out a surprised oath as he fell hard onto his back a few feet away. With his attention focused on Alec, he had not anticipated the attack from the injured man lying on the ground in front of him. Cerek's kick to his gut had just shaken him, knocked the air from his lungs, and he was already trying to get up, the sword still clutched in one hand.

He was right, Alec realized. While the bandit was recovering fast, Cerek had fallen back to the ground, the loss of blood from his wounds overcoming his considerable strength. And the two men Cerek had knocked aside had sorted themselves out as well, and were picking up their swords to return to the fray. They looked more cautious, now, but there was no way Alec could stand against the three of them. And if he tried to put one to sleep, the way he'd done with the crossbowman, the other two would be on him in an instant.

Again he let instinct guide him, for he'd never been taught the thing that he next tried to do. His mind cleared, shutting out the extraneous details of the chaos around him. He knew that the bandits would be coming, probably with their swords pointed at him this time, to kill him for the danger he represented, despite the leader's earlier command to take him alive. He forced himself to ignore the threat, and as his thoughts sharpened, time seemed to come to a stop in and around him.

He knew what he wanted to do, and let his feelings guide him. It was not that dissimilar to what he did as a healer, and Kiros had often spoken to him about the connections between Healing and Empathy, two of the facets of bios magic that healers commanded. Empathy was the power to read and sense emotions, or, as Alec had done with the crossbowman, to subtly alter the aura of another to bring rest and relief. He'd done that on a few occasions, taking away the pain of the injured or sick and giving them the comfort of peaceful slumber. He'd never done it in the thick of battle, though, had never even seen a battle until today, though he'd viewed the aftereffects of several.

What he was doing now was different, though, and while it went against what he'd been taught, it was no less necessary, to avert the violence and death that he'd dedicated himself to fighting. He found the emotion he sought deep inside himself. It was easy, since it had only been a few moments since it had gripped him in its power. Then he allowed that feeling to rush over him, to build without letting it take hold of him again. He redirected it outward, into a subtle pulse of sensation that flowed outward like ripples expanding from the impact of a stone in still water.

When he finally opened his eyes, the effect was already obvious. The two men that Cerek had knocked aside had already fled, and their screams were the screams of hunted men, growing louder even as the distance between them and the wagon increased. The bandit leader was still there, his face twisted in a rictus of fury and horror that seemed to war back and forth between the two emotions. It was as if he was fighting the emotional wave of fear that Alec had released, his eyes bulging, his muscles clenching as he staggered haltingly backward and forward without any purpose or direction. Then, as if the strain was finally too much for him, he let out a chilling scream, and his eyes became white as they rolled up in their sockets, and he fell, unconscious—or dead—before he even hit the ground.

Alec could only watch for a long moment, horrified at the results of what he had done. Then, however, he heard Cerek stirring. He was still lying in the roadway next to the horses, who had skittered backward some, snorting nervously, perhaps feeling some part of the surge of emotion Alec had released in their simpler equine minds. The other healer's groans turned his attention back to his duty, and he hurried over to his companion, giving the motionless bandit leader a wide berth.

Cerek's wounds were bad, but his eyes were clear, and Alec was glad to see that he'd withstood the effects of his power without apparent harm. But through his pain, the big man looked at him with a new wariness in his eyes. Alec felt the weight of that gaze, and although there was no recrimination in Cerek's look, he felt it nonetheless inside himself.

Focusing his attention on his injured friend, he drew some materials from the healer's bag he always kept slung across his hip and went to work. He cleaned and examined the two injuries, the deep puncture wound in the shoulder and the vicious cut across his chest. He was surprised to see that Cerek had already removed the crossbow bolt on his own, and the hole had already begun to close, oozing only a faint trickle of fresh blood. Alec nodded to himself, and added his own power to his, drawing currents of bios energy, the energy of life itself, to help his body's natural healing powers close the wound. The long cut was harder, as the slash was at least a foot across, and had scored Cerek's ribs in places. Luckily, the cut was not deep enough to threaten the vital organs underneath, and once he'd fit the edges of the torn flesh back together, and hurried the process of mending the tear, he felt confident that his friend would recover quickly. They'd have to watch for infection, for signs that dead flesh or foreign matter had corrupted the body at the point of injury, but Cerek was strong, as he'd just proven again.

Alec finished, but even as he straightened, his attention coming back to the world around him, everything swam out of focus, and his surroundings began to spin in a most disconcerting fashion. He had just enough time to wonder if he'd been struck by something when he collapsed into unconsciousness.

* * *

Alec woke with a start, with the faint echoes of a headache and a much stronger hunger burning a hole in his gut. Confused, he looked around for a moment, trying to get his bearings. They were no longer on the road, although the wagon and the horses were just a short distance away, the horses unharnessed and hobbled amidst some scrub brush. He realized that he was lying on some blankets, and that night had fallen.

They were in a travelers' camp, one of the many prepared campgrounds used by those who used the road that passed through this fairly wild and open land. A fire burned brightly in a stone pit in front of him, adding a comfortable warmth to the chill night air. He saw that other fires burned in adjacent campsites, but the faces of the men who surrounded them were not hostile, filling the night with stories and laughter that crossed clearly to the place where he rested, alone.

With that realization he looked around for Cerek, and if summoned by the thought, the big man appeared out of the brush carrying a large armload of firewood. He looked apologetically at Alec as he carefully put the wood down in a pile a short distance from the fire, adding a few pieces before carefully lifting a small metal pot sitting on a rock near the flames with a heavy cloth towel. He poured some of the contents of the pot into a beaten tin mug, and handed it to Alec.

"Thanks," he said. He drank the hot liquid quickly, despite the way it almost scalded his throat. It was an herbal tea, and he recognized a few ingredients that would help to steady him, and help him regain his equilibrium after what he'd experienced. When the tea was finished, Cerek handed him a plate heaped with beans, which he gobbled down with relish, and then a waterskin to wash down his meal.

"Thanks," he said again, when he'd finished. He looked around the camp, trying to make out a few more details about their surroundings. Other than the fact that they were still somewhere on the road to Adelmar, it was impossible to identify clearly where they were. The men at the other fires looked to be part of a small merchant caravan, their coats adorned with house colors, interspersed with the occasional mail jack of a hired guard. He nodded to himself. Their presence would mean additional security, if the bandits came back around looking for them. He looked up at Cerek.

"I'm sorry I puh puh passed out," he said. "I guess... well, I guess what happened... took a lot out of me." He flushed, hoping that Cerek could not see it in the light of the fire. In truth, he wasn't ready to explain what happened, and for once he was glad that he had the taciturn giant as a traveling companion, and not Lorraine.

Cerek shrugged, and the gesture was clearly meaningful, for it highlighted the hole in the shoulder of his robe, a hole that had matched the injury he'd taken. Now, he just seemed a little stiff, and clearly carrying the firewood had not been difficult for him. Alec knew that the look the man gave him was one of thanks.

"The buh buh bandit—" he began, but then his throat thickened, and he couldn't finish his question.

Cerek understood, and he shook his head. Again, there was no recrimination there, and even a hint of pity. Alec lowered his eyes, watching the dancing of the flames in the stone pit.

He suspected that Cerek understood what he felt. The big man was silent more often than not, but Alec already knew that a keen mind lurked behind the hulking frame and massive muscles. He'd been a warrior, Alec knew, but he'd said nothing more about his past. The way he'd seen Cerek move today, when those swordsmen had come at him, only confirmed his belief that the silent giant was not a stranger to battle.

Only he could not say the same, at least he could not have before today.

He heard Cerek rise, and move back toward the edges of their camp, to the wagon parked nearby. As he passed, he bent and clasped Alec warmly on the shoulder. It was a simple gesture of reassurance, of brotherhood. He knew that he could talk, and that he would need to, later. When that time came, Cerek would listen, and understand.

For now, though, he let the warmth of the food and drink flow though him, and let his body catch back up to where his mind was. He was still tired, and he knew that he would sleep deeply, at least relatively secure in the comfort of the camp. Cerek, he knew, would keep watch, although he felt a twinge of guilt when he realized that his friend would also be tired and recovering from his wounds.

Three things worried at the edges of his thoughts, though, accompanying him until the very moment that he fell asleep. First and foremost, of course, was the magic he'd used in fighting off the bandits. He'd used bios magic as a healer, of course, and had always felt a strong empathic connection with those he'd helped, a connection that had been noticed and commented upon by his teachers. What he'd done on the road, though, had been different, and seemed to smack more of sorcery than of the benevolent arts used by his order. He wished he could talk with Kiros, but he knew that he could not abandon the charge given to him by the head of his order. He would have to come to grips with what he'd learned today on his own, at least until he could return to the sanctuary of the hospital and to responsibilities that he knew and was comfortable with.

The second matter, which hovered in his mind always behind the first, was the question of these bandits. Such desperate men were not uncommon in these parts, nor would anyone censure him for what he'd done in self defense. But nothing could obfuscate the fact that he'd taken a life, in complete violation of the most fundamental tenets of the order of Amelira. The fact that he'd still had his powers to heal Cerek, that the goddess had not withheld her blessing from him, might have been some solace, if he didn't see the man's eyes and his twisted features every time he closed his eyes, if he didn't know that the brigand would come to torment him in his dreams.

He accepted that as his penance, knew that it would be small price for what he'd done. And yet, he could not stop thinking about what the ambush had meant. Clearly the first three—the two clumsy swordsmen, and the crossbowman—had been desperate amateurs, hired blades that were just a few of the thousands of such that filled the nooks and crannies of all civilized and not so civilized lands.

But the last man, the one who had mocked Alec directly, and who had so casually given the order for Cerek's death and his capture, that man stayed with him, and it was more than the fact that Alec had caused his death. He knew he would hear that man's words again and again in his thoughts, but he suspected that understanding would not be fast, or easy, in coming.

Why would someone want to kill a healer? Alec had seen enough of the world to know that evil existed, and that men were often motivated by irrational drives and passions. Maybe this was just another case where the underlying cause lay in greed, or defiance of law and custom, or just a simple love of violence.

But when he remembered the look in that man's eyes, he still felt a chill run down his spine, and he could not help thinking that the truth might lay in some darker place.

And then, in that last murky moment that lay between wakefulness and sleep, the third question slipped into his mind. It was just a subtle matter, not at all like the weighty implications of the first two subjects, but it was another thing to turn over in his thoughts. During the battle, when he'd used the power of the bios magic, once again, he did not stutter.

* * * * *

Chapter 13

"Watch what yer doin' with that horse," the teamster said gruffly.

Izandra apologized and gently prodded her horse back a step or two from the heavily laden wagon. The animal snorted a little in protest, as if its pride was hurt by the retreat, and she patted its neck to reassure it. The Coltons had owned the horse since it had been a foal, and it quieted at her touch, nuzzling her in a gesture that she knew meant that it wanted a snack.

"Sorry, my pockets are empty today," she said to the horse, low enough so that none of the people around her would hear.

In addition to the wagon just ahead of her, there was a small crowd of about two dozen people stretched out in a small queue along the road. A few watched over wagons, like the teamster who had addressed her, or smaller carts, or in one case just a mule with stuffed panniers slung across its back. A few people had just what they carried on their backs, and they took advantage of the delay to find a comfortable spot on the low wall that ran along the edge of the road, trying to soak up as much of the pale winter sunshine as they could.

She edged over to the lip of the road to look around the wagon, at the stone quay where the road ended at the bank of the Holdar River. She could see the ferry that they were all waiting for just starting its journey back across the river from the far bank. It would be some time yet, she saw, so she returned to her place in the line, careful not to tangle the lead lines of their two horses. The teamster looked back at her again from his position atop the seat of his wagon, and while he scowled, he said nothing more to her.

_He's as impatient as we are to get to our destination_ , she thought, although in her view that didn't excuse his sour demeanor.

They'd been traveling for almost two weeks now, and she was all too glad to contemplate sleeping in a real bed, savoring a good meal, and perhaps even adding a hot bath to the mix. While the last few nights had not been as bad as that desolate stretch through the open lands between Limbrock and the territory under the sway of Adelmar, she thought that the hospitality of the villages near the city they'd passed the last three nights in was not even close to what the comfortable roadside lodges of Limbrock offered the weary traveler. Prices were higher, too, and although Dannil had drawn a sum of silver coins from the orphanage's account for the journey, he watched their limited funds like a hawk. A few times, they'd even passed on the dubious comfort of a village inn to rough it at a traveler's camp, despite the worsening weather. Dannil was a skilled outdoorsman, and he ensured that they would not fall ill from the cold or damp, but his methods were not always enough to guarantee comfort.

_Still, we volunteered_ _to go_ , she reminded herself. _Or, at least I did_. Ezran, of course, would not have countenanced leaving her behind, and she did have to admit that she was excited about seeing an actual city.

Adelmar was perched atop a wide bluff on the far side of the river. From her vantage point she could see the road that ran up from the ferry station on the far riverbank to the summit of the bluff, where the city's wide gates stood open and a trickle of people, mere specks at this distance, entered and exited. The city was not really that large in an absolute sense, with perhaps twenty thousand people dwelling within its walls, but to her it looked dramatic and perhaps even a little intimidating. _How do so many people get along together?_ she thought to herself. _What do they all eat_? Dozens of such questions made the city a puzzle for her, and she eagerly awaited all of the strange details and new sights that they would encounter there.

She heard Dannil and Ezran returning, and she greeted them with a wave that belied her impatience. Ezran grinned, perhaps feeling some of her anticipation himself, but Dannil looked a little haggard. Maybe he was thinking of the responsibilities he had to attend to once they had arrived within the city. He carried a list in his pouch that included several of the city's leading factors, men of prominence and influence who would perhaps balk at treating with a backwoods guide, especially one as young as Dannil. He also carried letters of introduction, written by the Lady Ilrien before her death, but Izandra knew that Dannil would have his hands full in the coming days.

"Did you find out anything?" she asked them, as they rejoined her.

"Seems like business is brisk," Dannil told her. "Usually there isn't this much trade, and a few of the others said it was unusual to have to wait so long for the ferry, but apparently the merchants are trying to lay in stores before winter comes in earnest."

"Twenty thousand people in once place," Ezran said. "Should be pretty interesting, don't you think, Zan?"

Dannil laughed before she could respond. "You two have spent too much time in that backwater you call home. The baronial seat in Limbrock has at least half again that many, and that's small compared to the great cities of the coastal regions, and of Rigal itself."

"Have you ever been to one of those cities, Dannil?" Ezran asked.

"Well, I can't say that I've traveled that far," the young man admitted. "Though I've talked to a lot of people who have, and I thought I might, some day. I've heard that Sindaron is pretty impressive, and it makes this city seem a hamlet by comparison..."

"What's the matter, Zan?" Ezran interrupted.

Izandra started, realizing that she'd only been half-listening to the exchange, caught up in her own thoughts. That had been happening more and more of late, as her mind worked over the changes in her life since that day, now more than a month in the past, when that kobalos had stepped out in front of her on the road. Her distraction must have been obvious to her brother. "What? Oh, nothing, just thinking."

"I think your sister is just looking forward to a change of scenery, and of company," Dannil said, although his grin belied the message of the words. "And I have to say, the last two weeks have not been altogether happy and carefree ones, especially with the weather turning."

"How do you do it, Dannil?" Ezran asked. "I mean, traveling around all the time, not stopping long enough to call any one place home."

Dannil shrugged as if to dismiss the question, but Izandra was looking at him and saw the flicker of emotion in her friend's eyes. Ezran's casual question had scored him deeper than he wanted to admit to them.

"Well, you know, my boy, sometimes the call of the road is just too strong to resist."

They both laughed, but Izandra's mind began to wander again as the two young men continued their conversation. She was thinking of the road behind them, and the road that lay ahead. They had not encountered many travelers since they had left the confines of Limbrock, just a few merchants with their wagons and armed guards whose eyes seemed to follow their every move with wary anticipation. At one point they had passed a wagon driven by two healers, but other than a nodded greeting, the blue-robed priests of Amelira had been no more communicative or welcoming than the merchants. Though she remembered thinking that the younger one, a slight man not much older than Dannil, had seemed preoccupied; perhaps, like her, grappling with problems of his own.

As they had neared Adelmar there had been more people on the road, but they were mostly locals, with burdens on their backs or carried on the occasional mule or donkey. She'd heard that bandits sometimes frequented the rough lands beyond the sphere of control of any baron, but they'd encountered no such threats during their weeks of travel. She'd noticed Dannil's wariness, though, and noted the extra precautions he'd started taking once they'd left the settled regions of central Limbrock behind them. She'd also sensed the new tension that had built in him as they approached the city, an awareness of a different but no less significant sort of threat. He'd spoken often of the sort of people who could be found in larger towns, and although she suspected many of his tales to be exaggerations, she thought that there was probably reason enough to be wary when they entered Adelmar.

She stirred from her thoughts as the sound of activity built ahead of her. She looked around the teamster's wagon to see that the ferry had docked at the quay, and the ferrymen were already preparing to take new passengers aboard.

"Do you think they'll have room for us this trip?" Ezran asked.

"I'm sure they will," Dannil replied. Izandra noted the size of the ferry—it was easily thirty feet across on a side—and after making a few quick calculations in her mind she nodded to herself. There was only this wagon and a two-wheeled cart ahead of them, and some foot travelers who would not take up much space. Perhaps a few of the people at the end of the queue would have to wait, but that was not her concern.

"Why don't they just bridge the river?" Ezran asked. Izandra frowned—her brother's constant questions could get more than a little annoying—but Dannil had patiently answered most of his queries during the journey, and had continued helping him practice his rather limited archery skills as well.

"River's too deep, and too broad," Dannil replied off-handedly. "Floods pretty bad, too, with the spring rains." The line began to move forward as one of the ferrymen directed the teamster to bring his wagon forward, to the edge of the quay where the ferry was docked. Izandra and her companions followed, leading their horses. Dannil dug into his pouch for a handful of copper coins, which one of the ferrymen took with a bored expression and tucked into his pocket, tallying something on a clay tablet he carried in a leather pouch at his waist. Another man, the ferrymaster by the way he was directing the loading, pointed to a corner of the ferry, and Dannil and Izandra carefully directed their horses to that side of the barge. The horses were a little skittish at the slight swaying of the ferry on the water, but the two of them soothed their mounts with a few soft words and touches.

"Those animals like to cause a ruckus, better blindfold 'em," one of the ferrymen told Dannil.

"They'll be all right," Dannil reassured him, but the man had already turned his attention to helping the teamster fix his wagon in the center of the ferry with wooden blocks that pinned the wheels. The ferrymaster was directing a second cart onto the edge of the ferry, its driver loading it backwards and at an angle both so that it could be unloaded quickly and so it could effectively cram into the remaining space at the edge of the barge.

When they were fully loaded, and the ferrymaster was satisfied that the load was secure, they pushed off from the quay and started into the river. The ferry crew moved with bored but practiced motions, driving the craft into the slowly moving current with long oars set in oarlocks along all four sides of the ferry. Izandra watched them for a few minutes, but then, once she was familiar with the operation of the craft, turned her attention back toward the city that loomed atop the bluff, growing ever nearer as they crossed the river.

The city was protected by a high stone wall, even the side that faced out onto the river at the edge of the bluff. She could see the gate that topped the winding road that led up from the ferry station up the near slope of the bluff. By comparing the gates to the adjacent people, she guessed the gate to be at least thirty feet wide and twenty feet tall. She could just make out the forms of guards patrolling the wall above the gate and atop the two stubby towers that flanked it. Inside the city, she could see the tops of a few buildings that protruded above the level of the river wall, which she figured was probably not as tall as the wall that faced out toward the land approach up the steep face of the bluff. Adelmar would be a difficult city to attack, she reasoned, which was probably why the original settlers had chosen this location. It also must have been a difficult city to build, and she made a mental note to herself to ask some of its inhabitants about the history of their city.

On the eastern edge of the city, opposite the entry gate, she saw a tall stone tower that jutted at least several stories above the level of the wall. The tower would give the city's inhabitants a clear view of the surroundings lands for miles, especially to the east. Its orientation gave her a clue as to the perceptions of the Adelmarans about the origins of possible threats. Apparently, when the city had been founded, the Ilfann of the Maletai forest had been considered with the same wariness that most humans felt today.

She turned her attention to the quay at the far side of the river as their craft neared its destination. Some people waited at the far bank, but rather fewer than those that had been waiting at the western station. Izandra could make out a fair level of activity along the road beyond the ferry station, where the land rose slightly and the area northwest of the city gave way to a wood that followed the bank of the river. Beyond, though out of her sight, she knew from Dannil that the Crown Road they'd been traveling for the past few days split, into the Coast Road that ran north, and the East Road that passed eventually into Maletai.

The ferrymen had turned the craft around and eased it against the quay. Almost before the loading ramp had settled on the stone the first cart was moving up the road, and the teamster had already removed the wagon blocks and was backing his wagon out onto the quay. The others had to wait until the wagon had cleared the ferry and the teamster had turned it around in the open area at the end of the quay, then they disembarked and started up the road.

The activity she had noticed earlier resolved into a bustling market square that straddled the road, a short distance from the base of the sloping roadway that ran up to the city gates. To the right, a fenced-in area marked a busy horse market, with brightly clothed factors wrangling with dusty stablers over the prices of the two-score or so horses that were being exercised and displayed within the enclosed area. To the left, on the side of the road abutting the woods, a number of hawkers had set up stalls in a half-circle fronting the road, and a number of wagons decorated with bright strips of cloth formed a makeshift camp where people of all sorts mingled. Beyond, within the fringes of the forest, she saw a low building of weathered stone, with a fenced garden visible on the west side. She realized its function when she noticed the symbol that hung above the open double doors, even before she saw the blue-robed men and women that were going in and out of the structure. The icon was an unusual one, a stylized blue drake, in a pose that depicted the creature about to take flight. The symbol was an ancient representation of health, and was the embodiment of the sect of Amelira, the order of healers.

"That's right," Dannil said, noticing what had drawn her attention. "The healers have been here almost as long as the city itself, they say, and this hospital serves as their headquarters for their activities in the entire region."

"I don't think I could be like them," Ezran said. "So passive, and all."

"I wouldn't let a healer hear you use that word," Dannil said. "You'd get an earful, and would probably be donating a few coins by the end of the lecture."

Izandra thought that their friend probably spoke from experience, though it wasn't really a surprise to think of Dannil as generous-hearted, especially after what she'd seen at the Children's Home.

Ezran, however, would not grant the point. "But aren't they obligated to provide help to whoever needs it? And forbidden the use of weapons, even in self-defense? I know that the law protects them, but I can't see how they are able to avoid being controlled for people who want to use their power for their own selfish needs."

Dannil looked at him intently, as if trying to measure his response. As they passed the open market area alongside the road, he gestured for them to follow him off the road, and he led them to an open barbeque where a young trader was grilling strips of meat that gave off a delicious odor. That smell made Izandra realize how tight their rations had been on the road. Dannil treated them to kebobs of hot meat on long wooden skewers, marinated in a slightly spicy sauce. Then, as they led their mounts back onto the road, heading for the route that wound up to the city gates, he addressed Ezran's question.

"There's a story I heard once on the road," he said, pausing occasionally to take a bite from his kebob or to wipe his chin on his sleeve over Izandra's disapproving gaze. "There was this warlord in the chaotic lands along the north shore of the Lake, who had gathered a band of about fifty toughs and was exacting a hard tribute from the various local settlements and traders. The situation was getting so bad that the locals were considering appealing to either Limbrock or the Jaristos at Lake Heights for aid."

"Nature took its own hand, though. The warlord was injured in a minor skirmish, a cut in his leg. Nothing serious, really, but the wound took on a taint and soon became life threatening. Not wanting to lose the limb—or his life—the warlord had his men capture a healer who worked in the area and had the man brought to him. The warlord knew all the things you just described, and besides was willing to... _pressure..._ the blue-robed healer in any case to get his succor."

"Everyone knows that such tactics are of little use against the men and women in blue," Izandra said. "And ill luck befalls those who harm a healer."

Ezran said, "That's just a superstition," but Dannil raised an eyebrow.

"Well, that's a different tale," he said. "Anyway, the healer told the warlord that he could save his life, and even save his leg from the taint that was eating away at it from within. But he would only perform the feat in one location; in the hall of justice of Count Jaristo's castle in Lake Heights."

"Surely the warlord did not agree," Ezran said, dubiously.

"Oh, he railed, and threatened, and promised all sorts of destruction and violence if the healer did not submit," Dannil said. But ultimately, the warlord arrived in Lake Heights, in the custody of a simple healer."

"Is this story true?" Ezran said, glancing over at Izandra as if to she if she believed Dannil's account.

"I've heard the tale from several different sources," Dannil insisted. "More than one said he'd seen it with his own eyes, or been in Lake Heights when the man was brought in."

"And what happened to the warlord?" Ezran asked. "No doubt he didn't get to enjoy his restored health long. Everyone knows that the Cristans believe in fast and hard justice."

"That, perhaps, is the strangest part of the story," Dannil said. "They say the healer advocated strongly for the man's life, and that ultimately the prisoner was given over into the custody of the healer community outside Lake Heights. One traveler even told me that the warlord himself became a healer, in time."

"Now, that just stretches the believability of the whole," Ezran said, shaking his head.

Izandra smiled at her brother, but she also saw something in Dannil's face that gave her pause. _He's probably seen a lot of unusual things in his travels_ , she thought. In their two weeks on the road he'd regaled them with endless accounts of events that she'd dismissed as products of exaggeration or imagination, but it was clear that there was more to him than met the eye, even for the Coltons, who'd known him for years.

The road grew steeper as they neared the top of the bluff and the city gates, switchbacking on itself several times as they gained altitude. The city itself was several hundred feet above the level of the river below, and the west face where the road ascended was the only really passable slope up the face of the bluff. A low stone wall flanked the roadway, pierced at frequent intervals to allow rainwater to sluice out from the roadbed.

They slowed as the road turned one final time, and they made their final approach to the gates of the city. There was another short line of people waiting to enter, each in turn walking or driving their wagon or cart to the gates for inspection by the hard-eyed guards who were on station beside the open gates. They wore dark blue coats and a livery stitched with a set of balance scales, which Izandra took to be the sigil of the local authority here. She knew from Dannil that the city was ruled by a baron, who in turn was a vassal of the distant Rigalian king, but that his power was shared with a very influential merchants' council of some sort, the Guild Circle, or Guild Ring, or some such. She had at first thought it strange that a city so isolated would be so fixated on trade, but then, reflecting on its key location at the meeting of three major roads and a river, it made more sense. Though this region was sparsely populated, the people who lived here had the same needs for manufactured goods and other civilized necessities as those in the richer coastal and southern kingdoms, and where such needs existed it was almost inevitable that someone would emerge to fulfill them.

They found themselves behind a wagon, the same teamster's wagon that they'd shared the ferry with earlier. Ezran suggested they go around, but Izandra shook her head curtly before Dannil could respond. They were the strangers here, and better not to provoke others by discourtesy. Even when those others were not necessarily worthy of polite deference, Izandra thought, thinking of the teamster's comments to her earlier. Well, they might be simple village folk, but they had been raised to behave properly.

"Well, I'm going to go up and look around a little bit," Ezran said, impatiently, handing the reins of their horse to Izandra and darting toward the edge of the wagon before either she or Dannil could say anything.

She sensed it before it began, although she could not say how she was aware of the danger. "Ezran, look out!"

He started to turn, but it was too late. The wagon lurched with the sound of breaking metal and then fell backward against the slope of the hill, its heavy load driving it back hard into the curving wall that ran along the sides of the road.

Dannil knocked Izandra back roughly out of the way, and she heard the chaos of shouts and warnings behind her from people further down the road. The curve was sharp enough, though, so that the wagon did not travel far until it hit the wall, and the front wheels were turned enough in the final approach to the gates that the side of the wagon scraped hard against the mortared stones of the wall, slowing it even before its back wheels impacted with enough force to shatter them.

Izandra looked up in horror as she realized that Ezran had vanished between the side of the wagon and the wall. She shook herself free from Dannil's grasp, and ran toward the wagon. She noticed in an abstract way that the brake lever on the wagon board was snapped, and that one of the horses was down, tangled in the mess of harness and tack. The teamster was lying on the cobblestones, clutching his head, but she ignored him as well as she ran around the front of the wagon.

Ezran...

"Zan..."

She saw him as she rounded the front of the wagon, careful to avoid the thrashings of the injured horse. He was pinned against the wall, his legs trapped beneath the bulk of the wagon. His face was a mask of pain, and he looked up at her plaintively, trying to reach out to her with one hand.

"Hold on, Ezran," she said, the words pushed through teeth clenched so tightly she almost thought her jaw would shatter. She scrambled along the wall to where her brother was trapped, noting that the front wheels had turned toward the wall and that the rear ones were broken, making the wagon nearly immobile. Ezran was trapped near the rear of the wagon, so far back that they would have to move the front of the wagon a fair distance away from the wall to free him. At least the front axle was turned enough to ease that part of the task.

"My legs... broken, I think..."

"Hold on," she repeated, fixing her entire attention on the wagon. It was packed with goods, and by the way it had slammed down the slope, whatever was in those boxes and barrels had to be pretty heavy. She felt a surge of anger at the teamster, for overloading the wagon and forcing it up the difficult slope anyway, but she pushed that emotion aside for the moment, trying to clear her thoughts.

She heard Dannil's voice, and was aware that others were nearby. Dannil was trying to get them to move the wagon, but even with three or four pairs of hands the wagon failed to budge even slightly. Izandra took one more deep breath, and then reached out and pushed.

The wagon creaked alarmingly, but held its position.

"Zan..." her brother said, weakly.

It was as if something snapped inside her, a barrier that she hadn't even known existed. Urgency and need filled her like a rolling tide, and the power suddenly flowed through her and out through the hand that was pressed up against the side of the wagon.

She heard a cry of alarm, and the people who had come to help now had to scurry out of the way as the wagon lurched and then heaved over, almost clearing the ground as it leapt up from her touch and then balanced on its right wheels before it rolled and then crashed onto its side in the middle of the road. Barrels and crates shattered from the impact, releasing a small flood of dark liquid that ran down the sloping cobblestones of the road.

Ezran, now free, slumped to the ground, crying out at the new strain on his battered legs. Izandra was beside him in an instant. She felt dizzy, drained as the power she'd channeled through her ebbed. She'd never manipulated objects weighing more than a few stone before, even under Ethander's tutelage; the wagon had to have weighed several hundred stone at the very least. But at the moment her only thoughts were on her stricken brother.

Others had seen the feat, though, and the people who had gathered to help backed away some, and eyes widened and whispers darted back and forth. Those were lost in the bustle of noise and chaos as people reacted to the accident, and Dannil's voice carried out over all, shouting as he tried to make his way through the debris of the shattered wagon back down the road.

"Bring a healer!"

* * * * *

Chapter 14

The Primus walked briskly down an empty, nearly dark hallway, trying to keep his frustration from showing on his face and failing miserably.

An unbiased observer, if such could be found within the halls of the Church, would say that Ahlen Corander had changed in the last few weeks. Dark circles hung under his eyes, and his muscles of his jaw showed a new tightness that sometimes spasmed as if he was speaking silently to himself. The ancillary trappings were as they always were, the pristine white robe cared for by servants and attendants, the simple symbol of the sun and sword at his throat unblemished and carefully polished by dutiful hands. But the man underneath did not shine quite so brightly, of late.

The place where he was walking was rarely traveled, although there were signs of upkeep, including the absence of dust and dirt even here. The oppressive sense of the heavy stone above was strong here, or maybe it was just that the ceilings were a little lower and more heavily buttressed, the corridors more narrow and confining.

Somewhere in the distance, so faint as to be almost inaudible, the bells tolled seventh hour. He was supposed to be in his quarters, preparing for the work of the coming day. The Primus was an important man, but like many in positions of obvious power, a prisoner of his schedule. Technically, he was free to do whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted—his word was fiat, and the clergy was bound to follow—but the reality was that his position depended on the support of the Bishops' Council, and the invisible bonds that surrounded him had grown stronger and stronger.

Which was why he was here, and why he started every time he heard a faint noise from the shadows. He'd snuck out of his quarters—the Primus, the most powerful head of the most powerful church in the known world!—and come here, to the catacombs that lay under the office complex of the Church Halls. These tunnels even predated the construction of the great cathedral above, and the stone had a sense of permanence to it, as if it would be here still when all, cathedral, halls, even the city itself, were reclaimed by the ever-changing sands of time.

He quickened his pace slightly. He had a ready pretext for being here, and of course he had every right to be here, given the specific responsibilities of his position, but if he was seen, even by a lowly custodian, questions would be asked and the bonds around him would grow even tighter. He coughed, muffling the sound in the arm of his robe, although the air was not dusty. He hadn't been feeling well of late. He saw enough to know that he was getting older, but was also wise enough to recognize that the stress that he'd felt over the past few weeks had been the debilitating frustration that came from recognizing one's powerlessness. It had driven him to this course. He was all too cognizant that his mandate had languished, that the mission for which he'd waited his entire life was thus far a failure.

After that first chaotic day he'd tried to be more subtle, making overtures and trying to sift out a few alliances among the bishops. It had surprised even him how little they heeded him, even those he'd once called friends, when he was among their ranks. He cursed himself for squandering what little political capital he'd had in his first years as Primus, in trying in vain to change the direction of an institution that resembled a boulder rolling down a steep incline. And, of course, his problems with the monarchy had not been helpful to his standing. He bit off an angry sigh, and focused on his destination. Now was not the time for recrimination or regrets. He'd taken action, perhaps the only action he could have taken from the beginning.

By morning, his mandate would either be set into motion, or he would likely be sitting in a cell, awaiting judgment before the Council.

So be it.

He slowed as he approached the end of the passage, where a heavy stone lintel framed a broad opening into a larger space beyond. He took a deep breath and called to mind a brief invocation in the name of his god, then stepped boldly through the arch.

The ward was intact, and obviously potent by the tingling energy that ran up and down his skin as he passed through the arch. Fueled by bios magic from some lost variation of the art, it had been in place for centuries, guarding the room in which he now stood. It was designed to repel anyone not consecrated to the Church, and there were some who asserted that only one with true dedication in their heart would be able to make it through without extreme discomfort.

It would be interesting, he thought, to see whether certain bishops could pass freely.

He lit the large brass lamps that hung from thick ceiling chains using the pole lighter resting just inside the doorway. The old oil within the lamps soon filled the room with a cloying odor, like burned grease. He didn't have long to make preparations, as he knew that the man he was meeting would be exactly punctual. If everything he'd learned about him was accurate. If it wasn't... well, it was too late to turn away from his course now. With what he was going to ask of him, he had to be willing to risk everything himself.

Once he had gotten the lamps lit, he took a quick look around. The room was a shrine of sorts, the stone of the walls expertly etched into reliefs that depicted various scenes and symbols of the Church. Though far cruder than the work on the marble statues above, the art had its own raw power, especially here, in this consecrated place. The floor was bare stone, perfectly smooth except for the stone altar—really just a single great block of granite—in the center of the room. Along the walls, set in the midst of the carvings, were small alcoves, each protected by iron gates that were firmly set into the surrounding stone and warded by heavy locks that functioned for no ordinary key. The Primus moved to one of these as he waited for his appointment to arrive, and made his preparations. Barely had he secured the warded lock when he heard the sound of footsteps approaching. They were heavy, measured steps, the sound made by nailed boots worn by a man of considerable stature.

The approaching steps halted just outside the archway of the room. The Primus returned to the side of the altar in the center of the room, and summoned all of his inner strength to fill his voice with the resonant tone of control.

"You may enter, sir knight. The archway will not bar your passage." Or if it did, he would have to think quickly to cover over the preparations he'd already made.

A man passed through the archway, and the Primus almost thought he could see the aura of power that briefly flickered around him before he passed fully through. The knight's face did not flinch or falter, although there was an understandable hint of uncertainty there. Just a hint, under a mask of otherwise unbroken self-control and hard-won discipline. The Primus wondered if the man knew that his efforts were so transparent, at least to those with the experience to see beyond the outward shell.

"Your Holiness," the man said, genuflecting and bowing his head in respect that was not feigned. The gesture was perfect, formal, and if genuine, also rigid and practiced. Much like the knight himself, the Primus thought to himself. It was a fragile balance in this man he'd chosen, but he still believed that his choice was the best one, the only one he could make given the circumstances.

"Rise, my son," the Primus intoned, and the two men faced each other squarely again. The knight's eyes shifted momentarily to the top of the altar, where a burden covered by a heavy cloak had been placed. The Primus saw the look, and let the man's curiosity build for a few silent moments.

"You summoned me, your Holiness," the knight finally said, his tone as formal and correct as his earlier bow.

"Sir Ticos Gewehr," the Primus said. "You have only recently been risen to the status of Knight, I believe, and have not yet been tasked with a Quest of Worthiness." He paused to let his words sink in, but the knight only responded with a faint twist in his expression that was quickly smothered in that iron self-control he cultivated. Good. The Quest was an old custom, one that had not been widely used since before the Dark War, but Gewehr knew what it was, and what it signified. And could probably guess why the Primus had mentioned it in context with him. Thought he could guess, anyway. There was no way that the knight could guess the true motivation behind this summoning, though he would learn shortly.

"Your rapid rise is a considerable accomplishment, especially for one of such humble background." There it was, openly suggested. The Primus knew that the young man was all too aware of the way that background affected his career and the way that others in the Order perceived him.

"I understand what it's like to come from modest origins," the Primus continued. "Did you know I was once bishop of Limbrock?" The slight telltale told him that the knight had in fact known that bit of information. "Those were interesting times, what with the Year of Storms, and the kobalos coming down from their mountain holds in raiding bands not seen since the time of the Dark War. With the exception of the troubles in Thorin two decades ago, that was the last major threat to the peace of the Empire. It's been a long time for habits to set, for attitudes to ossify and minds to harden and resist any concept of change."

"It is the role of the Order to promote the causes of peace and stability, your Holiness," the young knight said.

"And likewise the role of the Church," the Primus replied. "You have been living in Rigal for some years now, and have seen the inner workings of the both institutions from within in that time. Tell me, young knight, what insight have you gained as to the interaction of the clergy and the knighthood?"

"Each complements the other," Ticos said. "The Order is the Sword, the Church the Shield. One seeks out and destroys evil on its own ground, while the other protects and nurtures the people, providing the bedrock on which the state can flourish."

"Yes, yes," the Primus said, waving a hand dismissively. "That is precisely correct, and exactly as the headmasters said it in my time as well. But what do you feel about the workings of that group to which you have dedicated your life? Do you believe the tenets to which you have sworn?"

The knight looked surprised for a moment, as if the question itself was fundamentally unfamiliar. "Yes... I mean, of course I do, your Holiness. Why would I swear to uphold them, if I did not?"

The Primus sighed. Yes, he did believe them, and so blindly that he could not recognize the cracks in the edifice that he'd sworn his life to support. He could remember a time when his own faith had been unshakeable, when he would have laid down life and limb to bolster those beliefs. He still had the faith in the belief, but his faith in the institution that served that belief had been fundamentally disturbed.

"Your faith does you credit, young knight, so I will be honest with you in the manner that you deserve. The Church and the Empire have alike wandered some from their true courses. Some of the Knights—not, all, to be sure, your example proves that exception—view the Order as a vehicle for upward mobility and the power that attends the increase of reputation. Your Ruling Council is made up of men who have never been on a battlefield. Nor is the Church above reproach. The Council of Bishops contains men who are dedicated to the faith, each in their own way, from diverse corners of the Empire, as it has always been. But today the game of politics rivals the dictates of religion for the attention of the leaders of the Church, and the leading men of the cloth lead lives of comfort and state, due honors having become entitlements that serve as a barrier between them and the people they are supposed to guide in the faith. And the Primus..." here, he paused for a moment, letting out the sigh he'd stifled earlier, "The Primus is a figurehead, an appealing symbol drawn out from time to time to appease the faithful."

The knight's iron façade did crack at the blunt words, which the Primus had thrust at him like an attack. He swallowed, and shifted uncomfortably, and while the Primus suspected that he wanted to argue, or at least to respond, he kept silent. Was that because he knew that the statements were true, or because his training kept him from challenging the titular head of the Church? The Primus allowed the silence to drift on a moment longer, then he addressed the knight again.

"Speak, child. It does you no dishonor to bare your thoughts, even if they run counter to my little diatribe. Forgive the violence of my words. I fear the sentiments have been building in me for some time, and there have been few I could share them with." Most of his close friends, the bishops he'd worked with and laughed with in his ascendancy, had gone out into the Empire, transferred to important but isolated positions in the field, working directly with the people. They'd almost all requested such assignments when he'd been risen, and while he had been happy to grant those requests, giving his friends what he could not give himself, he had since often wished for their counsel, and regretted their absence here in the capital.

The knight took a deep breath, as if to steady himself. "Your words, they are true, your Holiness. I have seen such things as you describe. But the Church, and the Order... they are based upon something larger than the whims and petty faults of mortal men. The faith is strong, and the people believe in the message of the Lord of Honor! Isn't it worth the problems you describe to have peace, and prosperity? I myself have never fought evil blade to blade, and if I never have to, I would count myself fortunate."

The Primus raised an eyebrow at the last statement, so patently betrayed by the eagerness in the young man's eyes. It was rare that youth, flush with the confidence to take on the world entire, would even countenance such an idea. But the passion missing earlier was present now, in the man's words.

As if realizing that, the knight drew himself up, and tried to restore the discipline he'd let wane during his outburst. He nodded slightly to himself, and said, "You were testing me, your Holiness."

"Yes, my child, but all that I said was true, and I am glad that you have clung to your faith in a world that seeks at every turn to strip it away. I would not be honest if I said that I too had not faced challenges to my faith, been tested in my resolve by the gap between mortal reality and the ideals of our beliefs. It is a simple code that we follow, sir knight, but that is what makes it so difficult to follow in the twists and turns of daily life."

He let his gaze travel around the room, letting its age and history suffuse his words. "Look around you, sir knight, at the glories of our past. You know this place, though few have seen it, the repository of our relics, our history, the tangible reminders of a past when life was very, very different from today. Different, and yet not so different, at that..."

"I... I wondered why you chose this place to meet," Ticos said.

"Practical concerns, my son. As Keeper of what dusty items reside here, I may consider this place my private demesne. I have sometimes come here just to pray, to clear my thoughts and feel the closeness to those who stood in my place before me."

Ticos, who was looking around the room as if seeing it for the first time, recognized an item within one of the iron cages and his eyes widened. "Is that..." he began, cutting off the question as he realized he had spoken aloud.

The Primus could not help but smile. "Indeed it is. The robe and staff of Saint Arlan, founder of the Church. They are nearly two thousand years old. He was a small man, surprisingly enough, given the stature he holds within the faith. Both are infused with power. I suppose they would have to be, to last as long as they have, fully intact."

Ticos nodded, but it was obvious that he was growing uncomfortable again, though few but an experienced observer of human nature like the Primus would have recognized the subtle signs. "You are impatient, and worrying about why you are here," he said to the knight.

Ticos did not reply. One didn't tell the Primus that one was in a hurry. Unless you were an influential bishop, and even then, the message was delivered in subtle non-verbal ways.

The Primus drew himself up, and when he again spoke his tone was full of the command and regal authority of his office, which resounded in the stone confines of the chamber. "I have summoned you here, sir Ticos Gewehr of Limbrock, to ask you to adopt a Quest. I chose my words deliberately, and urge you to heed them. This is not a mandate of the Church, nor is it a matter that has been deliberated by the Council. Therefore, you would not be bound by the strictures and rules of the Quest of Worthiness, nor would you receive the honors due from completing such a commission. In fact, accepting this Quest will require your discretion and complete dedication, and it will injure your career in the Order."

The knight said nothing, and for the first time the Primus could not read what flashed in his eyes.

"My earlier comments were not just a test, young knight. Because of the politics of the Church to which we both belong, I am limited in my freedom to act, and yet act I must. I have received... intelligence that trouble is stirring again across the land, a great evil that may threaten the Empire."

"If such a threat exists, your Holiness, why can't you just bring it before the Council?"

"It is because of the source of the information, and the nebulous nature of the threat, that I cannot. There are many who have a great stake in the status quo, sir knight, and they would resist news that they found unpleasant to countenance. As we spoke earlier, faith is at the center of our whole structure here, and yet faith is at best a very difficult thing to sustain. Without hard evidence, evidence that I lack, my warnings would go unheeded, or at worst, they would harden the hearts of those who might listen."

The younger man's confusion was evident, and the Primus chafed at the need to keep secrets from this apparently honorable young man. They were balanced on a narrow fulcrum, however, and he had little choice but to heed the course he had set for himself.

"Your Quest, should you accept, would be to seek out the source of this evil, and report on its nature to... me." He had almost said "the Council" by habit, but with what he was about to say that option would be permanently closed.

"What is the nature of the threat? Where must I seek it?" the young knight asked.

"Listen carefully before you commit yourself to this task," the Primus said sagely. "No shame will come on you if you refuse, and I promise you that no penalty will follow if you choose not to accept. I will have to require that you keep close and confidential the details of our meeting, regardless of your choice."

The knight nodded, and the old man accepted that bond. He would have required a swearing, except that such a request would impugn the young man's honor, which would undermine all the work he'd laid thus far.

"Once I finish my telling, you will have to choose. I am sorry that I cannot give you time to consider this matter, but the passage of time is of keen importance, and already too much has slipped away. If this threat is real, then we will have little enough time to prepare as it is."

"You are not the only one who is tasked to address this threat. Others have been chosen, or will be chosen. You would have to seek out those others, and rely upon their aid to help you complete the task. I cannot say exactly where the Quest will take you; you would have to rely on your skills, your wits, and your training to guide you. And should you accept, you would be beyond my ability to help you further, although my hope is that you would return with information, incontestable proof that would allow me to rally the Council and the Empire against the threat."

The knight nodded, but the Primus could see that he was trying to sift through his words. He still had said nothing concrete, and he realized that he was putting that off, putting off the moment of truth when there would be no turning back.

"My intelligence, as I said, is vague and unclear, but I know enough to identify where you would begin your search."

"The threat originates in Roron."

"Roron," the young man repeated, his jaw tightening as he spoke the word. Few of Rigal had cause to bear fond feelings for that land, even now, for the history that every child of the Empire learned was full of the dark rivalry between the two nations. Roron had precipitated the Dark War, the conflagration that had caught up the entire continent in storm of violence and destruction the likes of which had never been seen before, and with the mercy of the gods would never been seen again. Since then Roron had remained weak and divided, its barons too busy tearing at each others' throats to pose a threat to the Empire. But there was no love lost between the two peoples, a fact that the young knight confirmed that with his expression.

"There have been stirrings of trouble there, on and off, for decades, but the divisions among the barons have kept their ambitions in check. But according to my information, a new power is rising in Roron, a power that is tainted beyond the might of mortal men. It is only part of a spiderweb of evil influence that is stirring across the breadth of the continent. It may even be at work here, in the Empire, although I have no confirmation of such. I can tell you that this evil seeks to overthrow the peace that we've hard won here, and is working to unleash an even greater power upon the world."

"What kind of power?" Ticos asked.

"The power of pure destruction," the Primus replied. "An ageless power lost to the world, tied up in ancient magic and the basic energies of the universe. I apologize that I must be so vague, but my own understanding of this is as limited as yours. I am convinced that the threat is real, however, and I can assure you that you would not be wasting your time on some simple errand, should you accept this charge, to seek out understanding."

The young knight stepped boldly forward, lowering himself again to one knee before the Primus. "I accept the charge, your Holiness," he said, his voice thick with fervent conviction. "I will seek out this evil, and learn its nature."

The Primus laid a hand on the knight's shoulder and murmured a benediction, then urged him to rise. "Your faith is strong, young knight, to accept such a mandate without clearer instruction. I will do what I can to prepare you, lest your ignorance cost you success before you half begin your mission."

"You must understand that from this point on, there is no going back. You will be alone, traveling into foreign and hostile lands, and unable to call upon the name or the power of the Order. A cover has been arranged, that will involve your name being taken off the roll of Knights and placed in the register of the dishonored. Only I will know the truth, which I will keep recorded in a file that only myself or a future Primus may access. Do you understand, and accept this Quest of your own free will?"

The knight flinched at the mention of the invented dishonor, but his eyes blazed with the conviction with which he'd sworn a moment ago. "I do, your Holiness, and vow by my honor that I will uphold my pledge unto my life, if necessary to complete my charge."

"So be it," the Primus said. "Then, there are three things I must impart to you, before you leave this place. We will not speak again, and you will depart this very evening from the capital, and speak to no one of what we discussed or where you are going. Tomorrow it will be as if you were dead, to all those living in Sindaron, and the Empire." And that, of course, was one of the reasons he had been chosen, an orphan boy from an isolated province of the Empire, with few friends among his fellow knights, most of whom were of noble birth. No family, no connections, few to even wonder at his sudden absence from the capital.

Ticos nodded. He understood exactly.

"The first thing I must tell you is this. You will meet a man who will help you, at the Silver Sigil, in Queshtar. You will know him, for he will be looking for you, although you will not know his name nor he know yours. He is one of those of whom I spoke; not of the Order or the Church, but able to help guide you on your way."

"Second, I can give you a name, which can help you find what you are looking for. The name is Fel Darian. I cannot explain what it means, but seek it out in western Roron, and it will guide you to what you need to find."

"Finally, I can give you something to help you. Your Quest is essentially a mission of reconnaissance, but the very real possibility exists that you may find yourself confronted with very real danger. You are a fully trained knight, and I have no doubt that you can handle any threat posed by man or beast. But your very mandate may thrust you into dangers beyond the ordinary, so I will give you some protection to aid you."

The Primus turned and removed the cloak from the burden he'd placed atop the altar. The lamplight flared on polished steel, too brilliant to look upon for a moment as the sheen of the metal caught the light. It was a suit of armor, breastplate and greaves over heavy interlocking iron chain, a style of mail not in common use since generations past, in the time of the Dark War. It was built for function, and it looked solid and powerful even sitting on the stone.

Under the coat of mail protruded the hilt of a sword, scabbarded in unadorned plain leather. The sword too was clearly a working weapon, without fancy detailing or the precious inlay that many of the Order's knights preferred these days. Its hilt was wrapped in leather cording, and was clearly worn from use.

Ticos examined the armor and sword visually with an expert eye, then sucked in an audible breath. "These are..." He broke off, unable to complete his thought in spoken words.

"Yes. The sword and armor of sir Dendran Toll, Knight Master of Rigal. The same suit he wore at the Battle of Thalmoth Plain, where the power of Roron was laid low and the beginnings of what would become the Empire were forged."

"Legend says they were lost! I... I cannot..." the knight protested.

"They are but tools," the Primus said, overriding his objections. "They are items of power, though, a power that lies dormant within them, but still waits, until it is needed again. I am their custodian; as Primus I am also Keeper of the history of the Church and its relics. You may have need of them, or I would not be offering them to you." He added a meaningful look that held the knight's gaze with his own, as if to suggest, _Now, do you understand the importance of this?_

The knight swallowed, and nodded. The Primus was pleased that he'd been able to shatter the cool young man's composure; perhaps he'd be able to adapt to the demands of the huge burden he'd placed on him. He'd kept him off guard enough so that the knight could not ask questions to which he did not know the answers, but even though he knew how important this mandate was, he felt a twinge of guilt at sending this young warrior out into danger with such little preparation or intelligence about what he might find.

That was the nature of faith, a conundrum which had landed him in this circumstance to begin with.

Ticos picked up the armor. At his touch the gleam faded, and the armor looked plain, dull, functional but well-used and perhaps even cheap. He looked up at the Primus, as if doubting his own eyes.

"It will look plain and unassuming, until its power is needed," the Primus told him. "You will find that glamour helpful, for where you are going, you will not want to call attention to yourself."

"Remember, stealth and secrecy are vitally important in a task such as this, more so that strength or even speed. You must not trumpet where you are from, for such as you are not loved in the lands you must travel. Do not attempt correspondence with me, for any news must be given directly from you to me, in person."

"My final advice is this. Trust your judgment, and question your assumptions. I know that sounds contradictory, but it is the best advice an old man can give to a young one. Be willing to accept what aid is offered, for allies will come from strange sources in this Quest."

The young man had taken up the armor, and had tucked the sword through his baldric at his hip. "I have a dozen questions, but I know you've told me all that you can, your Holiness. I appreciate the trust you've shown in choosing me, given who and what I am, and I swear that I will do my best."

_So much for all my wisdom and subtle misdirection_ , the Primus thought, although he suddenly felt better about his decision.

"Good luck, sir knight," the Primus said, grasping the other man's free arm in an embrace of equals. Burdened by the armor, the young man could not make the proper homage, and the Primus wanted him to know that he didn't have to. "Get what you need from your quarters, but quickly, and don't talk to anyone if you can help it. There's a saddled horse waiting for you in the stables, with supplies and travel gear, and a pass to get you out of the city gates in its saddlebags. Destroy it, once you're out of the city, along with any markings that can betray your identity."

Ticos nodded. "Silver Sigil in Queshtar, Fel Darian in western Roron," he said, as if fixing the words in his mind. The Primus nodded. The words had been a part of him ever since the visitation by the avatar of Merikkose, words he would never forget as long as he lived.

Then, without further delay, the knight turned and walked with purpose out of the room.

The Primus paused a few moments longer, recovering his cloak and dousing the lamps using the cup on the back of the pole-wick. He hated what he had to do to the young man's reputation, although it was necessary if his sudden disappearance wasn't going to create questions and draw attention to what he'd done. The young woman's testimony had already been recorded, and he knew that most of the knights would just accept it as to be expected from a man of his background and base origins. He promised to himself that he would make it all good when he could, if and when the knight returned from his mission.

There was just too much at stake. Well, at least he'd taken a first step, and with that done he could see what else he could do, could take even bigger risks and be more aggressive knowing that something, at least, was being done. His first agent was on his way, and with luck, the power and might of the Empire of Rigal would not be too far behind.

As he left the room and headed down the corridors to the halls above, he failed to see the eyes that followed his movements from the shadows of a dark, unlit side passage. Eyes that belonged to a face that emerged from the shadows not long after he'd passed and disappeared into the distance, eyes that looked calculating, considering.

Ogren rubbed his chin thoughtfully, then hurried off to meet with someone who would be very interested to know what the Primus had been up to on this otherwise quiet evening.

* * * * *

Chapter 15

The magus adjusted his uniform about his shoulders and pulled his cloak tighter against a cold breeze that seemed to come directly out of the mountains that loomed high before him. He was tired and saddle-sore from his long journey, but now that he was approaching his destination, it was essential that he uphold the dignity and impression of power that was the public face of the Guild. He was here as its representative, and behind him its full power hovered, lurking, threatening.

He had not even met his employer, and already he did not like this assignment. The land through which he traveled had grown increasingly hilly and desolate, but even the plains he'd passed through earlier had lacked the lush beauty of the lands where he had grown up. It was as if the entire region was unhappy, cloaked in a mantle of muted colors that seemed to greet the coming winter with eager arms.

_That's understandable, given the history of this place_ , the mage thought grimly to himself. As part of his training he'd studied the histories and cultures of a dozen regions, and the story of the land of Roron, no longer a nation, was full of darkness and blight.

He took reassurance in the fact that this was an important posting, and a difficult one, and that his appointment at such a young age was a mark of favor from his superiors in the Guild. If he was successful at this post, it would mean upward mobility and prestige, and he preferred to think on such possibilities, rather than the equally unfortunate consequences of failure.

He was alone, a single rider in a dangerous land, but no bandit or creature emerged from the wooded dells or rocky hollows that the road passed as he traveled. Roron was not so backward that its citizens did not immediately recognize the significance of the sigils he wore on his garments, or the rank imparted by the crimson epaulets on the shoulders of his overcloak and tunic. Perhaps they recognized more often than typically, for Roron had been a land torn by war and conflict for centuries, and such things brought war mages.

He took pride in the title; for all that it was recently earned. He stood low in the ranks of the _kheimidarin_ , as they were styled in the Old Tongue, but it was a precept of their order that seniority and sub-rankings within a class were never revealed to outsiders. So he was a war mage, for all his youth and relative inexperience, and that was what the public would see when they saw him riding up on his dun-colored horse, full saddlebags and pouches bouncing against the saddle as he rode up and down the winding hills that grew steadily steeper as he approached the Ralos.

Around mid-morning he caught sight of his destination, and frowned. It was an impressive place, this Stormhold, the fortress that warded the barony of Rockridge. Well, former barony, anyway, now part of the rapidly growing holdings of the baron Hrathgar, his new employer. The mage's displeasure was in part due to the fact that his point of arrival had been shifted in mid-journey to this place, rather than the baron's own holding in the Kol Hills. The letter had reached him at Coburan four days ago, after he'd already trekked across much of the underpopulated expanse that had once been the northern frontier of the Roronian Empire. It did not bode well for their future relationship, if the baron believed that he could alter established arrangements so easily. He'd considered pressing on to Kol Hills anyway, and awaiting the baron there, but he'd dismissed that course as too provocative. There would be plenty of time to properly define their relationship, if need be.

His frown also had something to do with the rapid success of this baron, as evidenced by his new fortress. Ambitious barons were nothing new in Roron's history, and it was not uncommon for long-held baronies to change hands in the ebb and flow of politics and power. But from what he'd heard, this baron had added two baronies to his own in just a few months' time, and from the Guild dossier on the man, and the information he'd gathered on the road, his methods were both ruthless and creative. Hrathgar's name was being spoken often in the baronies of the eastern plains that he'd passed through, and he knew that what the baron was doing was inspiring both fear and anger. Dangerous emotions, and like as not to drive the other barons to do something about the newly powerful upstart.

Well, that was why he was here, he supposed. The baron had to have been planning this for some time, for the negotiations with the Guild for his services had taken place just before _last_ winter, before any the recent events had developed. Ostensibly his role was the help the baron deal with the bandits of the hill country and mountains, but he thought it likely that his talents would be put to use defending what the baron had just taken from his neighbors. He knew that several of the lowland barons had war mages of their own, but such was not his concern. The Guild only forbade direct confrontations, and in fact did nothing to discourage the clash of magic on magic, for wars inevitably drove the price of their services yet higher, and regardless of who won or lost, their coffers almost always ended full of gold and silver.

As he rode through the outskirts of the village surrounding the hill upon which the castle was perched, he weighed the sullen looks and almost dazed expressions on the faces of the people of Rockridge. Clearly they were still adjusting to the changes, although he saw that they scurried out of the way of his horse or of the mounts of the armed men who occasionally passed through the place on their way toward the east or south. Those men cast him weighing looks of their own, but on recognizing his uniform they nodded respectfully and went quickly about their business.

It seemed that the baron was expecting him.

He left the village behind and directed his mount up the lonely dirt road that led up the hill to the gates of the fortress. Almost reflexively his trained eye traveled across the structure, noting strengths and weaknesses and considering how he would attack the place, given the resources at his command. He hoped that the materials that the Guild had sent ahead were all here, and not in Kol Hills, where he was supposed to be. If not—well, he supposed he could have the baron take care of it. It wasn't his task to see that everything was as he required for him to do his job.

The quartet of armed guards, again in the livery of Hrathgar, came to attention as he approached. The leader saluted him as he reined in his horse, a gesture that the mage responded to with a nod.

"The baron is expecting you, sir mage," the man said in a gravelly voice. "There are stables to your left as you enter the courtyard, then take the main entrance to the castle keep. Someone will direct you to the baron's quarters."

The mage nodded, and spurred his horse on through the passageway that led through the thick outer wall into the enclosed courtyard beyond. It was quiet for the middle of the day, with only a few souls going about their business, some carrying heavy burdens of clothes or foodstuffs or buckets sloshing with water. No one seemed to pay him any attention as he dismounted near the stable and handed his mount to a stone-faced stabler, but he could feel eyes on him as he slung his packs over his shoulder and made his way to the main entrance of the adjacent keep.

The castle keep was a mammoth three-story structure fashioned out of ancient slabs of black granite. It looked cold and intimidating, but for the fact that the mage had seen many such places in his travels, and he'd learned the secrets that made such edifices less than invulnerable to those who would see them fall. _Or in this case, change ownership_ , he thought. He wondered if the tales he'd heard about Hrathgar swooping down on Stormhold in the aftermath of Dorthin's death—without leaving an heir—facing the bandits of the lower reaches of the Ralos were true. From what he knew of the man, he did not find it a stretch to believe that his prospective employer had had something to do with the deaths of both Dorthin and his erstwhile rival baron Cathor, although both deaths had been to all appearances accidental flukes of fate. The mage had played enough dice to know that fate, like coincidence, only went so far.

The double doors at the top of the short flight of stairs in the front of the keep opened easily at his touch, and he went inside. Beyond was a foyer whose hard lines were only slightly offset by the worn carpets on the stone and the bright glow of lamps set into niches in the walls. The place was fairly quiet, although there was a faint thrum of activity from deeper within. As he took a few steps into the foyer, a youth emerged from one of the hallways that led off the entry, and started as he caught sight of the mage. By his expression, he'd either been caught being lax in his duty of greeting guests, or he recognized the mage's apparel, or both.

"Where can I find the baron Hrathgar?" the mage said, his voice pleasant but tinged with a hint of command. They'd taught them that, along with the more arcane skills of his art, at the Guildhouse in Limbrock.

"Um... he's in the main hall, milord," the youth stammered, and retreated as if to notify someone of this stranger's arrival. The mage forestalled him, though, following almost on his heels, barely giving the boy time to get out of the way before he pushed ahead through the heavy wooden door that the boy had indicated.

He'd expected more armed guards, but apparently the baron was feeling secure in his new holding. Or at least that was the impression that he wanted to convey to his guest.

The room beyond the door was a large vaulted chamber, with massive thick timbers for rafters. It took up two stories of the back portion of the building, with a narrow stair against one wall leading up to a balcony that accessed the second level of the keep. A great hearth lined another wall, blazing with a roaring fire that cracked and sizzled and filled the room with the smells of the roast cooking over it. Apparently the place served as a dining hall as well, with long trestle tables currently pushed into the corners and stacked with simple chairs and benches atop them.

Baron Hrathgar was easy to recognize, sitting in the largest chair in the room, a comfortable, heavily padded monstrosity that was half-again as tall as the man using it. He sat at the head of a heavy oak table in the center of the room, flanked on each side by a row of somewhat less elaborate wooden chairs. The baron looked up as he entered, and acknowledged him with a nod and a false smile, then turned back to the half-dozen or so men who were sitting around the table, apparently in the midst of a sort of debate when he entered. He saw that there were guards here, three—no, four, he amended, spotting the fourth standing on the balcony above as he entered the room—looking bored but no doubt skilled with the heavy swords all wore at their hips and the crossbows that they cradled almost lovingly in their arms.

"We will continue this discussion at another time, gentlemen," the baron was saying, the others rising as he did, a wide mixture of feelings playing out in their expressions as the mage watched them. By their garments, and the interaction between them and the baron, they were lesser nobles or perhaps merchants, likely meeting the their new lord for the first time to set the ground rules of the new administration. By the way they looked at him as they left, they were not entirely pleased, but how much of that was due to his presence and how much the baron's policies was impossible to define in the absence of more background information.

"Please, sit yourself, and make yourself comfortable," the baron said to the mage. He gestured for a servant girl who'd appeared to tend the cooking meat over the hearth to fetch his guest something to eat and drink. The mage preferred lighter foods and rarely ate meat anymore, but he wasn't about to offend the baron over such a trivial matter as offered refreshment.

"I am pleased that you were able to meet with me here, honored mage," the baron said, as the two men sat at adjacent places at the great table, the baron relaxing again in his new chair.

"Please, baron, call me Razmartin," the mage said.

"And you can call me Arghus, at least when we are alone together, like this," the baron said, clearly excluding the servants and guards. "At other times, one must keep up appearances, no?"

"Of course."

"As I said, I am glad that you were able to change the location of our meeting with such hasty notice. As you might imagine, I have been hard pressed with the responsibilities inherent in managing Rockridge, in addition to the requirements of my own holdings of Kol Hills. But sometimes fate takes its own hand in affairs, and one can only do one's best to adapt and keep up."

The baron didn't mention Cathor's barony to the south, where his young and by all reports inept son had signed a custodial arrangement with Hrathgar that gave him all but complete control over that barony as well. Such was common knowledge by now, however, and Razmartin knew that the baron would expect him to know such details, although he obviously wasn't going to volunteer information to him at this meeting.

"Fate has treated you kindly of late, Arghus," the mage said.

"Perhaps," the baron said dismissively, "but if I have learned anything from my experience as a leader, it is that fate often takes away with one hand what it doles out with the other. Power breeds envy; that is a truism of politics. 'For man's eyes are drawn to the heights, and he is drawn to discontent by that which he himself lacks.'"

"Menton, _Discourse on Politics_ ," Razmartin cited in reply.

"You are well-read, sir mage. Few today read the classics, even my fellow barons who practice daily the principles laid out in Menton. Some better than others, of course."

"The Guild tries to prepare its agents for the details of the world it sends them out into."

"I admit, I was surprised to learn that the Guild was sending me someone so young, but I grow comforted as we converse."

"The standards set by the Guild are rigorous, and blind to age or background," the mage replied.

"So then skill and talent are the markers, though modesty keeps you from admitting such directly. Ah, a man after my own heart, you are! I am sure that our relationship will be an amiable one, young Razmartin."

"It appears that I will not be idle in your service," he suggested.

"No, you speak truly," the baron admitted, pausing as the serving girl returned with a trencher laid out with a mixture of sliced meats and vegetables, along with a crystal goblet that she filled from a bottle of wine that bore the markings of a Rigalian vintner.

Apparently Razmartin had not fully hid his surprise, as the baron laughed, and said, "Surely you didn't think we were all uncouth and uncultured barbarians out here on the frontier, did you, my good man? Yes, we of Roron sometimes appreciate the finer things, though I myself have always preferred the hard ale and table-pounding of my ancestors."

Razmartin did not reply, but savored the smell of the wine before tasting it. It was an excellent vintage; one that he guessed had been the pride of Dorthin's collection before baron Hrathgar had appropriated it for himself. One thing he wasn't going to do was underestimate the baron, and he made a mental note to keep from making assumptions where this man was concerned.

"Your supplies have arrived here, and I have had them placed in your quarters," the baron said, once the mage had sampled some of the food. "One of the pages can show you around the castle, and the village, if you wish."

"That would be fine, baron," Razmartin replied.

"I will give you a few days to get settled, and invite you to dine with me and my other guests whenever I am here in the castle. My seneschal from Kol Daron, an old but wily fellow named Rik Tharin, should arrive here tomorrow, and I will ask him to meet with you to answer what questions you might have about Kol Hills or Rockridge. I think you will be more comfortable, and better placed to help me, here in Stormhold, and I have instructed the staff to allow you whatever facilities you might require for your work. Get a feel for the place, and please let me know if you have any difficulties or require anything further. Then we can talk more about what assistance you can provide in my service. "

"Of course," Razmartin said. The baron rose, and the mage began to do the same before the baron indicated with a wave of his hand that he should stay. "Please, finish your meal, and take your rest. No doubt the road was long and difficult. I will send the page to attend you."

The baron half-turned to leave, but paused and turned back to face the mage. "I was planning on sending an expedition into the mountains in a few days. As you know, the bandits of those untamable regions have been causing me and my fellow barons of the frontier no end of trouble, which of course was why I summoned you here in the first place. The other barons and I had agreed to cooperate in reducing their power and brazen attitude toward our settlements, but I fear that the chaotic events of late have only emboldened them, as Dorthin's fate at their hands shows. And now, with two baronies to protect, and a third that I am responsible for watching over, the problem is even more urgent."

"The mission I am sending will be primarily a scouting expedition, though with enough force to deal with the bandits directly, if we encounter a base or staging center. Now is the best time to strike, before winter sets in with earnest and closes down the mountain passes. Your presence would help bolster us, I think, and send the bandits a message that we mean business."

"You are planning on leading this expedition, then?" Razmartin asked.

"Yes. I don't believe in sending men to do anything that I wouldn't do myself. And besides, I've spent a fair amount of time in the mountains, and have had more than a little experience in the hunt. And hunting is what we will be doing, turning the tables on the raiders who have pillaged and destroyed what they could for decades along the frontier."

"Very well then, baron. If you feel it is best, I will accompany you on this expedition. I will use the next few days to make a few preparations." He didn't add what had to be obvious to the baron, that the most significant threat to his new holdings was likely his own rival barons, rather than whatever isolated and disorganized bandit gangs operated in the mountains. Perhaps Hrathgar was just moving to consolidate his position, or maybe he was trying to send those rivals a message as well. In any case, although he wasn't looking forward to a trek into the mountains that had loomed larger and larger over the final days of his journey, what the baron had suggested was more or less exactly what he'd been sent here by the Guild to undertake.

"Excellent. When you talk to Rik, he can appraise you on what you can expect, and help you provision yourself for the journey. We expect to be gone a few weeks at most, so bring warm garments and whatever personal items you might need. My quartermaster will draw provender and a winter tent for your use, and a pack mule to carry your burdens."

"With your permission then, baron, I will retire to my quarters and begin preparations," Razmartin said, rising from the table and his half-eaten repast. The baron clapped his hands loudly, and the sullen youth he'd encountered earlier reappeared from one of the side doors and bowed hastily to the baron.

"Show mage Razmartin to his quarters," the baron commanded. "He is to be granted every courtesy, and tell Dailin that everything he needs is to be given him."

Razmartin sensed the boy's unease, but he bowed again and muttered an honorific reply before stepping aside and waiting for the mage to join him. "With your leave then, baron," he said.

"Welcome to Roron, Razmartin," the baron said, but his smile stopped just short of his eyes.

Razmartin took up his packs—none of the servants had offered to touch them—and followed the youth to his quarters in the castle.

* * *

Within a few steps of leaving the hall the baron realized he was not alone, and he turned to see Hevrah hovering in the shadows a few steps behind him. Not really surprised, his look darkened as he shifted to face his advisor in the silent confines of the empty passage.

"So, what do you think of him?" the baron asked.

"Young, but not so much that he should be underestimated on that count," the sorceress replied. "He very much wants to draw success out of this assignment, his first unless I mark him incorrectly, and that we can use to our advantage. He is proud, though, and must be treated with caution." _Proud like you, my baron_ , she didn't add, but she didn't really have to; the baron had noticed the similarity himself and was honest enough in his own self-estimation to recognize it.

"He agreed to accompany the expedition," he said, frowning as he spoke the words.

"Of course," she said. "The way you cast it, how could he not?"

"I still don't like it," he said.

"Has not everything developed according to your plans, my baron?" she prodded him. "You have defeated your two greatest rivals, and taken all that was there for your own."

"And have united the other barons against me!" he roared, before realizing that the sound carried in the hallway. Muting his voice some, he continued, "What you arranged for Cathor was too subtle for anyone to prove, and rumors and supposition are never taken seriously by those with real power. They even strengthened my status, to many who had no cause to love Cathor. But too many people witnessed what happened in the pass, and even trusted men can't be relied upon to keep such a thing silent forever. And with my lands tripled in as many months, even those with no interest in the affairs of the frontier have been speaking my name, and not with admiration!"

"You have won respect, and even those with cause to hate you have learned wariness, and will not act precipitously," she said. "And your campaigns against the bandits reinforces your value to the barons as a collective group."

"To the frontier baronies, perhaps," he said. "But even their tacit support will die once the rumors about my cooperation with the bandits to destroy Dorthin solidify into acceptance. And the barons of the plains have never liked any of us hillfolk, even when none of us were a threat to any of them. Now I am just powerful enough to be a rival to them, without being strong enough, three baronies notwithstanding, to meet the might of even one of them, let alone a coalition of several!"

"Which is why this course is necessary, my baron," Hevrah said, dropping her head in a gesture of false humility.

"Bah," the baron said, but without much feeling. "I still do not fully trust this fools' errand of yours, witch. Now is not the time for me to be chasing shadows, when I must be preparing for the inevitable onslaught of spring."

"There is little you can do now that cannot be done in your absence," she told him. "And has my information ever steered you wrong, or done anything but allow you to increase your power, lord baron? I tell you, agents greater than you or I have taken interest in your cause. Do not toss aside so casually such a boon! I tell you, the power you need to accomplish your final goal may finally be within your reach!"

"We shall see," the baron said evenly. "We shall see if the ancient tales bear the fruit your mysterious helpers promise. And in any case, it will be a good opportunity to settle matters with my friends in the mountains, and to test the mettle of my new ally." With that, he turned and deliberately strode away, leaving the woman to her shadows.

"You _will_ see, baron," she said, a dark smile creasing her aged features. "Fel Darian holds the answers you seek. And more."

* * * * *

Chapter 16

A busy patter of raindrops fell on the smooth cobbles of the street as Izandra left the Traders' Bluff Inn, where she and Dannil had been staying the last few days. She headed down Crafters' Road toward the city's main gate, avoiding the biggest puddles and trying to stay in the lee of the buildings on her side of the street. Most of the merchants were open for business despite the inclement weather, and the colorful awnings they had out in front of their establishments provided an occasional shelter from the rain. Although they did have a tendency to dump a runnel of water down on one unexpectedly when passing under their edges, as Izandra found out in front of a leather goods shop. Muttering a curse, she pulled her cloak tighter around her body, and pressed on. She was wearing nearly every article of clothing she'd brought with her from Sindelar, a coat under her cloak and a heavy wool mantle under that, and she still felt cold, wet, and tired.

But all such discomforts paled against her concern for her injured brother. The healers had done their work with their usual expertise, and Ezran would recover fully, and not even lose his mobility in the bargain. Chelos, the leader of the healer facility, had assured her that he would be as strong as before, but that he would have to remain in bed and under supervision for another week, to restore the strength the injury and the healing had sapped from his battered body. Bone knitting was well within the skill of the followers of Amelira, but even they had winced when Ezran had been brought in, his legs crushed and twisted from the impact of the wagon on the road above. At least they'd been able to ease his pain immediately, although Izandra had been surprised at the strength with which her brother had fought it. She'd seen hardier men swoon or cry sobbing tears at far lesser wounds.

She remained attentive to the people around her, similarly piled in layers of garments. Although she'd been more or less oblivious to everything around her when she'd pushed the wagon off of her stricken brother, Dannil had told her later how the people who'd witnessed the feat had reacted to her use of magic. While no one had confronted her or her companions over the matter, she'd been conscious of eyes watching her over the last few days, and the feeling made her uneasy.

She reached the gate and passed through, hurrying her pace slightly despite the slickness of the cobbles as she crossed the site where the accident had occurred. The teamster had recovered as well from a broken collarbone, and had already been released from the custody of the healers. She had faced a tremor of concern, that neither she nor Dannil had the funds to pay for his care, but the healers had not raised the issue with them. Dannil told her that their code mandated caring for those who needed aid, and that those they helped returned the obligation according to their means to do so. Izandra had wondered aloud how they could support an organization like their hospital on such a generous system, and Dannil had returned that as their services were so vital to so many, they had no shortage of rich patients who could afford to contribute a larger share to their cause. Izandra still felt uncomfortable at accepting the charity, and recorded the debt to the men and women in blue in her mental ledger for repayment at some later date.

By the time she reached the base of the road leading up to the bluff her legs were tired, but the activity had chased away some of the stiffness of the morning. She would have greatly preferred to remain with Ezran, but an ordinance of the city mandated that all inns be located within its walls. So each morning, since that chaotic day of their arrival, she'd trekked down here to visit Ezran, while Dannil met with the factors on his list to make the arrangements set down by the Lady Ilrien before her death.

The hospital was cloaked in the dark shadows cast by the trees that marked the edge of the forest on the far side of the road. The door was unlocked and opened easily, as it always had every time she came to visit. The young clerk at the front desk looked up as she shook some of the rain from her cloak in the foyer, and nodded in greeting before returning to whatever paperwork he was working on. The place was quiet today, although she sensed a faint current of unease that never seemed to leave this place, where death was always waiting in the wings to claim another victim from the vigil of the men and women in blue.

Several of the healers recognized her, sparing her a smile as she made her way to the ward in the rear of the building where her brother was recovering. As she entered the narrow archway that led into the long room she nearly bumped into Chelos, who was heading toward the front of the building with a distracted look on his face.

"My apologies," Izandra said first. The senior healer, still vital despite the wrinkles of more than three score years on his face, focused on her, then his eyes softened as recognition replaced whatever unexplained unease had lurked there a moment before.

"Ah, Izandra, my dear, it is I who should apologize, blundering about without looking to where I step," the old man said graciously. "Your brother, he is doing well, and I know he will be glad to see you. A good lad, that one, perhaps you had something to do with that, no?"

"Your words are most kind," she said. "Is something the matter?"

"Ah, no more than always," he said. "Two of my brethren arrived last night, bearing word of more bandit activity along the Crown Road. Even healers are no longer safe, it seems, in these troubled times."

"Why would anyone attack a healer?" Izandra wondered aloud. "Everyone knows that your order rejects personal wealth, and the gifts you have to offer are given freely to those in need."

"Ah, it is the nature of man," the old man suggested. "Even when a gift is freely offered, there are those who would rather take it." Although he smiled at her, she could feel the impatience building in him, the distraction she'd sensed earlier.

"Please, don't let me keep you," she said, but he was already backing away, concern about whatever errand he was on overcoming his politeness.

"Be careful on the roads," she heard him say after her, and then he was gone. She shrugged at the elder healer's odd behavior, then continued into the ward.

Only a handful of the beds in the long chamber were occupied, and the place was dim, with the dark of the rain outside banishing most of the light save for that which filtered down from a row of lamps that dangled from the ceiling.

Potent smells filled the place, from the variety of potions and salves that the healers used in their craft. At least those odors banished the more pungent smell of sickness and decay that lingered over some of the occupied beds. There were some illnesses that even the healers could not treat, and they were powerless in the face of man's most intractable enemy, the inescapable hand of old age. Those who were alone, without friends or relatives to join them at that time of life, often ended up here, where at least they could pass on to the next reality with warmth, comfort, and sympathy.

"Zan!"

Ezran looked up as she entered, and his face brightened as he regarded his sister. "What is it?" he asked, as she came over to the bed and sat down in the worn chair adjacent.

"I just ran into Chelos," she said. "Did he seem distracted to you earlier?"

"I don't know," the young man replied. "Maybe it has something to do with the two healers who arrived late last night. One's a big guy, really big, the other pretty slight, and young, not much older than me. I think they were the same two that we passed on the road, some time back, you remember?"

"Yes," Izandra said, thinking back to the strange feeling she'd got from the younger healer, and the look he'd had in his eyes. It was a look she'd been seeing of lot of lately, a look troubled by the weight of heavy responsibility. She'd seen a lot of it at the Children's Home, and she suspected she'd see it right now, if there were a mirror handy.

"Do you think it means trouble?" Ezran was asking her, jolting her back to reality.

"I don't know. Chelos said that there were bandits on the west road, though."

"Well, at least we aren't going to be going back that way," he said. "Though I've heard that the east road is even rougher, and Dannil's stories about the North Shore paint it as a pretty wild place."

"Yes, well, how are you doing?" she said, awkwardly changing the subject.

Ezran fidgeted. She knew that the enforced confinement was probably beginning to chafe on her brother, what with an exciting city the likes of which neither had before seen just a few hundred yards away, but she suspected that he was taking it better than she would, were she in his place. He'd always been more of a thinker, and her a doer. She glanced down at the small pile of books sitting on the night table beside the bed, and while she wasn't entirely sure, she thought that at least a few of the titles were different from the ones she'd seen there yesterday. Hopefully her brother would be up and about before he went through the healers' entire library.

As if reading her mind, he said, "A few more days, they say. I guess whatever they did drew a lot of strength from my body. Yesterday, when I tried to get up, even with Anther's help, I could barely move anything below my hips! They say that my muscles will have to gradually relearn how to move around, but that I'll be as good as new within a few weeks."

"Well, don't force it," she told him. "From what Dannil's said, it could be that long until he's worked through everything with the merchants."

"How is he doing?"

"He's showing the stress of his responsibility, but he's holding up to it well. To be honest, I never thought I'd see him take to it the way he has. Not exactly the rogue we've known, not anymore."

"I don't know, I think it's always been there, maybe just buried under that image he keeps polished and facing out into the world," Ezran said sagely.

Izandra nodded. It was a strange juxtaposition in her brother, the eager curiosity and impetuosity of youth combined with keen observational skills and an intellect sharp beyond his years. Neither strong nor agile, nor possessing inherent talent with blade or bow, his wits might carry him somewhere. At least they could carry him farther than the sleepy village of Sindelar. It was a thought that she'd often had. It was clear to anyone; certainly it had been made clear to both of them both by the adults and their peers, that the two of them were different. They didn't fit in at Sindelar, so where did they fit in? Was there a place where they could belong?

"Hey, sis, you still here?"

At Ezran's prodding she flushed slightly and turned her attention back to him. "Sorry about that," she said.

"I sometimes wonder where you get off to, when you look like that," he said.

"I can't help but think about the future—and the present, the past—sometimes it all gets jumbled up together, and I can't make sense of anything."

"I know," he said. "It's not like you can turn it off, can you?" He fidgeted, and it was easy for her to read him, that a thought had occurred to him that made him a little uncomfortable. She thought she knew what it was, but she waited for him to put it into words.

"Has anyone... I mean, has anybody mentioned anything about... what you did?"

"No," she admitted, "but sometimes over the last few days, I've felt like people were watching me. It's not a nice feeling."

"I remember the way that the people in the village felt about Ethander." He idly traced one of the outlines in the quilt that covered the bed with a fingertip. "I didn't know you had come so far along in your studies with him. I mean, I knew you were studying magic, and all that, but I didn't know..." He trailed off, a flicker of uncertainty in his words.

"Neither did I," she admitted, honestly. "I'd never done anything like that before." She had not told him, nor anyone else, about what had happened on the road and along the ridge that night with the kobalos. She still had nightmares about that, and the power she'd used that had ultimately claimed a life, even a life that had sought to harm her.

"So, I guess this means that you are a phuskios mage," he said, simply.

She started, her mouth dropping open as she started to say something, but then the words just suddenly died on her tongue. A mage? She'd never thought of things in those terms before, although she'd always known that the talents that Ethander possessed, and the things he'd taught her, were not common among the general population. Of the three schools of magic, phuskios, or "of nature" in the Old Tongue, was the most uncommon, its practitioners rare and isolated. Bios and khemeia magic could be taught, at least to a certain degree, but the power of phuskios sprang from within. Dealing with the abstract secrets of the natural world, the universe both material and invisible, phuskios was outside even the realm of comprehension for most people, its concepts running counter to the ordinary demands of a common life.

She'd known all that, even before she'd left Sindelar with Dannil and Ezran to begin her first journey—at least the first she could remember—out into the larger world, but somehow she'd been able to deceive herself from facing the simple truth, the reality of what she was and what she could become. The answer to the same question that she'd preoccupied over so many times, and yet she could not connect that to the fact that she did, in fact, possess a power that set her apart from everyone else?

"Pretty intense, I suppose," Ezran said, leaning back into the pillows of his bed.

"Yes, I suppose so," Izandra said with a wry chuckle despite the gravity of the moment. Her brother had always had that gift, to turn dark emotions into less oppressive ones. He looked up at her and grinned, and she could not help but respond in kind.

"My sister, the sorceress," he said, his eyes flashing as if seeing her for the first time.

"We'd better keep that to ourselves," she said, "at least as much as we can, now."

"People like to talk," Ezran said, serious again. "I wouldn't be surprised if everyone within a few days' walk from Adelmar had heard the story about the woman who lifted heavy wagons with a wave of her hand by now."

"Well, that's the great thing about rumors," she said. "By now, there are probably fifty versions of the tale, and if I'm lucky, the truth will be lost among the wisps of invented fantasy."

"Let's talk about other things," Ezran said. "Tell me about the city. Since it looks as though I might not get a chance to explore it myself, the least you can do is allow me to see it through your eyes."

Izandra remained with him for the better part of an hour. She did most of the talking, and it was clear when his strength was waning, for he sank into the crest of pillows and when she rose to leave he only waved tiredly. Promising to return the next day, she left to return to the city and the dry confines of their inn.

It was still early in the day, but after her conversation with her brother she felt little inclination to explore the city. She wanted to be alone, to grapple with the thoughts Ezran's simple question had provoked in her. The rain continued unabated, but she barely noticed it as she made her way across the muddy open space alongside the road where merchants and traders gathered in numbers on brighter days. There was a cluster of people there even now, a group of men and a few women in heavy raincloaks working around a small column of six heavily laden wagons, obviously a merchant train preparing for departure even on a day such as this one. By their facing they were headed east, the same direction that she and her companions would be headed before long. Several of the mounted guardsmen who were waiting for the merchants to finish their preparations turned in their saddles and watched her pass by, and she didn't need to see their faces to sense the weight of those looks on her.

She ignored the gazes that followed her as she crossed the open area and started up the sloping causeway that led up to the city gates. It cost her a half-copper in tariff each time she entered the city walls, a day's wages for a laborer in Sindelar, but she handed over the coin without hardly noticing the cloaked armsman who warded the gate. She could feel his eyes too on her back as she faded into the city, though, and it was with some relief that she saw the familiar outline of their inn finally rise up out of the rainy murk ahead.

She shook as much of the rain as she could free from her clothes in the tiled foyer of the Traders' Bluff, then hung her cloak to dry on the rack near the doorway that led into the inn's common room. The smells of lunch being prepared reminded her of the scanty breakfast she'd had earlier, and she weighed her coins mentally to judge how much she could indulge her appetite today. Dannil had suggested that they enjoy as little of the inn's fare as possible, for while the small breakfast was included in the cost of their rooms, lunch and dinner together were nearly as much as the cost of lodging. He'd been bringing home foodstuffs purchased from the vendors in the market squares, but all that was left in their room now was the end of a loaf of bread, stale now and promising little in the way of comfort for her grumbling stomach.

She was still standing there in the entry, debating going back out into the rain to see if any foodsellers were braving the market today, when the innkeeper came out of the kitchen and, seeing her, came directly toward her.

"Ahem, Mistress Colton, a letter came for you this morning, just shortly after you left." He dug into one of the pockets in the apron that covered his considerable frame, retrieving a battered envelope that had clearly seen some wear. The script that spelled out her name on the front was immediately familiar, and her heart sped up slightly as she took the missive and felt the crinkled and slightly damp paper in her hand.

"Thank you, master Corigham," she said politely. The innkeeper waited a second longer, to confirm that no gratuity would be forthcoming, then he grunted something non-committal and turned back to the bar that ran along the left side of the room. Her hunger forgotten, Izandra crossed the nearly-empty common room quickly and went up the stairs in the back that led up to the guest rooms. A few moments later she was pushing the bolt shut in her room. She gestured toward the candle atop the wobbly table in the corner of the room, and focused her will briefly upon it. As the wick flared and caught, she broke the seal on the envelope and opened the letter. The sound of the raindrops pattering on the roof faded into the background as she quickly read through its contents.

My dearest Izandra,

News has reached me of the events that transpired in Sindelar. I apologize that you found yourself the target of those who would treat harshly with me, but I was not surprised to hear that you handled yourself well in difficult circumstances. The skills that I taught you will be of use in the coming days, as will your natural talents as they continue to develop.

We find ourselves in difficult times, facing a period of change. I have seen the signs of chaos building, although I believed that we had more time to prepare for what must come. I cannot now tell you more about what we face; I do not yet fully understand it all myself. But you will have a role to play in the tapestry as it unfolds before us.

I am sending this letter with a trusted friend because I cannot leave my current responsibilities to join you. Perhaps together we can uncover a few of the answers that you must be seeking. Go to the Wise Oak in Benderal; Latham is a friend and he can direct you further.

Ethander

She sat there in silence for a long minute that crept into several. She did not need to reread the letter; each word was already burned into her memory.

Join him in Maletai? She knew the name of the town of Benderal, but nothing more than that it existed, on the southern fringe of the great forest of the Ilfann. If Adelmar was on the frontier, then Maletai was beyond the pale. The Ilfann were a reclusive people—she knew this from her studies, never having actually met one—and did not welcome visitors to their land. Yet there were men who lived in that region, from what she'd heard, hardy folk who preferred the wilds to the byways of civilization. She recalled her first sight of Adelmar atop its bluff, and its warding tower facing out over the open lands to the east. Dangerous lands, where law and writ of human kings failed to penetrate, where strange beasts and the even stranger Ilfann crept along forest pathways on their secret missions.

Yet she was not really debating going, she found with some surprise as she turned her thoughts inward and regarded the crinkled message in her hand. No, Ethander had known how to entice her, had prodded her with the knowledge that she lacked and wanted, the questions that he'd known she would have. The questions that had driven her to leave Sindelar in search of answers. Ethander's words reinforced her decision that the events in Sindelar hadn't really been about her at all, but his lingering suggestion that she had a role to play in events beyond her understanding left a tendril of unease in her gut as she tried to fathom what he was talking about. There just wasn't enough information for her to even guess. That was the way of wizards, she knew, to leave the truth murky behind a web of implications and misdirection. It wasn't her way, although she was coming to grips with the fact that otherwise, she was part of that brotherhood.

Suddenly decisive, she stood, tucking the letter into a pocket and heading back down to the common room of the inn below. She found the innkeeper cleaning glasses behind the bar, and, her hunger temporarily forgotten, purchased a scrap of old parchment and the loan of a writing quill and bottle of ink. She found herself tapping her fingers on the bar as she awaited the portly man's return; plans were already dropping into place in her mind, and there was a lot to do.

Outside, the rain continued to patter down on the roofs and streets of Adelmar.

* * *

When Dannil returned to the inn, night had already fallen over the city, and the rain had softened to a fine mist that left everything it touched with a layer of damp chill. He was tired, still amazed that reading papers and negotiating with canny merchants could leave him as exhausted as a day spent running across rough terrain. Still, he'd made great progress today, and he began to hope than in two more days, perhaps three, he'd be finished with his business here in the city. Of course, they'd have to wait until Ezran fully recovered from his injuries until they pressed on to their next destination, the city of Lake Heights on the eastern shore of Lake Crista.

Lady Ilrien had had a lot of connections in the lands around the Lake, he realized, and he hoped that what he did here would set a sound foundation for the future of the Children's Home. He'd also realized that he—or someone else, although at the moment he could not consider who—would have to return here at least a few times a year, to maintain the connections that he was building. It surprised him that the thought of being a factor on behalf of an orphanage didn't send him fleeing out into the trackless forests. He shrugged as he shook off as much of the damp as he could from his cloak and hung it to dry on one of the pegs in the foyer of the inn, then headed through the inner door into the common room beyond.

The smells of dinner filled his nostrils, reviving his hunger instantly. Their funds were growing short, and he'd been the one to encourage conservation to Izandra, but tonight he'd skipped his customary visit to the markets. It had been a long and trying day, and he deserved a treat. One of the factors had recommended a tavern that served an excellent roast fowl, and once he found Izandra, he intended to take her out for dinner.

She wasn't in the common room, he saw, and crossed to the stairs that led up to their rooms. He noticed out of the corner of his eye that the innkeeper cast him a curious look as he reached the stairs, but the man quickly turned away and went into the kitchen before Dannil could do anything in response. Despite his weariness his hunger lifted his feet as he quickly went up the stairs, and knocked on Izandra's door.

There was no response. He waited a moment longer, then shrugged and went to his own door. She'd probably gone to visit her brother at the hospital, he thought, although he'd remind her about the hazards of traveling a city alone at night when she returned. He grinned as he considered her possible responses to _that_ bit of advice, although it might be fun to do it just for that...

His thoughts stalled as he entered his room and noticed first of all the fragment of old paper tucked under the candle holder atop his table. Unconsciously frowning, he picked up the paper, trying to read it by the faint light that filtered in through the shuttered window. That wasn't possible, so he had to pause while he applied flint and steel to the wick of the candle. The light made it easier to read the message, but it did not ease the dark expression that settled on the young man's face from the first words.

Dannil, I have to leave...

* * * * *

Chapter 17

"What do you mean, she's 'gone'?" Ezran asked, his voice almost a shout that echoed through the sickroom and caused a few healers to look his way with disapproving looks on their faces.

Dannil's features twisted into an involuntary grimace. He'd guessed all too well how Izandra's brother would react to his news. A part of him had held out some hope that Izandra had confided in her brother, had given him more information about where she had run off to. Apparently, that was not the case.

One of the younger healers rushed over as Ezran, clearly agitated, tried to get up out of his bed. His weakness was plainly evident as he barely managed to lift himself up on his arms before he sagged back, frustration writ large on his face.

"Her message said that she'd received a summons from that wizard master of hers, and that she was heading east to join up with him," Dannil said, trying to keep his voice level despite the fact that he felt the same frustration and anger that Ezran did.

"When did she leave?" Ezran said, trying in vain to fight off the concerned ministrations of the young healer.

"Yesterday, late morning or thereabouts, by what I've been able to piece together."

"And you're just telling me now! Why didn't you go after her!"

The questions were not new to Dannil, being the same ones he'd asked himself since he'd found that note the night before. Impetuous and sometimes impossible she might be, but Izandra had planned her impromptu departure well. By the time he'd found the note the day had been over, with her already hours on the road ahead of him. Even so, he'd almost given in to the impulse to set out immediately after her. Reason, and responsibility, however, quickly took over. Even his skills were not sufficient for safe and speedy travel at night in the sort of weather that was crossing the region, and riding his horse into a culvert or getting attacked by nocturnal wildlife—and there was plenty of such in the area, he knew—would not help Izandra any. And, although he did not admit this now, there was Ezran to consider, and beyond that his responsibilities to the Children's Home.

Yes, Izandra had known exactly what she was doing, he thought grimly.

"Well, what are you going to do about this?" Ezran prodded. "We can't just let her go off alone into the wild lands east of here! You've got to go after her!"

"Of course I'm going after her!" Dannil snapped in reply, some of his own frustration seeping through into his tone and even giving Ezran pause. "It's not always that simple through, Ezran!"

"I...I'm sorry, Dannil. It's just that..." he slapped his arms down on the blanket, ignoring the healer, who had moved a few steps back to give the two friends some privacy. "I just don't like feeling so helpless, and you know Izandra... She's bound to get herself into some trouble that she won't admit exists."

"Yes, I know Izandra," Dannil said, letting his ire bleed away as he regarded the younger man lying before him. "Don't worry, Ezran, I won't let anything happen to her," he added emphatically. "I intend to be on the road within an hour, and I'll catch up to her before long." It would likely take a little longer than that, he thought inwardly, to gather the supplies he needed—what little he could afford with the few coins he had remaining!—and prepare some sort of message for the factors he was supposed to be meeting with even as he met here with Ezran. Well, they'd have to wait, until he could return.

Hopefully with Izandra in tow, although he didn't fool himself as to how she would react to him coming after her.

"I know, Dannil," Ezran said, and Dannil could see the energy drain from him with that admission, falling back in exhaustion against the pillows of his bed. The young healer brought a bowl filled with some sort of sweet-smelling liquid, and this time Ezran accepted it and drank without comment.

"Rest up, get your strength back," Dannil told him. "By the time you're up and about again, I'll be back with her. I promise I won't stop until I find her."

"Be careful," Ezran said.

Dannil nodded, then turned and left the room. He decided to look for that head healer, or someone in authority—it was hard to tell among the blue-robed folk, sometimes—and have a few words regarding his friend before leaving.

He didn't see Ezran look up and follow his departure with his eyes, or the covert look he shot at the healer's back when the young man turned to put the now empty bowl on a nearby table.

Weak and frail he might be, but he was damned if he was going to let his sister rush off into danger without doing something about it.

With that decision made, Ezran let the effects of the sleeping draught wash over him and carry him off into restful sleep.

* * *

His expression darkening a little with each step, Dannil walked across the plushly carpeted floor of the anteroom and paused beside the open door of the hospital director's private office. He could hear low voices from the room beyond; clearly he'd intruded on a meeting between Master Chelos and someone else. One of the lessons ingrained in every youth at the Children's Home had been to avoid eavesdropping, so he cleared his throat and moved far enough into the doorway so that those beyond could see him.

Two healers turned to regard him as he looked into the plainly decorated chamber. Chelos he'd met before. The old healer sat behind a worn cherrywood desk stacked high with parchments. The room's walls were covered with bookshelves, though most of them were full of knickknacks, bottles, and canisters that filled the room with hints of dried herbs and other unidentified medical substances. An old healer's bag sat in a place of honor in a threadbare but comfortable looking padded chair in a sunny corner.

The second healer was a much younger man, perhaps not even older than Dannil by the look of him. He scanned the intruder quickly and then shifted his attention back to the master healer; dismissed him too quickly, Dannil thought, but he was not there to clash with another nameless healer.

"I'm sorry if I'm intruding, Master Chelos," he said.

"No, quite all right, my boy," the old healer said, gesturing for him to come into the room. He came only a few steps, clearly indicating that he wanted to complete his business and then continue on his way.

"I'll only take a few minutes of your time," Dannil said, noticing now that the younger healer had a look of impatience as well, that perhaps he had intruded upon something important, despite Chelos's disclaimer.

"Young Ezran is recovering well, so Gnalen informs me," the old healer said. "He should be up and around in a few days."

"On behalf of his sister and myself, I'd like to thank you for all you've done for him," he said.

"Yes, his sister...quite a remarkable young woman, if I don't miss my guess."

"Muh-muh-master Ch-Ch-Chelos, perhaps I should return luh-luh-later..." the younger healer began.

"No, stay a moment, Alec," Chelos interrupted. "This might concern you as well, I think."

Both Alec and Dannil looked equally surprised, and exchanged a quick look before turning back to the old healer.

"Yes," he said, reaching into a drawer of his desk as he spoke, "Izandra stopped by yesterday morning, in quite a hurry. Twice, actually, but the second visit is the one I'm referring to. She left this," he said, indicating a small wrapped scroll he took out of the drawer and held in his hand. It looked like a fragment of a larger piece of paper, and Dannil suspected he already knew where it had come from.

"It is for her brother," the healer explained, "but she didn't want me to give it to him until he had fully recovered from his injury."

"Have you read it?" Dannil asked.

"No, of course not," the healer replied. "Would never intrude upon someone's privacy like that. But she explained that she had to leave Adelmar quite suddenly. She didn't say much more, but she seemed quite uncertain, and I heard that someone of her description left in a hurry on the east road just a short while later."

"You seem to know a great deal," Dannil said. "More perhaps that I do," he added in an undertone.

"I don't presume to intrude in the business of others," Chelos said. "But would I be correct to suggest that you intend to follow after said young woman?"

Dannil hesitated a moment, then nodded.

"Ah..." Chelos said, then paused for a moment before continuing. "Perhaps we can be of some mutual assistance, then."

"Do you know where she is going, master healer?" Dannil asked.

"She did not say as much, but I gathered that her destination is somewhere to the east, perhaps near the great forest," Chelos said. "There aren't that many settlements along the East Road, and it should be possible to divine more along the way."

"And what is it that you want me to do?" Dannil asked, although he thought that he already knew the answer.

"Young Alec here, also has business to the east. But the weather is not suited to easy travel this time of year, and the East Road is never fully secure in the best of times, if any are, these days. If I mark you correctly, young man, you are familiar with the wilds, and you have the look of someone who can handle himself outside of the city. And Alec has his own talents, which can help you in turn."

"I will be traveling in some haste," Dannil said, trying to keep his voice level.

"Understandable," Chelos said. "Alec's errand is quite urgent also, and he will not slow you down. And the hospital would be happy to provide supplies, and some coin, to help speed you on your journey."

Dannil bit back another protest, considering. The help would be welcome, especially given the nearly barren status of his purse, and he did owe the healers a boon of goodwill for what they had done for Ezran. And considering that he'd come to ask Chelos to look after Ezran, agreeing to the healer's suggestion might be the best course. He just hoped that the healer could handle himself, and keep up on the road.

Apparently Alec had his own doubts, for he shifted uncomfortably, and said, "But muh-muh-master, I had thought Ce-Ce-Cerek—"

"Cerek will have to go north to the seacoast, with Thalor and Shalin," Chelos said. An apologetic look crossed his face for a moment, but he said, "I know the importance of your cause, Alec, but we just don't have enough people to do everything Kiros requests of us. Already the hospital is far understaffed for the need that we face."

"We all have to make sacrifices," Alec said, in a low voice that Dannil barely heard. Then, in a louder tone, he said, "It will be as you wuh-wuh-wish, muh-muh-master."

"All right, then," Chelos said. "Assuming you agree, Dannil?"

Dannil nodded. "I had intended to leave in about an hour, as soon as I could gather some supplies for the journey." And attend to the business he would have to leave behind unfinished, he added inwardly.

Chelos looked at Alec, and the young healer nodded. "All and well," the old man said. He rose and extended his hand, and Dannil came forward to grasp it. "Good luck to you, young man," he said warmly. "I wish you luck in finding her."

"Thank you," Dannil said. "I'll meet you out front in about an hour?" he said to Alec. The healer nodded. Dannil supposed he'd probably do much the same, if he was cursed with a stutter that interfered with his ability to speak. That was fine with him; he intended to focus on the road, and finding Izandra, and was not looking for a casual traveling partner with whom to engage in idle chit-chat.

At that, he thought, as he took his leave and left the hospital to return one last time to the city on the bluff above, it might be useful to have the healer along. The blue robes carried with them a powerful message, one that even the people of the wilds recognized. Whether they would honor that message, of course, was often another matter entirely.

* * *

The noise of pounding tore Izandra from her rest. She sat up in her bed, momentarily confused over where she was and what was happening around her. The remnants of a dream clouded her thoughts, but then the noise repeated and she shook herself fully into wakefulness.

"Wake up! The wagons are almost ready, and Berkhan's not going to wait!"

"I'm up!" she said to the closed door and the voice beyond, trying to ignore the tired protests of her muscles as she levered her feet down to the bare stone floor of the crowded room. It looked to be little more than a closet, and the smell of dried herbs that hung in the air implied that it had in fact been used as such in the not too distant past.

She could not help but smile as she hurried into her clothes, still slightly damp from the previous day's travel. The voice at the door had belonged to Dacen, the youngest of the merchants with whom she'd been traveling, and the one she felt most comfortable with despite his gruff manner. He hadn't made advances or tried a quick grope or two on the road, unlike most of the other merchants and all of the guards in their little caravan. At least it hadn't gone further than that. She needed the company of the merchant caravan, especially as they passed deeper into the wild country beyond the influence of Adelmar, but she wasn't going to let anyone take advantage of her. She was unwilling to use her growing powers now, but that unwillingness did not cross over into refusing to protect herself if the need arose.

It took just a few moments to dress and gather up her gear, already laid out in a convenient and ready bundle near the head of the bed. She didn't bother with a wash; even if the morning hadn't been infused with the bracing cold of early winter, the little water left in the basin from last night was stale and dirty. She checked to make sure that everything was where it should be, then opened the door and went out into the morning.

It was even colder in the muddy yard in front of the "inn" where she'd spent the night. A soft wind was blowing and promising a bleak if clear day ahead. The place was little more than a road stop, a sagging stone and wood building with a roof clearly in need of repair that was little bigger than the Colton home back in Sindelar. She'd only seen the innkeeper briefly the night before, a bent and aged wretch who'd worn the hide of a wolf as if it were a tunic. He was nowhere to be seen this morning, and she could not blame him the comfort of his blankets on a morning such as this one, with the dawn only just beginning to brighten the horizon to the east, where they would be traveling on within minutes.

Ignoring the bustle around her as the merchants and guards prepared for that departure, she crossed over to the dilapidated stable where her horse had spent the night with the beasts of the merchant train. The animal seemed all right and snorted at her in greeting. She quickly saddled it and led it into the open yard, where the wagons were already beginning to move onto the cracked and uneven surface of the road that wound away into the east. Some of the guards cast looks her way as she fell in behind them, but no one said anything. It was as if the silence of the morning had taken on a certain momentum, and no one wanted to do anything to shatter it. That was fine with Izandra, who appreciated the quiet.

In addition to the horse and the warm clothes she wore, she had little else with her. Ezran's bow hung from the side of the saddle, along with a quiver half-full of iron-tipped arrows. While she wasn't an expert with the weapon, she knew enough to shoot was she was aiming at a fair portion of the time, and the weapon gave her an added impression of competence. Her only other weapon was the knife tucked into her belt, and that had been crafted more as a tool than a weapon. The saddlebags behind her were stuffed with grain for the horse and about a week's worth of food for her, provender hastily purchased on her way out of Adelmar. Had it been three days already? She was glad for the quick pace of the merchant train, for every hour they pushed on left more space between her and any pursuit. She had clearly stressed in her letter that she hadn't wanted Dannil to chase after her, but she'd spent much of the first two days looking back over her shoulder, half-expecting him to come charging down the road with a furious look etched on his face. He wouldn't abandon Ezran, though, she'd told herself then, and again now.

Of course, pushing aside her own guilt was less simple. She'd told herself that what she was doing wasn't selfish, that her decision had been a necessary one, based on what she knew and what she had to do. Dannil was needed elsewhere, and what had happened outside Adelmar had shown her that Ezran was still too young and inexperienced to face the dangers that might lie ahead. At least that was what she told herself. The fact was that she was afraid for him, and Dannil too; more afraid for them than for herself. That realization helped keep the doubts at bay, and allowed her to shift her focus on the road ahead rather than the one behind.

The caravan she was traveling with was the same one that she'd spotted getting ready to leave that morning when she'd emerged from the hospital. Although they'd only had a few hours' head start when she'd finally left, it had taken most of the day for her to catch up to them. Berkhan was setting a hard pace that ate up the miles despite the harsh weather. She'd had to put up with the inevitable leers and suggestions from several members of the all-male company, but ultimately Berkhan had agreed to let her travel with them until they reached the point where the road split and turned to the south, toward the north shore of the Lake. She was glad for the relative security offered by the arrangement, although there had been a few uncertain moments when one of the men had come across her alone and she'd feared that her assumptions about these men had been dangerously wrong. Nothing had come of those uneasy confrontations, but she had not let her guard down since. She could protect herself from attack, but feared the outcome of being forced to use her powers in self-defense. Could she stop all four of the guards, or the bolts from the crossbows that the merchants kept handy on the running boards of their wagons? She remembered vividly how her magic had not protected her from the kobalos in the forest outside Sindelar, and shuddered at the thought.

And soon enough, she would be alone, on a road even more dangerous than the one she was on now.

The dark thoughts lingered, none of the answers to her many questions coming to her, as she rode in the wake of the small train of wagons, wrapped in a chill not entirely attributable to the cold wind that came and went throughout the day.

* * *

"Hold up," Dannil said, reining in his mount as he peered into the dense brush that had lined the sides of the road for the last few miles or so.

Alec brought his own horse to a halt. He was still a little awkward with the creature. Chelos had provided him with a fine horse, an old mare chosen perhaps for its demeanor and patience with its inexperienced rider, rather than its speed and endurance. The animal had been able to keep up with Dannil's fast pace, however, and in their second day on the road out of Adelmar they were making good time as they penetrated deeper into the lands of the infrequently traveled east.

"Wuh-wuh-what is it?" Alec asked, weariness evident in his voice.

"A campsite," Dannil replied. He dismounted and led his horse through a slightly thinner patch of brush. Alec copied him and followed behind.

It was indeed a camp, set in a hollow of low boulders and shrouded by the surrounding bushes. Puddles of water left by the recent storms remained in low places among the rocks, but the campsite looked secure. A fire pit that had clearly seen a lot of use was in the center of the hollow, built well enough so that most of the water from the rainfall had drained away rather than collected in the depression.

Dannil looked around, then up at the sky entirely cloaked in gray. There was still another hour of light left, at least, but he was as tired as Alec, if he didn't show it as clearly.

"We'll stop here for the night," he said, nodding to himself at the healer's obvious sigh of relief. "Take care of the animals," he said, handing the reins of his horse to Alec, though it was more of a gesture than anything else, since he would attend to his mount personally later. "I'll go see if I can scrounge up some dry firewood." He didn't hold out much hope for fresh game, not this close to the road, but perhaps he could find some edible roots to help stretch their supplies.

Alec nodded and began undoing the saddle on his horse, moving with at least a little more confidence than he'd shown the previous night, when they'd stopped in a roadside inn in one of the villages within Adelmar's orbit. The healer had not spoken much during their journey, which was fine with Dannil. Still, the young man in blue had something in his eyes, a drive that pushed him as hard as Dannil pushed himself to catch up with Izandra. Ordinarily he would have been curious about that, but at the moment, his thoughts were fixed on the road ahead. He still wasn't sure what he would say when he caught up to her, but he knew that he would have to temper his anger if he didn't want to push her further away from him. It was a lesson hard-learned in the years he'd known Izandra.

There wasn't much in the way of wood near the campground, just some bent scrub trees that resisted his sword. He wished that he'd thought to bring a wood axe. Apparently the deadwood in the area had already been well-scrounged by earlier travelers, not that there were many through this region at this time of year. It had been easy to find clues of Izandra's passage at the few settlements they'd encountered. Apparently she'd met up with a small merchant caravan, and was heading east in their company. That was a smart move, he thought, as these lands were reputed to be dangerous, with threats waiting for the unwary traveler. That led him to expect he could catch up with her soon, but it seemed as though the merchants were driven to set a hard pace as well. Well, they were on wagons, and he and Alec had horses. Even with the lead she had on them, they should catch up to her tomorrow or the next day, he thought. He hoped it would be before the road split, forking to head south to Lake Crista and from there to the communities on the eastern shore of that great inland sea. That was the road that most travelers took, but from what Chelos had told him he expected that she would take the lesser-used road that went east toward Maletai, the forest dominion of the Ilfann.

With that thought he almost regretted his decision to stop early, but the presence of the camp hinted that no further settlements would be situated nearby along the road. He gathered up the few pieces of wood he had trimmed, along with a few handfuls of at least relatively dry scrub brush, and returned to the camp.

Alec had done well in making preparations, he saw. The pots for preparing dinner had already been laid out by the edge of the fire pit, along with the saddlebags containing their supplies, and both horses had been unlimbered and brushed down. He hadn't thought that he'd been gone that long; perhaps the priest was a fast learner after all. He knew better than to judge someone by something as mundane as a slight stutter, but it was clear that there was more to this healer than first met the eye.

He put the wood down in a pile and took out his flints, and before long he'd coaxed a small fire out of the brush he'd gathered for kindling. There was not enough wood to burn the night through, and it looked to be cold again, so he'd likely have to go out again to scrounge some more. A hot dinner looked like a worthy first step, however, so he filled a pot full of water from one of the small pools nearby and braced it on the edges of the fire, almost directly in the flames.

"Muh-muh-make sure you buh-buh-boil that well," Alec suggested, looking over from where he was finishing with the horses.

"I know," he said curtly, but he softened the retort with a smile. He started sorting through the supplies, to see what he could use to make a stew for the two of them. After a few moments, Alec came over to join him beside the fire.

"You know the ruh-ruh-road," the healer suggested.

"I've traveled a lot," Dannil admitted. He handed a small bag of grain to the healer, indicating with it that he should feed it to the horses. Alec nodded and rose, returning to the mounts.

There was silence for a few minutes more. Dannil sat staring into the pot of water, watching it as small bubbles began to appear in the dark liquid. The fire was beginning to remove some of his chill as well, and he finally looked up, and said, "How long have you been a healer?"

Alec shifted slightly, then half-turned from where he was feeding the horses to regard the hunter. "A few years," he said softly.

"What made you decide—I mean, why did you?"

"My puh-puh-parents had too many suh-suh-sons," he admitted candidly, and Dannil nodded. The comment said a little about the healer's social origins, and the plain way he said it, without rancor, told him that he bore no resentment for the choice that had been foisted upon him. He considered that a lesser man might have brought some bitterness along with him, especially given the awkward handicap that probably had something to do with it.

"I have no reguh-guh-grets," he said. "I have found great puh-puh-purpose serving the Way of Puh-Puh-Peace. Healing is... I... I don't know that I can describe to you how it feels." Dannil noticed the change that came over the man's expression as he spoke, and how his stutter seemed to drop away with those last words. He thought he felt a moment of envy at that conviction, that look, that reflected the purpose Alec had just spoken of.

"And yuh-yuh-you?" the healer asked. "Do you luh-luh-like the ruh-ruh-road?" He finished with the horses, and to Dannil's approval checked their hobbles and tethers before returning to the fireside.

"I suppose it likes me," Dannil replied.

They sat there in silence for a few moments, regarding the flickering of the flames of the fire. Finally, content that the water had boiled enough, he poured about half of it into a bowl to cool and began adding ingredients to the remainder for their stew.

"You are cuh-cuh-concerned for your friend," Alec said, finally.

Dannil nodded again.

The healer opened his mouth to speak again, but was interrupted by a faint stirring in the brush. Alec looked up in alarm, but Dannil was already moving, lunging for the bow he'd placed close by. The horses whinnied in alarm, fidgeting in their hobbles.

"Wh—" Alec began, but he never got a chance to finish.

Dark forms erupted from the brush, darting into the circle of firelight with feral growls. They seemed to be coming from every direction at once, converging on the side of the fire where the two men waited.

Alec cried out in alarm and spun to find something leaping almost right at him, vicious jaws snapping eagerly at him even as he tried to jerk away. His efforts were partially successful as the creature's momentum carried it past him and into the fire pit, where it cried out in anger and pain. The sick smell of burning flesh filled the camp.

Dannil had moved faster. His first arrow struck even as the first of the creatures entered the radius of the firelight, and the second slammed home as another crouched for a leap. Then he spun to face another that had erupted from the ring of stones behind him, his dagger slashing into the dark shape as it darted past.

The horses whinnied again, struggling against their hobbles as several of the creatures swarmed around them. They were low and furry, shaped like wolves or big dogs, almost, but they moved with a speed and ferocity unlike even the most vicious canine, almost rabid in their violence.

Dannil recovered his bow and retreated to put one of the big stones to his back, looking for more of the creatures. "Alec, here, quickly!" he yelled. The healer had moved back from the one that had stumbled into their fire. Its struggles were causing the flames to flare wildly. That made it difficult to see, although it was clear from the plight of their horses that there were more of the creatures attacking.

Even as the healer staggered uncertainly to Dannil's position, the young hunter drew out another long arrow and pulled its fletching to his cheek in a smooth motion. He struck the beast that staggered out of the fire in the throat, driving it cruelly to the ground. Even before seeing the results of that shot he was preparing another, but Alec's cry of warning forestalled him.

"Dannil, behind!"

He spun to see another of the creatures poised atop the rock, its sharp claws digging at the stone as it fought for purchase, clambering toward him with jaws slavering. He used his motion to help pull the bow, but the arrow fired harmlessly off into the darkness as the creature lurched forward and slammed hard into him. He was just able to keep his balance and avoid being borne down by the thing's charge, although its claws raked at his shoulders, and he felt the sharp pain of flesh tearing as it ripped through his clothes. He returned the favor with his dagger, poking the blade of sharpened steel deep into the beast's side.

The monster roared in pain, and it seemed like the sound echoed through the camp, for Dannil heard the sound return from across the fire. Then he realized that the other creatures were also roaring, a sound that seemed a mixture of horror and fury and pain all rolled up into one. He felt a buzzing that felt like it was coming from deep within his head, and he shook it in an attempt to clear it even as he slashed at the wounded but still dangerous beast before him. The thing lurched at him again, but the attack this time was feeble, and he ducked back easily. It staggered after him for one step, then one more, hesitant, before dropping dead at his feet.

The buzzing faded, and he turned around to regard the camp, trying to discern what was happening through the confused welter of sights and sounds. The fire had faded some with the effect of the thrashings of the beast that had attacked Alec, but it still cast enough light for him to make out the situation. The healer's horse was down, though still struggling, its throat and torso covered with deep gashes. His own horse stood still, but his experienced eye saw the way it limped and favored the leg where its hamstring had been torn by an attacker's claws. The animal was dead, for all that his hand would have to make the final cut.

The only remaining attackers were the bodies of the ones he'd killed, and one crushed by the iron-shod hooves of one of the horses. He turned to look at Alec, who looked back at him with a strange expression on his face. For a moment when he looked into the man's eyes, dark pools in the reflected firelight, he almost sensed that strange buzzing again, then it faded as the blue-robed healer moved quickly over to him.

"You are injured," Alec said, easing him forward to the edge of the fire, where the light was strongest.

"It's nothing," Dannil said, continuing his scan, making sure that there were indeed no more of the creatures remaining in the vicinity.

"You did that, didn't you?" he asked, as the healer expertly examined the cuts in his shoulders where the thing's claws had scored him. "Drove them away, with... whatever that buzzing..."

Alec nodded, reluctantly, and Dannil let it drop. Perhaps later the healer would volunteer more, but at the moment, Dannil was not convinced that they were out of danger.

"I don't think they'll come back soon," Alec said in a low voice, so low that Dannil had to strain to hear even though the healer was right beside him.

And then, so suddenly that he didn't have time to react, he felt an icy chill flare through his shoulders, followed so swiftly by a wave of soothing warmth that melted through him. The stress of the battle drifted away, replaced by a tired sensation of comfort. He realized that the pain of his wounds had faded away, and looked at the healer in surprise. This wasn't the first time that he'd been treated by one of the followers of the Way of Peace, but he'd never felt anything like that before.

He checked his wounds, and indeed all of the cuts were now closed, as if they'd been healing several days already. His shoulders were stiff as he tested them, gingerly, and he still felt a slight giddiness from the blood he'd lost, but the difference was amazing.

"Thank you," was all he could think to say. Alec nodded, his head bobbing slightly as if he'd absorbed the exhaustion and strain he'd relieved from Dannil.

Dannil crossed the campsite—their stew and the water had both been spilled, and they'd need more of both, especially now—and attended to the horses. Alec's mount had already stopped moving, and he paused before going to his own. He looked back over his shoulder at Alec, an inquiring look on his face. The healer came over to him, gingerly stepping over the bodies of two of the creatures. Dannil had already seen enough, had identified them even before the rage of battle had ceased.

"What were they?" Alec asked.

"Grags. Hill grags, specifically," Dannil said. "Distantly related to wolves, I think, although clearly much more dangerous. Look at the jaw: it's strong enough to bite through armor, and when it gets a grip, it doesn't let go until it dies. And its limbs, unlike a wolf's, are jointed to allow it to grasp its prey with its claws."

"They aren't natural," the healer said with a shudder, as he looked down once again at the creature Dannil had shot through the throat before turning back to Dannil's horse.

"I can't imagine that this is part of their territory, even on an infrequently traveled road like this. They must be roaming, or an offshoot of a larger pack. With their aggressiveness, they have a tendency to overhunt an area pretty quickly."

"You've encountered such things before?" Alec said, although his attention was on the wound Dannil's horse had taken to its leg. The horse whinnied at his touch, but he patted the animal to steady it as he checked the deep gashes.

"No, they don't frequent the area on the north side of the lake, as far as I know," Dannil admitted. "Though I've spoken to some who've survived attacks, enough to know that we were fortunate."

The healer nodded but did not look up. "She'll live, but we won't be riding any more," he finally reported. Dannil nodded, grateful that he would not have to do what he'd expected when he'd first seen the horse's injury. He patted its neck, and it whinnied nervously, as if it sensed what he'd been planning before. He watched as Alec dug through his saddlebags for some supplies to tend the wounded animal.

"You're sure those things won't be back?" Dannil prodded.

He noticed that again the healer didn't look up at him, but he sensed the man's uncertainty. "I don't think so, at least not right away. I... I don't think I'd want to stay here, though."

Dannil inwardly agreed. He cast around for the pot that had held their dinner, and refilled it from another puddle that had not been disturbed in the fight, placing it directly in the remnants of their fire. "We'll gather up our gear, and move on. We need rest, but better we take it in a place where we're more likely to wake up."

Alec didn't respond, but Dannil took that for agreement. While waiting for the water to boil, he began collecting their possessions, cleaning his dagger on the ragged hides of one of the dead grags before replacing it in its scabbard. He could not help but think of Izandra, though, out on the road somewhere ahead of him. Now her lead would grow rather than shrink, but he refused to contemplate giving up on his self-imposed mission.

"Looks like we walk from here on," he said to himself, his words grim.

* * * * *

Chapter 18

Ticos Gewehr rode through a somber land, a cool gray mist rising up to surround him and his horse. The sound of his horse's shod hooves made a steady but muted clop on the packed stone of the roadway.

There were farms about, and the land was still rich, for all that he'd left the more densely populated regions of Rigal's heartland behind him days ago. With the afternoon, assuming that the fog did not give way to overcast or more rain, the sun's rays would burn through and reveal a landscape still cloaked in colors, if more subdued ones, as winter deepened.

He seemed to have the road to himself. He'd encountered plentiful travelers on the road the first week after leaving Sindaron, and even now, with villages more infrequent and farmhouses showing signs of being built for security as well as convenience, he often passed caravans of wagons and carts bringing goods into Rigal from the diverse markets of Queshtar.

The solitude of the road gave him plenty of time to think. He'd gone out of his way to avoid dealing with people on this journey, although most travelers took one look at his armor and sword and hard eyes and gave him his distance. The armor given to him by the Primus fit him like a second skin, and as promised it appeared unremarkable and undistinguished. Somehow it felt more comfortable on him than the polished and emblazoned mail of the knights of the Order, although he still felt strange without any of the insignia of rank and other markers he'd worn since he'd first been accepted into its lowest ranks. He'd had to crush the urge to offer salute to the few Knights he'd encountered on the road during the first few days of his travels, but the meticulously garbed men in steel and livery had ignored him, their eyes passing over him almost as if he wasn't there. It wasn't an entirely pleasant feeling, and he wondered if he'd been so dismissive of those outside of the elite when he'd worn those colors.

His cover was a simple one, and entirely plausible. The semi-annual Games in Queshtar were less than a month away, and would attract their share of warriors and athletes from all over the continent. He was just another claimant seeking to make a name for himself with his sword, one of the nameless legions of mercenaries or discarded soldiers trying to turn old skills into new profits. The early winter Games were not attended as well as the ones held during spring, as part of the planting festival, but in a way that made them more popular to those who built their self-identities around their talent with sword or bow. To the elite of that copious group, the private clash of skill on skill was more important than the approbation of crowds intent on seeing violence. Some of the veterans raised their noses at the "softer" approach to the Games since the reconstruction of the city in the aftermath of the Dark War more than a century ago, for the contests were now non-lethal, and governed by strict rules and conventions enforced by neutral judges who were appointed by the city council. There were always rumors of more "traditional" contests held in secret areas in the city, where the more brutal combatants and spectators could sate their thirst for trial by blood. Queshtar was well-known as a city where everything was for sale, and although it presented a calmer face to the world today than in the days when it had owed allegiance to the kings of Roron, some things never changed.

Ticos cared about none of that. His skill, though born of years of hard work and personal drive, was not something that defined who he was inside. His thoughts did not turn down such murky paths, preoccupied as he was with what lay in the immediate future on the road ahead.

The day softened some as he rode on into mid-morning, but at best the surrounding fog only brightened, rather than burning fully away. It looked to be another drab day, if at least free of the stinging rain that had swept the southern plains in a harbinger of the arrival of winter. The storms would be back, Ticos knew, but they were secondary to the importance of his objective.

He heard the noise ahead before he caught sight of the travelers. They were a cluster of about a dozen people, gathered around a wagon that had been drawn to the edge of the road. Ticos saw immediately that the left rear wheel of the wagon had broken, and that the group of travelers was working on replacing it. And doing a poor job of it, he observed, with a muddle of confusion as they tried to debate what they were doing. Another wagon was pulled up further ahead, left unattended as its drivers added to the general mess.

Then he drew close enough to identify the travelers, and his lips tightened into an almost perceptible frown. He knew that the best thing to do—and in character for what he was supposed to be—would be to ride on, and ignore the little farce being played out by the hapless group. And yet he could not quite bring himself to do that.

One of them looked up as the sound of his hoof beats carried to them. He was dressed like all the others in simple white robes that faded into gray with the dim light of the morning. The face within the cowl of his robe was old but distinguished, his hair and beard gray. Yet Ticos could see that his features had not taken on the weathered look of one who'd spent a lot of time on the road..

"Good morrow, my son," the old man said. He took in the knight's armor and sword with a wary look, but said nothing more as Ticos reined in his mount before the small company. The others looked up and formed a half-circle around the man who had spoken, their efforts toward replacing the wheel halted at his arrival.

"Some trouble, Prior?" Ticos said in a neutral voice.

The gray-haired man's face brightened with the use of his title, as if its use confirmed that he was still in civilized lands. He nodded emphatically.

"We've gotten into a spot of trouble, indeed," the man said. "We've got a replacement for the wheel, but, well, you see, none of us has really done this before. Not much demand for such in the clergy, you see." Ticos saw that most of the other robed figures were young, some barely out of their teens by the looks of them. He shifted slightly in his saddle, and then dismounted. He also noticed that most of them retreated slightly at his movement.

Ticos left his horse where it stood—the well-trained mount would wait for him, and did not need to be tied—and walked over to inspect the damage. He saw immediately that the wagon had been poorly loaded, and that the strain on the rear axle had led to the damage to the wheel. The replacement, already unloaded and laid up against the bed, seemed sound, although it was difficult to tell for sure in the bad light and the clinging damp.

He turned to one of the youths, who held a hammer and auger as if they might sprout teeth and try to bite him. The youth looked at him blankly for a moment as he gestured expectantly, then, as if a lamp had been lit inside his head, he smiled and handed over the tools to the waiting knight.

"Where you headed to, Prior?" Ticos asked, as he used the tools to remove the holdings that held the broken wheel to the axle.

"Ah... well, we are on our way to Roron, actually," the priest said. As Ticos looked up, eyebrows raised doubtfully, the man added, "We are missionaries, you see, part of Bishop Olinder's program of outreach to the degraded peoples of the hill country. We are to bring those unhappy folk into the bright light of the Lord of Honor, you see," he finished, his face shining as if with the reflected glow of that radiance he described.

"And where are your knights?" Ticos asked, looking around the group.

The priest straightened slightly at the question, although Ticos sensed a brief moment of unease among some of the others as they exchanged quick glances behind his back. "Ours is not a military expedition, sir Warrior, nor do we seek to spread our message at the point of a sword."

"I'm sure the kobalos of the Ralos foothills will be impressed by your dedication," Ticos said, and he didn't have to force the sarcasm. Too much, at least, for he was concerned for the young people in the white robes with their expressions that were a mixture of naive faith and uncertainty.

"Hmph," the old man said. "I would not expect a man such as yourself to understand," he finally added.

"We are prepared to take care of ourselves," someone added from the group. Ticos saw that it was a young woman, perhaps just out of her teens, perhaps not. Her golden hair framed a face well-defined with strong lines and a solid, determined set to her jaw as she stepped forward to face him. Ticos saw that there was another youth, a young man with jet-black hair, who stepped forward in her shadow.

"Ah, Moira," the priest said. "Moira and Cailen are Defenders," he said to Ticos. "So you see, we are not helpless. Now, if you would help us with our wheel, sir Warrior, we can continue on our way, and you on yours."

Ticos studied the young woman and her shadow for a moment longer. She did not flinch under his gaze, returning his look with a strong one of her own. The Defenders were the military adjunct to the clergy, although their role was rather more constrained than that of the knighthood. Ticos knew several senior Defenders who could wield mace and shield with the best of the senior knights, and the histories of Rigal included the tales of the men and women of the Shield who had upheld the noblest tradition of righteousness and honor beside the men of the Order.

But at best, these two youths were but acolytes in that honorable cause, although the priest's comments had clarified the situation here. Bishop Olinder's program of missionary outreach was controversial, and it wasn't a secret that the clergy and the knighthood had come into conflict on issues of jurisdiction on issues like this in recent years. He had thought more frequently on such matters since his meeting with the Primus.

He turned away, back to the wheel and away from things that he could not change.

With his direction guiding the effort the repair went swiftly. A dozen sets of hands lifted the wagon up while he changed out the new wheel for the broken one. He had them remove some of the provisions heaped atop the wagon and then repositioned them after the wheel was replaced. The supplies would be a beacon for bandits where they were going, but he bit his tongue, and said nothing. The priest's thanks were less than enthusiastic; he seemed as eager to have Ticos go on his way as the knight was eager to depart. As he returned to his horse, he realized he'd never even learned the man's name.

As he reached his horse and glanced back over his shoulder at missionaries, he saw that the young Defender, Moira, was walking toward him. He crossed his arms and waited.

Her form was bulky under her robe, as if she was wearing light armor underneath. Her walk was the stride of someone who'd received an introduction to martial training, but she carried no weapon, and that alone was a sign of inexperience. No warrior took for granted that even a relatively tamed region like this one was safe, and he knew that if he had been a bandit, even just one against a dozen, he would be riding on with his choice of the supplies he'd help restock in the wagons. Or more, he thought, regarding the confident expression—was it forced, or genuine, he thought?—of the young woman who came up to him.

"You doubt our capability," she said to him, low enough so that her words would not carry to the others.

"It is not my place to question your cause, or your ability to achieve it," he told her, working to keep his voice neutral. It wasn't especially difficult; he'd risen in the Order by learning to keep his true feelings carefully hidden behind such an exterior.

He wasn't entirely sure what to make of this young woman, little more than a girl but at the same time more than that. Women were not permitted within the Order, and in Rigal it was rare for a woman to embark upon martial training. He knew that practices were different in other lands, but a lifetime of training and custom were hard to change, even when confronted with a reality that contradicted an ingrained tradition.

"You think I should be home with a husband, tending a kitchen and a back garden," she said, as if reading his thoughts.

"It is not my place to question that, either," he said, more sharply than he'd intended. He turned and deliberately swung into the saddle of his waiting horse, completing the maneuver with a trained ease despite the heavy weight of his armor and weapons.

"Good luck in the games, warrior," she said, no hint of sarcasm apparent in her voice. "And to you, Defender," he said, urging his mount forward, back down the road that led to Queshtar, and his mission.

The priest, and a few of the others, watched until the fog swallowed him up.

* * *

While Ticos Gewehr rode along the paved highway that ran from the settled core of Rigal, en route to the trading city of Queshtar, Razmartin sat in a dirty and cold cave in front of a small fire, warming his hands. The cave twisted like a serpent, winding deep back into the side of the mountain they had spent most of the previous day scaling. That mountain had been similar to the one they'd scaled the day before, and the one they'd scaled the day before that.

A few of the other men glanced his way from time to time, stealing furtive looks before hunkering down beside their own fire. It was on the opposite end of the cave, closer to the constant draft that came from the entrance of the cave, but none of the men moved closer to the war mage's location. Razmartin didn't mind that they were intimidated by him. He welcomed the isolation, in fact, given that none of the baron's men seemed particularly cultured, educated, or sophisticated, even for common soldiers. They respected him, however, and that would have to do.

The light of the flames played off the runes sewn in silver thread into his outer garment, a fur-lined cloak that had proven barely sufficient against the bracing cold of the last few days. The skies had been clear on the day they had left Stormhold on their foray into the forest and the hills beyond, but that had quickly changed as dark clouds had gathered overhead, enfolding the entire sky in their looming grip. Thus far the rain had only been sporadic and occasional, if biting cold, but the wind was almost as bad, especially when they had crossed the tree line and passed from the foothills into the range proper.

The small company had moved quickly, though, and Razmartin found that he could both handle the cold and keep up with the hard pace, which relieved him somewhat. He'd been worried about showing weakness in front of the baron and his men. These Roronians were a hardy folk, especially those bred to the hills. Their speech was coarse and their humor jagged, and they clearly respected strength and despised weakness.

Their first test had come early on their third day after leaving Stormhold, while they were still navigating the passes that led up from the foothills into the higher reaches of the Ralos. Since he didn't have anything better to do, the mage let his thoughts run back over that encounter, now two days behind them, and the lessons learned from it.

* * *

"So, mage, what do you think of our mountains?" the baron asked, with a gleam in his eye as he walked beside the mage wrapped tightly in his fur-lined cloak. The silver sigils pattered across its length rippled as the nearly constant wind tore at the garment.

Razmartin looked up the baron, trying to mask the discomfort and impatience that he felt. The baron wasn't teasing him; the man actually enjoyed the rough weather and the hard demands of the trek, and his demeanor had changed noticeably as they'd left the lower lands below behind and penetrated into the wilds. The mage had noticed the way that the baron's eyes wandered over every detail of the terrain, and the way he seemed to note every noise and faint scent that drifted over to them on the wind. He carried the great recurved bow that never left his side with a practiced ease, and Razmartin had already had occasion to see the skill with which it was plied. Their stewpots were rarely empty when they paused each evening to build a camp, and it was rare when more than one arrow was needed to take down a mountain deer or other creature flushed out by the progress of their small company.

It had been even more educational to watch the baron's men, clearly all veterans of the mountains. They were all subtle variations of the same type; lean and dark giants with the ability to vanish into the rocks and brush when one's gaze drifted from them for a moment. They were a pack of hunters, only slightly less dangerous than their leader. Their looks had been hard and questioning then, deferential only because of the influence of the baron. But the baron had been weighing him as well, testing him, Razmartin knew, and so the mage had kept his complaints and discomforts to himself.

"Ah, but this is a mild day," the baron continued, his grin wide but not quite mocking. "In a month, even the lower passes will be blocked to travel, and even the barbarians of the upper reaches will settle down for the winter."

"When will we reach the bandit holds?" the mage asked.

"Soon, my impatient friend, soon enough. But take the time to enjoy the day!"

Razmartin opened his mouth to reply, but shut it again as he noticed the change that came over the baron. The easy expression was replaced by the wariness of the hunter, just like that, and the mage felt a chill of anticipation flush over him.

"Isar, get Belar and circle around that knoll over there," the baron said without turning, his eyes fixed on a rocky outcropping. Isar, a shaggy-bearded mountain of muscle and hair who bore a two-handed waraxe as his only weapon, heard him and trotted off toward the hill. They had been traveling along an unremarkable ridgeline, the naked boulders that lay everywhere interrupted by dense clumps of brown and bare scrub brush. Soon, according to what the baron had said, all of it would be covered by snow.

Isar collected Belar, who had been moving parallel to their main course about fifty yards out on their right flank, and the two Rororians were moving quickly over the loose rock toward the baron's knoll, when a high-pitched keening filled the area, echoing and building off the surrounding peaks. Razmartin turned to look at the baron, but he was simply stringing his bow, his face a neutral mask but his eyes gleaming with anticipation. He glanced at the other Roronians behind him, readying their own weapons, and then back at Isar and Belar, who had taken up a defensible position among the rocks, back to back.

Ragged forms erupted from the rocks all around the two armsmen. They were far enough away so that Razmartin could not make out any details about them, save for that they were roughly man-shaped and sized, and impressively fast. There were at least a dozen of the creatures, and the keening that he'd heard earlier was coming from them, dipping into a wail that reached a fever pitch as they swarmed upon the two isolated Roronians.

The rest of the Roronians charged past him, rushing to the aid of their fellows. Razmartin glanced over his shoulder to see that the baron had leapt up atop a small boulder on the edge of the trail that they had been following. His cloak billowed out behind him as the wind caught it. He strung a long black arrow and pulled it back against his cheek with a single fluid motion, and as the mage watched he sighted and released, drawing another arrow even before the first had found its target. The first creature fell, the arrow transfixing its spine from the rear, and soon a second joined it, its skull pierced from the impact of the deadly missile.

"Well, mage, going to get in on the fun?" the baron asked, not even looking at him as he pulled another long arrow from the quiver at his belt.

Jolted into action, Razmartin hurried quickly after the Roronians. The creatures had surrounded Isar and Belar and the sounds of fighting had swept over them, the whole a confused welter of violence. The other six Roronians were well on their way toward the melee, some firing their own bows as they ran, or hefting their swords and axes with centuries-old cries of challenge and battle. They sounded more menacing than their hairy attackers by a significant margin, Razmartin thought as he hurried after them, though he assumed he was too far away to make a difference either way.

He would not know later what made him turn, but he'd barely covered twenty feet before he glanced to the side, at the trail behind them, the difficult and narrow ascent by which they'd just come. The trail curved out of sight just a few score yards back that way, and coming around that bend was at least a score more of the things, rushing forward in a chaotic mob, their cries only becoming audible once they caught sight of their victims. Now they were close enough to see clearly, or at least clear enough so that the mage could see that the attackers were not human at all, but rather great furry apes, each easily as large as a man, their faces both bestial and furious, their jaws huge and menacing as they slavered in anticipation of rending human flesh.

"Baron, behind!" Razmartin shouted in warning, glad that his voice held, despite the tremor of fear that he felt grip his insides as he reversed his direction. A few of the Roronians heard and turned as well, but he knew that they were too far ahead of him to respond in time.

But the baron had already sensed the new threat, and in fact the man laughed—laughed!— as he fired the bow once more, twice, each shot dropping a charging ape before he tossed the bow aside and drew out his axe and sword. Half of the remaining creatures charged toward the baron, while the others came, it seemed, right toward Razmartin.

The magus held his ground—later, he would think that was due less to bravery than to the fact that his legs had frozen underneath him—and his hands disappeared under the shelter of his heavy cloak, giving him the appearance of a brown pillar wreathed in carven runes of silver. Then, with the first of the charging apes only a few dozen feet away and closing fast, his hands erupted from under the garment, flinging a spread of what looked like fine, glittering dust into the air in a cloud before him. The cloud shone with reflected light, although there was no sun out that day, and held its shape even in the gusting wind, the dust descending onto the apes as if the cloud held an animated force of its own, the sweeps of dust like claws grasping at the furry forms of the ape hoard.

Then, he spoke a word, and the cloud, and the apes within it, exploded into fire.

The simian cries changed their timbre into animal screams of fear and terror as the fire swept mercilessly over them, seeking them out as though alive. A rush of heat banished the chill of the wind, beating back the cold breeze with a roar that was filled with the stench of burning hair and flesh.

An ape emerged from the burning cloud a moment later, its back still afire, its eyes glazed with pain. It was seeking only escape, now, but its blind flight carried it right toward Razmartin. The mage held his ground, and when the ape seemed about to collide into him, he extended his arm and smacked it hard in the chest with his palm.

The blow should not have had much effect against the mass and force of the charging ape, but there was a sudden flash, and then the two were flying apart. Razmartin spun in mid-air and landed amidst the rocks a few feet back from where he had been standing, unfazed save for wisps of black smoke that rose from his hand. The ape landed harder on its back, somewhat further away. The creature did not rise, did not even stir, nor would it with the gaping hole that had burned in the center of its chest. Ribs jutted out at disturbing angles from the mess of charred flesh, and the stench of its death filled the air.

The cloud of fire had dissipated as quickly as it had come, but those apes that had survived the temporary inferno now too had no thought for anything but escape. Those that were prudent fled back the way they had come, but a few less fortunate ones came forward, into the arrows and blades of the Roronians who had returned to the aid of their baron. They fell without being able to strike back, slaughtered by the unleashed fury of the raging hillcountry warriors.

They pressed forward to aid Hrathgar, but as they reached the trail they saw that there was no need. The baron strode forward to meet them, both of his blades slick with the blood of the enemies he had destroyed. His foes too had broken and fled, but seven bodies lay motionless around the boulder where the baron had met them, in addition to the two that he had slain with his arrows. The baron, seeing that the battle at the base of the knoll had ended as well, recovered his bow and walked easily to where the mage stood waiting. Blood matted his fine garments and was even streaked in his hair, but if any of it was his own, he gave no sign of it.

"A messy affair, but a good show of it," he said, regarding the mage with an appreciative look as he surveyed the scene of carnage. The Roronians began to gather around. All of them were giving him a wide berth now, Razmartin noted. The mage choked down the bile he felt rising in his throat, and stood calmly, or at least he hoped it looked calm, and awaited the baron's coming. He could not help but glance down at the ape that he'd struck down as the baron stepped over it, a glance that the baron noticed.

"Magyap," the baron said. "Haven't got their winter coats in yet, I see." He prodded the corpse with his foot, then continued toward the mage. He looked a sight, what with the blood streaking his clothing, but his demeanor seemed completely normal, as if they hadn't just been fighting for their lives in a desperate melee.

"That was quite a spell," the baron said. "It looks as though my impressions of you were correct, sir mage."

Razmartin bowed slightly; that was all he could do without risking the fragile equilibrium he'd won. The baron turned to his men. "How many did we lose?"

"Only Belar," a loud voice carried over the others. Isar, the hairy giant looking even more battered and filthy than usual, half strode, half staggered into the circle of Roronians. "We were holding the bastards back all right, but one got up behind us, and took him down. They'd ripped him up even before he hit the ground."

"You can travel?" the baron asked, surveying the man's wounds. It was hard to tell which blood was old and which was new, Razmartin thought, but he kept his counsel to himself. He knew enough about the Roronian culture to know that this matter no longer concerned him.

Isar didn't reply, but his expression showed clearly enough that he thought the question an insult. The baron nodded, satisfied.

"Very well. Let's keep on, then. Lotar, take the point."

* * *

Razmartin's thoughts returned to the present, and the cave, and the fire that was beginning to burn low from lack of fuel. He looked up as a breeze filled the cave, as someone pushed aside the tarp they'd rigged against the weather and several newcomers entered the cave. He recognized the baron, who in turn saw him and came over to his fire. The two others behind him were unfamiliar to the mage.

"Storm coming in fast," the baron said to him, pulling off his heavy gloves but not bothering to seat himself next to Razmartin's tiny fire. "We'll be staying here a day or two, until it passes."

Razmartin nodded in acknowledgement of the news, and studied the baron's new companions. If the baron's soldiers looked like mountain men, then these newcomers crossed the line into barely human. Each was a giant of a figure, clearly cut from the same racial cloth as the Roronian soldiers. Their beards were wild, scraggly affairs, matted in sweat and grime, their eyes glowing with the canny air of the hunter regarding potential prey. They were dressed entirely in thick furs, giving them the look of beasts from any distance, and their weapons, while large and menacing, were simple and crude by the standards of the Roronians. They regarded the mage with neither fear nor apprehension, although he thought that he saw something flicker in the eyes of the older one on seeing him before his expression hardened again into an impenetrable mask.

The baron noticed the mage's interest, and he said, "These will be our guides for the next leg of our journey." Then, as if he'd only brought them over for the mage to have a look at them, he growled something in a language that Razmartin didn't understand to them, and gestured toward the entry of the cave. The two guides shot one more feral look at the mage, and again he sensed that uneasy hint of something in the eyes of the older one, then the two returned to the sheltered entry of the cave. Razmartin also noticed this time the hard looks from the baron's men as the guides walked past, then pushed their way back out into the cold outside.

"Mountain barbarians," Razmartin offered, while the baron just stood there, watching the whole scene.

"Yes," the baron said, and now he did sit down, or at least leaned against a hard slab of cold stone near to where the mage kept his fire. Razmartin noticed that he kept his voice pitched lower, so as not to carry to his men by the entry. "They know the mountains, and can help us avoid the dangers that lurk ahead."

Razmartin let that go for a moment, though the thought of something more ferocious than the apes—the magyap, as the baron had called them—chilled his blood. "You have allies among the bandits?" he asked. Allies, or spies, he thought, but didn't add out loud.

"It behooves me to have friends in many places," the baron said. "But these are of a different tribe than the ones that are causing my fellow barons and I so much trouble at the moment."

"I had thought that the raiders had their camps in the foothills, instead of way out here, in the deep mountains."

"Getting tired of trekking already, my dear mage?" the baron said with a clipped laugh that didn't seem natural coming from him. He added, "This is not so much of a hike. In my youth, my father would take expeditions into the mountains that would take a full month, and return piled with hides and loot stolen from our enemies."

"In a month, you said, the passes will be frozen shut," the mage replied carefully.

"We will be comfortably back in Stormhold well before then, the baron said. "This storm is just a harbinger, and will blow itself out in a day or two." He stood, adjusting the weight of his weapons and gear about his person. "I'll have one of my men bring you more wood for your fire," he said. "If there is anything else that you need, just ask one of them. I will be out hunting for the rest of the day, but I will see you tonight."

The mage watched as the baron walked back to the front of the cave, pausing briefly to speak to his men, too quietly for him to make out any of the words. One of them—Durghan, he thought, although their names and faces were still slightly jumbled in his mind—stood and joined him, grabbing his bow and axe from where they lay beside the fire. He and the baron left the cave, causing the flames of both fires to jump and swirl in protest. The wind had picked up, a harbinger, as the baron had said, of the cold and snow to come.

As the cave settled back into an uneasy stillness, Razmartin watched the flames, his thoughts troubled by new questions that lacked answers.

* * * * *

Chapter 19

The ornate double doors of the Silver Sigil, one of the hundred or so inns in the bustling trade city of Queshtar, swung open on perfectly oiled hinges, and a nondescript man stepped into the orchestrated chaos of the expansive common room. A few looked up from whatever they were doing as the doors opened, but after they registered the newcomer they returned to their previous attentions almost immediately. He looked like any of the legions of travelers and traders who came to Thorin seeking... well, what they sought was as varied as they were, ranging from illicit pleasures to golden profits to goods of any and all variety to trade and deal. With his unremarkable looks he could have been of any age from twenty-five to forty. He was dressed in the fashion of an Ehdori trader, with a faded reddish coat buttoned to a high collar and with elaborately stitched cuffs and trim, heavy corduroy trousers, and sealskin boots. A closer look suggested that this trader was perhaps down on his luck, for the stitching on his coat was ragged and frayed, and his boots had clearly seen hard travel, matching the hard lines around the man's eyes.

The inn was busy this evening. At one table, traders from Thorin with oiled beards met with cloaked merchants of the Zanir over cups of thick Deranji coffee. At others men from a dozen nations dined, drank, talked, wagered, bartered, and plotted, sometimes changing from one to another purpose several times in an hour. A mixed group of mercenaries from Roron and Crista wagered rounds of drinks over throws of gleaming bronze daggers hurled at a battered wooden target on the back wall. Even a red-robed khemeia mage was present, although he was leaving as the newcomer entered. The otherwise rowdy patrons gave the dusky-skinned magus a wide berth as he exited the inn. Taken as a whole, the Silver Sigil was Queshtar in a microcosm; a place where the peoples of the New Kingdoms mingled in a swirling mixture in which every aspect of the human condition could be found.

"Khermon Shah! Come, join us!"

The voice came from one of the tables that formed a crowded row along the left wall, and the Ehdori headed in that direction. He had to duck his head, even though he was not especially tall; the roof slanted sharply down to meet the wall at that point, and the floor rose a step above the level of the rest of the common room, forming a long alcove that was slightly claustrophobic but which allowed the guests there a clearer view of the rest of the activities going on in the rest of the common area.

"Ah, my friend, by the look on your face the markets have not been kind to you this day. Well then, come sit, sit, and perhaps your luck will change." The speaker was a fat, dusky-skinned southerner, dark enough to be one of the Zanir, although he was dressed casually in the local fashion. He was seated at a circular table with two others, one a tall young Cristan with fiery red hair and the other a fair-skinned northerner of middle years who wore the heavy wool scarf and sailor's coat common to the men of the Lindle Isles. A few battered tin tokens sat in a pile in front of them, along with a chaotic mixture of playing cards that showed a variety of stylized images upon their faded surfaces.

"Your insight is clear, as always, Dom Faladi," the Ehdori said, with a glum undertone that matched his sour expression. He pulled a vacant chair from a neighboring table to join the three, sliding in between the Cristan and the islander and seating himself heavily, facing out into the room. "What are we playing for today?" he said.

"Just a few coppers," the Zanir said, although the sparkle in his eyes betrayed the glumness in his voice as he spoke. "Ten tokens to the common," he said, and then to the others, "I'll buy two, I think," pushing two tokens into the pile and taking two cards from the deck in front of him.

"Damned skunk has demon-damned luck, but it's especially bad today," the Cristan said in warning, his voice a low rumble that rose up from deep within his chest.

"True, but he's the best source for the latest gossip, Thalen," Khermon said, as he pulled a pair of copper coins from an inner pocket and traded them for a score of the tin tokens from the neat pile off to the side of the table. He gauged the coppers there and judged that the others had been playing for some time, a fair stake despite Faladi's earlier comment, but still poor. That was the common link that tied the diverse foursome together; that and an appreciation of the game of rabalat.

"Plus a silver for the drink fund," the islander put in, pausing to take a bite from the plug of chewing weed that all but filled the front pocket of his coat. Stains from the juice covered a scarf that might have once been white; it was impossible to tell now.

The Ehdori had to search for a moment longer before he produced a slightly bent silver piece that he added to the small pile of coins. Almost as if that had been a cue, one of the dozen or so serving women who worked the room appeared, carrying a tray heavy with used mugs.

"Same?" she said to the players, then, to the newcomer, "And you?"

"I'll take the house ale," Khermon said. The woman nodded and turned, vanishing efficiently back into the crowd.

"I tell you, that mixture is completely unpalatable," Faladi said. "Take even an inferior southern wine over what passes for drink in these lands."

"As long as you're willing to pay for it, you can drink whatever you want," Thalen rumbled. "Ale's two pints a copper, and that's all I care about."

"Truer words never spoken," the islander said, the words accompanied by a spattle or two of weed juice. "But the stuff is swill." He punctuated his comment with a spit of juice in the general direction of a nearby spittoon, and a swig of that swill from the nearly empty mug in front of him.

"Your insights are as punctilious as your manners, my dear Kelwhyn," Faladi said. The islander replied with a grunt, busy taking another bite from his weed.

"So, anything new?" Khermon said, as Faladi dealt him a set of cards from the deck in front of him, and the game resumed. Rabalat involved a deck of six suits of eight cards each. It was a slow and deliberate game, perfectly suited to idle conversation, or talk of business.

"Thalen says that the arms markets are bustling," Faladi said, as the four men examined their cards and the occasional clink of the tokens interrupted their conversation as they added bets to the small stake in the center. "Double sixes," he said, placing two cards down on the table in front of him, and tossing another token into the pile.

"Three," Thalen said, dropping another card and adding two tokens of his own. "There's rumblings that there will be a general war in the south come spring, with this new upstart baron facing off against several of the major barons from the lowlands adjacent the Ralos foothills. Heard that this baron's been taking on the hill bandits full on, and he's even hired a war mage."

"He's got what, three baronies under his sway now?" Khermon said, looking at his cards before shaking his head to let the betting pass him this round. Kelwhyn leapt in almost immediately by tossing down two cards of his own, and drawing five tokens out of the pile with a weed-stained grin.

"Your play, Kelwhyn, but it's the final play that takes the stake," Faladi said with a slight nod.

"I takes what I can gets," the islander grunted in response.

"Next play?" Faladi said, exchanging cards for the tokens that the others tossed into the pot.

"What'll you think come of it?" Khermon said, as he studied his cards.

"He'll get crushed," Thalen said bluntly. "He's done a lot with what he's got, have to grant him that, but the lowland barons are just too powerful. Those hill baronies just don't have the population or the resources to fight off even one or two of the others."

"Got iron," Kelwhyn said.

"Yes, but swords are nothing without the strong arms to wield them," Thalen countered. "Trust me, this baron will be a memory by midsummer."

"Wager a silver?" Khermon said.

"Done. Now, what's your play?"

"Take two," the Ehdori said.

"I have heard word of troubles from the east, as well," Faladi said idly as he shifted his cards in his hand. "Kobalos stirring in the country around the lake, bandit activity stepping up along the trade roads."

"Ah, it's the same story every winter," Kelwhyn said, punctuating his comment again with a spit as he looked disconsolately at his cards. "Business of the barons, and the king."

Faladi raised an eyebrow at the comment, but said nothing.

"King's not doing much to impress me that he can handle much outside of Sindaron, or that he cares to," Thalen said. "I'll hold these."

Faladi looked pointedly at Khermon, then addressed the Cristan as he passed three cards to Kelwhyn in exchange for his tokens. "You should watch your comments, my friend; others may not care to hear them." Shifting his attention back to Khermon, he said, "Ehdor is an ally of Rigal, after all, and is not the Duke still a close ally of the King?"

Thalen's hard look showed a challenge, but Khermon only said, "Any man's got a right to his own opinions, in my view. As for me, I care little about politics, save for how it affects the markets."

"Here here," Faladi said, with a laugh, as he examined his cards. "Your play, I believe, Khermon."

"One nine," the Ehdori said, cautiously.

The flow of the game was interrupted slightly as the door opened and another person pushed into the common room of the inn. Such entries were not at all unusual, but this newcomer was, and the attention of the room lingered on him for a few moments longer than usual before the chaotic activity returned to its normal pace. He was a big man, and well armed, clad in heavy but serviceable field plate, with a broadsword slung over his shoulder, but this too was not unusual, especially now with the winter games fast approaching and a host of warriors already descending upon the city in anticipation. No, it was something else that set this one apart from the others, a certain vague something in the way he carried himself, or perhaps it was in his eyes as they quickly scanned the room. He was neither old nor young, still in his prime vigor but tempered by some earned experience.

"Another brainless sell-sword here to parlay his might into a few silvers in the Melee," Thalen said, clearly not impressed, although his words were decidedly cast so as not to carry beyond the table. The game resumed with the clink of tokens and the exchange of cards, and the conversation turned to more innocuous topics of trade and other interesting prospects in the markets.

One set of eyes followed the warrior, though, with particular intensity, even though he kept his interest discretely hidden. Those eyes watched as the warrior crossed the room and spoke briefly with the bartender, focusing on his lips even though the distance and the background noise made it impossible to hear what was being said. The exchange went on for a few minutes, and then the warrior handed over a few coins, and turned back in the direction of the door.

"Ah, the Lady has deserted me fully this day!" Khermon said in disgust, throwing down his remaining cards while Faladi grinned and slid the entire stake over to his side of the table. Thalen looked grim, while Kelwhyn, clearly feeling the effects of his consumption of ale, swayed and murmured something unflattering about the Zanir's luck under his breath.

"Come now," he chided, "this trove is worth hardly a day's wage in the market, my friends! Don't be bitter, come, let's have another game, I'll give you a fair chance to turn your luck."

"Can't," Khermon said, already rising. "I've already tarried too long, and I'm late for another meeting."

"Ah, perhaps your luck is about to change?" Faladi said, a wide smile on his face.

"Perhaps," the Ehdori said, counting out his remaining tokens for coin—house rules stated that a player departing before the end of a game forfeited any fractions—before taking his leave. Faladi was still trying to cajole the remaining two to continue playing when he left the inn and stepped out into the cold evening of the street outside. The Sigil was located in the center of the mercantile district of the city, and even though the sun had fully set, the street was still busy with people either heading home from their labors or embarking upon the equally active nightlife of the city.

Khermon Shah immediately turned and walked with purpose along the walk in the direction leading away from the city center. He hummed a faint tune to himself as he strode ahead with confidence. It was dark, but the occasional light cast by the city lamps along the side of the street was easily bright enough for him to make out the form of the warrior, walking in the same direction a block ahead.

* * *

Ticos was tired, and although he refused to admit it, somewhat sore from a full day's riding in heavy armor. He was still surprised that the suit of plate fit him so well; typically such armor had to be fitted exactly to the physical specifications of its wearer, and plate captured in the field generally required extensive retooling for its new owner. But this armor fit him like a second skin, and he felt better with its comforting weight close about him as he braved the streets of the city.

He'd never been to Queshtar before, and although it was quite different from Sindaron the difference was not a forbidding one. Although he'd spent the most recent phase of his life surrounded by the power and discipline of the Order, and the organized mythos of the capital of the most powerful empire among the New Kingdoms, his past, never forgotten, gave him insight into the workings of the grittier world that lay outside that sheltered core. That was a world that respected strength and skill, and despised weakness, and he had returned to it better equipped for survival than before.

Although he'd only arrived in Queshtar a little over an hour earlier, even as the sun was setting over the western hills, he'd immediately sought out the Silver Sigil to find the man he was supposed to meet. The bartender had not been able to tell him anything, but he did not doubt the instructions given him by the Primus. He would begin looking around in earnest in the morning, but tonight, even before he would allow his tired body its rest, he needed to visit a smith to attend to his equipment and secure some additional items that would be needed on the road ahead. His new sword and the plate mail he wore was of superb quality, despite the common appearance of both, and probably did not need immediate attention, but old habits died hard, especially when they were born of the training of the Order. Besides, he told himself, the walking would do him good after a day spent mostly in the saddle. The horse was probably thinking the same thing, he thought wryly.

The bartender's directions put the blacksmith—hopefully still in his shop this late, although to his eyes the city showed no signs of abating for the night—only a short distance away on the same street, a dozen blocks or so toward the outskirts. By the time he'd covered half that distance, his weariness had evaporated, replaced by a hard edge of anticipation.

Someone was following him.

He didn't change his course or pace in any noticeable way, although he felt a slight surge of energy fill his body as his trained reflexes prepared him for a confrontation. From what he'd seen thus far in the city, it was probably a thief, one of the legion of desperate men that ran the alleys and backways of Queshtar. Although he didn't think himself a likely mark. He was an armed and armored warrior, with little but an old cloak and road dust about him. That suggested another motive, and started little whispers in the back of his mind that he pushed aside with grim efficiency.

He didn't notice the boy until it was too late. He saw him, of course, a scruffy lad just this side of respectable, probably running an errand for his master by the deliberate rush of his steps as he approached from the opposite direction. Ticos did not adjust his course—to a mercenary warrior such as he was portraying, people moved for him, not the other way around—and while he could not have been hard to see coming the boy brushed close against him as he passed. Too late Ticos realized what had happened, one hand going to his belt, and the purse that was no longer there, while the other darted out toward the boy. Again too late, the boy dodged aside and then tore off down the sideway back the way he had come, barely covering ten paces before he darted at full speed into a side alley.

Ticos was already close behind, his reflexes quick although the boy's speed and the weight of his own armor offset his superior size and the length of his legs. He could not do otherwise. Without the coins in that purse his situation would become much more complicated, as the supplies he needed for the next leg of his journey—wherever that might be—would come dear in the markets of Queshtar. Not to mention his lodging, for he'd only paid for one night, and he had no idea how long he would have to wait for the still unnamed partner he was here to meet.

All those thoughts went through his mind even before he made it to the alley, and again reflex outpaced reason as he darted into the narrow space in close pursuit of the young thief. The warning shouted in his mind even as he realized the danger, but by the time he'd come to a quick halt, just a few yards deep into the shadows of the alleyway, it was once again too late.

Facing him from the shadows ahead were two men, clearly waiting for his arrival. One was a giant of a man, not much taller than Ticos but as thick around as a tree trunk. He wore a sleeveless leather vest that failed utterly to conceal his bulging, muscular torso, and wore heavy metal bracers on arms that were easily as thick as Ticos's legs. The shadows were not deep enough to hide the scars the man wore on his face, nor the fact that one entire ear was missing, giving him a garish and frightening appearance. Ticos saw that, but his attention was more focused on the short-handled waraxe the man held against his right leg.

The second man was thin if not scrawny, dressed more typically in a cheaply dyed tunic over long breeches. His face seemed marked by a permanent leer, one that deepened into a dark smile as he raised a bulky weapon he carried in both hands toward the knight. Ticos could not help letting out a hiss of breath as he recognized the weapon. It was a Roronian heavy crossbow, with a steel crossbar and a thick quarrel topped by a jagged steel head. The weapon was nicknamed the "Knightkiller," for it was specifically designed to punch through heavy armor. Armor like that which Ticos was wearing.

He didn't have to turn to sense the two figures that came into the alley behind him, closing off his retreat. They must have been the ones following him, he realized. And he'd walked right into the trap. He looked for the fifth member of the group, the boy who'd pickpocketed him, but the youth was already long gone. Apparently his role was finished, and he wouldn't be sticking around for the kill.

"You knights are so predictable," one of the two newcomers said. Without fully turning his attention from the two men ahead of him, and in particular that deadly crossbow, he shifted so that his back was to one of the side walls and glanced back at the speaker. He was tall and lean, of looks vague enough to be of any origin, with a beard flecked with the first hints of gray. A hard man, and clearly one who'd seen many dark things in an equally hard life. He wore a slender sword at his belt, but made no move to draw the weapon. The man beside him wore a jack of chain mail across his torso, and carried a long cudgel weighted by the addition of a ring of heavy iron around the business end. Normally that would not have troubled Ticos, except that he'd left his helmet with his other gear in his saddlebags back at the inn. Yet another mistake, it seemed.

"Who hired you?" he said, directing his words toward the older man with the sword.

"Kill him quickly," was the only response. The crossbowman's smile twisted and he jerked—

—and staggered to the side as something sliced through the air, only inches in front of Ticos's face. Whatever it was had struck the crossbowman in the shoulder, knocking him back against the wall next to him. The crossbow jerked roughly to the side with the movement, and then released its bolt with a twang that seemed especially loud in the confines of the alley. The bolt flew wide of its intended target, instead darting toward the open end of the alley. It did not get far. The assassin leader looked down with surprise at the quarrel buried in his chest, buried so deep that only the feathers were showing. A look of bewilderment crossed his face as he opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out as he slumped into a heap against the wall of the alley.

Although equally surprised, Ticos spared wasted no time. His sword sliced out of its scabbard across his back as the axe-wielding giant charged at him, raising his weapon for an overhand strike. The close confines of the alley did not leave much room for the knight to swing his sword, and anyway the charging assassin left no time for such an attack. Instead, Ticos launched himself forward, using the weight of his body to lead a thrust with his sword held in both hands like a spear. The axe-wielder aborted his attack and tried to deflect the knight's thrust, but the edge of the blade tore along his muscled frame as Ticos rambled past him. Despite the vicious wound, which trailed a spray of blood as he came to a halt, the scarred giant spun into another attack, the axe coming around in a wide arc focused on Ticos's head.

Only Ticos wasn't there anymore. As the axe cleaved empty air, and the brute's momentum carried him around, Ticos came up from the crouch he'd fallen into to avoid the counterstrike and brought his sword up in another powerful thrust. This time the energy of his legs lifting him added to the strength of the blow, and the tip of the blade drove hard into the man's gut and deeper, a foot of steel vanishing into his torso. The man grunted, the axe falling from nerveless fingers, and as Ticos removed the blade he too slumped lifeless to the bloody cobblestones of the alley.

The knight had already spun to face his next opponent, the man with the club, although his charge past the axe-wielder had put the big man between them and bought him an extra few seconds. They were not needed, he saw. The man with the club was falling even as he watched, clutching a deep wound that gushed bright red blood from his neck, collapsing across the legs of his already-dead leader. Over him strode another figure, whose appearance made Ticos blink twice. It wasn't so much that his features were unusual; in fact, he looked rather plain. Instead, there was something incongruous about him, perhaps the difference between the clothes he wore, the run-down garb of an Ehdori merchant, and the dagger that gleamed red with blood in his hand. Or maybe it was the look in his face, a look that was dangerous indeed. As he in turn took in Ticos that look faded, covered behind a neutral facade that Ticos already knew was false.

The stranger lowered the dagger to his side. "Luck of the Lady," he said, looking down at the assassin slain by his own man's crossbow bolt. "That's never happened before." Then, as he looked up and past Ticos, he came a step forward and said, "Look, the last one's getting away," pointing beyond the knight with the tip of his dagger.

Ticos didn't look back, although in the renewed quiet of the alley he heard the scuff of leather on stone. The crossbowman, he realized. The crossbow itself lay on the ground just a few feet from him, abandoned by its user as he fled the aborted ambush.

"Who are you?" Ticos said.

"We probably don't want to let him get away," the stranger said, taking another step forward but stopping abruptly as the knight's blade suddenly came up in challenge.

"Who are you?" Ticos repeated.

"I was sent here to meet you," the mysterious stranger said. "At the Silver Sigil."

The heavy sword hovered between them a moment longer, then, almost reluctantly, lowered. "All right," Ticos said. He turned and ran after the wounded assassin, the other just a step behind him.

The alley's other end opened onto a secluded back street, without street lamps and almost completely dark. The knight looked around in vain for a moment, trying to collect his bearings, but the stranger emerged from the alley and immediately ran down the street to the right. Ticos followed after him a moment later.

For a moment Ticos had no idea where he was going, almost stumbling on the uneven surface of the cobbled street. The man dressed as an Ehdori—somehow, Ticos suspected that he was not actually of that people—was just a vague shadow ahead, running so quickly that Ticos wondered how he could see where he was going. They passed a few more dark alleys and a few recessed doorways, although the stranger did not pause. Then, barely audible over the sound of his armor and his own hard breathing, he heard a sound ahead, the same scuffling of hard boots on stone. He quickened his pace, following his new companion into another side-passage that stretched between two tall two-story buildings, probably warehouses by their sturdy, windowless features.

This time Ticos clearly heard the sound of a door slam just ahead, and he stopped almost on the heels of his companion. He only then noticed the heavy wooden door slightly recessed in one wall of the narrow corridor. Another open street was visible a short distance ahead, the faint glimmer of distant street lights the only source of illumination against the still deepening night that was especially thick in the confines of the narrow space.

His companion checked the door. "Locked," he said, so quietly that even though Ticos was just a few feet away, he had to strain to hear.

"Now what?" the knight replied in the same low tones.

"Well, ordinarily I favor subtlety, but I think this is one of the few times when brute force might be the best way." He stepped back, giving Ticos room, and gestured toward the door.

Ticos nodded and drew back against the far wall of the alley to give himself space.

"You realize this may well be another trap?" his companion offered.

Ticos nodded again, raising his sword to the ready in his hand. He couldn't be sure in the dim light, but he almost swore the man smiled. In addition to the dagger, something gleamed in the man's other hand, another throwing knife—like the one he'd hit the crossbowman with, Ticos finally realized. Saving his life, in all likelihood.

"All right then," he said. "Ready."

Ticos charged, and the door shattered under his armored impact.

* * *

"You never told me your name," Ticos said later, the two again shadows as they made their way down another dimly lit street in the general direction of the Silver Sigil. They would not be staying there, not after what had happened, but Ticos needed to recover his mount and the rest of his gear. His purse was still gone, but the weapons and other gear he carried slung over his shoulder in the crude sack he'd fashioned out of one of the assassin's cloaks would net them more than a few gold sovereigns. All except the crossbow; that he'd thoroughly destroyed and left behind in small pieces. The assassins had been well equipped, and well informed. But the answers to the questions Ticos still pondered had died with them. The last assassin had made them kill him in the bolthole that they'd chased him to, and he'd died alone.

The smaller man walking beside him was quiet for a long moment. Then, suddenly, he replied, "My name's Robert."

"Ticos Gewehr," the knight replied, then the two were silent again as they made their way through the darkened city. There would be more questions later, but for now, both were content to leave Queshtar behind them as soon as possible.

* * * * *

Chapter 20

Izandra focused her attention upon the stone. A sudden breeze stirred through her camp, doing its utmost to disturb her concentration, but she filtered out the distraction and stared at the rock, her brow furrowing as she drew her perceptions into a narrow point.

The stone in question was a lump of fairly-rounded limestone, about the size of her head, sitting on a much larger piece of bare rock that formed one border of the campsite. It was heavy; that she knew personally, for she'd placed the stone there herself, a little less than an hour previously. Now it just sat there, absorbing her scrutiny with inanimate permanence.

A minute stretched out into two, then three, then a long stretch in which the only thing that moved was the brush stirred by the gentle push of the wind. It was another overcast day, the sun failing to make an appearance for the whole afternoon that she'd been traveling, and while the gray above was soft and muted, darker colors visible in the distant sky to the east promised more storms ahead in the coming days. For the moment, though, she paid those signs no heed either.

Finally, she leaned back, letting out a sigh of frustration and wiping a sheen of sweat from her forehead for all that the evening was chilly and the wind downright cold. The rock still sat there, exactly as it had since she'd lifted it into place.

She looked at it again, and this time reached out a hand toward it, as if trying to grasp its surface. It was smoothed by ages of wind, or perhaps by water flowing around the spot where she'd found it. She beckoned, and the stone rocked back and forth, as if trying to come to her call. Finally it rolled a half-foot before it caught in a slight ridge in the larger stone, and again was still.

She sighed again. She knew already the breadth and the limits of her skill with telekinesis; that was not what she was trying to uncover with her current study.

She'd been practicing her skills and testing herself when she could get the chance, but tonight was the first chance she'd had to be fully alone since she'd left the caravan of wagons behind at the forking of the road earlier that same day. Dacen had wished her well, and even Berkhan had offered a kind word, although she'd seen the look in his eyes and knew that he did not expect her to find the road to the east an easy one.

She expected the same, which was why she was forcing her tired mind to work through the exercises that Ethander had taught her. Except that she was pushing herself further, even though she knew the futility of trying to force the elusive strands of power that were the basis of phuskios magic. That power filled and suffused the universe, and reflected the fundamental energies of the world. Phuskios was the most arcane and abstract of the three schools of magic, and arguably the most powerful. At least in its potential, Izandra thought as she rubbed her temples with her thumbs in frustration. She could sense the flows of power, could even touch them, but actually accomplishing anything seemed elusive.

She thought of Ezran, and Dannil, and again wondered if she'd made the right decision in coming out here on her own. She wondered how they had reacted to her messages, and if Dannil had obeyed her stricture not to come after her. She'd thought Dannil in particular would not, but he had not caught up to her even with the slow pace she'd kept to with the wagon train. Well, it was for the best. Her jaw tightened and she got up, walking around the campsite to work out the kinks in her back from a day of riding and from an hour sitting crouched against the hard rock.

The journey was beginning to wear upon her. Counting the time traveling to the Children's Home, and then from there to Adelmar, she'd been on the road now for over a month. At least before she'd had companionship. Now she was well and truly alone, on a road that would become increasingly desolate the farther she traveled. East of here settlements were few and far between, and further still lay the great forest of Maletai, home of the Ilfann. And somewhere, Ethander, and the answers to the questions that were now her constant companions.

After checking her horse she walked back to her small fire. At least she could still manage that, she thought with a moment's self-pity. She looked up again, at the stone atop the stone. For a moment it seemed as if it were mocking her, as her frustration and exhaustion and doubts crept up at once and slipped in between the cracks in her indomitable will.

"Damn you, demon-damned damn!" The last word was almost a sob, and as she realized her vulnerability, her weakness, her anger redoubled itself and filled her.

"Damn!"

The power came so quickly that it shocked her out of her reverie, sundering both anger and grief in a single moment. She let out an involuntary cry as _something_ flowed out of her, a razor's line of invisible force, focused by her anger into a focal wedge. That wedge of released energy struck the rock, which absorbed the flow of power. Absorbed it for only an instant, that is, until the very fabric of what was the stone was sundered, and it exploded into a million fragments.

Izandra stood there, shocked, staring at the small cloud of dust that was all that was left of the stone. She felt something wet trickle down the side of her face, and when she touched a finger to the place, it came back dripping red with her own blood. A fragment must have struck her, she thought. That realization helped her recover some from the impact of what she'd done, and she quickly dug out a piece of cloth to clean the small wound.

The dust was still swirling in the wind when she finished.

Her brow still creased, she sat down to think.

* * *

"Hello the camp!"

Izandra started up from her rest, confused and alarmed as she stared out into the darkness. Her fire was long since out, only a few embers holding on against the still-blowing wind. Her horse snorted, and pawed the ground a few feet away.

"Thanks for the warning," she said to the animal in a wry undertone. Fully awake now, she remained wrapped in her blankets in the small space between several large rocks where she'd gone to sleep. She rapidly strung Ezran's bow, and grabbed an arrow by touch from the quiver next to her hip. It was dark, the clouds above muting the light of the moon and stars, but her eyes were adjusted to the black and she could make out the various familiar outlines of the camp around her.

"Hello the camp!" the voice came again, closer this time. It was accompanied by the sound of boots shuffling on the open rock.

"Who's there?" Izandra asked, lamely, she thought once the words were out of her mouth.

A tall, dark figure came into the camp, the night hiding all but the most general outline of his features. He paused on the edge of the ring of stones and shifted, and a warm glow of light spread out from his hand as he opened the shutters on the small lantern that he carried. Although it took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the sudden light, once they had she could make out the stranger more clearly.

He was a youngish man, perhaps in his late twenties, with a thin, struggling beard and jet black hair that fell almost to his shoulders. He was dressed in colorful clothes, a dull red long-sleeved tunic with an unbuttoned leather vest atop that, and brown trousers that were accentuated with decorous red and gold piping that ran down their length to the tops of his fur-lined boots. The cloak he wore over the outfit was plain and functional, though, allowing the man to cover his finery if convenient or necessary. He was armed with a slender sword, a saber or rapier, that hung from his belt, and a dagger on the opposite hip.

While she was looking him over, he was doing the same to her. He'd seemed surprised at first viewing her, but that was quickly replaced by a wide yet patently false smile that didn't quite make it to his eyes. This stranger was a dangerous man, Izandra decided, and her grip tightened on her bow as she watched him and waited. Although the bow was not her main weapon.

"My apologies for disturbing your slumber," the man said, with an affected bow. "I am Laertes, humbly at your service."

The man's tone was anything but humble, and Izandra did not like the way that those eyes ran over her figure as he spoke, but she slowly rose from her blankets—still holding the bow—and nodded her head in acknowledgement. "Izandra Colton," she said. "Are you traveling alone this night?"

"No, I am but one member of a group of travelers. Weyland's Company," he said. When he saw that she did not recognize the name, he added, "There's about two dozen of us, horses, a few wagons. Mostly we stay in the lands around the Lake, carrying cargoes and tales and simple entertainments from community to community, but Weyland has some business up around Adelmar, so we've come a bit afield to see what can be seen."

"The others are trailing behind, then?" she said, gesturing for him to take a seat across from her on the stones. Laertes bowed again, a slight acknowledgement, before seating himself with a flourish on the cold rock.

"Yes, night crept up on us too swiftly, and Weyland wanted to cover as much territory as possible, so I was sent ahead to scout out a campsite. This is a good spot, if a tad rocky," he said, looking around. The wagons can stay on the road, it's not as if there's a lot of traffic here, I've noticed. Assuming that our camping here will not trouble you?"

"No trouble at all, although given the late hour, I hope you'll forgive me not staying up to swap stories," she replied.

"Perhaps over breakfast," Laertes said.

"You came up from the lake country?"

Laertes nodded. "You've come a bit out of your way, if your destination is around Adelmar," she said. "The main north-south road meets this one most of a day's travel west of here, and would have been much more direct. You probably would have found more places to camp, and more travelers along the way."

Laertes shrugged. "Weyland knows this land better than I," he said. "He knows every back trail and short cut from here to Roron, I'd wager, and hasn't led us astray yet. Besides," the man added with a grin, "you never know what you'll find on the lesser-traveled roads."

"Speaking of back routes, what brings you out here all alone? Assuming that you have no hidden allies about," he added, with the same sly grin still fixed on his features.

"I am traveling to Benderal, to meet with my uncle," she said.

"Dangerous country to be traveling alone," he replied. "But I suppose one does what one must, when the need is great enough."

"Perhaps you should return to your companions," Izandra said, with a yawn. "So they can know that you found a good place to camp." She _was_ tired, but she'd already decided that she had no desire to still be here when this "Weyland's Company" arrived.

But if Laertes got the hint, he gave no indication. "Oh, they'll find me all right," he said conversationally. After all, we're just a short distance off the road, such as it is. Say, you wouldn't happen to have anything to eat handy, would you?"

"No, sorry," Izandra said, feeling increasingly uncomfortable as this interview went on. Her thoughts were interrupted, though, as she heard a sound from the dark around the camp, somewhere out to her right, and her head turned to seek out the source of the disturbance.

"Don't worry," Laertes said. Without turning, he said, in a louder voice, "It's all right, Tamra, come on in."

"Tamra" materialized as a lean, hard-edged woman, perhaps a decade older than Laertes, dressed in similar fashion if in more muted colors. She carried a recurved ash bow in one hand, and a long knife, almost a sword, on her right hip. The breeze flared her cloak out behind her as she entered the ring of rocks and regarded Izandra with cold eyes.

"Tamra, this is Izandra," Laertes said conversationally. "She's traveling east, and she's graciously offered to share her camp with us and the Company."

"Pleasure," Tamra said, in a rough voice that implied the opposite of the sentiment. She came fully into the light of Laertes's lantern and sat down facing both of them, balancing the bow before her as if it were a shield. Despite the hard look of her, Izandra found her presence reassuring, as if the appearance of a woman among this "Company" mitigated the obvious threat she'd been feeling in between the honeyed words of Laertes. Still, although she too leaned back and feigned being at ease, she did not release the bow or allow herself to relax her guard.

"The Company's approaching," Tamra announced. "Be here in a short while." Her words were clipped, short, as if conversing were a chore that she found tiresome.

"Excellent," Laertes said. "Perhaps you'd care to notify them of our locating a campsite?" he suggested.

"Go tell them yourself," Tamra replied. "I've done enough walking for one night. Let Weyland come to us, for all that I care." Then, with one more measuring look at Izandra, as if weighing and then dismissing her as a threat, she seated herself more comfortably on the ground itself, leaning back against the rock she'd just been using as a chair and pulling her cloak close around her for warmth. The bow was still between her and them, but now it leaned against her, close but not warding.

"Tamra gets a little short sometimes," Laertes said apologetically. The woman snorted, but said nothing.

Izandra yawned again, and again she was not faking the gesture. "The night is not getting any longer," she said, pointedly, "and it sounds like we both have long roads ahead."

"Of course, I forget my manners. Sometimes my desire for the company of cultured and attractive young women overcomes my common sense, it does." He stood, brushing the dust off of his trousers as he did so. "I will go and notify Weyland of our location, and leave you two ladies to your rest. Rest assured that we will not trouble you, but of course feel free to visit our camp if we can be of any assistance to you. I will return in the morning, and perhaps we can share those tales that you mentioned, over breakfast."

"Until then," Izandra said.

Laertes bowed, and then disappeared back into the night, hooding his lantern once he was out of the ring of stones. Silence fell again over the camp, and Izandra returned to her blankets, although she knew that she would be getting no more sleep that night. She looked furtively over at Tamra, who was a shadow wrapped in her cloak, nearly invisible now with Laertes and his lantern gone.

"You're probably safe tonight," Tamra said, her voice as dark as the surrounding night. "But don't let that benign outer demeanor fool you, he's dangerous."

Izandra had already deduced that, but neither of them said anything more as the night crept slowly on. Izandra tried to think, but her mind was thick and her thoughts sluggish, and despite her better instincts, within a few minutes her head had dropped and she fell hard back into sleep.

* * *

"Wake up, my pretty."

Izandra woke with a start, and shot up from her blankets in surprise and alarm at the sudden appearance of Laertes's face less than a foot from her own.

"Shhh," he whispered. There was a wry smile on his features, but Izandra could sense his alertness as he quickly scanned the surrounding area and then turned back to face her. It was dark still, the faint brightening of predawn just beginning, and a cold morning mist hung low over the ground, giving the surrounding rocks an almost preternatural appearance. She shivered.

"What—"

"Time to be going," Laertes hissed, and the urgency in his voice compelled her to rise as he backed away from her. She looked around, and saw that her gear was still sitting where she had left it the night before, waiting in a careful pile. She'd left her bow strung over the night; she'd have to replace the string with one of the spares in her pack.

"Come, come," Laertes repeated, his voice barely carrying to her despite the fact that he'd retreated only a few steps away.

"I'm not going anywhere until you tell me what's happening," she said, hoping she sounded more certain than she felt.

"Keep your voice down," he said, coming so close so quickly that she almost took an involuntary step back. "So, you want to know what's happening? We're leaving, Tamra and I and another friend. We've decided that traveling in your direction, to the east, might be best for us in the long run. Weyland might not like our sudden departure, though, and I know you would not enjoy a meeting with him before he's had his morning repast, so I suggest you keep quiet and load that horse and follow me."

Izandra opened her mouth to respond, but to her own surprise she found herself saying nothing, instead doing what Laertes had commanded and quickly—and quietly—gathering up her few possessions. The horse had already been saddled, she saw, so she laid the saddlebags across the horse's back, fastened them to the saddle, and then took the bridle and led the horse after Laertes.

He led her away from the road, and she had to watch her steps carefully to avoid stumbling over the uneven rocks. Soon she had to hurry just to keep him in sight, and then he was just a shadow in the mists, darting in between the trees and dense thickets of brush.

She caught up to him after a few minutes, in a small clearing among the rocks. Tamra was there, she saw, holding the reins to two horses. After a moment she noticed the other person Laertes had mentioned, a slim young man standing beside another horse at the far end of the clearing. All of them were dressed for travel, their full cloaks making their forms almost indistinguishable in the near dark.

"Tamra you know," Laertes said, as he crossed to his horse. Tamra handed him the reins. "The other is Wister." The young man did not respond, and Izandra felt a definite chill from him, as if she could feel the weight of his stare emanating from the depths of his hooded cowl.

"Why are you leaving, and like this?" Izandra said, loud enough so that all three of them turned to face her.

"Let's just say that if you'd met Weyland, you'd understand," Laertes said, grimly. "If you like, I can tell you some tales later, once we get some leagues behind us. For now, there's a hard road ahead, and safety in numbers."

Izandra felt anything but safe, but she said nothing, leading her horse after the others in a column. Laertes took them swiftly on an indirect course that eventually led them back to the road, where they mounted and continued eastward. By then the gloom had begun to brighten with the light of the coming day, but the morning fog persisted, keeping them swallowed within its grasp. Laertes kept a brisk pace, almost a trot, that tired their mounts quickly but which ate up the miles before the day reached its full fruition. By the time that the mists had lifted and the still overcast-skies became visible, they had already covered nearly a league since leaving the camp behind them.

They kept the silence between them throughout the morning, pushing their horses hard and only occasionally dismounting to walk them. Izandra did not complain, as she was happy to be making progress toward her destination, if not equally happy with her new companions.

Around mid-morning she rode up ahead to pace Tamra. The woman seemed as hard as she had when Izandra had first met her, and her expression was as blank if it had been chiseled from stone. She barely noted Izandra riding alongside her.

"Do you think that Weyland will come after him?" she asked, after a moment.

Without looking at her, Tamra replied, "No. For all that he thinks of himself, Laertes just isn't that important."

"Why are you with him?" Izandra couldn't help but ask.

At that Tamra did look at her, a hard look that bespoke much that words could not fully express. She quickly turned back to face the road ahead, though, and responded, "I'm not 'with' him. We happen to be heading in the same direction. Away from Weyland," she added, in an undertone that Izandra barely made out.

"What of Wister?" she said, trying to change the subject yet keep the conversation going. Although Tamra's demeanor was far from encouraging, Izandra felt more comfortable talking to her than either of the others, and she felt that she needed whatever information she could glean about any of her companions.

"I don't know him well," Tamra admitted. "Weyland didn't like him. From what I've seen, he's just like any of them." Although she didn't elaborate on what she meant by 'them', Izandra thought she understood. Clearly, Tamra was a woman who had not been treated well by men.

Izandra thought she was going to offer more, but she saw that Laertes had reined up ahead at the head of their small column. His gaze drifted over her, or more precisely her and Tamra together, then he announced, "Looks like a storm brewing ahead. I don't know if there are any villages or inns along this road, but somehow I doubt it." He waved with his hand as if to encompass the desolate terrain that surrounded the road as far as they could see in all directions. Mountains were visible on the horizon far to the east, covered with a mantle of black clouds that seemed to drift closer even as the four travelers watched them.

As if on cue, a hard wind sprung up, tugging at their cloaks and pregnant with the sense of the approaching storm. Izandra could almost sense it, the primordial power of nature, and she wondered why she hadn't felt it before Laertes had mentioned it. Perhaps she was too distracted by other things, she thought, uncomfortable for some reason that she could not articulate even in her own thoughts.

"Let's ride on," Laertes said. "Keep your eyes open for a sheltered place to camp."

"Maybe it'll blow past," Wister said. Those were the first words Izandra had heard the youngest member of their party speak since their meeting that morning. The youth was little more than a boy, still too young to shave, but he carried his bow with calm assurance and wore a long knife at his hip like the others. The same hardness that hung around the others was present around him as well, like a tangible aura, and Izandra wondered what events had contributed to shaping such as the three of them. All three were like animals that had been mistreated to the point where they could lash out in unpredictable violence at the slightest provocation.

Izandra had no intention of provoking any of them, but neither did she intend to let her guard down while the three were her companions. And once they made it to Benderal, she would be glad to leave them to whatever course their whims led them.

The skies above darkened quickly as the clouds rolled down out of the mountains. The land was completely wild, with open hills covered with scrub grasses and brush alternating with flat stretches of terrain broken by the occasional cluster of trees. Other than the road, which showed few signs of recent use, there was no indication that humans ever frequented this land.

Then the rain began, a drizzle that thickened until even the landscape itself became a blur around them. Izandra wore waterproof gear, but even within the protection of her cloak the persistent droplets found ways to creep close against her skin to chill her with their kiss. She shivered and focused her attention on Tamra, just a dark shadow a short distance ahead. Surely even Laertes would not press on further in this, she thought, suddenly grateful for human companionship in the face of the storm.

Then another dark form reared up ahead, and another, causing her a moment of alarm until she realized that the tall pillars of shadow were trees, the tall boughs overhanging the road and dampening some of the force of the wind and the rain. She saw that the others had gathered at the base of one of the large oaks, its trunk reaching almost to the edge of the road. At least, she thought as she rode close up to the others, they all looked as wet and miserable as she felt.

"We can't go on in this," Laertes said as she finally reined in beside the others, the four pressed close in together atop their horses so they could hear each other over the storm without having to shout.

"You have quite a grasp on the obvious," Tamra said with an edge in her voice.

Laertes's smile was like a dagger as he turned to her. "When you can think of a better course, then you can lead," he said. "Let's fan out and try to find a protected place among these trees, they look like they go on for a stretch. Stay near the road, don't wander off," he added, the last words clearly directed at Izandra.

She bit back her retort—this wasn't the time for verbal sparring!—and dismounted along with the others. They pressed on, Wister and Laertes walking along the left side of the road, Tamra and Izandra along the right. The road itself was a mess of mud and small streams growing more aggressive with each minute of rain. Her boots sucked in the mud as Izandra tried to divide her attention between staying upright on the road and peering into the gloomy depths of the forest that rose up around them as they walked on.

"Hey," Tamra's voice carried back to her, and she hurried forward to join the woman who'd led her mount to another large tree about a dozen paces back from the edge of the road. Izandra ignored the thorns that grabbed at her cloak as she forced her way through the brush that sided the road, following the muddy track made by the older woman. Laertes and Wister had heard as well and came after her.

"What is it?" Izandra asked as she reached Tamra's position. Tamra pointed, and Izandra peered ahead into the line of trees, seeing nothing.

"There's a cluster of big ones a short distance off the road," Tamra said, leading her horse forward even before Laertes and Wister could catch up to them. Izandra followed, and soon she too could see the tangled bough that Tamra had indicated, where two trees had grown close together and a third leaned over to add its own branches to roof over the crowded space beneath. Beyond the ground rose up in a gentle rise, covered at irregular intervals by trees as far back as they could see in the half-light.

"As good a place as any," Tamra said, looking back over her shoulder at Izandra. She saw the look on the younger woman's face, and halted. "What's wrong?"

"Something... wrong here...not natural..."

"Nonsense," Laertes said, coming up right behind her and close enough to hear what she'd said. "It's just a forest. Let's get out of this rain, and under some shelter. Wister, see if you can find some dry—"

He was cut off as a howl filled the air, cutting through the sound of wind and rain and echoing around them. Izandra belatedly realized that what she was hearing was not a true echo at all, but a response to the original call, and that it seemed to be coming from all around them.

"What is it, wolves?" Wister said, his voice suddenly sounding like his age.

"No," Laertes said, and his voice was iron.

"Look!" Izandra shrieked.

They all turned toward where she pointed, and steel came out of scabbards as they all saw it. It came from the very shelter they'd been approaching, a long sleek dark form that crept up out of the undergrowth. It would have been invisible save for the fact that its eyes blazed with an unholy red light that cut through the rain and clearly revealed its presence. Then they saw the others, a ring that surrounded them and drew closer as they watched in horror. They looked like lean hounds, like the hunting dogs bred by some of the barons, only larger and meaner. And those eyes, eyes that belonged to no living creature any of them had ever seen.

"Demons..." Tamra muttered, putting the thoughts of all of them into words. They'd formed a ring of their own, the four of them gathering their increasingly panicked mounts into a close circle with each of them facing outward toward the gathering hunters. There were perhaps a dozen of them, and they came steadily closer.

"Flee on your lives!" Wister yelled, flying up into his saddle and kicking his skittish mount toward the circle.

"No, boy!" Laertes yelled, but it was too late. The horse, sharing the desperate energy of its rider, launched forward, and for a moment it looked like it would burst through a gap between the nearest creatures. But only for a moment. Two of the beasts converged on the horse at the same time, darting sideways to close the gap with incredible speed. They leapt onto horse and rider alike, their weight bearing both down even as their powerful jaws sought out warm flesh to rend. One latched onto the horse's throat, ripping it open in a spray of blood, and the second tore into its side with its claws, opening foot-long slashes as it tried to gain a purchase. The horse went down awkwardly, and Wister went flying, landing stunned a few feet away.

Laertes had already moved to aid the embattled youth, but the remainder of the beasts had surged forward, collapsing their ring upon the hapless companions. Laertes's panicked horse had bolted into a cluster of them, and went down in a confused welter of blood and violence. Another of the beasts came at Laertes himself, but he slashed at it with his saber and dodged out of the path of its charge. Wounded, the evil hound spun with amazing quickness and came at him again, leaping at his throat. Somehow, he was able to avoid its rush again, although one of the beast's claws caught his cloak, nearly dragging him under before he could struggle out of the torn garment.

Izandra could do nothing to help, as she and Tamra faced several of the charging creatures themselves. Two of the beasts came right at her, and she fell back in horror at the sight of those red eyes locking onto hers. She bumped into her horse, which reared in panic, but there was nothing that Izandra could do for the animal either. She tried to summon her power, but it felt as if her mind was scrambled, held in the grip of that unrelenting terror.

Then one of the beasts seemed to loom up over her, as if it had suddenly grown to twice its size. It was an illusion, she realized, caused by its sudden leap of attack, but the threat was no less deadly for that. She ducked, and the monster's momentum carried it over her, although she felt a sudden flare of pain in her shoulder as one claw tore into her as it flew past. She heard the cries of her horse and her companions mixed with the growls of the pack of beasts, and she felt a cold calm come over her as she lay there in the mud. Suddenly everything around her seemed vividly sharp, each sound and sensation falling into a distinct place despite the uncontrolled confusion of the battle.

She tried to rise but slipped, and before she could try again one of the creatures was atop her. She felt its hot breath on her face as its red eyes bored into hers, and she shuddered at the unnatural power she sensed in those eyes, power that had warped this creature into the bloodthirsty monster it now was. It did not tear her to pieces with its claws, although it certainly could have, instead letting its weight hold her down while its massive jaws yawned open and pressed down toward her throat. She tried to push its head back with both of her hands, but the creature's incredible strength was far, far greater than her own.

She closed her eyes and opened herself to the power.

The hound let out a painful keening, and Izandra opened her eyes to see its head tilt back, as if it were sensitive to the magic that she was channeling, and didn't like it. The thing growled and lashed down at her again, the jaws snapping toward her as if to take her entire head in one gulp.

She released the power.

It flowed in a wave from her and into the head of the hound, focused by her new awareness into a wedge that rippled the air and then disappeared as it entered the space occupied by the creature's head. The red eyes grew vague and insubstantial for a moment, and the creature thrashed in pain, opening new wounds in her legs and torso as the claws tore at her. Izandra cried out, pressing one hand into the creature's chest and pushing into it with her power. The hound's weight flew off of her, landing limply a few feet away. Despite the pain of her wounded body, she scrambled up, sparing a look for the dead creature. It's eyes were now dark, and blood oozed from its ears and jaws.

But the battle still raged around her, she realized belatedly as she looked around for her companions. One of the creatures rose up out of the wreckage that had once been one of their horses. Its face was dripping with blood and gore, although it seemed eager for more as it lurched forward at her. She summoned her power, ready to defend herself despite the thickness in her skull and the distraction of pain from her multiple cuts and bruises.

The power was not needed. She watched in surprise as the creature staggered. She thought it had slipped for a moment, but when it lurched again toward her, jerky and halting now, she could see the long arrow that protruded from the center of its back. She retreated as the beast stumbled at her, its jaws still snapping at her, but the wound had crippled the creature, and she was easily able to avoid its awkward rush. Still, it fought vainly to reach her, its claws tearing at the mud in its frenzy. Then she heard a buzzing sound that ended as another long arrow slammed home, this time at the base of the creature's skull. It crashed to the ground, dead.

She looked around, wary of another attack, but the creature's death seemed to mark the end of the battle. The rain was still falling, and the area was strewn with bodies, making the scene murky. She saw several more of the beasts, all dead, more than one with an arrow jutting from its corpse. None of their horses were still standing. Suddenly she realized that she could not see any of her companions, and she rushed—a little unsteady from her recent experiences—to where she thought she had left Tamra.

The woman was down but conscious, half-pinned under the weight of one of the dead creatures. Tamra's sword was jammed into its side between two ribs, and an arrow protruded from its back. She was trying to push the weight of the creature off of her legs, and Izandra quickly rushed to help her free herself.

"I'm glad to see you're alive," Tamra said as they released her and she stood up. She too was hurt, with slashes in her side and a shallow gash across her forehead, but she appeared otherwise sound.

"There's someone else about," she said, pointing to the arrow.

"I know," Tamra said, wincing as she checked her forehead with a mud-stained finger.

Izandra turned as she sensed movement behind her. There the mud-streaked form of Laertes materialized from the rain. His cloak was missing, and his sword dripped red in his hand, but he did not seem otherwise injured. He regarded the two of them, nodding slightly to himself, a dark look on his face.

Izandra thought she knew the reason for that look. "Wister?" she asked.

"Dead," Laertes said. "Have you seen our timely benefactors?" he said, coming closer but leaving a small space between them. He radiated wariness, Izandra thought, reevaluating her perceptions of the man with what she'd just seen in the frenzied encounter.

"No," Izandra said, but then, she sensed someone approaching, and turned toward the low hill that they'd been making for when all this had started. The others saw her and joined her staring out into the murky dark.

It took a few moments for her to identify them, two dark forms that moved like shadows through the trees as they approached. As they approached she saw that they were men, dressed in forest cloaks that blended in with the landscape and carrying large gray bows. They moved with smooth grace across the uneven surface of the land and the slick mud created by the storm, and Izandra could not help but be impressed by the fluidity of their movement. As they drew nearer she saw that they were tall, easily a head taller than Laertes, but incredibly lean, as if someone had taken a normal man and stretched him out to an unnatural length. They paused atop a slight rise only about twenty feet away from where Izandra and the others were standing. Their features remained concealed within the hoods of their cloaks, but she could sense their stares as the two strangers examined the three companions.

She, in turn, studied them. Their weapons were unusual, their recurved bows seemingly too slender and weak to even draw, but she'd witnessed their deadly effect just moments ago. They also bore swords at their hips, slim and slightly curved blades nearly four feet in length. Their garments were of excellent quality, finely worked leather and cloth that was apparently water resistant, by the way that the rain formed a sheen on their cloaks and ran harmlessly off their bodies.

The silence between the two groups grew, and finally Laertes stepped forward. Izandra saw the faint reaction as the two strangers shifted, but she doubted that Tamra and Laertes had, so subtle was it. She herself came forward, touching Laertes on the shoulder before he could speak. He looked at her with surprise, but nodded, allowing her to face the strangers.

" _Quelist the'ra jolis th'ran,_ " she said, offering a slight bow to the two strangers. This time the reaction was more pronounced, although still too subtle to be easily noticed. One of the two came a few steps closer.

" _Que nalist th'elan_?" he said, the words coming off of his tongue in liquid syllables, his voice slightly melodic in strange contrast to the destruction around them.

"I'm sorry, but I know no more of your speech," Izandra said, again bowing slightly as she spoke. "Thank you for your aid against those creatures."

"You are welcome," the tall stranger replied.

"I apologize if we trespassed," Izandra went on. She could sense Tamra and Laertes shift uncomfortably behind her, but neither of them said anything while she treated with the strangers. Strange, how the balance between them had shifted, she thought. Strange how quickly things could change, she added inwardly, thinking again of the violence that surrounded them. "I mean, I know we are strangers, and that the forest of Maletai is your realm."

The stranger made a small sound, and Izandra belatedly realized it was a laugh. "Do not fear, human, you make no trespass. This is not the land of Maletai; you would know in an instant, if you stood within its bounds. You are just a short distance from the human village of Benderal."

"Thank you," Izandra said, bowing again. She had no idea if she was being overly polite, but felt it was better to err on the side of caution. All of what she'd said and done thus far came from knowledge learned from Ethander's books, and his occasional tales of the wider world, but she was all too aware of the limits of her knowledge.

"What were those things that attacked us?" she said.

She could sense the stranger's hesitation, but when he replied his voice was smooth and clear. "They are mauls, violent predators that frequent the mountains east of here," he said. "But these...these things here are not natural creatures. They are a great evil, and a violation that must be destroyed. You are fortunate to have survived."

"Fortunate that you came along," Izandra said.

"We encountered the tracks of the creatures, and followed them. We would have caught them sooner, but were delayed by the storm."

"The two of you against the pack of them?" Tamra interjected. The stranger's attention shifted to her, but he said nothing. "Braver than me," she added, under her breath.

"We are forest trackers," the stranger said. "It is our duty to seek out such that violates the sanctity of the forest, and destroy it. These beasts are violations of the natural order and cannot be allowed to flourish."

Izandra nodded. She had more questions, in particular about the origins of whatever had transformed these beasts, but she held her tongue. Instead, she asked, "Can you help us find our way to Benderal?"

"It is just a short distance more along the road," the stranger said, but Izandra's question had asked for more than that, and he knew it. He turned and looked at his companion, who had hung back during the brief conversation, and some intangible conversation passed between them in that look. Izandra could not gauge what they shared, although she could sense their reluctance.

"Please," she said, the single word containing her heartfelt feeling.

The first stranger turned back to her, and nodded. "Very well. The people of the town should be alerted that such things are wandering the woods, in any case." Izandra felt the strange sensation that the stranger was holding something back from her, but kept the feelings silent and held her tongue as he went on. "Gather up what you need. We should leave this place behind us quickly." He glanced over his shoulder at his companion, who nodded and quickly jogged off into the woods, his lithe form vanishing into the murk within moments. "He will find us a clear route," the stranger explained.

He too turned as if to depart, but Izandra forestalled him. "Wait," she said. "My name is Izandra, and this is Laertes, and Tamra." She indicated each of her companions with a wave. The stranger stood facing them for a moment, then he raised one hand and lowered the hood of his cloak, revealing his face. His facial features were narrow and pronounced, framed with long golden hair that became quickly slicked down against his skull as the rain hit it. His ears were slightly elongated, tapering to slight points at the top and bottom, and his eyes were a fiercely bright amber that shone even in the dim light of the stormy day.

"I am Allonanther, of the Ilfann," he said, with a slight bow. "My companion is Elodorion. We will take you to your people at Benderal, and until then, you are under our protection."

Izandra bowed again in response. She was a little surprised at the Ilfann's offer. But he was the first of his people that she had actually met, and she was not fully sure what to expect. She had read books, and spoken to Ethander, but one of the first things that she had learned since leaving Sindelar was that words on a page did not always match with reality out in the world.

She and the others gathered up what they could salvage from the wreckage of their horses, and paused to cover the mangled body of Wister. Izandra thought that they should bury him, but Tamra and Laertes demurred, and she understood their mutual desire to be out of this place. And besides, they were all worn and exhausted, with the possible exception of the Ilfann, and she and Tamra had been injured in their battle with the mauls. Izandra saw that Laertes took Wister's sword and bow, along with anything else of value left he could gather, but she could not bring herself to judge him. She'd already seen that life on the frontier demanded a hard code of living, although all she did was recover her saddlebags from her dead horse and then join Allonanther where he stood at the far edge of the battle site, waiting for them.

As the Ilfann led them back toward the road, she looked back at the scene of violence they were leaving behind. Once again she'd come to the very brink of death, and once more she'd been forced to use her powers to kill. Would it come easier the next time, she wondered?

With such dark thoughts rattling around inside her head, she and the others pressed on, sharing the reassuring presence of companionship in silence as the rain continued to beat down upon the woods.

* * * * *

Chapter 21

"Great. Just great."

Dannil's words greeted the arrival of the first fat drops of rain, expected since they'd seen the dark clouds rolling toward them out of the mountains far to the east.

"What was that?" Alec asked. The healer was walking a few yards back from Dannil and his injured horse.

"Nothing," Dannil said without turning. The healer did not reply, sensing his companion's mood.

Dannil had been in a sour humor for the last few days, ever since their clash with the grags at their campsite. He was painfully aware of the slowness of their pace, and the fact that Izandra was likely drawing further and further ahead of him. He also could escape other, darker thoughts, whispers of what might have happened to her, alone on the road. Those thoughts he crushed mercilessly, but they had a tendency of returning whenever he laid his head down to rest, teasing at the edges of his consciousness and following him into his dreams. It was those dreams, above all, that drove him forward, and fed the frustration that darkened his mood.

"Should we st-st-st-stop?" Alec's voice carried forward to him.

It was a reasonable suggestion, especially as the storm looked to be a hard one, the clouds darkening above even as the drizzle grew more steady around them. They had not encountered any settlements in two days, and neither knew anything about what lay ahead on the road, other than the fact that a village named Benderal was a few days ahead of them. And beyond that, the great Ilfanni forest of Maletai.

"Keep a lookout for a likely place," Dannil finally said in response to Alec's question. They pressed on, although the surrounding terrain did not look especially promising. They were surrounded by low, bald hills, covered only with rocks and thick, thorny brush that encroached upon the edges of the road frequently and tugged at their clothes as they walked past. They'd passed occasional campsites over the last few days, indicating that people did travel along the barren stretch of roadway, but nothing they'd seen in the last few hours offered any protection from the rain.

"Suh-suh-someone's cuh-cuh-coming," Alec said.

Dannil looked ahead, and saw that in fact there was a group of travelers coming down the road toward them. Silently berating himself for not having noticed them first, he urged his mount forward, to a muddy patch of open ground free of brush beside the road.

"Let them pass," he said to his companion, noticing that the travelers had at least one wagon with them. "Maybe they have news of the road ahead." And Izandra, he added silently.

As the travelers drew nearer, Dannil saw that there were nearly a score of them, men and women and two wagons making slow progress against the rough and increasingly muddy road. Several of them rode horses as outriders, but most rode the wagons or trudged along beside or behind them. Even from a distance Dannil could sense the dejection among the travelers, who wore long faces that bespoke more than a disappointment with the sour weather.

As they drew nearer, a group of the riders rode ahead to meet them, four men who directed their horses into the brush to leave room for the wagons to pass on the road.

"Hail, travelers," one of the four, a near-giant of a man, addressed them, his deep voice booming from his chest even above the patter of the rain around them. All four were dressed warmly in fur-lined cloaks that showed clear signs of wear, and all four were well equipped with a variety of weapons in plain sight.

"Greetings," Alec said, his tone amiable. Dannil was silent, although his face had darkened since he'd first gotten a good look at the four men riding to meet them.

"It is fortuitous that we meet you riding this day," the large man said. "One of our company is ill, in one of the wagons. Perhaps you could..."

"Of course," Alec said, and he even started toward the road before the big man raised his hand to forestall him. Alec stopped, confused.

"Well, well," the man boomed. His attention had shifted, from the healer to Dannil, who returned his gaze with a hard look that could etch glass. "I didn't see you, at first, what with the healer and all. Not that I'd expect to see you in such company, or this far from the lake country. How goes life, Dannil?"

"Well enough, Weyland," Dannil said. "I must honestly say that I did not expect to see you in these lands, either."

"Time brings change, and the Lady's luck wends an unpredictable road," the big man replied with a smile that did not quite reach his eyes. "After all, it brought you to me, didn't it?"

"My being here has nothing to do with you," Dannil said. "Let us be on our way, and leave it at that."

"You led the baron's men to our base in the Koron Hills," another of the men, a reed-thin figure of a man with a scar across one cheek, interjected. "We heard, later, that the baron, he'd giv'n you a nice bounty for that bit of betrayal. You think we'd forget that?"

"You were guilty of the attack on that caravan," Dannil said, straightening despite the dark looks sent his way from the four riders. "Twenty unarmed men, women, and even children, all killed. It was not me who brought your troubles down upon you." The wagons had pulled up short some distance back along the road, and another half-dozen armed men had appeared, hanging back from the exchange but close enough to intervene if necessary. Dannil saw them, as did Alec, who had retreated to a position close to Dannil and their wounded horse.

"Not completely unarmed," Weyland said into the awkward silence that followed his last statement. "I lost two men on that raid, not that it matters. It's clear that our difference of opinion runs deep, and that we cannot settle it here." He turned toward Alec. "We have no grievance with you, healer. You may go on your way. Your friend, here, however, he's going to stay with us, so we can discuss this matter further."

"I'm not leaving him," Alec said. "Please, surely there is some way we can avoid bloodshed?" He stepped forward, placing himself between Dannil and the four riders. "I can stay with you as hostage, help your ill companion, in exchange for his safe passage."

"So be it," Weyland said. "It's ill luck to kill a healer, but sometimes one has to take what the Lady deals." He reined in his horse, and said to the other three, "Kill both of them."

"No!" Alec shouted, but the three men had already drawn their weapons. Dannil had not waited either, and launched forward even before Weyland had finished speaking. His arm came forward in a blurred arc, and he hurled a stone Alec had not seen him pick up directly into the face of the first rider. The missile struck home, and the man pitched backward over the rump of his horse, to fall stunned into the rain-slicked grass behind him.

"Go!" Dannil said, thrusting Alec toward the brush away from the road. Alec stumbled at the sudden push, but Dannil was already turning to face the second rider, who'd avoided the fallen man and his horse and was bearing down on them, a heavy iron mace held high aloft in one hand. The third rider, carrying a single-edged shortsword, was just a few yards behind him.

Dannil moved as if he was trying to flee into the brush, but at the last minute he shifted and darted back toward the horseman. His long dirk shot at the rider with the mace, and it did tear a deep gash in the man's thigh, but the mace caught him hard on the shoulder as he passed. The blow had not been full force, or it likely would have shattered his collarbone, but it was hard enough to twist him around and knock him to the ground. He was barely able to roll out of the path of the charging third horseman, who wheeled his mount around for another pass.

In the furious first moments of the melee, the attackers had ignored Alec.

"NO!" the healer shouted again, and this time his words carried with them the aura of power unleashed. As he had twice before, first on the road with Cerek and the bandits, and again with the attacking grags, he reached deep inside himself and channeled that strange current of bios magic that was at the same time so like Healing and so foreign to it. Once again he let his own fear and anger fuel the wave of emotion that he released, sending it out in a focused wave toward the riders.

The man with the mace shrieked and clutched at his head, his motion causing his horse to twist around in confusion as he jerked on the reins. The movement dropped him from the saddle, his weapon falling harmlessly a few feet away. The swordsman was in little better shape, although he was able to keep atop his horse. Horse and rider darted away, crossing the road and into the bushes on the far side, within a few moments gone from sight.

Weyland, a short distance away, cursed loudly and suddenly found himself fighting for control of his own mount. Behind him, the men on foot shook their heads in sudden confusion or exclaimed in surprise, disoriented by the conflicting wave of emotions that washed over them. One turned and ran, dropping his sword to the ground behind him.

"Go!" Dannil said, suddenly beside the healer as he came out of his reverie and returned to reality. Dannil, his face still wracked with the pain of his injury, held the reins of the two horses belonging to the bandits who now lay on the ground a short distance away. The situation was one of utter chaos, but it was clear that the confusion afflicting the bandits was only temporary in nature. Already, several of the Weyland's men who had been farthest away from the melee were moving closer, their weapons at the ready.

Dannil helped Alec into the saddle of one of the horses, then all but leaped atop the second. Before Alec could even gain his bearings, Dannil had launched both horses into motion, slapping the rear of Alec's horse hard to start it moving. Alec had to put all of his effort into staying atop the galloping mount. Dannil still held the reins of both horses, and he guided the still-panicked creatures past the wagons and then back onto the road.

"This isn't over, Dannil!" they heard Weyland's voice shout after them as the two of them galloped away. But there was no pursuit, and soon the small column vanished behind them as they rode on to the east.

* * *

Ezran sagged in the saddle, the world around him spinning for a moment before he could regain his tenuous grip on consciousness. He caught himself before he had leaned enough to risk toppling off the horse, and with an effort of will forced himself to remain steady. The horse snorted and shook its head, uneasy with the movements of its rider. The day was cold, with a cold wind from the east preceding a storm by the dark clouds he'd seen gathering on the horizon since waking that morning.

It had been easy to elude the healers and slip out from the hospital unnoticed. He'd been building his strength over the last few days, and the healer who supervised him said that he'd be up and about, as strong as ever, in less than a week.

In less than a week, he intended to be reunited with Izandra.

So that morning, after husbanding his strength with a full night's rest, and gathering up the small stockpile of food he'd managed to hoard unnoticed, he'd slid into his battered trail clothes, slipped out through one of the side doors of the hospital, and gone on his way. It was more difficult to secure a horse, and he still felt a twinge at the theft, but he rationalized the act against his own need. Izandra needed his help, and there was nothing that he would not do for his sister.

Including defying her own wishes, if he deemed it necessary.

Her departure, suddenly and unannounced, had been foolhardy. Even Dannil agreed with that; he'd seen it in his friend's eyes when he'd brought the news just a few days ago. Now Dannil had a few days on him, and Izandra a day more than that, but he'd catch up to both of them. Through sheer effort of will, if necessary.

But he'd barely traveled a few hours before his strength began to fail him, and he'd had to use every ounce of that will just to stay in the saddle.

By late afternoon, his entire body felt as though it was weighted down with iron bars. He'd stopped at the first inn he'd encountered on the roadside, a dilapidated old structure within a cluster of ramshackle buildings that could hardly be called a village. The innkeeper and his wife had regarded him warily, noticing in an instant his condition, but they took his money, virtually all that he had left, and gave him a cramped if quiet room in the back of the place. He'd been asleep within moments of falling into the bed.

The next day, this day, had been even longer. All he'd been able to stomach for breakfast was some cold broth and a few small pieces of bread, and the partial meal had done little to restore his strength. He'd pressed on, though, for there was little else to be done, for all that the weather was clearly turning for the worse and the road ahead seemed to stretch endlessly on ahead of him.

By noon, he'd known that he was running a fever. By midafternoon, he'd known that it was worse than that, but still he pressed on. He passed an isolated settlement or two, mostly just farmsteads with a low building or two situated fairly close to the road, but he'd ignored them and pushed on.

Ezran started, returning to the present with an abrupt jolt. He was unsure how long he'd been drifting, although the day was fading fast and he guessed that full night would arrive in just a few hours. He had not encountered another settlement, although the innkeepers had suggested that there were a few more places scattered along the road to the east, before giving way to a great open stretch of road that eventually found its way to the forest of Maletai and the reclusive Ilfann. Ezran had no desire to go quite that far, but he would, if Izandra's trail led him there.

Fighting a sense of despair that had been creeping up on him in his lucid stretches, he tugged on the reins and led the horse to a sheltered nook among a cluster of rocks near the side of the road. It had the look of a camp, with a fire pit clearly marked out and numerous old tracks still visible. He scanned the sky to the east, and judged that the storm was in no hurry to get here. Perhaps in a few days, he thought.

When he leaned to the side to dismount, the world began spinning again, and although he was able to get his feet under him, he found that his legs would not support his weight. He pitched to the side, barely aware of a glancing pain in his head as he struck something hard, and drifted away into unconsciousness.

He didn't hear the sound of hooves approaching some time later, or hear the jingle of harness as someone dismounted a few feet away. Nor did he hear the bootsteps of the individual who walked over to him, or sense the presence of the figure that stood over him, rubbing at his face with a gloved hand in thought.

"Well, well," the Seer finally said. "Isn't this interesting."

* * * * *

Chapter 22

Sunlight streamed in through the great stained glass windows to shine directly upon the huge crowd of people gathered in the cavernous interior of the cathedral of Merikkose in Sindaron. The last few days had been cold, wet, and dreary, but the sun had emerged from the clouds this morning as if to add its benediction to the ceremony that had begun shortly after the first bell of morning.

Hymns filled the air. The chanting of three score men and women dressed in elaborate robes standing atop the raised dais of the choir off to the side of the main altar area resounded through the interior of the church and drifted out through the open main doors into the square outside. Those voices joined in song bore an almost preternatural air, as if divine inspiration itself had chosen to make those men and women instruments for the supernatural beauty of its song.

From the floor of the church, three broad marble steps led up the nave where the massive altar stone stood. It was covered with cloths of the purest white linen, marked with elaborate sigils tailored in gold thread that blazoned in the sunlight. Behind the altar, tables of intricately carved mahogany, also draped in white, stood against the curving rear wall of the cathedral below the windows, upon which stood thick white candles that burned brightly despite the abundance of light. Above these tables hung intricately styled tapestries that depicted scenes of dramatic action and historic scenes of the early days of the church, days when the Empire of Rigal was not yet even a dream and the followers of the Lord of Honor fought to establish the bases for a lasting church. Most of the figures featured in those scenes were pillars of the church, canonized as saints by leaders who came long after to remind today's devout of the sacrifices of the past.

A single figure stood facing those tapestries, his head bowed in silent prayer, his back to the five thousand or so individuals who filled every inch of space on the cathedral floor behind him. Those thousands were common people of all sorts and backgrounds, dressed in their best clothes, for all that those were nowhere near as fine as the robes worn by the participants in the ceremony or the silks and rich cloths worn by the noble visitors who filled the galleries to either side of the nave. But for all their mundane appearance, particularly in contrast to the glorious opulence and panoply that surrounded them, the devotion that shone in the eyes of those people was no less stark, no less powerful. It was the rapt attention of those thousands that gave the ceremony its power, not the expensive cloths, the practiced singing, or the finery of the elites of Sindaron.

Primus Ahlen Corander fed off of that attention, letting the power of that shared faith fill him as he turned and strode back toward the crowd until he stood before the altar. He raised his hands, as if in benediction of the crowd, and thousands of heads bowed before him. The choir's hymn came to an end, and an awesome silence filled the cathedral.

"My brothers and sisters," the Primus began, "Today is the Feast of Midwinter, a day of renewal for the church and of renewal in our own lives. A day where we take stock of the year past and look forward to the year ahead."

"On this day of memorial and thanksgiving, I would like to share a particular story with you. That is the story of Saint Khalnaris, one of the many who gave their lives to the cause of this church. Much as Khalnaris gave his life for the good of the faith in which he believed, today I ask you to consider the sacrifices you can make for the good of those around you."

"Khalnaris was a simple man, a laborer much like many of you here today, a man of simple desires and simple joys: the pleasure of a good meal, the love of family, the pride of work done well. His devotion to his faith was also simple, rooted in a commitment to a message that resonated in his heart and in his soul. When called upon to defend that message, even at the cost of his own life, he did not fail to answer that call."

"Khalnaris did not intend to be a crusader, nor did he seek to become a martyr to his cause. When Valymir, the man who called himself the Duke of Swords, chose this simple man as an example to those who used religion as an excuse to defy his power, he knew that this laborer was no revolutionary. Khalnaris's crime was that he had given his time to aid the poor, working with the aid societies sponsored by the church, and that he had openly spoken of his beliefs to those willing to listen. But he alone of the twenty men and women gathered by the Duke's enforcers refused to publicly recant their beliefs when they were brought before the Ducal Court, and he alone refused to swear the oath of allegiance to the Duke. 'I have sworn an oath that precludes giving my allegiance to one who represents such tyranny,' Khalnaris said. Of the thousands who heard those words that day, many questioned where those words came from, knowing that Khalnaris was a simple man without eloquence or the gift of many words. But to the Duke, the words were an affront, a challenge to his authority. His torturers were tasked with drawing a confession and a repudiation of his words from the man, and for three days they labored to achieve those goals. For three days Khalnaris was tormented, and then on the third day he was brought again before the Duke. It is said that the Duke asked the man, lying broken and bleeding before him, clinging somehow to a last vestige of life, 'Well? What say you now, humble man?'"

"Khalnaris took a deep breath—his last—and replied, not with a confession, as the duke hoped, or with a curse, as many believed, but instead with a simple statement. 'I forgive you,' Khalnaris said, and then with the entire court looking on in stunned silence, that simple man died."

"Now Khalnaris stands at the side of the Lord of Honor in the great Divine Cathedral, having earned his eternal reward through the simple unshakable strength of his faith. On this day, then, I ask you to remember his example as you go out and continue on the business of your lives. Remember him as you break your fast with family and friends, and as you exchange your gifts of sweets and flowers. Remember his example when you are confronted with someone in need, be it the beggar crouching in the shadows on your way to work or the old woman living next door alone and forgotten. Remember that even though you may not be called upon to witness your faith in the same dramatic way that Khalnaris was, we are still witnesses in the way we choose to live our everyday lives."

He paused, letting his words sink into the crowd before raising one outstretched hand over the altar toward them. "Brothers and sisters, I grant you this day the blessing of the Lord of Honor. May the divine wisdom of Merikkose guide you as you go forth this day, to bear the standard of the divine church and to carry the light of honor in your hearts always. This ceremony is at an end, go in peace."

As he lowered his hands, the crowd began to stir, and people began filing toward the main exits and toward the smaller exits along the sides of the cathedral. While the choir began another hymn, their voices again lifting in stirring song, a number of people came up the stairs that led up to the nave, kneeling on the lowest step in silent prayer. Their numbers were numerous enough that a small queue formed, as those behind waited patiently for those ahead to finish. A small cluster formed to the side, patently but patiently trying to draw his attention, to seek his personal blessing upon them and whatever problems they wished to bring before the church that day.

The Primus generally preferred to spend some time after ceremonies attending to such needs, giving the commoners the personal attention that meant so much to many of them. But as he slipped toward the subtle arch that led off of the altar area into the private clerical chambers behind, he saw that someone was waiting for him there just inside the entrance of the passageway. He had to make an effort to keep his features pleasant when he recognized the visitor. In turn, from the look on the waiting man's face, it suddenly seemed unlikely that he would have time to linger today.

"Bishop Mican. I had thought to see you at the ceremony today."

"Midwinter has always been more for the people, Primus, particularly the common people," Mican said. "Besides, the bishops have been called upon to deal with important matters this day."

"Oh?" the Primus said, moving past the bishop into the robing area beyond. He noticed that the acolyte normally there to assist him was gone; sent away by Mican, perhaps? He did not mention it, although it would have been a breach in protocol. Instead, he began taking off his elaborate ceremonial vestments, and added, "I was informed of no such gathering. What sort of matter is it?"

Mican made no move to assist him. "Don't worry, Primus, your contribution will be an important one." He positioned himself to the side while the Primus continued to unlimber his robes and hung them in the polished mahogany closets in the robing chamber, and pulled on a simple outer robe in their place. "If you'll come with me, I will escort you to the Conclave."

The use of that word indicated a formal gathering, and the Primus wondered what that portended as he closed the doors to the closets and indicated for the bishop to proceed. The fact that he had been deliberately excluded from even knowing of a Conclave was another, more serious breach of protocol and the codes of the church, and could either indicate a more blatant contempt for his position or something more sinister, although he could not at first guess what that might be.

"An interesting choice of subjects for your sermon," Mican said conversationally as they left the covered passage that ran from the clerical chambers in the rear of the cathedral into the offices and halls of the church hierarchy behind. The complex was like a maze, the buildings interconnected so that one could wander from one end to the other without leaving their shelter.

As they walked, the Primus sensed an unusual, subdued feeling that seemed to permeate the place, a strange contrast to the crowded majesty of the cathedral during the ceremony. He shook off the dark implications of that thought, and focused on keeping his manner neutral as he replied to Mican. "And why might that be?"

"Your sermon was very moving," the bishop said in a manner that seemed part conversational, part tutorial. "It's just that my recollection is that it is more usual to hold up the case of Kal Torin, or one of the other kings of the Founding Era, as an example to the people at Midwinter. While Khalnaris is a great exemplar of the values of the church, defiance of authority is not necessarily the best virtue to inculcate in the common man. Besides," he added, "the people love the tales of war and triumph, more exciting, breed that sense of belonging to that something great that is the Empire."

"War and triumph are all well and good, my dear Mican, but victory can be much more than swords and armies."

"Indeed," was all Mican said, but the single word was full of meaning.

They slowed and stopped as they came to one of the wide double doors that led into the chamber of the Bishops' Council. Beyond, the Conclave was meeting.

"After you, Primus," Mican said, opening one of the doors and then standing aside.

The Primus took a deep breath and strode inside.

The circular chamber where the bishops customarily met was well apportioned, with comfortable, padded chairs forming concentric circles on tiers that rose progressively higher around the edges of the chamber. They all faced a raised central platform devoid of furniture, perhaps some fifteen feet across. A domed ceiling high above featured numerous skylights that filled the room with light, while sconces along the walls held lamps to illuminate evening gatherings. Everything, from the walls to the floors to the large high-backed chairs, was fashioned from white marble that shone brightly in the light of the natural sunshine that filtered down from above.

The room was nearly full, and as the Primus stepped inside he saw that the bishops were all dressed in formal robes, rather than the comfortable working clothes that was common at most meetings of the council. He'd already been told that this was a more formal meeting, but the fact that the bishops were attired in full ritual garb suggested even more about the nature of this Conclave.

Forty faces turned to regard him as he strode forward from the doorway, and all conversation in the room suddenly stopped. The Primus met their collective gaze for a moment, then shifted his attention back to Mican, who was still right behind him. "What manner of gathering is this?" he asked the bishop, although he already knew the answer.

"It is a Conclave of Inquisition," the bishop smugly retorted, "To inquire into your removal from the position of Primus."

The Primus's felt a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, but he forced himself to straighten and summon all of the dignity that he could yet muster into his tired frame. "And what is the basis for this inquiry?" he demanded.

Mican did not respond, but one of the bishops, a rail-thin, white-haired man of sixty named Prathis—one of Mican's allies, the Primus noted unconsciously—stood and replied, "You will have adequate chance to refute the charges." The Primus noted the absence of any honorific, although in church inquiries those accused traditionally retained the privileges of earned rank until proven guilty. Refusing to rise to the bait, he walked toward the empty chair that stood a short distance from all those around it, weighing the mood in the room as he crossed the open space in the center. He felt no support, even from those he'd long counted among his friends and supporters among the group. Those bishops avoided his gaze, looking pointedly away as he strode across the golden outline set into the marble floor, the design of the sword and sun, the emblem of Merikkose. He crossed and sat down in the chair, collecting his robes around him and facing out into the sea of unfriendly faces gathered around him.

"Bring in the first witness," Prathis said with a gesture toward one of the doors. Mican had moved into one of the rearward tiers and had seated himself almost directly across from the Primus, where he stood out somewhat through the fact that he was not dressed in the full ceremonial garb.

"One moment, if you please," the Primus interjected smoothly. As forty faces turned back to him, he straightened slightly in his chair and continued, "I believe it is customary to first inform the accused the charges against him? Assuming, that is, you have not changed the regulations of the church in my absence."

Prathis's look was pure ice, but the Primus sensed the uncomfortable twinge that passed through the chamber and perceived the possible divisions beneath the surface within the Conclave. But then Prathis, perhaps recognizing the same, bowed in acknowledgement. "Of course. We have no wish to trample upon your rights, and only wish to put this disagreeable matter behind the Council as quickly as possible." He turned to the bishop in the chair beside him, a much younger man with a wispy beard and long hair that fell down in curls almost to his shoulders. "Ispin, I believe you have the scroll."

The younger man turned and looked into the portable wooden desk set up against the edge of his chair, and handed Prathis an ornate bronzewood roller from which dangled a length of script. Prathis nodded in thanks, and then turned back to face the assembly, scroll in hand.

"The Conclave has fixed the following charges as a matter of this inquiry. First, that you, Ahlen Corander, did willfully and deliberately use the power of your position for your own personal benefit. That you did intentionally carry out unauthorized allocations of personnel without proper notification of the Council beforehand, as required by church law and traditional practice. And furthermore, that you deliberately withheld information from the Council regarding this reallocation."

Prathis paused to let that sink in, although the Primus sensed that none of this was new to any of the gathered bishops. It had to have been decided fairly recently, he thought, or some inkling of this would have leaked out. The bishops, like most men in positions of power, were notoriously incapable of keeping important secrets. Perhaps the ink on the scroll was still wet, he thought wryly.

Prathis cleared his throat and continued. "But as serious as those matters are, the second accusation is yet more disturbing. Ahlen Corander, this Conclave accuses you of misusing your sacred trust as guardian of the most holy relics of the church, and even taking items from the church's depository and allocating them according to your whim, for your own private gain."

Now, finally the Primus understood, and even sympathized with the feelings he'd sensed earlier among the bishops. Everything they said was true. Although he didn't know how they'd found out about his actions, especially given the caution with which he'd carried out his plans, he now understood the folly of expecting to accomplish anything under the scrutiny of the bishops without being detected. It was too late for self-recrimination, and he did not regret his actions, although he did feel the sinking feeling in his gut again as he felt the full weight of his failure fall upon him.

"Ahlen Corander, these are serious charges against you. How do you respond?" Prathis said.

The Primus looked up into the gallery, scanning the faces there. His eyes lingered on Mican for a moment, registering the triumph there before moving on. Very well then, he thought, with a sadness that seemed to fill him from deep within. His eyes fell, to focus on the wrinkled hands that he held clutched together in his lap. For a moment, he was tempted to come clean, to share everything with the Council, with those who led the church he'd dedicated his life to, brothers with him in a common cause. Ultimately, it was that look in Mican's eyes, a look he saw echoed on too many of the faces that stared down at him, that decided him.

When he looked back up, his eyes were free of doubt.

"I claim the right of silence," he said clearly.

The response was a titter that flew through the room in a building rush. The right of silence, the right of all accused to refrain from answering charges made against them, was considered by many to be all but an admission of guilt. That assumption stemmed in part from past eras in the church, when the Council had included individuals practiced in the nuances of bios magic, and capable of divining truth from lies when either were spoken before them. No such bishop had been on the Council for over a hundred years, but the right—and the assumption—were still part of church tradition. The Primus could not remember a case during his lifetime when the right had been asserted, and he knew that none of those gathered would understand the real reason why he did so now.

"Very well," Prathis finally said when some equilibrium had been restored to the gathering. "The Inquisition will proceed. Bring in the first witness."

The Primus was not surprised when the door opened and Ogren, his secretary, came into the chamber.

The Conclave lasted for four hours, but the outcome was all but decided at the opening, when the Primus had claimed the right of silence. He did not reply to any of the witnesses who were brought forward to explain his actions of late, from the strange orders he'd given on the day when he'd first been contacted by the Avatar to that fateful day when he'd summoned Ticos Gewehr and given him the armor and sword from the vaults of the church. He could almost feel the looks of his erstwhile friends and allies on the Council, bishops he'd known and worked with for decades, imploring him to somehow contradict the evidence laid against him, but he could not. Would not, for all that it meant his ultimate failure in the face of the mandate laid upon him by the Lord of Order. The only thing keeping him from doing so anyway was the knowledge that such a revelation would gain nothing, and that it could indeed sunder the Council itself, creating chaos which would only aid his foes and set his cause back yet further.

_Godspeed your path, young knight_ , he thought to himself as the inquiry approached its end. _I have done all that I can, and yet I fear it is not enough._

Finally, the inquiry ended and a renewed silence filled the air. Prathis rose and stood facing the man who that morning had been the titular head of the most powerful church in the most powerful kingdom in the west.

"Ahlen Corander, you will remove yourself while the Conclave discusses your fate."

Ahlen rose and left, though he did not go much farther beyond the great doors, settling alone on a bench in a small anteroom. He had little to fear, really, at least in terms of his personal security. While his crime in allowing the relics of the church to leave the secure grasp of their vault was a serious one, it was almost inconceivable that he would be sentenced to a term in a dungeon cell or penal labor camp, or worse. His career as Primus was over, and probably any role in the church hierarchy, but he could accept that. His mind was already turning to what lie ahead, and the muddled choices suddenly open to him.

He sat there quietly for almost an hour, thinking. When the call came for him to return, he had not resolved any of the questions, but he seemed outwardly calm as he reentered the chamber and took his seat once again. Once again he sensed the divisions within the chamber, but all were silent as Prathis rose to address him. He tried to look over at Mican, to judge his reaction, but the bishop was no longer in his chair.

"Ahlen Corander, the Conclave has judged you guilty. As of this moment, you are stripped of your rank and title, and any standing within the church of the mighty and just god Merikkose. Due to your past service to the church, your punishment will not be public, and knowledge of this matter and judgment will not pass beyond these walls." In other words, Ahlen thought, the church would be spared the embarrassment of deposing a popular Primus. That was moot, of course; the entire city would know of the matter by sunset, and the entire Empire within a week. Whether or not anyone cared, of course, would be another matter.

"You will be allowed a quiet retirement to the rural community of your choice," Prathis was continuing, "so long as it is at least one week's travel away from Sindaron. You may there continue your valuable work with the poor and needy among the rural folk, so long as you never invoke the authority of the church in any way or fashion."

"Does the judged have any questions?" Even as Ahlen shook his head, Prathis continued, "Then this Conclave is over."

No one moved as Ahlen rose and slowly moved across the floor to the far exit. He felt the weight of forty pairs of eyes upon him as he exited, but more than that, he felt the weight of his own failure, and imagined that he felt the disapproving gaze of Merikkose upon him.

I have failed, he thought to himself, as he walked down deserted halls—though it was still early in the evening—and disappeared into his private chambers to gather a few personal possessions before leaving Sindaron, and the church to which he'd dedicated his life, forever.

* * *

Ticos broke another handful of twigs and tossed them onto the beginnings of the fire, then bent low to blow on the tentative flames. His efforts were rewarded as the twigs caught, and after a few more minutes a merry little fire was burning in the small open pit he'd dug in the midst of their impromptu campsite a short distance off of the road. They'd chosen the site carefully. They would not be seen by casual travelers once darkness had fully fallen, making their smoke invisible, yet they were not so far away that they would have difficulty striking the road again in the morning. Predators tended to avoid busy roads as well, adding an extra benefit. For all that they were only one day's ride south of Queshtar, Ticos had already noticed that the lands to the south were much wilder than those he'd passed through on his journey toward the busy trading city.

He heard the sound of someone approaching through the brush toward the camp, and realized that Robert was returning. He hadn't been gone long, Ticos thought, and he could not help but think that the noise he made was for his benefit. When his new companion had gone out into the woods to look for game, he'd vanished almost instantly without making barely a whisper. He still knew virtually nothing about the man, but he'd witnessed enough since their first meeting to respect his talents.

They'd spent the first night after their meeting in a small farming community on the southern outskirts of the city. Both of them had been eager to put some distance between them and the city core after the ambush attempt against Ticos. They'd traded the gear they'd taken from the assassins for supplies for their journey to the south. They would have gotten a better price had they returned to the markets of Queshtar, but Robert had not complained when Ticos had suggested they not delay their departure by returning to the city.

They had spoken little since then, content to travel most of the day in silence as they ate up the miles along the lesser-traveled southern road. They had passed a few local farmers on the road in the morning, and even a few small outlying settlements, but by mid-afternoon they were alone on the road and the land around them gradually grew more hilly and wooded. The place where they'd stopped to make camp was on the edge of a forest that ran up into the foothills of the Ralos Mountains, a constant presence to their right as they'd made their way to the south.

"Looks like tubers and wild peas for dinner," Robert said as he emerged from the brush and stepped into the camp. "Assuming we want to keep our supplies intact as long as possible." He placed a pouch bulging with his scavenged vegetables down on a flat rock beside the fire, and sat down across from Ticos. "I found some mushrooms, but I think they're the kind that you eat and then spend the rest of the night vomiting back out. There's a stream back a fair distance as well, so don't worry about the water."

Ticos nodded, but remained silent, and began busying himself with rigging a pot above the fire to prepare a stew out of the food his companion had provided.

The silence stretched out for a few minutes longer, then finally Robert said, "I suppose we should talk about a few things."

"Agreed."

"So, where are we going?"

"You don't know?" Ticos said with some surprise.

"All I was told was that I had to meet you in Queshtar, at the Silver Sigil, and that I was to accompany you on an important journey. I wasn't told the destination, but that you'd need my help and my particular skills to succeed. I assumed that we were supposed to steal something. That's my particular talent, after all, but I have to admit, I was a bit surprised to see that you were a knight. Though I guess it does make sense, in a strange sort of way."

"I don't remember telling you that I was a knight," Ticos said, suddenly suspicious.

Robert appeared unconcerned. "Don't worry, it isn't immediately obvious," he said. "Posing as a contestant in the Games was a nice touch. But it's hard to miss the truth, when one spends any amount of time with you. It's too much a part of who you are to conceal completely. Could be a problem in Roron, if we're not careful."

"I thought you said you didn't know where we were going."

"Not much else along this road, is there?" Robert replied.

"No, I suppose not," Ticos said, shaking his head. He felt more uncertain now than before this conversation had begun, although his companion's manner was quite disarming and he did not seem to share any of the same uneasiness about their situation. He trusted the Primus's mission and his mandate—but a thief?

"Does the name Fel Darian mean anything to you?" he asked.

"No, should it?" Robert replied.

"I am to seek it out in western Roron," he said. Then, as if something suddenly occurred to him, he added, "So you know nothing what we are fighting against?"

Robert looked at him with a look of hard seriousness. When he spoke, there was a strange depth to his words that was utterly unlike his easy demeanor of a moment ago. "A great calamity, the threat of a danger to all that is the existence that you know and understand. For mortal beings in their hubris have undertaken to tamper with powers beyond their ken, and threaten the very structure of the universe with their actions."

Ticos regarded him with surprise. He sensed that the words were not his, yet they were powerful in their simplicity, and meshed well with what he'd been told by the Primus.

"Water's boiling," Robert finally said after a few moments of silence between them.

Ticos looked down and added the vegetables to the boiling water, adding some salt from one of the packets of supplies that filled their saddlebags.

"I'm curious," Robert said a moment later. "How was it for you? I mean, if you don't mind sharing the experience."

"I don't know what you mean."

"You weren't... called? How... I mean, how did you get to be here, on this mission?"

"I was given this mission by the Primus of the faith," Ticos replied.

"Ah," Robert said, leaning back to contemplate the response. "I suppose it makes sense," he finally said. "I suppose Merikkose would be one to go straight to the top."

"I still don't know what you're talking about," Ticos said.

"It doesn't matter, really. So, what is this 'Fel Darian' that you asked about, and what are we supposed to do there?"

"I am not sure," Ticos admitted.

"Well, so far it sounds like the gods have a pretty slipshod operation going here," Robert announced, leaning forward to test the progress of their stew. "So we're going some place we don't really know to fight some evil we don't really know and avert some disaster that we... well, I think you get the point."

"You shouldn't blaspheme," Ticos said, but he looked a little uncomfortable.

Robert glanced up and met his eyes, then shrugged and leaned back. "So, what is our plan, then?"

"Reconnaissance."

"Ah," Robert said, rubbing his chin with one hand. After a moment he added, "That, I suppose, I understand. And I am beginning to see the wisdom of pairing us together. No offense, Sir Knight, but those of your order are not known for their subtlety. After all, your quest would have come to quite an abrupt end in that alleyway, had I not been following you."

"I meant to ask about that. Why didn't you just tell me who you were when you first saw me?"

"Caution, my friend, caution. A very simple concept that's kept me alive for quite some time. I recommend you adopt it as your mantra, on this trip. Those such as you are not welcomed within the borders of Roron."

"You've traveled the region, I assume?"

"Not much in Roron proper, I admit. They aren't very welcoming to one such as me either, and there's not much there worth stealing, at least not these days. Most of their barons who have been able to scrape together a few extra coins pour everything back into their armies, or hire mercenaries to bolster their strength."

"It's a chaotic place," Ticos said. "They don't place the same value on human life that civilized people do."

"I wouldn't underestimate them, or overestimate the virtues of your own people," Robert replied. "I've been to a lot of places and seen many kinds of people, and the one thing that's a constant between them is human nature. It doesn't change that much from place to place, really."

Ticos replied with a noncommittal grunt, covering his uncomfortable reaction to the thread of the conversation by collecting two bowls and spoons from their saddlebags and dishing out two servings of their simple stew. The vegetables were still rather hard and the taste not particularly appealing, but it was hot and filling. For a moment, the two ate in silence.

"A little too much salt," Robert finally declared, leaning back against a rock after putting his empty bowl atop the pile of their gear.

"So, where are you from, originally?" Ticos asked.

"I don't even know, really, myself," Robert admitted. "I've been moving around ever since I can remember. Most times I seem to wear out my welcome in a place pretty quickly, but there's always a new city or town to visit, so it works out all right."

"I suppose being a thief brings that disadvantage," Ticos said.

"Don't be swift to judge, knight," Robert said curtly. "Not everyone can have the good fortune to be born into the Rigalian nobility. Yours is a caste that inherits the bounty of the world and then spends its time looking down its collective nose at everyone beneath who doesn't live up to their inflated vision of moral perfection. Well, I'll tell you something. I've known a lot of nobles in my time, and not just as a thief mucking around in their secret storerooms. Nine times out of ten, they carry around more vice and more deception than the majority of the common folk they lord it over so. They just hide it better. So I'd show some appreciation of your luck, Sir Knight of Rigal."

"Oh, I do," Ticos said quietly, an ironic smile shading his features.

"What?" Robert said.

"Nothing," Ticos said, placing his own bowl near Robert's and covering the remainder of the stew for the morrow's breakfast. "I'll take first watch."

* * * * *

Chapter 23

A brilliant winter sun shone down upon a vast sloping field of pure white. The light poured down through the cloudless sky and reflected upon the snow, creating a dazzling brilliance that transformed the snowy meadow into a glorious sight of natural beauty.

Razmartin was not interested in natural beauty. He was cold. His body felt impregnated with cold since they'd left the shelter of their cave and started higher into the mountains two days ago. The weather had held since that last storm, and today morning had broken to reveal a sky completely free of clouds, but he'd quickly learned the disadvantage attendant upon a sunny day in a region blanketed with snow. His headache had faded some since he'd learned to avoid looking directly at the snow, but that made the day even more monotonous, with his thoughts focused on putting one foot in front of another.

He sensed more than saw that they were coming to a halt. Looking up he saw that their guides had returned, and that the baron was talking with them at the head of their company. The other men stood around, and if they were affected by the bright sun, the cold, or the grueling pace ever upward, they showed no sign of it to Razmartin's eyes. Well, he was blind, cold, and exhausted, and increasingly fed up. He'd been patient with the baron's gentle evasions, but it was now patently obvious that the baron had more to his agenda than tracking mountain barbarians. The land they'd traveled through for the last few days had been so inhospitable that he could not conceive of it supporting human life. Even the tough barbarians who served as their guides could not eke out a life from this place, which to Razmartin seemed like the very summit of the world.

He looked around, careful to shade his eyes, and admitted that the view was impressive. Mountain peaks surrounded them on all sides, their massive grandeur accentuated by the white that cloaked all of them. To the east, he could see the lands of the New Kingdoms between the gaps in the range that they had already traversed. The lands were vast, stretching out to the distant horizon, so far away that he could not make out any details save for the vague colors of forests, fields, and the faint lines of mighty rivers.

_This must be what the gods feel when they look upon the earth_ , he thought, but then, as the spell of the moment passed, he focused his determination and turned away from the vista, walking directly toward the front of the column. Isar, Lotar, and Durghan, who were ahead of him in their marching order, saw the look on his weather-beaten face and gave way, leaving him a moderately clear path made by their boots through the knee-deep snow.

The baron and his twin guides looked up as he approached. "Ah, magus, a glorious view, is it not? We are fortunate that the weather has decided not to through any more tricks our way."

"We need to talk, baron," he said.

The baron looked at him for a moment, then nodded. He gestured and said something in the dialect of the barbarians to their guides, who turned and started marching ahead through the snow, blazing a new path for them to follow. The baron strode ahead a short distance to where a large, flat boulder protruded from the snow, climbing upon in as if to improve his view of the surrounding area. It also gave them a chance to put some distance between them and the baron's men, Razmartin noticed.

"So, what is it, mage?" the baron asked.

"I think it is time that you told me what we are really doing here," Razmartin said simply.

"Fair enough. I apologize for the dissembling, but I myself am being carried along by events, and admit, I may only be chasing shadows, at that."

"I don't understand. You said we came here to hunt bandits. Was that all a fiction, for my benefit?"

"No," the baron said. "No, that was our true purpose...at least at first. Originally, I'd intended for us to head south from the cave where we camped, to come down into the valleys where most of the bandit tribes reside from the rear. They would not have expected us to come at them via such a circuitous route, especially with winter coming on, and I expected we could catch them by surprise and give them a message that would last them through the winter."

"That was my plan. But when I first spoke with our guides, one of them revealed that he knew of a structure up here in the depths of the range, just a few days from where we were camped. When the weather broke, I decided to take a chance, and investigate his story."

"A structure... you mean, a man-made building? Up here? What possible purpose could drive men to construct something in this place, so far from any civilization?"

"It is called Fel Darian," the baron replied. "And to answer your question, it was not made by man, or at least, if it was, its builders are so far back in history that we know nothing of them. It is a site of legend and fable, although today few even in Roron know the tales."

"Fel Darian is a place sacred to the god Hailidel, the patron of Roron through the ages, and of our way of life. Some who still tell the tales suggest that the god himself formed the shrine from the rocks of the mountains, in a past age when the gods were more directly involved in the affairs of the world. Others argue that the place was built by the grul-grach, or by the Ilfann, or, as I have often suggested, even by the men of Roron in a far distant age. In any case, it is here, in the mountains, far from the eyes of men, because it is a place of secrets, of sacred power not meant to be casually touched by human hands."

"So you believe that this shrine is real, then." Razmartin said. "Why the secrets? Why not just admit that this was your goal?"

"It is not my habit to share my plans with those under me, but to give orders and have them obeyed," the baron said. Sensing Razmartin's reaction, he laughed. "Fear not, sir mage. I do not consider you just another one of my underlings. In any case, we will know within a day or two if the tales are true. Consider the significance if they are, mage! We might stride through halls that have not been witnessed by humans in our generation! Come on, where's your sense of adventure?"

"It froze a few days back," Razmartin replied. "Very well, baron," he said, "Let us find this sacred place of yours, say hello to your god, and then get back into lands where it is possible to thaw out some."

"Ah, you have not spent a winter in the Kol Hills," the baron replied. He stepped past Razmartin and leapt down to their track through the snow. The mage followed. He sensed that what the baron had told him was true, at least most of it, but he knew better than to trust the man's agenda. Still, he'd come willingly, even if he hadn't understood the implication of his choice at the time, and he would follow the baron's chosen course to its end.

But trust? Razmartin had lived and seen enough to be smarter than that.

* * *

"More of them, ahead," Robert said.

"I see them," Ticos replied, his voice tight.

As the two rode side-by-side down the winding road that cut through the increasingly rugged hills, a cluster of figures appeared from the opposite direction. The figures were obviously another group of refugees, the second they'd encountered since breaking camp and returning to the road that morning. These seemed even worse off than the first group; at least they'd had a wagon and a donkey-towed cart upon which they'd packed everything they owned. These had no vehicles or beasts of burden, and as they drew nearer to the two travelers it became clear that they had little more than the ragged clothes on their backs. There were about a dozen of them in all, men and women both carrying crude weapons, and a few children who took cover behind the adults as they spotted the two riders.

"I don't know what they expect to find in the north," Robert said. "It's not like the people of Queshtar will welcome refugees with open arms."

"Desperate people make desperate choices," Ticos replied. His words were even more clipped, and there was a hard line in his jaw.

"Remember, caution," Robert hissed at him as they drew near to the refugees. "This is not our fight!"

Ticos did not reply.

They reined in as they reached the head of the small column. Several men came forward to meet them, hands not quite touching the weapons at their belts but clearly nervous. None of them had so much as a bow, Ticos noted.

"Hard roads lie ahead, travelers," one of the men said. He was dressed a little better than the others, with a cloak lined with ragged patches of fur and a once-fine cotton tunic. He was a little plump, but showed the signs of recent deprivation, and his eyes were sunken hollows that showed that this man had not slept comfortably in some time. The small sword at his belt looked out of place, and he made no threatening moves toward the weapon as he addressed the two companions.

"Indeed," Robert said. "We've heard news of the troubles."

"Troubles," the man said, as if tasting the sound of the word in his mouth. One of the other men spat in disgust. The plump man—he seemed to be the leader—shook his head and said, "That bastard Hrathgar—may dogs feast on his rotting corpse!—is seizing everything in sight! My companions here, they lost their homes, everything. Their only crime was loyalty to our most good lord and master Baron Dorthin, whom the usurper brutally murdered."

Ticos and Robert shared a glance, thinking the same thing. This fellow seemed to be of a higher class than the average refugee. While everyone they'd met on the road had shared the same hostility toward Hrathgar, this man seemed to have a personal grievance with him.

"Can you spare any food?" one of the men asked. "We've had little to eat, and there are children."

Ticos opened his mouth to reply, but Robert cut him off. "We have little in the way of supplies, certainly not enough for all of you. But perhaps we can work a trade—money, for information."

The plump man's eyes narrowed. "What kind of information?"

"Well, you've come from the direction we're going, and it never hurts to know what to expect," Robert said, again talking over Ticos, who'd been about to say something. The knight looked angrily at his companion for a moment, then shut his mouth and looked sullenly at the refugees. A few of them retreated noticeably under that stare, not understanding that the source of his ire was the misfortune of their condition.

"And what sort of business might you be having in the Baron's lands?" the plump man asked, suddenly cautious.

"That business be our own business," Robert said, and the sudden edge in his voice gave even the canny leader pause. But then, reassuringly, he said, "Suffice it to say that we bear no particular love toward this baron nor any other. Come then, it's a simple trade. We'll give you a few silver stars in exchange for a little conversation. You can buy yourselves some food and new clothes when you get to Queshtar."

"You are generous, my lord," the plump man said, but his eyes still shone with wariness. That made Robert want to talk to him all the more, but it occurred to him that Ticos's presence might complicate the discussion.

"Why don't you help settle these people, Ticos?" he said to his companion. The knight nodded and gestured for the refugees to move into an open space by the side of the road. Robert knew that it was likely their saddlebags would be nearly empty when they set out again, but he was more interested in what this quixotic refugee had to say. He wasn't sure that Ticos had noticed, but he'd recognized the subtle hints in the man's speech and mannerisms that indicated that he'd indeed fallen far to his current state. He was either a nobleman himself or he'd served one, and therefore he might have insights that the commoners who accompanied him would lack.

He dismounted and directed the plump man to a sheltered spot among a clump of boulders on the side of the road opposite where Ticos was talking with the main group of refugees.

"So, what's your name?" Robert asked conversationally.

"Reed," the man replied reflexively, though he looked as though he wanted to change his answer a moment later. Robert had always had that talent, to get people to admit what they wanted to keep hidden. He filed the name away, thinking it might be useful later.

"I'm Robert," he said. For him it was second-nature to assume an alias, but he hadn't bothered to create an alter-ego on this journey. It didn't really matter—his real name was known to few people, and Robert was a pretty common name—and somehow, it just seemed more appropriate this time.

"So, Reed," Robert began, tying his horse's reins around a convenient jut of rock and seating himself easily on a flat boulder, "Tell me more about recent events in Roron."

For a moment Reed seemed overcome by the enormity of the question. He fidgeted atop his rock-chair, and was so patently uncomfortable that Robert almost took pity upon him. Almost.

"What more is there to tell?" he finally said. "Hrathgar is a beast, an aggressive monster who will not stop until he's consolidated all of the hill baronies under his rule. He will get what's coming to him, though, come spring. The other barons will come together to crush him."

"If you dislike him so much, why go north, then? Surely someone with your knowledge might be useful to, say, one of those 'other barons'."

"I want nothing more to do with him, with any of them," Reed said. "Dorthin was a fool—" He stopped, catching himself and slumping into annoyed silence.

"So, you worked for baron—the late baron, that is—Dorthin?" Robert said.

"Aye. Most of us here," he indicated the cluster of people across the road, "were. The new baron quickly assimilated the barony and Stormhold into his domains, but there was, shall we say, a certain weeding out process to be done first. In addition, there were many who could see what would be coming with the spring thaws, and wanted no part of the violence that seems inevitable."

"So what is this baron doing now?"

"Consolidating his domains, I expect. Raising armies, stockpiling supplies for sieges, probably. I'd heard that he's even retained a war mage."

"Interesting," Robert said, filing away each little detail in his mind.

"But it won't matter," Reed insisted. "There just aren't enough people in the hill country, especially with so many fleeing. Just one of the plains barons could field a larger force, even if Hrathgar conscripts every able-bodied man in his three baronies."

"Sounds like he's in a tough spot," Robert said.

Reed's eyes narrowed, as if a thought had suddenly occurred to him. "I suppose he'll try to hire mercenaries... like you and your friend, perhaps."

Robert laughed. "I'm not the type. My friend, maybe, but I'm not interested in signing on to a war of few against many, especially when I'm one of the few and not the many."

"What, then? You'd have to be crazy to want to go into the hill country right now, in my opinion. In addition to the troubles caused by the baron, the mountain bandits have been active this season, and the kobalos are making noises as well. In fact, we passed a small group of missionaries coming south from Rigal, just yesterday. Fools, they were—thought they could convert the kobalos, or some such—but at least they gave us some food."

Robert sensed that just by his patient listening that Reed's taut lines of cautious control were cracking. No doubt it had been some time since he'd had a sympathetic listener who could understand him. He was starting to babble a little, though, so Robert tried to redirect the conversation.

"So what happened to Baron Dorthin?" he prodded. "How did Hrathgar—"

"As I said, Dorthin was a fool," Reed interjected. "Hrathgar staged some sort of bandit raid on the outlying settlements. He's in league with them somehow, I think, and I'm not alone in that sentiment, I can tell you, even though he portrays himself to the other barons and to the common folk as some sort of champion against their depredations. Dorthin was sucked in, and Hrathgar ambushed him, and killed him. At least that's what I've been able to put together; there weren't any survivors that I've heard of, and almost the first we heard of was when Hrathgar arrived to claim Stormhold. Not that I was there to greet him. Be prepared, that's my motto. No, there's been little evidence one way or another, but people talk. Just like it was with Cathor, too. No way those dogs just decided to attack him like that. No, Hrathgar's got plans upon plans, and that bitch sorceress he's got working for him's involved too, I'd bet."

"I see," Robert said, although he really didn't have much idea of what Reed was talking about. He wanted to keep him talking, though, to learn what he could, and put the specific pieces together later.

"Hrathgar can burn in the fiery pits for all I care," Reed said, growing more agitated as he let his built-up frustration slip. "Damn his cursed hide! Damn that idiot Dorthin! Both can go to Fel Darian for all I care."

Robert managed a casual nonchalance, although his attention was suddenly very much focused on the man's ramblings. "Fel Darian? What's that?"

"Oh, it's just an expression," Reed said glumly. His anger sapped by his outburst, he seemed to be falling back into melancholy. "It's a legendary shrine to the god Hailidel, supposed to be somewhere in the most snow-bound, forbidden depths of the Ralos, I think. It's the same as saying the opposite site of the world, and I wish Hrathgar were at either place, now... though I suppose it'd still be too late for such things."

Robert had a thoughtful look on his face, and he rubbed his chin with one hand. "You know," he said, "I think that my companion and I could use a guide on our journey. Someone who knows about the ins and outs of the place we're heading... both the obvious ones, and the little back ways that most people overlook."

Reed looked up with a confused look on his face, then realization hit him. "Oh, no," he began.

"We would pay, of course," Robert began.

"I don't care!" he shouted, loud enough so that everyone on the other side of the road turned to look. "I'm not going back there," he said in a lower voice. "I don't care how much silver you offer."

"Oh, that's right, you don't need money," Robert said conversationally. His hand darted out so quickly that Reed did not have time to react. He just looked down and saw the dagger pressed hard up against his chest. Robert had positioned himself so that the blade was concealed by his body, and anyone looking from across the road would just see an outstretched arm.

"What... don't..." Reed's words were little more than squeaks at the sight of the bared steel.

The dagger twitched, poking through his shirt, but it did not prick his flesh. Instead, the blade clanked on something under the garment. Robert made a deft cutting motion, and the glint of metal—golden metal—shone briefly through the hole he'd made in the man's tunic.

"It looks like you have a pretty full neck purse in there," he said, his tone still light. "Perhaps we should just leave you with your companions, after all. Let you explain how it is that you're carrying all this wealth, while they are destitute and starving."

"I was going to help them," Reed said, but his words sounded lame even to his own ears.

"Now, don't worry," Robert said. His arm came back, the dagger disappearing somewhere so quickly that it was almost as if it had never been there at all. "We're not asking you to be a warrior, or anything like that. We just need someone who knows the lay of the land, that's all, someone who knows the hill country and its people. Once we get near where we're going, I give you my word that you may go, to wherever you wish."

Reed's stare was hard but his eyes showed an underlying sense of despair. Whatever had happened to him, its effects went pretty deep, and it had broken a large part of who he had been. "You're not giving me a choice, really," he muttered.

"There are always choices," Robert said, and now it was his tone that held steel. Reed nodded. He saw the choice that lay before him now. Robert was glad that he didn't yet know Ticos, or he would have been able to press Robert's bluff. As it was, Robert knew that he'd have to do a little fine acting, at least at first, to keep the three of them together long enough for him to extract the information that they needed. Once he mentioned Fel Darian to Ticos, though, and explained where he'd learned of it, he suspected that he would have little trouble convincing the knight to play along. The only problem was that he was just so transparent! And Reed was no fool.

"All right," Reed finally said.

"Wait here," Robert said, rising.

"But I don't have a horse," the plump man said.

"We'll get one for you," Robert said, confident in his new-won victory. Keeping one eye on his new companion, he crossed the road to where Ticos had gathered the other refugees into a small camp. True to expectations, Robert thought, as he saw that several of the refugees were eating food that had to have come from their saddlebags. They all looked up as Robert approached.

"We've hired your leader as our guide," Robert announced, loud enough for Reed to hear. Ticos looked surprised, but Robert shot him a look that promised explanation later. To his credit, the knight took the hint and said nothing, although he still looked a little perturbed at the number of decisions being made without his input. The refugees looked confused, but resigned to whatever new twists fate would send them.

"Queshtar is just a few days ahead to the north," he told them. "Ticos here can give you a few coins that you can use to buy food, clothes, or whatever when you get there."

One of the refugees—a middle-aged woman—leaned forward and touched Ticos's hands. "Thank you, sir knight, thank you!" The others murmured similar replies, if less effulgent.

Robert felt like throwing up his hands. If even a group of starving refugees could see through his disguise—or if he could not help telling them—what chance did they have? Clearly, they'd have to have some more long talks on the journey... although now the presence of their new guide would complicate that as well.

Ticos looked a little embarrassed as the refugees gathered up their possessions and started again down the long road. Robert, still watching Reed—who had not stirred since he had left him—used the distraction to whisper a few quick words to his companion.

"I'm sorry about—" Ticos began to say.

"Not now," Robert hissed in a harsh whisper. "We've got to get our stories straight for Reed, our new companion. He was an advisor to Baron Dorthin, replaced of late by Arghus Hrathgar. He's a virtual treasure trove of information, but more importantly, he knows about Fel Darian." Robert saw Ticos's reaction, and continued, "He's not helping us willingly. I can manage him, but you have to let me take the lead on this."

Ticos looked as though he wanted to say something, but after a pause he nodded. Robert let out a sigh of relief.

The only question was, could he continue to manage both of them?

* * * * *

Chapter 24

A cold and bitter wind drove without mercy through the foothills of the Ralos Mountains. A new front of dark clouds promised another nasty winter storm. The wind swirled through the dells between the hills and along the twisting lengths of the paths that wound through them, trails known to few and used by fewer. The area was wild and desolate, but somehow there was always that feeling about, that someone was watching and waiting from the shadows or within the dense clusters of thorny brush that seemed to sprout from everywhere alongside the trails.

Ticos felt it, had felt it every since they'd left the main road from Queshtar two days ago. It was as if the hill country resented the intrusion, that it sensed their presence and now actively sought their destruction. It was a foolish thought, but one he could not fully banish. Then again, he knew enough to know that these hills _were_ dangerous, so he kept his senses honed to a sharp edge, and tried not to glance over his shoulder at every hint of motion suggested by the blowing of the wind.

The behavior of his companions was not helping his mood. Reed had been surly and uncooperative, alternating between constant complaining and long stretches of sullen silence. At least he was in the latter mode, now, Ticos thought to himself, glancing back to where the Roronian rode with a dark look etched on his face. Robert was bringing up the rear, keeping an eye on their reluctant guide.

Robert was still a puzzle. Ticos was experienced enough to recognize when his companion was right, as when he'd arbitrarily made the decision to recruit Reed into their company. With Reed's constant presence—neither was about to let the man out of their sight—they'd had little time to discuss the matter, so Ticos had to play along and trust him. And somehow he did trust him, or rather that he trusted his allegiance to their mission. He'd already proven his worth in that regard, and Ticos could admit that he lacked many of the skills Robert had demonstrated thus far on their journey. But his methods grated on him. Every time he looked back, and saw Reed's new horse—an old mare, but serviceable—was another reminder of those methods. Not to mention the extra saddlebags, with their rations of oats and flour, or the new bow Robert carried across his saddle. The new items came from a rugged hamlet they'd passed a few hours after leaving the road. They'd steered clear of the place on Reed's suggestion; such places were not especially welcoming to strangers, not these days, he'd explained. They kept their distance, but a short while later, Robert had ridden ahead, "to scout," as he put it. Ticos and Reed had continued on, but as night approached with no sign of their companion, Ticos had started to grow concerned. It wasn't until they'd struck camp and night had fallen fully that Robert had returned, with the new horse in tow. They didn't have to ask any questions, especially when Robert suggested they press on for a few hours more before setting their camp. Traveling at night had been difficult and slow, but at least they didn't encounter anyone or anything threatening that night, or the next.

"Rain, cold... crazy bastards...."

Reed was starting up again. To forestall him, Ticos reined in his horse, and as the Roronian drew nearer, said. "You're the one who suggested this route." His tone was a little more accusative than he'd intended, and he saw the other man cringe.

"I'm not the one who wanted to come here," Reed managed, although he didn't quite bring himself to look at the armored knight directly.

"Well, at least we've avoided the traffic," Robert said, deliberately keeping his voice light as he joined them. "And I think this is the best way... more scenic, definitely."

"There's going to be a storm, very soon," Reed offered. He seemed more comfortable talking to Robert, for all that he had been the one to compel Reed's joining their group. What his companion had told the man about him, Ticos could only speculate. It had to have been something nasty, Ticos thought, from the way that the Roronian behaved around him. Or maybe his behavior and considerable armament reminded Reed of Hrathgar. Either way, it was fine with him; he'd just as soon leave all dealings with their "guide" to Robert.

"Any more villages ahead?" Robert asked.

"No," Reed said. "There used to be some iron mines, this road used to run up there, almost into the mountains themselves. After the war, they were abandoned, and since then this region's been pretty wild." There was no need to ask which war he was referring to; to all Roronians there was only one war that mattered. The Dark War had led to the dismemberment of Roron as a state, and consequently its perpetual weakness and poverty since then. It was foolish to dwell so heavily on the past, Ticos thought, but he reminded himself that his country had, after all, been on the winning side. And the anniversary of the Battle of the Thalmoth Plain was still a public holiday in Sindaron.

"Do you smell smoke?" Robert asked.

Ticos shook himself out of his reverie and straightened in his saddle, alert to any indication of danger. Yes, he smelled it, and a moment later, he saw the faint black line rising up out of the hills ahead.

"Could be a settlement," Robert suggested.

"No one lives up here," Reed said, his tone intent as if his will alone could make the statement true. "No one, except bandits, and kobalos."

"Well, there are few alternatives, unless we want to go cross-country," Ticos said, nudging his mount into motion. "And if they were bandits, they wouldn't be advertising their position with a fire." He rode ahead, with Robert prodding the reluctant Reed behind him.

The road passed through a cluster of hills that seemed to huddle around them as they rode on. At least they provided a modicum of shelter from the wind, although gusts would occasionally swirl around them, persistently tugging at their clothes as though they could snatch them away. The wispy trail of smoke ahead vanished, but as they emerged from the hills into a flat stretch of open ground they all saw what had alerted them.

The remains of two wagons rested at odd angles across the road. The lead one had been driven roughly into a cluster of large rocks, both of its left wheels broken beyond the possibility of any future use. The second wagon, a stone's throw behind, was the source of the smoke they had detected earlier. It was a blackened ruin, still smoldering as the wind swirled the remaining wisps of smoke out into the air.

The scene was deserted, with nothing but the whispering of the wind to keep them company as they reined in. Robert's eyes shifted from sign to sign with cool efficiency, taking in every clue and detail. Reed's gaze was more random and desperate, shooting up into the hills and rocks around them as though every boulder held a potential enemy. And Ticos, his eyes were fixed on a single point, his jaw tight with muscles that clenched involuntarily with enough force to grind bone.

Robert finally looked over at him. At first he thought the knight's reaction was just anger at wanton destruction, but then he divined that there was something more there. He recalled Reed's words from earlier, when they'd first met by the main road, something about a band of pilgrims that they'd passed, destined on a fool's errand to bring the message of "civilization" to the kobalos.

Apparently that message had not been well received.

"Looks like earlier today," Robert said, finally breaking the long silence.

Ticos nudged his horse forward without responding. Reed, who'd also sensed the warning in the warrior's mood, quietly said to Robert, "This was the work of kobalos, not some human bandits."

"I know," he said, his tone low. He nudged his own horse forward, following Ticos into the circle of destruction.

The damage wrought had been complete, he saw as he drew nearer. Everything of value had been stripped from the wagons, and scraps of cloth and other ruined items were strewn carelessly about the area. The remnants of a cloak fluttered from the branch of a scraggly bush, whipping in the wind. Robert saw the streaks of red that marred the white lengths of the cloak, and he suspected that Ticos had seen them as well.

Ticos had dismounted at the far edge of the clearing, where a particularly dense cluster of brush filled the space between where the road ended and the steep slope of another rise began. He took a step toward the brush, and then Robert saw him freeze. After taking a quick check to make sure that Reed wasn't doing anything—he wasn't, just sitting atop his horse with a frozen look of fear across his features—Robert directed his horse toward his companion.

He saw the signs even before he reached him. The scattered marks in the dirt of the road were visible even from atop his horse, and the matted down spaces that led into the brush were clearly obvious. He knew what he would find when he drew closer, but he forced himself to ride up to the edge of the bushes and witness what his companion had seen.

The bodies were piled in a haphazard cluster a short distance into the bushes. Most were at least partially naked, their clothes torn away or slashed into ribbons. Young women, their bodies cold and twisted, showing clearly the signs of what had been done to them. Young men, cut and mangled in a way that showed that their attackers had taken some time with them, had tormented them before finally killing them. And beyond them, an older man, his body more frail than the others, his tunic torn to reveal a gaping slash in his belly from which drained his entrails in a horrid mess. His face was frozen in an expression of unfathomable horror. From the remains of the clothes that the dead people wore, there was no doubt now that these young people—and their dead mentor—were indeed the pilgrims Reed had talked about.

Robert found it difficult to tear his eyes from the carnage, but he forced himself to do so and shifted his attention to Ticos. These people were his people, misguided as their errand may have been, worshippers of the same god, believers in the same message. His companion's face was as cold as if it had been etched in stone, but Robert already knew him well enough to see the storm that burned in his eyes.

"Ticos," he began.

"They're not all here," his companion interjected, his voice sharper than steel. "Look around, see if you can find other bodies."

"There's nothing we can do here," Robert said, gently.

"Just look, damn it!" Ticos said, and Robert started at the sudden vehemence in his tone.

"All right," Robert said, turning his horse back to where Reed waited. He didn't know how Ticos could know that there were more pilgrims, but there was no brooking his purpose now, he sensed. He felt the beginning of an uneasy feeling that had nothing to do with what he'd just seen.

"What... what is it?" Reed asked timorously, reluctance clearly tempering his curiosity.

"The pilgrims, or rather, what's left of them," Robert replied, more harshly than he'd intended. Reed blanched, but Robert pressed on, saying, "Come on, help me search the area, see if there are any more." In truth, he neither needed nor wanted the man's help, but he was not about to let him out of his sight right now.

Resignation won out over reluctance, and the Roronian nodded and fell in behind him.

They found no more bodies, but they did discover the trail left by the kobalos. It wasn't hard to discern, really; clearly the raiders were as unconcerned about concealing their trail as they had been about leaving the results of their handiwork. With Reed in tow, he scouted a short distance along the track, confirming what he already suspected from Ticos's earlier statements. The signs were there: spots of blood in scattered intervals along the path, occasional tracks decidedly different from the heavy boots of the raiders. There had been survivors from the assault of the kobalos, and they had been taken prisoner.

When he and Reed returned to the wagons, he saw that Ticos had dragged the bodies out of the brush and carefully lined them up beside the road, covering their battered forms as best he could with the remains of what they had been wearing. He was now gathering rocks from the area alongside the road, apparently to build a cairn for the victims of the attack.

"We don't have time for this," Reed said behind him. Robert noticed that his words were only just loud enough to reach his ears, not to carry to Ticos. He supposed he understood; even to him, the hard expression on the knight's face looked frightening in its intensity. He inwardly agreed with Reed's sentiment, especially when a fat raindrop fell, striking him on the temple. Apparently the storm was not going to wait until nightfall, and when it struck, the difficult task of tracking the kobalos would become near-impossible.

"The faster we get to it, the faster we get it done," was all he said to Reed, dismounting and tying the reins of his horse to the thick branch of a stunted tree beside the trail. He waited until Reed had duplicated his actions before he moved to join Ticos.

By the time they had finished the rocky cairn, burying the corpses of the pilgrims in a single grave covered with heavy stones, the raindrop Robert had felt had evolved into a steady drizzle that left them sodden. The day had darkened into a dull gray that would deepen further shortly with the coming of night. None of them had spoken during the arduous task, even Reed's complaints silenced as his face reddened with the effort of lifting the heavy rocks into place. When the job was complete, the three men rose and regarded the burial site. Ticos said nothing, offered no benediction or prayer for those dead. Instead, he retrieved his sword, placed up against a boulder to the side while they worked, slung it in place across his back, and then strode deliberately toward his horse.

"It will be night soon," Robert said, as if that wasn't completely obvious. To Ticos, in his current state of mind, perhaps it wasn't, he thought.

"We should get far away from here before we camp," Reed offered, another obvious statement that didn't quite reach to the level of criticism of the time they had spent burying the dead.

Ticos vaulted into his saddle, checking his armor and sword to make sure that everything was properly positioned, and that the long steel blade slid unhindered from its leather scabbard. Then he turned the horse to face the others, who were still in the process of mounting up.

"I want you two to press on to the west," he told them. "I'll catch up to you outside Stormhold."

Reed burst out, "What? Press on without you—without a warrior—through these hills? Madness! And where will you be going, after those kobalos? Why? What purpose could you possibly hope to accomplish with such a course? It won't bring those dead fools back to life!"

Ticos regarded him with a steely glare, and said, "Do not presume to question me or my motives, Roronian."

Robert would have preferred to talk to Ticos privately, but it was clear that it would not happen. Ticos was set on his course, and while Reed might not understand them, Robert, knowing more about the man and his background, could.

"You can't hope to track them, not at night, or in this rain," Robert said.

"That is my concern," Ticos said.

"You can't dismiss me as easily," Robert said, in a quiet but earnest tone. "Remember our mandate."

He could not say more without revealing too much to their third companion, but Robert could see that the words struck home. For a moment, he thought that the reminder of their mission might sway the knight, but then he shrugged and an expression of resignation settled onto his face.

"I cannot be other than what I am," Ticos said. "Go. I will follow... or if you prefer, wait here for my return."

Reed looked about to explode, although he sensed the importance of the exchange between Robert and Ticos and held his tongue. For a moment he looked back at the trail along which they had come, as if weighing his chances at flight, but a quick warning look from Robert quelled that impulse.

"We'll have a better chance if we all go," Robert said with a sigh of resignation. "We'd better hurry, before night and the rain obliterate the trail completely."

Ticos nodded, and turned his horse toward the trail that Robert had scouted earlier.

Robert looked at Reed, who finally motioned his horse to follow the knight. Robert fell in behind him, sparing one last look back at the destroyed wagons and the grim cairn where the bodies of the pilgrims had been laid to rest. His last thought was of the prisoners that the raiders might have taken, and he grimly considered whether the dead were in fact the lucky ones.

They rode on into the gloom and drizzle, and as they left the road to follow the winding track that wound deeper into the hills, Robert could hear Reed muttering to himself, his words a dark accompaniment to their new and very dangerous course.

"Fools... all fools..."

* * *

Moira Adelsfeld woke, and with waking came pain.

She stirred gingerly, trying to discern the cause of the pain, then gave up as the dull throbbing seemed to come from everyone all at once, forming a string of hurts that culminated in a heavy throbbing in the back of her head.

She tried to move, but her motion was cut short by a length of chain that was fixed to heavy iron manacles encircling both of her wrists. The fact of that restraint brought back memory of where she was and what had happened to her, and she could not help a reflexive tug at her bonds that was as futile as it was desperate. The chains, while crudely fashioned, were sound, and they were attached to an iron spike that appeared to be driven deeply into the wall of stone that rose up behind her.

She was in a shallow cave, an indentation in a cliff of sheer rock that formed the backdrop against which the encampment of her captors huddled. It was dark, the lingering brightness of the last hours of the day muted by the heavy clouds above and the persistent drizzle that filled the camp. Sudden gusts rose and died, causing the fur hangings that warded the open doorways of the half-dozen or so rude huts that filled the clearing to flap against their moorings. None of her captors were immediately visible, but she could sense them, close, menacing.

Moira was strong, a young woman of determination and inner fire, but she could not stifle a sob, nor the tremors that wracked her lean frame as she huddled back against the hard stone behind her. She was alone, and afraid, and she could not banish the images that crowded mercilessly into her mind, memories etched in fire and blood and pain.

The raiders had come upon them suddenly, rising up out of the bushes and rocks that surrounded the trail. She hadn't seen them at first, nor even realized that they were surrounded until she saw Prior Calloran walking forward to greet them, his white cloak flapping around him in the wind, his face bare against the cold light of the day. The kobalos war leader had been easily half-again the old priest's size, the pure power and violence of the warrior in stark contrast to the calm and peace that hung about the dedicated missionary. Faith is like a coat of armor, Calloran had told her on numerous occasions, and the old man had genuinely believed it, believed in his mission, even in the face of the disbelief and even scorn of others.

But his faith had not saved him, not saved any of them. She had seen it immediately, and wondered why none of the others could, why none recognized the danger that burned in the eyes of the kobalos warriors. She had felt the malevolence of those looks, as if it was a tangible aura that radiated from the dozen or so raiders that had formed an iron ring around them and their wagons. She had felt frozen, only able to watch as Calloran strode up to the kobalos, his hands open in greeting, a smile on his face as he offered a salutation in the hard, gravelly language of the hill people. She could only watch as the kobalos leader struck him hard in the gut, his dagger tearing open the vitals of the harmless old man who had been their spiritual guide and mentor, teaching them the ways of the world even as he had hurried them toward their goal. He hadn't even let them spend the night in Queshtar, she recalled, speeding them through the crowded and wondrous sights there—a bulwark of sin, he had called the city—and onto the long road south. He'd led them straight and unerringly to their destination.

To their destruction.

She had tried, tried to live up to her role and her training as a Defender, but there had been no chance, no choice for any of them. A few of the youngest had tried to run, but they were easily caught up by kobalos who seemed to appear out of nowhere back alongside the road. At least Cailen had done something, she thought, tears now streaming uncontrollably down her face as she remembered. In her mind's eye she saw again her fellow Defender striking out at a kobalos with his mace, hitting with a glancing blow that had momentarily stunned the big raider. She'd tried to shout a warning about the second kobalos that had loomed up behind him, but he'd barely begun to turn before the warrior had smashed his head into a bloody mess with his heavy broadaxe.

She'd tried to fight, but her pathetic attempt at an attack had been easily deflected and she'd been disarmed within moments. She could not shut out the screams that surrounded her as she laid face-down in the muddy dirt of the road, her head spinning from a backhanded slap one of the creatures had given her, her muscles not obeying her commands despite the terror around her. She'd at least been spared the worst of it, although her imagination supplied the details her senses had missed, the tortures inflicted upon her friends while she laid there insensate in the dirt. She was only barely aware of being picked up and bound, and then of being carried away, away from the smoke and the death they left behind. Her memories of that journey were foggy, but while her captors had treated her roughly, she had not suffered more serious injuries except for bruises and strained muscles.

She did not know why they had spared her. She remembered trying to see if any of the others had been taken prisoner along with her, but as far as she could tell she was the only one they had brought back. She could not say how much time had passed before she became aware that they had arrived somewhere, the rude village where she was now held captive. Again, the memories assailed her, of vicious faces leering at her, of smaller forms—children?—snarling at her, pinches and prodding and rough hands dragging her against hard stone, the ring of metal on metal as she was chained to the back of the cave and left here to drift off into merciful unconsciousness. Only that reprieve had only been temporary, and now she was awake to face whatever dire fate these beasts had planned for her.

She tried to call upon her faith, the prayers she had made with pure devotion in her heart since her childhood, but the words shattered in her mind and would not form again against the wall of despair that welled up inside of her. She felt as if everything that she had believed in was coming loose all at once inside her. Why would they do this to them? Send children out into the wilds, unprepared, unprotected? That warrior they'd met on the road had been right, she thought. How could they have all been so wrong?

Night was falling with a startling rapidity over the camp, and she belatedly realized that it was raining, a steady drizzle that had slicked all of the rocks around her with moisture. She was cold, that sensation finally filtering down through the pain and despair, and she tried to huddle even deeper against the rock, to husband what little body heat she was able to produce.

Again she sensed the intruder before she saw him, and swiveled around to see a looming shadow materialize from the murk. The stranger was coming straight toward her, and despite herself could not strangle a plaintive cry that sounded like the lowing of a wounded animal. Then he drew close enough for her to get a good look at him, and even that sound froze in her throat.

It was a kobalos, there could be no doubting that, although this one made even the savage fury of the others pale by comparison. His head was shaved bald, and the slightly protruding skull was covered with a measure of arcane designs that had apparently been tattooed into the flesh. His face was pierced in numerous places with small objects that she quickly realized were bones, some dyed garish colors that only added to their strangeness. He carried twin blades, long knives that curved almost into half-circles, jutting through a belt of worn leather. His chest was covered by a rough and fraying jerkin of animal fur, with leggings fashioned of the same material. As he loomed over her, she guessed that he could not have been under seven feet in height.

In all, the monstrous kobalos was an image of terror, and she shrank from him until her bonds caught and held her tight.

The thing regarded her for a long minute, and she swore that an unholy fire burned in his eyes as his eyes traveled down over her body. She felt humbled and powerless before him, even beyond the fact that he was free and armed and she was chained.

Finally she could stand the silence no longer. "Who are you, and what do you want from me?" she asked, her voice trembling.

"I am Malak, shaman of the Kolag-naur," the thing said in a voice that was thick and gravelly. He drew nearer, leaning over her, and despite her attempts to wriggle away, grasped her with one thickly muscled hand and held her while the other hand caressed the side of her head. As he touched the place where she had been struck, her vision swam before her, and when it had cleared, the shaman had pulled back and stood over her again.

"Ah, child of the Shining One," he purred, more to himself than to her, she thought. "Yes, the Father of Fury will be pleased with such as you, pure and innocent."

"Monster!" she cried at him, but she could not keep the word from turning into a sob.

"Yes," he said, drawing so close that she could feel his breath upon her bare flesh. His eyes held her, that unholy fire she'd seen earlier making her their prisoner. She shuddered, unable to escape his evil presence.

"I am a creature of your nightmares, little one," he said, holding her without touching her. "I am the shadow the hides along the edges of Reason. I am the Darkness that comes with the ending of the Light." His words were cryptic, sinister, but he spoke without gloating or anger, as if he was reciting simple facts to her, like a patient teacher instructing a recalcitrant student.

"We didn't do anything to you," she said. "We only wanted to help you..."

"Ah, yes, your missionary zeal, your quest to bring the golden light of Truth to the backward barbarian peoples who know only false gods and false hopes. What know you of Truth, little one? What know you of the poverty of my people, of the vast riches your people hoard and keep within their walled cities and fortresses that dot the plains? What know you of the wars fought between us, the campaigns that have driven my people into the desolate crevices where your light cannot reach? There we have hid and even prospered, avoiding the searing light of your 'Truth'."

"But soon, that Truth will be recast. The coming storm will sweep up yours and mine together. The father will be made to pay for his crimes against the son, and your golden brother will be made to bow down. For the Father of Fury will come into his inheritance, and woe betide those who stand before his anger!"

Malak drew up to his full height, letting himself soak in the full radiance of her fear, and for a moment she thought he meant to strike her down right there, to send her soul on its course to what she hoped would be her deliverance. For although his words bespoke his madness, they had also told her of his purpose, and the reason why she had been spared.

She was to be given to the Father of Fury, the patron god of the kobalos. The antithesis of her own patron, the Lord of Honor.

The dark god of war, Hailidel.

A sound shattered the gloom, the clarion burst of a horn that echoed briefly among the uneven rises of the surrounding hills. Malak turned and looked behind him out into the twilight murk. The evening had deepened since she had awoken, and now Moira could make out little more than the squat forms of the huts obscured by the continuing patter of the rain. Everything else was cold, dark stone; hard, oppressive.

She realized that the shaman had turned back to face her. "Prepare yourself, little one," he said, then he turned again and strode off into the dark. Within ten paces the night had swallowed him up in its embrace.

With the fading of the combination of terror and adrenaline that had been fueled by his presence, Moira felt a wave of exhaustion sweep through her battered frame. Wet and cold as she was, she almost slumped back into ragged slumber, but she suddenly realized that something was happening in the kobalos camp right before her.

Dark forms were moving in the spaces between the low huts. She felt a tremor of returning fear, then realized that they were moving away from her, toward the far edge of the clearing and the encampment. The ground rose steeply there, although not as sheer as the cliff behind her, cresting in a low ridge that formed a black line against the dark clouds and tall peaks further beyond.

More sounds reached her through the background noise of the night, the rushing of the wind through the small canyon and the patter of rain upon the stone. She started as she recognized the sounds, the clash of metal on metal and the shrieks of battle. Kobalos shrieks, she realized, their battle cries sending waves of black memory through her mind and threatening her tenuous grip on the moment. The telltale sounds of battle—never again would she associate such sounds with the innocent sweat and tired muscles of her training—held her, though, tugging her in as powerfully as the eyes of the kobalos shaman Malak. She could not see what was happening, but the sounds served as a sort of guide, beginning in one direction beyond the encampment, beyond the ridge, and then dying down for a few pregnant minutes, only to return again in a sudden burst of noise somewhere else. Altogether it was entirely impossible to divine what was happening.

And then, so suddenly that it caused her to gasp out loud in surprise, he appeared.

The newcomer was a tall warrior, clad in plate armor and bearing a heavy two-handed sword. He emerged at the crest of the ridge, the wind and the rain swirling around him. There was no way that she should have been able to see him so from so far away, in the night and the rain, but he was shrouded in a gleaming nimbus of light, a glow that seemed to spring from the very air around him. She could not be sure if its source was his armor, a glittering coat of steel that seemed to catch rays of light that did not exist, or his sword, a deadly broadsword that to her eyes seemed a slice of the sun's fire as it carved the air with his every step. He seemed a vision witnessed through a dream, insubstantial as he charged down the ridge into the outskirts of the kobalos encampment.

Except he was no phantom, the way that he tore through the ranks of the kobalos warriors who charged to meet this intruder into their lair.

Her heart caught in her throat as he met the attackers, who in contrast to the light that surrounded the armored champion seemed truly shadows of the dark. She felt fear for him as they formed a half-circle and rushed toward him, snarling furious curses as they swept their massive weapons in deadly arcs toward him.

He could not possibly escape their assault, outnumbered at least five to one.

He seemed to slide right by the first, and she did not realize that he'd struck until the kobalos staggered to the side and fell. The next two came on him as one, one lunging for his sword arm with its battle axe and the other swinging low to catch his legs with a deadly sweep of its flail. The sword sliced back and forth in a blinding display that stirred something in her, as she felt attuned to the smooth movements of the glowing warrior. The axe-wielding kobalos crumpled, the axe and the hand that had wielded it both falling to the muddy ground a few feet away, while the warrior stepped inside the sweeping strike of the second and slammed the hilt of his sword into the kobalos's face. Moira heard the impact even across the distance that separated them. The kobalos, his face a shattered wreck, tumbled unconscious to the ground.

One of the two remaining warriors drew back his arm, lifting a wickedly barbed spear, and hurled it at this deadly opponent. The missile, flying only a short distance with the full force of the kobalos's mighty strength behind it, struck the armored warrior in the chest, slamming into his breastplate with enough force to knock him backward and nearly topple him over. Moira held her breath; how could anyone survive such a strike? But then the stricken warrior straightened, and she could see that the spear had failed to penetrate the armor, which in fact seemed to radiate an even brighter glow.

That was enough for the two kobalos, who exchanged a quick look and then turned and ran from the mighty warrior.

The warrior came closer, into the radius of the huts that made up the camp. Moira lost sight of him, and she struggled with renewed but equally vain effort against the thick chain that held her fast. She saw more shadows among the huts, but none seemed a threat to the warrior, for she heard no more battle cries nor sounds of melee.

She opened her mouth to cry out, to call out to this champion of the light, but the sound died in her throat as Malak materialized out of the shadows right in front of her.

The shaman was no longer in a mood to toy with her, she saw. One of the long blades of curving steel was bare in his hand, and as he approached, he raised the weapon to strike.

"You _will_ die!" he said, and she saw the truth of it in his eyes.

Suddenly, he stiffened, the dirk falling from his fingers to clatter against the hard stone at his feet. Disbelief tinged with pain and rage flared in his eyes, until all such emotions passed into lifeless darkness and he collapsed against the wall of the cave a few feet from where she was chained. As he fell, she saw the deadly slash that had torn through his furs and into his back, where his life blood continued to ooze from his body.

She could not take her eyes from his corpse. His head was turned toward her, and while his eyes no longer burned with the fire that had filled them when he was alive, they still seemed to have that power to hold her in their lifeless gaze. She jumped when another shadow emerged from the dark right in front of her, and the cry that she'd tried to summon before rose unbidden to her throat.

"Quiet now," the shadow said, and partly to her own surprise, she obeyed.  
The figure knelt in front of her, and she was surprised to see that it was a man, a rugged-looking fellow about a decade older than her, wearing warm but nondescript clothes in a medley of dark colors. He was looking at her chains, and the manacles she wore on her wrists.

"Typical kobalos work," he said. "Use a broadsword when a dagger is sufficient." He made a test tug on the linkage that connected the chain to the iron bar driven into the cliff face. Moira knew it was secure, but she was still too overwhelmed to respond to the events whirling around her.

"Looks like we're going to have to fall back on the brute-force approach," he told her. He looked over his shoulder back at the darkened camp, as if looking for something.

"Wait here," he told her.

Those last words tore through her confusion, and she lunged at him, latching onto his arm with her manacled hands. "Please, don't leave me here!" she said, desperately.

She thought she saw something flash in his eyes, although it was difficult to tell in the near-darkness. For a moment, he had looked very dangerous. Still, he crouched back down beside her, sweeping his fur-lined cloak off of his shoulders in one fluid motion and setting the warm garment over her shivering form.

"Don't worry," he told her. "We'll get you out of here... I just need to find my companion. He's the muscle of our little operation, as you've no doubt already seen. Subtle, he's not, but he's good with the blade, got to give him that." In an undertone that she nevertheless heard, he added to himself, "If he doesn't get both of us killed in the process."

"Look out!" she hissed, seeing the shadow detach itself from the huts and come directly toward the back of her rescuer.

But he was already moving, his arm a blur as he spun around. Something darted through the night, and the shadow crumpled into a heap. The man regarded the night as if it might release some other danger, then, abruptly, he spoke into the darkness.

"Let one get away from you, did you?" he said.

"You dealt with him well enough," a voice replied from the dark. A hulking figure strode forward out of the edges of the encampment toward their position. As it drew nearer, she recognized him as the warrior he'd seen earlier, although she was surprised at the change in his appearance. He was still dressed in plate mail, with an open-faced helm and the full kit including greaves, iron gauntlets, and shin-guards strapped over heavy boots. The sword he bore was the same heavy double-bladed weapon, and even in the dark she could see the slickness that was not from the rain dripping down its length. And yet there was no glow around him, no aura that had transformed him into the avenging spirit she had first made him out to be. Had she imagined the entire scene? No, how then could she have seen him so clearly across the range of the entire canyon, to witness what he'd done to those kobalos warriors? She was even more confused now than before, but the apparent reality of her rescue—assuming this all wasn't some cruel dream—kept her attention focused on the present.

"We have to get out of here quickly," the warrior was saying. "Most of the fighters of this clan weren't here, but you can bet that they'll be back in a hurry once those that fled meet up with them. And they won't take well to someone raiding their camp."

"For once, I am in full agreement with you," the smaller man replied.

"Any others?" the warrior said, looking down at Moira. She suddenly felt very small and helpless in the face of this powerful figure, although it wasn't the same terrible feeling she'd felt with the kobalos. Something about him still seemed familiar, although she could not place exactly what it was about him that whispered half-heard hints at the edges of her memory.

"No, she's the only one in the camp," the other replied. "They've chained her directly to the back of the cave, no locks to pick."

"I have the key," the warrior responded, hefting his sword. The two of them came forward, and Moira tried to help by shifting away from the iron bar and revealing the length of her short chain.

"Now, don't worry," the smaller man said, pulling the chain taut against the hard stone and holding it as the warrior got into position between them.

Without preamble the warrior struck. The sound of his blade hitting and sundering the chain shattered the quiet of the canyon, echoing once off of the stone walls before dying. One blow was all it took, the forged steel of the sword easily cutting through the poor quality iron used by the kobalos. She fell back, but the smaller man quickly caught her and helped her to her feet. She could barely stand, and he had to hold her to keep her from falling as she tried to adjust to her newly-won freedom.

"Are you all right?" he asked her.

She sensed that the question was directed at more than one level, and she knew that she herself would have to grapple with the answer for quite some time. "I can travel," she said, trying even as she spoke to force her muscles to obey her commands.

"Let's go, then," the warrior said.

"Yes, Reed will be waking up soon, we'd better be there to greet him," the other man said. Moira didn't understand what he was talking about, but she wasn't about to waste time asking questions of her rescuers. Not until they'd left this place—and the dark memories she would carry from it—far behind.

She let them lead her away from her prison, but before they'd covered a few steps, she saw the warrior do a very strange thing. He had turned to regard the dead shaman, Malak, lying against the back wall of the cave a few feet from where she'd been chained. She couldn't quite make out what he did or the words that he said, as his body was half-turned away from her, but she swore that she heard the final words, words that were familiar...

_...in vindicare honos..._ with righteous vengeance. The words were the conclusion to the benediction of a victorious knight in battle, against an evil foe who had been justly defeated. Certainly Malak's actions had earned such a condemnation, but how would this warrior know those words, or choose to use them? She recalled watching his combat against the kobalos, and the smooth efficiency of his movements against enemies both stronger and more numerous. She now realized what had seemed familiar then about this powerful warrior. She had still not seen his face clearly, or she would have realized that she knew him, had even spoken to him on a lonely road far from here, but she was already putting pieces into her mind, working through a puzzle that allowed her to take her mind off of the carnage—both physical and emotional—that they left behind in the kobalos encampment.

The warrior led, taking them along a faint trail that ran out of the canyon and back into the night-shrouded hills. She could barely see, and she let the other man half-support her, half-lead her as she kept one foot moving in front of the other through sheer force of will. She was hungry, and cold, and exhausted, but she vowed to herself that she would not falter until they were far away and at least in some relative security. She did not fear her rescuers, despite the obvious fact that they were dangerous. She sensed that there was a lot of complexity at work here, even in the brief exchange she had witnessed between the two of them, men who even at first impressions seemed very different.

They did not speak, save for one exchange as they crested the ridge that led out of the canyon, and the encampment disappeared into the night behind them.

"I am Robert," her rescuer said to her. "That walking iron-works is Ticos. He's a little gruff, but all right once you get to know him."

"I'm Moira," she told him, but her attention was fixed more on the warrior, and the unanswered questions his presence—and what she had seen—raised in her mind.

The three of them, moving swiftly despite the deepening cloak of night and the continuing swirl of wind and rain, vanished into the hills.

* * * * *

Chapter 25

Benderal looked like a typical small, isolated frontier town. Not unlike Sindelar, Izandra thought to herself as she walked along a dusty street . At least that was her first impression. As she walked, she noticed the little details that set this place apart, and reminded her that she was very far from home and the familiar sights she remembered.

The town seemed to rise up out of the gently rolling hills as if by magic; nestled among grassy meadows and streams bubbling over smooth rocks, it seemed an utterly benign and pleasant place. The people were a hardy, simple folk, although she noted immediately that most, men and women alike, carried weapons ranging from slender swords to cudgels capped with bands of iron. The town was not surrounded by a wall, which was contrary to her expectations, but each individual cottage, generally constructed of a mix of sturdy wood and weathered brick, looked as though it had been built to withstand attack. Doors were open and windows thrown wide on this atypically bright winter morning, despite the chill breeze blowing down from the mountains, but she saw the heavy shutters in the casements of the windows, and the iron bands that reinforced the open doors.

The people of Benderal seemed neither welcoming nor wary of strangers. A few cast glances at her as she walked by, but quick looks seemed enough to satisfy their curiosity, and they went back to whatever errands or labors they had been engaged in. She saw a few small groups of men and women working to repair damage sustained in some of the recent storms, and even a few children, playing in the still-muddy streets. No one seemed interested in who she was or where she had come from.

After all she had gone through to get here, that was fine with her.

She enjoyed the bright, brisk day as much as the rest of Benderal's four hundred or so inhabitants. She particularly appreciated the solitude, free of Laertes's smarmy comments and Tamra's oppressive silence. She had not seen them since last night, when they'd taken separate rooms in the inn that Allonanther and Elodorion had directed them to. The two Ilfann had disappeared before they had entered the outskirts of the town, with barely a word to mark their farewell before they dissolved back into the forest landscape. The mark of the deep wood was everywhere here, for even though Benderal lay amidst an open stretch of cleared land, to the east, below the ultimate horizon formed of the Black Mountains, rose an unbroken wall that she didn't have to be told formed the boundary of the great forest of Maletai. The demesne of the Ilfann, and other creatures born of myth and fable.

It was still early, but she was impatient to uncover the mystery of Ethander's directive. Her mentor had always been of the cryptic sort, but she was rapidly tiring of the constant stream of unanswered questions. She was approaching the eastern outskirts of the town, and the little houses to each side had thinned noticeably, when she saw the Wise Oak Inn. The innkeeper she'd stayed with last night had indicated that his establishment and the building ahead were the only two such institutions in the town. The directions had been clear, and in any case, there was little chance of missing this place.

The inn was a broad but low structure, a single story only, sitting alone in an open meadow alongside a rough track that ran out of the town in the general direction of the forest and the mountains. Its lower half was fashioned out of rough-hewn blocks of granite, the only such construction she'd seen thus far in the entire town. Its upper walls were apparently segments of whole tree trunks, jutting up out of the stone foundation like a palisade wall. The roof was slate and almost flat, broken at a few places by narrow windows that resembled arrow slits. A weather-beaten sign in front facing the road bore the name of the place, and a hitching post stood adjacent to a long porch that ran down the front side of the structure. The inn was quiet, although a faint hint of something cooking floated over to her on the breeze.

She approached cautiously, uncertain why a place like this would send hackles down her spine. There was an open door on the side of the building adjacent to the end of the porch, and she stepped through into the common room.

Most of the interior of the inn seemed to be a single great chamber, the low roof above held up by thick beams. Every surface shone with the glow of aged wood well tended and polished, from the worn floor to the wood paneling along the walls to the long bar that began next to the door and ran to the very back of the room. Another door leading to a kitchen was visible to her left, at the far end of the bar, and the smells she'd detected earlier wafted out from that direction. To her right were the front doors of the inn, and another open portal in the far wall seemed to give way to a short hallway, to the inn's guest rooms, Izandra guessed, although given the expanse of the common room and the overall size of the building, the Wise Oak Inn did not appear to specialize in providing lodging. A few lamps that dangled from the low rafters augmented the faint light that filtered in through the narrow windows, but the interior of the inn was still full of shadows.

The common room was almost empty. A young woman pushing a broom in between the maze of tables and benches looked up as Izandra came in, but she returned to her task without saying anything to her. At the far end of the bar, near the doorway to the kitchen, stood a man that she guessed to be Latham. He wore a leather apron and a simple coat of red wool, but her attention was drawn primarily to the man with whom the innkeeper was speaking. It was Elodorion.

She was surprised to see one of the Ilfann here, especially after they had gone out of their way to avoid coming into the town with them. She looked around, and after a moment spotted Allonanther as well, sitting alone at a table in a shadowy corner of the inn. He was looking right at her, but if he was as surprised to see her as she was to see him, it did not show in his unfathomable expression.

The innkeeper and Elodorion had finally noticed her presence as well, and she forced herself to walk across the room to them despite the fact that she felt a little uncomfortable at their scrutiny.

"Yes, what can I do for you?" the innkeeper asked, his eyes hard and piercing. Somehow, she sensed that he already knew who she was, and why she was there. She suspected that much weighed upon her reply, so she decided to be direct despite the presence of the Ilfann.

"My name is Izandra Colton. I am looking for someone named Latham."

"I'm Latham," the man replied. "You don't look like you're from around here—why are you looking for me?" he said, walking behind the bar—where, she noticed, a heavy broadsword hung against the back wall above a long line of assorted bottles. He made no move in the direction of the weapon; she realized that even the thought smacked something of paranoia, but she still felt a tingle rise up within her as she felt her power rise up to her unspoken command. It was a heady feeling, which caught her somewhat by surprise, and it was with some difficulty that she focused her attention on the man in front of her, and the Ilfann who was still standing there to her side a few feet away.

Latham was watching her, expectantly, and she realized that she hadn't answered his question. Choosing each word carefully, she said, "I believe we have a mutual friend. He told me that you might be able to help me find him." His bushy brows knitted as she continued, "I hope you can forgive my caution, but I've had... difficulties... on the road, and I've become a little suspicious of people I don't know."

He held her with his hard stare for a moment longer, then relaxed and nodded. He gestured for her to sit, and reached under the bar for a tall ceramic pitcher, placing it along with a clean glass atop the bar.

"I don't drink alcohol," she said.

"It's just baskin tea," he reassured her, pouring her a glass of the dark substance. "Helps soothe tightened nerves."

"They told me about what happened," he said. He didn't have to indicate his guests; she knew who he was talking about. "Sounds like you've got more than your share of luck; few run afoul of a pack of mauls and live to tell about it."

If she'd been truly lucky, she never would have encountered them at all, she thought, but she said nothing as she sipped the strong tea. It was chilled, not hot like the teas she was used to from her home region, but its taste, though unusual, wasn't off-putting.

"Feel better?" he asked.

She looked up at him. "You were waiting for me."

"Yes," he admitted.

"I was told that you would be able to give me some answers to the questions I've been seeking."

"Maybe not the answers," he offered, refilling her glass than replacing the pitcher in its place under the bar. "But I can tell you the place where they can be found."

She sighed, and caught his eye with a level stare of her own. "Have you ever felt like you were being led around by the nose, pushed and pulled on a gameboard of someone else's making?"

He met her stare without blinking. "Many times, in my youth. That's why I settled down, got this place. Now I let others do the leading and following, and just stay here out of the game."

"Only you're not, really," she prodded him.

"No," he said.

"So where is it I am to go?" she finally said after a long moment of silence.

He leaned forward against the bar, his thick arms propping him up as his head dipped close to hers. "Your friend bids you travel to Ælfang," he told her bluntly.

She thought she'd steeled herself for whatever he could say, but she couldn't quite hide her surprise. He noticed her reaction.

"You've heard of it," he said, rising and reflexively wiping the bar where he'd rested his hands on its polished surface.

"I suppose it makes sense, in a way," she said, more to herself than to him. Latham just stood there, watching her, as she sorted through her thoughts, filing most of them away someplace safe for careful consideration later. Once again, the flow of events was threatening to catch her up in their current, but she knew one thing, at least; she was going to see this out to the end, and get her answers.

When she looked up again, he was still standing there, waiting. She was surprised to notice that the shadows on the floor of the inn had lengthened, indicating that a fair amount of time had passed since she'd entered the place. The two Ilfann were still sitting in their shady corner, but no one else had come into the inn while she'd been there. Even the young woman she'd seen cleaning had disappeared, into the kitchen if the sounds coming from that direction were any indication.

"I'll need directions, and a guide," she said.

Latham nodded, as if he was expecting the question. "Them," he said, gesturing with a nod toward the two Ilfann. "They know the entire region, and they're better in the backcountry than any I've ever seen, man or Ilfann."

Izandra looked at the two Ilfann, and they looked right back. They were too far away to hear what she and the innkeeper were talking about, but she had the uncanny feeling that they knew every word that they were speaking, that they were waiting for her to finish with Latham before she turned to them and requested their help. What they thought about it remained a mystery locked behind those fixed expressions.

"Why would they help me?" Izandra asked bluntly.

"I've done them favors in the past," Latham replied, quickly enough so that she suspected that he'd had the answer ready. It didn't ring untrue, not exactly, but she knew that there was more to it than that.

"Very well," she said. "I'd like to leave quickly, tomorrow morning, if that's possible. Will you arrange matters with the Ilfann?"

The innkeeper nodded, and Izandra turned away from the bar. She wanted to ask questions about her new companions, but she decided that whatever she learned here would not be as reliable as what her senses would be able to tell her on the road. She was fast learning the habit of accepting the twists that her adventure was throwing before her path, and becoming confident enough in her own budding abilities that she thought that she had at least a chance of defending herself should the need arise. She did not exactly mistrust the Ilfann or the innkeeper, but she felt wary around people who could hide what they were thinking so easily, as if it was a skill that came quickly through long practice.

She nodded toward the table. Allonanther nodded in reply, while Elodorion just watched her, his gleaming eyes sharp but completely unrevealing.

"I'll be back in the morning," she said to the innkeeper, without turning back to face him, and then she turned and walked back out into the bright sunshine of the day.

She hadn't initially intended upon going back to the other inn—she couldn't even remember its name, she realized—but she felt a lingering hint of unease at the Wise Oak Inn. So she retraced her steps back across the town of Benderal, past the people who seemed to be doing their level best to ignore her. It was a useful reminder, Izandra thought, that the world did not in fact revolve around her and her problems. She had mostly restored her equilibrium when she stood on the western edge of the town, facing the run-down inn where she'd spent the last night. The sign that hung from a slightly off-center support beam indicated that the place was _The Weary Traveler_. She filed the name in her memory; weary or not, she prided herself on her awareness of her surroundings and attention to detail.

The Weary Traveler, unlike the Wise Oak, was crowded, with a busy mix of patrons despite the fact that it was still the middle of the day. Most were clearly farmers or artisans, here to grab a quick bite and a mug or two of ale before returning to their labors. Others seemed more or less like permanent fixtures, clustered in a row along the long rail bar that ran along the back wall, sipping from tall mugs of cheap beer. The place smelled of sweat and beer with a few unappetizing hints left over from breakfast. Izandra wrinkled her nose as she walked into the common room. Somehow, it hadn't seemed so bad last night, when she'd been reeling from exhaustion and the memory of their encounter with the mauls on the road. Well, she thought, it was just one more night, and it was not as if there were any other convenient options, especially if she was not willing to change lodgings to the Wise Oak.

She was glad that Laertes and Tamra weren't visible among the patrons in the common room. She wished them no particular ill will, but neither did she want to explain her future course to any outsiders, even ones with whom she'd traveled and fought.

A few of the inn's patrons looked at her as she walked through the room to the bar, and a few of the looks lingered, but no one challenged her or tried to speak with her. Perhaps it was the way that she moved, with deliberation and purpose, or the hardness that had settled on her since she'd first left Sindelar and her simpler life behind. Or maybe it was the hint of power that surrounded her like an aura, something that even these simple people could sense somewhere deep inside on an intangible level. In any case, she ignored all of them as she caught the attention of the innkeeper behind the bar.

It took just about everything she had left in an already nearly empty purse to rent the small private room she'd slept in last night for another night. The amenities included little more than a pallet and a chamber pot, but the door had a pull-bolt on the inside and the small shuttered window was far too small to threaten intrusion from that quarter.

Although it was still the middle of the day, Izandra had no desire to explore the town or mingle with the crowd in the common room. She headed up the stairs that led to the upper floor, where all of the guest rooms were located, and crossed the long hall to the door to her small room in the far corner of the wing. She knew that she would be hungry later, and thoughts of the journey ahead were present on the edges of her mind as she worked the simple outer latch of the door, but she decided that a nap would help her clear her thoughts and allow her to reflect on what she'd accomplished earlier that day.

The room was as she had left it that morning. A faint hint of a breeze came in through the open window. She crossed to it and closed it most of the way, then turned back to her simple bed, sitting on its edge. She laid her brother's bow—even after all this time, she didn't think of it as hers—against the wall near the bed along with the small leather quiver. She leaned back against the wall and closed her eyes, trying to let the combined weight of all of her worries slough out of her mind and leave her at peace. It was another technique Ethander had taught her, designed to help her find focus and clarity. Right now it wasn't helping. She sighed, and straightened. She felt little twinges at her shoulders, where the injuries she'd suffered in the attack of the mauls had begun healing, but still frequently reminded her of their presence. Last night she'd had nightmares about what had happened in the forest, and she suspected that they would not be the last. She sighed, and began tugging at her boots.

A knock came on the door.

Wary, she rose and stepped over to the portal—given the size of the room, it only took two steps—and leaned in against the wood.

"Who is it?" she asked.

"It's me," she heard. Laertes's voice.

She didn't want to talk to him, but she guessed that he wouldn't be easily put off, and that perhaps it would be better to get this over with.

She reached up and pulled back the bolt, then stepped back to pull the door open, while keeping her body in the space between the door and the threshold.

He was alone, dressed in a clean shirt that was at least equally flashy as the one he'd been wearing when they first met. He had that false smile on, but she wasn't in the mood for it today, and it showed in her expression. Even so, he seemed unfazed by her obvious lack of welcome.

"Ah, so you're back. We were wondering where you'd gotten off to."

"I said that I had business here," she said, curtly.

"That you did." He leaned against the jam of the door, but made no move to push past her into the room. "And has that business been taken care of?"

"Look—I appreciate your help on the road, but I'll be honest—as far as I'm concerned, what I do is my business, not yours."

His eyes narrowed, dangerous, but that smile remained pasted across his features. "You've got fire, girl, that I saw from the first. That's what drew me to you, I think..."

He moved so suddenly that she could not react. One moment she was in the doorway, and the next she was staggered, falling, his weight hard against her as he forced her down onto the bed. Her head was swimming where he had struck her, and the smell of his breath filled her nostrils.

"Since we're being honest," he said, as he fumbled atop her, holding her down, "You owe me, girl, and I always collect on my debts."

Clarity and power came together in the same instant, as the realization of what he was doing penetrated her confusion. She lashed out in a reflexive rage, not bothering to shape or direct the power that she was channeling. Her vision clouded, and the room swam out of focus around her, although she could hear the harsh grunt and feel the tremor that passed through Laertes's body. She pushed upward with both her hands and the power and the heavy weight was lifted from her. When she released it, she heard the hard sound as his body fell to the floor next to the bed.

She lay there for several minutes, trying to get her breathing under control by repeating the simple exercises Ethander had taught her. It was a mantra that allowed her to claw her way back to the sanity that had nearly been torn from her grasp by the sudden violence and by the threat of what Laertes had intended to do to her. When she finally opened her eyes, her vision was clear again, and the room was a comfortable reality around her.

Then she looked down to the floor beside the bed. He was lying there, face down on the hardwood. There was blood on his face, streaks that ran from his nose and mouth, and he was not moving.

She was not sure if he was dead or not, and she did not care. She avoided touching him as she hurriedly thrust her feet back into her boots and gathered up her few possessions. She crossed to the door, but hesitated with her hand on the inside handle. Turning back, she quickly and with clear reluctance bent near the motionless form of the man. In a few fleet motions she took his purse and checked his pockets for anything of value. She considered taking his sword as well, but ultimately left it; she did not know how to use it in any case and its presence might draw unwanted attention to her.

After checking the hall to confirm that it was still empty, she crossed to the stairs and descended to the first floor of the inn. Rather than return to the common room, however, she slipped into the back hallway and out the backdoor near the kitchen. That way was empty of persons as well, although there was an old man behind a nearby house chopping wood. He looked up at her as she passed, but said nothing and returned silently to his work. The rhythmic sound of the axe striking hard against the thick logs seemed to follow her as she walked quickly through the town yet again, feeling with each step as though everyone was watching her, waiting for her to stumble.

She stopped at a stall in front of a baker's, and bought a few loaves of coarse bread that she stuffed into the bundle made up of her cloak and saddlebags. Her hands were shaking so much that she nearly dropped the change that the baker handed her along with the bread, before she could stuff the weathered coins back into her purse. The purse that she'd stolen off of the body of the man she'd just killed. The baker looked at her a little strangely, but he didn't ask any questions as she slung her bundle across her back and hurried back along the route through the town that she'd followed just an hour or two earlier.

It looked as though the Wise Oak Inn would not be such a bad choice after all. Perhaps she could even catch the Ilfann still there, and convince them that they should start out immediately rather than waiting for the morrow's dawn. With a little luck, no one would find the body until she was well out on the road into the wilderness of the east.

The road to Ælfang.

* * * * *

Chapter 26

Rain fell, the product of yet another winter storm that had raced down out of the Black Mountains with an almost eager intensity.

Izandra ignored the rain, as she ignored the chill breezes, the mud, and the complaints of her strained muscles. She had retreated into herself, into the inner spaces where the rigid order of her disciplined thoughts usually gave her comfort. At the moment, though, her mind was in turmoil, and that discipline evaded her every effort. So she walked, one step after another, and struggled to avoid the chasm of emotion that roiled within her.

In an effort to distract her mind from such things, she tried to focus on details of her surroundings. Her companions were an interesting puzzle. They too wore masks of control that betrayed no clues as to what transpired underneath. She wondered if they felt the same whirl of emotions as she did, if their thoughts ran along corridors of smooth order or veiled chaos.

They seemed comfortable with the silence that had encompassed their little company since they'd left Benderal yesterday afternoon. The Ilfann had not offered comment on her sudden reappearance at the Wise Oak Inn, or her stated desire to leave sooner rather than later. She'd caught them in the midst of leaving the inn, starting down the track that led out of town to the east, when she'd ran up and hailed them. When she'd stepped into the inn briefly to let Latham know of the change of plans he'd shown more reaction, but even he had not asked any prying questions. Instead he'd given her a new cloak, fur-lined and a size too large for her, a waterproof bedroll, and an old shoulder bag for her to carry her possessions and supplies. Later on the road she'd opened the bag to find some packed sandwiches and dried fruit inside, and she'd wondered at her initial suspicions of him, the Ilfann, and of the errand that had brought her to Benderal and now led her down another road, to another unfamiliar destination.

That, she had tried not to think too much about, because the thoughts always wound around and around until they tangled up and left her more confused than where she had begun. She knew of the Ælfang, knew from her studies and the arcane books that Ethander had provided for her. She wasn't sure exactly what to call the place. Shrine, school, refuge? The sources had conflicted on that account, but it was clear that the mountain was a place of great power in the already cryptic realm of phuskios magic. Whether that power was some result of the special nature of the place, or the individuals who gathered there, she could not guess. She recalled from her reading that the place had always seemed to her to be connected with the Ilfann, although she did not remember the exact reference from which she had drawn that conclusion. Maybe it was just her current companions, she admitted, who were leading her to make that connection in her mind.

The two Ilfann were boon companions, she had to admit, especially given the rough lands through which they would have to travel. Although they spoke little, they clearly knew the terrain, and were adept at moving swiftly through it. High on her mental list of what lay ahead was the great forest of Maletai itself. Although they would only be passing through its southern outskirts, her knowledge of the forest and its mysterious inhabitants was even more scattered than her snippets of knowledge about the Ælfang, and based more on rumor and innuendo than hard facts. But at least with the Ilfann as guides she would not have to worry about inadvertent trespassing. She hoped.

Sometimes it felt like she was walking alone, as one or both of the Ilfann would fade in and out of her awareness. By the end of the first day she'd given up trying to keep track of their movements, which involved frequent sweeps out ahead of her both along the trail and into the trackless hills and woodlands to either side. Typically it would be Elodorion who would vanish for up to hours on end, leaving Allonanther to walk in silence beside her. When he was with them, she thought that she felt something strange from Elodorion. While outwardly as cool and unfathomable as Allonanther, Izandra sensed something in those amber eyes when they passed over her. It was impossible to pin down, whatever it was, so she put it out of her mind, while leaving her senses alert in case either Ilfann decided to let the controlled façade slip and reveal their true feelings.

The Ilfann set a hard pace, and she was surprised that she was able to keep up so well afoot after riding for so long. Perhaps it was because she was so distracted, her inner turmoil leading her to let her body take over and move her forward with efficient automation. When they'd stopped that first night, she'd been sore and worn, and despite the threat of nightmares she'd fallen asleep instantly. The next morning she could not remember any of her dreams, which had been a temporary blessing as the road brought back all of the emotions of the day before.

She tried to tell herself that what she was feeling was a natural response to what had happened. She'd been attacked, first by ravaging beasts and then by a man bent on violating her, a man that she'd killed with her own hands. Well, if not with her hands, then with her still-evolving power, which to Izandra were one and the same. Almost as frightening was the fact that she'd used the power without thinking, that it had come and gone with what could almost be called instinct. That lack of control ran contrary to everything that she'd clung to as the core of who she was.

Those thoughts led her again to that same twisted jumble of emotions that led nowhere, so with an effort of will she refocused her attention outward toward their surroundings. The area that they were traveling through was beautiful, with a breathtaking majesty that was evident even in the drizzle and dimness of the stormy day. They'd left behind a stretch of open meadows and wide, grassy dells that morning, and were now traveling through a light forest. The ground undulated slightly, rising and falling in gentle slopes and forming little valleys that were full of greenery and animal life. She realized with a start that she hadn't even thought about the life that was all around them in the forest, so intent she had been on her own internal struggle. She looked around to see the Ilfann, but suddenly realized that she was alone.

That realization gave her a start, despite the fact that the Ilfann had been ranging ahead and behind all day. She had thought that at least one of them was always by her, though, and the sudden awareness of being alone in this unfamiliar place sent a chill that had nothing to do with the rain down her spine. Suddenly, the sense of life took on a malevolent streak, as if the forest itself was growing resentful of her unwelcome intrusion into its quiet depths.

"Allonanther?" she asked, her own voice sounding unfamiliar to her ears.

With the calling of his name the Ilfann appeared, emerging out of the undergrowth along the trail a short distance back. It was strange, and for an instant Izandra's mind created the illusion that her use of his name had summoned him up out of thin air. Shaking her head at the foolishness of her thoughts, she waited for him to rejoin her. Elodorion was nowhere to be seen, and for some reason she felt better at his absence.

"Anything the matter?" she asked, forcing her voice to remain level and nonchalant.

"No," he said simply, and although there was nothing different in his tone or bearing, she suddenly did not believe him. It was not something that she could explain or rationalize, but she was learning to trust her instincts.

"Where is Elodorion?" she asked.

"He went to scout ahead, to find the best route," the Ilfann said. He walked past her and continued along the faint track they were following through the forest, forcing her to hurry to keep close enough to him to continue speaking. Even that was a sign, for normally, he'd altered his pace to better suit her comparatively shorter legs. Suddenly she was unwilling to let the matter drop, and decided to press at least some sort of conversation out of him.

"I thought that the two of you knew this region well," she said, when she had matched his pace. It took some effort, but she'd improved her wind considerably since leaving Sindelar and her breathing was not quite labored as she strode alongside the Ilfann.

"We do, he more than I," Allonanther admitted to her, without breaking stride. "But the dangers that lurk in this area are not static ones, nor are they always found in the same place from one visit to the next. The forest is a dynamic system, always shifting into new patterns. The pattern can be quite wondrous, but often equally deadly to the unwary."

It was about the longest statement she'd ever heard him make, at least since their initial meeting, and she decided to press on despite the increasing strain she was feeling in her chest at talking and walking swiftly at the same time. "Have you two been working together long? As forest guides, I mean."

"I have known Elodorion for decades," he said. "Although until very recently, we had not seen each other for several years. We share a common respect for the forest, and a bond to the land, but our paths have led us down very different roads."

"I sense a certain..." She paused, uncertain how or even whether to proceed. "I don't know, it just seems that perhaps he does not agree with the decision for the two of you to accompany me to the Ælfang."

"Elodorion has reasons to mistrust humans," Allonanther said. "It is not for me to speak of it in his absence." He said no more, but she thought she sensed something in his manner, giving her the impression that there was much more to be said, but that the Ilfann would not further betray the confidences of his companion.

"And what do you think about humans?" she asked him directly.

"You are very direct, and curious," he said, but it wasn't a criticism.

"Isn't it a boon, to want to understand the world around you?" she prodded him.

"The search for knowledge is a credible endeavor," he replied. "But it too can lead the unwise or unprepared down dangerous roads. Your people are empowered with a restless sense of energy that is at once their greatest strength and their greatest downfall. Some among my people fear the way that humans tend to sweep all before them in their path, as they blunder about, trying to shape the world around them as much as they can in the short time that they have."

"But you Ilfann take the longer view," she said.

"We have a greater sense of empathy with the powers of the natural world, and that gives us balance," he said.

"And this gives many of your people a great talent with the Earthpower," she said, using the Ilfann terminology for bios magic.

"Yes," he said. "Though great power in that art is still a rare thing among the Ilfann, and a precious gift."

"What of the other sorts of magic, khemeia and phuskios?" She was watching him carefully as she asked the question, so she thought she saw the faintest hint of a reaction, something that came and went so quickly through his controlled expression that she could not be sure that she'd seen it. When he replied, there was no hint of hidden feelings in his level, melodic tone.

"If the gift of the Earthpower is present in a tiny fraction of the people, then talent in those arts is but a fraction of that in turn," he said. "Khemeia, as you no doubt know, is as much a taught art as an inbred gift, but there is a strong cultural bias against its use among the Ilfann."

He did not elaborate, but Izandra thought she understood. Khemeia was founded upon the use of raw power to shape one's environment, and seemed less suited to the naturalist and contemplative leanings of the Ilfann than the smooth harmony of bios energies.

"And phuskios?" she asked, feeling a little anticipation despite herself at what her guide would tell her.

She did not get her answer, though, for at that moment he spun around, his body making a graceful transition from the long rolling strides of their rapid walking to a battle-ready half-crouch that gave him the air of a hunting cat poised to strike. The heavy recurved bow at his side came up in a smooth motion, and somehow—she hadn't quite seen how he'd done it—a long arrow was already in position against the shaft of the weapon, ready to be loosed at any threat. The Ilfann must have had some special way of proofing their weapons against the wet, for both trackers had kept their bows strung and ready, even through the rain, and they seemed to lose none of their flexibility or efficacy in the process.

Her own senses on sudden alert, she looked back at the unremarkable expanse of trees that formed a relatively open hedge behind them. She could not see anything among the trees, or otherwise detect what had set off her companion, but she was aware that she could feel her own powers just below the surface of her mind, awaiting her call. Instinct had once again brought her talent to the fore, no longer requiring her concentration or the mental exercises taught to her by Ethander. She held the power in check, uncertain whether its ready presence unsummoned was a reassurance or a troubling concern.

Allonanther stared out into the forest for a long moment, then he relaxed slightly. It was only the time they'd already spent together that allowed her to detect that; to a casual glance, it seemed only that he straightened a bit, the bow still held at the ready in one hand with its deadly arrow pinioned against the shaft. At the same time, she somehow sensed that whatever danger he'd sensed had passed, even before Elodorion became visible along the trail along which they'd come.

The Ilfann tracker moved swiftly and with the same grace she'd always observed in the Ilfann, but as he drew nearer she noticed that he seemed to be hurrying. She glanced up at Allonanther to see if she could read anything in his face, but his expression was a neutral mask once again.

Elodorion slowed when he neared them. His cowl had fallen back, revealing his shoulder length hair of pure jet matted down by the wet of the still-pattering rain. She noticed a slight cut on the side of his forehead, a shallow gash that might have come from a low-hanging branch, or something more dangerous. The tousled hair and the cut together gave a wild, untamed look to him, although his bright green eyes were like cold emeralds that belied the sense of disarray reflected in his appearance.

"What is it?" Allonanther said.

"Tracks, a lot of them. They crisscross the entire region, although I saw no sign of what made them. They are four-legged, and big, though, and numerous. By the patterns I saw, they seem to be searching the area."

Izandra noticed that both Ilfann turned their attention to her, just for a moment, but long enough to be noticeable and meaningful. She didn't need to be reminded of what had happened on the road to Benderal, and what might have happened had the Ilfann not come along.

"Two packs in such short order, and in a relatively confined area," Allonanther said contemplatively.

"More mauls?" Izandra asked.

Elodorion fixed those hard eyes upon her, and nodded. "They are not unheard of in this region, although they tend to stay up in the mountains. These, however, are different."

Izandra nodded. To Allonanther, she said, "You had mentioned that earlier, when we first met." The Ilfann only nodded, but Izandra pressed, looking back to Elodorion, and asking, "Different in what way?"

The two Ilfann shared a glance that held meaning. Izandra was getting tired of how their evasiveness and silence seemed to grow when the two of them were together, as if each felt fortified in their intent to annoy her by the presence of the other. She definitely felt excluded and alone in their presence, despite what Allonanther had confided to her earlier about the two of them being different in their own ways.

She did not back down, however, and Elodorion finally replied to her question. "Mauls are vicious creatures, pack carnivores much like grags, only even more tenacious. They are, however, natural beings, in the sense that you and I are, born into the world and living lives guided by basic instincts and needs."

"The creatures that we tracked and encountered outside Benderal, however, are different. They are not creatures of the Land, but aberrations. Someone or something changed them, warped them."

Izandra swallowed. "How... how would that be done?"

"I do not know. But it would not be an easy task. And to what purpose? Such creatures, already things of violence, would not be easy to control."

"Sometimes destruction is its own purpose," Allonanther said.

Elodorion nodded.

"Are they still in the area?" Izandra asked. She did not think that he would be discussing this so casually if they were, but she looked again at the cut on his forehead and shuddered at the thought of more of those beasts catching up to them.

"No," he said. "The tracks are a few days old, and with this weather, there wasn't much more I could make out about where they had come from, or where they were going. But I am almost certain that they are another group separate from those that we encountered outside Benderal."

"We tracked those up from the foothills to the southwest," Allonanther explained. "Even with their speed, they could not have covered so much ground so quickly."

"Is the path ahead clear?" Izandra asked.

"As far as I know," Elodorion said. "After these hills, the path descends into a broad valley called the Four Fingers. It marks the southern extent of the forest of Maletai."

"Do you think that these creatures went into the forest?" Izandra asked. The two Ilfann exchanged another look, and she realized that they did not know the answer.

Instead of answering her question, Allonanther slung his bow across his shoulder and turned back toward the trail. "We should be moving. It is not well to remain in this area."

That Izandra did not doubt, although she felt little consolation that the road ahead would be any safer by comparison. She allowed the Ilfann to end the conversation, however, and followed them back along the trail, weaving up and down over the hills and through the wet afternoon. With Allonanther leading the way, and Elodorion bringing up the rear a few paces behind, the three of them pressed on through the gloom, once again passing the hours in silence.

* * *

The night did not pass pleasantly. The rain let up some, although it would often revisit with a brief drizzle that would sweep through and leave them damp and discomfited. Elodorion found them a shelter in a cluster of three trees that had grown together overlooking the edge of the Valley of the Four Fingers, although it had already been too dark for Izandra to see anything of what lie ahead when they stopped to camp. The Ilfann efficiently cleared a relatively dry spot for them under the shelter of the trees, and by the time that Izandra had removed her gear and rubbed her sore feet they had a small, almost invisible fire burning in a pit half-covered with a few wet branches. The fire provided no light and little heat, but it was enough for the Ilfann to prepare a hot meal. They produced small ceramic pots seemingly out of nowhere from the flat traveling packs they carried under their cloaks, and heated a soup made from desiccated vegetables that appeared from those same packs. At first she'd thought that she was too tired to even eat, but as soon as the smell of the soup filled their little campsite she'd felt nearly overcome by hunger. The soup had filled her with a sense of warmth for a moment, but that did not linger past the arrival of a cold night wind that swirled through their campsite and penetrated under the edges of their cloaks. The Ilfann did not complain, but Izandra spent the night sleeping in fits and starts, waking several times shivering in her cloak to the sounds of the stormy night. When the morning arrived, as gloomy as the day before had been, she felt wrung out and weak. The Ilfann prepared another meal that gave her the strength to continue, but just putting on her boots and rising to face the day took an effort of will.

As the Ilfann cleaned up their campsite with the same smooth efficiency with which they'd created it the night before, Izandra wandered out to the lip of the valley to see what lay ahead. In the murky half-light of the morning, she could see where the Valley of the Four Fingers had gotten its name.

The ground ahead of her sloped down steeply from her vantage point, the trail running back and forth in broad switchbacks until it reached the valley floor about a half-mile from their current position. On the opposite side of the valley, which she judged to be a good five miles away, the ground rose in similar fashion, framing a gradually rising expanse of foothills. Beyond them lay the Black Mountains, mysterious and impressive even from this distance.

The floor of the valley was heavily wooded, the trail disappearing into a vast canopy that undulated slightly as the forest followed the contours of the earth beneath. To the north, she saw that the valley seemed to fork into four distinct canyons separated by sharp cliffs that rose up out of the forest.

She jumped slightly as the Ilfann suddenly appeared beside her, flanking her as they too looked down into the valley. "Our route lies through the eastern-most of the Fingers," Allonanther said. "The land rises until the canyon gives access to a pass that will take us into the mountains proper, saving us two days of travel."

Izandra nodded in response, and the three resumed their journey in silence. The trail that led down into the valley was steep but passable, even with the damp left from the rain. The Ilfann seemed to pay her no heed, although Izandra suspected that they were moderating their pace to match hers. She also noticed that both remained close by today, even after they'd reached the valley floor and they continued into the forest.

Almost immediately she observed a dramatic change. The woods were less stifling than they'd seemed from above, for although the branches of the trees—old growth conifers interspersed with other trees she did not recognize—formed an interwoven lattice above, the valley floor underneath was open and free of restraining undergrowth. Old leaves made a damp carpet that softened their steps, filling the air with a musty smell that reminded her of the woods around Sindelar in the autumn. But it was not that which struck her so as they walked onward across ground that still held a gentle slope downward toward the center of the valley somewhere ahead. It was that the forest was so... _alive_ , radiating a powerful yet benevolent energy that she could feel tingling at the edges of her awareness. She realized that she could not see any animals, even birds or insects, as they walked, and yet she knew that they were there, an integral part of the demesne through which they walked. The forest did not mind their intrusion, she thought.

The Ilfann did not seem to notice anything unusual about this place. They did not stop, and she was unwilling to break the stillness of the woods with her questions.

They'd been walking for a few hours, and Izandra thought they were nearing the center of the valley, when Allonanther abruptly stopped ahead. He turned to regard her, and she realized that his bow was again strung, so smoothly and rapidly that she had once more failed to notice it done.

"Do you sense something?" she asked. Allonanther did not reply, or even look at her, but instead shared another look with his companion. She wished that she knew them well enough to know what was hidden in those glances, for even after a few days in their company their strange features may as well have been masks for all that she could plumb of their secrets.

"I realize that asking for your trust might be somewhat premature, but I would hope that as your companion I deserve at least to be forewarned if there is any danger," she said, letting her impatience add some edge to her statement. She herself did not feel anything threatening from the forest, but she knew enough about her still-developing talents to know that such a lack did not necessarily prove the absence of danger.

Allonanther shifted, fixing his attention on her, his eyes suddenly so intense that she nearly took a step back despite herself. She'd never before seen such a potent emotion in the eyes of the Ilfann before, clearly revealed for her to see. He opened his mouth, as if to say something, but before he could speak, several figures appeared from out of the forest just ahead of them.

They had appeared with a jarring suddenness, as if they had materialized from the trees themselves. Although Izandra could see a fair distance through the woods, she had not seen them approaching. Perhaps they had been waiting in ambush, but they took no aggressive actions toward them, only moving slowly toward them into a half-circle. There were five in all; each dressed in a masking robe of billowing cloth that carried a glossy sheen even in the murky light that made it through the thick clouds and heavy tree cover above. Their faces were half-hidden in the cowls of those robes, but after a moment, Izandra recognized them as Ilfann. They bore no weapons that she could see, but their hands were hidden in the folds of their robes as they came forward.

Her own Ilfann escorts said nothing, but their attentions were just as fixed on the mysterious newcomers. The robed Ilfann moved with the same grace as she had seen in Allonanther and Elodorion, and when they finally halted a few yards away, it was as if they had become part of the forest, their shimmering robes blending in with the colors of their surroundings. It was slightly disorienting to look at them too intently, for in one instant those garments seemed an unremarkable wooden brown, and the next colors seemed to flicker around their surface, shades of earthen tones that embodied the bark of the trees and the slivers of pine needles and the hard loam of the forest floor.

"Greetings," the one in the middle said, and by the tone of her voice, Izandra realized that she was a woman. The voice was fluid with the sibilant melody of the Ilfann, but it also resonated with a power that Izandra felt almost tangibly. Her greeting was directed at all of them, but somehow Izandra felt as though the attention of the robed woman was fixed particularly upon her.

"This is not your place," Elodorion said, and Izandra was surprised that she could detect a hint of uncertainty in his voice. Allonanther, too, shifted slightly beside her.

The mysterious woman—it was impossible to discern more about her, for her robe made her a shadow in the weak light—turned her attention toward the tracker. "Our place is wherever the Walker travels," she said, and her voice was like a dictum, hard and invulnerable to contradiction.

Elodorion's expression shifted in the slightest fashion, and to Izandra it seemed as though he was taken aback at the statement. After a tiny pause, he replied, "The Forest Walker is here?"

"Indeed. But it is not for you, Elodorion est Orden, or for you, Allonanther est Uthal, that he walks these unfamiliar woods this day." Even as she finished speaking, her attention shifted subtly again, and Izandra felt the cold weight of her eyes, hidden within the cowl, lay upon her again.

She did not sense any threat coming from these mysterious strangers, for all that they clearly had made her companions uneasy, but there was something in that stare that discomfited her. She wondered who they were and what they wanted, and who this "Walker" was, but she was not going to surrender her uncertainty to them with a deluge of questions.

So she met the Ilfann woman stare for stare, and said nothing. The woman held her in that contest for a long moment, and then nodded, as if satisfied. "You will come with us," she said.

"To what purpose?" Izandra finally asked, and she was glad that her voice held only calm confidence, not the tremor that would belie the uncertainty she felt.

"It is for the Walker to reveal that," the woman said. Izandra thought she was going to leave the matter at that, but then she lifted her arms, revealing slender, delicate hands from the cover of her robe, and pulled back her cowl.

She was stunningly beautiful, but it was a strange, foreign beauty. She looked both frail and powerful at the same time, with a thin, long neck, prominent cheekbones, and a narrow face framed by wispy lengths of soft golden hair. She seemed a fairy creature out of the woodland tales Izandra had heard growing up, but her eyes, those held the power Izandra had sensed, the strength that was not evident at first glance of her delicate frame.

"I am Elandra, druid of Maletai and servant of the Forest Walker," she said. "Do not fear, for I vow by the power of the Land that you will not be harmed while in this wood, nor should you dread an audience with the Walker."

Izandra was a little surprised at the similarity of their names, but whatever comfort she might have taken in that connection was offset by the strangeness of the Ilfann's manner and the mystery in her words. "What does... he... want with me?" Izandra asked.

"Your questions are many, and you have had few answers, I think," Elandra said. "Trust is an elusive quality, I know, and difficult even on a clear and open road. But these are troubled times, and strange alliances must be possible. Please, come with us. We will not divert you long from your journey, but what you learn in this brief interlude may be of value to you." She extended one hand, her fingers beckoning.

Izandra nodded and moved to follow the woman as she turned and led her along the trail that led deeper into the valley forest. Allonanther and Elodorion said nothing to protest, her two guides simply falling in mutely behind her. The other druids formed a loose ring around them, moving easily despite the narrowness of the path, like dark shadows themselves that were almost invisible unless one looked at them directly.

Izandra instead focused on Elandra, who walked just ahead of her, her long legs setting a swift pace that required a little effort to match. They passed in silence through a stretch of massive trees that rose high above them, forming a shelter against the wind and the inclement sky. Izandra felt something from the forest, a hint of power that lay hidden, waiting, but she could not put her finger exactly on what the source of that feeling could be. Perhaps this 'Walker' that the druids spoke of? She knew nothing of either, although she'd heard the word 'druid' before in reference to people, both humans and Ilfann, who lived in isolated communities and practiced the mysteries of the Earthpower. This was a form of bios magic that derived from a strong connection to the forces of nature, a more visceral and innate power even compared to the Healing practiced by the blue-robed followers of Amelira.

After a time, Elandra led them off the trail, into a dell that rose up unexpectedly between an uneven jut in the rolling terrain. Their way was nearly silent, only the faint sound of wet leaves under their boots marking their passage. There was no sign that anyone or anything had ever come this way, and even with the larger size of their company now, Izandra felt isolated in a world of peaceful quiet.

The path descended swiftly into the dell, a small valley-within-a-valley surrounded by a ring of crumbling cliffs half-hidden by the trees that clustered close around them. The entire area was lush with growth, the few spaces not occupied by the massive trees filled instead with dense green bushes and webs of interwoven vines that climbed up the steep slopes around them. A musty smell filled her nostrils, stronger than the odors that had filled her nostrils since entering the valley. It was the smell of life and death together, of the rotting leaves giving energy to the soil and the next generation of growth. It did not feel like winter, here, despite the chill in the air.

Elandra stopped at the edge of a dense wall of trees surrounded by shoulder-high bushes that seemed to form a natural barrier ahead of them. A faint, almost invisible path led forward, into a small opening in the undergrowth. Izandra stood beside her and waited as the rest of the company formed a half-circle behind them, facing the dark wood.

"There is a grotto with a pool a short distance ahead," Elandra said to her. She had not replaced her cowl during the brief hike, and her hair was damp with the moisture in the air. "The Walker waits within."

Resolved that she would ask no more questions, and yet still wary, she moved toward the narrow opening, but Elandra forestalled her with a raised palm. "Your companions, they must wait for you here."

She glanced back and saw that Elodorion and Allonanther had moved to follow her. She felt a little tingle of surprise; she had forgotten they were there, so intent she had been on what might lie ahead. She looked at both of them, their hard masks of control back in place, unreadable and unfathomable.

"It is your decision," Allonanther said to her, but he offered no further counsel.

"I will be back soon," she said, looking at Elandra as if for confirmation. The druid nodded.

With that, she turned and proceeded, alone, into the forest.

The wood seemed to swallow her up with an amazing quickness, and when she turned back to look behind her, she could not see where she had entered the copse, despite having only traveled a few dozen paces. A thrill of fear momentarily left a chill feeling down her back, and an impulse to turn back and verify that the world outside still existed came and went in her mind. Instead she took a steadying breath and continued onward, pushing between the dense bushes that pressed in close to either side of the almost invisible trail. She wondered at how such growth could flourish here, where little of the light of the sun would penetrate even on bright summer days. She thought back to the forests of her homeland, around Sindelar, which were open and free of undergrowth by comparison. She'd heard of forests in the warmer southern lands where the growth was dense and stifling, but this was not there. It was a strange puzzle, and distracted her thoughts somewhat as she made her way deeper into the dell.

The ground grew rocky ahead, and she passed stones that turned into boulders the size of cottages, covered with wet lichens in a glistening sheen. She saw some fungi and vines and other plants that she recognized, or thought she did, only to see a fruit or flower or leaf that was unfamiliar and new. She watched where she put her feet and took her time, ignoring the sense of urgency that still hung in the back of her thoughts, to be through with this place and back to where the others waited. A rogue thought whispered that she would not be able to find her way out, that she would wander this place for the rest of her days, but she quashed it and moved on.

The ground suddenly opened up before her, a path giving way to a cleft between two large rocks that dipped steeply into a lower area beyond. She looked around for a moment for an alternative course before steeling herself and moving into the declivity. She managed the slope carefully, and as she passed further she could see that directly beneath her lay the grotto that Elandra had mentioned. It was like a bowl scooped from the rocky ground, a depression with an uneven floor overgrown with greenery. The defile she was in seemed at first glance to be the only manageable course down below, with steep cliffs visible in a sweeping curve to each side.

Izandra carefully made her way down the ramp of slick rocks to the bottom of the grotto. The entire area was lushly carpeted with thick green grass that came almost to her knees, the verdant stems bending with the weight of heavy droplets of moisture. A pool of water formed ahead of her off to the right, fed by thin trickles of water that seeped out from between rocks worn smooth by the long flow of its passage. A fine mist hung in the air; although it did not interfere with her vision she felt its cold touch on her skin and shivered slightly.

She moved slowly forward through the grass. That vague sense of power she'd felt earlier was stronger, much stronger here, but she could still not identify its source. The little hollow was full of life, although she could not identify a single living creature about, except for the lush plant growth.

She paused before a cluster of huge boulders that formed a sort of wall before her. She was considering climbing atop one to get a better look around when the rocks stirred, and two eyes opened and looked down at her. Startled, she took an involuntary step back and stumbled over the irregular ground, falling on her rear on the wet grass.

"Do not fear," a deep, slow, powerful voice rumbled from the rocks. Izandra felt paralyzed, unable to move. Her instincts were telling her to run, while at the same time her conscious mind was telling her that this had to be the creature that the Ilfann druid had spoken of, the Forest Walker. None of their comments had prepared her for what loomed before her, however.

No verbal warning could have done the Walker justice, she thought. The eyes that looked down at her seemed to spring right out of the boulder that topped the mound, twin orbs each the size of her head, colored a stunning golden brown that shone like a fading sunset. If the entire mound was its body, it was easily larger than several cottages in Sindelar, although she could still not discern the details of its form. It seemed just like a pile of rocks, uneven stone covered with living moss and pockmarked with long years of wear from the wind and water of the outdoors.

It was still staring at her, and she realized that a long minute had passed since its first greeting. Still not trusting her feet to support her, she remained in her awkward position and cleared her throat.

"You... you are the Walker?" she asked.

"I am," it replied, the voice booming out as if from a cave. It had no mouth that she could see, and she briefly wondered where the sound was coming from. It seemed to fill the grotto, resonating from its rocky walls.

"The druids said that you wished to speak with me," she said, unable to fathom what purpose this otherworldly thing could have with her.

"Speech... words..." The Walker stirred, and again she crawled back reflexively. Even the faint movement caused the ground around her to shake. Or was the creature the ground as well? Perhaps the entire grotto was part of it. It seemed natural to think of it as part of the world, with the age and permanency that seemed to radiate from its form.

"...not sufficient," it said, completing its thought. Then the mound trembled, as if in anticipation. Izandra could do nothing but watch in amazement as the thing rose up out of the ground, clods of wet dirt falling from it as it detached from the earth. Now half-again its former size, its head rose easily fifteen feet above hers, its bulk looming over her like some elemental monstrosity. Its form was now recognizably humanoid, with limbs and torso and head, although its contours were blocky and indistinct. It was as if a sculptor had set out to shape a man from earth and stone, but had given up after etching the barest outline of its frame. The only feature that remained constant were those eyes, shining with their inner glow like twin beacons fixed upon her.

Then it reached for her, a slow but inexorable movement as one thick arm stretched out toward her recumbent form. Conscious thoughts fled as reflexive fear took over, but her muscles went into action too late to avoid the cumbersome grasp of the Walker. A massive hand wrapped around her body, lifting her effortlessly from the ground, holding her prisoner with inexorable force. She felt afraid, and yet the powerful grasp did not harm her in any way, and the creature's touch contained a soothing warmth, incongruous with the appearance of hard and lifeless stone.

She stifled a cry as it lifted her high into the air, bringing so close that she could look directly into its eyes. A faint odor filled her nostrils, a smell of freshly tilled soil and growing things. It reminded her a little bit of the planting season back in Sindelar, when she would go out into the fields and play, taking simple joy in the end of winter and the new freedom of the outdoors.

The Walker's amber eyes held hers, and as their stares locked she felt a strange sensation of falling—impossible, with its iron hand around her. The eyes seemed to grow larger, surrounding and embracing her as she fell into their depths. Her first instinct was to resist that pull, and even before thought the power was with her, filling her with its familiar bittersweet savor. But before she could release it, to defend herself against the unknown, she felt an upsurge of calm fill her thoughts. The warmth she'd felt coming from the Walker flowed into her like an undammed stream, driving away the pain and the exhaustion of her travels and filling her with a sense of genuine contentment. She felt her power drift away against that flow, but she did not regret its passing. The talent of phuskios magic had become a part of her, but it had brought with it new pain, new uncertainties into her life. But in the warm and comforting embrace of the Walker, the painful memories and dark experiences seemed farther off, at least for the moment.

The world around her grew indistinct, and all that remained clear was herself and the Walker. Now its power was clear to her, the life energy contained in this being revealed in their union. She shivered again, but this time it was in awe at the raw energy of the Walker's life force. It felt like she was touching something divine, a god.

"No, not a god, Izandra Colton," a voice whispered inside her head. The voice was quiet, soft, unassuming, but she could hear each syllable clearly, each subtle intonation of tone and meaning. It was the same voice she'd heard from the Walker before, transformed by this deeper connection. "I am mortal," it went on, "as you are, a creation of this world and part of it in turn. Older, perhaps, but like you I was born unto the earth, will live my time, and then die, to return to the earth from which I sprang."

"What do you want with me?" she asked, speaking the words aloud even as she formed them with her mind. It was just habit; she knew that the Walker could read her thoughts, just as she could sense its.

"Great forces stir in the world," it said, each words filling her mind and lingering for a moment before fading into memory. "Forces that threaten the very balance of power that is the foundation of all existence."

"I don't understand," Izandra replied. It was a feeling she'd felt often in recent days, and her frustration shone through the mental link between them.

"I cannot answer all of your questions, for I do not know the answers myself," the Walker replied. "Nor can I walk the difficult road that lies ahead for you. I can only offer you some guidance, and a warning. For your actions hold importance in the coming time of decision, when mortals will have to choose their future, or lack thereof."

"My importance? What do you mean? What am I supposed to do?"

"I have been chosen by the Earthmother, but that has not been given me to see," the Walker responded cryptically. "Even they, the Nine, beings of Thought, do not have the power to pierce the veil of Time and look into what will—or may—be. Nor are they, by the very laws of the Compact that they themselves forged, allowed to preempt the ultimate freedom reserved to mortal creation—the Choice."

The Walker's words only left her more confused, but she did not respond. But the creature sensed her confusion, for it went on, "As I said, I can provide some small guidance, if not clarity. I have lived long by your terms, and have seen and sensed much over the lives I have lived. My power is that of the natural world, and does not penetrate far into the realms of Man. Like she that chose me, I cannot intervene directly in this struggle that looms, but I can offer what aid I can."

"Listen then, and take what meaning from these thoughts that you may. Even at this place, once part of my demesne, my strength grows weaker, and I cannot stay long with you."

The inner voice deepened, and Izandra felt each word that followed burning its way into her memory. Still she focused on each statement, pushing aside for now the inevitable questions that came with each.

"Ælfang is both lock and key, but a key cannot turn itself. Doors are made to be opened and shut, but only the one at the threshold can make the decision to pass beyond. Remember, that neither good nor evil are absolutes, but that a choice must be made, regardless."

"The different realms of magic each carry their own unique power. Bios deals with life, the spark of energy that gives each living thing in the universe its existence, brief though it may be in the overall scheme of creation. It is also the thread that binds the realms of Thought and Reality together. Do not underestimate this power, for you will have need of it."

"Khemeia is the stuff of inanimate earth, a power in the minerals and compounds formed of lifeless matter, yet with the ability to shape the world around its laws. To most mortals, it is feared because of its power to destroy, to divide what was one whole into sundered fragments. It is often forgotten that this power can also unite, and that sometimes different elements can combine to make a new compound that is stronger and more durable than each alone."

"And there is the phuskios, least understood and most feared, rarest and yet most present in the workings of the world. Phuskios is the power of the universe itself, the invisible laws that govern all existence, both Reality and Thought alike. You yourself have barely begun to understand its secrets, and yet you know more than all but a tiny few of those who live under its code. With such insight the tallest mountain is but a speck of dust, and a single drop of water is like the onrushing flood. But never forget, young human, that the universe is governed by one primary rule. The forces of the universe are complex, and vast, but they operate according to the simple principle of balance. For every power that is released, for everything that exists, there is a counter, a reaction. Like a tree in a meadow on a sunny day, nothing in this world can exist without its shadow. Do not forget."

Izandra filed the words away safely in her memory, although she was already quite familiar with the basic laws of magic from her studies, and the three fields into which its practice was traditionally divided. This was particularly true of the phuskios tradition, in which she had been trained by Ethander and in which her recent talents had developed. The statements, each filling her thoughts in the soft whisper of the mental contact with the Walker, even reminded her of her mentor, when he would lecture her for long hours on the workings of magic. The familiarity and comfort of the scene and the words did not cause her to dismiss them, however. The Walker's words must have insight buried within, she thought, or the creature would not have shared them with her so deliberately.

The Walker continued.

"The Compact exists for a reason. Its rules cannot be broken arbitrarily, but they can be broken, and the danger of such a violation threatens all. The border between Thought and Reality must be kept intact, or both realms will be threatened by the blending that can result."

"Keep your trust close, and your senses alert. You will be betrayed by someone close to you, someone whose trust you had thought well-earned."

Izandra's mind jerked to full alertness at that statement, the first that had seemed to concern her directly, the one statement not cloaked in a veil of mystery and twisting words.

"Who? Who will betray me?" she prodded.

"I do not know. On this, I am but a channel for another, and no more is revealed to me. I cannot even tell you how to act on the warning, or if the betrayal has already happened, or if its conclusion lies somewhere ahead. Remember what I said earlier. The future is cloaked in shadows, and no one can see its true course. Although some can see the contours of the road more clearly than others, the path is not set in stone."

Her thoughts now swirling with suspicions and doubts, Izandra felt the mental connection between her and the Walker begin to waver. But even as the world around her began to swim back into focus, and she felt the hard, warm grasp of the Walker around her waist, she heard its voice in her mind once again. Even as the words formed, she felt herself being gently lowered back to the muddy ground, the stone fingers drawing back and retreating into the creature's bulk as it settled back into the earth.

"There is but one more boon I can offer," the voice said. "It is of my power, that of the Earthmother and of the Land. Take this gift, and keep it close to you. It will steady your path on the road ahead, and in the moment of need it may give you safe passage."

Izandra heard a stirring behind her, and turned. There, rising up out of the grass, was a slender sapling, growing out of the soil and the grass even as she watched. This tree was never destined to reach toward the sky high above, however. Even as she watched in amazement, the tree—now easily her height, and still growing—shuddered, the budding leaves withering and falling from new shoots that in turn dropped from the central shaft. Its limbs all fell away, leaving only a slender column of soft white wood that seemed aglow in the faint light of the cloudy day. Then the tree trembled again, as if shaking itself free from the grasp of the earth, and it fell toward her. She caught it easily, the wood feeling faintly warm in her grasp like the remembered touch of the Walker's stone hand. It was a staff, untouched by blade or axe, yet perfectly formed for her hand and size.

Still caught up in the wonder of what she'd seen, she turned back toward the Walker.

All that she saw was a low mound, a pile of boulders now inanimate and lacking even the pretense of life. She sensed nothing from them, not even a remnant of what had happened in this strange and wondrous place.

The wind blew cold, and she tugged her cloak close around her body. Taking up the staff, and using its support to guide her, she turned and left the grotto behind, not looking back.

* * *

The Ilfann were waiting for her when she returned from the deep wood. The druids were standing in a cluster, with Elodorion and Allonanther sitting together a short distance away. The latter two leapt up off the ground as she emerged, and she was surprised to see concern in their eyes. Concern, and curiosity as they saw the staff she carried.

"We thought that something might have happened," Allonanther explained. "They would not let us pass to search," he said, indicating the druids.

"What would be, would be," Elandra said. Her face was a mask, but Izandra could sense that she too felt a sense of relief... and something else that she could not fathom.

Strange, she thought, that she could see through their guises, impenetrable to her before. A legacy of her connection with the Walker? A power granted by the staff? Or just her tired imagination?

"I wasn't gone that long," she said, with a hint of irritation in her voice. She appreciated the concern of her guides, but she was far from helpless.

Allonanther and Elodorion exchanged a look, as they often had, but this time Izandra saw what flashed in their eyes before the neutral control snapped reflexively into place. "What is it?" she asked, turning toward the druid, seeking her answer from the Ilfann woman.

"You entered the forest two days past," the woman said simply. "Indeed, I myself had my fears, but we were beholden not to intervene."

Izandra blinked in surprise. She looked down at the white staff that she carried. But when her eyes lifted again, toward her two companions, there was only hard determination contained within.

"Let's go," she said. Without even another word to the druids, or even a look back, she and the forest guides strode away.

Back to their course, to Ælfang.

* * * * *

Chapter 27

The ancient temple of Fel Darian stood atop a solitary peak in the frozen depths of the Ralos Mountains, as it had stood in lonely isolation for centuries. Men still knew its name, spoken in hushed whispers and long-told legend, although no man had walked its corridors since long before the Dark War, before the rise of the Rigalian Empire, when the power of Roron had held undisputed sway over this part of the continent. The legends spoke of the place predating even those lost days of glory and power, and suggested that it was not the hands of mortal men that had shaped the massive blocks of granite that contained the memories of Roron's mighty past.

Even at the height of those ancient days, Fel Darian had been remote, beyond the reach of all but the most devoted pilgrim. In the days when the mightiest kings of Roron had traveled there, to pay homage to the old gods or the new, or to place the bones of their fathers safely within its hallowed depths, few saw what mysteries rested within. That mystique was encouraged by those same rulers, whose agents spread fantastic tales of power and mystery through the population, transforming the shrine into a cultural icon. But even those kings of old could not say for certain who had built Fel Darian, nor did they find mention of its construction in the ancient records. It had always just been there.

The long isolation of Fel Darian was about to be interrupted. A chain of men worked their way in single file up a jagged ridge that culminated in the blocky outline of the shrine. They were dressed in warm clothes, but their cracked and bleeding faces showed the hard abuse they'd suffered in getting here. Their eyes were as barren as the surrounding terrain, reflecting only the single-minded determination of their leader as he pushed them relentlessly toward their destination.

That determination had been fired by their sighting of Fel Darian on the afternoon of the previous day, after they'd crested yet another ridge and stared out across another horizon that included nothing more than more ice-bound peaks as far as they could see. Isar had seen the place first, its flat roof catching the light of the fading sun in the distance. The confirmation of their destination had buoyed them all, giving them the extra surge of energy that had allowed them to press on and make the difficult trek up to the temple on the following day.

Razmartin looked around at a world that was blanketed in pure white. His eyes had grown accustomed to the near-blinding reflection of the sun on the snow, although it still pained him to look upon it directly. He'd long since accommodated to the bitter cold, or at least he'd come to accept the torments felt by his body. He'd been lean and wiry before coming to Roron, but now his body was like a coiled spring, with all flab or fat burned off through weeks of hard effort. He wished for more of that fat, for insulation against the cold. Even his thoughts felt sluggish, his mind frequently drifting off into deep reveries while his body kept him in his place in the line. It was a dangerous thing to do. Already one of the baron's men—named Astas, Razmartin remembered with an effort—had fallen to his death during a climb that he would have considered easy had they been back in the hill country.

He glanced back over his shoulder, looking back to see if he could mark the ridge where they'd first spotted the shrine yesterday. Lotar walked a few yards behind him, bringing up the rear of their column, his gaze fixed on his feet as they trudged through the tracks formed by the others. The mage scanned the horizon briefly but gave the effort up as futile. It was impossible to pick out one ridge among all of the edges and lines of the surrounding mountains. Even now, all of the peaks around him looked identical, save for the one they were nearing now.

Their barbarian guides had left them at that ridge, refusing to come any nearer. Fel Darian held a prominent place in their superstitions, as well. Razmartin had not exchanged as much as a single word with either of them, and they'd remained outsiders in their little group, speaking only to the baron and then only briefly. Yet their contribution had been vital, the mage admitted, for the two had found animals to sustain them where even the baron's hunter senses had failed. Razmartin wondered at what it did to a man to live up here, at the very roof of the world, in a barren expanse where few creatures could exist, let alone thrive.

Leaving such thoughts behind, he turned his attention ahead. They were much closer to the shrine, now, but only the top portion was visible from their current vantage point. The place was shaped like a blockhouse, with hard angles that separated it from the surrounding mountains. He saw that the building appeared to be free of piled snow, probably because the angular stone blocks absorbed the sun's light, he reasoned. It was still too far away to make out clearly, but the stone seemed strangely incongruous with the slate gray of the mountain stone all around them, its color an almost sandy, faded brown. Another mystery, for he had not seen that color of stone since they'd ventured into the mountains weeks ago.

The baron had paused up ahead, atop a low rise. They were still a good distance off from their destination, perhaps a mile. Razmartin stood for a moment, letting his muscles savor the mingled relief and pain of stopping, then he forced himself to move ahead, to where the baron stood alone, staring at the building that waited for them ahead in the distance.

Razmartin was better off than some of the others. He passed Isar, the axe-wielding giant who had been injured in the brief but violent clash with the magyap. Since that day he'd kept up with them through a simple herculean effort of will, although his body now shook as he stood there, and as Razmartin passed he saw that the man's lips were blue and his eyes vacant. He wondered whether to mention it to the baron, but put the idea aside. The baron missed little; that the mage had learned very quickly.

He knew how his men were suffering, how all of them were suffering, but whatever strange mandate drove him to this place trumped all such mundane concerns. Razmartin thought about his own choices in the matter, but put such dark thoughts aside as he neared the baron, surrounded at a respectful distance by what was left of his men.

The baron did not acknowledge his presence. The mage had just opened his mouth to speak when a frightful screech erupted from ahead of them.

A long, pale form erupted from the ground in the vicinity of the temple, launching into the air in a blazon of motion. An exclamation of surprise rose up from the men—but not the baron, the mage observed—as the unexpected arrival spiraled into the sky. Its movements were too swift to follow at first, but as it leveled off and turned toward them, Razmartin caught a good look at what manner of thing they had provoked into action.

It was a drake. He had never seen one before, not even a slain specimen, but it was impossible not to recognize it from the books, the stories, and the legends. It was far larger, though, than any he had ever heard of before. Its form was slender and sinuous, easily twenty feet from the tip of its dagger-shaped head to the end of its tail. Its wingspan was at least that same distance across, its wings beating in smooth but powerful strokes to keep the beast aloft as it skimmed across the sky in their direction. Its body was gloved in scales colored somewhere between pale blue and pure white.

The winddrake bellowed another challenge, a horrible sound that echoed across the mountain peaks and came back at them. Razmartin felt a new lassitude come over him at the sight of it, a chill in the marrow of his bones that was born in fear rather than the cold. When he'd been in training in the guild school, the boys had formed septs, small but exclusive cliques that provided a common identity and sense of community, a brotherhood within a brotherhood of boys who would become men both feared and respected in the wider world outside. His sept had taken the name and sigil of the "dragon," for what better beast to symbolize the art of war, the craft to which he had aspired to learn since first being chosen to learn the mystic arts of khemeia? But this thing was nothing like that symbol, nor was it the fire-breathing, magical beast of fable and legend.

No, this beast was real, and it _was_ war.

Motion near him shook him from the creature's spell. He looked down and saw that the baron was coolly stringing his bow, his hands moving with smooth precision while his eyes never left the creature that was drawing nearer with each passing second. Then he unlatched the leather flap that closed the quiver at his hip, and drew forth a long, deadly arrow with a barbed steel head.

The baron's action seemed to shake him out of his lethargy, and his hand dipped into one of the pouches at his belt—and it did not tremble.

The baron barked out a single word, and his men fanned out among the snow-covered rocks, taking comfort from the calm authority of their leader. After all, did he not have the hide of such a beast already on the wall of his castle back in the Kol Hills? But this monster was half-again the size of that specimen, and now it was diving straight toward them, its wings drawn tight against its body as it became a living missile.

The baron drew back his bow, sighting down the length of the arrow, holding the tension tight for a moment longer...

The bowstring snapped.

Another of the baron's men fired an arrow at the creature as it dove, but the missile glanced harmlessly off the hard scales of its body. For an instant it looked as though the creature intended to slam right into them, crushing the humans between its body and the rocks, willing to sacrifice itself to destroy the intruders. Even the veteran Roronians flinched back, all except for the baron. He tossed his bow aside, hefted his heavy axe, and stood his ground.

At the last moment, the drake spread its wings, catching the air and slowing its descent. With a grace that belied its huge bulk, it reared back, landing on its thick and powerful hind legs with talons that grasped onto icy rock with sure purchase. The movement of its wings blew a great gust of wind into the humans, driving snow and ice into their eyes. It loomed over them for the barest instant, fully upright, its wings extended to balance itself, its massive jaws open to reveal several rows of jagged teeth. Then, with no transition, it attacked.

The baron was there to meet the first lunge of its sinuous neck, but even as he raised his axe to strike the creature collided into him with one coiled wing, knocking him roughly back by the sheer impact of its mass. Hrathgar fell into a snow pile a few yards away, battered but not seriously hurt.

One of the baron's men, a wiry man named Garon, attacked from the beast's flank, thrusting his short stabbing-spear at one of its hind legs. The drake responded before the blow could strike home, slashing its entire neck to the side with incredible speed. Garon was struck solidly in the torso, and he too went flying, landing in a limp pile some distance away while his spear clattered uselessly among the rocks a short distance further down.

The rest of the baron's men were moving to attack, but it was Isar who was closest, and the shaggy giant did not hesitate. He let out a great bellow and charged the drake head-on, his axe clutched with desperate strength in both hands. The drake's head swiveled back around to meet this new attacker, its great jaws opening in its own deadly challenge.

Man and beast met, each lashing out at the other with primordial fury. Isar moved like a man possessed, his wounds and sickness and exhaustion forgotten in the rush of battle. As the drake lunged he struck, his double-bladed axe biting into its armored shoulder. Hot blood jetted from the wound, steaming as it landed on the pristine snow, and the drake let out a scream of pain and fury that sounded strangely human in its intonation.

The burly giant planted his feet and hefted the bloody axe to strike again, but the blow never landed. The drake's head darted down like an executioner's blade, and its jaws clamped onto his neck and shoulder, pinioning his body and crushing it with the incredible strength of its jaws. The axe fell from nerveless fingers as the beast straightened, dragging the man, his feet kicking uselessly, into the air. Blood sprouted from the edges of the drake's jaws from the numerous wounds torn open by its sharp teeth. Then there was a sickening crunch as Isar's chest cavity collapsed. As if waiting for the sound, the drake snapped its neck up, tossing the broken shell that had been a man away. Isar's body landed in a bloody heap just a few feet from where Razmartin was standing, his face ashen with horror.

But the mage's hesitation lasted only a moment, as his training took over. His hand emerged from within his fur cloak holding a slender glassine vial, etched with runic symbols around its circumference. He twisted the specially crafted stopper at the top of the vial, an action that began a complex but predictable chemical reaction that would end in an absolutely certain result. He waited—one second, two—then hurled the vial at the drake.

His aim was true, and the vial flew in an arc directly toward the drake's snarling head. The creature had reared again, as if challenging another of its puny opponents to test it, with three of them already down, one permanently. The Roronians were coming closer, but cautiously, forming a broad ring so as to coordinate their attack this time. The creature buffeted the air with its wings, an action that caught the vial and swirled it away from the creature's body, to fall toward the ground a dozen yards distant.

Right behind one of the baron's men.

The reaction that Razmartin had started concluded even before the vial struck the ground. It blossomed into a fireball less than six feet behind the surprised Roronian, who'd seen the glint of sunlight on the silvery object but who'd barely had time to turn toward it when it exploded. The concussion of the blast knocked him flying forward, and when he landed, his back and side were alive with clinging tongues of flame. For a moment he struggled to rise, but then collapsed, rolling over and releasing a cloud of steam as the persistent fire touched the snow.

Razmartin watched the whole scene with horror, but the Roronian warriors could not move to assist their comrade, for the drake had moved to the attack. It pounded forward across the rocky ground with its muscled hind legs, toward one of the Roronians. The man stood his ground, clutching his greatsword tightly, while two of his comrades rushed in to attack the creature from its flanks.

The drake covered the last gap of distance with a lunging leap, the deadly head darting forward like a spear. The Roronian—Lotar, Razmartin realized, recognizing him—dodged backward, but was struck a glancing blow by the head that knocked him roughly prone. One hind claw descended on his vulnerable form as the drake's momentum carried it forward, but the Roronian was able to roll aside with barely an instant to spare. The drake's talons shattered loose stone as it dug into the ground, gaining purchase as it twisted to face the new attackers charging toward it. As it turned it swept its tail around in a wide arc, clearing the ground before it. The two Roronians scattered, one throwing himself to the ground to avoid the sweep, the second caught on the shoulder and knocked down.

Another arrow struck the creature in the back and stuck there, although it had barely pierced the creature's thick scales. The archer was Garon, still wavering from the effects of the drake's earlier blow. He had unlimbered his compact bow and was now loading another arrow. The drake spun to meet him, forcing Lotar, who had managed to rise to a crouch, to duck and dodge back again to avoid being stepped on.

But before the drake could launch into another charge, another attacker appeared. It was the baron, rushing toward the drake with a bloodcurdling whoop, his axe again at the ready. The drake shifted to meet the attack, snapping out with its jaws again once Hrathgar came within range of the creature's darting neck.

But the baron was ready for the attack, and even as the head began its lunge he'd started his counter. He darted to the side, a motion that the drake easily tracked, altering its strike to compensate. But then, as the great jaws opened to seize him as they had Isar, he spun and brought the axe around in a perfectly-timed two-handed sweep.

The well-honed blade caught the drake right at the base of its skull, tearing a great gash in its neck. The impact, and the beast's reflexive jerk in response, knocked the baron backward and pulled the axe out of his hand. But the drake was hurt, and hurt bad. It staggered forward, its head twisting in agony, harsh sounds and small spurts of blood jetting from its mouth as its jaws worked in jerky movements.

But the beast was far from dead, and in its agonies it was still very dangerous. It spread its wings, as if trying to fly, but the cut on its shoulder and the horrible gash in its neck caused it to lurch to the side and scramble just to keep its balance.

Durghan had rushed to the baron's side as the creature drew back from the battle, but Hrathgar was already up and looking for his dislodged weapon. He found it lying in a red-stained patch of snow and recovered it while those of his men still able to stand gathered around him. Razmartin, came forward, too, but kept his distance.

"It's not done with us yet," the baron said, spitting a red dollop of bloody saliva onto the snow at his feet.

As if in response to his words, the drake, now a considerable distance away from them, wheeled and slowly turned in an arc to face them once again. The beast's head, now slick with both its own blood and the blood of the man it had killed, came up, and despite the distance, Razmartin swore he could see a burning hatred in the creature's dark eyes.

And then it came again, not in an overwhelming rush this time, but in a steady and measured lope that swiftly ate up the yards that separated them.

Garon fired another arrow, but while the missile stuck in one leathery wing, it did not seem to hinder the creature. It no longer seemed interested in escape, but instead focused on the destruction of these much-smaller foes that had so grievously injured it.

Again, the baron gestured to his men, and the four still standing—Durghan, Lotar, Kamar, and Garon—spread out to form a line perpendicular to the drake's rush. Hrathgar formed the center of the line, and the drake seemed fixated on that point.

Without turning, Hrathgar addressed Razmartin. "If you are planning on doing something, mage, you'd better do it now."

Razmartin did not reply. He had not wasted the brief interlude, his attention focused on something cradled in his hands half-hidden by the outer folds of his cloak. Even as the drake charged, he himself leapt forward, to where Garon was already nocking another arrow to fire at the beast, one last shot before they launched once more into desperate melee.

Ignoring Garon's surprised look, he grasped the man's bow, forestalling the shot, and globbed a wad of something onto the tip of his arrow with his other hand.

"Don't miss," he said, releasing the bow. Garon looked past the magus, at the baron, who'd watched the exchange, and who now nodded.

Only a few seconds had passed, but already the drake had covered half of the distance between that had separated it from the waiting humans. Garon lifted his bow, and sighted, raising the head of the arrow to compensate for the added weight of whatever it was that Razmartin had put on it. He held the bowstring back for an added instant, letting the drake close another dozen yards, then released.

The arrow flew clumsily through the air, but it no longer had far to go. It struck the drake square in the chest, but with little impact, and certainly no chance of penetrating its thick hide.

Only when it hit, the air was filled with a loud "whump" that echoed off the mountains. A small cloud of smoke enveloped the torso of the creature, and when it emerged from it a moment later, its momentum still carrying it forward at a steady pace, a blackened hole easily a foot across was visible in its chest. For a terrible instant it seemed as though even that would not stop it, the drake now looming only a few more paces from them, but then it leaned forward and finally tilted full over, slamming hard into the ground. The baron had to dodge out of its path, for when it finally came to a rest, it was stretched out right in the middle of their impromptu defensive line. Its body heaved with a few final breaths, then it was still.

The five men stood there for a moment, breathing hard, staring as one at the massive body of the creature.

"Check on the others," the baron ordered, and Lotar and Durghan moved to comply. Garon had slumped against the flank of the beast, his chest heaving, his head bowed. Razmartin remembered the blow the man had taken from the creature, and didn't think he would have gotten up so easily after such an impact. Hrathgar looked at Garon briefly, but instead of talking to him, he walked over to the head of the drake, where Razmartin stood waiting.

"Congratulations, magus," the baron said. He drew his dagger, leaned down, and with a few moments of effort, withdrew with one of the drake's bloody teeth in his hand. "Dragonsbane."

"We all worked together to slay it," Razmartin demurred. It wasn't that he lacked interest in the baron's offer—the bodies of drakes were said to have all sorts of interesting properties in the practice of khemeia—but at the moment the very sight of its ravaged corpse sickened him. With every look at it, he could not help but see Isar... and Dalek, the man he'd blasted with his own misaimed power.

He knew what Lotar would say even before the man reported back. He knew the limits, and potential, of his own magic. "Isar, and Dalek, both dead, sir," the Roronian said. "Kamar will be all right, once he can catch his breath. That thing's tail packed quite a sting."

Hrathgar glanced at Razmartin, who still had not taken the offered token. Grunting, he tucked the tooth into his belt, then turned back toward his men. Garon had recovered, and now stood ready, if still a little unsteady. Just like Isar had, Razmartin thought to himself. His injuries had not stopped him from achieving the glorious death that all of the Roronians seemed to prize so. Just so they did not expect the same from him, the mage thought grimly.

Hrathgar was waiting for him, the other two having gone ahead to join Durghan and the recovering Kamar. As he passed, the baron said, quietly, "I don't begrudge necessary deaths in the cause of victory, mage, but watch your aim. If you kill another of my men..."

He didn't finish his statement, just turned and walked away, but Razmartin felt a chill that had nothing to do with the cold settle over him.

* * * * *

Chapter 28

Less than an hour later, they entered the precincts of the ancient temple.

The place was designed in a massive scale, dwarfing the Roronians, who looked about in amazement. Fel Darian stood on a broad plateau, and yet somehow the area immediately around it was free of accumulated snow. Their boots crunched on flat, weathered stone, laid in huge blocks easily twelve feet on a side. Razmartin knelt and brushed aside a thin dusting of snow to reveal the sandy brown stone beneath. Sandstone, perhaps, but how it had gotten here, and held up so incredibly to millennia of the elements, was a question utterly beyond him. He found one of the boundary lines that separated the stone from the next, and traced it with a gloved finger. The gap was so thin that the two may as well have been part of the same stone. He abstractly wondered how thick the block was.

He saw that the Roronians had pressed on some distance ahead, and rose hurriedly to catch up to them. They'd passed within a double ring of stone pillars that surrounded the inner complex of structures that made up the temple proper. Each pillar was easily ten feet thick, and rose to a height of around thirty feet. It was impossible now to tell if the pillars had once supported something, but that did not detract from the impressive sense of power that they represented. Razmartin saw that Lotar and Garon had paused at one, and as he joined them he saw that the pillars were marked with carved symbols in a runic script that he did not recognize. There were designs, as well, painstakingly carved into the stone, although time had worn them away to such a degree that none of them could identify what was supposed to be depicted. Glorious battle and deserved victory, Razmartin surmised wryly.

"Stay together," the baron's voice drifted back to them from somewhere up ahead, and the others hurried to join him.

Hrathgar, Durghan, and Kamar had already penetrated to the inner ring of pillars, and they were looking at the massive construction of the temple directly in front of them. As Razmartin and the other warriors joined them, they could not help a moment of stark admiration of its simple power.

The main building was fashioned from massive blocks of the same stone that made up the pillars and the flagstones. Now that they were right in front of it, Razmartin could see that the building was shaped in the form of a truncated pyramid, not a simple square block, with the base perhaps twenty or thirty feet wider than its flat roof. At its peak, the temple was half-again the height of the columns. Razmartin ran a few calculations in his head and concluded that the whole of the structure probably incorporated at least three times the volume of the baron's fortress in the Kol Hills, although it was impossible to guess at what spaces lay inside its massive walls. In any case, they would soon find out, for an entrance was visible from their current vantage point, a dark slit in the base of the building facing them. Everything was quiet; even the sound of the wind seemed muted here.

The baron said nothing, just stood there facing the building. None of the others wanted to break the silence. Finally, the baron trudged out into the open area between the inner ring of columns and the closest wall of the temple, where the entry waited. Here, there was no snow at all on the bare flagstones, although the air was just as bitingly cold.

The dark entrance seemed to grow larger as they approached, until they stood directly in its shadow. It was an unremarkable passage, about ten feet wide and fifteen feet high, that seemed to run straight into the depths of the temple.

"We'll need light," the baron said, looking directly at Razmartin as he spoke.

While the Roronians waited, he prepared a mixture of powders drawn from the pouches at his waist, carefully pouring the finished compound into a cone-shaped metal device that he pulled from another pouch.

"Do not stare directly into the light, unless you wish to damage your eyes," he warned them, and then he snapped his fingers directly above the cone. A spark erupted, and when it touched the dark powder, a bright flare filled the area with light.

He handed the torch to Lotar, who took it gingerly—and not without a glance at Hrathgar for approval, Razmartin noticed.

"It's not even hot," the warrior announced.

"Still, be careful," the mage said. "It will ignite anything flammable, and once lit, it's a devil to put out."

"How long will it burn?" another of the men asked.

"A few hours."

"Kamar, point," the baron said, and they moved out, Lotar's magical torch lighting their way.

The passageway continued straight into the temple for about forty paces. The walls of the corridor were plain, unmarked stone, smooth from centuries of gradual wear. The floor was utterly bare, without even a layer of dust to mark the passage of time. It was as if the place was timeless, remaining exactly the same without regard to the changes transpiring in the world outside.

The warriors shifted with unaccustomed nervous movements, causing their gear to clank noisily against their bodies as they moved. All save the baron, who moved with a sleek ease that reminded Razmartin of a cat hunting prey.

After a short distance, they saw an archway ahead with a larger space beyond. As they drew nearer, they could see that the corridor opened into an elaborately decorated room.

They entered cautiously. The room was rectangular, with their exit opening in the center of a long fifty-foot wall. An identical passage exited twenty feet across from them in the center of the opposite wall. The light of their torch illuminated the entire place, indicating additional exits at the far ends, more corridors warded by arches of plain stone.

But other than the arches, the rest of the room was anything but plain.

The walls were carved in intricate reliefs, forming etched murals that extended from the floor to the ceiling. Even the ceiling, which rose to a vaulted center at least fifteen feet high, was decorated with art in pigments that were now faded beyond recognition. But the carvings were still discernable, in all their frightening power.

The reliefs were depictions of a great war. Scenes of violent battle marched around the circumference of the chamber, an endless series of clashes etched out in painstaking detail by a carver who'd lacked neither skill nor attention to detail. Thousands of individually formed figures met their deaths in those murals. It was impossible to discern who the winners or losers were, or even what the sides were in any detail, for the scenes blended into each other and overlapped, the attackers that drove their enemies before them in one place suffering annihilation from a surprise ambush a few feet further on. In sum, the effect was quite disturbing.

Razmartin forced himself to examine the carvings but also looked for reactions from his companions. The Roronians looked around with wary eyes, as though the carvings hid real threats that might strike out at them from the stone.

The baron led them into the corridor on their left. Razmartin could not tell if the choice was arbitrary, or based on some deeper knowledge of this place. Mentally, he began mapping their course, in case they needed to find their way back in haste.

The Roronians and the mage continued down another corridor, identical to the first one they'd entered through. After about fifty paces it turned sharply to the right, and shortly thereafter the smooth floor gave way to broad stone steps that they descended to a wide landing facing a pair of stone doors.

The landing was marked with decorative, rune-carved pillars to either side, but it was the doors that drew their attention. They were surrounded with a lintel carved into the outline of two warriors, the pair facing each other with raised swords that touched directly above the point where the two doors came together. Razmartin knew a fair amount about the arts and accoutrements of warfare from his training, but he could not recognize the style of their armor from any of those he had studied or encountered. The features of the warriors were shrouded in hoods that lent them a sinister appearance.

The doors themselves were massive slabs of stone. There were no handles, locks, or other indications other than a narrow slit down the middle between them to indicate that they were in fact portals.

They gathered in front of the doors. The baron gestured to Durghan and Garon, and the two burly Roronians approached the doors cautiously, slinging their weapons. Each took one of the massive portals, and pushed at them, tentatively at first, then with all of their strength.

Nothing happened. Durghan tapped on his door with the hilt of his dagger.

"Solid, m'lord."

"Shall we seek another route?" Razmartin asked.

The baron considered the doors, and took a step toward them. "Can you break through?" he asked the mage.

"Perhaps," Razmartin replied, dubiously. "But it would consume much of my remaining resources, and there is no guar—"

He trailed off, staring at the portals like all of the others. For even as he had spoken the baron had moved closer to inspect the doors himself, and had touched one of them with a gauntleted hand, near the line that divided the two blocks of stone that barred their way.

A seal now existed across the doors, a faint tracing in dull red ochre, a circle about three feet across filled with the outline of a horned great helm. The seal was faded almost into invisibility but obvious now, leaving each of them to doubt whether they had simply missed it, or whether it had only just appeared at the baron's touch.

The baron's hand had crossed the outer edge of the seal, and where his fingers had passed its outline had been broken. Tiny red flakes of what might have been pigments broke off and fell to the floor, glittering slightly in the bright light of their torch. They all watched Hrathgar, who regarded what he had done for a contemplative moment. Then, with a deliberate sweep, he slashed downward with his hand and fully sundered what was left of the seal.

It could not have had any effect, the destruction of a painted-on seal against the hard reality of thick stone left undamaged and unyielding before them. And yet, the doors parted, opening inward before them, moving of their own volition to reveal a large area beyond.

"By the gods," Razmartin heard Kamar whisper beside him. The mage was not a superstitious man, but he found that he could not disagree with the sentiment. If the baron was discomfited by what had just happened, though, he gave no sign, and his calm fortified the others as he led them into the large chamber beyond the doors.

It was a temple, that was immediately obvious. The room, easily fifty feet across, was constructed in two tiers, with the outer boundaries at the level of the entry, and the center of the room sunken with a floor perhaps ten feet lower. Four massive pillars at the corners of this lower area supported the ceiling above, each carved and designed in similar fashion to those they'd seen in the plaza outside. Between each of the pillars, broad stone steps led down to the recessed area in the center of the floor. Four large altar-stones were arranged atop a round dais in the center of that space.

In contrast to the plain brown stone they'd seen elsewhere, this place was alive with colors. Each of the four walls held a massive mural that had been crafted in carefully arranged colored tiles. The tiles had long since faded, but the effect was still impressive. The wall to their left bore the image of a great warrior, clad in black plate mail, bearing a massive double-headed war axe. Directly ahead was the image of a massive drake, clearly of the stylized, legendary sort, as a stream of fire done in a shower of red malachite that shimmered in their light erupted from its too-large jaws. The scene on the right wall was more intricate, and thus more difficult to identify at first, but it resolved itself into a large throne room, with a solitary figure sitting in the distance atop a huge throne that shone like faded gold. The figure atop the throne was too distant to see clearly, but he was reminiscent of the great warrior in the opposite mural.

As they entered, the looked back to their own wall, and saw that the mural there was damaged, with a series of cracks running through the wall and numerous broken pieces of tile crunching under their feet as they moved. What was left looked like the outlines of two people, one dressed in white, the other in black, but their faces, and any other clues as to the meaning of the scene, were no longer discernable.

None of them spoke. It seemed inappropriate, somehow, to disturb the spirits that inhabited this ancient place. Hrathgar only gestured to his men, and they spread out to search the room. The only sound was the crunch of their boots on the broken remnants of the mural above as they moved about the chamber.

Razmartin followed along behind them, taking in each and every detail with his eyes, although he touched nothing. It did not take them long to search the ancient temple. Kamar discovered a small stone door in a far corner of the room that they levered open with some difficulty, revealing another corridor beyond. All of them were beginning to feel a sense of urgency, a reluctance to spend more time than necessary in the crowded confines of the temple's depths. Perhaps it was the preternatural effect of what had happened at the doors above, Razmartin thought. He was not immune to such feelings, but at least he'd been reared around the arcane ways of magic, unlike Hrathgar's soldiers. They were Roronians, though, and their first obligation was duty, regardless of where that duty would lead them.

The corridor culminated in another staircase that led down to another level of the temple. With Hrathgar in the lead, they descended, with Lotar holding the torch up high to illuminate the bare stone steps. The stairs ended at another landing, and once again they faced another set of heavy stone doors. This time, however, they found the way open; one of the doors was ajar just enough for them to slip through. Passing through, they found themselves at one end of a long corridor.

An old, musty odor greeted them. A long line of thick pillars ran down the center of the passage, truncating it into two separate aisles. Shadowy alcoves jutted off to either side at regular intervals. Lotar shone the light of the torch into the nearest, illuminating its curving rear wall and a flat stone bier upon which a simple box fashioned from stone slabs rested. The stone of the sarcophagus was the natural gray rock of the mountains, and it set a stark contrast to the pale brown color of the temple walls and floor.

Garon leaned into the alcove and examined the sarcophagus more closely while the others watched. A band of metal formed a seal between the edges in the stone that formed its lid, and in this metal seal an inscription of some sort was etched in runic characters. Unlike the script used in the temple construction proper, Razmartin thought he recognized the hard angles of the Roronian runic alphabet.

"Grozan III," Garon breathed. "The Blood Conqueror."

Razmartin did not recognize the name, or the title, but he saw that all of the Roronians did. "This must be the Hall of Kings," Durghan said, his voice edged with a hint of superstitious awe.

"Leave the dead to their rest," the baron said. He started down the corridor, forcing the others to follow. They did not stop to examine the other sarcophagi, or to decipher the clues as to which legendary Roronian kings might lie within. None of the tombs appeared to have been disturbed. There was no reason to, Razmartin knew, from his study of Roronian culture. They did not bury their dead with totems or treasure, and if the dead owned desirable gear, like horses or weapons or a suit of plate armor, it fell to his companions to determine who would put them to best use. If the warrior lacked an heir with the strength to maintain a claim, that is. Such claims were sometimes settled over contests of strength and skill, and it was not unheard of for a clash over one warrior's sword or horse to result in additional property being available for others to fight for later. Land was not allocated in this way, however. That type of wealth was the basis for the power of the noble class, and there the principle of primogeniture held utter sway in both law and tradition. But the tradition of handing down war-prizes was still a powerful one to the militaristic Roronians. Razmartin had even heard that sometimes a woman was included in the category of such prized possessions to be reallocated after death; the idea nauseated him, but in his view it was yet another piece of evidence of the dehumanizing impact of Roron's aggressive culture. At least they'd given up the barbaric custom of slavery, still practiced in the Old Kingdoms, although the serfs who worked the land in much of Roron would probably not see the distinction in the misery of their pathetic lives.

Razmartin entertained these dark thoughts as they passed the remnants of bygone eras, now left as moldering bones in sealed coffins hidden here at the edge of the world. His distraction almost caused him to miss the door, but one of the warriors saw it and called out to the others. Lotar brought the torch, which illuminated a recessed alcove that was slightly deeper and wider than the ones they had passed. Instead of a stone bier and ancient tomb, this alcove contained only four wide stone steps that descended to another massive stone door. This portal was not marked by any signs or carved sigils upon its surface, although as the light played upon it, they could see that it was formed of neither the ordinary gray rock that made up the tombs nor the pale sandstone of the temple itself. Instead, the door seemed a flat plane of black jet, with a slight sheen that caught and reflected the glow of their torch in its depths. Razmartin could not explain why, but he felt a cold shiver pass through him on examining that door. He looked to see if the others felt it, but the baron was already leading them to the portal.

"No hinges," one of the warriors said, as they examined the door. "Whoever built this place, they didn't want to make it easy to get from room to room."

"Shine the light here," the baron commanded, bending low toward the base of the slab. Razmartin came closer as well, looking over Lotar's shoulder as the warrior bent low, shielding his eyes from the glare of the light. He saw what had alerted the baron; the stone was marred by several deep gashes near its base, forming holes that were each about six inches wide and one or two inches deep. There were six of the holes, evenly spaced along the base of the door.

"I think this one is brute strength," the baron said. None of them grasped his meaning until he slung his pack and laid it and his axe to the side, against the wall of the alcove, and crouched in front of the door, digging his fingers into the cracks in the stone. Once it was obvious what he had in mind, Durghan and Garon joined him, the three men crowding close together.

The others watched while the three grunted with exertion, pitting their combined strength against the weight of the slab. For a long moment it looked as though their efforts were being wasted; then, almost reluctantly, the stone lifted. An inch, then two, then slowly more as the men heaved and lifted with all their strength. The door reached a height of six inches, then, as Garon let out a cry of frustration, it fell back to the ground. The Roronians backed away from it as it slammed hard into the stone floor, filling the catacombs with its solid boom.

"I am sorry, lord baron," Garon said, his head bowed.

Hrathgar clapped his shoulder in a rare display of camaraderie. "We are all tired, and battered," the baron said. "Let us retire, and return tomorrow rested and ready."

The company retreated back to the upper level of the place, and retraced their steps back to the entry of the temple and to the chill world above. They camped there, in that first corridor, close enough to breathe the fresh air of the outside but sheltered from the full force of the wind. Razmartin was concerned for their supplies, which were low, and without the aid of the barbarians he dreaded finding more in this barren place. But the baron had already considered the answer to this question, and that night they ate strips of roasted drake flesh, cooked over a fire provided by the arts of the khemeia mage. Razmartin did not begrudge that use of his power, even as he later inventoried the nearly empty pouches that hung from his belt.

The next morning the sun rose in a sky that was once again clouded over, with a cold wind that swept across the bluff and into their place of shelter. It did not bode well for their journey back, although none of them commented on that obvious reality. Instead, they ate a cold breakfast of roasted meat, carefully packed up what was left in their packs, and once again delved into the ancient temple. Once again Razmartin prepared the magical torch, handing it to Kamar to carry this day. He did not tell them that he had no further ingredients for another, if their exploration demanded another day in the temple.

They returned to the solid black door in the Hall of Kings by a roundabout route. Hrathgar suggested that they examine some of the other passages they'd passed first, to eliminate the possibility that any other creatures might be lurking in the place that might threaten them while they were trying to trying to win through the heavy portal. They found several bare chambers on the upper level, and another, more grandiose hallway with a vaulted ceiling lined with vaguely carved warrior statues. The hall culminated in a pair of vast stone doors. Those doors would not budge against their combined efforts, but when Razmartin calculated that they probably just led back outside, they left them behind and returned to the lower level through the temple.

In their explorations they found no sign that anything else had disturbed the sanctity of the temple in centuries. They were less concerned about danger on the lower level, for the sealed doors had blocked access until their arrival, and they had found no other routes leading down. They briefly probed the rest of the Hall of Kings, poking into a few chambers at its end that didn't seem to go anywhere, before returning to the strange black door that had preoccupied all of them during their rest. They brought with them a slab of rock they'd found in one of the rooms, a square so heavy that it took both Garon and Durghan to carry it, which would suffice to secure the door, if they could manage to lift it high enough.

Once again, the baron and his men crouched in front of the door and prepared for the attempt. This time Lotar took Garon's place, and the three of them strained as one, slowly lifting the heavy slab. Once they got it up to their waists, Razmartin and Garon together slid the square block into place, holding the door open three feet above the floor.

Razmartin was not surprised when the baron was the first to crawl through the narrow opening, after first recovering his axe and taking the torch from Kamar. Durghan followed, and then the others, with Razmartin bringing up the rear.

On passing under the slab door—he saw that it was easily six inches thick—Razmartin straightened and found himself in a circular vault. The chamber was about twenty feet across, with a high domed ceiling that reached its peak a like distance above. The place radiated age from the very stones, but there were no cobwebs, no dust, no signs that the vault had been touched by decay since whatever ancient time in which the door had last been closed. Decorative pillars lined the walls, and between them empty iron sconces were set into the walls.

He noted all such details in passing, for his attention was drawn to the same thing that had attracted each of the Roronians. He joined the half-circle they'd formed around the round altar stone that dominated the center of the chamber. But it was not the stone itself, but what lay atop it that had drawn their attention.

The light of their torch reflected brilliantly off of metal that looked like bronze, but shone with the bright luster of polished gold. It was a suit of armor, draped across the surface of the plain stone. It looked like plate mail, but not in any style that Razmartin recognized. He thought it reminiscent of some examples he'd seen of ancient armor worn in the days before forged steel had emerged as a superior alternative to softer bronze. It looked heavy and awkward to him, the massive breastplate matched with long greaves for the arms and legs, along with smaller plates to cover other regions of the body. Underneath the plates was a coat of what looked like black leather, for all that logic told him that such material would not have survived any real length of time in this place, and certainly not the centuries that it had appeared to have rested in this vault. Still, he had to admit that the workmanship was incredible, despite the apparently dated construction of the armor itself. Particularly impressive was the ensign that appeared cast into the very metal of the breastplate, a representation of a great drake with outstretched wings. A full helm completed the suit, with narrow slits for eyes and stylized horns jutting from each side in an obvious imitation of the seal that they'd encountered on the doors above.

The Roronians stared at the armor for a long minute, then their gazes turned inevitably toward their leader, awaiting his cue to action. Hrathgar did not register their attention, but walked slowly to the side of the altar. He reached out and took up the helmet, examining it closely in the light of the torch. Then he returned it to its place, and examined the rest of the armor, tugging at a plate here, checking a strap there with an expert eye. His men watched, but kept their distance, leaving the baron's claim to this treasure open and unchallenged.

"Interesting," the baron said. He gestured for the mage to come closer, and handed his torch off to Kamar, who was closest, before turning his attention back to the armor. "It's old; bronze hasn't been used in armor for centuries, and yet, it's not your average suit of plate. A piece of history, wouldn't you say, mage?"

The mage nodded, not sure what the baron wanted from him.

Hrathgar seemed to grow more agitated, and he strode around the far edge of the altar, putting it between him and his warriors. "A fine treasure, but worth coming all this way?" he asked no one in particular. "I have many suits of armor, admittedly not as pretty as this one, but decidedly more functional. I had thought, at least a chest of gold coins, or something of worth! Is this what she meant by a 'great treasure'? Something vital to the preservation of all that I have won by sweat and skill and bold audacity? Or maybe it was all just a ruse, to get me out of the Kol Hills, to remove me from the picture while other plans were brought to fruition."

The warriors looked confused, sharing a few awkward glances at their leader's sudden rant.

Hrathgar suddenly seemed to collect himself, taking a deep breath. "Well, no matter," he said, and his voice had returned to its usual timbre, its usual control. "We shall at the very least win a fair bounty for this item," he said, turning back to his men. "And an equal share to all who fought to win it," he added, poking the armor with a hard push of his hand.

"Hail baron Hrathgar!" Durghan shouted, and the others echoed his refrain.

Razmartin did not join in the accolade. So, this was all about a treasure hunt, was it? He took some grim pleasure in the fact that it had not resulted in the loot the baron had expected. He also wondered who the mysterious 'she' was whom the baron had referred to in his angry tirade. He'd heard the rumors about his sorceress advisor, presumably back at the baron's citadel in the Kol Hills. His report on this excursion would have more to pass on to his superiors than he'd initially expected.

"And who knows, maybe we'll find something else buried in one of those other rooms we passed," the baron was saying. "And then... what's this now?"

Hrathgar had noticed something, revealed when he had pushed aside the armor. He leaned over, grabbing something still half-hidden under the mass of plate and leather. When he pulled the handle free the item was revealed: a single-bladed waraxe, its blade gleaming in the light of the torch.

"Well now," he said. "See, men, we've already found something new, hiding beneath the surface." He admired the axe, which did look rather impressive upon casual examination. Its blade was a crescent forged of some unidentifiable gray metal, so dark as to be almost black, neither bronze nor steel nor any forged alloy that Razmartin had ever seen. Its handle was a long shaft of equally dark wood, wrapped in a wide band of leather at the base to allow its wielder to grip the weapon with both hands. In all, the axe was nearly five feet in length.

"An excellent weapon," Lotar commented, although it was clear even to Razmartin that the axe was already spoken for. The baron slashed the air in a few practice swings, then hefted the weapon easily over his shoulder.

"All right, let's get this packed up," the baron said, gesturing toward the armor. "And search every crack and corner of this place," he added. "I don't want to miss anything else."

The Roronians went to work, following the baron's orders. The armor had been laid out fully assembled, but Durghan and Garon carefully unstrapped the buckles and fasteners and placed each piece separately into their packs. At least there was plenty of room, now, with their food supplies virtually depleted. It was an unpleasant reminder of the hard reality of the return trip through the mountains that awaited them.

Yet the Roronians seemed to be in high spirits, buoyed by the find of the axe and the armor, and perhaps by the baron's promise to share the treasure with them. Or maybe it was the promise of being able to return home soon, now that they had reached their destination and found at least something of worth to bring back. Certainly Razmartin, who was less interested in the items they'd found, was eager to be back in warmer lands again.

The baron approached him while Durghan and Garon were packing the armor and Lotar and Kamar were searching the rest of the chamber for hidden doors or compartments that might hide additional treasures. The mage noted that none of them were close enough to overhear what the baron said.

"So, mage, not a completely wasted trip?" he said. Apparently, he'd forgotten, or wanted him to forget, his earlier comments. He still carried the axe slung across his shoulder, like a woodcutter, or an executioner.

"If you say so, baron," the mage replied noncommittally.

"Think on it. You have walked halls that no man has walked in centuries, seen sights long forgotten even to historians. And you've gotten to test your skills against real challenges, the magyap, that drake. I think you will come to consider this journey well-spent, even if you do not do so now."

Razmartin did not respond. Maybe the baron was right, but he didn't think so. And he suspected that the baron wanted more from him than a reassurance that he was enjoying their little jaunt through Fel Darian.

The baron recognized perhaps that the mage was not interested in light banter, so he cut to his point. "That armor clearly has some unusual qualities. How else could it have survived as long as it has in this place? That leather should have rotted away long ago."

"Unless it's not as old as you believe," Razmartin interjected.

"What are you saying? That others have been here more recently? Who?" His expression darkened. "Or maybe you think this is all a game for your benefit. Maybe I planted the armor here, and feigned this 'discovery' for your entertainment?"

"And what could you hope to gain through such an elaborate deception?" the mage queried.

"Don't be coy, mage," the baron said harshly. "You knew as soon as I approached that I was going to ask you to broker the sale of that armor. There might be buyers in Roron willing to pay for such an artifact, but as you may have noticed, I am not well-liked in my own country right now."

Razmartin sighed in exasperation. "Baron, I am not accusing you of anything. Certainly you would gain nothing even if you had planted the armor; surely you know that if you sell it through the Guild, they would independently verify its age and other properties? Why don't you just try asking straight out for what you want, for a change?"

The baron calmed and even let out a small smile, although Razmartin guessed that the change was not so smooth inside the man. "Your words are wise, mage, as always. That's what I like about you, you serve as an effective balance to the more... aggressive instincts of myself and my men."

"Flattery, baron?" Razmartin asked with a raised eyebrow.

"Not at all. In any case, we should attend to more immediate matters of the moment. We can speak more of this later. I only ask that you think on what I've said."

The mage nodded. The baron had still not asked him to serve as middleman for the sale of the armor. Apparently directness was a trait that the Roronians prized only on the field of battle.

The baron gathered up his men, who had studiously ignored the brief conversation between the baron and the mage, and headed back for the exit. They each in turn crawled under the door, and gathered again out in the alcove.

"Should we remove the block?" Garon asked.

"To what end?" the baron replied. "Let's search those other chambers, and see if there's anything else..."

His words trailed off into nothingness. As he'd spoken he'd stepped out into the corridor of the Hall of Kings, and as the light of their torch cast its illumination over the familiar hall the six men stood there in stunned silence.

"By the Nine," Lotar whispered.

Revealed in the light of the torch stood rank upon rank of insubstantial figures, all facing toward them. They had the look of fighting men, clad in armor in a variety of styles and clutching weapons in hands as translucent as smoky, imperfectly blown glass. Their faces bore vacant expressions, as empty as their phantom bodies, but their eyes burned with a cold fire that sent a thrill of terror through any man that looked upon them.

The corridor seemed colder for their presence, for all that they were unreal, apparent shades without substance.

"What... what are they?" Kamar said, the words coming out in a harsh croak.

"They are spirits of the dead," Razmartin said, his voice cold and level. He took comfort in the sound made by his own speaking, although inside, he felt his guts clenching in frozen fear. "They are given form by the presence of ancient magic, combined with a mandate from life so strong that they linger after death to complete it. No doubt they ward this place against an intrusion like ours."

"Our tales speak of them as well," the baron said. None of them took their eyes off of the phantom spirits, although not one of them had stirred in the slightest since the men had emerged from the vaulted chamber. "They are called scree, and they are just reflections of the once-living, without life of their own. They feed on fear, a weapon deadlier than the sharpest blade."

"They're everywhere," Lotar whispered. The warrior's assessment seemed accurate; the spirits filled the corridor in both directions and the only route open to them was back into the vault. "We have to retreat," he added.

"No," the baron interjected. "There is only one way out, and that is through them." His voice was like iron, but Razmartin heard the strain nonetheless, and somehow that was more comforting to him, to know that the man felt fear like any other man, despite his tough discipline and self-control.

The baron didn't wait for further debate, but boldly strode forward toward the first rank of the scree. "Do not fear them, and they cannot touch you," he said. The words sounded like a mantra, and if to challenge them, several of the spirits came forward, drifting toward Hrathgar without moving their arms or their legs. The baron almost faltered—Razmartin saw him shake—but he held his ground, brandishing his new axe before him, and walked directly toward the oncoming scree.

And they parted before his coming.

The scree kept coming on, now focusing on the remaining members of the company, still huddling in the entry to the alcove. Razmartin was the next to move forward, his eyes fixed on a vague point somewhere beyond their insubstantial forms. He lacked the raw courage of the baron, that absolute faith in self that the man seemed to possess, but he had his own mental discipline and his training. He walked through the scree, but his thoughts were not on battles he had fought and won, as no doubt filled the mind of the baron, but on complex chemical formulas that he counted through and calculated in his mind. That reassuring order kept the fear at bay, and the spirits could not touch him either.

The other warriors had their own legacies to draw upon, the strength of their leader and the discipline of their culture, part of their lives almost since birth. Durghan strode forward, then Garon, Kamar with the torch held aloft like a beacon, and finally Lotar bringing up the rear. Each stepped into the fold of scree, who formed a corridor around them, pressing in as each fought their way through a gauntlet of emotional battle.

Razmartin, lost in his mental exercises, only realized he was through when he heard the baron speak right in front of him. He didn't understand the words, but he returned to awareness to find himself at the base of the staircase that led up to the temple level above. He turned back, and saw that the scree were still there, turned to face them, the Roronian warriors still working their way slowly through the ranks.

His gaze was drawn to the torch, still held aloft by Kamar, surrounded by a smothering ring of scree. The light, rather than shielding him from the entities, was only making it impossible for him to avoid their cold stares, the closeness of their almost-touch. Razmartin instantly saw what was happening, even before he saw the light begin to waver as the hand holding the torch began to shake wildly. Kamar had stood his ground against bandits, magyap, even the uncontrollable fury of the drake, but this supernatural horror was too much for him.

The baron saw it too. "Fight it! Fight!" he shouted. But his voice was not enough to banish the fear, not enough in the face of the reality of cold death stared straight in the face.

Kamar's scream was one of pure dread, a deep, primal sound that filled the corridor and echoed weirdly off the stone. The torch fell from nerveless hands as the scree seemed to converge on him, their insubstantial forms passing right into the living flesh and vanishing within Kamar's frame. Razmartin saw him jerk and twist, his face—the last thing he saw—contorted into a rictus that he knew would haunt his dreams forever. Then the torch fell, hitting the ground and spilling its fire in a flickering pool on the stone floor. Darkness filled the corridor, the remnants of the light casting wild shadows everywhere as the flames flickered and barely hung onto life.

The baron pushed past Razmartin, toward Durghan and Garon, who had stopped to look back at their stricken comrade. A number of the scree were descending upon them as well, their defenses weakened by their own fear, but the baron reached them first. Ignoring the spirits close to him, he grasped Durghan roughly by the shoulder, and spun him around to face him.

"Don't... look..." he said through gritted teeth. "Move it!" he added, and this time the words held the force of command. Durghan obeyed, and behind him came Garon, using his leader's commands as a lifeline to make his way through the gauntlet. One or two of the scree reached out to him, but the darkness saved him. Unaware of their closeness, he focused on the shadowy figure of the baron, and followed him to safety.

Meanwhile, Razmartin worked to push back the darkness, to replace the light that was fading more into nothing with each second. He was nearly out of ingredients for his magic, but his fingers probed through pouches whose contents he knew by touch, and found several materials that might serve. There was no time to make a proper combination, so he crushed the materials together in the palm of his hand, trying to guess the proper ratios by sense and feel. The reward for his actions was a pale glow, a faint luminescence that seemed to spring from his hand. It was only a faint glimmer in comparison to the chemical fire he'd fashioned earlier, but it was enough for the baron and his surviving men to make their way to him, and for him to lead them swiftly up the steep stairs to the half-open portal above. None of them looked back, but they moved as if every step was dogged by the intangible but deadly presence of the scree.

Clustered close around the mage and his soft light, they pushed through the doorway and into the great temple, now just a vast empty arena of darkness around them. Razmartin started to move toward the entrance by memory, but paused as he heard the baron and his warriors pushing the heavy door shut behind them. He understood the gesture, for while he doubted that the stone would stop the scree if they pursued them, closing the portal would have a positive psychological effect on the men. And since the scree used fear as their weapon, the perception of safety could produce the reality.

But none of them wanted to wait and test the efficacy of that theory. As soon as the door slammed closed, they were following Razmartin toward the far exit, stumbling over the broken tiles from the mural above. They did not bother to close the open double doors, instead charging up the stairs and down the corridor beyond. When they reached the chamber that intersected with the passage outside their steps became a run, and it was with grateful exhaustion that they emerged into the pale overcast light of the afternoon. Apparently time had passed swiftly while they were underground, for the day was already beginning to wane.

"Let's be out of this place," the baron said grimly. Shouldering their packs, they trudged out of the temple and back into the mountains, where a long trek awaited them.

* * *

Hours later, in the dark stillness of the temple chamber under Fel Darian, a sound shattered the quiet. It resolved into a harsh grating of stone on stone, and it grew louder for a few seconds before it was replaced by another sound, that of heavy, desperate breathing.

The tread of heavy boots cracking the tile fragments resounded through the vast space of the chamber. The gait was heavy, deliberate, tired but constant, as if the walker knew he would reach his destination through the patient passage of time.

It was some time later that a form emerged in the shadowed entrance to Fel Darian. Even the faint light of the moon and stars was almost non-existent this night, for the sky was blanketed with clouds almost without break from horizon to horizon. Even so, the dark figure remained huddled in the absolute blackness of the corridor, as if fearful of the open sprawl of the world under the canopy of the sky.

But after a few minutes, the figure shuffled into the open night. In the near-dark it was just a shadow, an amorphous form.

But its eyes seemed to glow in the night, burning as with a fire within. Eyes that had once belonged to a man, but which no longer shone with the glint of rational thought. Eyes that burned now with the feral glow of madness. He shuffled forward, hunched over, arms pressed close in around his chest, as if protecting something with his body.

That which had once been called Lotar, guardsman of the Kol Hills, shuffled on through the night, following a clear path of matted footprints through the snow.

A path that stretched off into the distance, far off to the east.

* * * * *

Chapter 29

Winter came to the foothills of western Roron, bringing with it cold winter storms that blanketed the rolling landscape with carpets of glistening white. It had been a difficult year for the hardy people of the hill country baronies, and those folk were prepared for an equally harsh winter, hunkering down with their meager stores of foodstuffs to await the coming of the spring.

Only this winter, the arrival of the season had brought another sort of storm.

War had come to the borderlands.

Unwilling to wait until the spring, several of the plains barons had raised an expeditionary force and launched it against the three baronies accumulated by the upstart baron Hrathgar. Traditional wisdom—hard learned over many centuries—argued against fighting during the Roron winter, when driving rains turned the flatlands into a sea of mud, making the dirt roads all but impassable for wagon trains bringing supplies. Even worse, at the higher elevations, such as along the foothills that fronted the Ralos Mountains, the storms brought snow and ice, making any invading army fight both against the harsh elements and a determined foe that knew the secrets of the convoluted terrain.

Everyone knew these simple facts, and accepted them as reality. But apparently, the plains barons, whether motivated by fear, greed, or some other drive of their own, had elected to dispense with the traditional wisdom, and attack.

And at first, it seemed as though their gamble had paid off in rich dividends.

The invading force was not large by the standards of the frequent skirmishes fought by the barons of the rich lowlands. But the column of five hundred armored infantry was, in the foothills, an army. As the word of the incursion spread, rumor also brought a name known even in the isolated settlements in the hills. Bel Karzon rode at the head of the invading army as its leader. Although Karzon was only thirty, he'd been making a name for himself as a fighter nearly his whole adult life. He'd joined a mercenary company at fifteen, risen to lead it by twenty, was warleader of an entire barony's armies by twenty-five. Now there were many whispers that Karzon wanted more, and that this campaign against Hrathgar would end with him taking on a noble title and settling down to start a new baronial dynasty of his own. After his sponsors had divvied up the choicer portions for themselves, of course.

The army swept first into Rockridge, which surrendered almost without bloodshed. The forces that Hrathgar had left behind retreated in haste, taking everything not nailed down with them. Karzon paused only long enough to secure his control over the listless, twice-conquered population of the barony, then launched his force into the adjacent barony of Foresthill. Here he did find resistance, for the son of the late baron Cathor fancied himself a hero, and he led his father's army out to face the invader on a cold day framed by gentle flurries of falling snow. The battle lasted an hour, and ended with Cathor—or at least his head—sent back to the lowland barons, and another barony lost in Hrathgar's apparently brief career as a conqueror.

But there, Karzon was forced to pause. A week of especially powerful storms struck the foothills on the heels of the victory, leaving some to decry the foolishness of the young baron's attack, when he would have had a great advantage in withstanding a siege. But even though he and his men could rest in the warm halls of Foresthill Castle while the storms raged outside, Karzon was already planning his next move.

He was under no illusions that the final stage in his whirlwind campaign would be the most difficult. The forces of the Kol Hills were still almost entirely intact, and they'd had weeks of advance warning to prepare. Then, as the weather had begun to clear, an added problem had presented itself. The bandits of the Ralos, taking advantage of the chaos spawned of the conflict between the barons, had swept down from their winter camps into Rockridge, pillaging the already struggling settlements on the edges of the forests along the northern edge of the Ralos near Stormhold. The bandits, perhaps suffering from the Hrathgar's raids against them earlier, fought with an almost animal ferocity, and there were reports—not yet confirmed, but disturbing nonetheless—that the kobalos tribes of the region had allied with them.

Unwilling to hand over an empty barony to his masters, or perhaps interested in someday residing in Stormhold himself, Karzon was forced to detach several units of men to bolster those already garrisoning Rockridge, in order to protect the beleaguered citizens of the barony and check the increasingly audacious probes of the barbarian raiders. Meanwhile, Karzon gathered what supplies he could, began reconnaissance patrols along the borders of the Kol Hills, and planned his attack on Hrathgar's home ground. Preliminary reports indicated that the men-at-arms of Kol Hills were building fortifications and conducting patrols of their own, and that the next attack would not be quite so easy for the lowland invaders.

Throughout all of these events, one question above all others was on the mind of both attacker and defender, ally and enemy.

Where was baron Hrathgar?

* * *

The clarion sound of a horn shattered the cold stillness of the winter morning. Its long, mournful note echoed through the stone corridors of Stormhold, rousing reluctant men from beds piled high with furs, to pull on weathered leathers and beaten breastplates that had been repeatedly pounded back into proper shape. Some left behind women in those beds, who had literally embraced these new conquerors, as they had the last batch, all part of a desperate effort to stave off the privation that seemed to have become a fact of life for the sad folk of the hills. The men collectively made up a hard-edged lot, faces scarred with the memories of old cuts, bodies lean and wiry from long campaigns on the road. They groused about the cold, and their commanders, and the early hour, like military men had been complaining about such things since time immemorial, but they moved with discipline and purpose. They were soldiers of Roron, bred to the fight, and went to it with determination even when it was against men of their own nation that they fought.

Ticos Gewehr strode down the dimly lit corridors of the keep, his booted feet setting a ready rhythm as they pounded on the bare stone. He had already been up for some hours, deliberating with the senior commander over the plans for this day's patrol. He wore his full plate armor, his sword slung over his shoulder, and even the scarred veterans of the Roronian army gave way to his coming.

He ducked as he reached the low threshold that led into his chambers, and without knocking pushed open the door and entered.

Robert was already up and ready, he saw, without much surprise. The man spoke of enjoying his simple comforts, which included sleeping late, but most days he was usually the first out of bed and the first to return with hot food, or fresh information, or both. Of Moira, there was no sign, but Ticos divined that she was probably in the tiny anteroom that his current status with the occupying army rated. While comfortable enough with them to engage fully in their discussions, the young woman was still wary around the other men, particularly the Roronian soldiers. Not that any had troubled her, not since the first demonstration of Ticos's fighting prowess. Now they might snicker and tell tales about the outlander's "kept woman," but none of them had dared to harass her directly.

It had been an odd swirl of events over the last month, ever since they'd first arrived in the barony of Rockridge, just ahead of the invading Roronian army. Had it already been a month? He often wondered at how quickly the days had flown by.

"Another patrol?" Robert asked, reading his companion's face.

"There's been another raid," he replied, crossing the small room to the table where his gear was laid out. "Yesterday afternoon, on one of the nearer settlements, just a half-day's ride from here."

Robert nodded. The bandits had become more aggressive since Karzon had reinforced the garrison, but they had not attacked any of the settlements close to Stormhold. Until now.

Ticos quickly packed his supplies into his saddlebags, and turned to see Robert blocking the door, his own gear packed in a neat pile on the bed beside him.

"We've been over this," the knight said.

"I know," Robert said. He glanced at the door to the anteroom, a gesture both understood. Although not a prisoner, like their last companion, Moira bore watching for different reasons. He thought of Reed, and wondered again if they'd made a mistake by letting the man go. Well, in all likelihood he was halfway to Ehdor by now, if he wasn't lying in a ditch somewhere. Somehow, he doubted the latter, from what little he'd learned of the man before they'd finally released him.

"I know you've shown your worth to the Roronians," Robert said, "and even earned their respect, these past weeks." He came closer, lowered his voice so that only Ticos could hear. Even after a month within the enemy camp, as it were, neither had lost the habits of caution, or forgotten what would happen to them were their true agenda revealed. "But don't deceive yourself, Ticos; they don't love you, and more than a few of the men resent taking orders from an outlander. They'll follow you against the bandits, but don't turn your back on them for an instant."

"I'm not a fool," Ticos said, his voice a little hotter than he'd intended.

"No?" Robert asked. "Well then, have you forgotten why we've come here?" He raised a hand before Ticos could reply, and finished his own thought. "I know, there was little else we could have done, when that army arrived, and at least now we're not part of the labor battalions, or worse. And I know that you're convinced that you're doing good here, protecting these people against the bandits, fighting the 'good fight' and all."

Ticos opened his mouth again as if to respond, but then he closed it, and paced a few steps away, then back close to Robert before responding. "What do you propose?" he asked.

"That we get out of here. We've learned all that we can, at least for the moment. Go on your patrol, and don't do anything to arouse suspicion. But don't come back here. I'll meet you at The Mark of the Axe, in Rindleton, it's just a few miles out along the west road."

"I know it," Ticos said. "And then where?"

"To where the action is thickest, of course. This whole war is about Hrathgar, and while it looks like our upstart baron is quite finished, there's something about this situation that I don't like. I can't explain it, clearly, but I think that we'll find our answers in the Kol Hills."

"And what about Moira?" Ticos asked.

"If you're going to talk about me, I should at least be present," Moira interjected. The two men looked up in some surprise; neither had heard her enter the room.

The young woman looked different than she had when Ticos had first met her on the road to Queshtar. Then she'd been part of a group of pilgrims, naive in their objective of proselytizing to the kobalos of the Ralos foothills south of that city. She was a Defender, a trained noviate of the military order of the church, but her skills had been woefully insufficient against the horrible situation she'd been placed into. Ticos still felt stirrings of anger against the church leaders who had sanctioned the foolish mission, sending children into danger without proper training or protection.

Moira had been the sole survivor of that company, but it was becoming clear that she was no longer a child. She stalked around the confines of their chamber like a cat with its hackles up, but Ticos had not missed the way that she winced whenever the door to their chamber opened, or when the hard laughter of Roronian soldiers could be heard as they passed in the outside corridor.

Ticos and Robert had both tried to help her, each in their way. The knight had initially been a little overprotective, although he later had realized the irony of treating her so, when he had taken her deliberately into even greater danger by bringing her here. But there was nothing else to be done, not without abandoning their mission. Ticos had wanted to send her back to Queshtar, where she might find aid from the Rigalian embassy there, but there was no safe way back through the war-ravaged lands they had traveled.

Robert's methods with the girl—young woman, Ticos had to admit to himself—had been different. With Ticos working more directly with the Roronians, Robert had spent more time with her. The knight had initially been almost as suspicious of his companion as of the Roronians, but he'd quickly realized that for all the man's questionable morals and quirky personality, deep inside him there was an intact honorable core. He'd treated Moira like an equal from the start, joking with her and prodding her to take part in their deliberations. Like Ticos, though, Robert had kept some things back, and the had not revealed all of the details of their mission, nor the true source of their orders.

"Are we leaving, then?" Moira asked them. She came closer before speaking, toning down her voice so that the words barely carried beyond their little circle. Robert nodded in appreciation, for all that he'd insisted that the room had no spy-holes or thin spots in the walls to facilitate eavesdropping. After all, people could still listen at doors.

"Yes," Ticos said. "Go with Robert, he'll get you both out of here without anyone noticing."

Robert nodded in acknowledgement; it wasn't accepting praise, just a statement of fact.

Moira added her own nod, a serious gesture that made her seem for a moment much older than she was. "Be careful," she said earnestly.

Ticos nodded. He wanted to say more, but he was already late, and the Roronians did not look favorably on tardiness. Robert was right about the way that the men regarded him, he knew.

He strode to the door and left without looking back.

* * *

"They're long gone, sergeant," the soldier said.

Ticos didn't agree with the statement, but he didn't contest the report. He could almost feel the weight of the eyes watching them. He looked around at the remnants of the ruined settlement, at the burned-out shells of the three low buildings whose sturdy construction had not availed their occupants against the raiders. The commander of the garrison had ordered the occupants of the outlying settlements to evacuate to the area around Stormhold, but Ticos could not fault these people for choosing to stay out here. They couldn't feed the refugees already living in the swollen villages around the fortress, and out here at least the hard frontiersmen could fight head-on against the hard winter. There were ample trees for fuel, and doubtless animals in the forest that could be trapped for food.

Only the arrival of the bandits had changed even that unbalanced equation.

"Looks like they got a few of the bastards," another of his men reported. Ticos rode over to the spot behind one of the houses indicated by the soldier, and saw a few bodies—stripped, as were the dead settlers—in a hasty, half-covered grave. Were he to fall, he doubted his own men would give him even that much consideration, he thought wryly.

At least the bandits had been human, this time. The recent presence of kobalos among the raiders was a disturbing sign, for usually the mountain barbarians and the kobalos of the northern hills fought at least as much amongst themselves as with the settlers of Rockridge and Kol Hills. If the two groups had reached an accommodation, or even an alliance, it would bode ill for the humans living in this region.

"Get a count, natives and hostiles," he ordered. "Gath, scout for any tracks." It was probably a useless gesture—the bandits always covered their tracks—but the soldier saluted and went off to search the area to the north of the small ruined settlement.

Ticos dismounted. He'd been in the saddle for hours, and in addition to the chill in his back and legs, he had other immediate needs to attend to.

"See to the horses, corporal," he said to his second, then he headed into the shell of one of the structures. He would have preferred the relative quiet of the forest, where the stink of death didn't hang around like a shadow, but he was a soldier, and used to foregoing such niceties.

They left the settlement shortly thereafter, Ticos leading his small column of eleven Roronian soldiers back along the lightly forested ridge that they'd been following since that morning. The northern patrol route was easily the least popular among the men, given the number of recent attacks, and Ticos suspected that most of his squad were there on punishment duty. His own presence there was not a mystery to him. He'd proven his mettle, killing more than his share of bandits in two major raids a few weeks back, but to the Roronians, even to the numerous mercenaries among them, he would always be an outsider.

They reached the end of their patrol route without further incident, but even as they started back, Ticos detected something. Calling his squad to a halt, he scanned the field of white and gray that stretched out before him. The snowbound world was silent except for the faint whisper of the wind and the creak of harness as his men shifted in their saddles behind him. None of them spoke, sensing perhaps the change that had come over their commander, respecting his instincts if not his origins.

There, he saw, the specks resolving themselves into a small group of men afoot, a fair distance off along the sloping reach of the ridgeline. Without bothering to give an order, he kicked his steed into motion, the others hurrying to keep up. A group so small was unlikely to be bandits; refugees, perhaps, although he wasn't aware of any more settlements any further out. That didn't necessarily mean anything, he knew, as there was no definite border really between the "civilized" lands and the demesne of the mountain barbarians.

As he drew nearer, he could see that there were four of them, fighting men by the looks of them. They had spotted the patrol as well, but made no move other than to await their coming. Ticos rode to within hailing distance, then reined in his horse with a small flurry of scattered snow. The Roronians formed a wedge behind him.

"Hail," Ticos said, a neutral greeting.

Now that he was close, the four men indeed looked like refugees. The faces of the three that he could see—for some reason the fourth hung back, his face hidden in the cowl of his cloak—were scarred by windburn and cold. All wore weeks-old beards, glistening with small crystals of ice. Their clothes were equally ravaged, and Ticos's skilled eye immediately saw the signs of fighting. These men had been through more than the rough weather, he saw. And yet they were not beaten, these men, not by the way that they warily faced the patrol and the way that their hands lurked near the hilts of their many and varied weapons. One carried a strung bow, and although he held it easily at his side, Ticos saw that he held an arrow nocked and ready to be drawn.

"Hail and well met," one of the four replied. Ticos evaluated him subconsciously, weighing how the man carried himself and how the others deferred to him. This was the leader of the little group, he thought, but his eyes kept coming back to the cowled man hovering in the background. "Are you from Stormhold? I do not recognize those colors."

Ticos glanced down at the insignia he wore on the breast of his cloak. A borrowed cloak, bearing a borrowed symbol. "No, I don't suspect you would," he said. "This is a dangerous area," he went on. "What are you doing this far out, at this time of year?" With the last statement his tone had changed somewhat, taking on more of an air of challenge, and he could sense the reaction of his men, ready to be unleashed.

If the leader of the ragged strangers noticed this, he gave no outward indication. "We are trappers, from the village of Tirak Noldor. I admit, we were unwise to try one more expedition into the lower reaches to beat winter. A storm caught us, and we've spent the last week all but stranded in a cave at least a dozen miles up the mountain. What news from Stormhold?"

Ticos did not respond, at first. While the men did not have the look of common trappers, he had already come to accept that even ordinary Roronians bore a martial air about them. There was something else about them, however, that seemed strange, something he couldn't quite put his finger on.

"It would seem that you had some success," he finally said, glancing pointedly at the heavy packs borne by two of the men.

"Certainly not enough to make this experience worth our while," the leader said. "We have had a rough road of it, sergeant," he added. "Could your men spare some fresh supplies, perhaps? We have little, but can pay for what we take."

But Ticos's attention had been drawn to the cowled figure, about whom something seemed familiar.

Then a small gust of wind tugged at the man's heavy cloak, revealing for an instant the long ruddy garment underneath, marked with faded silver sigils that still caught the light reflected off of the surrounding snow.

The symbols of a mage.

"Magic-user!" Ticos said, louder than he'd intended, for he sensed the ripple that spread through the entire company, both his men and those facing them. Even as he digested the change born of his observation, though, something else clicked together in his mind, and he felt another cold shock of recognition.

"Razmartin," he breathed, this time almost silently.

Although he could not have heard, the mage stepped closer and drew back his hood, revealing a face as worn as those of his companions. Something strange sparkled in his eyes as he regarded the armored knight; perhaps he, too, had only just recognized the other.

"I never would have expected to see you leading a patrol of Roronian soldiers, Ticos," Razmartin said.

But Ticos barely heard him, for the revelation of the mage's identity had completed another connection for him. Confusion was replaced by cold control as he turned a hard gaze back onto the leader of the small party.

"And I suppose that would make you Baron Hrathgar," Ticos said. This time the stirring through the assembled group was more palpable, but the man he identified did not shift in the slightest, meeting his gaze squarely.

"You have the advantage of me, sir," the baron said, with a quick glance at his mage. "And you have still not answered my question."

"You will have plenty of time for questions later," Ticos said. "Baron Hrathgar, you are under arrest. You will come—"

He was interrupted by a cry behind him, accompanied by a harsh sound of impact. He spun to see one of his men slump forward and then fall from his saddle, his motion revealing the long, deadly arrow buried in his back.

"Treachery!" Ticos hissed, drawing his sword from its scabbard in a fluid motion. But then, he saw the figures emerging from the rocks about fifty feet distant, and he recognized the true nature of the threat.

"Kobalos raiders!" one of the Roronian soldiers cried.

"Ride them down!" Ticos shouted, whirling his own mount around, careful not to let the baron and his allies—including Razmartin—out of his sight. The baron and his men had made no threatening gesture toward them, and in fact seemed as surprised at the arrival of the raiders as they were. Even as the patrol wheeled to charge, the baron and his men were retreating, cautiously putting distance between them and both the soldiers and the kobalos.

Ticos was not about to trust to their forbearance. For the moment, though, the main threat was the kobalos attackers, and their still-hidden archers. As if to punctuate that thought, a long shaft buzzed through the air, glancing off one of his shoulder plates before flying harmlessly off into the snow. The main advantage of the soldiers was still their horses, and if they could break the bandit charge, then they could regroup and deal with the baron. He could still only see about a dozen attackers. So long as they were mounted, Hrathgar was not going to escape them.

The Roronian soldiers, facing a charging row of caterwauling attackers as well as desultory fire from their archers, responded with a discipline that was the birthright of their culture. They wheeled and launched their heavy warhorses into an explosive charge, breaking into the scattered ranks of the attackers. The kobalos had the advantage of height, but the hill did not slope enough to appreciably slow the charge.

Ticos was on the left flank of the charge, but his horse had only covered a few strides when it lurched suddenly under him. Instinct kicked in even before he saw the dark fletchings that protruded from the animal's shoulder, and as the horse fell he was pushing off and away, so as not to be trapped under its bulk. He landed hard, six inches of snow providing little cushion against the stone underneath, but used his momentum to carry him forward into a roll that he then used to help him regain his footing. His breath came in hard gasps, with needles of pain lancing through the left side of his body from his shoulder to his waist. While his armor had protected him from being cut on the uneven edges of the rocks, it could not absorb the full impact of being thrown down from a moving horse. His sword had flown free in the exchange; he had a general idea of where it had fallen, but as he looked up he saw that he was not alone.

Razmartin faced him, about ten full paces distant. The two men's eyes met, a stare that shared a sad story of two once-friends whose lives had diverged on different paths. Ticos thought he saw regret, there, but he could not be certain.

"I have no magic that is proof against this one," he said in a low voice that nonetheless carried out across the snowfield.

It was only then that he became aware of the others, who approached to either side of the mage as he stepped back from the confrontation. The baron came on from the left, another of his men from the right. Both carried long axes with an ease of long familiarity. Even as Ticos drew his dagger, a broad-bladed, functional weapon, but certainly not the equivalent of his sword, he looked for the last enemy, the bowman. He saw him out of the corner of his eye, perched on an outcropping of rock a short distance away. He was firing his weapon, not at Ticos, who was protected by his plate mail, but at the battle still raging further up the slope. Ticos recognized the baron's strategy, and realized that his earlier retreat had just been a feint to gain position. He would let the bandits and the soldiers deplete each other, and then mop up the weakened survivors of the victorious side.

The baron and his warrior did not speak, nor offer any challenge, saving their breath and their energies for this obviously dangerous adversary. They moved to flank him, moving slowly and carefully across the uneven surface of the snow-covered hill.

Ticos moved also, taking a oblique course that drew the two men along with him. His objective was a slight depression in the snow a dozen feet behind him, the place where his sword had landed. Perhaps the Roronians recognized his ploy, for they suddenly abandoned their deliberate approach and charged at him, axes raised to strike.

Ticos did not wait for the attack, but immediately launched himself at the nearer adversary, the baron's warrior. The man met the knight's attack with a powerful swipe of the axe. Ticos dodged the blow, but the warrior was a veteran, and it showed in the way he smoothly adjusted and brought the axe back in a potent backswing. Ticos saw the blade coming, but he did not try to evade the second stroke. Instead, he came into it. The axe struck him hard in the shoulder. But Ticos had shifted so that the blow hit his right shoulder, not the wounded left, and even the Roron-forged steel was no proof against the potency of the knight's armor. Blue sparks flared as the warrior's blade was turned. The impact in turn blunted Ticos's momentum, but he was already close enough to strike. The dagger carved a deadly arc into the man's throat, tearing through the fur coat he wore and slashing the flesh underneath.

Durghan roared, but the sound only came out as a gurgle as air and blood rose up out of the deadly wound. He staggered forward, leaving a bloody trail with each step, then pitched face-forward into the snow, dead or dying.

Ticos did not pause to observe the effects of his strike, but was already charging toward that fixed spot, the place where his sword lay waiting for his grasp. He intuitively knew that his next opponent would not let him get so close, nor would he turn a blow from his axe so easily, even with the potency of the armor of Dendran Toll protecting him.

His churning feet sent up little plumes of white snow, but even as he drew nearer to his goal, he sensed that he would not make it. He swiveled into a defensive pose, to face the baron, who in turn checked his swing and returned his axe to the ready.

"You are good," the baron said. "But this hunt is over, and I will not be deterred from my objective."

"Your plans of conquest are finished, baron," Ticos spat. He noticed that the spittle left a red spot on the snow where it landed, but through force of will ignored both it and the pain that continued to stab though the numb cold that suffused his body. He didn't even consider calling for aid; if his men could help him, they would already be here, eager for the bounty on the head of this man, the one who had stirred up this entire war in the first place. He could hear the sounds of battle continuing behind him, but he filtered it out and focused on his opponent.

"We shall see," the baron said. Clearly he had suffered from whatever journey he had taken in the mountains. What had he being doing there, while his baronies were being whittled away? Ticos thought.

On an impulse, he asked, "Did you find what you sought at Fel Darian?"

Something passed across the baron's expression, but Ticos could not read if it was surprise, or anger, or even fear. No, not that latter emotion, he amended inwardly, for he could sense no such feeling from this adversary, who seemed as cold and hard as the mountains themselves.

The baron's answer was an attack, a measured sweep of his axe. Ticos dodged the attack, and the next, giving ground. He realized that the baron was driving him further away from his sword, and that each attack was part of a pattern, leaving him no entry for an attack like that which he'd used against the warrior still bleeding out into the snow nearby.

Nor could he fight to a draw, hoping to hold a balance until his men could intervene. His breath was coming in harsh gasps, each one forming a small plume in the air before him before trailing off into non-existence. The baron had to be suffering too, his own breathing equally labored, but that was overshadowed by a raging fire that burned in his eyes, a fury kept in check by his iron self-control.

Ticos saw all this, and knew that the baron did too. So after the third controlled sweep of the axe he came forward, dagger coming up from a low angle. The baron was ready. The first blow was not strong, a glancing strike to his left shoulder designed only to keep him back or off-balance, but he felt it resound painfully in a wave through his battered body. The baron gave ground, but it was only a strategy to give him room for another devastating strike.

Ticos launched himself with desperate and surprising speed at the baron, dagger cutting the air before him. The baron had no time for a counter, but he quickly brought up the axe, holding its long haft in both hands, and slammed the end of the weapon into the charging knight's face. It struck his helmet just above the nose guard, doing no real damage, but dazing Ticos just for a moment. It gave the baron time to sweep the blade of the axe around in a quick cutting arc, catching the knight on the side of the head near the base of the helmet. Ticos stumbled, his helmet hanging ajar on his head. The armor had held, but the flesh underneath was at the edge of its limits.

But in an amazing last burst of desperate energy, Ticos lunged again. He struck blindly with the dagger, striking the baron in the side with the sweep of the weapon. The dagger cut into the thick furs, but not through, and as the momentum of his attack carried him forward, the baron spun and brought the axe down in a powerful overhand strike.

A sound shattered the day. It was the product of the clash of two discrete magics, and it coexisted with the more ordinary sound of metal striking metal, the sound of impact as the baron's axe struck just above the neck-guard of Ticos's platemail, sundering the chain links of his protective hauberk and the pale flesh beneath. A jet of blood erupted from the vicious wound, the force of which drove the knight to his knees. The baron drew back a step, knowing he'd inflicted a mortal blow.

The knight reached up slowly, and with a blood-smeared gauntlet tugged his helmet free to fall to the snow before him. Despite the blood that fell in a cascade from the side of his neck, his eyes shone with a quiet calm. He looked into the sky, and spoke a word, so quiet as to be inaudible, then fell forward, his body forming an indentation in the snow.

The baron regarded the body of his fallen opponent for a long moment. Then, a voice shattered the still and brought him roughly back to reality.

"Baron, we must go."

Hrathgar looked up and saw Garon, his quiver empty, a look of concern on his face. The baron turned and looked up the slope, at the clusters of bodies that lay here and there in no discernable order. All of the Roronian soldiers were down; none had broken and tried to escape. The baron saw that at least two had been felled by Garon's arrows, the deadly missiles sticking up out of the corpses. No living kobalos were visible either, but the baron knew all too well that this did not necessarily imply that there were no more about.

"Gather horses for us," the baron ordered. A number of the mounts had been killed or injured in the melee, but they only needed three, now. The thought reminded him of the mage, and he turned to see the man standing over the body of the warrior he'd killed. More questions, there, but this was not the time.

"Get Durghan's pack," the baron told him, and as the mage moved woodenly to comply, Hrathgar moved a few paces over to another significant place in the snow.

Bending over, he picked up the dead man's sword. It was a magnificent weapon, heavier than the short blades used by his people. He considered what might have happened, had the warrior been able to retrieve it, then shrugged and walked over to his body. He took a moment to retrieve the scabbard for the sword, then, as he heard the sound of hoofbeats approaching, he looked up and saw Garon, mounted and leading two horses.

"None alive," he said. "Now."

The baron nodded, and mounted. A few feet away, the mage, bearing Durghan's pack and the pieces of armor inside, did the same. As he settled in the saddle, Garon handed him a torn fragment of cloak, still bearing its crest across the breast.

The sigil worn by all of the men of the patrol, including their leader. The baron had lied earlier when he'd told the sergeant that he hadn't recognized it. He knew it, of course, and his face darkened as he gestured for his two surviving followers to accompany him.

The baron, warrior, and mage rode silently down the ridge, now riding a course that led somewhat west of the trail that wound its way back to Stormhold. It was a longer route, one that ultimately culminated in the Kol Hills.

* * * * *

Chapter 30

The Black Mountains rose like a row of jagged teeth overlooking the vast Ilfann forest of Maletai. Those mighty sentinels, fashioned by the movements of the earth eons ago, formed a seemingly impenetrable wall that dominated the horizon for as far as one could see. While they weren't as high or as steep as some of the more southerly ranges, somehow the looming presence of the dark basalt peaks was more somber when viewed from the lowlands. Soon winter would cap those black teeth in a softer coat of white, but even then, people spoke of the range in terms that did not bode for casual visits or explorations into its depths. The mountains stretched for hundreds of miles, bisecting the continent, forming the barrier between the Old Kingdoms and the New, running all the way down from the stormy waters of the Great Expanse of the north, to the south where they gave way to a forbidding blending of deserts and parched grasslands before reaching the shores of the wild Navver Sea.

From a distance, Ælfang appeared as just one of many peaks, indistinguishable from the horizon formed by the Black Mountains. That was from a distance. From a day's hike within the mountains, along winding trails infrequently traveled by human or Ilfann, it was evident that the towering spire stood alone. The shrine was situated in a peak surrounded by a rocky and uneven valley that formed a ring around it. It was as if the other mountains were giving their peer a wide berth.

Izandra could not dismiss the clear sensation of great power that she felt in the air as they drew nearer to their destination. She'd felt it building ever since they'd left the valley of the Four Fingers and began the twisting route that led directly into the mountains. The route had been steep but passable due to the recent forbearance of the weather. While not clearing, the gray veil of unbroken clouds above was a soft color, without the promise of more storms, at least for now. Izandra hoped that the weather held, at least long enough for them to reach the peak that loomed so large ahead of them.

And then what? That, of course, was the big question. She glanced over at her two companions, crouched together atop bare rock a short distance away, like coiled springs waiting to be released. It was strange, viewing them. Ever since her experience with the Walker it was as if the concealing veils they had worn around their emotions had been lifted, allowing her to see plainly the feelings they'd kept hidden so easily before. They were uneasy, that was plain enough on the surface, but under that in each of them existed a tension, making her metaphor of a spring seem even more appropriate. The tension was slightly different in each of them, but her newly awakened senses could not clarify any further than that. She sensed that each was trying to keep something hidden, and that too made her uneasy, but no more so than just being in this increasingly strange and foreign place. Both had admitted that they had never gone even this far into the mountains, which she had thought strange at first, until she saw for herself the stark contrast between the rich growth of the hills and the forest and the harsh barrenness of the mountains. And yet creatures lived here, she knew, and her companions had not lessened their wariness as they pushed on.

The memory of her encounter with the Walker drew her attention to her staff, cradled easily in the crook of her arm as she rested in the lee of a boulder that cut the full force of the wind. It seemed to fit her, as if she'd been carrying it for years, a familiar extension of her hand. It too carried mysteries and hidden power, but she did not fear whatever strange magic lay in the device. Like the Walker itself, the staff presented a subtle reassurance, its very touch a reminder of growing things and happy places. Despite the chill she liked to touch it with the bare flesh of her palm, tucking her glove into her belt for a time until her fingers stiffened from the icy touch of the swirling wind that was an ever-present companion in the Black Mountains.

While her body took advantage of the brief respite to gain what rest it could, her thoughts took her along even more distant paths, back to roads left far behind. Had Ezran fully recovered from his injuries? What of Dannil? She truly hoped that they had followed her dictate from her note. She still felt a pang of guilt at that, although she remained convinced deep down that she'd made the right decision. Neither of them would have been able to help her in the encounters she'd faced, and either might have gotten hurt, or worse. Even if Dannil had managed to track her to Benderal, there was no way he could know where she went after that. Unless he spoke to the innkeeper, but how would he even know to do so, without having seen Ethander's letter?

The thoughts of those she'd left behind were troubling, but she was faced with matters of more immediate import. She stared up at the solitary peak. Allonanther had said they would reach it early the next day. But they still had a lot of walking to do today. She got up again, trying to ignore the protests of her muscles, and walked over to the Ilfann. She remembered her first impressions of them, how the two forest trackers had seemed indefatigable in their stamina, like shadows in their ability to slip through the forest without trace or sound. Now they seemed different, not lesser, but perhaps more... human.

Without speaking, they rose and joined her as she walked back toward the path. That too was a mystery, for this entire region seemed deserted, yet they had had no difficulty following the clear trail that wound its convoluted but steady course toward their destination. The Ilfann took up their usual position, one ahead, one behind, although now it wasn't really clear any more who was guiding whom.

Izandra took one quick look over her shoulder, at the route that led back down to Maletai and all that she had left behind. All she could see were more mountains, the trail behind them disappearing almost immediately behind a few twists and turns.

Fare thee well, she thought, as if the strength of her wish could make it true.

* * *

Dannil hated Benderal.

For a moment, he could not put a finger on the precise reason, as he walked through the town in the half-light of the overcast late morning. The people seemed the same, if a little more hard-edged, as the borderlanders he'd encountered throughout his travels in Crista and along the north shore of the Lake. There was the looming presence of the Maletai forest, but even this close the woods also seemed typical, perhaps even familiar. The inn that they'd stayed at last night and the night before, when they'd first arrived here, was a bit run down but also familiar, and its owners had been friendly enough, at least once they'd noticed his traveling companion. Word had gotten out quickly that a healer had come to town, and Alec had been busy, at least.

That was it, of course. He hated this place, for here the trail had gone cold. Utterly and completely cold.

Yesterday he'd scoured the town, searching for traces of Izandra. He'd gotten a few curt replies to his inquiries, enough to hint that Izandra had in fact passed through here, although none could recall her clearly. Even the innkeeper could not place her with surety, although if she had come through Benderal, it was very likely that she had stayed at the inn. Strangers were not common in Benderal, but people did pass through, and the sagging two-story inn was nearly half-full when Dannil and Alec had arrived. He suspected that these people did not pay much heed to strangers as a matter of course, perhaps as a defensive mechanism hard-learned from a life on the edges of civilization.

He saw the inn up ahead, and hurried his pace. He'd been doing that a lot of late, although at the moment there was no particular place for him to hurry to.

The inn's common room contained a handful of people at this hour, mostly townsfolk by their look, although there were a few unfamiliar faces as well. He nodded to the innkeeper as he came in, and started for the stairs. It took only a glance to see that Alec was not present, as his distinctive garments stood out. The healer might have gone into the town to help someone in need, but he'd been up quite late last night, and it was possible that he just hadn't risen yet despite the late hour.

But when he entered their small shared room, the healer was already up and ready, and in fact was packing some supplies into his leather satchel.

"Leaving?" Dannil asked, with some surprise. They had talked of what would happen after they got here, but he hadn't expected the healer to be moving on so quickly.

"Yes," Alec said, simply. "My muh-muh-mandate takes me on a little fuh-fuh-further, I'm af-fraid."

"But there's nothing further beyond..." he trailed off, realizing to what the healer referred.

"Yes," Alec said. "It's true."

"But... Maletai? Why there? You know that the Ilfann do not welcome strangers. You're as like to get shot with an arrow as told to leave. I've heard nothing that would indicate that they are any more tolerant of healers than of other humans."

But Alec's face was determined. "I know all th-th-th-th-that," he labored. "But I have to go?"

"Why?" Dannil asked again.

"I'm sorry," Alec said, and Dannil saw that he meant it.

"Well," Dannil replied. He couldn't think of anything else to say. "You've been a good companion," he finally offered after a long moment of awkward silence. "I would offer to go with you, Ilfann be damned, if I could."

"I know," Alec replied. "Any luh-luh-luck this morning?"

"No. The place was boarded up, deserted, though there were a few signs that people had been around there fairly recently. But this 'Wise Oak Inn' is empty now." The townsperson who'd sent him there hadn't been that encouraging either, and maybe he'd mentioned it just to get rid of the inquisitive outsider, Dannil reflected.

"So, what will you duh-duh-do now?" Alec asked.

"I don't know." And that was the worst part of all, he thought.

* * *

She walked through vast, empty halls, her footsteps echoing around her, the sound building as it bounded off the sheer walls until it became a cluttered accompaniment to her movements. Every room seemed the same: cavernous, majestic, and vacant. Yet she could feel the power here, and feel the presence that seemed to grow stronger with each step she took. Yet she could not stop, nor turn back, for she had come all this way to witness this, and it seemed as if every passing hour in her life had been building to this moment.

She had no idea how or even if she knew where she was going. Her only memories were of long wanderings, each room she passed through fading into oblivion even as she passed into the next. But she felt as she was making progress, and it was with abrupt suddenness that she emerged into a new place, different.

The presence here was so strong that it nearly smothered her, and her throat tightened as though physical hands were clutching at her, squeezing the life out of her. She could see nothing—the place was dark, with only a vague sense of empty space before her—but could tell that there was something here. It loomed over her, a massive construct that she felt rather than saw. There were other things here as well, she sensed, things fashioned by the impatient hands of man, but they paled before the eternal power of the great entity that was here. And even through that overpowering sensation, she felt that what she perceived was only part of it, like a shadow cast against a wall by the light of a flickering candle. She shuddered.

Every instinct told her to flee, but she instead stepped forward, her feet moving of their own volition further into the room. She could not say that she got used to the overbearing presence, nor the eddies it wore against her very perception of reality, but as she came into the room proper she could begin to see other things, the workings done around the perimeter of the huge foreign thing above. She felt a familiar sensation, a tickle at the edges of her awareness, off to one side of the place, and even before her mind formed the conscious thought her feet were taking her there. She encountered worn stone steps that ran up along the smooth wall, and started up. The darkness was still absolute, but she could still somehow sense her way through it. It was as if the room contained different shades of black, hues of shadow that she could somehow fathom. It left everything in stark outline, devoid of both definition and color. Not that there was much to see. Even the object that hung in the vast open vault of the chamber was an indistinct shape, changing slightly with each glance, its very existence both drawing attention to it and leaving the viewer with an unsubtle sense of disquiet.

As she reached the summit of the stairs, she found herself on a wide platform, a crescent that followed the curving wall of the chamber. She was some twenty feet above the floor below, but from here the dark gap seemed like a vast chasm. There was a metal railing and a catwalk that stretched out over the dark gap bridging the solid reassuring stone and the dark form that dominated the chamber. She was dimly aware of other galleries higher up, although there didn't seem to be any way to reach them from her current vantage point.

Before she could really begin to examine the new surroundings, though, her attention was drawn to something out on one of the catwalks. She hadn't noticed it at first, caught as it was in the shadow of the great obelisk that filled the center of the chamber, but now it drew her nearer, her feet again shifting without conscious thought or direction. She reached the railing and followed it to the first break that gave access to the narrow catwalk. She hesitated there, uncertain, but again found herself moving forward, caught up in something beyond her control. Normally that feeling, that loss of control, was anathema to her, but at the moment she felt vaguely disconnected, as if she was an observer rather than a participant in events.

The form on the catwalk grew slowly more distinct. It was a person, or at least the outline of one. He was stretched across an iron plinth, apparently bound to the hard surface with his arms outstretched, as if in a mocking greeting to the looming form in front of him. He was shrouded in a voluminous fold of dark cloth that covered his torso and head in its layers, and was facing away from her, so that she could not discern the identity of the prisoner.

Now dread grew once again in her, and she fought unsuccessfully to halt the forward momentum of her disloyal legs. The dark presence was everywhere, stronger than ever before, but she barely even detected it now, her entire focus on the figure bound in front of her. His head was lowered forward, as if in slumber, or perhaps in death, it was impossible to discern which.

And then she was there, standing beside him, so suddenly that she could not recall covering the remaining distance between them. She reached down, and pulled back the concealing cloth—

And the world exploded.

* * *

"Izandra!"

The voice shook her, yanked her back to reality with a disorienting lurch. She latched onto that voice as it brought her back from that dark place, back to a familiar small, shadowed room. But the shadows here were not malevolent, only the natural lingering products of the faint reflected light that filtered out of the corridor on the far side of the room.

She focused on those long rays of light, and the shadows that edged them. She only gradually became aware that her body was shaking, and that the gentle sobbing she could hear came in fact from herself. Last of all she realized what was right in front of her, that she was clutching to a solid form, a body that was warm and comforting. That final realization brought her fully back into wakefulness, and she drew back suddenly.

"I'm... I'm sorry," she said, wiping her face on the cuff of her shirt, suddenly feeling very much like a child.

"It is no weakness to share your feelings," Allonanther said.

She looked up at him. It was a strange comment, she thought, coming from the Ilfann. And yet, she'd been able to see beyond the veil over the last few days, to recognize that these enigmatic people had feelings and emotions too. And he had comforted her just now, lending her support against the haunted visions of her sleep.

"It was just a dream," she said, as much to herself as to her companion.

"Not surprising, in this place," Allonanther replied.

Izandra nodded in agreement. They had barely begun their exploration of Ælfang after their arrival late yesterday, their weariness quickly overcoming even Izandra's curiosity. Their course through the valley that surrounded the solitary peak had been straightforward enough; she had been able to mark the winding path that passed through the ravines and canyons without the expertise of her Ilfann guides. It had taken most of the day, though, and when they'd finally begun their ascent of the lower slopes of the mountain the sun was already sinking beneath the jagged horizon to the west. Elodorion had suggested that they pause to set up camp then, but Izandra had felt exposed there, on the shoulder of the great spire. So they pressed on, until the twilight had deepened around them, and the rocks and boulders that flanked the path began to take on dark, uninviting airs to Izandra's imagination. She knew that the Ilfann saw far better than she in the half-light, but even with that consideration she'd been about to call a halt when they had reached the opening in the side of the mountain.

And then they were within the shrine, within Ælfang.

Izandra looked around her now, and weighed her impressions of the place in the light of the morning. Last night the Ilfann had used small lamps found in a niche just off the entrance that had failed to brighten even the smallest of the cavernous chambers they had explored in their brief foray. They would have to use them again once they left the area of the entry behind and ventured forth again, she knew, but she savored the soft rays of light that filtered in from the main entrance just a short distance from the chamber where they'd spent the night. The entrance had been on the southeastern face of the spire, so it was well situated to capture the first light of the morning once the sun rose above the mountains to the east.

She reached out and ran her hand along the wall behind her. It was perfectly smooth, as was every stone surface they'd encountered in this place, showing no sign of ever having been worked by human—or Ilfann—hands. The stone was dark basalt, with striations that resembled streaks of paint showing every now and again in the stone. She looked at one such marking now; while they had seemed to be just darker shades of gray in the light of their lamps the night before, in the sunlight the markings seemed almost to have flecks of color in them, as if the light was being shifted through a prism. Perhaps the effect was the result of mineral deposits in the rock, she thought to herself, leaving the little mystery for more pressing questions.

The most pressing of those questions was also the most obvious. Where was Ethander? For all of its obvious size and scale, Ælfang seemed completely and utterly deserted. She wasn't sure what exactly she had expected—her imagination had taken her down a new course every time she thought about it—but she hadn't expected this vast emptiness. Even if the place was abandoned, she had at least expected creatures from the mountains to take advantage of the ready shelter offered by the open tunnel, but there was not even any trace that anything had come even as far as the first few chambers. Perhaps the animal denizens of the region could sense the currents of power that seemed focused on this place, like a skein of threads that Izandra could just detect at the edges of her awareness. It was not an entirely pleasant feeling.

Allonanther was still watching her. She quickly gathered up her few possessions, clearing the stale remnants of sleep from her mouth with a few swallows from her waterskin. "Where is Elodorion?" she asked her companion.

"He went out before dawn, to see if he could find game along the trails at the base of the mountain," the Ilfann replied.

Izandra nodded. They would have to wait, then. She looked around to make sure that she had not missed anything. She felt it appropriate not to leave any mark of her own brief time here, to leave the pristine emptiness of the shrine intact. "I'd like to wait in the sunshine," she said. "It's been rare enough lately."

"Very well," Allonanther said. The two left together, following the long sunbeams down the short distance of the corridor that led back out into the cold mountain air.

"What do you think of this place?" she asked him as they walked.

"Our legends speak of it as a place of great power," he replied. "But it seems... lonely somehow. Empty, waiting."

"I think I know what you mean. It is like—"

Her thought was interrupted as Allonanther turned suddenly, drawing her attention back down the tunnel. It took her an instant longer, and then she sensed it too. Someone was coming, from deeper within the shrine. She tensed, and she felt the power there, inside her, awaiting her summons. The magic felt different, as if attenuated somehow to the power inherent in this place.

But as the figure entered the light, it resolved into Elodorion, walking casually toward them. She sensed Allonanther relax beside her, but not entirely.

"I apologize if I startled you," Elodorion said as he drew nearer. "I was returning, and I thought I heard something. I detected nothing, though. Perhaps it was just a reflection of the sounds of your conversation."

Izandra looked at him, and then up at Allonanther next to her. She remembered their earlier encounter, when Elodorion had been sent to scout ahead, but had returned unexpectedly from behind them. She knew that the two Ilfann were old companions, but she sensed some slight tension between them. A faint suspicion? A simple miscommunication? She could not yet read them well enough to divine the hidden meanings in their non-spoken communications. Neither betrayed anything in their voices or mannerisms.

"Did you find anything in your foraging?" Allonanther asked.

"Nothing. It is as if the creatures of the mountain give this place a wide berth," Elodorion said.

"Well, we have enough supplies for a few days, at least." Both Ilfann turned to Izandra, and after a moment she realized they were waiting for her to offer judgment on how they should proceed. It was another facet of the shift in their relationship, and she realized that their mandate extended to delivering her safely to Ethander. And then what? That question was impossible to answer, but it was foremost on Izandra's mind.

But what if her mentor was not here? That question, too, hovered in her thoughts. Well, she would confront either question, or both, when it came to it. For now the twisting course of her path, chosen more for her than by her it seemed, had concluded here. The only possible course now was to see what that conclusion would be.

"Let's continue our search," she said, and the two Ilfann busied themselves with preparing their lamps. Izandra was conscious of the emptiness of her stomach as they set out again back through the rooms they had briefly scouted the night before, but after Allonanther's comment she decided against calling for breakfast. The Ilfann seemed able to go on without eating, so she would too.

The interior of the shrine seemed to be laid out in the fashion of a circle, with large empty chambers connected by corridors along its circumference. To Izandra's eyes all of the rooms seemed identical, with no indication of what purpose they might ever have served. There were no furnishings, no traces of supplies or the possessions of former occupants, only smooth, unadorned walls and the featureless stone beneath their feet. Some of the walls and ceilings bore the striations she had seen earlier, forming indecipherable patterns in the rock that glimmered faintly in the light of their lamps.

They walked on, passing beyond the radius they had already surveyed into other chambers that were equally unremarkable. The occasionally encountered side chambers off of the main corridor, but after quick examinations these turned out to be dead ends. Their search went quickly, given the smooth featurelessness of the chambers and corridors. Through it all Izandra felt a growing sense of anticipation, as if each step they took was building to something unexpected. Her companions projected their usual air of cautious alertness, but she could sense their uneasiness in these surroundings, so alien to the natural environment of their forest homeland.

By her estimation they had covered about one half of their circuit of the circle when they encountered another passage that led off of the route, forking to their right, toward what would be the hub if the entire interior of the shrine were indeed like a great wheel carved through the interior of the mountain. The Ilfann hesitated, but she led them purposefully into that side corridor, toward that hub. At first the passage seemed identical to all of the others, but gradually the stone walls around them changed. The striations became more pronounced, until the walls and ceiling alike were striped with their swirling patterns. Then the surrounding stone grew darker until it was almost pure black, making the markings in the stone that much more prominent. The whole created a chilling effect, but one that Izandra barely registered. Her attention was drawn to the increasingly focused loci of energy that she sensed ahead. Almost without conscious thought she felt her own power thrum around her in response, and she gathered it into an invisible cloak around her, a protective shield against what might lie ahead. Everything now was far beyond what she had learned from Ethander; she was letting instinct guide her, instinct that seemed to flow naturally in this place. It was as if she had been using the power her entire lifetime. Several lifetimes, perhaps, building on the shared knowledge of the generations of phuskios magi who had once walked these halls in some forgotten age.

The passage opened up into a room ahead. Again she preceded the Ilfann, the steady light from their lamps casting her shadow long before her on the floor. The radiance illuminated a chamber in the shape of a hemisphere, a perfect globe bisected through the center. The walls were of the same black stone they had encountered in the passage before, marked with the same variations of shade and substance. They passed though a lintel of the same material, an arch that was also fashioned as a half-circle, and they saw that there were five similar arches spaced at even intervals around the circumference of the chamber. The passage through which they had entered seemed the only exit, though, for all of the other arches gave way only to featureless walls of blank stone.

Izandra's attention was drawn to the center of the place, where an odd stone sculpture dominated the chamber. The construct was the first thing of straight lines and hard angles that she'd seen in this place, and her eyes were drawn naturally to its uneven form. It was shaped like a pyramid, with six sides at its base. As she entered the room she saw that those sides corresponded to the six archways, including the one through which they had entered. Those six faces grew irregular as they reached the top of the sculpture, joining in a twisted point perhaps seven or eight feet above the level of the floor. The overall effect was as if someone had twisted the sculpture slightly from the top, leaving it warped and jagged rather than smooth and proportioned.

The Ilfann had spread out into the chamber behind her. "Looks like another dead end," Allonanther ventured.

"I wonder why they put these other arches there, when there are no exits?" Elodorion said.

Izandra did not reply to either comment, for she had been drawn to the strange sculpture. Upon drawing nearer, she saw that it was not made of the same rock as the rest of the shrine, but rather a flat gray stone that had an almost porous grain to it. She sensed something within the stone, like a shadow that was somehow beneath its surface. The disturbance was within the plane of the sculpture that faced the archway through which they had entered the chamber.

"What is it, Izandra?" Allonanther asked from behind her.

"There is something here," she said absently, her attention focused upon the stone. In her mind she traced the outline of the echo that she felt from within the sculpture. Suddenly it clicked into place, the realization of what it was that she was sensing. She closed her eyes, gathered the ready energies of power from the many tendrils that suffused this place, and channeled them into the stone.

She heard one of the Ilfann exclaim in surprise—she could not identify which one from the sound—and opened her eyes to see an opening where none had existed before, a tight gap in the stone that revealed a twisting staircase that descended into unknown areas beyond. Izandra let out a little sigh. It was not from the exertion, for the magic had come readily to her call in this place, not sapping her vitality at all. It was a test, she realized, a simple trial that would keep all of those unable to channel the power of phuskios magic at bay. She nodded to herself, resolute, and stepped toward the new portal.

"Better let one of us go first," Allonanther said, stepping in front of her.

Izandra deferred to him, although inwardly she thought herself better equipped to deal with whatever threats they might encounter in this place, a place of magic. She was suddenly eager for this to be done with, to meet Ethander and to understand the reasons for all these tests and mysteries. To understand why she was here, and to what purpose her mentor had summoned her. She still felt that slight tremor of uncertainty, though, unable to fully banish the dark images from her dream the night before.

The staircase descended sharply, but Izandra had grown stronger and more agile over the course of her journeys, and the long-limbed Ilfann had no difficulty. She'd lost count of the steps, but it was somewhat over one hundred when the winding descent ended and they emerged into another chamber.

This level looked similar to the one they had just left, but there was something oppressive in the air that Izandra could not quite identify. The room was easily as large as any of the ones in the complex above, but Izandra felt crowded in, uncomfortable. She could sense that the Ilfann felt it too. There were two exits, so they had a choice to make. Again she knew that the Ilfann would defer to her, so she moved deliberately toward one of the dark passages, trusting in her instincts. As the Ilfanns' lamps spilled their illumination into the dark corridor it resolved into a long tunnel that twisted slightly to the left. Izandra started down the passage, with the Ilfann close to either side, warding her from whatever threats might emerge from the darkness.

The passage went on for some distance before they entered another much smaller chamber, little more than an anteroom. Again they were confronted with two tunnels, and again Izandra chose one more or less at random. She realized that the entire mountain could well be honeycombed with a maze of tunnels and chambers, and she began to worry about the status of their supplies. As if in response, her stomach growled in angry reminder, so loud that she felt certain that both of her companions could hear it.

But they said nothing, and Izandra was still not willing to call a halt. The passage they were in turned much more sharply, and they rounded a bend to find themselves face to face with the largest maul that Izandra had ever seen.

The creature's appearance after the emptiness of the shrine to that point was so sudden that for a long moment the three of them just stood there in surprise, watching the horrific creature as it stared at them. It was at least the size of a large pony, its glowing red eyes burning like torches as it regarded them. It stood in the arched entry to another chamber, about twenty feet away, but to Izandra's perceptions at that moment, it looked much, much closer.

The maul let out a deep-throated growl, a rumble that shattered their immobility and turned surprise into action. But at that same moment, it launched itself at them.

The Ilfann responded with reflexive dexterity. Allonanther strung his bow and drew back an arrow in one smooth motion, the missile flying before the beast had taken two strides. The arrow struck it in the shoulder, but while it buried itself deep into the beast's flesh, the maul showed no effect from the injury.

Elodorion moved in front of Izandra, his slender sword held in a ready pose before him. The slim Ilfann looked ludicrously small against the charging creature, which seemed to fill the passageway as it drew nearer. Allonanther fitted another arrow to his bow, but it was clear that he would not have time for another shot before the maul swept Elodorion, and possibly all three of them, before its charge.

Elodorion raised his weapon to strike, but started as Izandra grasped his shoulder and lightly pushed him aside. Surprised, he gave way, letting Izandra face the charging creature. It was already nearly upon them, and it leapt forward over the last few steps separating them, its massive jaws opening to seize her entire torso in one fell grab.

The air before Izandra rippled outward like a wave in a pond. It caught the creature in its eddies, trapping it in mid-leap as though its momentum had suddenly bled away into nothingness. For an instant it hung there, a snarl frozen on its face, then a gleaming line of searing light materialized out of the air in front of Izandra and sliced into the maul.

The creature was flung roughly backward, hitting the ground hard fully ten paces back and rolling to a heap. The Ilfann had dropped their lamps upon sighting the creature, and only one was still lit, its flickering flame barely illuminating the unmoving lump that had been the maul. Izandra just stood there, watching it, while the Ilfann recovered the lamps and coaxed them back to life.

The restored light revealed that the maul's corpse was mangled and bloody from the force of whatever power Izandra had unleashed upon it. Its head was cloven in two, revealing jagged white bone underneath. Its limbs were a broken tangle, and it was difficult to even envision it as it had been a moment ago, powerful and dangerous.

"You did not reveal that you had such power," Elodorion finally said. Was there a hint of recrimination in his voice?

"It is this place," Izandra told him, her own voice sounding cold and detached to her own ears. "It amplifies my abilities... like oil poured upon a flame."

"Let us be moving," Allonanther suggested. Izandra nodded in assent. They had to pass close to the dead creature, but then it was behind them, and they continued on to the chamber beyond.

The room was shaped in a long oval. Unlike the other areas they had passed through, this place showed signs of recent occupancy. Bits of dirt, straw, and other detritus littered the floor here and there, and a dank smell hung in the air. There were several exits visible along the sides of the room, low archways that warded dark spaces beyond. Izandra saw the glint of metal coming from one of the openings, and she directed Elodorion to shine his light in that direction. The brighter light revealed an iron gate blocking the entry.

"A barrier," Elodorion said simply.

"Or a cage," Izandra noted, glancing back at the corpse of the giant maul.

Elodorion had moved to shine his light into another of the dark openings, revealing another heavy grate. "A kennel, then?" he asked. "Is this, then, where these creatures originated? But... how? Why?"

Izandra had no answer, but she saw that Allonanther had moved to another arched opening on the far wall, and she moved to join him, Elodorion close behind.

"What is it?" she asked him.

"Listen."

She did so, and heard it; a soft sound, like someone crying. The sound seemed to drift up from the tunnel, which bore no grate and which seemed to slant downward with a noticeable grade. She looked up at Allonanther, but his expression held no explanation. With the Ilfann in tow, she led them into the passage.

They had traveled only a short distance when Izandra saw a dark curtain hanging over one side of the tunnel. A faint light glimmered from around the edges of the curtain, and the sound seemed to be coming from somewhere behind it. Uncertain what to expect, she pulled back the curtain, looking first to verify that the Ilfann had their bows ready in case another threat lurked beyond.

Behind the curtain was an anteroom that opened onto a significantly larger space beyond. Both areas were lit by metal torches that burned with a reddish flame that cast a bloody pallor over the entire area. The anteroom was empty, but the larger chamber was cluttered with an array of stone tables, metal cages, lengths of chain, and other devices whose purpose Izandra could only guess at. The light revealed dark stains both old and new on most of the tables and the floor, and she didn't need to look closely to divine what they were. The smell was stronger here, a stench of death and fear.

The sound was coming from the only apparent living thing in the chamber, a form huddled in one corner of the larger part of the room. There a short cot was set up next to a metal brazier that provided little in the way of warmth or light. Izandra walked over in that direction, curiosity and revulsion warring within her. The figure did not look up, but he seemed to sense her approach, for he let out a little screech and seemed to huddle deeper within himself, as if he could somehow crawl into the substance of the wall itself.

"I'm not going to hurt you," Izandra said.

"Kill'dem," he said, its voice little more than a screech. "Kill'dem all, kill'dem all! All dead, all dead! Kill'd my children, all my children!"

As he spoke he looked up at her, and she drew back in revulsion. The strange figure was a shriveled old man, dressed in a tattered smock of old muslin that barely covered his bony frame. His face was a maze of wrinkles, with wisps of hair framing an expression of utter despondency. His eyes shone in the reflected light of the torches. The madness in those eyes was obvious, even without the use of her sharpened senses.

For a moment she thought that the old man would attack her, but then his head slumped back down, and he fell back into a heap against the wall. His body shook, and she could hear his continued fragments of speech about his fallen "children."

"Let's get out of here," Izandra said, retreating.

"This place, this whole place, it is unnatural," Allonanther said. "There are strange powers at work here."

"I know," Izandra said. She didn't know what words to use to reassure the Ilfann. She felt that she could use some reassurance herself. The appearance of the maul and the old man had each impacted her, shaken what assumptions she thought that she'd had upon entering this place. She felt unbalanced, uncertain, as though the world was spinning around her and she could not quite find her equilibrium. It was not a pleasant sensation, and she took solace in action.

She strode deliberately back out into the corridor and continued down the sloping passageway. She marked stride with the staff given to her by the Walker, its rhythmic beat against the hard stone in sync with each step a reassuring presence. She strode onward into the darkness as the light from the Ilfanns' lamps drove it in turn further back. She was no longer making any effort at stealth or deliberation; she wished to meet her enemy, if that was what he was, to confront that which had drawn her all this way, to this place of alien and yet familiar power.

The passage began to bend slightly, continuing its downward slope, and Izandra felt a momentary impression of descending into the very depths of the earth, wandering an endless circuit of tunnels and chambers until she succumbed to hunger or thirst. The passage only continued for a few score yards, though, opening through another half-circle arch into a larger space beyond.

This place was unlike any of the other rooms they had passed through to that point. It looked like a natural cavern, and somehow Izandra took comfort in the uneven angles and broken crags in the rock walls and ceiling.

A few dark cracks that might have been additional tunnel openings were visible around the perimeter of the place, and a small pool of water had collected in a depression in one corner.

She took a few steps forward into the room, but then, suddenly, everything around her seemed to spin. The walls and floor grew blurry and indistinct, as if she was looking through the haze of a hot day. Not that there were many such days in Sindelar... but was there an earlier memory? Something not quite there tickled at the edges of her recollection. She tried to grasp at it, but it vanished as quickly as it had come.

She abruptly realized that she was standing at an angle; that one of the Ilfann was holding her upright from behind. Her embarrassment gave her the lever that she needed to regain her equilibrium, and she quickly pulled away.

"I'm... I'm sorry," she said. It was Allonanther, she saw, who had caught her. Elodorion was watching from a few feet away, trying unsuccessfully to shield from her the dubious look in his eyes. She could not read Allonanther, though; for some reason that mask had fallen back over his inner feelings, although when he spoke his tone betrayed his concern.

"You are exhausted, and none of us have eaten today. It will do us no good to stretch our supplies if we become sick with weakness now."

Izandra's first thought was to resist the suggestion, to force herself through will alone to push on, to finish this however it might end. But she had to admit that Allonanther was right. She would need her strength to confront whatever lie ahead.

"At least we have water," she said, leading them to the far side of the cavern, near the broad pool. She saw that a faint current rippled the surface of the water, indicating that it was fed by an underground stream. That was encouraging; perhaps there would be fish that they could use to supplement their meager rations. But then she realized that they had nothing with which to catch fish, even if they were present.

She looked up and saw that the Ilfann were standing there, waiting for her. I must be tired, she thought, if I'm drifting so readily. She thought that no more than a few hours had passed since they had delved into Ælfang that morning, but without any external referents underground, she could not fully trust her sense of time.

Wearily, she slumped to her knees beside the pool. Elodorion tested the water before letting her drink; when Izandra finally filled her cup and took a sip it tasted delicious. She hadn't realized how thirsty she had been, draining several more cupfuls in quick succession. She considered dunking her entire head into the water, which was bracingly cold, to wake herself up, but she considered the chill and decided against it. No need to add a head cold to their worries, she thought.

The Ilfann put their little lamps on the stone floor and began preparing a small repast. Allonanther brewed a small pot of tea on a little metal tripod that rested atop the lamp's thin flame, while Elodorion mixed water and grain meal to make a cold porridge that Izandra knew from experience was thin and unappetizing. She forced herself to eat all that was given her, however, appreciating at least the quieting of her restless stomach. The tea was better, although it was little more than tepid. The three of them finished the meal in quiet, none of them feeling much like idle chatter in the oppressive emptiness of this place.

She leaned back against the wall behind her while the Ilfann carefully but efficiently packed away their equipment. She felt an incredible drowsiness creep up over her; she fought it for a few moments, but allowed her eyes to close. Just a minute, she told herself. Just a minute's rest, to recenter herself.

Sleep came.

* * * * *

Chapter 31

"Izandra."

The voice summoned her from sleep. She fought it, preferring the calm dark of sleep. She did not know why, but the dark seemed familiar, comforting. There were no dreams waiting there, only the calm reassurance of rest.

"Izandra," the voice came again, also familiar, more urgent.

Realization and wakefulness came together so quickly that she felt like she had been dunked into the icy waters of the pool. She started up, only to sense a presence right in front of her, crouched over her. The power rose reflexively within her, and she nearly released it before she recognized who it was.

"Allonanther," she said, secretly pleased that her voice remained steady. "Why is it so dark?" she asked. His form was just a vague shadow, and the entire chamber was almost lost in the featureless black behind him. They were still in the cavern, she thought; she could feel the uneven edges of the wall behind her, and could smell the dampness from the adjacent pool.

"Elodorion is gone," Allonanther said.

"Gone! But... where?" She rose, using the rough surface of the wall to steady herself. Her body ached, and felt leaden.

"I do not know. It was as if he vanished into the air. One moment he was there, and I turned my back for a few moments, and then he was gone."

One who has earned your trust will betray you. The Walker's words echoed loudly in her mind, sending a chill through her that had nothing to do with the temperature in this place. Out loud, she said, "He might be in trouble. Where was he when you last saw him?"

For once Izandra was glad that she could not clearly see the Ilfann's expression. He gestured toward the wall that curved back from where she was standing, where several dark openings could either be shallow cracks or further tunnels that wound deeper into the mountain.

"How long was I asleep? And why is the lamplight so weak?" Only one of the lamps remained—she guessed that Elodorion still carried the other—but its flame was like that of a candle, faint and flickering.

"You slept no more than an hour," Allonanther replied. "And the lamp is nearly out of oil." He didn't have to explain; Izandra already knew from earlier observation during their explorations that Elodorion carried their oil-flask.

"We will need light if we are to continue our search," she said. Even with Allonanther's superior vision, the tiny flame would not suffice for much except alerting whatever threats lingered in these tunnels.

Allonanther's eyebrows raised slightly, but he said nothing as Izandra closed her eyes and summoned a spark of power to her. This was a familiar spell—in fact, it had been one of the first things that Ethander had taught her—but somehow, it was harder to summon than the destructive energies that had come so readily at her bidding earlier. She ordered her thoughts using the training techniques that she had mastered through endless practice, channeling the power into the desired course.

She opened her eyes, and looked at the tip of her staff. She had chosen it as the focus, perhaps because it already seemed attuned to the power of the natural world that was the source of phuskios magic. As she directed the currents of energy the tip of the staff began to glow, first as a mere twinkle of light, and the brighter and brighter until both of them had to look away from the brilliant radiance. She held up the staff, its light weight no burden, and glanced back at Allonanther.

"Let's go."

She thrust the staff ahead of her like a spear, probing the secrets of the dark cracks that formed along the walls of the cavern. The first that she examined narrowed almost immediately into nothing, but the second, near where Allonanther had indicated that Elodorion had disappeared, widened into another smooth passageway that disappeared into darkness at the edge of her staff's light. Without hesitation, she and Allonanther entered the corridor.

At first the passageway seemed just like the others they had traversed, but as they pressed on Izandra noticed that the air was growing noticeably colder. At first it was just a slight chill in the air, a deepening of the already cold environment of the underground complex. There was no breeze through the tunnels, no stirring in the air at all, just a clinging cold that cut through all of the layers of clothes she was wearing to seep into the tired flesh beneath. It wasn't quite cold enough to condense her breath in the air, but she didn't think that it was that far off.

"Do you feel that?" Izandra asked her companion.

Allonanther nodded, but said nothing in reply. His silence was contagious, and Izandra offered no further comment as they continued down the passage.

A faint light became visible ahead, and as they drew nearer it became evident that the passage opened onto another large space, another chamber or cavern. But when they finally reached the end of the tunnel, it was clear that this new destination was utterly unlike either.

The passage opened onto a large open space that was quite literally a sphere, a perfect bubble in the interior of the mountain. The sphere was easily one hundred paces across. They entered along one of the curves of its bottom half, only a few yards from its lowest point. Other openings were visible at a variety of levels above them, all connected by a labyrinthine construction of catwalks and staircases fashioned of a dull silvery metal. Pinions that dangled from the "ceiling" of the sphere supported the weight of the catwalks, which themselves seemed fragile and delicate. The sight of them stirred a memory, from her dream; yet this was clearly not the dark place she had seen in that vision.

For the great sphere was full of light, a warm glow that seemed to be coming from everywhere at once. The glow reflected from the sphere's surface, which was fashioned from a substance that seemed part stone, part glass, translucent with hints of something deep within.

The place was full of power, a focus so strong that Izandra thought that she could reach out and touch the tendrils that she had detected earlier, all running toward this place. And yet somehow she sensed that this was not the true source, or destination, perhaps, of those threads of power. She felt both awed and confused, uncertain how to proceed.

"What is this place?"

"The Outer Fane," a voice replied from directly behind her. She started in surprise—in her amazement at her surroundings, she'd forgotten about Allonanther—but suddenly felt a sudden flash of understanding.

She reached for her magic, but it slipped from her grasp like oil. Too late, she realized that the light had gone out from her staff, that this place was more than a focus, it was some sort of storage cell, drawing in all of the power of the phuskios energies present, even her own.

All of this insight came in an instant. Her body had barely begun to react, turning to face the new threat, when something hard crashed into the base of her skull, and she crumpled to the floor, unconscious.

* * *

Izandra. Wake up, Izandra.

The words were in her mind, an echo of earlier voices, stirring her from the world of sleep, of dreams, to the hard reality of the waking world. Only this time she had not been sleeping, and this time those who called her were not her friends, not her allies. Still, she came to their call, unable to do anything else.

She returned to consciousness, groggy and still confused. Focus, her mind told her. Start with the immediate, then proceed to the distant. In her mind, the words were as clear as if Ethander was right beside her, speaking them again to her in the security of his quiet cottage, a short walk from her home, in Sindelar.

But she had never been truly safe, had she?

As awareness of her body returned she realized that she was restrained. She turned her head slowly, even that motion causing tendrils of pain to rise up and threaten to call her back to unconsciousness. She saw that she was bound to a heavy metal stanchion, her arms spread wide, her legs bent so that she was almost kneeling. She started to look around, but abruptly realized where she was.

This was the place from her dream.

It was dark, yet again she could somehow see, making out the outlines of things around her rather than their substance. The weird shadow-sight revealed a familiar catwalk, similar to the ones that she had seen in the sphere-chamber.

Then, as if the last remnant of haziness had been lifted like a veil from her awareness, she became aware of... it.

It hung before her in the air, dominating the cavernous space of the vault. Its exact boundaries were vague to her special awareness, shifting and reforming and yet somehow remaining constant at the same time. It made her stomach churn and her mind swirl to look upon it directly, but when she lowered her head the perception of it was still just as strong, if not stronger. She felt as though she was falling, a sense of vertigo that felt like waves crashing on the crumbling shores of her conscious mind. It was pure chaos, and it threatened to overwhelm her.

But bit by bit her own internal discipline asserted itself, and she crawled back up to some sort of mental order as she fought off the sheer weight of the alien presence. She realized that its effects were not an attack, but rather a byproduct of this place, of proximity to that thing that was... just, there.

And, being who and what she was, she studied it.

This was the true center of all of the strands of power that she'd felt running to and through Ælfang, she now realized. She could not define exactly how those energies interfaced with this entity, this thing; it defied precise characterization, so she left its definition obscure. But the impact of its presence left no question of the great power it held. What was it? Was there some sort of consciousness inside? She could not be sure, could not even touch it with her own limited powers.

"Incredible, isn't it?"

The voice came from behind her, but she could not twist her head back far enough to see who had spoken. She sensed someone approaching, however, and she felt that familiar tingle of anticipation, knowing that the confrontation she'd increasingly come to expect since coming here was now at hand.

Two figures entered the edge of her range of vision. The first she recognized immediately, and dismissed as quickly. Allonanther seemed unchanged, although she could now feel the slight change in him, that part of him that she had faintly sensed before, but which he had always kept successfully hidden beneath layers of concealment. And she had thought that she'd come to know him, she mused, anger warring with shame at her failure. But she put self-recrimination aside for the moment, recognizing that whatever Allonanther had been, he had only been a pawn in this game, an adjunct to the real power behind the events that had culminated in her journey here.

She did not recognize the second figure, cloaked in a concealing, flowing robe with a deep cowl. Of course, it was not really with her eyes that she saw him, but with her enhanced senses, senses that flowed around an even more impenetrable shield that utterly concealed its owner's thoughts and emotions. But even though her senses could not identify the newcomer, intellectually she knew that he could only be one person. When he spoke again, she was certain.

"Hello, my child."

"Hello, Ethander."

"I am sorry for all that has been done to you, my child. I know that you cannot yet believe this, but it was all necessary."

"Why this?" she asked, anger threatening to overcome the delicate equilibrium she had established. "I came willingly, for all your manipulations. Why this?" She tugged at her bonds, but they held her fast.

"Menton once said, 'Trust not love, for it is fickle, and based upon the whims of the individual. Put your trust in fear, rather, for its dictates are within your control, and are both more constant and reliable.' Blunt words, perhaps, but when it comes to leadership, one must often rely on coercion rather than suasion to achieve results. A part of me regrets having to bring you to this course, but my plans have been too long in work, and are too important, to leave them solely in the hands of your free will."

"I don't understand," Izandra said.

"No, of course you do not," her former mentor said. "But it was all to a purpose. Note the long road that has brought you here, and the changes that you have gone through to get here. Your powers have thrived and developed, and so has the mind that commands them. You are now ready for the purpose for which you have been shaped."

"You've been doing this from the start," she said. "That's why you came to Sindelar, that's why you took me as an apprentice."

"Let us say instead, that is why I had you brought to Sindelar," Ethander replied. "It took a great deal of time and effort to find you, Izandra, but it will all be worth it, shortly."

"What do you mean?" she asked.

"For many years, you have wondered who you are. You have known that you were special, yet did not fully understand how or why. But from the start, you realized that you were different."

"That difference is the basis for why you are here. For I needed one who not only had the gift, rare as that is in itself, but one who sprung forth of two roots, a bridge between two different, yet related, wellsprings of life. It took me a great deal of time to discover this, believe me. For a long time I thought that I had reached a wall, that all of my dreams and plans had been wasted on something that could never be. I initially thought that the two could just be pooled, could come together in cooperation to achieve my goal. But that failed. No, they two had to be combined in one person, had to be blended, not piled one atop the other. Only one who was of both could do what I needed, could release the power!"

Izandra's head was swimming from the combined effect of the blow to her head and her efforts to understand what Ethander was saying. She thought she understood his ultimate ambition; it was impossible not to grasp his reference to power, not with that unfathomable presence looming above them. But she could not comprehend why she was here, what her role was in this drama of lies and power. "What are these 'two roots' that I am supposed to represent?" she asked, her voice shrill.

Ethander faced her, and although she could not see his eyes, she could feel the weight of his stare. "The two roots are the two sentient races that were born of Creation on this world. Human and Ilfann, twin sparks of life's light, related and yet each unique, evolving on parallel but distinct courses through the life of this world."

"Through history, the two races have come together, mixed. They are different, as you well know, but not entirely incompatible. Yet that mixing is rare, and over time a strong taboo against it has emerged in both cultures. The reason lies in much more than simple xenophobia, however. For in the mixture of human and Ilfann, in the interbreeding of the two races, the result is a mule, not of either species, possessing the recessive traits and worst elements of both. Most such mixings were sterile, doomed to lives of rejection and resentment, but over time, they came to form a third race, a bastard stepchild hated by each of its parents. They lacked the full spark of creation borne by each parent race, and devolved into something more primal, bestial, without the full capabilities of intellect and reason that defined the two master races of our world."

"So you can see why it was so difficult to find you, Izandra. For you are a member of that third race, a rare mixing of human and Ilfann. You are even rarer, in that you possess both intelligence and the gift, and that you evidence few outward signs of your mixed heritage. That made it easier, for you could pass as human, could grow and develop not in isolation, but in a healthy environment in which your mind and body could come into their full potential."

"But you cannot deny your true heritage. You are a product of that mixed lineage. You are kobalos."

The words struck Izandra like a physical blow. She opened her mouth to protest, to deny this incredible charge, but she could not speak. Her thoughts spun in a dozen directions at once. For herself, and for her brother.

"Ezran..." she found herself saying, the thought bringing his name to her lips.

"Yes, he is your true brother," Ethander said. "And he too is special, although his gifts run in different directions." The mage did not elaborate, but Izandra was grateful that her brother was not caught up in whatever mad scheme Ethander was working here.

"So what is it you want from me?" Izandra said.

"I want—I need—your power. Although you are still relatively new to your talents, the magic flows strongly in you already. And it flows from the wellspring of your combined ancestry. That, in particular, is what makes your role vital."

Izandra wondered why he was telling her this, revealing that her cooperation was essential to the fulfillment of his plans. How could he expect her to cooperate, especially after the betrayal she had suffered? Or perhaps he would not ask her cooperation. The thought sent a chill down her spine. Still, the thought of being manipulated yet further sent her into a cold fury. The emotions seemed to be fed by the dark presence that surrounded all of them, stoking her rage into a boiling flame.

"Ah, you feel it, then," Ethander said. "Powerful, isn't it? That is what you will need, if you must prevail here."

His words caused some of her emotion to ebb, enough for her to restore her control. She tugged at her bonds again, this time adding a mental as well as physical impetus to the effort. She felt relief that the power came to her, if somewhat sluggishly. She had worried that this place would evidence the same effect as in the sphere-chamber, when her powers had been absorbed uselessly into her surroundings. The tiny current of power that she threaded into her bonds slid around the silvery coils that held her arms and body fast, however. Apparently the material that her captors had used, similar to the metal that made up the surrounding catwalk, resisted magical energies in some way.

"Do not waste your strength trying to escape," Ethander told her. "You will need it for what is to come."

"What is going to happen to me?" Izandra asked.

"If you are strong..." His statement trailed off, and Izandra suspected that even he did not truly know. "Be assured, though, that I do not wish to see you come to any permanent harm."

"What you want me to do... it has something to do with that," she said, glancing up briefly at the nebulous darkness that hovered above them. Even that brief look was enough to fill her with the impression that it was growing, filling the chamber with its power. She quickly turned her gaze back to the two individuals in front of her, to quiet the lurching vertigo caused by the disquieting appearance of the dark globe.

"Of course," Ethander replied. He lifted his own gaze to the dark entity, keeping it there for a long stretch of moments, as if to show Izandra that he could. She wondered if his exposure to that power had already driven him mad. How many years had he been working on this scheme, which apparently had begun even before her birth?

Her thoughts must have been revealed by her expression, for he shook his head and said, "No, I am not a madman, Izandra, though others have thought so before, and if I fail, others will say so again. Can't you feel the power? It surges within the sphere, and it echoes out here, around it. I seek to tap that power, to use it."

Izandra shuddered despite herself. "It is evil."

Ethander laughed. "Evil! What is good and evil? It is chaos, destruction kept confined, the ancient power of our legends made real and brought to life. But evil? Evil lies in the hearts of men, Izandra, not in this power. No, the power is more primal, basic. It does not care what it destroys, does not feel any ethical compulsion that you or I could identify and define. It is purity."

"And...you hope to release it? Release this destruction upon the world?"

"Don't be naive, Izandra. Neither you nor I have the power to sunder this prison, for it is forged of the very essences of the universe. Why would I work to free a power that would destroy everything, including my own existence? No, I merely want to tap into that power, to use it!"

"Think, Izandra! Think of it! This power is part of human existence, part of all life. Theologians and philosophers tell us that there can be no creation without destruction, no life without death. But why must it be so? We believe in gods, beings of Thought everlasting, and we draw our power from currents of energy that transcend the limits of mortal existence. Why must we live our brief little lives and then die, like flashes of light that flare out and fade into the night? You are young; perhaps these questions have not yet occurred to you. But they will! You too will feel the cold hand of fate approaching, to call you off regardless of your desires!"

"And what of our existence during those lives? Our world suffers from war, from famine, from misery. Our people—all people, human, Ilfann, even the kobalos—all suffer from need. You know what phuskios mages are capable of, Izandra. Imagine that power, only a thousand times greater, put to the service of all sentient life!"

"And you would wield this power of life and death," Izandra said simply. "You would decide who benefits, and who does not. And as an immortal, perhaps a god here on earth! Your ambitions aren't just simple dreams of power, you truly are mad!"

"Perhaps, perhaps not," Ethander replied, unruffled by her accusation. "Dreamers are always considered mad by those who would prefer the security of changelessness. But there are those who share my vision, and it will come to pass." He spoke with an absolute certainty that almost convinced her, save that she already knew of one fault in his plan.

"I will never help you," she said. She straightened against her bonds, and the power flowed through her. Neither the bonds nor the metal railing that she was attached to were vulnerable to her magic, so she used her own body as a conduit, to channel the power directly. It was a dangerous gamble she was taking, for the energies she was releasing could easily destroy the fragile flesh of her human—or part human—body, if she lost control. Her hands and forearms began to glow a cherry red, causing her clothes to smolder and burn away. Heat washed over her, although it did not burn through the shields that she had erected against the energy, allowing her body to continue to function even though she was radically reshaping the laws of the universe in parts of it.

The metal fibers that made up her bonds resisted the magic, but they could not resist the incredible heat. They too began to glow, softening and then beginning to droop as they lost their coherence. Izandra pulled her hands free, snapping the melting strands easily, then reached down to grasp the bonds holding her legs and torso with her glowing hands. The action damaged more of her clothes, which smoldered and darkened at her touch, but within moments the remaining restraints had given way and she stood, unencumbered. The escape had taken half a minute, at most, and as she released the power, carefully, her hands returned to their normal pink hue, undamaged.

Ethander and Allonanther had not moved, although she could sense the nimbus of power that surrounded each of them. Their shields were strong, but she felt suffused with energy in this place, almost eager to be released. She kept it under control with iron discipline, although under that veneer of control a quiet rivulet of anger still seethed.

"You cannot keep me here," she said, although she tensed slightly, expecting an attack. While her powers had been greatly amplified in this place, she did not doubt that Ethander and Allonanther experienced the same benefit. Neither of them stirred, however, nor made any threatening gestures. "I am leaving this place, and you and your plans can be damned."

"I am impressed," Ethander said. "Truly, you have passed beyond even the potential that I saw for you."

"I am leaving," she repeated, and she even managed a cautious step back before Ethander stopped her with a raised hand and a mocking gaze.

"Aren't you forgetting something, my dear? I said earlier that I was not relying upon your free will in this instance. Those bonds were not intended to hold you permanently, they were only to keep you still long enough to hear what I had to say. Arxes here thought that they would not hold you as long as they did, but I admit, I still had a few doubts. I am glad that I was mistaken."

Izandra looked at 'Arxes', the Ilfann she had known as Allonanther. He lowered his gaze. Was it in shame? Izandra somehow doubted that, with the throbbing reminder of his treachery still fresh at the back of her neck. But her look revealed something she had missed earlier. The Ilfann was carrying something close against his body, a slender line that seemed to pulse slightly as she touched it with her perceptions. It was the staff of the Walker, her talisman.

"Look there," Ethander said, drawing her attention back, gesturing behind her toward the ledge at the end of the catwalk. She turned, but kept her back to the distended railing, still wary of an attack.

She was familiar with the layout of the chamber already, which seemed to conform exactly to the outlines she had witnessed in her dream-vision. Still, it took her a moment to distinguish the figures clustered in a small group along the narrow space of the ledge. Three were standing, big, bulky forms that seemed to radiate violence even at rest. Before them, facing toward her, was another figure, bound and kneeling, his head bowed so that it was nearly touching the smooth stone before him. He did not seem to be conscious or aware of his surroundings.

"Elodorion," she breathed.

"Yes, I am afraid your other Ilfann companion was a bit of a problem," Ethander said. "But you need not fear for him; I doubt that your loyalty to him extends far enough for his suffering to be valuable to us. No, I think you will be much more interested in our second guest."

He made a slight gesture, and one of the standing figures reached down and lifted something from a heap at his feet. Izandra realized with slowly dawning horror that the heap was another prisoner. The thing that lifted the captive was a large, muscular creation, and he bore the diminutive form of the prisoner with ease, bringing him forward to the edge of the ledge where the catwalk began. Izandra could hear the clank of chains as he drew nearer, and could see that the prisoner had been mistreated. His gangly limbs hung at awkward angles from his emaciated frame, which was marked with half-healed slashes and burns. His head lolled against his chest as he was carried forward, showing no sign of vitality, or even that he still lived. His captor wore only a skirt of some silken fabric that flowed around his legs as he moved. His muscular upper body and shaven head were etched with swirling tattoos that seemed to take on a strange prominence in the weird dark-light of the chamber. She could sense the darkness in the man, as well, which seethed from him like a foul odor.

"The Seer has been watching you for some time," Ethander said. "I had once hoped that he would be the one to fulfill the purpose I have reserved for you, but his talents lie more in khemeia than phuskios."

The Seer smiled, and on seeing his jagged and uneven teeth Izandra then realized that he was not a man at all, but a kobalos. She felt a surge of revulsion, but at the same time felt something familiar emanating from him. Had she seen him somewhere before? Or was it a connection born of a shared heritage?

"The Seer has more than proven his worth, though," Ethander went on. "For he has brought us this great prize."

Izandra stared at the tortured man, realization coming despite the fact that every ounce of her being screamed that it not be so. Nothing about him had seemed familiar, nor had she felt anything from her enhanced senses, but now it was as if a veil—or a shield—was lifted, and the truth faced her squarely, incapable of denial or escape.

"Ezran!"

The prisoner stirred, as if the word, wrenched from her very soul, had summoned him back to life. His head came up, and there was recognition, for just a moment, in his glazed eyes.

Izandra unleashed a storm of power. The energies came readily to her call, and she focused a beam of raw, destructive energy toward her brother's captor, at the same time drawing another circle of power in a shield around herself. The assault was pure instinct, and she let the power shape her even as she shaped it, calling upon the essences of this place to destroy her enemies.

But the tightly focused wave of destructive power suddenly struck an invisible barrier and came apart, the energies flowing back into the threads that filled this entire place. Izandra quickly launched another attack, a tight channel of swirling air, but this too failed to penetrate the barrier. The Seer, nonplussed by these assaults, but able to sense their failure, only laughed at her.

"This entire area is protected, with shields inside shields," Ethander said. His voice came from almost directly behind her, close enough to reach out and touch. "Do you think that we would be defenseless, in our own lair? This place is a welter of mysteries and powers interlocked, and after a lifetime of study I barely understand their secrets. Perhaps you, too, will come to know understanding, in time."

"You bastards," she hissed, but did not turn. She could feel his presence, though, behind her, and focused on it, in part to avoid looking at the horribly broken body of her brother. Even now, she felt as though she was going to collapse in despair. Only her fury kept her upright and functioning, and she fed that fire, stoked it. She could not fail her brother again, could not leave him to the mercy of these evil men should she bend to their will and complete their task.

"What is it that you want me to do?" she said.

"You will find that it will work to your advantage to be reasonable, my child," Ethander said. "I wish no harm upon you or your—"

Izandra spun around, and with a shriek of fury and released power slammed her right hand, palm out, into Ethander's chest. The air around them shimmered with ripples of energy that wove outward from the point of impact, the point of connection between them.

Izandra poured the power directly into his body, ravaging streams of destructive force. For a moment the sheer magnitude of the energies blinded her, and only her rage kept the power flowing, seeking, destroying. But then she heard a voice from the maelstrom, not a scream of fear or disaster, but a cry of triumph.

"Yes! YES! THE POWER!"

Izandra opened her eyes with dawning horror. Her hand was still pressed hard against Ethander's chest, and he was leaning over her, as if the weight of her arm was the only think keeping him upright. His robes had burned away from the point of contact, revealing a silver medallion dangling from a long silver chain. Her palm was pressing this medallion into his chest, and she saw that somehow the power she was channeling was passing through the medallion into the mage. She could not discern the effect of this strange combination, only that she knew that Ethander should be a pile of dust by now, blasted into utter oblivion by the power she had released.

She tried to stop, to cease the flows, to draw back, but she could not. It was as if the two of them were frozen there together, both prisoners of whatever power she had unleashed. Now it was she who screamed as the raging torrent swept through her, drawn from the power of this place, through her into Ethander, and then...

She realized that there was another flow of power, one that passed through the mage and into the dark entity behind and above them. She looked up and saw that the darkness was swirling from the impact of that twisting thread, as if drawn to the disturbance. Suddenly the indistinct and shifting barrier that made up the outline of the prison parted, and she could see what lay within.

Her face turned white as she looked into the heart of the darkness.

The thread of power lanced through that gap, stabbing into that nebulous shadow. Both she and Ethander lurched as if the thread had stabbed each of them instead, like a spear. She sensed rather than saw the shift in the connection, and felt a dark current running back along that line toward the two of them. She sensed Ethander's anticipation through their link. He was waiting for that power, the culmination of decades of dreaming and planning. For some reason that Izandra could not fathom, Izandra knew also that the touch of that power meant her death, her utter destruction. But she could not break the link.

Then Ethander lurched again. Izandra could not at first see the cause, as the tendril that snaked out from the dark sphere had not yet reached them. But then, a shaft erupted from his chest, its length slaked in Ethander's lifeblood, its tip just a few inches from where her hand touched the silver medallion. The blow sundered the connection like a snuffed flame, and she fell back, her body collapsing underneath her, her mind shattered by the backlash of energy that she had released.

She did not know how long she lay there, insensate. She was aware of scattered sensations, little more than impressions of the area around her. Of Ethander's body, twisted and bloody, the shaft of the Walker's staff thrust through his chest. For long minutes all she could see was that broken form, again just the body of a fragile old man. Blood spread in a pool under him, the red strangely vivid in the dark-vision.

Slowly she pushed herself up from the cold stone. She remembered Ezran, and turned to look for him, but before she could make out anything in the darkness, she detected another presence close by. She looked up, still unsteady, and saw Allonanther standing there, looking at her.

"Why?" she asked him.

"Menton would say that power corrupts," the Ilfann said, his voice curiously neutral. "Or perhaps it is just that betrayal begets betrayal. Your priests of Merikkose would tell you that evil turns in on itself, consumes itself."

He regarded the body dispassionately. "I always told him that we should have paid heed to the potential of bios magic, the one area of study that was lacking in our little cabal. A battering ram could not have penetrated his defenses, but his shields were of no proof against the power inherent in that staff. Although I doubt that this is quite what the Walker had in mind when he granted it to you."

"Praxus—to you, Ethander—was compelled by a vision that has shaped much of his life. Perhaps he would have fulfilled his dreams, perhaps not. Maybe Menton's simple wisdom is correct, and that power would have warped him regardless of his intent. Witness what he had already done, to you and to others, on behalf of that vision."

She felt a great weariness, a suffusing tremor that sank to her very bones. She fought to rise up, but could only make it to a sitting position. The power, while still tangible around her, might as well have been across an ocean for all her current ability to touch it. "And what happens now?" she asked. Her gaze was drawn to the slim sword, still belted around his waist.

He saw the glance and recognized the question inherent in it. "Yes, I have had my own mandate here, and with your help I have carried out my mission. I probably should kill you; that would be the safest course. But I do not take life casually, nor am I a monster incapable of... human... connections. You have done me a great boon, so now I offer you one in return. Go, take the others and leave this place. There is nothing more to be done, here.

He retreated, back into the shadow of the orb-prison. Izandra looked up, and felt with her weary senses at the presence that still hung there. It felt weakened, quiescent, although the underlying power within the barrier was still there, potent and expectant. Then her attention came to the point where her power had inadvertently penetrated that outer shell, and tapped the dark energies within. That amorphous barrier had seemingly reformed once the probe had faltered, but she could feel a rent there, a small opening detectable only by the oozing taint of power that dribbled from it.

She was still too weak to focus her attentions upon the still-potent energies of the thing, however, and there were other more immediate concerns on her mind. Rallying her battered body, she stood on wobbly legs and made her way to the unmoving form of her brother. She could faintly sense the shield as she passed from the catwalk to the ledge; it tingled against her skin but did not bar her passage. Her legs and spirit gave out at the sight of him, and what had been done to him, and she half-collapsed beside Ezran's tortured frame.

For a moment she could not bear to take the next step, but she had to know. Cautiously, she turned him over, so that she could see his face.

He stirred slightly, and the motion brought a crashing release of bottled up tension flooding through her. She did not know what she would have done had he died, if she would have been able to survive the double weight of responsibility for what had happened to him. Already she felt crushed by pain at the sight of his face, marred by scarring. She saw with horror that one of his eyes was clouded, unseeing, and could hear how his breath rasped in his throat as he clung to life.

"Zan..."

"Hush," she said to him, with incredible tenderness. "I'm going to get you out of here."

Though at the moment, exactly how she was going to accomplish that feat seemed beyond her. She remembered how far they had traveled through the mountain to get to this place, and then the trek through the mountains beyond that. And despite Allonanther's promise of safe passage, there might still be threats lurking about. At that thought she was reminded of something else, and she looked around warily. There was no sign of him, that horrible yet strangely familiar creature that Ethander had named the Seer.

Then she heard a sound, a scrape of leather on stone that sent her heart leaping up into her throat. Fear added strength to her muscles, and she rose to a crouch as she sensed someone approaching. The strange sight that she had used earlier in this place seemed blurred, distorted, at least at more than a few yards distance, so that she could not make out clearly the identity of the figure as it approached. But even before she could see him clearly, she sensed the familiar presence, and let out a sigh of relief that was almost a sob.

"Elodorion!"

As the Ilfann neared her, she could see that he too, was in bad shape. His arms were bound behind his back, and he walked with a shuffle that she realized was caused by heavy throngs around his knees that allowed him only a very limited range of movement. One side of his face was battered and swollen, and the pale flesh of his torso was visible where his garments had been roughly torn or cut from his body.

Still, Izandra felt comforted at his presence, at having an ally willing to help her against the encroaching darkness that surrounded them. She felt a moment's hesitation, remembering her betrayal by Allonanther, fearing again a trust that might be rewarded with pain and suffering. But that thought came and went quickly. What else could be done to her? She needed to trust, needed help that she could not afford to turn aside. She went quickly to him, and although it sent little explosions of pain through her skull, managed to channel enough power to free him from his bonds. The Ilfann nodded in gratitude, rubbing his limbs to restore the circulation.

"It's my brother, Ezran," she said to him, returning to her stricken sibling. "We've got to get him out of here."

Elodorion came silently to her and helped her lift him, the two cradling him as gently as they could between them. Izandra was amazed at how light he felt, and she wondered at how long he had been here. What had happened after she had left Adelmar? What had happened to Dannil? Each question drove another spike of guilt through her, threatening to destroy the last vestiges of her strength, but she ruthlessly quashed those thoughts and focused instead on putting one foot in front of the other, ignoring all else but taking her brother out of this place.

She let Elodorion keep watch for danger, falling into an almost trance with their footsteps forming a rhythmic beat against the hard stone. They traveled up stairs and down corridors, with Izandra's detached mind allowing her to draw deeper from the limited reserves of her body.

In that state of half-wakefulness she saw glimpses of faces and places, none of them staying in her mind long enough for her to fully grasp their significance. Some were familiar images, including her home in Sindelar, and the parents whom she now knew were not of her blood at all. Images of Dannil, and other friends both close and casual. Images of Ethander, although those fled most swiftly, driven out of her mind by her subconscious defenses. But there were other images, too, faces she could not identify, places she had never been. A great desert, with sands blowing in a hot wind from the east. A city in the forest, with strange architecture and unfamiliar faces, Ilfann faces, in its streets. A dense range of cloud-wreathed peaks, one topped with a ring of columns and a white marble structure at their core.

She let herself drift with those seemingly random thoughts, only dimly aware that her legs continued to move beneath her, that the weight of her brother continued to press down across her shoulders. Some interminable time had passed, when she felt a cold breeze caress her face. She looked up in surprise, the clouds in her mind fading, to see the exit from the mountain complex up ahead down a familiar straight corridor. Elodorion put down his torch—Izandra could not remember where he had gotten it, or how long it had burned—and they made their way toward the faint light of another apparently overcast day.

"Ezran, we made it," she whispered. Her brother did not reply, but she took solace in the fact that she could still feel his life-force, could sense his heart beating in his chest. She imagined that it sounded strong, determined, but the fact was that her brother was still in dire shape. He needed warmth and nourishment, and even as the elation of finding their way out of the mountain began to fade, she realized that they still faced an incredible challenge. They had no warm clothing, weapons, or supplies. The cold air at the end of the corridor promised no respite from winter. Had that been why Allonanther had so readily released them? Had he known that the mountains would finish his work for him?

She and Elodorion put Ezran down carefully in the narrow entry of the anteroom where they had spent their first night in Ælfang. Her cloak had been removed by her captors, and all she had was a light coat over a wool blouse, both damaged by her travails and her use of phuskios magic in the shrine below, but she shrugged out of the outer garment and covered Ezran as best she could with it. While it might have been a little warmer further back in the complex, she was not willing to retreat back along that course.

"Izandra, look."

Elodorion had gone further into the little side room, and Izandra came wearily at his insistent call.

"What is it?" she said, seeing only the same small, empty room, really just a dark shadow from the faint light that filtered in from the corridor outside. There was no sunlight today to brighten the place, to fill her or Ezran with its warm, promising glow.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I sometimes forget that your eyes are not quite as sharp as mine." She looked at him intently, wondering just how much of the exchange between her and Ethander he had heard below, how much the Ilfann scout had understood about what had happened. His face was again as impenetrable a mask as it ever had been, though, and she could read nothing there. She reminded herself that he too had been betrayed, that Allonanther had been a long-standing acquaintance, perhaps even a friend. She had never fully understood the relationship between the two Ilfann, and she doubted that Elodorion would share much of his own volition. With no answers likely, she turned her attention to what he was trying to show her.

Her eyes widened in surprise when she finally saw what she had missed as part of the shadows before. There were several heavy packs laid against the stone along one wall of the room. They were crude things, fashioned of heavy slabs of leather bound with throngs, but she eagerly joined Elodorion in tearing into the nearest. Their efforts revealed a coarse but thick wool blanket, several burlap sacks stuffed with foodstuffs, and a bulging waterskin.

The sudden appearance of these supplies brought new questions to Izandra's mind, but for the moment she was willing to let them rest awhile, to accept this unanticipated boon for what it was, a better chance at survival. She and Elodorion dug hungrily into the food, and Izandra brought the waterskin and blanket to her brother. He stirred slightly at her touch, and she was able to pour some of the water between his cracked lips and wash away some of the old blood that marked his ragged frame. She would find some way to make him a hot broth, she said to herself, resolving to use her power if nothing else.

Weariness caught up to her, then, and she leaned back against the wall of the narrow entry beside Ezran, protecting him even in her sleep.

* * * * *

Chapter 32

The forest floor was a misty, cold, and beautiful wonderland, the vast tree trunks rising up out of the fog like an army of silent, watching sentinels. The air was clean and bracing, full of moisture and the promise of the snow that could not now be far off.

Ordinarily it was the sort of day that Dannil relished, but he did not take pleasure in the natural beauty and unspoiled splendor of the woods this day. His breath formed a plume in front of him with each step, his boots making almost no sound on the forest's carpet of sodden needles and packed leaves. His eyes wandered through the fog, but there was nothing to see, no threats, no friends. It was as if he were truly alone, with even the animals of the forest refusing to stir from their dens and burrows on this brisk winter day.

Dannil came upon the remnants of a fallen tree, its rotting bulk rising up out of the murk like the carcass of some great beast. He found a likely spot and pulled himself up to a vantage point that gave him height but little more in the way of a view through the dense fog.

He let out a sigh that was part weariness, and part frustration. It was no use, he thought. He'd spent the better part of a week scouting this region, striking out blindly in his ignorance, seeking out any clues he could find of what had happened to Izandra. He'd traveled into the forest country north and east of Benderal, and even into the foothills that formed south of the town and seemed to contain little more than scrub brush and thorny weeds that made each mile an ordeal for the traveler. But Izandra's trail had vanished at Benderal, and none of his explorations had turned up anything concrete in the way of evidence. He'd come here today, the farthest he'd yet ventured, on the basis of a few old tracks he'd found, along a trail that wound to the east in the direction of the dark mountains in the distance. He'd followed the tracks into the valley that he was currently exploring, and the mist-shrouded forest that he'd been working through for the last hour. But there were no tracks here, no indications that humans had ever come to this place, silent and isolated within its cloaking fog.

He wondered how his erstwhile companion, the young healer, was faring. He'd considered the possibility that Izandra had gone among the Ilfann, but could not fully accept such a possibility. He had armed Alec with a thorough description of her, just in case, and with that possibility at least somewhat covered he had felt more free to turn his attentions elsewhere.

Perhaps she had already turned back, he thought, retracing her trail, and he had just missed the signs. There were also darker possibilities that suggested themselves, but he refused to allow himself to countenance them. At least when he was awake, and could control the thoughts that popped into his mind unbidden and unwelcome.

He took a drink from his waterskin, and looked again over his vista, as if pure intensity could part the mists and extend his vision. No, there was nothing here, he thought. And even if there was some sign, he added mentally, he could walk within a few yards of it and never mark it.

Then a sound pierced the silence, and he was instantly alert. It came from somewhere north of him; at least he thought it was north, in this confusing swirl of fog and trees. A muffled sound, but clearly audible, someone moving through the forest undergrowth. Whoever or whatever it was, it could not be far, or he would not have heard the faint sounds of its passage through the wet wood.

Silently he dropped back down to the forest floor, and stealthily made his way in the direction of the sound. He strung his bow and drew out an arrow from the leather quiver at his belt as he slipped across the forest floor. The new weapon fit easily in his hand; it was not as powerful as his last bow, the one he'd broken in that encounter several months back, when he had first been drawn into the chaotic events surrounding Izandra. A lot had happened to him since that night, he realized, but he wasn't sure what to make of it all yet. He put such distractions out of his mind, and focused instead on his target, somewhere ahead of him. The sounds had stopped, the forest once again growing preternaturally still, but he'd gotten a good idea of which way he had to go, and he slowed his pace to a silent creeping, becoming just another shadow in the fog.

Then he was flying through the air, his weapon torn from his grasp, his body arcing over the forest floor to collide into the heavy trunk of one of the larger trees. The impact was hard enough to knock the breath from his lungs in a flash. Dumbly he tried to fumble for his dirk, but then whatever was holding him faded, and he fell clumsily to the ground at the base of the tree. The fall was only a few feet, and did not injure him, but he was still a little dazed, more by the strangeness and suddenness of what had happened than by the force of it.

But a moment later his surprise was significantly greater.

"Dannil! What... how?"

And there she was, real it seemed, a look of confusion on her face that matched his completely. He saw that there were two companions with her, a tall Ilfann to one side, and to his further amazement, he recognized Ezran. Izandra's brother looked pale, a little unsteady on his feet, and was wrapped in what looked like several old blankets, but he smiled faintly at the sight of Dannil, and nodded as if to confirm the reality of this unusual reunion.

But his attention kept coming back to Izandra, who came toward him, a little tentatively at first, and then with a sudden explosion as she slammed into him with about the same force with which he'd hit the tree. And then he could not think or question any more, simply accepting the situation and returning his friend's embrace, the touch of her restoring his faith that she was real, and that somehow, he had finally found her at last.

* * *

The faint light of the predawn filtered through the dense boughs of the trees, into the camp where Dannil and the Coltons had spent an uneasy night. The vast bulk of a fallen log loomed over them like a bulwark, shrouded by dipping branches that seemed almost like the claws of a monster trying to get over the barrier.

Dannil shook his head and returned his attention to the small fire, where he'd left a tiny iron pot of water to boil. There were plenty of real threats to deal with without letting his imagination create new ones.

Izandra and Ezran still lay quiet in their bedrolls. Dannil let them sleep for now, though he would have preferred to be on their way by now, marching steadily southward, further away from the Ilfann and the forest core. He was not happy about camping here in the forest, but traveling at night would have been even more dangerous, even if Ezran and Izandra would have been able to keep up the pace. Ezran in particular was hurt more badly than he'd guessed at first glance. The boy looked as though he'd been trampled by a herd of wild horses, and while Izandra had been in better physical shape, there were dark hollows under her eyes, and a pain there that was new and stark, for all the relief she'd shown at their reunion yesterday.

The Ilfann scout had left them shortly after that meeting. Dannil was not sad to see him go, even though Izandra had identified him as a friend.

The sounds of the forest were muted this morning, but he did not feel any less at ease for it. If anything, it made him more alert, as if the quiet was the precursor to something dangerous that would attack without warning. Dannil shook off those disturbing thoughts again, and focused his attention to the south, as if he could see through the dense web of trees through a simple effort of will. He wasn't one hundred percent sure where they were, but after hearing Izandra's account of their journey to the mountains, he had a good idea. His hope was that they could reach Sember Dale by nightfall, if Ezran in particular could manage a full day's walk. If necessary, he could fashion a dragging litter. Once at the Dale, it was a fairly easy trek to the lakeshore, through territory he knew very well, populated by isolated settlements that held people that he knew by name. The route through the Delvarr Pass was more direct, but it was also more risky, and once on the lake they should have no difficulty reaching Lake Heights before the worst of the winter storms hit.

When he turned back, Izandra was awake and sitting up, looking at him. He pointed to Ezran, who was still asleep, and she nodded, carefully extracting herself from her bedding before coming over to sit next to him by the fire.

"Did you sleep?" she asked him.

"A little."

"You should have woken me for a turn on watch."

"You looked like you needed your rest."

She looked back at Ezran. "It's going to be dawn soon, should I wake him?"

"Give him a few more minutes," he said, reaching for his bag. "It'll take me a little while to get breakfast ready."

She nodded, and shivered against the morning chill. He handed her his cloak, and she nodded again in thanks as she drew it around her arms.

"Do you want to talk about it?" he asked, settling back down.

Izandra stared into the fire. "No. Not yet." She turned her head back toward him with an obvious effort of will. "So, what are your plans? I noticed yesterday that you were taking us south, not back west toward Benderal."

"Yes. This route should take us out of the forest faster, and put us not far from Lake Crista. From there, we can get to Lake Heights."

"Right, your business with the new head of the Children's Home. Oh, Dannil, I'm so sorry, I had forgotten."

"It's all right," he said. "I know that Gindar and Lira can keep an eye on things, until I can escort Lady Tahel to Limbrock. I'm just worried that it will be more difficult traveling this season. It's the long way around, but I'll get you and Ezran back to Sindelar, I promise."

"I'm not sure that there is anything left for me there," she said, turning away from him. She shivered again, and Dannil suspected that it was not from the morning chill this time.

He wanted to reach out to her, to penetrate the barrier that he could feel rebuilding between them, but he heard a soft sound, a quiet noise over the faint crackle of the fire. He had started to reach for his bow, sitting against a rock next to the rest of his gear, when he saw a man standing atop the fallen log, and froze.

The man's features were vague in the early morning light, but Dannil could see that he was an Ilfann. He was dressed in the forest browns and greens of a scout, and he carried a strung longbow in one hand, an arrow held loosely to the string. For a moment their eyes met, and he felt a cold chill travel down his spine.

His eyes shifted left, right, as he sensed movement around the edges of their camp. That was a message; he saw them because they wanted him to see them. He rose to his full height, careful to keep both of his hands in clear view.

Next to him, Izandra sensed something was wrong; she followed his eyes up, and shot to her feet.

"We meant no trespass," Dannil said. "We got a bit off our course, but we're heading south, and..."

"You will accompany us to Tilden Arbor," the Ilfann atop the log said. Below him, Ezran stirred in his blankets, groaning as he came awake to pain.

"Our business is in the south," Dannil began, already sensing that his appeal was useless. But Izandra lifted a hand to point at the tall scout, and said, "What business do you have detaining us?" Dannil turned to look at her, intending to send a quiet warning, but what he saw in his friend's face startled him. There was... _rage_ wasn't quite it, but definitely a fire in her eyes, an energy that he could almost feel radiating from her like the heat from their fire.

The Ilfann clearly felt it too; they tensed, and while none of them lifted their bows toward them, Dannil sensed the obvious threat. Not only that, but as he quickly scanned the area around their camp, he definitely detected more movement; the Ilfann clearly had more than three scouts in their party.

"Izandra..." he whispered.

"Zan, what's happening?" Ezran asked, rising to a sitting position, a bewildered look on his face as he rubbed at the bandage covering his right eye.

Perhaps it was the plaintive nature of his query, or the piteous look of him, but whatever it was broke the spell of tension. Izandra blinked and looked almost ready to fall; she headed over to her brother, and knelt beside him, protectively, Dannil thought.

"Our companion is wounded," Dannil said. "He needs healing."

"His injuries will be treated," the Ilfann said. "But you will come with us."

There was no challenge in those words, just a statement of fact. Dannil glanced at Izandra, who met his eyes, trusting, too trusting. He stifled a sigh and looked back up at the Ilfann scout.

"All right," he said. "Let us get our things."

* * * * *

THE END OF BOOK 1

THE STORY CONTINUES IN _CHOICE OF THE FALLEN_
